#and then every time the wind blows you burst into tears and realize that you were having Symptoms all week | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wearywinchester · 1 year

Text

Restless

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When a nightmare of that days hunt plagues you over and over, it’s next to impossible to hide your distress from the older Winchester.

Warnings: angst, nightmares, blood, injury, swearing, fluff, kissing

Again. Again for what felt like the fiftieth time in the last half our did you wake up. Realistically, more time has passed than a mere thirty minutes but it didn’t matter, not when you woke up short of breath, the sound of your gasp in contrast to the silence of the room having added to your already persistent fear.

Your heart was racing a mile a minute as your whole body jerked, moving to prop yourself up on your elbows as the shirt you wore clung to your back from the same sheen of sweat that sat in your face. The breeze from the open window helped, it cooled you, but the heat still flooded in your cheeks temporarily from the burst of adrenaline you felt upon waking from another nightmare.

Maybe another wasn’t the right word, not quite, because that’d imply that the narrative changes every time and it doesn’t. It’s the same scenario, the same script, the same turn of events. It’s all the same and it comes to haunt you each and every time you close your eyes.

The bed was empty, the room was empty—it was just you and the gusts of wind drawing your eyes to the window in half fear that that damn monster was going to come in and grab you.

It was irrational, you were almost one hundred percent sure, because that thing was dead and gone but your mind refused to believe it to be true. That much was sure as you looked at the window, at the curtains pushing towards you from the breeze blowing in. As you looked at the trees beyond the window that were swaying just like the ones back at the place that was haunting you every time you closed your eyes for more than a second or two.

You sat there, unsure of yourself until you finally were. You pushed back the covers and pressed your bare feet to the cold hardwood floor, padding over to the window and shutting it, shutting out the potent threat you thought may have been lurking right on the other side.

Your heart rate picked up again, not that it ever really settled, but it wasn’t until you’d gotten up that you really realized how affected you were. You were standing there on wobbly legs as you shook the slightest bit, hands shaking to mirror it. Your lip wasn’t that far behind as the tears continued to press and burn behind your eyes. You were so tired, frustrated even and you couldn’t bring yourself to get an ounce of restful sleep. You knew you wouldn’t be able to.

The urge for a distraction became to great when you found yourself just standing there in the middle of that room, running your hands over your face in hopes of a refresher but finding yourself brushing over the cut on it from earlier today. You were quick to recoil, those tears trying desperately to make an appearance. But you wouldn’t let them.

You left the room empty behind you as you followed the glow of light coming from downstairs, the old floor creaking beneath your feet. Bobby was out with Rufus and Sam was doing who knows what research at this hour because that was Sam. But that’s not who you were looking for, you were looking for a green eyed hunter who’s whereabouts were something you had a good idea of.

He knew it was you, of course he did, he knew the pattern of your footfalls. He could pick it up distinctly even in a room full of a thousand different sets of them. Not only that, but he knew you were distressed, he knew there was something bothering you ever since that hunt was wrapped up and finished with. It wasn’t just that ever so slight frown, or the way you drug your feet from more than just fatigue. It wasn’t any of that that gave it away.

It was the fact that you wouldn’t even look him in the eye. You were quiet as ever, that pretty smile of yours never reaching your lips, hardly even mustering a fake one just to humor him. You weren’t yourself and he noticed before you did.

You tried to be quiet, light on your feet as you walked, hearing the tap of his boot on the floor before you rounded the corner to the little kitchen Bobby had.

He was sitting at the table by the wall, papers scattered amongst the old and scratched wood surface, his laptop propped open with the next article on another case on it.

You didn’t even want to think about another hunt, mainly because you couldn’t, not when you were so beyond stuck on this one without an option to sway your mind to think about something else. You were stuck there, stuck in a loop that terrified you each and every time you thought about that stupid monster and the way it taunted you. You were frozen in that moment and every time you tried to think of something else it pulled you right back to it.

“Y/n?”

You blinked, looking at green eyes when he spoke your name and saw the way his brows were knit together.

“What are you doin’ up?” He asks, curiosity in his tone with a hint of something you couldn’t place.

He knew.

You stood there for a moment, scrambling for the reason that wasn’t untrue, you just couldn’t bring yourself to tell him the full truth of why you’d wandered down there in search of the older Winchester. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell him how safe he made you feel, at least couldn’t in that moment. But you couldn’t stand there all quiet and timid forever, that wasn’t like you.

“Just checking in on you, see what you’re doing,” you shrugged, voice quieter and you looked him in the eyes for the first time since early that afternoon.

He hums quietly after a moment passes, a moment of looking at you carefully, a nod following it as he bites the inside of his cheek softly. He didn’t believe it, not even for a second did he believe it. Yes, you might very well have been checking on him, but he knew that wasn’t it. He knew that wasn’t the only reason, the only thing that had you wandering down there in search of him. He knew you far better than to believe that’d been the sole purpose of why you were standing a mere few feet away from him in the middle of the night when you’d been tired the whole ride back there.

For a minute you thought your answer was solid, fool proof, for a good minute you thought you’d made a steady reason but you knew better. You knew he’d see right through you and it had you shifting on your feet. It had you growing more timid the more he looked at you with that look that spoke a thousand words.

You cleared your throat. “I uh, I should get—”

“You’re bleeding,” Dean interjects, the crease between his brows deepening.

“What?”

The cut on your cheek, that one from the hunt that you rubbed your hands over in your daze upon first waking up. That’s what he was talking about.

“Y/n, look at me,” he says.

You let out a huff, frustration from lack of quality sleep after having been plagued with the same recurring nightmare and the green eyed hunter standing in front of you having brought it out all the more. So you huff, you huff and turn to look at him for the briefest of seconds just to say you did for his sake before you turn away again.

“There, it’s nothing,” you say, a little too defensive for your own good.

“Bathroom. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Dean, I said it’s nothing,” you argue softly, but this insistence was very much there in your voice.

“I wasn’t asking, sweetheart,” he says, he gaze just as unrelenting as yours as you stare at him with narrowed eyes in an attempt to show your displeasure as best you can.

He wasn’t swayed.

That huff of yours comes back, sounding once more in the older Winchester’s direction as you spun on your heel and you could’ve sworn you heard his chuckle behind you, that one he always does when he gets the most stubborn hunter there is to listen to him for just once. Stubborn second only to him.

You stomp back upstairs, quietly at that, seeing as there’s at least two people in Bobby’s house that are able to sleep soundly, and somehow Sam and Bobby always manage to be the ones who are.

You reach the landing, the old hardwood floor creaking under your feet as you round the railing and walk the few steps to the small bathroom on the right. You switched the light on and hopped up on the counter, legs dangling as you exhale a softer sigh, not quite a huff but the same intention sitting behind it as you purse your lips.

It wasn’t very long before you heard those boots thud against those same stairs, creaking along that same pattern and sure enough it’d been five minutes just as he said he’d be. Five minutes before Freckles appeared in the doorway with that look on his face that you hated, you hated it but you knew you loved it all the same.

“Surprised you listened. Thought I’d have to throw you over my shoulder and drag you here myself,” he says, his humor in his words.

“Don’t push it, Winchester,” you say, hearing his chuckle once more.

You watched as he ducked down, opening the old wooden door of the cabinet under the bathroom sink you sat near on the counter. Watched as he swiped that familiar old first aid kit from its rightful spot and set it down next to you.

You were quiet as you watch him open it, dragging his finger along the compartments until he found what he was looking for. You were quiet as you sat there feeling small, because you may have been giving him attitude, your usual playful banter. You may have been flashing him a pretty smile that truly was reserved just for him, but deep down that fear still sat heavy within you. Heavy as you sat before the one that’d give you the shirt off his back and protect you from anything even if it’d meant he’d go down swinging.

You knew that, you knew you were the safest you could possibly be so long as he was around. And you’ve got Sam, you’ve got Bobby, but you’ve got Dean. You knew it but the way that hunt plagued you the second you closed your eyes for more than a few moments, it had your stomach twisting with that fear that maybe, just maybe that monster would come back to get you. That maybe it wasn’t brought to its very last breath by an angry Winchester.

The worry settled down deep within you, worry that Dean never stopped noticing as he kept his eye on you ever since it’d happened. You might not have noticed, but he knows you far better than you’d ever think, and he could tell something was off with a simple half glance, but there’s not a chance he’d let his gaze linger for that short of time. That was impossible.

“Sweetheart, I can’t clean you up if you refuse to look at me,” he says, lighthearted yet concerned all the same.

“Am not,” you say, quiet and almost pitiful.

He knew.

He sighs, soft and borderline frustrated with your stubbornness as he looks at you with pursed lips. He meets your gaze until you watch his eyes flit over to your cheek, his brows creasing together a little deeper.

The crimson color was smudged on your cheek from where you’d swiped it away with the back of your hand in a haphazard attempt to wipe it away and act as if it wasn’t a big deal. Truthfully it wasn’t, not really. It was a scratch and you’ve had far worse, but that didn’t matter to Dean. What mattered was that you even got hurt in the first place.

“Dammit, Y/n,” he says quietly.

“Oh, stop it,” you grumble.

He looks at you with a less than pleased expression, though it was still soft with concern.

His hand is calloused and warm as he brings it up to settle gently on your other cheek, palm cradling your face as his thumb presses to your chin to keep you from turning away from him.

“Hold still,” he says, that familiar concentration on his face as he grabs a peroxide soaked stack of gauze.

“It’s not like you’re giving me stitches, Dean,” you say, moving only slightly just to be redirected by a soft nudge of Dean’s hand.

“Yeah, well, I’ve given you a hell of a lot more than I’ve ever cared to,” he says, “and don’t argue it because you know that’s true.”

Your shoulders slump a bit as you sigh, leaning into his palm a little. He notices, he notices the action right away even if you won’t admit your resignation to comfort or the fact that you’re letting him clean you up. It’s something you always fight him on, something you’re so stubborn in trying to do yourself because weakness is something you don’t like showcasing, and that’s something he knows very well.

You’re quiet for a little bit after that, wincing only slightly when he grazes over the cut along your cheek, the antiseptic stinging enough to make your cheeks flush warm.

You could feel his gaze on you, something you couldn’t meet for more than a brief second or two before you averted your own, feeling the way his thumb brushed along your chin by the hand that remained settled on your cheek. It was a simple act of comfort, gentle and small, sweet in contrast to the gruffness he portrayed for himself.

It wasn’t that big of a deal, not really. You’ve had far worse injuries that you’ve been on the receiving end of on hunts much worse than this one, so the amount of time he’s been taking on it simply proved that he was fussing over you far more than he needed to. If you’d have brought it to his attention he’d have denied it with a grumble or two and pursed lips. Maybe even an eye roll. But you knew just how much this bothered him, even if it didn’t bother you.

What bothered you was the repetitive nightmare that plagued your mind every single time you settled down for even just a minute of sleep. What bothered you was the way it made you tremble and startle from said sleep, only to met with the quiet night of the reality you were in. What bothered you was the way you continued to shake with a pounding heart as you lay awake until you’re tired enough, too tired to keep your eyes open.

He watched you like a hawk, looking for any sign of pain you fought so hard to hide. Watching for any bit of weakness you were determined to keep at bay. The look in your eyes, something on your mind he couldn’t quite figure out, but he knew it was more than just that cut on your cheek. The way your lip jutted out ever so slightly, the smallest of quivers making it tremble under the pressure of whatever was distressing you.

He found himself letting his gaze linger on you, antiseptic soaked gauze still brushing over your skin as his other hand remained cradling your face. It lingered and you didn’t even notice, not the way green eyes took in your every movement, no matter how small. Not the way his brows stayed furrowed in the utmost of concern as he analyzed every single bit of your expressions for even just the smallest hint of what’s bothering you. He knew better than to think you’d tell him if he asked.

All you could think about was the way that hunt had been haunting you, tormenting you, replaying in your mind of how much that damn monster would’ve put you six feet under in a heartbeat had it held you captive for just a minute longer. You were scared out of your mind, heart nearly bursting with fear when you’d found yourself to be quite alone, all by yourself in the middle of the woods with no idea how to even get yourself out of the restraints you found yourself in.

It was horrifying, terrifying, something that had you not so quick to jump on the next hunt Sam will surely stumble across the next morning. You didn’t scare too easily, used to the frights the world of being a hunter will throw at you. You were stronger than that, more fearless, but you couldn’t stop the way it ate away at you and you couldn’t help but let yourself be scared this time.

It made your mind swim with scenario’s that haven’t even happened, with over dramatic what if’s for the next hunt and the one after, and every single one after that until you finally do meet your fate who knows how far into the future. It had you spiraling into this, that, and the next thing until—

“Y/n, hey.”

You heard the concern in his tone, eyed flickering to his to see the way his gaze matched his words. You looked at him, looked with furrowed brows, a softer expression than his own. You felt that sting on your cheek again, now that you were brought back to reality and away from your thoughts.

“Hm?”

Your hum was simple and soft, sounding as though you didn’t just space how for an amount of time you weren’t even sure of at this point and you didn’t really want to know. All you do know is that you’re beyond distracted and a very concerned Dean is giving you those eyes that let you know he’s caught onto the fact that you’re not as fine as you say you are. But that doesn’t mean you won’t try and convince him anyway.

“You with me, sweetheart?” He asks, soft as his words hold a certain caring that was reserved for you.

They were paired with the brush of his fingers along your hairline, delicate and gentle as the run through your hair and down the side of your face until his hand cradles your cheek once more.

He waits for the words that sit on the tip of your tongue, waiting to see if you’d tell him the truth or tell him some half-assed lie that he’d never once believe. He knew it’d be the latter because that’s how you are and there’s no denying it. You’d rather let yourself suffer than look the slightest bit weak and he thinks it’s an absolute load of crap, even if he was the very same way. But he didn’t care about himself, he cared about you, and that was the difference.

“With you,” you say halfheartedly, soft as your tiredness began to coat your words.

But you were distracted, so tired yet so restless all the same and your brief moment of spacing out had given way to that very fact. It didn’t help your cause with the older Winchester and you could kick yourself for letting it show.

You nuzzle into his hand some despite it, the gentle affection something that you seek a little bit more than the desire to keep your distress at bay.

“Y/n.”

The single use of your name was firm and all knowing, something that draws a deep exhale from you and a deeper crease in his brows from him.

“Would you quit looking at me like that?” You say, tilting your head away from his hand and pursing your lips.

“Would you quit acting like there’s nothing wrong?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as your brows knit together all the more tightly, watching the way his gaze is relentless as he stares at you. He knew you weren’t yourself, and he knew it was more than just being sleepy, he knew you like the back of his hand. You’re his sweetheart after all, you can’t pull a fast one on him.

“De,” you say, soft and on the cusp of breaking your facade. “Nothing’s wrong.”

You knew better than to think he’d believe that. It was foolish to think he’d take that answer as any bit of being serious.

A short huff blows past his lips as the second round of lies you’d so boldly told him, one’s that don’t even remotely sound real because he knows better. He always knows better because he’s Dean Winchester and he’s known absolutely everything about you down to the very reason you so much as scrunch your nose. You do it when you’re trying not to cry, and when you’re lying.

