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the-californicationist · 2 months

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Bone Deep

AO3 Link -- MDNI -- TW: emotional hurt/comfort, make up sex

Your husband, John Price, has fallen into a pattern of behavior that seems to be moving him farther and farther away from you. But, you refuse to play second fiddle for long.

You were drenched. It had been raining in such a way that made you think the Lord had gone back on his promise. Perhaps the rainbow had been painted just to placate you. Perhaps, you thought as you wrung out your hair on the porch, you would be drowned after all.

It sure felt that way. Work had mounted up to the point of a fever-pitch. You had three projects due and one to revise. Not to mention, your husband had been home and yet almost fully invisible.

John Price was back on something like leave, but he was never around. You saw evidence of his presence all over your floor and table and furniture. Socks, dirty plates, dead tablets, scraps of paper with Russian names scribbled on them... He was hunting Makarov in your kitchen and your hallway and your bathroom, and he was leaving that trail of breadcrumbs both literally and figuratively all over your house.

You’d gone to bed alone for two nights in a row, and as you nearly tumbled over a pair of his sneakers in the foyer, caked in wet mud, you decided that it would not be three.

“John?” You called out.

There was no reply, but a pale blue light shone under his office door.

You popped open the latch and saw him hunched over the computer screen.

“John.”

“Hm?” He responded, but he didn’t turn around.

“John!”

“What?” He roared, spinning in his chair and glowering at you, shaming you for interrupting him.

“Okay,” you nodded, resigned.

It would be a cold day in hell before you accepted that tone from anyone. You’d gone in there expecting to have a rational conversation, but your husband had raised his voice to you like you’d been a naughty dog.

And you were absolutely not going to take that sort of treatment.

You made it to your bedroom in a quick three strides, pulling your overnight bag from under the bed. You shot your best friend, Cana, an SOS text. She lived two hours away, but you didn’t mind. You’d drive all night through the rain if it meant getting out of this prison that you used to call a home.

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic, but you had boundaries. Clear ones. And he knew he had crossed them. He just didn’t care.

You started to pack as you fumed, tossing in a few days worth of clothes, your toiletry bag, the essentials. Then, the bedroom door clanged open, its handle slamming into the railing on the wall.

“What’s this?” John waved a hand over your bag.

“When I married you, I married a partner, not a ghost. The only reason I know you’re home is because you leave your fucking laundry for me to finish all over my floor. I’m not going to clean up after you like some maid. Then, you raise your tone at me, disrespecting me? No. When you’re ready to be my husband again, you know my number.”

He scoffed,

“All this bloody drama over some dirty socks?”

You stared at him in a way that told him just how serious you were. The silence between you stretched on for eons, expanding in all directions. You smiled,

“You know it’s not the socks.”

The look in his eyes said: yes, I know it’s not the socks. But, his pride wouldn’t let him say the quiet part out loud.

So, you left.

Starting up the car was hard. Backing out of the driveway was harder. But, every mile you drove simply steeled your resolve. You knew his work was important, but you were important, too. You’d always be his wife, but you needed some space.

You texted your boss when you made it to Cana’s house; you were taking a few days off. A night of tears and comforting hugs (and strong margaritas) passed, then a morning. Then, a night… and in the middle of it, you saw your phone light up. Despite the million other notifications you received every day, you knew it was him.

John: hey

You: hey

John: can i call

You: one sec

You sneaked out of bed, untangling yourself from Cana’s lanky arms, and lugged your phone out to the front porch. You were about to curl up on her big patio chair when you were stopped in your tracks at the sight of a big black truck idling in the driveway.

You sighed, standing there staring at your husband. He killed the engine and stepped down from the cab. As he approached you, looking up at you from the bottom of the stairs like a wide-eyed disciple, you noticed that his blue irises were ringed in pink, bloodshot and puffy. He hadn’t shaven, and he looked pale.

But, even though you were still hurt, and even though he looked a little worse for wear, it was hard to ignore the carnal ache in your belly when you watched the muscles bulge and flex in his immense forearms as he crossed his arms in front of himself. The way his chest stretched out his black tee shirt, a tuft of fur peeking out of the crew neckline, the sleeves struggling to contain his round biceps. The way he chewed his full bottom lip when he had something important to say. It was enough to test your resolve.

“Hey,” you said in a small voice, holding your arms around your body for comfort.

Suddenly, those sharp eyes focused on you with rapt attention, and he stared right at you, speaking in a low, gravelly purr, trying to keep his voice down,

“I’ve been a proper arse.”

You tried to hold back a smirk. He continued,

“I took advantage of you. I’ve been hunting this fuckin’ bastard for so many years, and I’ve got him cornered. It’s all I can think about. Every night I think if only I was a little quicker, or maybe just bloody braver, I could stop him from killing more innocent people. I let him into our house. Into your life. And I shouldn’t have let my work come between us,” John’s expression softened, and he uncrossed his arms, hooking his thumb into his jeans pocket, “And I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you said quietly, still waiting for his next step. Being sorry was only part of it.

“When you come home tomorrow, it’ll be different. I’m gonna pull my weight again. You have my word that I’ll only work when you work, and when you’re home,” he squared his shoulders, rocking his hips forward, nervous energy coursing through his body, “I’ll be home with you. I promise.”

You nodded, shifting your weight, staring down at your feet. Then, he called your attention with a caught breath and words that hurt you bone deep,

“You are coming home, right?”

You tried your honest best to fight the tears, but your body shuddered through a sob and you gasped in a sharp breath of air. He moved to hold you, to ascend the steps and repent, to be forgiven, but you held up your hand stopping him in his tracks,

“I won’t have you speaking to me like that, John. I won’t…” You thought about your words carefully, “I can’t be treated that way.”

“I understand, love. Believe me,” he chuckled, “I never want you to feel like that again.”

The way he rubbed his thumb across his sternum made your own chest hurt. He tried to approach you again, stepping up the wooden stairs, creaking under his weight, and he angled his chin up as if to kiss you. But, you stepped away, guarding your own heart for just a while longer.

The hunger in his eyes followed you like smoke from a fire, warming you with its heat.

“I’ll be home in the morning, John,” you said, turning to go back into the house.

The next morning, as you packed, you thought about his promise. You hoped that you were heard. Truly heard and not just for a week of good behavior. You deserved to be respected, and you wouldn’t let your relationship with him become so one-sided again.

When you pulled into your driveway, you expected to be greeted with the same dark, empty house. As you moved to pick your feet up over the usual mess of shoes, you discovered the foyer scrubbed to a high shine, and there was nothing to stumble upon. All the shoes were shoved into their little cubbies, and there wasn’t a dirty sock in sight. The living room was bright, clean, and John was standing in the middle of it, waiting for you. He took your bags, and scooped you up into a long, tight hug.

You thought he might try to kiss you, but he didn’t. He just held you against him, breathing in and out, not letting go. Your face was buried deep in his chest, and you could smell his aftershave mixing with the strong scent of his cigars, and a slight musk that was all him. You wanted to feel his fur against your cheek.

Suddenly, he grabbed your chin in his hand, making you face him, and he said in a dark, warm tone,

“I’m gonna be the me that you need me to be. From now on. I swear it.”

You felt his soft lips touch yours, kissing you chastely, then deeper, chasing your taste, finding your tongue, licking along its length, savoring your mouth like a treat, cherishing every suck and nip and bite.

“I missed you, John,” you admitted, feeling hot tears staining your cheeks, not realizing you were crying.

He wiped them from your temples, smearing them into your skin, cradling your head in his hands so carefully as if you were made of glass.

“I’ve been away. But, I swear, love. I swear, I’m back. I swear…”

His lips met your wet cheek and took your tears with them.

“I swear…”

He kissed your neck, holding your head in his huge paw.

“I swear…”

You ran your hands over his neck, encircling him, tugging at his shirt, needing to feel his skin. He hooked his arms over his head and rucked the shirt off his back, tossing it on the couch. He pulled you into his lap as he sat down, sinking into the cushions, kissing you like you might disappear again.

“I’m so sorry, love. Please forgive me,” John growled darkly, his deep voice rumbling between kisses.

“Forgiven,” you said, forcing him to look at you.

Then, he put his forehead to yours and let out a deep sigh, closing his eyes and simply rubbing your back, trailing his hands over your hips, pulling you in closer to him.

Tentatively, as if testing the waters of a deep well, you rocked your hips against him, seeing if you could get him to take the bait. If you had your husband back, you wanted to seal that promise with more than just a kiss.

He groaned,

“Mm, I don’t deserve that.”

You repeated the motion, feeling the twitch of his fat cock inside of his jeans, and you narrowed your eyes at him,

“Sex isn’t a reward. It’s our connection, and I need to feel you. I need my captain back.”

He smiled, nuzzling your jaw, peppering your skin with little, chirping kisses,

“Pretty girl… I missed you so much. What was I thinking?”

You shrugged, playing coy as you slipped off your leggings and set to undoing his buttons, opening the fly of his jeans to see the shock of dark hair and the swollen prize nestled in it,

“I dunno. Maybe you just needed a reminder?”

As you teased him at your entrance, letting his head play in your wet folds, you began to sink down onto his shaft, spearing yourself onto his length, rocking back and forth with a tantalizing rhythm.

“Mmngh,” he sighed, his eyes staring, transfixed on where your bodies reconnected.

Finally, after some effort, his girth was fully sheathed within you, warmed and cradled by your soft heat. You began to lift yourself on your knees up and down, dragging all the way to his rosy head and then sliding all the way back down to those brown curls, enjoying the faces he was making against his will.

However, he didn’t put up with your performance for long. Before you knew it, you were laying on the couch with your knees on your chest, taking every inch of his cock as deep as it would go. He had a gentle curve that, in this position, rubbed exactly where it needed to, pulling you along from one orgasm to the next like you were a kite, fully at his mercy and high as hell.

Your mind swam with murky, unintelligible thoughts, and he fucked you harder and harder, pounding himself into you like a machine. Sometimes you forgot his strength… and his stamina.

You whined a bit, your timbre changing from other-worldly pleasure to mild discomfort, and he picked up on it like a hound. He slowed, inspecting you, looking for the broken pieces.

“You alright, missus?” He said, kissing you, thrusting shallowly now, checking in with you.

“Can we sit?”

“C’mere.”

John pulled you into his lap and continued his efforts, rocking himself back and forth, holding your body like a toy. Then, he snaked his hand between you, giving your clit something firm to rub against, and you felt the tingles begin to build inside of your belly, a coil tightening, a dam under pressure, a firework ready to burst.

He was facing you, so you began to kiss him in a slow, supple way, letting your mouth fall open and your lips meet his with the lightest touch. John matched your energy, getting lost in your ritual, sending out the tip of his tongue to play and taste you again.

He pulled away and licked his fingers before returning them to your folds,

“Mmf-fuck. You are so bloody good.”

“I want you to come in me, baby,” you confessed, resting your forehead on his, trying to catch your breath.

You saw the surprise dance through his expression.

“You sure?”

You knew it wasn’t something you allowed very often. You’d been off of your birth control for a few months, trying to give your body a break from the hormones. And even though you weren’t trying for a baby, that was always a dream that you shared. For John, it was the ultimate dream.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you nodded, kissing his smiling mouth.

“Oh, fuck me,” he growled darkly, gripping you around your waist, changing the angle to something wholly transcendent. How did he do it? How did he know where your body needed him to be? It was absurd.

Everything was bright and glittering as you came around him, and you felt yourself squeezing his cock mercilessly, coming down his shaft in hot, thick coatings of creamy slick, unable to stop it from flooding out around him.

He, too, was erupting. He gasped for air, grunting in loud, animalistic shouts, his whole face contorted into a pleasure-filled rage, pumping you full of his soft, warm cream, frothing it with his rough movements.

Eventually, he flung his head back, holding you to him in a tight hug, his entire body moving and reacting without his input, fully on instinct. You held him back, clutching him against you like a lifeline.

You thought he would slip out of you once he was down from his high, but he didn’t. He simply held you to him, sweaty and desperate, letting himself soften inside of you. It was as if he didn’t want to leave.

“Thank you, love,” he kissed you again, shuddering yet powerful.

“It’s nice to have you home, John,” you smiled, letting his soft laughter warm your heart, basking in it like the sun.

#call of duty fanfic #cod mw2 #captain john price #cod mwii #john price #cod #captain price #captain price x you #call of duty #captain price x female reader #captain john price x female reader #captain price x reader

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cckaisen · 2 months

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୨ৎ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 𝓙𝓔𝓩𝓔𝓑𝓔𝓛, nanami kento !

an indulgence in nanami, his sweet intern, and their shared insanity.

ಇ. summary. fem!reader, smut, dark content, age gap (reader early 20s, nanami late 30s), mildly dubcon, power imbalance, boss/intern relationship, daddy kink, dubious morality, dom/sub elements, seduction, internal conflict, corruption. minors do not interact !!

ಇ. notes. believe it or not, i love nanami, but with that comes my desire to absolutely ruin his life. sorry hun 🩷

nanami's index and middle eagerly dip into the cavern of your mouth, swimming in your saliva as it fills up the crevice between his thick fingers. his features contort in anguish at the way your tongue swirls around him. the noise he lets out is almost wounded, bringing up his other hand to cover his mouth.

digging your knees into the carpet, you tighten your lips around his digits, sucking him in like a whore, gruesome imagery that has his cock straining his pants. every logical bone in nanami's body aches to push you away, yet here he is, ensnared, watching with a strange contained horror as you drool around him.

watching. like a monster lurking in the shadows, knees spread as he sits back in his wanton throne.

he lets your eyes roll back, thumb poking against your cheek as you suckle on his jaded fingers.

it's so much easier to keep from thinking with your satiny mouth enveloping him, soothing him in a violent sear all through his body.

experimentally, nanami pushes his fingers back just enough to trigger your little reflex, watching you gag, lashes fluttering in brief panic as he lets out this awful, guttural groan—he's endeared.

what is wrong with him? what the fuck is wrong with him...?

and why can't he stop?

he's reigned in from bliss by a slurry of soft sounds that drench his hands, the cold steel of his watch bumping your chin.

"what is it?" nanami blurts, question incongruous with his own dizzied tone.

"wanna tashte yoh..." you mumble, fluttering your lashes even though they're thick with globs of tears from where you gagged around him. "please, nanami..."

no. he can't let you. he can't. he's already let this go too far—

nanami bites the inside of his cheek. before he can even reply, you're unfurling his belt, metal clinking darkly.

"fuck..." he pants, wet hand moving out of your mouth to slide across his face. his nose-bridge glistens with your sticky saliva, "goddamnit..."

his lets his eyes shut briefly as you free him from his cotton confines. leaning forward with intent, you take his cock into your palm, noting the way your fingertips struggle to meet around him. he pants harder, gasps for breath, grits his teeth.

"s—sweetheart..." nanami breathes.

open your eyes. see how disgusting i am.

you only answer him with a soft exhale, hardly a sigh. he's alerted to the pink of your lips first as your mouth pools around his tip, and then a shaky, untried breath, and then a barrage of images strike him, a violent, vivid list of things he wants to do to you. his muscles seize up in an attempt to keep himself restrained.

strategically flattening your tongue against his tip, you watch for any kind of reaction like a hawk snatching up its prey. made-up eyes sparkle while inspecting the new crease in his brow, drowning in his destruction.

he stares at you, despairing, a large hand coming up to brush against your cheek. you lap up the affection, crooning into it, insatiable greed spilling out in the form of syrupy saliva. it dribbles messily to the base of his cock, a token of your yearning, the same that held him in his chair as you puddled at his feet.

there was nothing right about this. nothing remotely, possibly, vaguely right. nothing that nanami could scramble to find while taking advantage of your naivety, surmising that perhaps you two could be together, fleetingly, as two adults in two very different stages of life.

because it's so easy. it's so easy to take you when you're so willing, so eager. all his. you leap for his attention, at any cost—how high is never a factor in your decision. his greedy little intern.

his precious little girl.

he's cradling your head in his palms, feeling the heat pooling in your cheeks, nesting in your hair when he breaches your throat with a strained grunt.

squinting your eyes, you rush to take it all, inviting nanami to meld you to his will. he grimaces when your nails dig into his skin through his pants, imagining the terrible thoughts gushing through your mind about wanting to please him more than anything. then, pleasure lurches through him, his own body betraying his morals.

you rut your mouth up and down on him, slobber drenching his thighs. nanami's touching you, holding your head, but not for better use—his hands are hot and gentle, like sapped concrete.

"it's okay. you can be rough," you ebb him on, popping off briefly with a smarmy look. "i'm not made of glass, you know."

nanami sneers at the comment. "don't."

"what? don' wanna hurt me? c'mon, i can take it." you pepper kisses up the side of his cock, flushed and magma-hot, rubbing against your cheek.

"god," his hips roil in response to your torment, his breath labored around the words, "the mouth on you..."

