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tgirlwithreverb · 6 months

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I saw that post about what to do if you're homeless again (the one that starts by telling you to spend all of your money on motel rooms lmao) anyway, here's a few thoughts, specifically for trans girls, cuz I don't really care otherwise tbh:

1) plan ahead, most trans girls are in precarious housing situations, you will have a much easier time when it falls apart if you already have a pack with most of the gear you need in it. Also, if you find yourself in a situation where you cant make rent, dont pay part of it, spend that money on gear, pocket the rest and leave, youll have a much nicer time. Look up your local eviction laws, you have plenty of time. (Gear list at the end)

2) travel! If you're in Arizona in May, leave. it's about to be hot as hell. If you're in Michigan in October, leave. It's about to be cold as hell. If you're in a big city, leave. It's way easier to be homeless pretty much anywhere else. Amtrak is cheaper and more comfortable than greyhound, hitchhiking is free and easy, if you're alone it's not that much slower than the previous two, and it's more fun, and sometimes people buy you food or whatever or give you money. I promise it's not scary and you're entirely capable of doing it, no matter who you are. 95+% of people who will pick you up are very nice. All you have to do is take the bus out of town, as far down the highway you can, to an exit with a truck stop if possible, then just stand on the side of the road with your thumb out until someone picks you up. You can stand at the bottom of the ramp(on the highway) near where the merge lane ends or at the top of the ramp(where there's usually a traffic light), the former is more likely to lead to cop interactions but will maybe get you a ride faster, check on hitchwiki for how the cops are in the area. don't be afraid to take a commuter bus or Amtrak to get out of a shitty cop area

3) skip shelters if you can (they are very occasionally a decent place to get stuff from) and encampments, good places to sleep include the trees near railroad tracks or highways, wooded areas behind shopping centers, sections of parks without paths, overgrown empty lots. Hang a tarp above you if there's an appreciable chance of rain, there's tons of YouTube tutorials on how to do this, maybe I'll make a post about what I usually do some day. There are many habits more fun than motel rooms, save your money for them lmao.

4) get on food stamps. This is easier in some places than others, but it makes the whole thing a lot easier. Just tell them you're homeless, if they don't give you a card the same day, you can probably ask to pick it up from that office, alternatively some drop in centers/day shelters can receive mail for you, or you can have it sent to general delivery(USPS service, look it up)

7) libraries are great for charging your phone and using wifi, but also keep an eye out, plenty of random outlets on the outsides of buildings are also powered

5) dumpster. sidewalk trash cans, Aldi, Einstein's, trader Joe's, pizza places, etc. You need to develop a bit of a sense for it but it's an easy way to get cooked food or travelling food or expensive food without spending resources. Also it's fun.

6) water is free, go into the bathroom of any gas station or grocery store in America(offer not valid in most big cities or on the west coast, but in that case just go to the library) and fill up your water bottle

8) hygiene notes: truckers get free showers from chain truck stops(loves, pilot/flying j) go there and ask them. convenient if you're hitchhiking, also you don't need to shower 3 times a day, really, you'll survive. Ditto with deodorant. Take care of your teeth though. Take your socks off every. day. Change them consistently. Safety razors give a good shave, work well without adequate water pressure, and the replacement blades are very stealable, they're kind of heavy though. Walmart makes these electric razors for women that take AA batteries and are pretty light but give a worse shave, also they kinda go through batteries, pick whatever works for you(cartridge razors suck)

9) traveling food notes: peanut butter is great, tortillas and bagels travel pretty well, tuna packets are pretty good protein for traveling(the ones with rice and beans or whatever are nice since theyre often the same price as the regular), condiment packets are free, hot sauce makes everything better, and mayo goes well with tuna and has a bunch of calories in it, salad dressing packets are free from truck stops and work well turning the Walmart shredded vegetable packages (labeled for making into slaw, next to the bagged salads) into a salad with real vegetables(not iceberg lettuce) in it or mixing in with tuna packets for even more calories than mayo

Gear world:

Necessary items(in order of importance): a gallon of water carrying capacity(an Arizona jug or other twist top jug is conventional, but a bladder+arizona bottles also works), a tarp(larger than 6'x9', not brightly colored), a hank of parachord, a sleeping bag (20° rated, synthetic insulation), a backpack with a padded hip belt(at least 50L, no more than 75), rain gear(a rain poncho might cover your pack too, a rain jacket can help with wind when its cold, a trash bag inside or outside your pack can keep it dry, a plan to watch the weather and not get caught also works), a z-fold foam sleeping pad, three pairs of socks, two pairs of underwear (at least one pair of boxer breifs strongly recommended if you arent incredibly skinny), a decent pair of shoes with good arch support, a functional jacket(skip if you got a rain jacket before), a base layer(wool or poly, absolutely no cotton)

Convenient items: a sleeping bag liner(cotton free, keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer), gallon zip locks to pack your stuff in(helps keep it dry and organized), no more than one change of clothes(as light as possible), a multi-tool(can opener, pliers, wire cutter), lighter(burning rope ends etc), spoon, floss and needles for patching

#anyway #not all encompassing or whatever #feel free to add your own tips but ill make fun of you if theyre stupid

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scudevils · 4 months

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BEARD BURN WITH QUINN HUGHES PLEASE

trouble — QH43

pairing: quinn hughes x fem!reader

warnings: smut, oral (f & m receiving), roadhead, no actual sex, praise, degradation, swearing, mention of a safe word, use of the word brat like once or twice, canucks losing (sorry quinny), reader is a bit annoying for a scene, a bit of sad quinn for like 2 mins, not proofread!!

synopsis: quinn losing a bet results in you getting to enjoy his beard for just a wee bit longer [4.2k]

a/n: hugeeee thank you to my hockey cunt @thegrantic for basically giving me the whole idea for this!! i waffled BIG TIME on this so a lot of it is filler, feel free to skip to the smut if that’s what your here for (i wont judge you)

you watched him from the comfort of your bed, eyes still sleepy and the morning sun being far too bright for your liking. he's fresh out the shower, steam rolling out of the en suite into the bedroom, windows coated in condensation which only seemed to intensify the suns rays.

morning had never, and you vowed would never, be your thing. but being with quinn meant early mornings, wether it was a run or a workout, he practically begged you to join him. and when he gave you those eyes who were you to reject him?

you weren't sure if it was his hectic schedule, or perhaps just because he liked the look, but he'd been beginning to grow his beard out more than before. you were used to a little stubble sure, but it was usually gone the day after you'd mention it, and you were so fucking happy he'd decided to grow it out.

it was becoming a daily test for you to not jump on him on him the longer he kept it, like a predator with their prey you just wanted to devour him.

from the steamed up windows you could see that he was rubbing the shaving cream on his face, finding the time to brush his teeth when you'd been off daydreaming, but it was the white froth on his face that caught your attention.

it takes practically all of your willpower to even get out of the bed, before 10am it was blasphemous for you, a sin you'd be repenting for the rest of your life, and you'd been brining quinn down with you for forcing you up so early. "what are you doing?" he jumps slightly at the sound of your voice, half expecting you to already be back to sleep that you'd basically snuck up on him.

“uh, shaving." he answers the obvious, motioning to the cream that still coated his cheek, ready to be cut away from the fresh blade he'd put on his razor.

you stop his hand before it can reach the razor, taking it in your own. "q, you can't shave."

quinn quirks an eyebrow at your words, a small laugh bubbling from his chests as the look on your face is so serious, like in your mind this is no laughing matter. "and why can't i shave?"

"cause you look hot with a beard?" you said, mimicking his earlier tone, the reason so painfully obvious to you although it hadn't even crossed your boyfriends mind when he'd started growing it out.

he can't help but laugh this time, the smallest of smug smiles threatening to pull at his lips and you could see the sides of them curving up. "you think so?" you nod your head at his words, like it was the clearest thing to ever understand, and you couldn't quite get why he didn't know that. "too bad, it's fucking itchy."

“quinn," you drag out his name in a whine, like a spoiled child who wasn't getting a toy they'd asked for, hoping it would change his mind, instead he only answered with a shake of his head before squeezing your hand and slipping his own from it, reaching for the razor. "why don't we make a bet."

this seemed to pique his interest, stopping his hand on the way to his face before he turned to look at you, the conversation finally not being had through looks in the mirror. "what kinda bet you thinkin'?" he entertained your request, wanting to see what you'd came up with in that short amount of time.

"well, you guys play tomorrow right?" you asked him, already knowing the answer was yes, and when quinn nodded apprehensively, you continued. "you lose, you keep the beard for another week. you win, you get to shave."

“or i could just shave now?" he propositioned, ignoring the conditions you'd already set.

"you do that and i cut you off."

"you wouldn't." he was quick to reply, what he assumed was an empty threat still not enough to convince him to keep the beard.

a smug smile made its way onto your face, you stepped an inch closer to him, running the tips of your fingers over his exposed chest, small droplets of water still clinging to the taut skin. "i have a hand hughes, i'll be just fine." you dragged out the last two words, emphasising your point to him.

"fine."

as usual, you were sat with the other wives and girlfiends, the printed "HUGHES 43" proudly displayed across your back, watching as the clock ticked away, too slowly for your liking, feeling like time was slowing down as they were down just one goal, every action felt like it'd been edited slower, dragging out the losing feeling.

you knew it'd be a tough game, at home and against vegas, it was just a recipe for a headache. they'd been as good as they could've been, quinn getting an early goal in the first period before vegas responded only two minutes later. a similar story in the second period, and now in the third with only a minute left they were lagging behind 3-2, hoping they could get a goal to drag it to overtime and at least salvage a point but luck was not on their side.

the familiar horn went off, signalling the end of the game, the loss of the home team, and the players skated off of the ice, and you could see quinn muttering to himself and kicking up snow as he made his way over to the tunnel, no doubt blaming himself for the loss.

it was wrong, you knew it you really did, that deep down a small part of you was happy they'd lost, after all it meant you'd won your and quinn's bet, but you pushed the part of you that wanted to gloat down, standing in the crowded hallway with the rest of the girls, waiting to greet their own significant others after the loss.

just your luck, quinn was always one of the last out, no doubt taking time to apologise to the guys for the (rare) mistakes he'd made in the game, and you were practically alone when he'd finally gotten himself showered and ready again, save for the security guard you'd found yourself in conversation with.

quinn glanced your way, bag strap draped over one of his shoulders, your eyes trail over his flushed face. he was still sweating, the shower doing nothing to tame the adrenaline rush, and the redness was just barely starting to fade from his cheeks down to his neck. "you ready?" he mumbled, a clear sign he wasn't in the mood for talking and you nodded your head, a quick smile and goodbye to the man who'd kept you company and you were leaving.

"you really did play well, q." from the outside perspective, your words were sweet, but quinn knew you well enough from the years of dating that you were bursting to rub it in that you'd won the bet, but you held back for his sake.

the drive home was practically silent, a stark contrast to how it usually was, even when they lost quinn had at least things to say to you, when he'd go a ramble about how good one of the guys had played or how he wished he'd done a play differently and you'd usually just nod your head and listen, it was all he needed, just a person to listen to him.

which was why it was so difficult to keep your words to yourself, you hated seeing him quiet, quinn was never quiet. you swore he could talk for both of you and still have things to say, so the silence was something different, something you definitely did not like.

you were nearly home, ten minutes left if the roads were clear, not that you were counting, but your eyes kept flickering to the radio display, the time clear in blue led's, as was the "radio off" sticking out to you.

so you decided to test your luck, fingers pressing at the one switch before quinn could question what you were doing, the song coming through the speakers one you recognised but not one you could name, and then you went back to looking out of the window, a quick flick of your eyes towards quinn to see his reaction before you did so.

he was quick to turn it back off, silence encapsulating the car once again but only for a few seconds before you pressed it on again, hearing a sigh fall from quinn's lips and you assumed he'd just given up fighting you on it. "have you always been this annoying?"

“since you met me, q." you quipped, a look over your shoulder thrown in his direction before you faced out of the window again, humming to yourself the tune of the song. "why'd you wanna sit in silence so badly?"

quinn didn't answer you, focus entirely on the road but you seen his grip onto the steering wheel just a little bit harder, knuckles turning white and his jaw clenched as the red light reflected against his features. "what, you not talking to me now?" you breathed out a disbelieving laugh, still not bothering to even look at him fully, maybe you were as bad as him. "don't be mad at me just cause you lost twice."

"fuck y/n, when'd you become such a brat?" finally, you turned to look at him, lips parting at his words and you found his eyes already on yours, a frenzied look on this as they grew a shade darker, a fire burning behind them like he was seeking out conflict, wanting a fight, like he was still on the ice.

"don't call me that."

"why, you're actin' like one right now aren't you?" the light turned green, the only way you'd realised was the way it shone against his face, different from the harsh red glow from before, and this time you could see the humour in his eyes, he was enjoying riling you up, and your eyes drifted from his face down to his hands on the steering wheel, tightening around the leather.

"how long till we're home?"

he quirked an eyebrow at your question, but answered anyway, wanting to know what you were planning. "about 5 minutes."

"you think i can get you off in 5 minutes?" you were already reaching across the console, the sweats he'd chose to wear doing nothing to hide the growing bulge beneath them and you heard him suck in a breath as you ran your hands over it, glancing back up to him to see he's tucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

"know you can do it in less." his words gave you a boost of confidence, quinn helping you push down his sweats and he lift his hips enough for you to rid him of them and his boxers.

its definitely an awkward arrangement, but with a little effort you manage to drape yourself across the console without too much discomfort on your part, right elbow resting between his thighs as you use that hand to stroke him lazily, feeling him harden under your hand before you drop your head pressing a teasing kiss to his tip, feeling his shudder under your arm. "y/n-"

you cut him off when you took just the tip in your mouth, one of his hands falling from the steering wheel to your back, dancing along your spine before it found its place in your hair, wrapping itself in the soft strands and tugging at the roots. feeling him twitch in your mouth when you circle the slit, you grin up at him, seeing his eyes flittering down to yours in a way that was definitely not road safe. "fuck, baby, please."

his pleas didn't fall on deaf ears, entertaining them as your lips brushed up the side of his cock, kissing along his length, before taking him further into your mouth. "only because you said please." this time you let his hand guide your head down against him, fingers flexing against your scalp, desperate to keep a grip on you but it was slowly slipping away.

he can hear you spluttering around him, saliva and pre cum escaping your lips and falling against your chest, the open cut shirt you'd worn at least giving him a nice view. another shaky groan rumbled in his chest, a moan threatening to spill from his mouth when your hand squeezed what your mouth couldn't take. "fuck, never gonna forget how good your mouth feels."

you pull off of him for just a second, catching your breath in the process, before you looked up at him. "never gonna have to." the promise was too sweet for the moment, but he couldn't help but appreciate it, he'd never have to forget you because he'll always have you.

entirely too encouraged by his praise and sounds, against his own direction, you push your head down to lightly gag around him, eliciting a moan from him. your own spit starts to hit your chest again, and the squeeze of your hand around him has him bucking his hips into your mouth, tip hitting against the back of your throat almost painfully but the sound of your name from his lips is enough to make up for it.

“i'm so close, so good to me-" you can feel his thighs tensing under your hand, his cock twitching in your mouth a tell tale sign that he was close, and all it took was pushing your head down till he repeatedly hit the back of your throat for him to be releasing down it, your hums vibrating against him only causing him to let out a groan, feeling him still in your throat and finally lift you off of him.

you almost feel a sense of pride when you look up at him, cheeks flushed for a second time tonight although for an entirely different reason, and chest heaving as he tried to catch him breath, matching your own laboured breathing as you did the same.