So he exhales that huff, tossing the dirtied gauze in the small plastic trash can beside the bathroom counter. You knew what that meant, that heavy breath of exasperation and frustration woven around the simple action. When it was paired with that look he’s giving you, the one with the creased brows just ever so slightly, and the pursed lips as he looks at you with all the concern in the world yet anger all the same. Not with you, but your stubbornness.

“Y/n,” he says, stern but still soft.

“Dean,” you say, effectively quieting him. There was a few passing moments if quiet after that, of him giving you that look and you giving one right back. “‘S late, I’m gonna head to bed.”

You see the way his jaw clenched, tense as he looks down momentarily, attention pulled back to you when you hopped off the counter. He softens a bit when you lean up and kiss his cheek, softens just enough to let you pass by him to slip out the door. He always calms down when you do that even though he really shouldn’t because he knows you, he knows you’re not yourself right now.

But you left him to mope angrily in the bathroom as he cleaned up the small mess he made, tucking the first aid kit back where it belongs while you make your way back to that small bedroom sleepily.

You were tired, beyond tired after the day you had, after the night you had and it was only the beginning of it. You’ve got hours left to deal with more torment the second you close your eyes and you can only hope that it won’t be so bad the next time you do. You can only hope it’ll be a fraction more restful than the last few bouts otherwise you may just breakdown completely. You’d already gone and scratched that wound open on your face from your thrashing.

The moment you saw that bed again, disheveled and slept in just as you’d left it, it brought on a yawn. It made your eyes water, eyelids growing heavier now that the lighting of the bathroom wasn’t there to keep them open. It looked inviting, so inviting, especially with the cold of the hardwood seeping into your bare feet. It looked warm and everything you’d been longing for the moment that exhaustion kicked in on the drive back.

It looked like everything you wanted it to be, but it was bittersweet. You knew what waited for you once you gave into the desire for comfort, you knew how distraught you may be. You knew you’d be met with an unhappy Winchester the moment the lies he already knew were spoken were proven at the sight of your distress. You knew it, yet you craved the feeling of crawling back into that perfectly worn bed under those blankets, tucked away in that shirt of Dean’s.

You almost had to refrain from having an argument with yourself on whether or not you should cave and climb in or if you should wait it out, wait till you can’t stay awake anymore.

You caved.

You sat up with a jolt, whole body jerking as you propped yourself up on your elbows for the millionth time that night. You went about your routine, eyes scanning the room for the possibility of a threat waiting for your gaze before pouncing. They scanned and scanned until the tears kept you from doing so adequately, spilling down heated cheeks. Your heart had been pounding so damn hard again, slamming against your chest as if to break free.

When those watery eyes glanced at the clock it’d only been a half an hour, a small stretch of time that felt like your whole entire life wrapped around each minute. It almost felt agonizing.

Dean hadn’t come to bed quite yet. Dean. That feeling crept up on you, the one that’d been there ever since that hunt went south. You pushed it off, stuffed it down the way you always do. Because that denial of yours has you convinced that you don’t need comfort, that you’re too strong for that. You’re not weak, perhaps not the strongest person out there, but damn were you ever stubborn. Always when you didn’t need to be.

But it seems as though your body didn’t give you a fighting chance, not as you got out of that bed shaking like a damn leaf in a Kansas thunderstorm. You felt wobbly, unstable but you stifled it as you walked towards that familiar wooden door, twisting the old brass knob and swinging it open carefully. Careful as if there was some stupid supernatural monster that could hear every noise you made like it was in that house with you.

But the hall was empty. Sam’s door was closed, Bobby’s the same. Just a dimly lit hall from the nightlight plugged into the wall streaming in. It was empty until it wasn’t. It was empty though you didn’t get very far, not as that set of foot falls make their way up those creaky stairs. You knew who they belonged to, you knew the sound of those boots anywhere.

You stopped in your tracks in the hopes that maybe he wouldn’t see you, something proving to be beyond ridiculous the moment his gaze lifts to yours. You see that look on his face, the way his body language changes. He tenses up, stiffens in the way he gets when he senses any need to be protective of you. He tenses yet he’s so soft all the same.

You’re hoping he doesn’t see the way you swallow thickly, hoping that the less than poor lighting works in your favor because you can feel how wet your eyelashes still are. You don’t even have the nerve to even attempt to sniffle either, surely that would give everything away, not that you had much working in your favor.

“Everything okay?” He asks, that tone behind his words more than evident that he knew the real answer.

You shifted on your feet slightly, attempting to stand a little taller to save at least a little bit of your facade. “Just getting a drink.”

Your voice was soft, more fragile than you’d like it to be as that tremble in your body fights to make its way into your throat and shake your words. Doesn’t matter how good of a liar you were, nothing would ever get past him. He might lead you to believe it’d been working for a little while, just to leave you have your pride in times like this because that’s the only time you ever lied, but just like times like this, he’d never fully let it go because he always wanted to resolve whatever was going on.

He stepped closer to you, close enough to have you tensing up over the fact that it was very easy for him to see just how bothered you were in that moment. But your brows furrow, knit together as he peers around you for a reason you can’t pinpoint.

“I see that glass of water I left there for you doesn’t even have a lick out of it,” he says, looking down at you with raised eyebrows. He watches your expression change, even if you try and hide it. “Funny, ain’t it?”

You swallow once more, pursing your lips. “I didn’t know it was there.”

You did.

He chuckles then, humorless as he shakes his head before his gaze returns to you. “You’re lyin’ like a cheap rug right now, you know that?”

“No I’m not!”

You quiet down before you wake anyone, exhaling a frustrated breath as you stare up at him with a narrowed stare.

He looks a you, gets a good long look and you can’t even begin to figure out what he’s thinking, just that your stomach twists under his gaze because there’s no way he’s not seeing the smeared tears that glisten under the softer that soft lighting. There’s no way he can’t see the sheen of sweat that lays over your skin. There’s no way he doesn’t see how unsteady you are.

You’re almost to wrapped up in your thoughts to notice the way he’s lifted his hand, finger tips brushing lightly over the side of your neck. You didn’t understand why at first, couldn’t comprehend it. But it only took a few moments to realize.

“Your heart is pounding, Y/n. Don’t even try and tell me it didn’t happen again.”

“Dean, it’s—”

“It’s not nothing. You’ve been off the whole ride home and you were off when I patched you up thirty minutes ago. I know you better than to believe whatever you’re trying to fool me with,” he says, a quiet anger in the softness of his voice as his hand finally drops to his side.

You stand there, your own anger simmering away and trying it’s best to burn hot. Angry at the way he can figure you out, angry at the way he’s insistent on making sure you’re okay when that stubborn pride is screaming for you to stand your ground and act like nothing is wrong even when it’s the last thing you need to do. Angry because you’re so tired that it frustrates you, that everything frustrates you.

You’re so tired. So much so that that stubborn wall begins to crumble, steady crushed by the desire to be comforted and safe. Nearly demolished with every second that passes as your lip wobbles under the pressure of it you.

For the millionth time that night, you caved.

“I can’t sleep,” you whisper softly, weakly. “I can’t sleep and I can’t take it.”

His expression softens when you finally give it up, finally let that guard break away as you press your face into his chest, hiding the tears that ran hot down your cheeks. It was a quick bout of them, only a few falling before you wiped them away. Just as quick as your moment of vulnerability. He could tell by the way you tensed again, and the way you turned on your heel with a huff and walked back to the bedroom just a couple feet from where you both stood.

That wall you built up was still crumbled to pieces but a little bit still remained. But Dean followed behind you, those dimples by the corners of his mouth reappearing. This is the one habit of yours that he hated. It’s one he’s gotten well practiced over the years himself, but it’s the last thing he’d ever want you to do.

He’s quiet as he tugs on the rolled up sleeves of his flannel, watching as you sit down on the bed looking miserable as ever. You looked half asleep as you leaned against the headboard, tucked away against yourself as the breeze flowing through the nearby window blows your hair gently.

He shrugs his flannel off, slinging it over the back of the chair at the desk nearby. He pulls at the laces of his boots next, kicking them off near impatiently as he fumbles with his belt buckle. It’s only a few moments time before he’s stepping out of his jeans, tugging the blankets back.

You’re fighting the urge to doze off, something that briefly becomes just a little bit easier when he tugs you down further on the mattress in a gentle motion, promptly pulling you to tuck yourself against him. It’s an opportunity you take full advantage of as you press into him, the silent action of comfort something you needed more than anything and he knew that for hours. He knew it and he was relieved you’d gone and let him protect you.

He always would, whether you protest it or not, but it’s easier when you’re not letting that stubbornness get the better of you.

You push and tangle your legs with his, weaving into him to get as close as possible as if he’s this shield that’ll keep you safe from anything in this world. He would and he will. He wouldn’t want to do anything else.

His arm his wrapped around you as you all but melt into him and his embrace, his other hand smoothing over your head, fingers combing through the tangles in your hair. He was careful as his fingertips work through knots, varying in size and he can tell you’d been tossing and turning just from that alone. He’s careful as his fingers brush along the freshly taken care of wound on your cheek.

Dean Winchester is the gruffest, toughest man you know, rough around the edges and one hell of a threat to any monster and run of the mill douchebag that crosses his path. He’s rough, but the gentlest you’d ever known as he lays there wrapped up with you in a bed that’s borderline too small for two.

You feel the softness of the kisses that are pressed to your forehead, to your nose when you tip your head back some. His comfort is the only thing that makes anything any easier, his company is the only one that ever matters. He was solid ground amongst a sea of panic and worry, he was steady and always there. That green eyed, freckled hunter was the sweetest man you’d ever known despite the temper he’s got on him, but you wouldn’t want him any other way.

You could feel that frustration subside the more time that passed, those tears not so pressing behind your tired eyes. You were exhausted, drained. That trembling feeling in your body, that rattled feeling, it was still there, a reminder of how your night has been. The affects that wreaked havoc on your body still hit you like a ton of bricks. But you were safe now, safe from the threat of more terror because there’s something about Dean Winchester that makes everything feel okay.

Even if he finds it impossible to think anything remotely highly of himself, doesn’t know of any good quality he possesses. You see all the good in him so he doesn’t have to, you know he never will.

“Sweetheart?” He says, soft as ever as the nickname his spoken against your forehead.

You hum softly, too tired to do much else as a cool gust of air sweeps over you from that window. It’s all you could muster as you lay there wrapped up with him.

“Get some sleep, won’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, “okay?”

You nod, you nod until you decide the action isn’t quite enough of an answer for him. You lift your head as much as your energy would allow, pressing your lips on his in a soft kiss.

“Okay.”

—

Taglist: @harrysweasleys @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @elegantbutedgy @campingmonkey @lanea-1 @deandaydreaming @agalliasi @malindacath @ajreturnstocringeyaccount @deanswaywardgirl @awkward-and-indecisive @drownthewitch @happyt0exist @sparkycorleone @humanmistakes @akshi8278 @kidd3ath @nyotamalfoy @elliewigginton20

#dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester oneshot #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x you #dean winchester imagine

1K notes · View notes

hyperfixiation-station · 2 months

Text

You Promised

TW: Major character death, canon typical violence I wrote this instead of working :3 enjoy Pairing: GhostxReader As always, not proof read, lemme know abt any mistakes/what you think. Also I quite literally wrote this right now so sorry if there's more than the usual amount of mess-ups.

There was a moment, when your eyes first met, that you knew this man would ruin you. It was a sudden burst of clarity, seeing him standing there, face covered, leaning against the wall. It’s like something was trying to tell you that getting involved with him would lead to disaster

Still, you decided to go for it. Those first few months were tense, full of anger and discomfort. It took years to get to where you are now. Years of patience, years of waiting, years of proving to Ghost he was worthy of love.

The years had been wonderful. You remember the first time you saw his face, the first time your hands touched his hair. You remember the first time you went out, how his cheeks flushed and his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. You remember how it felt when it got down on one knee, both of you panting and bloody.

Yes, the years had been wonderful, but there had always been a sense of foreboding. Something terrible looming on the horizon. And now, as you hold a cold body, as you card your hands through bloody blonde hair and cry, you know why.

“Stay with me.” You had cried. He had taken a shot meant for you, one bullet straight through his left shoulder and another embedded in his thigh. You had shot the man, emptying your magazine before falling, crashing to your knees beside Ghost’

“Price, I need a Medivac! Ghost is down, gunshot wound to the shoulder and thigh!” You yelled into your comm. Your hands moved to pressure the holes, one to his shoulder, one to his thigh. Just trying to stem the blood. His blood. His blood that bubbled up over your knuckles, thick, hot, and ruby red.

“ETA is 23 minutes.” Price's voice was garbled and broken over the radio, but you could still hear the despair in his voice. You sobbed harder as you realized help will not make it in time.

“Don’t,” Ghost had whispered to you, “I’m not making it out of this one.” His hands moved to your face, gloves shakily wiping tears from your face.

“You’re coming home,” You had snapped at him, voice breaking, “You promised.” He shook his head softly, reaching up to pull his mask off. Blood leaked from his lips as he coughed.

“Kiss me,” He had begged you, “Please.” You had shaken your head frantically, eyes blurring with tears, but you gave in. How could you not? Ghost never asked for anything. You could give him this. Your lips met in what was the most passionate, desperate kiss you had every had. You tasted his blood but didn't care, kissing him like it was last thing you'd ever do. You were kissing him when his body seized, and you cradled his head to your chest as he took his last, gasping breaths. You held him as you felt his body go limp and you held him as his body began growing cold.

Your hand moved to your lips, where his blood was already drying. Tears leaked from your eyes, blurring your vision and soaking the collar of your jacket.

“Please.” You sob into his hair. There is no movement from the man in front of you. Blood seeps from his body, pooling under him, soaking your pant legs. Wind blows your hair around, tears sticking strands of it to your face.

“Simon please,” You practically beg him, “please, please, please.” Your world is breaking apart, and there is nothing you can do to stop it. The only thing that could pull you back from the brink was laying in you lap, unmoving.

Footsteps sound, but you don't go to reach for your gun. You could care less if it is friend or foe. At least you’d be with Ghost if you died.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, and see Soap appear in your blurry vision. The sight of the scot makes you sob harder, your fingers digging into Ghost's unyielding body.

“C’mon sweetheart, let's git him hame.” His Scottish accent fills your ears. His voice is thick, and you can know that the only reason he's not in tears over his best friend is because he's trying to be strong for you.

Your hands shakily trace Ghost’s face, his lips, his scars. You slip his dog tags off and pull them over your head.

“I love you,” You whisper, pressing a kiss to his cold lips, “I love you so fucking much. I love you, I love you, I love you. So wait for me, okay?” You squeeze his lifeless wrist 1,2,3 times. I love you.

Letting go of his body is the hardest thing you have ever done. Soap grabs your arm, helping you up. He lets you lean against him, leading you away as Price and Gaz take the body. You look back with blurry vision, watching them drape a sheet over the stretcher holding your world.

