#allusions to noncon
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Consequence of Action: Collared
This whole thing took on a bit of an outside perspective. Not sure why my brain did that but I hope you like! Continued bits from Consequence of Action series :)
CW: captured whumpee, mentions of beating, execution of side characters, collared, allusion to noncon, would be multiple whumpers, all the science inaccuracies in space
It had been hours since Thompson had caught him hacking into the ship's systems and unceremoniously bashed his head into the console. Still, Quinn remembered finishing and executing the program that would override the system and give Murphy's crew all the access they needed take down the Captain. He had managed to do his part at least, before being taken out of the fight and tossed into a cell. No one else had been brought into the brig with him so, at first, he held onto hope that it had been enough. That the plan was solid and Murphy had overthrown the Captain. But that felt like a long time ago now, and Murphy had yet to come for him.
Quinn's arms ached from being tied behind his back for so long and his head was throbbing. He'd managed to drag himself up the wall and onto his feet. He needed to move. They had been gearing up for this moment for months. Careful planning and precise timing had led them to this moment and Quinn refused to just sit on his ass while the others fought for all of their lives. He was useless in the cell, so he paced. All that unspent energy slowly morphed into a quiet, knowing panic that rooted itself deep in his gut.
It was one thing to know you were going to die, to accept that fact, but it was another to have to wait in dreaded anticipation for it to actually happen. Quinn pictured the many ways the Captain would do it. Execution by beheading? That was rather grand. Shot in the head? Maybe? A lot for the rest of the crew to clean up. Beaten to death? Possibly. In the end, the airlock was the most likely choice. He could do it. When the Captain's men come for him, he'd walk down the hall with his head held high. He'd let himself be led into the airlock and force himself to look straight into the Captain's cruel, evil fucking eyes.
He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't scream.
Quinn envisioned it a hundred times, preparing himself, before the door finally opened. He spun toward the sound of the door, his vision spinning along with him but he planted his feet firmly and stood his ground.
The tiny ember of hope that had remained died out in a quick burst of fury when it was the Captain that strolled into the brig instead of Murphy.
This was it. He was a dead man.
The Captain looked worse for wear. He had dried blood all down his neck and soaked into the hem of his shirt from a deep gash on his cheek. His hair was a mess and he looked like he'd been in the fight of his life. Quinn couldn't help the smirk that tugged up his lips.
“On your knees,” the Captain ordered.
Quinn huffed out a surprised breath, “Fuck you.”
–
They'd been sealed up in the airlock for hours. Still, every single one of Murphy's crew remained on their feet in defiance of these cowards that refused to just get it over with already and pull that damn lever that would send them to their deaths. They leaned heavily on one other, bloodied and broken, defeated, but by god, they would die on their feet.
Murphy was proud of each and every one of his crew. They had lost, spectacularly, but they'd fought hard.
He grunted as he tried to straighten up a bit and take some of his own weight off of Martinez's shoulder. She tightened her hold on the waistband of his pants, effectively holding him up on his feet. He squeezed her arm, hoping to convey something along the lines of, he didn't know really... thank you, I'm sorry, we're so royally fucked and it's my fault, it was worth it. He wasn't sure how to convey that much weight through a single death grip on her arm but he was pretty sure she got the message.
Murphy's leg pulsed, blood still trickling in rivulets from the wound Jackson had stabbed deep into the meat of his thigh. He figured he would die soon anyway by the heavy weight of blood soaking into his pants. He might as well go out with the few friends he had left in the feigned glory of an execution. They'll go out like sailors on this beloved, godforsaken ship of theirs and it will all be worth it. He wasn't sure how that could possibly be true, but he knew that trying and failing still mattered, somehow, in the end.
He glanced through the thick glass that separated his crew from the Captain's. The others stood in a lazy half circle around the glass of the airlock, waiting for the show with something akin to rabid glee. All except one. Murphy took his time taking in the measure of the man that would seal their fate. Sure, it was the Captain that would give the order, but it was Security Officer Collins that would heft that damn lever and suck all of the oxygen out of their lungs. And he would do it without blinking an eye.
Murphy had underestimated the man.
He knew that now.
He'd been afraid that Collins' time spent in the wars would have instilled in him a kind of honor that would be particularly offended by the overthrowing of his captain. Well, Murphy was right about that part, but he thought of Collins as a good man underneath all that blind duty and honor bullshit. Murphy will admit, he was hoping that Collins would, bare minimum, stand by and let it happen. He had to know that it was the right thing to do in the end. It turned out, Murphy had overestimated Collins' moral code and underestimated the man's effectiveness.
That was his first and second mistake.
Collins was a brutal and efficient soldier. He had almost single-handedly quelled the uprising in the battle that followed the first power outage on deck. Quinn had locked the Captain's crew out of all the consoles and sealed the doors to the armory. Murphy was certain the lack of weaponry and the element of surprise alone would turn the battle in their favor. His delusions were shattered when Murphy personally witnessed Collins taking out at least 5 of his crew in hand to hand combat and utilizing the close quarters of the ship's halls to his advantage. He'd made quick work of Murphy's best fighters and had them dead or on their knees in what couldn't have been more than a handful of minutes.
It was impressive.
God, if only he'd been on their side, they most certainly would have won. They had started with fifteen people willing to fight, and die, to overthrow the Captain and his ranks. Only six were left. Six good, decent members of Murphy's crew, forced into the airlock and shoved to their knees and there Collins stood, eyes front with his hand on the lever.
The ever dutiful soldier.
Murphy's gaze caught sight of the outer door to the chamber opening. He couldn't hear anything through the reinforced glass except for the exhausted breathing and barely contained hisses of pain from his own people. Everything outside those thick windows was silent. He drew in a sharp breath when the Captain stalked through the door dragging a bloodied man by his hair.
Seven. Seven of his crew had survived.
“Quinn.”
Murphy felt those around him tense as the man was dropped onto the floor and crumbled into a bloody heap. His hands were bound behind his back with what looked like wire and he'd taken a hell of a beating. Murphy held his breath, his heart swelling with pride, when Quinn slowly folded his knees under himself and tried to stand. The rebellion would never had made it off the ground if it wasn't for Quinn. The man was brilliant. He had a head for strategy that Murphy truly didn't expect and he knew all the ins and outs of the communication and security systems like the back of his hand. He had done his job expertly.
It was Murphy that had failed. It was Murphy that had gotten them all killed.
Quinn didn't make it far off the floor.
The Captain kneed Quinn in his ribs and the collective gasps of his crew in the chamber almost tricked Murphy's mind into thinking he could actually hear Quinn grunt in pain. The man folded in on himself. Murphy watched as Quinn grit his bloody teeth and quickly fought to straighten back up again. The Captain placed a single hand to his shoulder and it stopped his ascent this time. Quinn slumped, staying on his knees and silently gasping for breath.
The man was clearly struggling to stay conscious. Blood was oozing down his face from a gash up in his hairline but he managed to drag his head up and his eyes cleared the moment he saw Murphy through the glass. Quinn's eyes widened as understanding dawned on him that some of his people were still alive. Alive, and waiting for Quinn before they would be put to their death. His gaze darted over to Collins standing by the lever that would open the airlock and then back to Murphy again. Murphy saw the muscle in Collins' jaw jump but that was the only indication that he had any feelings at all about the impending executions.
Murphy took a small, careful step forward, his hand reaching out to Martinez for balance. He could see Quinn visibly trying to steel himself, preparing himself to be tossed in with the rest of them. Willing himself to be brave in the face of every sailors greatest fear.
“I'm sorry,” Murphy whispered, to Quinn, to his crew, to all those that the Captain would continue to hurt in their absence. He watched as Quinn actually had the audacity to smirk. He gave a half shrug as if he was saying, “hey, we did our best.”
Murphy smiled back.
Quinn grunted as the hand on his shoulder pressed him down, forcing his back to round and he hung his head, unable to keep it up any longer. Murphy could feel the eyes of the Captain on him and he finally relented, looking at the man that would order them to their collective deaths.
What he saw in that man's eyes, he didn't understand it, but it turned his blood cold.
A smirk of his own crossed the Captain's face as he revealed what looked like some sort of metal contraption out from behind his back.
“Captain? Lewis, what are you-” Murphy shook his head, limping himself another step forward as if he could actually reach the men not two feet in front of him. His words turned to ash in his throat as the Captain's hand that was pressing down on Quinn's shoulder dragged up the man's neck and grabbed under his chin.
“No,” Murphy swallowed bile.
–
Something in the room had changed.
Quinn dragged his face against his shoulder, trying to get the blood out of his eyes before forcing himself to lift his head and look at Murphy. A strange look had come over his friend's face and Quinn cocked his head. His expression had morphed from anger and brave defiance to what Quinn could only describe as repulsed horror? Quinn felt the firm grip on his shoulder loosen to almost gentle as it slid up the side of his neck and Quinn watched Murphy mouth the word “no” as a shiver crept through his own body.
Quinn startled back and slammed right into the Captain's legs when Murphy took two steps and kicked out at the thick glass separating them. Fingers tightened painfully around Quinn's chin but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Murphy. He was screaming without sound, fury turning his angry face red as he repeatedly kicked the glass. Quinn could see blood pumping from a wound on Murphy's thigh and he wanted to tell him to stop. He felt like it was all happening in some slow motion nightmare, the kind where you weren't entirely in control of your own body. He couldn't fight it when the hand gripping his chin forced his head up and he had to tear his eyes away from Murphy and look up at the Captain.
The volume in the room suddenly became far too loud. The Captain's men whooped and groaned out sounds that didn't make sense to Quinn.
He'd missed something.
“You hear me, boy?”
Quinn ground his teeth, hissing when the Captain tightened his grip on his chin.
“I'm not a fucking boy,” Quinn spit out, shifting his legs underneath him with every intention of standing. Then, the Captain's thumb brush through the blood that trickled down the side of Quinn's mouth and swiped over his bottom lip.
Quinn froze.
“Captain?” Someone said over Quinn's shoulder, but with one look from the Captain, he was silent again.
The Captain lifted his other hand and held something out in front of him. Quinn could hear the sound of the glass trembling slightly. He could practically feel Murphy throwing the full force of his body at the glass but he didn't dare look away. In the Captain's hand, was a collar. There was no other word for it. Two pieces of metal slid smoothly into one another, a lot like handcuffs, and there was even a slot for a key where the two pieces locked together.
“What-?” Quinn mumbled, confused. Why the fuck did he have a collar? Before another horrifying thought was able to pass through his mind, the Captain fisted his hair and dragged him onto his feet. He felt his body slam into the glass and an arm pressed against the back of his neck, and suddenly, he was face to face with Murphy.
A thread of fear unlike any Quinn had ever felt before unfurled itself throughout his body.
“Murphy?” Quinn stupidly said in a numb panic.
He didn't understand what this was. Why wasn't he being marched into the airlock with the rest of his crew? Why the fuck did the Captain have a fucking collar?
Murphy's face twisted in desperate, sobbing rage. Quinn felt the reverberation of the glass against his chest as Murphy kicked out at it uselessly before he finally gave up, his own chest heaving in frantic breaths.
He'd never seen Murphy look so defeated before. It didn't make any sense. Murphy was strong, idealistic. He was honorable. Murphy always held onto hope for a better world, if we could just stand up a little more for what was right. If we just fought back.
“Quinn,” he watching Murphy's mouth move, “Don't fight him, Quinn.”
Quinn swallowed the fear that boiled up into his throat. Even if he could hear Murphy's words he wouldn't have understood them.
Cool metal touched the back of Quinn's neck and that thread of fear ignited. Quinn jerked his head back, connecting solidly with something that felt very much like bone. Hands left his body just as more hands seized him and pressed him into the glass. He twisted and kicked out at anything he could find.
Quinn felt his body weakening as bodies pressed his own against the glass. Murphy just stood and watched. Quinn hated that he was the one to put that look on Murphy's face. He was supposed to be brave, to stand proudly and walk to his own death without fear.
This wasn't the plan.
He again felt the cool metal touch the back of his neck and he recoiled in the hands of the men. A hand pressed his face against the glass and they held him firm as the metal enclosed his throat.
Quinn screamed.
The sound of the lock clicked in some thick, distant part of his mind. This meant something he didn't yet understand. His body felt heavy and almost unreal, separate from his mind in a way he'd never felt before. Quinn realized he had closed his eyes and forced them open again.
Murphy had his forehead pressed to the glass, right over his own. The puffs of their breath fogged up the space between them. He didn't want Murphy to die. Not if he wasn't going to die too. They were supposed to go together. Brothers in arms. Quinn realized that Murphy was saying something again but a horrifyingly alert corner of his mind felt fingers brush up under his shirt and trail across his stomach. The men closed in around him and he felt someone press their lips against the underside of his jaw. He felt the man's stubble drag roughly against his cheek. Another hand was scratching to get their fingers underneath the waistband of his pants.
What was happening?
Quinn couldn't look away. He watched Murphy's face as the Captain muttered a single word...and then another, much louder this time. Quinn couldn't hear it past the thump of his own frantic heart pounding in his ears.
The lever that opened the airlock must have been hefted up because the big, metal doors slid silently open.
It didn't happen like in the movies, with a rush of air that sucked the crew out into the vastness of space. First, the airlock was depressurized. Air hissed out of the room and the crew's mouths opened and closed, gasping for oxygen that was no longer there. The door slid open and the gravity was turned off, their feet lifting slowly off the floor. Murphy was still mouthing words Quinn didn't understand, his mouth only stopping as he slowly passed through the doors with the rest of his crew and drifted off into nothing, leaving Quinn behind.
Quinn heard himself make a terrible, broken sound as the fingers under his shirt flattened against his stomach and he was dragged back away from the glass and into the hands of the crew.
Taglist: @peachy-panic, @ladygwennn, @whumplr-reader, @hold-him-down, @monochrome-episode, @dogface3000, @skyhawkwolf, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @whumpterful-beeeeee, @maddam-redder, @susiequaz12, @pigeonwhumps, @starlit-darkness
#consequence of action#this story always does what it wants#i hope you like!#collared whumpee#captured whumpee#execution#of side characters#dissociation#beating#noncon touching#allusions to noncon#innocent naïve Quinn in those early days 🥺
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a red seed…
so, i whipped up a little Gifte for my dearest pal @much-ado-about-whumping cause they voted and also they’re just wonderful therefore deserving of Giftes ❤️❤️❤️
a little context ~ déomas is bel’s lovely whumpee from their déomas and rhys series and cassander is my whumpee (a sex slave, from my series morja and company, who has yet to make an appearance!) who bel and i have lovingly crafted together! this is just a sweet little nonsense crossover ❤️
CW: Allusions to noncon/dubcon, dubiously consensual sex work, homelessness, complicated abuse survivor navigating safety in thorny ways, bittersweet ending
title is insp. by margaret atwood’s poem “eurydice” - “even in this domain of hunger…you hold love in your hand, a red seed you had forgotten you were holding”
~
“You look cold, honey.”
The voice is low and soft and startles Déomas out of his stupor. He’s been huddled in this alley for a while, trying to bear out the cold of the crisp autumn day behind the bakery. The stones in the wall are warmed by the crackling oven within and it provides a meager sliver of solace. Déomas’ clothing, bright and thin and clinging in all the right ways, isn’t exactly sturdy.
Normally, Déomas somewhat admires the season, with the bursts of rich color - crimson and yellow and burnt orange - on the foliage, the bright roses in the cheeks of passersby, the candied apples glistening and spiced chestnuts roasting in the stalls of street vendors.
But the season is less…cheerful for an urchin such as Déomas. A streetwalker. The vendors keep their eyes on him when he walks down the street with sharp suspicion - with good reason, Déomas has pilfered food for survival many a time. Can’t blame them for protecting their wares from wandering hands.
A principle Déomas cannot afford to adopt.
He’s been trying to avoid…this. Not in the mood to suck cock or spread his thighs, doesn’t have the fucking heart to coo platitudes at some bastard with loose coins as he ruts between Déomas’ legs or down his throat or into Déomas’ clever, coaxing hand. What he’s in the mood for very rarely matters where Déomas is concerned but he’s tired.
Still…it’s only going to get colder and he’s shivering. So he tries to glance up through his curls with some artfulness, to let the weary heaviness of his lids lend him some allure. Tries to lick his cracking lips moist, draw attention to their plump shape (and away from his cherry-red nose, runny, fuck, he’s catching ill).
It’s…not what he expected. Usually, the men who seek out boys like him in dark alleyways are a little older, all swagger and spoiled whim, wanting their bored egos stroked.
The creature standing over him looks more like Déomas than the men he services. He’s willowy, young, perhaps in the middle of his thirties, and he’s beautiful. Golden-brown skin, heavy-lidded amber eyes, a halo of tawny curls, his mouth held soft and smiling. To Déomas’ first glance, he seems like a statue - graceful and poised and…sad, his russet shawl blowing around his face in the chilly breeze.
Still…appearances can be deceptive and very often are. Déomas flutters his lashes in a manner that will make the man think about all the ways Déomas would look pretty at his feet. Purses his lips pathetically and clutches his own patchy cloak around himself.
“Y-Yes, good sir. It’s…quite a hard night…”
Perhaps this man wants pathetic - Déomas can do pathetic. He tries to look small and helpless, huddled against the wall.
The man’s breath doesn’t catch, he doesn’t wet his mouth with his tongue, doesn’t swallow in wanton excitement. Instead, he kneels right there on the cobblestones, seemingly heedless of the cold mud seeping into his trousers, and extends a hand.
“Oh, it is, truly. What do you say to the idea of going somewhere a little warmer, out of the chill?”
So he wants to play a savior. Déomas can work with that. Men have paid less of a price for the pleasure of his company. He slides his fingers delicately into the outheld palm - it’s soft to touch, warm, shocking against the iciness of Déomas’ flesh.
He allows the man to draw him to his feet, hiding his weak-kneed wobble (gods, how long has it been since he’s eaten?) by leaning suggestively, tripping, against the man’s side. Déomas isn’t groped, does not have ale-laden breath panted against his neck, doesn’t even get an arm looped possessively around his waist for his trouble. He just…smiles, warm and pleasant, steadies Déomas on his feet. Odd.
“What might I call you, goodsir?” Déomas purrs, wide-eyed, demure and polite, as he follows the man down the street like a lost kitten. Ingénue orphan - poor helpless whore, doesn’t want to be trapped in this profession on such a cold night.
“Cassander, but you can call me Cass.”
His voice is a burr, rich and heavy and murmurous, a clean brook tumbling over old stones.
Déomas thinks that this man - Cass - will lead him to an inn. Perhaps a tavern, if he’s feeling cheap, where he can fuck Déomas semi-privately in a back booth as he nurses an ale. Instead, he draws Déomas into the very bakery he was huddling behind.
Déomas is too startled to really register it all, pulled along, windswept into the whole thing. Sat down at a little one-legged table, in the corner by the window, draped with a lace tablecloth and a beeswax candle. Served two mugs of piping cider, spicy and sweet and heavenly against Déomas’ half-numb palms.
He sips it, dizzy with the wave of warmth, the glare of candlelight, the murmurous buzz of chatter, and is surprised it isn’t mulled. Men usually try to get him drunk when they buy things for him. But even without the bitter punch of alcohol, the fruity beverage warms him right to his core, the apple-taste sinking into his very bones and thawing something tight and frozen there.
This Cass is still smiling, chatting softly to the baker’s apprentice, who is laying out a plate- no, a platter of sticky buns. Melted brown sugar and glazed pecans, all clumped over flaky golden dough fresh from the hearth and steaming in their dish, fogging up the frosty window glass.
Very stupidly, Déomas sort of wants to cry.
Cass pushes bun after bun upon him, coaxing him to eat his fill, to wash it all down with more sweet cider. Doesn’t speak much, except to make a soft, idle little comment about the fading sun upon the cobblestones or a customer with an excitable daughter. He almost doesn’t care that it surely, surely, comes with a steep price. Nobody is kind to Déomas without expecting something in return.
But he hasn’t had a hot meal in ages. He’s too exhausted, too sore inside and out, too shivery still at every gust of air from the bakery door swinging open and shut for patrons, to mind it too much. Perhaps Cass will want Déomas to lick his cock and call him master or daddy or baby. Maybe he’ll want to share Déomas’ talents with a friend. He’s had worse for less. And, oddly, he is grateful. He might not even mind so much, being a good little whore for someone so pretty and graceful.
He’s so enraptured by his meal, fingers sticky with syrup, belly full and heavy, mouth singing with spices, he only takes idle note of the coin Cass lays on the table. It isn’t much - the bakery caters to those with little money to spare, after all - but eyeing the man’s clothing, Déomas has discerned that this man isn’t wealthy.
It’s hidden well, but his clothing has been mended, again and again, stitched in places where the fabric has been torn or worn through with holes. The red of his shawl has taken on a faded hue. And his makeup…
Oh, he must be going slow. Déomas somehow failed to notice, a combination of the dim evening light and his own dizzy hunger, but the man has a little cream spread over his skin. Not everywhere, just…places. The corner of his mouth (a little too pink to be quite natural, now Déomas thinks of it), under his eyes, along the slender column of his throat. Hiding bruises. The lids of his eyes are tinted with a soft, pearly powder, and his cheeks - which Déomas thought were flushed by the cold - are rouged.
“Didn’t tell me you were a whore.”
Blunt, yes, but he’s just a little shocked it took him all of half an hour to figure it out. He ought to have recognized tart paint when he saw it - Déomas has often enough covered the handprints of grasping clients or the mark of some righteous citizen’s quick backhand.
Cass offers his same soft little smile.
“You didn’t ask.”
Fuck. Déomas isn’t sure how to feel exactly but he leans back, crosses his arms tight across his chest, eyes narrowed.
“So…just got out of the business and pitied the poor sluts who couldn’t climb their way free, is that it?”
Déomas shouldn’t be so fucking thorny. He winces as soon as he says it. Why is he such a bitch? He doesn’t back down though. His hackles are raised - from trusting little sex kitten to hissing alley-cat in moments. People in his line of work can’t afford to be philanthropists so he must…must be a favored courtesan of some pathetic man with a fat purse and a lonely wife. That’s got to be it, right? Déomas half-expects the aging whore across from him to spit back at him, maybe to spout some nauseating holier-than-thou platitude about seeing the light.
Instead, Cass surprises Déomas once more by laughing. It’s not even sharp. Just…soft and amused and so sad, that sorrow which flows beneath all his grace and warmth like a dark river.
“Not at all. I just thought you seemed cold, honey.”
Cass stands, brushing crumbs off his lap delicately, drawing his shawl up over his lovely halo of curls and fishes another few coins from his little drawstring purse, lays them before Déomas on the table with the empty dishes.
“It’ll frost over tonight, I should think, so this is for a room down at the Bluebell. They don’t ask questions but the doors lock well and it’s clean, warm - this should buy you a night.”
Still so patient, calm, measured. It makes Déomas feel a little cornered, like he wants to bolt, fidgeting in his chair, neck prickling, flushed and hot and sharp. He still feels like being a bit of a bitch because his belly is full and his holes are unfucked and he’s warm and untouched and none of this makes any sense.
“You’ll come visit me later, is that it? If you don’t have to go running off to your…paramour?”
Drawled with a sneer - it’s shaky, choked, pathetic. He’s so tired of the game of it all and he won’t be caught by surprise by anyone, he won’t.
Cass goes a little still. A shadow passes over his face, dark and horrible, his amber eyes glimmering with tears and for a moment he looks so miserable that Déomas feels ill. It passes and that placid, demure expression is back. Strained, now. Weary.
“No. I have…an appointment at the Dragon’s Head tavern, I’ll likely, uh, stay the night there.”
Oh.
Déomas flushes - this time with the hot stab of shame lancing through him. The whore tavern. Rough and seedy and a place someone like Déomas often finds himself. Not someone like this glowing, graceful creature.
“Oh, I-“
“It’s okay, honey.” Cass interrupts softly. For a moment, it seems like he is going to reach out and touch Déomas but thinks better of it. Instead, he catches Déomas’ gaze and it’s like his eyes burn through the redhead, piercing his chest and his heart and deeper, deeper still.
“Just…take care of yourself, okay? You deserve a night to sleep inside, away from the cold, without paying anything.”
Déomas wants to scoff, to protest that doesn’t. He really doesn’t. This whore doesn’t know him.
He can’t say any of that with Cass’ sad, kind eyes on him. So, like a coward, he glances away. Cass doesn’t seem to fault him for that either, though, and just sighs. Not a sound of irritation, just…resignation.
“It’s true. Whether you believe it or not.”
He’s gone before Déomas can retort, a flurry of cold wind and red shawl, into the evening. Déomas doesn’t watch him go, doesn’t look over his shoulder to watch Cassander glide quietly down the cold streets while Déomas sits in the bakery, safe and sound and alone.
It isn’t true, he’ll tell himself, even as his fists clench so hard they tremble around enough money to buy him safety and privacy for a single night. He’s wrong about me - he doesn’t know me.
Yet, under all the tangle of frost-tipped thorns, a little hidden patch of Déomas’ tired, wounded heart melts and softens like snow under the morning sun.
~
hope you enjoyed seeing our blorbos from our brains hang out 🥺❤️🥺
#it’s our blorbos friend! 🥰🥰🥰#deomas overbridge#cassander#much-ado-about-whumping#my writing#morja and company#crossover#whump#whumpee#caretaker#whumpee turned caretaker#hurt and comfort#angst#bad survivors#allusions to noncon#allusions to past noncon#environmental whump#sartorial whump#(only kind of lmao)
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A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 14
Masterlist
I found it in me to write this. Going through a rough time and Akakios is my comfort character, so enjoy the penultimate chapter.
CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, institutionalized slavery, angels and demons, transformation whump, vague allusion to noncon, brief suicidal ideation
===
“You’re changing, my love.”
Asimi ran their hand over one of the nubs of horn protruding from Akakios’ head. Akakios, of course, was crying. There were few nights spent with Asimi that didn’t involve tears. It was a miracle, to Akakios, that Asimi wasn’t sick of him.
“There’s nothing that can be done?” Aka asked tearfully. The reality of it all was sinking in. He was becoming a dangerous creature. Before, he wasn’t human by virtue of being a mage of the dark arts. Now, he would be a monster. He’d be killed.
Not that it was such a bad fate, to be dead.
“No, Aka, my love. There’s nothing that can be done.” For once, the ever-steady Asimi seemed shaken. “I’ll be forced out of you, Aka. I fear for what that means for both of us.” Asimi took a breath. “Aka, we, as devils, are created by powerful emotions. The stronger the emotions throughout a lifetime, the stronger the devil. You will be powerful, my love. Able to defend yourself without me.”
“Asimi, you can’t leave me.” Akakios began to sob. “You’ve always been there. What am I going to do without you?”
Asimi looked away, casting Akakios into shame.
God, even Asimi would hate him now.
“Aka, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I hope we can escape. I hope we can overwhelm their forces and escape. But I don’t think that will happen. Young devils are out of control, Aka. They’re strong and unable to control themselves. With this happening now- look, I’m not a fortune teller. I just don’t know.”
It was the first time that Asimi hadn’t known.
That scared Akakios, more than Constantine ever could.
—
The rain pattered awkwardly on the windshield of Vasiliki’s car. When was the last time that Akakios had heard rain? He didn’t know. Of course, Akakios was out of control of his life once again, but he was, at least, outside the Facility.
Vasiliki, as he brought Akakios out of the car and into the apartment building, leading him with a firm hand on his shoulder, seemed nervous. Why was Vasiliki nervous? He’d never seemed this nervous before.
Once Vasiliki opened the lock to his apartment - Akakios felt like he recognized the number, 504 - and practically shoved Akakios in, he took a deep breath. It sounded part like relief and part like anguish. Akakios fidgeted nervously with his hands, a little unsure of what to do. The apartment was a one-bedroom ordeal - not exactly what Akakios had been expecting out of the doctor.
“I,” Vasiliki took another deep breath. “I know that this is my apartment. I know what that means for you, Akakios. So, I wanted to say my intentions plainly.”
Vasiliki took a look around his apartment, as though he was looking for something hidden. Once he was satisfied, Vasiliki turned to Akakios.
“I have a friend who’s a revolutionary- one who wants to save the dark mages. He- he knows some devils. Some who could help you. I’m calling him to help us. To have us taken to a safehouse. To have you, most of all, taken to a safehouse. You won’t have to talk to me anymore - or anyone from the Facility. You’ll have other people. You won’t be a slave anymore.”
Akakios stood in shocked silence. It felt like a trap. It couldn’t possibly be true. Him? Free? Meeting devils? Being taken care of? The thought was foreign to him.
“Now, just- just sit quietly and let me call him.”
And so, that was what Akakios did. He found a quiet corner in the apartment, a little bit out of sight, while Vasiliki paced around the kitchen on his cellphone. There wasn’t much time before the Facility sent patrols looking for them.
Even if Vasiliki owned him. Even if he was here under the guise of Vasiliki fucking him-
“They’re on their way.”
God, it was actually happening. Someone was coming. Akakios could only hope that this would turn out well for him.
More quiet pacing from Vasiliki. More quiet corner-hiding for Akakios.
Eventually, there was a rap on the door. Vasiliki jumped. Akakios curled up further in the corner.
As the people entered, Akakios curled up more in the corner, the prongs of the shock collar he bore around his neck digging in. He felt himself losing his grip. He couldn’t have panic be his first reaction to these people. Akakios needed to behave, not make Vasiliki look bad.
There were quiet whispers. One had golden eyes, goat-shaped pupils. Goat horns adorned his head. A devil. A devil in the flesh. A very powerful one at that. The other was a kind-looking man around Vasiliki’s age. He had brown skin, brown hair, and brown eyes, with glasses and a beard of stubble.
As the devil approached, Akakios pushed himself further into the corner, whimpering.
“Akakios, right?” The devil, the powerful devil, sat down across from Akakios, giving him plenty of space. “I won’t come any closer.”
When Akakios looked up at the devil, the room wasn’t Vasiliki’s anymore. The space was dark, pitch-black, yet Akakios could see the devil in front of him. Instead of that humanoid creature, though, Akakios could see a wolverine creature with goat’s hooves, eyes, and horns, sitting there, in front of him.
