#and then i Fucked Up the head tilt anyways its hardly even tilted its just kind of awkwardly offset from the neck
Photo
lost your head
#before i complain for the rest of these tags i should clarify this isnt vent art or anything lol we're cool#the fuckin. entire creative process behind the initial idea for this to what it is now is. 📱💥#the idea came at first on account of connecting the dots between two song lyrics#but when i came up w designs that would properly call back to said songs i was like ...#well this would just kind of look like me n saltwater wouldnt it. so i said fuck it its them#or would be. bc ive also been sitting on this for months i didnt start it until like 2 days ago -_-#also i had to bust out 3d models for this and ohhh my god tryign to figure out how to a) pose them and#b) translate that into a sketch that would reasonably fit my normal art style took. foreever#i ended up sketching the pose out like 3 dif times before landing on the one that i went over for these lines O(-<#and then i Fucked Up the head tilt anyways its hardly even tilted its just kind of awkwardly offset from the neck#oh well. theres other compositions...#n honestly like i think aside from the head (the actual point of the piece ...) i honestly didnt do too bad#definitely most limbs and hands are all a bit janky but like definitely not as janky as they couldve been yknow? which is cool#also enjoy the faces those did turn out particularly well i think. so like that is swag too. but god this is underwhelming#im just sitting here like wow this one rules (still disappointed anyways)#one last tag ijust realized i forgot the hair curl. exploding myslef immediately now#anyways i have to add categorizations now..#my characters#myself#underneath the dock
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Refuge | chapter one.
prologue/previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist
chapter one: tainted homecoming
wordcount: ~1k
summary: what if reader and joel were married before the outbreak? what if just another mundanely late night at the office on the night of the outbreak separated them for a decade?
warnings: fear, panic, passing out, reconciliations, estrangement, unwanted touching (not joel ofc), slightly unreliable narrator because she isn’t doing too well, angst boys i just binged good omens and i have thoughts ^tm.
a/n: so, this was supposed to be out two days ago. life got in the way, unfortunately. kinda bummed me out because i was SO excited to share this but didn’t get to finish it on time and yada yada anyways. its here now, as usual please let me know what you think!!
When you gasped awake, you’d been moved from the harsh tile of your shop to the worn couch you kept on the first floor. Your jacket had been taken off, leaving you in your flimsy tank top. The room was uncharacteristically dark - a menacing omen looming over your head and shrouding your senses in a sense of danger as you came to a realisation.
There was someone in your kitchen. Multiple someones.
Eerily familiar voices were whispering rapidly from behind you; hissed exchanges you had to tilt your head to make out. Your panic from before had melted away, and in its stead was the cold emptiness you had taught yourself. Sheer focus honed by the desperation to stay alive. Who the fuck are these people?
“…didn’t tell me she was with ya, could atleast’ve told me she was alive…”
“…hardly gave a shit, don’t fuckin’ lie to me now…”
“…married?…”
“…didn’t know you were that much of a family man…”
Your fingers inched towards the pencil on the coffee table before you, body tensing up not to let the couch groan. Thoughts racing at a speed just beyond your grasp, brain struggling to catch up with what you were hearing, forcing you straight into a fight-or-flight response. Tucking the pencil into the palm of your hand tightly, you silently inched to the ground, crouching to shuffle to the edge of the sofa and crane your head to catch a glimpse of whoever the hell was sitting in your home.
Taking in the scene, you felt a laugh bubbling in your chest for the first time in years. Fate’s cruelty makes for masochistic amusement, does it not?
Before you sat a ghost. One that had haunted you day and night; one whose smile, eyes, hands, mouth, everything lingered in your memory like a scent from your childhood sticking in the back of your mind - never quite there, but never quite gone, either. Like a word you wouldn’t dare voice that sitting smug on the tip of your tongue.
When your eyes met his, everything else turned into static. An afterthought. Air was punched out of your lungs, your own heartbeat echoing in your ears, eyes blinking quickly to let the illusion dissipate. Except it didn’t. You could barely comprehend anything beyond him; barely realise that someone was behind you with his hands under your shoulders and his chest pressed against your back. The arm wrapping around your waist and the bullshit placating words whispered in your ear failed to register, too.
Your last moments before the blackout flashed through your mind - Fred’s curiosity as he told you about Jackson’s new residents. Tommy’s brother - Joel. If there was someone with him, it had to be Sarah. You hadn’t even let yourself think of his name all these years, let alone wonder whether or not he was alive. It was easier to convince yourself you didn’t have time to care. Easier to convince yourself that you had the strength to slide your eyes two inches to the left and see your daughter again, too. Suddenly, your clothes felt too tattered, your hair too tangled. The jut of your cheekbones and the tremble in your fingers just felt too inadequate to face them again.
Didn’t he once say my smile could light up a room?
Even my laugh has a bitter edge to it now.
You doubted you’d ever find it in you to crawl back to that version of yourself again. The one you had been when you had it all, when you had them with you. Radiant, carefree, so openly loving.
She had been your first kill. You had ripped her to shreds, just so no one else could. The ache of loneliness had then made a permanent home on your shoulders, and you had welcomed it if only for the protection it offered.
You blinked, and the moment shattered just as suddenly as it had come. Air rushed down your throat, making you choke as you clawed at the arms restraining you in a frenzy, but they refused to budge. A grating voice was in your ear, telling you to just calm down, baby, foul breath fanning across your cheek.
Before you could so much as open your mouth, the scraping of a chair rung out and heavy, swift footsteps making their way and coming to a stop before you, a hulking figure looming over you and your captor.
How the hell was he still so…big?
What the fuck had he been eating?
This had to be a nightmare. This cannot be real. Tommy would have told me if he was alive, because Joel would have reached out. It’s just a dream, I need to wake up. Just a second shy of your plan to attempt pinching yourself - in what you considered a fool-proof test to see whether or not this was, in fact reality - you were wrenched out of the grasp of the man behind you, a larger, more firm pair of hands gripping your wrists and pulling you to put himself between you and the man who- no fucking way was that Fred. No goddamn way were his hands just all over you, his voice trying to calm you.
A wild panic began taking over your senses - the fight-or-flight instincts returning with full force. And as if even after all those years he could still feel it, Joel stood unyieldingly like a physical wall between you and the idiot. The idiot who was currently yelling about his “relationship” with you in your husband’s face.
A snort and high-pitched giggle sounded from behind you, the adrenaline forcing you to turn and locate the source immediately. When you finally looked into the eyes of your girl; the one you had desperately hoped to see again for the past decade and a half, your heart stopped. Cold dread dropped heavy like stones in your gut as pure fear burrowed into every single cell in your body.
This isn’t my fucking daughter.
hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @imherefordeanandbones, @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore, @millerscoffee, @nostalxgic, @sscorpiiio, @pedrosaidsheispunk, @its-nebuleuse, @sofiparallel, @mandoisapunk, @bastardmandennis, @pawnshopblues22, @breakfastatjoels
dividers are my own!!
series taglist: @spookyxsam, @obscurexsorrows, @planet-marz1, @lunxramour, @anavatazes, @joeldjarin, @stunkbiggu, @joels-darlin
#the last of us#tlou fanfiction#joel miller x you#the last of us x reader#tlou hbo#joel miller x f!reader#the last of us fanfiction#joel miller x female reader#the last of us fic#joel miller fanfiction#joel miller fanfic#joel miller#joel miller au#joel miller fluff#joel miller angst#joel miller imagine#joel miller one shot#joel miller self insert#joel miller the last of us#joel miller x reader#joel miller x y/n#joel the last of us#joel x reader#joel x reader smut#husband! joel miller#husband!joel#ellie tlou#ellie williams#tommy tlou
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I want something to spook witch really bad to the point where Price finds her curled up in a corner and just fucking picks her up and holds her and soothes her. And she just melts into him and has a moment where she feels safe in his arms but then has to deal with the fact that that goes against everything she believes. I love this slow burn, I don’t want them to fuck I just want them to cuddle a little bit, or for price to just cup her face in his big hands and look into her eyes and realize he doesn’t even care about getting tethers in her, he just wants to be near her. I’m so normal about them.
I'm so normal about them and I absolutely haven't read this one hundred times just thinking about Price and Witch being soft with each other. Sorry to the anons that want them to fuck, I want them to be unendingly tender with each other.
I want Price to be so familiar with Witch and her workings that he can pluck out her herbs before she even asks for them. Price sitting at the kitchen table and watching her work because he loves seeing his Witch in her element. I want him to loop an arm around her shoulders without thinking when she sits down next to him. So that Witch never worries if she's being too clingy when she leans against his side and drapes her legs over his lap. I want them to look at each other and know that's their person. Anyway I love you here's some words from further in their relationship:
There aren't many things that scare you. Witchcraft sort of necessitates that you maintain a healthy respect for the things that should make you cry in terror. So when you do get scared, you're never quite sure how to handle it. You know the basics of the responses: fight, flight, freeze, fawn, it's the execution you're never sure of.
You're actually glad you don't have the sight when you feel it walk past you. The hair on the back of your neck stands up at the daunting pressure the creature exudes. Your eyes dart up as if it might be walking by undisguised. You step to the side, to let it pass, your hand flying to grip one of Price's tethers. The man that passes you is only slightly smaller than your first glance, his face covered with what you assume is Mal's work the way your perception slides off of it. You can feel the danger of him, the predatory sweep of his eyes, you feel like a hapless civilian in Jurassic park watching a t-res walk by you.
His head tilts curiously at you, his walk only paused to assess whatever danger your attention might hold. The tether buzzes warm and insistent against your hold, you drop it quickly when the creature's eyes move to see what you'd been gripping so tightly. You think that might have been a mistake, drawing attention to your magic when fae are around is always a mistake.
The teeth on this thing, you hardly need your hagstone to see them. The hungry aggression in its eyes is enough to let you glimpse the dangerous spines that run down its back, to feel the swing of its tail and hear the crack of its claws. You're pulled back against the familiar tobacco scent of Price as a voice asks,
"König? What's wrong?"
Price's arm wraps around your shoulders, and you turn into his grip, not proud of the way you hide from this monster. It doesn't matter, Price doesn't care if you hide, you know that. That's why you can turn your back to such an overpowering threat, and how you know with absolute surety that you're safe in Price's hold.