"mhm. i'm good with it, right?" you giggle before getting back to your little task. in dizzying motions, you roll your tongue along him, sweet kitten licks souring his conscience, all his fantasies rolling into one diabolical act.

nanami's brain fizzles in dying sparks, eyes rolling. he attempts to let go of you in order to sink his grip into the chair for crushing purchase, but you refuse; little fingers snatch his and bring them to the back of your neck.

kento chokes on a moan as your nose brushes his pelvis, your body floundering weakly for a moment. your instinct for air is obstructed by a growing pressure against the back of your head.

"good girl, that's it..."

pride flourishes in your chest when you're given praise, panties growing stickier from under your skirt. you can't breathe, but it feels too good. the way he keeps you there, maintaining the invasion in your throat, selfish, unchecked lust bleeding out through the cracks of his dignity.

and it's too easy. when he tugs you back, lets you bob your head, gagging on needy gulps and whines, it comes so easily he hardly knows why he was ever so reluctant. so hesitant, and for what? what's the point in holding back if you want it? when you want it rough? when it's exactly what you're begging for? when it's clear that all you want is to be treated like those girls in porn, those girls with fathers who don't care for them, those girls who ask for it, who don't know any better, who get found shot dead in a ditch, legs askew and panties twisted around their ankles, one of those girls.

nanami thrusts forward. shoves his cock down your throat, really, punching a gasp from deep inside your body. he comes with a strained grunt, a ragged whisper of your name, croaked out into the cosmos.

your throat squeezes, something hot and thick gushing into the tight space. gargling, swallowing, spluttering as you thrash for air, nanami's grip slackens.

"s-stop," he jerks, gritting his perfect set of teeth until they creak under the pressure. "stop it, don't—"

the second his grasp on you loosens, the yearning floods again tenfold. in an attempt to regain his rugged affections, you suckle at his cock, panting greedily, tearful eyes wide and owlish with glutton. "d—daddy..."

nanami hisses, overstimulation pricking his nerves. in an instant, he flares up, acid in his gut fizzling, lurching at you.

a choked noise—a squeak—jumps from your spit-glossed lips at once, barely reaching his ears. you're balking at him, not in your usual girlish inflection. this was different. it was scared.

it takes him a few beats to make out the jaunted figure of his knuckles squeezing around your neck, calcifying. a milky rapture. the sight ingrains itself in his mind, carving the image of your wobbling pupils into the shadows of his careful persuasion.

that simple pleasure dissolves as quickly as it came. guilt rears its ugly head, a pit of ice settling in his stomach. nanami churns. had he just...?

recoiling at his own affliction, kento shudders, releasing you at once.

relief is immediate. your lungs swallow up all the air they can, chest expanding for a giant gulp of air. fright begins to subside, but that foreboding darkness in his eyes flashes through your mind in harsh, bright bursts. willowy fingers tremble on-top of his knee, the same that had just lured out that murk in him he desperately despised.

a necklace of torrent red rises to the surface of your skin in the wake of his foul touch. you paw at it weakly, stunned turmoil heavy in your gaze as you blink up at him.

"i—i'm sorry," nanami chokes out, "god, i'm sorry... i don't know what came over me."

"it's okay," you dispel quickly, wiping off the wet trails along your cheeks, because you liked it—his cruelty. it's been your goal since the very beginning. to break him down, to expose that carnality that simmered in his veins. you'd done just that. and even though it had only been for the briefest of seconds, the wound it left was raw, broiling and morbid.

but you liked it.

right?

"no, it's not okay. i went too far." nanami's blood pressure slides as he makes the admission. "i hurt you just now."

"yeah? so what?" you shrug a 'couldn't care less', holding his careful gaze, "i liked it."

a line of revulsion carves into nanami's forehead, deep and unmistakable. fear that it's aimed at you pangs in your chest until he suddenly groans, palming his chiseled face. thin brows sinking, that new wrinkle exaggerated by the untimely turn of events. "god, what the hell have i done to you...?"

your breath hitches at the self-imposed question. it's engrained with frustration, gaunt and responsible. so nanami of him.

and yet he leers inwardly, venom rising in his throat. "can't you see i'm ruining you?"

nanami's words teem with unvarnished emotion, corruption burbling in his deep baritone voice, the corruption you share so blindly, so willingly. it wreaks turbulence unto your vision, wetting your eyes again.

"nanami..."

"i'm so sorry," he pleads. "forgive me. i didn't want this for you. please believe me... you believe me, don't you? that i didn't want—i don't want to be like this."

you fall quiet again. you're still below him, knees starting to ache as you catch your breath.

"i'm sorry," kento mumbles, lifting you so gently upright and pulling you towards him. your head meets his firm chest as his hands come up, one cradling the back of your skull, the other at the small of your back. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm so, so sorry."

"it's okay. i forgive you." you whisper, wrapping your arms around him. despite the soggy shards of concern that lay in pieces at your feet, you croon into him none the less, giving chase once again. to him. to his touch, his protection, his patience.

you want it all.

the anguish, the control, the lacerations of his love.

hurt me.

and i promise i will like it.

likes n reblogs are appreciated !! 🩷

#୭ ˚.⁺⊹ 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓿𝓪𝓻𝓭 .ᐟ #cckaisen too obscene!#nanami kento #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk

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willowbelle · 4 months

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You Come First

❤︎ trafalgar law x fem reader ❤︎

༉‧₊˚✧ (nsfw, afab!reader, 18+ only) ༉‧₊˚✧

cw: dom!law, authoritative law, sub!reader, obedient reader, bit of a power dynamic, teasing, thigh-riding, choking, use of "good girl"

word count: ~850

tagging: @bby-deerling @risenwrites @strawheart-pirate @uchihabbynic @nina-ya @mandiemegatron

You Come First

Over dinner, Law beckoned you to his room with nothing but a fleeting glance.

His steel irises cast piercing glares into yours, silently coaxing you to knock on his bedroom door following the meal's completion.

And so, you found yourself, just like he’d hoped, seated on his lap as he relaxed in his desk chair, legs spread over his muscular thigh as you faced him, your lips locked together.

Your steadfast, unwavering obedience ignited the flame that consumed him from within—a wildfire of desire coursing through his veins, exhilarating him to an irrepressible obsession.

A little glance was all it took, and here you were, obeying him, having literally fallen right into his lap.

He pulls away, breaking your kiss, to lean forward and nip at the shell of your ear, strong hands traveling down your body to grip your hips,

“Move” he speaks, voice husky and low, his grip tightening on your hip bones, “I know you want to”

Right as his command met your ears, you oblige, slowly starting to rock your hips back and forth on his strong thigh, earning a low groan from the man before you.

“Good girl”

His grip tightens, making you squeak, and he begins to move your hips back and forth for you.

You let your head fall back, a pleased sigh escaping your lips.

The friction of your bare cunt rubbing against his leg was almost too much.

You tightened your grip on his shoulders and allowed a drawn-out whine to exit your throat, making Law smirk.

“That's it, just like that” his voice, a subdued and self-satisfied murmur, reveled in the control he wielded over you.

Your core tightens as you continue to rock, the wetness of your pussy making a lewd mess on his bare thigh.

The two of you were cut from the same cloth; you sought pleasure in pleasing one another.

Your lips meet his again, subtly distracting him as you remove one hand from his shoulder and begin to glide it down his muscular body. Your palm finally meets his needy cock; frustrated and twitching, leaking precum.

But before you can set your plan into motion, he swats your hand away, gripping it in his larger, tattooed one, placing it back on his shoulder.

He breaks your kiss, glaring at you through half-lidded eyes as he smirks smugly,

“Come on, y/n, you’re a good girl, you know how this works”

He tsks softly, peppering kisses along your neck, causing goosebumps to bud all over your skin,

“You come first.”

His play on words makes you giggle, and so, you relinquish your efforts, allowing him to take control again.

The pace of his hands never falters, dragging your soaking slit back and forth on his thigh, making you mewl out obscenities as you felt yourself nearing the edge.

“L-Lawww..” you managed, pressing harder on his shoulders, grinding your hips more feverishly, now, desperately chasing your rapidly approaching orgasm.

Your swollen clit rubbing against his hot skin was an irresistible, sinful feeling that you wanted to burn into your brain forever.

“That’s it, baby, you’re almost there,” he groans lustfully, “You got it.”

His grip tightens on your hips, pulling you back and forth, assisting you in your efforts.

He removes his right hand from your hip to grab your throat, making you whimper.

D E A T H has you in its ever-tightening grip, causing your head grow fuzzy, stars dancing beneath your eyelids.

A sudden surge of warmth envelops your body, coursing through your veins, finding its home in your aching cunt.

“L-Law,” you attempt to cry out, but his strong hand around your throat makes your plea come out strained and nearly unintelligible.

“I-I’m-s-so-close,” you slur, your face ablaze in a rosy hue, adorned with glistening beads of sweat.

“What’s that, dear? Can’t quite understand what you’re saying,” he smirks, tightening his grip on your neck. “Use your words.”

But he knows, of course, he does, possessing an understanding of your body that surpassed even your own.

He knows you’re close; the way you’re twitching on him, losing momentum as you sloppily grind back and forth, making a mess on his leg.

The sight alone could make him reach his own orgasm; your pretty face burning red, eyes screwed shut, mouth hanging slack as his name fell from it like a needy prayer.

You tremble, relinquishing control of your own body as you cum for him, gripping his shoulders tighter as you gush onto his thigh.

“F-Fuck, Law,” you throw your head back, cursing and whining.

Your cunt pulses with each beat of your heart as you relish in the intensity of your orgasm.

Law slowly loosens his grasp on your throat before he removes his hand completely, now cradling your warm cheek in his palm.

His self-satisfaction is undeniable, eyes locked onto yours with a smug and knowing gaze.

“That’s my girl,” he praises with a complacent smile.

You giggle softly and bite your bottom lip, pressing your cheek into his palm.

Looking at him with big, determined eyes, you flash a playful smirk,

“Your turn.”

𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧 𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.

©this work belongs to willowhaze26.

do not repost, modify, plagiarize, translate, or share on other platforms.

comments, likes, and reblogs appreciated!

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thefatedthoughtofyou · 1 year

Text

Eddie and Max get out of the hospital at the same time. Eddie's scars are tender. It hurts to move sometimes. But he's got ointment, and pain pills, he'll be fine.

Max can see, not super well, but it improves a little every week. Her arms are mostly healed, she still has slings for when they ache. Her legs are healed, technically, the bones anyway. But she's got braces and isn't supposed to walk on them yet. She can stand on them for a couple minutes off and on to stretch them. But she goes to physical therapy multiple times a week.

Her mom had been rightly worried and upset and freaked out, because they couldn't afford a van for her wheelchair. And yeah she can get out of her wheelchair if she needs too, but its easier on her body if she can just, roll in and out of a vehicle.

So eddie tells her mom he can drive her around. All they need is a ramp for his van. He already had straps in the back to secure things, they use them on Gareth's drum set. The relief on Max's mothers face and the way she hugs him genlty is... too much. He just smiles and looks away, nodding when she thanks him again.

He drives her to therapy twice and decides that her trailer needs a ramp too. A good one. He can't help lift Max's chair, so he just has to watch Max's mom struggle to get her up the stairs.

So he goes home and starts drawing. He can see it in his head, the way he wants it, bigger than it probably needs to be, but he wants the slope to be low impact, because once her arms get strong enough to move herself, he wants her to able to do that. He just... doesn't know how he's gonna manage to DO all this.

But he goes to the hardware store one day, with Wayne, because Wayne knows things, about everything. And Wayne helps him pick out the wood, they estimate the numbers and then buy a little more, just in case. And they load it up, and drop it by Max's house. And the next day, Wayne goes to work, and so does Eddie.

He ties his hair back, shoves himself into a pair of Wayne's old cover alls, and walks slowly over to Max's, she doesn't have therapy today, or the next two. Eddie doesn't think he can get it done by then, but he's gonna fucking get it started if it kills him. He pops a pain pill into his mouth, takes a swig from the water he'd brought with him, takes a look at the drawing he'd made, and gets to work.

Max rolls onto her small porch steps about an hour into Eddie's work, he's been measuring and cutting and just separating things into piles. She says his name softly and he looks up, squinting, he's covered in sweat. And his body fucking hurts. He wipes at his forehead with his arm and limps over to Max. She's holding out a new glass of water.

"What are you doing?" Her voice is ...tight. Like she knows exactly what he's doing. Eddie chugs the water and hands her back the empty glass.

"What? You don't like suprises?" He huffs, smiles with the tease. She smiles back, her bottom lip trembling slightly. He rests his hand gently on her knee, gives it a squeeze, then heads back to where he was,

"Go inside. I can't keep an eye you when I'm working and if you roll off that teeny tiny porch you're mom'll kill me." She snorts, but does as he says. A few minutes later Eddie hears the door slap shut again, and looks up to see another glass of water sitting on the porch. He shouts a thank you, and keeps working.

It only takes another hour before he almost has a breakdown. His skin hurts, he's hot, his hands are shaking. He's downed three more glasses of water. His last thank you had been so strangled that Max had just looked at him and then disappeared into the house.

He's sitting on the porch steps now, hands shaking in his lap, tears falling down his face. He can't take another pill yet. He's got two hours. He takes a few very deep breathes, about to steel himself and get back to work, his hands are on his knees, about to push himself up, when he hears the car.

He looks up, and Steve's car is parking at his house. His hands fall from his knees. But its not just Steve in the car, Nancy and Robin are there too. All of them in old looking jeans, and ratty looking shirts.

Robin's are covered in paint. Eddie's breathing goes shakey as Steve pats Robin's shoulder and points at Eddie. Robin nods and heads for him, doing a weird little run, Eddie can't help but smile. Steve and Nancy are grabbing things from Steve's trunk, Eddie doesn't see what things, before Robin is filling his vision, dropping to her knees in front of him looking concerned as her hands gently cradle his face.

"Hey you. You okay? Max said you might need some help." Robin breaths it out like a sigh, like she'd been holding in her worry. Eddie bites his lip to stop it from trembling anymore and nods. She nods back with a smile.

"Okay cool. Well, help is here. Help being, Steve and Nancy." She nods to them.

"And I'm gonna sit with you until you're feeling a bit better okay? Then you can jump back in." Steve clears his throat aggressively as he walks past her at that. Robin's face scrunches.

"Maybe." She tells Eddie. Steve was ... was he mad? He wasn't looking at Eddie, just helping Nancy get the tools they'd need out of the box they brought. Eddie had some tools, but just for one person. Robin rubs his knee gently and squishes in next to him on the stairs.

"So you got baby sitting duty?" He asks her, his side pressing into her as almost all the fight to stay upright leaves his body. She's steady beside him, holds him up easily, her hand curling around his bicep for extra support.

"Well, Nancy and Steve thought it was probably best that I don't handle tools. So yeah, but hey, babysitting you's not so bad. I mean you're a GREAT conversationalist." Robin smiles brightly at him, watches him try to smile back and then grimace.

"You okay?" Her voice is concerned now, and that apparently draws Steve's attention. He's at Eddie side in the time it takes for Eddie to nod, his face still scrunched in pain. Steve kneels, looks up at him.

"Where are your pills?" He asks. Eddie shakes his head.

"Hour an a half." Eddie grunts out. Steve's head falls and then it's shaking, he sighs, and fuck, he sounds disappointed. And he's glaring at Eddie when he finally looks back up.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Doing this by yourself, with no one here but Max to help you if you got hurt. Did you think about that?" Steve's voice gets louder as he talks.

"Steve." Robin's voice, a warning.

"No. Robin. This is... you could've gotten hurt Eddie." He huffs it, his voice is full of frustration, and anger. Eddie just stares at the ground, tries to breathe around the lump in his throat.

"I know I fucked up alright? Can we spare the lecture?" He grits, his voice is wobbly. Steve doesn't hear it, just huffs again and stands, Eddie sees his hands hit his hips and braces for whatever he's gonna say next.

"What was Max supposed to do if you got hurt? Huh? She can't help you dude! And Wayne's at work! You're all alone out here, when you shouldn't even be out here in the first place!" Steve is openly yelling now, both Nancy and Robin saying his name as Eddie's shoulders shake. Eddie clears his throat roughly, pushing the tight feeling away so he can speak. He shoves himself to his feet with a wince, pain shooting through his body.

"You think I dont know that? I know how fucking alone I am. Thank you. Steve." His hand clenches at the pain in his side, a whimper rips out of his throat, tears burn his eyes and fall. Steve looks startled, then concerned, reaches out to steady him, Eddie slaps his hand away, hard.

"Don't fuckin touch me." He growls, wipes at his eyes with shakey hands and starts walking to his trailer. His foot hits a dip in the ground and he stumbles, Robin catches him, just enough to keep him on his feet. She lets go immediately as he shrugs her touch off gently, and keeps walking.

"FUCK!" he yells it, to no one really, just built up frustration clawing its way out of him. He stomps, carefully, up his own trailer steps, and lets the door slam shut behind him.

Max's trailer door squeaks open, and the three of them turn to see her looking at Steve.

"That was harsh. I told you to come help him, not fucking yell at him and make it worse." The look in her eyes could cut glass. Steve droops under her scrutiny, his hands moving to cover his face.

"Fuck. I know." He groans. He looks up, and over to Robin.

