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ryo-maybe · 1 year

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Pithy comment about Monday. Prompt: Phosphophyllite. Did. Nothing. Wrong.

Focus returns to my sight little by little, the darkness chiseled away not by what I see, but what I can hear. It begins with the pitter patter of rain splashing over my body. The impossibly fast crescendo plays over my aching skin, sweeps into cracked bones and restores gelid awareness to muscle fibers battered beyond belief. Cold water like poison, awakening numb nerves to the agony of pain like nothing I've ever felt. I feel my jaw burn, caught in the strain between the desire to scream and the effort to keep myself from doing it.

I doubt anyone would hear me anyway. The ground beneath and around me has turned muddy, a disgusting mixture of dust and sand littered all over with ever-widening puddles. Or… maybe, it's still me, bleeding all over from bruises that trick and warp my waning consciousness. If that were the case, it would mean the footfalls I hear are trampling me. Dozens of steps, carelessly pressing into my sores with squelching, careless noises, quartering parts of me as they all head in different directions. Leaving behind nothing but this pair of unseeing eyes and ears to listen as my dignity dissolves droplet by droplet.

It cracks. Again and again. Contrasting with the feet dragging across the mud, another sound, much sharper and deafening. It tears through my self-pitying fantasy, cutting through my very being with a blade fashioned out of cruel reality. Plastic, metal and glass, crumpled into an unrecognizable heap within the impetus of a single motion - this is the sound of my heart shattering.

"Nice job! That was the most spectacular loss I've ever seen!"

A lively string of words chipperly forces its way through my stupor. I am so bewildered I don't immediately notice that the rain has stopped falling over my face. It's taking what little energy I have left just to breathe; even so, I muster as much of it as I can spare to force my eyelids to pry themselves open. My right eye is too swollen to allow anything more than a narrow opening. As for my left one, a fine film of blood has covered it, seeping from a cut somewhere on my forehead. A blurry smattering of colors greets me, most of them painted over by a curtain of dark red. Above all else, an overwhelming shade of pink, and something moving back and forth over my face. For the price of a piercing headache, I manage to squint enough to realize it's a hand waving at me.

"Hi there. First duel?"

I grunt, immediately regretting it. The reverb of my voice in my chest tugs at broken ribs and lungs struggling to squeeze every inch of life they can out of insufficient air. The pink mass leans to one side, coming slightly into more focus. It's hair: a wild, somewhat unkempt mane. It looks soft, feathery almost. But the pair of white horns protruding from it tell me this is no bird, as do the scales covering the cheeks of a visage peering with what looks vaguely like puzzlement.

"That a no or a yes?" A light finger, topped by a pointed, slightly curved nail, taps twice on her pursed lips. Then, a shrug: I see her shoulders, covered by a light blue coat. The color of the sky, I think idly.

"Sad either way. Challenging a Collector all nilly willy like that? That's a biiig no-no, newbie or not. Especially if not."

She grins, white teeth framed by mischievous lips. I would resent her, if my vision hadn't cleared enough to see it. Her gaze. Thin, vertical pupils embedded within a murky shade of amber.

"Why did you lose?"

Her question is a calm reprimand. A pitying encouragement. I don't get it. She wants me to give the right answer, and still expects me to get it wrong. At the fringe of my hearing, I still hear the sound of plastic, metal and glass loudly breaking.

"Not… 'nuff… g-glasses…"

My chosen obsession. The steps with which I decided to build the ladder towards my Ascension. It used to be kaleidoscopes at first. Back when, bold and bright-eyed, I used to gaze up at the continents of Supra floating amidst the clouds. Imagining myself over on the reverse of the same landmass that is now dumping accumulated moisture all over the stage where my life has screeched to a crashing halt for the second time.

"Nuh-uh. Try again."

