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dragoneyes618 · 1 year

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The night Miguel disappeared was the most terrifying of Luisa's life, and it haunted her.

He'd been upset, and rightfully so. He'd run away in a fury - in tears - as the other children shuffled awkwardly and Berto and Gloria looked away and she called after her son as her husband argued with his mother, It was important to him, Mama, he loves it, you could have talked to him first, that was too harsh-

Miguel was a twelve-year-old boy who had had a fight with his family and run away to cool off. That wasn't cause for alarm, right? He would come back in a couple of hours, and they would all sit down for a talk, and maybe come up with a compromise that would satisfy both Miguel and her mother-in-law. He would come back soon. Especially on the night of Día de los Muertos, of all nights. He would come back.

As the sky darkened and the clock struck seven, nearly two hours later, they began searching in earnest. He hadn't snuck back into the house to mope in his room, or into that space in the attic he thought nobody knew about. He wasn't anywhere on the block. They called for him; there was no answer. Luisa called all of his friends, Antonio and Paolo and Jorge, and then just began making her way down his entire class list. He wasn't by anyone's house. None of them had seen him.

Eight o'clock.

The plaza. He liked to hang out by the plaza, ostensibly for the purpose of shining shoes. He'd been there earlier, talking to a mariachi. People played music there all the time, beneath the statue of de la Cruz. Usually every Rivera automatically detoured around the plaza, what Mama Elena had infamously once called "a den of mariachis," as strains of music came from it at nearly all hours. But now they went directly there, and came back empty-handed.

There was some kind of talent show there - featuring music! - and Miguel had wanted to play there. And if not play, Luisa would have thought that he would at least watch and listen for as long as he could, but he was nowhere to be found.

Of course. He had no guitar anymore. And he'd wanted to perform.

Several mariachis remembered a boy in a red hoodie "from that family that doesn't listen to music, you know - oh," asking around to borrow a guitar just for the performance, but as each musician needed to use the guitar for his or her own performance, he'd been refused.

Nine o'clock.

Luisa ached to be out searching with everyone else, but what with the baby, she couldn't move as fast as everyone else. Also, it was better to wait here for when Miguel would finally return home soon. He would be upset, angry. He needed his mother. Better she greet him first.

Someone remembered seeing him running toward the general direction of the cemetery, although considering what night it was, it had gone unremarked at the time.

Miguel wasn't by the gates of the cemetery, and he wasn't by the path that wound all throughout the cemetery, and he wasn't at Mama Imelda's grave - Mama Elena had theorized that he would go there to shout at her, as she had instigated the Rivera ban on music. But he wasn't there, nor by the graves of her brothers or great-grandfather or great-aunt. He wasn't in the Rivera plot of the cemetery at all.

The mausoleum, de la Cruz's mausoleum. Perhaps he had gone there, to pour out his feeling to his role model - what was that he'd been saying before, that de la Cruz had been his great-great-grandfather? What a ridiculous idea! Mama Imelda hated musicians.

Miguel wasn't there either. The groundskeeper mentioned someone having disturbed it a while ago, knocking the guitar to the ground, but he assured them that it was empty now.

Ten o'clock.

"Papa is coming home?" Mama Coco asked from where she sat by the window.

"No, Mama Coco," Luisa whispered, her heart aching, adjusting her grandmother-in-law's shawl.

Mama Coco frowned. "When is he coming home?"

"I don't know when he is coming home," Luisa said, and realized that she and Mama Coco were talking about two different people. It was nothing, really, a few hours as opposed to a lifetime, and Miguel would be found safe and sound, he would, but she suddenly understood the melancholy that had settled over Mama Coco these past few years, trapped in her childhood, waiting and worrying for her father.

Her father, who had never come home.

Eleven o'clock.

Luisa called Enrique for the sixteenth time. He was checking the community ofrenda for any sign of Miguel. There was not.

Twelve o'clock in the morning, one, two, three, four, five, and the night stretched on inexorably, the longest and worst night of Luisa's life. No sign of Miguel, no sign of him anywhere.

Miguel reappeared as the run rose, running into the house with a familiar-looking guitar, his hoodie gone, out of breath, exhausted, the echoes of terror and the drive of determination in his eyes.

He played for Mama Coco, and it was like the sun rose in her eyes. She laughed and wept, but her mind was better than it had been in years. She told them story upon story of her father, and produced his letters to her from where she'd hidden them in a drawer for all these years.

Luisa didn't pay as much attention as she should have, because her mind was wrapped up in Miguel. She had nearly collapsed in relief when he'd burst in through the door, safe and sound. As soon as the last notes from the guitar faded away she embraced him, kissed him, and wept.

Yet the terror of that night lingered.

It had only been one night. There were people whose children went missing for days, weeks, months, years, and who didn't return alive and well like Miguel had. And Miguel had been fine the whole time. He'd gotten locked in the mausoleum, he said, and no one had noticed him until nearly dawn. Scary and unnerving, yes, which explained the occasional nightmares he now had. But he was fine.

But the tension, the worry, the fear, the sheer, agonized waiting, her heart in her throat-

Enrique hadn't told her this at the time, but he confided in her a few days later that at one point he, his father, and his sister had visited the river and inspected the shallows. Just in case.

Luisa began to worry about Miguel if he was so much as five minutes late coming home from school. She needed to know where he was at all times. She saw him off to school and counted the hours until he was safely back home. If he went to a friend's house and forgot to call, she panicked all over again.

And she had nightmares now too, nightmares of Miguel being gone, nightmares of reliving that entire dreadful night. Miguel gone, he isn't in his room. Miguel gone, he isn't in the kitchen. Miguel gone, he isn't in the workshop. Miguel gone, he isn't in the plaza. Miguel gone, he isn't anywhere, and no one has seen him, and she runs around the whole town but no one has seen him, no one has ever seen him, it's as though he's never existed-

And then she wakes up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, little Socorro breathing softly beside her, reminding her that it is all over, that Miguel is safe, it was just a dream.

But she would always feel restless, never able to resist the urge to check on Miguel as he slept, tangled in his blanket, one foot dangling off the bed as he breathed harshly from his own bad dream. She would walk in and rest her hand on his forehead just to ensure herself that he was really there, that he was perfectly safe, that he hadn't disappeared again.

#miguel rivera #luisa rivera #mama luisa rivera #coco #coco (2017)#coco(2017)#coco fanfiction #angst #miguel was missing the entire night and his family had no clue where he was #they must have been terrified

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eolewyn1010 · 2 years

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Second part of disgruntled Dracula recapping / commenting for today. Shit's about to get gory.

Jack, Arthur and Quincey went home together last night and had themselves a nice, traumatized little threesome. Or at least I assume so because my queer dreams joke is the only way of keeping me involved. By midday, it's back to the fuckery. They're all appropriately clad in black and return to the cemetery with a little more resolve, repeating their spiel of letting themselves be locked in after a funeral. Lucy is sleeping in her coffin and GAWD I wish Jack would stop talking about her "voluptuous mouth". It was already annoying when Jonathan did that with Dracula; now it's grating. Van Helsing gets on with prep and explains the methods he's using to the dude squad; at least all the research trips have paid out. I'm not sure where in Eastern Europe the "nosferatu" bit comes from as Stoker doesn't care to specify because he doesn't do research; I'm pretty sure it isn't Romanian though.

According to van Helsing, the kids haven't been drained to the threshold of vampirism and will heal once Lucy is dead for good (and her soul "with the other Angels", wtf, Stoker? that purity complex tho), so hurry it is. Now. Wasn't two nights ago, amirite? And van Helsing, resident shithead, actually makes Arthur do the thing. And convinces him that he'll fondly remember mutilating his fiancée's corpse, because, after all, this gruesome act was rescuing her soul and therefore the violence can't cause anything but happy, joyful memories! Fuck van Helsing. And fuck Stoker. What kind of logic is that? As van Helsing reads out a prayer for the dead, Arthur stakes a screeching, writhing, blood-frothing Lucy. This is terrible. Arthur did not have to go through this. None of them did, save van Helsing. It does turn Lucy back into a normal human corpse, but God, this scene. Good that Jack and Quincey take care of Arthur afterwards because van Helsing basically just goes "told ya so!" Yeah, and then Arthur is allowed to kiss a body that has been dead for nine days and has in the meantime drunk human blood and been frothing from the mouth a minute ago. Yummy.

Then it's sawing off the stake while leaving the point of it inside Lucy's body, chopping off her head, filling her mouth with garlic, re-sealing the coffin. Whew, this was a ride. We could have done this way back the night after she died. All of nature rejoices at this lovely morning, aaannnnd van Helsing signs the dude squad up for more trauma; he wants them to join the Harker half of the polycule and also the hunt for Dracula. He actively pressures them. Cool. Mina has wired van Helsing who has to drive home once more Stoker's point that Mina is the only woman in this world worth a damn. Since I have revoked his blorbo status on my blog already anyway, he gets a new nickname as author's avatar: van Hellstoker. He also gets to boss Jack around (sleep? emotional recovery? who needs those?). Jack is to study Jonathan's transcribed diaries to know what they're getting into. But first, he picks up Mina from the railway station. She gets a bedroom and an office at the asylum prepared for her, how lovely! Jack does what van Hellstoker couldn't be arsed to with the dude squad: He worries about potentially traumatizing Mina. Here's to some more wholesome interaction.

#Dracula Daily #my exasperation at van Helsing knows no bounds #also the staking scene #it IS a horror novel after all

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justanindecisivepisces · 2 years

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A SYNOPSIS OF A WEEK IN THE PALE

The first six days of our study abroad trip were spent in Dublin, Ireland and to say that I fell in love with this city would be an understatement. As soon as we got to the city center I felt its chaotic energy match with my own, and if it were not for the housing crisis Ireland is currently facing as well as my ties back home, I would probably be apartment hunting right about now.

Our first day was cut a little short due to the fact that our plane from Newark to Dublin was on the tarmac for about five hours before we actually departed. Once we finally arrived in Dublin we had our lunch and orientation at DCU before going into the city. We were able to wonder around and get lost in the busy streets. Around the Temple Bar area, there was plenty of places to take pictures, shop, and even a place to get delicious bubble waffles. We ended up having dinner at the Bankers Bar which left us with lots of fun memories as well as running jokes that would come up for the remainder of our time in Ireland (most surrounding Moscow Mules).

Our second day in Dublin was a lot of fun and our tour guide John Kennedy took us to see, what I would consider, some of Dublin's most beautiful spots. We got to see St. Patrick's Cathedral and walk around in the park. Something neat about this that would remain true for our time so far is that, almost all of the dogs we see are off leash and also extremely well behaved! We then went to the Embassy of Peru and took a picture in front of the door which can be recognized from a many Irish postcards! Following this we got to go and visit the Christ Church. The architecture and artifacts here were super cool and even included a replica of the Magna Carta.

Day three was spent in Wicklow and Glendalough! We took a long, bumpy drive to our first destination which was a sheepdog herding demo. We were able to see the border collies, Jim and Maggie, herd the sheep and listen to all of the commands their handler gave. We also got to hold and take pictures with baby lambs!! A highlight from this day was going to The Wicklow Heather Restaurant for lunch and eating in the Writers Room, which is something my friend Natalie had planned since March. We went to the Glendalough visitors center afterwards and got to see some of the high crosses in the cemetery.

Day four unfortunately was one of my least favorite days of this trip, but a day I will definitely remember. We started out at the Kilmainham Gaol, on a guided tour. This was a former jail that holds a lot of the cities sad history, and it was hard to focus on a lot of the information while trying to process some of the things we had heard. We learned that there were children in Kilmainham as young as five years old, and directly after walked into the portion of the jail where executions took place. Overall this was a very heavy part of our trip and I wish I would have been more prepared. This was then followed by our trip to the Guinness Storehouse, which was not a fan favorite to say the least.

Day five was pretty enjoyable and we used it as our explore day! Day six was our last day in the city and was one of the first times I felt we were able to relate our class material to our CCSA itinerary. We visited the Famine Memorial and then took a tour of the Jeanie Johnston. This was a really incredible way to learn about the Famine as well as its past and current effects on Ireland as a country. After this we had enough time to see the Oscar Wilde statue and the Dublin Castle before going to Trinity College. At Trinity College we had a class meeting outside before going in and seeing The Book Of Kells as well as a lot of other super cool things they had in their museum. Our time in Dublin feels like it went super fast and I do already have plans to go back sometime soon. I am fascinated by the culture in this city, its social norms, and especially the way it presents its past. I am super thankful that we had an extended amount of time in this beautiful city.

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whitepolaris · 1 year

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Where Stars Shun the Spotlight

The award for the most impressive collection of dead celebrities has to go Forest Lawn Memorial Parks in Glendale and Hollywood Hills. Take a look at this roll call if you will: Spencer Tracy, Humphrey Bogart, Walt Disney, Sammy Davis Jr., Bette Davis, Larry Fine, Clark Gable . . . that’s some impressive Hollywood gathering, above or below the earth.

Death must be a good business in Los Angeles. Forest Lawn Corporation has five complexes in different areas of the county, covering over 1,200 acres in total. The cream of the crop is definitely the park in Glendale. The grounds look as if someone took every painting of heaven that has been produced since the Middle Ages and used them as production drawings. Periodic billboard campaigns dot the southland, asking motorists to “celebrate a life” with “pre-planning” courtesy of Forest Lawn.

The 1965 film The Loved One, written by Terry Southern, was supposed to have been a parody of the uniquely southern California-Forest Lawn style of overweeningly pastoral resting places for the dead. A walk through the grounds reveals that the film was not far from the truth. The Freedom Mausoleum is a flag-waver’s paradise, with a massive brass statue of George Washington and busts of founding fathers like Benjamin Franklin installed tastefully throughout the buildings. All around the mausoleum complex, 101 Strings-inspired version of old favorites like “Suwannee River” and “Greensleeves” play on a continuous loop through sometimes static-laced outdoor speakers. Is it comforting or just strange? Does everyone in the graveyard like this music? Can’t they at least install an iPod and leave it on shuffle?

The biggest problem when visiting Forest Lawn is that, unlike in Hollywood Forever Cemetery, you are on your own to navigate around it. Forest Lawn silently discourages tourists and fans. Some celebrities had the courtesy to customize their commemorative plaques and markers, so as to stand out from the regular noncelebrity dead, like circus legend Clyde Beatty (cool engraving of a lion) or the original rhinestone cowboy, Nudie (designer of Nudie clothing). Unfortunately, it seems the more famous the person, the more unassuming their sites here tend to be. We did find them, though, along with local celebrities like longtime L.A. newscaster Jerry Dunphy and right-wing talk show host and father of actress Rebecca DeMornay, Walley George. There’s an A-list of classic television stars: Morey Amsterdam, Freddie Prinze (the talented one), McLean Stevenson, and Isabelle “Weezy Jefferson” Staford.

