#unlike the other three who just fucked off never to return

[everyone-calm-down]

See most people are thinking about the new Trolls movie as the silly-fun-boy-band movie that it is. However, I am incapable of being normal about anything and if there’s ONE thing that I’ll always be able to rant about it’s child endangerment.

Okay, so we’re led to believe that Floyd did his due diligence for Branch by ensuring that he’s in the care of Grandma Rosiepuff before he dips out. HOWEVER, upon maybe 5 seconds of thought about those logistics, I don’t think he DID do his due diligence.

The first movie sets up two distinct chunks of time, when the trolls are living in Troll Tree and when they’re living in the forest. It’s mostly implied, but the tree is characterized as being a prison AKA near impossible to escape from. This is why they need to secretly dig escape tunnels. And in this timeline, Rosiepuff died WHILE the trolls were still trapped in the tree.

The tree being implied to be inescapable and the timing of Rosie’s death paint a confusing picture for me. With these two facts, Brozone would have had to break up WHILE they were still living in the tree since Floyd left the care of Branch to Rosie. But what did the brothers do after the breakup? They would have either had to have found a way (or four separate ways) to escape the tree or they were avoiding each other in the tree until the day of the escape. And in BOTH of these scenarios, they did not make sure they did right by Branch before they left.

In scenario 1, where they actually leave the tree and scatter to the winds, what the fuck would be the reason to leave not only Branch, but Rosie and every other troll in the tree? Trolls are getting ritualistically sacrificed every year. Why are we leaving a TODDLER in that situation if there’s a way to escape? Why are we leaving ANYONE in that situation if there’s a way to escape? I can understand the necessity of having small groups to remain hidden during an escape, but you can’t tell me that it’s preferable to leave a small child and an elderly person in a dire situation if you’ve found a feasible way to get to safety.

Scenario 2 is even worse. If the brothers weren’t able to leave the tree and were just doing their best to be no-contact with each other up until the escape, then they really dropped the ball by not ensuring that Branch had another guardian after Rosie died. And to be fair, this is murky waters because we don’t actually know what the rest of Branch’s time in the tree was like after her death. He COULD have had a guardian. But they really imply that he remained alone and if that’s true AND the brothers were still in the tree, then I’d argue that it was their responsibility to make sure Branch was being cared for before they dipped. Which they didn’t, since Branch says that he hasn’t seen or heard from them since they initially left.

Anyway, my point is that the movie tries to placate us by showing the scene of Floyd leaving Branch with their Grandma but upon even a touch of thought, that was not a reasonable situation to leave their kid brother in and they needlessly endangered him which resulted in spending nearly his entire childhood and all of his teenage years gray.

#trolls #trolls 3 #trolls band together #trolls branch #trolls floyd #the other brothers are complicit in this too #but the movie goes out of its way to put Floyd as the one who stayed long enough to DO something with Branch #he does get some points from me for at least trying #unlike the other three who just fucked off never to return #but he didn’t try very hard before he fucked off too #can you tell this has been bothering me

[certifiedyapperx]

Captain John Price • broken.

PAIRING: John Price x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: the result of my poll. in short, you tell your captain that the reason you’ve only dated one man is because your ex said you were broken due to your inability to orgasm; and price offers to show you that the only thing broken was your confidence.

WORD COUNT: 5.3k (got carried away.)

TAGS: 18+, PURE FILTHY SMUT MDNI, Slight Degradation, Praise, Multiple Orgasm, PIV, Semi-Public Sex, Dirty Talk, Absurd amount of swearing, Fingering, Price being daddy as fuck.

"What about that ex girlfriend of yours, Gaz?"

As soon as those words left the Scottish lads lips, everyone in the room was giggling like a lot of fucking schoolgirls. You'd be lying if you said that didn't include yourself.

"You want to talk about ex girlfriends now, Soap?" Gaz sat forward in his chair, eyeing his grinning teammate from across the room, the grip on his glass so tight you were worried it'd shatter between his fingers. "What about that woman you boned in Prague? The one that wanted, oh--how do I say it...a little ride on train 141."

"Nuthin' little about that train." Ghost added through a choked chuckle, barely able to get the words out.

Your fucking abdomen was starting to get sore from the amount of laughing you'd done tonight. These men were absolutely ridiculous. You'd never heard more obscene sex stories in your damn life, and they've got a bloody abundance of them--the back and fourth taunting over who fucked who and who did what never seemed to end. It was almost three in the morning and they were still going strong.

"Aye," Soap leaned back in his chair, bringing his glass up to his lips and taking a slow sip, wide eyes gleaming as he reminisced. "Fuckn' wild one, that one. Had her nice and tamed for me by the end of that deployment.”

"Aye, the fucking woman whisperer, this one," Ghost chimed in again, his balaclava half pulled up, exposing his stubble-donned chin and grinning lips as he took a hefty swig of bourbon. Not even fazed. "Almost as smooth as Price."

Everyone in the room chuckled, nodding and muttering words of agreement, but you were stuck in place--still absentmindedly staring at Ghost while turning the words over in your mind, curiosity piqued.

"Price?" His name left your lips before you could even attempt to prevent it.

All eyes in the room shifted toward you, and Gaz cocked an eyebrow. "You've never heard any of his stories?"

Ghost shot him a look. "Clearly not."

"I mean, I've heard some..." you mumbled, awkwardly trying to fix the mess you've just made. Your gaze darted between the three men staring at you, each set of eyes glazed with confusion, clearly trying to figure out why you were so taken aback. "Captain is far more secretive than the rest of you."

You'd been on the team for a solid eight months. Since recruitment, you'd worked alongside Price every single fucking day, yet the man hardly ever spoke about his personal life.

Unlike the others, who seemed to never stop.

"Around you, yeah." Soap mumbled with a smirk, shooting a knowing glance toward Gaz who instantly returned it.

Your brows knit in confusion. "Around me?"

"Aye." Ghost replied for Soap, and you were practically sitting on the edge of your goddamn seat as you knew he wasn't finished. He shifted lower in his chair as his eyes traced up and down your form. "You're new. You're hot. You've never spoken a word about your own personal life. The man's a bloody nutcase, but he hides it well when he needs to--he probably doesn't want to scare you off."

"Scare me off?" You had to fight to keep your jaw off the floor. Trying to mask your confusion, you cleared your throat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

At your reaction, everyone chuckled again, and your face immediately flushed with blood--shading you the same crimson colour found on a ripe fucking tomato. If there was some joke happening here, it'd clearly flown way above your radar.

And yet, before you or anyone else could even consider speaking again, the man of the hour appeared in the doorway, and you nearly fell out of your chair.

"Valid question." He didn't even acknowledge you as he spoke, eyes fixed on Ghost as he took a step into the room.

Gods, he was fucking attractive—every molecule in your being screamed at the sight of him. You'd done everything you could to ignore that fact for the entirety of your time here, ensuring your focus was trained on keeping things professional--but after two glasses of whiskey and the current topic of conversation, the flood gates were wide fucking open.

"Go on, Ghost," his voice was low, deep as the depths of your desire as his ocean eyes slowly danced around the room. "...I'd like to know the answer as well."

Price took a seat across from you, slouching slightly and nodding toward Soap who promptly poured him a glass of burning brown liquid and slid it across the table. Ghost pulled down his balaclava in attempt to hide his cheeky fucking grin, shrugging as though he had no idea what his Captain was on about. 

"Not sure what you mean, Cap." Ghost quipped, and you could practically hear the beaming delight in his words. "We're just talking."

"Hm," Price side-eyed him, humoured. "You always talk about me?"

"Only when you're not around." Soap chimed in, snuffing a groan in his throat as he'd downed the rest of his drink and stood up, shooting an inebriated nod to each of you. "Well, would you look at the time--I'm gonna' hit the sack. Duty calls, y'know."

Your stomach churned with confusion, your eyes glued to the Scottish bloke who decided it was convenient to make his exit the exact moment Price entered the room. You almost wanted to reach over and yank him back into his seat.

"Keep it classy ya filthy bastards."

He shot you a cheeky wink from beyond the door frame before disappearing into the abyss, only for Gaz and Ghost to rise from their seats as well, seemingly following Soap's lead, muttering excuses about how late it was and how exhausted they were.

Your mind raced at lightning speed, trying to make sense of the sudden exodus. You were going to kill those fuckers in the morning.

Price broke the silence before it had the chance to linger for too long. "It's not personal, you know."

Your heart slammed your sternum. You sucked in a breath and trapped it there. You needed to calm the fuck down--though that seemed like a goddamn impossible task at the moment. Prices' voice was the hypnotizing depth of a black hole. It stirred every last atom within you.

Avoiding his eyes, you straightened in your seat, clearing your throat. "I know."

"Do you?" He cocked an eyebrow, two fingertips tracing the rim of his glass. "I'm not so sure."

You looked up now--almost immediately regretting it as your eyes caught his. You forced words out of your mouth before you could acknowledge how the way he was looking at you made you feel.

"It's because I haven’t opened up to you..." you murmured. "Yeah?"

Price nodded, choosing to remain silent, his gaze anchoring you to the floor—every muscle stiff as stone.

You cleared your throat again. "Well. What do you want to know? My family? Where I grew up-"

"No." He cut you off, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table as his stare intensified. "...I already know all that. You're my recruit, I know everything about your past..." his head tilted, his eyes narrowed, and he pushed his glass to the side, clasping his hands together infront of him. "What I don't know, is why a woman as skilled, as smart, and as undeniably attractive as you, has only ever been with one man."

Blood crystallized in your veins, every ounce of your skin vibrating with an emotion you couldn't identify. He was so close—closer than you'd initially gauged—and that closeness ignited dormant desperation, one you'd nearly forgotten existed.

Your throat was thick. Saliva lodged inside it. "I..."

There was a reason. There was a very good reason as to why you've only been with one man, why you promised to never put yourself through that shit again. But you couldn't bring yourself to say it, you couldn't bring yourself to speak the words aloud. That would mean being vulnerable, humiliatingly vulnerable--one of the many things soldiers were trained not to be.

Captain Price hummed, leaning back slightly, and a swarm of unpreventable desire roared alive in your chest. His attention flicked over you. Like he'd felt it.

He remained silent. He was waiting for an answer.

"It's...um..."

Your brain filtered through pages of plausible excuses until it landed on one. Inhaling a breath, you forced the fibbing syllables past your teeth, shrugging in an attempt to make it believable.

"I just...never found anyone I jived with.”

Price paused, his scrutiny skinning you raw. It was like he knew what was waiting on the edge of your tongue, like he could smell the smoke swirling off the fire below your waist. He wasn't buying it.

"You can't lie to me." His words only confirmed your thoughts. "I mean, theoretically you could, though I'd advise against it."

You swallowed, forcing your eyes to your hands. "I'm not lying."

"Perhaps not," he replied, voice cool as ice. "But you're certainly omitting."

Fuck, he was good. And of course he was--there was a reason he was Captain. He was fucking bred for this. You were certain he could detect a lie from light years away.

"It's embarrassing," you replied, ignoring the thrilled leap your heart made that he'd read you so well. "You'll think less of me."

John Price leaned further across the small table, nibbling the distance between you. The intensity of his focus made your insides tangle, something was undoubtedly churning within his mind. A breath caught in your throat as his eyes held yours.

"I don't care," he stole another inch, and you could now comfortably say that he was well within your personal space. "If this is going to work, there has to be trust. Because you should trust me—as your Captain, and as your friend..." in a single abrupt movement, he stood up, towering over you, eyes boring into the top of your head until he shifted toward the door. "...when you're ready to open up to me, I’ll open up to you."

Ice braced your veins. This was the most conversation you'd had with your Captain since you joined the team, and you were about to blow it with your inability to talk to him. To just telling him the fucking truth. He took a step back from the table, began moving toward the door, and you panicked.

You let him get two steps from reaching it before you jumped up, out of your seat. "Wait!"

Time was a relative concept. But as your Captain spun, and as you linked eyes with him, it slowed. Stopped.

You cleared your throat for the millionth time. "It's because...it's because I'm broken."

Price's eyes widened, only momentarily, before they narrowed--out of curiosity or skepticism, you couldn't tell.

"You’re broken." He said, drawing the words out on his tongue while taking a slow, lengthy step toward you. "Elaborate."

You dropped your eyes to the floor again, catching sight of his brown, rugged combat boots as they stepped into your line of sight. Heat flashed your face, and you shifted on your feet.

"My...my ex...um," your voice was barely above a whisper. Something felt gut-wrenchingly humiliating about having this conversation with your fucking Captain. "He, he kinda fucked with my head, I guess. Made me never want to date again."

You heard an exhale, a huff of enticed breath leaving lungs.

"I think," Price eased closer, and you caught whiff of his cologne--the scent engulfing your senses, sending hunger snarling and snapping for relief. "...you're omitting again."

"Why?..." you blurted, trailing your gaze past the vast expanse of his strong chest and up to his gleaming eyes peering down at you. You blinked. "...do you think that?"

Price raised a brow. "Am I wrong?"

"No, it’s just…” you closed your eyes, took a breath. Let it out. No point in lying. Just rip off the fucking bandaid. "He broke up with me because I couldn't orgasm. He said I was broken because of it. It’s dumb, but it hurt.”

Gods, it felt so fucking stupid that you had to smile, had to damn near laugh at yourself. As much as it sounded so foolish, you'd always just considered that maybe something was actually wrong with you. After all, he was your first, and your only—and the fact that you could never orgasm bothered you, too.

However, when you finally reopened your eyes, swallowing whatever ounces of pride you had left, you found a depth to your Captain's ocean irises that was not there before.

There was something floating inside them, now--something primal, something depraved.

"Interesting." His hand raised from his side, grazing over your cheek and coming to a slow on your neck, the tips of his fingers skimming over your racing pulse. "Broken."

Any blood that had been left in your head was now plummeting to your core.

"Broken." You whispered.

Price exhaled, his breath caressing your face, and you bit your lip to stifle the whimper that wanted to thrust itself past your teeth. Never once would you have considered the thought of actually fucking your Captain--but right here, right now, with the way he was touching you, analyzing you, palpably tempting you--it was becoming more difficult to deny the physical need steaming from your pores.

"This,” his voice was so deep it made your blood sweat, his thumb stroking your pulse. "Doesn't feel broken at all."

Adrenaline surged you, ambushing your lungs with rapid breath, flares of lust sparking over your skin. You leaned into his touch, and he let out a sound that was somewhere between a hum and a straight up growl.

Your pulse soared, your hand finding his wrist. “Captain…”

It would be lying to say you thought this was a good decision. But you couldn't find a fuck within you. After years of denying yourself any sort of physical touch due to the shame that consumed you, Price had perceived it without effort and ordered you strip yourself of pretense in his presence.

"Let me show you...." Price wedged a boot between your feet, his hips brushing yours, other hand finding your hip. "...that the only thing broken is your confidence."

You nearly whimpered. "Please."

Without further contemplation, your eyes darted to his lips the same millisecond his darted to yours, and you both moved at once. Price groaned, one hand shooting into your hair, the other supporting the small of your back, tugging you close. His hungry mouth captured yours, teeth nipping your lower lip as he spun you around and pushed you back against the table.

You groaned into his mouth, your ass hitting the cool metal with abrupt force. His lips attacked your jawline, moved down to your neck, and another groan escaped you, this time in bliss.

"Fuck," you cursed under your breath, throwing your hips into his, allowing desperation to guide you. "Captain..."

A low, menacing noise reverberated in his throat and he seized your neck again, bringing his mouth to your ear.

"My name," he took the lobe between his teeth, earning a squeak. "Say it."

"John—" You gasped, clawing at his back. "Shit."

"Mm. Good girl. So obedient..." he purred, tracing his mouth along the curve of your ear. "So responsive."

"Fuck." Every new beat of your heart brought a desperate pulse to your cunt. His fingers found your hair again, curling into a fist. "John...please..."

Your Captain hummed, just as his lips moved back to your pulse and attacked it, sucking rough rabid marks to the surface, his hips grinding against yours. Your eyelids fluttered shut, and he moved lower, releasing your head to work on removing your clothes.

Before your belt even hit the floor, he was tearing off your shirt and tugging off your bra--exposing your breasts to the cool air of the dimly lit room, surging goosebumps to life that he was quick to cover with his hands, taking the fresh tissue between them and kneading it.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, to himself you presumed. "You're fucking perfect."

There was one brief second of thought surrounding the notion that any one of your teammates could walk in and find the two of you here—but that thought was quickly lost as Price leant down and sucked one of your nipples into his mouth. You squealed, squeaking in pleasure, and his grip possessed your hips.

"So sensitive..." he said with a grunt. Your Captain wasn't just hungry—he was starved, more voracious by the second, spurred on by your reactions. "Fucking hell."

He leaned back, hooked his fingers under the waist of your pants and pulled, unconcerned for the ripping seams as he forced them down the curve of your thighs. Your head rung, entire body tingling. Paralyzed, you watched your Captain tear off your boots and rip your pants free, tossing them all to the side.

"Fuck me." He muttered again, returning his sights to your figure. "Look at you."

Price examined you like a meal, gaze traveling from your collarbone to your breasts, down past the curve of your belly to the swell of your hips, coming to a slow between your quivering thighs.

Adrenaline had got you this far. Reality was setting in. "Captain..."

"Shh," calloused hands found your hips, urging you back against the desk, spreading your legs further apart as he inserted himself between them. "I already told you what to call me."

You shuddered, twitching from his touch, and the corner of his lip quirked. Smouldering blue eyes searing into your skin. "John, I—"

His thumbs slid close to your heat, dipping into the crease and teasing close to the edge of your thong. Reality was a plummeting star, crashing down into your mind without regard. Nerves were consuming you, fingers digging into his biceps in attempt to stop them from shaking.

"You...what?" His voice was practically a lullaby. How something so deep could be so soothing was beyond your comprehension. "Go on, pretty thing..."

"I just..." you shifted your hips, trying to balance fear with desire. "I'm just...I don't want to disappoint you..."

Price assessed you, only for a moment, gracing your thigh with a stern yet gentle smack before trailing upward.

"Enough." It was an order. "I want you out of that beautiful mind."

He brushed his finger across your cunt, grazing over your swollen clit, and you choked, hips snapping toward him.

"Don't think..." the power in his words was intoxicating, a command given with the confidence of knowing you'd obey. He teased your clit again and you whinged, gripping him harder. "...just feel."

Before a coherent thought could enter your head, he pulled your panties to the side with two thick fingers, not giving you a second to brace for it before he used those same fingers and sank them into your tight, aching cunt.

"Oh—fuck-"

You groaned, head tossed back, walls tightening around the delicious stretch as he pried you open with slippery ease. The intensity, the fullness from just his fingers stole your breath, dizzied your mind, and you closed your eyes, trying to ignore the growling breath escaping his lungs, trying to ground yourself as much as you could.

"Christ...tight little cunts just soaked..." he was right, you were dripping. You couldn't ever remember being this wet. In truth, you couldn't ever remember being this turned on, this desperate for touch. "Tell me how that feels."

"G-oh, fuck—" any additional words you had planned on using instantly died on your tongue as Price curled inside of you, pushing deep, every coherent thought fleeing your mind with a moan. Your entire body pulsed for him, like he'd shaken every cell awake and enthralled it under his possession. "John—oh, Gods!"

It wasn't like you'd never been fingered. It'd just never felt like this.

Something about the trained motion of his hand, the skilled curl of his wrist, the attunement to your body was consuming you--the need for more only increasing as he found a perfect rhythm, fucking slow, reaching to your belly while his thumb circled your sensitive clit. Your cunt throbbed, squeezed around him, as if to coax him deeper inside of you.

"Needy little thing," an amused huff at the corner of your consciousness. You forced yourself to look at him—he was smirking. "Tell me how it feels."

Desperation was throbbing at your temples, growling and coiling in your belly—unfathomable, incredible desperation stalling your lungs. Unfamiliar, but entirely absentmindedly as Price stroked your walls, stroked your clit, and you were gasping, you were—

"So fucking good—" you were practically screaming, brain a mangled mess of aimless words. "Cap—John, I—I'm-"

His free hand seized your jaw, forcing you to look up into his eyes, his fingers still keeping their pace, your vision blurring to bliss. "You're?"

You gasped. "I’m-"

"You’re close." Fire flooded your flesh, and you mewled like a nervous, helpless animal. His grip tightened. Intensity and power radiating off him in waves. "S’ that what you want, little slut? Hm? You wanna’ fuckin’ cum for your Captain, don’t you?”

“Yes!” No thought required. “Pleasepleaseplease-“

“Mhm. That’s right, that’s right—“ he was just as gone as you were. Air rattled in your lungs like rocks. Your vision blurring as you held onto him like your life depended on it. “Cum on my fingers, darling, let me feel you.”

A scream shredded your throat, submerged in a storm of euphoria, sight whiter than the gates of heaven themselves. Convulsions wracked you, quaked to your bones, and you heaved, hunting for air while he worked you through the receding tide of your release.

“Good fuckin’ girl.” He growled, the arrogance in his tone palpable. “Look how easy that was, hm?”

Your Captian pulled his fingers from cunt and yanked you off the table by the hold on your jaw—you stumbled into him, wetness seeping down your thighs, brain given less than two seconds to process the slew of events before his slick covered fingers were at your lips and pushing past your teeth.

"The way I see it, soldier—there are two possible explanations here." He shoved his fingers deeper, reaching for the back of your throat. "Either you somehow managed to lie to me..." he pressed against you, his desire evident in the way it was jabbing against your stomach. "Or this tight little cunt has never been properly sated."