Her gaze narrows ever so slightly, as does her thinning smile. Judging and pitying me at once. I can't tell the difference, can't decide which I would rather she did. It would be simpler, if she were merely mocking me. If I could tell that she's laughing at me for the decisions and vicissitudes that led me to become a shell, carved and emptied of all the possibilities that had been gestating within. Because I am weak, I cannot rebuke this stranger with either the truth of my conviction nor the falsehood of my zeal.

I lost because glasses were an easier medium to adapt to the innate gazing abilities of us lamia.

I lost because I, a mere Hoarder with a scant few duel wins under my belt, felt like I could leap ahead faster by challenging a Collector.

I lost because I was too afraid of hunting Mahou born of more high-quality glasses, thinking I could make up for quality with sheer quantity.

I lost because of my conceit. I lost because I was too ambitious. I lost because I wasn't ambitious enough.

"The hell… does it matter…"

I struggle to sit up, feeling my insides stir in directions and ways they were not built to endure. I cough out blood, vomit and fragments of my dimming patience over my clothes, holding my stomach as if to keep its contents from spilling directly out from under my frayed shirt. Behind my damp back, something warm gently pats the cold away and keeps me propped up, preventing me from falling back when my consciousness threatens to pull me back into the mud.

I see it now, all too clearly. The source of that noise. A massive boot rises and falls, unheeding of the rain, to smash a pair of glasses. The force of each stomp is such that most of the fragments have embedded themselves into the muddy soil. What few pieces I see shine with a faint, alluring glimmer - until even those are trampled into oblivion. I scoff, shaking my head. Compared to the leftover bits of my sorry ambition, the gems adorning my chosen adversary's clothes and body give off so much brighter a luster.

"We all hunt… fight… collect. Whether we win or lose. It's all the same… for me, that bastard… and you."

The ceaseless cycle of the bottom feeders stranded on the world's garbage dump. Yeolk, the First Layer. My home. My miserable, inescapable home.

"It doesn't matter."

Because I lost. Because, even if I somehow, against all odds, had won–

"Ah."

I grit my teeth in unison with the last crunch. I see the winner of my hopeless scrap bend down to look at the shards embedded in the sole of his boot, before rubbing it furiously against the mud. As if even soiling it with viscous grime would be preferable to the taint of a weakling's possessions.

"Did you like those?"

The girl speaks next to me. A quiet murmur, almost lost to the rain: something to be shared only between the two of us. Oddly intimate, strangely comforting. When I turn my head away from the bejeweled Collector of gemstones, I see her staring intensely at him. As her face snaps towards me, a light jingle lures my eyes to something glinting on one of her horns: a pair of bells, tied around the bulky ivory with an intricately woven blue bow.

"Yeah." With nothing left worth the effort of hiding it, I easily surrender a truth that I would be too embarrassed to admit to an acquaintance. "I… I really didn't want to lose that pair."

The girl with pink hair like feathers closes her eyes. Her brows knit with vigor, contrasting vividly with the delicate line of her smile. It is only once she has gotten up that I realize she had been holding an umbrella above our heads. An elegant one, with a lacquered shaft and a paper canopy made of vermilion. I see others with the same shape and a dozen more, hanging by the hem of her coat like a rainbow-colored skirt.

"A little more of that."

She raises the arm holding the umbrella until it is fully extended. As soon as it has reached that zenith, she brings it down, slamming the bottom of the shaft onto her open palm. A wave of sheer pressure explodes outwards: I squeeze my eyes and mouth shut, still too tired to properly protect myself with my battered arms. But all I feel is a faint breeze caressing me, inviting me to look at the reason why the sound of the rain sounds so feeble now.

Droplets of water lie suspended in mid-air, surrounding an invisible sphere with her at its center. While I stare, slack-jawed, at the absurd phenomenon, she closes the umbrella and twirls it with practiced ease, stepping onwards and past me. Trailing behind her, poking through her skirt made up of umbrellas, I see blue scales topped by a line of pink fur. A long, bulky tail, swaying sinuously in tandem with the cadence of her rubber boots.