"told you you could do it in less." you let out a small laugh against his thigh, glancing up to the illuminated clock, just under five minutes since you'd last checked, and you force yourself to move from the position that had now become unbearably uncomfortable.

the turn in the road felt familiar, one you could recognise out of a lineup if you needed to, the one that took you home and you felt butterflies in your stomach, anticipation practically dripping down your thighs as quinn parked the car in your designated spot in the lot, your legs begging you were already at your apartment as they felt they'd buckle under any pressure.

you, however, powered through their protests, thankful you did as the comforting smell of your apartment filled your senses as quinn unlocked the door. the scent a perfect mix of yours and quinn's, the remnants of a once burnt candle nestled in there alongside the perfume you'd put on earlier.

there was something so domestic about the way quinn looked at you, like in a split second he's be down on his knees proposing to you, what was once just an apartment was now a home, your home. "quinn," the whine of his name broke him out of his trance, at some point you'd made your way over to him, just an inch away, needing to be closer. "have no idea how badly i want you, q."

"fuck, know i love it when you talk like that." he was quick to slot his lips over yours, the kiss harsh enough to knock the air from your lungs, filling them with him. his hand tangled in your hair, forcing your neck up with a gasp, allowing him access to the skin, marking you up with rough kisses against your pulse point.

it was magic really, how he was able to render you a whimpering mess with just a few kisses, hand grasping at the grown our strands of hair, longer than he'd had before but fuck did you love it. "quinn, please."

quinn lifted his head from your neck, swollen lips hovering over yours, brushing over them as he spoke. "please, what? what'd you need baby."

"your mouth, please, q." you were too desperate to have any shame, the only thought in your mind was of your own pleasure.

he pressed a searing kiss against your lips, as if telling you to be patient whilst he go to work with you. "only because you said please." he mocked your earlier words, using them against you and you wanted to roll your eyes at the smirk on his lips as he did so. your jeans were quickly discarded, leaving you only in your canucks jersey and panties underneath.

you could feel the warmth from his body when he hooked his hands underneath the waistband of your panties, carefully pulling them down your legs and you stepped out of them, leaving now just in his name-claimed jersey, the cold hitting your legs more than before and you wondered if it was placebo, you felt more exposed and your body reacted as if you were. his eyes seemed to darken more than they had before, a light blush coating his cheeks like it had the first time he'd seen like this.

quinn spread your legs apart when he lifted he pushed you down onto the bed, stepping in between your thighs, pressing kisses against your skin when, squeezing your thighs when he met them and leaving marks leading to where you needed him most. "hm, so lucky aren't i?" your head fell back when you felt his breath hitting your cunt, blowing hot hair on you to see you squirm, before he gently swiped a finger over your slit, your hips involuntarily bucking towards his hand. "all for me, yeah?"

you felt totally out of it, only nodding your head when pressed his thumb against your clit, your brain short-circuiting at the contact, only adding to the sensation when he flattens his tongue against you. he gave you no time react before his mouth found its way to your clit, your hand instantly reaching for his hair when it became tangled in the brown mess he also seemed to be growing out.

the burn of his beard against your sensitive skin only adds to the feeling, mixing insatiably with the pleasure you were feeling from his mouth on you, something you'd never get used to.

your other hand gripped at the clean white bed sheets, thighs tightening around his head like you were scared he'd move, holding him in place so that even if he tried he couldn't. quinn grabbed one of your legs, hooking it over his shoulder to allow himself a better angle, gently grazing his teeth over your clit, the hairs on his face tickling against your inner thigh, nearly having you melting into the bed, though it elicited a loud moan of his name from you.

there was no stopping the noises that came from your mouth, whimpers, whines and moans of his name falling from your lips at his relentless attack on your cunt. "feels so good quinn-" your words only encouraged him, walls clenching around his fingers when he curled two of them inside you, the feeling of that and his tongue circling your clit had you tumbling towards your first orgasm.

your head fell back against the bed, mouth open in a silent moan, wanting to scream but you couldn't find your voice, and eyes screwed shut from the pleasure. when quinn looked up he swore he saw died, went to heaven and seen a fucking angel, branding the sight in his memory for those long roadies.

your release didn't stop his attack, fingers still moving at the same pace they had before and tongue still relentless against your clit. "know you can give me another one." he mumbled against your skin, the vibration sent shockwaves through your body. his lips quicken against you, his fingers moving inside you at a bruising pace that you can feel your second orgasm beginning to form, still so sensitive from the first, your clit twitching under his tongue.

"quinn, please, gonna cum again." your words heeded little warning, your thighs clenching around his head again, pulling him closer to you in angle that had you writhing against the sheets, moving your hips against his face to gain more friction.

on fire was all you could describe the way your body felt, nerves alive, hairs standing that you didn't even know you had. quinn's touch against your skin feeling electric, like he was shocking you each time he came in contact, the warmth of his lips travelling up your stomach, a trail of your slick being left in his path that any other thing would have you embarrassed, but not now. “taking it like a fucking slut, letting me fuck you how i want to, yeah?”

you swore you could drown in the smell of him, one that came so natural it only made you fall for him even harder every time he was this close to you. he drove you insane, nodding your head frantically without even fully registering his words.

the coil in your stomach tightened until it couldn’t any more, snapping and all you saw was white, eyes screwed shut as your body felt like it wasn’t yours anymore, thighs shaking around quinns waist as he moved to press a chaste kiss to your lips, talking you through your release as he continued the movement of his fingers.

the rise and fall of your chest was something quinn would never get sick of, so addictive that he was the one fucking you so good, even with only his tongue and fingers, that you could barely breathe. in fact, it only spurred him on more.

“think you can give me another?”

you whined at his words, shaking your head although he saw the way you clenched around nothing at the thought. ��quinn, can’t-“

“you won remember, winners get rewards.”

there’s not much time for you to react when he’s back against your skin, the friction from his beard has you moaning, the sensation something you could definitely get used to. “remember the safe word?”

nodding your head, you let a small smile form on your swollen lips, no matter how past gone you both were he still checked you were okay with everything. “blue.”

“good girl, gonna make you feel so good.” quinn hooks his arm underneath both of your thighs, dragging you to the edge of the bed and he’s on the floor, throwing your legs over his shoulder and pressing a teasing kiss onto your clit, your head lulling against the cushion from the overstimulation.

he’s almost too slow for you with the way his tongue moves against you, savouring the moment at the wrong time when you press his head further against you, hand on the back of your head in a similar way to the way he had when you were in the car. “need more, q.”

a string of curses escapes your lips when he take your clit in his mouth, sucking on it till your practically sobbing, and his hands move from holding you in place to your hands, a small squeeze of your hands enough to comfort you through anything.

“fuck, quinn-“

your hands begin to push against his head, the sensation becoming too overwhelming that it’s almost sore. your overstimulated clit feeling spent from the night. he simply grabs you by the wrists and pins then down by the side of your body, back to keeping you in place. his tongue flicks against your throbbing clit, a scolding for moving away from him, before he’s back to sucking on it.

your voice is hoarse, moans are now broken whimpers and whines, lacking the energy to even speak, third orgasm approaching quicker than the others, hurling towards you, feeling like it’ll run you over. “fuck, can i quinn?”

his beard scratches against your thigh, the skin now a burning red, his pupils blown out as he looks up at you, tongue still attacking your clit. “let go for me, baby, last one.”

quinn worked you through your orgasm, soft kisses being pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the relentless pulse of his fingers rubbing your clit, until you had to wrap your own wrist against his, forcing him away from you.

he left a trail of kisses up for your body, reaching your lips when he slotted his lips over yours, not wanting anything more than to just kiss you. you let out a whine when he broke the kiss though, needing him close to you, when instead he went into the en suite, returning with a dampened cloth.

you hissed in pain as he dabbed it against your reddened skin, the gentleness of his touch calming down the stinging. “promise me you’ll never shave again?”

quinn laughed at your request, but nonetheless nodded his head, both of you knowing it to be a hollow promise, but already fantasising about when he grows it out again.

#nhl smut #nhl imagine #nhl fic #hockey fluff #hockey imagine #hockey one shot #hockey smut #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes one shot #quinn hughes fic #scudevils

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skbeaumont · 1 month

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Five for Five | Joel x Reader Oneshot

“I ain’t stupid.” His tone is heavy now, words grating out of his throat like rusty razor blades. “Last I checked, we had one hundred and two. There’s ninety-seven here. That’s five missing.”

Summary: It was probably a stupid idea to trade five ration cards for a tiny bottle of perfume, and it's not surprising that Joel is angry, but you think it might just be worth it. Tags/warnings: fem reader, smut, dubcon, spanking, punishment, dom!Joel, sub!reader, first time, oral (m receiving), fingering, pet names, unprotected p in v, aftercare. Word Count: 4k

A/N: Forgive me father for I have sinned. This is pure filth. Please mind the tags/warnings.

“Where are the rest?”

Joel’s voice cuts through you as soon as you step inside the apartment. It’s late, already dark out, and the dangerous edge to his words makes you jump as you step inside, shoulders aching, feet numb from the long walk back home through the QZ.

“Jesus fuck, Joel. What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer, just holds up his hand and shakes the stack of ration cards that are clutched in his fist. The only light is coming from the wonky reading lamp in the corner and it casts an amber glow over the apartment and Joel’s stern face.

“I said,” his voice is steady, clear, but you can already hear the frustration that’s buried underneath it, the anger that’s so quick to rise in him threatening to bubble over, “where are the rest?”

“They should all be there,” you reply, letting your eyes fall down to your boots, toeing them off so that you don’t have to look at his face.

“Well, they ain’t.” He takes a step toward you, his own boots heavy on the worn linoleum floor. “And I wanna know where they are.”

“Did you check under the floor?”

Of course he’s checked under the floor, and of course they aren’t there, because last night you took a handful – five, max – and traded them for a tiny bottle of perfume that’s now stuffed under your mattress. Joel rarely checks the ration cards – he lets you deal with that side of the dodgy business you’ve been running together for the last year and a half – so you’d thought you could get away with it. That he wouldn’t notice. But this is Joel, and he’s noticed.

With this last he slams the pile down on the kitchen side next to you, stepping right up into your space so that you feel his breath – hot and tinged with the scent of cheap bourbon – on the side of your face. You’ve seen him angry so many times, but it’s never been directed at you before, and you’re starting to understand why most people avoid his gaze in corridors, why men cross the street when they see him coming.

“Did you miscount?” You ask, fighting to keep your voice level, light.

“Did I miscount?” He repeats, slow, each word enunciated like it’s a full sentence on its own, and you realise it was probably the worst thing you could have said.

His fingers are hot on your chin when he grabs it, tilting your reluctant face up, dragging your eyeline to meet his. His face is a sight to behold: eyebrows furrowed, deep groves carved out in the lines that surround them, his jaw tense, a muscle twitching as he grinds his teeth. There’s danger in his eyes; a fire behind them that burns as he stares down at you.

“No, I didn’t miscount.” He spits the last word out, eyes tracing the blush that’s crawling up your throat, the way your eyes dart away from his, the flicker of your pulse – fast, rising – in your throat. The trace of the misdirection, the lie, so obvious.

He can read you like a book, always could. But you’re stubborn. You’re not giving anything away if you don’t have to. Those cards are yours as much as they’re his, and this one thing you’ve allowed yourself in eighteen months is worth the way his fingertips are digging into the sides of your face.

“What did you trade ‘em for?” He asks.

“Fuck you.”

He laughs at this, lets your face go and takes a single step back, swings his arm to his side and lets it carry him into a half turn. You slump back against the door, peeling paint sticking uncomfortably to your back. But it’s a short-lived reprieve.

“Fuck me?” He repeats, turning back to you. “After all I’ve done for you, all the shit I’ve taken for you-”

“I didn’t ask you to!” Your voice is shrill compared to his gruff curses, but you continue, adrenaline spiking, “And you’ve been the cause of at least half of that shit, Joel. Don’t make out like you’re some knight in shining armour when we both know the truth!”

The truth: that he’s brutal, feared by almost everyone in the QZ; that people only trade with the two of you because of your hard work and negotiation skills. Joel’s good for enforcing things, for smuggling things in and out, and for sending a message when anything goes wrong, but he’s also a broken man whose anger has got him into more than a few scrapes that you’ve had to get him out of with nothing more than your sharp tongue and quick thinking.

He lets you rally this outburst at him, doesn’t blink in the face of it, until you’ve finished. Then he’s striding back to you, slamming the hand holding the cards hard against the door behind you. It makes you flinch away but his other hand’s back on your jaw, grip tighter this time, forcing you to look up at him.

“Where are the rest?” He repeats, brandishing the ration cards so that they’re inches from your face.

“They’re mine as much as they’re yours.” You say, quietly defiant despite the way your voice shakes.

“You trade them?”

“What does it matter?”

“Nuh-uh,” He twists his hand, turns your face away so that you’re forced to look to the side instead of into his face and he can say the next words into your ear. “This ain’t how this works. I ask the questions, you answer ‘em. Did. You. Trade. Them?”

His face is so close to yours now that you can feel spit landing on your cheek as he speaks, his breath hot in your ear. It shouldn’t turn you on, but it does. You can feel yourself getting wet, slick pooling unbidden between your thighs. It’s hard to ignore a man like Joel, but it’s even harder to get close to him. You don’t think he’s ever been so near to you before, not even when you’ve tended each other’s wounds after a run went south.

You’ve always wanted him to; held a secret flame that’s grown brighter and hotter over the last few months. There’s something undeniably attractive about Joel. The way he moves, the quiet confidence he exudes and the brutal, coiled power of him. You’ve watched him set his fist into another man’s jaw and wondered what it would be like to be on the receiving end of his temper, his passion.

Now, with his face so close to yours, his thick fingers digging into your jaw, you feel yourself sinking into it, relaxing despite the tension of the situation. You want this, you want his anger and razor-sharp focus. It’s overwhelming in the best way, and you feel tears burning at your lower lashline.

“Yes. I traded them.”

A tear slides down you face and Joel’s eyes trace its path as it glides over your check, pooling in the corner of your mouth, salty and unrepentant.

“What for?”

“Perfume.”

He laughs again, but this laugh is full of derision, not mirth. It’s a punch of a laugh, straight from his chest, catching in his throat and distorting into a growl that sends a shiver up your spine and a bolt of lightning through your cunt.

“Perfume.” He repeats, turning your face in his hand so that you’re looking at him again.

His pupils are blown wide, his face a mask of fury and something else that has you pressing your thighs together, seeking friction. He notices you doing it, lets his eyes follow the movement of your hips, the desperate, needy breaths you’re sucking in. He grins, teeth bared.

“And what, exactly, do you need perfume for?” He asks, not giving you time to answer before he’s bending down and pressing his nose into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply, stubble scratching your throat. “Smell sweet enough to me already.”

“Joel, please,” you say, but you’re not sure what you’re asking for, because he’s licking a thick stripe up the side of your throat and you think if he stops you might scream.

“Buy it for those boys I see sniffing around you sometimes? Huh?” He asks, drawing back from you and shaking your face in his hand roughly. “Knew you were nothing but a fucking slut.”

“I just- I wanted something nice.” You try to explain, the words catching in your throat as he slides one thick thigh between yours.

“Something nice? What makes you think you deserve something nice, hmm? Ain’t nothing nice in this place, you should know that as well as I do.”

And you do, God knows you do. The QZ is dark and twisted and fucking soul-crushing, but you’d wanted the perfume, wanted it with a deep yearning that matches the way you want Joel to keep going now, to push you and punish you and take what he wants.

“I think you need to learn a lesson, baby.”

You’re nodding into his hand, tears rolling down your face, splashing onto his thick fingers. He lets go of your jaw, takes you by the wrist and pulls you into the room, toward the sofa, over his knee when he sits. Your stomach is pressed into his thighs, face buried in the dirty sofa cushion and he’s got one hand pressing into your spine, the other searching out the button of your jeans. He undoes it, wastes no time in dragging the worn denim down your shaking thighs.