"What's wrong with me?" He sighs, his head hanging again. Robin gives him a sympathetic smile, walks closer, rubs at his arm.

"You care about him. And you were mad. And when you're upset you get...." she trails off, thinking.

"Bitchy." Nancy supplies, moving to his other side, her hand on his shoulder as he glares at her.

"What? You do. Eddie was trying to do something nice. Something amazing, actually, for Max." Steve glares harder, she holds her finger up, silencening whatever he was about to interupt her with.

"And yes he went about it the wrong way. He obviously should have called for help." Robin chimes in, squeezing his arm.

"But no one said he was a genius. He's just trying to help." Nancy finishes, moving her hand over his shoulder soothingly.

"I know that. But he can't... he can't just help others to point that he hurts himself!" Steve flails a little, both Robin and Nancy leaning away from him, out of his flail range. They share a look though. And Max snorts behind him. He wips around to look at her.

"What? What was that for?" He asks, his tone, to his dismay, bitchy.

"Did you hear what just came out of your mouth? Have you met yourself?" She asks, crossing her arms carefully over her chest. She glares at him until he deflates. He sighs. Squints against the sun as he looks up at the sky.

"I need to go apologize." He says. All three girls nod.

"Yep." Nancy says, pressing her lips together so she doesn't smile.

"Definitely. 100% yeah." Robin squeezes his arm again, gives him an encouraging nod.

"If you don't. I'm throwing myself down these steps and telling my mom you left me unsupervised." Max says, her voice flat. Steve's eyes widen, and then he gives her a look.

"Jesus. Alright. I was already going. No need for threats." He calls the last part over his shoulder as he makes his way to Eddie's trailer. He bounces up the steps gingerly and knocks.

"Come in." Eddie's voice calls. Steve opens the door, the living room is empty. He walks down to Eddie's room and his heart sinks. Eddie has one arm pulled up inside his coveralls, it's bent at an interesting angle, he's sitting in the edge of his bed, his face is wet with tears. He flinches a little when he sees it's Steve standing there and that hurts Steve too. He moves closer, just one step and then Eddie chokes out,

"I'm stuck." And Steve moves fast. He kneels in front of Eddie, trying to look at the situation, his arm is caught in the sleeve, his elbow shoved into it tightly, he moves Eddie's wrist and Eddie flinches again.

"Does it hurt?" He asks, keeping his voice quiet. Eddie nods, bites his lip. The sleeve is pressing hard into Eddie's arm, right where one of his scars is. Steve winces in sympathy.

"How attached are you to these?" He tugs on the front of the coveralls, Eddie looks at him.

"I'm not. They're Wayne's old pair." He says, his voice tight from the pain.

"Okay good." Steve says as he slides his pocket knife out, flicks it open, and cuts the sleeve in one fluid motion. Eddie's arm drops free, another whimper falls out of him at the release.

Steve cradles Eddie's arm, holds it gently as Eddie catches his breath. His fingers squeeze Eddie's wrist and he opens his eyes. Looks at Steve.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you." Steve says, not letting go of Eddie's wrist. Eddie blinks at him. Stares. Then shakes his head.

"Don't be. I fucked up. You were right. I shouldn't have been out there by myself." Eddie frowns, wipes at his wet face. Steve shakes his head then, pushing himself up onto his knees, his back straightening, moving him closer to Eddie's face.

"No. Don't do that. It wasn't your fault. Okay? I shouldn't have yelled. You were trying to help Max. And I just... I didn't wanna find you hurt. Again." Steve looks at Eddie, really looks at him, tries to convey what he means without having to say it. Eddie's eyes are wide, and a little glassy from crying, but Steve sees it, the moment realization hits him.

"Okay. I won't do it again." Eddie nods, moves his wrist in Steve's hand so he can curl his fingers around Steve's wrist.

"Thank you. Just call us. We'll help you. Okay? And Eddie?" Steve swallows, stands and lifts Eddie to his feet, Eddie blinks at him owlishly.

"You're not alone. I'm sorry if we made you feel that way." Steve whispers it, feels his throat burn as Eddie starts crying again. He wipes at his face and shakes his head, looks at Steve with some strange frown smile combo.

"No I know. I just... it's always just been me. And Wayne. Ya know?" He says, holding onto Steve as he sways, dizzy. Steve holds onto him right back.

"Yeah. Well... not anymore." Steve shrugs, smiles, and then tugs Eddie out of his room. They get him another pain pill, Steve rubs some ointment onto the scar on his arm, and then they go back outside.

Nancy is cutting wood while Robin measures and marks. Steve doesn't let go of Eddie's hand until he has him sitting on the porch steps. Max hands him another glass of water.

"You're drinking me out of house and home Munson." She teases, he stares her down as he chugs the water, holds the glass back out to her and wiggles it with a shit eating grin.

"Unbelievable. Sending the girl in the wheelchair to do your errands." She sighs, but smiles when Eddie hops up and gets the door for her, follows her inside to help. He pops back a minute later and hands Steve a peice of paper. It has his plans for the ramp on it.

"This is sort of what I was aiming for." He shrugs, watches Steve look over the paper.

"You did this?" He asks, looking back up at Eddie. Eddie nods, wraps his arms around himself, feeling self-conscious under Steve's gaze.

"What? What's wrong with it?" He asks when Steve says nothing.

"What? Oh no, sorry, nothing's wrong. It's just super detailed." Steve smiles, shakes his head, hands the paper to Robin and Nancy.

"Yeah well, I wanted it done right." Eddie shrugs, Nancy makes a weird moaning sound behind them, both of them look to see her looking down at the paper in her hands, lovingly. She looks back up at Eddie.

"Finally! Someone else detail oriented. I'm making copies of this." She sounds genuine as she waves the paper, smiling at Eddie. He flushes red and moves to sit on the steps again. When his hands stop shaking he helps Robin with the measurements.

She measures, he measures, Nancy and Steve cut.

It takes them two days. But they get it done. The ramp wraps around the side of the trailer, where Max's mom always parks. He bought some plywood as well, to put down on the ground, so Max's wheels wouldn't sink.

The first time she pushes Max down the ramp she nearly cries as she throws herself at Eddie. Hugs him tight and then apologizes when he huffs in pain. Max grabs his hand, looks up at him with her bright blue eyes, and kisses his arm. Just a little peck, smooching the bats on his skin. But he gets it. That's all she needs to do. He knows she's grateful.

Steve shows up at Eddie's trailer the day after they finish the ramp. His eyes are wild and he looks like he's been shoving his hands into his hair for a couple of hours. Eddie gets half way through asking what's wrong and then Steve is kissing him. They almost fall into the trailer with the force of it. Steve catches them, rights them, but doesn't let go of Eddie, just lets out a breathy,

"Sorry sorry." As he keeps them steady. Eddie just smiles dumbly at him. Wayne stands from the couch, clears his throat awkwardly and pats Eddie on the shoulder as he leaves, says,

"Told you them coveralls was lucky boy." He winks as he passes them. Eddie's laughter filling the trailer behind him as Steve's face goes crimson and he drops his head on Eddie's shoulder with a dramatic groan.

#eddie munson #max mayfield #steve harrington #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie blurb #fates Endless Inkwell #fei #my writing #my fic #mine

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killrockabill · 2 months

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The batgirls on a stake out watching Random henchmen killing time at a villains hideout:

Hench1: ok, ok, so if you could pick a batgirl, which would it be?

Steph: Ugh, gross

Hench2: Look, man, I know classic batgirl's gotta be legal, but aren't the other two on the younger side?

Hench1: what? No, in a fight, ya freak.

Babs on comms: Oh, this should be good

Hench3: the quiet one for sure. I wouldn't even realize the fight started with that one

Cass: heh

Hench1: yeah, but then you've got how many broken bones? I'd take my chances with the purple one. The others are ninjas and who knows what, but shes just some broad.

Steph: B r o a d?!

Hench2: yknow, she got me on the last job, and let me tell you, she fights dirty.

Hench1: aw, someone can't handle a scrappy gal huh? Idk how you're supposed to date in gotham with that attitude pal.

Hench3: it's all fun and games till you hear "ITS BATGIRL WITH A STEEL CHAIR"

Hench1: alls I'm saying is that the quiet one is too much and we only ever see classic bg when it's an all bats on deck situation, and I told my wife I wouldn't take those jobs no more.

#stephcass #batman #dc comics #batgirl #stephanie brown #cassandra cain #barbara gordon

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westlightning · 11 months

Text

Anton x gn!Reader WIP

This is just a scrap piece of writing I made a while ago where the reader delivers milk door to door. In the moments in between hits when Anton is home, he and the reader have some interesting run ins. It’s pretty rough, so be kind to me. Also nothing explicitly sexual happens here but Anton treats the reader like a dog, so primal play is pretty central to what’s happening here.

—

You open the fridge and kneel, wary of the man out of the corner of your eye as his warning from the previous day rings in your head.

You shouldn’t turn your back on me.

Still don’t know what it means. You’ve given up trying to find out. Beyond being purely intimidating, it’s hard to understand his intentions. Not like there’s much you can do otherwise in the moment. You’re here to perform a duty, and you shouldn’t forget that.

Shakily you pull the empty bottle from its spot and replace it. When you’re done you stand, turning as casually as you can to face him.

He’s sitting in a chair at the table, legs spread. His eyes are dull and beady as they watch you, glittering like blue ice. The dismissal of yourself dies on pallid lips when you meet them.

He lifts a foot, “Would you take off my boots?” Then, as an afterthought, “Please.”

You look at the cast on his arm and swallow a denial. Clearly he is hurt, that’s why he’s asking for your help. Clearly he is hurt, that’s why you obey without thinking twice. You just want to be good at your job, that’s all.

You sink to your knees in front of him, setting down the empty bottle out of the way to your left. The wood is harsher than the linoleum beneath bone, but it doesn’t hurry your movements. When he puts the polished end of a red boot on your thigh you carefully take it by the heel and pull it off.

He sighs in content, the sound taking you off guard. You look up at him, still looking unerringly at you. A flush crawls up your neck. You turn back to his other foot and ease the boot off, setting them both neatly to the side. When you’re done you stare at his socked feet, the toes wriggling in plain gray cotton.

“What are you doing with your life?”

You flinch. Can’t help it. His voice is so deep it catches you off guard. You look back up to him with a million words on your tongue. None come out.

He repeats himself, patient to the point of concern. “What are you doing with your life?”

“Not much, sir. I mean, I work.” You struggle around your words, “I—I provide a service.”

He nods slightly. He seems entirely uninterested in what you have to say, and you’d think that was the case if it weren’t for the questions. Somehow you knew he wouldn’t be asking them if it was true. He’s never struck you as the type to dally on what didn’t intrigue him, even if only just in passing.

“What service do you provide?”

“I deliver things.”

He blinks, “That’s not what you’re doing now,” he says, quiet as death. “You’re kneeling. How did you get here?”

It’s a simple thing. It shouldn’t be so hard to answer.

“Because…” you lick your lips, finding steel in your voice. “Because you asked me to.”

“No,” he smiles faintly, but it’s not a real smile. Not the kind that fills you with any semblance of comfort. “I asked if you would take off my boots. And you did. I asked you, what are you doing with your life—does that question make sense to you?”

You shake your head. Your hands are clammy, wet as they grip the front of your pants. The blush is irrefutable now. It tracks up your neck, around to your face and all the way up to your ears. Red with some form of shame.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

He seems frustrated. Almost. But also, not. It’s an odd intersection, and you’re there kneeling watching the gears turn in his head. Slow and steady. And you want to leave. You want to get out. But you can’t move.

“I can leave,” you offer quietly.

He hums, nearly laughing. “You won’t. I didn’t say you could go.”

You breathe out shakily then, audibly so. He tracks the movement of it lazily in your throat, bobbing with baited breath. His eyes are sharper when they meet yours. More hooded.

“I told you not to turn your back on me, is this not as vulnerable?” He pokes you with the toe of a foot. “It’s not in your nature, yet you do it anyways.”

You sit there for a while, staring at him and feeling seen in a way you never have before, like his eyes are stripping back layers of your skin to look at the bone. Like he’s watching you under a microscope, seeing what you’re made of.

Then he stands. You stare at him, forgetting to move back until he is so close your nose nearly knocks a thigh.

You fall back. He watches, smiling again. It makes the blood inside you curdle.

He walks away, stopping only when he is in the doorway to turn to you. Still on the ground.

“Back to work.” He says. “I will see you tomorrow.”

You do see him tomorrow. It’s nothing odd that he’d say that. You see him every day. But your feet drag through your route as you approach the last house on the street, because you’ve seen him out front. Waiting on his porch.

Waiting for you.

You’ve felt him watching the whole time you deliver to neighbors. You feel his eyes as you start the truck and round it to his mailbox, turning off the ignition and climbing out.

You won’t go inside today. You’ve told yourself this since you left the afternoon prior. You won’t. It’s not professional. You could get in a lot of trouble. Could get fired if you’re late returning your vehicle again. Someone oughta notice eventually.

He is standing next to the vacant rocking chair when you approach with no boots on and in another pair of the same gray socks. His milk bottle isn’t in sight. You don’t meet his eyes until he says, “Come.”

He means inside. You stop just shy of the steps.

It takes you a full minute to get the words out even though you practiced them endlessly the night before in your bed, doing that instead of sleeping. Surely he could see in your face how much you needed to do this.

“I’m not allowed to come inside, sir. I shouldn’t have before. And I’m sorry for misleading you like that.”

He walks inside, opens the door. “Come.”

You shake your head minutely.

He blinks, then with a bit more force, “Come.”

The tone scares you in some deep, innately primal way.

Your legs move before you can tell them not to. It’s like you’re in a trance. You take off your shoes when you enter like you’ve done before. He waits. Then you follow him deeper into the lifeless home.

Pulls out the same chair and sits. You hover in a haze. Watching him.

He gestures to the fridge, “You’re here to do a job. Do it.”

You do your job, quicker than before. You can leave after. He can’t keep you. It’d be illegal for him to. You could report him.

Somehow it doesn’t appear like he’s worried about that possibility. Maybe because you’ve given him too much slack. When you’re done you stand in front of him.

I’m going to leave now.

Words you don’t say. You think he can see them in your eyes. You think maybe he’s stealing them from your head.

“Sit.”

That’s… not what you expected. You stand entirely too still for a moment and try to process the words, but you don’t want to make him repeat himself like you did before.

There’s only one other chair and it’s too close to him. You reach for it anyways when you feel something on your ankle. The toe of his foot hooks around it, stopping you in your tracks.

You look to him for guidance. He smiles, gentle and foreign. It doesn’t calm you in any sort of way.

“On the floor.”

You really, really shouldn’t. But you do.

This time you sit criss cross, feeling like a child. It’s easier on your joints, but it’s just as heavy on your pride. His, though, seems to be glowing, if only in amusement. Like he’s testing something out for fun.

You pick at the fabric of your sleeve, still not looking at him. The silence stretches on and it makes you feel sick.

“Have you thought about the question I asked you?”

“Which one?” You bite your lip, “I just mean—no offense, sir, but you ask a lot of questions.”

“I have only asked one important question. What are you doing with your life?”

Apparently your prior answers didn’t appease him, but it leaves you entirely blank. What else are you supposed to say to something like that? He doesn’t care about your feelings or your failures. What’s the point of asking when he wants a specific answer you’re not privy to? Anxious tears well in your eyes unbidden at being caught again. Caught in this trap you’ve let yourself be led into.

“You’re a bit simple, aren’t you? Like a dog… “He says it so casually it almost doesn’t register, as though he’s commenting on the weather.

You balk. It’s real but it’s also performative. You should be offended by what he’s saying. “I’m not—“ your voice is wet, you gulp through it. “I’m not a dog.”

He pulls in a long, deep breath. You get the feeling he anticipated this answer but isn’t impressed by it.

“You’re sitting on my floor because I told you to. When I tell you to come, you do. Is that not what a dog does?”

He seems genuinely curious. He seems genuinely gentle, but you know it’s not in his nature to be. There’s nothing gentle or curious about what he’s saying, it’s only mean.

You look at him and can’t hide the tears this time. He sees them, you watch the observation register in some way on his face, and then he’s reaching out. A broad, calloused palm ghosts across your cheek, skirting through your hair displaced by taking on and off the hat in the humidity. He pushes it back, petting ever so softly.

“It’s alright,” he says, “you’re a good dog.”

#Anton Chigurh #Anton Chigurh x Reader #wip #one day I desire to write this….#no country for old men #westlightning writing

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zadralien · 4 months

Text

Trying to save the one thing he loves most about space.

Ficlet under the cut

I always imagined this sort of scene to Trapped In Dillard’s by Foxing,

It hadn’t meant to go like this.

The Voot groaned, cutting Dib’s attention from the static over the radio as he yanked his boots on. He’d begged Zim to stay where it was safe, where they could wait in quietly together in the ship until the diagnostics were complete or until a friendly nearby ship heard their distress call.

But Zim had never been great at keeping his ego in check. He’d insisted that as a solider of the Irken Armada, he was most qualified to depart from the warm confines of the ship and manually check out the exterior for damages.