A dragon. In the legends passed around the campfires, they say the first Hoarder to Ascend was a dragon. Nowadays, mean stereotypes have their race pegged as too lazy and fearful to pit their collections in a duel.

To me, however, this dragon, who strides confidently towards the Collector who kicked my ass without breaking a sweat, looks like neither the stuff of legends nor a laughing stock.

"If you had more of that love to spare, your precious things would never have let you lose."

Now watch. The wink she gives me over her shoulder is playful and serene in spite of the unsurmountable wall she is about to willingly face, as if for nothing more than to prove a point. And watch is all I can do. That, and wondering.

"Hey, Sparkly! You got one more fight in you, or is bullying those poor glasses all that bling's good for?"

He does not seem to have appreciated the nickname. His gaze, above the pair of gem-encrusted sunglasses lowered on his thin nose, is hard as a diamond and filled with a sentiment blacker than obsidian. The vein bulging beneath his (also gem-encrusted) enormous pompadour seems rich in prime quality irritation.

"Mh? Mmh? Mmmh!?" With each noise shaking his gullet, the gemstone Collector leans forward, rows of rings like those adorning his hands - the same hands that pummeled me and my paltry hoard to a fine pulp - dangling menacingly and shiningly from the hems of his glittery jacket. He takes his time sizing up the dragon girl half his imponent size, before leaning backward, so much so it is a wonder he does not end up splashing into the mud like I did, one beating ago.

"Little lizard. Do you have chalk for brains, or are you just dumb like a sack of rock? Why, oooh why why why! A pebble on the road would have put up more of a fight than your friend there, and now you! Having seen that! Would still! Try your luck!"

Each sentence is punctuated by a dramatic shake of his head, his damp hair sending drops of water splashing to and fro that the dragon deftly catches with her umbrella.

"Vvvery well then! If you want so badly to feel with your body what happens when phosphophyllite shatters against quartz."

His fists smash together, dozens of rings inlaid with gemstones still awash with my own blood and bits of skin. His lips part, a window opened on rows of teeth embedded with emeralds, rubies, sapphires and other rare - and painfully hard - rocks.

"Tell me your name, little lizard! Once I'm done with you, I'll use it as a synonymous of 'dummmbass'!"

His zany posturing is not mere bravado. I have sampled it myself: his skill and the quality of his possessions are undoubtedly those of a skilled, merciless collector. I should be worried, or even indifferent, towards the fate of a complete stranger picking a fight with him for no seemingly good reason at all.

But I can't. Trumping such logical and cynical thoughts, I find myself mesmerized. The dragon girl, undaunted and eager, takes hold of another of the umbrellas from her "skirt" and, with both hands thus armed, fluidly bends her body into a clear combat stance. Even if I cannot see her, I know from the booming excitement of her voice that she is wearing a carefree grin.

This dragon is neither the stuff of legends nor a laughing stock.

"Heir to the 99 Karakasa-ryuu Umbrella Fencing Arts!"

With pink hair like feathers, clad in sky blue. She reminds me of a bird, flying through clouds and Layers alike, unfettered by any and all. Something I wish I could be, what I yearned all life to become.

"You may call me Naki!"

To me, she looks like the embodiment of absolute, sincere freedom.

#wordy seeds #finally making use of the setting I've been brainstorming for the past few weeks instead of sitting on my arse letting it fester into nothi #ng or sleeping WHOOPS when did it become 5am!

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pheonix-21 · 2 years

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Simple changes for weight loss-

Firstly i would like to differentiate between weight loss and fat loss- when we talk about weight loss , its all about our body from bone density to muscles but when we talk fat loss its only mean extra fat ( adipose) .

Beacause loosing bone density & lean muscle is not good for healthy you. You need to move from fad diets and add something healthy and realistic goals in your fat loss goals.