Your heart was in your feet, your lips sealed around his fingers as you held his eyes, a shade of blue so deep you'd almost thought you were staring into the depths of the ocean. His pupils were blown wide with lust, it was clear what he was getting at—and judging by the way your cunt clenched in response to his words, it was clear that you felt the same.

He pulled his fingers from your mouth, looking for a response. You gave the only words you could think of. "I didn’t lie…I’ve had sex, Captain...I’ve just never done—that.”

"Well I think I've just proven that it wasn’t due to any fault of your own." His words were backing you into a corner, an explanation that was challenging to draw yet completely impossible to now ignore. "I got you there in seconds."

Your face grew hot. “So..what are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he assessed you, eyes looking past you, through you. “Your ex didn’t know what he was doing.” he leaned in closer, plush lips curling into a mischievous grin. “All you needed was someone who knew how to handle you.”

"Hm." The arrogance was stifling, setting you ablaze. It only made you want him more. "Cocky bastard."

"Cocky," he repeated with a raised brow. "You have no idea, princess.”

"You know what, Captain," you teased with a smirk of your own, unable to tear your sights off him. His eyes. His lips. "I think you just got lucky."

“Luck.” He chuckled—a deep, growling thing. "I don’t do luck, soldier. I do facts.” Price shifted a hand to his crotch, palming his erection through his pants as he pressed against you. “Fact one, I just gave you your first orgasm.” He was possessed, hungry, borderline rabid. “Fact two, I could do it again on my cock. If you’d like.”

And you, you were his eager, willing prey.

"Shit," you muttered, the words shooting straight to your cunt. You didn’t need any further discussion. You wanted him, and nothing could stop the next words from leaving your lips. "Please...please fuck me..."

Your Captain growled. The sweet desperation of your pleas sending him past the point of salvation. He sucked in a breath. Trapped it there—internally clutching whatever ounces of restraint he had left.

"You sure you want this?" His voice was so fucking low you almost missed it. His fingers moved to his belt, and his lips moved to your ear. "I'm not so sure you can take it."

"I'm built for combat, Captain..." you murmured with a grin, spurred on by the evidence of his throbbing desire, fingers trailing toward his belt to help him along. "I'm sure I'll be fine."

Price huffed against your jawline. Amused.

"You’re built for combat, undoubtedly..." you watched as he pulled free his thick, heavy cock. Your jaw slackened, your mouth watered. "But by the time I'm done with you, darling..." he seethed in relief as he guided his hand back and forth along his length, other one directing you back against the table. "You'll be built for me."

A sharp intake of breath found your lungs and then you were lying flat against the table, cool metal biting your backside and ripping goosebumps to the surface of your skin. You shuddered, seething in discomfort, but two strong hands made quick work to soothe them, coasting up your thighs until they found your hips, and then he stepped forward.

"Christ..." you whimpered as he loomed over you, the warm head of his cock rolling over your clit, teasing you with false thrusts, making sure you were well aware of just how long and fucking thick he was. "John..."

"Quiet." He purred, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Just let me break you open."

His heavy, smooth tip pressed against your entrance and then pushed in, head just barely spearing you yet somehow still splitting your cunt with a girth that stole your breath and forced a cry from your throat. With a breathless groan he pulled out, and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing.

He smacked your thigh again. “Look at me.” He hissed, teeth sinking into the plush of his bottom lip as you instantly obeyed. “That’s it. Eyes on me.”

There was a mere second of silence before he sank in again, entirely this time—and though you were fucking sopped and pliant and voracious, he tore you wide with a sting.

"Oh—fuck-"

You fought for air, your body trembling, fingers clawing at anything that might steady you. He’d stuffed you full with ease, lungs heaving upon impact. Both big hands tightened around you, and he slid out, driving into you again with a hidden hiss of air, earning a loud, shameless groan from your lips.

"Fucking hell.” A dark, low voice rumbled from his throat. "Tight little whore. So fucking tight—"

"You're—oh, fuck—" words died on your tongue as he pulled out, pushed in again, sucking in air through his teeth, working you wider with each plunge into your pussy. You clenched around him, and he snuffed a moan, snapping his hips. "You're fucking huge."

"Mhm, yeah," it was a shameless admission. He placed a palm on your pelvis, pressing down, feeling himself fucking into you. He leaned back slightly, drawing long, slow strokes, forcing you to quake around every inch of his length. "That's how fucking deep I'm in you."

And deep he fucking was. Every centimeter banishing the ability to do anything other than exist as a stammering sheath for his cock. It wasn't penetration—it was pervasion, it was domination. Sex had never felt this intense. Sex had never felt this fucking tranquilizing.

"Christ—Cap-John—fuck—"

Price slid out and rocked in, driving to your stomach with a stab of blissful pain. Eyes snapping shut, you gripped his arms, seething when he thrusted again, and again. Each stroke shoved a cry from your chest, tightened your walls, and this only seemed to entice him, his cock splitting you apart. You scratched at his shoulders, fighting to find yourself in the bewildering delirium.

"There we go." His voice was distant in the sea of pleasure. "Look at you. Brainless on my fucking cock."

Your response was a moan, loud and shameless, gripping onto his arms and matching his rhythm, forcing your hips to his, a plea—faster, harder, more, more. Your Captain hissed in satisfaction, and his hand snaked between you, rolling and teasing your clit.

Your vision blurred for the hundredth time. "Oh, fuck—"

Delirium ascended into ecstasy, pleasure amplified by the stretch of his dick. He fucked into you, his skin smacking yours, his breath heaving in feral huffs.

"Fucking perfect pussy," he growled through his teeth, shifting your legs together and directing both ankles over his left shoulder, his thrusts slowly slightly as you gasped and whimpered, clawing at his hips, the new position causing the head of his cock to kiss your cervix with each thrust. "Mm, fuck...this is what you needed, darling. You needed a proper fucking."

"Fuck," you replied, brain numbed by bliss. Words didn't even make sense. "Deep. So fuck—deep—"

"Fuck—take it, take it little slut." His thumb was back on your clit, swirling it in tight, fast circles, his cock fucking deep into you. "I warned you."

"John—" You needed to scream, fingers clawing at anything they could find. If you weren't broken before, you’d certainly be broken when he was done with you. "Fuck—"

Bliss burned to burst, stars swarmed your sight entirely, and you knew it, knew it was happening, knew that you were about to break. The feeling was so intense you didn't know what to do with yourself, you weren't sure if you could even get the words out to warn him.

Your eyes squeezed shut. "Fuck—I'm—I-I'm..."

"Yeah, that's right." He hissed, teeth barred, hips snapping. He already knew. "Cum for me. Cum on my fucking cock."

Lightning euphoria ripped up your spine with a shameless shriek, your climax shattering you. Your cunt milked his dick, your thighs spasming, your back reached for the ceiling, pleasure possessing your nerves.

"There we go—good little fucking slut—squeezing me so good," it seemed an eternity--he was still fucking you through it, breaking you deep, until he edged his climax. "Fucking hell."

He sputtered, pummelling your cunt with sloppy final thrusts, pouring his cum inside you, grip gouging your flesh until he descended, meeting you in the receding tides of your peaks. Both of you twitched with aftershocks, both of you seeking air.

Once he stalled, you sucked in a long inhale and peeled your eyes open, taking in your surroundings for the first time in however many minutes it had been. The room was still as dim and dreary as it was prior to your mind shattering, the only thing now different was your Captain—who remained looming over the table, cock still buried inside you, precipitation lining his forehead and chest still heaving for breath, piercing gaze perceiving you like a sated predator.

With a glance at your lips, he finally moved, pulling back and out of you, tucking himself away. It was then that reality struck you hard—you'd just fucked your Captain. And he'd just shattered the preconceived notions of everything you thought you knew.

You were not broken. You were perfectly fucking fine.

Price cleared his throat as you pulled yourself off of the table and stood. "Y'alright?"

You nodded, grabbing your pants off the floor. "Yes, Sir."

Shame engulfed you, for reasons you couldn't explain. Embarrassment threatened to swallow you whole.

"Hey." Sensing this, Price stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on your arm. "Don't do that."

Your eyes fixed on his. Outlining his perfectly tamed facial hair, his striking blue eyes. "Do what?"

"Avoid me." He simply stated, his voice hardly above a whisper. "All this was, was me proving to you that you're not broken. You're the furthest from. It doesn't have to be any more than that."

"I know…just feel stupid, I guess.” Your face was in flames. You swallowed your pride until it was digested. There was no room for that here, not after what’d just happened. “I, uh, I should have told you sooner. I’m sorry.”

Price regarded you with eyes warm as the summer sun, shaking his head ever-so-slightly. “I wanted you to open up to me. Willingly. I never pry.”

You cracked a smile, slipping on your shoes. “You got your wish, then. Emotionally and physically.”

“Aye.” Your captain chuckled, reaching for the bottle of whiskey and plopping himself into a seat, sliding a glass across the table toward you. “My turn, yeah?”

#taskforce141 #task force 141 #captain johnathan price #john price #captain price #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simonriley #simon #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #ghost riley #johnpricesmut #john price smut #captian john price #captain john price #johnathan price #simon riley call of duty #task force x reader #simon riley cod #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x #price smut #captain price smut #price x reader #price #pricesmut #johnathanprice

[fyorina]

ᡣ𐭩 KNOW IT'S FOR THE BETTER (ALL I WANTED WAS YOU)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: he can't stop himself from calling; you can't stop yourself from answering. he never speaks, but he doesn't have to—just knowing he's there is enough to lure you in. that's how it remains for weeks. that is until you mention that you're going on a risky mission and dazai has to to make an equally risky decision to keep you safe.

(wordcount: 3.1k; fem!reader, pm!reader, post-defection, angsty but not awfully so (again, sorry, i swear there's happier ones coming), implied alcoholism, dazai gets a bit jealous, ango cameo)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: OKAYYYYYY this was actually my first pm!reader and pmzai fic, believe it or not, it's been in my notes app for ages. i tried to fix most of the inconsistencies. as always, can be read as a standalone butttt for the people following the pm!reader universe, this comes directly after death by a thousand cuts! i hope you guys enjoy!! im actually rlly excited to finally get this fic out here!

He calls you sometimes.

Well, you don’t know for sure it’s him—he never speaks, if you’re lucky sometimes you can hear soft puffs of air from the other line, and the number is always unknown, but you know in your heart that it’s him. 

The first call came three days after you found him drunk in an alley—seven months after his defection. 

The unknown caller ID popped up on your phone while you were drinking with Chuuya in his apartment, trying to forget all about Dazai Osamu and all of the pain he’s brought you. You answered it irritably and when you got no response from the caller, you promptly told them to fuck off and die if they’re going to waste your time with prank calls. You expected them to hang up right away but they didn’t—in fact, they only hung up when they heard Chuuya shouting for you to get off the phone so he can open another bottle of wine, as if he wasn’t going to anyway. 

The next call came another three days after that. 

You were in a meeting with Mori when the unknown caller popped back up on your phone screen. You excused yourself to answer the phone only because you were desperate for a reason to get out of the meeting—you think that he might’ve somehow sniffed out that you ran into Dazai and if he outright asked you, you didn’t know if you’d be able to lie without him catching you in it. 

Regardless of the reasoning, you were even more pissed off than you were the first time when you heard the silence on the other end, accusing them of fucking with you and demanding to know how they got your number—again, the person didn’t say anything, and you hung up even more irate than you were the first time. 

It takes three more calls for you to put the pieces together—it’s a bit embarrassing how long it took you, but in your defense, you were trying to put Dazai Osamu as far from your mind as possible. Honestly, you weren’t even sure of it when you first guessed his name. It’s a shot in the dark when you answer the unknown caller for the fifth time and whisper, “Dazai?” so very hesitantly. Your confirmation comes in the form of a sharp inhale on the other line before it instantly goes dead. 

He doesn’t call again for two weeks, and when he finally does, it’s in the middle of the night. The buzzing of the phone woke you up, your alarm clock glowing a bright 3:15 am. You don’t even look at the caller—you figure it’s Chuuya, who has yet to return from his mission in Sendai—as you answer with a groggy “what?” 

You get no response besides the sound of a shaky breath on the other end and suddenly you’re wide awake as you realize who exactly called. He doesn’t speak, even as you make yourself sick with anger—he’s conscious and coherent this time, unlike the time you ran into him in the alley, so you take the opportunity to unleash all of the pent up rage and hurt that you’d withheld that night. You cry for the first time since he defected and he stays on the line the whole time, until you eventually exhaust yourself and fall asleep. When you wake up in the morning, he’s hung up, but the call time reads four and a half hours. 

It becomes a weekly occurrence—occasionally biweekly. 

Sometimes, you tell him about your day, rambling on about how you were irritated because Mori made you deal with Ace or complaining about recent territory issues that the Port Mafia has been facing—something that you probably shouldn’t be sharing on an unsecure line with someone who defected from the mafia, but you can never bring yourself to fully care because it’s Dazai. 

Other times, you just lay in bed quietly, exhausted after a full day of work, the phone resting next to your ear as doze off to the comforting sound of his steady breathing. 

You don’t tell anyone. 

If anyone knew you’re keeping in contact with a traitor, you’d be executed. You think that Chuuya might know—the two of you now share the penthouse of the westernmost skyscraper of the five buildings of the Port Mafia’s base and you know he’s smart enough to have put together who you’re talking to late at night. But if he does, he doesn’t say anything, because he too knows what the consequences of your actions would be if it were true.

You let out a soft puff of air as your phone begins buzzing—it’s well past midnight and you’re half asleep, but you roll over and pick up the phone with heavy eyes.

“Hey,” you whisper.

Dazai doesn’t respond, he never does, but you can hear him breathing on the other line, closer to the speaker than he usually is. You can’t help but notice that his breath is heavier than usual too, a bit shakier. 

He’s been drinking, you realize. You figured that he usually drinks on the nights that he calls you, but he never lets himself close enough to the speaker for you to figure out if it’s true. You just hope it’s not as bad as….

“I won’t be able to answer for a while after this,” you say quietly after a few moments, rolling over in bed to shift your face closer to the phone. “Mori assigned me another mission. An infiltration one—first one since you’ve been gone.”

Dazai would know the implications of that, and from the way he inhales sharply at your words, you know he does instantly, even in his drunken state. 

Whenever you were sent on infiltration missions, Dazai was always the one in your ear, making sure that you got in and out safely. You refused to take infiltration missions unless Dazai and his freakish prophetic ability was the one on comms for you because you knew he’d be able to figure out if you’ve been compromised before the enemy have even figured it out for themselves. 

But you had known it was only a matter of time before Mori put you back on them. You’re the best suited in the Port Mafia for them and the recent issues with that gang that’s been moving into the northern wards from Asakusa all but demands interference from the inside lest you guys will be dealing with another major gang war and the city can’t handle that. 

“I’m nervous,” you admit for the first time, voice little over a whisper. “I don’t trust anyone but you to be my eyes and ears. Plus this mafia is... They're very violent. Kawabata leads it. I faced off against him in Osaka before he moved into Tokyo, back when I was still in Kyoto. It's... risky. It's been years but I'm worried he'll recognize me. I don't know why Mori is insisting on me being the one to go in.”

You swear you hear Dazai take in another breath, as if he was about to say something this time, but he doesn’t. Your throat feels swollen and your eyes feel misty, jaw tight. Not for the first time, you miss Dazai. You miss him so desperately that you swear your chest caves in at the thought of him. 

You want to hate him but you know you can’t. You've come to accept that already. But you think you still might like to pretend you can.

You told yourself after you ran into him that night that you’d push him from mind, you’d forget about him. You knew that one day you’d meet him again—you and Dazai Osamu have been entwined since the day you met, fate has a lot left in store for the two of you for things to just so abruptly end—but until that day, you have to focus on what matters. And what matters is the Port Mafia.

But how are you supposed to forget him when he can’t even bring himself to fully leave you behind? You think it’s cruel of him, and you think that you should ignore his calls until he finally gives up, but you can’t bring yourself to because no matter how much you preach about forgetting him, if the choice of keeping contact with him arises, you’ll always choose it.

“I miss you,” you breathe out, voice cracking over your words. “I miss you so much that it hurts, Dazai. i-“

The line goes dead. 

The words on your lips die as soon as you realize he hung up, heart sinking. You sigh as you stare up at the ceiling before curling over onto your side, hoping to at least get a little sleep before your early wake up call for mission prep. 

But it’s a naive hope—you know that you’ll never sleep tonight, not with thoughts of Dazai Osamu racing through your mind. 

Dazai shouldn’t be doing this. 

His knuckles are white as he sits at a row of monitors in a locked down ex-government facility. On each of the screens are different vantage points of the main base of the Scarlet Gang, the mafia that had been run out of the Asakusa ward of Tokyo by the Sun and Steel and is now challenging the Port Mafia. 

Ango is pacing somewhere behind him, expression tight and arms crossed against his chest. Dazai knows that he’s livid over this, but Dazai also does not care because he doesn’t think that Ango has a right to be livid about anything that Dazai does anymore. 

He’s been here for three days already. His knees are tucked to his chest as he sits on the spinning chair, bags heavy beneath his eyes and hair matted and oily after days of sitting in front of the screen without budging an inch. He doesn’t dare take his eyes off the screen—not when your life is on the line, and especially not when he’s not even on a direct comms line with you. All he has is a burner cell and hope that you at least take a look at your phone if he has to send a text.

If this mission is like every other infiltration mission you’ve been sent on, it’ll be another two days before your planned extraction—and if you have the same luck you always do, the mission will go smoothly. But Dazai has a dark feeling in his gut, and he isn’t quite sure if it’s because he has no control over the mission or if something bad really is going to happen, there have already been some suspicious signs and he doesn't trust Mori. Your whole comment about his insistence on you going keeps scratching the back of his head like he's missing something, because there's no way Mori would ever risk losing your ability, especially to Kawabata. The man is always scheming, and Dazai is certain there's one simmering below the facade of this mission but he just can't figure out what. Either way, he knows he can't risk stepping away for even a moment. 

“I thought you were done with this, Dazai.” Ango finally has the nerve to voice what dazai knows he’s been itching to say for three days. “I thought-“

“Maybe you should stop thinking,” Dazai says dryly, his head hurts and sweat is beading beneath his arms. Three days without drinking is affecting him way more than he thought it would, but he can’t afford to be inebriated for this.

“Dazai-“ Ango begins.

“I’m not doing this for the Port Mafia,” Dazai cuts him off, dark eyes dragging across the screen to where he sees you laughing with one of the members of the Scarlet Gang, leaning in close with a teasing smile. 

You’re beautiful. Stunning. He can’t blame the way the man you’re talking to seems to gravitate closer to you, enamored by the sound of your voice and the way your eyes glitter beneath the room’s chandelier, but he still wishes he could put a bullet through his head. 

He hasn’t seen you since the day before he left—well, he doesn’t remember seeing you since then, at least. He has some suspicions regarding the part of his ear that mysteriously went missing the night he woke up in one of your shared safehouses, but this is his first time really seeing you and it makes his chest feel sick and heavy to know you’re so out of reach and by his own doing, nonetheless.

His eyes narrow as he watches the man reach out to brush his fingers against your arm. His lips twist down even more when his gaze tracks down to your lips—this is always his least favorite part of being on comms for your infiltration missions. 

“You won’t be able to oversee all of her infiltration missions anymore, Dazai,” Ango says, voice a bit more gentle and Dazai has a distinct urge to rip out the man’s vocal cords. “Once I get your records clear and you’ve joined up with the Agency, you’re going to have to leave this all behind for good. All of it.”

Dazai doesn’t respond. His lips press together tight as Ango’s words register. He knows that he’s right, that if he wants to honor Odasaku’s final wishes, then he has to leave everything behind—even you—but he can hardly even bear the thought of it. Never seeing you again, never hearing your voice again, he thinks that a life without you is not a life worth living. 

He thought that he’d be able to do it, that he’d be able to cut you off just like everyone else, but it only took one drunken night at a bar when he stared at old pictures of you for a bit too long for him to give in to the aching feeling in his chest, the desperate need to at least hear your voice one last time. 

Except one last time turned into another and another; as much as Dazai Osamu likes to pretend to be strong, he’s always been weak at heart for you. From he moment he met you three years earlier during the Dragon’s Head Conflict—sent with Chuuya by Mori to retrieve you after finding out the squad sent to escort you back had been decimated by an ability user—he’s known that he was out of his depth when it comes to you. 

He was already curious to begin with, Mori doesn’t speak highly of anyone but he did speak highly of you, and at first Dazai assumed it was just because you were a girl, and a young one at that. Everyone knows Mori’s gross fascination with them. But when they found you mid-conflict with an ability user, trying to hold your own with only a gun and some rubble as shields to defend yourself from sweltering flames, he realized that maybe there was more that meets the eye to you. 

You’re beautiful—god, he can never stress it enough, words don’t do you justice. Wicked smart. Can talk your way into and out of any situation. Have a bounty on your head high enough to rival his own. From the day he met you, Dazai knew you were everything he’s ever wanted. And yeah, maybe it took him too long to come to terms with that, but it doesn’t make the feelings any less powerful.

Sometimes, when he drinks just a bit too much and he finds himself staring at old pictures of the two of you that he’d taken, he wonders if you would have come with him if he told you what he was doing. He wonders if maybe he hadn’t been a coward, you would be with him right now instead of risking your life on an infiltration mission with some incompetent moron on comms instead of him. He wonders if maybe he would have kissed you on that same bridge he tried to kill himself during that first week he spent drunk and alone. 

He doubts it. In his heart, he’s pretty sure you’d always choose the Mafia over him, but it’s nice to pretend sometimes.