“They can’t see us here.”
Akakios pushed himself up, whimpering, but falling on his broken ankle. “I- Vasiliki is my master. You can’t take me away from him.”
The creature in front of him considered him for a moment before he spoke. “Akakios, I’m not taking you away from him, not unless you want me to.”
“What I want isn’t important. I’m a slave. I don’t have any wants.”
A pensive sigh. A flicker of eyes away from his face. For once, after having said that, Akakios wasn’t sure he’d said the right thing.
“Akakios.” The creature took a breath, before lifting a hooved foreleg. “I don’t care what anyone has told you before this. You are Akakios. Not a slave. Not to me.” The creature paused. “I want you to understand something, Akakios. You belong to yourself. Vasiliki, he’s done some right, but I’d argue he’s done more wrong than he has right. The greatest thing he’s done, though, was tell Stergios that he’s giving you up to freedom.”
“What?”
Akakios’ voice came out as a weak croak. He was overwhelmed. Panicked. Tired. Confused. Why was this all happening?
It couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Because if it was, what had that year of torture been for?
“Akakios, as of today, you’re free.”
“Not legally. I'll never be free.”
The devil scoffed. “Mortal men think that they can make laws to control the universe. They’d make laws to control the Sun if they could. Akakios, the world is not in control of mortal men, not even ones as powerful as Vasiliki. Not of will, not of their laws. So, forget that a law ever told you that you were lesser. That you were a slave. Mortal men are foolish, Akakios, and soon, you won’t be one of them.”
It was as if the Sun and Moon collided. Everything went dark inside Akakios’ mind. He couldn’t think. Everything had shattered in a matter of minutes.
Elias, the devil, was right. He would not be mortal for much longer. A week if he was lucky.
Or a moment.
Something grew out of Akakios’ shoulders. Suddenly, he was standing on four legs. Spines protruded from his back. His mouth was full of fangs. Worst of all, horns laid on his head.
A piece of him had broken, that last hold out. That fear of becoming immortal. He was a monster, beyond the lives of mortal men. There was no other way to be. As a dark mage and as a devil, Akakios would never be anything other than a beast.
“Aka, my love,”
Akakios’ golden eyes turned to Asimi, that silvery, draconic form, standing in the flesh, before him.
Tears formed in Akakios’ eyes.
“I- I’m sorry, Asimi.”
Asimi smiled as much as they could in that scaly form. “For what, my darling? This is who you are. And you don’t have to be with Vasiliki any longer. I know Elias, darling. He’s going to protect you.”
Akakios hesitated. “But what about you, Asimi?”
Asimi smiled a little. “I’ve retired from the cause. I love you too much to fight anymore, Aka. I want to be by your side. I’ll be with you, Akakios, but you need to recover. I can help, but Elias, he’s a professional. He’s been helping devils recover for hundreds of years. I was only ever a fighter.”
“But Asimi-”
“Aka, I’m not leaving.” There was finality in Asimi’s voice. “I’m staying with you. But I can’t always be with you anymore. You need to take care of yourself. Just, focus on that, okay?”
A sigh, this time from Akakios, as tears stained his fur. “I can’t do this.”
“You can, Aka. I know you can.”
“Akakios.” Elias spoke his name almost as though it were a command. “I want you to make a decision. You can come with me and leave Vasiliki. Nobody will hurt you for it. Or, you can stay with him, and we’ll do our best to help you recover in his presence.”
Akakios looked at Elias, panicked, chest heaving. “I-I, how could I just leave him?”
“Akakios. Vasiliki is part of a horrible system. Was. Was part of a horrible system. He enabled your abuse. He even abused you a bit himself. You can leave someone who enabled what has hurt you so deeply. You can leave anyone behind. That is your right. You are you and you make the decisions that help you the most. It’s not selfish to take care of yourself, Akakios. In my experience, you need to leave this type of thing entirely behind to move on.”
Moving on.
Could Akakios ever move on?
“I’m not worth it,” Akakios eventually mumbled.
Asimi walked over and put their talons on Akakios’ shoulders. “Aka, there’s so much you can’t see. All these wonderful things. I’ve lived a long time and- and I couldn't be happier to be your lifelong platonic partner. Meeting you was the best thing that ever happened to me. You are worth it. So, make your choice. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”
Looking into Asimi’s silvery eyes, Akakios felt something that resembled a gut feeling.
“I’ll leave. I’ll-I’ll leave Vasiliki.”
With that, Asimi smiled. “You make a beautiful mountain lion, dear.”
===
@i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @writereleaserepeat, @just-a-silly-little-whumper, @sparrowsage, @inscrutable-shadow, @whumplr-reader, @whumpycries, @demondamage, @whumpshaped, @itsleighlove, @whump-blog, @whumpterful-beeeeee, @sunshiline-writes
#medical whump#trans whumpee#test subject whumpee#experiment whumpee#fantasy racism#dehumanization#fantasy whump#institutionalized slavery#angels and demons#transformation whump#vague allusion to noncon#whump#whump writing#whumpblr#whump fic#whump community#conditioned whumpee#a wicked work of art
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Insomnia
Summary: Dick answers Jason's call for backup even though he hasn't had a decent night's sleep in days. Fighting crime while dealing with sleep deprivation turns out to be a recipe for disaster.
It had been raining in Gotham for five consecutive nights.
A tropical storm system just off the coast of New Jersey was pushing torrential rain into the Gotham bay and surrounding areas, and the low mountain range surrounding the bay was keeping the clouds trapped above the city. Luckily, Gotham was no stranger to torrential rainfall, and the sewers and ditches and storm drains were able to keep up. The pavement was washed clean under the heavy rain, the weeds and trees springing up wherever they could manage grew green and lush, swollen with delicious rain water. Umbrellas bobbed up and down the busy thoroughfares.
And, Dick had barely slept for five nights straight.
Every time Dick laid down to try and sleep, he would hear the pitter-patter of rain against the windows and remember the way the rain made the same sound against the rooftop. He could remember what the rough asphalt of the roof felt like against his back, and he could remember the feeling of weight on his hips and slick lips against his. By that point, he was usually dry heaving into a toilet before the memory could get any farther.
Dick had started stealing down to the cave, where the sounds remained the same no matter what the weather was outside. But, sleeping in the cave invited questions that Dick didn’t feel able to answer. So, he only saved it as a last resort, meaning that he had only gotten a few hours of sleep a night every night since the rain started.
He knew the statistics. Sleep deficiency meant slower reaction times, worse decision-making skills, irritability and lack of focus, among a laundry list of other things. Running on so little sleep for so long, he really should have pulled himself off of rotation.
Except that, Jason was back in town for the first time in almost a year and Tim had just started patrolling the marina alone and Damian was back in Gotham after being gone for almost as long as Jason and Cass and Steph had started sharing the Batgirl title and were working in Burnside along with Barbara. It felt like it was the first time in years that all the Bats were in Gotham and active at the same time. Dick couldn't miss it, he couldn't miss so many voices on the comms at once, so many team ups and happy call-outs. And, he also couldn't let people bump up against each other too hard, couldn't let old grievances stop them from helping each other, and couldn't let Bruce somehow run this new sense of teamwork into the ground yet again.
But, the rain...
Dick stood under a small overhang behind a century old factory down in the cauldron. It was Halloween night, and the steady rain had put an end to any trick or treating plans most families had. If it hadn't, the truly insane level of criminal activity that had been happening all night probably would have done the job. Halloween was always a crazy time of the year in Gotham, and that year was no exception.
Dick was exhausted down to his bones. His limbs all felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. All he wanted to do was sleep, but the rain...
The rain wasn’t letting up any time soon.
"Hey, I’ve got a situation over on the West End," Jason asked over the comms. “Anyone still up?”
Dick considered not answering. It was so late that it was almost dawn, the morning sun coloring the polluted clouds over Gotham a pinky orange color through the drizzling cold rain. He could just not answer. Dick could brave the rain for the twenty minutes it would take him to drive back to the manor and hide in his old room until the rain stopped. Even if he wasn't sleeping, at least he wouldn't be out in it, feeling it patter against his suit, against his upturned face just like-.
Shaking his head, Dick pressed a finger to his ear.
"Yeah, still up," he croaked.
Dick knew he sounded terrible, but Jason hadn't sounded much better over the radio. Nobody else was still up anyway, except maybe Bruce and Tim. But, they had both been silent for hours, so maybe they had already gone in too.
"I've got a group of crooked cops up on the West End near the south tunnel. Looks like they're doing a big deal with some joker knock-offs. There's like twenty of them. Think you could provide backup?" Jason asked.
Dick put his head down and rubbed his forehead against the top of his knees hard, but it didn't make the fatigue go away.
"Sure thing. Be there in five," he replied.
Looking back, Dick thought he knew on some level that answering Jason's call was going to end in disaster. Everything was against him by the end of that night. The chances of him leaving that fight without someone getting seriously hurt were incredibly slim. But, the only alternative would have been to leave Jason to handle the fight by himself, and that might as well have been no choice at all.
Still, it was hard to swallow that thought process when Jason was laying on his back in a dirty parking lot and Dick was holding a compression bandage to a huge gaping wound in his thigh.
"How did this happen," Bruce barked for the third time since he had shown up on the scene. He was crouched on the opposite side of Jason, pressing his own hands between Dick's.
"We didn't know there was a bomb," Dick ground out from between clenched teeth.
Jason was groaning, disoriented and probably concussed, with his arm thrown over his eyes.
"Clowns are known for planting bombs in their vehicles. The first thing you should have looked for was someone holding a detonator," Bruce snapped back, just as loud and just as furious.
Dick tried to remind himself that Bruce was just scared. He always lost it whenever Jason got hurt. Not that Bruce had a reputation of being a bastion of good reactions in emotional situations, but this kind of event was sure to make him unfurl even more. And, when Bruce was feeling emotional, he lashed out. That was just how he protected himself.
But, it was hard to remember that when Dick's own heart was beating rabbit fast in his chest. Because Bruce was right, bombs were the clown gang's calling card. When fights weren't going their way, they always detonated their cars and then beat it in the ensuing chaos. He should have known. But, somehow, he forgot.
He forgot to keep an eye out for Jason, and he lost him in the chaos of the fighting. He left him alone to try and disarm the bomb by himself. Dick didn't watch his back like he should have and as a result, Jason was punched in the back of the head just as he was removing an especially badly installed connector and the thing went off right in his face.
Jason was better armored than any of them, but armor had to have gaps in order to allow freedom of movement. Jason’s helmet had been shattered in half a dozen places, his chest piece was studded with bent nails and bits of glass. But the worst part was that something big must have gotten right into a small gap between his cup and the armor over his thighs and hit his femoral artery.
As much as Dick wanted to punch Bruce in the face for saying it, he wasn't wrong. Dick should have known better. If he had just done the right thing, maybe Jason wouldn’t have gotten hurt yet again.
"Will you shut the fuck up?" Jason said with a surprising amount of venom for someone who had lost so much blood. "I didn't hear you answer my call for back up. At least Dick was here."
Bruce did indeed shut the fuck up immediately. Dick almost felt sorry for Bruce. Jason always managed to zero in on the weakest spot in anyone's emotional armor, but he had been holding back on that particular parlor trick since he came back to Gotham. But Dick supposed that if he was bleeding out in a parking lot, he wouldn't pull any punches either.
They sat in silence for the remaining thirty seconds before a huge beat up station wagon came roaring down the alley blasting shitty morning radio. Steph and Cass poured out of the front seat, Cass running to crouch down beside Jason's head, Steph coming around to pull open the hatch in the back of the car.
"Me, head. Wing, pressure. Bat, feet. Good?" she said quickly, her words perfunctory but perfectly clear.
Dick nodded his agreement and, after a second, Bruce did as well and moved down to Jason's feet. Together, they heaved Jason's impressive bulk into the back of the car. Bruce's feet had barely left the pavement before Steph was peeling out, pushing the car to its limits to get to Leslie's clinic as fast as possible. Bruce pulled the back of the hatch down while they were in motion.
"Stupid move," Cass said quietly from where she had her gloved fingers already tangled in Jason's wavy, sweaty hair.
"Yeah, yeah," he grunted, sounding on the edge of sleep. "I'm sure I'll hear no end of it. Can you at least wait until I'm not bleeding?"
"No," Cass said with a laugh that was just a soft breath, but a big sound for such a quiet girl.
"Jason," Dick choked out. Feeling Jason's hot blood between his fingers and listening to Jason joking with Cass all of a sudden made Dick feel like he was going to shake apart.
"Hey, whoa, don't cry," Jason said, sounding panicked.
"I'm so sorry," Dick took a gasping breath and was mortified to feel tears on his eyelashes. "This is all my fault. I should have-"
"No, hey! I said-!" Jason started to protest.
"No fighting," Cass said quietly but firmly. They both snapped their mouths shut. "Jason is hurt. Dick is tired. No fighting."
They both paused for a second, looking at each other from behind white-out lenses, before Jason woofed out a laugh.
"That's why you're the big sister," he said, and Cass flicked him on the nose.
But he reached out with his right hand and put it on Dick's ankle, and it felt like forgiveness. It felt like warm blankets that smelled like Alfred's laundry detergent and the sound of squeaking bats and the feel of his favorite pillow. Dick was going to get his brother sewn up, but hopefully afterward he would finally be able to sleep.
#whumptober2023#no.12#red#insomnia#dcu comics#fanfiction#sleep deprivation#bombing#blood loss#referenced noncon#this is specifically some allusions to the tarantual event in the nightwing comics#but it's not described in detail or even named#kittywrites
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Oh oh oh, being careful to keep outside appearances of you not matching Agatha’s craziness so you can lure people [Wanda] into [sex] traps
mhm!!! ur just a sweet precious angel! no one would ever suspect u of anything 😇 i feel like this comes after some of that insecurity regarding wanda and agatha(as agnes) being seemingly close wanes and agatha mentions how it would probably be helpful if you were close to her too so thjngs were less suspicious
and wanda notices a shift in how friendly and sweet u become but she thinks hey, maybe you just adjusted to westview and aren’t resisting anymore.
i don’t think that agatha or you would be one to share the other in an equal way, but i do think that you both would get off on taking advantage of wanda 👀
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D.E.A.N | Oneshot VI - Renewal
Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive
Fandom : Original Work
AO3
Wordcount : ± 1715
TW: Graphic Depiction of Violence (hitting, punching, strangling), Blood, Allusion to Past Sexual Assaults and the Aftermath (noncon, mention of STDs), Graphic Depiction of Torture Aftermath, Captivity, Starvation
Summary:
Nick never thought there is another entity that can surpass his old captors’ cruelty spanning in years, while doing it only in a few days. Maybe he has always been simply doomed to face violence until whenever his short life ends.
Whumpee : Nikolai / Nick (from D.E.A.N) | Whumper(s) : D.E.A.N team, particularly Marcus
A/N Hi. I know at some point I said that I would try to update the main fic once a week, but life happened yknow. Got a new job (good), religious observance holiday after ramadhan/fasting month (very busy), new cat adoption (v nice), and I'm kinda running out of prewritten chapters (even though, fair enough, that's my fault because I've been too busy trying to write the sequel and the side stories instead lol), but I will try to get a new chapter up this week. In the meantime, please enjoy this one-shot and tell me what you think. k bye thank.
——
7th of August 2016
He felt something heavy poking him in his back quite hard and repeatedly, rousing him from his shallow sleep. It felt like those steel boots usually worn by military people.
Huh.
He had no option but to open his eyes blearily despite the task feeling like lifting 400-pound heavy-weight gear in a gym. Pretty ironic, considering he had never been to a gym in the last few years. How would he know how it felt, really?
He blinked his eyes open slowly, still feeling the bruises around them, both due to lack of sleep and new wave of violence he experienced lately.
What day was it? He forgot.
“Get up.”
He heard again one of the familiar firm voices he’d been hearing lately. This one sounded quite masculine.
He squeezed his eyes and painstakingly pulled his right hand into the curl of his fetal position, then laid his right palm to the concrete ground to try to push himself up. Yet, he couldn’t, even after dozens of tries as his sweat rained from his skin.
He had only eaten five times in the last ten days, give or take. Maybe less. It was no surprise that getting up was such a hassle to him. There was no way he had enough fuel inside him to succeed in that kind of exertion.
He might had been used to the starving in Helga, but he hadn’t been tortured for quite a while on top of the hunger, except in the last day he was with them. This new SWAT guys weren’t exactly soft with him, never leaving a day where their hands didn’t connect with his skin in a violent manner.
He was tired. He was so, very tired.
He still attempted again to rise, trying to push himself up with his right arm while trembling vigorously. His face was pinched in exhaustion and pain.
Maybe the guy was impatient, or he thought that Nick was faking his physical frailty to stall it, but he immediately felt one strong arm pulling the collar of his black shirt roughly and quickly. Consequently, his legs kept frantically buckling and slipping that he almost fell down on his ass, while his vision blacked out slightly with the speed of his head rising up to standing position.
He couldn’t help swaying despite the guy’s arm holding his shirt collar and his body up, while his own non-handcuffed right arm absently held the muscular forearm as an additional support for his torso above his jelly legs. The back of his head automatically leaned back against the wall behind him to lessen the weight that his emaciated body needed to prop up.
He blinked rapidly again to situate his vision, which still swam and tilted to the side continuously. He was then greeted by the sight of that young-looking man with blond hair and blue eyes who stood just as tall as him.
(In normal situation, of course, not now when Nick could barely open his eyes like this.)
“Ready to talk?”
He stared at the blue eyes of the furious man in front of him with his own half-lidded ones, gulping audibly and painfully with how dry his throat was on this inside and how bruised it was on the outside.
“I don’t know… what you… want me—” he coughed and winced, “—to say.”
“Where are they?”
He squeezed his eyes again.
What was it about him that made these people so convinced that he was in cahoots with Helga? He looked like a fucking skeleton already, he didn’t have shoes when they found him, and he was left in a fucking hidden hole in a wall that was covered by thick and almost completely unnoticeable concrete covering.
Did any of that look like the sign of someone working together with an international criminal syndicate? Or its fucking victim instead?
He tried to push at his legs still, hoping his body agreed to stay up anyway.
“I said,” the guy glared at him, “Where. Are. They?”
He sighed shakily as he closed his eyes.
“My answer… isn’t gonna—” he coughed repeatedly again, “—change.” He then continued rasping to the other man, “I don-don’t… know.”
The man clenched his jaw and his blue eyes hardened.
Somewhere in the back of his head, Nikolai laughed at himself inwardly when a thought shortly passed through his mind that the eyes actually looked quite attractive. They were clear, deep blue eyes that weren’t too light or too dark. Nick felt that they looked more suitable on an alluring model’s face than on a cruel, angry face of a heartless torturer.
Jesus fucking christ, Nick, he wants to kill you, he berated himself.
God, he truly was broken. He had clearly gone insane now.
He immediately felt painful tightness on his chest, almost like a strangling sensation. The muscular young man before him had pushed the back of his palm against Nick’s lower neck and the space between his bony clavicles, causing him to cough again with white spots materializing on the corners of his vision. He audibly tried to suck in some oxygen with scrunched up face, hoping that the guy would soften the chokehold a little bit.
“What the fuck did they give you that you’re so fucking loyal to them?”
This time, he couldn’t help laughing loudly and outwardly.
A fucking PTSD and broken body, and maybe some remnant STDs that weren’t medicated or tested yet; that was what Helga gave to him. He wasn’t loyal to them though.
The guy didn’t appreciate that, it seemed, so a fist swung across his already colorfully bruised face until his head was painfully thrown to his right, while his body almost fell down if not for the guy’s angry grip on his shirt. He winced again while coughing and spluttering blood onto the wall next to him.
He didn’t have enough strength to raise his head back up and face the blond again, so he just looked to the side with tilting vision and breathing that produced funny whistling noise. He was sure several of his ribs were badly broken. Maybe one poked into his lungs already.
The guy didn’t let him look away for too long, and instead, his much more powerful palm painfully squeezed Nikolai’s jaw and wrung his head to face the man again.
He fucking hated it so much, but lately he couldn’t control the fact that his tears just randomly flowed to his cheeks without his command. It happened almost all the time, but especially when one of these task force people was rouging him up in his cell. He really wasn’t trying to emotionally manipulate anyone, nor did he want to appear pathetic in front of these SWAT-like pieces of shit.
“That’s not gonna work on me,” the man said with a cruel smirk.
He clenched his own jaw now.
“No shit,” he rasped again venomously as he gave his own glare with the scant energy left in his body. “Nothing… will work—” he paused painfully, “—on your… your fucking stone hearts and—” he winced, “—idiot brains.”
Before he knew it, his head swung roughly to the side again, followed by slowly spreading pain on his jaw after a second punch from the muscular and tall man. He then squeezed his eyes once more to avoid his worsening rotating vision. He felt more tears flowing from his eyes after that.
He was just so tired.
Predictably, his face was wrung up to look at the man again, so he gritted his teeth to endure the pain.
Some part of him wished he was still in Helga; at least he knew what they wanted, he knew he had what they wanted, and thus, he could give them what they wanted so that they stopped beating the shit out of him.
There was no winning with these new people.
Out of desperation, he tried again to beg as he rarely did before—both to his Helga handlers and these new people—hoping this time the man would grant his wish.
“Please just take me out… I’m tired,” he choked out, his squeezed eyes producing more moisture that flowed down his bruised face. He barely felt the liquid on his skin with all the pulsing agony all over his body.
The man chuckled insultingly.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? Getting off scot-free and escaping like a fucking coward.”
He didn’t respond nor did he open his eyes, knowing that it would make him cry more and looked so much fucking weaker, even if he did feel incredibly weak.
“Look. At. Me,” the man growled again unfortunately, so he forced himself to peel his eyelids open and gaze at the man’s face.
As he predicted (and often noticed happening to him after an extended beating), the feel of something catching in his throat thickened, while his tears flowed even more. He tried to continuously grit his teeth, as painful as it was, to stop a little bit of the wetness in his eyes, but it didn’t work at all.
He was just in too much pain to control his silent cry now.
“Tell me where the fuck they are,” the other man hissed at him with his face close to Nick’s own, “…or we’ll keep you like this for as long as possible.”
When was the last time anyone looked at him with gentleness and affection? With sympathy? Three years ago? Four years?
His eyes darted down slightly to the hip of the man holding him, then back up to the hateful blue eyes.
“One bullet…between my eyes is—agrh—enough, you know?” he shakily told the stronger man.
Immediately, his body swung roughly to the side and down on the floor after another hit to the side of his head. His vision darkened and became unstable, so he winced again deeply. He did that a lot these past few years, but especially these past few days.
Thankfully, the man just growled and turned around angrily to leave, instead of dealing a parting kick to his ribs like usual.
A moment before he passed out again, he prayed to whatever deity out there that he wouldn’t have to wake up after this. He didn’t have any more strength. He needed it to be over, Helga or not. He really couldn’t do more of this.
He was so tired.
#whump#multiple whumpers#starvation#strangulation#choking#captivity#beating#hitting#blood tw#injury tw#D.E.A.N#allusion to noncon#torture tw#suicidal ideation#OC#OC whump#me#writing#english#hurt no comfort#(just in this fic but in the main fic there will be comfort)#whump community#military#misunderstanding#defiant whumpee#me write
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Monsters: Mikey Sano x Reader x Izana Kurokawa
Chapter 2: Shots Fired
pairing: Mikey Sano x Fem Reader x Izana Kurokawa
series summary: Your grievous sin was Emma standing up for you to her brothers. And now you’re going to pay the heavy price for destroying their perfect family dynamic.
chapter summary: izana kurokawa decides he has to teach you a bitter lesson that you wouldn't forget any time soon
chapter warning: 18+ dark content, misogyny, religious themes, smoking, mention of drugs, brief description of child abuse, childhood trauma and sex work, violence (against both character and reader), emotional incest, night terrors, allusions to sex, sexual harrassment, mention and brief description of rape, asphyxiation (non sexual), manipulation, slut shaming, near death experience, sexual assault, noncon, oral (m.recieving), face and throat fucking, attempted murder
Please read ending credits for important annoucement
wc: 7.5k
masterlist||chapter 1||chapter 3
IZANA mindlessly fiddled with his lighter as he leaned on the wall, waiting diligently for Emma.
Unlit cigarette between his lips, his purple eyes scanned the people leaving the English department one by one, hoping to find a mop of golden hair amongst the students. A small vivienne Westwood shopping bag hung between his fingers loosely, perched beside his faded out black jeans. There was no way that Emma would avoid him in public at least, not with the entire student population watching the both of them. He knew that his little sister hated being the subject of rumors, no matter how trivial it could be.
His plan has to work. It just has to.
Whatever bullshit Mikey was spewing about you being the key to getting Emma to speak to him, can go to hell. He and Emma had a strong bond that transcended anything casual. This was his little sister he watched for the first eight years of his life, a bond doesn’t just break like that. Not over a stranger.
Not over you. Over your dead body.
A few minutes passed and still no sign of Emma. Deciding that he didn’t want to stand around and gape like a moron, Izana lifted his lighter towards his cigarette, flicking the light twice and bringing the warm flame to his lips. Breathing in the familiar scent of nicotine, smoke filled his lungs as he tucked the lighter back in his pockets. His free hand took the cigarette from his lips and he exhaled, releasing plumes of smoke from his lips.
His smoking habit had gotten worse within the past week. Izana couldn’t help it, reaching for a light anytime he saw his gifts in the dustbin. Emma hasn’t been this angry at him for more than a day before, usually a new plushie was enough to wash his sins clean, no matter how grevious they were. Now, not even the most expensive shoes she’s been eyeing for months could satiate her anger.
All because of you.
Izana knows his little sister like the back of his hand. Like how she loved sleeping with plushies because it comforted her whenever their mother brought men into the house and they were loud. Or how he picked up a guitar to learn multiple barbie songs because their mother had destroyed Emma’s CD that he bought with his money to punish her. He knew she liked warm tea during her periods and gentle back rubs to ease her pain.
Izana knows he’s not the best person to be around. Emma may have been young when she left their mother’s home, but Izana had stayed there until his teens before going to the orphanage, enduring unimaginable horrors. Life hardened him, made him so jaded that the only thin thread connecting him to his humanity was Emma.
And little by little, his humanity was slipping away.
First it was Mikey’s stupid friend, Ken Ryugi, who waltzed his way into Emma’s life. Izana didn’t like him one bit- didn’t like how Emma would bite her lip, waiting for him to reply and cry herself to sleep when he didn’t. Her heart was soft, fragile and that brute tore it apart by telling her he wasn’t interested in a relationship yet. The only reason Ken wasn’t in an unmarked, shallow grave in the middle of nowhere was simply because Mikey was involved.
Now it was you. Taking the space in her life that belonged to him and him only. He was fine sharing with his younger brother, no matter how much that little shit pisses him off but now, you’re pushing both of them out of the equation. How could someone so insignificant be so important to his sister?
He took more puffs, letting the smoke out through his mouth. He skimmed throughout the campus once again, nervousness creeping onto his consciousness with every passing moment. Had he missed Emma?
‘Has she gone to her room already? Don’t tell me I missed her-’
His thoughts were cut short the second he caught sight of a familiar blonde hair bouncing in the wind. He stood up straight tossing the cigarette to the floor and crushing it underneath his black shoes, before rushing to catch up to his little sister.
Izana pushed through the throng of people, violently shoving anyone that got in his way until he finally fell in step with her, slowing down to match her pace. Without wasting time, his hand curled around the girl’s wrist, stopping her in her tracks instantly. A shocked gasp escaped her lips, her head twisting fast and her free hand even faster to hit him.
“Get off me - Izana?”
Her hand stopped mid air, inches away from the smirking male’s face. He noticed her tension leave her body, relief washing over her, only for irritation to take its place on her face, instantly displeased at his actions. “What the hell? I’ve told you to stop doing that.” she hissed at him.
A mischievous grin made its way to his face at Emma’s irritation. She always had a pout whenever she was angry at him and it made look even more adorable.
“Were you scared?” He teased her, pulling Emma closer to him until she was practically smushed at his side, his arm hugging her tight despite the irritated glare she gave him in response. “You know that as long as I’m alive, no one guy would ever have the balls to hurt you. Unless they want to die.”
“Stop joking about things like that.”
‘I’m not.’
Shaking his head, he decided to change the topic to what he came here for originally. “Here I got you something for your…” he sneered at the thought of Draken being near his little sister. “date with Draken.” He released her from his side hug before extending the perfume bag to her with a smug look on his face. “It’s Vivienne Westwood, your favorite.”
His hand hung in the air as Emma trailed her pointed glare from his hand, back to his cheerful visage. She crossed her arms in response slowly, her yellow eyes rapidly looking at the bag to his face before her lips curled into a sick sneer.
“Are you insane?”
“What?”
“Don’t ‘what?’ me Izana! How many times have I told you that this is not a situation you can bribe me out of! Not this time!”
Emma’s voice was loud enough to garner wandering eyes of other by-standers, watching the event go down. They were wise enough to hide that they were staring, so as not to piss Izana off even further after she left.
Izana kept his composure, still holding out the bag towards Emma with a smile -albeit stiffer than before. ‘She’s just being emotional’ Izana whispered to himself, still trying to be rational. ‘Just take it easy with her’
“Easy Em, I said it was a joke” his words were smooth, buttery, flowing out of his lips like it was the truth. In his own opinion, you were the one in the wrong for wearing such a provocative outfit, showing your body off. He was just trying to tell you off so that you would be more decent next time when you’re around seniors. “I didn’t know your friend was that sensitive-”
“Are you listening to the bullshit coming from your stupid mouth?” Emma roared, her voice echoing throughout the entirety of the department, her face red with fury. Izana had never seen his own beloved sister ever look at him with such disgust in her eyes, her teeth gnashing against each other and hands at her side, clenching against each other. “Is that what you think a joke sounds like?”
“Calm the fuck dow-”
“No wonder you’re fucking single, you’re such a piece of shit to anyone that isn’t Shinichiro!” Emma screamed, interrupting Izana once again, her temper fiery enough to burn a hole on the ground she stood with how heated she was. “How does anyone even stand you for so long? You’re unbearable!”