"So this is where you've been hiding," You can feel the suppressed growl in Price's chest where you press close, the feigned politeness.
"Price," The fae, König you suppose, greets. You don't know if the voice really fits the monster, that helps to soften some of your fear. "I know your shadow is in the city, I should have assumed you would be too."
"Just for business." Price tells him.
"Business," König sounds out the word, like he doesn't believe him, "what business?"
"Are you scaring people again?" The same voice from before, closer now, "Goddammit." The overpowering presence seems to rush out of the air, intimidation melting away to give room for something softer. Now it's Price's turn to tense. You turn your head to peak at the overgrown fae, and the woman chastising him. König seems much less scary when he's got his shoulders scrunched up and his head hung low.
#1fae1#tf 1fae1#john price x reader#captain john price#john price#captain price#oc: witch#john price x oc#captain price x oc#fae!Price#Witch immediately like: Oh wait I know that woman#This is your boyfriend??? The old god masquerading as a normal fae?#Price isn't scared of you König stop trying
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guess who’s back, back again.
anyways i was looking through the prompts bc i wanted to see if anything would fit with another character but.
32 and scara? 🫣
(i will be back when i figure out the perfect prompt to go with who i was thinking of hehehe)
✎ grumpy meets clingy.
ft. scaramouche x gn!reader
prompt: "don't touch me while i'm trying to fall asleep."
w.c. 559 words
content: fluff, established relationship, clingy reader - usual grumpy scara hehe, harbinger!scara, light cursing, i’m gonna say hints to his story just in case
notes: the first time i'm writing for scara outside of my scara & ei angst omfg i hope i don't butcher the crap out of him
moonlight floods through the open window, you’re indifferent about shutting the curtains when night falls. you like to gaze upon the moon in its fullest, admiring it in all of it’s peaceful serenity. to begin with, your boyfriend was reluctant to let you keep the curtains open. he complained, claiming that the brightness of the moon would keep him awake.
scaramouche would not explicitly say it out loud but he didn’t mind the loss of sleep when he sees you gazing out of the window, your eyes soft as you drift into another realm inside your head. he has objected that you love the moon more than him - you giggled in response, of course your boyfriend would be jealous of the moon.
you’re restless and not even the moon is comforting you. you shuffle amongst the silk sheets, rolling onto your back to see the form of your boyfriend. he’s staring up at the ceiling. you wish to reach out, touch him but he’s probably on such high alert in his current thought process. if you would ask, scaramouche would simply say he is scheming. it’s usually enough to put you off prying any further, you do not need the details of what the harbinger gets up to.
swallowing the lump in your throat, you slide over to scaramouche’s side in a futile attempt to curl up against him so that you may finally fall asleep. at the slightest touch against his arm, scaramouche is budging away from you. a scoff leaves his lips when he realises it was you.
“don’t touch me while i’m trying to fall asleep.” he mumbles, a little snarkily but you have dealt with him long enough to know that he doesn’t mean an ounce of what he says. you roll your eyes.
“you’re hardly trying for starts, the ceiling isn’t that interesting scara.” your eyes are beginning to burn, begging to be closed so you may drift off. scaramouche catches the way your eyelashes are fluttering, barely lowering as if fighting to keep your eyes open.
“i’m counting seelies or whatever the fuck that saying is.” scaramouche knows damn well what the saying is but the words leave his mouth in a mutter anyway as he tilts his head back on the pillows.
“just let me put my head on your chest and i won’t bother your counting any longer.” you sigh, just wishing he’d stop being stubborn for five minutes. scaramouche groans, uttering a ‘fine’ as he hesitantly watches you rest your head against his chest. the contact makes him tense, the muscles in his stomach tightening when you drape an arm across the region.
scaramouche is by no means warm, in fact he is naturally cold - perfect for summer nights like these. as you exhale in mild content, your eyelashes fluttering shut at the cherished contact with your boyfriend, scaramouche wonders what he did to deserve someone as patient and kind as you. you deal with him with little to no qualms - not even about this forsaken job he ended up with.
when he assumes that you have fell into a slumber long awaited, scaramouche lowers his arm around your shoulders and he tangles his lanky legs with yours. a sigh leaves his lips but as he closes his eyes, he misses the smile that crosses your face.
© https-heizou 2023.
#— 🧁 sugar ‘n’ spice#https-heizou#genshin x you#genshin#genshin impact#genshin impact x reader#genshin impact fluff#scaramouche x reader#genshin scaramouche#scaramouche#genshin fluff#genshin x reader
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biting truth
frank castle x gn!reader, angst/whump, 2693 words
warnings for mentions of violence & injury, canon typical events
for day 9 of whumpril: pinned down | bruises | “who did this to you?”
a/n: just an fyi the fic contains some roughhousing that i would nevverrrrrr tolerate or think was suitable in an irl relationship but... its fiction and hes frank so . we ride
tagging: @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc
He’s moved it, he must have done. Probably thinks he’s protecting you, too, thinks that you wouldn’t even miss it. Like this is any safer, rooting around blindly for the touch of metal. He’s forgetting, obviously, that being with him is as much of a fucking threat as being him. That the target on his head reflects right back onto yours, red dot between your brows. All he’s done is strip away the one certainty you had. It’s okay, you thought, if someone comes, because it’s right there in the drawer.
‘Frank,’ you shout, pawing through the clutter in your bedside, ‘I swear to God, if you’ve touched my shit again.’
If shouldn’t even be in that sentence, because he has. He definitely has.
You abandon the pens and wires in the drawer, and reach for the laundry hamper, upturning a weeks worth of dirty clothes onto the floor. Nothing heavy falls out, so you don’t bother rifling through it afterwards. He’s not dumb enough to stash it in there, anyway, desperate as you are.
The bed is your next target; you grunt, lifting the mattress from the frame and shoving it diagonally. Opening up any hiding places that might lie beneath, but there’s no luck there, either. Just slats of wood and old shoe boxes. Fuck.
Before you can put it back and begin fixing the mess you’ve made, the war zone in your own bedroom, there’s a cough at the door—a forced one. Frank clearing his throat to get your attention. When you look up, he’s standing slanted against the doorframe, watching you scramble, arms crossed and waiting.
You can’t help but glare in return. ‘Where is it, Frank?’
He exhales, head tilting, like his day’s been any harder than yours has. ‘Where’s what?’
‘My fucking gun,’ you snap, because surely he knows, regardless of his ignorance to the rest of it—what happened, what you endured—that, he knows.
But he says nothing. He just continues to look at you, arms crossed, gaze steady. Forced patience like every father has. So, you carry on searching, moving around the wonky mattress to root through his bedside instead, which is despairingly empty. Un-lived in. He’s still not been in one place long enough to gather clutter like you have.
‘Now’s not the time to be precious,’ you snark, slamming the drawer shut again. ‘I want it back.’
You get a sigh instead of an answer. ‘You gonna tell me what happened?’ he asks. ‘To your face?’
It was only a matter of time before he noticed that. Probably clocked it as soon as you got home, really, despite the efforts you made to hide it. You’d hurried into the bedroom before he had time to ask, head down, face to the floor, but that was a doomed tactic to start with. Too unlike you to go unchallenged by him.
Now that he’s standing there, parallel, you can hardly hide the bruises on your neck, the dried blood under your nose. Can hardly convince him that it’s anything other than what it is—because he knows, he knows what a fight looks like—but you can play his game in return. You’re just as good at biting your tongue as he is.
‘No,’ you tell him, definite.
He nods, standing out of his lean. ‘Alright,’ he says, as if that’s the end of it.
But it isn’t, because you’re still at a disadvantage. You put your hand out, palm up, and step forward until you’re directly in front of him. Fingertips to his chest. The hall light sits behind the crown of his head, shining onto your face, highlighting the bruises. The blood. It doesn’t matter. ‘Give me the gun,’ you demand.
‘No.’
‘Frank.’
He shrugs, inviting the stand-off to settle. Head hard and jaw set. He could do this all day.
‘Fine.’ You’ll strip the apartment bare until you find it. He can even watch, if he likes.
When you try to move around him, he blocks you, his arm going up to grip a palm to the doorframe. You push against it, but he tenses. Pause to look at him, brow raised, and he just looks back at you, stubborn.
Really? That’s what he’s fighting you on, after everything, your right to own firearms? If it wasn’t so maddeningly annoying, you’d laugh. If you weren’t still running on adrenaline, and pain, and deep, untouched fear, you’d tell him so. You’d make him see how absurd he’s being, given the weapon that he is himself.
Instead, you duck under his barrier before he can stop you, and ignore the way he calls your name afterwards—like a curse—to hot-foot into the living room. It has to be in here somewhere. Even he wouldn’t dispose of it entirely.
‘Will you just talk to me?’ he complains, boots heavy on the floorboards. He’s hounding after you, of course, through the short hallway, between the couches, into the kitchenette.
Where is it? Where would he put it?
You open the cabinet under the sink, then slam it shut again.
‘You come home,’ he says, hovering behind, ‘with that shit all over your face, and you expect me to just ignore it?’
‘I expect you to trust me,’ you quip back. ‘The only person you ever trust is…’
You spin, piece slotting into the puzzle at last. It’s on him still. He hasn’t hidden it at all, because he’s the only one he trusts to use it.
‘Give it to me.’
He sniffs, stalling, then nods a fraction, hands propped on his waist. ‘When you tell me what you need it for.’
You dive at him, too sick of bickering to bother with anything other than action now, reaching for the back of his jeans. When your arms aren’t quite long enough to get there, you hook his belt loops instead, twisting him toward you. And that’s as far as you get, because, well, it’s Frank. You can never out-step him.
He grabs your biceps before you can try to reach it a second time, which—God—which triggers something you didn’t expect, a reaction like you’re there again, like you’re in between buildings downtown, struggling to get free, and you slap him. Not hard, but palms flat and directionless. Panic swatting to get away from him, his chest, his arms, anything besides working toward the gun; for a moment, you’ve forgotten about the gun.
You catch his face once before he makes any firm efforts to stop you, his head turning from the impact.