“I don’t care” Dazai finally says, his voice rougher than he intended as he gives Ango a cold look from the corner of his eye. “I won’t let her die on a bullshit mission because some clown is on comms for her.” 

Ango doesn’t get a chance to respond again because Dazai’s eyes are drawn back to the monitors, where a conversation is taking place on the far side of the room. A conversation that has them looking in your direction a bit too often for his liking.

Dazai inhales, rising to his feet, shoulders and arms tensing as his eyes trace the screen, trying to figure out if he should send you a warning. If he’s wrong, it’ll have completely blown your mission and it would put you at risk if Mori or any of the other executives start questioning you as to why you abandoned the mission for no reason.

But if he’s right… 

Dazai is good at many things, and he’s always been quick to be the one on comms with you because he, better than anyone else in the mafia, is good at reading and predicting enemy moves. He always knows in his gut what’s about to happen, you would sometimes joke that it was his real ability, some form of foresight and you would be less joking when you nudge his shoulder and tell him that you’re glad you have his ‘freaky prophetic ability’ otherwise you’d have been dead a long time ago.

Dazai grits his teeth. He feels Ango approaching him from behind but ignores him, mind racing as he tries to calculate the best course of action.

Finally, he takes the burner phone and shoots you a short message: compromised. 

And then he waits. 

The longest and most tense minute of his life passes as he watches you on the screen, waiting to see if you’ll even bother to check your phone. He doesn’t think that he’ll be able to stay in the room if it turns out you are compromised and stuck in enemy territory—he’d feel helpless, unable to do anything but watch and pray to a god he barely believes in that you get out okay. 

Come on, he thinks to himself as one of the men begins making his way in your direction, nails digging into his palms so deeply that blood began to flow from the crescents. Come on, check your phone. 

And then you do. 

He lets out a shaky breath of relief when he sees you pull out your phone, eyes tracing the message on your screen rapidly. A flurry of emotions rocket across your face, and for a moment, Dazai thinks that you’re about to cry.

But then you smile again, leaning in and clasping the man’s hand and leaning in to brush your lips against his cheek before making your way out of the room. He doesn’t dare look away until you’ve slipped out of sight from the cameras littered throughout the building and out of danger. 

Without another word, Dazai turns to leave the old facility.

“Dazai,” Ango calls after him.

Dazai ignores him, snapping the burner phone. You’re safe—that’s all that matters. Now he can go back to drinking himself away and dreaming of what could’ve been. 

Two days later, Mori sends you away on a mission abroad that lasts the next three years. That night was the last time he had any sort of contact with you until you’re finally brought back.

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs x you

[softpascalito]

Agent Ortega x Reader - Agents dont have favorites

Summary: Special Agent Ortega visits the Emerald Palace occasionally. Somehow, the woman tending to the horses is more intersting to him than those tending to the men. When he stays away for a while and things go south for her, he comes back to find something that he doesnt like.

aka its emotional but also they fuck.

Relationships: Agent Ortega x FemReader

WC: 2600

Tags/Warnings: Creator chose not to use Archive Warnings, The Sixth Gun, Agent Ortega x Reader, Implied/Refered Non-Con (Off-Screen, Time-Period typical), Hurt/Comfort, No use of y/n, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Creampie, Prostitution, Vaginal Fingering, P in V Sex, yes i wrote p*rn about an unaired pilot ep from 2013 so what

AO3 LINK

Notes: hello loves! what can i say, i saw a new pedro pascal cowboy character and i felt things.

here are said things written down.

_______________________________

Agents don't have favorites. They breeze through Brimstone occasionally, their sole focus on their mission and occasionally getting down in the Emerald Palace after finishing said mission.

They can't afford to get attached, to care too deeply about someone. Especially not girls working in a brothel.

Agent Ortega has a favorite. 

It had developed over time, starting when you had tended to the run-down stables behind the palace, feeding and cleaning the horses for their owners. The pay had barely been enough to afford the small room you shared with three other girls.

The Agent had never been charitable but he had taken to finding you during the evening chores and slipping you some money when he'd been in town, always claiming it was to make sure his horse got the best possible care. You had believed it for a while until you had noticed the way he looked at you. Still, he had never made any real advances towards you, unlike other men who simply could not understand that you were paid to take care of the horses and not their own needs.

But even with the occasional support from him, the money had run out and after another offer that promised the pay equal to a week's worth of feeding horses for two hours with a man- you had finally given in, telling yourself that it would only be this once, just to get by until payday.

It hadn't been once. 

Instead, you have adapted to a new routine, returning to the bar after your chores and waiting for a man to approach, both dreading and waiting for one of those sleazy hookup lines that always led to the same thing. It has become routine, the way you agree on a price and then lead them upstairs. It has become routine to lock the door. It has become routine to try and scrub yourself clean afterwards. It never works.

Agent Ortega has not been in for the better half of a year. But when he steps into the parlor of the Emerald Palace, the memories immediately come back and he takes in the smell of whiskey, cheap perfume and dried cum. He uses one hand to open his jacket as he looks around, taking in the few familiar faces in the crowd, girls he has seen spread out on the sheets below him and that he has never thought of again.

You can see, from the way he walks, that he's here for pleasure and not business, a slight bounce in his step as he clearly considers his option, pondering if he should start with a whiskey to relax a bit. He's been in the stables already but he couldn't find you and assumed you'd left, remembering distantly how you'd told him on his last visit that you'd been trying to save up, trying to get out of Brimstone for good.

He didn't have the heart to tell you that it wouldn't get better in other towns.

They were all the same.

As he takes a few steps into the establishment, he smiles at the girls around him and winks at one, who instantly tries her luck and approaches him, running her hand over the front of his shirt. You can't hear what she says but it must be some variation of the hookup lines the men use because Ortega smirks for a moment, turning his head a little to the side.

And then he spots you. 

The reaction is imminent as his face falls and he shakes the girl off, heading straight towards the corner that you're huddled in. Worry fills him as he gets closer and with every step, it gets worse as he notices your thin, hunched over form, eyes puffy and highlighted by the dark circles under them. The toll the last few months have taken on you is painfully visible, especially compared to the picture he had stored away in the back of his mind, that he had drawn up on lonely nights to keep him company.

He seems to be by your side in an instant, whispering your name as he kneels in front of you, gently reaching out to touch your leg as he gazes up at you. The look in your eyes scares him more than anything.

A sudden suspicion hits him then and you can tell by the way his eyes wander up and down your body, taking in the tight dress you're wearing, that he knows. He knows what has changed.

You try and avoid looking at him, lowering your eyes, too afraid of what you'll find in his gaze. It doesn't make sense, technically. After all, you had to watch him walk up the wooden stairs with a bunch of different girls, trying to ignore the pang of jealousy you felt each time it happened.

“You're not-” He starts softly, his voice gentle and you shake your head quickly:” Please don't. Don't make me say it.” You beg silently, feeling the tears rising in your eyes.

He shifts slightly, leaning a little lower to look at you and his face hardens a bit. He is painfully aware that this is not the place to discuss this.

“How much?” He simply asks and at that you finally look up, slightly shocked at the sudden implication:” What?” Your voice sounds breathless and a small tear rolls down your cheek. He has to try his hardest to not reach out and wipe it away. Not yet, at least.

“How much? For the night?”

You stutter the price, eyes still wide as you look down at him:” But I don't want-”

This time it's he who cuts you off and gently reaches for your hand, tugging until you get up and follow his lead.

As you ascend the stairs, the steps of your routine start taking over. You try to push your emotions away, focusing on everything but. The sounds from the kitchen below, the wooden stairs creaking slightly under the Agent's steps, the way your hand still rests in his.

He steers you into a room gently. By the time the door closes behind you, your brain is in full autopilot. You turn the lock with a swift motion, the sound immediately making your body slump slightly, like it too has memorized what's about to happen.

Your hands are already on his belt when his own hands join them and for a moment you distantly wonder if he is the type who can't wait, who is always too eager- and then, in a gentle motion, he wraps his finger around yours, keeping them safely in his grip as he lowers his arms. When you look up at him, the only thing you can find in his soft, brown eyes is fear. Fear over what had happened while he had been gone. There is a hint of anger too, but you immediately understand that it is not directed towards you. 

Agent Ortega looks sad. And it breaks your heart, knowing that you're the sole reason for it.

“You don't have to do that. Not with me.” He says quietly, his voice shaking slightly as he lightly moves his thumb over your fingers, caressing them. His gaze remains on you and after a moment of silence he speaks again:” Life hasn't been treating you well, has it?”

That's all it takes for you to crumble and suddenly, the autopilot is off, the routine you have perfected broken and you all but throw yourself into his arms as the tears spill out of your eyes, small sobs shaking your body and you escape the grip of his hands to wrap your arms around him. He pulls you in.

“I should've been there.” He mumbles silently, burying his nose in your hair as he brings one hand up to stroke it, tangling his fingers between the strands. It takes a while until you manage to catch your breath, using the back of your hand to wipe the last tears off your cheeks:” I should get back.”

Your voice is shaking and it's a whisper- but his reaction is not lessened by it. His brows furrow slightly and he decidedly shakes his head:” Absolutely not. Besides, I told you I'd pay for the night.”

“But you just said we didn't have to- '' You try to protest but he doesn't budge:” I know what I said. I'm paying for the night regardless. In fact, let me pay you for the whole week.” 

After a moment, he adds, a little more quietly:” I don't want them touching you again.”

You look at him for a moment, your gaze wandering from his eyes down to his lips and a few seconds later, you're kissing him like your life depends on it. You press your body against his and for the first time in your life, you are trembling out of desire instead of fear.

You both lose yourself in the kiss for a moment and he takes a few steps back without your lips breaking contact until the back of his knees hit the bed and he sits down, pulling you with him so that you're sitting on his lap, your dress riding up slightly as you spread your legs.

After a few more seconds, his lips leave yours and he studies your face as he catches his breath:”Are you sure about this? I'll pay you no matter what.”

You shake your head softly and finally, a small smile appears on your lips:” I'm sure. I- Please, believe me.”

The internal conflict plays out on his face for you to witness. He doesn't want to hurt you, doesn't want to be like those men, doesn't want to take advantage. But something about the way you look at him tells him that you're telling the truth:” Okay.” He mumbles and his hand brushes over your cheek before wandering down your neck and then down your body as he leans forward again, placing little trails of kisses all over your face. 

His lips are softer than you expected and you shiver as his mustache tickles at your skin when he places a kiss on your nose and then on each of your eyelids.

A strong hand settles at your back for support as you feel the other one slowly inching up your thigh under your dress, drawing an impatient noise from you as he takes his time. Eventually, the tips of his fingers find the thin cotton panties you're wearing and, in a stark contrast to the slow movements from before, he suddenly speeds up, pulling them towards himself and ripping them off your body.

You gasp slightly, opening your mouth to protest as he chuckles lowly:” I'll buy you new ones, sugar.”

His rough finger finds the soft skin between your legs, running over your folds and circling around them for a few moments before slowly pushing in, parting your wet heat for him. He watches you closely, the way your breath hitches in your throat when he curls his hand just the right way, paying attention to your reactions to make his mental notes. 

He adds a second finger, slowly moving them in and out until your breathing is ragged and you lean into him, whimpering as your breasts almost spill out of your dress. The hand that has been supporting your back gently finds the front of your dress and pushes it down until it pools around your middle, revealing your bare breasts to him and he squeezed them slightly while still moving his other hand in and out of you, sucking in a breath at the way you clench around him:” You're perfect, you know that?”

Your own impatient hands soon find his shirt, pulling open the buttons and pushing it open so that his bare chest is exposed. His badge falls to the floor but neither of you can bring yourself to care. 

Eagerly, you trace a finger down his belly, following the small trail of hair that leads into his pants until you find his already half open belt. This time, neither of you stop as you fumble until it springs open and you can already see how tight his pants are under your touch.

When you pull it out, his cock is already hard and leaking and you stroke it a few times, marveling at the way the foreskin ripples back and forth with your movements. The dark hair at the base tickles your hand and you bring your other hand down to squeeze his balls slightly, drawing a breathless moan from the Agent's lips.

After a few moments, he pulls his fingers out of you, which has you whining at the loss but then you feel his hands flying to your hips and he lifts you up easily, pushing your dress the rest of the way up before slowly lowering you onto his cock.

You let out a high-pitched whine as you feel him filling you, thick and hard and you silently thank him for preparing you with his fingers.

“It's okay, I got you.” He mumbles, whispering soft praise into your ear until he's all the way inside of you, your bodies flush against each other. You hear him take a breath, clearly forcing himself to hold back and you nudge him softly, silently letting him know that he can move.

He does and the slight discomfort gives way to pleasure as he slowly buries himself in your heat again and again. It feels so different - He feels so different - from all the men you've been with that it makes you want to cry with the revelation.

“You okay?” He mumbles again and you nod, placing your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as you beg:” Harder, please.”

Agent Ortega silently obeys, changing his angle so that he is hitting your cervix with each thrust and you almost yell at the glorious feeling that starts forming in your stomach as your fingers dig into his skin.

“Come on, darlin. Come for me. Just for me .” 

You whimper as your climax hits you seemingly out of nowhere and you can hear him curse under his breath as he quickly tries to pull out of you.

“Please don't-” You whimper silently and he looks at you, face somewhere between pleasure and surprise before he gives in, letting your muscles draw him back inside as you clench down on him, drawing out both your orgasms.

He looks down and moans your name at the sight of his seed spilling out of you and running down the base of his cock, that is slowly starting to soften inside of you.

Later, after he has cleaned you up, you are in his arms, your naked limbs entangled in between the sheets. He is stroking your hair slowly, occasionally leaning down to give in to the sweet promise of another kiss.

“Maybe I should take you with me. Back to Santa Fe.” He mumbles and you sigh softly, pressing your hand against his chest:” And why would you do that?”

He stays quiet. When you realize that there is no response coming, you raise your head a bit, glancing up at his face. His eyes are soft as he looks at you in a way you don't think anyone else ever has.

You answer your own question.

“ You care about me .”

He gives the tiniest of nods, smiling a little as he leans down and kisses your forehead softly.

”Get some sleep. I'll be here in the morning.”

___________________________________

notes: thank you for reading! feel free to leave me a comment if you want more agent ortega or if you want to give some feedback. love you all <3

#the sixth gun #agent ortega #agent ortega x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #agent ortega x you #agent ortega x female reader #female reader #pedro pascal x y/n #smut #fanfic #pedro pascal fandom #the sixth gun fanfiction #softpascalito

[piedpiperslists]

Jungkook One Shots (LXVIII)

* s - contains smut

Never Let You Go by @yeojaa s wc~7.6k / tattoo artist!Jungkook Summary: You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t. (or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

You’ll Let Me? by @honeytae s wc~2.9k / established relationship

Savage Love by @whatifyoulivelikethat s wc~3k Summary: We all make happy mistakes, right? And Jeon Jungkook’s was fucking Min Yoongi’s ex-girlfriend. Oops.

Still Want That by @whatifyoulivelikethat s wc~6.3k Summary: Fucking Min Yoongi ex-girlfriend? A terrible idea. Being hopelessly in love with her at the same time? An even worse idea. Knowing he was being used and still doing it anyway? Ah, Jeon Jungkook, what are you doing?

Hotel by @satnin-darling s wc~5.1k / ft PJM, established relationship, idol au Summary: Jungkook always comes to Jimin's room at odd hours in the day because he says it's boring to be all by himself, holed up in his own hotel room. The real reason, of course, is because you're there.

Late by @satnin-darling s wc~6.7k / ft PJM, established relationship, idol au Summary: Sometimes, it can’t be helped that Jimin and Jungkook are late. It’s no one’s fault, really, since that’s what usually happens when all three of you are together anyway.

[...] Trick or Treat by @satnin-darling s wc~5.9k / ft MYG Summary: The Joker, a Gray Pianist, and an Action-taker were supposed to walk into a bar on Halloween. Turns out they don't even make it past the front door because they were too busy fucking each other to partake in this year’s spooky season.

[LOVE - 40]/[40 - LOVE] by @satnin-darling s wc~11.5k / tennis player!Jungkook, journalist!reader Summary: At the end of August, Jungkook had to pull out of one of the biggest tennis tournaments of his career. His injuries were inhibiting him and he felt like he was back to square one. He returns to Busan for rehab and he gets interviewed by you for an article. But your twin brother had just died and you were shocked with grief. So you spend a couple of days talking about tennis but underneath the surface, you cover so much more.

Kismet by @satnin-darling s wc~14.2k / strangers to lovers, fantasy au Summary: In this life, you get to choose what to believe in, be it fate or chance. But little did you know that some people above are messing with you, in the most non- prearranged way possible. Enter Jimin, who works for the department of Fate, with his unlikely colleague, Taehyung, who works for the department of Chance. They quarrel to no end, pulling at the strings that hold up the universe to fashion something that resembles destiny or coincidence. As a result, you and Jungkook end up being mere puppets to their ploy, which begs the question: is it fate or coincidence?

The Arrangement by @jiminisnotavirgin s wc~5.6k / angst, sugar baby!Jungkook Summary: Jungkook’s dinner with you, his noona, is different than usual, leading to an interesting and sexual escapade… in the bathroom.

#jjk list #jungkook oneshot

[mllemaenad]

The thing about Fallout is ... I don't actually think Bethesda really broke the concept until Fallout 76. I have seen people wring their hands over the Nuclear Option quest in Fallout 4 being incompatible with Fallout's themes, but I don't really agree with that.

There's that tired, defeated sounding voice over at the start of every game, after all: "War, war never changes". And I remember: I remember having to blow up both the Mariposa Base and the Cathedral in the original Fallout; I remember destroying the Enclave oil rig in Fallout 2. That's three whole buildings with people in them, just like the Institute.

While they are role playing games with a lot of choice and consequence built in, the Fallout series does consistently railroad the player in one sense: you are inserted into the narrative at a point where the situation has escalated to the point where you have to go to war. There are many side quests that give you the opportunity to find alternative, peaceful solutions to conflicts – you can fix broken machinery and forge alliances or just shout at people until they calm down, and that all works – but in the main quest, the fight is inevitable.

And that makes sense. The ghost that haunts the narrative of every Fallout game is the morning of the 23rd of October, 2077, when everybody fired on everybody else at once. You ask yourself – "How could they do that?" The scale of the destruction, the sheer number of deaths, the absolute no-win scenario that created for every nation in the world makes it sound utterly unthinkable. But they did it.

You get a lot of historical backstory on how they got there, of course: the over reliance on fossil fuels, culminating in a last minute switch to nuclear power; the collapsing economies and failing institutions; the extreme ideologies embraced by the world's super powers; the horrifying disregard for human life that spread everywhere well before anyone launched those missiles. You see all the off ramps that weren't taken along the way.

But more importantly, you live it, every time. You never set out to fight a war or blow anything up. You're trying to find a damn water chip, a GECK, your father, the guy who fucking shot you, your son. But at the end of the day, you always find yourself recruited, and you always have to destroy something. Then you can see for yourself how it happens. The world had passed its point of no return the day you arrived in it, and you just have to deal with it. War never changes.

But with Fallout 76 ... I mean, it's the problem of a single player narrative in a multiplayer game. The premise is that you are one of many vault dwellers emerging into the world to rebuild, but in practice you are The Chosen One, all over again. The Vault Dweller, singular. If you imagine it as a single player scenario it's not that bad, although it is retreading old ground: the Enclave has another one of their delightful genocidal plans, and in the end you have to turn their weapons on their plague-ridden creations to stop the nightmare from spreading. It's a tragedy, because you are risking this little patch of unpolluted land, where crops can still grow and people can still live – but you're alone with only the resources you've been able to scrape together from the detritus of this fallen society, so what choice do you have?

Except. Well. You are not alone. Not even a little bit. In theory you should have a vault full of fellow geniuses to collaborate with. And unlike other games in the series, your fundamental issue is not that you are dealing with multiple groups of people with such different ideologies that they will never agree. Those people existed, but they are now dead or fled (At least originally; I am aware that expansions have since changed the situation). In theory you are now accompanied by a group of people who should, like you, be focused on doing everything they can not to destroy their new homeland.

And worst of all, because it's a multiplayer game everybody gets a bloody turn. You don't launch your weapons, battle the scorchbeast queen and then fade into a montage describing the literal fallout of what you have done. No, you do the whole thing over again for the XP and the loot. So now you are basically using nuclear weapons for post-apocalyptic big game hunting, and it drives me up the wall.

War never changes. Let's launch the nukes for fun.

#fallout

[alfredsolos]

Colin and Damian's dynamic and each of them as individuals really intrigues me, so I wanted to continue my "Damian Wayne HC's", with their relationship and my intrepretation of things.

(By the way, I already made a post about explaining Colin's character within the canon. He is a character who is very misinterpreted and most of the time written as a Jon Kent 2.0. So if you want to understand my hc's for him more, you can go into my 'Colin Wilkes' tags and see my posts about him.)

Colin is a stoic kid. Damian is a stoic kid. So they make a pretty intimidating duo.

They both are considered 'cold' but Colin is more 'silent-cold' while Damian is 'unhinged-cold'.

Colin has always admired and loved superheroes ever since Batman saved him from Scarecrow, so his stoic persona slips away whenever he comes across one. He also does not have a 'least favorite' hero. He loves all of them.

Since Colin grew up in an orphanage and every night went out as Abuse to save people, he is very protective. Damian, naturally, is very protective. So sometimes it gets in their way when they're trying to save the other during fights and they end up just messing everything up and fuck off.