“Excuse m-”
He doesn’t like where the conversation is going, with how furious Emma was right now. He tried to raise a comforting hand to Emma’s shoulder to ease her tension but she was quick to smack it away from her hard, stinging his fingers a little.
It hurt.
“You’re so unpleasant, how do you even have any friends? How do they tolerate you? To think (name) wanted me to forgive you! Thank god you aren’t my fucking brother, I can’t imagine being anything like you!”
The words left her mouth before she could stop herself.
It was as if the world froze over for Izana. He stood there, wide eyed, his heart beating loudly in his chest as all the voices around him faded into the background. His hand extended weakly at his side, mouth drying up as a lump formed in his throat. He can see the flash of regret in Emma’s eyes, the way her face changes when the weight of her words crushed the both of them.
Suddenly he was sixteen again, thirteen year old Mikey taking Emma’s place and uttering those soul-crushing words to him after another fight. It was just a silly xbox game that Shinichiro forced them to share, one of his many futile attempts to make them get along with each other. Izana remembered how he looked at all of them. Mikey. Emma. Shinichiro, hoping to god that it was spite that fueled Mikey’s words, not conviction.
“It’s not true right? Shin-nii? Em?”
The terrified look on Shinichiro’s face sealed Izana’s fate forever.
“I-I-i didn’t mean i-” she starts to stutter, tears gathering in her eyes. It’s obvious that she can recognize the heartbreak in his violent hues, blankly staring at her, disappointed. He wants to say something, but all that manages to come out is air. Of all the things she could say to him, why did it have to be this one?
“Izana please-”
He doesn’t let her finish, turning on his heel and walking as fast as possible. People were quick to clear out of his way, not wanting to be his target of aggression when he eventually snapped. He ignored Emma trying to reach him, shouting his name at the top of her lungs with strings of apologies as he walked back to where he bike sat.
“Izana, wait please-” she screamed from the crowd of people, tears streaming from her yellow eyes. He continued to ignore her as he hopped on his bike, sliding in the key and revving up the engine before she could reach him.
“Izana please I didn’t mean it! I’m so-”
Izana zoomed away, turning Emma’s cries into background noise.
"THANK god you’re not my real brother.”
Izana narrowly avoided crashing his bike into the tree right next to the house, hitting the breaks just in time for the bike to stop.
‘It’s all that fucking bitch’s fault!’ He seethed ‘That useless excuse of a human being caused this.’
You. An unimportant little rat that scurries around his little sister. From the first day Izana set his eyes on you, an intense hatred filled his gut. You were just there, sitting awkwardly while Emma tried to involve you in their conversation and it irked him. He hated everything about you - the way you picked your finger when you were nervous. Your bright smile you gave to only Emma when you talked about the most mundane of things. The fact that Emma would cut short their outings just to see or meet up with you.
Just your mere presence in general. He couldn’t stand you. He couldn’t stand losing his beloved sister to you
Blinded with rage, Izana throws his helmet on the tree with a guttural scream, breaking it in half. Unsatisfied with his rage, he clenched his fist and stalked towards his fraternity house, ready to beat up the first person he set his eyes on.
The doors of the fraternity house were thrown open by Izana. Shion was the first person Izana just happened to set his eyes on, the blond carrying a box of tools in his arms as he headed towards Ran’s bedroom. The taller male turned his attention just as Izana was entering the house and smiled at him.
“Hey boss, did you see your lil si-”
Izana pounced on the poor man, sending the toolbox and a confused Shion to the ground, shattering the glass table underneath them. Ignoring the broken glass digging into his skin, Izana slammed his fists straight into Shion’s face, dealing him powerful blows, cursing you as he beat up Madarame.
“(name) you stupid slut. You ruined everything! I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you-”
“Izana!”
“Stop it! You’re gonna kill him.”
Two sets of hands pulled Izana off Shion, dragging him away from the injured man. Ran is quick to help Shion up from the floor, holding the barely conscious male up. Eyes burning with irritation, Ran turned his attention to Izana who was held back by Kakucho and Mucho, heavily breathing after his rage induced breakdown.
“Izana what the hell man?” Ran cursed at him. “He was supposed to help me set up my humidifier. Look what you did!”
“Let’s take it easy, Ran, it seems like Izana had a bad day.” Kakucho reasoned, still holding Izana away from lunging at Shion once again. “You know he’s only like this when he’s stressed-”
Ran put his free hand up, silencing Kakucho completely. His violet eyes moved to Izana who was still huffing and puffing, still in Kakucho and Muto’s grip. “Look.” Ran sighed out, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We don’t want to deal with this anymore, Izana. You can’t keep taking out your anger on us. Especially for that (name) girl.”
Izana growled, his teeth clenched against each other at Ran’s words. Deep down, he knew Ran was right. Each time he saw his gift in the dustbin, it would send him into a panic induced rage and end in hitting one of his friends. Beating up everyone that wasn’t you was not the solution at all. No matter how violent he got, it still wouldn’t change the fact that his sister doesn’t want him anymore.
And it is all your fault.
Eventually, Izana relaxed, breathing through his nose gently. The two men released Izana once he calmed down before helping Ran with the barely conscious Shion to his room. The white haired male now left to his devices, crashed onto the chair, his hands on his knees. If he was going to get his sister back, he had to do it right. Maybe teach you a bitter lesson that you would never forget. Punish you for angering him and changing his little sister into something else.
Anything really, to satiate his anger.
His hand fished out his phone from his pocket, going straight to his contacts. Purple eyes rested on a familiar name, one that he hadn’t spoken to for the past eight months after a hookup. She tried to elevate herself from a hookup to his main girl, texting him non-stop and throwing herself at him.
Pathetic.
Izana liked thrill and adventure. Women who were wild on the dance floor and even wilder in the sheets were his favorite, for the same reason he loved riling up Mikey. The dopamine rush.
Sex was a drug to him. Not necessarily a favorite, just something he got a high from that was different from cocaine or LSD. The experience was a thrill, bodies meshed together in bliss as they gave into carnality until they fell over the edge. It was why he couldn’t stay with the same girl all the time, eventually their holes get accustomed to his dick and they try forming attachments to him. It gets boring.
Like this one.
He dialed the number and not even up to a minute later someone picked it. “Izana! Hey babe!” She chirped. Izana bit back a groan to avoid voicing his displeasure. She was so fucking annoying. “It’s been so long. Do you want to see me tonigh-”
“You’re (name)’s roommate right?” He could hear her deflated sigh from the phone and decided to butter her up. “Don’t worry, she’s not my type. Just need her schedule for a friend.”
“You sure?”
Izana rolled his eyes before deepening his voice to lure her in. “Sure babe. You’re the one I wanna see tonight. I see the cute pictures you sent to me. The one with you wearing those cheetah print panties, your bare tits hanging out is my favorite.”
“Really?” She sounded so excited that he liked something she sent. Pathetic.
“Really.” he breathed out. “You should wear it when you come here tonight. That is, if you tell me about your roommate’s schedule.”
“Alright!” She began excitedly, the prospect of being Izana’s girl tonight looking very tantalizing, to the point she is willing to sell out her friend. “I’ll tell you everything I know baby!”
Izana shook his head. Too easy.
YOU haven’t been able to stay asleep for the past few days.
It’s easy to fall asleep after a hard and stressful day at school and your part-time job. Your limbs ache from all the walking and lugging a bookbag far heavier than what you could handle -since all your e-textbooks were on your (now destroyed) laptop and phones were not allowed during lectures. And working from 5pm until 9pm at a restaurant, serving food to rude, overbearing customers only to be paid in pieces was another added stress in itself. Not to mention, studying.
But then, in all your dreams, everything you’ve pushed to the back of your memory is at the forefront. Your dream starts typically, your normal school day, waking up, dressing in your cute little blue crop sweater and jean skirt with socks. You go to classes, and then you see Mikey’s car waiting for Emma.
Things take a different turn. He’s the one getting out of the car to meet you. It’s like a siren call, him holding out his hand for you to take despite someone screaming for you to stop. And you try to reject him, you try to run away like the voice said but you end up getting trapped.
But this time, he’s not using his hands. He’s fully sheathed inside you, robbing you of every thing you hold so dear and you kick, bite and claw at him until you wake up screaming, sweat soaked all over your sheets.
You consistently dream of being violently raped by Manjiro Sano.
The next few hours until sunrise were equally horrible. You’re quietly sobbing into your pillows, praying to God to forgive you for letting Mikey touch you in the first place, assuming your reason for having such dreams was God’s divine judgment for your grievous sin. You’ve lost count on how many Bible verses you stay up reading until your eyes are bleary and the sun comes up.
No matter how much you pray and how many times you recite psalms 127 before you sleep, you can never escape Mikey in the world of dreams. He’s a virus that has invaded your thoughts, corrupting every dream you had and twisted them into nightmares.
You don’t know how long you can hold on being this sleep deprived. It’s been impairing your school life, trying to find a way to stay awake during classes only for you to fall asleep and miss the rest of it. Even when you got notes from the person next to you, reading them was always difficult because your eyes hurt so much.
Work was even more taxing and stressful, rush week adding more stress than you could ever imagine. You found yourself spacing out more than usual when you were supposed to be taking orders. You were unable to keep up with the fast paced environment, your body feeling like a ton of bricks with every moment you make. Your eyes were heavy lidded, tired from forcing them open throughout the day.
You were so, so tired-
“Hello! Are you sleeping on me young lady?” A voice snapped at you.
Your eyes shot open and immediately you stood back straight. You must have been dozing off while taking the older lady’s order -the very thing you’ve been trying to avoid all day long. “No, not at all Ms-” you started to explain. “-I was just … what was your order aga-”
You flinched when the woman angrily slammed her fist on the table, shutting you up instantly! “So you were sleeping on the job! What kind of establishment allows this?” She screamed, attracting the attention of customers around. “I need to speak to your manager. NOW!”
You instantly began to panic at the mention of your manager. If he heard you’ve been sleeping on the job, for sure he was going to fire you, especially when he was angry you rejected his advances on the first day. You cannot afford to lose this job right now, with all your school expenses and saving up money for next session’s tuition.
“No mam” you begged, keeping your voice even as you tried to reason with her. “Th-there’s no need for that! Please! Let me take your order and I’ll-” you racked your brain for an excuse, knowing fully well your establishment does not offer free meals. “- I’ll pay for your meal! On me-”
“So you’re trying to imply I’m poor?” She interrupted you again, her tempo even higher than before. “You disrespectful little wretch! How dare you? GET ME YOUR MANAGER RIGHT NOW!”
You started begging the older woman, trying to calm her down and de-escalate the situation, but each plea only fuelled her rage. By now, every customer, every employee and just anyone in that place watched you grovel and beg this woman to calm down, some people even videoing your altercation. Your body was trembling as she screeched in your ears, calling you all sorts of names while you relentlessly apologized to her.
“What is going on here?”
You winced at the sound of your manager’s voice emerging from the backrooms. You stood stiffly as he walked to your side, using his shoulder to nudge you out of the way. “Is there something wrong Ms.?” He asked the lady. “What happened?”
“This little wretch!” She practically screeched at you, her finger wagging straight at your hung face. “She was sleeping while I was ordering! And when I pointed it out to her calmly, she called me a hag!”
Your eyes snapped open. You can tolerate people yelling at you, but lying against you is out of the question. “I did not call you anything! That’s a lie-”
“You be quiet!” Your manager yelled at you, silencing you. He turned to face the woman again, apologizing profusely for your so called rude behavior. “I promise you mam, she will be dealt with accordingly. Your order is in the house, please take that as a token of our humble apology and forgive us.”
You stood there in shock as the woman smirked satisfactorily at her now free meal. “Well. You better get rid of her!” She snarked, eyes scanning you up and down, plopping back down on her seat. “Or you’ll lose me as a patron.”
“Of course mam.” He said sweetly before switching his countenance towards you into a more irritated one. “You, come with me.”
You lowered your head once again in disappointment as you started following your manager towards the back rooms, your head lowered in shame as the eyes followed your every move to your damnation waiting for you in the manager’s office.
Your skin crawled as you felt his gaze roam your body up and down, before regaining his composure again. “You know how many complaints I have received this week just from you, (name)? How many orders you’ve messed up?”
You shook your head no in response, not trusting yourself to say anything reasonable at this point. He eyes you up and down again before scoffing at you rudely. “I only let you stay here to see that tight virgin body of yours roam around. It’s not like you’re even good at this kind of job.” He spat out, rolling his eyes. “Unfortunately for you, this is the end of the road for you here. Change out of your uniform and leave.”
“But s-”
“I said you’re FIRED. GET OUT.”
You sighed weakly, obeying your now ex-manager’s order and leaving the office. You ignored the eyes of everyone watching you exchange the too tight black jeans and green top uniform back to your white bohemian skirt and light blue top with your white jacket. Calmly, you packed your school bag and everything you owned with you and slung it over your shoulder, replacing the uniform back to the locker, dropping the key on top.
No one said goodbye to you as you left through the back door.
THE walk back to your dorm was quiet.
By the time you managed to catch a bus after your walk of shame and get back to campus, almost everywhere was dark and deserted. Save for only the street lamps that were beginning to dim, everywhere else was darker than usual.
You had read that there was going to be a lunar eclipse tonight between the hours of 10pm - 12am. The time boldly written on the bus’ digital clock before you got down was 10:45pm, so you already assumed it was the cause of the unnatural darkness tonight.
A long time ago, things like this would have made you excited. You loved watching the stars when you were young, trying to check on the papers your father bought to see if there was any space news available. You remember borrowing your immediate elder brother’s binoculars as a makeshift telescope, trying to piece out the stars in the sky or see if you would catch a glimpse of the comet that was said to pass through that week.
Unfortunately, you were young and foolish. Wanting to impress your father, you told him all about your book of constellations that you drew up, detailing the first star that appeared every evening, down to your crazy childish theories about aliens and space.
“Can you show me the book?” your father had asked calmly. You should have known it was dangerous for your father to be this calm, but you were too blinded by excitement to think and you gave him the book, a bright smile on your face.
Your smile fell as his large hands ripped your book into shreds, before telling you “women don’t dream.”
Maybe that was the day you stopped loving your father. You were so young and impressionable, all you wanted was for him to be proud of you, like he was with his sons. Now, you can’t even look at the stars.
The memory leaves a bitter taste in your mouth and you try to shake it off as you continue on the path.
You wondered what grievous sin you’ve committed to be so down on your luck like this.
You passed by Emma’s dorm building, another sigh escaped your lips. She told you that Draken wanted to take her out for dinner tonight, which shocked you because friends with benefits - according to what Emma herself told you- don’t go on dates or do lovey dovey stuff with each other, to avoid complicated feelings from budding.
Then again, their relationship is based on the fact that they both have feelings for each other, but Draken was not interested in a relationship.
It was already complicated before it began.
Your eyes darted up to her window, hoping her lights were on. Whenever she was alone, Emma hated sleeping in the dark. She said it reminded her of the times her mother would lock her and Izana in a dark room whenever she brought her customers in. Anytime she was in a darkened room, she told you she could still hear the sound of her mother moaning and a man grunting. Izana would try his best to distract her, playing games or even stealing an earphone and plugging it to his own so that she would listen to music instead of what was going on.
A frown graced your lips when you saw two bodies from the curtain, one tall figure you recognize as Draken and Emma’s smaller dainty figure perched on him, kissing. You quickly averted your eyes and walked faster, ignoring the unfamiliar pang in your chest. Maybe you’re jealous because you needed your friend’s comfort right now and she wasn’t available.
‘She has her own life to live. And I have mine’ you muttered to yourself as you trudged along the path, slowly dragging your feet. ‘I have to stop being so dependent on her.’
Eventually, your thoughts drift back to your reoccurring dream. Losing your job made you realize that if you didn’t do anything about it, your tiredness would eventually catch up to you and ruin everything else you’ve worked for. With an important test scheduled for tomorrow, you knew you could not afford to take another loss this week. You had to power through your sleep tonight, even if it traumatized you.
‘Maybe I should pretend that I like it. Pretend it’s okay and enjoy it so that I won’t have to wake up.’ You shook your head, cursing as you drew closer to your own dorm building. ‘How far I’ve fallen. Look at me trying to enjoy a disgraceful act-’
You paused in your tracks at the sound of a leaf crushing. You quickly turned around, trying to ascertain who could be lurking there behind the bushes. Your palms started sweating, your nerves firing at the thought of being watched by someone or something.
Silence.
You decided to continue walking, assuming that maybe you were hearing things and there wasn’t anything at all. Night time always had a way of making you nervous, especially with all the horrible stories you heard about innocent women being attacked around these times. Besides, looking around for whatever may be lurking was a dumb idea.
You should just try to get out of here.
Still, the nervousness and unease you feel doesn’t leave you. Your heart rate became abnormal as you started walking faster, only for you to hear mismatched footsteps behind you.
‘Run.’
You sprinted away as fast as possible, not even bothering to look back to see what was chasing you. At this point, all that was important was for you to get into your dorm room as soon as possible, the fear of the unknown running down your spine.
Your lungs burned from having to sprint at full speed after not exercising for years now, your leg muscles aching but you dare not stop running from what might be behind you. A glimpse of light peeking through the cracks of your dorm house beckoned you to run even faster, until you reached the door.
Your heart rate picked up as you attempted to twist the door handle open, only for you to realize that it was locked early today -of all the times that the school took security seriously it just had to be now. After a few more frazzled and failed attempts, you started pounding on the doors and screaming for anyone to let you in. “Please! Open the door, I’m being chased! Help!” You screamed frantically, shaking the large doors with how hard your fists hit them. “Open the door-”
Unfortunately, your luck ran out and nobody answered you or said anything. You kept on screaming as footsteps approached you, slowing down as you harshly pounded on the door for someone, anyone to help you. Your cries became even more frantic, shouting for help anywhere, anyhow, fear taking over your rational senses.
‘God please, please, please save me, please please please’
A loud blood curdling scream rips out of your throat as arms around your waist and chest before dragging your body into the nearby bushes, discarding your bag on the floor. Your limbs flail around, trying to hit your attacker in any way so that they can release you, and you can run back to Emma’s dorm.
All it did was enraged them.
The person threw you on the ground, the grass and dirt harshly brushing against your face and body, dirtying your white skirt and jacket. You attempted to get up, only for someone to jump on top of you, pushing their weight onto you so that you can’t.
‘No. No. No-’
You reached up to the person’s chest, trying to shove them off your body, but they didn’t budge pushing themselves further onto you. You decided to use your long nails to scratch them, drawing three long lines on their cheek, anything that could distract them so that you can fight back.
“You bitch.”
Your world froze over the moment you recognized that voice, heartbeat almost stopping completely. Your eyes fearfully locked with his bloodshot purple ones staring right back at you, silver hair reflecting in the street light just a few steps ahead of you.
‘Izana-’
What did you even do to him? After the Mikey incident, you avoided the brothers like a plague, not wanting to piss them off or a repeat of what had happened. You even told Emma she should start talking to them, so why was this happening to you?
Before you could scream, his fist came in contact with your face. The pain was unbearable, black spots clouding your vision as you tried to make sense of what was happening. He hit you again, this time on your jaw, forcing you to bite your tongue so hard it bled.
“This is what bitches like you deserve. This is what you get when you don’t stay in your fucking lane.” he spat out, slapping you across the face hard, your eyes rolled back and blacked out for a second, only for him to keep beating you up, emphasizing on each syllable with a violent slap. “Everything was fine until you came. You evil little bitch. You ruined everything!”
Tan hands found purchase around your neck, both pressing down until your air supply was cut off. Panic filled your gut the moment you looked at his face once again, eyes blown out wide, teeth gritted against each other so hard, it could crack. His face twisted grotesque with how hard he was looking at you, white dust scattered around his nostrils. You reached out to his hands, clawing and scratching at them until you drew blood, kicking your legs so that he’ll become unbalanced and loosen his grip.
It was as if he was immune to pain. Nothing you did worked.
“I’m going to kill you.” He hissed slowly, bending his face towards yours until his hot breath hit your skin. “I’m going to kill you and send your dead body to Emma. Nothing will EVER come between me and her. I’ll kill anyone that comes between us!”
‘God. God. God’
You watched as his lips curled up into a smile at the frightened look on your face when you realized how serious his threat was. Your nails dug harder into his skin, tears rolling down your face as you fought for your life. You didn’t want to die. Not like this. Alone, terrified, in the hands of a crazed man and his vice-like grip forcing you to stay in place.
Izana loved every second of it. Watching you tremble in fear as you fought back was nothing short of priceless. Sure he was holding back majorly because this was a lesson, but watching you beg for your life whilst fighting him has his blood rushing down to a particular place.
Eventually all your fight gave way to fear of death. You didn’t know when you started begging for your life, until your lightheaded brain began to register that the garbled, choked and broken pleas and apologies were coming from you.
“I’m s-orry, i’m so-orry- s-orry-”
You don’t know how long you’ve begged, waiting for death to take you while your body writhes in agony. Your eyes glance up to the moonless sky, memories of your younger self flashing before your very eyes, staring at the stars with wonder, dreaming of being amongst them. Your head feels light, your eyes unfocused and body turning cold-
Your eyes shot open the moment his hands left your neck. Instantly, you’re gulping for air, coughing and sputtering as he sits on top of you, his hands on either side of your head. Izana scrutinized you under his watchful gaze, eyes drinking in the sight of your mascara running down your bloodied face, glossed lips parted open for him, taking in air.
You’re so… weak and powerless underneath him, unable to do anything and yet you fought for your life, knowing you would lose to him.
That rawness of fear that acted up as your life flashed before your very eyes shifted something in him. You’re just a weak girl. A weak, vulnerable little girl who thinks she has a bark that he can do whatever he wants to her.
He almost cannot believe the boner growing in his pants right now. He’s never felt this way for you. Meek girls were always so boring to him and yet he wants to fuck you. He wants to claim you as his own personal toy only he can play with.
The familiar thrill, once again. He’s feeling it with you.
You’re still coughing and sputtering as you lay on the ground when Izana mindlessly gets off you. He’s conflicted within himself, wondering if he should leave you for another time or relieve himself there and then. There’s just something so sexy to him about your helpless body at his mercy, he could decide if he wanted to take you here and you would never be able to fight back.
His eyes flickered to your open mouth. That will do.
“Get on your knees.”
Not wanting to take another chance at life, you obeyed instantly ignoring your body aches as you kneel in front of him. Your mouth goes dry when you hear the clinking of his belt and his zipper go down. He moves closer to you until his crotch is right next to your face, shuffling his boxers until his cock springs out, slapping your cheek hard before resting his tip on your lips.
No.
Not again. You can’t go through this again. You already have nightmares of Mikey raping you, you didn’t need Izana there too.
“Please, I don’t want-”
“Open your mouth.”
You gulped, forcing your eyes closed as your lips parted, opening it for him just enough for his cock to enter. “Izana, please. I’ve never done this before. Please don’t make me do this. Pleas-” you tried to beg, but Izana did not care, rubbing his shaft with pre leaking from his tip.
“Unless you want me to kill you, keep it open.”
A hand reached behind your head ignoring your protests holding it in place as his cock forced its way into your oral orifice, hitting the back of your throat with a loud groan of pleasure escaping his lips. Your gag reflex acted instantly, making you want to pull away but his hand was too strong, forcing you to stay put and take his cock.
Izana wasted no time, his hips rolling his cock inside your wet mouth at a brutal pace. Strings of curses left his lips with each thrust, relishing in the euphoric pleasure of riding your face, fucking into your pretty little mouth. The hot tears rolling down your cheeks, spittle pouring from your lips and the vibrations of your gagging nearly drove him mad.
Why hadn’t he done this earlier?
“That’s it -fuck- you little slut.” Izana hissed, each thrust into your mouth making a loud, wet pornographic noise. “This is -ahn shitshitshit- what you’re good f-for.” He groaned, his hips thrusting faster into your mouth. “Ahn, ahn ugh- f-fuck, s-should h-have fuck-ked you a-at that party ahn-”
You felt dizzy as he continued assaulting your mouth for his pleasure. Dark spots began to gather around your vision as he increased his pace, choking hard on his fat dick with each roll. Your knees ache from digging into the ground hard, your fingers buried in the sand as he fucked your mouth with reckless abandon.
You don’t think you can stay awake anymore. Your head hurts from how hard his grip is. Your throat hurts, your knees hurt, your head feels like you’re floating with how you’re not breathing properly.
You don’t feel good. It hurts so much but you can’t fight back.
“That’s it- ahn ugh fuckfuck-” he quickened his pace to speed up the process of his orgasm. Makoto had only given him three hours, and he is sure they’re almost up. “Yeah, this mouth is for me! Only for me-ahn ahn- you’re my fucking tight slut. Mineminemin- ah-”
Izana thrusted deep into your mouth thrice before cumming hard, pushing his bitter cum down your throat with a low groan, his purple eyes rolling to the back of his head. At the same time, your body instantly gave out, going limp in his hold as his cock slid out of your mouth, falling on the grassy ground with a dull thud.
He adjusted himself again, tucking his now flaccid cock in his pants and wearing them properly. Izana gave you one last look, glancing at your unconscious body before laughing to himself, kicking your shivering form out of his way as he started his journey back to the Tenjiku house.
“Perhaps Mikey was right. You have some use.”
Bonus scene:
LOVE hated mornings.
Groaning at the fact that she had woken up so early in the morning - 5am to be exact, when her first class was by 2pm, the gyaru tried going back to sleep.
After tossing and turning underneath her blanket, the girl huffed, pushing herself off the bed until her feet touched the ground. Running her hand through her blond hair, she sluggishly walked towards the door, careful not to wake her roommate up.
“Maybe I should get some air, I’m sure it’ll help me sleep back.”
The girl found herself trudging out of the dorms, pushing the door open for her to leave. Not even two steps out of the dorms, Love tripped on something, falling face first on the mahogany floors.
“Ouch!” she hissed, grimacing as she sat up, rubbing her nose. “I just got this nose job done. What gives-”
She stopped short on seeing a blue bag with books scattered everywhere. Her hand reached out to one of them with a name written on it.
“(name) (last name)?” She read it to herself, scoffing the moment she recognized who it was. “That girl always follows the Sano girl like a lost pup. Tch. What’s her stuff even doing out here?”
Deciding not to care about the bag, she dropped the book back and stood up. “Whatever, I’m going on my walk.” She shrugged, walking away from the building to the empty roads. The morning breeze danced on her skin, playing with tendrils of her bleached hair as she walked.
Despite the peaceful aura, Love couldn’t feel at peace with herself. A sense of nervousness crept upon her as she walked, as if there was something wrong. Come to think of it, maybe she shouldn’t have left your bag just like that. It was strange to see your stuff left on the porch.
Unless.
Love didn’t know why her feet started taking her to the hedge just across her dorm building. She was always told that from her young age, she had a heightened sense of danger and as of now, she didn’t doubt that something was wrong.
“Alright. Let’s see what’s going on.” She breathed out, opening the hedge completely.
Her stomach dropped the second she caught sight of a white skirt dirtied in the sand. Quickly, the gyaru ran over to where your body laid and stopped, gasping at the extent of the damage done to your face and neck. She knelt over, picking your unconscious body onto her lap. Her fingers checked for a pulse, realizing how weak it was against your cold skin.
“Oh no, no.” Her voice trembled, throwing off her comfy jacket and wrapping it around you to warm you up. “This isn’t right-”
As her fingers started to dial the emergency number, she wondered what you could have done to deserve this. Yes you followed Emma around, but you were a good girl who hasn’t done anyone harm. Love had always seen you as too sweet, so whoever did this to you was evil.
“Please, stay with me, (name). Stay with me.”
The line finally went through and an operator spoke. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“A girl… a girl was attacked, please hurry, her pulse is weak.”
Special thanks to: @honeybleed @manjibunny @reiners-milkbiddies @izanaki707 @rukiaslvr @ilovetwodmen @bbykoo-7 @tenjikusstuff4 @cockonoi @koffeenoe @kodzukein @lostsomewhereinthegarden @cashout-princess @aliyxh-o @kay-bear200 @iluv-ace @vixensbrainrotts @missgab @urmomsksk @sweeytheart @charcoal-xl @kokoch4n3l @aliss0n-love-blog @haikyuusboringassmanager @eattmeowt
monica's after note: honestly, after everything that has happened to me last week, I debated if I should put this chapter out or just give up on the project completely. the only reason i put it out is because i made a promise to myself to finish this series this year and i already have the skeletal work drafted out.
please it doesn't take anything for any of you to be respectful to me and yourselves. if you're angry that an author is delaying posting a chapter a few weeks always remember that we are real people, with real lives. the bigoted and racist comments i got last week should be the first and last i should ever see on my account. you saw that i made due with my threat and posted this as i said i would. if you wish to send anon asks, i apologize but they are off permanently. this is also due to the misbehaviour of a certain individual that caused this. do not also go to my mutual's inbox and start talking about me.
to everyone who supported me and sent me support throughout that difficult period of my time on here, thank you very much. you inspired me to keep going and really did not taint my image on this fic. i pray each one of you finds help in the day of your trouble. y'all are real ones.
on a lighter note, i'm pretty salty no one got my haruchiyo reference in the first chapter 'laugh haruchiyo' 'smile (name)' like cmon 😭😭😭 it was THAT obvious /j
edit: please comments and reblogs are highly appreciated. Forgot to add this.