We advise a printout from one of the many Web sites that specialize in this sort of thing. The security staff was surprised that locations of celebrity graves were commonly found on the Internet. “Those are supposed to be private” is a an oft-repeated phrase when the visitor arrives with pictures and directions fresh off some Web site. So if you go to Forest Lawn, make sure you walk with a dignified grace once you enter, because we’re serious about their being sticklers for decorum. Getting eighty-sixed from a swinging Hollywood shindig carries with it a certain cachet; being bounced from a cemetery, no matter how cool the cemetery, is pretty lame.

#weird california #type read

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kravkalackin · 3 years

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Barry Bluejeans wasn’t a smart man. He wasn’t a strong man either. He didn’t have much skill in dexterity and he had no deep connection to nature and he certainly wasn’t blessed with any divine intervention.

He was, by all accounts, just Barry.

Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except he was trying to help people save the world here.

When they were all taken up to the moon base after Phandalin he didn’t really get a chance to object. To explain that he wasn’t actually a fighter, he couldn’t do anything. The director had been so insistent on having them all as reclaimers, and he didn’t know how to say no. No one brought up the fact that he had been useless during Phandalin’s destruction, and he really did his best to try and train before the next mission.

He’d been just as useless on the train though. Even more so, because he didn’t even have a big piece of sharp metal to flail at enemies. The only one who really brought it up was that kid.

“Uh sir, do you think you could, I don’t know, help them?” Angus had asked as Magnus, Merle, and Taako fought a giant crab. It was fair, Barry was a part of their group, and he was just standing back with the literal child and unconscious man.

“How?” he asked, the kid giving him an incredulous look at that.

“Well, what are you?” he prompted. Barry had to pull himself away from watching Taako levitate the crab into the air with a skill of magic he couldn’t help but be jealous of.

“I’m just... Barry.”

They got the oculus, but Magnus had nearly died jumping off the train. The Director was pretty clear that these missions would only get more and more dangerous, and they had managed to get to the thing before it was even used this time. Maybe next time they wouldn’t be so lucky. As far as he was concerned, it was pretty obvious what needed to happen.

He couldn’t stand around being just Barry anymore.

It took a while to figure out, and for a while he considered just asking Taako to teach him magic. If he hadn’t managed to pick up any at his age though, he doubt he’d get it now. No, the more he looked into this, the more right it felt.

He didn’t have his own power, but he could get power. He could ask for it, and if he was lucky, someone might actually answer.

The temple was small, in the middle of a cemetery. There wasn’t anyone around right now, the sun setting softly behind him. It had said sunset, the transition between day and night was the best time to try and contact her.

Laying out five black raven feathers in a circle, Barry took a deep breath, and stated to pray.

“Uh, hello? I don’t- I’m gonna be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing here,” he began, feeling a little ridiculous as he spoke. As if a god would actually listen to him because he got some feathers and sat in front of an old statue. Still, he forced himself to continue. “My name is Barry Bluejeans, and I need your help, Raven Queen, if uh, if you’ll allow it?”

“I’m just, I’m useless on my own. My new friends though, they’re doing everything they can to save this world, and I want to help. I at least don’t want to get my ass killed on one of these missions. Like, no offense, I know death is kinda your thing, but it’s- there’s a balance, right? If everything dies, that’s no good for you. I just, I want to keep that from happening,” he continued. The longer he went the more... pointless this all felt. He wasn’t going to get an answer, a god wasn’t going to point a finger at him and grant him power.

And then there was a crack of thunder like the world was tearing itself apart, and as Barry scrambled back the large stone raven at the top of the statue moved.

‘You dare beseech me for power?’ the Raven Queen boomed, and the stone raven didn’t open its mouth but Barry could tell that she was speaking through it. She sounded pissed. He was more than a little terrified as he nodded.

“Y-yeah. I just... I just want to help,” he insisted. Barry was pretty sure the statue did not originally have individually carved feathers, but that didn’t seem to matter as they puffed up in clear rage.

“Help?! And how could one so corrupted possibly help?” she asked, and Barry blinked, his frown deepening in confusion.

“That’s why I’m asking you. I’m powerless on my own, but if you helped me I might be able to at least keep my friends alive long enough to do some good,” he tried. The stone creature continued to stare down at him, a clear indignant rage in her. “Did... did I do something wrong?” he asked after a moment.

And something about that actually seemed to give the god pause.

The bird’s head cocked to the side, and Barry had already been knocked basically onto his back. He tensed up as she flew down, landing roughly on his chest. What had once been crude stone eyes were shining gemstones that stared into his own. Although honestly he was more focused on the beak, thinking about how stone or not, it would probably do a pretty good job of removing his eyes if she wanted to.

“You are... genuine,” she said after an agonizingly long moment. It wasn’t a question, but Barry quickly nodded.

“Yeah! I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did to offend you, your uh, majesty. But I swear I just want to fix this,” he insisted. The goddess was quiet for a long time.

The noise she ended up making was rather terrifying, but Barry was pretty sure it was a laugh.

“Very well! Intriguing. Understand your end of the deal well lost revenant. Your soul belongs to the astral plane, for this power you shall do as I see fit,” she said, and that should probably be more worrying than Barry felt. He had been pretty sure she was going to kill him a moment ago, so he was feeling pretty good.

“Yeah, sounds good. I mean, that’s how it would be when I died anyway, so no skin off my bones,” he said. Again the Raven Queen laughed, like there was some joke here he wasn’t quite getting, and nodded. Jumping off his chest, the bird flew back up to the top of the statue.

“Then I shall grant you this power you seek. Use it well, Barry Bluejeans,” she declared. Without another word the bird shifted back into that unmoving, crude form on top of the temple. A pressure that had been suffocating around him before was gone, but Barry could still feel a change. Like a swirling mass of sardonic power in his chest.

Holding up a hand, he managed to channel that power into a blast of purple-blue arcane energy into the air, which exploded with a loud bang. A little stunned, Barry pushed himself up to his feet, trying to process what just happened.

He was a warlock of the Raven Queen now.

Cool.

#taz #barry bluejeans #the adventure zone #the raven queen #warlock barry #if i do a part 2 to this i'll probably upload the whole thing to ao3 #cause i love me warlock barry #yes kravitz is going to *hate this* when he finds out #i know i definitely talked about that before #long post

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whoacanada · 3 years

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‘Wishful Thinking‘

Summary: Every NHL champion gets a single brush with ice magic. When Jack takes his first cup with the Falconers, he accidentally undoes the wish that brought him back from the brink of death in 2009, and Bitty becomes hell-bent on lifting the cup himself for a chance to set things right.

A/N: Finally posting some concepts I’ve played around with that aren’t 100% complete massive fics, but still pretty solid, just little things that might be enjoyed. Yet another cup-wish-gone-wrong-au with monkey-paw components. Also inspired by discord convos about canon!Jack meeting an older, veteran NHL!Bitty and having a lot of feelings. Also mentor/father-in-law!Bob trying to help Bitty navigate the NHL. There’s more to this floating around but this is the meat of it

____________

Bob can sense when it happens. A shift of something monumental that he’s only felt on a handful of occasions his entire life. A quick glance across the ice finds a number of the celebrating Falconers looking around curiously, unsure of the sensation; for so many, it’s their first brush with ice magic. A pleasant novelty. The vets, though, they look to each other.

Bob turns and doesn’t have to look far to find his son, one hand clasped around the cup, the other around Eric Bittle’s waist, smiling from ear to ear. Something about the moment is wrong, but Bob can’t quite determine why as he’s overcome with a wave of nausea. The stadium lights are too bright and he blinks hard, face scrunching, trying to force whatever wrongness he’s feeling out of himself.

Someone’s made a wish.

The moment passes. Bob’s vision clears. There, veiled in a shower of blue and gold confetti, is Eric; alone at center ice, face twisted in confusion as he looks around for the man who only moments earlier had been in his arms.

“You take the cup, you get one real wish,” the decades old, bourbon-lacquered voice of his first coach reminds him. “But only the one. Can be something small, like an empty cab in the rain, or it can be something big. World changing, even. The one thing, the most important thing — ”

“No,” Bob breathes. “Please, no.”

“— You never use your wish on another player.”

____________

They don’t know exactly what Jack wished for, but the next time Bitty’s blades touch the ice, it’s as if he’s stepped into the body of a new man. No more slurs. No more targeted chirps. He’s just one of the boys.

He plays. He wins. Then, the offers start to come.

NHL teams looking for fast wingers, team players, leadership material; not one of them mentions diversity, or Eric’s status as the first out NCAA hockey captain. No one cares. No one remembers Jack, and no one cares about Eric.

The best and worst case scenarios rolled into one. If this is the reality Jack unknowingly traded his existence for, Bitty has no choice but to walk through the door his partner opened.

Bitty swallows, trying to force the words out on one of his now nightly calls with the man who would have been his father-in-law in another world, if the shared connection between them hadn’t been interred in a Montréal cemetery almost a decade prior.

“I think . . . I think he wished for acceptance.”

___________

“No one remembers anymore.”

Eric scuffs his skate against this ice, building up a small pile of shavings before scattering them again, focusing on the soft white as if somehow he’ll be able to transport himself bodily to somewhere cool and quiet. Jackson Hole. Banff. Tremblant. Anywhere but here. Anywhen but now.

“Saw Tater last week at a press junket. Blank stares all around. Some days, most days, I wake up and I don’t know how I got here. I can go without thinking of him.”

Weeks. Eric doesn’t say aloud. Months. Those hideous mornings when he wakes up beside a warm body and forgets they aren’t him. They aren’t supposed to be him. Was there ever even a him.

Jack. Eric mouths silently, just to remind himself. His name is Jack.

The details always slip. The universe constantly trying to correct the fallacy of Eric Bittle remembering a man who died before they technically ever met. Faded photographs and corrupted memory cards. Selfies that used to have two people in frame. Vlog posts with cosmic ADR, swapping Jack’s name for someone else’s like a hastily rewritten script. Eventually, even Eric’s memories turn traitor. First times lost to reshoots and post-production magic. Blue eyes are brown. Black hair is blonde. Jack becomes Phillip. Eric’s first love recast. In desperation, he pulls a page from Memento, finds a tattoo parlor and has ‘Jack Laurent Zimmermann’ inked in dark, unmistakable letters on his inner thigh. Adds a cup, the Falconers’ crest, and the date they lost everything. It works well enough until the name fades; there are still days where a hook up will ask why Eric has a championship tattoo for a team he never played with.

Now, all he has is Bob.

“That’s why I’m here.” Bob reminds. “That’s why we talk.”

“But what happens if we don’t.”

Bob’s familiar assurances rumble through the phone. Constant. Refusing to acknowledge the harsh realities of the passing of time. The ever-present doomsday clock moving them both toward disaster — Bob aging, Eric aging out. He’s good, but he isn’t great, and the only offers coming his way are single-season contracts with teams that haven’t sniffed a championship in years. One day very soon, there will be no more chances for Eric to undo what’s been done. No more favors to ask of teammates that have long since forgotten a world where Jack Zimmermann was a college graduate and a rookie MVP. Not just an addict. Not just dead at nineteen.

Eric listens to Bob ramble, asks him to tell him a story, to tell him about the Jack that Eric never really got to know. The Jack he can barely remember. A man that Eric has dedicated his entire life to honoring, to bringing back — from where he cannot fathom — and Bob obliges in a soft tone Eric imagines is not dissimilar from how he must have spoken to his son as a child.

Eric ignores his teammates rushing around him — tossing chirps and gentle insults about his ‘Sugar Daddy’ — and focuses on the accented voice in his ear; grasping desperately at the memory of a man who doesn’t exist. Pretending. Hoping.

__________

Across the ice, Eric sees Kent Parson watching him. When they lock eyes, the aging star glides toward him, under a guise of one amicable captain greeting another. He’s pushing 37, and while the years of competitive play are starting to show, he’s just as viciously handsome as the day they first met. At least, Eric thinks he is. He can’t imagine a life where Kent Parson strolled onto a college campus and played beer pong at a frat party, but there’s a folder of old photos on Eric’s computer. Jack is in none of them, but there’s one of himself and Kent. Smiling.

Eric can’t recall why the image bothers him so much.

Parson used his wish years ago on something that he’s never bothered to share — and Eric’s far too much a gentleman to ask a man who was once a rival what he wasted his golden ticket on — but now, he’s slowing down, and this is supposed to be his farewell season. Going out with a bang, riding the high of his fifth cup win. He’s worked hard, and he deserves to shove the Penguins back down into obscurity for another season. Deserves it far more than Eric, with his selfish, single-mindedness that’s ruined god knows how many careers in the last decade between his own ruthlessness and Bob’s meddling.

Except. . . this is also likely Eric’s last season. His last chance to undo the great tragedy of his life, and Parson knows it.

“How you feeling, Peaches? You ready?”

Eric hates the nickname in the same way he hates when his father calls him ‘Champ’.

Eric fights his own shame because he wants to be honest, say, ‘No, I’m not ready, I’ll never be ready,’ but Eric can’t ask for what he wants, anymore. He wants the Aces to balk on a power play. He wants Parson to flub a pass and throw the game — he even knows the man would probably do it, too — but Eric needs to come by a win honestly. They learned the hard way in 2022 when Eric hands were wrapped around the cup, wishing, praying, crying, pleading . . .

Clear eyes, full hearts, or some such bullshit.

Cheaters don’t get wishes.

“I can’t remember, anymore,” Eric admits as they square up across the face-off circle, the resigned terror of an inescapable end creeping upon him like the burn of an old injury ignored for far too long. “Kent. Please.” Parson leans down, rests his stick against the ice, and holds Eric’s gaze as if to say, I’m here. Trust me. Just play.

The puck drops.

________

There’s someone watching him, young, handsome with dark hair and the kind of bright blue eyes that scream ‘notice me’ with all of the biological bluntness of neon plumage and a mating dance. The man weaves through the crowd, unnoticed by Eric’s teammates, and comes close enough that Eric can’t help but assume familiarity. He must be a fan, the way he’s flushed and excitable.