The wind blows across the battlefield, and with it you can hear the echoes of an unheeded warning, a promise of a life of ruin.

I made myself cry while writing this lmao.

78 notes · View notes

verdanabdit · 10 months

Text

A Fellcest imagine that I swear I've read the premise of before. Oh well. Two cakes.

~~~

They've been 'together' for a long time now. Even now, they don't talk about it. Papyrus has tried, several times, but Sans just isn't having it. If they talk about it, it becomes real, it becomes tangible, it becomes distracting, it becomes weakness, it becomes something lethal should one of them blow away on the wind.

Sans only stays in Papyrus's bed if he can sleep on the edge of it, turned away and elbowing off any attempt to hold him. Kisses are only allowed if they bruise or bleed; if they don't, he'll make them.

But Papyrus hasn't given up, just like he hasn't given up hope for their world.

And one day, he's had enough. They've had their tussles before, but those were all dull mindless fists thrown between wise cracks. Today, he fights like he's been memorizing his opponent's every nuance for all of his life, because of course he has. Sans doesn't stand a chance when his brother is actually trying.

Papyrus has him pinned in a lateral press and they both snarl as Sans thrashes, feeling betrayed despite his 1 HP staying perfectly in-tact. When he's tired himself out and clearly lost, he expects Papyrus to let him go, and it'll be one more thing they don't talk about. Papyrus doesn't loosen his hold.

Slowly, clearly, simply, he says, "I LOVE YOU."

And Sans thrashes again like a wild animal, screaming and spitting. Papyrus doesn't budge. Lets him say all the mean, dumb excuses he wants until he's lost that burst of energy. Then he repeats himself, "I LOVE YOU."

Sans doesn't have the strength to keep fighting, but he tries anyway. They just don't do this mushy shit. They can't. He'll fucking leave before Papyrus drags him down with this.

"I LOVE YOU," like Papyrus didn't hear him at all, like he doesn't care, like Sans has been spewing nothing but utter bullshit all this time, like he's calling Sans's bluff.

"I LOVE YOU," like a command, like tearing armor away with bare hands, like a dull kitchen knife trying to hack at his bones as an axe, like a sledge hammer to his skull.

"I LOVE YOU," until it hurts Sans to keep trying to yell, until the only movement he can muster is clenching his jaw and aimless kicking at the floor in frustration.

"I LOVE YOU," until the body still taut and locking Sans down starts to feel like the embraces he's denied them both, until he realizes he's lost this war he's waged against them both, until he stops wanting to puke at how his soul is quivering, until he realizes his face is too numb from screaming to feel the tears.

"I LOVE YOU," without compromise, without apology.

Seeing those walls finally, finally crumble makes Papyrus want to cry too, but he knows that if he lets himself cry now, all this hard work will come undone.

Papyrus picks Sans up into a proper hug, holding him just as close, pressing his teeth to his skull and then nuzzling their foreheads together.

"I LOVE YOU," until Sans says it back.

#fellcest #fellcest (fsj)#imagineskels #imagineskels (fsj)

15 notes · View notes

hhoneyglasss · 2 years

Text

bloodstream

notes: howdy!! here’s the alexis ver. of this lil’ mini series i’m doing! i’ll probs get the tank one for sam out by tmrw. also, i wanted to mention that this mini series (and specifically the alexis ver.) was inspired by this fanfic i saw on ao3!!! pls go check it out, it’s amazing and their writing is stunning!!

link to ao3 fanfic mentioned ((written by @gingerbreadmonsters here on tumblr!!))

pairings: past vague relationship with alexis & sam, present romantic relationship with darlin’ & sam

pov: alexis — third person limited

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46426420

!!! TWs {{these begin under the cut}} !!! obsession, slightly graphic description of violence, & a lot of blood is mentioned, even if it’s just for figurative language. ((pls let me know if i missed any!!))

hope u enjoy.

Alexis Solaire is in love with Sam Collins.

It’s the kind of love that you think it is, too— the kind that buries its claws so deep into you that the boundaries between you and it are blurred beyond recognition. Now even after fifteen years, Alexis couldn’t find the line that separated her and her undying love for Sam anymore.

But it’s not like she’s been trying to look for it, anyways.

She hasn’t been able to get him off her mind since the night she turned him, and believe her, she’s tried everything. The shadows of him are always lingering in her subconscious no matter how hard she tries to blow them away. The part of her that was consumed by Sam when she turned him seemed to melt ever so slowly, spreading throughout her until every aspect of his being flowed through her bloodstream.

Instead of making amends herself, Alexis waited. She sat atop her throne smothered in his blood, awaiting the day he found his forgiveness and came running back to her, just like she knew he always would.

She had imagined it more times than she could count; her welcoming him back with open arms and them both living an eternity together. The thought always made a smile tug at her usual neutrality, the crimson flecks in her irises glittering.

Alexis bided her time and kept her impatience at bay, allowing Sam the time he needed to realize that he belonged with her. Even as the weeks, months, and years went by, she still waited for him. No matter how many times the flowers bloomed and the leaves fell, she’d be sitting there, anticipating his return.

But her rose-tinted lenses seemed to shatter as Sam walked into a clan meeting one night with a Shifter around his arm. Her crimson crown toppled from off her head and clattered onto the floor, shattering into bloody fragments as she finally stood up from off her throne.

Jealousy took no time to grab her by the throat and force the air out of her lungs, whispering to her that he’s found someone else, that he’s forgotten about her. Her fangs ached in her mouth, begging for release so she could pounce onto that wretched wolf and rip them apart, limb from limb.

Alexis didn’t understand. What did this wolf have that she didn’t? Alexis had always promised Sam the world if he asked for it— she’d kill for him if need be. She vowed herself to him for the rest of her immortal days; she’d devote her entire life to him if that’s what he wanted.

So why them?

Alexis had run out of Wonderworld, ignoring her maker’s orders to come back as she leapt away. She sprinted until she felt like her legs would break and her lungs would burst, collapsing onto the ground in a messy heap. She laid on her back and looked up at the sky, cursing whatever malevolent deity had looked down on her and divined that she wasn’t worthy of Sam’s love. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she bathed in the moon’s glow, quiet sobs whisked away in the cool wind of the night.

She tried to tell herself that this would end, that this fling he had with this wolf would eventually lead to disaster. From what she’s heard of them, tragedy seemed to follow them wherever they went, so what made Sam any different? Alexis promised she would be there for him when the dust from their destruction settled, convincing herself that he would finally realize where he belonged.

But month after month, nothing seemed to change. The care he felt for them finally blossomed into love, and that mutt began referring to him as their ‘mate’. She watched as he smiled widely whenever they walked into the room, and realized she had never been able to make his eyes light up in the way they could.

Regret, envy, and anger tore itself through her every time she felt his heartbeat pick up from just their presence. It sliced at her core as she felt his love for them burn her like sunlight splashing itself on her skin.

And she tried to control her feelings, she really did. She told herself that her behavior was unbecoming for the princess that she was.

And so it goes— Alexis continued to keep to herself, a stone face beginning to match the cold rock freezing her heart solid. She grew more and more impassive each day, but she hadn’t given up yet.

Alexis reclaimed her place on her bloody throne and reconstructed her crown, waiting for the right moment to make her move. She didn’t care if she had to wait decades, centuries, or millenia for it.

We all know what the stories say— the princess always wins against the big bad wolf.

#redactedverse #redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted alexis #redacted sam #redacted darlin #redacted tank #i’ve had a lil’ too much fun w this and the quinn one #but it’s so worth it #hope u enjoyed it as much as i enjoyed writing it #honeyglass’s handwritings

43 notes · View notes

a3s1rxx · 10 months

Text

Fucking Tear You Apart

Tw/Cw: Cannibalism, Kidnapping, Torture, physical and psychological abuse, Stockholm syndrome???, Suicide, Starvation

Tyler and Narrator (romantic or not that’s open interpretation)

I DO NOT CONDONE ANY OF WHAT HAS BEEN WRITTEN. THIS IS PURELY LIKE a fucked up plotline. Idk how to describe it I DO NOT CONDONE IT.

This has not been spellchecked/edited

Collab with @jacksprimalfear

The condo was up in flames. Police sirens wailed in the empty night, as people watched void papers and ashes flutter down from the now destroyed sector.

The narrator could only watch and look at his life burning away. All his furniture. His empty fridge he never intended to use. Work papers, bills, clothes, everything that made him up was aflame.

He reached down and picked up the only thing remaining. Marla’s number.

‘God must hate me’

That was his only thought as he trudged to the phone booth and dialed up the number on the card that was burn all around the edges. Marla picked up with repetitive “Hello”s but Narrstor couldn’t bring himself to answer. Not to her. She didn’t deserve to know what happened. She didn’t matter to him. Not at all. So he put up the phone.

Narrator dug in his pockets, until he found something and pulled it out. Tyler’s business card. It was like a 24 karat gold sheet in all this mess. He dialed up the number and held the phone to his ear. Tyler answered, seemingly chewing on chips or some other crunchy snack.

***

Meet at Lou’s Tavern he had said. Narrator had found a table and sat down. He leaned his head up against his hand, tired eyes scanning the surrounding area. It smelt like sweat and cigarettes. It smelt of so much alcohol that you could probably get drunk on the oxygen.

Tyler sat down at the table, a stupid grin on his face.

“So what’s up?” He asked, waving a guy over to ask for a round of beer.

“My condo.” Narrator sighed, solemnly looking at the man in front of him. “It’s completely destroyed.” He sighed and frowned. He used his free hand to take a sip from his beer cup.

Tyler chuckled.

“That’s all? Cmon man you didn’t need that place.” Tyler waved his hand in a dismissive way.

Then, a long conversation ensued. Narrator was unknowingly getting drunker and drunker with every round of beer they shared. They talked about wants and needs. What makes a man a man. What is the meaning of life and does it have any purpose. Jobs, lifestyles, theories, everything.

Soon, Narrator got up. The two men walked out to the parking lot.

“Thanks for hearing me out man. I should, uh, get to a phone and call a hotel” Narrator spoke.

“Call a hotel? Cmon man I know why you called.” Tyler snorted. “Just ask.”

“Ask what?” Narrator looked at him questionably.

“Ask if you can stay over. That’s why you called right?”

“What? No I just wanted to talk” Narrator let out a small laugh. Tyler’s expression completely changed. Friendliness turned into something else. An angrier expression. Rejection and hatred. Obsession.

Narrator didn’t have time to process as a hard blow connected to the side of his head. He stumbled back, his head throbbing from the strength of the blow. Tyler looked carnal, like an animal. A big cat hunting a small mouse.

Another blow, this one to the diaphragm. There was a sickening crack. Narrator heaved and reeled over. His floating ribs had snapped. The wind was knocked out of his lungs. He didn’t understand what was going on. He didn’t have the breath to ask.

“You’ll be okay.” Tyler cooed. This served as no comfort. His words seemed laced with dread and danger. This was proven as he stalked up behind Narrator and locked his neck in a choke hold.

Panic. Flight. Fear. All three triggered at the sense of danger. Fight, triggered when Narrator realized he couldn’t run from this. He clawed at the arm around his neck, but to not avail. His head throbbed and oozed in pain. The lack of oxygen was running to his brain. His eyes felt like they were bursting out his head. His vision was faltering. Then, he passed out. His hands dropped from Tyler’s arm. His panicked clawing had stopped. The noise of his choking had stopped.

***

He woke up in a room. A flickering light was the only thing providing light right now. The room smelt of wet dirt and mildew. Tearing wallpaper and mold adorned the walls.

“I’m really sorry about that.” Tyler spoke. Now, Narrator wad truly awake. He backed up quickly, but heaved and groaned at the pain of his broken ribs. His neck was still sore from strangulation, and his head still throbbed with pain from the blows, combined with the lack of oxygen.

“Where am I?” His voice came out cracked and weary.

“My house.” Tyler smiled and grew near. In a last ditch effort Narrator lunged at him. Tyler stepped out of range of him. Narrator, who would’ve made the lunge, clattered to the floor. Hands, then head clashed to the ground. A chain around his ankle rendered him short.

Tyler cackled. Narrator looked up at him, a hatred in his tired eyes. Hatred, burning hatred.

“I’ll tell you what.” Tyler squatted down to his level. “Be a good boy, and I’ll let you roam around. I might even take you out sometimes.”

And that’s how it was. On good days, Narrator was allowed around the house, if Tyler was around. On bad days, it was just the room.

The house itself was not in any better condition than the room he was usually stuck in. The smell of rot was everywhere. The air was constantly humid and hot. It didn’t help that it it felt like Tyler’s eyes were constantly burning into his body.

Narrator, after a while, had gotten used to his situation. He started to find joy in things. He enjoyed the talks he had with Tyler. He enjoyed repetitively roaming the halls. Sometimes Tyler would take him out to small places for food if he was really good. He could live like this, he thought. He was at peace. He was at peace for months living with Tyler. It’s not like anyone went out looking for him. His boss probably replaced him, he thought. The police never came to check where he was. If no one cared where he was, why not stay where he felt wanted. Needed.

And like this he stayed, until he got tired again. Tired of Tyler’s bipolar ways. He grew tired of the constant watchful eyes and the moldy, dewy smell. He wanted to talk to the other people outside the boarded up house. He loathed the rooms he wandered repetitively. He wanted to see more. He wanted more. So he decided to make a plan.

He was going to break out. He could break the boards on the window in his room and sneak out at night. His master plan.

***

That night was the night. The night when freedom called. The night that life would be back to normal; because, albeit shitty, that was the life Narrator wanted. Not some repetitive wandering loop.

Once Tyler went to bed, he got to work. He quietly made his way downstairs, skipping the stairs he knew made noise. He grabbed himself something to break the board with and ran back upstairs.

Once upstairs, he closed his door as if it would muffle any sound. Over and over and over he hit the wooden board over his window. The sound of freedom coming ever so closer. For once he wasn’t tired. Adrenaline pumped in his veins, through his body. Then, a jolt of pain. A force grabbed his hair and pulled him back. A force harsh enough to slam his back to the floor, followed by the back of his head.

Then he saw it. It was like he was tethered again. Back to the mold. Back to the rotting wallpaper. Back to filthy humid air. Tyler Durden. His own living, breathing chain; connecting him to this repetitive prison.

“What are you doing.” Tyler started laughing. A crazed laugh. Narrator sputtered and stuttered but no avail. He couldn’t make an excuse. Tyler slammed his face back into the floor and held him down, chaining his ankle to the floor once again.

“This is what happens. To people who don’t listen.” Tyler grumbled and let go. He watched Narrator struggle to get up. Head aching, searing with pain. Crimson blood trickling down from where he just slammed his head. Narrator could see a maniacal glint in Tyler’s eyes, as he turned and left the room.

***

Days had passed. These days were different. Narrator was starving. Tyler hadn’t come in to feed him. He hadn’t come in to talk to him. Not even to monitor him. But he was there, guarding the door. He knew it.

Isolation. Total isolation. No one to talk to. Even if he did talk, only dead silence responded. Nothing to drink besides rain water that dropped through the dilapidated ceiling into his mouth on rainy days. Pain kept him awake. The dry pain in his throat from the loss of water. The growling pain in his stomach from the loss of food. It felt like dying. Nothing to do but breathe and hope you die quicker.

Every breath feels like a stab in the stomach. He hoped every one was his last. He couldn’t remember pain like this since the chemical burn Tyler had graciously given him. It was like a brand, at least that was how Tyler had explained it. A mark of ownership.