#tokyo revengers x reader#tokyo revengers x reader smut#tokyo revengers smut#izana kurokawa#izana kurokawa smut#izana kurokawa x reader#izana kurokawa x reader smut#izana x reader#tokyo revengers#mikey x reader#manjiro sano#sano manjiro x reader smut#mikey sano smut#tw. dark content#read the warnings#tw. noncon
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Ultraviolence
pairing: raider!joel miller x fem!afab!reader
summary: thank god—a handsome stranger saves you from the grips of a pack of cruel, cruel men. unfortunately, said stranger, joel miller, is cut from the exact same cloth as the rest of them.
warnings: oh. boy. rough sex/smut (fem penetration, fingering, cum play if you squint) so 18+ only content; fem!afab!reader; raider!joel; canon typical violence; mentions of hair pulling/reader having long hair; light dacryphilia; age gap; pet names (baby, darlin’, sweetheart, girl); slapping, spanking, choking; !!!NONCON!!! (sexual violence/assault, coercion, allusions to more sexual abuse—Dead Dove, Do Not Eat y’all, protect yourselves).
word count: 4k+
no use of y/n in this fic
alright y’all!!! here is the non-con raider!joel fic!! stay tuned for the version coming out soon wherein Joel actually rescues the reader LOL join the taglist to be notified when I post it!!! y’all’s requests will quite legit be the death of me BUT this was fun to write so im not mad. this version is just purely depraved & Joel ‘Big Dick’ Miller is a mean mean man. wrote it pretty fast too so b nice 2 me.
love u all, sorry for searing your eyeballs:)
-em<3
—
The stucco prickles and tears at the flushed skin of your cheek, a reminder that it’ll be winter soon. The birds are sure of it, and most of them managed to get away before the frost stood a chance of nipping them.
You didn’t.
After a few years of non-stop struggle, losing everything but your own life, you figured there were worse ways to go. At least you would be… well—you, in the end.
In whatever shape this man and his leering group of accomplices left you in.
“Against the wall,” and his voice had been the crack of a whip, snapping by your ear as electricity shot up and down your spine, as the tingling realization that the chase was over—the jig, up—settled into your bones. “Spread your fuckin’ legs.”
There were more hounds around… waiting.
Always waiting.
They’d already gotten to your old, tattered clothes. The brisk air bites at your exposed skin, but at least the cold would account for the violent shivers wracking your limbs. Even as the beast pins you to the side of the decrepit house, forces himself between your knees, your primary preoccupation is to stifle your fear.
They’d get everything else on display—but they would never get to see that.
When the screaming starts, those confused grunts, huffs, and squelches of a blade carving into flesh, you mostly commend your own imagination:
“I did it. I’m in my happy place. This will be quick, then.”
But then a rough, unfamiliar hand grabs hold of your naked waist, flipping you around, slamming your spine against the frosty stucco.
This is real.
And you bear witness to his carnage.
He painted the side of the house into a mosaic of inter-mingling blood, splattered like a Pollock against the grass, the wrinkled clothes and the rugged face of your salvation.
His eyes rake over your still-trembling body before he wrenches a red-coated knife—never breaking eye-contact—from the throat of the man you’d been at the mercy of just a few seconds ago.
Blood gushes up from the fatal wound, and you both watch the cruel scene, mesmerized. The attacker’s eyes dull, all evil dissipating from that once-ferocious gaze. The rescuer’s big, wide hands flip him over, stripping him of his stained beige jacket. Then, he carelessly kicks the lifeless form face-down onto the yellowing grass.
“Put it on.”
You uncross your arms, snatching the coat from the stranger’s extended hands. It doesn’t bother you, its belonging to him.
He’s dead; you get his coat.
A fair exchange.
He keeps an eye on you as he sorts through the pickings: a few strips of dried meat here, a loaded gun there (two bullets in the clip—you watch as he checks), and a few good blades, stashed inside pockets, bags, and down shirt-fronts.
The man straightens up.
Tall.
“Get in front of me,” his low baritone strikes you, causing your knees to concede to a slight wobble. “You run, you die. Got it?”
Texan.
Slowly, you nod, and a firm grip circles your wrist, tearing you from the wall.
“Walk.”
Your heart hammers—near deafening in your ears—as the stranger stalks behind you, directing your trembling movements with brusque, snapped commands.
Finally, the scattered orangey-red leaves begin to multiply, the domestic remnants of a past civilization thinning. The neighborhood opens into a field; large oaks and slouching willows shiver under the weak glare of the afternoon sun.
There’s a house up there. It seems to be in alright shape (some things are built tougher than others) and it’s certainly a step up from a few of the more… unsavory places the outbreak had led you to.
Nearing it, you take not of how much it resembles a barn-house. Red, pentagonal roof, and a big, wide, brown front door.
Gingerly stepping a foot on the cracked wood of the porch, you turn to face your rescuer, uncertainty tying slippery knots in your tummy.
Because there’s clamour coming from inside. There’s people in there.
The momentary hesitation allows you to get a good look at your rescuer: he’s greying and dark—mixed, likely, or just disposed to a stubborn tan—and probably in his mid forties. Probably handsome, too, if it weren’t for the resident cruel scowl deepening his apathetic expression, or the violence dancing in his eyes.
A raise of his eyebrows.
“I tell you to stop?” He nods towards the looming house. “Move.”
But… you don’t.
“Are you gonna kill me?” and you’re downright shocked by the strength—the resignation—of your tone, the way the question comes out so matter-of-fact.
That sparse mustache crinkles in the corners, teasing into something wicked. “You want me to?”
“No.”
“So get movin’, then.”
That left little room for debate.
So, you turn, fingers and knees shaking with anxious anticipation. He cuts in front of you at the last minute, shoving the front door open with his knife at his side—for you or for something else, you’re not entirely certain.
He pulls you into the foyer by your forearm; to your great dismay, you’re faced with an entire group of middle-aged men. Killers—for sure—leering at you with that same starved, animalistic look your rescuer had fixed you with.
Then, he tosses the bag on the floor.
“Found ‘em by the school. Decent haul.”
Their eyes tilt to your shuddering frame, dwarfed by the jacket weighing down your shoulders. One of them looks strangely familiar, proud features reminding you of something else you were afraid of. “No shit, huh,” he commends, “Nice work, Joel.”
Joel.
As the shaggy-haired man speaks, his voice strikes familial resemblance, and it dawns on you. Your rescuer’s brother, or at the very least a cousin.
And what he says is a clearly marked taunt. That much is clear. Uttered with the kind of cruel camaraderie which collected on the tongues of men who committed acts of violence together.
Who hunted together.
And it’s obvious you’re not being rescued. Just… reclaimed. Redistributed.
Fuck.
Another voice joins the mix. “How much you think y’could get for her?”
Joel’s profile turns, harsh, brutal lines forming as he assesses you. “Depends,” and then—ohmothermary—he smirks.
“Gonna have to test her out first.”
A few snickers.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.
You’re trapped with nowhere to go, once again surrounded by a gaggle of soulless monsters. Fear grips you, but thankfully, it’s muted, now, having been mostly expended during the harrowing events of the morning.
Just an hour ago, pressed to the side of an abandoned house, you’d allowed yourself to give up.
So, it feels easy—natural—settling back into that rhythm.
To submit to your inevitable, violent fate.
Joel’s voice cuts through the clamour of your racing thoughts. “Upstairs, the room with the open door. Go.”
Eyes glued to the floor, you put one foot in front of the other, your insides twisting and turning inside your core. Fuck, you can feel the pairs of eyes following you with every step you take. The stairs creak as your weight presses into them, squealing like wounded prey.
“N’ take that fuckin’ jacket off,” Joel calls after you, the echoes of his booming voice and the group’s degrading laughter chasing you all the way up into the room—the one with the open door.
And it’s nice, surprisingly. Dusty, admittedly, and clearly having belonged to someone else—a long, long time ago—but the bed is made, the window lets the light in, and the walls remind you of cinnamon.
No, this wouldn’t be the worst prison. Or the worst place to die. It’s a sure-fire step up from the gutter between two dilapidated houses.
You keep the jacket on, shivering under its weight. Even as you hear footsteps climbing the stairs, even as the more rational, civilized side of your mind urges you to accede to your (non)rescuer’s every command.
The conversation downstairs dies off just as Joel rounds the corner, appearing in the doorway—a giant. Though your stomach lurches, and though your legs feel like putty, you hold your ground.
“I’ll fight, you know,” you hiss, watching him seal off the entrance to the room behind him. His flannel has droplets of blood on the collar—reminders of your previous captor—would your other attacker have been a better option? Who’d be more merciful to your quivering body?
You charge your voice with every last modicum of strength at your disposal. “I’ll fight.”
He turns, smirking softly at your clenched fists. “S’good, sweetheart. I like a little fight.” He stalks towards you, swiping his thumb along the plushness of his bottom lip, his intimidating presence forcing your back to meet the flat hardness of the wall behind you.
So much for fighting.
There’s nothing living in his eyes as he says it—nothing save the roiling flames of hunger: “You see those guys downstairs?”
You glare up at him, trying not to notice the alluring hook of his nose, or the way your body works against you, responding to the earthy smell of him.
Then, you nod, wordlessly.
“Did you count ‘em?” He splays a hand beside your head, using one hand to pry your arms uncrossed.
Again, you nod. “How many?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft.
“Five.” Breathless.
“S’right, sweetheart. Ever had your lil’ holes stuffed by five guys at once?”
A swallow, and your voice cracks when you’re finally able to put it to use. “No.”
He pries your elbows to your sides, pulling the beige fabric open, revealing the torn remains of your underwear.
It’s almost a croon, feigned concern underpinning his low tone. “You wanna see what it’s like?” He drinks in the sight of your bare chest, almost groaning at the sight of your naked front.
It’s not cold anymore; no, suddenly you’re very hot.
“No, please, no.”
He slips the coat off of your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap to the ground. He assesses you once more: studying every square inch of your skin under his shadowed eyes.
“M’only gonna say this once, sweetheart.” All that fake-gentleness fades from his tone, replaced by the sadistic, authoritative timbre he’d first greeted you with. “I need you to be very careful.”
You’re frozen—all that fight, it drains out of you, captivated by the raider’s looming form, his mesmerizing speech.
“You’re alone, yeah?” A nod, which he acknowledges, trailing a hand up the length of your waist. “S’what I thought. N’ the way I found you today? That’s a best-case-scenario for a girl like you, out here on your own.”
He drags a finger up the centre of your breast, skilled fingertips just barely brushing the peaked nipple. You lean into his touch—the near imperceptible arch of your back doesn’t go unnoticed, and you kick yourself internally as the corners of his lips twitch up.
Still, the raider ignores your trembling.
“You’re mine, now,” he continues, egged on by your involuntary movement. “Means you’re gonna be a good girl n’ do as I say, n’ I’ll make sure I’m the only man who touches you.” His big hand drops to his heavy silver buckle, and the clearly defined, bulging lines underneath it have your heart clawing out of your chest. Joel senses your fear—and it only makes him harder. “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine, y’know? But you try anything—you step outta line—I’ll throw you to my guys downstairs.”
His hand finds your throat, hunger and warning beating to the same rhythm in his gaze. “I have no problem watching.” He gives your larynx a squeeze, multitasking as he pulls the strap of his belt through the worn loops of his denim. “Understood?”
You have no words left, shaking from head to toe as the reality of the situation finally settles in.
As he works the intimidating weight of his cock out of his jeans.
A huff. Joel flips you over, impatient, pressing your scraped up cheek to the cinnamon-brown of the wall.
Déjà vù.
Your knees are separated by his own, and his weight flattens you. He wastes no time: lining himself up, his tip separates your folds. Resistance is futile—with one hand, he holds your thighs open—even as they try to press themselves closed, even as you whimper at the rough, male knuckles pressed to bruise on the insides of your legs.
Leaving his mark.
It’s not an option to simply take it. Joel forces you to participate in the sinful act: “I asked you a fuckin’ question,” he growls, gripping your chin indelicately. “You understand me, girl?”
A swallow and a flinch as you feel the head of his cock poke at your entrance. “Yes. Okay. Yes.”
“Yes, Joel,” he corrects. “Use my name. You’re mine now. Use my fuckin’ name.”
Tears prick the corners of your eyes at the promised savagery in his tone. Holding back a sob, you respond: “Yes, Joel.”
You watch his hand, large and capable, splaying out a mere inch away from the tip of your nose. “Good,” he commends. “Z’are the only fuckin’ words you know, from now on.”
His free hand slaps against your hip, yanking you down onto his hard length. Your hips buck up against his abdomen, responding to the pull of his fingertips, even as you cry out at the sting, the stretch. The raider tries to force himself between your walls—muttering a grunted “shit”—and thrusting up against your ass.
But you’re too tight, too tense, and your stubborn body refuses to open up for him. Finally listening to you.
“Relax,” he orders, surprisingly softly. He moves his hand from your hip to the apex of your thighs, rubbing rough circles against your clit. Fuck, how’d he find it so fast? You gasp at the feel of his fingertips against your most sensitive, touch-starved spot, hating yourself for the way his pressure makes you feel.
Because…
Because—fuck.
It feels… good. The man knows exactly what he’s doing—methodical in his ministrations, prepping you only enough to ensure his own eventual pleasure. “S’too tight, baby,” he breathes against your neck, “Need to loosen up for me, yeah?”
He’s not gentle. No part of it is gentle. Nonetheless, pleasure ripples through your centre and down your thighs as he effectively turns you on.
“Thaaaaaa’s right,” and his voice is mocking and taunting and degrading as he drags his digits away, grabbing and pulling at your breasts, instead. Feeling the involuntary release of your cunt, Joel finally pushes himself in, sheathing the long, thick length of his cock inside you.
“Need to show this pussy what it’s fuckin’ made for.”
A current of pain flutters up your cunt just as he fills it up to the brim. You can’t help it—your stoicism crumbles to dust—and a soft, scared, pained whimper tumbles from your lips.
And he groans at it, thrusting roughly, over and over again. And again. “Hurts, does it?”
His breath is hot against your ear, and despite the fear, the ancient instincts gripping your bones, telling you to run, run, run, fight, fight, fight—it’s… enticing.
Hot.
“It hurts.”
He laughs, low and dark, bringing his hands to circle your hips, steadying you as you stumble on your tip-toes.
“Cry about it.”
And he keeps on going, tearing you open. The way his girth touches every starved part of your insides leaves you wanting, even despite the sting of his fingernails biting into your hips, the tears and cuts stinging at your opening.
You hate yourself for it.
But you clench around him, stifling a pathetic moan.
God, no—I am not enjoying this.
He breathes another laugh. “Feelin’ full, baby? Tell me how good it feels, c’mon,” and your inhalations come in heaves as he pounds into you, delivering a harsh slap to the side of your hip, hard enough for your skin to ripple from the contact. “Do as I say.”
When you refuse to sate him, swallowing all of your little noises, Joel grips your throat, bringing your head slamming against his shoulder. Your back arches into a perfect crescent, spine contorting at his will. A gasped cry fans out against his salt-and-pepper jaw.
A sob—of fear, of frustration, of reluctant pleasure. “You’re evil.”
The grip on your throat tightens, and he looses another laugh, squeezing your skin, muscles, and tendons oh-so-tight.
You’d be wrecked, bruised—branded—come sunrise.
“Yeah?” He groans, cock slamming up into your very guts.
“M-mhmm—” and the saltwater tears start pouring, trailing glistening slopes down your cheeks in long, long lines. Distantly, you hear his answer—“Yeah, well, you’re wet”—as those silver droplets keep on falling. Where they come from, you aren’t certain; of course, the terror, the physical torture, and the frustration at your entrapment contribute to the mess under your eyes.
But that warmth… the unbridled desire radiating between your thighs… that wasn’t helping, either.
“Fuuuuck,” he groans, muttering another “S’it—s’right,” and releasing your throat to tilt your head up to face him. He drinks in his creation, the ruined sight of your tear-stricken face, and his cock swells between your beaten walls. “God, you look so fuckin’ pretty takin’ it from me—cryin’ like your lil’ pussy ain’t desperate for this.”
Joel smiles when you sob.
It goes on for a while. He doesn’t tire quickly, bringing you right up to the edge of reluctant ecstasy before you remind yourself of the hatred you owed the man fucking into you. You get used to the sound of his hips snapping against your skin, your cries mingling with his gravelly, low grunts. It’s a dirty, depraved symphony—orchestrated by the monster between your thighs.
You can’t help the moan that escapes your lips when he finally, finally brings his fingers back down between your legs. He grunts in approval, barely grazing the length of your folds, pressing his thumb into the delicate flesh of your thigh, instead. “Dirty lil’ girl—fuckin’ dyin’ to be an old man’s whore, z’that it?” and he doesn’t even touch you, focussed on his own pleasure, but the proximity alone is enough to have you wrecked.
And you just can’t help it: “J-joel—”
“Y’know,” he chuckles, slightly out of breath, slowing his strokes to address your wanton whine, “You’re gonna make such a good lil’ fuck-toy, baby, f’you keep makin’ those pretty lil’ noises for me.”
The reality of the situation comes barrelling down on you as he acknowledges—praises—your enjoyment of his torture.
This man… this man was cruel. He was hurting you, and enjoying it.
You struggle against him, a pathetic show of weakness. Joel holds you in place effortlessly, arching your back further, keeping your hips preened back to receive the harsh thrusts he delivers to your torn, ruined cunt. “Where you goin’?” He laughs at your pathetic attempt at resistance, grips tightening. “Thought we were havin’ fun, baby—don’t it feel good?”
And he quickens again, slamming into every needy spot inside you. His breaths grow shallow, as rough as his hands and the ferocity of this punishment.
“No,” you manage, fingernails digging into his forearm.
He tuts, the vocal click constricted with lust, and his hand travels the length of you, settling against that aching bud between your thighs. “Fuckin’ liar.”
He presses down, proving his point. Your entire body tenses as pleasure ripples through you—despite your best efforts, climax crests through your core, threatening to implode within you. Joel hums, smirking when he feels your legs parting even wider.
“S’mine now, alright? You’re mine now.” He crams every inch of his cock up inside you, pulling you flush against his chest. “S’okay to come for me—s’okay, baby, I want you to—s’fuckin’ right, let go for me, baby—” and his crooning takes you over the edge.
Christ, it feels so good.
You clench around him, high-pitched pleas and moans tumbling from your lips, his own pair dragging down the swoop of your ear. In that split second, Joel—the devil at your back—is your favourite thing in the world: your hero, your haven, your God. Fuck, you could just kiss him, marry him, fuck him over and over and over and over—
A hand clamps over your mouth during those brief, blissful moments; the man practically bounces you up and down the length of him, muffling the cries of pain and pleasure tearing from your sore throat against the rough skin of his palm. He groans inside your ear—a stammered, sinful “fuuuck”—and then he’s spilling his seed inside you, shoving it impossibly deep as those quick, harsh strokes stutter and slow.
You come to, waking up from your pleasure-drunk daze. Before you get the opportunity to wriggle away from him, the monster flips you over again, slamming your shoulders to the wall. With his forearm barring your chest, and despite your fear and ire—somehow, all you can think about is the fact that he’s not as out of breath as he really should be (given his age and, of course, what he’d just done to you).
Joel leaks out of you. His cum paints masterpieces down your legs.
He slides his free hand down the length of his cock, collecting the last bits of slick clinging to him and not dripping out of you. The intermingling juices are brought to the roundness of your breasts—the raider slathers your sore peaks with his own spend.
“Nobody’s gonna fuck with you—but that means you’re Joel’s girl. Hear me?” With your head bowed, you glare up at him through silver-lined spider lashes, shame beating at your cheeks. When you hum your acknowledging “uh-huh,” the stranger continues on, gripping your jaw to angle your gaze up: “Means you listen—you-you don’t fuckin’ try me—n’ you take everything I give you, every fuckin’ time. Understand?” He tucks his softening length back in his pants, dark eyes dancing with satisfaction as he leers at your destroyed form.
When you don’t respond, he brings the back of his punishing hand colliding with the side of your face.
Something between a squeal and a gasp tumbles from your lips; Joel catches it, placing the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pressing down. Your cheek stings from his harsh slap, delivered on top of the scrapes and wounds a different cruel man had left upon your skin.
“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I will f’I have to,” and he’s earnest, commanding and pleading at once. “You gotta answer me.”
Slowly, you croak out a timid, “Yes,” and an “I understand,” followed by a final “Joel.”
Nodding, he straightens, the violence in his gaze fading just minutely. When he lets go, you stagger—the raider senses the instability of your knees, reflexively snaking a steadying arm around your waist.
You’re not sure where the impulse comes from. Perhaps it’s exhaustion, the aftermath of your orgasm, or maybe it’s just a sick, twisted desire to sink into something beyond your body—either way, you respond to Joel’s support by throwing your arms around his neck.
And he responds by lifting you, walking you over to the bed, and tossing you down on the sheets. Awakening into reality, you scamper back, grabbing and yanking at the surrounding bedding in a desperate attempt to cover yourself.
But Joel pays you no mind.
Having had his way, he’s through with you—for now. Nonchalantly, apathetically, he runs a hand through his hair, tracing heavy steps towards the door.
“Lock the door when I leave,” he instructs, but his tone is soft… possessive and commanding, yes, but… caring. “Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
He waits for your show of understanding, your near imperceptible nod.
Then, he sighs, yanking on the handle and giving you his final address over a pair of creaky, squeaky, rusted hinges. “Try to sleep, sweetheart—got a long night ahead of you.” Chuckling to himself, he leaves the sanctuary of the room.
All you can hear as your body grows heavy and warm, travelling somewhere far, far beyond this violent world are the echoes of male laughter down the hall, and a familiar, satisfied, gravelly voice:
“Not worth much, now. Might just fuckin’ keep her.”
And you slip away, dreaming of belt buckles, blood-stained collars, and the lung-squeezing heat of the setting Texan sun.
—
He used to call me DN
That stood for deadly nightshade
'Cause I was filled with poison
But blessed with beauty and rage
Jim told me that
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
Jim brought me back
Reminding me of when we were kids
With his ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
I can hear sirens, sirens
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
I can hear violins, violins
Give me all of that ultraviolence
He used to call me poison
Like I was poison ivy
I could've died right then
'Cause he was right beside me
Jim raised me up
He hurt me but it felt like true love
Jim taught me that
Loving him was never enough
With his ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
I can hear sirens, sirens
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
I can hear violins, violins
Give me all of that ultraviolence
We can go back to New York
Loving you was really hard
We could go back to Woodstock
Where they don't know who we are
Heaven is on earth
I would do anything for you, babe
Blessed is this union
Crying tears of gold, like lemonade
I love you the first time
I love you the last time
Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines
'Cause I'm your jazz singer
And you're my cult leader
I love you forever
I love you forever
With his ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
Ultraviolence
I can hear sirens, sirens
He hit me and it felt like a kiss
I can hear violins, violins
Give me all of that ultraviolence
—
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❝Ask me, my prince. What a storm is to a dragon.❞
[ Aemond can only breathe through your lungs, through your adoration and love. But when betrayal is nigh, what does it truly beget? ]
[ +18 MDNI ] [ 6,935 ] | Dark!Aemond Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader, minor, sort of (not really) Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers.
THIS IS A DARK FIC. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
contains— angsty, smut - DD:DNE: kidnapping, coercion, manipulation, possessive & obsessive behaviour, power imbalance, violence (not to reader) (a little bit to reader... i wrote this too close to book canon!aemond), murder, death, massacre, war - canon typical targcest, canon character deaths, canon divergence - dark!aemy - pregnancy, child, allusions to infidelity, mentions of bastard - i took liberties with canon (as i usually do) - #ripellyn you (sorta) will be missed shshs - the only specific reader descript. i did is the baratheon dark hair ok? ok - nsfw: male masturbation, dubcon/noncon, creampie - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.
a/n— there was this villain playlist on yt that was slowed and sexy, and my brain just. clicked. here it is if you wanna check. the real reason this is long is cos i can't help but add backstory ok? ok. lol. comment, reblog & like at will, mi luvs, mwa!
Storms have always been your favourite view in any window.
It is cliche to say, a proud daughter of the Stormlands, of course she enjoys the dark skies! But you do. There is nothing short of comforting in the rolling, fat clouds darkened in shadows. Occasionally, if the weather moved to your whim, lightning danced between plumes before you hear the boom and crack of it striking.
"It is a privilege to enjoy weathers such as these," your father once said, a hand on your darkened hair, a bluer tint to it, but Baratheon through and through. "It is our might that holds us at paramount, and thus, our privilege beckons warm fires and strong, stone fortresses to watch it all in comfort. To find enjoyment in the dark skies."
"Ours is the Fury," you replied immediately. Your father smiled.
"That, precisely. The paramount of our might and power is one we have taken and given with fury. Never forget."
"Even better than the Targaryens?" Your father's displeasure crumpled his face, and you were at an old enough age to understand his displeasure was not something you enjoy. But you had been learning all day, and the topic that day with your septa had been House Targaryen. You had learned the King's name, that he had a Queen that died, and that his heir is a girl.
His hold on your shoulders was heavy, but you do not flinch. Eyes bore into your own as if he was speaking the words into existence.
"We are the blood of the Kings too, my daughter. The White Hart proves our mark in the world, long before the dragonlords ever whispered in these lands. And what are dragons against the dance of storms?"
You had been little then, no more than six. The smallest of your sisters; Floris, though short in stature, looked elongated. A beauty. A fawn in the making. And your father is not the cleverest of men, but his words shelved itself in the corners of your brain. It eased and assuaged your fears like a quick spell.
Your spine straightens and your chin tilts upward. You are made of fury and storms, the blood of kings of old and solid, impenetrable fortresses.
You fury is your own, and 'neathe your fingers, under your very being, is a storm.
A good reminder, as when you had exchanged childhood for girlhood, a missive had been sent by the Queen Alicent Hightower, requesting for a daughter from Lord Baratheon's Four Storms, as companion for the Princess Helaena.
"Cassandra would do well."
"She hungers, husband. I am afraid of what might happen if we send her to the courts at her age. I do not yearn for a scandal."
"She would not shame her family so, do you reckon?"
"She is the eldest. You know how she is."
A sigh. "If she had a cock, she would be a good heir for my seat."
"Borros!"
"Apologies. Very well, mayhaps a good husband with no grit to him would do her well. She will lead the Stormlands by the hold of his— er, well, yes. Maris? She is clever."
"Far too clever. Even her tongue irks you, no. Definitely not. Her brain works too fast for her mouth. She will say the wrong thing and end us in war."
"You exaggerate, surely."
"I bore them, Borros, but they are your daughters. They live and breathe with your name and your House's banner under their own. What do you think? Bad enough they take so much of your heritage with them, and their looks, but they also plucked and chosen parts of you I'd rather not have for lady daughters."
Your father grumbles incoherently, you laugh under your breath.
"... Floris is too young. So..." The last one. You. You press your ear harder against the wood of your father's study, heart in your throat.
"She will be best," she says softly, insistently. She knows in her heart of hearts that though her husband is a hard, proud man, he has a softened heart for you. "Though she is clever, she minds herself well. Polite. Kind. She will do well with the Princess and her, er, eccentricities."
"Bloody weirdoes, the lot of them." A sigh. Another chastise from your mother, but she too, sounds exhausted. It has almost been a moon since the missive has been sent. Another one is bound to arrive, more order than request. It is all a political game. Princess Rhaenyra had no Baratheon ward under her court when she still resided in Kings Landing, for you and your sisters had been too young and your father had no sister. It is by chance that gives the Green Queen advantage to take a ward under your father's banner now, with a daughter she seeks to be Queen Consort.
"Send her then," your father announces. Though defeat clouds his voice, the Lord in him speaks each vowel clearly. "She will do best to represent the House out of them all. We might have a betrothal in our hands soon enough."
"She is pretty enough for a prince."
An angry snort. "She is more than pretty enough for a prince. Far better than the lot of them."
Softly, "That is because you like her best."
"Why would I not?" your father replies gruffly, making you smile. "A storm grinds and brews inside of her, wife. Even Maestre Loes, the old gnat that he is, sees my bloodline thick in her. Even if the King asks for her hand at this very moment, I would refuse. I would throw him off Storm's End with a smile on my face and a boot on his back."
You fight off a snort as your mother grumbles about treason and Maris.
"She is far better than the best of them." Another sigh. Heavier. "Why are we sending her?"
Your mother sighs. "Because as she is the best of them, she is the best of us. She will survive far better in that cesspit they call a keep than any of our daughters. Her storm can tame dragons."
You would argue that that too is treasonous given the context, but your father merely laughs. His laughter is a crackle and a boom.
"I would upheave our coffers to witness that."
Though you find her odd, you enjoy spending your time with the Princess Helaena. Mostly, she is quiet, in her own little world. Though it took time to get used to her many-legged friends, you soon realised the best times you spend with her are when shipments and gifts of pinned butterflies and books that have reached as far as Yi-Ti, to get to Kings Landing about bugs, and undeniable excitement unfurls in the Princess' face. More like a girl, a sweet one.
It makes her already cherub features appear more child-like, and she grasps your hand voluntarily as she points at each and every critter she recognises. It is so very rare to see true happiness in the princess' visage, and in her enjoyment, you see your sisters.
That is how you meet him, the Prince Aemond.
Princess Helaena had gone for tea with the Queen. It had not been planned. Though she often spent tea with family, either the Queen or the Lord Hand, or either of the Princes. Something had occurred, so now that Princess was having tea with her Queen Mother and her husband. If you had to guess, it was likely that Prince Aegon was being punished in some way.
Though there is no love lost between siblings, it makes you sniff at how blatant the prince's obscene indulgent for vices are. Princess Helaena didn't mind, rather, she didn't care unless they needed to spend time together, a clockwork patch of routine, and that was when you usually came in— you later realised, your primary job — soothing her nerves and distracting her thoughts before she had to enter her marriage chambers.
There is a resigned defeat in her, a woman's duty bearing down, looming like the Mother, and it makes you want to soothe her harder. Make her laugh.
With the change of plans, it was up to you to check for the new shipments of the Princess' things. A dictated note in your hand of the princess' handwriting, you were going through her boxes when a hand, gloved, rests on your shoulder.
"Do not move," a cool voice says behind you. Far too close for propriety.
You freeze. "Pardon?"
"I do not want to scare you, my lady, but there is a critter atop your head." The cool, calm voice waves off a steady rhythm to your heart, calming it further from the earlier panic of someone laying a hand on you (although this, is still not better. You are a lady and unmarried after all). "I will rid of it immedi—"
"No."
"... Pardon?"
"Where is it? Just atop my head?"
"... Yes?"
"It maybe poisonous, pease do not touch it." Before the owner of the hand and the calm voice could react, you pat your head until you touch a hairy, small thing with many legs. Relief spreads. "There you are."