Eric’s drunk enough on the moment that he’s happy to indulge his baser instincts. He also literally can’t remember the last time he brought company home and if there’s ever been a night to get laid, it’s this one.

“Crisse, look at you, Bits.”

The man is caught between being awestruck and simply struck, reaching out to touch Eric’s arm but not quite making contact, like his depth perception is the tiniest bit off. He drops Eric’s old nickname so easily, so earnestly, that for a moment Eric thinks they might already know each other — but that’s impossible. Eric would remember someone so handsome, so very much his type.

“Only my friends call me ‘Bitty’.” Eric cautions, raising his half-empty champagne bottle in a mock toast and flashing his best ‘you’re coming home with me tonight’ smile. “But I’m more than happy to to get acquainted with you, Sugar.”

Eric isn’t usually this forward, this unrestrained. Tonight, it doesn’t matter, he’s celebrating: another championship, the end of a career, a life well lived. It’s to be expected. What isn’t expected is how the man’s relieved smile falters; as if Eric’s unbridled joy is somehow misplaced.

“Bitty? It’s me.”

“And ‘me’ is called . . . ?”

On very few occasions in Eric’s life has he been able to witness true devastation first-hand; and those instances were related to deaths, hockey losses, or blackout morning afters.

“Jack.” The man says softly, face slack with surprise. “It’s. . . Jack. Bitty, you know me.”

“If we’ve met before, I’m sorry,” Eric apologizes, hating to see the kid look so defeated. “I meet so many people — ”

Over Jack’s shoulder, Eric catches sight of Bob Zimmermann and waves, delighting in the way Bob’s face lights up when he catches sight of Eric, practically going supernova when he notices Jack as well, crossing the ice like a man possessed; Bob moves to pull them both into a hug but Eric’s new friend holds up a defensive hand and Bob stops mid-gesture.

It’s extremely apparent something is off, and between the reporters, the confetti, the champagne, and the fans, Eric is missing all of the context clues.

“Just won my last cup,” Eric singsongs, gesturing with the bottle between his mentor and the man Eric would very much like to fuck — who look very similar now that Eric can see them side by side. “Everyone’s super excited, right? Yeah? So, what’s going on. Did someone die?”

“No.” Bob says quickly, eyes flicking between Jack and Eric warily. “No. Not . . . that.”

“Severely injured?”

“. . . Non.”

“Okay, then, we should be celebrating!” Eric throws his arms wide and nearly clocks a passing teammate. “No more party pooping, Bobbert. Speaking, this is my new friend, Jack. Jack, Bob, Bob, Jack. Though, I’m getting the feeling you two might know each other. Or might be . . . related.” Eric gasps and smacks his free palm against his forehead. “Oh my god, the Tremblant retreat? Is that where I know you from? Listen, I was fucked up on pain meds that whole weekend, I am so sorry if we’ve already met.”

Despite Eric’s continued attempts at clarifying their shared mystery past, Jack keeps looking at Bob with that same wounded expression and it’s really killing Eric’s buzz.

“Bob.” Eric redirects. “Help me, here. Cutie’s nervous.”

“Eric, this is my, ah, well,” Bob’s smile is so forced, so tense, it looks more like a grimace. “Well, this is my son, Jack.”

There is only one ‘Jack’ Eric has ever known in relation to Bob Zimmermann, and he is not someone to be mentioned in polite conversation.

“Your son?” Eric echoes slowly. “Your son, Jack.”

Bob realizes what Eric’s tiptoeing around and casts a furtive glance toward the younger man, lifting two fingers to his cheek conspiratorially to imply ‘it’s a long story, not meant for public ears’. Eric knows how to play along.

“Wow, okay, did not expect that, but now that you’re saying it, I can one-hundred-percent tell. You have the same, well, everything.”

Eric takes Jack’s hand for an obligatory shake, not missing the way Jack’s features twist up into something caught between flattery and misery, before staring down his pseudo-mentor.

“My question is this, where have you’ve been hiding him — because how long have I know you, Bobby? Shame.”

“I’ve been . . . away.”

Jack’s tone is weighted with context Eric absolutely does not possess, but can definitely read into. Given the age difference and Alicia’s conspicuous lack of attendance this evening, Jack’s definitely a love child from some 90s Zimmergroupie. Or, original Jack didn’t actually OD and Bob spirited away his kid to keep away the prying eyes of the public; but that wouldn’t explain the age difference or the shared name.

Oh, Bobbert.

“Couldn’t wheel him out too soon,” Bob jokes, but Eric can tell the man’s heart isn’t in it, reinforcing Eric’s suspicion.

“Well, I’m happy you did,” Eric says graciously, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “He’s very handsome, when he isn’t doing this Eeyore impression.”

“Just like his father,” Bob says reflexively — defensively — as Jack goes pink. “Eric, will you excuse us for a moment? Back in five minutes, tops.”

Eric offers a gracious wave, gaze lingering on Jack’s retreating back — and backside, bless — watching Bob rest a firm hand on his son’s neck, gripping tightly to lean in and furiously whisper something. As Eric watches, Jack looks back over his shoulder; it’s not the fond glance of a potential paramour. Regret, maybe? Grief, definitely.

He must be as disappointed to be cock-blocked by his father as Eric is.

Across the ice, Kent Parson has rushed Jack, gathering him into a crushing embrace that the younger man returns easily — burying his face against Parson’s pads; pulling back only when Parson grabs Jack’s shoulders to push him away, taking a long look at him, holding his face between his hands briefly before pulling Jack back into his arms.

They don’t just look like old friends, it’s a reunion of desperation, like the videos his mother sends of soldiers coming home from war, but before Eric can think better of it, a teammate fists a hand in the collar of Eric’s sweater and pulls — away from Bob’s forlorn love child and forgotten first meetings — and the night goes on.

Bob doesn’t return. Neither does Jack.

Eric doesn’t even notice.

__________

#Part I #maybe?#zimbits #omgcp #angst #long fic #cup magic #ice magic #my stuff #my fic #NHL!Bitty

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ironasss · 2 years

Text

NO WAY HOME SPOILERS

Saw no way home on the 23rd, sent my friend this email:

AHHHHHH OH MY GOD I JUST SAW SPIDER-MAN HOLY MOTHER*language*ING *language* OH MY GOD LIKE I KNEW TOBEY AND ANDREW WERE IN IT BUT OH MY GOD I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE LIKE A CAMEO(which is interesting, because i thought Charlie Cox would have a bigger role) AND I KNEW EITHER AUNT MAY OR HAPPY WOULD DIE BUT WHYYYYYYY????????? LITERALLY AS SOON AS SHE SAID "with great power there must also come a great responsibility" I KNEW IT WAS HER JESUS JAMIE FOXX OH MY GOD HIS HAIR OK BUT VENOM????? See, would this have been explained if I had watched Venom: Let There be Carnage? GET h*ward STARK'S MOTHER*language*ING FACE OF THAT MIT WALL WTF PUT TONY ON THERE NO ONE KILLS ABOUT JOHN SLATTERY Is marvel just like, really reaaaaallllllyyyyyyyyy team cap? because, a) like all of team Iron Man is dead(except Peter, but hey, he doesn't exist!) b) the statue of liberty has a shield. why. GIVE IT A WIDOW BITE OR AN ARC REACTOR Also: DUM-E? I also knew he was in it but GAH IT WAS SO SAD And then at the end, oh my god, at the cemetery, I GUESS SPIDER-MAN ISN'T COMPLETE WITHOUT AT LEAST TWO FUNERALS HUH EXCEPT NOT A FUNERAL, BECAUSE NO ONE KNOWS Happy. Why. LOOK MAN I KNOW YOU WERE FRIENDS WITH TONY STARK. b ut d i d yo u h a ve t o ru b h i s de a th i n m y fa c e l i ke th a t I had a close friend die recently. this feels like that. OR WHATEVER IT IS HE SAID, IDC IT WAS SAD And ok, hold on. You know that set photo, Andrew Garfield said was photoshopped? Ima be honest, I thought it was. I had full confidence he was in it, but liKE I SAID I THOUGHT IT WAS A CAMEO But then, I saw the exact moment that was, and i SWEAR I COULD JUST SEE THE PURPLE SCREEN BEHIND HIM OH MY GOD And the movie theater we went to *language*ing SUCKED like you know how usually they play something related to the movie, cast interviews, moments with the character(s) in past movies if they're a returning character, a comics history if they're new? (like there was comics history when I saw Shang Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings(2021) and Eternals(2021), and a feature thing with Nataliahashalie's past movies before Black Widow(2021), and all of them had cast interviews.) Question: why do people deny Agents of SHIELD being canon, when Maria Hill exists? (like obviously Coulson exists, but people are like: hE's sTIlL dEaD! aGeNTs oF ShiElD iSn'T rEaL!) OK BUT A MILLION YEARS ON INSTAGRAM I SAW THIS POST, AND I DONT REMEMBER IF IT WAS ORIGINALLY INSTAGRAM OR ORIGINALLY TUMBLR OR TWITTER BUT Someone was like, what if when MJ falls, Andrew Garfield Spider-Man catches her? AND THEN HE DID JHEJDGEWUIDG:UDHLKUQ *dies* ANYWAY SINCE IM SEEING IT AGAIN ON THE 28TH AFTER I SEE VENOM AT THE ALAMO ILL GET THE FULL EXPERIENCE!!!!!!!!! Also: i hate my brother hes an idiot and hes arguing marvel with me. HJJHGHJDG DIDNT SEE IT THE FIRST TIME BUT I SAW IT IN LIKE IMAX AT THE THEATER THE DOCTOR STRANGE 2 TRAILER THATS AMERICA CHAVEZ WITH THE STAR JACKET ITS GOTTA BE IDK IF YOU KNOW WHO THAT IS, BUT SHES ONE OF THE YOUNG AVENGERS SHES FRIENDS WITH KATE BISHOP(I ship them actually) AND SHE CAN OPEN LIKE, MULTIVERSAL SPACE PORTALS IN THE SHAPE OF A STAR SHES SO COOL IF SHES MCU, THEN THEY HAVE MOST OF THE YOUNG AVENGERS theres David(prodigy), Billy(Wiccan), Tommy(Speed), Teddy(Hulkling), Kate(Hawkeye), America(Ms America), Patriot(FORGOT HIS NAME HE WAS IN TFATWS), Noh-varr(Marvel-boy) and SOMETIMES Nate(Iron lad, but if the MCU was gonna do it they would probably make it Harley Keener) and..... I feel like im missing one? lemme think, i got wiccan and speed and their bfs, hawkeye and her bf, america and patriot... OH YEAH LOKI!!!!!!! o h m y g o d WHAT IF THEY DO KID LOKI Anyway. all the mcu is really missing is David and Teddy now, SO (guess theres the dillema of Billy and Tommy not existing....) OH MY GOD IM SO EXCITED FOR JARED LETO AND JARED HARRIS

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jingabitch · 3 years

Text

Asmodeus

SUMMARY: While trying to summon a demon, you have an encounter with Namjoon.

PAIRING: Namjoon x witch!reader

GENRE: smut

WARNINGS: demons and witches and stuff, dirty sex in a graveyard, oral sex (f receiving), plot twist, kinda dark-ish?

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: banner by @kookspierogis, beta-ed by @hesperantha, inspired by an ask by @wwilloww. Hope you guys enjoy it (and appreciate that I actually managed to get this out well before my scheduled deadline!).

You pulled your jacket more tightly around your body and hitched your backpack up slightly, looking behind your shoulder to make sure you weren’t being followed. This graveyard gave you the creeps, and you really didn’t know why you’d agreed to do this in the middle of the night. Was joining this coven really that important? Couldn’t you have attempted to summon a demon somewhere indoors and, most importantly, warm?

Sighing at your earlier self for making such poor decisions, you watched as your breath fogged up in front of you. “Jesus,” you muttered. Maybe you should just get this done as quickly as possible, so you could go back home and snuggle up under your warm duvet.

Finally reaching the small clearing in the middle of the cemetery, you stared up at the imposing griffin statue for a second before walking up to it and putting your backpack on the ground, leaning it against the base of the statue and kneeling down to take the necessary items out. Your grandmother’s grimoire, the candles, the ceremonial dagger.

It was so cold that your fingers were frozen, making it difficult to get the candles out of their plastic wrapper. Cursing, you blew on your hands and rubbed them together before picking up the package to try again.

Placing the five candles in a circle, you stepped into the middle and opened the book to the right page. “Why are all the summoning spells in ancient Latin?” you wondered to yourself, before kneeling on the ground and placing the book down in front of you.

As you chanted the first line of the spell, you felt the power start flowing through your veins, hot and electric, and placed your palm against the ground. As soon as your hand made contact, you clenched your teeth against the strange feeling of the magic leaving your body, shooting into the ground in the direction of the candles, which lit up immediately.

It was a windy night, but that didn’t matter, because the flames were fueled by your magic. A pentagram with the five points marked out by the candles began to glow on the ground, enclosed within a circle.

Lifting your palm off the ground, you refocused your attention on the spell in the book, picking up the knife by your side for the blood sacrifice. You would have to slice your palm open and drip a few drops of blood into the middle of the pentagram to bind your soul to the demon.

Before you could start chanting again, however, you heard the telltale rustling sound of leaves crunching underfoot, and whipped your head around. As you turned, you caught sight of someone standing behind you, staring down at you.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped, trying to hide your panic and shock.

He shrugged. “I could ask you the same question,” he pointed out, drawing closer.

Your mind kicked into overdrive, trying to find some rational explanation that wouldn’t lead to you being kicked out of the graveyard or arrested or sent to a mental facility.

“Giving a prayer to my grandparents,” you offered. It was a piss-poor excuse, and you knew it, but it was too late to do anything but double down. “They were really spiritual.”

He raised a brow at you.

“Anyway,” you continued defensively, “what are you doing here?” By which, of course, you meant, how had you missed him?

He stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, and your breath caught in your throat. Holy hell, how had you missed the fact that he was beautiful? Tall and broad, wearing a long black coat over a black turtleneck which contrasted against his ash grey hair. The coat wasn’t buttoned up, and you could see the YSL logo next to the buckle of his belt.

“Paying my respects,” he said vaguely. “I’m Namjoon, by the way.”

You stood up, compelled somehow by his gaze. “Y/n,” you introduced yourself against your better judgement. When it came to creeps in graveyards at midnight, you could never be too careful, you’d always thought, and yet your mouth had betrayed you before you could think it through.