“You’re gonna lie there and take it, you hear me?” He says, splaying a hand over your bare ass cheek, moving the line of your knickers out of the way so that he can squeeze the meat of you, fingers dipping between your thighs, finding the slick liquid that’s leaking from you.

“Jesus Christ, you’re soaked already. Fuckin’ filthy little thing, aren’t you?” His accent is somehow thickening, vowels lengthening, the twang of his consonants increasing.

“I asked you a question.” He says when you don’t immediately reply, and you nod your head, wipe your wet eyes against the sofa.

“Count for me.” He says, and before you can take a breath to prepare, his hand is coming down sharply on you.

The sting is sharp; delicious.

“Count.” He hisses, and you whisper a faint one, breaking off into a moan when he lets his fingers graze the side of your puffy lips.

You wish you could see his expression, see if this is affecting him as much as its affecting you, if he’s watching with something like ecstasy on his handsome, haunting features.

The second smack is harder than the first, sharper and sweeter for it. It makes you jerk against him but he’s holding you down firmly with one solid hand in the middle of your back, pressing you into his thighs, into his lap. The denim of his jeans is rough against your bare stomach, scratching you skin where your shirt’s risen up. The third slap makes you yelp, harder again, but he soothes it immediately with his palm, rubs the flesh of your ass.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Enjoying being bent over my lap and spanked like the dirty whore y’are, huh?”

You can’t believe the filth that’s dripping from his lips. Sure, he curses plenty, and you’ve heard him cuss out entire rooms full of angry men, but this is something else entirely. This is animalistic and derogatory and indecent. And God help you, its sending rushes of hot liquid practically gushing down your thighs.

“Be so easy to slide myself inside you, you’re so goddamn wet.” He says as he sends another harsh slap onto your ass. “Open you up and press myself inside this soaking cunt, hmm? Bet you’d let me, too, let me do fucking anything to you.”

“Yes, Joel, please, anything.”

His third laugh of the afternoon is throaty and coarse, full of self-indulgence. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck, makes you clench your thighs together and grind your teeth to stop you from crying out again.

“You gonna come like this, baby?” He asks, sliding his hand over the meat of your ass, down between your thighs to press at your entrance, slipping beneath your ruined underwear. “Come on my lap like the dirty fucking slut I know you are?”

The sweet sting as he pushes two thick fingers inside you almost pushes you over the edge there and then, but you bite into your lip – probably drawing blood, but you’re too distracted to notice. He curls his fingers, drags the pads of them over the soft flesh inside you, seeking out that spot that makes you almost black out, pleasure ratcheting up so suddenly that you gasp, coming hard in his lap, muscles shaking and contracting, cunt squeezing his fingers tight.

“There she is,” He hisses, curling them again, chasing you as you shift against him, overstimulated.

How is he so good at this? You’ve never seen him with anyone – he’s always given the impression that he has no interest in sex, in relationships, friendships, even. But the expert way that he’s playing your body like an instrument, chasing your moans and gasps like they’re the air he needs to stay alive, tells a completely different story. And when you jerk in his grip and he presses you harder against him, shifting on the sofa, there’s suddenly a very clear indication of just how much of an affect this is having on him, too.

“Shit,” His voice is ragged now: This outburst isn’t controlled in the way that the rest of the curses he’s been spewing into your ears have been. It’s unexpected and bitten back behind a grunt as your hip comes into contact with his cock – a solid, hot weight that fills the front of his jeans, pressing the button of his flies into you, his pocket a line of stitches on your stomach.

The next smack is all the harder for the tiny huff of a giggle you let out, which turns quickly into a hiss of pain when his palm comes down hard against you.

“Concentrate,” He warns when you don’t immediately count the spank aloud. “’m teaching you a fuckin’ lesson, here, remember?”

“Four.” You say, pressing your face harder into the cushion, rolling your hips just slightly so that his cock twitches against your stomach.

“Five for five.” He says, soothing your heated flesh with the palm of his hand before bringing it down one final time. “Five. Think you’ve learnt your lesson?”

You twist round in his lap, eyes dancing when you see the flush that’s tinted his cheeks, the way his gaze is lingering on the swell of your ass cheek in his hand, perspiration beading on his heavy brow.

“I don’t know, Joel, do you?” You say, voice teasing, and he snaps his eyes up to your face as he hisses through clenched teeth.

“Fuckin’ mouth on you, you insolent little slut,” he curses, fisting the collar of your shirt and pulling you upright, opening his legs so that you slide between them onto the cold lino floor.

“Think we can find a better use for it, hmm?” He leans back against the couch, pops the first button on his jeans. Your eyes follow the movement hungrily, unable to look away as he slide the zip down painfully slowly, tooth by tooth, the clicks loud in the silent apartment.

He doesn’t take the jeans off, just pushes them far enough down his thighs that he can fist his cock where it sits, heavy and thick, in his underwear. There’s a dark stain at the tip that makes your mouth water, and when he drags his briefs down, too, you lick your lips greedily.

He’s painfully hard – head flushed a deep red, veins standing out boldly against his thick shaft. There’s a thatch of dark hair at the base, and his balls are heavy and full when he tucks the waistband of his briefs underneath them.

He strokes himself lazily a few times and you let yourself look up to his face. His eyes are dark, pupils eating into the deep brown irises, brows furrowed slightly. The amber light of the lamp is casting his face partly in shadow and it only accentuates the strong, curved line of his nose, the deep creases that lines his eyes and forehead. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists, his gaze so sharp and focused it makes you dizzy.

“C’mon then,” he says, running a hot hand up your jaw to grip the back of your neck, pulling you in towards him. “I got no doubt you know exactly what you’re doing here.”

The scent of him is musky and something distinctly masculine, and you bury your nose in the thick hair at the base of him, place a heated kiss to the side of one thigh. This alone make him moan, a deep, throaty sound that lights you up from the inside.

You press your lips to the tip of him, flick your tongue out to kitten lick at the slit.

“Fuck,” he curses.

He’s sensitive. When you wrap a hand around the base of his cock and place your lips around him he hisses, fingers tightening their grip in your hair, free hand fisting the loose cover of the worn couch. You take him further in, suck your cheeks in to caress him, work your tongue over the delicate ridge at the head of his cock. He tastes like salt and sweat and something distinctly Joel, masculine and heady. When he hits the back of your throat you try not to gag, try to swallow him down, throat contracting around him so that he groans and curses.

“Jesus Christ, baby. Your mouth is fuckin’ filthy.”

You grin around his cock, work your hand over the part of him that won’t fit, then pull back and lick one long strip up his shaft, letting your tongue follow one of the thick veins. He presses himself back into your mouth, tightens his grip on the back of your neck and raises his hips off the sofa.

“You want me to fuck that pretty little mouth, baby?” He asks, and you nod, feel hot tears prickling in your eyes when he starts moving, dragging his hips back and then forward, forcing his cock into your mouth, down your throat so that you feel like you’re choking, like all that exists is Joel and his hard cock, his breathy moans and filthy mouth.

“Got such a clever fuckin’ mouth, baby. Just needed to find a way to put it to good use- shit, yeah, that’s it.” He pushes you down once more, groans as he bottoms out on your throat, then releases the back of your neck so that you can pull back.

You’re a mess, tears rolling down your face, saliva pooling in your mouth and joining your lips with Joel’s cock in long strings. Joel’s looking down at you with fire in his eyes, his dark gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes to the open buttons of your shirt and the swell of your ass.

“Get up,” He says, wrapping his hand around your upper arm and pulling you to your feet.

Before you’ve time to get your balance he’s bending you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees on the sofa. He lines himself up behind you, drags the blunt head of his cock through your soaking folds and presses himself inside your cunt.

The stretch is intense. You squeeze your eyes shut, press yourself back against him as he inches inside. He pauses for a split second when he’s sheathed himself fully inside, then pulls out and begins a punishing pace, fucking you into the sofa, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’re sure he’ll leave marks in the shape of his fingertips.

“Pussy’s gripping me so fuckin’ tight, darlin’” He says, and something in your chest swells at the sound of ‘darlin’’ rolling off his tongue like that, full of something that’s dangerously close to fondness.

He’s a cacophony of contradictions, greedy hands gripping your hips possessively, then smoothing up your back under your shirt before sliding back down to slap the soft flesh of your ass. His thrusts are hard and intense, cock hitting that spot inside you that makes electricity jolt in your stomach with each movement, but then he bends over you, slows his hips so that he can kiss the skin of your throat. His voice – deep, husky, reverberating in his chest – keeps up a filthy chorus that has you whimpering into the couch, but he’s praising you, offering you gentle encouragement, his words warm and dirty and entirely overwhelming.

Being so good for me, baby, pussy’s so fuckin’ wet and tight around me. Can feel you getting close, you gonna come like this, huh? With my cock buried deep inside this pretty little cunt?

Without waiting for an answer he wraps an arm around you and finds your clit with two of his thick fingers. He starts rubbing confident circles over it, bringing you closer and closer to your inevitable climax. You grip his arm with your fist; fingernails digging into hard muscle.

Then suddenly you’re coming apart, white noise blocking out the sound of his hips slapping into yours and his voice and the low level hubbub of the other apartments, until there’s nothing left but your pleasure and his cock and his clever fingers, his nose pressed into your throat, teeth nipping the tendons there.

The world fades back into existence as you come down, muscles jolting. You feel yourself clenching around him with the aftershocks. Joel gasps into your neck, squeezes your tits over your shirt.

“Fuck, just like that, gonna come in this sweet cunt. Shit, that’s it.” His thrusts falter, hips slamming into yours.

You feel him twitch inside you as he comes, ropes of hot cum painting the inside of you, his stuttering breath at your ear.

You stay as you are for a moment, both gasping for breath, hearts hammering in your chests. His embrace is suddenly tender, muscles shifting as he relaxes against you. You don’t say anything, but he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, and that simple gesture opens a floodgate in your chest.

He pulls out of you but keeps his arm around you, guides you both down to lie on the couch, your back pressed to his front. The light in the apartment feels different than it did earlier, the orange hue warmer, kinder than it was.

Joel peppers kisses along the back of your neck and over each shoulder, his strong arm keeping you firmly against him. He wraps a thick thigh over both of yours and tightens it, anchoring you in place. You sigh in contentment, head quieter than it’s been for months, years, possibly.

“I didn’t hurt you?” He says into your hair, voice low.

“No, Joel.”

“You sure? I’m sorry if I was too rough. I don’t- I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I liked it, Joel.”

He chuckles darkly, hooks his chin over your shoulder and teases the skin under your ear with his teeth.

“Fuckin’ filthy, aren’t you? Always knew you were.” He presses his nose to your neck, inhales deeply. “Perfume’s nice, by the way.”

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fic #joel x you #joel x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction

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save-the-villainous-cat · 1 month

Text

With all the strength they had left, the hero crawled into the villain’s apartment through the window. After surviving the superhero, this should have been easy but it turned out to be exhausting.

The hero had landed in the bathroom and without wasting another second, they pulled themselves up and searched through the cabinets. Unfortunately, their bloody hands left enough evidence of them breaking in already. They supposed they’d have to face the villain sooner or later, even if that meant the villain was going to throw them out again.

For now, they found something close enough to practical — a razor — and opened the first aid kit the villain usually stored under the cabinet. Before they could take out the blades, the villain opened the door.

“You’re not as quiet as you think.” The hero looked at them and smiled softly. Teeth stained with blood, heavy limbs.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” they said. With no hesitation, the villain helped them up and took the razorblades out of their hands.

“What happened to that pretty face?” they asked. With one hand on the hero’s hip, they reached for a clean towel and turned on the sink. They let the soft fabric drench in warm water and gently cleaned up the hero’s face.

It all happened so fast. The villain didn’t seem to mind that the hero was here in the middle of the night.

And they were close. So close.

Whereas the villain was focused on the hero’s face and getting rid of all that blood, the hero stared into their eyes. Maybe it was this cruel change: brutal violence coming from someone they had adored to gentle tenderness from someone they had loathed.

The villain looked down at them. Their thumb traced the hero’s jawline and the hero looked away, almost ashamed.

“You look like shit,” the villain whispered. “And you woke me up.”

“I’m sorry,” the hero said. They looked at the villain’s clothes — their underwear and a shirt. The hero blushed a little. They took the villain’s hand and reached for the razorblades. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

The hero let go of them with a gaze that lingered a little too long.

“They chipped me,” the hero explained. They cleaned the blade with some rubbing alcohol and took in a deep breath. “Chipped me like a fucking dog.”

They cut into their own forearm, watching as the blood ran down their skin. It burnt even more than the open wounds on the hero’s back. They supposed they just had gotten used to that sort of pain, even if that was impossible.

With the blade, they dug through skin and muscle, clenching their teeth until they found the little tracker. They cursed when they pushed their fingers into the wound to fish it out.

Once they had the bloody device in their hand, they let it fall to the ground and crushed it under their boot.

“I knew trackers are useless at your place. You’ve slipped through my fingers quite a few times that way.”

The villain didn’t say anything. They just stared at the hero who cleaned their arm.

It wasn’t exactly easy to crawl to their nemesis and beg for shelter. The hero was too proud to do that anyway and they had planned to leave after cutting out the microchip.

“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the hero said.

“You didn’t bother me.” The villain took a step forward and took the hero’s hands. “Are you alright?”

The hero frowned.

“Of course I am. I’m fine. I’m doing great.”

“You’re sure about that?” The villain let their fingers intertwine and suddenly, the hero felt very tired very quickly. “You’ve been so busy these last few days. I barely got to see you. They sent over some other lame heroes.”

The hero chuckled tiredly.

“I mean, why would they think I am satisfied with all the other rabble?” One of their hands glided down the hero’s forearm where they put pressure on the wound. “You always wanted to be a hero. When did that change?”

“I don’t know,” the hero said but the desperation and the hopelessness were already settling in. It didn’t even buy them time to lie to the villain. One way or another they found out anyway and most of the time, they asked the hero questions they already had the answers to.

The hero couldn’t really take it anymore. The pain was too much, their mind was breaking more and more.

“Oh, so many tears on such a pretty face,” the villain said. They pulled the hero closer and wiped their tears away with the back of their hand. “Don’t you know it’s not your fault?”

“They turned against me,” the hero said. Their voice trembled. “All of them. They chipped me, they put a bounty on my head. They’re trying to kill me because I don’t agree with…with all this shit.”

The villain cupped their face. “With what?”

“With all this stupid collateral damage and these dumb advertisements. Most of the time I feel like a mascot, I’m barely saving any people.”

“Oh, darling.” The villain tilted their head. Their presence was comforting in a way the hero hadn’t had experienced before. Whatever they’d done to each other in the past, the hero didn’t care. They were familiar, they were warm. The hero wasn’t going to let anyone take this moment away from them. “And who exactly beat you up like this? Your boss, I assume?”

“…yeah.” They could play pretend. They could pretend the villain was closer, that they were more than acquaintances. Even if it wasn’t real, even if the villain was using them, the hero needed some affection right now. They’d gladly give the heartbreak to their future self.

“My poor hero,” the villain said softly. “Would you let me stitch you up?”

The hero nodded.

“I’ll protect you,” the villain promised. They pulled them close to hug the hero. The hero didn’t understand why they were so gentle, so kind. Most of the time, they insulted each other like children. But the hero needed this. They really did. “They will pay for this.”

#shake baby baby shake bis uns der Himmel auf den Kopf fällt #writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #h/c

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ohproserpine · 4 months

Text

lamb to the slaughter

alastor finds heaven kneeling before an exterminator tags. alastor x gn! exterminator! angel reader, religious imagery & symbolism, implied death, blood, dark romance

Alastor holds no reverence for heaven.