Tips

Chew you food . i know you're tired of hearing this but seriously if you apply this rule in your life its gonna change so many things- like when you are not dieting because of some problems this habit of yours going to maintain your weight where it was before. Its will not reduce your weight when you are not dieting but atleast gonna maintain it

80/20 % rule- this means eat till you are 80% full because when you stuff yourself 100% or 120% , the digestion will be alot slower but when you eat only till 80% you digestion will be improved and help you in fat loss.

NEVER SIT OR SLEEP AFTER EATING YOUR MEALS! OK let me explain when we just done eating food , the macronutrients ( carbs, protein & fat ) we eat its going to convert into glucose and the glucose will be released in our blood stream but if you directly went to sleep or sitting position after eating the glucose requirement will be low and the glucose is going to stored as adipose ( fat ) in our body . SO ALWAYS WALK FOR 10 TO 15 MIN AFTER EVERY MEAL. People who works at offices can finish thier lunch early and take a walk in thier office.

Cut processed animal baesd protein because its low in fiber , high in fat & saturated fat . Use egges & fishes to complete you daily protein requirement. Eat more plant based food beacuse to refine the processed meat nitrates are added in it which is going harden your arteries and its actually really low in nutritional value.

Avoid trans fat at all caust beacuse it reduce good cholesteol HDL and increase bad cholestrol LDL.

Hey! This my first blog . Hope you liked it and if you want to know more about these things plz follow me.

And if anyone wants to know about your daily calories intake- like total calorie intake , carbs , protein & fats and what type of diet you should proceed except the whole diet plan. You can contact me here . I would love to help you with this .

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inhuman-obey-me · 3 years

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Knowledge is Wrath

Word Count: 1.8k Description: The Avatar of Wrath had mastered the art of pleasantries and placid smiles, a mask he wears nearly perfectly -- but if you try and take advantage of him, he won't hesitate to let it fall. Part of the A Demon's Nature series. Hereeeeee's Satan and his glorious wrath!! Note: Cabariel is a high-ranking demon named in the Ars Theurgia who has fifty dukes attend to him in the day, and another fifty dukes attend to him at night. Thalbus is one of the named night dukes, who are said to be deceitful and disobedient. Can also be found on AO3 here. content warning: gore gore gore, blood, body mutilation/horror

The Avatar of Wrath had mastered the art of pleasantries and placid smiles, burying the rage that always burned under his skin deep within the darkest parts of his soul. He would be more than wrath, more than the fury that everyone expected of him. At least, that is what he would constantly tell himself, knowing that many still found themselves on edge in his presence. It’s all an act, some who had witnessed his true self would say, others merely repeating it for his title and position alone.

There was a place where those whispers would fade away, however. The company of high-society, where he had gathered an array of acquaintances with whom he could discuss a variety of subjects, sharing his extensive knowledge and exchanging it for theirs. These connections only ran so deep, most never crossing the line into friendship -- but friendship is not what Satan sought. He wanted status, a curated image that placed him firmly in the echelons of the wise and out of the shadows of rage incarnate, out of the shadow of pride.

“Thank you again, Lord Satan. I can’t believe I’ll actually be able to see this scroll for myself!” A lesser demon eagerly walked alongside the Avatar of Wrath, accompanying him through the gates of the Demon Lord’s Castle.

“It’s my pleasure, Thalbus.” Satan gave the other his ever-polite smile. “Cabariel had mentioned multiple times that you were anxious to get a look at it, so I’m glad I can be of assistance.” Here he was, leading one such acquaintance to the Royal Archives housed at the castle. It was a privilege few had, one that Satan treasured greatly. He had been allowed by Lord Diavolo centuries ago to visit the archives as much as he pleased, and he did not let the offer go to waste.

They descend now, traversing through the grand passages of the castle -- both imposing and eerie, some corridors shrouded in darkness while others are aglow with flames. Portraits watched them pass by, whispered -- ‘a new visitor, how quaint’. Upon reaching the door that housed the array of treasured documents and scrolls, Satan whispers an incantation he knows well, the last of the words leaving his lips and turning into a spark of light that traces the intricate pattern carved in stone. With a click, the door opens, and the two walk in -- the door then heavily shutting behind them.