It had been fine at first with Zim giving frequent call-outs of his observations as Dib began to map all possible issues.

At some point, he’d registered a low buzzing sound beneath Zim’s chatter.

Dib scrambled to flick a call out of warning over the radio once he’d realised what might be happening - but it was too late. The buzzing had stopped and Zim was cut off, static pouring over the radio as the cockpit clicked and flashed to life.

Dib flung himself over the co-pilots chair, clamouring desperately towards the oxygen helmets kept in a corner compartment of the ship. Yanking the radio off his spacesuit belt, he threw his helmet on and slipped a second one under his arm.

“Zim,” Dib called out over his radio, “please tell me you’re alive.”

Nothing but the rush of static responded.

Dib whirled over to the airlock, reaching up and snatching an overhanging a lifeline to clip to his belt. He took a steadying breath, and punched the code in to open the airlock.

Usually, looking out into the open vacuum of space was soothing to Dib - the mundane reminder that he was just a small part of the universe, a leaf in the stream of a much larger river. It was a welcome relief from the crushing pressure of being his father’s prodigy. Now, the vast vacuum of space chilled him to the bone as he looked around the sides of the ship for his only friend. He was met only with a crushing black emptiness sprayed with dying stars. One wrong move, and nothing stops you from vanishing in an endless drift towards a certain and slow death.

He steeled his grip against the top of the airlock door and pulled himself upwards, letting go at the last minute to float towards the top of the ship. He looked desperately to the topside of the ship where he knew Zim was working, noticing a little hysterically that the hatch was still open and unmanned.

Swallowing, he looked up and around at the consuming blackness around them, their only grace a nearby set of dwarf suns emitting a dim light.

When his eyes finally landed on something floating some distance away from the ship, Dib’s heart jumped. He squinted as he took the binoculars out of his suit pocket, adjusting them hurriedly as the picture of Zim’s red suit slowly came into focus.

“Zim!” Dib called in vain over the suit comms, using all of his strength to launch himself off the ship with the help of his suit thrusters.

As he floated, he didn’t know if it was the scene that was slowly becoming closer or or the freezing temperature of space, but Dib’s blood felt sharp and icy as it forced its way through his body, biting pains emanating from his chest. Zim’s body was unmoving and, much to Dib’s mounting panic, unmasked against the void. His face was basked into the deep shadows of space and light of the nearby suns. His body, for the first time ever, was completely limp.

After what seemed like years, Dib finally reached Zim. He knew Irkens, with the the help of their Paks, could withstand the pressures and temperatures of space for an intimidating amount of time, but Dib didn’t know the limitations once the body had already sustained injuries from electrical charges. Already, Zim’s face was beginning to crystallise and bloom into a deep deadly blue. Dib yanked the helmet out from under his arm and pulled it over Zim’s head, clasping it desperately to Zim’s suit with shaking hands. He watched as the mask signalled it was delivering a much needed flow. Pressing one hand to Zim’s chest, he allowed himself a small rush of relief as he felt Zim’s chest move with a fragile breath.

Dib pulled Zim closer, cradling his neck carefully and pressing their torsos together as he inputted the recall command on the lifeline.

As they were yanked back towards the ship, he braced himself for the unceremonious crash against the floor of the spacecraft, twisting to ensure he broke Zim’s fall.

After a moment, the airlock closed swiftly. Dib reached over towards an emergency kit for high flow oxygen, clicking the hosing into the back of Zim’s helmet. With a pained grunt Dib slumped backwards, pulling Zim’s body up and into his lap, allowing the quiet hiss of air soothe him. He brushed a hand over Zim’s shoulders and arms, coming up to cup a hand against the helmet where Zim’s cheek slowly began to slowly radiate back to his usual green colour.

Dib let his head fall back against the wall behind him, taking a deep shuddering breath.

Even with everything he has seen on this escapade across the galaxy - from the extraordinary planets and individual lifeforms to the nebulas and vast galaxies, he’d never been as euphoric to see his alien again.

#alien #art #dib #dib membrane #dib x zim #invader zim #zim x dib #zadr #zim and dib romance #zim #my art #space #ficlet #Spotify

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myeur-n · 11 months

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Imagine that the Darkling had just caused the death of his own mother, and he needed to look for you once more

Note:

Purely based on s2 of the Shadow and Bone Netflix series, so some lore might be incorrect

"We've used the last of Baghra's remains for the others," the Darkling's Alkemi informed him, but he remained in his lonely despair in a mind unhinged. He needed a break from all of this planning to expand the Fold and consume the whole of Ravka in his darkness - he needed,

"The Wanderer," he murmured under his breath as his eyes darkened with a new way to beat this grief festering within him.

"Vladim, tell everyone to make use of their new Amplifiers. I'm going to scout ahead for some time," the Darkling pushed himself off his chair and began to march out of his own encampment.

"But General, why can't you just let the others do it for you?" his Alkemi raised a brow.

"That's none of your concern," the Darkling turned back at him, eyes glaring into his very soul while the corners of his camp turned darker. "Do as I say and speak nothing of it?" He ordered again through gritted teeth. The Alkemi pressed his lips hard against each other and nodded.

The Darkling mounted his horse and wasted no time astriding North, knowing what he needed was somewhere in the Fjerdan borders, the last time he had heard of her.

You were knee deep in a river with a ceramic vase in your hand. As you dipped it into the cold yet calm, icy river to collect the cold waters, you carefully walked your way out of river. Looking around your surroundings first to ensure that no one was looking, you slowly heated the vase with your own fire.

"Not very discreet now, aren't we?" A familiar voice suddenly called out from within the darkness of the forest ahead of you.

"Who's there?" You frowned and clenched your fists tight, though you already had an idea whose voice it belonged to.

"Y/n, has it really been that long since we last saw each other?" The Darkling calmly sauntered out of the shadows of the trees, with both his hands clasped behind his back.

"Its you. How long has it been? Half a century, I'd bet," you moved toward him and shoved your vase into his hands.

"Do you not know who I am?" He turned to you with a cold tone, but you've been living in the Fjerdan mountains long enough to know that he was just playing around with you.

"Whatever identity you've taken this time, Aleksander, I don't care. Just don't bother me with your propaganda," and both of you began to walk towards your modest cabin made of wood and steel, blanketed in a thick layer of snow.

"Anyway, what brings you here? This place isn't exactly friendly to Grisha. And I've heard that you're not really popular in Ravka either," you opened the door and led him in first. Just as he was about to sit on your favourite spot and in your living room with his ridiculously massive fur coat, you forced it out of him, which he complied with a light, but bittersweet smile.

The Darkling was usually broody, but you knew that something was genuinely upsetting him.

"How about we sit by the fireplace while I make some tea, then? Just like old times," you offered.

"I'm willing to sit by the fireplace, but I do not wish to drink your horrible tea," he only said as he looked around your plain house. You nodded and went to the kitchen, still within earshot of what your guest would say.

"I didn't imagine that you would live someplace so... small, Little Saint," he remarked on the lack of decorations in your house. "Then again, you're the one who's lesser in ambition between us two,".

"You don't understand, Aleksander. Not everyone lives in your Little Palace, under the riches of the kings that betrayed our own kind," you brought two mugs of hot drinks to the fireplace and settled down slowly next to him, passing one of them to him.

"I told you, I don't want your tea," he groaned.

"Its hot cocoa. And stop complaining like a child," you rolled your eyes.

Cautiously, he accepted it and took a few sips, before he placed it down next to him.

"Y/n, there's something I must tell you," he began.

You didn't answer, but your silence beckoned him to continue talking.

"That is... I wish you could have accepted the title of Saint, y/n. If you had been at the Little Palace with me from the start, you could have kept me in check," he choked out his words.

"I don't think old friends could have changed you. You've turned from the path we used to walk together hundreds of years ago,".

"But with you there, you could have at least - burnt some sense into me, like you've always done," he hissed as his eyes glared into fireplace. "You could have...," he breathed, then your living room began to darken with his shadow.

"Could have what?".

"You could have saved me from killing my own mother," his voice trembled as the confession took place.

"What?" You resigned your comfort in his presence and began to crawl backwards and away from him.

"Its true. I killed my mother-,".

"How could you do that to Baghra?!" You shot upwards, now fully standing and prepared to summon your wildfire to protect yourself.

Had the Darkling came to you to destroy every reminder of his past? Both of you had been comrades since you were children - you were his first friend, follower and soldier. If he could kill Baghra - the very person who birthed him and stood by his side for centuries, then what of you?

"No, no, don't be scared, y/n!" He held his hands out, expression contorted in fear - but not fear of you.

You summoned a sphere of concentrated fire, but then, suddenly the shadow around you began to form a beast of more than 8 feet tall, barely able to fit into your own cabin. The beast brushed past the Darkling and stretched out its dark tentacles toward you, prepared to decapitate you - and you recognised it from Baghra's old stories, that it was a Nichevo'ya.

Only the Sun Summoner could stun this monster.

You spread out your fire into the Cut, prepared to fight against it.

"NO, don't do it!" The Darkling shouted, but his voice drowned out between you and the monster. You took a deep breath, and as the Nichevo'ya stretched its hands towards you for the killing blow, you quickly turn defensive and made a shield of fire.

It let out an ear-piercing scream, and you summoned a beam of fire from your core, before you penetrated it into the monster of darkness.

The Nichevo'ya disappeared into the shadows.

Your breathing was ragged and you needed to take a seat, so you clumsily rest yourself against your own wall.

"Was that the thing that killed your mother?" You let out a tired sigh.

"Yes...," the Darkling only stared in silence at you.

"And it's yours?".

"Yes,".

"How dare you use merzost again! Can't you see that its hurt thousands of people once, and now you've gone ahead and did it to your own mother," you exclaimed at him and rushed to open the door. "Get out and never come back. I can't see you like this," turning your gaze away from his scarred face, you tried to control your breathing.

"You know I never meant to, y/n," he began to unbuckle his knees and slowly approached you, as if he feared both your wrath and himself.

"It was always like that, Aleksander. You weren't a monster when all of this obsession to save our kind began. You were our commander - someone I could pour my loyalty for. But now," you turned your head away, holding back your tears. "You're obsessed with hunting down this Sun Summoner of yours and expanding the Fold. Won't that kill all Grisha too?".

The Darkling pursed his lips and studied your face. Slowly turning to finally meet his eyes once, you realised that he was displeased with your opinions, but made no move to silent you with any threat.

"I promised those that follow my command they will be safe," he added in a low voice.

"And I'll bet that they believed it. However, you know that you can't fool me. I was there with you for hundreds of years, heard thousands of your promises to all of Grisha. And you only brought upon them ruin and death with your ambition,".

Your old friend remained silent and only stared at you, wide-eyed and furious. He shifted his gaze to the door you've opened wide to beckon for his leave. Nodding, his legs slowly brought him outside your house. You followed him out as if you're still attracted to his power of command like all those years ago.

"Aleksander," you said once more, and he stopped in his tracks at the middle of forest. "You're not a monster like what everyone has said, especially your Alina Starkov. If she had seen what the previous kings had done to Grisha, the way that people had hunted us down and refused to provide us any food and water - simply because you requested more from the king, she would have done the same despite what she thought of herself," you approached him and cupped his one metallic hand, and his real one in yours.

You flinched a bit at how cold it was.

"I know I can't stop you once you've started your plans, but please," you began to rub your fingers against his knuckles, warming them up with your fire of hearth. "Don't kill the Sun Summoner. You're already lonely enough, and I can't see you ruin yourself for another century again," your breath trembled.

He nodded, and only looked into your bright eyes of hope with his starless ones. You weren't begging him to promise himself to your words, for you knew that your old friend couldn't break his promises to you - and so his silence revealed to you - that even he did not know if he would kill his Sun Summoner or not.

Slowly, you wrapped your arms around his neck and embraced him. The Darkling closed his eyes, held back his breath and only buried his face within your arms.

Something was telling you that this might be the last time you'd see him, and he thought so too.

#shadow and bone netflix #shadow and bone #fanfic #fem reader #the darkling #ben barnes #friends #aleksander morozova #aleksander x y/n #inferni #grishaverse #final battle #aleksander x reader #alina starkov #sun summoner #shadow summoner #y/n #angst #shadow and bone s2

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lemon-natalia · 2 months

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Gideon the Ninth Reaction - Chapter 36

well this was a remarkably long chapter wow

Go Camilla, coming in clutch! And Gideon has her longsword back at least to give her a bit of an advantage

Silas and Colum struggled against Ianthe as a newly formed Lyctor still in conflict with Naberius’s soul, Harrow, Gideon, and Camilla vs. a ten-thousand year old Lyctor, even with all three of them, is not remotely a fair fight

'But now this benighted vision stood before its natural predator’ ok i’ll admit i wasn’t sold on Harrow for much of the first half of this book, but i would now like to state that she is pretty fucking awesome

‘But her smile was long and sweet and beautiful’ awwwww, these two, i think this is the first time Gideon's called Harrow beautiful? also even fighting an eldritch being Gideon cannot help but notice hot women

‘We do bones, motherfucker’ fuck yeah, well put!ohhh Harrow and Gideon fight so well together and just incredibly in tandem … which of course horribly foreshadows Gideon’s decision at the end of the chapter 🫠

WHAT’S THIS, it's HARROW with a STEEL CHAIR!! If the chair was a bunch of skeletons and perpetual bone

and of course Harrow can’t resist boasting even in the middle of a giant fight. Good For Her. also this girl faints so much

oh and Ianthe’s back for Meat Battle Round 2: Electric Boogaloo! Ianthe vs Cytherea feels like a kaiju fight except with more bones and meat and blood

'You’re very brave - a bit like another Gideon I used to know’ wow what with all the dramatic fights and revelations happening the last couple chapters i totally forgot about the other Gideon, confirmation i guess that they were involved somehow back when all the Lyctors were first created?

poor Camilla, imagine you spend what you think are the last moments before your horrific death third wheeling

these two just cannot stop sacrificing themselves for each other can they 😢😢

'And she fell forward, right on the iron spikes’ my brain is totally bluescreening right now istg if Gideon dies permanently i will lose it

#lemon natalia reads the locked tomb #tlt #the locked tomb #the locked tomb liveblog #gideon the ninth

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thepayloadisgay · 11 months

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Genji flicks the scalpel between his fingers, a gentle ting whenever it hits against the metal of his hands.

"Must you?" Moira asks, not looking up from her screen, one hand typing, the other flicking through papers, messy with her scrawl.

"Can't sleep."

"And you decided to make that my problem, I see." Idly she types, the screen becoming a blur that she blinks back into focus.

"You're the only one awake."

A sly smile as she leans back into her chair, crossing a long, lithe leg. "I'm not your substitute Angela."

The scalpel falls, nicking what exposed flesh is left on his thigh. Genji smudges the dot of blood with his thumb.

"So easy to startle the little sparrow." She watches him suck away the blood from his finger, curious how sensitive those artifical sensors really are. Moira knows in theory, of course. But there's nothing like the driver's seat.

Moira flexes her scarred hand, withered and worn, bones shaping as if already broken, veins a blackened walkway.

"You could never be her."

The bristle in his voice almost makes Moira laugh, even before the words. "Like I'd want to be. Must be exhausting being that uptight and righteous everyday." She catches Genji's eye from over her glasses. "Although," Moira rolls her two fingers idly over thumb, "there was always that small window where she was a little less annoying after a good fuck."

Fwip.

Moira pulls the scalpel out of her headrest, so close to her head she could feel its cool steel to skin. She throws it back, Genji catching it between two fingers. "You know I'm right."

He remembers the way Angela spoke of Moira. Disdain, disgust, an offense that she still breathed. But she spoke of her.

Often.

He knew they'd spent a lot of time together. Forced and necessary, their brilliant fucking minds colliding to create things Genji couldn't even comprehend. Time spent together when Genji shed blood with Blackwatch, weeks tucked away in an anonymous corner of the world, stalking and waiting, sharpening steel until he recieved the order to go.

Angel was never his, and he was never hers. But it felt like the confession of yes yes yes I'm yours always fucking yours was carved into his body, blazen on his chest, on what flesh was left.

But neither of them looked. Turning elsewhere, feeling elsewhere.

Genji slides off the counter, silent steps feeling so loud, too heavy as he walks past, glancing at the clock. 03:23.

"She doesn't even like you." He stares at the doorway where he stands. At the blank message box to Angela he's pulled up on his HUD. At the blinking cursor saying nothing. Too much.

Moira smirks, stretching her legs on the table, fucking papers be damned. "When did I ever say she did?"

#moira o'deorain #genji shimada #gency #overwatch gency #overwatch moicy #moicy #drabble #angst #unresolved feelings #idk where I'm going with this just genji and moira 'bonding' over their mercy ig #overwatch fanfiction #overwatch #overwatch fic

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kastlequill · 9 months

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wrath of the lamb

pairing: sebastian krueger x f!reader word count: 6.9k synopsis: your first time hunting with dr. krueger tags: hannibal au, haunted hoedown, dark, serial killers, a couple that kills together stays together, enemies and lovers, unreliable narrator, unholy mentions of god, religious imagery, no y/n warnings: violence/death, blood/gore, mutilation, body horror, cannibalism, voyeurism (except the voyeur is dead), killing as foreplay, smut (blood + murder kink, hair-pulling, biting) ao3: read here ← prev

“I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth.”