Then you’re against the wall behind, not roughly, but in a controlled way. Walked back and put there, with his grip on your arms light enough to leave wiggle room still.
‘Get off me,’ you bark, shaping guilt into anger. Too high to come back down yet, to realise it’s Frank, your frank, that you’re fighting against.
‘Not until you—hey. Hey!’ He drops his hold to your wrists, pinning them to the wall by your sides. Arms forced straight and motionless at last. ‘Stop,’ he instructs, voice taut in his effort not to shout, ‘stop it. Tell me what’s going on.’
You try him again, curving under his hold. Hips to his, spine arching, fists bumping the drywall. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even look mad.
‘Get off me, Frank.’
‘Who did this to you?’ he asks, looking more concerned than annoyed, despite the situation. His heavy brows sink together, his eyes scan your face like you’re something to be ret-conned. Worry printed behind the dark of them. ‘Tell me.’
‘I won’t.’
He hasn’t even seen the worst of the bruising, doesn’t really know what you’re protecting him from yet. You aren’t doing it to be stubborn, or mysterious, or to give yourself power over something he can’t reach. You won’t tell him because it’ll make things worse, because it’ll possess him beyond rationality and then you’ll have nothing left, just aches and an empty apartment.
‘Please just leave it,’ you try, attempting to soften him. ‘It’s dealt with.’
Again, he doesn’t budge. He adjusts his hold, bringing your hands up, elbows bent. ‘We can stay like this as long as you want.’
Your nostrils flare, and you know you’re looking at him with venom, because the plea didn’t work, and he’s a mule that won’t budge, and it doesn’t matter, right now, that you love him still, under it all, because he’s winning. He’s winning. You don’t have the same unwavering patience that he does—when it comes to you. His lungs are scooping in breaths, as riled up as you are, but his hands are firm, his grip steady. His jaw flexes as he waits you out. And he wins.
‘Fine,’ you concede, ‘alright. Just—get off me. I’ll tell you.’
He considers it for a moment before deciding you aren’t lying, then breaks free. Palms open, boots back. You rub your wrists, though they aren’t hurting, and flick him a sour look.
‘Well?’ he prompts.
‘Jesus, okay.’ It’s concern, you know, that’s drawn the urgency out of him. It’s the bruise under your eye, and the blood on your nose, staring back at him, but, God, if it doesn’t feel like a punishment. Like you’ve done wrong yourself, instead of being the victim in the first place. ‘It was Billy,’ you admit, and your voice pinches at the end like it might break. If you could give him a different name, any other name, you would do it happily. Easily. Saying Billy’s is like tugging the pin from a grenade and holding onto it afterwards. Waiting.
He frowns, speaking carefully around the word, ‘Billy?’
‘Yes, Billy.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, Frank, he tried to snatch me to use as bait.’ You walk past him, aimless, and pause again once you’re by the kitchen island. ‘But he forgot to account for the fact I’m not easily fucking abducted.’
All that special, super secret, military service, and he didn’t even bother to look into your own history. Your training. You aren’t military standard, but you know how to fight well enough to have caught him off-guard. Which was all you needed, apparently.
‘He hurt you,’ Frank says. A statement, not a question, said to help him process it. You watch him chew it over in his head, and you know where it takes him. You had tried to avoid it.
‘No more than I hurt him,’ you reply, attempting to sound reassuring. ‘Was like fighting a fucking clone of myself.’
It’s not entirely true, because he had the up on you in terms of height, weight, intent—he wanted you to go with him, for the sake of his cause. For the sake of Frank. You just wanted to make enough of a scene that he couldn’t succeed. But it isn’t entirely false, either. You had got a swipe of nails cross his cheek, a knee to the soft of his groin. It was like cats, by the end, slapping paws at each other, biting ears. No rules and no tact, either. He couldn’t do anything once you’d found a crowd to push into, wouldn’t do something insane enough to get the advantage again, so you went.
‘I got into the Subway before he could stop me,’ you add.
You’d watched him from the safety of the carriage, doors shut firmly between the two of you, feeling victorious. Now, looking at Frank, it’s obvious your win was just a pause in the fight, a moment to catch your breath.
He’s flexing his hands, curling them in and out of fists. You watch him lick his lip, nodding, watch his expression change like he’s talking to himself. Working it all out behind his skull and you’re not invited.
‘You can relax, Frank. You’ve officially go the upper hand.’ Billy’s plan to get at him, to draw him out of the cracks, has failed. He can’t try it again now that it’s laid bare, spelled out for Frank to work around.
‘He tried to—’
‘But he didn’t, did he?’ You flap your arms, gesturing to yourself. ‘I’m fine. Crisis averted.’
The look he gives you in return makes you falter. Tugs your heart from under all the stress, the print of adrenaline, and reminds it of itself. What it beats for. He looks seconds away from darting out of here, like the moment of misjudgement before a deer leaps across the highway. Your gun is in his waistband already. His boots are on. It’d take him less than a minute to ruin everything, to be gone before you could stop him.
When you speak again, it’s with half the bite and conviction of before. More of a bargain, a plea, than anything else. ‘Don’t make all of this for nothing by walking into his trap anyway.’
It’s not your life you were fighting for, it was his. If Billy got you to where he wanted, you know how it would’ve gone down. A life for a life. Frank would’ve agreed to it without a thought, in a heartbeat, would have sacrificed himself before Billy even got a knife to your throat. Before a threat was even laid.
He’s thinking about it still. Wants to end this now, instead of waiting for the next play.
‘So what was your plan?’ he asks suddenly, half-scoffing. He can barely look at you as he says it. ‘You were gonna go out there, and kill him yourself?’
You don’t know what stings more, the doubt in his voice that you could, or the idea that you’d be dumb enough to try, knowing what he’d do in return if it all went wrong.
‘All I’m ever doing, Frank, is trying to protect you from yourself.’ You’re hissing the words out at him, forcing them through your teeth. ‘Forgive me, if I want to protect my own life every once in a while.’
You don’t want to kill Billy, you don’t even have the mental space to imagine it. You just want a weapon that would stop him the next time he tries, if he tries. You won’t be lucky a second time around. Billy wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating you twice, especially now that you’ve left your mark on him.
Frank is breathing heavy enough for you to hear it, his chest up and down under the black of his shirt. It’s not frustration anymore, but fear. Control slipping out from beneath him. He can’t expect you to hide, or live in the shadows like he does. He knows not to ask it of you.
‘You shouldn’t have to do that,’ he says.
You sigh. You don’t need to answer him, don’t need to remind him that, well, yes. You do have to do it. And you’re far too deep into the mess of it all to step out of range now.
‘Billy won’t,’ he starts, though you both know he’ll be lying by the end of it. ‘He won’t come near you again. Alright? You don’t need to…’
You put your hand out again. Your voice is soft now. ‘It’ll make me feel better,’ you say, ‘please.’
He pauses, for a drawn out moment, with his gaze somewhere on the ground in front of him. Then he reaches behind, to pull the gun from his jeans, and passes it to you.
Billy won’t, he said, he shouldn’t. But he might, and that’s a truth that neither of you can try to hide from each other. A reality that sits in the room already.
‘Thank-you,’ you breathe, relieved now that it’s in your hand, and soon it’ll be back by the bed where it belongs. A safety net you hope you’ll never bounce in.
Frank nods, running his tongue over his gums. When he finally connects again, his eyes on yours, expression tired more than anything else, you smile. Or try to. He doesn’t match the gesture, turning to leave instead.
‘I’ll run a bath,’ he says, ‘get you cleaned up.’
‘Alright.’
You know how it goes. Clean, soothed, and back to argue about it all over again.
#frank castle x reader#frank castle fanfiction#frank castle x you#whumpril2023#whumpril#im getting brave now adding frankie to my blorbo writing wheel#this reader character is such a firecracker i almost feel bad for frank LMAO#he doesnt need the stress
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Viking Blood
December 28: Heater/Sunrise and Sleepover (Nick Amaro x F!reader)
(From the winter prompts found here)
CW: Named nationality; burgeoning love; fluff; no editing whatsoever.
Word Count: 972
AN: Requested by anon!
It’s like Murphy’s Law: just when New York City is going through its coldest snap in a decade, the furnace in Nick Amaro’s house decides to die.
Any other time, he’d suffer through it. He lives alone in the house now that Maria and Zara have moved to D.C., so he only has to worry about himself. Any other time, he’d wrap himself in layers and tough it out until morning when a repair person can come.
It’s dangerously cold though. The space heaters he has barely touch the cold, and he moves them into the basement anyway to try and salvage the pipes, to keep them from bursting.
There’s no other alternative, then. He calls his partner. You’ve always had his back, and you’ve always extended the offer for anything he needs.
Tonight, on the coldest night of the year in New York City, what he needs is a warm bed. Or at least a warm apartment.
-----
He gets the former, not the latter.
“Look, the couch is comfortable but it’s cold as hell in here,” you explain. You rub the back of your neck, apologetic. Embarrassed, maybe.
“So?”
“So it’s better if we bunk up for the night. That okay with you?”
“We’ve shared a bed before. Remember when we were stuck in Newark?”
You grin at him. “Yeah, asshole, and you complained to everyone that I snored.”
“You did snore.”
You huff at him. Cross your arms. “Didn’t.”
“Snored like a bear. Snored like a muscle car. Snored like—”
“You’re being awfully rude to the only person standing between you and hypothermia, buddy,” you interject, your grin turning sly. “Unless you want to call Munch. I bet he’s a champion cuddler.”
Nick holds up his hands in surrender. “Alright, fine. You didn’t snore. You sleep like a dainty little princess.”
“Damn straight, guapo.” You chuck him on the shoulder, then tilt your head in the direction of your bedroom. “Get cleaned up. Make yourself at home.”
-----
Make yourself at home.
He doesn’t, not really, not at first. At home, he sprawls in his bed, but in your bed, he tries to be respectful. Keeps to his side, keeps his arms and legs to himself.
But fuck if it isn’t still cold, even with your apartment building’s functional furnace. Even with the small space heater you have set in the bedroom to help supplement the heat. Even in his flannel pajama pants, Henley shirt, thick socks. There’s a thick layer of frost on your window. The wind outside shrieks, howls. It makes the night seem even darker and colder.