Although Colin is very stoic, before he became Abuse, he was a very shy child. He had a closed-off sadness inside him since people mostly adopted babies or toddlers. He just knew that he was too old and would be without a family.

After becoming Abuse, he first hand realized how dangerous Gotham could be to the people and the children. This filled him up with a new type of feeling, so he ended up following his heroe's foot steps and became a vigilante.

Colin (canonically) found out Damian was Robin from a single back flip. His ability to stay calm in situations and assess really helps him on the field.

Colin and Damian never go to school together, never meet up as Damian and Colin. At least not at first. Their friendship is built upon duty and mission. The realization of them being friends come to them years later.

There is only one person Damian would not hesitate to tell any sorts of secret, and that's Colin Wilkes. He just knows that no matter what, Colin would never judge him or admonish him for his flaws and mistakes.

Colin rarely sees Damian's other siblings, but Damian feels like Colin isn't very interested in them despite being a superhero fan. Which in return interests Damian. He never really understands why.

Colin is not very interested in Damian's siblings because they are so unlike Damian, it becomes very uncommonly common. Sure he likes them and admires their work very much. But they simply don't fight, think, joke or understand him like Damian.

What really intrigues Colin about Damian is that his character is exactly opposite of what a hero 'should' be. He is brash, agressive, hilarious in a fucked up way, dangerous, scary, theatrical, uncaring and scarred. He is such an uncommonly uncommon person that Colin just can't help but be his friend.

Best part of being Abuse to Colin is branding criminals' faces. He isn't sadistic really, but it gives him a deep pleasure doing it.

Damian thinks branding criminals is genius, although he refrains from doing it. Branding isn't really a Bat type of thing.

Colin doesn't really get along with Jon. Jon tries to befriend him and Colin knows that he is a good kid. But befriending Jon (or any other friend of Damian) means patrolling the streets as a trio rather than a duo. He can't really explain it, but it just feels wrong to imagine Damian in a three person group. He isn't jealous or anything, he is perfectly fine with Damian patrolling with Jon. It's just that he feels like, with Damian, it's supposed to be a duo. Bringing a third person messes up the dynamic for him and Damian.

After Alfred's death, Damian (canonically) ends up leaving the Manor and continuing on his own. And for a while Damian and Colin end up living together. These are the times where they really see what they mean to each other.

Damian sometimes really struggles to see or understand what really Colin is to him. A friend, ally, rival, lover, brother? He really doesn't know. What he knows though is that Colin means so much to him and that he will keep being at his side as long as he's allowed.

When someone hurts Colin, he will hurt them as much as they hurt him. An eye for an eye.

When someone hurts Damian, he will hurt them ten times more and they'll regret ever touching him.

Although Colin is a Batman fan, he doesn't have his moral code. He won't go out of his way to kill someone, but if they do end up dying he won't care as much as he should.

When Damian was a kid and would kill someone, he wouldn't feel anything. After Bruce's influence, in those rare times that he kills someone, all he hears is his father's voice in his head. So sometimes he wonders whether he is a bad person for feeling remorse because of his father and not for actually killing someone.

Both Colin and Damian aren't touchy people.

Colin isn't a touchy person because he rarely got them when he was little and now he just doesn't find the appeal in it. He doesn't really care or desire for it as much as other kids.

Damian on the other hand basically has haphephobia (fear of touch). He doesn't trust anyone to get that much close to him. Although he doesn't feel pain from touching, he feels lightheaded and reflexively presses his arms into his body as close as he can. This of course makes him uncomfortable. And in extreme cases, flashbacks and bad memories fill him up.

So these were some of my hc's for Colin and Damian. I don't know what you guys think of their relationship (whether it's romantic or pure friendship) so think of these as anyway you want.

#dc comics #batfamily #batfam #damian wayne #dc #bruce wayne #batman #abuse dc #dc abuse #colin wilkes #damian wayne headcanons #damian wayne headcanon #colin wilkes headcanon #colin wilkes headcanons #jon kent

[violetsaffron5]

In Another Life (4)

Chapter 3 • series masterlist • chapter 5

4 | Commitment Issues

Pairing: Gojo x f!Reader and Geto x f!Reader

An argument with Satoru leads you to the front steps of a place you swore you'd never return

Words: 4.3k

cw: angst, arguing, canon typical violence, descriptions of panic attack/anxiety

Taglist • Ao3 • Discord 18+ • Social Media • Series Masterlists

It’s quiet on the way back to your shared apartment.

You’ve been wondering if Satoru saw what you did, though it’s fairly obvious he saw something, he hasn’t expressly said it.

After returning to the venue to mingle with your guests, Satoru kept his hand tight on your waist the rest of the night preventing you from leaving his side again.

He’s quiet, which is incredibly unlike himself. Happy or frustrated, it’s never mattered to him, he’s always had something to say about everything.

Which is just another reason to believe he witnessed your infidelity.

The walk and elevator ride from the basement garage to your penthouse is equally, eerily quiet until Satoru unlocks the door, motioning for you to enter, and closes it behind him.

“I thought you were done seeing him behind my back,” Satoru states as the door clicks closed.

The look you give him is a mix of shock and confusion, because you know you had never told a soul about seeing Suguru shortly after he defected. Your stomach curls in on itself with the look of disgust Satoru is staring at you with, icy blue eyes with a fire burning behind them.

It’s not a look you’ve ever been on the receiving end of. Despite his power and abilities, it’s easy to see why with one glace from Satoru, his enemies go running. It’s truly frightening, having his anger directed towards you.

“You know, I was really hoping you were going to come clean to me, going to see Suguru a few weeks ago,” Your eyes widen at his announcement because the only person who could have possibly said something to Satoru is fucking Ijichi, “Instead, I catch you fucking him at our engagement party.”

Somehow, the tension in the air has gotten even thicker. It’s hard to breathe, let alone think. There’s not much to say, other than the truth, even though hurts, “I just needed to see him again. Just to be sure about all of this, about us,” your voice is weak, shaky, “I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

 Satoru lets out an unamused laugh mixed with a scoff, “We’ve been together for years, and you’re still not sure?”

“I-I don’t know…” It’s barely a whisper as you run your hands through your hair and tug lightly at the roots in frustration, “it’s just- it’s complicated, okay?”

The feelings you’ve been harboring are complex and trying to sort them out on your own hasn’t been easy. You’ve been telling yourself you’re fine, you don’t need Suguru as long as you have Satoru. That you’re one-hundred percent totally happy with the man who’s standing in front of you.

But that’s clearly not the case when you used a note as an excuse to see him one last time before you married his best friend. Feelings that, with just a few words hastily scribbled onto a piece of paper, sent you running back to Suguru.

“Three years.” Satoru states harshly, “And clearly I’m the only one committed to this relationship since you’re off whoring yourself out to your ex!”

Your heart cracks at his comment, tears welling in the corner of your eyes, “Can we please just talk about this calmly and not say things we don’t mean.”

“You cheated on me at our engagement party, and you expect me to be calm?”

“Satoru, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say or do to make this better, I just… please. I want to work this out.”

His face is void of all emotion when you take a few hesitant steps toward him. His cursed energy prickles your skin when you reach your hand out to grab his, if you can touch him, hold him, maybe that will make things better.

Except you’re unable to, his infinity is up, protecting him and not letting you past it.

You open and close your mouth several times, trying to find the right words. Trying to tell Satoru this was a mistake, that you want to be with him and how sorry you are for the pain you’ve caused, but nothing comes out.

Instead, the tears that have been welling in the corner of your eyes finally break free, streaming down your face. You want to talk this over until everything is better until things were the way they always have been between you, but you know, all you can do is give it time and hope he doesn’t hate you for your mistakes.

“Three years,” Satoru states again, voice clipped but no longer raised, “That’s how much time I’ve wasted with you. Three years, and I’m still the only one committed to this relationship.”

Your brows are pinched as you scoff at his audacity, “How can you think I’m not committed?”

“You fucked another man at our engagement party! That’s pretty clear if you fucking ask me.”

Before you’re able to reply, Satoru is gone in the blink of an eye, warping out of the apartment to wherever he decided to go, likely the school, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Too many of them.

Running your hands over your face, you wipe away the tears streaming down your face and sniffle a few times before sulking off to your bathroom to get ready for bed, waning to just sleep the pain away.

Everyone always says you’ll feel better after sleeping, that things will be brighter in the morning. You’re not convinced that’s going to be the case this time.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror for several minutes, the bright lights from the vanity shining into your sad, puffy eyes.

You don’t look like a cheater, but you don’t look like yourself either.

Your cheeks are flushed, skin splotchy from crying; eyes half-lidded in despair. You look as miserable as you feel.

There’s a heavy pain sitting deep within your chest, so heavy it feels like your body could crumple to the floor at any moment, and you’d be okay with it.

And you couldn’t blame Satoru if he wanted to curse you either.

He didn’t deserve what you did to him, he didn’t deserve what you’re putting him through or to be treated this way.

For as many excuses as you would like to make about why you cheated, the fact of the matter is you’ve never been able to control yourself around him. As soon as he touches you, it’s over, melting into him like it’s where you’ve always belonged.

The definition of high school sweethearts through and through, until he defected and left you.

Satoru was there to pick up the pieces, to mend you and put you back together, and you were there for him too. Two shattered hearts were brought together by shared pain and anguish.

You’re not sure when it happened- when your admiration turned into fondness; the feelings having snuck up on you.

The guilt, the first time you kissed, the first time he held you in his arms in a way that was more than platonic. It was an adjustment for both of you.

But Satoru has never understood you the way Suguru did. Never quite got your jokes the same way Suguru would. Never thought your achievements were near as impressive as Suguru did.

Still, you looked past it. Maybe your love for Satoru was a replacement for Suguru, projecting onto him but you were never going to be as happy.

And that’s never been fair to Satoru.

What you did was absolutely not fair to him either.

Satoru’s been gone for almost two weeks and you’ve yet to hear from him or even see him. You’ve gone into the school a few times, trying to bring yourself to work but each time you spotted Satoru’s students, and he wasn’t in tow, your heart would sink over and over again.

So instead, you’ve opted to take personal leave and lay in bed, day in and day out. Curled into a ball until you fall asleep, waking up to a wet pillow case realizing tears slipped out during your dreams.

You’ve tried calling him a few times, but each time you’re met with his voicemail box immediately. It makes your chest hurt like your heart is going to rip out of your chest and shatter into a million pieces right on the floor.

This letter has messed with your head more than you initially thought it would. Made you seek out your ex, reopen old wounds and cheat on the man who’d done nothing but love you in the worst time of your life.

There’s been a thought scratching at the back of your mind about your life, and who you love.

How you love Satoru and right or wrong, how you still hold a love for Suguru as well.

Staring at your ceiling, eyes glazed over as you look at the swirling patterns above you know you need to do something. Nothing is going to get solved this way, if you just keep laying in bed.

Taking a deep breath, you wipe the tears from your face. A decision needs to be made.

If you don’t make one, you’ll continue to hurt not only yourself but those you love as well.

And you don’t want to be in the same position twenty years from now trying to send yourself a letter in the past, wondering if you had made the right decision.

You’re standing in front of the same grandiose temple you found yourself in front of a few weeks ago. Thinking, once you had left last time, you’d never make your way back here again.

This time, you’re more nervous than before. Certainly less confident in the status of your current relationship, with twisted and confused feelings regarding the two men who have been incredibly important during different stages of your life.

The double doors creak as you enter the temple, and once again the same busty woman comes out of nowhere, glaring at you as her heels click on the marble with haste. You briefly wonder if she does anything aside from spying on you and patrolling the entrance.

She raises an eyebrow at your attire before rolling her eyes, stopping a few feet in front of you.

Today, you opted to wear your uniform, hoping it would help provide some comfort in coming back to see Suguru. Hoping it will act as a guiding light in this unknown time.

“Geto said you’d be coming.”

You’re scratching your eyebrow, giving a nervous chuckle that even after all this time apart, he knows you well enough to know you’d come searching for him again.

Rather than pushing past her this time, you let her lead you down the halls of the temple until she knocks on one of the doors.

You can hear Suguru give a mumbled “come in” before she opens the door, entering before you.

The room is empty, aside from Suguru, with traditional art on the wall and again, candles lit in various portions of the room. He’s sitting in a chair in the corner of the room with a bookshelf next to him and a small table in front. Suguru’s reading a book when he looks up, greeting you with his signature, calming smile.

“You can go, Manami,” He states without looking in her direction, to her dismay, you’re sure.

Suguru is in similar attire as you saw him last time; a gold-colored Kaseya over black Yukata robes with white socks on his feet.

Manami pauses for a moment, looking between the two of you before turning her nose up, walking out of the room, and closing the door behind her.

You’re sure she’s probably going to listen in on your conversation from the other side, you’d certainly be tempted to.

“To be honest,” Suguru states, standing from his chair and putting his book away on the bookshelf next to him, “I thought you’d be coming to see me sooner than this.”

“Maybe you don’t remember me as well as you think you do.”

He smirks, “Maybe you’ve picked up a thing or two from Satoru. How is he, by the way?”

“Fine.” You’re trying to answer as nonchalantly as possible, though you’re not sure how well you succeeded based on the knowing smile he gives you, “I’m not here to talk about him.”

“Oh! What are you here to discuss then?”

His voice is amused as he sits back in his chair, leaning on the table in front of him with his palm resting on his chin, waiting for you to continue.

“I just-” You take a deep breath in before clicking your tongue, “I need to see what you do. I need to understand, so I can let you go.”

He chuckles at your vibrato, looking you over carefully, “Very well. If that’s what you think you need, who am I to stop you?” He sighs before standing, placing his book back on the shelf, “I was getting ready to head to a mission myself. You can come along.”

Suguru glides across the room, placing one hand on your waist to hold you close, the other on your chin, forcing you to look up at his Cheshire grin and sharp canines, “You’re gonna need to change. Showing up in your uniform would be very bad for both of us.”

You swallow thickly, nodding your head and giving him an unsure smile, “I didn’t bring anything else to wear.”

“That’s not going to be a problem.”

Suguru calls Manami back in the room and asks her to pick out an outfit for you. She nods and says she’ll find something quickly, huffing when she turns around, catching your eye.

While waiting for Manami to return, take the time to look around the room you’re in, looking over the books and trying to see if you’re able to figure out which one Suguru was likely reading. He watches, quiet, letting you look through any drawers and papers you find - it’s pretty sparse, nothing of any real interest.

It doesn’t take Manami long to come back, a bag in hand opting to hand it to Suguru, rather than you before leaving once again.

Suguru leads you down the hall to another room, a basic bedroom with a large bed in the center, a couch and tv off to one corner, and a small walk-in closet with a bathroom attached. He directs you towards the restroom to change while he goes into the closet.

With Suguru’s seemingly everyday attire being traditional robes, you had anticipated something similar, not the sleek little black dress you pull out of the bag that pinches at your waist perfectly.

As uppity and annoying as Manami may seem, she sure does know how to pick out an outfit, with cute heels to match.

When you emerge from the bathroom you find Suguru standing in front of a full-length mirror with the fabric of a tie loose around his neck as he finishes buttoning up his dress shirt.

He smiles at you from the mirror, eyes trailing up and down the length of your body before stepping away to greet you.

You stiffen slightly when he puts his arm around your waist before relaxing into his touch more than you mean to, “You look beautiful.”

Suguru gazes at you with half-lidded eyes, watching the way your cheeks heat at his compliment.

He looks delicious with his ebony hair falling past his shoulders, a white button-up shirt, and black slacks - similar to what he wore when he showed up at your engagement party. You look away, clearing your throat because you shouldn’t be having these thoughts about him, not at a time like this, not ever.

You shouldn’t have let this go as far as it did either. But the only thing you can try to do is move forward. Make a decision and move on with your life either way.

Suguru takes you to a small cocktail lounge, to your surprise. To be honest, you were expecting more of a dingy warehouse or disgusting basement where he handles his so-called business, not some place so out in the open.

The space is beautiful with dim lighting and the quiet murmurs of patrons already sitting with friends, family, and lovers engrossed in conversation. 

He hasn’t moved his hand from your waist from the moment he placed it there, thumb rubbing small circles on your hip as he keeps you close to him, murmuring in your ear, “Can’t have you wandering off. Who knows who might recognize you.”

“I-Who would recognize me here?”

You’ve certainly never been to this lounge. You didn’t even know it existed until now, but quickly realize there are a few people who glance in your direction as Suguru walks you to the bar, ordering your favorite drink. Some of them seem to be glaring at you or looking at you with disdain, you just look back at them with furrowed brows before turning your attention to Suguru.

It’s easier to make small talk with him as you wait for your drink than think about the implications of coming out in the open with Suguru. If someone who does know you sees you here with him, the higher-ups would instantly brand you as a traitor, and you’re not so sure if Satoru would bother coming to your aid right now.

Satoru has a lot of enemies, you know they’re out there, but you don’t know who they are. Not like he does. And just because you don’t know anyone in this room, it doesn’t mean they don’t know you.

The thought makes your stomach twist as the bartender hands you your drink. You watched him make it the entire time, more nervous than ever that something unwarranted may find its way into the glass.

Not that you really think Suguru would let that happen.

Suguru takes you to a booth, near the back of the lounge. You watch as the patrons in the bar laugh, chit-chat, and smile with the others they came with. There aren’t as many people here as you would expect on a weekend. The bar isn’t filled and most of the tables are empty, with seemingly only one person on staff.

“Don’t be nervous,” Suguru says, grabbing your hand as you lay your glass back on the table.

You look at him with furrowed brows as he plays with the tips of your fingers. It takes you a moment to realize your hand is shaking and goosebumps have prickled themselves all over your skin.

“I just- it feels weird. Being out in public with you. This isn’t what I expected.” You whisper, watching the way his large hand glides over your fingers and up your arm before wrapping it around your shoulder.

“I know.” He places a gentle kiss on your temple and a soft smile graces your lips before a pudgy, sweaty man in a suit takes a seat across from you and Suguru. The suit is at least two sizes too small based on the button in the center of his belly threatening to burst.

The man fumbles around his chest pocket before pulling out a handkerchief, dabbing it on his forehead.

“You’re late,” Suguru states simply, glaring at the man with sharp eyes as you watch him take a seat with a disgruntled look.

“This wasn’t exactly the easiest shit-hole to find,” he spits pulling a cigar out of a tiny case, lighting it, and puffing on it several times, “couldn’t have picked a place with a little more class?”

Suguru chuckles, “Oh, you don’t like it? I thought a cozier environment would suit us better. Or did you want to go to a club so all the patrons could hear about our plans?”

The man blows the smoke from his cigar towards Suguru in annoyance causing you to crinkle your nose and wave your hand in front of your face as you cough slightly. Suguru pulls you in closer to him, the scent of his cologne helping ease the irritation from the smoke.

“I didn’t want to meet in public at all, Geto.”

Suguru hums, “Let's head out back then. The smoke is bothersome anyway.”

Internally you’re talking Suguru so you can be far away from this sleazy man blowing smoke in your face, but you also recognize that Suguru likely has ulterior motives, which makes your stomach churn again.

Suguru takes you by the hand, and your heart flutters as he hooks your arm into his, leading you out the back door to the alleyway of the bar.

This is more of the aesthetic you were expecting. Dark, dingy, and dirty, small cramped space as Suguru says, “You haven’t paid in some time.”

“I don’t trust you,” the man replies, continuing to puff on his cigar, “none of the changes you’ve promised have happened yet.”

“Change in the Jujutus World takes time,” Your ears perk at his comment. You know he has flawed ideals but the fact that he’s still been working towards this insane goal right under everyone’s noses is incredibly unsettling, “Can’t rush perfection, after all.”

“Well, it needs to be rushed. I’ve spent a lot of money on you and your little following.”

You’re nervous, sick to your stomach from their conversation, upset with yourself that you’re here. A willing participant because you couldn’t bring yourself to leave Suguru alone, to let your past lie in the past.

Squeezing your eyes closed and taking a deep breath, you try to settle your nerves and remind yourself that you asked for this. Because you just needed to see how he is, how he’s changed, for better or worse. You just need to know.

Because if you know, if you see him in action and hear his plans you’ll be able to let him go.

You have to, right? He’s a criminal, considered the worst curse user. It’s only logical.

“Were you able to find the sorcerer I requested? The one with the black rope?” Suguru asks calmly.

The twisted feeling in your stomach is getting worse as you look around, listening to their conversation. It’s oddly quiet. No hustle and bustle from the road down the ally, no sound other than the two men talking.

The area surrounding you is tinged and distorted as well. You were so consumed with following Suguru and what his plan was that you didn’t even realize a veil was put up around the bar.

“I did. Somewhere in Africa, maybe Kenya, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’ll only work for the right price and under the right conditions.”

“That really shouldn’t be a problem,” Suguru smirks, “Don’t worry about paying, you’re no longer of use to me.”

You’re not sure when he got it ready but Suguru now holds a small black sphere, grinning as he releases a giant centipede from the confines of the orb. It slithers across the floor, charging towards the man who screams as he backs away, trying to run out of the ally to the sidewalk.

You know he won’t make it. Even if he manages to get away from this curse somehow, Suguru would find him, no matter what.

Suguru came here tonight prepared to kill the man, whether he gave the information Suguru was looking for or not. It didn’t really matter to him and the realization brings an acidic burn to the base of your throat.

The curse easily catches up to him, coiling its body around the man, squeezing tight.

The muffled screams of the man can be heard as you look away, tears streaming down your cheeks, breath hitching with each crunch of bone as it strangles him. The sound of bones breaking and popping isn’t uncommon in your line of work, but it’s incredibly horrifying when it’s a seemingly innocent man.