He himself was far from holy, his rotten soul resistant to the act of prayer and worship. The humility required to kneel and plead for mercy is an attribute that seems alien to him.

But never before had he beheld such beauty.

Alastor eyes were fixed on you. Before him, you loomed, a majestic creature with pearlescent wings outspread, a radiant halo encircling your horns, and draped in golden robes.

In the grip of your divine gaze, Alastor's thoughts wandered back to the verses he had half-heartedly listened to in the hallowed halls of the church. The utterances of the pastor, the haunting melodies of the choir, and the impassioned prayers fervently uttered by the congregation—all appeared to him as a futile worship. Amidst it all, he remained a solitary figure, impervious to the sanctity of the holy prayers.

Had he known that beauty could materialize into a being such as you, he would have uttered all those holy prayers in your name instead.

"Kneel," you commanded. Something within him seethed, growled, and clawed at his thumping chest.

Despite the tremors in his knees, he feigned composure, sinking to kneel before you. The fabric of his pants tore on the coarse gravel, leaving his knees scraped and bloodied. As he raised his gaze to meet yours, a chilling sensation coursed through him, your heavenly eyes seemingly scorching his skin.

Dimly aware of the pain induced by your blade piercing through muscle and meeting bone, a crazed euphoria enveloped him, numbing the stinging sensation.

Alastor found it somewhat hilarious. Creatures like you, born to worship and embody symbols of holiness, bore wings that were perpetually stained with the richness of cardinal red.

A soft, involuntary groan slipped past the demon's lips as you abruptly yanked the spear from his flesh, forcefully pulling him closer to you. Despite the searing pain, he bit down on his tongue, commanding himself to silence.

"How shameful," your voice cooed, a mellifluous cadence that felt like honey to his ears—soft and warm. Alastor felt the edge of your bloodied spear against his throat, yet he made no move to stop you.

There was nothing heavenly about this, and yet it was the closest he felt to heaven.

What's heaven compared to you anyway?

You moved closer towards him, the spear shifting from his throat, tracing a path toward his jaw before aiming it to strike his head. All the while, Alastor gazed up at you with an expression akin to that of a lamb.

"Beautiful," Alastor spat out, blood seeping from between his teeth. The gleam in his razor-sharp smile held a disturbing charm.

"This praise will not purify you."

His laughter echoed in the air, a breathless and bittersweet symphony that mingled with the metallic tang of his own blood.

Forgive him. Alastor pleaded one last time as you raised the spear high. For he has sinned.

And yet, kneeling before you now, hands bloodied with the golden blood of your kin, he knew he would do it again.

#just a drabble :P wrote it in an hour after i listened to 'little lamb' by jazmin bean #sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor

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sourholland · 10 months

Text

timeless; thomas shelby

This idea has been plaguing my mind for days, I cannot get it out of my head. I’m not sure if I will make any more parts of this, it all depends on how I feel about it and if it is well received. The timeline of this is skewed on purpose, it’s also heavily based on Tommy’s time fighting during the war. Timeless by Taylor Swift was a huge inspiration.

Both you and Tommy became unlikely friends during childhood, only for you to realize you had always loved him. Tommy finds himself seeing you in a different light, only war being able to separate the two of you. (3.5k)

Thomas Shelby was the first and only boy you had ever loved.

It was 1902, Tommy was twelve years old. He played with your older brother, they went out into the street with the Shelby brothers and few other boys from the neighborhood and kicked a ball around. You were eight, trailing your brother Joseph at every chance you had.

When you met Tommy, it was because you had chased after your brother one August afternoon with the intention to join their game of kickball. The moment you approached the large group of prepubescent boys, Joseph looked absolutely mortified. Even though he was older than some of the boys, at fourteen, he still followed all of Tommy’s orders. This, you didn’t understand.

“Go home,” he leaned down to your level in gritted teeth.

“I just want to play, just one game,” you pleaded with him. “Please, Joey.”

“No,” he barked. “Y/N, you gotta get out of here.”

Feeling you face heat up, you were near tears and embarrassed in front of all of the older boys. Joseph would not let up, angry at you for trying to play with him and his friends.

“What the fuck d’she want?” Arthur bellowed towards your brother.

Peering over at him, you could tell that he was not very patient and was even older than Joseph. After Arthur had yelled, you turned back to go home. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as you shuffled back to where you lived and went inside to play alone.

“Fuckin’ asshole is what you are,” Tommy shook his head a bit. “Game’s not fuckin’ hard or anythin’, Joe. She could have played.”

That was all they ever said again on the matter, your brother never brought it up to you that night and you never spoke of it to him. It wasn’t until later on that month that anyone had approached you about what happened that day in Small Heath.

You were sent out to pick up your mother’s cigarettes, dragging your feet along the dirt path with the coin in your hand. Every Wednesday, you made the same trek. Tommy Shelby came up on your right side as you walked one day, you saw a screwdriver sticking out of his pocket and nearly shuttered. The kids around the neighborhood spoke of him in hushed whispers, calling him a gypsy and saying he and his brothers carried razor blades around with them.

“You’re Joe’s sister, aren’t you?” He asked, peering over at you. “Tried to join in on a game a while back?”

“Yes,” you nodded. “I’m Y/N.”

He hummed in response, kicking dirt with his shoe as you both walked. He was much taller than you, though he was still quite narrow and scrawny. Truthfully, there was no denying that you had a little bit of a schoolgirl crush on him.

“Where’re you headed?” He finally spoke up.

“Grabbing my mum’s cigarettes,” you told him with a sigh. “She sends me out every week to pick some up.”

At the time, you had no clue why Tommy had followed you all the way to the shop and then walked you home. He never gave you any inclination either. Then, he did the same the next week. He came outside when you passed his house and you walked together. This occurred every week after the first.

Of course, you assumed this meant he liked you and this caused you to revel in the attention just a little. Tommy would talk to you about school and horses mostly, he was kind to you.

About six months after you and Tommy had developed this weekly routine, you mentioned something to your brother about it and he teased you about having a crush on Tommy. Making the mistake of saying he must’ve liked you back if he continued to walk along with you, Joseph was quite cruel in return.

“He doesn’t do it because he likes to,” Joseph laughed. “Father started pestering me to walk with you when he found out you were being picked on in school, bothered and such by the boys around. I started to give Tommy a bit of my allowance to walk with you so dad would finally get off my fucking back.”

You no longer walked to the shops on Wednesdays.

Tommy waited for you the next week, but you never left out front and began past his house. The week after, he did the same and you still did not come.

“Y/N!” Your mother’s voice came up the staircase on Thursday morning. “Come to the door.”

Tommy stood there in the walkway to your home, talking with your mother about something as you came down the steps. She left you to walk outside together and down the stairs into the street.

“You’re not getting your mum’s cigarettes anymore?” He asked you suddenly.

“No, I am,” you told him. “Just don’t want to walk with you anymore.”

He seemed taken aback by this, not used to the idea of you sticking your nose up at him and looking the other way when he tried to talk to you. Tommy knew you were smitten with him, he didn’t mind it. He thought you were nice enough, he liked to walk with you every week. He just didn’t see you the same way that you saw him, you were too young and too curious about certain things.

“Why’s that?” He shot back a little annoyed.

“Joey told me that he’s been paying you to do it, to make sure nobody messes with me.”

“And?” Tommy asked. “Doesn’t really fuckin’ matter if you ask me, whether he’s payin’ me or not.”

This made you roll your eyes, shaking your head at him and leaning against the brick of one of the alleyways you walked down. Tommy was confused as to why this bothered you so much, truthfully it didn’t really matter about the money to him. It helped him to buy cigarettes, that was all. He didn’t mind walking along with you, though. He would’ve done it without the payout.

“It matters to me,” you told him. “I don’t need looking after or anything like that.”

Turning on your heel, you thought that you’d been able to get the last word. Little did you know, nobody but Tommy got the last word. He only realized you had decided to go out on Saturdays, rather than Wednesdays. He told Joseph that he wouldn’t be requiring payment anymore and you walked in silence for over a month before you spoke to him on your walks again.

His stubbornness irked you, leaving you infuriatingly mad at his inability to leave you alone. Your cheeks went hot when he came around, stomach in knots whenever he would say your name.

Over the years, you had tried to shake your feelings for Tommy. This was mostly due to the fact that you had grown attached in a way that allowed you to call him a friend. By the time you were eleven, Tommy had taught you how to ride his horse. He spent an entire summer working with you. He was fifteen and definitely had plenty of better things to do, but he spent hours upon hours in the grueling sun with you.

“Tommy,” you said, laying sprawled out on a patch of grass one afternoon when you were thirteen and he was seventeen. “D’you want to come ‘round to mine for supper tonight? Mum asked me to invite you over.”

The last bit was a lie, you truly just wanted Tommy to join you. He inhaled shortly before propping himself up on his hand and looking over at you.

“Can’t tonight, m’sorry,” he apologized to you.

“Why not?” You asked curiously, assuming he’d saying something about having to be with his brothers or Polly.

“I’ve actually asked a girl out,” he confessed to you. “I’m planning to take her out tonight.”

This was one of the few times Tommy discussed his love life with you. Your friendship mostly consisted of doing other things, less intrusive things. He still really saw you as a younger sister type of figure in a way. He thoroughly enjoyed your company, but there was no denying his attraction to the girls he saw in school.

Once, Tommy told you about Arthur bringing home a prostitute. He didn’t tell you why he did it, or what they did. Only laughed it off, unbeknownst to him that you really didn’t know what a prostitute was. Joseph had called them whores, but you lived a rather sheltered lifestyle and none of the older people around you ever spoke about such things in front of you.

Tommy took girls out, he’d had several girlfriends as you approached your later teenage years. Your friendship, however, never faltered. When you were seventeen years old, you remember going out riding with him and telling him how you wanted to make something of yourself beyond what Small Heath had to offer. Planning to become a schoolteacher, Tommy had always admired this about you.

“Don’t you want to be something other than all this?” You asked him, alluding to the fact that he was growing more and more responsible for the Peaky Blinders. “I mean, I just wondered if you ever had other dreams.”

“I’d like to work with horses,” he told you quietly, running his hands over the mare’s mane.

“Why don’t you?” You questioned him. “I know you feel some sense of responsibility over your family, I think it’s one of your best traits. Don’t you ever want to just—I don’t know, live a less tormenting life?”

Tommy played with the reins, looking at you and shrugging. This was all he’d ever known, and all he would ever know. There was no Birmingham without Tommy Shelby, you knew it as well as anyone. It still hurt, though. Knowing he was playing with fire every day, testing God, as your mother had called it.

Once Tommy had grown more involved in the gang, your parents no longer allowed him to come over to the house. They detested you seeing him at all, your brother most of all. He settled quickly, marrying a woman and starting a family.

Tommy realized he loved you when he was twenty two years old. He’d known you for ten years, having called you his best friend for a decade. You were eighteen years old and had just begun training to become a teacher, you were commuting frequently and saw Tommy less and less.

It was that Christmas when you’d introduced him to the man you had been courting, his name was Michael. When he shook the man’s hand, Tommy felt something inside of him shift. Suddenly, you were no longer that little girl with scuffed shoes and long pigtails. He saw a young woman with ambition and heart, but you were no longer holding out for Tommy like you had for nearly ten years.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Arthur came up and clapped Tommy on the back of the shoulder. “S’fucking Christmas and you’re really bringing my spirits down.”

Tommy said nothing, downing more whiskey as he watched Michael spin you around in a dance. You were in a fit of laughter, smiling at him adoringly.

“Be serious, brother,” Arthur sighed, drunk and wondering how Tommy could truly be as he was. “You can’t tell me that you’re sitting over here in the corner drinking away your sorrows because she’s brought along some bloke.”

“Fuck off, won’t you?” Tommy shot him a look.

“Unbelievable,” Arthur walked away laughing.

It was completely and utterly unbelievable, not only to Arthur, but to Tommy as well. He’d spent years with you, practically praying that you would find someone, anyone to avert your feelings too. As you grew older, you also were able to hide your feelings and emotions better in Tommy’s case.

He watched you the entire night, nodding a farewell when he noticed you trying to approach him. He had no intention of speaking to Michael again, for fear that he may be physically ill.

His hope that it was a passing courtship died with what looked to be your close friendship. The two of you hardly saw each other anymore, animosity forming between you after the night of the Christmas party.

Months later, Tommy found himself at your apartment door when Ada had told him that you mentioned thinking Michael was planning to propose. He left to see you after midnight, walking the entire distance to where you lived and putting himself at your front door well past one in the morning.

“Y/N,” he called out as he knocked. “It’s Tommy.”

Opening the door, you were only left in your nightdress. Your hair was down completely, something Tommy had not seen since you were some years younger. He could not help but to notice the sheer material of the fabric, the buds of your nipples showing through.

“Tommy?” You yawned. “What’re you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you,” he told you.

“Now? It’s the middle of the night.”

Ushering him in, you let him shut the door behind him and tried to rub the sleep out of your eyes. Tommy felt himself growing hard, looking at you in such a state.

“Y/N, don’t marry him,” Tommy blurted out in almost a whisper.

“What?” You looked at him, shocked. “What did you say?”

“Don’t marry him, don’t marry Michael.”

There was a stillness to the room, a silence that made you almost sick. His face was somehow stoic, but pleading at the same time. His eyes bored into your own, as if they were making it impossible to get a word out.

“He is a good man, Tommy,” you said. “He wants to take care of me, to make me happy.”

“With plenty of money and security, with a practical occupation and a good legacy to leave your children?” Tommy asked, sarcasm incredibly evident.

“Yes, Tommy. Fuck, I mean is that what you want me to say? That he can give me a good life? Why should it matter if he’s got money?”

“It shouldn’t, not if you love him,” Tommy told you. “Do you?”

It felt as if you were eight years old again, confronting Tommy about why he was walking with you in the first place. He looked at you with such yearning, such longing. It was as if he was begging you not to say yes, pleading with you not to have already devoted your heart to this man.

There was only one truth of the matter. Thomas Shelby was the only man that you had ever loved.

“Tommy, I have only ever loved you since I was eight years old,” you whispered.

As if unable to hold back any longer, Tommy embraced you fully and brought you into his arms. He kissed you furiously, without any doubt or question that you were meant for him. He let his hands run up and down your back and pulled you into his body.

Before you gave into your urge to let him rip your sheer nightdress off of you, you pulled away with swollen lips and eyes full of desire. This was not right, not until you spoke to Michael. Regardless of how you felt for Tommy, you could not do this to Michael.

“Not yet,” you whispered. “I gave a man my word, I need to speak to him before I can go any further here.”

Tommy respected your choice, he knew you wouldn’t want disloyalty on your conscience. He just nodded his head and placed a hand on your cheek gently, it was in these moments that he forgot about everything else.

Michael didn’t take the news very well at all, his ego was bruised and he pleaded for you to reconsider. He told you how deeply he loved you and how you had led him on, making him believe that you two would have a life together. He was right, you had encouraged him in all of his dreams of your future and you had done it without ever considering how it may end. It was selfish.

It took you weeks before you agreed to see Tommy again after Michael had left you feeling so guilty. Nights of tireless sleep, you would look up at the sky and pray to god that you were making the right decisions.

Over a year into your training, you would soon be able to do what you’d always dreamt of. Dark times approached, though. There were ghosts of whispers at every street corner, they spoke of war so feverishly. It was as if death was due to knock at the doors of families, stripping women of their husbands and children of their fathers.

The thought of this had left Tommy quite stoic most of the time, he held a monotonous view on the entire matter. Every time you had brought it up to him, he told you how he would be expected to fight on behalf of his country if it came down to it.

And so he did, when it came down to it and Britain had joined the War—The Shelby brothers and hundreds of other men in Small Heath joined as well.