"There you are?" The voice says, almost mocking, incredulously.
You huff, taking the spider in both of your hands, before you tilt your chin behind you, only seeing the gloved hand. "Please take your hand away from me."
The hand retreats. You turn.
Valyrian features are most uncommon than your own, and the jolt of recognising the pale, white hair is a strike to your being, a gasp falling from your lips. It is the one-eyed mask that tells you immediately who it is, but you string everything else you know of the prince.
Prince Aemond had been travelling to Oldtown, a visit requested by the Queen in the guise of seeing family, his brother. But there had been whispers of something more, as the chatter of the maids who cleaned up in the King's quarters talked about how ill he got day by day.
You had seen flashes of him before this, but fate had kept you two apart. You were not there when he visited the princess— on another errand or two, and he starkly ever looked at the ladies surrounding his sister with a vehement light as their voices, high pitched and dreary, tire him so on a good day, increasingly irritating on a bad one, and anyway, the silence that falls in a stone room just from his arrival is enough to irk him.
But here is he now, with one eyebrow rose, a good eye of icy blue iris, and the very visage of a warrior in black leathers, a braided hair pulled to one side, and pursed lips in both amusement and annoyance.
He hums. The sound kicks back your manners, blushing lightly at having gaped at him for far longer than pleasantry dictates, and you pull yourself into a bow.
"My apologies, my prince, I didn't know it was you. I was scared you were going to hurt the Princess' new friend."
"They are bugs," he says steadily. "Not her friends."
"Like so, but just because they have many a legs do not mean we cannot befriend them." A small smile plays on your lips before you place back the spider in the cage he got out of. It is something you had once said to the princess to make her laugh. You feel his stare burn at the side of your face. "Is there a matter, my prince?"
"You are the Lady Baratheon, are you not?"
"I am." A small, ironic smirk tugs at your lips. "Is it the hair?"
He makes a soft sound that exhales like a laugh out of closed lips. He's still quite close, you can feel his warmth and idly wonder if all Targaryens truly do have the blood of the dragons in them for you can feel the contours of him, burning at the edges of his being. Like a comforting little furnace.
"Hm. And the princess has taken quite the liking to you. You are all she talks about during sup."
You can't help it, you're smiling. So many rumours concerning the young prince, not all of them good, but there is a certain novelty in basking under the attention of a prince of the realm. A Valyrian beauty that brought an ethereal glow to him. As so intently stares, catching pieces and niches as if you are the most fascinating creature.
The attention makes you feel like a blushing lady.
"My apologies then, my prince."
He cocks his head, the braid dipping and you catch the movement in your peripheral. "Whatever for my lady?"
You turn to him, unable to curb the cheek to your smile. "For interrupting better conversations with the topic of my name plaguing your sups so."
His mouth twists into a smirk. In Aemond's mind, it is not oft that ladies, especially Helaena's ladies, would care to... flirt with him. Because this is you flirting, is it not? The coy gaze, the curl at the edge of your lips? Aemond has seen these faces in ladies and maids alike, but directed at others. At Aegon.
Directed at Aemond... bereave to keep their conversations to themselves, and though it is not always a fault of theirs for his stoicism is his most valued armour, one would resign oneself of an arranged marriage that will take long moons before his lady wife would see the truest him, that he would not be able to experience such... coy conversations with the opposite sex.
Yet here you are, a light dust of red in your cheeks, a quirk in your mouth, and the playful joust in your eyes, daring him into a swords' dance.
It is thrilling.
"Plaguing is too harsh of a word to say so about a lady of your stature, Lady Baratheon." He steps closer, aware of propriety standards of how close two unwedded people should be, but he feels intoxicated of the whiff of life exhuming from your visage. A light citrus, oranges? Lemons? Tart and sweet, with a powdery finish. It is so very ladylike.
Addicting.
The perfect smell for a lady wife, a musing thought.
"Is that so?"
"Intriguing, I would say, would be the better word."
You laugh, low and sweet. It sends a pleasant warm to his centre. "I'm afraid my memory is failing for I do not remember any wily adventure or conversation the princess and I had for a prince of the realm to say I intrigue him so."
"It is less... about wily adventures or interesting conversations that pique my interest, but the lady herself." His eye, though lone, the other remaining hidden behind an eyepatch with hints of scarred, twisted skin underneath, bore against yours as if he wished to gather all your strings and see what each would give him. What you would show him.
"I'm afraid to disappoint you, my prince, but I still fail to see how I can ever so pique your interest." You meet his gaze, smirking. "I am just me."
Before he can answer, step forward— whatever, he is staring at the curve of your lips so, at the enchanting shimmer of your eyes, and Aemond Targaryen felt breathless — your named is called, and the spell is broken. The prince steps back, taking more space between you that is more appropriate.
His hand flexes.
But that is not the last you see of the prince, nor the last time you are able to hold a conversation with him. It seems that since then, you find yourselves orbiting each other in the fringes before one steps forward and engages. There seems to be a band that tightens either of you so obsessed with seeing the other in the periphery, the topic whatever may came, even as inane as the weather.
It is a dance of swords, kissing blades of sharp quips and interesting parry. You are interesting. Beguiling. Devouring. Aemond searches for you in most places now, unable to stop himself from asking his dearest sister about you— even his mother and grandsire have taken notice, eyebrows rose between shared looks.
"House Baratheon is of a Great House," his mother hesitantly brought up, too focused on her soup for it to just be idle chatter above sup.
"It is." His forced passivity is not as apathetic as he can make it. For any mention of you and your origins thrums his heart in a dance.
"And the Lady Baratheon has many admirers, a kind and dutiful lady, and Helaena likes her so."
He turned to his mother then, humming. At the barest hint of a smile in her son's face, Alicent beamed.
But others from court also soon took notice, and when Aemond realises the wagging tongues had come to note your name— unkind whispers besmirching your person, he disappears from you altogether.
The differences become stark to him; realising what a foolish endeavour it is to want you. Though he is a prince, he is mutilated, a monster that will ruin you. You are too good for him, a warmth he had forgone in the face of misery, apathy, and hatred. The urge to conquer your every thought and sound, from your fingertips to the top of your hair... it is a gasping thought, one he shamefully sins at the blackest hours, tugging at his cock desperately to the thought of what you had looked like that day. The sound of your laughter, the pull of your lips when you smiled, the gasp you let out when you touched water that had been too cold— his mind bends and moves, and images of you, images that he will have to pray for the in morrow but cannot stop—
Moves him to completion, a strangle grunt of your name from his lips.
And yet, every night since, it happens again and again.
The more he pulled away from you, the more he wanted you. It is a debase urge, one more fit for his drunken cur of a brother than he, more creature than man.
But he cannot stop, so the torturous cycle continues.
Until you've had enough.
You know that during hours of inky night, the prince prefers the sanctum of the library. Not always, and lately, not often, but if there are a few things you learned in the hunting trips your father brought you that your mother never approved of, is that lying in wait, patient, deals a hand much better.
And on the fourth day of your waiting, your hair in a braid, a book on your lap, and a small candlelit close by as to not alert any spooked princes— the door opens at the Hour of Eel, the familiar and sorely missed footfalls of a quiet but sure-footed prince enters.
You admire him for a moment, hidden as you are, your stare drinks in the ever smooth of his twilight-spun hair, those pursed lips and straight lines. He's lithe but you know, having been offered his arm on every walk, he is made of hard muscle. Aemond always walks so smoothly, like a panther, or a gazelle, with the barest hint of austre he can never hide.
It's the prince in him, you giggle to yourself.
A sweet pang in your chest is the reminder of how much you missed his presence. And that ends tonight.
With his back turned, perusing a shelf, you shuffle and make yourself known with a soft, almost admonishing voice.
"Good eve, my prince."
He stiffens, hand poised against a spine of a tome. He barely turns, only his head to the floor, in the general direction of you. "My lady. I did not expect you to be here."
Frustrated, you sigh loudly. "Have I offended you so horribly? Dishonoured you in some way?"
"What?"
"Why can't you even look at me, Aemond?"
A sharp intake of breath. When he speaks again,his voice is changed. "You forget yourself, my lady."
There is an ache to your being, pursuing your lips. "You had given me permission with your given name, my prince, or have you forgotten?" Anger overcomes propriety. Fuck propriety. You charge toward him, heavy, angered steps until you're close enough. "Can't you at least look at me, look at me as you push me away as if I amnothing—"
He turns abruptly, one eye flashing as he grasps your elbows in a grip. His eyes zero in on your lips as a gasp falls, eyes widen— if you could see better, you'd notice the darkened gaze drinking you in. Your widened eyes, your open lips— and Sevens, only a robe hides your nightgown, the smooth expanse of your skin is more bare to him than ever before.
His beautiful, beloved stag.
"You have never been nothing to me, nēdenka riña brave girl," he hisses. "Konir sagon se drīve That is the reason."
"Prince A-Aemond?" you say. He is against the shadows of the moonlight, only his hands holding your own is illuminated.
A wrangled exhale falls from his lips. You follow the sound, worried.
"Are you? Injured? Are you okay?"
"I have not been okay for the moment I met you," he rasps, hands bruising in his hold.
"Well. Gods. I'm sorry. If it's such a offense—"
"It is an offence!" he growls, pulling you abruptly that you yelp, bathed in shadows and darkness together, your eyes adjust as you scramble to have thoughts apart from just being this close to him. Hearing a voice you had never heard of him before, untethered from his princely visage, from manners and proper, and it makes you burn.
The thoughts of wanting him close, of taking more of that space until you are chest to chest are blushing thoughts.
But there is honour still, for he holds you at least an arm's away.
"I have wanted you the moment I have laid eyes on you," he whispers, voice rough, exhausted. "And each day I spend with you, each hour— my honour stands in shambles, in ruins at my feet for I want you as a man wants a woman. Honourably and... and carnally."
You swallow, and he follows the movement like a predator tracking his prey. The blush in your cheeks, the way your lips press together as if you are just as starved of him as he to you— oh, you want him too, don't you?
One hand moves from your elbow to slowly reach up. Your arms, your collarbones, your neck. A thumb brushing your cheek and your eyes flutter.
Aemond wants to devour you.
"You plague me so, and I crave you."
"Then have me," you sigh.
His eye closes. "I cannot sully—"
You grasp his neck, bringing your mouth close to his. "You cannot sully what is freely given. If you crave me, I want you."
Honour unbound, a snap is tightened by the hunger that uncoils from a dragon that wants you. Aemond had grabbed the back of your head, tangled his fingers, and made a mess of your mouth.
Gasps and teeth, touching skin from where you can feel it— touching skin from where you unbuckle, tear through hem and push against cloth. When he slams you again the shelf, a moan so lewd falls from your lips that he groans, pulling your nightgown until he feels the heat from your very womanhood, and so, so wet, that when he flicks his thumb, curious and entranced, moving it around experimentally, you are a mess of sound and feeling, gasping his name, A-aemond, oh gods, please, and he is whispering, forgive me, f-forgive me, like love letters, like penitent, like a kiss from a traitor so wrong but so tasteful against your skin as he pulls himself from his confinements, holds you steady, and breaches your tight cunt.
Just before a scream tears through your throat, he devours your sound, holding you steady, until the pain bleeds pleasure and you are holding him like an anchor in dangerous seas. You cannot think or feel anyone else but him; what you are and who you are do not stand a chance as Aemond Targaryen swallows your senses.
It is harsh and fast, it is sweet and devouring, and more, more, more, you don't know what you're begging him, you feel like a devout and he feels like a god, grunting against your skin, biting through anything his teeth grazes. When he shifts you at an angle, finding a spot that feels like a lightning striking through your entire being, you are screaming, twitching, reaching a high so blinding it feels like white death.
"Is that it? That sweet spot?" he purrs, a breathless laugh, shocked and delighted drinking in your trembling and pleasure. "Your cunt is tight against my own, holding me like you never want to let go." You cry out when his cock hits that spot again. Your combined wetness makes an obscene squelch, just as pretty as the sound you utter. He smirks. "Can you hear that? Not even a whore can make a sound so sweet, hm?"
His teeth grazes your lips, sending shivers through your body as he licks the roof your mouth. "I want more of that sound. As your prince, you would grant me this, yes?"
But he isn't waiting for an answer, planting his feet and holding you steady, angling you back to that spot until he is snapping his hips, fucking into you as you can do nothing but beg and cry and tremble in the arms of a dragon taking what is his.
And you are.
You are his.
Maybe you had known it since then.
You definitely do when his seed floods your womb.
You want to say that that night was a fluke, a mistake that must be regretted. But once your gaze meets another, the fire burns, flickering and dancing, and it repeats. In quick fucks in dangerous spots, to slow, sweet love making in his room.
You are his, in mind, body and soul.
"Death is nothing but a friend," he murmurs against your neck, holding you close. Sweat cooling between your naked bodies. "It cannot stop me from finding you."
"I hope you say that to my father well," you tease.
" Marrying you is but the next step, my love. You are already mine as I am yours." He plays with your hair, brushing it past and kissing a bruise he made on your breast. "In face of every god and more, they will understand that we are but one soul."
You can plan the future in rose-coloured gaze for as much as you can, but the truth of marrying into a family with war brewing inside of it, held together by a dying king's hope and corpse fingertips— it is another matter entirely.
It all comes to a sharp clarity when Viserys I dies... and they keep his rotting corpse a secret.
And then they crown a whoremongering drunk.
"Aemond," you break into the silence, your entire being too cold for comfort. You had just come back from a privy council, a Green Council where the Queen had ordered you and your betrothed to reach Storm's End before the night fully breaks.
As if she knew where your loyalties are.
As if there is no question you will support the usurpation.
You turn to Aemond, busy with packing his things for they have bared the maids and people the of Keep. Because they are making Aegon as king and they know a revolt is underneath the floorboards.
"Aemond!"
"What? What has happened?" He looks confused, irritated. "We must make haste, my love, if we are to beat the storms at—"
"Princess Rhaenyra is Queen," you whisper but it could have been a scream. Saying it aloud gives you confidence, strengthening your resolved. You turn to him. "She is the King's heir, no one else. Aemond, this is an usurpation, unlawful in the eyes of—"
It takes little strides for him to reach you, for him to hold your neck in a tightened grip of warning.
"She," he spits, slow and careful as if you are a simpleton in need of teaching, "is a whore who is attempting to place her bastards on the Iron Throne. Rhaenys Targaryen held no chance of it, just as she. My brother is the firstborn son. He is king." His fingers dig into your skin. "You will do well as my wife to not speak of such blasphemy once more, do you understand?"
Your shock and fear melt from your visage, making way for compliance. You nod once. "Yes, my prince."
"Husband," he corrects, holding you much gentler but the weight of his hand is still there on your neck. A reminder. "Have you forgotten? We only come to Storm's End to officiate our union and your House's loyalty to the King. Once done, we will marry, yes?"
You nod, hands fisting. "Yes."
When he kisses you, harsh and needy, imprinting his will unto you— you close your eyes and plan how you make known to your Queen of their plots.
But Storm's End doesn't go as planned, does it?
Lucerys Velaryon, the Queen's son who had come as nothing more but an envoy for the rightful heir, and Aemond—what you thought to be your Aemond but a monstrous man who needed his revenge, who needed to draw blood for a grudge so deep, for an existence he finds so abysmal — had chased after him and came back to you bloodied, tearing up your dress, rutting in you in harsh, rough thrusts, as you listen to the storms from your window and think,
The Queen will never find his body. Her poor, sweet boy. Half in the belly of a beast, the rest spread and sunken into the water.
"I will not allow any marriage until the realm is at peace," your Lord Father rumbled with finality. He is not a smart man, truly, but he is a father. His gaze meets yours, full of meaning, of promises, before looking back at the seething prince. "You will have my bent knee for your king and for your war, but my daughter's hand shall be her own until the realm is at ease."
Your mother steps forward, her courtly smile on her face. "We want for her to have a grand wedding, my prince. She is the first of our charges to wed, and to a prince of the realm no less! By sure, at the time of war, we must err on the side of caution, as our coffers will no doubt focus on our troops. A future princess of the realm must be mindful, of course."
She bows in deference, your sisters following suit. Maris is the first to look up, defiance burning in her eyes.
You remember a conversation with him, feeling like a lifetime ago.
"Ask me, my prince," you teased. "What a storm is to a dragon. A creature is a creature. Even you must acquiesce to the way of nature for she has bowed to no one since her existence."
Aemond may be blood of the dragons, but he is surrounded by storms on all sides. The fiercest.
And your father will never marry you to a Kinslayer.
Yet you stay beside him, your duty now clearer than ever. Every new information you can grasp is sent back to the Queen and her council. In a courtier of the Greens and Traitors, you are the sole Black Stag. You use Aemond's adoration for you, his possessive obsession of what he thinks is love, as a protection and guise.
Any time he beds you, you sneak in moon tea. His bedding of you is just as much his hold on you and his defiance against your father's refusal. Once caught, you remind him he would not enjoy a bastard child. Especially at a time of war. Not after what they had done to his nephews.
"Do you want for me to suffer as your sister does?" The tears in your face then had not been a folly, for your heart broke for sweet Helaena and her sons. For Jaehaera. The world bleeds and bleeds, and all who die that reaches your ears are nothing more but innocents.
Aemond does not bed you after that, but he keeps you in his chambers, pulls you close as if he is trying to mould your skins as one. Times like this, your heart stutters. Your love to him and your morality as a person is at a test of swords.
You are in love with him,
He is a monster,
He has lost his nephews,
He has killed his own.
And it makes you wonder if you are a monster too, lying beside him as his bedmate, caring for him, wanting him still as his heart beats as your own, so connected to the umbilical of fate and chance while war rages, bodies falling all around you both, most from his own hand and word.
The war rages, and Harrenhal comes to view.
With it, a slaughter and a witch.
The worst of the massacre is the steely, lulling silence.
No one tells you that most of what an execution is that silence. That it amplifies each scream, each shout, each thick drop of a head as it falls on cobblestone. The sound is wet and a mouthful. Then it is nothing, consumed by that silence again.
You are locked in a room with a window that doesn't face the horror of what Aemond is doing. As if this is enough to shield you from what he is, what he truly is doing to win this war.
The worst part, committing genocide of an entire house is nothing more but a horrific grudge.
Strong blood spills, enough to make a lake.
By the time that night bleeds and a maid had entered with dinner to light a fire— your body is still so cold. No food has touched your stomach since the day before yet you retch.
Does loving a monster meant that you are just as monstrous?
Mayhaps it is still worth it, you muse in your silent madness, tears tracking your cheeks as the heaviness of your being stays. For who can say a monster can love you so monstrously? Who else can?
When Aemond comes back to you, freshly cleaned and a reminiscent of the prince that you loved, and he is making excuses of wanting you as you are, pawing at your clothes, you let him. You make love in the silence suffering from the massacre he had just finished. You hold him and kiss him in a desperation as you know this will be your ending.
That your Aemond is gone, or worse. He had never truly existed.
When you are both spent, satiated in a sweet glow, your head pleasantly quiet, he speaks about a plan.
A woman, a Strong witch, that promises him an assurance of winning with her sights and blasphemous magic. He had spared her among others, and that itself makes you look at him, truly look at him.
In exchange of what— for such things do not concede so easily as gratitude to mercy of one life, yes? Because desire devours itself. A snake eating itself.
"A child," he whispers against your battered head and bruised heart. "From my blood."
"A bastard," you murmur as he stiffens. "From a bastard Strong. Surely the irony is not lost on you? You have started this war by killing your bastard nephew, and you plan on ending it by fathering—"
"Do not question me," he says softly, grip tightening against your arms. Your eyes close, heavy with the weight of being a spy. Of loving him. "I will fuck a babe in her how many times it takes, and when the war is won, I will kill her and it. For your womb is the only place my lineage will live. I am doing this for the good of the realm. For us."
When he thinks you are asleep and leaves— you take your things and make haste to leave. Not once has your people left you in the arms of the kinslayer. Always one maid, always three guards from your father's army, loyal to only you.
You bundle up quick, and rush for the passage, you are blocked by a woman. Pale skin, dark hair, and eyes greener than wildfire. You know her before she speaks. You hold yourself to fight, and the witch of Harrenhal laughs.
"You have changed the tide of destiny, my lady." Her head tilts as if she can see past you and through you. "Once your choice has affirmed, your thread chosen, I cannot stand in the side of the One-Eyed Kinslayer without the Stranger coming for me. So instead, I will grant you one gift. One that will require no sacrifice."
"I do not want it."
"Ah, but it is a gift." She nods at your torso. "Your belly will soon take size, in it, his heir. You will not escape him as soon as he knows." Her head twists to the window. A raven flies. A storm grumbles. The sound comes first before the lightning strikes. A false storm. "Time is flowing, changing and twisting. He may have betrayed his kin, but he is still a prince. He will know soon."
Her green eyes glint as if she is seeing now and tomorrow. Now and a moon. Moon from a year. "You must run now. Hide and hide well."
You hold your stomach, bile rising in your throat. "Where? Where am I safe?"
A faint smile rises to her lips. "Your heir looks more like him than mine did. You will not escape him. But go north. As far North as you can. The fjords can hide him for a while. He will grow well there."
She moves away, letting you pass.
You never look back.
Dark locks. Baratheon hair.
A tuff of silver lock atop his head.
And the rest... his nose, his eyes. With your fingers, you pull his lids. Bloom in mullish blue with the faintest tint of iridescent violet. You know from your histories, that faint tint will overpower the blue.
Oh, he is utterly beautiful. Utterly yours. And utterly his father's son.
Rough breaths strangle out of your raw-bitten lips, brushing blood away from your babe's face, his head, his wet, silvery hair. Few they maybe, unmistakably Valyrian features they still are.
"Oh, he is beautiful," your mother murmurs, tears stain her cheeks. "Quiet as you were, as a babe. Looks just as much as you."
She is weighing his Valyrian features too. Your blood tried, but it seemed as if Aemond's grudge grasped your womb and affected your shared blood.
"We cannot stay," you say, still staring at him, admiring him. Your heart locking in place, steeling itself as you prepare to do your utmost to protect him. "We will have to travel posthaste."
Your mother swallows her grief. She had almost lost you. She will lose you again, now along with her only grandchild. "Where?"
"North. As far as North as we can."
Your mother nods. Ever a lady. "I will send a missive. The Lord Stark is loyal to the Queen and knows by how much you have sacrificed for this realm. He will protect you on his honour or he is no Stark."
You will need to hide. You will need to hide well.
You pull him close to your chest, hot tears freshly spilling from your eyes.
The witch had not lied, for your boy grew up amongst ice and warmth. He grows up with love from you, from the Lord Stark and his people, and love from his father in the way that he resembles him.
The slope of his nose, the sweet purse of his lips.
When your boy had gotten angry once, nothing but a quick burst, it shocks fear and tears from your eyes for you had seen the prince.Nothing more than a flash.
You pull him close and wound him to your heart as he cried, apologising for scaring you.
The North had granted you reprieve from the war as it came and went. Your betrayal to the Greens had mounted to the Black Queen's win. The betrayal of House Baratheon as House Stark and their bannermen joined the fray had squandered any rebellious thought on which sovereign will preside.
The last you heard of what became the Prince Regent was his surrender at the Battle Above God's Eye.
When you had cried that night, you did not know if it was from relief. Or fear.
But a black stag on white snow is easy to spot.
It takes years, yes, but the Stranger is but an old friend.
For when the day of your wedding to the Lord Stark arrives, a familiar screech of a dragon that your marrow will never forget— tolls the bell of death.
And when you looked up, snow swirling, holding onto your son that looked up in awe at the man who looked so much like him—
Aemond is smiling.
Sweet came the word— dracarys! — as Vhagar split her mouth opened and obeyed her rider.
What have I told you?
You are mine as I am yours.
In face of every god and more, they will understand that you and I are but one soul.
#dark!aemond x reader#dark!aemond#aemond smut#dark!aemond targaryen x reader#elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒#aemond targaryen x reader#aemond x you#aemond targaryen x you#aemond x reader#aemond angst#aemond dark#hotd smut#aemond fanfiction#aemond fanfic#hotd fanfic
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AHHHH what a great chapter!!!!! Quick question: what was Murphy saying when Quinn was pressed against the window??
Eeeee thank you!! ♥️♥️♥️
So yeah it was pretty much panicked rambling but it was somewhere along the lines of "I'm so sorry, don't fight Quinn, Quinn, look at me, just-just go somewhere else, in your mind Quinn, someplace safe, you have to okay, he's going to-, god I'm so sorry I'm so sorry, I never should have dragged you into this, you have to let go, don't find it, he'll hurt you Quinn, go somewhere else, please can you do that Quinn, QUINN, DON'T TOUCH HIM, DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM, Quinn Quinn look at me, you'll be okay, I'm so sorry, I'm...."
#last words#Murphy was like a big brother to him#he looked out for Quinn#this would have broken Murphy if he survived#allusions to noncon#execution of side character#anon asks#CoA asks#consequence of action asks#Murphy asks
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A Wicked Work of Art - Chapter 13
Masterlist
A little short but Important Things Happen
CW: medical whump, trans whumpee, test subject whumpee, experiment whumpee, fantasy racism, dehumanization, fantasy whump, suicidal whumpee, mentioned/discussed noncon, institutionalized slavery, angels and demons, allusion to domestic violence, transformation whump, emeto mention
===
There was a shatterproof mirror in the lab cell’s bathroom. Akakios had checked the “shatterproof” part. No, there were no means to an end in the bathroom. Everything was set up to make suicide impossible. Whether that was because subjects frequently committed suicide or because of Akakios himself, he didn’t know.
However, one thing had become obvious one fateful day after Akakios had taken his doctor-prescribed showers. As he was brushing his hair like Vasiliki had ordered him to, he’d found nubs.
It had taken Akakios a moment to understand what they were. They were boney and sharp. It even hurt a bit to touch the base.
They were the start of horns.
Asimi’s words came back to Akakios. If I stay with you for too long, my love, you’ll become like me. Once you start, you can’t stop.
Akakios immediately did his hair in a way that would hide them. Fear pounded in his chest. God, if Vasiliki found out-
His mind raced with all the awful scenarios. It would mean more pain, more torture, more experimentation. Maybe, just maybe, Vasiliki would finally use him.
After all, Akakios had been trained for little more than sex. Constantine had used it to break him.
It would follow that Vasiliki would do the same now that Akakios was becoming a devil.
—
“Akakios, I know you probably want to sleep.”
Akakios had curled up in a ball on the table after Vasiliki had released his restraints. Seeing Akakios like that made Vasiliki feel guilty. He was going to have to make it so much worse for Akakios. He didn’t want to.
But there was something he needed to do before he hurt Akakios.
“I noticed the horns. They’re peeking out of your hair now. You’re transforming, aren’t you?”
Akakios was quiet, tears rolling down his face. The tears soon turned into uncontrolled sobbing. Vasiliki moved from his chair to sit on the floor next to Akakios. It was a delicate situation - one perhaps too delicate for Vasiliki. He didn’t know how to handle it.
However, looking at Akakios, he felt his pain. It was an odd feeling - he thought that the part of him that wasn’t human had taken his ability to feel connections with other people away.
Maybe the reason he felt that mystical connection that had been missing his entire life with Akakios was because Akakios wasn’t really human anymore.
But that made it even more confusing. Akakios was turning into a devil, not an angel. If he could only feel connections with nonhumans, wouldn’t it make sense that he could only feel them with angels? Vasiliki didn’t know.
What he did know was that he felt a distinctive pain in his chest. One that made him want to reach out and hug Akakios. One that made what he had to do impossible.
“You should’ve told me.” Vasiliki did his best to avoid a scolding tone, even if that was what it was. “I…” Vasiliki didn’t know what to say.
And he didn’t get time to think over what he wanted to say. Akakios was the one to speak.
“Please don’t use me.” Akakios sobbed some more. Vasiliki decided to allow him to speak his mind. “I- I know it’s all I’m good for, but please, I don’t want it. I don’t want you to.”
Vasiliki paused. “What do you mean that it’s all you’re good for?”
“I was rated at low value because I’m defective. They trained me for sex because sex slaves always sell. I’m worthless outside of sex and I know it’s only a matter of time before you realize that. Now that I’m becoming a devil, you’re going to use it to break me like my handler did.”
Akakios lost control of his breathing again and began to sob.
Vasiliki sat in cold silence. What the Facility did never bothered him before now. Sitting there and listening to Akakios relay everything that had been told to him, all the lies he’d been told, made it real in a way that it wasn’t before. Vasiliki found himself disgusted with himself. He’d contributed to this. He’d enabled it. He’d been a part of it, even.
Just that thought, watching Akakios sob, made him want to vomit. Vasiliki couldn’t be so self-centered though. Akakios needed him. Akakios was the victim, not him.
No.
Vasiliki was the villain here.
The image of Stergios popped into his head.
Was this the moment Stergios had been waiting for him to have? To be so disgusted with himself that he wanted to bathe in kerosene and light a cigarette?
Oh, to have Stergios by his side to guide him through these crushing emotions. To comfort Akakios better than he ever could.
But Stergios wasn’t there.
It was just him.
“Akakios, can you look at me?”
That marred, burned face looked up at him, eyes red and puffy.
“I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you. I-” He took a breath. “It was only once for me, but I was raped too. It doesn’t even remotely compare to what you’ve been through, but I would never do that to you.”
Vasiliki found tears in his eyes. He couldn’t tell Akakios that he would have to punish him. He couldn’t punish Akakios. He was going to get Akakios out of here.
“I need you to obey everything I say, but after that, you’ll be safe.”
Akakios looked at him in shock.
“I’m getting you out of here, Akakios. We’re going somewhere safe. Somewhere you can get help for your transformation. This isn’t right. And I refuse to be a part of it any longer.”
…
Akakios looked at Vasiliki in shock. This had to be some sort of joke. However, as Vasiliki picked him up and strapped him to a wheelchair, Akakios thought it might’ve been to drag him to his execution.
However, the halls turned unfamiliar. Faintly, Akakios could smell freshly cut grass and must. It was a smell that hadn’t reached his nose for at least a year.