It takes everything in you not to scream and run away yourself. Or try to fight Suguru, though you know there’d be no chance of winning.

You’re jittery and anxious and it feels like your world is about to collapse in on itself because now you’ve seen Suguru in action - now you know what he’s fully capable of.

Of course, you knew. You had been told repeatedly of the crimes he committed but part of you still needed to see it in order to believe it.

And what frightens you the most isn’t that he just committed this heinous crime in front of you without a second thought.

It’s that you’re still not afraid of him. That you can’t bring yourself to run, to call Satoru and tell him where you are, what you’ve witnessed, and beg for forgiveness for your part in this.

Your eyes are squeezed closed, fists closed in tight little balls when you feel gentle fingers below your chin turn your head.

Opening your eyes, Suguru stands with gentle eyes and a kind smile and you wonder how he can be so calm about all of this.

You’re supposed to protect those who can’t protect themselves, but you didn’t even try to stop him. You just looked away.

Tears are streaming down your face in quick succession, you’re panicking, hyperventilating, and unable to catch your breath, “y-you just k-killed him. For no reason!”

“He played his part. I didn’t need him anymore.”

“Who was he?”

Suguru eyes you for a moment, clenching his jaw, “Someone who won’t be missed. A weakling, a monkey who had resources and money. Told him if he helped, we’d make a place for him in the new world.”

“So you just killed him?”

“Yes.”

You shake your head, at a loss for words. Even if you knew what you wanted to say, you’re not sure anything would come out. You want to scream and cry and run away but at the same time, you also don’t want to leave.

“You’ve seen enough,” Suguru wipes away a few tears with his thumb. Your eyes are red and puffy and you sniffle several times, “It’s time we get you back home.”

@s-witch-bitch @watyousayin @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn @ritsatoru @faewithsnakes @lex-dear @hvziers @babybae-shisui @saiewithakatana @yihona-san06 @shartnart1 @lilith412426 @ambersea7 @ikilledsparky2 @creolequeen11210 @ichigojamjam @simpfully-heartbroken @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn @shan-nein @witchbybirth @myabae @lilacsinjuly @mshope16

#jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo satoru smut #gojou satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x y/n #gojo satoru x you #geto x you #geto suguru smut #geto x reader #geto x y/n #getou suguru x y/n #violetsaffronfic #jjk x you #jjk fic #jjk smut #jjk angst #IAL #In Another Life

[frompearl]

Mrs. Afton’s Daily Life: THREE

Warnings: Mentions of Child Abuse, William being a bit fucked up ngl, Unedited :')

A/N: Enjoy!

BEEP!! 

HONK!!!

“Watch where you’re going!!” A furious William yells to an elderly driver who almost crashed into him.

The older lady in question only flips him off to which he returns the gesture.

“Crazy old hag, you’re lucky I don’t want to do jail time.” He grumbles to himself, taking out a cigarette to place between his lips. 

It was his lunch break and usually around this time, he would pick up Michael from school. 

But today would be different for he would be picking up both Evan and Michael. 

A smile paints his lips, his baby boy Evan was growing up so fast. It felt like yesterday when he was just barely learning how to walk and now the little boy was going to school. 

He didn’t know whether to feel proud or anxious. Evan was small for his age. Knowing how little brats his age act, they’d probably pick on him. His grip tightened on the steering wheel. 

Unlike Y/N who wouldn’t dare hurt a child no matter how furious she was with the kids who would beat up Michael, William had no issue with harming the nearest brat who threatened his children. 

Sure William had some violent tendencies growing up, but did he grow out of them? Pfft no.

Similar to his son who was starting to get involved in fights, William had been a violent child growing up.

From witnessing both his parents get into violent fights and being on the receptive end of that abuse, William grew up with pent up anger that was quick to flare up. As a small child he would let out that anger onto innocent rodents he would find crawling in his walls at night. His soulless black eyes would observe as his small thin hands strangled the life out of the innocent mice he got his hands on. If his mother caught him again in the act, she would beat him, her own black eyes tearing up.

“Why can’t you be normal?” 

He found that he hated his own eyes when they reminded him of his parents. 

Both held the same blank look that was quick to convert into rage at the drop of a hat. 

His home was a suffocating place that was filled with the threats of violence and anger. His mother was constantly angry with his father for “not providing the lifestyle she deserved.” While his father would argue back that it was her fault for “failing as a woman by being a useless wife.” Then their anger would shift onto him and they’d berate him for ruining their lives. 

Both his parents were high school sweethearts from the countryside of England. 

They’d both come from abusive families that made them both bond over their own personal struggles. 

His mother wanted stability and to be lavished in riches that his father couldn’t provide. 

While his father wanted her love and for her to give him the happy family he’d always wanted. She never wanted children but she’d kept quiet hoping that he’d eventually forget about wanting a child. 

Both teenagers thought that they’d be happy together so they decided to elope to the United States. 

They’d spent all their life savings on the move, their imagination of a perfect life in the States blinding them of the realistic problems. 

Problems quickly arose when they both realized how completely inadequate they were for each other. 

His mother’s resentment to his father grew with each passing day she worked minimum wage jobs, her wish to be taken care of slipping from her fingers.

And her father started to grow irritated with how often she refused to bear him a child. 

There would be times William wished she kept refusing him. For both his parents to be aware of how morally wrong it would be to bring an innocent baby to whatever fucked  arrangement his parents had going on.

But alas, fed up with his persistence for a baby, she caved in begrudgingly. She hoped that if she birthed a child, things would go as they planned. Maybe the baby would look cute?

Something she would remind William constantly that she regretted caving into her father’s wish for a child. 

She hated being pregnant and hated the changes it brought to her body. The birthing process had left her traumatized after many hours of pain and blood loss.

The first time she’d laid eyes on an infant William, she’d only sneered at him.

He wasn’t the blonde baby with the chubby cherub cheeks she wanted. Nine months of torture, sacrificing her body, and hours of agony. 

For this weak looking baby? He was underweight for his age and he remained silent when he took his first breath of air. No piercing wails or exciting emotion evoked from his mother. 

This baby looked dead. She didn’t want such an ugly looking baby.

Poor William had been barely born and his mother had already rejected him. 

His father tried to love him at first. He’d want to have the perfect family all his life. But when his mother was caught in an affair, was when the fights started. 

The earliest memory he recalled was being four years old and watching as his father beat the shit out of his mother. Her screaming cries  

as she begged him to stop were overshadowed by the furious yells of his father. The man had come home from work to see his wife in a lovers embrace with another man. 

William was only watching from the box television when he saw a half naked man run out of the room followed by his father carrying a shotgun. His father had dropped the shotgun in the living room before storming back to his bedroom. There he’d drag his wife by her long black hair as she kicked and screamed. 

When he’d beat her till she was black and blue, he’d gotten up and stood over her body.

He sobbed about why she brought the worst out of him and that she hoped she learned her lesson for being an ungrateful wife.

When he’d turn around to go clean himself of his wife’s blood on his fist, he failed to realize that his shotgun was near his wife’s hands.

Big black eyes that belonged to an innocent William watched as his mother started to shoot at his father. Said man taking cover behind the kitchen counters, screaming about how crazy she was.

The man cried out as he felt a spare bullet nick his leg. Once his mother realized what she did, she started to cry hysterically claiming that she didn’t mean to harm him, only to scare him as a lesson.

They both then screamed at each other until the police had shown up after a neighbor made a complaint. 

His mother plastered on a fake smile and assured them everything was fine. That the bruises on her face were a result of the pet cat playing rowdy again. While she convinced the concerned officers that everything was ok, William’s father cleaned out his wound and any blood that stained the creaky wooden floors.

And William watched it all happen. 

That was his home life. A never ending dance that his parents refused to end no matter how miserable they made each other. 

Not even in school could he be safe because he was bullied for being smaller than the other children. His British accent was also picked on, kids mocking the way he talked because he spoke differently. Everyone and their mothers also knew about his abusive parents, so it was easy to label him as the “weird British kid with issues at home.”

He’d only feel happiness when he’d visit the traveling circus. 

The famous attraction he’d love to see was the dancing bear that was the main attraction. 

There was where his love for entertainment began. He’d remember how the dancing bear would distract him from his miserable home life and he became allured at the idea of bringing that entertainment to those who were like him. Miserable with their day to day lives and in need of a distraction. 

As he grew with those dreams in his head, so did he grow too. The small little boy that he once was grew bigger until he towered over his parents. They’d stopped beating him once they realized he could retaliate against them. 

The bullies at his school that would pick on him cowered at the sight of him. He had cracked the skull of one of them, threatening to go after all of them if they let word get out he did the crime. The kids he grew up with that would bully him now did anything to avoid him. 

If someone said, acted, or even looked at him the wrong way William would beat them mercilessly. Threatening much worse if they were to tell anyone. 

People avoided him at all cost once he revealed his violent tendencies. 

Word got around that the once meek boy became a danger to those who he didn’t like. It was advised for anyone who met him to treat him with caution. 

Something that his parents started to do as they realized how much of a threat he could be to them. 

When he turned eighteen, his parents had kicked him out of the house. Fearing that he would seek revenge against them for abusing him as a child.  

That was when William sought out to build his own replication of the bear he saw many years ago. 

He got into engineering through a mentorship at a car deal. The sleepiness nights learning about mechanics at the school library paid off greatly. 

He absolutely hated working there but knowing it kept him fed and housed in a dingy studio, made him bite his tongue whenever the owner would belittle him. 

Double Majoring in business and engineering, he met his future work partner Henry Emily in a class.

The two were very close at the start of their friendship, they’re work together made them an unstoppable force that would soon create the Freddy Fazbear Franchise. It was a shame they grew apart as the success of Freddy’s skyrocketed. 

While attending college, both young men started to pour all their ideas into making the place of their dreams.

Through gathering enough funds, they were able to create the first two animatronics, Fredbear and Spring Bonnie. FredBear was inspired by the dancing bear at the circus. And Springbonnie was William’s own personal creation. He affectionately dubs Spring Bonnie as his first child much to your annoyance. 

Impressed at the mechanics and advanced technical abilities of the two robots, they were able to convince investors that “FredBear’s Diner” would be a massive hit with all the children of the United States.

And it was.

The first two days, their small diner was filled with many customers. Children crowded around the stage as they watched the two robots sing and interact with the guests. 

Sure the food served wasn’t the best, but he really came for the food anyway? Not when both young men had created something so…revolutionary.

Then the Diner and expanding the Freddy Franchise became a priority in both men’s lives. It was a golden opportunity that they’d be fools to ignore. With that they both dropped out of college and William finally quit his dreadful job at the car dealership. Flipping off his former mentor as he walked out the door. 

There was when both men started to make the Freddy Franchise grow.

Kid restaurants like McDonalds, Burger King, and Chuck E Cheese (he hated all of three of them, especially the last one. Cheap knockoff) were sweating as most of their child customers were swayed by the restaurants made by both William and Henry. Then merchandise and many other products made from them live in the arcades, hell! Freddy’s even had its own cartoon! Money was flowing in and both William and Henry would be recognized as the youngest entrepreneurs to succeed in the country. 

Then William had started his own company, “Afton Robotics.” That quickly became a success as well. 

The life that both his mother and father wanted in America had been achieved by the son they had thought was insignificant. 

He showed them he proved them wrong. 

They both would pester him for money, still in the low economic class. Despite both being divorced, they still were miserable and insufferable people. His mother married the man she cheated with on his father. It wasn’t surprising to learn that she also had issues with him. Like in her previous marriage, she cheated on the poor lad as well. 

His father had turned to drinking to cope with the divorce and spent anything he earned on alcohol. 

Thankfully, none of them had any more children with each other or with other people. 

Thank God.

If they did, William had no qualms of fighting for full custody of any sibling born of those vile people. No little kid deserved to experience what he went through as a child. 

The violence he’d seen growing up 

So when he recalls his family life as a child. 

Never would he lay a hand on any of his precious family, he’d rather die than hurt any of the people he loved most in the world. Even Michael would never experience his violent wrath for he made an oath to himself to never harm his children as his parents did him. 

But anyone besides them? They held no sympathy from the large man.

In his head, everyone and anyone was a threat to his family. 

He’d raised a business from the ground as a college dropout, he’d seen how cruel the world could be.

He’d be damned if anyone hurt them on his watch. 

#yandere x reader #tw.yandere #yandere #fnaf x you #fnaf x reader #william afton x reader #william afton #fem reader

[gold-rhine]

Xiao x Gn! Reader

Warnings: not safe for work, but this one turned out much softer than usual. Sub\dom!reader undertones are still kinda there, but give it a try even if you’re not into this dynamic. First time, handjob, anal sex, mentions of voeyrism (kinda? briefly through the dream), I’m gonna say “cock”, but it stands for strap too, it’s just awkward to keep specifying. 

Wordcount: 4,3k

A\N: Repost bc my previous blog got shadowbanned. I was not sure if I knew what to do for Xiao, but then I remembered that one of his themes is dreamwalking and that’s legit my JAM. It turned out less smutty and more of a psychosexual character study, but I’m still quite fond of it. It’s pretty cheesy, but you know what, Xiao deserves a break. There will be some filth under the cut still. Shoutout to “Nothing to no one” by Gin Wigmore and Placebo’s “Protege Moi” for carrying me through this one.

Xiao is curt and intense to the point of coming off as rude, but never more harsh to anyone but himself. Longing for connection, but consciously denying it himself time after time, severity done like a mask to hide the broken, bleeding bones of gentleness, no time for “trifling human matters”, but enough to return a stolen doll to a little girl. Who the fuck do you think you’re fooling, babe.

And it’s not like he doesn’t know what he wants, oh no, he does, he just won’t admit it even under torture

Friendship lvl3: “Desire? Ha. Do not judge adepti by your mortal ideals. I have no desire.”

Friendship lvl5: “Hiding? I'm hiding nothing. I just won't speak of desire to others. Do mortals not have a rule about spoken wishes never coming true? Hm? What do you mean that's not the same?”

So you admit it, you just fucking lied at lvl3 when you said you “have no desire”?? You just gonna casually go from “Foolish mortal, I have no desires unlike you” to “Of course, I have desires, I want them so badly I won’t even speak them out loud for the fear of jinxing them.” yeah, no, that checks out, SURE.

In Xiao’s world, you don’t communicate what you want, you bottle that shit up and hide it deep inside, and you don’t even admit this bottle exists, let alone tell anyone what’s inside. You don’t believe these wishes will ever come true and you don’t think you deserve it, but because deep down you know you are a weak, corrupted creature, you still hope against all hopes and despise yourself for this foolishness. 

Speaking of which, Xiao collects reasons for self-hatred like it’s his ascension material.

Like, “My only worth is as a weapon, so normal people should not interact with me because I only bring corruption and I am good for nothing outside of bloodshed”

This prickly pride of being a skillful weapon is a double-edged sword of discarding himself as being useless for anything but battle.

Like you have their little training course interaction with Ganyu during her story quest, which btw she receives positively and is grateful for his help, and Xiao’s line about it is:

“You believe a Yaksha who knows nothing more than how to massacre countless souls and emerge unscathed is a suitable mentor for such an individual?”

… babe, can you chill for like, three seconds? You made a defense mini game with like 20 slimes for her, it’s not gonna turn a cocogoat into a cold-blooded killer,

And this dismissal of self-worth outside of combat ties in nicely with bottling up a volatile mix of yearning, loneliness, frustration, despair and innate sensitivity that couldn’t be dulled down even by centuries of self-hatred and pain, and only letting it all out in an incandescent rage in battle, which leads to

“I only feel alive when fighting, which means I’m a monster who only thrives on bloodlust,” despite like, refusing himself all positive stimuli 

“Thriving on bloodlust” somehow not contradicted by the fact that he yearns for beauty and hates this miserable existence so much that he’s legit jumping at the first opportunity to go out in the blaze of glory if it even has a chance to be helpful to other people, and could only be stopped by his dad's Zhongli’s intervention and all off his new friend group going “we’re would be really sad if you died”

Then he’s like “ok i’ll keep on living i guess :\”

(i’m still so salty that they didn’t let Itto talk at all, his story quest speech about sacrifice being an easy and cowardly way out to discard responsibility that doesn’t fix root problems fits Xiao’s situation SO WELL argh) 

Yeah no, all other yakshas talked about wanting peace and his own namecard describes dreaming of peace and donning the mask to dance instead of killing, but yakshas are inherently bloodthirsty species, so there’s no hope for him, that checks out, sure.  

So to summarize, despite how direct Xiao seems at first glance, interacting with him is actually a complex navigation between things he says out loud that he knows are not true, things he says that he can’t admit to himself are not true due to self-loathing, and just general tsundere bullshit. You’ll need a LOT of patience.

Like, does he want to be accepted and loved? Desperately. Will he accept someone trying to do so straightforwardly? Absolutely the fuck not. 

If you try to straight up compliment him, he’d be like “L+ratio+you foolish mortal + You think a killer who devoured countless souls can be cute? + you have bad taste actually + that's disrespectful to the ways of the adepti”

Echoing being unable to voice his desires, Xiao can only accept warmth in indirect, stolen moments, half-glances, throwaway remarks, because connection feels too fragile to be named directly. And remember, spoken wishes never come true

The rituals are *very* intricate

You’re not just walking on eggshells around him, the eggshells are aggressively throwing themselves under your feet and biting at your ankle to make you crush them, so he can be like “see? I don’t deserve love anyway, i was right to hate myself”  

like one comedy article said, “It’s good if a man is skittish and terrified of affection, like a beautiful horse that appears on the edge of a frozen lake one day and you have to tame it by bringing it a handful of food every day until it slowly comes to learn your scent (but with sex)”

That’s Xiao in a nutshell, but you’re bringing seeds to a bird-feeder and the bird has chronic pain and is scared to hurt you

Here’s the thing though. You’ll know he’s yours when he starts showing interest in your perspective on everyday things. He’s curious by nature, but never lets himself wonder, unless he’s sure beyond the doubt that his participation is wanted. 

“Xiao: I have no intention of getting close to the lives of mortals.

 Xiao: But I know that you often enter and leave the city, walking amidst the crowd.

 Xiao: The stories of these times, or their joys... If I don't experience such things myself, it'll be hard to understand your thoughts.

So... you're doing this for me?

 Xiao: Yes, to understand you.

 Xiao: I had a feeling that it would be difficult, but after having such thoughts, I can't simply sit back and do nothing.”

He’s inquisitive and quick thinking, but very socially awkward and prone to hiding his true desires. So even before asking you to include him, he starts scouting your dreams.

It’s nothing invasive like devouring dreams or dragging projections into the real world. Just catching brief, fleeting glimpses,carefully pressed against the soap bubble of your dream. Even in short flashes, it helps to see things from your point of view.

…and sometimes, rarely, he catches images of how you see him, so bewilderingly different from what he’s used to, not the corruption-ridden creature with ugly lines of the fanged mask etched onto his face and blood staining his hands, but instead…

Sharp turn of his head when you call out his name, and the sun illuminates him from behind, brilliant halo shining through the messy dark hair, and he can’t even recognize himself in this memory, golden-eyed and gorgeous, so he bundles up this vision, hides it deep inside among other unattainable, undeserved, unspoken wishes. 

It’s self-indulgent, a bit pathetic for the adeptus, but ultimately harmless, like a weakness for the almond tofu. A spark of sweetness to get him through the misery of his everyday life.

Until one night he catches a dream where you’re fucking him.

It throws him off balance so hard, he flees immediately, not just from the dreamspace, but teleporting to an isolated mountain peak.

But the image is seared into his retinas nonetheless.

It’s because he’s offended, he tries to tell himself. How extremely disrespectful. As if an adeptus like himself, who has no interest in the foolishness of mortal desires, would want to be sprawled under you, dizzy with pleasure, held and kissed and caressed, like he’s the most beautiful and wanted thing in the world, like touching him brings joy, like…

He has to teleport again, but it doesn’t help. Horrified, he realizes he’s aroused.

It’s a tough couple of weeks for the both of you.

He’s even more sullen and jumpy than normally, and when you ask him if everything’s okay and if there’s anything you can do to help, he gets a panicked look of a deer in headlights and vanishes.

You decide it’s probably some yaksha angst and it’s better to give him some space

You don’t remember your dream, and even if you did, you wouldn’t think much of it.

He can’t stop thinking about it. It resurfaces, uncalled, in the most inopportune moments, no matter how hard he tries to push it down. The obscene view of himself, arms over the head, parted lips, back arched and legs spread wide with you between them. 

He didn’t stay long enough to catch more, but even this is enough to drive him up the walls, sometimes literally, to make him want something he can’t properly name. He was used to tolerating the constant gnawing pain of the corruption, but this needy ache is maddening, fading and reappearing when least expected to throw him off kilter.

He alternates from watching over your dreams intently to being unable to even glance at them, but on the nights when he does look, there’s nothing similar.

Which is good. It means you were not serious about it, it was just a fluke. Minds of mortals are notoriously fickle, especially in the dream state, and can produce all sorts of ridiculous fantasies and ideas that mean nothing.

Of course it meant nothing, who would seriously see a weapon for eons steeped in blood and corruption as a lover?  What pleasure could you expect from someone whose very nature and purpose is slaughter? It could only lead to disappointment. Repulsion, even. It’d be preposterous to even think about it.

Which is why it’s outrageous that he *is* still thinking about it.

But now it’s been a few weeks and the pulsing want dulled down, lost a terrifying thrill of possibility of being reciprocated, and is almost ready to become another weak, shameful yearning, bottled up and shoved into a dark corner. 