— Sophocles

Bait; that had been your role. The lure, the dangling bit of appetizer to ensnare prey on behalf of another. This particular catch of the day had believed you to be the fish to his fisherman, but you nonetheless had been bait, he the fish, and Dr. Krueger—

The fisherman.

Soon, you would be a fisherman yourself, capable of priming, reeling in, and fatally securing a wide array of aquatic life all on your own. Before that, however, there was much to learn about the sport and the art of choosing one’s hunting spot, of casting one’s net. Naturally, Dr. Krueger had been ever so enthusiastic to help bridge the gaps in your knowledge.

Currently, the fish was tied up in the foyer, bound by his wrists and ankles to a wooden chair, the same in which you’d sat years ago as Dr. Krueger’s temporary patient. At the insistence of Agent Blaustein and your undiagnosed encephalitis, you had given therapy a shot. These visits had eventually increased in frequency, more so for the psychiatrist’s company than his pseudo sessions.

Some attributed the progression of your relations with Dr. Krueger to be a product of fate and circumstance, but you knew better than that. Over the past several months, a deliberate and intentional hand had guided you to this very moment, everything meticulously planned and orchestrated by someone with a vested interest in your ascent.

In your. . . becoming.

What started as a chance meeting snowballed into a partnership between professionals, identifying and apprehending serial killers across the state together. Thereafter, a friendship did blossom, though this too evolved since your pure empathy made you highly susceptible to internalizing others; him. The line that separated your psyche from his thus gradually became muddied and blurred as you vacated your mind and beckoned in this monster among men.

You would be hard-pressed to forget just how fervently he had appraised the order and disorder of your headspace. How worshipingly he had looked upon the ever-encroaching darkness that you kept shamefully hidden within the crevices of your bones, stowed away for fear of the day your worser nature might rise to the surface. How eagerly he had called forth that wickedness, that sin, happy to watch you partake and take.

How easily he had metamorphosed you into the person you’d unwittingly been pursuing throughout all your years of existence.

“The throat is a double-edged sword. It makes life possible, housing the airways, overseeing the safe passage of air into the lungs. But so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein, exacting a swift end if cut at just the right angle, the right depth,” an accented voice sounded from behind.

Hopelessly obedient to the pull that locked your soul and his in perpetual orbit of one another, you cast a glance over your shoulder then looked down at the knife in his hand. It was an ordinary carving knife, blade sharpened and thrumming with excitement at the prospective union of steel and meat. More importantly, it was an offering.

A gift.

Dr. Krueger quite enjoyed showering you with lavish presents, and he preferred the intimacy of being the craftsman in addition to the sender. To court you, he’d sawed off the tongue of the reporter who’d mocked your condition in her crude tabloids, coated the severed organ in poison, and shoved it down her throat until she choked on its toxicity. To express the extent of his devotion, he'd torn out the vocal cords of a suitor who’d made lewd comments about you at the opera house, fashioned them into a noose, and left him dangling from the ceiling to be discovered in the morning by a screeching primadonna.

And to apologize for spilling your blood on his kitchen floor, he’d Frankensteined together a beating heart, openly baring his affections despite the penetrative gaze of all who sought to imprison the Cut-throat Killer. The sculpture, composed of a decapitated corpse’s inverted musculature instead of typical granite stone, had told a tale of repentance and of yearning.

My heart is yours. Broken and maimed though it might be, you have managed to assuage its ache and mend its pieces. This foreign object no longer fits properly in the cavity of my being, so do what you will with it. Even if you decide to break it once again, the resulting shards are still all for you only, just as it was.

The twisted love letter had resulted from months of deceptive intentions, divided loyalties, and belated sacrifices. Your inevitable betrayal had struck dead the fantasy of a shared future. In his mourning, Dr. Krueger had gutted you to bestow a matching wound, yours a physical representation of his own intangible pain. However, contrary to previous prey, watching your face lose its vibrancy and a red puddle form around your twitching body had inspired not satisfaction, but fear.

A certain desperation had seized him then. Losing you, a kindred spirit who had known and seen him, would have damned the man to a lifetime of loneliness. For someone incapable of thriving in total solitude, that was a terrifying notion.

So though the urge to slit your throat and cook you into a feast might occasionally possess him, though he might periodically contemplate cracking your skull open to reveal the beautiful brain that tormented him day and night, such calls-to-action would go unanswered.

During periods of separation, he could easily convince himself that his feelings for you were an unnecessary suffering. A fruitless agony; a beacon of masochism. Ready to put an end to this mounting misery, a murderous plot would begin to take shape until your mere return resolutely derailed any plans of excising you from his destiny.

Cyclical, the way he grew hungry in your absence, champing at the bit, gnawing on bone, only to find his stomach brimming with contentment upon spending a single moment in your presence.

The rude were nothing more than livestock to a refined man like Dr. Sebastian Krueger. Just as the average non-vegetarian viewed chickens, cows, and pigs as rightful staples of their omnivorous diet, he believed disrespectful folk were no different to poultry, cattle, or swine. At least in death, these subhumans could transcend their lowly stations and reach new heights of beauty and value as his culinary masterpieces, as elaborate displays of mutilated art.

Like God, he played judge, jury, and executioner, wielding the power to decide the earthly ends and undead beginnings of those he deemed lesser.

Between equals, however, consumption was to him the pinnacle of humanity’s capacity for love. Diligently preparing a delicacy of the vessel that housed a loved one, transforming their anatomy into a gourmet meal, was the supreme method of honoring them. Further still, intaking a pound of their flesh meant immortalizing a beloved by becoming the very urn in which the remnants of their existence could always be found. Whether they should depart by nature or by circumstance, a piece of them would forever stay inside this biological graveyard.

The mixing of bloods, two pulses beating in synchrony, a dialogue between gullets. An irreversible breach of one’s external layer of protection that said, you are mine, and I am yours; the proof resides in the pits of our stomachs.

By his logic, if he were to eat you and satisfy his craving for fusion, then perhaps whatever hold you had over him would denature, eliminating the threat that this love posed to his livelihood. In actuality, a glimpse of you was plenty enough to sate his normally-raging appetite.

To daily feel a stab of hunger and then obtain nourishment at the slightest bit of eye contact. . . that was how viscerally he loved you.

Of course, Dr. Krueger hadn’t overtly verbalized these sentiments, but you nonetheless recognized and understood the unspoken truth. After all, pure empathy did not just expose you to the onslaught of his expert manipulation—it also unveiled his best-kept secrets.

“When hunting, one must always consider efficiency. Time is of the essence, as they say. It’s better spent on the artwork itself than on gathering your materials, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your eyes jerked up to meet his appraising stare. Not the type to waste air on rhetorical questions, he raised a single scarred brow, and it only lowered once your fingertips answered by brushing the palm of his hand. As you plucked the knife from his grasp, its heavy weight took you aback. The hefty task of reaping an unclaimed soul added at least a few extra pounds to the blade, but you adjusted your grip until wielding it became effortless.

At its core, killing was a fairly quick and simple endeavor. Humans often exited the world as fast as they had originally entered it, and, in a manner of speaking, your lives were just preparation for the inevitable return to that shadowy limbo from which you’d all been birthed.

The fish had yet to regain consciousness, and you were determined to ensure that his eyes would never again open to anything but a dark abyss.

You weren’t apologetic in the slightest for what was about to come. This bound asshat had been selected because he’d had trouble understanding the word no at a pub and spilled wine on an intervening Dr. Krueger’s prized coat. Such unprincipled behavior warranted an equally-indecent fate.

Out like a light, his head was tilted back to rest on the back of the chair, displaying a ripe throat, fresh for the taking. And take you did, aligning your blade at the corner of his jaw and dragging it across the jugular, slitting his trachea, causing it to collapse unto itself. Liquid beads of crimson bubbled to the surface along the laceration, and the macabre necklace enraptured you.

Your psychiatrist-turned-mentor had earned the moniker of Cut-throat Killer due to his apparent fixation on the neck and its surrounding regions. His kills were linked by this common denominator, whether a body was headless, or had a ripped-apart larynx, or had died by asphyxiation. Sometimes, Dr. Krueger liked to experiment with different finishing blows to keep the FBI on their toes, but his modus operandi never failed to involve the throat.

It made sense, then, why you too had developed a similar appreciation.

“Well done,” praised the doctor, now beside you, and the words set alight your bloodstream. His tone held no surprise; your profession had revealed your natural aptitude for the hunt and erased any reservations he might’ve had. From the very first day your paths crossed, he’d recognized what you were, what you could become. “Now, where do you wish to go from here?”

A loaded question, one that dictated how the rest of the night would unfold. If you stayed in the foyer, cleaning up the grime and gore out from between each plank of wood would be an absolutely dreadful ordeal. If you went to the main room, splatters and stains on his Persian rug and fine fabric drapes would undoubtedly irk the man, and you quite preferred staying on his good side for the time being.

That left his extravagant kitchen. It was the ideal location—the freezer was conveniently placed, and the tools for harvesting meat were at your disposal. Also, in the not-unlikely event of blood running off the table’s edge, you could simply scrub the tiles spotless.

“The kitchen.” You diverted your focus from the dead man to the one who had mastered death itself. Although you were unsurprised to discover Dr. Krueger’s deep brown eyes already intent upon you, a chill cascaded down your spine nevertheless. He’d sooner gouge out the organs that granted him sight than stop his lingering stares, you knew. “Removing the skin from a fish this slimy is messy business. I wouldn’t want to ruin your nice hardwood floors. Black walnut?”

His wide smile told a tale of predation tempered with adoration. “Wenge.”

You softly shook your head in fond exasperation. Of course he who settled for nothing but the best would choose one of the most rare and expensive species of hardwood in the world.

The doctor held your gaze as he removed his outer layer, not wanting to sully a tailored, dry clean-only suit jacket. Once it was safely out of range, he cut loose the body from its restraints and dragged it to the kitchen with you trailing behind him.

After hauling the corpse onto the center of the marble island, Dr. Krueger rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and slipped on surgical gloves from his vest’s pocket, handing you a pair as well. He used scissors to reveal the man’s flesh beneath his clothes, took the murder weapon from your fingers, and made an incision that started at the collarbone and ended at the navel. Wrenching open the ribcage, snapping any resistant osseous matter, the doctor efficiently primed the carcass for harvesting before it could stiffen in rigor mortis.

His work done, he unsheathed a sizable butcher knife, handed it to you, then stepped out of reach, content to watch you pick up from where he’d left off. You imitated his previous motions, careful not to sink the blade too far in lest you ruptured any organs. The last thing you wanted to do was accidentally ruin the meat.

Meat.

You’d discovered a couple of months ago that the delicious protein scrambles shared with you by the kind Austrian man had actually contained bits of strangers. Initially, the revelation had repulsed and angered you in its violation of your right to informed consent. But now, while you didn’t see the appeal of human cuisine, you could admit there was something uniquely intimate about a shared hunt, about the subsequent communion, the breaking of bread and bone.

It was with this logic in mind that you proceeded to dissect the body according to the anatomical direction given by the doctor. First, you extracted the lungs, then the spleen and liver, next the stomach and gallbladder, the intestines and kidneys, and, lastly, the heart.

The turn of the hour quickly came and went. You moved to push back some hair that had fallen out of place, wishing you had worn a hairnet, when you caught a glimpse of your lover’s current state. He stood to the side of the counter a few feet away, hunger plain on his face, erection evident through the fabric of his slacks.

As ravenous for your fill of him as he was for a taste of you, you set the knife on the cutting board and started to walk over to—

“No.”

The lone, measured syllable echoed throughout the large kitchen, ringing in your ears, and you instantly halted mid-step. A trait that separated the doctor from so many other men of his stature was his refusal to resort to yelling. He’d done a lifetime’s worth of it in the Austrian Armed Forces, had been his explanation, and it was beneath him. It signaled that one lacked omnipotence and control, that they didn’t have an effortless dominance with respect to the masses over which they resided.

Dr. Krueger, however, had no shortage of charisma and no trouble garnering an obedient audience. The personification of sin beckoned you forward. “Crawl to me.”

Without hesitation, you slowly descended to the floor, gaze steady and stuck on his looming figure. Your clothed knees met tile first, then your palms followed suit as you navigated your way towards him through a pool of blood and innards. Something unnamed coiled tight in your stomach the nearer you drew to him who looked down at you, stoic and unfazed. From here, a passerby might think you a worshiper bowed in supplication to her god.

For what purpose did you plead?

If I should die, let it not be his blade that strikes the finishing blow.

To what end did you pray?

If he should rot in a cell, let it not be my testimony that sends him away.

When your fingers brushed against his shoes, imprinting red on the fancy leather, the doctor leaned forward to snake a hand around to the nape of your neck, lightly massaging your scalp. The soothing pressure made your eyes roll back, but the false sense of security it had given you evaporated at the following sharp tug on the roots of your hair.

His grip firm, Dr. Krueger pulled you up until you were on your feet once again. Before you could properly calibrate to the change in orientation, he spun you to face the kitchen island then sandwiched you in between his pelvis and the counter. Squirming against him, your instincts commanded you to escape, but you remained steadfastly in place. Trapped.

Ensnared.

Skillful hands made quick work of your attire, throwing your belt to the ground, shoving your jeans and panties to bunch at your ankles, unbuttoning the flannel he’d called hideous yet endearing, snapping free your cheap bra. Satisfied with your current state of undress, Dr. Krueger used his teeth to tear off his gloves so that he could begin exploring the treasures he had uncovered.

You never let him touch you with gloves. The sensation of latex on skin was too reminiscent of a butcher prepping slaughtered livestock to be further chopped up into refined cuts of meat. And you were not foolish enough to think you could ever be the butcher in this scenario.

His hands journeyed up your front to your neck, rubbing at the splatter of blood there that had yet to be cleaned. Adamant on dirtying you further, he smeared it downward as he cupped the heft of your breasts and rolled your nipples between his fingers. You must’ve looked like a sacrificial offering to some deity, back bowed, though the only who would partake in the enjoyment of your flesh was him.

Once you were sufficiently marked, the man wiped any excess blood off his right hand and onto your stomach then continued his descent to the epicenter of your heat. When he finally reached your mound and dipped an explanatory finger inside, he found you wet and wanting.

“Filthy thing,” Dr. Krueger admonished with a click of his tongue. “I’ve barely touched you, and yet here you are, already dripping onto the floor. Tell me, how long have you been like this?”

“Since you—” The rest of that sentence died in your throat, cut short by the featherlight brush of his thumb against where you wanted him most. A sudden jolt traveled through your body, and you struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone string together a sensical series of words. “Since you rolled up those stupid fucking sleeves, you bastard.”

His answering smirk could be heard in the gravel of his voice, smug and self-assured. “I didn’t know my forearms had such an effect on you.”

Said forearms came into view as he encased you, both of his hands relocating to either side of yours, flat on the countertop. A knee replaced where his hand had been between your legs, and he ground it upward, pulling back whenever you tried to reciprocate, relief just out of reach.

“Like hell you didn’t,” you snapped, your frustration getting the better of you. “Don’t play dumb, Doctor. It’s not a good look.”

All traces of his humor evaporated at the snark. Announcing no warning, your lover sank two fingers into your weeping core, curling them to stimulate the spot within that never failed to make you see stars. He scissored you open and gathered enough slick to begin working in a third finger, intent on making you plead for forgiveness. Absolution.

Most nights, Dr. Krueger prided himself in his patience, in his ability to draw out one, two, three orgasms from you before his cock got anywhere near your cunt. But tonight, you knew, would be different. It would be hard and fast.

Carnal.

Upon deeming you ready to take him, you heard the unclasping of a belt buckle followed by the zipper of his pants coming undone. A soft caress along the notches of your spine, and then he aligned himself with your entrance and immediately surged to erase the distance between your bodies, filling you to the hilt.

The force of it caused you to double over, and your elbows buckled at the sudden shift in weight. With the side of your face now pressed against the counter’s cold surface, you couldn’t help the way your ass slightly elevated and protruded. This position felt explicit, dirty, and you gleaned from his sharp inhale that you looked as much from his perspective. Rather than allowing you to rise, Dr. Krueger dug a hand into your hair and pushed you further into the granite.

“Have I neglected you, mein Schatz?” Each thrust was punctuated by a tug on your hair, a scrape against the surface, the repeated motion jostling you forward, while you fucked back into him. “Have I left you wanting? Is that why you’re so needy tonight? So rude?”

When you didn’t answer, he retracted his hips until the tip was all that remained nestled in your warmth, leaving you empty and unfulfilled. Then, as though sensing you were on the verge of complaining, the doctor slammed home, yanking from you a pitiful mewl of agonized desire.

“Please.”