He can’t help himself when he shivers. Every shift in bed presses him against a new cold spot, and it takes all of his strength to not let his teeth chatter together.
You, though? You seem…okay.
You also notice his shivering.
“Want me to cuddle with you?” you ask.
He turns his head in the darkness, can just make out the shape of you beside him. “How are you not cold?”
“Oh, I am. Just not as cold as you.”
“Still…”
“C’mere.” He feels you shift beside him, then feels your hand on him. Turning him towards you, and then the warm embrace of your arms around him. You rub his back briskly, then tuck the covers more firmly around him. Hardly a manly moment for him, but Nick finds he doesn’t mind being babied a little bit, at least by you. Of relinquishing control and letting you gently manhandle him to warm him up.
It does the trick. Within a moment, his shivering stops, and a moment after that, the final bit of chill leaves his bones. Between the two of you—you the warmer one—the bed is a cozy little haven on the coldest night in Nick’s recent memory.
“Better?” you ask, and you drop your voice low because he’s right there, but it comes out unintentionally sultry, nearly sexy.
“Yeah,” he replies, and his near-whisper sounds sultry too.
“Why are we talking to each other like we’re phone sex line operators?” you ask in that same low, sexy voice, and it startles a laugh out of him, which makes you chuckle too.
He doesn’t answer, but he asks (in a more normal tone, he hopes), “why aren’t you colder?”
“Genetics. My grandma was from Norway.”
Nick smiles in the darkness. “So you’re built for this sort of weather.”
“It’s the Viking blood.”
He reaches out, wraps a comfortable arm around you and pulls you closer. “I appreciate you looking out for me.”
“Anytime, partner.”
-----
Nick survives the night. He wakes up once in the dead of night to use the bathroom, and it’s torture to pull himself from the cocoon of your bed. He dashes to the bathroom, shivering the whole time, then dashes back to your bedroom, practically diving under the covers.
He doesn’t wake you, but the way you reach for him in your sleep, the displeased grumble you make until you have your arms back around him…it makes something tight go loose and lax in his chest, an unfurling that’s been threatening for a long while now.
When you start to snore a moment later, he only smiles and holds you a little tighter.
When he falls asleep, the last cognizant thought is how lucky he is to have found a warm place to stay for the night, in the arms of his partner and closest friend.
And when he wakes before you in the morning, the rosy sunrise casting your sleep-rumpled features in a soft light, his first thought is how lucky he is to have found a warm place to land after his divorce, because he recognizes the unfurling in his chest finally—the first sign of spring, of warmer weather. The beginning thaw brought on by love.
#Nick Amaro#nick amaro imagine#nick amaro x reader#law and order svu#tropes-and-tales#winter prompts 2022
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cw ; gn!reader, injuries, conversations about mortality, age gap (reader is a little older than aki)
"Fuck, Hayakawa - did I piss you off in a past life? Relax a little."
"Shut up," He says, exasperated. Mad really, the first time you've ever seen him so angry "You're such an idiot."
"How is this my fault? I'm just doing my job.''
The lights in Aki's kitchen are low and dark. Power and Denji are asleep in another room, something that you're thankful for. You've got your shirt off, back exposed entirely with hardly anything covering your chest.
Aki is currently nursing a wound on your back, a harsh gash that might need stitches. It's too early to tell, and you hate hospitals. That sterilized scent makes your head spin and you hate the fluorescent light. You weren't expecting to see Aki. You were on the way to where Kishibe and Quanxi were because you knew they wouldn't ask any questions.
And truthfully, you didn't really want Aki to see you like this. He found you though, passed out under a streetlight, and you were half-conscious as you leaned on him. Now you're sitting on a wood stool in his kitchen, a single overhead light making a glow on your back.
And he's pissed about it, because of course he is. You and Aki don't get along like you should. Of the hunters, you only casually hangout around Kishibe and Quanxi and some of the other soft-hearted folks. He's softened too, since Denji and Power came into the mix, but it's hard for you to not shrink back upon seeing him. Once upon a time, you used to be close though. A long time ago, it feels like.
So it's not weird sitting like this, but it is awkward. You suck some air between your teeth as alcohol stings your skin and Aki scoffs at you.
"You get a knife in your back but you can't handle some stinging?"
"Adrenaline is a good friend of mine, Aki."
""It's like you have a death wish." He says, and this time he sounds upset forreal. You don't know what to say to that.
"Once upon a time, you did too, yknow? I know it's different now, which is great but," You sigh, glancing over at him with a sigh "Don't act like you don't get it."
"I don't get you," He admits, and you can't tell if he's being gentle or sarcastic. Maybe both "Everyone knows why I'm here. But what reason do you have to be in public safety?"
You laugh a little.
"You know the way you're talking makes it seem like you care."
"...I just want to know why."
For a minute you remember that Aki is soft-hearted. That he's kind by nature, that he's warm. You feel a little bad for putting him on the spot. You tilt your head back to get a good look at his face, and you're taken back to the minutes you kissed each other on new years. Young and different.
He looks good still. Brighter.
"I wanted to do good. Everybody dies. Not everyone gets a choice. So, if I'm going to die inevitably, I hope it's for something good." You explain, laughing a bit on your own philosophy "I went out doing something that protected someone. To me, that's a good life.'
"You're a saint." He bites, sarcastic. There's a little sincerity laced in it. And you think to yourself that's right, he's always been a little like this. It's the big brother in him, the caretaker. Even when he's annoyed, he's probably trying to look out for you.
You're not the type who can accept it readily. Maybe that's why things never worked out.
"Thanks, Hayakawa. I'll cherish that."
"I'm being sarcastic." He deadpans, placing pressure on the wound. You don't laugh that time.
"Not completely though, right?"
He's silent that. You feel a little bad for making fun of him.
"No. Not completely," He replies, tiredness in his tone "You're not the kind of person who should be working here. That's what I mean."
Oh, there he goes again. Stirring your feelings up. You smile.
"You make me want to kiss you, Aki," You say with a loopy grin. You blame it on the blood loss "And for what its worth, I think you're a good person anyway."
"That so."
"Teenage angst aside," You say. He makes an annoyed expression "I don't think you're a bad kid. It's been a tough life. You didn't know what to do."
"I always knew I was probably too angry."
"Holding onto your feelings in this line of work is tough. It's a miracle you've stayed mostly the same, even though you're soft as a marshmallow now."
"Shut up." You hear him laugh, genuine and barely there.
"I'm saying you're a good person and that you've got more to take care of. Worry about me a little less and about yourself a little more."
"As if I could worry about you any less. You're worse than Power and Denji combined."
"That's harsh, man."
"I'm saying," He breathes out steady, leaning over you so the light is covered by his shadow "You're reckless. And I hate people seeing die. So don't die. At least not in front of me."
"What a funny way of saying I love you, Hayakawa."
"What happened to Aki?"
You grin.
"Sorry, Aki." You grab the hand that's on your back, trembling - locking your fingers to his nervous ones and squeezing tight "I'll try not to die instead. Okay?"
"I'm gonna hold you to it."
"I know. That's so like you."
#aki x reader#writing tag#love having my inbox closed i dont want to be percieved he is simply On My Mind
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Fuck it Friday
tagged by @daffi-990 @giddyupbuck @wikiangela @fortheloveofbuddie @callmenewbie
from my buddie bachelorette wip! takes place right after buck and eddie get into a fight their first week on the show
The punches Eddie gave him are nothing compared to the look Maddie is giving him now as Chimney is patching him up in one of the mansion’s rooms they made into a makeshift infirmary. She’s currently facetiming him as Chimney is putting a splint on his nose.
“What the fuck, Evan?” A sinking disappointment makes its way further into his chest. She hardly ever calls him Evan anymore, instead calling him by his nickname nowadays. He didn’t want to answer her when she called, but he knows if he didn’t then Maddie would get even more worried and he couldn’t do that to her. “It hasn’t even been a week yet and you’ve already been in a fight? Maybe this is a sign you shouldn’t have done this.”
When Buck told his sister he was going on The Bachelorette, the first thing Maddie did was burst out laughing. He just realized that Abby is never going to come back from Europe – too long actually, and although he could see it on his sister’s face, he’s forever grateful she never said a sympathetic “I told you so, and I’m so sorry” to him – and he was having a shitty time getting back into the dating scene. Before Abby he tried, sometimes. But mostly he was focused on the getting laid aspect more than developing an emotional connection with someone.
Then he met Abby. Falling in love with her…he wanted that again. When he couldn’t find that over the many people he matched on dating apps and met through happenstance he felt that Abby must’ve been it for him.
Until he saw the auditions for The Bachelorette.
He’s familiar with the show, obviously. Maddie’s made him watch it sometimes when it’s her turn to watch a show. Sometimes a hookup would want to watch it as the Netflix portion during Netflix and Chill. He remembers whenever the bachelorette realizes how much she’s falling for a guy and how real their love feels when they become vulnerable with each other.
They can’t fake that.
Maddie didn’t approve. Thinks he is becoming desperate. “You just have to be patient. You’ll find your love, don’t try to force it. Also I really don’t need to see my baby brother embarrass himself on national television.”
“Hey, just be grateful your brother’s nose is the worst of his injuries,” Chimney says. Buck tries to glare at the paramedic the show hired in cases like what happened between him and Eddie, but Chimney is one step ahead of him and hands him a bag of ice. Gesturing for Buck to place it on his eye, he keeps talking to Maddie. “Besides, watching your brother try to beat the shit out of Eddie is the least dangerous thing I’ve had to deal with.”
From Buck’s phone, Maddie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen worse.”
“Oh yeah! Used to work on The Bachelor before I asked Hen for a transfer.” He shudders. “Once you see a heel where a heel should not be…”
“I used to be an ER nurse, trust me I can imagine.” Maddie’s head tilts to the side and a small giggle comes out. If Buck had the ability to narrow his eyes, he would. “But tell me anyway? What’s the story behind that…?”
“Howard. But most people call me Chimney. Don’t ask. And actually it happened a few seasons ago between-” Chimney takes Buck’s phone, walking out of the room. In between telling the story to Maddie, he tells Buck he’s free to leave with the ice packs. Just be sure to bring them back once they’re warm.