And then his heart jumps into his throat when he sees you dreaming of Wangshu Inn’s balcony drowned in moonlight, and he’s in your arms as you’re sitting by one of tables, he’s straddling your thighs, your mouth and hands wandering over his naked chest and collarbones.

The half-drowsed ember of desire roars back in thrice the force, and feverishly, he thinks of an idea. What if he took place of his own image? Then he could learn what it feels like. He could finally stop wondering what would happen and just get over this maddening sickness. And you won’t even notice the switch. You’ll probably end up unsatisfied because he would not be able to give you the pleasure you expected, but it’s all a fleeting, momentary dream for you anyway, not worthy of remembering in the morning.

He spent centuries hunting dreams, but never tried to become a part of them, so he doesn’t realize a simple truth: a dream cannot be entered without being shared equally.

The first thing that changes in your dream when he becomes a part of it is actually the sky, but you don’t notice it because the responsive, pliant body in your arms suddenly becomes woodenly tense. At the same time, your awareness deepens, dream becoming almost lucid, as you gain control over yourself, but not surroundings. 

What confuses you even more is a barrage of strange emotions coming down at you out of nowhere: anxiety on the verge of panic, fearful anticipation, needy, smoldering fervor of desire. 

You look up at Xiao’s face to see him looking almost severe if not for the heavy blush and refusal to meet your eyes, breath held nervously, and realize in an instant - this is actually him, not the figment of your imagination, it’s his thoughts and emotions you can now glimpse like he usually does with others when dreamwalking.  

And also, that if you even try to acknowledge this, he’ll bolt to the other end of the world, so you don’t say anything.

It’s tempting to claim his mouth, but he’s too petrified, his jaw clenched tightly. Instead, you trail the line of kisses down his throat and feel the sharp pang of his relief at supposedly not being discovered. 

You caress him slowly, carefully, moving tenderly over his arched neck, sharp curves of the collarbones, chest that rises fast and feverishly in shaky breathes, taste nervous flare of his pulse in the deliciously delicate hollow of his throat, until the warm pleasure spreads under his skin, melts frozen rigidness into a different kind of tension, a taut bowstring, drawn tightly, trembling at every touch. 

When you nuzzle at the underside of his jaw, he moves his head abruptly and presses his mouth against yours, tense because he wants this so badly, but doesn’t know what to do with himself, an awkward angle and all teeth. But you take your time, slide your fingers into his hair and tilt his head, kiss his lips until he finally relaxes and opens up. When you slide your tongue against his, he makes the tiniest noise, barely audible tremble caught in his throat.

He was worried about how inexperienced he is, but when he’s too lost in the kiss, desire takes care of this easily. Without realizing, he’s arching in your arms, grinding against your legs. When you slide your hands lower, over his stomach, hips, stroke his thighs, he moans into your mouth and opens his knees wider, thrusts against you, already hard.

You slide your hand into his pants and close your fingers over his cock and he shudders, breaks the kiss, realizing what you are doing, what he was doing, how easily he’s losing control, his wild yellow eyes wide and uncertain.

“It’s okay,” you tell him softly. “Everything is going to be okay. Let me take care of you, baby.”

He catches your affection, shared through the dream, and the narrow vertical slits in his eyes widen, blackness flaring up against gold. With a short, shuddering draw of the breath, he relents, leans into you to nuzzle at your cheek. You can feel his blush heating up against your skin, flutter of the eyelashes. 

You start stroking his cock slowly, holding him with your other arm, whisper sweet reasurings into his ears, understanding how hard it is for him to show vulnerability, even under the supposed disguise. 

His hips start moving again, now in rhythm with your hand, and you quicken the pace. Suddenly, you realize he’s naked except for the gloves, because the dream lets things happen easier, removes inconveniences, requiring nothing but mutual intent. You can’t help but smirk, press a wet kiss to the side of his jaw and twist your hand over the head of his cock. He lets out a stifled gasp, his tip throbs and starts leaking in your palm. He lifts his arms as if to grasp at your shoulders, but stops before he can touch you, lets them drop. 

But you notice that something is wrong with his hands - the gloves are a part of him, darkness etched painfully into his flesh, and instead of the slender fingers you know he actually has, his hands end in ugly sharp claws, covered in splotches of dried blood. Your heart breaks a little when you realize this is how he sees himself, this is what he thinks his touch would feel like. But you cannot argue directly, can’t say that it’s not true without breaking a fragile silence between you, acknowledging that it’s actually him.  

So instead you catch his chin in your free hand. “Hey, look at me.”

He meets your eyes, his own hazy, feverish with need, but he looks at you intensely. “You are so good,” you tell him quietly, holding his gaze even as his eyes widen, your hand over his cock moving faster and faster. “You are so beautiful, baby. I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world here instead of you.” 

He cries out, sharp and surprised, almost pained with helplessness, like a hawk shot in the air midflight, and comes undone. When he unravels in your arms, his old, half-forgotten, buried dreams spill out too. 

So when he falls back, tugging you with him, he lands not on wooden planks of Wangshu Inn’s balcony, but on the soft cover of tangled lush grass. Tall green stalks meet over your head, as if trying to protect, hide a secret from the world.

A strange word from the ancient, dead language surfaces in your mind, a word that meant “sea of wind” - a name of vast grasslands that once covered these plains, endless green waves that rolled under the breeze from horizon to horizon. 

His body is pale under you, dappled in moonlight that manages to get through the hover of softly wavering grass. Flickering light of the fireflies, green and lemony-yellow, doesn’t illuminate anything, but only makes the dark emerald shadows deeper in-between the narrow stalks where they move. But his golden eyes are very bright, still quietly shocked, searching, never leaving your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.  

You smile, lean down to catch his mouth, and he kisses you with abandon, still awkward, but with sweetness that neither you nor him knew he was capable of. The air smells faintly of warm earth, fresh grass and bittersweet Qingxin flowers. The moments stretch for eternity like only dreams allow for, full moon halting in the dark starry skies above. 

He wants more, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it, doesn’t have the words. But in this state of bewildered, warm haziness, drunk of both lust and certainty of your desire, his shame evaporates. He remembers the first dream he saw, the image that haunted him for weeks, and recreates it - arms thrown over head, arched back and spread legs.

Except he looks infinitely better, countless details that the fantasy could not account for, - breathless, tangled in green shadows and silver moonlight, lithe and wiry-muscled, heavy flush of his cheeks contrasted to the eager, glowing gold eyes, arm flexing under tattoo as he clutches at the grass to keep himself still, subtle tremble of his open thighs, hard, pulsing cock, leaking on the tense stomach, already stained with cum.

In the waking world, you’d spend considerable time preparing him, given how inexperienced and sensitive he is. Even without that consideration, another time you’d want to go teasingly slowly, make him writhe on your fingers, plead for mercy.

But right now, in these stolen moonlit moments it feels too ugent, too desperate, and the fever of a dream lets you skip the steps, sweep right into sliding into him. This time he arches under you not for show, silent gasp and widened eyes.

You pause, letting him adjust to the feeling of your cock inside of him, ravish him with kisses in the meanwhile, feel him squirm, overwhelmed and gratified by both sensations and your hunger for him. When he finally bucks his hips against you, you start moving, first carefully, then turning to the hard, firm pace, and it runs through him, echoes in choked grunts and feverish drum of the heart. The dream bends to this steady beat, light of the fireflies pulsing in tact, and somehow he’s both on the grass beneath you and rising up, in the same rhythm, sharp cyclical thrusts upwards.

Suddenly, sky spills all around you, the lights of stars mingling with the fireflies in between the narrow grass stalks, and golden wings of the wind that takes you upward beat in the rhythm of your movement. The sky around you is too vast and sharp, the depth and freedom you’ve never seen before, and you realize this is what it feels like to taste the joy of a creature born to soar.

He’s too lost in the pleasure, looking up at you, the sky opening up for him with every thrust, every lunge. He can’t remember the last time when he took flight just for the joy of it, when he looked up instead of down to track the enemies and come crashing in a flurry of broken spears. All these centuries of being sure he was made for violence, and suddenly it sheds off him like dust, all this time thinking he can only feel alive during battle, and now his body sings so easily, so naturally, and it sings of wind and starlight, not of rage and blood. 

When he reaches the peak of the ascent, time slows down for a weightless, breathless moment, a precipice after which he usually turns flight into a controlled, violent plunge. Instead, with a quiet, helpless moan, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

Stars burn under his eyelids, ancient, forgotten constellations flaring up, mixing with the current ones, until it’s impossible to tell them apart, entangled like your bodies in the soft grass that was destroyed centuries ago, a new celestial atlas that exists only for the two of you.

Even as he curls against you after, soft and sweet, you can feel bitter, ashen current staining the dream: he thinks this is the only time he gets to feel happy. And in the moment, it seems absolutely ludicrous to keep the pretense of not knowing that it’s him and let him wallow in his angst.

“Xiao,” you tell him quietly, gently stroking sharp knobs of his spine, “it’s okay. You can be mine. The world is not going to end.”

He freezes for a second, his eyes going wide in panic, and then vanishes abruptly. Dream shatters into a thousand shards, and you wake up with a gasp.

You give him a few days to process and then, on the moonlit Wangshu’s balcony after all the guests have left, you quietly call his name.

He appears on the other side of the balcony, arms crossed, looking sullen and severe, which could look intimidating if you didn’t know him and if not for a little detail.

“You don’t have to stand that far, I can still see that you’re blushing.”

 He scowls. “What do you want?”

“I thought we should talk about what happened.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It was foolish. For both of us.”

“Talk for yourself.”

“No, it was extremely foolish for you too,” he says with sudden, agitated passion. “You knew what I am, I’ve told you from the start to keep your distance. I’ve never asked you to… I’ve warned you to treat me as a weapon, and…”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap again! I’ve tasted your sky. I know the violence is not your only nature.”

He chokes on his breath, looks away, then says quietly.

“It may not be, but it is the only thing I’m proficient with. So what does it matter what was once my nature? There are many others, more suitable for you to…”

“Well, that’s not for you to decide. You don’t get to tell me who I want. You can only choose for yourself.”

He glances at you very quickly and looks away again with a quiet “Hmph,” but you can tell how torn and unsure of what to do he is.

“Xiao,” you say softly, reaching out to him. “Come here.”

He looks at you for a long moment and then vanishes. You curse under your breath and flop down on a chair in frustration. But then suddenly the air smells sharply of ozone and in a flurry of teal and black, Xiao appears on top of you.

He looks incredibly irritated and refuses to meet your eyes, but he’s straddling you, so you grin and grip his hips. His hand instinctively moves to cover yours, but he stops himself before he can touch you. This time you don’t have to pretend you don’t notice.

You catch his hand and gently pull off the tight-fitting black glove. He finally looks at you, surprised. 

“What are you doing?”

“Hm?” you fake innocence, because two can play the ‘not acknowledging true subtext of the actions’ game. “I don’t know what your plans were when you landed on top of me, but sex generally requires undressing.”

He frowns in confusion, then freezes when you bring his hand to your mouth. His pale fingers are long and bony, and you hold his gaze while pointedly kissing each angular knuckle. It only fully hits him when you turn his hand and press your lips to his scarred palm, then move them down to the tender skin of his wrist.

He doesn’t say anything, but his narrow pupils widen in an instant, and when you kiss him, you can feel his hands slowly, hesitantly sliding over your shoulders.

#rhine writes filth #rhine writes #sub genshin #sub xiao #genshin smut #genshin impact smut #xiao #xiao smut

[one-more-fangirl]

al haitham—confusing man

al haitham confuses the shit out of you. always has, always will.

he has never been one to like the spotlight, his nightly pouts and grumbles about his new charge as the grand master acting grand master only highlight that fact (“why must they call for me at every hour of the day? i mean i can barely leave my office! they are such pests, honestly” he will deny ever whining, by the way). still, it’s a weird combination with how his “zero fucks given” at everyone else’s opinions of him.

the asshole—because he’s an asshole, one you’re in love with, but an asshole nonetheless—has the audacity to scoff at you every time you look over at him with furrowed brows and a concentrated shift in your eyes, as if you’re trying to decipher the most complicated scroll the akademiya has to offer. he scoffs because unlike you, he has no trouble at all understanding you and the things you do. granted, you make sense when this man, doesn’t.

we’ve established that you’re very much in love with haitham. the feeling is incredibly reciprocated. like, incredibly. he’s a bit stoic and he’s also a bit of a grumpy pants and a little shit, but he’s so soft (to your absolute surprise, not that you’re complaining). this is the guy that brushes off every crumb that’s left around your lips and then eats it, the guy that that plays footsie fights with you under the library and cafeteria tables, that opens the doors and pulls out the chairs for you, who glares at whoever makes you uncomfortable until they run away—and isn’t afraid of start verbal passive aggressiveness either—, and the guy that latches on to you every night and late afternoons when he gets out of his office.

this man is putty in your hands.

so why oh why, does he avoid your affection? this is a relationship, a two-way road, he deserves to receive as much as he gives. yet in the month and a half that your relationship has been a thing—after years of pinning, kaveh would like to add—al haitham has refused to accept any other form of affection that wasn’t holding hands, a brush of your hand through his hair or cheek, or a quick hug.

"why are you like this?" you all but blurt at the cafeteria.

al haitham looks up from his book, and scoffs.

"don’t scoff at me, i’m serious!" you whine, "you’re looking so pretty there reading whatever book that is and i wanna shower your face with kisses, but i know you won’t let me! you’ve no idea how hard it is to contain myself."

"i would’ve thought you’d have more self-restraint," he comments, returning to his pages.

a huff leaves your lips, and if al haitham didn’t know any better, he’d think you’re going to leave it at that. but he’s smart, and he knows better, so he’s not surprised when not even ten seconds later, you’re back on track.

"it’s just- it’s weird! ‘cause i know you’re not ashamed of me, and i know you don’t like it when others meddle in your life because “it’s not their business”," you rant, adding a little imitation of your boyfriend, who is looking at you again, amusement swirling in his eyes, "but you never give a shit about doing what you want!"

as you ramble on about how weird he is, and how you don’t understand why he’s so against of kisses, al haitham only stares at you. the tips of her ears have started to grow hot, and he’s overly aware of how the heat is probably starting to leave a rosy trail on his neck and cheeks. he fights the urge to hide his face behind his book.

"i mean at this point, i’m starting to think you’re scared!" when you say it, it comes out with a chuckle, a “ridiculous, i know” message behind it. and that’s when al haitham chokes on air and is attacked by a coughing fit.

you blink thrice. one, two, three. three times. boyfriend’s dying next to you, you just stare. by the time he’s done and over—no thanks to your help—your brain cells have finally decided to connect. his book is usually lower than that, his ears and red and it is not because of the coughing, and he’s avoiding your eyes. you soften them in response, reaching a hand to take his.

"you don’t have to be scared, baby. it’s okay," your smile is understanding, and alhaitham hates it.

his other hand runs through his hair and falls on his face, the book forgotten on his lap. whether he’s frustrated or trying to hide his embarrassment, who knows. in the end, he sighs. he seems to have accepted his fate, and coming clean should prove to be the smartest move.

so, he turns to you, and still hesitant, meets your eyes. it’s rare to see this man flustered, the fact that it’s because of something he has to tell you sparks a tiny smugness in your chest, tingling. small smirk tugging, you sink your teeth. keep it in, this is serious.

"so," he starts, "i uh- i’ve never... i wanted to- shit," alhaitham ends up clearing his throat, his ever growing blush taking up most of his face now, "i wanted our first kiss to be special. because i’ve never kissed anyone so i wanted to make sure i did it right."

awe. he’s adorable. i mean look at him, still forcing himself to look you in the eyes, even when it’s painfully obvious he wants to take the book back and hide behind it forever. worse, he’s spotted your small smirk, and he’s already frowning and taking his hand back.

"no, no, no, wait!" you chase him when he speeds away, having to run to catch up to him. this asshole can really get away when he wants to, "haitham, hold on, come back! i’m not making fun of you."

curse his long legs, he’s already out of the place and in the hallways when you finally make him stop. stubborn as ever, and a little bit hurt, he looks ahead. curse his height, too.

"i’m not making fun of you," you repeat, taking his hand again, "it’s just, i can’t help but feel giddy that you’ve never had your first kiss, and that you want it to be me," the small smile shows up once more, "but you don’t have to worry about making it special, because anything with you is."

he doesn’t miss a beat.

"that’s so cheesy," his nose curls back as he looks at you.

you scoff.

"says the guy who’s so worried about kissing me special."

"fuck you."

"no, i want that to be special too."

#al haitam x reader #al haitham #al haitham genshin #al haitham fluff #al haitham x y/n #al haitham x you #genshin impact #genshin impact fluff #genshin scenarios #genshin impact x reader fluff #genshin x reader #genshin x y/n #genshin impact x you #genshin fluff

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day Twenty-Three - Prompt: Cropped @rosekiller-microfic

March Daily Series - 972 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Barty allowed himself a full thirty-six hours of recovery before returning to The Ink Spot. He was sore, but mobile. That was enough.

When he stepped in the door, Emmeline loudly snorted and promptly covered her mouth to stifle her laughter. She knew what he was doing, as did anyone else that cared to pay attention. Every time someone else worked on him, Evan became a little more unhinged. He was possessive as fuck over his clients and Barty was counting on that playing in his favour.

“What now?” Evan grumbled. His stall was the first one past the waiting room, so he had a front row seat to Barty’s nonsense.

“Morning, Em,” Barty said cheerfully. He flashed a bright smile at her and she winked conspiratorially. It was unlikely that she knew the details of any of this, she simply enjoyed the game at Evan’s expense. “Anyone available?”

“Fuck.”

Emmeline hummed an amused little tune as she scanned her list. “If you’re willing to wait about an hour? I can squeeze you in.”

“For fuck’s sake, Emmeline. Just tell him ‘no’ for once,” Evan hissed.

She ignored him and gestured at the chairs. “Settle in.”

Barty moved carefully through the maze of outstretched legs and eased into a chair near the front window. He would be on his best behaviour today. That was sure to drive Evan mad. If he couldn’t hear him, he’d be more likely to check on him, which meant that he would spend the entire hour thinking about him. It was a sound plan.

Unless he decides to strangle me. Very possible alternative.

This would probably have been counterproductive with anyone else, but with Evan, stubborn determination tended to pay off. Not always, but often enough.

He focused on the second half of his plan. This part required more finesse, which was not his forte. Barty typed his message, deleted the first half, typed it again, then deleted it entirely. He leaned forward and rubbed his forehead.

How can I make things right with Pandora without addressing Regulus first? And how do I do that?

This was the part of his plan that he was least confident in. Evan probably wouldn’t really take him back unless he made amends, but Barty had burned those bridges with a fucking flamethrower.

There has to be a way. I have to find a way before Evan moves on.

Barty wracked his brain for ideas. Nothing seemed to go far enough to make up for cheating on Reg. At least not when he was trying to avoid the appearance of pursuing him. That would be a dangerous proposition. He wasn’t a moron. Evan would murder him if Pandora and Dorcas didn’t get the job done first.

While scrolling Instagram for inspiration, he landed on Sirius’s profile. Among the lot of them, Sirius was the only one who hadn’t blocked him yet. Although, that was likely because he’d never interacted with Sirius online before. If he tried it, chances were good he’d be blocked by him too.

Idly, he flipped through Sirius’s photos. There were several of a tall bloke, a redhead, and a brawny man with glasses, but few of the people Barty recognised. Pandora was in one and Regulus was in two. Then, he landed on one with the brawny man and Regulus together.

Hold on, I know him. He’s friends with Peter.

Barty searched Sirius’s profile for the short, heavyset bloke with close-cropped hair that he’d run into at the club in Scotland. He hadn’t connected Peter to Sirius at the time, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that this Latino fellow was friends with both and for one not to know the other. Peter was friendly enough and asked if he had any weed to sell, so he’d sold it to him. The shorter bloke had chattered like a magpie the entire time, but the brawny man just loomed behind him like a security guard.

“There you are,” he muttered to himself. “Peter. Peter, hmm. How are you connected, mate?”

After a few minutes of deliberation, Barty opened Peter’s profile. He was some sort of business lackey. No wonder he needed the weed. His profile wasn’t extensive, but his DMs were open. Barty decided to give it a go. The worst that could happen is that Peter told him to piss off.

Met you at the club in Edinburgh a few weeks back and realised we know the same people. I fucked things up with a friend or two and want to apologise. Mind offering some advice? I’d make it worth your while.

-Barty (grass distributor extraordinaire)

Within minutes, he had a response:

Vaguely remember you, but your weed was top quality. Who are we talking about?

Barty hurriedly responded:

Regulus and Pandora. We used to be close, but I fucked it up and I’m trying to make amends.

There was a longer pause this time, but eventually Peter replied:

Are you the one who showed up in Wales?

Fuck. If Peter knew about his dust-up with Pandora in Wales, it was unlikely that he’d help now. Barty considered lying, but figured the truth was easier to defend.

Yeah, I was off it. Part of what I want to apologise for, actually.

Peter responded with a curt dismissal that Barty absolutely deserved:

Sounds like a you problem.

Well, fuck.”

Barty knew it was a long shot, but he had to try. The reality was harder to swallow, but easier to accept. He’d promised not to approach Pandora or Regulus directly, and he didn’t even know how to contact Dorcas, so that left Evan. Somehow, he had to win Evan back without fixing things. That should blow up in his face in approximately three days.