“Tommy,” I sniffled as I watched him from across his bedroom pack a small bag of things. “I need you to promise me that you’ll come home, that you won’t die out there. They’re saying things about trench warfare, it’s all really terrifying—”

Tommy crossed the room and took your face in his hands, kissing you hard on the lips, as if it was the last time he would ever do so. A piece of you wondered if he believed that he would die out there.

“Please come home,” you breathed.

“I will come home,” he kissed you again. “I promise you.”

You planned to hold him to this promise. Having waited ten years for Tommy Shelby, you would wait however long more so long as he would come home to you.

It took two months before his first letter would come after you watched him depart on that large ship. Long months of kneeling at the foot of your bed, begging god not to take Tommy. Everything that was being said about the war was absolutely tragic, soldiers being blown to pieces or rotting below the earth in the trenches.

My Dearest Y/N,

I wish I was able to write to you sooner, I cannot say where I am for the risk of interception. Just know that I have never been in such conditions in my life, I spend my days underground. I have taken the role of a tunneler. Trench warfare has not been good to any of us, I find myself fantasizing of the end of this long hell.

I stare at your picture every night before I shut my eyes, dreaming of what it would be like beside you. There is no greater sorrow to me than your absence from my life at this point in time. I can only hope that it will not be for long.

Not long ago, myself and a group of men were gassed. I watched a fellow soldier go blind for nearly three days before he finally came out of it, only with some permanent damage. There are times when I have thought to myself, ‘Perhaps if I was hit, it would not be so bad. Perhaps even death is better than fighting in this war’.

Then I think of you. I think of the promises I made to you before I left to fight in this god awful war. I cannot understand how men are expected to live like this, nor how we will continue on. I was up to my knees in water last week, the trenches dark and desolate as we waited for the storm to pass. There is so much waiting these days.

I look forward to your letter.

With all of my love,

Tommy Shelby

#elle’s fics #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shelby imagines #tommy shelby x y/n #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagines #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader

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yeyinde · 1 year

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OK but i need to know if price allows his wife to trim his beard …can you please write a drabble on it to feed my price addiction

Oh, absolutely!! I bet it’s easier for him to have someone he trusts cut his hair for him. His beard, though—I imagine he grooms it himself (too many oh, sir, you should cut it this way—), and he prefers a straight razor over a blade. If he really, really trusts you, he'll let you do it for him, but he's been grooming his beard since he was 28, and so. No one does it better than he does.

His hair, however? He considers it a free cut.

》 WARNINGS: Um. Just some domestic bliss, really. Bantering. Allusions to sexual content, PTSD, and trust issues (not as serious as it sounds; just briefly mentioned). This is basically just gratuitous fluff. This was written with absolutely no discernible characteristics for the Reader—gender-neutral reader 》 WORD COUNT: 1,9k

"Hold still."

"Holdin' as still as I can, love."

His words are thick—little more than a grumble rasped into the collar of his shirt, distorted from the tilt of his head, chin resting on his sternum.

To someone else, his tone might be misconstrued as waspish; a scathing snap sawed between his clenched teeth, and coloured in a thick paint of impatience.

But you know him more than most, and the huffiness of his tone only serves to amuse you.

(Your irascible man.)

Still.

Your fingers snake through the overgrown locks on the top of his hand until you have a fistful trapped tight between each of your digits, and then you tug just so. A warning. Not enough to hurt him, of course, but enough that it makes him tense—makes him groan.

His voice loses the surly pinch, and sounds decidedly breathless—a fact that makes you stifle a grin.

"Gonna start somethin' you can't finish, you bloody minx."

"Gonna cut your skin if you don't stop wriggling around," you volley back.

He huffs, shoulders slumping down with his sharp exhale. "Just get on with it. Getting stiff sittin' like this."

You ease off the clutch of his hair, but keep the locks between your fingers, eyeing the length, before nodding to yourself, and bringing the scissors close to the tuffs spilling out.

The snipping sound of the shears cutting through his hair fills your small washroom. His shoulders seem to relax, if only slightly, as you work.

You cut the locks between your pinky and ring finger shorter than the rest, and wince.

"You know," you murmur, brows furrowing as you try to gauge whether or not it's passable enough to be overlooked, or if you'll need to cut all of it shorter to match. "You could go to a barber. A professional."

He grunts. You know what he's going to say before he says it, and you wordlessly mimic the words that leave his lips:

"Cheaper this way, ain't it?" He drops his chin when you nudge his head.

Cutting his hair has become a small tradition between you, one that started a few months into your relationship when he showed up at your door, three hours late to a planned date with a bucket hat on his head, and a package of forget-me-nots in his hand (seeds, he said, because flowers will wilt and die in a day but if you plant them in your garden, they'll regrow forever). His hair was longer than usual, curling just under his chin, and the sight of him—so frazzled and unkempt compared to how put together he normally was—made something inside of you ache.

He'd rushed here as soon as he could, complaining that his flight was delayed, and his barber quit on him, and all the while, your fingers itched with the urge to run them through his overgrown locks, to feel the silken hair against your palm.

(To grip tight and not let go.)

The words slipped out with very little conscious thought: I can cut it for you.

He seemed almost caught off-guard, but the obvious discomfort of having his hair tickle the nape of his neck made his acquiescence much easier.

You discovered that night just how much you liked having his hair in your hands, and he seemed to realise that fucking you against the wall, while you tugged on his freshly cut hair, in lieu of payment was much more preferable than dealing with a barber.

"No," he grouses. "They're always goin' on 'bout undercuts, and tryin'a get me to shave my chops, and I ain't dealin' with that when I 'ave you."

"Free labour?"

"Hardly." He scoffs. "Gonna break my damned back one of these days, you bloody—"

"—hold still, love," the stolen endearment makes him shudder, but he quiets when you rest the flat of the blade over the crest of his ear, cutting the overgrown hair around his sideburns. "That's it. Good boy."

"Keep playing with me, love, and I'll show you who's a good—"

Another tug. His scorching words taper off into a growl.

"You don't seem to complain much when you pull me in for another round—ah, ah—" You tug his hair again when he moves, fighting a wide grin. The plastic handles of the scissors slide back until it arches off the back of your hand, thumb brushing the loose hair from behind his ear. "God, you're so stubborn. You want to get cut, don't you?"

"Trust you not to leave me a bloody mess by the end of this."

With his chin dipped so far down into his collar, his words are honey-thick and robust, and the deep cadence alone makes your toes curl in your slippers.

"Trust me that much, hmm?"

Despite the transparent barb, the tease in your slightly breathless tone, he doesn't hesitate. "With my life."

"Aren't you a charmer?"

"Almost done? I'll show you how charming I can be—"

"Nearly. Would've finished an hour ago if you'd keep still."

He grumbles again, but the words are swallowed by the snip of the scissors. An impasse blooms in the scant space between your front, and his broad back. Comfortable, like all silences with him have become. Despite your griping, cutting his hair is soothing—intimate in a way you'd never come to expect it to be.

It might be the explicit trust he places in your hands when you direct him to tilt his chin for you at a mere tap against his jaw, or the crown of his head. Wordlessly following your commands as soon as they're conveyed.

To anyone else, such a display is commonplace, but you've been through the thick of everything to know that exposing his neck in such a vulnerable way to you, and so soon after a mission, is more meaningful than any declaration of trust could ever be. The innate drive to protect his fragile pieces from harm often leads to him flinching away from the sharp end of the shears, but it diminishes just as quickly as it rears, and he sits, docile and accommodating, for you. Allowing you this minuscule power over him.

Maybe that's why he refuses to see a barber, opting to let you chop his hair in whichever style you deem attractive instead. Explaining to someone else why he's so tense, why he sometimes can't stifle the small jerk when cold metal kisses the nape of his neck, seems tiresome. The unneeded opening of a barely healed scab.

It was a battle getting him to open up to you, to let you invade his space, and squeeze through the splinters in his resolve when it became clear that you weren't going anywhere that wasn't with him.

The thought of it alone warms you. The ache in your joints from holding your hands still, cutting through the thick tufts of hair, feels like a small burden in comparison to what he's shown you with this.

It's been barely five hours since he touched down at Heathrow. His duffle bag is still packed. His fatigues are still on. He hadn't even showered off the stench of the mission, or scoured the blood and dirt from between his nails, and yet—

You tap his cheek. His head lifts, and then lists to the side. The smooth curve of his neck is exposed. His exterior vein throbs through his sun-kissed skin.

Affection blossoms in your chest.

"Missed you."

The words are barely a whisper, but his eyes peel open, icy blue finding yours as you lean over him, getting the last patch of hair near his temple.

John says nothing in response, but he doesn't have to. You see it all—feel it. The vein in his neck throbs more intensely as his heart rate picks up, and that alone is more than an echoed sentiment in return. It's enough.

But still:

His hand lifts with a deliberate slowness until the pads of his fingers kiss your wrist. He burns red-hot—skin just as fiery as his temper—and the warmth of his rough skin bleeds into you when he wraps his full palm over your arm, thumb brushing your flesh in a distinct pattern.

When you recognise it, you falter.

It isn't quite Morse code, but it's something he taught you on the eighth date when you asked if the wordless hand signals were accurate in the movie you'd just seen. His hand found yours as he led you out of the theatre, and down the cold, wet streets of Liverpool.

"No," he snorted, derisively. And then spent the three blocks back to your flat showing you the different commands they used in the SAS, and the ones he taught his men. "If you can, skin on skin is better. Less likely to be seen. We save it for hostage situations. Like this—"

Blisteringly intense cerulean never wavers from yours as he lets you feel the words he rasps over your skin.

You try not to tremble with the shears pressed too close to his skin, and quietly pull them away. He watches as you place them on the ledge of the vanity, hand never releasing yours.

You brush the loose hair from his shoulders, trying to hide a smile.

"All done."

John hums, the noise a crackling ember that fills the hush in the room, and notches between your ribs where it sticks against your thudding heart.

"What's the verdict?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?"

Loose hair falls from his shoulders when he stands until it dusts across the tile below his feet. He leans over the sink, shaking his head above the basin, before settling, angling his chin as he takes in your shoddy handiwork.

"Looks good."

You snort. "Sure. I'll have to go over it once you finish showering because someone wouldn't sit still long enough for me to clip around your crown, and—"

He turns to face you, and the playful diatribe is cut off when his warm palms fit against your hips. It's his turn to tug, and he does so with a sharp jerk of his wrists, pulling you taut to his chest.

His eyes bore down into yours, mirthful blue. "Yes, yes," his eyes roll briefly toward the ceiling, lips curling into a soft smirk. "But someone kept tryin'a clip my ears, and pullin' on my hair."

"Someone, eh?" You volley coyly, reaching up, and curling your fingers into the bristles of hair spilling from his cheeks.

At your gentle touch, his expression shifts to contemplative. His chin tilts when your nails graze his skin.

"You like my beard, don't you?"

Your brow lifts in question. "Yes, you know I do. Why? The boys making fun of you for it?"

"Gaz said I looked like an Edwardian lord—" you snort at the comparison. He pinches your side. "Watch it."

"Is that all?"

"Soap said they're grabable."

"Yeah, they are," you purr, taking in as much as you can in your fists. "Very steerable, too. But why is Soap concerned about that?"

"Said someone could grab 'em. Drag me by 'em, and—"

"Like his mohawk?"

He concedes your point with a flash of teeth. "You don't think I need to trim 'em?"

"And lose my handlebars? No way—"

His darken. "Dirty little thing, aren't you?"

"For you? Always."

"Mmm," he tilts his chin down, and presses his mouth to yours, teeth nipping your bottom lip. "Insatiable little minx."

"You love it."

"You know I do." His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. When you peer up at him, his pelagic gaze turns turbid with desire. "Now, about your payment…"

#captain john price #john price x reader #fluff only on a yey fic??#inconceivable #UM #i promise i'll edit this later #(maybe)#captain john price x reader #john price #captain price x reader #captain price #cod drabbles #cod price #price x reader #price x you

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frogchiro · 1 year

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🐙 here!

love monster!simon

imagine waking up with him on a lazy Sunday morning. you wake up with all the blankets pushed to the floor. why would you even need them?

bc Simon is literally your own personal heater.

he rumbles every time you nuzzle right under his chin. his arms feel like they sear into your body because he’s so warm and it’s so cold.

he will purposely purr and chuff at you to make sure you don’t leave. he gives you a small pout and you’re suddenly back in bed when you were trying to leave.

he takes the time to slowly scent you. rubbing the tip of his nose over your throat and nipping at the area between your shoulder blades. he’s just so excited that you’re here with him. in his nest. letting him scent you.

may or may not lead to soft sweet lazy sex in the morning just because you smell so good. and it’s even better when you smell like him.

monster!simon who absolutely adores you and won’t let you leave the nest for the day because it isn’t safe. stay here. with him 🥺

HELLO OCTOPUS!! this is way overdue too but I keep rereading it from time to time and I absolutely adore monster Si ;;

And he adores lazy days off! Especially when he's back from deployment and he needs to 'recharge' and what way could possibly better than spending the whole time glued to your side!

fem!reader, nsfw but it's really nothing big and incredibly fluffy <3

Since he's a monster, a creature, entity, eldricht being; whatever you call it, he sees you as his mate, someone who cares for him and he cares for in return, and his version of caring is keeping you in your nest where its drowning in his scent and he knows it's safe! He'll loudly voice his displeasure if you try and move away from him in the morning, chuffs and rumbles leaving his maw as he just hugs you impossibly closer, hooking his leg over yours and fully encompassing you with his massive body.

Scenting and marking is also incredibly important to him; what better way than to show everyone that you belong to him than having you drown is his scent and bite marks litter your throat and chest. Will absolutely melt into and eldricht horror pile of goo if your nuzzle under his stubbled chin and neck OR lick his cheek <3

Also soft possessive lovemaking in the morning is his favorite thing ever <3 It definitely won't be his usual rough domineering pace meant to release pent up stress or the heat induced brain clouding fog telling him to breed. Oh no, it will be overwhelmingly soft and slow, big strong hips moving lazily against yours, heavy cock thrusting slowly into your aching pussy and his knot just teasing against your enterance, your soft moans intertwining with Simon's pleased purrs and chirps and deep rumbles, his long tongue sneaking out from between his razor sharp teeth to lick at your cheek; a large monster soothing his sated happy mate <3

#🐙anon #hbfuebgfev I love him <333 #cod x reader #cod mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader

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anantaru · 1 year

Text

cw. cutting blade's hair, he's scared but won't admit it lmao, gn! reader

"this is nonsense."

"no it’s not."

you state yourself very clearly to blade, taking this with immense seriousness— while, with a modicum of smugness involved, you smoothly tangle your digits through his dark hair. but now, he sighs ever so slightly, it's the way you were proceeding with your actions— careful and content, as to not hurt your boyfriend.

blade cannot remember someone ever taking his feelings into consideration.

"you told me your hair bothers you!" you say and snap him out of his short lived daydream, your voice coming a little lighter than usual, you were certainly enjoying this way more than you previously thought you would. you took action and used a hair brush to pull away blade's unmanageable hair strands that were, frankly, all over the place.

be that as it may, blade's eyes remained closed, he wasn't sure if asking you to cut his hair was ultimately a good idea.

"don't cut too much." he almost whines, he couldn't be worried that you'd mess it up, or could he?

"please." and he adds a little beg at the end that barely made it out of his constricted throat. it wasn't new to you, when he acted that way, and you can feel a tight, coiling pressure located on his neck and collarbones.

"wait." you stop, "are you scared?" he's not, welp, or speaking truthfully, he very much was.

he doesn't give you a chance to add something to your words either, "no."

the continued sounds he made were silly, "nope, i‘m not." and if you didn't know any better you'd assume he's stressing himself the fuck out.