“Here we are.” Satan gestures to the main archive room, lined with towering shelves that nearly reached the domed ceiling. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

“It is, it is!” Thalbus gives him a grin, ever-so-slightly crooked. Clasping his hands together, his eyes scan the magnificent annals of the Devildom. “So … where is that scroll?”

“Impatient, aren’t we?” Satan merely smiles, though he feels the way his jaw wants to clench. “Come, it’s in one of the back rooms.”

Down a few aisles, through an archway, and they now are before a vitrine with a scroll neatly rolled out in full display, the parchment delicate from its age but its fibers intact due to restorative magic. It’s much smaller than one would expect, and thick ink is scrawled across it in ancient demonic tongue -- “The Word of the Regent”.

“Wow,” Thalbus gasps in awe, scuttling closer to the glass to get a good look at the prized artifact. “So it really does exist … “

“That it does.” Ah, what a smug look it was that now graced the Avatar’s features. “It really is fascinating, apparently written by one of the first kings. Many are still trying to decipher it’s more complicated and muddled passages, as it seems to speak of a series of powerful rituals that would grant whoever is able to perform it a great amount of power and wealth. Or, so say the urban legends, the actual validity is still debated and -- “

Satan continues to speak, showing off every bit of knowledge he has on the subject as Thalbus continues to admire the scroll. He gets a few ‘hmms’ and various other one-word acknowledgments in response, which is all he needs to continue his confident rambling. To be in the presence of another demon who understood the splendor of such a relic was refreshing, even if for only selfish reasons in that the Greater Demon could bestow an interested party in all his wisdom.

“Thank you once again, Lord Satan.” Thalbus gestures in great respect, hiding a rather satisfied smile as they both eventually leave the archive chamber. “I am incredibly lucky to have been able to be introduced to you, and to see the scroll for myself! Ah, what a dream come true!”

“Again, you are very welcome.” Picture-perfect smile, a steady gaze. They round a few corners, go down a flight of steps -- the portraits whisper again, “oh my, oh my”. They enter one of the dim passages, steps lost to shadows.

“Um, Lord Satan … forgive me, but is this the way back out?” Thalbus warily speaks up, eyes darting around the dark.

“Oh, no. No, it isn’t.” Satan laughs, shaking his head as a large smile stays plastered on his lips. A fool, the Avatar thinks to himself, he truly takes ME for a fool! How ridiculous, preposterous, outrageous. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice, Thalbus?”

“Pardon me?”

“Adorable, how you think you can feign innocence.” He laughs again, though malice bleeds through his voice this time. With a wave of his hand, the shriek of metal scraping against stone is heard -- a gate closes, and Thalbus now realizes he is trapped in a room with no escape. “So, why don’t you hand it over?”

“Oh … you mean, this?” The lesser demon produces a thin tube from his jacket, cocky grin splitting his lips. “I suppose you’re sharper than I realized. Didn’t think you would pay attention while you kept yapping and yapping.” How courageous, for him to act as if he wasn’t moments away from wrathful consequences, Thalbus would have one think. How utterly foolish, is what Satan knows.

Imperturbable smile still present, the Greater Demon steps closer and moves to snatch the contained scroll from the thief, but Thalbus has decided he’d much rather opt for more severe torment as he moves to hide it again. Were all demons of deceit this imprudent? The flames of wrath begin to grow within -- hotter, deadlier.

“How about we make a deal?” Thalbus tries. “You let me borrow the scroll, and I’ll grant you something in return.”