Next Part>>>

#barty crouch jr x evan rosier #evan x barty #barty x evan #evan rosier #barty crouch junior #barty jr #barty crouch jr #slytherin skittles #marauders era #rosekiller microfic #rosekiller

[rhine-gold-archive]

I love your sub headcanons so much, do you have anything for Xiao?

Xiao x Gn! Reader

Warnings: not safe for work, but this one turned out much softer than usual. Sub\dom!reader undertones are still kinda there, but give it a try even if you’re not into this dynamic. First time, handjob, anal sex, mentions of voeyrism (kinda? briefly through the dream), I’m gonna say “cock”, but it stands for strap too, it’s just awkward to keep specifying. 

Wordcount: 4,3k

A\N: I was not sure if I knew what to do for Xiao, but then I remembered that one of his themes is dreamwalking and that’s legit my JAM. It turned out less smutty and more of a psychosexual character study, but I’m still quite fond of it. It’s pretty cheesy, but you know what, Xiao deserves a break. There will be some filth under the cut still. Shoutout to “Nothing to no one” by Gin Wigmore and Placebo’s “Protege Moi” for carrying me through this one.

Xiao is curt and intense to the point of coming off as rude, but never more harsh to anyone but himself. Longing for connection, but consciously denying it himself time after time, severity done like a mask to hide the broken, bleeding bones of gentleness, no time for “trifling human matters”, but enough to return a stolen doll to a little girl. Who the fuck do you think you’re fooling, babe.

And it’s not like he doesn’t know what he wants, oh no, he does, he just won’t admit it even under torture

Friendship lvl3: “Desire? Ha. Do not judge adepti by your mortal ideals. I have no desire.”

Friendship lvl5: “Hiding? I'm hiding nothing. I just won't speak of desire to others. Do mortals not have a rule about spoken wishes never coming true? Hm? What do you mean that's not the same?”

So you admit it, you just fucking lied at lvl3 when you said you “have no desire”?? You just gonna casually go from “Foolish mortal, I have no desires unlike you” to “Of course, I have desires, I want them so badly I won’t even speak them out loud for the fear of jinxing them.” yeah, no, that checks out, SURE.

In Xiao’s world, you don’t communicate what you want, you bottle that shit up and hide it deep inside, and you don’t even admit this bottle exists, let alone tell anyone what’s inside. You don’t believe these wishes will ever come true and you don’t think you deserve it, but because deep down you know you are a weak, corrupted creature, you still hope against all hopes and despise yourself for this foolishness. 

Speaking of which, Xiao collects reasons for self-hatred like it’s his ascension material.

Like, “My only worth is as a weapon, so normal people should not interact with me because I only bring corruption and I am good for nothing outside of bloodshed”

This prickly pride of being a skillful weapon is a double-edged sword of discarding himself as being useless for anything but battle.

Like you have their little training course interaction with Ganyu during her story quest, which btw she receives positively and is grateful for his help, and Xiao’s line about it is:

“You believe a Yaksha who knows nothing more than how to massacre countless souls and emerge unscathed is a suitable mentor for such an individual?”

… babe, can you chill for like, three seconds? You made a defense mini game with like 20 slimes for her, it’s not gonna turn a cocogoat into a cold-blooded killer,

And this dismissal of self-worth outside of combat ties in nicely with bottling up a volatile mix of yearning, loneliness, frustration, despair and innate sensitivity that couldn’t be dulled down even by centuries of self-hatred and pain, and only letting it all out in an incandescent rage in battle, which leads to

“I only feel alive when fighting, which means I’m a monster who only thrives on bloodlust,” despite like, refusing himself all positive stimuli 

“Thriving on bloodlust” somehow not contradicted by the fact that he yearns for beauty and hates this miserable existence so much that he’s legit jumping at the first opportunity to go out in the blaze of glory if it even has a chance to be helpful to other people, and could only be stopped by his dad's Zhongli’s intervention and all off his new friend group going “we’re would be really sad if you died”

Then he’s like “ok i’ll keep on living i guess :\”

(i’m still so salty that they didn’t let Itto talk at all, his story quest speech about sacrifice being an easy and cowardly way out to discard responsibility that doesn’t fix root problems fits Xiao’s situation SO WELL argh) 

Yeah no, all other yakshas talked about wanting peace and his own namecard describes dreaming of peace and donning the mask to dance instead of killing, but yakshas are inherently bloodthirsty species, so there’s no hope for him, that checks out, sure.  

So to summarize, despite how direct Xiao seems at first glance, interacting with him is actually a complex navigation between things he says out loud that he knows are not true, things he says that he can’t admit to himself are not true due to self-loathing, and just general tsundere bullshit. You’ll need a LOT of patience.

Like, does he want to be accepted and loved? Desperately. Will he accept someone trying to do so straightforwardly? Absolutely the fuck not. 

If you try to straight up compliment him, he’d be like “L+ratio+you foolish mortal + You think a killer who devoured countless souls can be cute? + you have bad taste actually + that's disrespectful to the ways of the adepti”

Echoing being unable to voice his desires, Xiao can only accept warmth in indirect, stolen moments, half-glances, throwaway remarks, because connection feels too fragile to be named directly. And remember, spoken wishes never come true

The rituals are *very* intricate

You’re not just walking on eggshells around him, the eggshells are aggressively throwing themselves under your feet and biting at your ankle to make you crush them, so he can be like “see? I don’t deserve love anyway, i was right to hate myself”  

like one comedy article said, “It’s good if a man is skittish and terrified of affection, like a beautiful horse that appears on the edge of a frozen lake one day and you have to tame it by bringing it a handful of food every day until it slowly comes to learn your scent (but with sex)”

That’s Xiao in a nutshell, but you’re bringing seeds to a bird-feeder and the bird has chronic pain and is scared to hurt you

Here’s the thing though. You’ll know he’s yours when he starts showing interest in your perspective on everyday things. He’s curious by nature, but never lets himself wonder, unless he’s sure beyond the doubt that his participation is wanted. 

“Xiao: I have no intention of getting close to the lives of mortals.

 Xiao: But I know that you often enter and leave the city, walking amidst the crowd.

 Xiao: The stories of these times, or their joys... If I don't experience such things myself, it'll be hard to understand your thoughts.

So... you're doing this for me?

 Xiao: Yes, to understand you.

 Xiao: I had a feeling that it would be difficult, but after having such thoughts, I can't simply sit back and do nothing.”

He’s inquisitive and quick thinking, but very socially awkward and prone to hiding his true desires. So even before asking you to include him, he starts scouting your dreams.

It’s nothing invasive like devouring dreams or dragging projections into the real world. Just catching brief, fleeting glimpses,carefully pressed against the soap bubble of your dream. Even in short flashes, it helps to see things from your point of view.

…and sometimes, rarely, he catches images of how you see him, so bewilderingly different from what he’s used to, not the corruption-ridden creature with ugly lines of the fanged mask etched onto his face and blood staining his hands, but instead…

Sharp turn of his head when you call out his name, and the sun illuminates him from behind, brilliant halo shining through the messy dark hair, and he can’t even recognize himself in this memory, golden-eyed and gorgeous, so he bundles up this vision, hides it deep inside among other unattainable, undeserved, unspoken wishes. 

It’s self-indulgent, a bit pathetic for the adeptus, but ultimately harmless, like a weakness for the almond tofu. A spark of sweetness to get him through the misery of his everyday life.

Until one night he catches a dream where you’re fucking him.

It throws him off balance so hard, he flees immediately, not just from the dreamspace, but teleporting to an isolated mountain peak.

But the image is seared into his retinas nonetheless.

It’s because he’s offended, he tries to tell himself. How extremely disrespectful. As if an adeptus like himself, who has no interest in the foolishness of mortal desires, would want to be sprawled under you, dizzy with pleasure, held and kissed and caressed, like he’s the most beautiful and wanted thing in the world, like touching him brings joy, like…

He has to teleport again, but it doesn’t help. Horrified, he realizes he’s aroused.

It’s a tough couple of weeks for the both of you.

He’s even more sullen and jumpy than normally, and when you ask him if everything’s okay and if there’s anything you can do to help, he gets a panicked look of a deer in headlights and vanishes.

You decide it’s probably some yaksha angst and it’s better to give him some space

You don’t remember your dream, and even if you did, you wouldn’t think much of it.

He can’t stop thinking about it. It resurfaces, uncalled, in the most inopportune moments, no matter how hard he tries to push it down. The obscene view of himself, arms over the head, parted lips, back arched and legs spread wide with you between them. 

He didn’t stay long enough to catch more, but even this is enough to drive him up the walls, sometimes literally, to make him want something he can’t properly name. He was used to tolerating the constant gnawing pain of the corruption, but this needy ache is maddening, fading and reappearing when least expected to throw him off kilter.

He alternates from watching over your dreams intently to being unable to even glance at them, but on the nights when he does look, there’s nothing similar.

Which is good. It means you were not serious about it, it was just a fluke. Minds of mortals are notoriously fickle, especially in the dream state, and can produce all sorts of ridiculous fantasies and ideas that mean nothing.

Of course it meant nothing, who would seriously see a weapon for eons steeped in blood and corruption as a lover?  What pleasure could you expect from someone whose very nature and purpose is slaughter? It could only lead to disappointment. Repulsion, even. It’d be preposterous to even think about it.

Which is why it’s outrageous that he *is* still thinking about it.

But now it’s been a few weeks and the pulsing want dulled down, lost a terrifying thrill of possibility of being reciprocated, and is almost ready to become another weak, shameful yearning, bottled up and shoved into a dark corner. 

And then his heart jumps into his throat when he sees you dreaming of Wangshu Inn’s balcony drowned in moonlight, and he’s in your arms as you’re sitting by one of tables, he’s straddling your thighs, your mouth and hands wandering over his naked chest and collarbones.

The half-drowsed ember of desire roars back in thrice the force, and feverishly, he thinks of an idea. What if he took place of his own image? Then he could learn what it feels like. He could finally stop wondering what would happen and just get over this maddening sickness. And you won’t even notice the switch. You’ll probably end up unsatisfied because he would not be able to give you the pleasure you expected, but it’s all a fleeting, momentary dream for you anyway, not worthy of remembering in the morning.

He spent centuries hunting dreams, but never tried to become a part of them, so he doesn’t realize a simple truth: a dream cannot be entered without being shared equally.

The first thing that changes in your dream when he becomes a part of it is actually the sky, but you don’t notice it because the responsive, pliant body in your arms suddenly becomes woodenly tense. At the same time, your awareness deepens, dream becoming almost lucid, as you gain control over yourself, but not surroundings. 

What confuses you even more is a barrage of strange emotions coming down at you out of nowhere: anxiety on the verge of panic, fearful anticipation, needy, smoldering fervor of desire. 

You look up at Xiao’s face to see him looking almost severe if not for the heavy blush and refusal to meet your eyes, breath held nervously, and realize in an instant - this is actually him, not the figment of your imagination, it’s his thoughts and emotions you can now glimpse like he usually does with others when dreamwalking.  

And also, that if you even try to acknowledge this, he’ll bolt to the other end of the world, so you don’t say anything.

It’s tempting to claim his mouth, but he’s too petrified, his jaw clenched tightly. Instead, you trail the line of kisses down his throat and feel the sharp pang of his relief at supposedly not being discovered. 

You caress him slowly, carefully, moving tenderly over his arched neck, sharp curves of the collarbones, chest that rises fast and feverishly in shaky breathes, taste nervous flare of his pulse in the deliciously delicate hollow of his throat, until the warm pleasure spreads under his skin, melts frozen rigidness into a different kind of tension, a taut bowstring, drawn tightly, trembling at every touch. 

When you nuzzle at the underside of his jaw, he moves his head abruptly and presses his mouth against yours, tense because he wants this so badly, but doesn’t know what to do with himself, an awkward angle and all teeth. But you take your time, slide your fingers into his hair and tilt his head, kiss his lips until he finally relaxes and opens up. When you slide your tongue against his, he makes the tiniest noise, barely audible tremble caught in his throat.

He was worried about how inexperienced he is, but when he’s too lost in the kiss, desire takes care of this easily. Without realizing, he’s arching in your arms, grinding against your legs. When you slide your hands lower, over his stomach, hips, stroke his thighs, he moans into your mouth and opens his knees wider, thrusts against you, already hard.

You slide your hand into his pants and close your fingers over his cock and he shudders, breaks the kiss, realizing what you are doing, what he was doing, how easily he’s losing control, his wild yellow eyes wide and uncertain.

“It’s okay,” you tell him softly. “Everything is going to be okay. Let me take care of you, baby.”

He catches your affection, shared through the dream, and the narrow vertical slits in his eyes widen, blackness flaring up against gold. With a short, shuddering draw of the breath, he relents, leans into you to nuzzle at your cheek. You can feel his blush heating up against your skin, flutter of the eyelashes. 

You start stroking his cock slowly, holding him with your other arm, whisper sweet reasurings into his ears, understanding how hard it is for him to show vulnerability, even under the supposed disguise. 

His hips start moving again, now in rhythm with your hand, and you quicken the pace. Suddenly, you realize he’s naked except for the gloves, because the dream lets things happen easier, removes inconveniences, requiring nothing but mutual intent. You can’t help but smirk, press a wet kiss to the side of his jaw and twist your hand over the head of his cock. He lets out a stifled gasp, his tip throbs and starts leaking in your palm. He lifts his arms as if to grasp at your shoulders, but stops before he can touch you, lets them drop. 

But you notice that something is wrong with his hands - the gloves are a part of him, darkness etched painfully into his flesh, and instead of the slender fingers you know he actually has, his hands end in ugly sharp claws, covered in splotches of dried blood. Your heart breaks a little when you realize this is how he sees himself, this is what he thinks his touch would feel like. But you cannot argue directly, can’t say that it’s not true without breaking a fragile silence between you, acknowledging that it’s actually him.  

So instead you catch his chin in your free hand. “Hey, look at me.”

He meets your eyes, his own hazy, feverish with need, but he looks at you intensely. “You are so good,” you tell him quietly, holding his gaze even as his eyes widen, your hand over his cock moving faster and faster. “You are so beautiful, baby. I wouldn’t want anyone else in the world here instead of you.” 

He cries out, sharp and surprised, almost pained with helplessness, like a hawk shot in the air midflight, and comes undone. When he unravels in your arms, his old, half-forgotten, buried dreams spill out too. 

So when he falls back, tugging you with him, he lands not on wooden planks of Wangshu Inn’s balcony, but on the soft cover of tangled lush grass. Tall green stalks meet over your head, as if trying to protect, hide a secret from the world.

A strange word from the ancient, dead language surfaces in your mind, a word that meant “sea of wind” - a name of vast grasslands that once covered these plains, endless green waves that rolled under the breeze from horizon to horizon. 

His body is pale under you, dappled in moonlight that manages to get through the hover of softly wavering grass. Flickering light of the fireflies, green and lemony-yellow, doesn’t illuminate anything, but only makes the dark emerald shadows deeper in-between the narrow stalks where they move. But his golden eyes are very bright, still quietly shocked, searching, never leaving your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he looks away.  

You smile, lean down to catch his mouth, and he kisses you with abandon, still awkward, but with sweetness that neither you nor him knew he was capable of. The air smells faintly of warm earth, fresh grass and bittersweet Qingxin flowers. The moments stretch for eternity like only dreams allow for, full moon halting in the dark starry skies above. 

He wants more, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it, doesn’t have the words. But in this state of bewildered, warm haziness, drunk of both lust and certainty of your desire, his shame evaporates. He remembers the first dream he saw, the image that haunted him for weeks, and recreates it - arms thrown over head, arched back and spread legs.

Except he looks infinitely better, countless details that the fantasy could not account for, - breathless, tangled in green shadows and silver moonlight, lithe and wiry-muscled, heavy flush of his cheeks contrasted to the eager, glowing gold eyes, arm flexing under tattoo as he clutches at the grass to keep himself still, subtle tremble of his open thighs, hard, pulsing cock, leaking on the tense stomach, already stained with cum.

In the waking world, you’d spend considerable time preparing him, given how inexperienced and sensitive he is. Even without that consideration, another time you’d want to go teasingly slowly, make him writhe on your fingers, plead for mercy.

But right now, in these stolen moonlit moments it feels too ugent, too desperate, and the fever of a dream lets you skip the steps, sweep right into sliding into him. This time he arches under you not for show, silent gasp and widened eyes.

You pause, letting him adjust to the feeling of your cock inside of him, ravish him with kisses in the meanwhile, feel him squirm, overwhelmed and gratified by both sensations and your hunger for him. When he finally bucks his hips against you, you start moving, first carefully, then turning to the hard, firm pace, and it runs through him, echoes in choked grunts and feverish drum of the heart. The dream bends to this steady beat, light of the fireflies pulsing in tact, and somehow he’s both on the grass beneath you and rising up, in the same rhythm, sharp cyclical thrusts upwards.

Suddenly, sky spills all around you, the lights of stars mingling with the fireflies in between the narrow grass stalks, and golden wings of the wind that takes you upward beat in the rhythm of your movement. The sky around you is too vast and sharp, the depth and freedom you’ve never seen before, and you realize this is what it feels like to taste the joy of a creature born to soar.

He’s too lost in the pleasure, looking up at you, the sky opening up for him with every thrust, every lunge. He can’t remember the last time when he took flight just for the joy of it, when he looked up instead of down to track the enemies and come crashing in a flurry of broken spears. All these centuries of being sure he was made for violence, and suddenly it sheds off him like dust, all this time thinking he can only feel alive during battle, and now his body sings so easily, so naturally, and it sings of wind and starlight, not of rage and blood. 

When he reaches the peak of the ascent, time slows down for a weightless, breathless moment, a precipice after which he usually turns flight into a controlled, violent plunge. Instead, with a quiet, helpless moan, he closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

Stars burn under his eyelids, ancient, forgotten constellations flaring up, mixing with the current ones, until it’s impossible to tell them apart, entangled like your bodies in the soft grass that was destroyed centuries ago, a new celestial atlas that exists only for the two of you.

Even as he curls against you after, soft and sweet, you can feel bitter, ashen current staining the dream: he thinks this is the only time he gets to feel happy. And in the moment, it seems absolutely ludicrous to keep the pretense of not knowing that it’s him and let him wallow in his angst.

“Xiao,” you tell him quietly, gently stroking sharp knobs of his spine, “it’s okay. You can be mine. The world is not going to end.”

He freezes for a second, his eyes going wide in panic, and then vanishes abruptly. Dream shatters into a thousand shards, and you wake up with a gasp.

You give him a few days to process and then, on the moonlit Wangshu’s balcony after all the guests have left, you quietly call his name.

He appears on the other side of the balcony, arms crossed, looking sullen and severe, which could look intimidating if you didn’t know him and if not for a little detail.

“You don’t have to stand that far, I can still see that you’re blushing.”

 He scowls. “What do you want?”

“I thought we should talk about what happened.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. It was foolish. For both of us.”

“Talk for yourself.”

“No, it was extremely foolish for you too,” he says with sudden, agitated passion. “You knew what I am, I’ve told you from the start to keep your distance. I’ve never asked you to… I’ve warned you to treat me as a weapon, and…”

“Oh, don’t give me that crap again! I’ve tasted your sky. I know the violence is not your only nature.”

He chokes on his breath, looks away, then says quietly.

“It may not be, but it is the only thing I’m proficient with. So what does it matter what was once my nature? There are many others, more suitable for you to…”

“Well, that’s not for you to decide. You don’t get to tell me who I want. You can only choose for yourself.”

He glances at you very quickly and looks away again with a quiet “Hmph,” but you can tell how torn and unsure of what to do he is.

“Xiao,” you say softly, reaching out to him. “Come here.”

He looks at you for a long moment and then vanishes. You curse under your breath and flop down on a chair in frustration. But then suddenly the air smells sharply of ozone and in a flurry of teal and black, Xiao appears on top of you.

He looks incredibly irritated and refuses to meet your eyes, but he’s straddling you, so you grin and grip his hips. His hand instinctively moves to cover yours, but he stops himself before he can touch you. This time you don’t have to pretend you don’t notice.

You catch his hand and gently pull off the tight-fitting black glove. He finally looks at you, surprised. 

“What are you doing?”

“Hm?” you fake innocence, because two can play the ‘not acknowledging true subtext of the actions’ game. “I don’t know what your plans were when you landed on top of me, but sex generally requires undressing.”

He frowns in confusion, then freezes when you bring his hand to your mouth. His pale fingers are long and bony, and you hold his gaze while pointedly kissing each angular knuckle. It only fully hits him when you turn his hand and press your lips to his scarred palm, then move them down to the tender skin of his wrist.

He doesn’t say anything, but his narrow pupils widen in an instant, and when you kiss him, you can feel his hands slowly, hesitantly sliding over your shoulders.

#xiao #genshin impact smut #genshin smut #xiao x reader #sub xiao #rhine writes filth #genshin impact #in my defense of not remembering he had a dream theming #hoyo were too much of cowards to put us INTO a dream #i can't tell if this one is even good i just love writing dream psychodelics

[girlfromthecrypt]

It's so hot here that my roommate started shedding his skin. [Short horror story/nosleep]

Marco and I have been living together for over two years now. We never had any issues with our arrangement. We work together to keep the apartment clean, rent gets paid on time and in full every month, and I believe we've actually evolved into being friends over time. Therefore, these problems we've been having really threw me off guard.

It started when Marco staunchly refused to leave his room. I wasn't exactly worried at first. Our area has recently been hit by an extreme heatwave, and since we don't have an AC, I figured Marco locked himself in with a bunch of electric fans. When I went to knock on his door, I could hear them whirring on the other side. It weirded me out that he didn't answer immediately, though. After waiting a couple seconds, I chalked it up to him being asleep, but just as I was about to turn and leave, he called out to me. "Jen?"