"of course not." he says again, clenching his teeth in a dissatisfied grunt, "okay, well then i'll start now!"

the first penetrative noises of your scissors cutting a few inches off his hair silvers through his ears like a razor through a tissue, turning his head a little shaky in the process.

but damn you and your ability to pacify his worries with nothing but that smile of yours. you laugh at him and his current state and in any other occasion he'd make sure to give you a taste of your own medicine yet you also rub your fingers into his scalp ever so often to lift his distress, massaging his head and playfully ruffling his hair.

"are you done already or?" wow, look at blade and his wronged sense on how time worked.

"i just started, you know." you say back wittily as you found your boyfriend growling which served as his own very response. on the contrary, maybe more like groaning out over this situation, more like what it should be, he's just not used to someone taking care of him.

"okay okay." embarrassment was only one of the words that felt painfully in tune with him right now as the dark haired pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth.

notwithstanding this, quote on quote, operation, all the panic stricken motions your boyfriend would partake in were gradually blanketed by your comforting presence so blade ultimately decided to leave his hair to you. yes, noticeably, his appearance was precious to him and he did view on it proudly, but even if you were to mess it up, he already has a vivid thought on how to pay you back.

nothing scary of sorts, he wouldn't dare to make you uncomfortable in any way and he won't cut your hair either, what he really did think about was a secret for now, until he looks at himself in the mirror that is.

#blade x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #blade x you #honkai star rail blade x reader #hsr blade x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you

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matchadobo · 8 months

Text

KIDD; doing his shaving for him

warning/s: all fluff!, gn!reader, kidd being cheeky

of course, kidd refuses to have facial hair

so when a stubble grows out or the roots start budding, he'd opt to start shaving

you were curious when you two first got together, why his beard never grows out

so you one day peeked inside the bathroom to see him shave

you see him so focused, eyes directed at the mirror where he meticulously cleaned off the remaining soap with a razor blade

yes he uses a razor blade, not a razor

he's so skillful about it tho it's hot

seeing him so focused makes you twirl your hair and bite your lip, smiling like an idiot because why is he so attractive?

his brows furrowed as he attempts to symmetrically clean off the foam

"what're you peekin' for, munchkin face?" he'd raise a brow, side eyeing you but is still steadily cleaning off half of the soap on his jaw

you'd reply, "anyone ever told you you're soooo handsome?" swooning like a princess

he'd break out a grin, his smile making him stop his routine to get a hold of himself

"fuck outta here, you flirt." he'd say that through gritted teeth but he's definitely smiling

but of course, that was code for keep going

and so you did keep on making side comments about how attractive he is until he finished

so the next time he does shave, he'd let you do it

he hands you the blade and says, "cmon, since you love seein me all dolled up."

you'd be scared at first, since it's a blade and you might end up hurting or scaring him

but he replied, "scar me? go ahead, bet it'd make me look sexier, aye?"

you'd sigh in defeat but deep inside, you really wanna do try it

so you sat yourself up on the sink, opened up your legs and arms and gestured for him to go in between

he'd put his arms on your side, at the sink's surface to get closer to you

this time, you were in the same height as him

he'd smile cheekily when your faces get close and it'd end up as an exchange of fits of laughter

you first grab the foamy soap, applying some on your hands and spreading it on his lower cheeks to his jaw and chin

you'd revel on how cute he looks with all the soap fluffing up his face

you'd rub his cheeks with your thumbs, making funny figures and laughing at how goofy he looks

"ready? don't go bleedin' my face off." he'd taunt you as you raise up the blade

you'd ignore him and went right on, carefully sliding the blade across his snowy skin

you'd be sooo focused, brows furrowing, lips pressing together cuz you don't want to go too deep and scar him!

but he on the other hand was downright eating you up with those damn eyes

amber orbs admiring every pore and detail of your face as a smile seemingly makes it way to his lips and you proceed to nag him to keep still: how your eyelashes flutter when you blink, how your irises move in a gradual up and down motion each time you move on to another portion, how your tongue peeks out from time to time when you get too into it, how your nose sometimes scrunch when you feel like you're gonna fuck up, how you tilt your head a bit when he moves a bit too much and the touch of your fingers sends his heart in a chase

you're gonna feel it and start growing red

you'd take a minute but he still admires how you blush over it

you'd fan yourself and he ends up laughing

but when you get back on track, boy does he not stop staring you down

he'd hit you back with the, "anyone ever told you you're so damn attractive?" gazing down as you hide your face

the entire time, you'd continue on your task while trying to regulate your heart and cheeks

once you finish and let him wash up, he'd playfully inspect your craft but praise you afterward

"pretty decent for a blushin' mess like you."

ever since then, he'd call on you to shave for him, insisting you have to be the one to do it for him

aaaaah idk why but a man shaving looks so attractive 🥺

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bloodblanks · 1 year

Text

punishment

ft: eyeless jack, masky, hoodie, ticci toby, jeff the killer, ben drowned, slenderman

author's note: this fanfiction will contain dark content, including abuse, violence, gaslighting, kidnapping, ‘yandere’ tropes, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

eyeless jack

jack isn’t that much of a sadist.

that much.

however, he’s still not someone you would want to risk upsetting. not in general, but especially not as his captive. because while he doesn’t enjoy it that much, he still enjoys it far more than he likely should, far more than you would want him to.

but why wouldn’t he?

how could he resist the soft whimpers that’d leave your lips as your eyes watered up, starting to fill with the tears that oh so delightfully trickled down the sides of your cheeks at the sight of his blade? how could he resist the way you’d cry out, gasping and hissing as he ran it along the surface of your skin, occasionally applying a bit more pressure for good measure? how could he resist the delectable scent that’d overwhelm his senses, the scent emanating from the precious droplets of blood that would start to bead up in thin, carefully carved red lines? how could he resist the shudders of your body as you trembled in fear, squirming in place but unable to escape as he pressed his tongue along your freshly made wounds? how could he resist the feeling of you flinching reflexively each time he licked at the injury, greedily lapping up every last drop?

that’s right—jack’s idea of punishment is to bring out his favourite and most signature instrument, the scalpel.

not only is it a highly effective way to remind you that you’re at his mercy and that alone, but it’s also undeniably delightful for him, with the way that he can indulge in both your reactions as well as the taste of your blood that would drip out with each precise incision he’d make.

but sometimes, that wouldn’t be enough. sometimes, you’d really misbehave, pushing the limits of his patience.

in those cases, then he’d show you just who, or what you were messing with.

he’d do everything he did to you with the scalpel, but in his demon form.

he’d strap you down, nice and tight against his operating table, make sure you’re unable to move an inch, and then he’d lick his lips, with all three of his forked tongues as he showcased the row of shark-like fangs he possessed.

the fear in your eyes when he did so—he couldn’t get enough of it.

but that wouldn’t be the end of it, oh no, he had a lot more planned in store for you.

he’d rake his razor sharp teeth against your delicate skin, easily slicing it open. he wouldn’t cut too deep with them, because he was only just beginning. he was saving the best for last, after all.

he’d have his fun, scratching you up like a lottery ticket as you tried helplessly to struggle against your bindings, anything to relieve the pain you were experiencing.

but when he’d eventually tire of it, he couldn’t help but then bite down, plunging each of his fangs inside the tenderness of your flesh, sinking his teeth in as deep as he could, listening to the sound of your screams echo in the empty operating room. screams that gradually quieted down into choked sobs as he finally pulled his teeth out, drinking up the blood that had streamed down the sides of your body and spilled onto the metal table.

of course, when he eventually finishes, he’ll make sure to disinfect every wound of yours, whispering words of praise, comforting you as he undoes your bindings, even though you’re too exhausted and tormented to even want to move at that point.

“i know, i know it hurts.”

“you’ll be okay soon.”

he’ll kiss away your tears, bandage you up with such gentleness and care that you’d struggle believing that he’s the same person as the one that had mercilessly mutilated you mere minutes ago.

because in those moments, he’ll almost seem like a guardian angel, but that would be nothing but a façade.

a façade masking how much of a monster he truly is.

masky

things are very simple and straight forward with tim—you misbehave, you get hit. easy as that.

tim is violent and impulsive and very much does enjoy hurting you. it doesn’t take a lot to anger him, especially if it’s along the lines of disrespect. tim has a short fuse, and his horrible control of his own emotions combined with his sadistic nature makes him more than dangerous to upset.

although, it was more than that. tim also is a control freak, he wants to assert his dominance and he wants you to know that you have absolutely no power, and no choice. it’s either his way or…

or he’ll backhand you across the face, knock you to the ground, before picking you up by your collar just to throw you across the room and slam you into the wall behind you. or he’ll wrap his hands around your fragile little throat, and squeeze all the while you’re desperately clawing at his wrists, prying at his fingers as your vision turns hazy—he loved your feeble attempt at trying to stop him, it only made him feel more powerful. or he’ll rough you up with his switchblade, slicing up the surface of your skin, or just holding it to your cheek and threatening to mutilate your pretty little face.

his favourite was easily the belt though. he’d use the metal end.

there was nothing more delightful to him than having you face the wall, hands pressed to the cold cement as he struck you with the belt, angry red markings instantly appearing on your skin from the impact.

he couldn’t get enough of your reactions. it only spurred him on more whenever you’d cry, and he’d make that blatantly obvious, telling you how much it just made him want to continue. but holding back your tears wasn’t an option either, because then it’d just make him want to beat you until you finally broke.

there was no winning with tim.

sometimes, if he hadn’t had enough after all the physical abuse he’d inflict upon you, he’d starve you or deny you access to water. if you hadn’t already been begging him to stop hurting you earlier, you’d start now, pleading for him to please just give you something to eat or drink. he loved the power trip he’d get from seeing you kneeling in front of him and apologizing and begging for him to just have mercy on you, just this once, desperately promising that you’ll never do whatever it was that you did again.

tim loved the look of you chained or tied up, and sometimes he’d make sure that you couldn’t move an inch if you had dared upset him. it wouldn’t matter if your arms or legs were cramping, if you couldn’t feel your fingers anymore from the blood flow being cut off in your wrists, he didn’t care. if anything, he liked it.

but sometimes he’d purposefully leave you untied, just so he could watch your pathetic efforts at defending yourself. oh, his favourite was watching you try to crawl away from him and escape.

he had no problem just leaving you there, curled up in the fetal position and crying after he was done with you, but eventually, he’d return.

he’d return, and he’d cradle you ever so gently in his arms, taking your smaller fingers in his own and clutching them tightly, or cup your face with his hands. and then words and excuses would start pouring out of his mouth.

“oh, princess, i didn’t mean to hurt you, i shouldn’t have.”

“i just can’t help it, it’s just so hard when you misbehave.”

“i want to be good to you, i really do.”

he’d never say the words ‘sorry’, but he did intend it, still.

hoodie

brian is fairly different from the others. his idea of punishment isn’t violent, nor a result of anger.

to him, it’s done out of necessity.

during usual circumstances, brian would tend to spoil you. surprising you with cute presents, buying you nice clothes, allowing you comfortable bedding and luxurious shower products, the list goes on.

since he treated you so well usually, he wouldn’t need to hurt you initially. instead, he’d first revoke all the privileges that he had so graciously allowed you.

you’d go from strawberry cake and fine wine, to water with a piece of stale bread. from nice, long, hot showers, to a five minute limit and a bar of soap. from chocolates and roses to well, nothing at all.

it was truly a shame. after all, brian wants to spoil you, he enjoys treating you well, he does his best for you to be happy and feel loved. but sometimes you don’t always get to do what you want, and he realizes that. sometimes he’d have to enforce punishments on you, and even though he loved you, he would have to hide it temporarily behind a mask of apathy, the once warm energy he’d give off disappearing.

and it’s jarring, the change of attitude he’d have, enough to usually scare you into regretting your actions.

but if it doesn’t?

that’s when everything changes.

brian isn’t a sadist, he wouldn’t ‘hurt’ you, so to speak.

instead, he’ll deprive you of your senses. he’ll keep you locked up in your room, with nothing but a bed and a thin, flimsy blanket. you would be free to move around within there, still, but you wouldn’t do anything besides sit in bed.

why? because he’ll rob you of your sight, putting a blindfold on, covering your pretty eyes. he’ll put in earplugs, eliminating any sound from reaching your ears. he’ll switch out your once diverse range of tastes with nothing but bland, vanilla meal replacement drinks. enough to keep you alive and well, but not enough for you to actually feel like you were eating.

and just like that, he would leave you like that for hours, sometimes even days. still, that wasn’t too bad; you could endure that. but if you did, if you persisted and refused to behave still, then he’d see no other option but to keep it up for longer, from days to weeks to even months if you dared to resist.

not that you would, because the both of you knew for a fact that you couldn’t handle it.

brian wasn’t sadistic, no, but he couldn’t deny that he found satisfaction in watching you finally break, watching apologies tumble out of your mouth, pleading for him to forgive you and allow you to go back to normalcy.

ticci toby

patient, violent, sadistic, unpredictable. toby embodies every quality of someone you wouldn’t want to anger.

toby was already keen on hurting you even if you hadn’t done anything wrong. he wouldn’t do it though, he figured it’d lose effectiveness if he just tormented you for no reason at all. so then instead, he’d wait. he’d patiently wait like a vulture ready to devour its prey, patiently wait for you to mess up, make a mistake.

as soon as you did, you’d instantly regret it, and if not, he’d make sure to change that.

toby was volatile, and he enjoyed switching things up, so that you would never know what to expect as punishments. and therefore, you would be unable to prepare for it, either mentally or physically. not that any amount of preparation could really help with what was to come next.

there are times where he’s feeling relatively nice, and he’d be happy just to tie you up, chain you to the wall until you couldn��t feel your extremities anymore, and your body would go numb, falling asleep. however, he isn’t usually feeling too kind, and more often than not, on top of just restricting your movement, he would take away your basic needs, refusing to feed you, give you water, or even allow you to shower and bathe yourself. but none of that was as enjoyable to him as it was to injure you, striking you across the face, pulling your hair, beating you purple and blue.

it would always be random, though, or at least that’s what he’d want you to think. how bad your punishment was depended on multiple things—his mood, your reactions, the colour of the sky that day. really, you never knew.

he was cruel, it was more often than not when you thought that you had gotten away with it or that your punishment was finally over, that he’d do the worst to you. which also happened to be the most delightful to him.

there was nothing that toby loved more than breaking bones. everything about it was euphoric for him, from the sickening crunch of the joint to the screams that would escape your lips, and the way your pretty face twisted in absolute agony, it was nothing but pure bliss.

his favourite? the fingers.

he’d take his time, snapping each one of them so torturously slow all while cupping your tear-soaked cheek with his other hand oh so gently, oh so lovingly, whispering sickly sweet words into your ear.

“oh, doll, this is for your own good.”