He was just so beautiful it was disconcerting. Growing up around other witches, you’d never really been around men all that much, and you didn’t quite know what to do with yourself

“You shouldn’t be hanging around places like these late at night, you know,” he cautioned. His voice was soft and low, pleasing to the ears. You strained to hear more of it.

He stepped closer still, until he stopped right outside the circle you’d marked out with your candles. “You never know who’s going to be around.”

“Like you?” you shot back breathlessly. The moonlight reflected off his fair skin, making him all but glow in the darkness of the night.

The half-smirk he gave you was sinister, dark and dangerous. It should scare you, but instead you felt arousal coil in your lower belly.

“Exactly like me,” he agreed easily. He smiled at you, showing off his dimples.

“You don’t look very dangerous,” you observed.

“Well, maybe you should take a closer look, then,” he invited with a shrug.

Step out of the pentagram? You hesitated for a moment. One of the first things you’d been taught when you started learning magic was never to do that – the pentagram was the only thing that protected you from the demon you were summoning. Outside of it, the balance of power shifted dramatically.

But Namjoon raised his hand, palm out, for you, and before you knew it, your hand was in his and you let him pull you out of the pentagram. “You mean like this?” you asked as you slung your other arm around his shoulders.

You thought you saw his eyes flash, but dismissed it as a trick of the light in the second before his lips descended on yours. “No, I meant like this,” he growled.

Your eyes snapped shut immediately as you lost yourself in the feeling of his lips moving against yours. It had been so long since you’d been kissed, and never like this. Never with such skill and dexterity. His hands crept up your abdomen under your shirt, and even though they should have been cold, his fingers were deliciously warm, making you want to press yourself against him like a cat.

He backed you up into the base of the statue, crowding close and pressing the hard rod of his erection into your belly as he towered over you. It should have been menacing, but everything was, instead, endlessly titillating.

“You like that?” he said in a low, raspy voice that tied your stomach in knots. “You do, don’t you?”

You didn’t have it in you to answer, but he certainly didn’t need you to reply verbally. Not when the way you mewled as you tried to get closer to him, sliding your hands greedily into his coat, told him everything he needed to know.

Witches were always so easy. These closed communities of all-female witches meant it was difficult for them to have their needs met, and they were consequently easy pickings for any man who happened to set his eyes on them. Really, he thought, you’d think that after so many years, they’d have wised up to the pitfalls of the coven structure, but it appeared not.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promised darkly, the sound making heat pool in your lower belly as you clenched on yourself, uncomfortably aware of how empty you felt. His fingers trailed down your abdomen now, in the opposite direction from before, headed for the button on your jeans.

You barely registered the fact that he was pushing you back gently until your back hit the base of the statue, knocking the air out of your lungs. He crowded close, pressing you back into it, towering over you with his broad frame. One of his hands pushed your sweater up, bunching the fabric under your arms, while his other undid the button on your jeans, sneaking his fingers into your panties.

He didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction, letting out a small noise and lifting his head to smirk down at you. “You’re so wet,” he purred, running his fingers along your slit. With a precision that seemed almost inhuman, he found your clit, rubbing his slickened fingers across it.

A choked moan forced its way out of you as you threw your head back against the cool marble of the statue’s base, your eyes fluttering shut as you rocked your hips into his fingers.

The feeling of him withdrawing his hand from your panties was so objectionable that you opened your eyes, making a sound of indignation. All fight automatically left you, however, when you saw him sucking on his fingers, staring you down with hooded eyes. “I want to taste it from the source,” he told you, his voice deep.

Holding back a shudder, you nodded. “Yeah, we can definitely do that,” you managed, your voice shaky.

He leaned down to kiss you, then started trailing kisses down your neck, before kneeling. Your eyes wide, you watched him get on his knees as you started pulling your sweater down, back over your body.

“Don’t,” he said, a steely undercurrent in his voice that sent a little shiver down your spine. The glint in his eyes let you know that he meant business. Still, despite being mid-hook up with a random stranger in a graveyard – you stared down the neat rows of tombstones – you hadn’t taken complete leave of your senses.

“It’s cold,” you protested with a pout.

“Don’t worry,” he told you. His voice oozed with confidence. “You won’t get cold.”

You were about to say more, but he silenced you with a stern look. With a sigh, you acquiesced, lifting the shirt back up as you leaned your head back against the statue. You were going to catch your death out here, you thought mournfully, staring up at the full, round, white moon. Hopefully he’d at least get you to the little death first.

He ripped your jeans and panties down your legs, knocking off one of your sneakers carelessly as he did so. Your clothes remained bunched around the other ankle, in what surely was the most undignified position you’d ever been in.

Then his tongue touched your body, and as you stiffened and squeaked in surprise, all of those thoughts flew out of your head. The only thing that mattered to you was how talented he was with the appendage, and you adjusted your stance to give him greater access.

Namjoon lapped at your slit with long, broad strokes, bumping your clit every time. You rocked your hips slightly to get more friction, and he reacted by holding your hips still with his strong, big hands, making the thought that he must be the devil flash across your mind in frustration. Then he shifted closer, using his broad shoulders to open your legs wider, and placed his mouth on your pussy, and that last shred of coherent thought left the chat.

The hand holding your sweater up drifted slightly, your fingers ducking into the cup of your bra to circle your nipple as your thumb stayed hooked under the cozy knit material. Your other hand slid down your bare abdomen before your fingers threaded themselves through his hair just to have something to hold on to as he relentlessly attacked your clit.

“Mmf, fuck,” you mumbled around a lock of hair that had fallen into your mouth with all the thrashing around you were doing. It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered but Namjoon and his wonderful, awful tongue. Tears squeezed out of your eyes, which were tightly shut, running down the sides of your face.

“That’s it,” he encouraged you as he detached for a second to catch his breath, using his thumb to rub over your clit as he fucked you with his fingers. “You’re close, aren’t you? Come for me like a good girl,” he said slightly breathlessly before once more ducking his head to your core.

Helplessly, you obeyed, your entire body seizing up as you clenched around his fingers, rocking your hips against him as you rode out your orgasm.

When it was over, you slumped limply against the marble statue, blinking up at him with slightly blurry vision as he rose to his full height. In the pale, weak light of the full moon, his cheeks and chin gleamed. He didn’t bother to wipe it away, instead grinning down at you as he braced his weight on the statue, his hands on either side of your shoulders.

“Good girl,” he purred as he leaned in to kiss you. You tilted your head up automatically to receive his kiss, uncaring of the fact that you could taste yourself on his lips. As he slid his tongue against yours sensuously, you eagerly reached to unbutton his trousers. With a chuckle, he leaned back to give you more space, but didn’t otherwise help you.

You were so distracted trying to get into his pants that you didn’t notice how warm your fingers were. You still had full mobility, contrary to your expectations that you’d be frozen solid by now, after his insistence that you expose yourself to the elements the way he’d ordered you to.

Then your hands were full of dick, and you moaned in unison. You would have been more embarrassed about that had your body not been thrumming with arousal still. It had just been so long since you’d touched a man. Training to become a witch didn’t leave you with much free time or access, after all.

“Good girl, such a good girl,” he continued praising you, his voice gone raspy as you stroked him. You were about to get on your knees to return the favour, but he stopped you, instead hoisting you up and pressing you against the statue. There was a vague sense of being pinned like an insect, but the thought vanished like so many had tonight the moment you felt him pressing, hot and hard, against you.

Then you felt your softness yield to him as he pushed into you, sliding deep into you with a grunt. Your fingers scrabbled for purchase along his shoulders, but the solid wool coat resisted. The cashmere of his sweater brushed against your skin, and although it was the softest, most luxurious sweater you’d ever felt, it was almost abrasive, reminding you that although you were pretty much fully exposed, he was still completely clothed.

Your head tipped back helplessly. You felt so incredibly full, the stretch riding the line between pleasure and pain. Namjoon, in response, bent his head to the exposed skin of your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses to the sensitive flesh that turned into sucking.

“Namjoon,” you gasped, and he lifted his head to look down at you. For a split second, it seemed like his irises were glowing red, but he blinked and then it was gone, and you dismissed it as a trick of the light. Your paranoia and discomfort from earlier must have seeped into your subconscious somehow. Ridiculous, really, since as a witch, you were probably the thing to be feared the most in the graveyard tonight.

His hand came up, long fingers stretching around the column of your neck.

“You’re mine,” he snarled. The unexpectedly possessive statement should have alarmed you. After all, he was a random stranger you’d met in dubious circumstances, even if you were currently getting to know each other on a very intimate level. Instead of uneasiness, however, his declaration only served to egg you on more, the rightness of it all settling deep within your bones.

Simultaneously, he pulled his hips back and then thrust into you again, bumping your clit with his pelvis.

“Yesss,” you groaned, although you weren’t sure if it was in response to his words or his actions. How was it possible for a man to be this good with his hips? The few sexual encounters you’d had before this had been fumbling, awkward and ultimately, you’d thought after, not worth it. Namjoon was like a whole different species.

He seemed to enjoy your enthusiastic approval, if the satisfied smirk he shot you was any indication. His body moved like a lithe, well-oiled machine, his arms hitching you up slightly higher to adjust the angle as he slammed into you. There would definitely be bruises on your hips from where they were hitting the marble, but it would be so worth it.

Helpless moans and yelps filled the air. As wrecked as you were, the only indication you had that he was feeling the same way was the way his breaths puffed against your neck. He seemed completely composed otherwise, keeping up a stream of filth murmured into your ear, so lewd it made even you blush.

There was no way, you thought, hurtling towards your second orgasm of the night, that he was a regular man. This level of prowess… it had to be something else.

As your moans reached a crescendo, Namjoon growled again, a delicious sound to your ears. You felt his mouth open slightly against your neck and felt the press of his teeth, but you were distracted and dismissed it as him taking in a gulp of air.

A second later, he struck. His teeth sank so deeply into your flesh that blunt human teeth couldn’t have done it. You should have been terrified, should have pushed him away and run screaming, but instead – completely bizarrely – the searing pain pushed you over the precipice. You came harder than you ever had in your life, the sensations so strong that they teetered on the fine line between pleasure and pain.

When the wave finally ebbed, you sagged against the marble of the statue, your arms loosening around Namjoon’s neck. He was approaching his own orgasm, you could feel it from the way his hips stuttered against yours. Thankfully, he’d removed his teeth from your neck, although he continued lapping haphazardly at the wound.

Exhausted, you marshalled the last of your strength to straighten up. “Come on,” you urged, stroking the back of his neck. Sweat was dripping down it and into his collar, you noted absently. When he finally released into you, it was a relief for the both of you.

In the wake of everything, you both slumped against the statue. The air felt almost eerily still and quiet after everything that had transpired before, and awkwardness started setting in.

Slightly uncomfortable now, you wriggled to be let down, and he acquiesced, stepping away to give you some room. You immediately began tugging on your clothes, trying to put yourself back to rights and studiously avoiding eye contact with him.

“Well,” you said in a voice that seemed entirely too loud, piercing through the silence that had settled over the graveyard. “That was fun.”

“Yes,” he said in a slightly amused voice. “I hope you don’t make a habit of this, though.”

Frowning, you raised your head to glare at him. “And what if I do?” you asked slightly irritably. You weren’t really in the mood to be judged for a random hookup by the man who’d just been railing you into next week.

He shrugged, raising his hands up placatingly. You turned away from him and bent to pick up your things. There was no way you were summoning a demon tonight, you thought. Your concentration was shot to hell, and your energy was all over the place. You’d have to try again tomorrow night.

Namjoon perched on a gravestone nearby, the disrespect of him sitting so cavalierly on someone’s headstone making you cringe internally. “I’ll see you around, I guess,” he said, watching you pack your things.

“Uh, yeah…” you said, your voice betraying your confusion. Who was in the habit of continuing to meet their random hookups? You knew it was probably one of those polite platitudes people exchanged, but the way he’d said it was different, like he really did mean it.

Namjoon laughed at your tone. “You didn’t think you’d escape me that easily, did you?” he asked, standing up. His hands were in his pockets as he walked towards you, looking completely nonchalant. Leaning in, he raised his hand to your neck, running his thumb over the bite mark he’d left. His face was so close to yours that for a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you again, but instead, he looked you directly in the eyes. “You’re mine now, after all,” he purred, as his eyes flashed red again.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your heart started pounding again, although for an entirely different reason this time. This was definitely not a trick of the light, and now that your brain wasn’t so clouded, all the little warning signs you’d dismissed earlier came back to mind.

“Who are you?” you breathed, trying to stop the tremor in your voice.

He chuckled and stepped away from you.

“My name is Namjoon,” he told you, shrugging. As he turned and started walking away into the darkness, though, he called over his shoulder, “But you might know me better by my title, Asmodeus.”

Shocked, you slapped your hand over the bite mark, staring at him as the fog swallowed his tall, lithe figure up. Asmodeus, the demon of lust. So you had managed to summon a demon after all. And, it seemed, a high-ranking one.

Running your fingers over the bite mark, you couldn’t stop the satisfaction from bleeding through you. As a disciple of Asmodeus, you were sure to rise through the ranks of the coven in no time.

#bts smut #bts fic #bts scenario #kim namjoon #namjoon smut #namjoon x reader

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peppermint2d · 3 years

Text

F#$%ing uh, Calm after the Storm cuz the Storm Thing

Chapter 1:

When you took the job at the Essex Enquirer, you had hoped to work in your speciality, investigative war journalism. Since every taxi you tried refused to take you to Kong Studios, right now, the only war you're dealing with is the fight you're having with your GPS. The winding road, plus the rain, and the fact that your company car was ten years old caused your GPS to think you were driving in circles. Luckily, you could see your destination already. In fact, most of Essex could see Kong Studios, the haunted building on top of a great hill.

As a sort of hazing, all new employees get assigned to local entertainment news. You cringe when you heard about the guy who had to write about the mysterious appearance and subsequent disappearance of the shit statue in the city centre. Thankfully, your assignment was much tamer: you only had to interview a local band. You bought their EP "Tomorrow Comes Today" and have been blasting it on the way over. They sounded amazing, and with each repeat of the record, you became more and more excited to talk to them.

But with each kilometre you drive closer to Kong, you become more and more nervous about the surroundings. The heavy rain that was coming in was not helping anything either. There were thunderstorm warnings for that weekend, but it wasn't supposed to be for another day, so you hope the rain will let up soon for some outdoor shots of the band. You stop your car in front of the gothic gates that spelt "Kong" out in the metal bars. You push on them and they do not budge. You see a little intercom box and press the button, a loud buzz signalling that the thing still worked.