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wasn't dead. "Yeah, it's me! Just wanted to ask if everything's alright."

"Sure, I'm, uh… great."

His voice gave me pause. It sounded unusual, un*like* him. It was garbled and had an almost hissy quality to it. "You going to the store?"

"Yeah," I answered, trying not to make my discomfort known. "Need anything?"

"Can you get me a sixpack and a bag of ice, maybe?"

I told him I would and upon my return, I found a twenty lying on the floor by his doorframe. "Keep the change," Marco shouted.

I placed the items he'd ordered where his money had been and left, hoping things would be back to normal the following day. Perhaps Marco had caught a heatstroke working outside and that's all there was to it. Temperatures aren't normally that high where we live, so nobody's used to this kind of weather. The day after was a Sunday, and I made breakfast for the two of us like I did every week. Unlike every week, however, Marco wasn't waiting in the kitchen for it to be finished.

At first, I hollered for him to come out and eat with me, but when he didn't answer, I carried a plate of pancakes over to his room. I knocked, then asked into the silence whether he wanted any. I received no response, so I set aside the plate and banged both fists against his door. Still nothing. Both irritated and uneasy, I tried the doorhandle. My roommate and I are very respectful of each other's privacy, and I would never do so if it wasn't a pressing matter. It didn't amount to anything either way. Marco had locked himself in. He was definitely there, though. I heard his chair squeak.

"Are you okay?" I asked. "I can call a doctor, or…"

I trailed off when I saw a note being slid through the crack beneath the door right at my feet. I bent down to pick it up. It was in Marco's handwriting, but decidedly messy; like he'd been in a great hurry and practically spewed ink onto the paper.

*Hey Jen, I'm fine but my throat hurts so I can't talk. I'm sorry but I'm not coming out, I don't want to pass it on to you. I don't need a doctor, I bet I'll be fine in a couple days. Don't worry, ok?*

I frowned at the note, but took the news in stride. What else could I do? I told Marco I'd leave the pancakes outside for him, and not long after I'd returned to the living room, I could hear him dragging the plate inside. I found myself rather missing Marco's presence around the apartment. Three days went by without me catching so much as a glimpse of him. I'd have to walk past his door to get to the bathroom, and I would hear him playing the weather report on his little TV inside every time. On the fourth morning, I found another note, this time on the fridge.

*Hey Jen, I'm going out to see my mom. Be back in a week.*

What the fuck? First he's sick, now he's going on a trip. I was beyond confused. I tried to call him, but he didn't pick up. That wasn't really a surprise. Marco is one of those people who don't ever really use their cell phone. Most of the time, he doesn't even have it on him. Nevertheless, it only added to my growing concerns. Another two days passed and I didn't hear a thing from my roommate. I tried once more to call him when I got off work, just in case. It was already nighttime and Marco normally went to bed quite early, so I didn't really expect him to pick up. And he didn't.

Instead I heard a familiar ringtone coming from his room. It only lasted a few seconds before stopping abruptly, like it had been turned off in a hurry. My stomach sank when the realization set in. Why in the world would he lie to me? This didn't make any sense. The whole situation had the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but despite this, I began heading towards Marco's room. His door looked eerie in the dim lamplight of the hallway. I inched closer, hand outstretched to jiggle the handle. Locked. Of course.

"Marco?" I tried, pressing my ear up to the wood. "What's going on?"No answer. I could hear a squeaking noise coming from inside, like a chair being moved."What the fuck, man," I said, stifling the tremor in my voice. "You're clearly in there, I don't understand…"

That's when I had an idea. There were spare keys to all the rooms in a drawer in the living room cabinet. Neither of us had ever used them before, but there they were.

"Marco, if you're not gonna talk to me, then I'm coming in," I declared with all the determination I could muster. He didn't respond.

"I'm serious, I'm getting the spare and then I'm coming in."

Silence.

I bit my lip, turned on my heel and headed for the living room. My heart was thundering in my chest when I returned with the key. I crammed it into the hole with shaking fingers, turning it once, then twice.

*Click.*

I swallowed, steeling myself before I pushed down the handle and nudged the door open. The motion was accompanied by a drawn-out creaking noise that reminded me I should oil the hinges sometime. With my pulse thrumming in my ears, I entered the darkness beyond the threshold. I couldn't see anything except the limited areas that were illuminated by the ceiling lamp shining in from the hallway. In vain I groped around for the lightswitch, then I decided to give up and just proceed. Something stopped me from going back and grabbing a flashlight. I simply had a feeling I shouldn't turn my back on that room.

Both arms outstretched, I ventured further inside, feeling around for Marco's desk. Soon enough, my palms met with the smooth, hard wood and I braced myself against it almost desperately. "Marco?" I asked, an intangible fear compelling me to whisper. My hands started roaming the surface in front of me. I could feel his laptop, powered off and shut, his mousepad and a set of pens and pencils. Then I moved on to the chair. I flinched when I made contact with something dry and soft hanging over it. At first I thought it was a t-shirt, but the fabric felt almost like extremely thin baking paper. I continued to stroke it, and as my hand went down what was presumably the neckhole, I found that it was warm and damp.

Disgusted, I withdrew from the surely sweat-soaked piece of clothing. Remembering Marco's small desk lamp, I mentally palmed my face for not looking for it sooner. It didn't take me long to locate the switch. As the small light came on, its beam fell onto what I'd *thought* to be a shirt, causing me to recoil in shock. It was skin.

There was an entire fucking skinsuit slung over the back of the chair. It was like a snake's shedding, except tan and pink and human-shaped, with two arms and two legs and a tear in the back from which its wearer must have emerged. The remnants of the face dangled from the ragged neck-scrap, and it looked like the dried remains of one of those cosmetic gel masks. I stared at it for a moment, my eyes bulging and my heart in my throat before I started to violently gag. I clung to the edge of the desk for dear life, trying to keep my thoughts in order.

And that's when I heard it. A garbled, distorted hiss coming from right above me. I whipped my head up just in time to catch a glimpse of a figure scuttling across the ceiling and disappearing into the hallway at an inhuman speed. My mind raced, but before I could think of anything better to do, my feet were already carrying me out the door. I burst into the living room, my face burning as panic spread throughout my body. Inwardly, I was yelling at myself to get out, to leave this place while I still could. Despite this, I followed the sound of dishes rattling into the kitchen.

I hastily flicked on the lights and started looking around for the source of the noise. My stomach was churning and beads of cold sweat ran down my face. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that whatever had been hiding in the shadows could be none other than Marco.

Marco, who was somehow able to walk on the ceiling, who had shed his skin and deposited it on the chair at his desk. Marco, who I'd been living with for two years, who had always been kind and friendly and open, who never argued when it was his turn to clean or take the trash out. Marco, who most definitely wasn't human.

Marco…

Marco was staring at me. I could feel his gaze burning holes into my side. I turned to the right, slowly raising my eyes to the kitchen cupboard. Cowering on top of it, not unlike a wild cat, was my roommate. He had pressed himself against the wall, flattening himself to the cabinet on all fours like a master contortionist. His entire body was of a dripping, aggravated scarlet. His face was bright red, his eyes bulging out of his head; it looked as though the lids were missing. Marco's lips had thinned and receded so his gums were on display—I'd never realized how large his teeth were. Dampened brown curls clung to his neck and temples. Rooted to the spot, all I could do was stare at this thing that my friend had turned into.

He—it—stared back, that same hissing sound emanating from somewhere deep in its throat. Slowly but surely, it loosened from its rigidity and began crawling towards me, sticking to the ceiling like an enormous anthropomorphic gecko. The fluids coating Marco's pink body dripped onto the floor in front of me. I must have forgotten how to breathe altogether. My tongue was bone dry, like a dead leaf lying limp inside my mouth.

"Marco," I muttered. "Marco, this is you, right?"

A rumble rolled from his chest, something akin to a growl.

I raised both my hands, taking a step back as he advanced. "You're okay! I swear," I stammered. "I'm not gonna tell. Whatever this is, I promise I'm not gonna tell."

He stopped and cocked his head, neck cracking. His mouth fell open and his tongue dropped out. It was twice as long as humanly possible. I stifled a shudder, keeping my hands up and forcing myself to assume a soothing expression. "Everything's okay. Stop growling. You know me. We live together. I make you breakfast on Sundays and it's your turn to take the trash out tomorrow."

Marco closed his mouth. He crept over to the left wall and began descending, movements fast and spider-like. Once more standing on two feet, he started walking towards me, step by step, the soles of his skin-stripped feet creating a wet slapping sound on the smooth clean floor. I dropped my arms, focusing on keeping my breathing steady until he finally came to a stop in front of me. "You're okay," I repeated. "You're alright. Can you still hear me? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

A nod. Then, he opened his mouth, forcibly shaping the growls and hissing noises into distorted, almost intelligible words.

"My kind is sensitive to heat."

#writeblr #horror fiction #amwriting #horror story #short story #one off #my fiction #my writing #original fiction #original writing #original characters #dark fiction #creepy stories #horror #nosleep author #nosleep

[sage-nebula]

Martha didn't get a Tennant Doctor because she didn't want a Tennant Doctor. Martha was the only one of RTD's companions who left the Doctor of her own volition, and only ever called him back on her own terms, when she had need of him.

Rose didn't leave the Doctor willingly. Rose was trapped in an alternate universe because it was either that or be stuck in a void with Daleks and Cybermen for the rest of time. And when she returned (primarily to warn the Doctor about the oncoming darkness caused by Davros but also because she wanted to be with him), she left with the Metacrisis Tenth Doctor and their own TARDIS because that was the only way to give her a satisfying ending from the viewpoint of the audience. (And even then, there are some fans who will tell you that nothing short of her being with the Time Lord Doctor in the prime reality is satisfying, but that just couldn't happen for reasons outside the narrative story.)

Donna didn't leave the Doctor willingly. Donna absorbed all of the intelligence of a Time Lord into her human brain, and this was going to kill her. She had to have her memory erased and be kept away from anything alien for presumably forever or else the knowledge would return and literally kill her. Donna begged the Doctor not to wipe her memory anyway, because she would rather have died than give up that life. Just like Rose, Donna had planned on staying with the Doctor for the rest of her life.

This was not the case for Martha. Setting aside the fact that Martha was treated like garbage for the duration of her season from a writing standpoint, by the end of season three Martha has realized two things: 1.) that she is goddamn brilliant and never deserved to feel like she was second best, and 2.) that she doesn't want the Doctor anymore. Unlike Rose, Donna, and Captain Jack, Martha leaves the TARDIS of her own free will, to pursue her own life and career outside the Doctor. Even Sarah-Jane says in "School Reunion" that she waited for the Doctor to come back for her; she didn't want to leave, not permanently! But Martha did. She chose to step away. The only other companion to have done this during RTD's run is Mickey, so I guess Martha wasn't the only one; still, she's the only one of the primary companions, the three women, to want to leave. She made that choice herself.

Now, does that mean everything about Martha's ending was perfect? No. As much as the "Smith and Jones" wordplay of her ending with Mickey is amusing (get it, like her first episode), it makes no sense when you consider that she was engaged when she returned in season four, and yet we never hear of that fiance again. I mean, I guess it's fine since it's not like we ever saw him? But what happened there? Why was no thought given to Martha's story there? What was she doing with Mickey in an active war zone? Why no mention of her in these three specials even though, last we heard of her, she was working with UNIT in a really important position? I like Mel well enough, but why couldn't Martha have been there instead? Especially since Martha and Donna had a preexisting friendship, and would have been delighted to see each other again?

With that said though, she doesn't need a Tennant Doctor. She didn't want a Tennant Doctor. Frankly, Tennant's Doctor doesn't deserve her with the way he acted ("Rose would know" right to her face, like -- dude, I get it, you're grieving, but that's fucking rude and Rose would NOT approve you using her memory to make another woman feel bad about herself). Martha's character arc was about recognizing her own brilliance and her own worth; standing on her own two feet as a PROPER doctor, Doctor Martha Jones, walking the earth and saving the world without a TARDIS or Torchwood or a Time Lord brain. Just her own fucking determination and brilliance.

Rose and Donna got Tennant Doctors because that was the way to make their final send-offs satisfying. Rose and a Tennant Doctor got to be in love and happy together in a parallel world, which is fitting considering that they were in love and never wanted to leave each other. Donna and a Tennant Doctor get to be besties and happy together in this reality, so that RTD has a convenient excuse to pull Tennant back into a story if he ever wants to again (since it'd be hard to explain why Tentoo came over, versus having Fourteen right there) . . . but also because, like Rose, Donna never wanted to leave the Doctor, she wanted to be with him forever.

But Martha didn't want that. Martha left on her own accord. She left with a smile on her face and her cell phone on the TARDIS console, so that when she said "here boy!" the Doctor would listen. She left on her terms, with him at her call, only there when she has use for him.

And honestly? Good for her.

#like it was a fucking waste that we didn't see Martha at all in these specials #or even get a mention of her but like #she wouldn't WANT a Tennant Doctor. she was the only one of the 3 who left willingly! #(and honestly who can blame her like fr . . . the shit she put up with bc of him) #(the shit in the Family of Blood episodes gave her just cause to beat his ass into next week honestly) #(she hugs him at the end but honestly she should have beat his ass. just started swinging) #(how dare he do that to her? honestly?? i'm not talking about the love plot bit bc while that was ugh it's like #small potatoes to making her as a Black woman have to WORK IN SERVITUDE TO WHITE PEOPLE #and like the scene where he grabs her arm and throws her from the room? BITCH????? #GOD i'm mad again just THINKING about it #she should have beat his ass so hard he regenerated right then and there. AGH. #ANYWAY #Martha Jones deserved better but getting a Tennant Doctor is not better #not for her. it would be like a punishment honestly #she walked away from him and then you put his sad boy ass back on her doorstep?? hello??? no thank you #doctor who #martha jones #dw spoilers #this probably sounds like I hate Tennant's Doctor but I don't #I just hate how a lot of season 3 was written wrt how Martha was treated #like Martha having very legitimate concerns in the Shakespeare episode about being a Black woman in that time period #and Ten mocks her for being concerned like ??? #ARGGGHGHHGHGHGHG #ABOUT TO FLING MYSELF INTO THE TV TO BEAT HIS ASS MYSELF ISTFG #A N Y W A Y

[wordywarriorwrites]

Calendar Girl: December

Series Masterlist: Calendar Girl Joel Miller Masterlist Author: @wordywarriorwrites​ Summary: The story of how Joel Miller falls in love again, told over a series of months. Series Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Language. Violence. Discussions of rape and consent. Alcohol consumption. Age-gap.

December

Joel was three servings deep on a surprisingly decent single malt when he realized the two of you were seated directly beneath the mistletoe.

You’d made an effort to be festive - donned a dark green sweater and a red knitted cap. Joel hadn’t even tried - just rolled up to the Christmas Eve gathering in his usual flannel and jeans. Every few minutes, his eyes swept over the crowd with a cold indifference most of the townsfolk still hadn’t gotten used to, whereas you waved at nearly everyone who passed by, and they greeted you warmly in return.

He recalled how you’d smiled up at him the very first time all those sunrises and sunsets ago. Your kind, welcoming eyes had been nonjudgmental, open, and endearingly curious. In fact, you’d made his world go topsy-turvy that day, and things hadn’t been quite the same since.

Something about you had revived and coaxed out parts of him he’d thought dead and buried long ago. But he played it very close to the vest - not only because you’re half his age and completely out of his league, but also because you deserved more than his old bones and bloodied hands could ever give you.

You deserved better. You deserved the fucking best.

Everyone in Jackson adored you, and they were right to do so. Even after all you’d been through, all the pain and loss you’d endured, you were still so good. Joel, on the other hand, had always been a blunt instrument - contractor, smuggler, killer, guardian. And sure, he may have been permitted to be a member of the town, but he’d never been widely well-liked or fully embraced - not in the way you and Ellie had been.

For the longest time, the need to protect Ellie and keep her safe had outweighed everything, including any misgivings he’d had about a prolonged stay in Jackson. But after a year in your continued presence, he realized he stayed because you’d made him remember what it felt like to actually want something - to want someone - for himself.

And the longer he remained, the more invested he became.

Rushed meetings, focused on getting assigned a house, learning the town rules, and being added to the job rotations. Then, more prolonged conversations over meals in the mess hall. In the past few months, there’d been walks and rides and movies and books. Ellie liked you, trusted you, and seemed to enjoy your company as well. The more time Joel spent with you, the more he realized he wasn’t just attracted to you; he’d started to feel comfortable - maybe even safe - with you, and that complicated things.

It wasn’t until you polished off your drink, and the tip of your tongue darted out to catch a wayward drop, that Joel started to think about your mouth and all the ways he’d enjoy it if you ever became his. And as his thoughts continued to mosey on down that unlikely, dangerous path for what seemed like the trillionth time, he realized your tongue would taste especially good coated in whisky - all warm, smoky, and sweet. 

“Any plans for tomorrow?” you asked in a conversational tone.

Joel shrugged away his treacherous thoughts and raised his hand for a refill, “Might visit Tommy and his family. Hang out with Ellie. You know, the usual.”

You nodded. Offered up your plate for sharing. Joel accepted your ready-made concoction of bread, cheese, and jam; a surprisingly good combination, but then again, you’d never steered him wrong.

“What about you?” Joel wondered as he wiped crumbs from his shirt. “Spending time with Carl?”

You gestured for your own refill and waited for it to be delivered before you spoke again.

“We decided to go our separate ways,” you announced tersely.

Joel paused with his glass halfway to his mouth, “When did that happen?”

“This morning.”

You tilted your head back, and he watched as the amber liquid disappeared down your throat in one swallow. You maintained an even temperament and possessed an impressively good poker face. Even when Carl sidled up to the opposite end of the bar - bold as brass, with his arm wrapped very familiarly around another woman’s waist - you didn’t react.   

The reason for the split became all too clear, and just like that, your ex went to the top of Joel’s own special kind of Naughty List.

“You can’t kill him,” you insisted.

He rolled his jaw, “Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t his fault.”

“He’s the one who cheated. Not you.”

You let out a self-deprecating laugh, “There are different kinds of cheating.”

Joel wanted to know what you’d meant by that, but you steered the conversation out of those muddied waters, and asked about Ellie and how she was doing in school. That safe topic saw you both through another round, and while you shared another plate of food, you talked shop and swapped stories about past Christmas celebrations.

“I mean, I was eighteen when it happened,” you explained. “But I remember Christmas at my house was always a bit stuffy. Not like this, you know?”

“You mean you weren’t hanging out in a bar, doin’ shots of whisky with an old man?”

“Shut up.”

Joel smirked, “You sure you shouldn’t be at home, dreaming of sugar plums like the rest of the little children?”

You pursed your lips and smacked his shoulder, “Har-fuckin’-har.”    

While everyone in town would attend a big Christmas Day dinner, the Christmas Eve party was an adults-only affair. With the kids safely tucked into their beds, the grownups had gone out to play, and as people started to blow off steam, the party became both raucous and crowded.

Someone attempted a rendition of Elvis’ Blue Christmas and failed spectacularly. Then, the jukebox was turned on, and people danced like fools. The delicateness of pine, mixed with the headiness of firewood. Laughter and mindless chatter and a bit too much Jingle Bells.    

Joel sipped and chewed, and as he pondered your new relationship status, you ordered yourself another. As the night’s bartender hustled over, she jerked her thumb toward the ceiling, and he watched as you caught sight of the mistletoe. Something he’d hoped and feared you’d notice had been blatantly pointed out, and Joel tried not to cringe as the bartender poured and explained that it was tradition to kiss beneath it and not doing so would bring bad luck.

You waited for her to walk away before you looked at him, brow arched, “That true?”

Joel shrugged and scratched his chin, “It’s an old wives’ tale, but yeah.”

You nudged him. He nudged you back. A shared laugh, and then, a moment of hesitation. A flash of unspoken, are we really going to do this? You nodded - said it would be better not to tempt fate. Joel agreed - said he’d had enough bad luck to last a lifetime.  

Like all fires, it started with a spark; the anticipation of first contact as you both leaned toward each other on rickety, unbalanced stools. A rush of flames soon followed; your lips fitted sweetly against his, stoking the need, causing it to flare brighter.

Without any conscious thought whatsoever, Joel gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger and swept his tongue into your mouth. From there, it turned into an inferno. Your nails dragged along the skin at the tape of his neck, and he introduced his teeth to your bottom lip in response. When he cupped your face in his palms and caressed the apples of your cheeks with his thumbs, you wrapped your hands around his wrists and squeezed. Joel felt the vibration of the pleased sound you let out, and as goosebumps erupted along his body, he slanted his mouth more firmly over yours, and let himself get lost in the warmth of your kiss.

A couple of very inebriated, gray-haired women singing Santa Baby at the top of their lungs bumped into you and effectively burst the bubble. They apologized profusely. You graciously waved it off. Then, you looked at him - lashes aflutter, pupils blown, and mouth all shiny and kiss-swollen; you’d never been more beautiful, and Joel would’ve happily picked up where you’d left off had you not suddenly jerked away from him and rushed to your feet.

“I have to go,” you announced abruptly.

Joel cleared his throat and swallowed hard, “Alright. You want me to walk you?”

You shook your head. Pulled on your coat. Mumbled Merry Christmas and hurried out the door.

Just his luck.

Chapter 02: January

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fic #tlou fan fiction #tlou fan fic #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fic #wordywarriorwrites #calendar girl