“if only you just behaved…”

“you know i’m only doing this because i love you, right?”

toby also enjoyed psychologically tormenting you, when he’s not telling you things like how all you needed was to be a good girl for him and he wouldn’t have to hurt you again, he’s hissing threats through his teeth, speaking of all the abhorrent things he’ll do to you if you repeated the same mistakes. ranging from cutting out your tongue so that you’d never be able to talk back to him again, to sawing off your legs so that you wouldn’t even be able to dream of escaping, to lending you to masky and hoodie and letting them have their fun with you.

the last one, though, was the only thing he said that was an empty threat, not that you would ever know.

still, though, if there was one thing for certain, it was that you were his and his alone.

jeff the killer

unlike most of the others, jeff doesn’t do punishment for the sake of remodelling your behaviour. while that was a pleasant side effect, he mainly does it because you misbehaving would anger him.

don’t get me wrong—jeff does like his darling fiesty. he likes it when his darling puts up a fight, trying to struggle or escape from him, and even more so if she retaliates. he finds their efforts to be thoroughly entertaining, even cute, the way one would watching a baby animal try to bite, but only able to gently nibble on your finger. after all, jeff knows he’s stronger, more powerful than you. any fight you put up being merely child’s play to him.

so in that regards you’d be lucky to be with jeff, seeing as he wouldn’t be upset and punish you for what many of the others would.

however, that didn’t mean you could get away with anything, because there was one thing that upset jeff more than anything else.

rejection.

for a psychopathic serial killer, jeff is surprisingly sensitive. it’s probably because of the trauma he suffered through, but he doesn’t take rejection well at all.

so if his darling acts cold towards him, in ways such as refusing to speak to him, or look at him even, that would anger him greatly.

and jeff isn’t good at dealing with his emotions. he’s almost like a teenage boy in those regards, rather than an adult. he’s immature and temperamental and explosive. and usually, he tries to run away from his feelings, hiding them behind a cold, hard wall of apathy. but then there’s you, and you made him feel more than he could handle.

so, he’d snap.

he’d be quick to lose his temper, and slap you across the face, or pick you up by the collar and slam you into the wall behind you. he usually wasn’t too heavy on the physical abuse, instead he preferred to take out his favourite weapon, the knife, and hold it up to your throat. he preferred to drag it along your jawline, trace it alongside your cheeks, all the while telling you how pretty you would be with a smile just like him.

he liked that he could scare you, and he loved your petrified expression, your pretty eyes widening in horror and your bottom lip quivering as you pleaded for him to stop, as you desperately apologized, saying sorry for your behaviour.

he never felt too good for it afterwards, though. when the initial pleasure of seeing the tears running down your face and your frail frame trembling in fear wore off, he’d be left feeling surprisingly guilty for what he had done.

but jeff wasn’t good with feeling guilt, either. he’d try to ignore the feeling, but you could still tell in the way that he acted that he felt sorry.

he’d be quiet, surprisingly quiet for the next while, and far less aggressive or touchy as usual. he’d mostly leave you alone to do your own things, and he’d only return to normal once he felt like you had recovered from what he had done.

that was the only way he knows how to express that he’s sorry, but it’s not like you could really ask for more.

ben drowned

as far as violence goes, ben isn’t too bad. he’s not the type to easily get angered or upset, but if you did frustrate him, he won’t exactly be too understanding either. still, he’s not the type to carelessly dish out punishments; he has a sadistic edge to him but prefers to play around rather than do any actual damage.

but if you insisted on testing his patience, you’ll quickly find yourself strapped to a table, tied down with whatever cables that he could find, with a cloth over your face.

that’s right—ben’s favourite form of punishment was waterboarding.

not something that would surprise you, though. it’s quite fitting of him, if anything.

pouring the water over the cloth, and knowing that you were experiencing the horrible suffering that he had once gone through, it was satisfying for him. but what he liked more, was removing the cloth, asking you if you wanted this to be over with, and watching you furiously nod your head yes, tears dribbling down your cheeks and merging with the water that was already splashed over your face. oh, nothing satisfied him more than when you apologized, begging for him to stop the torture.

but if you were still adamant on misbehaving even after the waterboarding, then he’d switch tactics.

perhaps he could just continue the waterboarding for longer, but he didn’t think it would be that effective, nor did he want to risk actually injuring you somehow. although the biggest reason would just be that he didn’t have the heart to prolong the torment, because while there was some satisfaction in it for him, it wasn’t enough to justify how much pain he was putting you through.

and so, he’d turn to isolation. he’ll keep you tied up, then throw you into a closet or some other small space, leave you in the dark with nothing to do or anything to ease your mind with.

he’ll also threaten to forget to bring you water, or feed you, but the most he’ll do is deprive you of it for a day or two, just enough to scare you.

he wouldn’t want to do it, but if that wasn’t enough, then he’ll keep you isolated, keep you tied up. he won’t speak a word to you, the most interaction you’ll ever have is just him putting pieces of bread in your mouth, and letting you sip from a water bottle. your body would be sore and cramping, and your mind would eventually fall to loneliness and boredom.

he’d keep you there for as long as he needed to, but it would be both a relief to you and to him when you conceded, and he could finally let you out.

slenderman

slender is a gentle soul.

he’s older, more mature. over the years, he’s learned how to control his temper. unlike many of the others, he’s not prone to violent outbursts, nor did he have a penchant for sadism. while he is known to be ruthless, he showed you a different side of himself, a side different from the ones he’d show his proxies or other victims, a side he reserved for you and you only.

and that side he showed you was loving, it truly was. he did everything in his power, which was quite vast and all-encapsulating, to treat you well. to make you happy. to provide you with everything you could ever want.

which was what made it all the more frustrating for him when you decide to act up, to be disobedient, to lash out at him.

because slender could tolerate a lot. even outside of his relationship with you, he was generally quite patient, but his love for you made him tolerant and understanding on top of it, too.

he understood, he really did—he had known from the beginning, even before taking you that this wouldn’t be easy on you. that this would be difficult for you, that it would take a lot of adjusting to and getting used to. so he really did take it easy on you, he tried to provide you with as much care as possible without suffocating you; he knew you were still confused, still uncomfortable, still afraid.

but there was still a line. there was still a line that you shouldn’t cross, and if you had crossed it, if you had the audacity to overstep despite all his efforts to keep you comfortable and safe—

then he’ll have no choice but to react accordingly.

and then all of a sudden he’s no longer kind and compassionate, no longer warm and loving. he’s cold and ruthless and the special treatment you once received from him was over, the side he reserved for you was gone.

he’d be an entirely different person to you.

and you’d be no different from one of his typical victims; your head is throbbing, static is ringing in your ears, clouding your vision. you’re bent over coughing your lungs out, blood dripping from your nose.

he’d pray that this would be enough. that this was the extent he’d have to go to for you to understand not to do it again.

but if you still chose to repeat your behaviour?

then you’d start forgetting.

it’d be mere minutes at first. then later hours, and eventually days. just like that, entire chunks of time, entire events would be missing from your mind. although slender did keep the limit to a week, any more than that and he’d be afraid that he’d permanently scar you. but he would make sure you were aware still of just what the consequences of your actions entailed. he’d allow you access to a calendar, or even just subtly hint at the time that’s passed, the time that you don’t remember at all.

and it’d scare you, just like it was meant to do. the fear of the unknown was a primal, powerful fear, and god knows what you had done, or worse—what he had done to you during those times that you no longer remembered.

the fear of the unknown was a primal, powerful fear, one that would keep you from ever repeating the same mistakes again.

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rosaspicypaper · 11 months

Text

I wasn't even ten when my mother taught me to shave. It was exciting. I felt grown up. She explained to me, gently, that I would have a lot to get rid of for the rest of my life. We just had a lot of body hair, more than average. So, there I remember being a little girl, taking a blade to my skin every time I had to shower. A family hardly able to afford food for the week, but we still prioritized a razor for a child in the fifth grade. It grew everywhere, even thick and dark on my thighs. I took it all away, sometimes spending 15 minutes double checking myself to make sure I got every last one. And then, if I found I didn't once had I dried off, I'd get back in and finish the job, or do it dry to ensure I got it all, razor burn preferable to hair. It didn't stop there. I wasn't stupid. I knew the legs weren't the only place you didn't want to have body hair. Once I felt I had the hang of it, I started to shave my armpits. My belly. My chest. My pubic area. My arms. And, as a courtesy of the bones in my wrist, I eventually took out a chunk of flesh so deep and wide you can still see the scar over a decade later. My mom understood. She bandaged me up, and I maintained my routine. Middle school was harder. I kept it up, but kids saw through it. They called me a dog. I had to get rid of even more, I determined. Shaving my chest and my belly turned into waxing. I became self conscious of the dark hair on my cheeks and my jaw, my upper lip and what lay outside of an ideal brow shape. I ripped it all away, checking twice daily for hair I missed, and if I found any I had a pair of tweezers to help finish the job. I was, of course, introduced to the idea floating around online that women didn't have to remove their body hair. I agreed, I thought, that women could do whatever they wanted with their body hair! And if that was the case, I'd choose to keep getting rid of mine. We've all heard the same excuse parrotted around: "I just like the way it feels." And I did. Of course I did. I was used to the smooth skin and that baby soft feel, the validation and admiration that came with having a perfect, hairless...everything. I was okay with other women making the choice to have it because their choice wasn't going to make me feel otherly. I never genuinely understood how miserable it was to maintain the routine until my sophomore year of high school. It had become as second nature to me as brushing my teeth or washing my hair. But, I chose to stop shaving. Over the years, I would cave to the misery and get rid of it all over again, but eventually I'd let it grow out, and it was uncomfortable. It was scary. The prickling hair drove me crazy, the sandy feel of my legs making me squirm once it had grown out. I loathed putting lotion on. It felt like I had to use half the bottle just to get to my legs. Jeans in the summer until I couldn't stand it anymore, friends that flushed with embarrassment when we'd go to the pool. A mother pleading me to do it again, "for me". Struggling to find products that would work for me because women's hygiene isn't formulated with women's natural selves in mind... by now, I don't think I've shaved in over 4 years, and I certainly don't feel so otherly anymore. Was it the easy choice? Was it the comfortable one? Not at all, but I feel as though it was the necessary one.

#feminism #self love #acceptance #anti shaving #body posititivity

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flowhence · 6 months

Note

johanna finding out reader sh? 🤔 i'm in desperate need of johanna fanfics 😓

two broken people - j.m.

summary: johanna finds out that you aren’t as ok as you seem.

pairings: johanna x fem!reader

warnings: self harm, depression, suicidal ideation, angst, hurt/comfort

author’s note: if anyone is struggling with these issues, please do not hesitate to reach out to me. you are not alone.

You wondered why you were alive, why you survived. Your hands bloodied with the blood of many. You don’t want to keep living. You don’t deserve it. The hopelessness grips onto your bones, settling deep within your soul. Everything is numb, yet you still smile your fake smile, you still laugh that fake laugh. It didn’t matter how many people you were always around, the inexcusable feeling of being lonely weighs down on your chest.

Johanna has noticed something different about you, but you cannot seem to bring yourself to care. You can’t seem to keep up the act.

After training you were exhausted, mentally and physically. You quickly darted out of the training area, speed walking to Johanna and yours room. When arriving at the room you quietly closed the door, going towards your stash of razors you picked out the sharpest one.

[i tried it like before and this time i made a deep cut]

You rolled up your sleeves, not even wincing at the way they stuck to your past wounds. You took a deep inhale, pressing the razor hard against your skin before you exhaled and drove it deep into your flesh watching as the blood oozes out.

[i thought about my friends and the way i didnt give enough]

Distantly, you should’ve known it would’ve been too deep. The blood starts to ooze out in a faster yet still somewhat sluggish pace, you feel dizzy and lightheaded. Vaguely you thought you didn’t really want to die.

[and i shouldve told my mother, “mom, i love you,” like a good son]

You stumbled into your desk, before you could think much about it you cut even deeper on your other wrist. A smile mixed with relief and remorse carved its way onto your features. You hear the door open, but you can’t really focus on anything but going to lay down.

[but this life is overwhelming and im ready for the next one]

“Y/N! Oh god… what did you do?!” Johanna yelps, running to you immediately. You can barely make out the words she’s saying. All you can think about, is how you’ll finally be free.

[take the blade away from me]

“Let me go…” You whisper, your voice sounds weak and slurred.

[i am a freak, i am afraid that]

Johanna shakes her head, “No! You promised… you promised me.” she says, desperately.

[all the blood escaping me won’t end the pain]

Johanna desperately screams for help, you vaguely see Katniss run in, the shock and despair on her face is heartbreaking.

[and i’ll be haunting all the lives that cared for me]

You can’t seem to get your eyes to stay open, you can hear Johanna screaming, crying, and sobbing, yet you can’t bring yourself to stay awake.

You woke with a start, looking around you you see that you’re in medical. You clench your teeth. Looking down you see the bandages on your wrists and … tears start streaming down your cheeks.

“Y/N? it’ll be ok. i’m here,” You sob even harder at your girlfriends words.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.” You sob into her shoulder, gripping onto her shirt like its your lifeline, and it very well could be.

At least, at least you have Johanna. Two broken people trying to love, trying to heal.

#johanna mason x reader #johanna mason #johanna mason x fem!reader #self insert #tw sh related #the hunger games x reader #the hunger games

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rainba · 8 months

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Erased

TWs/Tags: yandere, violence, spoilers for Sumeru + angst

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

He’s got you right where he wants you- your throat within his grip. He’s cackling maniacally with a freakish grin plastered on his face, but there’s also tears pouring out of his eyes. He looks like a beautiful, broken porcelain doll.

Under the cover of darkness, he chased you, grabbed you, and trapped you in the cage of his arms.

The way the moonlight illuminates your beautiful face drives him to insanity.

“I know you’ve forgotten me, you- you don’t know who I am at all… But…” He grits his teeth and sneers. “Tell me, what’s my name!? Say it!” He strangles you in a fit of sheer desperation, but you can’t choke out a single word. Even if you were capable of speaking, you wouldn’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say?

This stranger is scaring you.

His grip loosens when he sees your face changing colors. As you gasp for air, you scream. “Let go of me, freak!” You kick and squirm as harshly as you can. If you don’t escape him now, there’s no telling what he’ll do to you. When you shriek those words, they tear away at him, shredding into him like razor blades. If he had a heart, it would be bleeding.

He doesn’t move for a second. He just stares with shaking eyes.

Scaramouche did this to himself, he knows that very well… So why?

Why does this hurt so fucking bad?

Before he erased his past from this world, the two of you were attached at the hip. It was utterly strange. Scaramouche hated humans to his core, but he had made an exception for you. You were just so different. You loved him deeply- you had once accepted him. He would bark insults at you, but you always bite back. And he loved that about you. It was always a playful game to see who would win, even though it always ended with Scaramouche coming out on top due to his unbearable stubbornness. After all, you’re just a human, and he’s so much more.

Yet he despised how much he missed you.

And he loathed how much he craves your love.

He misses the way you would run your fingers through his dark purple hair. He misses the way you would kiss his nose and steal his hat to wear it, even though it always annoyed him. What he once thought were inconveniences turned out to be his favorite parts of life. He hated you, but he loved you too, and he could never understand it. He also would never say any of it out loud.

In the past, he never told you that he loved you, but somehow it was like you knew anyway. He constantly called you stupid, but he was always lying through his teeth.

But now… Now you stare at him with terrified eyes as you scratch and kick at him. It’s so painful, it hurts so bad, and because of that he continues to sob. He’s never cried like this before… He feels fucking pathetic. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. How is it even possible for him to feel this way? How did he let himself get so attached? He just wants it to stop.

He wants it all to go away.

He just wants you to– no, needs you to remember him, even though he knows it's impossible.

The fact that he did this to himself without thinking twice is what makes everything much more frustrating.

Does he regret erasing himself from irminsul? No, he doesn’t. But… Still…

His mind goes numb as his hands tighten around your throat a little more. At this point, you’re shaking like a leaf, worried that you won’t make it out alive. “I’m not a freak, you lowly human.” He seethes and instinctively hurls back an insult. Scaramouche hardly cares about what others think of him, but hearing you call him such a thing with genuine malice bothers him.

Meanwhile, all you can do is think about how to escape. You’ve never met this man before a day in your life… Why is he doing this? You wonder if he’s mistaking you for someone else. Perhaps he’s going through a psychotic episode. You try to reason out the situation, but there’s really no point. Your heart is beating so fast that it might just burst.

“S…Sc… Sca… Scar…” You murmur out fragments of a word, and Scaramouche’s eyes widen. Scar? Are you going to say ‘Scaramouche’? Without thinking, he lets go of you and lifts himself up a little, giving you ample opportunity to escape his clutches. You shoot your leg up and knee him as hard as you can before crawling away. “Scared…” You finish your word.

“I’m scared… Please, just leave me alone!”