Maybe, just maybe…
Vasiliki waved his card at the door and it opened without a beep. Outside. He was outside. In a nearly-abandoned parking lot, but he was outside!
This was happening.
This was actually happening.
Akakios thought for a moment that he had to be dreaming. However, the feeling of the leather of Vasiliki’s car was certainly real. It burned his exposed legs a little. Against the freezing cold of the night, it was a shock.
“Just stay quiet and if anyone pulls us over, I’m taking you home to fuck you.”
Akakios’ heart sank. Was that what was happening?
Vasiliki took off at lightning speed.
Even if Vasiliki was taking him home for use, Akakios found himself not caring.
At least he was out of the Facility, even if only for a little.
===
Taglist: @i-can-even-burn-salad, @whumpsday, @pigeonwhumps, @oddsconvert, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @writereleaserepeat, @just-a-silly-little-whumper, @sparrowsage, @inscrutable-shadow, @whumplr-reader, @whumpycries, @demondamage, @whumpshaped, @itsleelove, @whump-blog-reblogs, @whumpterful-beeeeee
#medical whump#trans whumpee#test subject whumpee#experiment whumpee#fantasy racism#dehumanization#fantasy whump#suicidal whumpee#mentioned/discussed noncon#institutionalized slavery#angels and demons#allusion to domestic violence#transformation whump#whump#whump writing#whumpblr#whump fic#whump community#conditioned whumpee#emeto#a wicked work of art
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so excited for next raider joel i am literally foaming at the mouth
Company
2.2k / dark raider!joel x dark!f!reader x ofc
raider master
gif by @serenaxpedro
“I’ll do it,” you say, unsure what that even means.
Joel looks surprised and impressed. “You’ll do it, then,” he repeats quietly.
Skip ahead to Raider: Close if you're not into the warnings.
WARNINGS: Striking through extra detailed spoilery warnings but wanna be thorough. These don't all happen to reader. Angst, jealousy, dark reader!, FFM threesome kind of, oral m & f receiving, spanking/pussy slapping, noncon gunplay/penetration, unsafe P in V sex (not btwn Joel and OFC), dubcon via captivity, degradation, cum eating, threat of/allusions to cheating kind of. joel makes reader noncon ofc, f on f oral PLUS stuff already in play like being chained up.
A/N: Ask 1, Ask 2. TBH I had trouble getting on board with the idea of adding another girl, but eventually a twisted version i could live with came together in my head. Still, I bet some people will not like it. Please don't read if you could be triggered or upset. 🧡 I did not describe the OFC, so please HC her however makes you happy.
-
When Joel gets back, his arms are the first thing you notice. He’s wearing a body holster with a pistol over his mesh tank top. The body holster makes his shoulder muscles look even more imposing. The second thing you notice is that he’s not alone. He’s dragging another girl by her elbow. She looks like she’s been crying, but she’s not now. She’s angry. Joel doesn’t look at you when he comes in. He slams the door behind him and hangs up his gun. He throws her down on the other bed, then cages her with his body. He holds her chin and and says, “Don’t fuckin’ move.” She spits in his face.
He takes a deep breath and cracks his neck without his hands. ”Been nothin’ but nice to ya,” he says. “That ends now.”
Shamefully, your first thought is, what does he mean by ‘nice to her’? Was he the same as he is with you? Did he save her from a worse fate? Did he stroke her cheek and tell her it was going to be alright? Did tell her he was going to take her with him, protect her from far worse men? How many times has he done this? You hate to think you might not be special.
Joel unbuttons his pants and looks at the girl menacingly. “Coulda made this enjoyable for ya,” he says regretfully. “Too bad.”
Your stomach turns and your heart pounds. Is this all because you kissed him? Is he punishing you for your affection? It’s not fair. He’s the one who kissed you first in the middle of the night. Your eyes sting with tears. You can’t sit here and let this happen.
“What are you doing?” you cry.
“What am I doing?” he laughs. He pauses without unzipping his pants. Finally, he looks at you as he palms himself. Your eyes follow his hand and you’re relieved to see he’s not fully hard yet.
“Don’t,” you plead. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
He unzips his tight jeans and takes his semi-hard cock out. He asks you, “Where should I put it?” with his pelvis still pointed toward the other bed.
“Do you have to put it anywhere?” you whimper. The girl looks at you hopefully like you really have a say. Like you might be trying to help her.
“Do I have to,” he grumbles. You run through the options in your head. He could put it in her mouth, that’s not too bad. A mouth is just a mouth, right? There’s no way she would do a good job on purpose. But hopefully she wouldn’t bite him, either.
-
Joel approaches you and spits in his hand. As he begins to stroke himself with the spit, you say, “Let me.” He holds his cock for you and you try to suck him as good as you can, but he just wants the saliva. He won’t let you make him come. Your eyes well up.
“Shhhh,” he says and cups your cheek as he takes his cock away. He sighs, then nods back toward the rest of the stash house. “You think they want just any girl? They want what’s mine.” He glances over at the girl then back at you. He lowers his voice. “She could save your life.” As sweet as that is, it doesn’t make you feel much better about him putting his cock in another woman.
“Do you really have to?” you plead.
“Where do you want me to put it?” he asks again.
“In me,” you beg. He studies your face.
He looks up at the ceiling contemplatively. “Well either I’m doin’ it, or you’re doin’ it,” he offers.
“I’ll do it,” you say, unsure what that even means. You just know it has to be better than watching or hearing him fuck another girl. If you have to finger her or even give her head, so be it.
Joel looks surprised and impressed. “You’ll do it, then,” he repeats quietly. He unchains you from the radiator and takes the pistol out of his body holster. He holds it by the barrel and hands it to you.
Your face goes cold.
“No,” the girl whimpers, sitting in the corner of the cot with her knees hugged into her chest.
“You heard her,” Joel says. “She’s doin’ it. Right, sweet pea?”
Your hand shakes as you grip the gun. Joel motions for you to go to the other bed.
-
“You’re sick,” the girl whimpers at Joel. “Shoot him!” she demands of you. “What are you waiting for?? SHOOT HIM!”
Instead, you stand at the end of the cot. “Get back here,” you say weakly, gun still shaking in your hand. “And turn over.”
She shakes her head. You cock the gun.
“Damn,” Joel whispers. She still doesn’t move. She cries.
Joel loses patience and grabs her by the thighs, jerking her to the end of the bed. He pulls her dress up over her ass, clenches his jaw, and spanks her. Then he stands between you and the bed. He spits on his fingers and turns to face you. He keeps his knuckles facing you as he reaches back and slaps her pussy without looking at her. She yelps. He keeps his hand there and rubs her clit while he stares at you with his hard dick in his other hand.
“Go on,” he tells you. “You can do it, sweet pea.”
“You’re both sick,” she whimpers.
You steady the gun in both hands, avoiding the trigger, and bring the muzzle to her wet cunt. She shrieks at the cold ring of metal. Then you grab her hip for leverage and use your dominant hand to carefully push the barrel into her, gently maneuvering it so it doesn’t catch. She groans “No.”
Joel strokes your cheek and looks at you affectionately. Then he gets behind you, with both of you facing the bed. He puts his hands on your hips and presses his hard-on into your dress.
“Go on,” Joel urges and his cock hardens as he pushes it against you.
You begin to slide the gun in and out of her.
Joel brings his mouth to your head. “Good girl,” he whispers and puts his large hands on your hips. He raises your dress, exposing your ass. He pulls down your panties, then puts a hand on the small of your back. You spread your feet more, so relieved and grateful he’s not fucking the other girl. He flattens his fingers and rubs your clit until you’re wet enough. It doesn’t take long.
-
You’ve slowed down with the pistol, focusing more on the feeling of his hand between your legs. Joel pauses. “Don’t stop,” Joel cautions. “Or I’ll do it myself, and not with the gun.” You start again. He notches the head of his cock at your entrance and waits. You begin railing her steadily with the barrel of the gun. “Good, sweet pea,” he murmurs.
He pushes his tip inside you and you gasp at the stretch, temporarily pausing the rhythm of the gun. Then he puts one hand on your pelvis for leverage and holds a breast with the other. He slams his cock into you, jolting you up and forward, with the momentum slamming the gun harshly into her cunt. She whimpers.
“Sorry,” you whisper to her and try to steady your hand as Joel fucks you. But the last thing you would do is ask him to stop or ease up.
Joel drives his length into you steadily. Your face tenses and your temples feel weak. You’re still jealous and your mind drifts to whether he’s looking at you or the other girl. Or is he just watching you fuck her with his gun. You know he’s an awful man. Face it, it turns him on.
You put it out of your mind and focus on the feeling of being filled by him. His fingers pressing into your skin as his cock impales you, strong but gentle, like him. You can’t help but moan as he fills you up with his flesh. His cock completes you just right. You need him to be all yours.
He switches hands, using his other hand for leverage as he cups your opposite breast. He buries his mouth in your neck and that makes you feel better, your brow softens. He bites you and it feels close enough to a kiss that your heart swells. He sucks your skin, and he moans at the feeling of your nipple hardening into the palm of his hand. He massages your breast and you begin to twitch around his cock. He moans into your neck.
“Sweet pea,” he murmurs. “You feel so good.” Your heart flutters at his words and your lower abdomen buzzes with warmth. “Whore like that could never. No one else could.” With that validation, you fuck her harder with the gun. “That’s it, baby,” Joel whispers, slamming his cruel cock into you. “Just like that.” Your arm gets tired and you switch hands. It’s so tempting to put down the gun, but you don’t want to find out whether he’d really fuck her. You don’t want to disappoint him either, and you don’t want him to stop fucking you.
Joel’s hands slither around your body, and his cock pounds into you harder. “You’re doin’ great, pretty girl.” You feel yourself on the edge of climax. He slams into you with a grunt. “This pussy’s all mine,” he pants. “gonna stay that way.” You lean back into his chest and enjoy the feeling of his body wrapped around yours while you’re wrapped around his cock. He begins to stroke your clit and you moan. He breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust.
He pulls out before either of you come. You sigh at the loss but his fingers gather slick from your dripping cunt then return to your clit and he outdoes himself. He puts his mouth to your ear. “Go ‘head, baby,” and his low whisper makes you see stars.
You moan and tremble and fall into her, plunging the gun deeper.
“Pretty when ya come,” he murmurs and rubs your back while you finish. Then he grabs your ass affectionately and steps to your side; You flinch, your ass is even more sore today.
He slowly pumps his cock and kneels onto the cot with one knee. He takes your hand and makes you take the gun out. She collapses onto the dirty mattress.
-
“What’d I do wrong?” you ask him.
“You did great, sweet pea. You did perfect,” he says as he gets up on the cot and it creaks under his full weight.
She tries to squirm away and he stops her with a hand on her ass. He’s facing her side and looking at you as he pumps himself. He straddles one of her legs and you whimper. He points his cock at her pussy, then he looks at you again as he strokes himself and comes on her ass. It trickles down her crack to her cunt. You don’t want his cum between her legs, it tugs at your tear ducts, but you’re comforted by his eye contact with you when he came.
He gets off the cot, tucks his dick away, then comfortingly squeezes your shoulder and watches you watch his cum trickle down. “You want it so bad, take it,” he says. He crosses his arms and nods toward her.
It feels like a command. You reach out your hand.
“Nuh-uh. With your mouth, sweet pea.”
You obediently bend at the hips and lean over the cot. Joel pries her legs open for you. You plant your mouth between her legs and lick from her cunt, while trying to strain your eyes to meet Joel’s for approval. “Yeah, get it all, baby.” You drag your tongue up her crack.
You swallow it and he holds out his arms for you. He helps you down from the cot and takes you back over to yours. “You’re gonna stay here for a li’l bit, sweet pea. Keep her company.”
You sniffle. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah, baby. I’ll come back for you later.” He kisses you on the head and makes sure you’re comfortable before he chains you back.
-
After Joel leaves, you and the other girl are both silent for a while. Then she tries to get through to you, tries to convince you that the two of you can outsmart him together. When pleading doesn’t work, she tries tough love. “I get it,” she says. “You think he cares about you. But he doesn’t. You think he’s faithful to you, just because he owns you.”
“He does care.”
“Well I don’t see your name on his chest. And his dick sure didn’t taste faithful today.”
Any sympathy you had for her evaporates with those words. Even if she’s lying, even if she’s trying to play you.
“Pathetic,” she scoffs. “You don’t even want to be free, do you?”
You’re silent for a minute, then get an idea. “You’re right, I don’t. But if you really want to, I can tell you how.”
You know the guard won’t stay at the door all night. You know the best time and route to get out of the house. If she gets away, good for her. If she gets caught by one of Joel’s men, oh well.
-
Thank you so, so much for reading and engaging! Love you guys. You will have your man to yourself next time.
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#joel miller x reader#dark!Joel Miller#possessive!joel miller#joel miller smut#raider!Joel Miller#joel miller/you#toxicanonymity ☠️#tw: dubcon#raider!joel#raider!joel miller
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In Abstract 1
A sequel no one asked for. First Series: Portrait of a Dangerous Man
Warnings: noncon/rape, some violence, blood, alluded murder (for now?), grief, confusing, criminal allusions, some untagged extreme events.
This is dark!mob!Clark Kent x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Synopsis: You adjust to life with Clark, thought the past won't seem to let you go.
Character: mob!Clark Kent
Note: I don't know where this came from.
Thanks to everyone for reading and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :) I appreciate your comments and enthusiasm! Reblogs help and are like candy, so please, feed me.
I really hope you enjoy. 💋
<3 As usual, I’d appreciate if you let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!
A speck of red. A speck of red in a sea of blue. From the observer's eye, one would not notice. But the creator, the artist, the start error is obvious. No inadvertent, but entirely deliberate. A reminder of what it cost you.
You close your eyes and the fleck of blood sears in your mind. Like the site of your boyfriend gasping his last breaths. Ex, now. For a while. It feels like yesterday yet no time at all.
You shiver and hug yourself through the white cashmere. The sweater offers little warmth in the cold house. The glass doors look out onto the white lawn, a fresh dusting of snow trims the covered pool and blankets the landscape. It would be beautiful to any who did not know the sinister secrets of this place. The crimes witnessed by these walls alone.
You turn away from the portrait hung above the gaping fireplace. Even the crackling flames cannot warm you. There is no comfort in this house or the man who resides there. A warden, a maniac, a murderer.
You near the glass doors, eyes drawn to how the snow gathers in corners. The thin sheet of frost that cakes the panes and the fog of your breath as you stand close. The world outside is obscured by your own existence.
Silence. Stillness. Distance. Isolation. The vast grayness of your small world trapped behind a transparent wall. You touch the handle, feeling the cold metal, gripping it tight. A sudden urge to run out and dive into the heaps.
"Dinner tonight?" Clark's voice claps like thunder through the lull.
You gasp and recoil from the door. You turn to him, hugging yourself as much out of fright as the temperature. You step away from the door and your yearning for escape.
"Dinner," you repeat, your hollow voice echoing off the high ceilings.
"Yes, your mother is coming to town? We'll get her from the airport and take her to Elliston's?"
"Are you asking or telling?" You mutter as you drop your arms, tucking your hands up the cuffs.
You sweep away, crossing to the archway that opens into the spacious kitchen. You go to the counter and flip up the lid of the coffee machine. You focus on the rack of pods. It's habit more than anything, often you let your cup go cold, basking in the scent but too numb to taste it.
He follows. You sense him. Like you always do. Always hovering. Always watching.
"Don't be like this. You've been looking forward to her visit."
You grumble as you pick out the cinnamon cookie pod and shove it in the top. You shrug. Not really. You only ever play the part he wants. Move your brush to his whim, streak the paint by his word, lay on your back as he gets what he wants.
"And I have been too. I can't wait to meet your family. All of them."
Your chest winds tight. You can't tell if it's a threat or genuine. He is always hard to decipher. If you had ever been able to see through him, you wouldn't be standing there, trapped in his house, in his grip.
Five months. Five months in your cell. Five months with Marcus' blood on your soul.
"I'll get a room ready," you put a mug under the spout and hit the brew button.
He lurks closer. You stare and wait for the drip to begin. He puts his hands on your shoulders, the fabric turning course beneath the weight of his grasp.
"Nina's already working on it," he growls into your crown, "don't act so hard done by…"
"I'm not," the trickle spits out and hits the porcelain sharply.
"I give your more than he ever–"
You tear away from him, sliding along the counter as you spin to face him. He clucks and tilts his head, slowly pivoting towards you. The anger cordons in his cheek.
"I told you…"
He scoffs. "You're right, he was nothing. Not worth talking about. Sweetheart, it was always going to be me."
You clamp your lips shut as your eyes sting. He doesn't wake up every day in horror, he doesn't sink into sleep like a stone in mud, he doesn’t know what it is to live in black and white when the world used to be painted in a million colours.
"I'll confirm what time she gets in."
He sighs and crosses his arms. You look down at the white sweater and unroll the crumpled hem. You didn't wear cashmere before, no silk, no satin. Just cotton and tweed. Now you wear what he tells you to.
"Find something to wear for dinner," he demands, "and after."
He crosses the pristine tile and you look at him in the face, eyes glossy and pathetic. He kisses your forehead as his hand comes up to your chin, his thumb stroking your lips. He inhales your scent and lets out a growl.
"Wear the diamonds," he demands.
He lets you go and leaves you there. You watch after him as he stalks off, checking the time on his wristband. He clears his throat as he turns out of your sight. Your vision blurs to a muddy blur.
The coffee machine dings and brings you back. As much as you love your mother, how do you explain this to her? Lies are easier on the phone, but face to face, the truth is clear to see.
🎨
Your mother pulls you into a hug, her suitcase forgotten at her side. It's been almost a year since you last saw her. You and Marcus made a rare trip down for her birthday. As solitary as she prefers her life, she cherishes your rare company.
"Tweety bird, it's been so long," she hugs you, swaying you with her. She releases tou and holds you at arm's length, "don't you look like a dead mouse?"
"Ha, yeah, I was up late… painting," you smile thinly.
"Never change," she chides as you sense a shadow approach. Clark grabs the handle of her suitcase and rolls it towards him as he puts his hand on your back. "Oh, who… is this?"
"Clark," you try not to show your frustration. Your mother's always been a touch flightly, "I told you about him."
"Ah, yes, oh, that Marcus," she tuts and shakes her head, "couldn't believe it when you said he ran off but then again, I wasn't unhappy."
"Mom," you sniff.
"Well? He always left his dirty socks on the couch."
You bite the inside of your cheek. You'd rather not talk about him. You fear she'll see right through your story. Clark takes his hand off your back.
"Nice to meet you–" he begins.
"Don't be silly," she pulls him into a hug, an impressive feat as she is rail thin, "you must be the one saving my gal from heartbreak."
"Um, sure," he snorts, "you're Janine?"
"That's the one," she pulls back and fixes her wild waves, "I'm afraid she hasn't given me more than your name."
"She's been busy. Commissions and all," Clark puts on that perfect act. The gentleman with all the charm. The one you fell for. "We hope you're not too tired, I suggested a reservation for dinner…"
"Oh, yes, please, I'm starving. That airplane food is better avoided," she trills, "besides just ask Tweety, I'm mot much of a sleeper."
You shake your head in confirmation and she grins wider. Clark rolls her bag around and waves his arm ahead of him, "ladies."
"Oo, finally got yourself a gentleman."
"Mhmm," you hum as you start forward, "something like that."
🎨
You watch the wine flow into the glass, filling the belly with a rich burgundy colour. Your mother looks around emphatically as Clark gives a curt nod of dismissal to the server. You're left to peruse the menu.
“Wow, this is a fancy place,” your mom comments as she opens the leather folio containing the menu, “where was it Marc would take us? Denny’s?”
You give her a look. It’s strange, you’re mother was never one to turn her nose up at simplicity but there were some very specific sticking points when it came to your boyfriend. Ex. Or maybe money really does corrupt all.
The wine is stringent. You don’t like it. You take a hefty swig and set the stem down heavily. Clark gives you a look. Right, he has his curated image, you have to fit into that.
“So mom, how was your flight?”
“Ah, it’s fine. But I was sat next to this skinny fellow. So nervous. Jittered the whole way. I had to close the window because it made him sick. So I took a nap.”
“I hope you don’t mind shacking up with us. I thought of a hotel but we have more than enough room,” Clark suggests, “after a long day, I’m sure you’d like to just relax.”
“With us? You live together?” Your mom raises her brows.
“You knew this. Remember?”
“No, you said you moved out of your apartment, I don’t remember a where or with who. This is moving fast,” she says, “definitely not a rebound then?”
You cringe. Clark is a better actor than you. He laughs. Or maybe it is really that funny. Laughing at your dead ex and the ensuing predicament. You take another gulp of the disgusting wine.
“Well, the salmon looks interesting, “but I do prefer halibut…” she mulls over the listings, “oh, prawns. Tweety, don’t you remember when you drank all my vodka and puked up seafood all night?”
“Mom,” you swallow.
“Tweety, that’s an interesting nickname,” Clark says, opening the door for further humiliation.
“Ah, yes, well, funny story.”
“Not really,” you intone.
Your mother ignores you as she closes her menu and rests it on the table in front of her. “Her aunt used to give her Tweety Bird everything. Pajamas, stuffies, notebooks… she hates Tweety Bird. Always has but she was too nice to tell my sister so she had this little collection. I bet it’d be worth a bit now. Vintage and all that.”
“Oh, Tweety,” Clark echoes, “interesting. Cute.”
“Yellow did always suit her.”
“Anything suits her, doesn’t it?” He puts his hand over yours, “I tell her all the time. She makes paint stains look incredible. You wouldn’t believe it, at the end of the day she walks out of the studio looking like, uh, what’s that artist that does the splashes?”
“Pollock,” you answer dully.”
“She was always obsessed with men with too much time and not enough talent,” your mother remarks, “art, I’m just happy she isn’t still working at the coffee shop.”
“That was like six years ago,” you retort.
“Still, you have a degree, you should use it.”
“And she does,” Clark assures, “she’s wonderful at what she does.”
“Aw,” your mother almost fawns, “you’re such a sweetheart. Where did she find you and where do I get one?”
You barely restrain from rolling your eyes. Clark basks in the praise. You empty your glass and feel the slosh in your mind. It might be a bit too much but the wine makes the nights go quicker.
You decide on a salad. You’re not hungry. Your appetite is scant at best, food is a necessity, not a joy. Like much of your life now. It makes you miss those numbers you thought were so dire. The easy life of putting numbers in boxes and putting frozen lasagna in the oven.
The server returns and you turn your attention to his convenient arrival. You need the distraction. He nods to your empty glass and you see how Clark takes notice as well.
“Did you require more, mademoiselle?” He offers.
“One will do until we have our entrees,” Clark insists, “no good drinking on an empty stomach.”
You smile and take the stout glass of water from beside the stemmed glass, “thank you. He’s right.”
“Do we know what we’re having?” The server asks.
Clark defers to your mother with a gesture. She orders first. Halibut with the seasonal vegetables. Clark has his usual filet mignon, and you get the cobb salad. You hand over your menu and sit back, twiddling your fingers in your lap.
“Salad,” your mother comments, “when she was a teen, I couldn’t pry the onion rings out of her hands. Now look at her. It’s catching up, isn’t it?”
“Nothing wrong with being mindful,” Clark comments as he brushes his fingertips along his thick beard. He’s let it grow out, his hair too, the curls spiraling past his ears. “It’ll save room for dessert, they have a delicious creme brule.”
“Mmm, amazing–” your mother’s voice catches and she looks past you.
You don’t react right away as another serve sneaks up on you. Clark reaches behind him with one hand, covertly as if trying not to give himself away, and brings it forward as you peek up at the woman all in black. She giddily grins and backs up.
Clark takes a breath and pushes back his chair as he rises. He turns and kneels as the server hovers nearby, hands clutched together. Several other tables hush and servers look up from their work. You feel time halt as your ears ring.
Clark presents a red velvet box as your mouth falls open. For those strangers all around, those who don’t know about you or him, it must look like shock, even glee. But it's thrumming, crashing terror. No. No. Your eyes pinpoint on the large diamonds as he reveals it, three rings of smaller ones around the large.
You look up over his head then over at your mother. She dabs her eyes and covers her mouth in disbelief. You wobble as you turn back to Clark. His voice rumbles in your ears but you can’t make out the words. You blink. And blink. And blink. Gaping like a dead fish.
“...marry me?...”
His question hangs before you. You could keel over and shrivel up. You could stand up and flee. Run until you can’t stop. You close your eyes and see the blood spurting from Marcus’ chest. The image of your mother’s face flits across your mind, replacing his. You won’t let him hurt her too.
“Yes.”
The voice is not your own. It can’t possibly be because you can’t feel it on your tongue but it tickles in your ears. Clark snatches your hand and forces the diamond on, standing as he tugs you up and pulls you into an embrace. He tilts your head and kisses you. The fairy tale he writes for the onlookers is nothing more than a cautionary tale.
#clark kent#dark clark kent#dark!clark kent#clark kent x reader#au#mob au#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#in abstract#series#dcu#dc#superman
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Southern Comfort
Summary: A day after your ex-boyfriend's unexpected return, you show up on Ari's doorstep intending to ask for a little time. Too bad your grumpy bounty hunter isn't feeling particularly charitable.
Warnings: Mature Themes, Some Angst, Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Arguments, Angry Sex, Discussions of Ex-boyfriends, Mentions of Body Image, Mentions of Disordered Eating, Manhandling, Pushing, Discussions of Female Virginity (mentioned), Edging (mentioned), Restraints (mentioned), Brief Allusions to Rape/Forced Sex, Allusions to DubCon/NonCon, Primal Play (mentioned), Ass Slapping, Spanking (mentioned), Cursing, Minors DNI
A/N: Takes place directly after the events in Case of the Ex, but it is not the sequel. This story is part of my Sweet Renegades Series. Not beta'd. Not beta'd. All mistakes my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.
“Alright, now. Remember to breathe, sugar.” You mutter as you adjust the skirt of your floral sundress. “You’ll be in and out quicker than a hiccup.”
Although the day had cooled down considerably since this morning, the temperature still sat at an uncomfortable 88℉. Which therefore meant that you were uncomfortable. Even after a shower and a change of clothes.
You take one last moment to fluff your curls and reapply your lip gloss before reaching inside your car to pull out a ceramic baking dish, complete with a lid. And then you begin the quiet trek up the concrete walkway. Your stomach is in knots by the time you reach the front door to ring the bell.
Your teeth begin to worry your bottom lip while you wait, part of you wishing that you could just sit the dish on the front porch and make a beeline for your vehicle. But your Mama hadn’t raised you to be a coward, and neither had your beloved Uncle. God rest their souls.
So you had to see this through. And once you were done you would head over to your shop and through yourself into work until the sun came up. There was already a crispy chicken salad waiting for you on the passenger seat, accompanied by some reduced fat buttermilk ranch dressing.
Your stomach growls at the thought of food. It was a subtle reminder that you hadn’t eaten much lately, save for the wrap Ari had brought by yesterday. Now that you’d devoured, right along with the chips, salad, and the cookie – all of which had been delicious.
But when it had come time for you to call him that evening as you were locking up, for some reason, you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to do it. Because if he answered, you knew that he was gonna want the skinny on your ex-boyfriend. And you really weren’t prepared to dive into all of that yet.
So you’d decided to shoot Ari a text message after you’d already arrived home for the night, letting him know that you were safe and that you needed time to process the day’s events. After that was done, you’d powered off your phone, content to simply be alone with your thoughts.
And you had yet to turn it back on. Sometimes a girl needed her space.
In that same vein, you also hadn’t bothered with opening the store today. You’d been a little paranoid about receiving a pop-up visit from Ari or Mason. Or, worse yet, both of them at the same time. Again.
Seeing him like that had really done a number on you. He’d looked so good standing there in your shop with that same boyish grin of his. It had immediately transported you back to high school, in the most confusing way possible. But at least it hadn’t stirred up any romantic feelings.
In your opinion, Mason Prescott was a lot like double frosted chocolate mud cake. Pretty to look at, but indulge in more than a couple bites and it was liable to make you sick to your stomach.
Just as your mind begins going down the rabbit hole of comparing problematic men to desserts, the front door is wrenched open to reveal a stern-looking Ari Levinson. He’s barefoot, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and light gray t-shirt.
The two of you stand there in silence for a moment, neither of you saying a word. He doesn’t need to communicate the fact that he was worried about you, not when it’s written plain as day all over his gorgeous face. But now, at roughly 6:30 in the evening, he wasn’t just worried. He was downright pissed.
At you. Oops.
“Good evening.” Comes your shy greeting once it eventually becomes too much. “I…I was in the neighborhood and figured I’d drop by.” You offer up a lame shrug, wishing that you would’ve practiced your speech a little more before you’d gotten out of your car.
Ari grunts in response, the seemingly ever-present tick in his jaw growing more pronounced with each passing second. And you can feel your confidence taking a dive as a result.
“I also wanted to tell you that I was sorry for kicking you out the way I did yesterday. And for texting instead of calling. I was a little ruffled, but I could’ve been a bit more gracious about things.” You force yourself to take a steadying breath. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”
“Alright.” That’s all you get from him. And now that tempting mouth of his pressed into a thin, firm line. Which did not bode well for you.
“I would’ve called you from the shop, but I decided not to open today so…” Your body sways in the wind as a gentle breeze picks up. Boy did that air feel good on your skin.
“I know.” Ari replies flatly. “Drove by your house earlier and saw your car. That’s the only reason I hadn’t filed a missing person’s report with Marlon Timmers down at the station.”
“Oh…”
And that was your confirmation right there. Yes, you had indeed worried this man. Which meant that he’d felt the need to go looking for you. If only to make sure that you were safe. And that a certain Prescott wasn’t taking up real estate in your driveway.
“I made you somethin’.” Pasting on a smile, you present him with the covered dish you’d brought along with you. “As part of my apology.”
The bounty hunter hesitates briefly before accepting your offering with a sigh, followed by a quiet “thanks”. And then he turns on his heel to head deeper into the house. Unsure of what else to do, you decide to follow behind him, closing the door as you go.