"Huh? Who's there?" A gruff voice answered your call.

"Hi. Mr Niccals? I'm here for the interview."

He grumbled. "Right, yeah. Forgot about that." Another buzz punctuated his sentence and signalled the opening of the doors.

You were soaked to the bones as you finished the drive up to Kong. You couldn't tell if your shivers were because of the fact that you were cold or because of the fact that you were driving through a cemetery.

You park your car and rush under the cover of the doorway with your camera and notepad. You knock on the double doors, and although you let your host know you were there earlier, it was a couple minutes before he even opened the door, shirtless, which you filed away to be included in your article.

His eyes looked you up and down "So you're the reporter, eh? I figured they'd over some crazy bat for local news, but I guess I'm special, right?" He smirked at you, his eyes hungry.

"I suppose so. May I?" You gesture to the doorway that he was blocking.

He stepped out of the way, closing the door after you. "I could give you a tour and find the rest of the band?"

"Was I unexpected? I'm so sorry." You flush. Your first assignment and your boss forgot to tell your subjects. How professional.

"It's alright, pet. We get so many journalists that we are always prepared." He slung his arm around your shoulders, leading you around the ground floor.

"So, Mr Niccals, how did you come to own Kong?"

He frowned. "Call me Murdoc, babes. Mr Niccals is my father."

"Right, sorry, Murdoc?"

He hummed, "Just like that." He cleared his throat. "I found it online about two years ago. It was supposed to be a short-term thing, but the owners, they just threw me the keys and left. So I figured I was the owner then. The bowling alley is right in here, by the way." You hurriedly scribbled what he said down.

Your interview continued like that, you asking questions ( "Have you been in any other bands?") and Murdoc answering them ( "Loads. None quite matched my skill though.") while you walked from room to room ( "Here's the recording studio. Found that pelt myself, I really think it brings the room together.") and took notes (Murdoc does not wear deodorant and should).

"Here's the best room of the house. Our very own carpark."

"An eighteenth-century mansion has a carpark?" you asked in disbelief.

He led you inside the space. "I think the biker gang put it in. Crazy bastards. At least now I have a spot for my Winnebago! Want to see it?"

"I'm fine, Murdoc. I don't need to see your private quarters for the article."

"Who said anything about it being for the article? I have real Egyptian silk, mmmm." He started to lead you to his Winnebago.

You stopped walking with him, causing him to stop as well. "Interview first, yeah?" You didn't know any other way of turning him down without running the risk of him cancelling the interview altogether. You start to head over to a doorway that you thought led back upstairs.

"Those go to dents-for-eyes' room. This way takes us upstairs, pet." You climbed the stairs with him. "Up here's really only the kitchen, lounge, and Noodle and Russel's rooms."

He was right, the stairs led directly into the kitchen. All of the rest of the band was gathered there, huddled around a stack of pizza boxes. "Oi! Where did the pizza come from?"

"We ordered it when you were playing dress-up." One of the band members said, and judging by his accent, he was from America.

Murdoc stomped. "I was not playing dress-up! I was trying on costumes for the show!"

You got out your notebook and wrote that down. You could feel the attention of the band on you now. "Oh sorry, I'm here to interview you!"

"Oh, cool. I'm Russel," The American said, "that's Noodle," he pointed at a child who was claiming an entire pizza pie for herself, "and the blue one's 2D."

"Konichiwa!"

"Nice to meet yew!"

You smiled back and greeted them both. The blue one, 2D, was certainly blue, or at least his spikey hair was. His eyes, on the other hand, were pitch black, none of the whites of his eyes was visible. It gave him a unique look and you wonder if it was done intentionally.

Noodle picked up a slice and was about to eat it when you said "I hate to interrupt dinner, but if you could pose for some pictures before you eat, I would really appreciate it. None of that pizza sauce on your faces."

Noodle grumbled but complied, putting the pizza down.

"Where'd yew want the photos?" 2D asked.

You look at Murdoc. "Would it be alright if we take them in the studio?" He shrugged his shoulders and led the way downstairs.

The band posed like they were in the middle of performing. The only issue was that 2D was so tall, that, from your angle, he covered Russel. You spent a little bit of time repositioning them until it was perfect. Just as you were about to take the photo, the lights in the studio went out. The lights everywhere went out.

"A bleeding outage? Right now?" Murdoc fumed.

"I'm sure it will turn on again soon, in the meantime, I guess you can get back to dinner." From somewhere in the darkness, Noodle cheered. "But someone is going to have to help me out of here, I can't see anything."

"You and 2D" Russel chuckled.

Only Murdoc had a phone on him, so he used it to light the way. It especially came in handy when everyone grabbed their food and sat at the table. Murdoc sat at the head, of course, with Noodle and Russel on one side, and you and 2D on the other. Everyone started to eat and you watched them all, mentally taking notes on their habits. You were not surprised that Murdoc chewed with his mouth open. What did surprise you was that the other men actually used their napkins properly.

"'ave yew 'ad dinner? Would yew like some?" 2D offered some of his pizza to you, but you declined. You were bound to get home soon anyway and it would just be unprofessional to eat your guest's food.

"She doesn't need your pizza, Face Ache, she will be getting plenty of my sausage tonight." Murdoc snickered, but no one else at the table joined him.

You awkwardly cleared your throat. "Would you guys be okay with answering some questions while you eat?" They all hummed in agreement while they ate. "So how did you all meet?"

The table became a little tense and all of the members looked at Murdoc. He set his pizza down. "I met 2D first, hit him with a car. Then he joined my band."

"Tell the 'ole story." 2D grumpily persisted.

"Fine. My buddies and I were looking for some keyboards. We crashed into where 2D worked and I hit his eye, proper breaking the thing and sent him into a coma. I had to oversee the poor little mutt as my punishment. I took him to a Tesco and was pulling some wicked tricks that the girls loved. Apparently one of my doughnuts was too fast because 2D went flying through the windshield and hit his face on the curb, breaking the other eye. When he stood up, he was so powerful, I knew I had to have him in my band."

"I 'ad no choice in the matter."

"As if you would say no."

As they start arguing over 2D's involvement, you were still processing the story you heard. Murdoc doesn't seem to be the best person. Murdoc doesn't seem to even be a good person. He seems actively dangerous, and you don't want to be around him longer than you need to. You make note of the whole story and add in a personal note to look up his criminal record.

"So, Russel, how did you join Gorillaz?"

"Murdoc kidnapped me."

That's really not helping his case. "Please tell me that Murdoc had nothing to do with Noodle's joining?"

"Nah, she just randomly showed up one day in a FedEx crate. Played the best guitar I've ever heard and only said her name. Everything else is just Japanese." Russel looked over to Noodle, who nodded, understanding exactly what you guys were talking about.

This was certainly some band. You ask a couple more questions, as required by your boss. "Which song on the EP is your favourite?" "Tomorrow Comes Today." "When can we expect a full album?" "Soon." "Are you surprised by the attention you're receiving?" Murdoc, of course, thought he deserved more, but the other members were much more humble.

After you finish that up, you tell them to pretend like you're not there to get a grasp of their dynamics. They eventually went back into their normal rhythm of banter, but that doesn't stop 2D from trying to include you in their conversation.

They finish their food and 2D gets his portable DVD player and puts on some zombie movie. You're surprised that they let Noodle watch it considering how young she is, but she seems the most enthusiastic. You don't join them on the couch, opting for the floor where the light from the player illuminated their faces. Since you didn't get a picture, you may need to have a drawing instead. You're nearly done when Murdoc announces a piss break and gets up, Noodle and Russel, grabbing snacks.

2D stayed behind on the couch. "Yew know, yew make funny faces when yew draw."

"You were watching me? Oh god, that's embarrassing."

"Seen dis movie loads before, so I got bored and 'ave been watchin you the 'ole time. Sorry, I forget about the 'ole no pupils fing. Freaks people out. Nofing up 'ere to remember that wif though." He gestures to his head.

"No, no, no you're good! I was just too busy drawing to pay attention." you laugh and try to play it off. In reality, it did startle you a bit initially to learn he was staring at you, but honestly, you don't mind and just got to get better at guessing where his focus is.

He smiles wide, showing off his missing teeth, and it lits up the room as if the generators were back on. "Soda?" You nod.

2D and the rest of the band return to the couch, having to wait for Murdoc who apparently has a bladder the size of a horse. He hands you your soda, peeps a glance at your drawing, and gives you a thumbs-up of approval.

You drink the soda and start penning what you think your article may look like. However, the sugar high fades quickly and you're exhausted.

Sharp pain in your side wakes you up and you yelp. You hear the band laugh at what's happened, everyone, except for Murdoc who is groaning on the floor beside you. "Bloody 'ell! What the fuck are you doing on the floor?"

You gulp. "Sleeping?"

"You can do that in my Winnebago with me instead of on the ground, love," Murdoc suggests, wiggling his eyebrows.

"I'll settle for the couch over the ground, if you don't mind me staying over that is. So, where are your duvets?" The band members look around and collectively shrug. "No blankets... I'll just suffer the cold."

"My offer still stands." It did sound slightly better now, but the prospect of him also being there upset you.

"I can survive the cold for one night." Famous last words.

It was freezing in Kong Studios. Your teeth were chattering and you couldn't feel your toes. It's been like this since you woke up after only sleeping an hour.

How are you supposed to warm up? You tried exercising, which was good until you sweated a little and that cooled to ice. Now you're even colder than before. Perfect.

You start to walk around, trying to warm up and think. You couldn't start a fire, not only do you not know how to start a fire, but you also do not want to burn the studio down. And they didn't have blankets... but maybe they have big coats?

You retrace your steps from the tour of the place, heading to where you hope was their rooms. You really only remember trying to get Murdoc to stop leading you back to his Winnebago. You inadvertently walked to the carpark since it was really the only place you could remember to navigate in the dark. Kong Studios certainly didn't feel homey before the lights went out and now the hairs on the back of your neck are standing on edge.

It was pitch black in the hallway, so you ran your hand along one of the walls, yelping every time it touched the edge of a picture frame. You feel the wall take a right and you follow it down, seeing a sliver of light emitting from under a door. Light? Such an unfamiliar sight now. You pray that it was not the bathroom with Murdoc and scented candles inside as you gently knock on the door. You would even prefer Noodle, who would be the worst suited to help you, than Murdoc. The light is certainly coming from a scented candle. A heady scent of vanilla has slipped under the door and is extending into the hallway. Your knock received no answer so you tried again, this time louder.

Louder.

At this point, any louder and you would have woken up the other members. So, you open the door a creak to peek inside.

What a sight to behold. The light from the candle made 2D's hair shine a bright azure and cast huge shadows on his far wall as he danced to his cassette tape. His dancing was awful but endearing; he looked like a baby dear that was still getting used to using its limbs. Abruptly, he stopped and you thought he finally noticed you, but then he rushed over to the papers by the candle and wrote something down, which you could only assume was a lyric.

Without any warning, he looked up and made eye contact with you. You stared at his black eyes, waiting for him to say something. He hummed and crossed out a part of the writing.

You had watched him for long enough, so you knocked again, which gained his attention. "Noodle? Is that yew?"

You opened the door further, "No, uh sorry to bother you so late..."

He began to tidy up the papers he was working on, tucking them behind him. "Hiya! What can I do for yew? Got more questions?"

You're so glad that he didn't mind your intrusion. His light smile put you at ease. "Yeah, I suppose I have one. You don't have anything to keep warm with? Like a jacket maybe?" You were surprised that he wasn't bothered by the cold, only wearing a T-shirt over a thin long-sleeved shirt.

"Oh. Yew cold? I might 'ave somefin! May swallow you 'ole though." His voice cracked as he spoke as he started digging through the piles of clothes on the floor, looking for something. He pulled out a blue jacket, not unlike the colour of his hair, and held it out. "This is one of me favourites! I fink it looks punk, don't yew?" You nod. It did indeed look wicked. "Go on, put it on! I would like it back when yew're done, if that's alright." He looked so nervous asking for his own property to be returned.

You smiled warmly at him. "Of course 2D, you have my word." You slip it on, and he was right, it was way too big on you! Most noticeably in the arm length, where the edges of the sleeves hung off your arms. It was heavy and warm and smelled like cigarettes and something else, something you could only imagine as 2D. It felt like a safe hug. Maybe 2D should be nervous about you keeping it. "I see why it's your favourite."

He scratched the back of his head. "Yeah. I 'ope to wear it in a music video! If Murdoc lets me, that is." At this point, he sits back down again. "Wanna stay? I've gots more zombie mofies! Like Dawn of the Dead... or Evil Dead... or Zombie Flesh Ea'ers!"

"Sure, but I'm winded." You yawn and snuggle deeper into the jacket.

"Don worry! I'll pause it if yew fall asleep." He grins and pats the ground next to him, where you join him. "Which ones 'ave you seen before?"

"None of them. Which is your favourite?"

"NONE OF 'EM? Well then, we gotta watch Dawn of the Dead, it's the first Zombi mofie!" He loads the film and puts the tiny player in front of both of you, turning off the candle to make the lighting better. "I'm so excited for yew to watch dis! It's been a couple monfs since I saw it meself."

He lets the movie play, occasionally pausing to explain why a certain scene was so impressive in horror movie history. You barely watch the film, rather you pay attention to 2D, mentally tracing the look of excitement on his face and committing his hand gestures to memory. You never know what may be important for your article.

#2d gorillaz #2d stuart pot #2d x reader #stuart pot x reader #2d fanfiction #gorillaz fanfiction #gorillaz fandom #phase 1 #stuart pot

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inknopewetrust · 4 years

Text

adieu, remember me. (1)

The Old Guard Booker x Female! Original Character

Summary: After a few years away, one member of the immortal team must return to protect their immortality and secrets as enemies begin to uncover their past.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: nothing yet!

Parts: ... | 2 | part 2 coming soon!

A/N: Thanks so much for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think about the work and it will def be more than 2 or 3 parts and longer than this one. Requests are CLOSED at the moment and I apologize in advance for any mis-wording or spelling in different languages because I don’t know french/italian but I feel in some cases it was necessary to use for character interactions. Published on 8/9/2020.

if you want to be tagged for the next part please let me know!

All original content is owned by me. Anything from the film/comic is property of the writers, studio, and director. Gif not by me.

Versailles evolves every so often but over 172 odd years, more visitors pack its halls and recall its history. Tourists from around the world flock to the once functional palace and the home of infamous, complicated monarchs. Passed the sweeping halls and the paintings of untouchable status, a special exhibit was placed at the end of the hall with cases full of crowned jewels of French royalty.