Tyler had seared his lips into the back of Narrators hand. The flesh there had burned and boiled. It hissed as the lye reacted to the water, making it impossibly hot. It damaged nerves. It was the mark of the devil. A mark forever there, forever to be adorned.

***

More days went by. Narrator was scrambling to eat anything. He’d tear up pieces of the floorboard. The mattress. Insects, even small rodents weren’t safe. Go hungry long enough and you revert back to natural instinct.

Tyler opened the door.

“Ready to behave?” He announced. Narrator looked up at him. Dried blood and grime on his face. Suddenly, his mind turned. He had a morbid idea. But an even more morbid twang of hunger.

He nodded to Tyler. Tyler walked over and began to undo the chain around his ankle. Then, in an out lash of primal rage and hunger, Narrator used the chain to hit the side of Tyler’s head. Tyler stumbled back in surprise. Without giving him time to recover, Narrator attacked again, pulling Tyler back down to the ground, and locking his head in his arms. He was using all his strength to do this. His muscles ached but he continued to squeeze. Now it was Tyler clawing to be free. Now he was tethered. Now he was the prey. Tyler’s frantic gasps indicated he was being strangled. His nails dug so deep into narrators arms that blood was drawn. But that was to no avail. Now he was passed out. Now he was the one on the floor. Now he was helpless.

With a strong motion, and a sickening snap, Narrator snapped Tyler’s neck. Now he was the one tethered to death. Then, Narrator began to feast. His teeth sank into whatever muscle was available. He easily tore off mounds of flesh and ate it, quickly. Tyler’s blood dripped off his face like a gazelle’s would a lion’s. Piece by piece, Tyler became a bloodied, mangled mess on the ground. And Narrator ate his full.

It’s only then that what happened, sinks in. He just killed his only caretaker. Not only that, he just ate someone. Someone he knew. Someone he talked to. Someone he laughed with. Cried with. Fought with. His mind was racing. Racing like cars on a track. He was irrational. Crazed. Jittery.

He walked downstairs. What to do, what to do? He just killed someone he can’t walk free. He washed Tyler’s blood from his face. From his hands. From wherever he could. Guilt. That was the emotion now. Guilt, fear, mania. A buzzing in his brain. He stopped in the kitchen. The buzzing had to stop make it stop. Make it all stop.

A knife. A silver savior. A chariot waiting to take him away to a better place. Away from here away this. Away from the buzzing. He picked it up and without a second notice, dug the tip into his arm. Pain. Pain and blood. If pain was a color, to him it’d be red. Red like the blood of Tyler. Red like the blood of his body. Red like the blood that intertwined them both together. He dragged the tip up his arm, a deep long slit forming. A canyon of skin and muscle. A river of blood that poured. The knife dropped, clattering to the ground.

Death is a solemn embrace. Not even in death is there peace, no. Not until you truly die. The light is too bright. The sound is too loud, wait, now he can’t hear. His balance is off his head aches and spins. The blood is flowing. Flowing out. Out. He falls to the ground on his back, staring up and the dilapidated ceiling. Was it worth it? Did he want to die here? Is this really the last thing he’ll ever see? The roof he hated so badly? Flowing. Flowing. The canyon grows weak. The heart slows, the rhythm pounding in his ears, deafening him. The bright light grows brighter. Death is upon him now.

#fight club #tyler durden #the narrator #narrator fight club #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

5 notes · View notes

rjalker · 2 years

Text

Anyways here's the short horror story from Scherzo, by Robert Shearman.

You can also listen to it with the video below, which I highly recommend. It's originally in four parts throughout the major story, so that's why there's seemingly random pauses.

youtube

[ID: The cover art for the Doctor Who audio drama, "Scherzo". The background is white and blue, with two stark blue and white hands clasped beneath the title. The audio is transcribed below. End ID.]

Once upon a time, in a land not too dissimilar to ours, there lived a king. And he was a good king, in an age when good was something of an unfashionable rarity.

He was very, very wise, and very, very powerful, but he was also very, very old. And he realized that for all his great wisdom and his great power, he would soon have to leave his kingdom once and for all, and make the journey to the outside world of infinite darkness.

And so, on the eve of his departure, when his physicians had finished all their headshaking and his wives had wrung as many tears from their eyes as they could, he called his son and heir to his side.

'Everything you see is yours to command,' he said. 'But be advised. The better slaves are those who still believe they taste some freedom. Play the tyrant, but you must inspire love as well as fear.'

Yet the son cared not for his words, and when the corpse had been dispatched with much pomp and fireworks to the darker realms outside, the new king resolved to stretch the limits of his authority.

He gathered all the people before him and told them that their every thought must match his thought. No will should exist save his will.

And people being people, they agreed. Those that didn't vanished in the night, and their families soon learned to pretend that they'd never existed.

But still the king was not content, so he instructed all the animals in his kingdom that they must now obey his commands.

Horses should bark, dogs should mew, fish should fly from tree to tree exactly as he desired.

And animals being animals, they agreed. Some of the pigs had to be culled, but no one minded because they tasted so lip-smackingly good. And the cats had to go because no one could tell a cat anything.

But soon the people and the animals lived in perfect harmony, their lives precise expressions of the whims of their lord.

Every living creature obeyed their king, doing everything he wanted to the smallest detail, sometimes even before he knew he wanted it. But still the king was not content. Living creatures only made up the smallest number of his subjects. So he gave out further orders.

He instructed the waves should crash upon the shore only when he gave the word. He instructed the wind should not blow, but suck. Time should not run forwards, but backwards or sideways.

It took years to persuade them. Soldiers slashed at the waves until their swords were soaked with wave blood. Wind and Time were locked in the deepest dungeons until, starving, they gave in.

The king ruled the elements, but still, he was not content.

There was one subject that still balked at his power.

Music.

How the king hated music.

Refusing to be constrained, refusing to be disciplined, a small burst of recitative flowering into a fugue without permission, or a cantata breaking out overnight into a fully fledged oratorio.

'Will no man rid me of these turbulent tunes?' he cried, and the militia, now trained to obey his merest impulse, took him at his word.

They seized the music, every last crochet and minim, each breve and innocent little semi-breve, and threw them out of the kingdom.

They threw them into the outside world of infinite darkness, and music was banished forever.

At last, the king had his own universe.

It was his and no one else's.

He was happy, and no one dared point out to him that he had exiled the only means by which he could express it.

You remember the tale of the foolish king? He who so despised music that he banished it from his realm?

His was a very quiet land. Birds sat silent in the trees, their beaks now stopped fast, their chirping and twittering frozen hard in their throats.

There was no longer a harmony to time. Seconds would race on or trudge forward, or simply come to a listless halt.

The waves crashed noiselessly onto the sand, for even within that there had been a trace of music.

There was no rhythm to life any more.

And the king's people felt it the worst. They had been slaves, but whilst they still had songs of liberty on their lips they had been happy slaves.

Some rebelled and were put to the torture. But even the torturers who once had calmed their consciences with soothing music were unable to bear the awful glaring, accusing, silence.

The fact was clear. Anything could be borne with music. But nothing could be borne without it.

And the king would sit on his throne in misery.

He dearly loved his wives, but now he heard in their words no love returned, no tune, no melody.

For this, he executed them regularly. The women he loved, their heads rolling from the scaffold soundlessly. The king himself, quite alone, weeping for them. All, all, quite silent.

One morning, the king decided that he would pardon music. He drew up a contract, stamped it with his own royal seal. Music was free to return from the outside world of infinite darkness. And to bear the good news, he sent several messengers there. Some by hanging, some by stabbing, one or two by slow-acting poison. But none returned, and nor did music.

The king was desperate.

He called upon his sorcerers, his necromancers, and those who were trained in the forbidden knowledge of music resurrection.

But it became obvious that the king himself would have to make a personal appeal to his prodigal son.

With court physicians administering, and the last of his wives looking on with glee, the king was slowly bled, each drop landing in a metal container with a plop that just managed to be wholly tuneless.

And as he wavered between death and life, he stepped into the darkness and called out. 'I have been a foolish man. I should have inspired love as well as fear. Please, let the music play again, all its songs, its symphonies, and its sundry choral works. Please, give my world a reason to live.'

It was seven days and seven nights before the king recovered, and he awoke to a miracle.

Once more birds were trilling in the trees, the clocks chimed and waves roared. Once more the world had music.

And his favorite wife of all stood over him and smiled, and in the timbre of her lilting voice he felt once again that she loved him.

The people were in celebration, singing in the streets whatever tunes would come into their heads. And they sang until their throats turned red raw. They sang until their arteries burst and gushed. They screamed their new songs of pain.

The king watched in horror as the birds fell dead in the street, as the waves struggled limply and then were drowned by the seas beneath them.

He heard his infant son cry out his last, his face bitten off by a savage lullaby.

The lilting voice of his wife, that he had loved so much, grinned at him cruelly before wrapping itself around her throat and throttling her silent.

The music raced through the kingdom, sparing none its terrible beauty.

As the bodies of his subjects fell to the ground, their death rattle sounded like the rhythm of a perfect drum.

And the music at last came for the king.

'Why?' he asked.

'Because we have been to the outside world,' the music replied. 'We have seen the infinite darkness, and we have learned that we need not only inspire love, but fear.'

And with a sound of brass and strings so beautiful it stopped the king's heart, the music swallowed him up whole, and became the new and dreadful lord of the entire world.

#horror #Scherzo #Rjalker listens to Doctor Who #Rjalker listens to Charley's Adventures #Rjalker listens to The Eigth Doctor #idk if this story has its own name or not #anyways #A+ metaphor A+ drama A+ everything #short stories #short horror stories #thanks robert shearman #Youtube #long post

30 notes · View notes

sockodot · 2 years

Text

WIP Wednesday- Distraction

This here is a little teaser for @chronic-ghost The first five hundred words of my fic Distraction. Which hopefully, I’ll be uploading fully before the end of the week. Enjoy!

Aloy tells herself she’s testing the security as she scales the palace’s walls. She finds herself wanting to go back to Meridian every time she’s away. The feeling is creeping in her quicker and quicker each time. She’s drawn back to the palace, to warm sun and spices in the air. Soft silk and dark wine. To big hands and bright eyes and charming smiles.

She scowls as she climbs higher. She heard there was an attempt on his life, an assassination. A failed one, obviously. But the worry that twisted in her chest, that clawed her heart and made her blood surge was… unpleasant. Surprising, unwelcome, upsetting, distressing- she could go on. She doesn’t like it. But something always draws her back. The looks, the squeezes to her hands, standing far too close, the whispers. She got to him full on laugh once, hands clutched at his stomach, tears in his eyes. She had gaped at him when she realized she hadn’t seen him like this before. Aloy had to snap herself out of it.

It’s a distraction, she realizes. He’s a distraction. One she definitely doesn’t need, doesn’t have the time for really, but-

But she doesn’t stop herself as she heaves herself over the balcony railing. She looks into his room, one foot barely scraping the floor, the other one hanging off a cliff. The sheer drapes blow gently in the wind and there’s barely any light in his room, only a few candles lit. Maybe he’s already asleep. She checks her focus. 20:27. Not entirely late and besides, he usually works much later. He’s devoted like that. But she sees his purple figure just past the opening.

She swings her other leg over and stands. “Avad, I know-” He appears suddenly, sword pointed at her. She freezes, stares at him.

“Aloy? By the-” He quickly lowers it. How she could have missed the sword is beyond her. Distraction. “I am terribly sorry, forgive me. I didn’t know it was you.” Checking security, assassination attempt. It clicks. Fuck, how is she this stupid?

“It’s fine. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I know.” He raises a hand to soothe her, like she isn’t the one that made him think he had to fight for his life to tonight. That thought has her swallowing, stomach twisting. She does not like that at all. He steps out of sight for a second and comes back out without his sword.

“Where are my manners? How are you? What are you doing here? Something didn’t happen, did it?” Yes, you almost died. But she can’t say that. He’s worried all over again and this time she raises her hand to soothe.

“No, nothing like that. There’s something north of here that I’m heading for.”

“What is it?”

Before she can say answer, the doors are bursting open, a crowd of guards rushing in. They stop when they see the two of them on the balcony, when they see Aloy. The captain sighs, sword hand lowering.

“You were quicker this time,” she offers with a smile.

He seems tired behind his helmet, and he looks to the ceiling. “Sun give me patience.” He gives a nod to Avad, and then her. “Your Luminance. Savior.” The guards filter out. She bites her cheek to not laugh, definitely not where the guards can still here and when she looks over at Avad, his lips are pressed together.

The door shuts and he meets her eyes. They immediately burst out laughing.

#hzd #aloy #alvad #aloy/avad #my writing #hzd writing #LISTEN I WROTE 2157 WORDS LAST NIGHT #AND DISTRACTION TAKES UP 1200 OF THEM #the other fic i got is 900 #avad

5 notes · View notes

infernalrevenge · 3 years

Note

Alright, playing off of the overprotective Heisenberg. What if Reader doesn't come back and when he does go looking they are injured badly?

Damn bro you're really going for hurt, huh? I love it HAHAHAHA let's go!!!! I'm making this a drabble, I think it would be better suited for this.

(TW violence in one paragraph, because I might have gotten a little carried away with how Karl saves Reader.)

----------

Heisenberg looked up at the digital clock above his work station, turning off his equipment and tools for a moment. The rain outside had just stopped, and you weren't back yet -- there were no familiar footsteps, no calling out for him to get work done and over with... nothing but the clanking noises and thrum of machinery.

You wouldn't be out for this long, not without telling him. Something was wrong.

He immediately ventured out into the forest behind his factory, calling for his lycans to send them out as a search party. Covered more ground that way, in case you got too far. Not that he thought you would up and leave him, no. He could think of worst things.

He strained to listen for anyone calling out for help, trying to ignore the pounding in his ears as worst case scenarios crept into his head. If all he could hear were the growls of those damn lycans, the leaves rustling in the wind, and the snap of a twig underneath his feet -- where did you fit in? Surely, you would've called out by now if you needed help. Surely... you wouldn't be...

No, now was not the time -- you were still out there. You had to be...

Almost lifeless, your torso trapped in the jaws of some damn Varcolac. That was how he found you, and he swore his blood had frozen over when he saw the life start to dim in your eyes. He might have imagined how you reached out for him just as he finally got his legs to move, smashing into the beast's side with his hammer and forcing them to drop you onto the muddy forest floor.

The rage boiling in his body burst out of him in that hard swing, grief and frustration driving him to make the animal pay for your suffering. It killed you. It fucking killed you! This thing was not going to escape alive.