He hopes that when he brings the ice packs back, he gets his phone back too.
tagging @911-on-abc @hippolotamus @eddiebabygirldiaz @monsterrae1 @apothecarose @mammameesh @thewolvesof1998 @forthewolves @loserdiaz @disasterbuckdiaz @wildlife4life @rmd-writes @wandering-night19 @liminalmemories21 @carlos-in-glasses @bonheur-cafe @ramonaflow @thebumblecee @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @your-catfish-friend
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IM WAITING FOR THE PUNISHMENT, I KNOW ITS ON MY WAY | vampire!wilbur
~3k words / hey hey hey. so ahah. yeah. @l0veb0mb1ng keeps dropping bangers and they have good vampire fics so I couldn't help myself! blame her! anyways. hope yall enjoy!
[You get a little too invested in the murders happening around the city and get introduced to the phrase: fuck around and find out. Wilbur happened to be the person to save you. And he's kind of a vampire. Roll the tapes.]
Nothing makes sense in this fic, I am so sorry but the title is from Custer by Slipknot. I'll do a part 2 <//3
When one pictures their ideal death, it usually involves passing on during their sleep or perhaps something just as kind, maybe old age.
All this to say this is not what you pictured for yourself.
Curled up, in someone else's arms, a half-stranger, cradling your body as the two of you put pressure on the wound in your neck. You can hardly speak, struggling to even breathe, and all you can see is this man, speaking to you and you're hearing none of it. And after considering everything, yes you don't want to die… but dying in his arms seems nice.
A very handsome man, with brown, wispy, curling hair into his eyes as he looked over you, around you as he tried to find anything that could help. There was nothing. And you liked the way his eyes were red, despite knowing why they're red. His smile, you remember, had been the prettiest thing you'd ever have the pleasure to see.
"Wil-" you choke on the blood on your mouth, trying to speak, and his hands shake as they press harder on your neck and he shushes you, every part of him shaking even with the weight of your body in his lap.
"It's okay, you're gonna make it out of here, the ambulance-" and you lift a trembling hand to graze his cheek. It leaves a streak of blood on his cheek by his mouth.
"Smi- le. P-p-... please." And the two of you hear the sirens already, and his eyes flicker between the street and your face. And he chokes on air he doesn't need before flashing a small smile.
"You're going to make it out of here, I swear. You'll make it." He kept repeating it even as you felt the ache, the pain in your neck dull. Before you could realize it, you're being placed on the ground, gently as he could and without the added pressure from him, you gasp and gag on the flowing blood. But it doesn't last long, bright lights show and people slide into your blurring vision.
For better or for worse, you close your eyes and let them deal with it. Sleep tempts you enough to listen.
***
Blinking your eyes awake, you tilt your head to the side to see the monitoring equipment and the IV attached to your arm. You swallow, with an extremely dry throat you notice, and look away. You've always had a weak stomach when it comes to these things. Looking around as much as you could though, there's no one in the room. Your eyes trail to the door with the window and open blinds and people pass by every few seconds. Nobody opens the door.
You sigh, not that you really expected someone but… the last thing, the very last thing you remember, is the smiling face of a truly beautiful man. The thought of it, separated with the choking on your own blood part, still makes you feel warm.
The table beside you has your things on it, your phone and your keys. And a bouquet of flowers sitting in a vase, the prettiest you'd seen. You recognize tulips and carnations but nothing else. Still the white and blue flowers are pretty and thoughtful.
No tag on them to show who the flowers were from. Frowning, you take your phone, groaning for a second as you reach with a weak arm. Leaning back into the bed out of breath, the phone lays on your stomach, the cold screen apparent through the thin sheets.
When you catch your breath, you're quick to unlock the phone, going straight to your call log. There's a missed call from your boss and then there's your aunt in town, but there's one call that makes your eyebrows raise up.
It's a phone number you don't recognize, but checking the text messages, it seems like you did know him. Or, were going to know him. And then it all comes back to you.
Meeting him at night, having information about these strange killings in your part of the city, and then after a week of this, being attacked. Not by him. Something else entirely. And he'd tried his best to call the ambulance, let them know of your location and held tight to make sure you made it till then. At least you think. (And if you think hard enough, you remember part of his name. Will, maybe.)
The last thing you truly do remember is his smile and the warmth it brought you even when touching him made you shiver and the cold ground still sink into your bones, even now in this hospital, you could feel it.
The door opens and a doctor walks in.
He explains you lost a lot of blood, that they managed to get to you in time and that if they were a minute late, you wouldn't have been here. But then he explains that you've got a patch on your neck, that despite losing so much blood, it didn't even need stitches. ("It was… strange.")
When you asked about the flowers, he hums and scratches his beard, "I think I saw a guy deliver them to your room but other than that, I don't know I'm sorry." You mumble your thanks, sinking into your bed before the nurse comes back in and you ask for another blanket.
They let you out after twenty-four hours, and you make it home in time to see… nothing has changed.
Everything was exactly as you left it.
Which also meant the dinner you were in the middle of eating was still there. You grimace, throwing the whole plate away as you move through your apartment. Nothing had been out of place.
Tapping your fingers against your folded arms, you think absently about the wound. About how you asked if he could anything, from that night, and he froze, it was for a split second but he froze. And then he shook his head, stopping and cutting himself off every few words. But it sounded mostly like he couldn't do it. Like it would hurt him. And hey, modern medicine has its wonders, so you're not too upset.
But that night when you go to peel the bandage back after getting completely undressed to shower, your breath is stolen completely. There is hardly a wound, sign that a wound was ever there in the first place. There's two tiny dots, dragged down in a jagged line, but they're mostly scars. Fresh, and still tender when you graze over it with a finger, but still. Scars.
It made you wonder.
Whatever he did, he didn't make you into something like him. That much was obvious. The hospital food had left you hungry for real food, but the food was still things like a sandwich or a box of donuts, things like that. Nothing like whatever made him hungry.
So, scrubbing your skin off of any dirt, you get out, and dry as fast as you can. Throwing on shorts and a hoodie, you sit in the middle of your bed, arms wrapped around your legs as you dialed the phone number to this man.
He doesn't answer. And he doesn't answer the second call, and that's when you leave the voicemail. "Hey, um, Will, is that right? I- it doesn't matter, or it's not that urgent but it matters to me but I need you to call me? Or something because I'm seriously freaking out and something's wrong. Please call me back." You've never felt more pathetic in that moment but what could you afford to lose?
Dignity means nothing to you right now and as you pad to your kitchen to eat, you just knew you needed answers. Leaving your phone on the bed just in case because if he calls, and you know it's a bad time to be petty, you want him to feel just a little desperate like you did. Enough to call you a second time.
And when you come out of the kitchen after eating the leftover soup in the fridge, you see your phone has one missed call. And nothing else. Not even a voicemail.
You wonder if you should call him back when you hear frantic banging on your door. Glancing at your phone one last time, you manage to convince yourself that it couldn't possibly be him. It's way too soon, there's no way he lives close by and when did you ever give him your address?
The frantic banging didn't stop until you slide the lock off the door and opened it, and your mouth gaped open at seeing him. Him.
"I-" you stammer, struggling to form a thought. "I called you like four minutes ago, how-" he waves his hand and stops you from talking again.
"Will you let me in? And show me what's wrong?" His voice pleads with you and you bite down on your lip, chewing as you contemplated it for a second. It is why you called him, after all.
Letting him in, you lock the door behind him and show him to the couch. He doesn't sit but you're too bothered to care about it, you sit with your legs tucked under you.
"I want to start by saying I don't exactly remember everything that night, just that I was supposed to meet you and when I did, I got attacked and I- I almost died."
("Hey, hey, stay with me, you're going to be okay. Y- you're going to make it, just- just listen to my voice okay?" His voice shakes in your memory. And you have to pull all of your strength together to stay focus, even with all the blood leaving and choking and the hot, blinding pain in your neck.)
He doesn't move but you can see the flashes of emotion on his face.
"And- and when I got home and went to take a shower, it's just. Well, look." You stuttered through the beginning, breath catching in your throat as you thought about it and when you pulled the jacket down enough, just to show the scars, he stiffened. "And I wanted to know if you did anything to me- if you tried to heal me, even a little bit-" and he shakes his head, turning away and to the window. He stands by it and yeah, you look at his hands, they're closed and shaking with how hard he's clenching them.
"I told you at the beginning, there are going to be risks, looking into this." And he turns around, face definitely angry and frustrated. He can't cry, and it's not a thing of refusing to, no you can see them building in his eyes and they just won't fall. "If I tried to save you the way I was, you would have rathered me to kill you by now." And he starts pacing.
You look down at the ground, not feeling an ounce of guilt or regret. You know the truth of those murders, first hand. You know what's killing them and that's more than what the public knows. But it almost killed you.
"You have to drop it." He speaks.
And automatically, you refused, "no." You didn't even want to entertain what he wanted you to do.
"Either you stop looking into this or you die. It's as simple as that." He says, moving away from the window and towards you.
"The people need to know they're not safe-"
"-they already know!" He shouts, stopping four steps away from you. He digs his palms into his eyes, "five people have died the same exact way and nobody has been caught. People already know they're not safe. And if you tell them what, a fucking blood-sucking demon is the person behind it, they'll never believe you. And then you'll still get killed just like everyone else." He drops the palms from his hands and then steps closer, and despite being so frustrated and scared, your heart beats harder at being so close to him.
"You almost died already, just please stop." His hands hover over your neck and face, close enough to feel the chill of his cold skin.
"I can't stop. The people who died-" "-they're already dead, there's nothing you can do for them." And he steps away and when you watch him, he releases a breath he doesn't need. He turns away and for a moment, things are quiet.
And thinking real quick, to the moment where he stood so close and stared you in the eye like you staying alive mattered more than the justice these people deserved- you recall the dark irises. Nothing like the red color before.
"You're hungry." You state, and his shoulders tense up. "Why?"
"Trying to lose weight, it doesn't matter. That's not what I'm here for." He refuses to turn around.