Tourists flashed photos of crowns and rings and pearls that adorned the exhibit cases. In the center of the room laid perhaps the most famous of jewels, as well as the crowns that found themselves on the heads of women who suffered terrible fates. The Hope Diamond sat in a case between crowns that once adorned it and worn by Marie Antoinette and Louis Philippe I’s controversial daughter, Vivienne, Duchess of Auvergne. On loan from its final resting place at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C., the diamond once found itself imbedded in each of the crowns on momentous occasions.

Crown worn by Vivienne, Duchess of Auvergne and third daughter of King Louis Philippe, killed by French revolutionaries in February 1848. Crown was commissioned by the King for his daughter’s twenty-eighth birthday. Was worn on the night of her death on 24th of February, 1848.

Twenty-eight. 172 years later she still remember the party, the food, the smell of the candles that burned from the chandelier and the man who caught her heart. Pretentious was the only word that came to mind when she thought of the party and the woman. At the time she felt deception too but the world has a funny way of making villains look like heroes depending on the perspective.

Clara felt the surge of memories remind her of the life she knew before the one she was in now. She didn’t know how long she had stood in front of that particular case with that particular diamond and crown but by the time her feet began to ache she knew it had been long enough. Clara also wasn’t sure how long a small English girl had been standing next to her, also staring at the silver diamond encrusted crown and the plaque underneath it.

“You know, she’s kind of a rebel and I dig it. It reminds me of Princess Margaret in a way. She was Queen Elizabeth’s sister and she partied a lot too.”

“Excuse me?”

“Vivienne. She was a rebel in her own right and I admire her for it.” The woman turned, her face meeting the girl taking notes on a piece of paper. The girl couldn’t have been more than thirteen and certainly had a bold personality if she was talking to someone she didn’t know.

“The revolutionaries didn’t see it that way, so why would you?”

“She was independent. I think it was progressive and cool for her not to follow the rules of her family. Not to mention the glamour in her style. She had the best dresses and crowns since well, Marie Antoinette probably.”

“That’s a little naïve, no?” The woman raised her brow at the student but the girl simply shrugged. The young one looked at the older woman and analyzed her face and features as she spoke.

“She spent the people’s money like water and saw no problem with the poverty in the streets. Vivienne was oblivious to the world around her because she lived in a world of riches with everyone at her disposal.”

“Perhaps.” The girl paused before continuing. “There’s a tv show about her on... um-I don’t remember- HBO maybe and they say she took a commoner for a lover and he sold her secrets to the revolutionaries which led to her death. Her body disappeared after the broke into the castle and people think they threw her body in the Seine.”

“I would advise you to stop watching whatever movies are giving you that perspective on the issue because it’s not true.” Clara scoffed and turned away from the girl.

The girl listened but was too entranced by the figure in front of her eyes. Brown hair, medium length, waved. She looked nice to say the least. She had on pretty clothes and may have been an employee because she knew so much but the girl wasn’t sure. All the student was certain of was that the woman standing in front of her looked very much like the Duchess in the paintings that lined the modern wing.

“You look like her.” The girl told her and she put her pencil down holding the pad of paper at her side. Before she had a chance to answer the girl, a teacher called out to the students as a signal to leave and the girl picked up her bag.

“Have a nice day.”

The girl left with the class and the woman stayed in front of the case watching them leave the room before turning back to the crown that once adorned her own head. A soft rumble came from her pocket and she pulled out the burner phone with a number she didn’t recognize but an area code she did, Goussainville.

France, safe house #4

“Hello?”

“Clara.” The Italian on the other line sounded relieved that she simply picked up the phone. Clara’s face contorted into one of worry than one of happiness she had been called.

“Nicolo, s’il tu plaît dites-moi que tout va bien?” Clara moved over to a window, away from the crowds to answer the call she had been anticipating for the last day. She dreamt of a black girl and her throat being sliced open. Waking up gasping for breath that wasn’t her own and cautious of who it might be.

“No-no. Il y en a un nouveau ... mais ce n'est pas le problème. les gens essaient de nous trouver et Dieu sait quoi.” Nicky told her and Clara felt helpless, disappointed in herself that she wasn’t there to help them. Not only was there someone new who needed guidance but the others needed her too if they were going to protect their own skin.

“Andy went to get her. We are at the safe house in Goussainville and they should be here later today. If you can make it... we really need you, Clara.” Clara sighed and looked out the window that faced the vast gardens the palace was surrounded by. Serenity before the inevitable storm.

“He’d kill me if he knew I’m telling you this but Booker needs you. It’s getting worse since the last time he saw you and I am not sure what to do.”

“That was three weeks ago, Nicky.”

“I can’t explain it... it’s just gotten worse. I know he has to help himself but he’s always a bit brighter when you’re around.”

“I can be there later tonight. What time are they getting in?”

“7.”

“I can be there at 8. I’m in France so I’ll take a train as soon as I can.”

“We will be waiting.” Nicky told her and she hung up the phone. Clara looked back at that glimmering crown and what the young girl said about the Duchess. Naïvety at its finest.

At the safe house in Gousssainville, the three immortal men unpacked the bag they brought and washed up after the ambush in Afghanistan. Nicky stood alongside the small counter space prepping dinner when Booker came to fill a cup with wine.

“Who was on the phone?” Booker asked in a low grumble and Nicky set down the knife he was using to slice tomatoes.

“It was Clara. I called her and told her we needed her here. She dreamt of the girl too.”

“And?” Booker pushed further and downed his glass in an instant upon the news.

“She could catch a train to be here at 8.”

“How did she sound?”

“Worried.”

Booker nodded and filled his glass again before going to sit in front of the tv in a chair he had designated as his own many years ago. Nicky watched as he sat, drank more and tried to remove himself from his thoughts but was too lost to do so. He was observant and cared deeply for the others in his life but there was only so much he could do for a man as stubborn as Booker.

“Hai bisogno di aiuto?” Joe called out to Nicky from everyone’s shared bedroom before also joining the two in the common space. Nicky shook his head and glanced at Booker who wasn’t looking but certainly listening.

“I called Clara. She is on her way to us now. She knows we are in trouble.” Joe smiled at Nicky and gave him a quick peck. While they were all very close, Joe and Nicky had taken Clara under their wings and helped her acclimate to the world as an immortal, especially after they found her and the two french immortals clashed.

“It’s been too long. I miss that woman.”

“We all do.” Nicky said before returning to his meal. Without much time having gone by, the door to the cemetery sounded and Andy walked through the door with a nervous woman behind them. The girl was young, no more than 25 and had blood stained on her forehead. One hand was clutching her arm but out of nervousness not injury. Her eyes looked at the three men. Two sat staring at her in chairs and the other by the refrigerator and the only sound that played was the cheering of fans from a football match that played on the widescreen. Andy looked over her shoulder and then back again, breaking the silence to introduce the newest member of The Old Guard.

“Everyone, this is Nile.”

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

Tag List: (Let me know if you’d like to be tagged for the next part!)

@holychocopie

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werejusttouchingeachother · 4 years

Text

Divine

Req: would you mind writing a Sub!Ten smut where reader gives them a handjob and it goes from there? The scenario can be whatever you feel is best but the switch (dom+) in me has been quaking + something with a really dom reader + any whiny subby nct or exo member that first comes to mind? + pegging

Summary: art student!Ten gets assigned a project with you for your Photography class and although his ideas for the concept initially make you wary, you eventually see the silver lining once he invites you back to his place

Pairing: sub!Ten x dom!reader (both are bi/queer/sexually fluid)

Genre: smut (m)

Words: 6015

Tags: nudity, cursing, handjob, edging, pegging

A/N: I combined quite a few repeated reqs I’ve been getting for sub!nct and pegging in specific so sorry if this took way too long! I haven’t gone full feral dom in this the way I like to (because wbk im a hardcore dom) since i’ve noticed many on here have boundaries with it/not used to it so since this is my first proper sub!member fic, I’m just easing into it ok--i’ll go harder or less next time depending on the response this gets

You raise your hand to knock on the burgundy door, hesitation creeping up your mind and effectively stopping you. Your fist hovers mid-air as you straighten your dress with your free hand and pull out your phone to check your makeup again.

When Ten approached you at the library yesterday, you certainly hadn’t expected him to call you back to his apartment.

Well, then again, you hadn’t expected a lot of what Ten had said at the library when he sat across from you while you were working on your assignment.

Chittaphon Ten is nothing less of popular at your university—with a double major in Art and Dance, a minor in Photography, it’s no surprise that both students and faculty were always constantly in awe of how he seemed to always have his shit together, scoring impressive grades, being extremely sociable and generally was the most well-rounded person that you’d ever seen.

His crazy attractive features weren’t a drawback either.

Like most girls, you admired him from afar without ever making a move. Not because you were too shy to do anything—Lord knows you weren’t, and so did a good majority of the students who you’d been with—but because he was always surrounded by people, the life of every party he went to, the one who never had a problem getting laid and the one whose attention required too much effort.

Which is why you were extremely surprised when Ten sought you out at the library yesterday. He’d called your name, which you didn’t even know he knew until then. It made you recall the first time he’d said it—one of the many faces that you’d been introduced to at the freshmen’s party during your first year at university.

He’d been the cool friendly popular sophomore, a beacon to all the lost freshmen and you’d been one of them as you exchanged names, later drinks and then, you were pretty sure, a tipsy dance together towards the end of the night.

That was the extent of your interaction—with the exception of the friendly smiles and casual ‘Hey’s as you passed each other in the hallway. What’s even sadder is that most of the memories from that night aren’t even clear to you due to all the shots you had downed—it’s only when you saw all the blurry pictures on Instagram the next day that you realised he’d danced with his hands around you but you couldn’t remember even feeling them, nevertheless the dance.

Needless to say, Ten was probably the only guy to ever make you reconsider the decision to drink at parties.

Regardless of all this, you hadn’t expected to be paired with him in your Photography class that you two happened to share this semester. You never thought he’d attend much since it was only an elective—moreover, attendance wasn’t even compulsory—but you should have known better, of course perfect Ten was there.

And of course, on the one day that you’d skipped classes, you and Ten had gotten a paired assignment.

“The concept,” Ten said in a hushed voice as he leaned over the table at the library, making your gaze unknowingly rivet to his mouth. You had to force yourself to keep your eyes on his as he continued, “The concept for the assignment is Biblical influence on art.”

Still, you’d nodded. You’d shrugged it off in stride.

At least, you did until Ten said the following words:

“I have an idea. Everyone else is going to be at churches and cemeteries and cathedrals and basilicas. For the architecture and lightings. I was thinking, since we both are studying Art, we could paint on you to make you look like a Michelangelo sculpture.”

You’d blinked at him, wondering if you had misheard because he was whispering so lowly. You’d opened your mouth and closed it again, gaping like a fish. When he’d seen your obvious confusion, he repeated the last part, making your eyebrows furrow and then inhale sharply as you realised he was serious.

“Just hear me out,” Ten started before you could start yelling in the middle of the university library. “Think about it. No one would do such a unique concept.”

“Yeah, because it’s crazy?”

“Its art, Y/N. Crazy is kind of what gets you recognition.”

“This is an assignment that isn’t even accounted for twenty percent, Ten. It’s not even going to get published. Make it make sense,” you said in a flat voice.

“Imagine if it does, though, because it’s that good,” he muttered, widening his eyes at you to further emphasise his point.

You didn’t agree. You didn’t disagree either but the way you’d shaken your head and quickly stormed out of the library with an excuse that you needed to get to class let him know that you weren’t exactly in favour of the whole idea.

Then he’d called that night. It was later than you’d expect anyone to call—especially to discuss an assignment—but for some reason, it had worked.

You’re not sure why you agreed. Maybe it was because he’d actually made some good points over the call.

Or maybe because his voice had sounded so lulling over the phone, you’d found yourself nodding along without even paying attention to what he’d been suggesting. You agreed to meet him after your last evening class the next day at his apartment to ‘get it over with as soon as possible’.

Right now, you stood outside his door and tried to recall what all he had said last night. You were wearing a wrap-around dress that dropped only till your knees—the easiest thing to get in and out of—and had washed your hair so that it hung around your face. You’d scrubbed and shaved every surface of your skin until you were polished and squeaky clean, smelling like fresh soap and your mildly-scented lavender perfume.

You took a breath and checked your reflection for the millionth time in just half an hour on your phone’s screen before sighing and knocking on his door.

There was a shuffle of steps and then the door opened, Ten poking his head out and smiling at you.

“Hey,” he greeted softly and held the door open. “Come on in.”

You slowly entered, your mind racing with multiple thoughts as you closed the door behind you. You heard him mumble that he’ll be right back and to make yourself comfortable as he headed to a room at the end of the hallway.

You entered the first room to your left that he’d gestured at, your eyes quickly scanning the place. You immediately notice how he’d drawn all the curtains open and can’t help but smile at the very obvious attempt to have cleaned up—everything had been pushed to the corners of the room and things were thrown haphazardly to a side to clear the floor.

Biting back a smile, you turn right as he enters and hold your hands up to stop him before he starts speaking.

“Before anything,” you start, lowering your raised hands when you notice he’s listening. “Explain to me entirely what your plan is for the project. All of it.”

He nods and grabs his phone, scrolling through his gallery. You listen attentively as Ten explains how he thought it would be cool if he painted your entire body like a marble sculpture with a sheet draped over your body—painting over the sheet as well for a hyper-realistic effect while you posed like a statue.

You bit down on your lip at the idea of getting naked in his apartment with only a slinky garment to cover you, eyes moving from his phone’s screen to meet his. You can see the question in them and he even gives you a polite smile as if to tell you that you can always refuse if you’re uncomfortable with it.

But beneath that, you can see the challenging glint: he is daring you to back down because he knows you’re on unfamiliar grounds with him. He’d surely been naked many times in his apartment with several mutual friends of yours and so had you back in your own place but never with each other.

And maybe it was that or maybe this exciting air of ‘what if this went somewhere?’ and ‘what if one of us leaned in closer?’—but you didn’t want to back down.

So you gave him a firm nod, relishing in the way his eyes slightly widened at your affirmation as you turned to head for the bathroom that you’d seen when walking in. You turn at the last second, right as you’re near the door to see Ten staring at you as if baffled that you’re actually agreeing to this and you ask as nonchalantly as possible, “Ten? The sheet?”

“What?” He blinks before realising. “Oh, right, right, sorry.”