If you ever asked, he couldn't tell you how much he enjoyed beating the wolf back and away from you while his lycans bit and chewed off chunks of muscle and flesh, hard pressed to find any that wasn't already smattered in blood. The crack of its bones brought a disgusting fit of satisfaction in him, and every pained growl and whimper from the pathetic thing only spurred him on even more.

He raised his weapon over his head, poised for another punishing blow, until...

"Karl..."

Somehow, your soft voice cut through the emotional whirlwind. "Y/N?"

He wasted no time in getting back to you, sheating his weapon back and kneeling down, completely in disbelief. He always knew you were a fighter -- damn well knew that you wouldn't back down on life this easily.

As the lycans behind him finished the job, he picked you up as gently as he could, words of comfort and assurance uttered with every pained gasp and whimper from your lips. If you were more aware, you might have caught Karl with tears streaking down his face.

Everything passed like a blur, slow like it was creeping up on you -- and yet when you were finally conscious it felt too fast. You could've sworn a second ago that a snarling Varcolac had cornered you on the way back to Heisenberg's. You barely heard how you screamed as a reflex over the overload of dread and panic that filled you all at once. To say it was a lot was an understatement.

But then, here you were -- exactly where you wanted to be. Well, things looked a little different. Your bedside table was occupied with bottles you never kept there, along with bandages and tape you don't remember ever using.

Your gaze shifted to the slumped figure sitting next to your bed, a hand laid over yours. It took more effort than you realized to tighten your hold over his hand, but even that was enough to jolt him awake.

Karl wasn't wearing his glasses. You could've sworn his eyes were shiny when he turned to look at you, seemingly in disbelief. He had been by your side for days, changing your bandages and calling a doctor in every so often to check up on you. He hardly gave a damn that some village commoner was allowed in his factory -- he wasn't going to take a chance when it came to you. Not again. You had to stay alive, you had to wake up eventually. He was prepared to wait weeks for you, months, years, however long it took.

He just needed you back.

Things were quiet between you for a while, Karl still in shock as he helped you sit up and offered you a glass of water for your dry throat. He was the first one to speak up.

"You've been out for a few days, in case you were wondering. It's Friday today."

You remembered going out into the village on Tuesday. You stayed quiet, trying to process all this new information, especially now that you were actually in the right headspace to.

You weren't really sure what to say, if you should say anything at all. He seemed to be at a loss too, you can't even begin to imagine what he must be feeling. Anger? Relief? An overwhelming mix of both?

"I'm... glad you're okay." But at least he managed to say something.

Were you supposed to say sorry, that you weren't more careful (you probably should have been)? Tell him you're glad to see him too (you were)? You knew you wanted to say something though...

"Is this the part where you say 'I told you so'?" you finally said, voice still hoarse, an edge of sarcasm in your soft tone.

Part of you would rather deflect from the trauma you just went through -- you basically just came out of a fucking coma. You ought to take things one step at a time. Right now, you really were just glad to be with Karl again.

Speaking of Karl... he seemed to be at a loss for words. His lover just woke up from what could have been a life-threatening experience -- no, it was a life-threatening experience -- and that's the first thing you say? He started blinking in confusion, mouth hung open, and you were tempted to reach out and close it for him and make some comment about catching flies. Instead, he started...

Chuckling.

"Oh yeah, absolutely, I told you to be fucking careful!" he replied, smug as ever. There's the Karl you knew.

You shoved at his arm weakly, "No, this is the part where you're supposed to say 'All that matters is that you're back and you're safe," you retorted with a small smile, making a poor impression of his voice and accent.

He huffed, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes. There's the Y/N he knew. Tears started rolling down his cheeks, barely even noticing it as he looked over you with such fondness and joy. You were alive, and here, and he wasn't sure what god out there made that happen but goddamn, it would have made a believer out of him if he knew.

"You need to rest up, alright, sugar?" He laid a gentle hand on your forehead, pushing your hair back and out of your eyes.

You gave a small nod and puckered your lips comically -- a silent plea for a kiss. The man only rolled his eyes and gave you a peck on the lips. "You won't leave, right?"

"No. Never."

#karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg #lord heisenberg x reader #lord heisenberg #gn!reader #gender neutral reader #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #re8 #anon #inbox #drabble requests #i know the original prompt was f!reader but it wasnt specified here #so i figured i could use gn!reader here for this idea #wow it's like these two dont know how to deal with trauma and feelings #a match made in heaven #emotional whiplash galore

219 notes · View notes

alrightberries · 3 years

Text

our sorry little hearts

❈ pairing: levi ackerman x fem!reader

❈ genre: angst. ❈ word count: 1.6k

❈ summary: Levi hasn’t seen your traitorous Eldian face in years.

❈ trigger warnings: profanity. war. mentions of blood, death, and violence.

a/n: you’ve heard of enemies to lovers, now get ready for... lovers to enemies. this takes place during the liberio invasion aka S4 E6. based on a love like war by all time low.

(also don’t tell anyone but this is me lowkey warming up after not writing for so long)

There’s something oddly nostalgic about seeing you again on the battlefield.

Levi recognizes your usual battle stance; feet a shoulder’s width apart and hands tightly clutching the handles of your sheathed blades. You’re wearing the scouting regiment’s outdated white uniform, green cape hiding the leather straps your missing brown jacket usually would. He’s not surprised you’re not wearing your wings of freedom jacket, though; he was, after all, the one who sliced it in half during your escape with Zeke on the Cart Titan’s back. He hasn’t seen it, but he’s positive that a long scar runs down the length of your spine.

“Levi,” he hears you murmur, and he pretends that his heart doesn’t ache after hearing his name slip from your lips for the first time in four years. “I—... Levi,”

He feels his chest tighten. You still look as beautiful as he remembers you to be, and the fact that you still take his breath away is something he hates. It’s been a long while since he last stood on a battlefield with you. Only this time, there were no trees to swing from or titans to kill; no reassuring squeezes on the shoulder or cheeky kisses when no one was looking; no small smiles or stolen glances across the field as your horses galloped through Titan Country. No— this time, you wore different colors and fought on opposing sides.

“Levi, talk to me,” your tone is airy, said in what seemed to be a mixture of built up anticipation and disbelief. But there was something in your voice— something he couldn’t quite place. Was it relief? Longing, perhaps? Maybe even regret. But Levi pushes those thoughts aside in favor of gritting his teeth and giving his traitorous wife a stone cold stare. “Levi, talk to me, please.”

He refuses to reply. His hands are shaking from how hard he was gripping the handles of his blades, and he swears his heart was going to burst out of his untrimmed chest from how loudly it beat at his ribcage. There are about a million and one emotions swirling around his head— betrayal. anger. sadness. melancholy.

And he doesn’t know which one takes over him when he charges at you full speed.

There’s a grunt followed by the sound of metal clashing against metal, and Levi’s not surprised to see that your reflexes are still as sharp as they were before. His own cape whips in the wind when he turns to land another strike. But then he hears sound of your hooks digging into bricks, and he’s quick to take your little fight to the air in pursuit of you.

He knows he has to be at the plaza to save Eren’s ass but he also knows that he had at least seven minutes before he had to go. He’ll make this quick.

“Levi,” he hears you call out. You’ve led him further away from the plaza— maybe intentionally or unintentionally, he doesn’t know— and he’s only now realizing that you both stood on the side of a building, the hooks on your gears the only thing keeping you up. “My love—-”

“—don’t call me that,” his heart twitches and he sneers. It’s the first thing he’s said to you in years and god did you miss his voice, miss him in general. “Don’t you fucking dare call me that,”

“Levi,” you breathe, but the deep growl that escapes his lips is enough for your words to die in your throat.

“Stop,” he says. “You’ve lost the right to speak my name; you’ve lost the right to wear that cape,” his eyes land on the silver chain you wore around your neck, a gold ring hanging in the middle. It matched the one he had back home, the one he secretly held at night and kissed sorrowfully when he felt like breaking down. His voice is quieter, almost pained as he speaks, “you’ve lost the right to wear that ring. You’ve lost the right to even look me in the eye after what you’ve done.”

His words sting and your throat tightens when you once again remember the look of pure and utter betrayal in his eyes when you confessed you were a spy on behalf of the Marleyan government. The way he froze, hoping you were lying; yet the tears running down your cheeks and the apologies that slipped from your lips as you got down on your knees and begged him for forgiveness left no room for contest.

“Levi, we don’t have to fight, please just hear me out. I’m still the wife you loved—-“

“No,” he cuts you off. “My wife is gone. She died in the battle for Shiganshina.” your lip quivers, and he continues to speak. “You? You’re an enemy. You’re as good as dead to me.”

Your words once again die on your tongue when he charges at you, and you just barely manage to leap away. The edge of his blade scrapes against your thigh, and blood paints your trousers red when your feet land on the cobblestone streets.

Every attempt you make after, any attempts at conversation is silenced with a swift swing of Levi’s blades, almost as if he were seeking catharsis through violence.

You grit your teeth. “You’re never going to listen to me, are you?”

His silence and steely glare is all the answer you need, and you sigh. Your stance shifts, and the grip on your blades changes; you were finally taking an offensive stance, Levi notices. Blocking his blows wouldn’t be enough— you couldn’t reason with him no matter how hard you tried, and you couldn’t win with just defense. You had to outsmart him; you had to win. You had to.

“I’m sorry, levi, but losing isn’t an option for me. Not this time,” you murmur.

You didn’t want to fight him, he could see it in your eyes. But you were fighting for something, for someone more important than him. Your eyes— the first things he fell in love with, the ones that were usually fiery and full of life— are soulless, almost solemn when he sees you run at him full speed, and Levi pushes down the hurt he felt at the thought of you loving another as he charges at you too.

A tear silently falls down your cheek. You loved levi, but you loved him more. You were fighting for him, and he was waiting for you back at home.

There’s a grey little building in the Liberio Intermittent Zone, somewhere between the gates and the plaza. The gunshots and explosions just barely reach the drab building, and the smoke rising into the air is the only thing visible to the naked eye of the chaos unfolding at the plaza.

A Marleyan soldier, donned in white and war medals, stands in front of an open window. She’s got binoculars in her hands, and she peeks through the eye piece to watch as two figures fight. Their capes create shadows of black where they flutter, and their silver blades gleam in the moonlight.

She smirks. Your negotiation failed, just like she said it would, and now you had no choice but to fight to the death.

Good, she thinks, that Eldian scum’s doing her end of the bargain.

She leans back and a satisfied hum leaves her lips. She turns to look at the little boy, no more than four years old, sat on the bed. The red Eldian arm band clasped around his arm brings a grimace to the soldier’s face. She can’t believe she got stuck with babysitting some lowlife scum.

“Is mommy doing well?” he asks timidly. He doesn’t even know that you were out there about to murder a man, but the kid was smart; he at least knew your job carried a heavy weight.

“For now,” she replies. The boy’s jet black hair bounces slightly as he nods, and his slanted eyes are downcast, staring at the floor. His silvery grey orbs dare not make contact with hers.

The boy looked almost nothing like you— if anything, she was sure he looked to be the spitting image of his unknown father. Strong genes, the father must’ve had.

She finds amusement in how tense the boy was around her; at least his whore of a mother had the decency to teach the kid his place in the world. He was worse than an Eldian, the lowest of the low— he was half Paradis demon. He should’ve never been born. They should’ve beaten you to death along with your unborn child like she’d suggested when you came back from Paradis knocked up.

“You can kill me, but spare my baby, please.” she remembers you begging. “I didn’t even know i was pregnant. Not even the father knows.”

Still, maybe it was a good choice to keep both you and the demon child alive. As much as she hated to admit it, you were a skilled soldier— one of the best they’ve ever had. Threatening your life meant nothing to you, but threatening your child’s? All they had to do was suggest it, and you’d follow their commands like an obedient dog chasing after a dangling treat.

“When’s mommy going to come home?” the boy suddenly asks.

“Soon,” she replies, eyes once again gazing through her binoculars. “If your mother does her job well, she’ll be back soon.” There’s a telephone beside the soldier, ready to make the call should you ever stop fighting. A sniper awaits her signal.

“If she doesn’t... well,” she laughs. The door to the small room you called home is locked, and the loaded gun hidden in the soldier’s pocket is a weight she’s familiar with. “Do you believe in god?”

“No,” the boy shakes his head. “Who’s that?”

“Tell you what, kid. if your mother fucks this up, i’ll personally see to it that you meet him soon enough.”

If you want to be added to the tag list, click this link!

#levi ackerman x reader #levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #snk x reader #attack on titan x reader #aot x reader #levi imagine #levi ackerman imagine #shingeki no kyojin imagine #snk imagine #attack on titan imagine #aot imagine #writing

804 notes · View notes

kokiseiko · 3 years

Text

Fleeting Touches and Unbreakable Bonds

Shouta Aizawa x Reader; Hizashi Yamada x Reader

Song Recommendation: All I Ask - Adele

(Y/N) – Your Name

(L/N) – Last Name

Word Count: 1.8k +

Fandom: My Hero Academia | Boku no Hero Academia

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Pro-Hero!Reader; Hizashi Yamada x Pro-Hero!Reader

Rating: SFW

Warnings: Angst, Bittersweet

Summary: Is it possible to love someone so much that you can’t let go even after death?

Note: This is a special request made by my lovely fellow Aizawa simp: @nire-chann.

Thank you for beta-reading this for me Ate Selene @yourgoddessselene | @saudade-mayari

The events that had happened at the start of this fic are a few months after Aizawa became a teacher at UA.

A rush of sudden adrenaline that wracks your body, heart pounding, ears ringing, your entire system shaking with emotions you can’t even pinpoint. Walking towards the white-lined road of the city, the rays of the noon sun spilling all over the bent light posts, the once smooth grey cement on the sidewalks now cracked, malfunctioning traffic lights blinking and crackling, the aftermath: debris of the earlier commotion.

It was an explosion, a burst of dust-filled smoke that pained the eyes of individuals who unfortunately had it opened, then a sickening crash of building facades, window splinters raining throughout the area, injuring civilians from which you’ve catered immediately. Quickly healing wounds and giving directions for immediate evacuation.

You were Frantic. Desperate. Searching throughout the wreckage even when your quirk wasn’t for such. Continuing to move through the rubbles of building you spot the shine of the once yellow gear now cracked, broken into three, not far from it was a mass of black, crimson spilling underneath him, a shine of a bloodied band adorning his right hand.

You knew that it was near impossible even with your quirk to stabilize him, yet you continue, hands glowing in hues of emerald as you move his blood-soaked charcoal locks.

---

He feels lighter every passing second, but your presence grounds him. There’s so much more to say, to feel, to do. He sighs internally, he looks at you with such intent, he wants to let you know, to speak to you, but how can he, when his throat feels restricted. Even lifting his hand to touch your tear-stained cheeks to help ease the furrow in your brows had him use too much energy.