Besides, you’d much rather continue this discussion indoors anyway.
“It’s a cobbler.” You find yourself babbling as you both make your way into the kitchen. “A peach cobbler. It’s kind of my specialty, right up there with my brambleberry pie. The secret is a splash of bourbon, plus a dash of vanilla.”
For some reason unbeknownst to you, your nervous admission stops him dead in his tracks.
“You brought me a…” He trails off as he sucks in a breath, his brain kicking into overdrive. “Is this – is this a breakup cobbler?” You wince when he unceremoniously drops your beloved baking dish onto the counter.
Your eyes go wide at that, his unexpected accusation leaves you bristling. As if you had it in you to be so callous. If you were breaking up with him then you would’ve brought along muffins. Or perhaps a nice iced lemon blueberry loaf.
You had simply come to apologize, and maybe ask for a little time. Nothing too crazy, mind you. Only a few days, really. Maybe week tops.
“Oh, simmer down now, Beast.” You sniff, clutching your purse under your arm. Clearly he was still smarting about yesterday’s turn of events. But even so, there was no reason for you to conduct yourself as anything but the proper gentlewoman you were raised to be.
“Duchess, I swear to God….” Ari’s fingers go to the bridge of his nose as he visibly prays for patience. Meanwhile, you’re busy stewing over his ill-treatment of your precious cookware. “If this is a breakup cobbler, I’m gonna spank your ass so hard you won’t sit comfortably for a week.”
That rat bastard! Heat floods your face as your mouth goes slack. Ari Levinson had officially gone too far, which meant that it was up to you to set him straight.
“You are unbelievable!” You screech, smacking his chest with your handbag. It feels good, so you do it again. You’re even poised to do it a third time before it’s snatched from your grasp.
“Oh yeah, baby?” The agitated bounty hunter rakes his fingers through his hair, yanking at the chestnut strands. “Then how come I don’t hear you denying it?”
“I came here trying to do something nice.” You hiss through gritted teeth. “And to apologize for–”
“For what? Trying to fly away on me? Again?”
Ari reaches for you, although you’re quick to slap his hand away. With the way you were feeling right now, you were liable to bite him.
“You came here to apologize for being an ass. I’m supposed to say "no big deal". Next comes the part where you ask for space, because you’re confused and you’re scared.” He finishes with a shrug before turning his body so that he can fish something out of a drawer. Seconds later you see that it’s a spoon. “Add that to the fact that you’re falling for me–”
“Oh, fuck you!” You interrupt with a snarl, slamming your hand down on the counter. But your gaze remains trained on his chosen piece of cutlery.
“I have a feeling we’ll get to that.” Ari jams the utensil into the center of the cobbler. “But first…” He scoops up a hearty helping, grinning at the crumbly bits of crust and juicy peach before raising the spoon to his lips and devouring it in one swift bite. “Mmm. Not bad, baby.”
Not bad? You inwardly seethe. Not BAD? What that man had in his possession was an award winning cobbler. It was better than excellent. It was fucking legendary.
Your man chews animatedly, making a show of savoring the decadent mouthful. “Maybe a little heavy on the nutmeg. But as I was saying…” He sucks a stray drop of filling off his thumb. “Between the sudden appearance of our good buddy, Mace, and you being overwhelmed about this thing we’ve got goin’ on…I reckon that you’re feeling a tad out of sorts. Am I right?”
The gall of this man! A red haze colors your vision as his words wash over you, filling you with a slow churning sense of rage. Just who the fuck did Ari Levinson think he was?
“My cobbler has the perfect amount of cinnamon and nutmeg, you–you uncultured jackass!” You grit out through clenched teeth.
You could tolerate a lot from folks in this town. But one thing you absolutely would not abide by was someone bad mouthing one of your made-from-scratch confections. You baked with learned skill, as well as passion. It was the one thing you felt you were genuinely good at.
Which meant that you were about to choke some sense into the gorgeous man standing in front of you.
“Yeah?” He shovels another spoonful into his mouth. “Then how about you stick around and fight with me about it instead of running off like I know you want to?”
The smug turd gobbler has the nerve to smile at you before helping himself to more gooey, peachy, crumbly goodness. Little did he know that you were this close to slapping him hard enough to make his ears ring.
He wouldn’t even have to stoop down low for you to do it. You were so mad you could practically feel yourself about to levitate.
“No, thank you. In fact, I think I’ll be going.” You tell him, your tone rife with disdain. “Now hand me my purse and return my sub-par cobbler and I will be on my way.”
The damned bag had your keys inside it. Next time you left the house intending to make amends you were going to wear something with pockets!
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ya know what, Bird?” Ari tosses the spoon into the sink with a clatter before crossing his burly arms over his broad chest. “I’ve just realized that I’m not feeling all that charitable at the moment. Plus, you didn’t say please.” He tacks on the last bit with a cheeky wink.
“Meaning?”
He has no idea that you’re fantasizing about keying the side of his precious Nissan Titan right now.
“Meaning that we can either stand here all night sizin’ each other up.” He lets out a resigned sigh. “Or we can take a seat on the couch, or maybe curl up in bed, and talk about what’s got you ready to run for the hills.”
“And I take it there is no option three?” Your hands settle on your hips as you glare back at him.
“You and that damned option three.” Ari chuckles under his breath, not finding a damn thing amusing. “Well sweetheart, option three involves me cuffing you to my bed and edging the fuck out of that sweet pussy until you tell me whatever it is I wanna know.”
“There isn’t anything to know, Ari!” You all but shout, feeling every bit as frustrated as you sound. “I haven’t seen Mace in damn near five years!”
“Be that as it may, there was still something about his visit that shook you, Bird.” He goes to reach for you again, only to have you dance away. You absolutely did not want to be touched right now. “I saw it then and I see it now.”
“And if I were to tell you that it’s not a big deal?”
Instead of immediately responding, Ari cocks his head to the side, taking a moment to study you. “Then I would tell you that you’re lying. And not just to me. But to yourself.”
You look away, temporarily at a loss for words as you wrap your arms around your middle. A middle that was a little too soft for your liking, regardless of how often you seemed to be counting calories these days.
“I gave him my heart. And he smashed it into a million glittering pieces the first chance he got. I mean, I guess I can’t be too mad since I’m the one who gave him the hammer. Not once, but twice.” You spit as you feel hot tears prick the backs of your eyes. “But even so, do you honestly think I’d be stupid enough to let him do it a third time?”
“Bird.” Your nickname falls from his lips like a soft, urgent plea. But you don’t hear it. Not really.
“I was the fat girl who fell for the jock. Not really all that notable, I suppose. Except in this case that jock just so happened to be the golden boy of Bell’s Creek.” Your arms fall wide before dropping them down at your sides in defeat. “But I didn’t care. Because I was stupid and in love and a fucking virgin when he–” You abruptly cut yourself off when you realize the direction your thoughts are heading.
You’d already said more than enough.
“When he what?” Ari’s voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“It doesn’t matter.” You rise up on your toes as you search for an opening to snag your purse.
Because you were through talking about this. It was time for you to head back home, crawl under the covers, and hide there until you could summon the strength to bake every single dessert you could possibly think of using every last bit of the ingredients you had stocked in your kitchen.
And then you would eat them all until you either accidentally gave yourself diabetes or you finally exploded.
“Please talk to me.” This time when Ari takes a step towards you, you beat back a hasty retreat. And you don’t stop moving until you reach his front door. “C’mon, baby, wait!”
But you didn’t want to wait. What you needed was to be alone. The plan had been to drop off the cobbler, make your amends, and then peace the fuck out. And now it had all gone to shit because you’d allowed Ari Levinson to get under your goddamned skin the way only he could.
So, you’d walk home and send someone to pick up your car later. If you left now, you’d make it back before the sun had even begun to set. Besides, it wasn’t like you couldn’t use the exercise.
A firm hand on your arm halts your movements, hauling you backwards against the solid wall of his chest…
Which is when you finally snap.
“I did not give you permission to touch me!” You hiss, turning in the embrace and shoving at him with all your might. However, you know that the only reason the bounty hunter actually lets you go is because you had the element of surprise.
Because holy shit! What the fuck had you just done?
“Woah, woah.” Ari quickly backs away, his palms raised in surrender. “It’s okay, Bird. I pushed you, so you pushed me. It’s okay. It’s all okay, sweetheart.” You can tell he’s doing his damnedest to keep his tone calm and even so as not to spook you further.
You give him a shaky nod, feeling more than a little embarrassed by your inability to control your emotions.
“I’m so–sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” You manage to eek out, even as your bottom lip starts to tremble. You scrub your hands over your eyes as you fight back tears. “There is no excuse.” You tell him, keeping your head bowed as your knees feel wobbly.
What an awful mess you’d made of this whole thing. Truly.
“Fuck!” He exhales softly, clearly unsure about whether or not it’s okay to touch you. “I don’t want us to end things like this, baby. I really don’t.” Now there’s a note of desperation in his tone that wasn’t there just a few seconds earlier.
Ari goes quiet, weighing his options as he contemplates the best way forward. At least that’s what you assume he’s doing, since you’re too preoccupied with wishing the earth would swallow you up where you stood.
“I’d really like to hold you. But I don’t want to scare you. So you’re gonna have to come to me.” He opens his arms to you then, just as you’re ready to fall apart at the seams. “But – and I can’t stress this enough – only if you want to.”
This time you go time without hesitation. And just like always, your man is right there to catch you before you shattered.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you!” Your words come on the heels of a muffled sob as you cling to him, pulling his body closer to your own as the feelings of remorse threaten to overwhelm you.
“Shh, little Bird. Shh.” Ari murmurs as he lifts you into his arms and carries you into the living room. Once there, he settles you both on the couch, tucking your smaller frame into his own.
He whispers soft, sweet kisses along the damp skin of your brow as he tangles his fingers in your curls to massage your scalp. “I got you. I got you. I got you.” He tenderly rocks you back and forth while he waits for you to calm down.
“Please don’t leave. I swear I didn’t mean it.” You’re babbling now and you know it, but it does manage to earn you a relieved grin from your man.
“Nobody’s goin’ anywhere, sweetheart. Not you. And definitely not me.” He cups your jaw, gently forcing you to meet his gaze. “We’re just fine, you and me. I’m a big boy. You surprised me, maybe. But you didn’t hurt me.”
“But I shouldn’t have –” You begin, your eyes blurring with a fresh wave of tears.
“Listen to what I’m saying.” Ari interjects, his tone containing just the right amount of authority to get your attention. “I’m a big boy, baby. I’m talking 6’3, 220 lbs on a good day. I ignored your body's cues, okay? I'm the one who failed to properly read your warning signs and I got in your space – so please hear me when I say that a pretty large piece of this was my fault too.”
You shake your head “no”, because it should go without saying that Ari would never hurt you. At least not on purpose, and never physically. And yet…
“Baby, you went a little primal is all.” He reaches for your hand to press a kiss to your clammy palm. “That’s all that happened. No harm, no foul. We can even play that way one day, if you’re interested. But not unless we’re both on the same page.”
You weren’t quite sure what he was talking about, but for now you’d simply choose to go with it. Because right now you’d need the kind of comfort and reassurance that only your man could provide.
Needed him to ground you when you felt like you might float away.
“Okay, but I’m still sorry.” You sniffle, gingerly wiping your nose on his t-shirt. Not that he minds overly much.
“I’m sorry too. Not just for pushing you how I did, but for disrespecting your cobbler. Which is divine by the way.”
Now that has you perking up almost immediately. “But you said –”
“Little Bird, I don’t know shit about what goes in a peach cobbler. My nutmeg crack was a shot in the dark meant to piss you off. I figured once I got you talking, you’d spill your guts, I’d take you to bed where you me me promise not to shoot your ex, and then…” Ari trails off as your words from earlier come flooding back to him.
Not wanting to start down this road again, you wrap your arms around his neck before slanting your mouth over his. Your tongue strokes along his plump bottom lip, seeking entrance. Ari responds without hesitation as he buries both hands in your hair, drawing you closer to him.
Right now you needed this man more than you needed air in your lungs. “Please.” You whimper, shifting your body so that you’re now straddling his hips, your legs coming to rest on either side of his thickly muscled thighs. “Please, Ari. I need you. Don’t make me wait.” You nip at his lips, before trailing a fiery litany of kisses along the curve of his jaw.
A part of your mind screams at you to slow down, to explain yourself. But you quickly silence it once Ari’s skilled hands abandon your curls in favor of your chest. Gripping the bodice of your dress, he manages to rip the lightweight fabric in two on the first try.
“Fuck, baby! Promise we’ll talk after.” He snarls, more to himself than you.
Meanwhile, you eagerly reach behind you to undo the clasp of your bra. You both let out a groan once you finally rid yourself of the garment, your heavy breasts spilling into his waiting palms. Of course he wastes no time before drawing a pouting nipple into his warm, wet mouth - sucking deep. His expert tongue takes turns teasing and laving at the pebbled tip as wetness pools between your thighs.
“After.” You hurriedly reassure him as you pull away long enough to unfasten his jeans. It winds up taking the both of you working together to free his impressive erection from his boxers, nearly sobbing with relief when it's done.
Because you needed him inside you now.
Needed him to fill you up just right. Wanted him to go so deep that you didn’t have to worry about thinking anymore. All you wanted to feel was him moving inside you. You couldn’t wait to feel that sweet burn you’d come to crave as he stretched you out with his perfect cock. Couldn't wait for him to claim your body with each slow, delicious stroke of his hips.
Breathing heavy, your hand fists itself around him as you guide his length to your waiting pussy – your panties having been previously torn to shreds. Right now you were so fucking wet for your hunter that you could feel your slick practically dripping down your thighs.
“God, yes!” You slowly lower yourself on top of him, welcoming your man into tight, velvet heat. And you relish the feel of nearly being split in two as you begin to ride him.
Ari’s head tips back in bliss, offering you his throat as you use him for your pleasure. “Doin’ so good for me, baby. So fuckin’ tight.” He grits out as your walls spasm around his cock, milking him as if your life depended on it. And in some ways it did.
He slaps your ass, spurring you on. “Harder!” You growl as your teeth graze along the shell of his ear, loving the rough way he squeezes your globes as you work yourselves into a frenzy. “Just like that, Beast. Don’t let go!”
You bury your face in his neck as stars begin to dance behind your eyes at the same time as that invisible coil tightens in your belly, threatening to snap and send your hurtling into oblivion. But you wouldn't go without your man.
Not without Ari.
“Never, baby.” Without warning, he flips your bodies so that you’re laying on your back, enabling him to take over. He sets a grueling pace – the sounds of slapping flesh and passion-fueled grunts filling the room. “We go together, you and me.” He captures your lips once more, swallowing your heady little cries of pleasure.
“You and me, Beast! God, yesss!” You keen, as you wrap your legs around his trim waist, your wedge heels digging into the small of his back. “Now fuck me like you mean it.”
END
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Chosen
basically the Amateur Night section from the movie V/H/S but with more wlw
vampire! Machi x female! reader
💕Happy Valentine's Day💕
Warnings: creepy behavior, allusions to noncon/dubcon, implied death, implied violence, manipulation, mind control
Word count: 5.3k
You wanted to talk to her.
She sat next to you at the table, and you couldn't help the way your eyes would continuously go over to her, taking in different things about her appearance every time you would steal a glance. Her pink hair that was kept up in a ponytail was one of the first things you noted, followed by the pretty shade of blue of her eyes and the pale shade of her lipstick. The dark purple dress she was wearing suited her, though you had to wonder if the high collar of the garment made things uncomfortable given the rather humid air in the bar. Although she seemed comfortable enough, so it must not have been an issue for her.
You really wanted to talk to her.
Unfortunately, the current situation you found yourself in wasn't allowing that to happen. Not very easily.
A hand brushed against your shoulder, and your attention was brought back to the guy who was sitting way closer than you liked, crowding you in so you had no easy way out.
“You sure you don't want a drink?” he asked over the music in the bar.
“I've got a drink,” you answered, smiling as you lifted up the glass that you were careful not to let out of your sight.
“Then how about shots?”
“Nah, no thanks.”
“Aw, don't be boring.”
“I'm good,” you cheerfully reiterated, adding “maybe one of your friends will do it.”
“But I want you to do it.”
You laughed, trying your best to keep your annoyance hidden as he continued to push for you to drink more.
You didn't like this guy at all.
You wouldn't be sitting with him were it not for the fact that he and one of his friends had managed to effectively trap you where you were sitting: the two men came up on either side of the table where you were sitting and asked if the other seats were taken in the same moment that they sat down next to you. Since you had foolishly picked an area where the seats were right up against the wall, you couldn't get out without them moving out of the way.
And it was very clear that the guy sitting next to you didn't intend on leaving you alone.
Despite being in a crowded bar, you didn't feel safe trying to bring attention to your predicament. The conflict-averse part of you felt it was better to try and get out of this without causing a scene, so you smiled and pretended to entertain him while you waited for your opportunity to get away.
You thought you found your opportunity when the one on the other side of you got up to get himself a drink, and you kept the guy next to you distracted as you subtly collected your purse into your lap, ready to make a quick exit.
That was when she showed up.
The duo of men were actually a trio, and their third came sauntering up to the table with her, telling her to take the seat next to you. He tried to place his hand on her lower back but stopped when she gave him a sharp glare that made him back off, holding up his hands in mock surrender while she slid in next to you.
You could've asked her to move – tell that to her and this new guy before they settled in. And surely she would have no issue complying even if it would annoy the two men.
But after taking one look at her, you decided not to.
Instead, you said nothing as she sat down. And after the two of you made eye contact, you smiled and introduced yourself.
She nodded in response before giving you her name – Machi.
You couldn't explain it at all, why you decided to stay. There was something else, something about her that drew you in. What it was exactly you couldn't quite pinpoint; at best all you could say was that she had a certain aura about her that mystified you that part of you wanted to describe as being otherworldly, and that was enough to have you wishing that you could know more.
But so far the only words that the two of you had managed to exchange were your initial greetings, as the two guys that were now blocking both of you in were eager to have you drink your fill while they chatted you up. It looked pretty obvious to you where they were hoping this would go: you and Machi going home with them while being too inebriated to offer much in terms of resistance. That was the sense you got from the way the looked at you two and how the guy next to you – did he say his name was Jeremy? – kept finding reasons to put his hands on you. You felt your skin burning every time he touched you, but you fought the urge to push him away.
That was what you got for going out to a bar alone.
But maybe you and Machi could get out of this together.
You glanced over to her again while Jeremy was talking about something, and you found that she appeared just as disinterested in the man sitting next to her – his name might have been Glen – as she had been when he first herded her over here. Her eyes were still on the drink that he had placed in front of her earlier – that she had yet to even touch – and she wasn't giving him much of a reaction to anything he said. Her responses were generally short.
That didn't seem to dissuade him much, and you glanced over a short while later just in time to see him reaching for her hand.
She turned her head away from you to face him, and you could only assume that she was glaring at him again as he backed off immediately, once more holding his hands up in mock surrender.
Though you couldn't help but notice that the smile that accompanied that gesture seemed a lot more forced now.
That could be bad.
You needed to bring your attention back to Jeremy as you heard him speaking to you again.
“What do you think you'll be doing once you're done here?” he asked you.
“I'm not sure,” you answered.
He grinned as he leaned in closer, saying “we rented a room not far from here. You should come with us; we'll have more drinks.”
Oh fuck no
“I don't know,” you said, “I'm not sure how much more drinking I want to do tonight.”
“You're being boring again.”
“They're both being boring,” Glen chimed in, pointing to Machi's drink as he added “she hasn't touched what I got her at all.”
“I don't like it,” Machi told him.
“Why didn't you tell me earlier?”
“You didn't ask.”
Sensing that his friend was losing his patience, Jeremy cut in.
“You should drink it anyway. It's polite,” he told her.
“See? You're outvoted two to one. You should take a sip,” Glen said.
"No."
At that point, you felt compelled to step in as well.
“I agree with Machi. She doesn't need to drink it if she doesn't want to,” you said.
“Oh, come on! You're not supposed to team up against us,” Jeremy told you in a teasing tone.
“Then you shouldn't be giving us a reason to team up in the first place,” you said. Your tone had been just as light, and the slightly awkward moment ended when the third guy of their friend group (who you had almost managed to completely forget about) came back and Glen handed him Machi's untouched drink. He seemed a bit confused for a second before eventually wandering off with it.
Jeremy had never lost his good spirits, but you couldn't help but notice the way Glen glared at you, and you immediately didn't feel good. You didn't like the thought of staying around him any longer than you needed to.
Machi was quiet again, though the two of you managed to make eye contact again, at which you smiled at her.
She gave you a brief, small nod, seemingly as a way to quietly thank you.
It continued like that, Jeremy becoming subtly but increasingly insistent on you drinking more with him. All you could do was politely laugh it off. Meanwhile there was a one-sided conversation going on between Machi and Glen, who was doing all of the talking while she didn't even make an attempt to pretend to be interested in what he was saying. And then the third guy returned to the table for a brief moment without the drink he'd been handed before, but quickly went back out onto the floor, wandering towards another woman who seemed to be on her own.
You had no clue how long things stayed like this, though the moment felt never-ending.
Jeremy leaned in towards you suddenly, and the way he encroached on your space forced you to back away. Unfortunately, you ended up scooting right up against Machi.
“Ah- sorry,” you said to her.
She shrugged, saying “it's alright.”
Despite the minimal interaction between you two, Glen seemed to get annoyed by it, telling her “you've been talking to her more than you've been talking to me. What's up with that?”
“You haven't been saying anything all that interesting,” Machi told him.
“So that's why you're ignoring me?”
She shrugged.
“Why are you even here if all you're going to do is act like a bitch?” he asked.
“Weren't you the one who dragged me over here?” she asked in response.
He didn't say anything in response to that, but you could tell now that he was getting angry. Even Jeremy seemed worried about where the interaction was going to go, staying quiet while trying to silently tell his friend to stop whatever he was thinking.
You chose then to interject once more, clapping your hands to get everyone's attention.
“Hey! I changed my mind,” you said aloud, turning to Jeremy as you said “I'll do shots as long as everyone else does. Why don't you and your friend go get some for us?”
“…. Uh, yeah, okay.”
Jeremy stood and signaled for Glen to go with him. And after a few seconds, he reluctantly left his seat, walking away with his friend towards the crowded bar to collect the drinks. With them at the bar and the third guy whose name you still didn't know at the other side of the room talking to the same woman you saw him approaching earlier, it was just you and Machi now.
You turned to her as you said “I think he's getting really mad at you.”
She looked over to you before simply replying with a “I noticed.”
“Aren't you worried? What if he tries to do something?” you asked.
“He can try but it won't make much difference.”
“And besides,” she added, “he won't dare to do anything while we're here. Not unless he wants everyone in here to come down on him.”
“But you won't have that safety if he gets you alone,” you pointed out.
“I know.”
If she knew that, then why wasn't she leaving?
Before you were able to say anything along those lines, Machi beat you to it as she said “you should probably head off before they come back.”
Looking back to where the men were standing, she was right that now was a good time to escape. There appeared to be some sort of hold-up at the bar as there were a lot of people clustered around there now; no doubt the poor bartenders were desperately trying to get through all the drink orders quickly to avoid any potential verbal abuse from the patrons who would likely get angry if their order took too long. Jeremy and Glen were still in the same place, both men straining their necks to look over the people in front of them. And the third guy was still talking to that woman, though she was looking increasingly uncomfortable as he leaned in closer to her.
If you wanted to leave without incident, now was your chance.
“Like you said, things could get bad if we end up alone,” Machi added, “I doubt you want to get caught up in that.”
…. She was telling you to leave.
But she'd be staying?
After a moment, you shook your head.
“I don't want to leave yet,” you said.
Machi's gaze narrowed as she looked at you.
“There's no way you're actually interested in either of them,” she said.
“How can you tell?”
“Because I've been feeling the way you cringe every time that one touches you. Unless you like torturing yourself, you have no reason to stay here,” Machi said.
“I have a reason,” you replied.
“And what's that?”
“I don't want to leave you alone with them.”
Machi only raised an eyebrow at you.
You continued, saying “I'm really worried about you now. I don't get why you aren't leaving yourself, but after seeing the way that guy looked at you, I don't feel good at the thought of leaving you alone with him.”
“So you're staying because you're worried about me,” she stated.
You nodded.
She didn't look impressed.
“That's nice of you, I guess, but you should really just leave. Despite how it might look, I can handle those idiots. I don't need someone to look after me,” she told you.
The tone in her voice indicated that she was annoyed with you.
Despite that, you decided to persist, cutting in before she spoke again.
“I'm sorry,” you said, “I'm not trying to annoy you, and I'm definitely not trying to belittle you or anything. I am really worried about what those guys might try to do to you, but that isn't the only reason why I'm staying.”
Machi's expression remained flat as she asked “what's the other reason?”
You ran your fingernail along the side of your glass, leaving marks in the condensation. It was nerve-wracking to try and build up the courage to admit that you were interested in her. After all, she didn't seem impressed with anyone around her; why would she ever be interested in you?
But you might as well shoot your shot, right?
“You seem really interesting and I'd like to get to know you,” you answered.
“Get to know me?” she asked.
“Like a one-on-one over a cup of coffee sometime. Or something else if that's what you'd prefer. Whatever would suit you best.”
You felt the heat building up in your cheeks as you said that and you couldn't make eye contact with her. Just how embarrassed did you look right now?
“….. Oh.”
From the way she said that, it seemed like she understood what you meant, and when you glanced over, you found that she looked a bit surprised at your confession. Machi then looked back to the empty surface of the table in front of her, and you followed suit by turning your gaze to the glass in your hands.
She wasn't upset, was she?
The two of you remained quiet for a few moments within the noisy atmosphere of the bar. The men weren't back yet. Their third was still desperately talking to that poor woman, but the ones who seemed most interested in you and Machi were nowhere to be seen. Though it felt like it was only a matter of time before they came back and you two would be trapped by them again.
In a perfect world, you and Machi would ditch those three and go somewhere else.
It seemed like that might be what ended up happening, as Machi was staying quiet. While she didn't seem as irritated as she had earlier, her reaction didn't necessarily point to anything positive for you.
There wasn't much to be done if she wasn't interested. If that was the case, the best thing you could do was make yourself scarce like she'd been telling you to do.
“I can leave you alone, though,” you said, “I understand if that's what you want.”
You realized after you spoke that your voice had been a bit too quiet in the loud space of the bar and you would likely need to repeat yourself if you wanted to be heard.
But somehow she did hear you as she answered “I don't know now.”
You blinked.
“You don't know?” you asked, confused.
“I don't know if I want you to leave me alone or not.”
“Oh.”
That was a good sign, right? Ah, crap. You'd never felt so flustered around someone else before this.
“I guess it's a bit surprising you'd say that when I've got that one guy hovering around me,” she said.
“I probably wouldn't have if it wasn't for the fact that you really hate him,” you answered.
“I don't hate him; he's not worth hating,” she replied.
“But you don't like him.”
“No.”
Your eyebrows furrowed as you said “I really don't understand why you're hanging around these guys. Why?”
She dodged the question, answering with “we're discussing you, remember?”
“You're not even trying to hide the fact that you're avoiding my question,” you said.
“Nope.”
Machi's tapped her fingers on the table as she asked “still want to get to know me?”
“Yeah,” you answered without hesitation.
“You're weird,” she said.
You shrugged.
“I'll take weird. Being weird isn't always that bad,” you said.
“There are things that are worse than being weird,” she agreed, before adding “but I'm not sure why you're so interested in me.”
Probably not a good idea to word-vomit everything you'd been thinking about her. Probably better to say something that made at least a little bit of sense.
“I feel like we might work really well together,” you said.
She hummed.
“Based on what?” Machi asked.
“A hunch.”
It wasn't a great reason, but you couldn't think of anything other than that.
But you noticed the way Machi blinked after you said that.
And then, after a moment, she surprised you when she smiled to herself.
“Did I say something funny?” you asked.
“A little bit."
"Funny in a good way or a bad way?"
"A good way,” Machi answered.
She leaned her head against her hand as she said “I think I'd like to learn more about you, too.”
You felt your heart flutter as she said that and you smiled back at her.
If only that moment wasn't ruined by Glen and Jeremy returning to the table, carrying two small glasses each that were placed down in front of you while they apologized for the hold up. One of those glasses was slid across the surface of the table in front of you, and Jeremy told you to drink up.
Crap. You'd managed to forget how the excuse you'd used to get them away from you. After explicitly asking for drinks, there'd be a bad reaction if you refused them. You glanced over to Machi and found that the pleasant look on her face from earlier was gone, her lips once more set in a small frown. Yet she still picked up the glass that had been given to her. When she noticed you looking at her, she gave you a small nod. So she felt you should drink?
You felt better about it, then. You weren't about to trust Jeremy or his friends, but you could trust Machi.
The alcohol burned as it went down your throat, and the two men laughed at you when you made a face after swallowing it. Some water would've been nice to wash the taste out.
Machi's hand lightly touched your shoulder as she asked if you were alright, and you nodded, making a comment about how you didn't care much for the taste.
Glen seemed to be in a better mood now, which made you feel a bit better. Though with the return of the two men, you were now in the same predicament you'd been in before: unable to leave without causing some sort of issue with them, which by now you definitely didn't want to do. While it was nice to know that Machi was also a little interested in you, you didn't know how the two of you could ditch them. Especially with Machi being weird about her motives. You couldn't even ask about that now with the two of them crowding around you.
Hopefully you could figure something out.
The return to the situation you'd been stuck in for the past half-hour didn't last very long. At the other end of the bar, you heard a woman scream, and like everyone else in the room, your head turned to see the cause of the cry just in time to see a woman slapping that unnamed third guy across the face while yelling some choice words at him.
The two men with you reacted immediately. Glen got up to head to their third's rescue while Jeremy stood and hurriedly told the two of you “we should leave before they kick us out.”
“But we haven't done anything,” you said.
“Yeah, but you're with us,” he answered.
You were ready to argue with him on that point; every part of you was ready to throw him under the bus if just so you could finally get away from them, but Machi stopped you before you could say anything, tapping your shoulder to get your attention.