He grabs an ivory-coloured sheet that laid neatly over the back of a chair and hands it over to you. You still as your eyes fall on the silky satin material you held in your hands, the fabric almost slipping from your fingers because of how smooth it was.

You slowly raise your eyes from the sheet to ask him what exactly you were supposed to do with it and stop when you notice that his eyebrow is raised, expression apprehensive as if to wait for you to drop the sheet and leave his apartment.

Plastering on an overly sweet smile, you nod in thanks and turn to the bathroom.

Once inside, you stare at your reflection in the mirror as you give yourself a pep-talk.

You weren’t backing down. There was just no way—especially when there was a good chance that this was all in your head and you were just making it into a bigger deal than what it actually is. It could just be about the project and Ten’s perfectionistic tendency wanting the highest grade.

So you slowly disrobed from your floral wraparound dress, hanging it over the hook on the back of the bathroom door. You hadn’t put much makeup on except for some gloss on your lips and some mascara—not wanting to be completely barefaced but at the same time, not going fully out.

Taking a deep breath, you take the satin sheet and stare at it as you contemplate how to wrap it around yourself.

You settle for wrapping it around your body, under the arm similar to how you usually do with a towel. You try to wrap it twice but the material is hardly enough to envelop more than once fully around your frame.

You stare at yourself in the mirror and have to force yourself to not get back into your comfy dress and jump out the bathroom window. The material clings to your body like a second skin and despite being layered twice around your front, your nipples still poke through due to how thin and supple the satin is.

Sighing and straightening your back, you turn to make sure that the knot at the back is fastened tightly and feel glad that you’d had the sense to shave your entire body spotless earlier today before coming here.

You meet your gaze in the mirror one last time, narrowing your eyes slightly as you take a deep breath and get your game face on. You walk to the door and step out, immediately feeling goosebumps rise on your skin at the sudden change in temperature from the cool bathroom.

You re-enter the hall and immediately notice Ten fight every instinct in his body to react at your appearance as his eyes swiftly rake over your entire form before quickly flitting back to your eyes.

Raising an eyebrow at him, you stand in front of him and he hesitates before finally saying, “Uh. You. That’s not actually how I thought you’d wear it.”

You narrow your eyes at him, fighting against the urge to cross your arms over your chest defensively because you knew that would only draw more attention towards your breasts.

“What did you think then?” You ask in a deadpan tone and Ten grabs his phone from the table, showing you an image of a marbled woman sculpture that had a similarly thin cloth adorning her body except it fell over one shoulder and was held tight by pressing down the other arm. Moreover, she was postured by leaning her hips against a short pedestal and arching her back with her head raised upwards.

The garment covered her chest and stopped short at the very top of her thighs—barely covering anything but exposing her curvy hips, thighs and sides in their full glory.

You unknowingly release a loud sigh of frustration before nodding. Determined, you reach back to unknot the cloth but Ten stops you with his hand, saying, “Wait, its fine.”

Your hand is caught underneath his, and you look at him with confusion. “What?”

“It’s okay,” he repeats, lowering his hand from your shoulder. “This is better cause I have to paint your shoulders anyway and they’re both revealed this way. We’ll paint your entire body first before putting the satin over it and paint that last.”

“Um,” you say softly, nodding as he gestures for you to sit on the chair. You slowly sit down and contemplate crossing your legs but decide against it as that would cause the material to hike up further than it already is. “Okay.”

Ten stands above you, dipping a brush with thick bristles into a palette. You keep your eyes on his face, watching him carefully and don’t fail to see the way his breath slightly catches when he notices your intense gaze on him. You try to bite back a smirk as he leans over you and presses the cool brush against your shoulder, lightly stroking it over the skin in an experimental brushstroke.

“Could you lean your head back?” He asks you, his voice considerably lower.

“Mhm, sure,” you softly hum in agreement as you arch your neck back, noticing the way his grip falters on the brush as he presses the brush more firmly against your shoulder. The contact with your skin mixed with the air that had suddenly grown thick around the two of you made slight bumps rise along your arms and you feel Ten’s gaze dart to your face, having noticed the effect.

Yeah. This wasn’t about the project. Your senses were tingling and even if you knew nothing else, you could smell sexual tension from miles away.

You deliberately sigh softly, your chest heaving with the release of air and feel the brush still against your skin again. You sneak a look at Ten and notice that he’s completely stopped faking it, watching your face carefully.

You lower your head and turn it in his direction, feeling both your breaths intermingle from how close your faces are. You’re just about to lean in when he says, “It’s not working.”

You blink, momentarily taken aback. “What?”

“The paint.” You glance down at your shoulder to see that the colour was slightly faded and almost runny, not in the thick layers that they should be with the amount of strokes Ten had just made.

“Your skin,” he said, thinking as he leaned back slightly, promptly breaking the moment that you just had. “There’s something that’s not allowing the paint to settle. Did you put something before you came here?”

You think for a moment before answering, “Uh, yeah, moisturiser. Lotion. Is that it?”

Ten swallowed thickly, nodding at your words as he stepped back. “Do you think you can remove it with body wash or soap? I can’t paint your skin otherwise and it needs to be layered thickly for the marble effect.”

You stare at Ten, eyes narrowed as you tried to figure what game he was playing here. You’re almost tempted to just stand up and grab him, press him against the desk and kiss him hungrily.

Did he just want you to shower here? Was he going to walk in? Or was this to just have you smelling like the same sweet-scented soap that he always smelled like?

Or was this really because he was concerned with the project and didn’t want your Vaseline bodycream to stand in the way of a perfect grade?

Did he even want to sleep with you in the first place?

You stand up abruptly, unable to take the million thoughts flooding into your head. Turning around, you made a beeline for the bathroom again while mentally cursing him.

If he was playing hard-to-get, this was the longest you’d ever held out for someone you were interested in sleeping with, despite how much you loved the game.

You’re Y/N. Sure, Ten had a reputation as the campus heartthrob with nights of guaranteed fun and pleasure but so did you—you had entire groups of people who would attest to your skills in the bedroom.

Except you didn’t know right now. The signals you’d been receiving all night were mixed and you couldn’t tell reality anymore from your own fantasies of taking Ten and having him in your own way.

You wished you were right—that he was really interested in sleeping with you. Because you couldn’t get the pretty images of Ten whining and mewling softly out of your head, reminiscing the way his Adam’s apple had bobbed nervously every time he swallowed when he noticed your gaze, loving the way he’d slightly faltered as you’d breathed softly.

You wanted to ruin him so bad—you could feel your core clenching with desire just from the thought of it.

You don’t realise you hadn’t closed the door behind you and it’s only when you turn around, catching Ten standing at the door that you realise.

You stare at him, feeling a slight tingle run through you as you gazed at him. You could see your own reflection on the mirror from your peripheral as Ten leaned on the wall beside it, his eyes transfixed on you.

“How is it that we’ve never ran in the same circles?” He asks, cocking his head.

Is he finally taking the bait?

You smile at his words, crossing your arms on purpose this time. “What do you mean?”

He falters slightly and you know it’s to fight the urge to lower his gaze from your face. He clears his throat, saying slowly, “I mean, we're both...”

“Hoes?” You offer, raising an eyebrow.

Ten blinks, surprised at your word choice. “I was going to say ‘the same’ but uh, sure, I guess that applies too.”

You chuckle, leaning your hip against the sink as you grin at him. “It’s cause we run in different circles that rarely interact with each other and the ones that do are comparatively lesser.”

Ten frowned at that, throwing your earlier question back at you. “What do you mean?”

“You fuck more guys and I fuck more girls.”

Ten’s eyes shot open, a light brush creeping up his cheeks at your bluntness and making you smirk slightly.

You think for a second, remembering all the times you’d spent with girls who were switches or leaned more towards dom. “You’ve slept with Amber, haven’t you?”

He nodded. “Taeyong?”

You nod. “Hwasa?”

“Of course. Mark?”

“Duh. Dahyun?”

“Obviously.”

You smile, glancing at the mirror as you tuck your hair behind your ear. “All right, then. I’ll shower now.”

You start to close the door but his hand is quick to grab your arm, stopping you effectively. You lift your head quickly to meet his gaze, able to smell the paint that was lingering on his clothes and unable to think with the need to just kiss him.

But you had to think, you had to control. He’d toyed with you enough so it’s only fair that you return the favour.

He raised an eyebrow at you in disbelief, unable to say the words that he’s thinking.

“You’re…” He pauses before hesitantly asking, “That’s it? You’re just going to shower?”

You furrow your eyebrows at him, playing genuinely confused. “... Yeah? I asked all that cause I was curious and I never knew you were such a power bottom. So are both Mark and Taeyong so I’m guessing that didn’t work well for you. Unlike the girls you slept with, who are all switches.”

He nods, his fingers still wrapped around your forearm. “I know. But they never... they never...”

He trails off and your eyes widen as you realise what he’s trying to say. “Whoa. What? Really?”

“What’s that expression supposed to mean?” Ten demands, narrowing his eyes at you. “You dommed Mark and Taeyong?”

“No,” you scowled before reluctantly explaining, “I mean I did. But not as much as I wanted to. They chickened out in the last second and we just fucked in missionary.”

Ten hesitates, his tongue darting out to lick his lower lip nervously. “How... how much do you want to?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, you feel your heart skip a beat, a sense of excitement suddenly rushing through your blood. Your eyes are transfixed on his lips, now glistening with his saliva and you can’t help but imagine them parted wide open, gasping and moaning.

“Why?” You ask, your voice husky with arousal as you lower your lashes at him. “How far do you want me to go?”

“How far can you go?”

You raise your eyebrow challengingly. “Farther than Dahyun or the others would ever dare going.”

He grabs your waist then and your hands are already on his shoulders, slamming him back onto the door.

Your mouths meet heatedly and he moans as you press your body completely up against him.

Ten’s hands are gripping your hips tightly as you trail your one hand down his chest, between the two of you. Your hand passes over the waistband of his sweatpants and you palm his growing erection roughly. Ten gasps aloud and the sound is music to your ears as you take the opportunity to slip your tongue inside his parted lips.

Your fingers grip his length over the soft material of his pants and he’s twitching even with the minimal contact. Ten’s hand grabs your neck and pulls you away enough to breathe heavily, “Bedroom.”

“Yes, let’s go,” you mutter hurriedly and you grab his hand, pulling him in the direction of what you assumed to be the bedroom—the only other room in the small apartment.

You sit on the edge of the bed and yank him to you, loving the way a soft gasp leaves his mouth as he almost stumbles into your lap. Hesitantly he sits on your thighs and you shake your head, noticing that he still had his sweatpants on.

“Take the clothes off, sweetheart,” you say sweetly but with enough firmness to immediately make him get off your lap and peel his shirt off. You lean back with your hands on the bed to support you as you stare at him, watching him as he stripped.

You stand up when he’s bare in front of you, taking his hand and pushing him onto the bed before crawling on top of him.

Ten sits on the edge of the bed with you on his lap and you place your knees on either side of his thighs. You grab the hair on the back of his head, gripping the locks tightly in your fingers to yank his head back roughly and quickly move your mouth around his slender throat.

It doesn’t take long to find the sweet spot that has him moaning, his chest jerking up with his gasps at your relentless lips. You lick a stripe from his ear to his clavicle, sucking on the soft flesh where his shoulder and neck meets.

Ten's whimpers are the prettiest sound you’ve ever heard, his fingers having bunched up the satin sheet around you as he grips it tightly. The material gives away easily and next thing you know, cool air is hitting your skin as the satin is now fisted in his grip. Your legs are splayed over his, feeling his warm skin against yours as you kiss around his neck. You lower your mouth to his clavicle, sucking on the skin enough to leave bruises that you’re sure will darken by tomorrow as you mark him. Ten’s head is thrown back in pleasure as you leave hickeys all over his throat and you use the distraction to slowly roll your hips, rubbing your core over his growing erection. Ten gasps at the sudden sensation and you smirk against his skin, pulling him back hurriedly by his shoulders.

“Y/N,” his voice is a shaky whisper as they leave his lips and you hum in response, kissing him again deeply in a way that let him know you were going to absolutely devour him. Your hands find his hair again and you hold him firmly to you, moving your lips against his and letting your tongue explore the warmth of his mouth in a way that left him dazed and breathless when you finally pulled away.

You settled on his knees, leaving enough space between your bodies for your hands to quickly reach down and wrap your fingers around his length. Ten is deliciously responsive—bucking into your touch, hands reflexively reaching out to grip the sheets behind him tightly and moaning softly.

You’re certain that he can see how lust-crazed you are with the way he looks underneath you, his eyes all big and pleading as he waits patiently for you to move your hand, to go faster, to do anything.

So you do.

You’re gentle at first, barely doing much as you swipe your thumb over the pink head. You take your time, admiring the smoothness and length of his dick, swallowing the urge to just take him into your mouth already as you move the pads of your fingers lightly over his length and stroke him leisurely. You watch his face as you do so, loving how Ten’s eyes dilate with the frustration or pleasure or both, you weren’t sure. As his breaths quicken, you remove your hand and smirk while lazily using just your finger to stroke up and down, loving the way he was twitching even with just a single digit on him.

His whines grow louder and you finally give in, wrapping your hand fully around him, suddenly moving it up and down so quickly that it had him breathing harder as your pace suddenly transitioned. Ten’s hands gently came up to hold your hips and he raised his torso from the bed to lean his head into your neck, warm heavy breaths hitting your skin. He whimpered as you lowered your other hand to his balls, fondling them while stroking his erection. His chest started heaving and you could tell he was close from the soft “ah’s” that were leaving his lips, almost in a way that made you think he didn't know he was making them. His eyes were closed tightly, head now leaned back and fingers clenching the sheets so hard that his knuckles were white and you can’t recall when he took his hands away from your waist and pulled his head back from your neck.

You watched him carefully, feeling yourself grow wetter as he came closer to his high and right when he twitched in your hand and his chest jerked up, his entire skin flushing as he panted, you immediately stopped and pulled your hand away completely, disengaging contact.

Ten’s eyes shoot open and you have to bite back a smile at the way he looks utterly breathless and crestfallen at the stolen orgasm.

You take a breath as you crawl over his body, pushing him back by his shoulders and resuming the kisses on his throat and neck. You let your hand tease up his stomach and chest, feeling the way his slender body shivers beneath your fingers at even the slightest feather-touch as you mutter lowly into his ear, “Where are your toys?”

“Bedside drawer,” he whispers breathily and you pull your mouth away from the reddening skin of his neck as you move across the bed to the small wooden drawers.