This particular word was a shapeshifter; it adopted a different meaning based on ite context. Here, it served as a Hail Mary, as a cry for mercy, but you weren’t sure whether you were imploring his punishing rhythm to abate or for him to give you more. Regardless of your intention, Dr. Krueger intensified his torturous movements, a dark chuckle tumbling from his lips.

Damn sadist.

“Begging will get you nowhere. Not tonight.” At your despairing whine, he laughed again. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ll get your wish. Eventually.”

So attuned to the ins and outs of your body, was this man, so intimately aware of where to press, where to pinch to elicit sweet melodies and moans. And yet, he toyed with you, glossing over these erotic zones, waiting for you to confess something before he might grant you penance, a token for your suffering. The thread of your sanity was wearing thin.

“Stop teasing, or I swear to God.”

You’d expected him to ignore your pleas as he had done before, but instead, you felt him thicken inside you. “Do it, then. Swear to me.”

His ego almost earned him an eyeroll, but you couldn’t help giving into his demands. The relentless pace he’d set was very persuasive, and you were only human.

“Sebastian—”

It had the desired outcome. Hardly ever did you call him by his name, so if you did, that meant something. Due to said infrequency, using his name had a kind of Pavlovian effect on the man.

“Scheiße,” he groaned out the curse, hips stuttering forward and reaching a newfound depth that made you both gasp. “Yes, my heart, that’s right. You’ve made me your god, and I’ve made you. . .”

. . . mine.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Dr. Krueger had plucked a rib from the cavity of his chest, sharpened it into a blade, and carved you into his vision of perfection. In turn, you had turned him into a conduit for your enlightenment, for your becoming. He was your tangible nirvana, and you were his sole gateway to heaven.

The two of you had found religion in each other, and there was little else more dangerous than that.

“Is this what you wanted? What you were so impatient for?” At your jerky nod, he seized your slackened jaw and tilted your chin up to direct your attention towards the kitchen island where the corpse still laid. “My, we haven’t even cleared the table yet. Can’t let the meat sit out, or else it’ll go sour.”

When your brain finally caught up to what—or to whom— he was referring, an epiphany struck you with startling clarity:

This dead man was evidence of what had transpired here tonight. Better yet, he was the first witness to this taboo consummation. Perhaps it was stupid to believe that gave your relationship any real legitimacy in the world’s eyes, beyond the perimeters of this manor. Nonetheless, the thought caused you to involuntarily tighten, and you prayed the correlation would go unnoticed.

Dr. Krueger froze, because of fucking course nothing ever got past him. “Oh, you like that, do you? You like that we have a guest for dinner, that another finally sees the truth of what we are. Hunters. Lovers.”

Oftentimes, being known was a riveting experience that bridged the gaping chasm of solitude. But there came moments when you wished to conceal the ugliness. You lowered your head, mortified that he might at last realize you were unworthy of his affection, his touch.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you’re here. This home is yours, Liebling,” he murmured, reverent as he resumed his torturous ministrations, regaining momentum. “I can think of no more beautiful a sight than you happy and honest in it. Never hide from me.”

A horrific prospect, baring one’s heart to someone so well equipped to tear it to shreds, but your walls were already beginning to crumble. Brick by brick, he dismantled you, intending to undo a lifetime of repression then reconstruct you in his image.

Sex with Dr. Krueger wasn’t just a physical release. It was near ritualistic in its conjoining of two souls. It was a collision between two supernovas, a calamity in progress.

It was an inevitability.

What a pair you made—serpent and Eve. Ravisher and ravished, entangled in a web of debauchery and death.

In spite of everything, you didn’t believe that he made you worse. He made you real.

Time after time, warnings that this should never happen again would echo throughout your mind, but time after time, you found yourself in this same position, wrapped up in him. Coaxed by his sweet nothings and consumed with the way he alone understood what you still refused to speak aloud, it was through this union of flesh and bone that you elevated each other to art.

And hell, if he made you worse, then you accepted that to be worse was to be honest. In this realm, you were closer to God than to the Devil.

And was it not so that every devout follower hoped to be in league with their god, to be rewarded for their unshaken faith? What better way to actualize that hope than to devour?

A well-angled thrust brought you back to the present. Man or monster, God or Devil, neither distinction mattered as he pummeled into you, a fusion of the ultimate caliber. In this room, he was not your enemy, just the equal who helped you ascend to great heights, who guided you until your eventual arrival to the precipice.

Lucifer before the fall.

“I—” The word broke off in an airy gasp. Second attempt. “Sebastian, I’m—”

That too went interrupted, for it was then that your lover decided to circle your swollen clit with his calloused fingers. Dazed and nonverbal, you felt him wrap your hair around his fist and use it as leverage to assist in his corruption of you, tugging your head to his chest, baring your throat, arching your back.

“I know, it’s alright,” he lovingly hushed your cries, lips nibbling on the rim of your ear. The wet roughness of his tongue licked away the tears that had begun to flow freely from your eyes, glossy and unfocused. “You can let go now. I’ll be here to catch you, yes? I’ll always catch you.”

It shouldn’t have been a comforting sentiment. This was a man who killed people for being rude, who had seriously told you it’s only cannibalism if we’re equals. And yet, hearing that he would be there to envelop you in his arms if and when you plunged into the deep end was what at last sent you over the edge.

Before him, no partner had successfully brought you to an orgasm. He loved to lull you into a state of la petite mort, compensating for his inability to actually kill you by inducing several little deaths whenever you laid together. But he had your brain short-circuiting as you came apart, your thighs trembling and jaw unhinged, your nails notched into the muscles that rippled across the expanse of his back, a bright light behind halfway-closed lids.

Thick fingers crawled across your left cheek to enter the black hole of your wet mouth, and you instinctively closed your lips around the intruding appendages. As you sucked and lathered them with spit, you pushed your ass further back into his pelvis, wordlessly encouraging him to use you to chase his own release. Several strokes later, his pace grew desperate, erratic, and he removed his fingers to cup your face, angled it just right, then bit down on the side of your neck, drawing blood. The brief flare of pain made your walls flutter and take his cock even deeper, your bodies reluctant to separate.

Harvest me, and don’t waste a single drop.

The moment of stillness that ensued when he at last emptied his seed in you was something holy, you decided. Ropes of cum seemingly endless, the pulsing of his member combined with his low groans brought you unparalleled bliss. While he descended from his lustful high, he lapped up the metallic trail along your throat, and the pressure of his tongue soothed the wound’s mild ache. Dr. Krueger, the man who had no qualms about eating within his species, was content to stop his consumption of you here, at a bite and a drop of ichor.

Is my taste as divine as you imagined?

His hips continued to jerk and lurch in the aftershocks, and the noise of skin ricocheting off skin was more audible now that your senses were starting to return. Some might consider it to be an obscene sound, blatant and crude, but its obviousness appealed to you. Anyone who heard these echoes of anatomical convergence would have no misgivings regarding the recreational activities in which you and the doctor participated.

I fear I would give you the most tender parts of myself, if only you were to ask.

One hand caressed the top of your head, smoothing back your sweat-slickened hair. The other used his pristine white shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow, the gore from your body. Its fabric was rough against your overstimulated skin, but his movements were gentle.

So please—

The doctor finished remedying the mess he had made of you and tossed the clothing aside, murmuring something about how he would have to explain to the lady at the dry cleaner’s that he’d spilled red wine again. Wrapping both arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer to his chest, he then pressed a soft kiss to your nape.

Your eyes fell shut.

—do not ask.

The manor was silent save for heavy breathing, yours and his. A sudden foul stench of rot and decay reminded you of the gruesome company on the kitchen island across the counter. You forced yourself to meet the vacant stare of the fish whose death had started this spontaneous coupling session, passion fueled by elevated adrenaline and a godlike rush of power.

“I thought you didn’t get off to killing,” you murmured, energy half spent.

An affirming hum vibrated through your bones, and you felt him rub his forehead against your back, up then down, nodding. “You thought correctly. I do not.”

A snort escaped from your throat since very recent evidence pointed to the contrary. Still inside you, his cock twitched at the sound.

Perhaps he found the noise undignified and the response rude. The man had probably killed people for far pettier reasons; nonetheless, you continued to push the envelope because he continued to let you.

This risky game would someday reach its limit. Someday, you might cross a non-negotiable line, and then you’d be dead before you knew what hit you.

But today was not that day.

“There is no sexual gratification in my hunts,” he further clarified. “Such perversion indicates one who is subjugated to the whims of his more primitive nature, one who is being controlled rather than doing the controlling.

“Arousal at its most basic implies common ground. It drives us to seek a favorable mate with whom we can sire offspring to carry on our legacies. Should the hunter find this kind of pleasure in the hunted, it would mean a debasement of the self. Dethroned from the top of the food chain, he would forever live among his lessers. Since my prey are not and never will be my equal, killing is a strictly nonsensuous act.”

You are my equal, my mate, were the words you heard him omit.

“But I keep discovering how much you defy my logic. I did not expect to be so. . . moved by that insatiable look in your eyes, by your presence in my kitchen, holding my knife.” The sigh he exhaled contained genuine frustration, not at you, but at himself. At his lack of self-control, at his underestimation of your ability to undo him.

His right hand strayed from your midsection to ghost over the swell of your ass, vexation having seemingly passed. “And what a lovely painting you made of yourself. The only improvement is for you to coat your bodily canvas with my blood instead of that unworthy pig’s.”

Your brows furrowed at the thought of him gravely injured, stained red, and you grabbed his wrist, gave it what you hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sebastian.”

The rare occurrence of you using his first name outside of sex had him nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck and lightly nipping at the soft skin there. Although his teeth were eager to pierce flesh, his canines maintained a respectable distance. In the afterglow, he was always so, so careful not to cause undue damage. You were at your most vulnerable, and he was at his most untamed; a dangerous combination, like fire and gasoline.

Who was the struck match that would sacrifice wholeness to ignite the other, and who was the ignited that would disappear without a trace post-explosion?

Did it even matter?

“Very pretty lies, Liebling, though not quite as beautiful as you.”

Despite his sardonic delivery, the fondness with which he uttered the term of endearment betrayed his affections. Complicated relationship with the Cut-throat Killer aside, none could deny that there was genuine love between the two of you.

An unconventional, tempestuous love, true, but love nevertheless. It made the dichotomy between your loyalties all the more messy.

Because yes, you appreciated his craftsmanship and were awed by the artistry behind his kills. Yes, you had moments ago indulged in your first hunt alongside him and had enjoyed it.

Yes, you would probably do so again in the future.

Yet somehow, the FBI profiler in you still felt obligated to confront the man, to put an end to his reign of terror. Why your lover would forever be visited by the need to eat and savor every inch of you, why you couldn’t ever entirely relax in the breadth of his embrace. . . it all tied back to this:

You couldn’t reconcile your ethical code with your want for him. The enormity of your desire approached suffocatingly-absurd levels, and the extent to which you ached for and craved this man was sickening.

No matter your personal feelings, the bitter reality of the situation remained unchanged. Before you could irreversibly walk the path of either love or duty, you needed to perceive your brain as something other than deformed, to conceive that the unnatural was a natural product of the universe in its own right. You needed to believe that the person who returned your stare in the mirror was not a disfigurement of humanity, nor a bastardization of goodness.

But what constituted good, and what qualified as evil, anyway? Who had the right to decide which was which? Was it Agent Blaustein, who had pushed you to the point of breaking, who saw your mind only as a tool, caring not if he damaged you beyond repair in the field?

Or was it Dr. Krueger, who had made you question your sanity, who wished for you to access and become indivisible from the rawest pieces of your marrow, even if it damned him in the process?

One thing was for certain: until you unabashedly accepted the darker elements of yourself—the same facets that he reflected back at you—this game of cat and mouse was cursed to resume and repeat, over and over. The roles seemed to reverse each time; you had first been the mouse to his cat, then you’d briefly turned the tables as the cat to his mouse.

Recently, neither of you could puzzle out who was who.

And the scariest part about all this was that you had never known yourself as well as you knew yourself when you were with him, a fucking serial killer. How frightening, that your ability to acknowledge and make sense of your own existence might hinge on whether or not he was in your life.

Even a fool could see how you had changed under the gravity of his influence. In the beginning, you’d shunned the ugly bits, the chunks of you that proved too abhorrent to swallow. Now, you were learning how to indulge, how to see the beauty in the so-called horror. During the day, outsiders reminded you of your malignancies, of the shame that accompanied the sin of authenticity. However, at night, with him, you at last shed these social shackles and basked in fantasies of what could be, for the mere weight of his stare had the power to propel you toward self-actualization.

Obviously, Dr. Krueger was well aware of this war between your moral duties and your innermost shadows. You expected as much, considering he had almost killed you for it.

In your quest to unmask the Cut-throat Killer and confirm your suspicions, you’d nurtured a budding friendship with the doctor. You had wormed your way into his good graces by telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, nevermind that it had been you at your most honest. When the scheme eventually fell apart, murdering you had surprisingly not been his immediate reaction. Instead, he had offered you the chance to come clean so as to leave all the secrecy in the past and move forward anew.

Together.

It made perfect sense for Dr. Krueger to try holding onto his one true companion in life after getting a taste of reprieve from loneliness. Except, oblivious of your blown cover, you had doubled down, giving him no choice but to clutch you to his chest and carve his heartbreak into your gut. As you drifted toward Death’s door, as regret and fear willed him to frantically press onto your wound, the man had realized just how much you’d changed him, too.

Although you were indeed the harbinger of his ruination, he’d concluded that imprisonment paled in comparison to the grief of losing you. He loathed to imagine spending the rest of his days in a jail cell, but he could not commit to killing you, his greatest weakness and threat. You sought to cleanse this town of him, but you too could not pull the trigger on this evildoer.

Two halves of a whole, locked in a stalemate.

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. A grotesque and ghastly piece of work, this man you called lover. And yet, you wouldn't dream of leaving his side.

Because Sebastian Krueger was never going to get better without you. And you were never going to become better without him.

“Apologies, but I insist we skip our entrée tonight.”

That caught your attention—an absurd statement from someone who would probably make the time to properly dine even if the FBI was actively storming the gates of his manor. You twisted your spine to at last come face to face with him, and awaiting your curiosity was his hungry brown eyes, his dark blond hair freed from its gelled confines.

“I know you worked hard to provide us this meal, and the meat will not go to waste,” the doctor assured, expression neutral, the perfect picture of calm if not for the way his fingers dug further into the meat of your hips. “The problem is me. I simply cannot curb my craving for dessert anymore.”

You nearly scoffed. “Was this not dessert?”

“No, mein Schatz,” he chuckled, as if you had just told a funny joke. The low timbre of his laugh caused a wave of desire to pool in between your legs, and you pressed your thighs together to trap the renewed heat.

Ever intuitive, Dr. Krueger moved one arm away from your body to rest flat and steady on the countertop then dragged the other down to pinch your inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“That was only the appetizer.”

fin.

#sebastian krueger x reader #sebastian krueger #cod krueger #cod x reader #krueger x reader #cod #modern warfare #call of duty #my fic #hauntedhoedown #fic: wrath of the lamb #series: meat's back on the menu

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echo-goes-mmm · 4 months

Text

Old Friends #2

Masterpost

Warnings: rape mention

Laith woke up slowly. Soreness and exhaustion seeped into his bones as awareness came to him.

He opened his eyes. The lights were dim enough he could blink away the adjustment.

Where was he? He tried to sit up, but something tugged at his wrists. He looked down.

The cot had railings, and he was cuffed to them at both sides. There was an iv inserted into his hand, and a heart monitor beeped softly nearby, its clip on his finger. He knew better than to attempt to remove them, even if he could reach.

A power-dampener encircled his ankle, a similar model to the ones used in prison.

Of course.

The room was windowless, but the dim light cast plenty of shadows around the place. Almost like a taunt.

There was a chair to his left, and a small table with two glasses and a pitcher to his right. There was a large cabinet against one wall. The door across the cot was steel, with a single small window.

It wasn’t a hospital, and he certainly wasn’t back in Supervillain’s fortress. If he were, he’d be a corpse.

If he was lucky.

He squinted to try and make out the label on the iv bag, but no dice. Who knew what it was pumping into his system?

Laith lay back down, his head hitting the pillow underneath. Nothing to do but wait.

___________________

Laith had almost dozed off again when the steel door opened with a woosh. He didn’t bother looking.

Whoever it was came to the end of the cot.

“Hey.” It was Hero. “How are you feeling?”

Laith stared up at the ceiling. It was a boring white. Not even a bump in the paint job.

“Not talking, huh?”

“Right to remain silent,” he said.

Hero didn’t say anything. He moved to the side of the bed. Hero poured whatever was in the jug into a glass.

“Do you want some water?”

Laith didn’t answer.

Hero sighed. “It’s not poisoned. It’s just water. See?” Hero took a sip from the cup.

“I don’t care,” Laith said, turning to look at him.

Hero sat the glass down. “What do you care about?”

“Am I under arrest?”

Something flashed over Hero’s face. “Not… exactly.”

Laith stared back up at the ceiling. “If you’re going to throw me back into prison,” he said, “You might as well shoot me now.”