“Oh?” Satan’s smile widens, but his teeth grow sharper. “A deal you say? Truly, Thalbus, you continue to impress!” He begins to laugh, that laugh that sounded so melodic and cheerful and yet just a hint deranged. Satan tilts his head to the side, his eyes glowing a fierce green in the darkness. “You think that you of all demons can entice me with a deal? Just what could you possibly have to offer ME?” His laughter continues, growing more maniacal as his body continues to shift and distort. His claws grow longer, his tail thrashing about as flesh gives way at parts to bone, green flames tracing up his spine to match the searing verdant flames that now emit from his hollow eye sockets. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

Thalbus does not have time to respond, though the terror now present on every crevice of his being is answer enough. In an instant, claws are at his throat as he is held up against the wall, the sound of metal hitting the stone floor ringing out as the scroll slips from his grasp and rolls into the far corner of the room.

“Ah, looks like you’ve lost your bargaining chip!” There is a distortion to Satan’s voice, a grating echo. “That’s too bad.” His tail goes to flick at Thalbus’ cheek before roughly moving against his flesh, its sharp edges peeling away at his skin to reveal what lay underneath. The lesser demon tries to shriek, only to find no sound leaves him. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

Satan laughs again, before the claws of his other hand immediately go to grip Thalbus’ jaw, wrenching it open and piercing a claw through his aforementioned muscle. “Oh, guess it’s actually me.” As the lesser demon struggles, Satan can make out a garbled “Please!” as he sees tears leave the other’s eyes.

Please?

PLEASE?

What could this pathetic excuse of a demon, this wretch, this absolute shitstain be thinking that begging “please” would help get him out of this? This situation that he only had himself to blame, for daring to think that he could outwit Satan. The flames that danced atop wrath’s form grew brighter, hotter, larger -- and he unhooks his claw from the demon's tongue to instead grab hold of his jaw once more and rip it clean off his skull. Blood gurgles up and spills from the deceitful demon’s open cavity of a throat, muffling his continued screams which only sounded like music to Wrath’s ears.

Rage overflowed through every fiber of Satan’s being, his mind now clouded and his vision blurred among the inferno. His blood boils as he descends into madness, a flurry of demonic curses escaping through grotesque fangs until words become unintelligible screams that shake the stone walls in his fury.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, IDIOT!

The sharp bony horn that now protrudes from Wrath’s forehead is lowered to skewer an eye, then the other. Piece by piece, Thalbus is torn apart -- claws ripping apart limbs, teeth tearing out his organs, horn impaling muscle, tail grinding bone -- all while the smell of burnt flesh fills the room as flames lick at the remains. The sickening sounds of the lesser demon’s body being completely obliterated fill the otherwise empty chamber, a song of violence.

He is long dead before Satan is finished with him, painting the walls and floor with ichor and tissue and ashes of whatever else comprised the once corporeal form of Cabariel’s duke.

Ah, right. Cabariel …

Deep breath, count to ten … and Satan feels his form shift again, sharp edges folding away as his more human form comes into place. The haze in his mind is gone, the flames put out, the wrath forcibly buried back down as rage subsides. He is himself again, he thinks, for obviously this was who he was and not that beast that had just reared its head.

Yes. Himself.

He walks over to the corner of the room, deftly picking up the nearly stolen artifact. Rage begins to unfurl within him once more, but he must keep it at bay. This problem had been taken care of, disaster avoided. Cabariel would not be pleased to know that he was short a duke, but that was the least of Satan’s worries -- after all, Cabariel should be glad that it wasn’t his throat Satan came for next.

Another look around the room, and a tired sigh leaves the Avatar’s lips. He had purposely lured Thalbus away from the Royal Archives, but still ...

… Barbatos was not going to be pleased.

#obey me #obey me swd #obey me!#obey me shall we date #obey me satan #om! satan #obey me fic #demons being demons #series: a demon's nature #the all encompassing [mod] cosmos #more of the angry wrathful satan that the game needs to give us #hhh I hope this is okay #he's the last of the bros for now though I'm gonna go back and do a second asmo one too #since these all got ... longer ...

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paperpocalypse · 3 years

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significance.