"It- I just- there's still one thing that I'm confused about." He doesn't say anything as you stand up, moving closer to him. "I was bleeding out, I was right there. It would've been easy to-"
"To kill you?" He turns around and the both of you freeze at how close the other is, despite him being far more aware of it. And yes, that's what you want to know. He was right there, the same kind of creature that's killing your city's people, holding your bleeding body and you were right there.
"It would've been easy," you say, and his eyes dart to your face. He searches your eyes for something you can't describe.
"It wasn't." He said in the end and then backed up, backs away from you, holding his breath again. "Stop trying to be a hero and lay low for a while." And then he slammed the door on his way out.
***
It's one thing, to be told to stop being a hero, it's another to follow through with the advice. It's not like you wanted to die, far from it. But knowing what you know, you couldn't just let everyone fend for themselves against a feral vampire.
Not to mention, you're not going to listen to someone be cryptic, be the prettiest man you've ever met, and then leave you alone to make stupid decisions.
So right now, you've been following whispers and half-true rumors about this guy. It leads you all the way to this house. Right on the corner and in the middle of a neighborhood. You wonder if that's by choice for a second before wandering inside, quiet as you could with creaking floorboards. Not to mention, the door was already unlocked and swinging in the wind.
Not a good sign.
The inside was in a worse state. Things toppled over, blood splattered every imaginable surface. Bodies littered the floor. It was harder to hold the bile in as you followed the trail of chaos up the stairs, following the noise. As soon as you reach the top of the stairwell, you hear Will's voice and your heart beats a little faster. What the fuck is he doing here? And after a few whispered words, you heard vile things.
Limbs torn, flesh bitten off. Awful stuff and by the time you can even think of moving your feet because was that Will? Did he just die? You see something tossed across the hallway and seconds later, Will walks into your line of sight. He is just covered in blood. It's smeared around his mouth, coating his hands and it's seeping into his clothes. His hair caught some of it but in all honesty, he looked every bit of monster he claimed to be.
And you couldn't feel more relieved to see him.
"Oh thank fucking- you're alive." You feel your shoulders drop and you run up the stairs, just close enough to wrap your arms around his shoulders and press your forehead against his chest, standing on the lower step. You make a point to ignore the blood.
His hands slowly come up to rest on your shoulders, pushing you away enough to give him space. Enough space to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. His eyes are wide, wild and completely red. Brighter than anything.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" His voice drops in pitch and it's almost a growl with the way he speaks so low. And shit, you were supposed to stay low, weren't you?
"I caught wind of the guy being here and I was just-" your words get caught off as you watch him move, his hands dragging blood across skin and clothing, wrapping themselves around your throat in a delicate motion before pushing you against the wall, still on the stairs.
"Yeah, he's dead. Made sure of it." Your eyes, previously focused on his face, dashed to look at the dead body's direction but he clicked his tongue, lifting a finger to nudge your face back towards him. "Eyes on me." And something about him, probably knowing he's a monster, covered in blood, right after killing the man you've been tracking down, makes his gentle touch feel even softer.
He groans, leaning his nose into your hair and inhaling, and he nearly covers you in his body with how close he is. "Can feel your heartbeat under my hands, it beats so fast. Thinking about me?"
And you know your heart beat even faster, knowing he could hear it, feel it. "Are you gonna kill me this time?" You ask, because this is a strangely ill-fitting position to kill someone. Because you want him to be this close because…
"Oh, I don't want to kill you- maybe get a taste of you but," he moans into your hair, a hand leaving to press against the wall beside your head, "no, no. Want you alive. Want you begging, squirming underneath me. Need you. Need you so fucking bad" And then he presses even closer, his hips pressing against yours and you can feel him. Feel him hard and twitching beneath blood-soaked clothes. And by then you couldn't keep your hands off of him, coming up to grip his clothes, bite back your whines as he continues to grind you against the wall.
Then, a moment of clarity, you remember you're in a house full of dead bodies. Probably all monsters.
"Take me home, Will, and you can have me," whatever possessed you to say that, you don't know. But he pulls back and as you're about to head downstairs, he presses a hand against the back of your head, pulling you close to him as he kisses you. Hard with teeth clacking against each other, nipping at your lip before pulling away. Listening to you pant against his mouth.
"Hold on," he whispers against your lips, stealing another kiss before wrapping your arms and legs around him and all you can think as the world blurs around you is how lucky you are you aren't dead. Strange thing to say before you get fucked into the next week by someone who is probably legally dead- after he just slaughtered a house full of monsters- quite the strange thing to say.
But still. You're lucky. You're alive, and you're starting to think you might like this guy.
Strange things indeed.
#wilbur soot x y/n#wilbur soot x you#wilbur soot x reader#c: wilbur soot#au: vampire#vampire wilbur#tw: gore
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"Dude, how long have you been at it??"
"I AM AN IMMORTAL MACHINE! MY WILL IS INFINITE."
The human's mouth smirked in a silent chuckle as she watched her roommate on what looked like her ninth hour of gaming. The room smelled like the inside of a hot car, two different oscillation fans pointed in the robot's direction.
The human girl scanned the room as she walked closer towards her friend.
"Babes you're so hot right now that you're fucking up the pleather of your ratty gamer chair."
The camera-like head rotated, apeture adjusting as it leaned forward to get a better look at the damage. A low thrumming sound vibrated through his voice box, an equivalent to a frustrated groan. The shutter flittered as she thought about the best course of action.
"Maybe I can get a chair from the kitchen..."
"And burn the house down??"
It turned to her human companion, sitting there in silent thought, the jovial smile he was given upon entering was gone. She knew it hardly took it this long to think.
"Well... I wouldn't say that would happen... probably."
Two firm taps on the casing on top of her head, the human withdrew her finger, hissing quietly.
"Bitch you sound like you're running on Chromium and I could fry an egg on your head."
The bot took its hands off the keyboard, rotating his chair with a motion against the chest in an expression of surprised betrayal.
"C-Chromium!?"
They both looked at each other motionless, the biological of the two shifting from an expression of a disappointed by concerned mother.
It pantomimed sulking, though the feeling was far more authentic.
"S-sorry... I... was just having... you know I don't like powering off, it's not the same as sleeping, y'know. I don't dream, and I basically don't wake up until I'm fully charged. Sometimes I can't even smell or hear until I've been awake for a few minutes." She brought her knees to her head, a rumbling whine coming from inside of him.
The human wanted to console her friend, hesitantly bending down and patting him on the head, a hushed "Ow, ow." following the display of affection.
"Look, let's just hook you up in low power mode."
"I'm pretty helpless when I'm like that, and I'll charge a lot slower..."
"I'll take care of you."
It blinked, fluttering loudly as she contemplated things, but it was too late to say no. A quiet but pointed beeping emitted from inside the chassis. Low power mode.
The next ten minutes were a blur, the human hissing and cursing as she walked it into the living room like a wounded soldier. Consciousness began to fade back in as the LEDs along its spine blinked red, the fat cable plugged into the outlet on her back. The two fans from his room placed nearby.
"Oh thank fuck I thought your batteries died."
The sound of an exhale, anthropomorphized as one anyway. It focused on the... beautiful, soft face of her roommate.
"...'letric sheeb..."
She put her hands on her hips and smiled, stifling a laugh.
"I thought you said you didn't dream~?"
It leaned forward, shakily tilting its head.
"f-feelsh like id..."
"Why do you even sound like that? You like, you don't have a tongue."
The gentle sound of a revving engine, she wasn't in a thinking mood.
"O-ok how about I put on some cartoons and bring you your plushie?"
"Yeee~"
"What do you want to watch?" her tone lilted, talking now in the voice of a gentle, motherly figure.
Its apeture twitched, if she was an old computer sure enough she'd be making that AOL dial tone. The swivel of his neck going limp, leaning against the wall.
"c-cube... cube dog."
She smiled, she knew what the robot meant.
Soon the machine was squeezing its electric eel plushie and watching a show her human friend had shown to it in the past, occasionally whirring or saying simple phrases, beeping and booping in delirious joy. In the other room, her human was making fried eggs.
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Picture this okay.
Inui x hottie bi(mbo)by
Hot b(imbo)ody summer. Bikini all out. Light tan, juicy tropical drink by your side.
Carefully removing your Chanel sunglasses, you softly cock your head to the side as you eye the tall man. Chiseled physique was drowned in droplets of water as he flashes a boyish grin, alluringly yet with looming mischief. He shakes his hair warding off any excess water wetting you in the process.
“NOT ON ME THE FUCK” You hysterically yelp. Like you just wanted the sun, not that you would swim anyways it was just to look real good and drink a cold ass drink like what the fuck is up with this hot guy and his cute eyes and his big hands that you want so desperately around your waist as he fervently pounds you-
“I’m sorry, didn’t mean to be that loud but could you please move elsewhere?” Switching your game up real quick, you look into his minty hues expecting him to move. “Nah, I uh- I actually wanted to talk to you, I noticed you from afar you real cute”
“Oh! I am? Aren’t you a doll thank you so much, I like your eyes real sick!” Your hand grazing his neck ‘without a clue’, Inui eyes you with excitement. You wanna go there? He reciprocates energy through placing your hand in his and gently tracing over it. You both make eye contact, scent of chlorine and vanilla blending he can’t help but shut the space between you two.
“Your pretty bold for someone that wanted privacy aye?” Inui questions at your ear. Attempting to gain control over the dynamic Inui’s frustration slowly builds up but w-why is your body built like a pornstar? Unbeknownst to him, the whole time he was staring at your lewd white two piece practically being swallowed up by your sexy self..
“What are you talking about? I still do! But you seem friendly, look we’re even holding hands like besties” you mindlessly giggle, leaving Inui dumbfounded. He swiftly brushes off your hand off his. “Fucking tease” he chuckles.
_______
“Ow that tickles~” you mew against his collarbone. Fresh purple hickies lather his neck from your failed attempts of maintaining your sultry moans. Do you care tho? No, not when a hot stranger is balls deep within your tight pussy, holding your legs up and ramming you against the wall. Such temptation should’ve gotten you creaming at this point.
And it’s not funny when he is literally eyeballing your every move, reaction to hitting your Os, head tilting, legs shaking and his warm tongue grazing your cute plump nipples.