“Supervillain won’t get his hands on you again.”

“Right. Because he had so much trouble the last time.”

Hero pulled open the drawer of the table, and removed a file. “What were you sentenced to?” he asked, flipping through the pages.

“Thirty years, without possibility of parole.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hero frown.

“That can’t be right. Just for theft? I mean it’s impressive theft, but you aren’t a violent offender.”

“You break into an entire lower class neighborhood, you get fourteen months. Break into a couple mansions and a museum? Thirty years. Got to protect the precious wealthy,” he explained dryly. Surely Hero knew how things worked by now.

Hero pulled out a page of the paperwork.

“Your file says you were released after three years, finished probation without incident, and now work in an office building.”

“Like Supervillain said. It’s amazing what money can change.”

“How long did you actually serve?”

“Not thirty years, clearly.”

Hero scanned another sheet of paper. Laith traced the shadows on the ceiling with his eyes. What he wouldn’t give to be… damn. There wasn’t anywhere to disappear to, was there?

“You’re younger than I thought,” commented Hero.

“Surprise.” Laith half-heartedly shrugged, and immediately regretted it. The movement pulled at an injury, a sharp pain shooting through his ribs.

He gritted his teeth.

Whatever drug was in the iv, it was no longer working.

The door wooshed open again.

“Hero,” said the new person. “You didn’t tell me he was awake.”

“Sorry, Healer.”

Healer moved to the side of the cot, checking the iv bag. “How are you feeling?” They asked.

It was no use lying to a doctor. It wasn’t worth it.

“Bad,” he muttered.

Healer peeled back the covers, and Laith hadn’t even noticed that he was wearing open hospital clothes, his chest exposed.

Electrical burns and bruises covered most of his skin, and bandages wrapped around his ribs.

They brushed over a tender burn as they adjusted the wrappings, and he hissed at the pain.

“I’ll add more medication to the line,” they said. “You have some cracked ribs, in case you didn’t know.”

He didn’t know. All the pain had blurred together over the years.

“Do you-” Healer glanced at Hero, and back at him. “Do you want a rape kit done?” they asked, voice lowered.

Laith recoiled, his ears ringing with fury.

“I didn’t want to do one when you were unconscious,” they explained.

“Thanks for being so gracious,” he snarled. “In case you haven’t heard, I already know.”

“Well yes, but evidence-”

“If you fucking touch me there, I swear to god-”

“We get the idea,” interrupted Hero.

Healer administered the pain meds into the iv, and left.

Laith closed his eyes. He could already feel them working.

“That was rude,” said Hero. “They were just doing their job.”

“Why did you tell someone?” he asked, hating how small his voice sounded. “That was private.”

“Only Healer and I know. I didn’t tell anyone else.”

“Half of your fucking teammates have super hearing. So everyone knows,” he retorted. The effect was somewhat lost considering how his voice shook.

“I’m sorry.”

Laith opened his eyes to look at him. His vision swam with tears, and he despised himself.

“Go away,” he whispered, his voice as wet as his cheeks. “I hate you.”

Hero’s face fell, and Laith didn’t feel even a little bad about it.

“Okay,” said Hero, “That’s fine.”

He reached down and clicked open one of the cuffs before turning to leave.

Even the small mercy of some allowed movement seemed patronizing.

Hero didn’t look back as the door closed behind him.

Underneath his anger, a part of Laith desperately wished he had.

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

#This *was* supposed to be a oneshot #clearly I lied #old friends #my writing #whump #intimate whumper #villain whumpee #supervillain whumper #hero caretaker #villain whump

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florencemtrash · 11 months

Text

The Wisp Between Worlds

CHAPTER THREE: OVER THE WALL

Acotar fanfic/rewrite. Inner Circle x OC. Eventual Azriel x OC.

Summary: Have you ever wondered what you would do (and do differently) if you found yourself trapped in the fantasy world of your dreams? For Nora, this fantasy of hers is about to play out when she finds herself portaled away to the Moral Lands south of Prythian. But all is not as it seems. Feyre Archeron is missing and the deadline to break Amarantha’s curse draws near. Who will save Prythian now?

Warnings: None for this chapter

Masterlist

*Let me know if you would like to join the taglist*

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Dinah made good money that day, haggling at the market to sell the deer meat for a higher price than it was worth. They’d even cooked a few cuts for dinner in the fire, filling the house with the heady scent of meat that lasted long after they’d finished tearing into the food with reckless abandon. After nearly a week of surviving on stale bread, tea, and water it felt like they were doing something wrong. But after leaning back in her chair, stomach full and comfortably stretching the waistband of her pants, Nora wondered if it was the guilt eating away at her instead. If she was right about this, about everything, then she’d just killed a faerie today and the High Lord of the Spring Court would be coming for her.

Nora crawled into bed, bones weary and begging for rest. But her mind would not let her forget the glint of the steel tipped ashwood arrow sticking out of the beautiful wolf’s skull. Dinah and Jaskiel whispered to one another from their shared bed across the room. During the winter months they needed to crowd into the living room by the fire to escape the cold that seeped in through the floor and walls. Sleeping on opposite ends of the room was as much privacy as any of them would get. The beds themselves were little more than sheets stuffed with hay and scraps of wool from Dinah’s mending projects and just barely kept you from freezing on the ground.

Before Nora had met them, and before Jaskiel had fallen ill, him and Dinah had lived comfortable lives in this little cottage. Jaskiel was once a small-time merchant and craftsperson, making frequent travels to the Continent to trade his wooden trinkets for spices and silks to sell to nearby villages. Dinah stayed home, tending to the house and the now dead garden of roses in the backyard. Whatever comforts Jaskiel had brought back for Dinah had long since been sold to the highest bidder. The only pieces left from that previous life were the books tucked away in the corner shelf of the living room, swollen and yellowed from the many times they’d all run their fingers through the pages, and Dinah’s wedding ring.

“It was the first thing I bought on the Continent.” Jaskiel told her, smiling at the strange girl who sat on the floor by his feet, bright eyes staring at him with curiosity. After a bath and a dinner of boiled katniss she was looking better, less like a frightened bird with its wings clipped.

“My first successful trip, and certainly not my last! And I knew the first thing I needed to do when I came home was marry Dinah.” She smiled from her seat next to him, abandoning her sewing project for a moment to rub his knee. She was thinner now than when they’d gotten married, gray hair sprouting from her temples and framing the crows feet that grew from her eyes whenever she was happy. Her hands were stronger too, more calloused and accustomed to hard work after Jaskiel had gotten sick. By pure force of will she’d carried the two of them through life since then and she vowed to continue doing so.

Perhaps it was because they’d known a kinder life that they took Nora in, patiently allowing her to learn the skill of survival.

I don’t want to leave. Nora thought tearfully, praying to whatever gods existed in this world that she wouldn’t be swept away in the night. She’d dreamed of Prythian every day, dreamed of being able to go home. Part of her still wanted that, the other part simply wanted to make peace with the life she knew now. No more change, no more being taken to new places and forced to learn everything all over again.

Her prayer was not answered.

Dinah and Jaskiel had been asleep for hours now, unaware of the doom that had slipped through the wall and was now lurking outside their home. Nora lay awake, holding a knife close to her chest and continuing to murmur her pleas and prayers.

The front door blew open, shattering into a million pieces and raining down over their heads with sharp stabs. Nora immediately jumped to her feet, throwing her blanket around her to protect from the wood that continued to strike her as the creature clawed at the ruined door frame.

Dinah was screaming. Jaskiel shouted Nora’s name as he threw his body over his wife, grabbing his cane. His lame legs cried out in protest when he tried to stand, brandishing the glorified stick as a weapon.

Nora sprained across the room, heart pounding and vision a blur as she barely dodged the next spray of wood that came crashing down.

The beast had ripped the walls and part of the ceiling into ribbons with one angry swipe of his claws.

Well that was fucking rude. Nora thought, trying to quell the shaking of her hands as she stepped in front of Jaskiel and Dinah, holding her knife out towards the beast as he finally made his way into the room.

Every step shook the ground more powerfully than an earthquake. The little moonlight spilling through the cracks in the ceiling were snuffed out by his enormous frame. Standing taller than a fully grown man was a creature with the body of a bear, head of a wolf, and horns extending so far out from his skull it was a miracle they didn’t catch on the wooden beams. Pure muscle rippled underneath fur that glowed with a golden light, illuminating the mouth of jet black teeth that were bared as he roared, “MURDERERS!”

Nora cringed, clapping a hand over her ear. Don’t drop the knife. Don’t you dare drop the knife.

“MURDERERS!” he screamed again. The foundations of the house shook with his power. Dinah’s screams died into quiet whimpers. Jaskiel crumpled to the ground, legs folding like paper beneath his rickety frame.

“WHO KILLED HIM?!”

The house remained silent. Only Dinah’s choked sobs punctured the stillness of the night. Nora tried not to faint, her mind fracturing into a million pieces as she tried to think of what to do next.

Do I tell him I killed the faerie? Do I tell him I killed Andras? Was that even the faerie’s name? But he hasn’t told me who I killed. I know who I killed. Am I supposed to know who I killed? Am I supposed to know I killed a faerie at all? What will happen to Dinah and Jaskiel?

Infuriated by the silence he lifted one arm, slamming his paw into the ground so hard that it broke through the wooden floors. Nora could feel the heat of his breath as he drew near, shoving his face right up against hers. “WHO KILLED HIM?!”

Nora refused to falter, irritation slowly beginning to overtake her fear.

His breath smells like roses. How ridiculous.

“We didn’t kill anyone!” Dinah sobbed, clutching her husband's shaking arm. The beast took one step backward and Nora let out a breath of relief. They were still alive. Dinah must have caught onto that string of hope because she began to regain her composure. Her blubbering might do nothing more than enrage the beast enough to slaughter them all.

“Please we didn’t-” Jaskiel’s feeble words were cut off by a growl. The beast’s eyes were still fixated on Nora, filled with even more fury for the fact that she remained standing - standing with a weapon brandished in her hand. The gall of the girl. He ripped it out of her hand as easily as one swatted a fly. Nora was too shocked to register the pain in her forearm as she stumbled backward, blood dripping down her hand and landing with a rhythmic thump thump thump onto the floor.

If he regretted hurting her he didn’t show it. As if to make a further point that he could kill them all in an instant, he whirled around towards the dining table. It exploded without so much as a whisper from him, taking out a chunk of the wall in the process.

His horns threw shadows against what remained, twisting and turning like a pair of skeletal hands. Jade green eyes glared out, filled with fury and some small seed of grief. “Who killed him?”

“We didn’t kill anyone.” Nora said. Her pain made her angry.

“LIAR! THE WOLF! Who killed the wolf?”

Jaskiel and Dinah shared a look. Nora hadn’t said anything about a wolf.

“I did.” The young girl didn’t flinch, although her throat tightened from the admission like someone had a hand around her neck. “I killed a wolf. This morning in the woods.”

“Hush, child.” Dinah hissed. She tore a strip of fabric from her dress and tried to stem the flow of blood from Nora’s arm.

“And did you know?” The High Lord growled out, barely concealing the threat of death in his voice, “Did you know he was faerie?”

The color drained from Nora’s face.

This is it. Two choices: lie and say you didn’t know and maybe he’ll let you live. Or… tell the truth. Tell him you knew the wolf was a faerie. Tell him you killed him out of hatred. Go to Prythian… try and get home.

The beast caught the flicker of recognition in Nora’s eyes, caught the narrowing of her inky black eyes in a look of hatred.

“You did know.” he seethed. He pulled away from her, disgust in his eyes at the feeble human girl before him. This was the girl who’d killed Andras. Some pathetic little human had slaughtered his trusted friend. “Did you enjoy it? Did you enjoy it when you slaughtered my friend.” He prowled about the room, never taking his eyes off the three of them still huddled in the corner by the cinders.

“Better him than me.” Nora held her head up, glaring at him.

“No.” Jaskiel breathed out, grabbing at her uninjured hand. “Please,” he begged the beast, “She’s my daughter. She’s young. She didn’t know any better. She was afraid.”

“Is that true?” the beast hissed, baring his fangs, “Did he attack you?”

She squared her shoulders. “No.”

“So you slaughtered him. Unprovoked. You murdered him.”

Nora barked out a laugh, “And how many humans have you murdered? How many will you continue to murder? How many homes will you break into? How many lives will you threaten?” her voice was filled with venom as she spit out the words, “I hope your friend is suffering right now in the afterlife. I wasn’t certain at the time, but now that I know he’s faerie I don’t regret it at all. I would do it again in a heartbeat.”

She ignored his deep growl and dealt a final blow, “It was a quicker death than he deserved.”

With a roar he brought his claw down on the bookshelf next to him, shattering it completely. The beloved tomes tumbled onto the floor, half shredded and dusty from their fall.

If you were really going to kill me, you would’ve done it by now.

The fear of a painful death with Tamlin sinking his teeth into her throat and thrashing her around had made Nora forget one key fact: she knew this story. She knew about the curse that hung over his head - that hung over Prythian - and like it or not, he needed her.

The realization gave her power. She stood up again, ignoring Dinah’s desperate hands as she tried to force her daughter to kneel again, “What do you want?”

“What do I want? I want justice for what you did. I want you to pay.”

“We’ll pay the cost.” Dinah said frantically, “Name your price.”

Nora’s heart broke. Please don’t.

They had no money to spare. Dinah worked hard enough as it was, coming home every night with bleeding and cracked hands, and Jaskiel could do little more than beg for scraps of work. The wealthy in the village would offer them no respite, no mercy. They were too comfortable behind their iron gates and towering walls. Nora didn’t want to see Dinah beg too.

“And what is the price you’d lay on your daughter’s head?” the beast asked, stepping off the ruined shelf. Dinah stilled. “Whatever pathetic sum you offer won’t be enough. Andras was worth more than one-hundred of you.”

“Then what would be enough?” Tell us and be done with it already. “What do you want?”

“A life for a life. That’s what I want.”

“I’ll pay it.” Jaskiel said, voice even and strong. Dinah swore at him as he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane.

“What the hell are you doing, Jaskiel?” Nora hissed, turning around and stepping directly between him and Tamlin.

His kind face, weathered and leathery after decades of sea travel, softened when Nora’s face blocked the terrifying beast. She knew he liked her. He’d treated her with the love and kindness he would have shown his own daughter if he and Dinah had ever been blessed in that way. But the fact remained that Nora wasn’t theirs. She owed them a debt that could never be repaid and she wouldn’t forgive herself if anything happened to them.

“I’ll pay the price.” He said again, stepping to the side. Nora stepped with him, refusing to let Tamlin get close to Jaskiel.

“No he won’t.” Nora commanded, swinging back to Tamlin. The beast’s eyes flickered for a brief moment with something like surprise.

“As touching as the offer is,” he drawled, “I want the actual murderer.”

“Take me outside then. Don’t do it here.”

Again, that flicker of surprise, “You dare ask for such a thing?” He scoffed, eyes narrowing.

“I wasn’t asking. You already ruined half the house and left a hole in the floor, you don’t need to fill it with blood either.” Nora spit out.

He snarled, “For having the gall to ask me for such a thing, I’ll clarify something: I want your life. Prythian wants a life for the one you stole. So either you come with me across the wall to live out the rest of your days, or I take you outside and tear you to pieces as you so kindly told me to do.” His lips pulled back in a threatening smile.

“So either you kill me here and now, or some other beast over the wall kills me in a few days time. Tell me, Beast, which would be quicker?”

He cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed. There was something in the way he moved, cat-like and predatory. Doubt flickered within her. What if I’m wrong? What if he kills me?

“I have lands,” Tamlin said carefully after some consideration, “So long as you don’t leave those lands you will be safe.”

“And what about Dinah and Jaskiel?” His eyes flickered over to the pair. Dinah’s eyes were trained on him, fear and fury simmering under the surface of her now composed face.

“What about them?”

“They’ll die without me. You only asked for one life. What fairness in ‘a life for a life’ is there if my absence leads to their deaths.”

Dinah and Jaskiel both tugged harshly at the back of her sleep shirt, begging her to control her boldness.

If a wolf could frown, it would look like the annoyance that crossed Tamlin’s face. “They’ll be taken care of.”

Nora’s breath caught in her throat. Did he mean it? He must mean it. I’ll give him hell if he doesn’t help them.

“You swear it?”

Tamlin’s eyes passed through each of them in turn. Nora, the girl’s name was. He tested the name out in his mind finding it agreeable enough. And he had to admit, some small piece of him was impressed - if not annoyed - by her boldness. The couple would surely die without her, already their frames were too thin and delicate to support their aging souls.

“I swear it.” He said, and found it a very easy promise to make, “But, you must promise to never leave Prythian. The moment you step foot back in the Human Lands, the deal is off, and I can’t promise what will become of your precious little family.”

“Take the offer.” Dinah said, turning Nora around and grasping her too-thin face. Tears welled up in her amber eyes and Nora did all she could to stop the rising emotions in her chest. “Take the offer. You’re a survivor, child. You’ll make it. You’ll make something of yourself.”