There was so much more, but having to look at you with all the emotions he could muster in his two light-grey orbs are what he could only communicate with. He can’t speak anymore, but he wants to at least taste your lips one last time.

To at least feel your heat and the cool contrast of your wet cheeks.

He’s barely noticing the tingle of nerves, that strange warm sensation he used to feel whenever you used to tend to his wounds, his injuries. His eyes wrinkle slightly when he remembers your pout during a rant a few days ago, your plump lips moving and going on about him being reckless.

He’s doing it again, but it has been too long since he had let himself fall through a never-ending well of questions, of replays, flashbacks, images, doubts, concerns. This may be the last time he’ll ever let himself tumble throughout the dark abyss of just him and his thoughts.

Was he content? He doesn’t know.

He just simply wants to remember your smile, your tears. You.

You were his anchor back then. Back when he was crumbling into a mess of a wanna-be hero who had his friend die during Hero-Work Studies.

You pulled him up when he was too tired to even recognize and register the warmth feeling in his chest that was being overpowered with guilt, regret, and frustration.

He never really accommodated these positive feelings, thinking that they would just be swept away with a whoosh of wind, only to return with a hard blow of hatred, anger, and pain.

He doesn’t want to experience that again, to go through that momentary shock and be hit with the sad consciousness of reality.

His throaty whisper was heard above the ringing in your ears: “Thank you…” for loving me, he wants to add, for being with me… I’ve loved you, tears cascading his cheeks

“I’m sorry…” for not acknowledging these wonderful feelings, for taking so long to let you know that, looking to your also wet cheeks, eyes pooling with tears from frustration? Sadness? Pain? Maybe a mix of three he guessed, “… I love you.”

He feels the gradual easing of his muscles all throughout his body. The blood rushing throughout his veins were subliminally slowing. The wet pelts of your tears dropping down his features would be a mere afterthought if he wasn’t focusing so much on you, but alas, his own mind was keeping him from doing so.

Even within his last seconds, his mind kept him prisoner.

His mind where everything was being played. His head spinning with the rapid successions of memories he subconsciously held dear. The majority of the replays containing you, your comforting touch when he needed an anchor, your soft kisses during those casual dates back in his favorite café, the hitch of your breath when you momentarily stopped the cute cooing noises you made whenever you petted the cats as you trailed your eyes on his kneeling form, your whispered ‘yes’ when he finally popped the question “Marry me?”, your wobbly smile when you walked down the red-carpeted aisle, the crack of your voice as your eyes that were holding nothing but love and adoration staring right at him as you began to state your vows began to pool.

Smiling.

He never thought that in his last moments he would be smiling. You’ve made him do things he thought he’d never do in this short life of his. And for that, he’s thankful.

You are truly something else.

***

Breathing was hard. His every inhale didn’t even feel like air, it’s akin to something much more condense. Black was all that surrounds him: a pool of nothing but midnight skies. A weird sensation constantly falling down to a never-ending night is what grounds him to- what exactly.

Though his throat was constricted, a single sound not able to flutter out his lips, his thoughts seemed loud on this vast plain of nothingness.

Where was he?

How can he even breathe?

“You’re still bound.”

What?

“You need to let go.”

Looking around him to at least locate the voice’s body was futile. Was this in his head?

“No. You’re in the middle. Stuck.”

Middle?

“Your time’s done, but you’re still tied down… by your bonds. Let go.”

Realizing what this meant he answered the disembodied voice in his head, I can’t.

A chilling gust of an unknown wind made its way throughout his existence.

***

It can’t be. He knows it can’t happen. He died. How can he still be standing- oh.

He doesn’t know whatever the wind did to him, but he at least deduced that it returned him to you.

You who was now kneeling in the mix of wet gravel and grass whilst staring into the distance with streams still flowing down your puffed eyes, cheeks streaked with layers of endless tears that managed to drip down your wobbling chin, your neck covered in his scarf that had splats of dried hazel-vermillion.

How long was he falling back there?

Two new sounds of weeping.

He sees that the usual gravity-defying golden hair was now instead streaking down the shoulders of a black leather jacket-clad voice hero. Mic. A figure kneeling down beside your form, hugging your side, whose body shook with great intensity together with yours. Midnight.

He aches. Thorns felt like they were encasing him within.

For a moment he wants to hold you, to comfort you, placing his hand to your other shoulder, placing the loose strand of hair behind your ear, but you don’t seem to sense him.

***

It’s been a long month of just watching, of just seeing but not being able to do anything. He hates the unfairness of it all.

He tries. Convincing himself that his touches were felt, that his hugs were warming your numbness, that his kisses were making the sting dwindle little by little, that him laying by the other side of your bed while you sleep with a pillow covered in his old shirt lets you know that he’s still there, that he still loves you, that he still can’t won’t let go.

His touches on your shoulder, which were supposed to reassure you just in turn made you shiver and look confused, bewildered even.

He wants to be heard, to be felt, to exist, but his traces no longer lingered, only a mere susurrate, a short-lived touch in your still graying ambience.

He wants to hold you while you cry and let all of the frustrations out of that head of yours, where he knows that like him you’re stuck, in your own scribbles of granite thoughts, that you too were deprived of the other’s warmth, that you too felt like a shell stuck with all of this sand you called your chaos, your blurring mix of feelings.

And as weeks turns into fleeting months. Months of winter blooming into a spring of years, left on autumn, in auto-pilot, watching, always nearby to see you recover. Recover from the debris and aching splinters that his existence left behind, while he still remains crumbling, pieces of him falling.

“Thank you Hizashi… you grounded me when it all felt like a dream.”

He should’ve been the one doing what Hizashi is now. It should’ve been black instead of gold that you were nuzzling into. It should’ve been his deep baritone rather than the smooth and gentle voice Hizashi uses whenever he encourages, supports, and anchors you.

He should’ve been the one holding your hand whenever you sit in a creaky wooden bench in a nearby park to admire the sunset.

“I know that it’s impossible to reciprocate what I’m about to say, but I at least wanted to let you know-”

“I like you too, Zashi’.”

He should’ve been the one you’re tending, taking care of. Your tears of frustration and aura of concern that was once reserved for him was now for another blond.

“Zashi’ you should start being much more careful you know?”

“I promise I will- ow!”, your smiles at his friend’s idiotic antics just adds jealousy to his mix of resentment and longing.

He should’ve been the only one who sees your gaze of fondness swirling in your beautiful solemn orbs.

But he can’t. He can’t anymore.

And to that he goes back to that midnight swirl, that feeling of falling, to that voice inside his head that was constantly questioning him, encouraging him to release the rope that was still bruising his slowly crumbling heart that he’s put at the back of his mind, not yet wanting to face the reality of the other side, a world without your soft hands holding his cheeks, an existence without your love.

“Surrender Shouta…”

It all felt like déjà vu. Your pretty face blurred with the sheer veil. Soft smiles and salty droplets of tears. The gold-lined red carpet. The people present. It was all like back then, but instead of that classic black tuxedo and a black bow tie, it was a white suit and a navy blue tie.

You’re smiling… at him. Looking directly at him.

It was a whisper, a message just for him; words that helped him to finally let go, to accept, and to be patient.

“Shouta… I hope that you still remember that you will forever be a part of me. Until the next life Shouta Aizawa. Wait for me, we’ll start again; continue what we can’t finish.”

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

I hope you all liked this piece. My requests are (finally) open.

#Shouta Aizawa #Aizawa #Shouta Aizawa Fanfic #Aizawa Fanfics #BNHA Fanfic #Shouta Aizawa x You #Shouta Aizawa x Reader #Hizashi Yamada #Yamada #Hizashi Yamada Fanfic #Yamada Fanfics #Hizashi Yamada x You #Hizashi Yamada x Reader #Eraserhead #Present Mic #Eraserhead x Reader #Present Mic x Reader

104 notes · View notes

asweetprologue · 4 years

Text

deep in the coffin of your chest

Octoberfest 13: Possession (whumptober #15)

Something was wrong. Jaskier knew it instantly, in the way a deer knows when it’s been spotted by a wolf, the way a field mouse feels in the shadow of a hawk. Jaskier was sitting on the other side of the charcoal circle they’d drawn up, finishing the second to last of the runes. It looked like yrden, mostly, just a more permanent trap. Geralt had wanted to snare the wraith for easier dispatch, knowing that the fight would be harder without a talisman to burn. Jaskier helped as much as he was able, looking carefully over the lines Geralt had sketched out in his notebook before moving to fill in the runes on the floor. The smooth marble of the mausoleum accepted the marks easily, neat little lines of soot almost hidden from view. The air was still, the smell of damp stone and faint decay hanging around them. Geralt had finished his own side and looked over the work with a satisfied hum, and then something in his posture had changed.

He looked the same, was the thing. Nothing had changed. There were no flickering lights, no rush of wind, nothing to indicate that a malevolent force had arrived. But the way Geralt was holding his head was suddenly a little off, his expression when he looked up at Jaskier just a bit too flat. Something wasn’t right. Jaskier had barely one more line to do before the circle was complete, but he hesitated.

“Geralt?” he said, unsure. “Are you alright?”

It was like a switch being flipped. For a moment, everything was still, Geralt’s face utterly emotionless. And then, in the blink of an eye, rage unlike anything Jaskier had ever seen stole over his features and a growl filled the room. It rumbled through the room like thunder, echoing through the alcoves and into the vaulted ceiling above them.

Jaskier dropped the charcoal. It clattered softly to the ground near his knee.

“Geralt, what’s wrong? What -” Jaskier didn’t have time to finish, because Geralt was standing with all the fluid grace of a seasoned witcher and stalking towards him. Jaskier scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. He’d never felt scared of Geralt before, but something about the slow prowl towards him made the long lost prey part of his brain scream run run run! Geralt’s pupils were wide, black entirely swallowing up the lovely gold, and he looked angry. Jaskier turned, seized by a sudden panic, but Geralt closed the distance too quickly. The witcher slammed into him, shoving Jaskier back against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He floundered for breath as Geralt stepped towards him again, unable to get his bearings before fingers were grabbing his forehead and slamming his head back into the stone wall of the crypt.

Jaskier’s vision swam. Spots danced in front of his eyes as pain exploded from the back of his skull, instantly making his stomach lurch. He gasped, reeling at the shock of the blow and the betrayal. Geralt would never hurt him. He wouldn’t. But whatever this was, it wasn’t Geralt. Jaskier could tell, squinting at him through watering eyes. Geralt would never look at him with such hatred. “Geralt, snap out of it!”

There was a blow to his gut, not as hard as Jaskier knew Geralt could deliver but hard enough that he could hear the faint groan of his ribs. It bowled him over, one hand going to cradle his abused stomach while the other blindly reached for Geralt’s shoulder. Seeking support even when it was he who’d dealt the blow. It was a mistake; Geralt grabbed his arm and twisted, tackling Jaskier to the ground. He couldn’t keep his injured head from banging against the floor again, and the repeat impact made Jaskier’s vision go black for a long moment. Huge, warm hands were pinning him down, an ongoing growl reverberating through the chamber.

Jaskier lashed out, blindly reaching to try and slap Geralt’s face or knee him out of the way. It must have come as a surprise, because both blows landed and the growl stopped with a startled huff of breath. Jaskier blinked his eyes open in time to see the witcher flinch back a bit, fury twisting his features. Seeing an opening, Jaskier tried to wriggle away. His head was swimming, but he tried his best to struggle free of Geralt’s grasp. Whatever was possessing him couldn’t do this. It couldn’t be allowed to use Geralt against him.

It didn’t matter. Geralt recovered easily and grabbed Jaskier by the leg, pulling him back into place with a snarl. Jaskier met his eyes, looking for any recognition, but was met with hateful indifference. It hurt worse than any of the blows Geralt had rained down on his body, cutting through his chest like a blade. Geralt looked at him with impersonal vehemence, and Jaskier felt despair flood through him. Whatever had Geralt, it had him completely. Jaskier felt hot breath over his jugular as Geralt leaned down, violence in every line of the body above him. He choked on a sob. This was more powerful than either of them. Jaskier was going to die. And if he escaped with his own life, Geralt would be devastated.

Jaskier's hands came up to clutch at Geralt's back, holding him close even as his body screamed for him to try and fight. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst in his chest. He'd never felt fear like this - Geralt's sharp teeth were inches from Jaskier's neck, ready to tear him open at any moment. Jaskier felt a tear slip down over his cheek, falling back towards his hair. Geralt's entire body was drawn tight above him, shaking.

"It's okay," Jaskier gasped. He raised a hand to card it desperately through Geralt's hair, his thumb barely brushing over his clenched jaw. "It's okay, Geralt, it's okay. I forgive you. It's not your fault, I forgive you, okay? It's okay. I love you - i-it's okay, I love you, I love you." He was crying, but he tried to put all of his trust in Geralt into the words. Geralt was going to tear himself apart over this, Jaskier knew, and it was almost worse than the fact that he was going to die.

Geralt's clenched teeth pressed against Jaskier's neck, his lips pulled back in a silent snarl. One quick move and it would be over, Jaskier’s blood spilling across the floor and Geralt’s tongue. His fist slammed down next to Jaskier's head, shaking the ground.

"It's alright," Jaskier said softly. He leaned his forehead against Geralt's temple, a parody of a lover's embrace. "I love you, Geralt. It's okay."

Geralt shuddered against him, a whine leaving him. He was fighting it, Jaskier realized, pushing back against the thing boiling his blood. It was a moment. A chance.

The charcoal was still on the floor, inches from his face.

His only advantage was surprise. Using the hand in Geralt’s hair, Jaskier suddenly pulled as hard as he could, at the same time twisting to shove Geralt’s knee out with his foot. It was a trick Geralt himself had taught him, one only managed successfully in the past because the witcher had allowed it. But this wasn’t Geralt, and the thing inside of the body above him wasn’t ready for it. Too distracted in a silent battle of wills, Geralt tumbled to the side.

Into the circle.

Jaskier scrambled for the charcoal just as Geralt began rising back up on his knees, none of the hesitance present in his face. He - it, whatever was playing host to Geralt’s body right now - was furious, absolute rage contorting his features. It was utterly inhuman. Jaskier threw himself at the edge of the circle, towards his last final rune, just as Geralt lunged forward. One line, a gentle curve, and a tiny dash off the end.

Jaskier held perfectly still, on his hands and knees before the circle. There was a sudden shift in the air, like the pressure change when walking up a mountain, and then Geralt gasped. Jaskier looked up just in time to see a half solidified form stutter out of Geralt’s body, peeling off of him in fits and starts. Geralt staggered when it was done, fumbling a few feet outside of the circle. The thing within lunged for him, but was stopped at the edge with an angry howl. It was no true color, barely there at all, more of a density in the air and a presence before them. So hateful.

Geralt drew his sword, untouched throughout their own scuffle. It was a simple fight, which Jaskier watched from his slumped position on the marble tiles. Within a moment the creature was gone, dissipating into ash.

Not a second later Geralt was beside him, sword flung to the side. An arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him in place, and another came up to cradle the back of his head. Jaskier winced at the throb there, flinching away from the hand.