Tears start streaming down your face, and that makes two of you. Scaramouche is too stunned to move as he watches you run the other way. When he realizes that you’re no longer in his grasp, he freaks out. “Get back here!”

It can’t end like this…

No, it absolutely can’t.

He won’t let it.

He’ll hunt you down to the edges of this earth. He’ll grab you, cage you, embrace you until the warmth of his presence is the only reason why you live and breathe. Scaramouche jumps to his feet and begins to chase you.

Your feet burn as you race across the grassy forest of Sumeru, desperate to escape with your life. You jump over roots, dodge stray rocks, and dash through little streams of water. Your breathing grows so heavy that your lungs burn, and your head begins to spin. You run for what feels like hours, and unwillingly, you collapse onto your knees.

You clutch at your chest and cough. Everything burns so badly…

Everything hurts… Why does everything hurt?

But at least you’re free now.

Or so you thought.

“Did you really think you could run away from me?”

A violent voice rang out from the darkness. Before you could even react, you were pinned down to the ground again. It was futile- so utterly futile to think you can escape him. You’re so dizzy that you can’t make out the words that he’s saying. He’s yelling something- you can tell from the way his mouth is moving. All you can make out is the word ‘remember.’

But you stop looking at him- opting to look at the stars instead. They’re so beautiful… So far away.

Scaramouche notices the way you’re dissociating and backhands you. He brings you back down to earth. “Are you ignoring me?” His anger boils into pure rage. The past you would never ignore him… The past you would never dare to run away from him.

Scaramouche shakes your shoulders as he yells more obscenities at you.

He’s shaking you so harshly that your head hits the ground multiple times.

He shakes you so hard that your skull collides with a stone beneath your head.

When he sees blood, his eyes widen.

“W-wait,” his breath hitches. “I didn’t mean to do that.” His voice comes out barely above a whisper as he watches you black out from beneath him.

“(Y/n)?” He calls out.

“(Y/n), wake up.”

He shakes you just a little more, careful to not hurt you this time.

“I order you to wake up!” He uses one hand to grab your face tightly, trying to get you to react, but you don’t.

Scaramouche panics before placing his ear against your chest, searching for a pulse. When he hears the soft beating, he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. All he does then is hold you close to him, refusing to let go. You’re just as warm as ever… So, so soft. He’s trembling like a leaf.

He can’t help but think that this is so unlike him.

When you’re around, it’s like he becomes an entirely different person.

He closes his eyes and buries his face in your neck while breathing in your scent. Even though he erased himself from this world, you remain mostly unchanged.

All he wants is you.

Scaramouche doesn’t care that you hate him right now. Yes, it stings, but he’ll get you to love him again… You don’t have a choice. He’ll spend day and night getting you to fall for him. It’ll be just like before. You’ll smile at him, whisper sweet nothings into his ear again, and tease him until he gets red in the face. Just like usual.

God, he fucking hates how you make him feel.

But he needs it so badly.

As he rises to his feet, he holds you gently in his arms, taking special care of your head. Your blood drips onto his arms, but it doesn’t bother him. He’ll get you patched up and healed in no time. Then he’ll keep you by his side… Forever… Just like before.

You’re not allowed to forget about him.

You’re not allowed to live a life without him.

You belong to him…

And he belongs to you.

#scaramouche/reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere genshin impact #scaramouche x reader #angst

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deepsuns · 2 months

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Sacrificial Lamb | 𝑶𝑵𝑬. 𝑯𝑶𝑼𝑺𝑬 𝑲𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑨.

❴ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ! ❵ ⸻ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❮ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ❯ : FEYD-RAUTHA HARKONNEN // ORIGINAL FEMALE CHARACTER ❮ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ❯ : BLOOD, GORE, VIOLENCE, SEXUAL CONTENT, RAPE, NON-CON, CONSENSUAL NON-CON, AGONIZINGLY SLOW BURN, IMPLIED INCEST, CANNIBALISM, DRUGS, ETC. ❮ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 & 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐓 ❯ :

His need grew jealous, gnashing teeth, desiring to dig into soft skin, smooth thighs. It was a need that grew over the span of years, developing into a hungry monster that only she could soothe.

Feyd-Rautha did not want to be soothed.

&&.

House Kastara is slaughtered before its rebellion can flourish, leaving Ara floundering in its wake halfway across the universe. Time does not wait for grief, and reality sets in for Ara with a vengeance; set to serve Thora Rabban at the behest of her Bene Gesserit overseer, Ara attracts the attention of Feyd-Rautha, and none are prepared for how fiercely his possessiveness grows... or how patiently he is content to wait. ❮ 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊 ❯

THE SECRET TO FLAYING a man alive was not in the physical act itself. Ara could count on the fingers rolling towards her silk-slippered feet as to how many times her father had proved that to her over the years. To rid a man of his skin, her father would tell her, was a simple, easy act that did little else but to peel one free of their humanity to expose the biology beneath. It did not matter how slowly blood-coated fingers slipped beneath bone and gristle to snap, break, and shatter; the outcome was the same. No, her father had emphasized a singular point in his gruesome lessons, one that he found more important than all the rest: to truly flay a man was to cut him from the inside, and expose the truth of him to daylight.

“A liar’s greatest fear, and a coward’s nightmare,” the Lord of House Kastara grunted over the crushing, dull crack of a man’s sternum caving beneath his palms. His victim—a spy that had scuttled about the sparse servants they had remaining—was already dead. He had been dead for some time, his green eyes glazed over, the light having winked out of the jeweled depths as if snatched by greedy hands. “Come, Ara. Bring the bucket so I do not make a mess of this.”

You are already making a mess, is what Ara had wanted to say in reply. You make a mess by torturing this man and breaking down his body as if he is nothing less than chattel.

“Yes, father,” Ara answered, instead, and her chubby, ten-year old fingers had clambered at the metal handle and brought the bucket to his side.

Orion Kastara, in the eyes of a fractured House mending its painful gaps with blood and grave wax, was not a cruel man. Neither was he a kind man, for his habits of violence were many, and he frequented the blade as much as he did the pen—a creature of nurture as much as he was nature. Ara had to wonder just how much of it was his nature, and how much could be attributed to how he had been born and raised and manipulated into a mold.

Cooling skin split open at the draw of a razor sharp knife. Long, rope-like lengths of intestines wiggled free, still warm and steaming the cold air, and with not so much as a twitch of the nose, Orion severed the ends from stomach to colon, tied them off, and scooped them into the bucket.

Ara had decided then: Nature.

On Kastaran—the sanctuary and home planet for House Kastaran, or Tupile, scattered across the universe, under the nose of Imperium rule—it was the concept of nature that seemed to overshadow any nurturing that was placed upon it. The plant life grew where, when, and as it pleased, with disregard to the seasons or weather; the storms were a mixture of humid monsoons and thick, cloying humidity without a droplet of rain in sight. It was a lush planet that played victim to the whims of the sixteen moons surrounding it in concentric orbit, forcibly stabilized with varying levels of success. Less so, after House Kastaran was broken down and the remnants bid to remain on their home planet.

In much the same manner, any efforts to breed out and quell certain biological aspects of the local animal life—even with intervening aid from outside groups—grew to be pointless. A buck who might have had two sets of antlers would grow one set, and then rapidly after shedding them, grow four sets; or a doe with four eyes may appear with eight upon the next sighting. Ara had watched one buck, closed up in a private enclosure, gradually grow to have twenty pairs of antlers before his skull caved in from the pressure.

She had named him Sassy, because he had liked to turn his nose up when she offered him cubes of dried sweet herbs.

Ara’s mind, even as young as she was, could not help but attribute Sassy’s death to her mother: Lady Ilysia of House Kastaran.

Looking at her mother evoked the same clench in her gut, the swooping pity that lodged in her heart and would never leave. The emotions were something she couldn’t understand at the time, an instinctive part of her that told her more than words could ever say, than anyone could ever possibly explain to her in cohesive terms.

Ilysia—because Ara had never been able to think of her, truly, as ‘Mother’—was a petite woman, perpetually clad in soft cottons or silks, never organza or stiff linen. Her hair might have been long and soft, once, but it was wiry and stripped of all shine, coiled up tight into a braid against her scalp and left to hang over one shoulder. Her skin was pale, paler than ice, the blue-green hue of her veins peering through the thin layers of skin and offering a glimpse of what lay beneath such a wretched rendition of a human form. Her face was sharp, her jaw rounded slightly at the edges, with a cleft chin that grew more pronounced. Her stomach was soft and pudgy and folded over the layers of silk she wore, her breasts heavy and sagging and barely kept proper in a brassiere.

It was her eyes, however, that always incited Ara’s deep seated pity and unease.

The Lady of House Kastara held no life in her obsidian gaze. There was no joy, love, excitement, or interest; even anger would have been a welcome sight, so long as she felt something. Her smiles would hold nothing but falseness, intended to smooth over her lack of permanence and nothing more. She ate in a mechanical way, as if she had forgotten how to chew, drink, and swallow, and did not enjoy the flavors or textures; she had three meals and sought nothing else outside of it.

When Ilysia spoke, her voice was raspy and deep. Damaged. She would only ever speak to Ara, these days, and never to the servants, or to her husband. Once upon a time, she had never spoken at all.

“I was Tleilaxu, once,” Ilysia had told Ara, on a day where she had been unusually chatty. She would speak in offhand sentences that sounded dream-like, her mind far, far from where it should have been. “I had many children before your father obtained me. But you were the only one I was permitted to keep. To hold.”

Ilysia told her many other things, all of them dark and ripping at Ara’s heartstrings mercilessly.

“My body was a specimen, but my mind was present. I knew their voices, the whir of machines as I was impregnated with child after child. Sometimes, not children at all.”

“The texture of ground oats and water reminds me of the slurry they would feed me through the pipes.” There had been a pause, a twirl of a spoon through her food. “I often wonder if that was what it was.”

She was mindlessly inconsiderate with how she spoke. She did not think at all, perhaps, outside of a seamless train of thought that never ended.

“I am happy you did not inherit my eyes,” was one of Ilysia’s more colorful statements, paired with a longing stare towards a chip in the wall. “Tleilaxu eyes are small and beady. Yours are large and beautiful, like a doe’s.”

If Ara’s favoritism towards the deer became more intense after that, her father had made no comment about it.

At her mother’s side during these conversations, ever the stalwart protector, was her uncle: Cetus Kastara I. The ‘spare’ of House Kastara, removed of all titles save for Lieutenant. Of all of the men that claimed nobility and honor, Ara considered Cetus as being a prime example of it. While her father bent and broke rules to suit his needs, Cetus would follow them to the letter and rarely ever broke them, if at all.

Dressed in sleek black armor, gray mesh, and a dark maroon cape pinned to both shoulders, he was intimidating in a more severe way than her father, Orion, his brother. He would blend in with the dark stone that made up the entirety of House Kastara’s manor home, what little that remained of it that had not been buffeted by time and weather. Humidity was awful for the ore used to build it.

Where her father would teach her how to disembowel a man without spilling a droplet of blood, Cetus would guide her on the best ways to suture a hole in a gown or a wound. He would cheekily tease,”Your pattern might be good, should you wish for your patient to bleed out on the battlefield. Again.”

Today was one such day. When she had washed blood from her hands, dumped the bucket of organs out for the animals to feast on—the deer were particularly carnivorous—and left her father to dispose of yet another spy, she went to Ilysia’s chambers. Her rooms were large and took up most of the guest wing, and Ara had never speculated on why her mother did not share chambers with her father. It was not as if Cetus shared barracks with the other soldiers of House Kastara.

Outside, through thick paneled windows, Ara could just rise onto her toes and peek out at the weather brewing. Dark clouds were rolling in, bringing rain and thunder and lightning, the third or fourth storm of the season. She could not keep count of the true number of them when they would pop up during the night and vanish before dawn. Her fingers gripping onto the stone briefly, she lowered herself back down onto her heels and continued down the hall.

Her mother’s chamber doors were marked with a sigil, overlaid with a small banner pinned between the handles that displayed the crest of House Kastara: a white doe, a star centered between long, slender ears, on a black field with fourteen gold moons hanging around its thin neck in mimicry of a noose. It was old work, the fabric threadbare and eaten away by moths that hid in the cracks and crevices of the manor, meshing with the rest of the banners hung throughout the halls.

Pushing open the doors, Ara’s eyes roved over a plush settee, an untouched plate of starchy vegetables, and eventually landed on Ilysia. The woman was standing at the window, staring out at the brewing weather as if it held the secrets to the universe. She wore a color that Ara had never seen before: a rich, deep mahogany lined with silver velvet and studded with jewels of the same color. At her side, forever faithful, was Cetus, shaking his head, wisps of fox-gray hair settling at his brow as he fixed Ilysia’s hair perhaps for the dozenth time that day.

“Your mother’s hair has a mind of its own,” Cetus grumbled, noticing Ara even as she shut the door quietly. His fingers twisted the lengths into a braid, twining a loop of leather at the end to secure it. “Four times she has pulled it free. I daresay it is a habit rather than deliberate.”

Ara glimpsed the side of her mother’s face. It was frighteningly blank.

“Perhaps it makes her feel better,” Ara suggested lightly. Her arms wrapped snugly around Ilysia’s soft waist, familiarity washing over her as her mother lifted her arm and settled it around her shoulders. Habit, as Cetus had said, rather than deliberate action. She was used to pulling affection from wherever she could draw from it most. “I twirl my hair when I get bored.”

Cetus let out a laugh that sounded more like an agonized chuff. “Perhaps, my lady. Perhaps.”

With a small hum, Ara withdrew from Ilysia. Her arm fell to her side, limp, and made no other indication that she had wished for Ara to remain.

Thunder rumbled overhead, booming into the manor itself. Ara was used to the sound, by now; the storms could be quick and violent, or slow and measured. She was satisfied that it would be the former rather than the latter. It meant the deer could be corralled back into place sooner and they would not have scattered so badly.

“Your father is in the dungeons, I wager?” The Lieutenant shifted, his weight falling to one knee as he knelt before Ara to converse with her. It was not a demeaning action; rather, Ara was too short for the significantly taller man to speak to her without seeming as if he was speaking down to her. “Another spy, on a planet that receives no ships.”

Ara’s brows furrowed. She knew what Cetus was insinuating: that her father found spies in the innocent, torturing them for his own interest and self-serving purposes. It was not a thought that she had not pondered herself. “… Yes.”

Armor clanking as he rose to his feet, her uncle looked as if he had aged ten years with that simple confirmation. “I see. I would speak with him about dragging you to those torture chambers—“

Softly, nearly drowned out by the thunder and rain, they barely heard it. Cetus stilled, his head turning slightly to the side as he angled his ear towards the slightly open window that Ilysia had left cracked for fresh air.

Again, this time louder: screaming.

Alarm flashed through Cetus’ eyes and rippled through his body so visibly that Ara saw his armor shake. With quick movements, he slammed the window shut and flicked the lock closed, but it could not hide what she could see outside, partially obscured by thunderclouds.

Lowering from the darkness, ships—dozens, more than her mind could comprehend—and on the ground, cutting through body after body with blades held flat to their forearms, were soldiers. Soldiers who wore white and gray, with reddish symbols painted onto their armor, flocking towards the manor and cutting swathes through Cetus’ unit—a pale river through a dark canyon.

Lighting crackled through the sky, illuminating the blood shed in their wake as the rain washed it down the hillside and mingled with the mud.

“Sardaukar,” Cetus breathed.

At the window, watching as a rapidly pulsating round ejected from one of the ships and flew towards the manor, Ara watched as Ilysia’s blank expression slowly warped into one of true emotion.

Fear.

❴ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ! ❵ ⸻ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚

#feyd #feyd x reader #feyd rautha #feyd fanfiction #feyd headcanon #feyd imagine #dune part two #dune part 2 #dune movie #dune #paul atreides #dune 2

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