Looking you in the eye, she said “let's go with him.”
Within an instant all thoughts of arguing with Jeremy went out the window, and you blankly nodded with her suggestion.
There were more raised voices as you got up, and it sounded as though several people were becoming angry and possibly aggressive – you couldn't say for sure, however. You were only focused on the feeling of Machi's hand in yours as the both of you followed the guy out of the bar.
The skin of her palm and fingers felt slightly calloused, you idly thought.
When you snapped back to reality, you and Machi were on the sidewalk standing next to a car. Looking around revealed that Jeremy was heading back to the bar, where it sounded a lot louder now. Had things escalated inside?
All the more reason to leave now.
Turning back towards Machi, whose hand was still in yours, you asked “neither of us like those guys, right?”
She nodded.
“Then why don't we run really fast and get away before they get here?”
“I don't think you can run right now,” she said.
“Then we can walk really fast,” you replied.
Machi smiled a little, but shook her head.
You frowned.
“Did you mean it when you said that you wanted to learn about me?” you asked.
“Yeah, I did,” Machi said.
“Then why-”
“I need to do something first,” she said, “but after I'm done with them, we can ditch them for good.”
You didn't get a chance to ask what she needed them for, because her hand went to cup your cheek and her eyes looked into yours as she spoke again. For some reason, you felt as though you were taking in the information, yet you couldn't hear it. The words were connecting with some part of your subconscious as opposed to your mind; all your brain could focus on was the touch of her skin on yours, the pretty shade of blue of her eyes and the color of her lipstick.
Things that didn't involve Machi were hard to make out now. Your vision was fuzzy and it felt like you had cotton stuffed into your ears, the voices of other people that were also leaving the bar being hard to make out.
But every time Machi spoke, you could hear her clearly. Like when you were ushered into a car by the three men – when did they come back? – and you vaguely felt a hand on your back that shoved you across the seat, you heard her voice loud and clear as she firmly said “don't hit her.”
There was a car ride. Where the men were situated in the car you had no idea. But Machi sat next to you in the back seat, between you and one of the men. Sitting up began to feel strenuous, and you ended up with your cheek resting on her shoulder.
Her hand was still on your arm, reassuring you with soft touches, and you felt better.
By the time the car trip ended, you were having difficulty standing, and Machi needed to help you up the stairs of what appeared to be the upper level of a cheap motel. With the area being relatively quiet, you could hear now that the men were laughing, though their conversations were harder to make out.
The scenery changed again, and now you were inside a poorly lit motel room equipped with two beds that, under normal circumstances, you wouldn't want to even touch. But you didn't protest when Machi led you to one of them and laid you down on top of it, the scratchy bed cover not enough to keep you from the sleep that was now forcing you to close your eyes.
One of the men took issue with that, and you had enough awareness to know when he slapped you across the face. Yet that didn't manage to rouse you.
It felt like whoever had slapped you was about to do it again only to be abruptly stopped.
And then you heard her speak once more before blacking out completely.
“I said don't hit her.”
You didn't recognize the bedroom you woke up in.
After opening your eyes and blearily looking about the room for a few moments, that realization had you sitting upright, looking over yourself while trying to recall your last memory.
Your clothes were still on, so that was a good sign. But when it came to remembering everything that had happened, it became a little more spotty.
You'd been out at a bar. By yourself, which was a dumb move on your part since you attracted a trio of pests. Then you met Machi. You two managed to talk and it seemed like she might like you at least a little. And then you both were outside of the bar at some point.
After that….. Nothing.
You had no memory of what had happened after, where you'd gone from there or how you ended up in a darkened bedroom that seemed slightly cluttered. It was clearly morning, though, if the bits of light coming through the small spaces of the blinds were to be believed.
Where was Machi?
You only needed to look to the side of the bed that you hadn't checked to learn the answer to that. She lay next to you, facing away so all you really saw was messy pink hair sticking out from beneath the covers. But you must have made enough noise when you woke up because she turned towards you moments later, sitting up as well as she said “hey.”
“Hey,” you answered.
“Are you feeling alright?” she asked.
“Yeah, I think,” you said.
“I've got painkillers if you need any,” Machi said.
You didn't answer at first, distracted by the sight of her with her hair down, though you eventually remembered to reply as you said “I'm okay, but thanks.”
You sounded a bit distant, and she seemed to pick up on that.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“Ah, I guess I'm just a little weirded out that I don't remember much of what happened last night,” you admitted.
“Maybe you drank too much.”
You didn't feel like that was the case, but you couldn't think of anything else. Or maybe it had something to do with the alcohol those guys had gotten for you.
Oh, right. Those three.
“What happened to those guys?” you asked her.
“They were at that motel last I saw,” Machi answered.
“But we're not at the motel.”
“No, this is my place.”
“But how did we end up here?” you asked.
“They were barely in a better state than you,” she said, “I slipped out with you once I saw a good opportunity.”
“Oh. Okay.”
They must have been more shitfaced than you realized. Didn't you get into a car with one of them driving? That was a bit more scary to think about, what might have happened if they were really that inebriated.
Luckily you were here now.
Then you added “thanks for taking me with you. I hope it wasn't too much trouble to drag me around with you.”
“It wasn't. But if you feel bad, you can make it up to me by having that one-on-one conversation you want over breakfast,” she said.
“Sounds good to me.”
With that, both of you were prompted to leave the bed, and as Machi made her way towards the bedroom door, instinct had you pulling the covers back over once you were standing, wanting to have the bed looking somewhat presentable at the very least.
Didn't you end up on a different bed at first last night?
You paused as bits and pieces came back to mind. An uncomfortable bed with an equally uncomfortable sheets. Raised voices. A scuffle.
Blood.
… When did that happen?
Machi called out to you, and you turned to her.
“Did you get hurt last night?” you asked.
“No.”
Her tone was nonchalant.
You questioned her again as you asked “did I get hurt?”
“No.”
“…. That's weird.”
“What is?”
“I feel like I remember seeing a lot of blood at one point,” you said.
Spattered across the floor and dripping down the walls, almost everything in sight coated in red. Even you – you could feel it sticking to the exposed parts of your skin, on your face, and you accidentally got a taste when you ran your tongue over your lips. It didn't feel good, and the smell in the air was overwhelming, like the particles were clogging up your nose. You made a move to get up from the bed you were laying on, wanting to leave.
Someone set their sights on you as soon as you did that.
“You didn't see any blood last night; you probably just had a nightmare,” Machi told you.
Ah. That made sense. After all, you'd looked over yourself when you woke up, and you would've noticed if there had been any blood on you. But it was just a nightmare, so it was better not to dwell on it.
That was such a weird thing to dream about, though.
You were walking towards her when another thought came to mind, that question that she'd avoided answering.
“Hey, you never told me what it was you wanted from those three. Why did you need to go with them?” you asked.
Machi waited until you had reached her, and this time she held out her hand to cup your cheek, her blue eyes staring directly into yours.
Blue eyes stared down at you from where you lay on the bed, a hand resting lightly on your chest as she pushed you back down. There was a groaning coming from behind her on the second bed, and if you were able to tear your gaze away from her, you might have seen the figures that were sprawled across it.
But you were too focused on everything about her: her hand traveling up to stroke your hair, the pretty shade of blue of her eyes and the deep red color that now covered her lips and dripped down from her mouth.
“It isn't important, so don't ask about it again,” Machi told you.
Within a moment, all of those thoughts were locked away into the deepest recesses of your mind, willed to never surface for as long as possible. You smiled at her as you cheerfully told her “okay!”
There was warmth in your heart when you saw that soft smile of hers once more.
#yandere hxh#yandere x reader#machi x reader#yandere machi#yandere hunter x hunter#reader insert#yandere#hxh x reader#hxh machi#vampire au
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D.E.A.N | Chapter 19 - Tactic
Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive
Fandom : Original Work
(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)
AO3
A/N my whumptober 2022 is finally finished with all of the tropes used, tears sweat and blood poured into this fic :") (but not the fic itself though, sorry there are still several chapters to write until the end of the plot itself ._.v)
Wordcount: ± 4575
TW: Mentions of Torture (electrocution, taser), Guns
Mark’s team has just been proven wrong about their assumptions of their recluse addition. As he says, one circle’s left-behind captive is another team’s star informant.
Whumptober 2022 Tropes:
Day 2 — Nowhere to Run | Cornered + Caged + Confrontation
------
“So you created Helga's entire cyber network?” Horace asks incredulously.
Nick's swirly blue-brown eyes look down almost in shame, if that's even possible considering he is always looking down anyway, either in fear or misplaced obedience.
It’s probably not helping that all ten of the team are surrounding him in the corner of the team room almost menacingly, giving him a caging sensation.
Nick tries to avoid looking at the anger in Horace’s face by petting Nightingale who sits on his crossed legs, his hands moving almost erratically as he appears more and more afraid.
“The data structure's encryption algorithm and server, but yeah,” he corrects the tall Latino man demurely with small voice, seemingly expecting to be the receiving end of the team's ire or even punishment.
“I... look kid, I'm not gonna lie, I'm surprised and I don’t like it, but I'm not even gonna question what they did to you to push you to create that.”
Nick squirms in his seat hearing Luke's words, then squeezes his eyes momentarily as if enduring a passing painful memory, his hands grabbing the black fur a bit firmly that Nightingale meows loudly in slight warning.
Mark feels that softness and protectiveness inside him again that he has been feeling towards the boy for quite a while.
“So, can you tell us how it works? We've known that it exists and even found where it is located in deep web, but no one has ever been able to find an exploit to access the inside,” Mark interjects quickly, more to distract Nick from whatever it is that is giving him traumatic image in his head.
Nick blinks few times and gulps, his eyes darting up to stare at Mark through his lashes while letting go of the feline’s body before petting it gently again.
“Um, it's complicated. I don't even know how to explain it myself.”
Anna, like always, rolls her eyes with her crossed arms against her chest.
“You created it. How can you not know? Unless you're lying just to sound smarter.”
Mark looks at her sharply, as everyone else does (except Don, maybe, as he usually agrees with her).
“I... I mean, I know, but it's—um, confusing to explain. I kinda know—but, I—I don't know. It's like you know how, uh—to get somewhere, but if someone asks you—you know, for direction, or something?—you just... kinda blank out. You know,” he explains nervously, stumbling over his own words several times, his demeanor submissively defensive as if getting ready to be punished.
Mark puts his arm on Nick's back gently as a reassurance while making sure Nick can still see it, so it doesn't feel sudden or threatening. Everything he does to Nick has to be careful to make sure he doesn't get spooked.
“It's fine. We get it. Just explain as you understand it. We'll parse through it together.”
“Um... let me, uh, let me think.”
He furrows his eyebrows in deep thought for a while, his hand never stopping his caresses on Nightingale as she purrs.
“Um, so, I designed it to be extremely random, you know?—when it comes to dispersing and, uh, encrypting the data,” he gulps, focusing on Nightingale’s small body on his lap, “—so that the more data fed into it—like more people communicating using it, or, I don’t know, uploading file into it—the stronger and more secure it becomes—”
Nick breathes out again to calm himself down.
“It’s all right, take your time,” Luke tells him gently.
“Anyway—because the data keeps, um, propping up and,” Nick gestures around, “tangling itself in the way that even, um, I can't predict.”
“But true randomness by machine doesn't exist,” Lena interjects questioningly.
“It's true,” he looks at Lena, his eyes flitting around nervously, “but my structure doesn't rely on machine-generated randomness.”
“What’s it using?” Horace questions almost harshly.
“Um, I—uh, made it to rely on people's activity on it. Because, you know, it's impossible to predict what people will do.” He gulps and considers his words again as he is staring down at the cat. “Even people with habit don't always do things similarly to the millisecond. There is always variance. I used that as foundation.”
“So, the more people use it, the more random and secure it becomes. It's basically building itself up the wider its use becomes in Helga.”
“Yeah,” Nick squirms uncomfortably again as a response to Luke.
“So, if it's actually true randomness,” Anderson—the agent in the team who can probably keep up with Nick the most—muses with his fingers rubbing his chin. “… and even Helga people themselves can't always predict what they're going to do there… and when—because that's just…impossible, you’re right—sometimes needs just arise unexpectedly.”
Anderson pauses, contemplating more.
“Then… it’s gonna be used randomly too, feeding the randomization algorithm even more—like if they notice they were about to be raided…” his almost-black eyes widening in realization, “…which D.E.A.N logically makes random and unexpected.”
“Fuck, we’re making it worse all this time,” Horace hisses angrily, “No wonder tactical intelligence says each time they try to get in after each ambush, it seems like the network completely resets itself constantly.”
“That's…the plan, yeah,” Nick says as he cowers into himself even more.
“They told you to design it exactly like that?” Anna asks, almost accusingly.
“Uh, no. Just that I, um, make it as secure as possible. So, I came up with that.”
“So, you're such a good boy for them and does everything they say and more? Hoping for gold sticker?” Don, predictably, interjects with a sneer this time.
Mark, and some others, also predictably glare at Don while Nick fiddles with his fingers above Nightingale’s purring lump and looks down even more.
“It's okay, just explain more,” Lena tells him gently again.
“Um, every communication creates a new path, and, uh—no path lasts, um, after it's finished being used. As, you know—the data gets dispersed, like, immediately the millisecond, um,” Nick inhales surreptitiously as he sounds a little more agitated again, “—one party closes the path. So, if they wanna keep, you know, documentation of a conversation, they have to manually, and, um, physically take pictures of the screen.”
“But why not delete the data then if the conversation can't ever be accessed ever again?” Luke inquires again.
“Because, um—how do I explain it—it's like,” Nick's bicolored eyes dart to the side in deep thought, “I don't know, like, Jenga, maybe?”
“Like Jenga how?” Lena interjects quickly.
“Or maybe like matches shapes—you know, you prop it against each other to make shapes before lighting them all on fire at the same time. You kinda can't really predict which piece supports which, I guess.”
They all listen raptly at his explanation that sounds a little calmer and collected.
“So, you keep adding to it, but if you take one wrong piece, or—or at the wrong angle, the entire structure, then… tumbles down. So, I let the server structure keep the data. Um, even if it can't be accessed anymore.”
“Ah that makes sense,” Anderson quips absently.
“Yeah. Also, even then, if they want to take pictures of the conversation, they can only do that at certain angles… and… with certain lighting—and also, you know, with certain specs of lenses, I guess? Because I made the chat UI to be colored weirdly,” he cocks his head to the side in consideration, “so… it's hard for camera to snapshoot it clearly.”
“Like those weird-patterned shawl that celebs use to stump paparazzi,” Horace quips in again this time.
“Yeah. I guess.”
They all digest the information, turning their mind around rapidly to process the imagery of how the entire system works.
“You really can't restructure the data of the conversations? Or is there just not enough computer power to process it and rebuild it?”
Nick looks at Anderson again as he furrows his eyebrows, giving a look that Mark characterizes by now as Nick's signature contemplative face.
“I... I have never tried to be honest. Maybe it can, theoretically, but probably needs massive power at this point—like, impossible amount of computer power. They have to scan, I think—and collect… then try to rebuild the entire server data,” he pauses before adding quickly, “The international one, I mean! Because it's all connected and dispersed to and from equally. I don't think even NASA have enough.”
“Oh, that's a dead end, then. Is there any way we can trace them back, at all?”
“I... I don't know. They made sure I didn't create a backdoor.”
“How would they know if they aren't the one creating it? Can't you just make any backdoor as discreetly as possible?” Anna asks accusingly again.
Mark sighs irritably.
Why does she always do this? Isn't everything they've witnessed from Nick's body and demeanor enough evidence of his captivity already?
“I was... too scared to try,” he tries looking at Anna demurely again, “Maybe I, I don't know, I could—but they always watched me closely—you know—whenever I'm using anything digital,” he fiddles again with his fingers, “Whatever I'm doing, really. If I even had the slightest sign of suspicious activity, even if I wasn't doing anything—I don't know, against their rules—or commands, or something? They took it away and... punished me anyway. So, I never tried.”
“It can't be that bad.”
“Anna, shut the fuck up,” Mark eventually retorts impatiently as he whips his head to Anna's direction.
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, whatever. Go defend your boyfriend.”
Mark ignores it.
“Can you, I don’t know, re-access the server with your previous entry point? While you were in Helga?”
The swirly blue-brown eyes flit to the direction of their Mediterranean agent again, mix of deep thought and nervousness dominating them.
“I don’t—I don’t know for sure. Helga doesn’t like outsider having any inkling to how it works… at all. Ex-members, after, you know,” he gulps nervously, “eliminated—their access points are usually closed down immediately.”
Mark hears several of his teammates groaning ‘dammit’.
“Sometimes, they didn’t even wait until getting the body out of the room.”
Nick winces at his own words.
“Okay. But can you figure out a way to access it, at all? Maybe some part that even you forgot to air-gap completely?”
Nick seems to contemplate Anderson’s words again.
Eventually, much to everyone’s slight relief, he says, “Get me a clean slate computer. I can try.”
***
Try, he did, apparently.
It’s been a week and Nick is glued to the screen days in and days out, sometimes forgetting to sleep or eat again and has to have someone force him to stand up and walk to another other room to get some food in him (otherwise he is just going to put the plate down and focus on his screen again) then sleep.
The only thing seemingly capable of pulling his eyes away from the screen is the restless Nightingale as she jumps on his laptop or lap so many times since Nick has suddenly stopped playing with her and giving her attention.
Even then, he only looks away long enough to give her half-hearted pets or move her away from the keyboard before going back to focusing on his work again. Maybe he gets up to pour kibbles onto her bowl and change her water while scooping out her litter box, at most, but that’s it.
That’s honestly shocking to witness. Nick is obsessed with Nightingale.
Each day he is typing endlessly, clicking here and there, tinkering with various hard wares and devices he requests constantly, with screen flitting in and out so fast even Anderson has a hard time keeping up. It’s not rare for Nick to scribble something almost like he is possessed on the notebook that they gave him after he frantically went around the headquarter for some paper.
Sometimes it’s some code or important reminder that is unintelligible to anyone but him. Sometimes it’s filled with list of items and their specs, something that the other agents also do not understand except just a fraction of it. Sometimes Anderson explains it to the others, but sometimes he also scratches his head in bewilderment.
Most of the time, Nick just rips out that page filled with list of items from his notebook, randomly drops it to the hand of whoever happens to be passing by, absently saying, “Can you get me this stuff? Thanks,” then goes back to his screen without waiting for a response.
It's not rare to see him click his tongue in frustration and disappointment, furrowing his eyebrows at what Mark assumes to be a hurdle in his work.
The corner of the briefing room where the surveillance monitor used to be is now Nick’s permanent undisturbed spot.
Marcus, Don, Luke, and Angie just take turn going to the supply site nearest to their headquarter with that list, dropping it to their double FBI/D.E.A.N agent’s place.
“Wow, your boy works hard, huh? He doesn’t settle either with these baddies,” Agent Lemming told them once when they dropped their list for the third time that week, clicking his tongue in wonders at the highly specific and high-performance devices and materials Nick is requesting.
They all wait with bated breath each day, even if they’re trying to be patient and a bit mother-hen to Nick who apparently forgets how to do self-maintenance once he is in front of a screen.
By day 9 after he was given his new laptop, and after not a small number of requested devices and electronic materials, Nick suddenly gasps loudly and almost throws his own back hard enough to tumble the chair down.
Nightingale jumps up with puffed up body and fur in fright, then leaps away from Nick’s desk to hide somewhere. Everyone immediately walks up to him to see what is going on and if he is okay.
“I’m in.”
Nick is bewildered and disbelieving at his own whispered words.
“You got into their network?” Lena frantically asks as they lean over his shoulder closely.
“Yeah. I broke through my old access point’s blockage.”
Everyone else look over his shoulders too, especially Anderson.
Nick keeps clicking the arrow buttons absently, no longer using the mouse since few days ago as the system is apparently not compatible with any input from outside of keyboards.
“This… this is it. Their files.”
Everyone hears Nick says absently again.
“I wasn’t even able to access this before. The permissions for my access point were severely limited.”
George narrows his eyes with confused look. “But… you created it. You can’t control access to your own network?”
Nick steals a look at the ginger a little bit. “They always watched each click I did, believe me. Demanded me to explain each process and made me create access point that they could con—”
“Just to be clear, access point is like… an account? Profile?” Anna interrupts
“Yeah, I guess. Anyway, yeah, they forced me to make an ‘account’—I’m used to calling it access point—” everyone just nods at him in understanding, “—that they can control. Like the permissions and privileges.”
All right, basic enough. Mark understands the concept of how PC has administrator profile and guest profile as the equivalent.
“So you tore through all the restrictions and got the highest possible privileges. Good job.”
Nick gives Anderson an unsure smile.
“Be proud of yourself, kid. You still got it,” Luke hypes him up with a soft pat on his shoulder.
Nick looks back to the screen with a small smile lingering on his face.
“So, what are these? Seems like binary but it still translates to random numbers, it seems,” Don asks.
“Uh, no. Those are time stamps.” They all look at Nick again for more explanations. “Really hard to discern because there is no letter or symbols and it’s using year to millisecond with international dating system—you know, year, month, date.”
Nick then points at the middle of a string of binary digits.
“There are also location coordinates in the middle, placed randomly by the system. Can sometimes be after or the middle of the millisecond, or centisecond, or decisecond—the date, month, year, any spot really. But overall, it’s not random.”
Mark looks at one line, trying to understand the meaning of the seemingly jumbled numbers. “What is the timing and coordinates for? Upload time?”
Nick nods at him. “The time and place where the server recognizes that the file is finally online. If it’s still uploading, it’s not gonna register. Except for the transferred files from the old server—they maintain the old metadata.”
“They can’t change the name of the file?”
“No. I was…” he looks down and squeezes his eyes again, “…rushed. Basically. I needed to do more to the system if I want the files to be customizable. They said they don’t need it.”
Mark suspects that ‘rushed’ doesn’t really mean anything nice.
“How do they know which file is which? There is no organizing feature like folder or something here.”
Mark still stares at Nick’s troubled face over Anna’s voice, almost ignoring her. Nick then painstakingly schools his expression into poker face after darting his eyes to the side to surreptitiously look at Mark’s eyes.
“They, uh,” Nick clears his throat, “… write it down. The name of the files, I mean.”
“What’s the point of forcing you to make this complicated and highly secure server if they’re just going to use paper?” Don asks incredulously.
“Well, smooth-brained brute,” Anderson starts, followed by some snickers, “because as you can see, papers are truly and completely unhackable.”
Don gives him angry look while Anderson returns it with a smug smile.
The older man finally backs down with irritated look and turns to Nick again.
“Well, I don’t believe it. Could be nothing or decoys. How do I know you’re really showing us their important documents? What files even are these?”
Luke now gives him sharp look instead.
“What? I’m right. All these times we don’t know what he has been doing, really. Who knows if he is still helping Helga?”
“Really, Don?” Mark sharply retorts.
“Quite frankly, I don’t trust the judgement of someone who wants to get into his pants. No offense.”
Mark clenches his jaws while he hears others exclaiming ‘oh, come on, enough with the fight already!’.
“Look, I can—” Nick stutters as he raises his arms in surrender, probably to also draw the attention of both him and Don, “—I can show some of these files. If you want assurance that I’m not betraying all of you.”
Everyone now looks at Nick again.
“But we gotta be careful. The access to these files is timed. For every access point,” Nick emphasizes. “I don’t remember how long I set it, but if you open a file beyond that time, all ports within 100 miles radius are going to be alerted.”
Some look surprised, except for Anna, Anderson, and Mary apparently.
“What? You all can’t expect getting into their server to be that easy, you know.”
“Wow you’re so genius, Anderson. I bet no one thinks that, especially not me,” Anna retorts back, causing Anderson’s smug face to drop.
“Just explain to us how to access them without detection,” Mary interjects quickly before another conflict arises again.
“I—,” Nick starts, then pauses immediately as he inhales and look hard on the screen almost like he is preparing to run a track, “—okay. There is very specific set of steps—a sequence, I guess—that I usually need to follow, to the T, to upload a file—”
“I thought they upload the files?” Anna interrupts pointedly.
“—yes, okay, listen!” Nick sharply responds, showing bravery and even anger for the first time in a while. Maybe since he was being verbally abusive weeks ago, if Mark remembers correctly.
They all shut up and truly pay attention to him at his urgency.
“The warning—or notification—system is something they forced me to put into the communication and navigation function of the structure. It’s supposed to be a logging and security system so they can keep track of different circles’ locations and their movements. And also notices if intruder has managed to break through their server.”
He throws a look around the room to see if they take in his explanation.
“I need you all to know that the number of Helga ports—hiding spots, lairs, home bases, whatever you wanna call it—and circles—or groups, as I heard you refer to it—in 100 miles radius is a lot. Your little team, even including the ones from other headquarters that you planned to join force with, is nowhere near powerful enough to hold them off, let alone defeat them if they all decide to attack. You’re all a dead man walking if that happens, trust me. So listen carefully.”
He waits again for a while until he is sure he has everyone’s attention and is not going to be interrupted anymore.
“Yes, sometimes, the other Helga guys are the ones that upload the documents to the server—maps, blueprints, contacts list, materials and formulas, what have you—because it’s safer that way. They know I’ve attempted to escape and send distress signals so many times, so I can’t be trusted. But for the other brute-force guys, the ones handling weapons, security, basically the muscles of the circle—they don’t know the first thing about server security, so they forced me to upload important documents and materials.”
Nick squeezes his eyes again while clenching his jaws.
“Usually with rifle to my head or taser on my neck, but whatever. The point is they didn’t have any choice but to rely on me. And sometimes when I was brave enough, that’s when I sent distress signals to your tactical intelligence. But they still looked at the other guys often enough that I couldn’t diverge too far, because if I did it blatantly, they would still notice.”
He inhales deeply again before quietly muttering, “And I don’t like to risk that. My body has a limit.”
The team gives him a moment, even Anna and Don, as reluctant as they seem.
“The point is, they forced me to put booby traps in the server so that in the rare occasions it’s compromised, they could still find out who did it, when, how, where. So that they can take, uh, appropriate actions.”
Mark guesses it probably includes at least torture, and at most, murders.
“Sometimes they made the muscles upload random documents with the intention of failing the upload sequence anyway, because that means the data is not kept as an integrated file and gets dispersed. And as I explained, it feeds the randomization algorithm further. But for real important documents, the tech guys—or me, under threat—do it instead.”
He then clicks the up arrow several times.
“I don’t remember all files that I uploaded because they immediately wrote down the name and kicked me away from the computer, so sometimes I didn’t even have enough time to read the whole binary string, let alone translate it in my mind into real numbers. But there are some that I can probably show you.”
He stops clicking ‘up’ as one line of binary digits gets highlighted.
“Again, I forgot how long I set the timer to. It might be a minute or 90 seconds.”
“We’ll set it to 30 seconds,” Anderson quips in, inviting Nick to look back at him. He then adds, “Just to be safe.”
“Okay. 30 secs. Get the camera and stopwatch,” Nick responds.
“It hasn’t started?” Angie questions in puzzlement.
Nick rolls his eyes. “It starts when I open the file. Normal server navigation doesn’t trigger it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be talking this long.”
Luke surreptitiously raises his eyebrows at how bold Nick acts right now. It seems like having some time working in his elements has restored his confidence.
Still, Mark walks away quickly to their equipment and weapons room to grab the aforementioned items hastily, then walks back to the briefing room.
“All right. What do we do?” he asks as he drops both items at the desk.
Nick grabs the digital timer and drops it to Anderson’s hand, ignoring the agent’s confused look, and puts the large camera—thankfully, without the heavy long-range lens—on their commanding officer’s hands.
Again, without regards or the Latino man’s inputs.
“If I’m right, then I’m opening the blueprints of their three previous ports and two other port options that they didn’t take when my circle moved around after you guys’ raids.”
“Okay,” Anderson replies readily, no longer confused and with his thumb ready.
Horace then points the camera at the screen after choosing automatic shutter setting so it’ll take images repeatedly in quick succession.
“Wait. I thought you said the screen will have weird colors and the camera isn’t going to work well?”
Nick gives Mark irritated look, somehow making him feel a lot more hurt than he expected at the heterochromatic-eyed boy’s disappointment.
“I said the chat has weird colored UI, not the files. The files have whatever color and lighting they have when the image or the video are physically taken. If their note or blueprint images are clear and HD, then the files uploaded are going to be clear and HD too. There is no compression or conversion.”
Oh, that makes sense.
“Okay. Any more questions?”
No one responds, so Nick gestures with his head to the screen as a sign to get Anderson and Horace back on their tasks.
“Remember. Once I click enter, the timer starts, and I have to exit before 30 seconds, so hold your opinion and don’t distract us three. If we need closer look, we’ll click back on it, but after I exit the file within the time limit.”
He then puts his finger on the ‘enter’ button, bracing along with Anderson and Horace, as is everyone else.
“Go!” he clicks, just as Anderson starts the timer and Horace presses the camera button, followed by repeated shutter sounds.
“15 seconds,” Anderson warns tightly.
Horace still presses the camera button once again to begin another round of capturing clicks.
“5, 4, 3—”
Nick immediately clicks ‘esc’ on the keyboard.
There is immediate chorus of relieved exhales following his click.
Everyone, including Mark, tries to look over Horace’s shoulders, or at least just look at him as a request for information, while Horace moves the camera in front of him as he clicks the navigation buttons to look at the pictures taken.
As Nick promised, the pictures show designs and layouts of 4 distinct buildings (as they didn’t have enough time to capture the fifth one on the file). One of them is clearly the same building as the one they found Nick in.
“Holy shit, kid, you came through, huh?” Don says finally, almost in reserved congratulatory voice while looking at the barebone user interface of Helga’s server filled with lines of 1 and 0, now that he can see for sure that those digits signify a lot more than just strings of confusing numbers.
Oh, this is good.
This is going to put the entire D.E.A.N way ahead of Helga for once.
***
(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)
#whump#whumptober2022#whump community#no.2#confrontation#caged#cornered#OC#writing#gun mention#allusion to noncon#allusion to torture#Original work#English#me#me write#D.E.A.N
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