“You’re so dirty baby, what about that cute act you ran a while go? Were your thoughts already running wild?” Slow strokes allowed you to breathe as he continued “tell me, whadya think of?” He breathlessly gleams.
“Wanted me to fuck your brains out this way?” Moist clapping sprung off the walls indicating how loud yet quick Inui picked up his pace. His cheeks were bright red, eyes rolling back with hot drool running down the corner of his lip. He couldn’t help but take advantage of the moment just to relieve some tension in his balls. Until he heard your wantonly sighs. He gains composure.
“My lips on your fat swollen clit? Our tongues hungry for each other? Or my tip downing your wet throat? You there sweetheart? Fuck I don’t think I’ll- oh~” Couldn’t help it. He lowers you to then lift one leg over his shoulder, charging full speed in your pussy.
Wet splashes from his fingers on your clit form a pool around the floor as you’re squirting all over his fingers. Too lost in your bliss, your life-force clenching around his dick drives Inui berserk. Blue irises tinted with arousal deepen and signal desperate for its owner’s release. Almost carnal enough, Inui’s chest rises as he lets out the sluttiest whimper.
Hips moving uncontrollably as his grip around your leg and hips tighten, he can taste it.
“See what you do ah~to me cutie fuck I’m cum-mi-ahh” his words slur, tip sensitive shooting an intense amount of cum into you. His moans hardly die out, he looked so fucking slutty it almost had you break character for him. Again.
#tokyorev smut#tokyo revengers smut#tokyo revengers x reader#inui x reader#tokyo revengers inupi#inupi x reader#yummy yum yum
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TW- SA
Hey I'm sorry if your seeing this 2 times im not sure if it went in the first time cause the wifi wasn't working properly😭😭
Can you do a fic where wei ying was sa'ed by some wen soldiers before being thrown into the burial mounds set during the sunshot campaign. after he cones back as the yilling patriarch they captured one of the soldiers who sa'ed him and interrogate him,the soldeir makes comnent on wei ying and they(nie mingie,jiang cheng,jin ziuxunl,lan xichchen) find out and they confront him about ,but hes nonchalant about it.They also end up finding about his lost golden core.
Sry if its too uncomfortable❤ don't do it if it is💜
The prompt, if I wrote that all, would be more the 10k type of fic, but I hope you enjoy this scene! Also are you the anon who sent the other dark fic prompts??? My guy (gnc) I continue to be curious why you picked me of all people for them.
CW: derogatory language, mentioned past rape, WWX is dissociating pretty hard but the POV character doesn’t realize
Lan Xichen stared at the boy—the man his brother loved and found Wei Wuxian look at their captive like all the vile comments he was spewing were beneath his notice. He sounded bored of them, his expression not dissimilar to the one he used to wear at the Cloud Recesses, paying no attention to Lan Qiren’s lectures. This only seemed to enrage the Wen General more as he shouted, not stopping even when Jiang Wanyin demanded he ceased his lying. If not for the silencing talismans in the room, drawn by Wei Wuxian, quicker with his blood than anyone could procure ink, you’d be able to hear it at the other end of the camp.
Lan Xichen isn’t sure how to take control of the situation again. He’d gone because they needed someone to play Inquiry in case the prisoner died, Jiang Wanyin was there as the Jiang had long since staked claim on every Wen from Wen Chao’s posse, their blood was Yunmeng Jiang’s right to spill. Nie Mingjue could hardly be left out of the interrogation of such a high-ranking Wen soldier and excluding the Jin, even when Jin Zixuan looked like he might lose his breakfast any moment now, was a political nightmare waiting to happen.
And yet, the nightmare happened anyway, Wei Wuxian standing impassively as the soldier spoke of acts so depraved that Lan Xichen wished they were nothing but a taunt.
“Are you done?” Wei Wuxian interrupted finally.
He moved past his sect leader, hardly seemed to notice Jiang Wanyin at all, even when his martial brother reached for him. It was, Lan Xichen realized, as if none of them seemed to be there for Wei Wuxian. In the corner of the room, a shadow flashed red. It had to be one of Wei Wuxian’s brides, they never strayed far from their master, even when unseen. It should disturb Lan Xichen that even at the camps they surrounded by barriers, Wei Wuxian’s ghosts slipped in and out and yet—
“You’re nothing but Wen Chao’s whore, good for a quick fuck—”
The soldier hadn’t finished his sentence before the bride in red had her hand to his throat, bloody fingernails digging into his throat, squeezing it just hard enough to leave the man choking.
“I asked if you’re done,” Wei Wuxian repeated, his voice lacking all inflection. “Where are your troops stationed?”
“You—”
The bride in red squeezed harder before letting go of the man’s throat to pull his head back by his short hair. She grinned, teeth as sharp as blades, looking proud of herself, like a child endearing herself to her mother, waiting for Wei Wuxian’s benign approval of her actions.
The soldier spat at their feet. “You won’t be able to stop them, boy. You’ll be left begging again.”
Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “I didn’t beg then, I had no need to, unlike your Master when I tore him apart.”
Lan Xichen hadn’t been present for Wen Chao’s murder, but the stories following his execution hadn’t been kind. If even the least of the brutalities the soldier had tossed at them was true, it was understandable why Wei Wuxian would’ve lashed out so much at Wen Chao, if it was not just to avenge his sect, but also the hurt dealt to him personally.
“Besides,” Wei Wuxian continued, seemingly unbothered. “All Wen Chao did to me? Do you think the dead did any less? They repaid any hurt twice over and I told you what I’d do to you when I returned.”
And then, the soldier’s eyes widened. He wasn’t given the chance speak as the bride in red plunged her hand into his throat, effortlessly ripping it out. The solider choked, once, then drowned in his own blood.
“Be good and quiet now,” Wei Wuxian said, sounding faintly as if he were echoing another’s words. “Your screams are ruining my mood.”
The soldier’s corpse dropped to the ground and Wei Wuxian’s bride left it to return to her master’s side, handing off him like one would imagine a living bride, clinging to… not her husband. Someone she’d be less shy around. A sister perhaps, someone who might have understood.
“Wei Wuxian—”
Jiang Wanyin reached out, but when his hand touched Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, the other man pushed him away. His eyes widened and, though Lan Xichen hadn’t realized it before, it was as if a fog cleared in them. Wei Wuxian’s gaze drifted to the corpse he’d left behind and all neutrality of before washed away by pure horror. He took a step back, then another, a next one, and rushed from the room in a panic.
Jiang Wanyin didn’t even hesitate, chasing after his martial brother without another look at the slaughter behind him.
“Xichen?”
Lan Xichen tore himself from the empty hallway and faced Nie Mingjue. “I’ll play Inquiry,” Lan Xichen said and settled on interrogating the spirit. It hadn’t been torn apart, though had Wei Wuxian thought of it, perhaps he would’ve done it.
Out of respect for the Jiang Head Disciple, Lan Xichen never allowed himself to ask, is it true? All you did to Wei Wuxian?
It wasn’t for him to know.
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for everyone who wanted to see a peek of the latest chapter of pressureverse! <3
"He finds Klavier in the maze of backstage doors, sitting primly on a couch as a woman in cross-stamped vest checks him over."
“Don’t see anything worth worrying about, Mr. Gavin. But maybe be careful with the pyrotechnics next time?”
“Oh, trust me, Mein Frau, I have no plans to play with fire any time soon.” Klavier’s winning grin shifts at the sight of him entering the door, stretching into a leer as he straightens up under the EMT’s observation. “But you never know when I might end up in the hot seat, ja?”
Good grief. “I was told you had some testimony for me.” He folds his arms as he draws close, mouth twitching. “Clean bill of health, then?”
“I am right as rain, according to Frau Medic,” he replies brightly, and the EMT nods his direction, closing her kit. “She’s going to work with the technicians and sweep the stage for any electrical problems. I’m afraid she has put you out of a job as far as investigations go, Forehead.”
“Don’t know how much help I’d be with stage safety, anyway," he admits, and bites his cheek. “...You forget my name already, Prosecutor Gavin?”
Klavier blinks, and a sheepish light draws his gaze downward. “Ah. Nein. Sorry, a bad habit.”
“To remember names,” he says, and Klavier's eyes flicker up to his. “I know.” Klavier pauses, as if surprised, and Apollo ignores the off-beat skip behind his sternum. “Is mine that hard to remember?”
Klavier dips his head, an unconvincing attempt at contrite that charms regardless. “No, but can I be blamed for such teasing, when my own rival calls me Prosecutor?”
“Alright then, Klavier,” and Klavier beams, “enough with the forehead thing already. I’m going to get a complex.”
“But that is precisely why it is so good a nickname. It makes a wonderful little vein on your temple twitch just so!” Klavier chuckles, practically sparkling at his noise of displeasure. “And what is a little ribbing between friends?”
“I thought we were rivals." Idly, his attention is drawn to the gold webbing the blue expanse around Klavier’s pupils. He’d never been close enough to notice it before.
“True,” Klavier hums, chin tilting at an angle that speaks dizzying things to his brain. “But who says rivals cannot also be friends?”
“I dunno,” he mumbles, distracted. “The dictionary?”
Gilded blue blinks away as Klavier’s eyes crescent with mirth, and he blinks back to himself, realizing how he’s drifted forward at— all of it. The eyes. The give and take. The low, genuine laughter that reverberates from Klavier’s throat like the strings of his guitar.
What the hell am I doing? he wonders, shifting back on his heels.
“If you want to, you should.”
Wanting a rockstar like Klavier hardly makes him special. He’s a single person in a crowd of thousands— just the only one lucky enough to end up directly across from him. In a courtroom, backstage at a concert. He’s just...himself. He’s used to that, being the least important person in the room. But this.... Klavier— Klavier Gavin is—
“Apollo?”
He stiffens, heart jumping. There’s a deliberate lingering on its syllables, exploratory and light just like the look in Klavier’s eyes.
“Where has your mind gone?” The question is asked gently, with the same curiosity wrapped around his given name, and it’s sincere and real and fuck.
I like him, he thinks, despairing. I really actually like him.
And not just because he’s him, but because of everything else, too.