You grab the strap-on that you found and the bottle of flavoured-lube next to it, closing the drawers shut as you keep them on the bed. Your eyes fall on the beige satin lying at the foot of the bed where it had slipped from Ten’s fingers and you reach across the bed for the material.

Ten watches you with his chest still heaving slightly as he tries to steady his irregular breathing and you grab his wrists, pulling them above his head and binding them together with the same satin that had been around you only an hour earlier.

You adjust on his lap so that your slit is perfectly aligned with his dripping member, enjoying the way he breathed harder as he felt your heat. You moved your hips in torturously slow circles over his length, sliding it up and down as you watched it glisten beneath you with both your fluids while you busied your hands by rubbing the lube in between them and over the strap-on.

“Fuck,” Ten moans aloud and you almost moan in response at how glorious he sounds—his angelic voice cursing, all soft and desperate for you.

You slid down his body and Ten hissed as your hands that were now cool because of the lube made contact with his cock. The head was flushed an angry red and you almost felt sorry at how sensitive he was already despite not even having gone as hard as you usually do.

Ten’s hands are fisted tightly, fingernails digging into his palms as you support yourself above him with both your hands on his shoulders while you kept rotating your hips over him. His eyes close as you grinded slightly against the tip, spreading your thighs and pushing a bit harder so that the head of his erection would slip inside your slick walls just the briefest fraction before you moved again.

Ten whispers curses again and you finally lower your hand again to wrap your fingers around him.

“Ah!” Ten groans as he bucks reflexively into your hand and you don’t give him a second as you start moving your hand over his length at an almost merciless speed, stroking him quickly and roughly. Ten’s eyes blow wide open at your sudden intense stimulations and lower your other hand down further, feeling his pink hole.

The lube in your fingers helps you to easily stick your finger inside and you feel your own arousal grow as he clenches tightly around your single digit while your hand still strokes him to another orgasm. Hearing his breaths grow quicker as he nears his high, you gradually decrease the speed of your hand while still fucking him open with two fingers now.

Ten is mewling and whining on the sheets now, arms slightly squirming to touch himself for relief when you denied him yet another orgasm. His thighs move under you and you narrow your eyes at him.

“Keep moving and I’ll never let you cum,” you warn and he immediately stills at your words, his entire body going still beneath you. You smile slightly in approval at his compliance and lean down to pepper his chest with kisses.

Ten’s breath echoes softly around his cosy bedroom as your mouth finds his nipple, your tongue darting out to circle the nub in quick motions timed with the pace of your one hand moving on his member and the other fucking him open. You look up to see Ten’s eyes roll back in his head at the overstimulation, back arching off the mattress and you immediately stop your ministrations on his cock, sitting up properly to not miss the reaction.

And its priceless.

Ten’s face is redder than you’d ever seen it, a delicious blush spreading over his entire cheeks, neck and down to his chest and you notice how his eyes are slightly teary and unfocused.

You lower your face to his then, pressing a reassuring kiss to his parted lips as you remove your fingers from inside his ready hole.

“Get on top of me, baby,” you mutter as you pull away and Ten nods, disoriented and dazed.

You fall to his side on the bed, grabbing the strap on and putting it around you as you rub the lube, spreading it over the surface of the cock. The thought that Ten probably fucked himself on this after a night that was less that pleasurable and satisfactory with a girl who didn’t want to fuck him the way he wanted to enticed you immeasurably.

Ten’s hands are shaky as he throws his leg over your body lying back on his bed, knees pressed against your sides. Slowly, he lowers himself down on the length of the dildo, eyes closing and lips parting with a loud moan that he couldn’t suppress as he feels it fill him up.

He opens his eyes, gaze shifting to your face and you watch the surprise that falls across his delicate features as you cross your arms behind your head, not touching him.

Understanding that you wanted him to fuck himself on top of you, Ten leaned back and you felt his hands on your lower legs as he used it to support himself up while he starting moving up and down.

Arching his back, you watched the dancer’s slender and beautiful body manifest into the most breathtaking art that you’d ever seen, more beautiful than any marble sculpture as he bounced and fucked himself on you, mouth open as he sang the most sweet-sounding curses and mewls while his angry-red cock slapped against your stomach with every bounce, dripping pre-cum onto your skin.

You raised your hand to his face then, shoving two of your fingers into his parted lips and he immediately closed his lips around your digits, choking slightly. Your own eyes grew hazy with lust as Ten fucked himself faster, thoroughly wetting your fingers with his tongue as he moaned around them while moving faster.

His grunts grew louder and hoarser—you could tell he was close so you grabbed his hip with your free hand and raised your own hips, bucking up into him. Removing your fingers from his mouth, you lowered them dripping with his saliva to his chest and tweaked his nipples that you’d kisses sensitive earlier.

Ten’s body jerks and he groans loudly as his dick twitches, shooting spurts of thick heavy cum over the length of your torso. He keeps cumming continuously, covering your belly, the valley of your breasts and even shoots all the way to your hair with his sticky white fluids.

You drag your finger over your stomach, collecting the cum and stick your finger in your mouth, humming with pleasure at the taste of Ten’s slightly salty essence mixed with his saliva from when you’d been choking him earlier.

Ten collapses down onto your body heavily, unable to hold himself up anymore and you smile as you wrap an arm around his back.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” you start, unable to keep the smugness from your tone, “but did I just ruin sex with a girl for you?”

“Yes,” Ten replied, leaning up to kiss your lips and you smile in surprise at the sudden tenderness in the gesture.

He smiles tiredly, eyes still unfocused as he says, “Yes, you did.”

“We should change our concept, by the way,” you suggested. Ten blinks in confusion and you explain, “For the project. The way you looked on top of me with your back arched like that was pretty fucking divine.”

Ten let out a short laugh. “I don’t know, Y/N, a photograph of being pegged might raise some eyebrows since the concept for the project is Biblical.”

“I repeat: divine.”

144 notes · View notes

lokispettigerr · 4 years

Text

To Summon A Witcher: Geralt x Reader Chapter 1 (NSFW) Smut

Summary: Reader lives and works in one of the most romantic cities in the US, Charleston, SC. However, because of the city's colored past, romance isn’t the only thing that can be found there– it is said that ghosts, goblins, ghouls and the like make the city their home. When Reader meets one of these creatures she has to get the help of someone not quite so human in order to be free, but he frees her from much more than she ever expected.

Taglist: In reblog

Word Count: 1769

Warnings: This shit spooky, fam. Graveyard, and corpse mention.

A/N: This is the first-ever Geralt fic I have written. I hope you enjoy it! Leave me your thoughts in the comments or in an ask!

“Yeah, it’s this huge guy with stark-white hair, golden eyes, and seriously, a body that could pick me up and snap me like a twig,” I told my best friend, Genny.

“Sounds hot. I’m not sure I understand where this is a problem?” She swirled the coffee mug around, stirring up the settled liquid in her latte. “I mean, unless you are waking up to find that these dreams with the ‘Daddy-white-haired-tree-man’ are really wet dreams that soak your covers through… I could see that as being a problem.” She laughed a musical beautiful laugh. I danced around her comment, not wanting her to know how I felt when I woke up from the dreams of the mysterious man or the nature of some of the dreams which truly did feature bare skin, hard muscle, and moans that rang out in unison.

“Genny, I have never seen this man before in my life, yet he has been in every dream I have had for months now. I just don’t know what it means.”

“Sure, but you’ve had to have seen him somewhere.” She looked around us now, glancing all about the outside patio of the coffee shop that was nestled between a bakery and a uniquities store. People were milling about, their arms full of shopping bags or clutching briefcases or talking on their cell phones. “Honestly, I want to see this guy.” Genny licked her lips. “Maybe he is nearby right now,” she whispered, “Either that or he was the main stud on some porn. Yeah, that’s likely it.”

I stared at her blankly. Why did everything have to come back to sex? I mean, to be fair things always came back to sex for the both of us and this was likely one of the reasons why we enjoyed each other's company so much, but this was serious. Dreams mean something, or so my mother taught me to believe. And I couldn’t help but think that the man in my dreams had something to do with my current predicament. After all, they had started shortly after things took a turn for the worse.

I’d felt it on more than one occasion, and lately with the way things were going whatever beasty was following me seemed to only be growing stronger.

It had first started on a cold, wet day. The rain had been steadily falling for more than a week, but that day the wind was stirring maddeningly and there had been a tornado warning.

When the storm began I was at work and after the numerous alerts and warnings, me and my coworkers were all told it would be best if we left. In my rush, I dashed out of the door with only my keys.

I had forgotten my bag and my phone and all the contents that I had slowly collected over the years and kept in a satchel as a sort of talisman to ward off evil spirits and the like that seemed to want to attach themselves to me.

The satchel contained an odd assortment of things: a small vial of salt, a clay statue with its own strikingly unusual appearance, a stone of jet, a globe of labradorite, and the tooth of a black cat that all helped me to feel safe, to be protected and to walk unnoticed throughout the world-- at least in the realm of those things not living.

From childhood, I noticed shadows, without shape or form. Most of the time they were harmless. As I grew older, I became more aware of other creatures and entities. The shadows would go from playful to predatorial.

I quickly grew scared and when my mother found out she took me to see a children’s therapist. The apparitions did not stop, they poured forth latching onto my fears, my desperation and hopelessness. It was as if I had become a house for them to dwell within.

I became haunted.

I passed through the hands of multiple therapists, too many to even count. None of them could help me. I was a child becoming a teen that was out of their depth. They either pitied me, despised me, or feared me.

Eventually, my mother heard tell of a spiritual healer, who was no more than a witch, yet she was the only one who could help.

Instead of claiming that I was delusional or sick, the healer praised me for my abilities and told my mother I was gifted, however, the healer sensed the dark energies threatening to consume me and crafted the satchel that had been blessed and enchanted with wards to keep me safe.

And from then on, I carried it with me wherever I went.

That is, until the day the tornado hit.

I’d left work feeling hopeful that I would make it home before the storm became dangerous. But the further I went, the harder the storm raged. I lived in an aged and historic town and was lucky enough to be within walking distance from my work. A few blocks and I would have been home.

I dashed through the rain, taking care not to slip and hurt myself. My keys jangled loudly against my hip.

Rainwater was pelting my eyes and I had trouble seeing. I was soaked. Lightning flashed while thunder rumbled threateningly.

If I would have left a few minutes earlier from my work maybe things would have been different.

If I would have not forgotten my purse with the enchanted satchel within maybe things would be better for me.

Being a human means making human mistakes and mistakes breed consequences that are not often too kind.

I’d rounded a corner at the French district, splashing through puddles when I came to the wrought iron, overgrown with ivy and tangled weeds, entrance of the graveyard.

People often said the graveyard was haunted, cursed.

There were ghost walks and spirit tours that brought groups of people to this very cemetery so they could “Oooo” and “Aahhh” and romanticize about all the horrific deeds that had taken place here. They would return home or to their inns or their taverns and tell the stories they had heard over a beer with a friend, or sitting in front of their fireplace, or tucked into a cool bed on a winter night.

The locals all knew this cemetery was bad news, nothing good ever came of it except for the endless revenue of the ghost tours that the cemetery enticed.

I planned to continue on down the block, straight past the graveyard, but a harsh streak of lightning cut through the sky overhead and thunder cracked so loudly I could feel it deep within my very bones.

Though I cringed at the thought, I knew that if I cut through the graveyard I would be home in half the time.

I gulped and with a look of harsh determination on my face, I ran into the graveyard, pushing my body through the gate.

It closed behind me with a harsh clang, but I continued.

I wasn’t interested in taking my time like some of the tourists do when they come here to meander and ponder while they look at the ancient graves, too old to even have names or dates on them, or too overgrown with tangled foliage for anything to be made out.

There was a worn path beneath my feet, and the rainwater had caused it to be treacherously slick with red clay mud. It threatened to be surpassed and covered in its entirety by tall and leggy green weeds. They slapped relentlessly at my calves and thighs as I ran through.

The weeds made me run blindly. I thought if I stayed on the path it was safest, but I was wrong.

My foot caught on a thick, twisting root that lay horizontally before me. It snaked from one set of graves to another, likely gaining nourishment from the rotting corpses underneath the ground.

I fell, catching myself on the heels of my hands. My pants leg was ripped open and a sharp, sudden pain could be felt above my knee.

I sat up, thoroughly covered in mud and grime from the cemetery, my hair completely soaked through, my clothes stuck against my skin and inspected the gaping wound above my knee. It wouldn’t need stitches, but as soon as I got home I would have to place some butterfly bandages on the wound, or it was sure to leave an ugly scar.

A wet warmth spread along the skin of my knee as my pants soaked up the blood that was pouring forth.

Just then the wind gushed maddeningly, causing the trees in the graveyard to sway and the grey Spanish moss to dance. The trees creaked and groaned with their movement.

Nearby I heard a clicking noise and I couldn’t place it to anything natural. I shifted, sitting up straight, remaining still so I could hear whatever the noise belonged to.

A shadow crossed my periphery and I turned my head towards the movement.

Whatever it was, was using the headstones to hide and shifting between them, manipulating the shadows of the graves to appear “natural”.

But the feeling of dread I had that I often associated with the shadow beings from my past was all too familiar.

My hands fumbled around for my purse. I would grab the enchanted draw-string satchel and would put an end to this shadow thing coming after me.

It was then, I realized my mistake. I had left my purse at work.

“Shit!”

The clicking grew louder and before me, the shadow began to take form.

I knew I couldn’t turn around. All I could do now was keep moving forward, towards home-- towards safety.

The shadow-being before me darkened, swirling and shifting menacingly, and I rose to my feet charging through it.

When I passed through its still collecting form, I felt a cold that seeped into my bones and gripped with a deadly claw around the deepest parts of my being. It was as if, in doing that it knew me. Everything about me.

My darkest desires, my deepest fears, my hopes and my failures.

I ran from the storm.

I ran from the graveyard.

I ran from the shadow that threatened to abolish me.

Things have been a nightmare since and the depression I was treated for long ago with the help of the spiritual healer is slowly lurking back.

I am certain the shadow beast followed me home, and what I am most uncertain of is how to get rid of it.

**** Hope you all enjoyed chapter 1! Please get this fic out into the tumblr verse by reblogging, commenting, and even sending asks if you feel like it! If you would like to support me head on over to my Patreon where you will get access to my fics before anywhere else and much more! Or fuel me with Ko-fi! Until next time! Peace, Loki’s Pet Tiger

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