Geralt released him immediately, his expression pained. Jaskier swayed towards him without the extra support, catching himself on Geralt’s chest with one wide spread hand. “Sorry,” he said, still feeling woozy. “Hit my head. That didn’t seem like a wraith.”

“Demon,” Geralt said. He reached out again, more hesitantly now, and cupped Jaskier’s jaw. Their eyes met, and Jaskier was relieved to see familiar liquid gold staring back at him. Geralt’s eyebrows were creased in worry, guilt making his features tight. Jaskier spared one brief moment to be intensely glad that he hadn’t died. For both their sake. “You’re hurt,” Geralt said. And then, more quietly, “I hurt you.”

Jaskier huffed, even though the movement hurt his ribs. Definitely bruised. “None of that,” he said, tapping Geralt’s chest. “You didn’t do this. You know that.”

“I could see it. I couldn’t stop. It was so angry, it wanted to hurt you so badly. Why didn’t you fight back?” Geralt asked. He sounded wounded, his other hand coming up to hold Jaskier’s face in his palms. Searching his gaze for answers. “You just… gave up. You said -”

“I said I love you,” Jaskier finished for him, bringing one hand up to curl around Geralt’s wrist. He skimmed his thumb over the pulse point there, soothing. “It’s okay. I didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

“Guilty,” Geral repeated, his voice breaking. “Jaskier, I couldn’t - If you -”

“I know,” Jaskier said. He turned his head just slightly to press a kiss to Geralt’s palm. The movement made his head swim, but Geralt inhaled sharply at the soft brush of lips, so it was well worth it. “I know, darling. I’d never blame you.”

Geralt made a choked sound, and then Jaskier was being pulled into a gentle hug, mindful of his injuries. Geralt tucked him in close, pressing his nose into Jaskier’s throat in an echo of his earlier position. This time, Jaskier had never felt so safe. “I’m sorry,” he rasped out, pressing the words into Jaskier’s skin. “I couldn’t bear to lose you. You must know, that I - You -”

“I do. It’s okay. I know,” Jaskier said. He brushed his fingers gently through Geralt’s hair, trying to sooth the guilty, fearful man before him. Who he loved so dearly. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt hummed and Jaskier felt the press of slightly chapped lips at his jaw before Geralt pulled back. “Good,” he said, eyes over bright. He glanced over Jaskier’s features and frowned. “Shit. We should get you to a healer.”

“Ah, I’ve had worse after a night of hard drinking,” Jaskier said, offering Geralt a grin. “You aren’t all that tough, at the end of the day.”

Geralt frowned back at him, not rising to the joke. “I was holding it back,” he said absently, moving to run his fingers lightly through Jaskier’s hair. There was a sizable bump there, but Jaskier hadn’t been lying - this wouldn’t be his first knock on the head, nor likely his last. “You’re going to have a concussion.”

“Good thing I’ve got you to take care of me,” Jaskier said, feeling woozy and bruised but somehow still warm and relieved. They were both alive. That was all he could ask for, at the end of it all.

He expected to receive an eye roll and a dismissive hum at his remark. Instead Geralt just looked at him with an expression that made Jaskier ache in a too-pleasant way, deep in his chest, before he leaned in to press their lips together so, so gently. “You do,” Geralt mumbled, tipping their foreheads together. “You do.”

1K notes · View notes

eartht137 · 3 years

Text

DEAREST HEART- Letter One

Okay, For The Better has got me at a standstill. Every time I go to write the next chapter, I get a very "bad" idea and I have to write it in to meld with what I have in mind, but as my birthday is approaching in 2 days and Halloween is quickly approaching, I have developed a very new and delicious idea. I thought up this story in the shower. Hear me out, okay? The blinds that cover the window in my bathroom fell, and I mean fell from the wall, so I had to take a shower in the dark with a candle. Well it gets pretty muggy in my bathroom, as there's not a lot of room, so I opened the window to get some air, well with the wind blowing and the leaves rustling I kinda got that weird feeling that someone was watching me (which I highly doubt). In this story the character/you are a new wife and mom and you've been unmotivated to do normal chores and upkeep due to de pression and anxiety. I kinda wanted to touch on some real topics that I felt may resonate as I've noticed there is a lot of depression and anxieties that have been major high and I just wanted to send a small message that you are seen, you are heard, you are worthy, you are loved. Even if it is in your own world, I'd rather have my own world that I can escape to and have things go my way than keep taking on the pressure of things we deal with everyday. Also this is another Dark Clark Kent. I know, I know, the idea of the man just does something to me. So with that curvies, I present to you Dearest Heart. Okay rant over for the day. Please proceed..........oh yeah MMMMMMmwwwwwwaaahhhhhhh

Dark Clark Kent x Plus Size Reader

Warnings: Non Con, somnophilia, masturbation, stalking, mentions of impregnation. Maybe other things too. MINORS DNI!!!

You were getting up and ready for work, since starting your new job, you'd found yourself a bit out of balance. Being a new wife and mom, trying to adjust, you'd found yourself falling in and out of a reel of depression and anxiety. You very rarely had the energy or drive to clean and sometimes your depression got you to a point where you didn't really want to keep up your hygiene. Finally, you'd gotten the burst of life you needed and decided to make use of it while you had the drive. You started keeping up your hygiene as you used to and cleaned your house day by day. You started cherishing more moments with your husband and son. You had noticed the more you took effort within the day, it helped you feel a bit better everyday. One day, you stepped outside to get a breath of fresh air and sunlight. As you were getting ready to head back inside, you saw a letter place neatly on the bars of you security door with small rose. You tilted you head in confusion and looked around. You took the letter, seeing that it had "Dearest Heart' written beautifully across the front. You walked inside while admiring the vintage parchment envelope.

"Baby?" Your husband asked curiously, making you look up and smile as he and your son watched you.

"Well I think the mailman left someone else's mail-again." You sighed tossing the letter down on the table by your door. You went over and spent the remainder of you free time with your husband and son before heading into your office and logging on for work.

On your first break, you rushed out of your office hoping to spend time with your loved ones. You giggled as you watched your husband and son sleep with their mouths wide open on your couch. You were about to step into the bathroom when you got the nagging urge to go back and look at the letter again. You stared at it from across the room a moment before finally giving in to curiosity and grabbing it. You studied it for a moment before your husband adjusting on the couch startled you. You quietly went to the bathroom and examined the letter. Looking at your phone, you realized you didn't have much time, and would just open it to see what it looked like inside. A very hopeful side of you prayed that in your head that it was filled with cash that some good saint just felt in their heart to give, but you knew that was a slim chance. When you opened the letter, you almost gasped, almost like a child feeling as if you if you'd just done something forbidden. The alarm on you phone vibrated and you jumped, the letter dropped from you hands. You laughed a bit at yourself, picked up the letter, tucked it away and went back to work.

One your lunch break, after making something to eat for yourself and your hungry boys, you found yourself practically lured back to the bathroom to find the letter you'd tucked away for later. You opened it and pulled out a very beautifully written letter, but the first line damn near made your heart stop. You read it over and over trying to make sure you weren't seeing things, but there it was in black in, your name. You took a deep breath and continued reading the letter.

My Dearest Y/n,

I promised myself I wouldn't try to interfere in your life, but my heart won't let my stand idly by. I know this is abrupt as you've never seen me in your life, at least you don't remember meeting me, its been so long ago; but I can't keep quiet about this anymore as my love for you has yet to subside. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I swore I'd never lie to you and I am a man of my word. You might be a little worried as to how I know you, where you live-but you'd be shocked at how much I know about you and it'd scare you to know how long I've watched over you. Little love, I've been a bit disappointed in you. You allowed yourself to get to far down and instead of talking it out, you've been bottling everything in. We both know how that ends. You can talk to me if you need to, but I was really disappointed in how you allowed things to get. You weren't getting out of bed, you weren't keeping your hygiene up, and you weren't keeping the house up; on top of that, you haven't been utilizing any of your self-care tools. You didn't leave the house for a month and you cried every night by yourself because you're too stubborn to get out of your own head for two seconds and let the people who love you in. You were also finding a new lie every week to call into to work, that was disappointing darling because you don't have to lie, just tell them you need a day for your health, you don't owe them anymore explanation than that, but I don't want you to lie again. Do you remember those 2 weeks your backside was sore and stinging and you couldn't figure out why? I'm so sorry dear heart but I had to light a fire in you some way, and I just can't allow you to behave in such a way. I also can't stand to see the woman I love not take care of herself. On another note, I do want to tell you how proud of you I have been with how much you love and care for our son. He's growing so big isn't he? Oh darling, I know you think he's your husbands, but I guarantee he is my flesh and blood, why do you think he stares at me so long when he sees my photo pass your screen. His blood is my blood, he knows who he is. I have decided dear heart, to be a bit more active in your life as I have come to realize that my standing by protecting in the shadows is not enough. It will be awhile my love, but one day we will be together. You, Me and our son. I love you both so much, I promise you we will be a family as we should one day. For now I will continue to watch from the distance and protect you when you need me. I will also be there to talk whenever you just want to talk out loud. Before I end this letter, I want to also tell you how proud I am that you've started writing. I love the stories you've been writing about me and I promise to fulfill every one of you desires as soon as the time is right. Only this time, you'll be able to enjoy it as much as I have. I will be writing again, you don't have to reply, but it would be nice. Keep up the good work sweetheart, I love you.

With All My Heart and Soul,

Kal-El

Your heart pounded in your ears, you forgot to breath and tears filled your eyes. You kept trying to convince yourself it was a prank, but the more you tried to deny it, the more you knew it was real. You sat thinking to yourself, when you'd written a story about him, you didn't know anyone named Kal-El. You immediately started walking around your house making sure every window and door was locked. You wanted to tell your husband, but once again the gut feeling told you not to, and you'd realized that your gut was really on point and that just made things scarier.

You finished you lunch break and the rest of that day unable to concentrate on anything. That night while you took a shower, you kept looking through the blinds to see if you'd see someone. On one had you wanted to see if there was someone really there and on the other you felt you'd probably shit yourself if you really saw someone. After a moment or two, you'd finally convinced yourself it was a sick prank and someone in the neighborhood was being an idiot. You laughed a bit and finished up, ready to finally get the sleep you'd been begging for all day. As you laid in bed, every noise made you jump. Every time something or someone would move, you'd go from the precipice of sleep to fully awake. You had been feeling watched for the longest time and you'd just blamed it on being crazy, but now with the letter confirming your nightmare, you really had no idea what to do. Your mind ran and ran until it finally shut itself down and you drifted off to a very peaceful sleep despite everything going on around you.

He sat in the corner of your dark room watching you breath calmly. He wanted so badly to go over and rock you to sleep as he watched you struggle to fall asleep, but he couldn't present himself to you just yet, not until everything was perfect the way we wanted it before he showed himself.

He sat there watching you from the other side of the room knowing that soon you'd throw the covers off of your plush body exposing your luscious curves that he loved feeling in his large hands. His hand stroked himself as he thought back to the first night he took you. You were sleeping so good, you didn't hardly move. His released his hard thick cock from their restraints and pumped himself as he watched your breasts rise and fall with your breathing. He thought back to the first time he tasted your nipples, how hard they got when he kissed and nipped them. How wet you got for him and how he once made you cum from playing with them only. He then thought about how delicious you were. His fist moving faster and rougher down his shaft. He remembered how tight you were when he first fucked you. How hot and juicy you were as he pumped deep into your soft pussy filling you with every inch of him. He wanted to ruin you, and he wished you could see the happiness he felt when you couldn't cum one night from yours or your husbands touches. His hand pumped faster as he remembered fucking you so good one night your orgasm woke you as you came, as disappointed as he was that he couldn't feel you cum around him, he was still proud to have your body so responsive for him. That sent him over the edge and he came hard wanting so badly to empty inside of you. He wanted to see you round with his baby again, but he wanted to allow you the time to fully heal. He used one of your husbands shirts to wipe himself clean, and he gave you a soft peck on the lips, smiling when you turned away.

"I love you so much. I promise things will be right soon. Sleep well dearest heart." He whispered before leaving. He couldn't wait until you found his next letter.

#dark clark kent #plus size reader #dark superman #henry cavill #stalking

72 notes · View notes

lovelyghostlyharmony · 3 years

Text

The vampire diaries- Klaus x abused reader

"You're not seeing him," Klaus stated. "He's just coming to apologize." You mumbled. "Do you really believe that sicko's coming to apologize?!" he shot back. Every year, on your birthday for the last 3 years you had been in the military, your uncle Mark came to visit, your uncle who had been sexually assaulting and beating you for years. He was the last member of your family alive, so you had no one else to tell. It worked like clockwork, that was until a few weeks ago when Klaus caught him in the middle of the act. He was coming to take you to dinner when he found the door locked. You never locked your door, so he knew something was wrong. Kicking it down, his eyes widened in complete shock as he saw what your uncle was doing to you, you silently crying. The shock didn't last long, as the look turned to disgust then pure anger as his eyes glowed. He grabbed the closest thing to him, a metal ruler, and lunged straight at your uncle, who moved, narrowly avoiding a stab to the heart. Screaming, he pulled up his trousers and ran. That was the last you had seen of him. Whenever Klaus tried to bring it up, you changed the subject, and since he knew you weren't going to tell him anything, he kept a closer eye on you.