Jaskiel said nothing, face falling and aging twenty years in a few mere seconds.

“When does she leave?” Dinah said with a sniffle, wiping her tears away and taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“Now.”

“Now?!” Nora wanted more time with them. She wanted one more night.

“Now.” The decision was not up for discussion.

Dinah grabbed Nora’s shoulders, pulling her into a bone-crushing hug. “Don’t worry about us,” she whispered, burying her face into Nora’s dark hair, “Just worry about taking care of yourself, alright? You know how.” She kissed Nora’s cheeks, wiping her hands on her nightdress as Jaskiel took his turn.

Nora braced her legs, feeling the weight of Jaskiel in her arms as he held her close. His legs may have been weak and broken, but his arms were strong. He brushed the hair back from her face with a calloused hand, stormy gray eyes expressing all he could not say. Goodbye. You will always be a daughter to me. Until we meet again.

Dinah grabbed her thickest cloak from the back of Jaskiel’s chair and threw it over Nora’s shoulders. Somehow the most important piece of furniture had managed to survive Tamlin’s rage. Final whispers of encouragement escaped Dinah’s lips before the beast snapped at them to leave, maneuvering through the wreckage he’d created with grace and power.

Nora could do nothing but allow her hand to slip through Dinah’s and quietly trail after the beast.

He led her to a beautiful mare that had been waiting obediently for them by the treeline. Her coat was as silky and pristine as a polished pearl. Nora hesitated. She’d never ridden a horse before, but Tamlin was in no mood to wait any longer. He grabbed her roughly by the waist with one paw and dumped her unceremoniously onto the mare’s back.

Asshole. She glared at the back of his horns as he led them into the night.

When Nora looked behind her she found Dinah and Jaskiel standing together in the gaping hole of their now ruined house. She didn’t stop looking until the woods closed around her and her home disappeared from sight.

>>>

They traveled for hours through the woods, the sun slowly sliding into place over the horizon and transforming the frost-bitten forest into the world’s largest chandelier. The constant rocking of the pearl-coated horse beneath her made Nora’s stomach turn and her thighs ached from the effort of staying upright. Tamlin’s utter silence didn’t make matters any better as he traced some secret path through the woods. Over time the rhythmic crunch of snow breaking beneath the mare’s hooves began to drive Nora to insanity.

You’re supposed to be getting me to fall in love with you, you know? Fucking idiot.

The more and more Nora thought about the events from last night, the more irate she grew. He’d crashed into her house in the middle of the night in his beast form, scared them nearly to death, demanded Nora leave her home, and now wasn’t even putting in the effort to speak to her. It was deathly silent in these woods, as if even the squirrels and birds knew that royalty walked among them.

Nora huffed. Tamlin continued to walk unbothered.

“You didn’t need to break into my house like that.” She said pointedly, breaking the silence.

Tamlin’s left ear twitched. “What did you say?”

Nora rolled her eyes. With his fae senses there was no way he hadn’t heard her.

“I said you didn’t need to break into my house like that.”

He ignored her, which only fueled her desire to speak her mind out loud.

“You could have stolen me away in the night without bothering them. You could have waited until daylight when we weren’t sleeping.”

“You’re upset because my timing wasn’t convenient enough for you?”

Nora frowned. When he put it that way her words sounded quite childish. “What I’m saying is that you barged into my home with more pomp and circumstance and-and drama than you needed to.”

“You killed my friend.”

Nora stilled. She wanted to apologize for it. As much as she didn’t like Tamlin she regretted what she did. Part of the reason she hadn’t been able to fall asleep the night before was because she kept seeing the light leave Andras’s eyes. She couldn’t stop herself from hearing the pitiful whine that had escaped his throat as he finally stilled. She’d dared to touch his body to close his eyes. But as quickly as she’d laid her hands on him she’d reeled back. In the time it had taken her to gut the deer and bind it to the sled, his body had turned cold and rigid.

“You threatened to kill my family.” She said lamely.

“And yet they’re still alive, aren’t they?” “How can I trust you? How do I know you won’t just send someone else to kill them after we’re beyond the wall?” “I promised you they would be taken care of. I keep my promises. The question is whether you’ll keep yours.” His voice was gentler, more tired the further and further they got from Nora’s village. She thought his power would be tied to Prythian in some way - that he would gain strength as they neared the wall. Instead he was dragging his feet, limbs landing on the ground with heavier steps as they went along. She made note of every change in his body, storing the information away to mull over later.

“If it means they’re safe you can be sure I’ll keep true to my side of things.” She replied.

He’d been walking ahead of her the entire time, forcing the mare into a brisk pace that had Nora jolting in her seat, but after a few moments of cautious thinking he slowed down to walk beside her. Even while atop a horse, Tamlin stood taller than Nora, his horns dangling over her head like the swaying branches of a tree. She looked at them for a long while, tracing the grooves in the bone all the way down to where they connected to Tamlin’s skull. He stared at her the whole time.

“You don’t look like your parents.” Tamlin said carefully, catching her eye.

Nora snorted. With her dark hair and darker eyes and… well the rest of her, she was well aware that no piece of her looked like it came from Dinah or Jaskiel.

“They’re not my parents.”

She flung her arm out, grasping at Tamlin’s horn for support when the mare took a quick jump over a fallen log. Her thighs were burning now, holding onto the lean body beneath her like a lifeline.

“Sorry.” Nora muttered, jerking her hand back to her body and cradling it beneath the folds of her cloak. She flexed it uncomfortably.

She’d just touched the High Lord of the Spring Court.

Suppressing a shiver she instead focused her attention on the strip of fabric still wrapped expertly around her forearm, running her fingers over the material and ignoring where it dried stiff with blood. It reminded her painfully of Dinah. She would have to mend the rest of her nightgown now. Nora hoped she hadn’t stained it too badly with any blood.

“What happened to your real parents?” Again he asked the question carefully, like she was a flight risk he couldn’t afford to scare off… which she very much was.

“They’re alive… or dead… I don’t know.” A truth. “I was stolen from them too and brought here from the Continent to be sold by slavers.” A lie.

“But you escaped.” He almost sounded impressed.

“Obviously.”

And one day I’ll escape from you too.

The words hung unspoken between the two of them like a spider’s web between two branches, delicate and complex. They descended into silence once more.

“I’ll need to bind your eyes when we cross the wall.”

“What? Why?” Nora snapped her eyes to Tamlin and she forgot about the raven in the sky she’d been examining for the last twenty minutes.

“I cannot risk you seeing my lands.” His back tightened and he held his head up high.

“You said I would be safe in your lands.”

“You will be. That doesn’t mean I want you to see all of them.”

Because you don’t want me to know how to run away.

“Fine.”

A black silk sash appeared in Nora’s hands, cool as water and weightless as she obediently tied it tightly around her eyes. He must have enchanted the fabric because when she tugged at the knot she made it would not budge. She tested the blindfold but as much as she tried to pull it off it would not give. She huffed as she gave up, turning her head towards where she imagined Tamlin still was. He may be taller than a man and ten times heavier but his footsteps were imperceptible.

Blindness forced her to see with her ears, straining to identify every flutter of wings and rustle of snow falling onto the ground from a disturbed branch. She was just about to ask when they’d reach the wall when the world went still.

All the sounds of the forest she’d been analyzing died out. Magic rippled through the air, humid and all consuming as it reached out for her.

Her face paled. Suddenly she was back in the sea, screaming underwater as salt water filled her lungs and magic dragged her from her world to this one. Her reigns on the horse tightened, knuckles losing all their color.

“Take off your cloak.” Tamlin said tightly. “You won’t need it anymore.”

Nora only gripped the cloak tighter as though it would keep out the magic that threatened to consume her.

Tamlin said nothing, but he must have continued forward because despite Nora’s protests, the mare passed through the break in the wall.

They passed through like they were passing through a waterfall. Magic rushed over Nora’s body, slick and alien, but it was quickly replaced by the comfortable heat of spring. The heady scent of flowers filled her nose, clouding her mind with their fragrance. While the oppressing winter in the Mortal Lands had driven all but the scavenger birds into their homes, here they fluttered about seeking companions with whom to live out the eternal spring. The subtle morning sun blanketed Nora’s shoulders, heating her up beneath her clothes. Still she refused to give up the last piece of her home.

Tamlin let out a sigh of relief or despair - Nora couldn’t tell - as he felt his bond to Prythian grow once more. His magic would always run through his veins as intrinsically as blood - being in the Human Lands had done nothing to diminish that power - but he could not deny his connection to the magic that ran through Prythian, a magic that was beyond himself and to which he was only a borrower. These were the lands to which he would be tied until the end of his days.

“Welcome to the Spring Court, Nora.”

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Author’s Note: Hope you all enjoyed! Apologies it ended up a lot longer than I was expecting... whoops 😅. I have a masterlist up and am also starting a taglist so if you want to be added just let me know!

Taglist: @myheartfollower @impossibelle

#acotar #acotar rewrite #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #the spring court #acotar spring court #inner circle #inner circle x oc #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger x oc #azriel shadowsinger #found family #writeblr #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #azriel x reader #tamlin #tamlin the tool #shadowsinger

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zoeysdamn · 1 year

Text

Bark, Bite & Break Bones - Tyler Galpin x Van Helsing!reader | Prologue

Warnings: swearing

A/N: You had my motherly reader (‘There shall be night’ series), the torn apart but still faithful to her heart reader (‘Terrible things’ series), the hopelessly forgiving and in love reader (‘Bloodied petals’ series), now met the fed up sarcastic reader, my lovely feral baby krkrkrkr

[Masterlist]

The sweet sound of bars rattling pulled you out of sleep as usual. With an inelegant groan, you rolled on your back over the hard surface beneath you. Another bang on the steel bars ringed in your ears, soon followed by the rough voice of the keeper.

“Wake up in there! Someone’s here to see you!”

A dry chuckle escaped your lips as you tried to cover your eyes from the blinding raw light of the corridor’s neon. After two years you thought that you were finally immune to its inconvenient presence; you weren’t. On the other side of the bars, the keeper got impatient.

“You’re deaf or something? Get the fuck up, you’re expected!”

This time it was a laugh that left your throat, as you lazily got into a sitting position on the uncomfortable steel bed.

“And pray tell,” you asked with a lopsided grin, “who exactly wants to see me?”

You got your answer a couple of minutes later. Two officers on each side of you led you by the arms, given your hands and ankles were cuffed – as procedure asked. The heavy door of the private visit room opened and you squeezed your eyes a little due to the intense light coming from the large window. When you blinked away and focused again, you couldn’t help but grin at the blonde woman sitting on the other side of the table. The perfect and classy outfit and heels she wore contrasted to your dirty green inmate ensemble. As the guardians made you sit on the opposite and secured your cuffs on the table, you didn’t lose your amused smile.

“That’ll be all, thank you,” said the tall woman to the officers, “leave us please.”

They nodded in agreement and left, the sound of the door shutting echoing in the room. If your grin didn’t stop to grow in amusement, the woman stared right back at you with very serious eyes.

“Well, well, well,” you said with a mocking whistle, “aren’t you quite healthy-looking for a dead woman, Mrs Weems?”

The principal of Nevermore academy pursed her lips in annoyance, and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles on her perfectly pressed outfit. “I see you’re doing well here,” she said simply.

Holding your wrists up to show the chains binding them you gave her another impertinent smile, “Got some new jewelry, how could I complain? Not sure if that’s the latest fashion though, I don’t exactly follow the trends outside of this lovely establishment.”

“Yet you have been aware of my…supposed passing,” she observed sharply.

You snorted in irony, “Death is a social construct. And I like to keep myself informed about the latest Nevermore’s gossip, it’s kind of my job.”

It was Weems’ turn to smirk at your words this time, “Except it isn’t your job, isn’t it? That is why you’re jailed here.”

Your face darkened at her statement and you lost your insolent grin. “It’s always my job,” you growled at her. “It’s convenient for you, after all? Explain why I’m here without getting your hands dirty.”

“I do believe it has been officially stated that neither I nor Nevermore academy has anything to do with your conviction,” she argued back calmly.

You tsked, knowing she was right. In the eyes of the law, you owed your place in juvie to your own faults. But both of you knew it was more complicated than that.

Leaning back on your chair in a laid-back attitude, you cocked your head to the side.

“So, why am I honored with your gracious presence?” you asked, a lingering mockery never far in your voice. You could almost hear Weems roll her eyes in her mind.

“I’m here on the judge’s request,” she said.

“And who’s really requesting it?” you immediately asked, only to let out a snort at her raised eyebrow, “C’mon Weems, I’ve been sentenced for 5 years in this lovely shit-hole, and everyone made sure to ‘mysteriously’ forget about asking for parole. What’s with the sudden change of heart?”

Larissa Weems seemed hesitant for a moment, then leaned her forearms on the table, hands gripped together.

“I assume you have heard about the events that occurred at Nevermore six months ago?”

“Ah!” you snorted loudly with a laugh, “yeah I did. Not everything though, my sources were kinda evasive about most of it, but I got that it was a pretty messed up situation right?”

She pressed her lips into a thin line, visibly upset by the mention of those events; but you weren’t over with the teasing, and as she kept silent the pieces linked together in your head and your grin in disbelief.

“You need me,” you cooed, even more delighted when Weems looked away in uneasiness, confirming your theory. “Ooooh that’s precious, you actually do need little old me.”

“In the light of recent events it had appeared that you could be…useful to Nevermore academy,” she explained carefully, trying to ignore the evident thrill you got from this conversation.

“Mmmmh, you need a watchdog,” you completed casually. “I wonder what for?”

The principal pulled a folder from her bag and slid it in your direction.

“The young man responsible for the murders in Jericho had been judged and sentenced for some time in prison, after what he is legally required to be reinserted into society,” said Weems as you opened the file and went through some pages, with police records, psychological expertises and some pictures of a boy, around your age, with curly brown hair and freckles. Tyler Galpin, according to the files.

“Cute for a murderer,” you said casually, ignoring the judgemental look the principal gave you. “Still I don’t get what it has to do with me.”

Weems cleared her throat, “The court deemed fitting for him to be reinserted as a student at Nevermore Academy. They trust us to help him control his particular…condition.”

“Enough with beating around the bush,” you rolled your eyes at her, “what is he?”

The blonde woman took a deep breath, “He’s a Hyde.”

That definitely surprised you, “No shit?” you blurted with a raised eyebrow, and Weems didn’t even scold your crude language at this. Instead, she nodded.

“Given what happened, we didn’t have much choice but accept the court’s decision,” she said bitterly, “and he’s an outcast too, I ethically can’t refuse him joining the academy.”

“Mmmh, that’s really sweet and all, but last I remember I’ve done my time at Nevermore,” you argued wittily.

Weems gave you a knowing smirk that was up to no good, “Last I remember, you never graduated properly. You still have to pass exams to actually be a Nevermore graduate.”

You let out a scoff, “What, that’s your argument? Playing the diploma card? You do realize I don’t give two shits about it, right?”

“Yes, but what if this could be your way out of prison?” she said with a sugary voice, laced with underlying intentions. At your frown, she knew she had your entire attention, so she carried on. “The school board had suggested that you could reintegrate Nevermore academy to look after Mr Galpin during the school year, and prevent some possible…unwanted outbursts.”

It made you snort, “You want me to babysit him basically. Why would I ever agree?”

Principal Weems pulled another piece of paper from her bag and handed it to you.

“The board had managed to reach an agreement with the judge,” she explained as your eyes skimmed over the official and fancy-looking document, “If you complete your mission of keeping Mr Galpin out of trouble and graduate at the end of the school year, you won’t have to make the three remaining years in incarceration.”

You looked up with eyes wide, surprised by the fact the school board had actually succeeded at making such a deal. After all, you weren’t exactly their favorite person.

“And if I fail?”

Weems smiled sweetly at you.

“Well, should he lose control and be neutralized with or without your help, you’ll come back to this lovely place. But we all know you won’t fail, won’t you?”

Her words made you grin. The political motives behind all those decisions were evident, but given you had nothing better to do, this could be an unexpected way out. Still, there was something more you wanted to hear from Weems.

“Oh I won’t? I wonder what makes you so sure of that,” you ironized with a grin.

Weems sighed at your bratty behavior, knowing you were playing dumb, “You’re as aware of your pedigree as I am.”

“Yeah but it’ll be sooooo much more pleasant to hear it from you.”

She held your gaze for a few seconds before giving up and exhaling loudly, “You’re far the most qualified person in hunting a monster, that’s why.”

A delighted grin stretched your lips, and you held out one of your handcuffed hands to her.

“Well Principal Weems, you got yourself a deal.”

Shaking your hand firmly, she gave you a knowing smile.

“Welcome back to Nevermore Academy Miss Van Helsing.”

[Part.1]

A/N: Hope the prologue interested you! There’s gonna be more explanation about everything in the following chapters, I’m not spilling everything at once uhuh! I want to finish at least two chapters before starting posting them, I’m working on it! :DD

Thanks everyone for reading, I hope you enjoyed this part ♥

Hope you’re all doing okay, take care of you ♥

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