“Nowhere,” he manages. His face is on fire. Klavier’s too close now, even though the distance between them is the same. He clears his throat, ripping his gaze away before Klavier’s inquisitive nature can look straight through to his mortified, puny soul. “I’m just, uh...I’m gonna go get you some water.”
Klavier blinks at him in surprise, opening his mouth. "I— While I appreciate it, there are some bottles over—”
“I just think you could use some cooling off,” he blurts out, already turning, but not before he sees Klavier’s face fluster.
“Aha, d- danke schoen—”
He flees, stomping away with a face as hot as a stovetop.
Ridiculous, he thinks, moving mindlessly out the door and into the hallway. The impression of Klavier’s flush burns the surface of his mind, haunting his steps just as viscerally as his own embarrassment. God, cooling off? Can’t keep my stupid foot out of my mouth. And he just makes it worse, because he’s a flirt who just can’t help but sound like—
Like he means it.
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❝ they're fucking dead . ❞
@bloodybcrbie // inbox prompts.
It was meant to be a night out, a chance for the two of them to have something that finally resembled that of a date. How many nights they spent at the trailer park together, and how he knew they were far more than just friends- but this was meant to be something special. A few drinks out, with plans to take her home, what he didn’t expect was the way jealousy would rear its head, the moment other men would step into the picture. In truth it was something he should have expected, almost inevitable to happen, given her looks and figure. Perched at the corner of the bar, no matter how close he sat, the way a hand would move to her thigh, there was always someone who was too drunk, too stupid to try and cut between them anyway. He’d warned them once- but it seemed threats were never enough.
The taste of copper still lingered in his mouth, mingling with the remnants of whiskey from his last shot. Blood was still fresh, drying on his skin, and drenched his clothes to a color so dark it was that of a black ichor in the darkness of the night. What was his and theirs he could not say, all he knew was he did what he had to in order to teach them a lesson. What he didn’t want to explain was the way he managed to stuff them both into the trunk of her car. How he sat, perched atop it after, caught in the act of wiping his face when he’d hear her voice ring out. ‘They’re fucking dead.'
Gaze flickered up from the mess on his hands, a short, hard sniff of the lingering taste of a bloody nose would fill the silence as he’d slide off the back of the car. Handprints were evident, stamped all over the back where the trunk would latch, having used the weight and heft of the metal frame to help cave their skulls in and finish them off. They deserved it, after all, following him out when he’d step out for a smoke. Threatening him was one thing, but so much as mentioning Tiff was enough to send him over the edge. Two versus one, and still they didn’t stand a chance, too drunk to put up much of a fight- at least he was able to enjoy himself, walking away with only a few bruises in comparison to them.
He'd clean this mess later, once they were home, but now he had to deal with the wrath of his girl. Eyes fixated on her as the sound of her heels were quick to close the space between them. Even when she was fuming, she was beautiful, even as she’d point a well painted finger at his chest, how he couldn’t help but smile- like murder was hardly more than a game in his eyes.
“Well darlin’ that’s what tends to happen when things don’t exactly go to plan.” A hand would raise to take hold of hers, in a way, to comfort her, but in a way to also keep her close, should she try to push him away. “All they had to do was mind their business and keep their hands off you- but they couldn’t even do that now, could they?” His head would tilt then, his eyes darker than usual with the dimly lit alley they’d found themselves parked within. He’d lean in, closing the space between them slowly, the tension between them tangible, as his voice fell into hardly more than a whisper. “No one lays a hand on you but me- and if I gotta kill someone to let them know- well, guess they gotta learn the hard way now, don't they?”
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Feeling werewolfy rn
You'd be so fun to chase. trying to catch you under a paw, watching you scramble across the floor as i just keep getting in front of you, pinning you down and licking my chops. Salivating at the idea of devouring you and opening my mouth and panting, letting the hot, wet drool drip all over you. Releasing you and licking all over you, your body so small that my tongue entirely covers you, the musculature in it being enough to hold you down on its own as you struggle and try to get away from the wet warmth sweeping across you.
Pulling back to see you've taken your clothes off while I kissed you and then diving back between your legs, the warm mass enveloping your tiny twitching shaft as i watch you intently with massive golden eyes. Each time you scream and cum all over my tongue, it just makes me hungrier for you and I drool all over you more. I just keep you there at my mercy until you dry-fire and it hurts you to keep finishing over and over.
Once you're a sobbing, shaking mess, I pull back once more to sit on my haunches, pinning you under a paw and looking down at you from what looks like miles away. I lift the paw enough for you to scramble out, giving you a chance to run.
You try, but you're so small that I'm on top of you again before you can. One sweep of my tongue is enough to drench you again and knock you back onto your back, and it's easy enough to lick you up off the floor, pulling you into my mouth.
You're almost too small to chew, but I manage anyway – jaws oscillating back and forth, pinning you between teeth as large as you, punching holes through that delicate skin of yours and tossing my head around to shake you in my jaws.
I sit down on the couch that the last owners of this house used, pawing lazily between my legs to the sound of the tiny shrieks and screams from inside my mouth. Every time I imagine you bleeding out from bite wounds on my tongue, I feel another twitch down there. You're barely a meal, hardly even a snack, but there's something so satisfying about feeling you roll around in my mouth, dodging my teeth in an attempt to prolong the inevitable.
Eventually, I just give up on managing to chew you up and tilt my head and swallow – a much better decision, as it turns out. Feeling you writhe and beg as you slide slowly down my throat, inch by inch, each tiny motion so subtle, and land in my stomach is enough to drive me over the edge, shaking and spasming in a way that I can feel shakes you inside me.
I can hear the tiny sobbing – you don't want to die. No one does. Circle of life. I suck my stomach in, the powerful muscular walls grasping at your skin as the wet pocket you're sitting in suddenly becomes very speck-shaped. You're submerged in acid by now, and, well?
You make no nutrition at all, but at least you're a fun meal~
AHDHDHHJWEJAJE GOD IM. IM NORMAL. HEHDHAHS YEAH
I. I think you'd be surprised by just how willing I am...
That being said, GOSH I. REALLY LOVE THIS ONE ACTUALLY... choking sobs as I climax again and again against a rough, brutal tongue... enough pleasure to put me in agony...
Giving me a chance to run, even if its just for a game- one that you quickly end by snatching me up in your overwhelming jaws... stabbed again and again on your fangs as you savour the feeling, the taste~
FUCK THE IDEA OF YOU GETTING OFF TO MY STRUGGLES IS. SO HOT OH MY GOD <333
I would give anything to be your prey... a short bit of entertainment and a few extra calories 😵💫😵💫
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Change of Scenery
Madigan and Michael appear first here
Picrew
CW: trauma response, references to past whump
“Dude, nice one!”
Madigan smiles down at the controller in their hands. If they don’t think about it too hard, the motions come more easily, the tapping of fingers, the swivel of a joystick. They’re nowhere near as good at this as Michael, but they’re improving, and they can tell it makes their owner happy. They turn to him, fully expecting the proud and beaming grin spread across his face.
What they don’t expect is his hand, raised high in the air.
For a second, Madigan freezes, an overwhelming torrent of thought flowing through their brain. Then, a fraction of a second too late, they’re cringing hard against the couch cushions.
Stunned by the open fear on their face, Michael doesn’t notice the delay. “M-Mad?”
“S-sorry, sir.” Madigan knows their voice sounds strained. They can’t fix it, can’t make themselves sound right. The stricken look on Michael’s face isn’t going away, and Madigan is so tense they’re almost vibrating, unsure what to do.
Then, Michael is throwing his arms around them.
It takes too long for Madigan to relax their muscles. Mistake after mistake piles up – flinching and the voice and now holding their muscles tense against their owner. Real fear raises its head, drums its beating feet against Madigan’s chest.
“Someone really did a number on you.”
Michael’s voice isn’t muffled; it’s actually too loud, right against Madigan’s ear. Still shaken from their series of failures, Madigan buys themselves time anyway. “S-sorry?”
Pulling back, Michael looks Madigan in the eye, so earnest it almost hurts. Automatically, Madigan drops their gaze, but Michael tilts their chin right back up. Naked fear plays on their face, and naked pity on his. Madigan’s stomach twists.
After a pause that’s much too long for Madigan’s liking, Michael shakes his head. “Someone really hurt you, huh?”
“Y-yeah.” Once again, Madigan finds they can’t look Michael in the eye. They turn their face from him, only to be gently brought back by the touch of fingers. From the look in his eyes, they can tell he wants more, so reluctantly, they give it to him. “My…my first owner.”
Just saying the words tastes like defeat. It feels like admitting fault, a fault that’s not temporary, but lasting and unforgivable. It makes Madigan want to squirm, but Michael has one arm around their shoulders and one hand on their face, so they hold still. It takes just about all the self-control they have, but they hold still.
An unfamiliar look takes over Michael’s features. Brows crash down, eyes narrow, mouth pulls into a fearsome scowl. He’s angry. For the first time, after a month in Michael’s home, their owner is angry. “Fuck them,” he growls, and for a moment, fear thrills through Madigan as they forget who he’s talking about. When he sees their eyes widen, Michael shakes his head.
“Your old owner, I mean. Whoever they are, fuck them.”
“O-oh.” Trapped, Madigan’s eyes dart from their knees to Michael’s face to the wall behind his head. They can’t agree, can they? To agree would be the highest form of disrespect. But then, they can hardly disagree with their owner.
Before Madigan can spiral even worse about this new dilemma, Michael rescues them. He squeezes them tight against his chest once more, then releases them. “Listen. We won’t do high fives for a while. I get it, it’s scary.”
Somehow, Madigan doubts that Michael has any idea what it is to be scared at the hands of another. Still, they nod, eyes fixed on their owner’s face.
“I know you had…I mean, you must’ve had just, an awful experience before. But I won’t be like that, okay? You can trust me.”
Trust him. Madigan would laugh if they knew how. Instead, they nod, numb as they’ve ever been.
“I know that’s hard to believe, but really, Mad. You can trust me. You’ll see. This is going to be different.”
For the first time, Madigan nods in true agreement. Whatever this thing is with Michael, it is definitely going to be different from anything they’ve ever known.
#febuwhump#flinching#mad and michael#bbu#bbu general warning#box buddy#nonbinary whumpee#carewhumper
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