50 Cliché Tropes and Prompts: 26. Cuddling in comfortable silence before murmuring “I love you” + 47. “I’ve been in love with you for years”

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 4,118 words

Warning: Swearing, violence

His head feels like it’s been split open, the rest of his body feels like one giant bruise and the Handler’s daughter has her fancy leather boot on his fucking throat.

Five couldn’t be less surprised by his luck.

“Doesn’t feel so good, does it?”

He forces in just enough breath to answer her. “Eat shit and die …!”

The reaction is worth it. Lila lets out a furious cry, gritting her teeth and bringing her foot down even harder – and in doing so, changes her center of gravity. Opportunity. Five digs his nails into that damned shoe and pushes upwards. The sudden force sends her flying, and he can breathe again.

Fighting the ache in his bones, Five stumbles to his feet as she does the same. “Come on,” he pants, readying his stance as the woman turns to face him again. “What are you waiting for? Let’s finish this thing.”

She shakes her head. “No,” she whispers, sniffling. “This isn’t gonna be quick. You are going to suffer for what you did.”

Suffer? For Christ’s sake – Five scoffs and drops his hands. “Lady, I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Ronnie and Anita Gill.”

“Mean nothing to me.”

“1993, East London.” Lila continues to stare at him like he knows what the hell she’s talking about. “You hog-tied them and you shot them in the head.”

Five narrows his eyes; it’s very possible that she’s just bullshitting him. But despite the rationality of just ignoring her and going for the kill, he searches his memories anyway. 1993, East London. Hog-tied. Tables overturned, the pleas of a couple inside a tiny flat in the middle of the night. Yes, wait – he does remember. 1993, toys strewn everywhere – he told you to close your eyes but you didn’t – East London, two quick shots –

“We had no choice.”

“I know. But …”

“The flower merchants,” he murmurs. Five looks at her with wide eyes. “They were your parents …!”

“And they never did anything to anyone. They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

The Handler ordered him to kill Lila’s parents. Lila, who has powers like them. That couldn’t have been a coincidence.

Absorbing this newfound information, Five attempts to talk the woman down as he fills out the rest of the picture. “You’re right, alright? I killed them. But I killed a lot of people over the years. It was all just a job. Alright? That was never personal.”

At that, Lila laughs. “‘Never personal,’ my ass,” she sneers. “Yeah, I’ve killed – it’s always, always personal.”

“That’s why you’re not cut out to be an assassin.”

She yanks a knife out of her boot as soon as the sentence leaves his mouth. “Bet your life on that?”

Right then, a shadow moves in the doorway to the barn. Five immediately knows who it is, and his heart seizes in his chest.

“Lila!” Your voice is firm and taunting.

Shit. Shit!

Without hesitation, Five lunges for the knife, only to find himself grabbing at air as Lila reappears behind you. The blade is pressed against your neck before he can even shout your name.

Five clenches his fists as he meets your eyes. Your expression is stony, hands stiffly grasping at Lila’s arm. Jesus Christ, just a little energy to blink – nothing –!

Fucking shit!

“Let her go.”

—

The bearded man smiles. “Sorry, no can do.”

The alley is frigid and dark, the air damp and rotting. He doesn’t move a muscle. In front of him, you breathe steadily, in and out, not saying a word. The steel barrel pressed flush to your temple mirrors the one against his.

“Just hand over your valuables and that briefcase, and we can be on our way.”

“Sorry,” you say, voice steady and cold. (It makes him proud.) “Everything stays with us.”

He looks at you. You blink.

Within the next half-second, he’s knocked your captor to the ground and the two of you are aiming the guns at their previous owners. They raise their hands almost immediately. Exactly like the exercise from his youth.

Another half-second, and both of you pull the triggers.

Five stares down at the corpse now lying on the ground. Then he straightens his tie and turns to you.

You’re still pointing the gun at the other target. His frown softens.

“[Y/n].”

Putting a hand on your arm, he notes how you stiffen, snapping out of whatever zone you had been in. You meet his eyes and breathe in sharply, then relax.