But when you came to him this year with a smile on your face to tell him he was coming to apologize, he went livid. You were sat in your living room, and Klaus was pacing around in front of you, announcing that you weren't to see him. "Klaus, I'm sure he regrets it, you must have terrified him last time, I know I would have been if I saw you run at me with that look on your face." You chuckled, trying to act like you didn't care when in truth you were terrified. "Are you defending him?" Klaus stopped pacing and glared at you. "No! God no! I'm just saying he probably meant it when he said he was sorry. He just wants to say it in person is all." You reasoned. Klaus sighed, exasperated. He knew you weren't going to listen to him. "Fine, but as long as I'm here when he visits, you're not letting him in. What time does he get here?" he asked. You looked at the time. 11:57. "2:00pm." You said. "Okay, I'm gonna go grab a shower, I'll be back." He said with a slight smile. And then he was gone. Reassured by the fact that he would be here when your uncle came, you let out a small sigh. You had lots of work to do, so you got started. About an hour later, there was a knock at your door. Assuming it was Klaus, you let him in. "Come in," you called. Your eyes widened as you saw it wasn't Klaus. Trying to hide your shock, you spoke. "You're early. By an hour." "Yeah, I figured it couldn't wait, I owe you an apology," he muttered, locking the door without you realizing it, then walking over to the sofa. "Come sit, please." He smiled. Sitting down opposite him, you smiled. You were so happy it was unbelievable. But when his kind smile turned to a sinister grin, you knew your happiness was short-lived. Jumping up, you ran for the door. Stretching your arm out for the handle, you felt big arms grab you roughly around the waist. Too late. You tried helplessly to fight him off, but he was so much bigger and stronger than you. You tried to scream but he clamped his giant hand over your mouth before any sound came out. Walking backward, he finally came to the sofa and sat down, still holding you, so you were on his lap when he did so. You shivered as you felt his erection press into your ass. His hand still tight over your mouth, his free hand wandered under your shirt and onto your breasts. You cringed at his touch and he smirked, proud of himself for getting the best of you. Then his hands made there way down to your pants. You felt him fiddle with the buttons for a moment, then his hands made there way into your panties. You sat there helpless, tears sliding silently down your cheeks. "Hey, (y/n), sorry I took so long," Klaus said, twisting the door knob to find it locked, just like last year. Picturing you, laying there helpless, anger took hold of him, kicking open the door once again, he saw you sat there, on the sicko's lap with one hand over your mouth and the other down your pants. Your eyes widened at the sight of your saviour once again. He was holding to steaming cups of tea, he kept hold of the mugs. You knew what he was thinking and moved as much as you could to the left, it wasn't much, but Klaus had amazing accuracy as an original vampire. Seconds later, the piping hot liquid was flying through the air towards your Uncle. Hitting him in the face, he screamed in agony and threw you to the floor. "What the fuck did you do? You bastard!" he screamed, standing up. Klaus flinched as he heard him shout. Mark launched himself at Klaus, fists swinging. Klaus calmly dodged before grabbing his arm and twisting it before the taller mans back. He then kicked him behind the knees, and as he fell backwards onto the floor, Levi jumped on top of him making sure to keep his arms pinned under his knees. He started raining blow after blow onto the blonde mans head. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth but Levi wouldn't stop. He kept going until he was unconscious and still showed no signs of stopping. "Klaus." You mumbled from where you were sat on the floor. The sound of your voice instantly knocking him out of his furious trance. He got

off of Mark and ran towards you, embracing you in a tight, safe hug. "I'm so sorry." He whispered over and over again into your hair as your shoulders began to shake. He held you there for God knows how long before you finally spoke. "It's been happening since I was 7." You mumbled. "That was 11 years ago." He said, eyes wide. He slowly pushed you away so he could see your face. "Why didn't you tell anyone?" "I owe him. My parents died when I was 3 and he had been looking after me until I joined the military when I turned 15. He took in me and my little sister and said that when if I did things with him, he would keep my sister safe. My sister's dead but he said I still owed him for looking after me for all those years." You sighed, looking down. "You've been dealing with him for 15 years? How can you always be so happy while hiding something like that? You should have told me! I would have killed him a long time ago." Klaus scowled, glancing over to your uncle, who still lay unconscious Getting up, he offered you his hand. "C'mon." "Where are we going?" you asked, a confused look on your face. "To Elijah's. He needs to know what happened. And he also needs to know that that bastard needs to be put out of his misery if he's not dead that is." he said in a low voice. "Wait! I cant Elijah" you yelled after being dragged out of your office. "Cant tell me what?" Elijah asked, raising an eyebrow as he turned to corner to face you. "If you don't, I will," Klaus said, looking from you to his brother. Moments later, you were sat in a comfy chair in the kitchen. He looked at you with a curious gaze, then looked at Klaus, who seemed to be itching with anger. He raised his eyebrows as noticed how angry he looked. "So, anyone feel like telling me what's going on?" He said, leaning forwards and putting an elbow in his desk. Klaus stopped pacing and looked at you. You looked away. "(y/n)'s--" he began. "Stop." You interrupted. "I'll tell him." Elijah's gaze shifted from Klaus to you. You tried to muster every ounce of courage you had. "To put it simply, my uncle Mark has been raping and beating me for 11 years." You mumbled, trying extremely hard not to burst into tears again. Klaus's face darkened again at the thought of that man with his filthy hands all over you, you unable to do anything. "When did you find out?" Elijah asked, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Last year. I caught the bastard with his trousers down." He muttered darkly. "And why didn't either of you say anything?" "(y/n) didn't want anyone to know." he sighed. "I thought it would change how everyone saw me." "When she was seven." Klaus spat, clearly disgusted. Elijah understood his feelings. He had always been fond of you, and he enjoyed the fact that the two of you were close. In some ways, he had seen you as a daughter. And to here all of this hurt him more than he cared to admit. They both looked at you, and you looked down again. "What does he look like?" "About 6ft, short blonde hair, brown eyes, broken nose, missing teeth," Klaus answered. "Ah. Where is he?" "In y/n's room. He was unconscious when we left to come here." You piped up. "Lets go then," Elijah said, getting up and heading for the door. About an hour later, Mark finally woke up to see you and the vampires sat on the sofa. "Ah, finally awake are we?" Elijah asked, walking towards him. "Let me introduce myself." He said. "My name is Elijah Mikaleson. I would say nice to meet you, but its hardly that. Let me get straight to the point." He said, hauling Mark to his feet. "This girl is like a daughter to me," He smiled and pulled you into his side. "If you ever hurt her again, I will cut you into little slices, starting off with your toes and making my way up until I get to your head, and then personally feed you to the werewolves. Got it? and if for some stupid reason you decide to come back here, either me or Klaus over there will kill you. Though I heard he nearly did last year." With that, he punched him square in the stomach, winding him. Then landing a kick straight into his balls.

Collapsing in agony, Elijah bent down and pulled him up by his collar. "Remember what I just told you when you get another stupid idea like your last one." He smiled innocently before slamming him back down on the floor, making sure he was unconscious. Ruffling your hair, he smiled. "Remember, if anything like this happens again, or anything for that matter, you can talk to me. Although I'm sure you would go to him first." He smirked, nodding to Klaus. "I really did mean it when I said you're like a daughter to me, by the way. Anyway, I'll leave you two alone." He smiled again, before hauling your uncle over your shoulder and marching towards the door. "Goodnight." "Goodnight, dad." You smiled for the first time that day. He chuckled softly and left. You turned to face Klaus, who had already made his way over to you. He wrapped his arms around you and brought you in close. "Thanks, Klaus." You smiled gratefully into his shoulder. "You really are my hero."

#the vampire diaries #klaus mikealson x reader #abused reader #elijah mikaleson x platonic reader #the originals

121 notes · View notes

intheticklecloset · 3 years

Text

Say It, Deku! (My Hero Academia)

Primary Universe

@ghostlyshylee Yaaaaas! I love writing tickle fights between these two; their rivalry just adds to the fun of it all! This one is in the vein of the "Give Up, Deku!" storyline, but as Bakugou and Deku settled some things recently, it didn't seem right for Kacchan to get off without some giggles of his own! Enjoy! ^^

16. "Make me."

Since that night when they’d happened upon each other in the woods near the dorms, Deku and Bakugou had had three tickle fights.

The first was not even a week later, when Deku had been sent to find Kacchan since he wasn’t replying to his texts. The blonde had been in the gym going to town on a punching bag, and Deku had snuck up behind him, initiating a tickle fight that he ultimately lost.

The second had been during their one-week spring break. Deku had nervously texted his friend and asked if he wanted to spar, which had then turned into the two of them tickling each other nearly to death until the green-haired hero had been pinned and forced to submit.

The third was happening now.

The two of them were hanging out in the common room way after hours on a Friday night with Kirishima, Mina, and Todoroki, all of whom were currently on the couch watching them roll around on the floor, fingers digging and laughter booming. Deku had made the mistake of saying he’d be the number-one hero someday, which of course spurred Bakugou into claiming that no, he’d be number one. They’d gone back and forth for only a moment when the blonde took initiative for a change and kicked things off, going for his death spot first, of course.

As things stood now, however, Deku had the upper hand, pinning Bakugou’s chest with his forearm and drilling into his stomach with his other hand.

“Stuhuhuhuhuhupid nerd!” Bakugou was giggling hysterically, trying to gain some sort of purchase but unable to do much more than flail for the moment. The only reason he was okay with this tickle fight going down in a public area was because they had friends with them to provide cover if need be. “Gihihihihihihive it up! I’ll behehehehehe number ohohohohone, not you!”

“No,” Deku insisted breathlessly, beaming, “I’ll be number one! Admit it, Kacchan!”

“Nehehehehehehehever!”

Deku reached his hand up Bakugou’s shirt to scratch directly at his ribs, making the blonde unleash a long fit of cackling and squirming even as the smaller hero then pressed his lips to the small strip of belly his friend was showing and blowing as hard as he could manage under the circumstances.

Bakugou bucked so hard he actually managed to force Deku to fall back, and with that brief moment, he was suddenly on top again, shoving his hands under Deku’s arms. “You’ll be the one admitting defeat, you nerd. Not me!”

“Nahahahahahahahahaha!” Deku tried desperately to stay upright but failed miserably, winding up on his back once more, laughing loudly as Kacchan dug into his second worst spot. “NO I WOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHON’T!!”

“Oh, yes, you will.”

“YOU CAHAHAHAHAHAHAN’T MAHAHAHAHAHAKE ME!!”

“Heck yeah, I can make you,” Bakugou growled, lunging for Deku’s socked feet and digging in there, trying to switch things up a little. “I can make you do whatever I want if I tickle you hard enough.”

“Nohohohohohoho you cahahahahahahan’t!” Deku squealed, bursting into hysterical giggles, trying to sit up.

“I can.”

From his place on the couch, Todoroki blushed but found that he couldn’t tear his eyes from the scene. Usually he was either the one doing the tickling or the one being tickled. He’d never considered a situation in which he might be both, switching back and forth rapidly like these two were.

Kirishima watched with a huge grin on his face, secretly hoping Deku would get the better of Bakugou in the end. Not because he wanted the green-haired boy to be the number-one hero over his best friend, but because it would be satisfying to watch someone else tickle the blonde into giving up.

Mina also smiled at the scene, rooting for no one in particular; simply enjoying the pureness of the moment.

Bakugou tickled Deku’s feet until he realized the nerd was finally able to sit up and tickle him back, at which point he whirled around and dug deep into his hips, forcing the smaller boy right back onto the floor, screaming with laughter.

“NOHOHOHOHOHOHO!! NOT THEHEHEHEHEHERE AGAIN, PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

“Say I’ll be the number-one hero,” Bakugou demanded, grinning wickedly. “Say it, Deku!”

“NEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEVER!!”

“Then suffer.”

Deku tossed his head back and screeched with unstoppable hysterics when Bakugou actually dared to lean down and blow a raspberry against his neck in tandem with the harsh tickling on his hips.

“STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP IT!!” Deku begged, kicking and shoving at the blonde as hard as he could while weak with laughter. “NO FAHAHAHAHAHAHAIR!!”

“This is a tickle fight! Anything is fair.”

“OH YEHEHEHEAH?!” Deku grabbed onto Bakugou’s shoulders, hooked a leg around his hip, and used a fraction of One For All’s power to roll them over so their positions were swapped, then went straight for his friend’s death spot while gasping for breath at the same time, still giggling. “Then you tell me that I’ll be the number-one hero!”

“GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!” Bakugou roared with laughter, trying to grab onto his rival’s hair, clothes, anything. “CUHUHUHUHUHUHURSE YOU AND THAHAHAHAHAT STUHUHUHUHUHUPID ONE FOR--!!”

Realizing that Bakugou was too lost in his ticklish distress to remember he needed to keep Deku’s power a secret, the smaller boy slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up, which made Kirishima throw back his head and laugh.

“How’s it feel, Bakugou?!”

Deku grinned down at his friend, whose eyes had gone wide in shock before his struggling intensified. “Now, now, Kacchan. I can’t help it if my quirk is just stronger than yours.”

A chorus of “ooooh!” went up from the couch.

If looks could kill, Bakugou’s glare would have been Deku’s end. He grabbed roughly at the smaller boy’s ribs, forcing his hand to pull away from his mouth. “I’LL KIHIHIHIHIHIHILL YOU FOR THAHAHAHAHAHAT YOU STUPID NEHEHEHEHEHERD!!”

“I’d like to see you try,” Deku shot back, growing more daring as the tickle fight went on. In the next moment he’d shoved Bakugou’s shirt up to his chest, making both Kiri and Mina wolf-whistle teasingly at him in the split second before Deku’s lips pressed into his bottom ribs and— “PFFTTTBBB!!!”

Bakugou arched his back and let out a scream before dissolving into silent laughter, his face turning redder with every second that passed. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP DEHEHEHEHEKU!!” He cried when he’d regained his breath. “DOHOHOHOHON’T DO THA-AAAAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

Deku raspberried him again, then again, and again, until he finally sat back with a smirk, surprised to see mirthful tears in the blonde’s eyes. For a brief moment he considered letting up, but then decided, no, I’m so close to breaking him and winning this one! I’ve got to keep going!

“What’s the matter, Kacchan?” He teased, raking up and down his ribs roughly before settling back on his sweet spot and knuckling into it. “Surely the number-one hero can take a little tickling, if in fact you are going to be number one!”

“SCREHEHEHEHEHEW YOU, DEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEKU!!” Bakugou laughed so hard the first mirthful tear escaped him. He desperately tried to push the smaller boy away but was too weakened to do anything more than flail around. “YOU KNOHOHOHOHOHOW I CAHAHAHAHAHAN’T TAKE IT THEHEHEHEHEHERE!!”

“So give up already,” Deku replied, grinning.

“NO WAHAHAHAHAHAY!!”

“All right. I’ll just keep tickling you, then!”

Bakugou was growing desperate. He was in so much ticklish agony he could barely stand it, laughing so hard his stomach hurt and tears streamed down his cheeks – much to his mortification. He didn’t have the strength to fight back anymore, but he was not going to give the nerd the satisfaction of hearing him admit defeat.

Still, he had to get out of this somehow.

“FIHIHIHIHIHIHINE!! OKAY, OKAHAHAHAHAHAY!! YOU’LL BE NUHUHUHUMBER OHOHOHOHONE!!”

Shocked that he’d actually made Kacchan say it, Deku stopped and stared at him, beaming. “Really?”

The spectators on the couch were also surprised – until Bakugou shoved Deku down face-first onto the floor, sat on his waist, hooked his fingers into his hipbones, and dug like he was mining for gold.

“Nope.”

“GAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! KACCHAN YOU TRIHIHIHIHIHIHIHICKED ME!!”

“Again, just exploiting one of your weaknesses,” Bakugou replied, smirking triumphantly. “You’ve always been too nice during tickle fights. That, and you’re far too trusting for your own good. It’s so easy to put you in your place.”

Deku pounded the ground desperately, too far lost to his laughter to realize the blonde might see it as tapping out. “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

“I told you you’d be number one, but I didn’t say what for. That was your first mistake, nerd.” Bakugou grinned up at their friends, who were all watching with rapt interest and amusement. “Now, you’re going to tell me I’ll be the number-one hero, or you’ll be stuck like this with me tickling you until the end of time. It’s your choice. Say it, Deku. Say it or suffer.”

Deku was losing his mind laughing so hard, practically out of breath already, but he was not going to give Bakugou the satisfaction of hearing him admit defeat. So – even though everything in his body screamed for him to give up – he remained defiant. “NOHOHOHOHOHOHO, I’LL BEHEHEHE THE NUMBER-OHOHOHOHOHONE HEHEHEHEHEHERO!!”

Bakugou let out a wicked laugh. “Not if I tickle you to death first.”

210 notes · View notes