“We’re done.” You frame the question as more of a statement as Five takes the former thief’s gun from you.

“For the night,” he affirms, holding your gaze curiously. “You good?”

You wet your lips and tuck your weapon away. “I’m okay,” you eventually reply. He raises an eyebrow; your mouth twitches. “I just – well, you’re taking this whole assassin thing a lot better than I am. Pointing guns and shooting and killing for real, and – and all that pizzazz.”

“I was a member of the Umbrella Academy,” Five points out dryly. “Thirteen more years of formal training and being able to spatial jump gives me somewhat of an advantage.”

“… That’s true.” Still, you seem unsettled. “Five, you’re okay with this? We’re … killing people.”

“No. But we have no other option,” he says. “It’s only until I figure out how to get us back, alright?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Alright.”

The pair of you leave the alley, leaving the targets there to be found by the police. The fact that they had a gun pointed at your head should make him feel better about it. They were already criminals, too. Self-defense instead of cold-blooded “corrections.”

There’s still a bitter taste in his mouth anyway.

“You hold your own pretty well,” he murmurs after a while, trying to distract himself.

You grant him a small, knowing smile. “Thanks,” you say, taking his arm as the pair of you walk the rest of the way to the motel. “I had a good teacher while I was stuck in the ruins of the apocalypse.”

He hums. “Weren’t you lucky?”

Your hand tightens around the sleeve of his tailored suit.

“The luckiest.”

—

He’s going to kill her.

Teeth bared, Five starts toward her, only to stop short when Lila presses the blade harder against your throat.

“Not another step, Five,” she warns him, her grip tightening. “Or you’ll both regret it.”

“She’s not responsible for what happened. I was the one who killed them!”

“But she didn’t stop you, did she?”

Five struggles to control his rage. The knife is sharp and black underneath your jaw, ready to draw blood at a moment’s notice.

You inhale shallowly. “Lila,” you rasp.

“Don’t speak.”

“Look,” Five forces out as evenly as he can, catching the woman’s attention again. He can’t take his eyes off that goddamn knife. Five can almost feel the edge cutting into his own skin. “You wanna blame someone, blame the Handler, alright? She faked the kill order.”

“Bullshit! I saw the kill order. AJ Carmichael ordered it, and you and [Y/n] carried it out.”

“Lila, listen to what I’m telling you, alright? The Handler gave us the kill order. She came on the job, which she’d never done before.” He unclenches his fists with unwilling, trembling fingers. His mind is reeling. “You’re Commission. You know execs never go on jobs, but that day in London, she was there. Ask yourself why –”

“Stop trying to muddy the waters.”

Five swallows, pulse racing. He rips his eyes away from your neck to gauge Lila’s expression. Doubt is beginning to bleed into it, and he manages to keep his tone level.

Focus on completing the picture. No sudden movements.

“Think about it, Lila. It all makes sense.”

Lila’s grip on the knife relaxes by the smallest amount. She hesitates for a moment before speaking. “What?”

“She never cared about your parents. She was looking for you.”

What little is left of her anger melts off Lila’s face. For the first time, the girl looks completely vulnerable. And it’s not a farce.

“Why?” she whispers.

Come on …

“‘Cause you’re one of us.”

Lila whips her head around when Diego cuts through the silence, holding you even more tightly against herself. Five’s gaze snaps back to the knife again and he swears internally.

Dammit, Diego, you better have a plan!

“The Handler stole you, Lila. Just like our asshole father took all of us,” his brother explains carefully.

“No. It’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. Because he didn’t have our parents murdered.” Diego approaches her, staying low to the ground, hands outstretched. “Listen to me, Lila. You were born October 1, 1989, the same day as all of us.”

The rest of his siblings close in on Lila, slowly, warily. The movement sends her into a panic, and she cuts a little into your neck. You let out half of a gasp and swallow the rest of it, but it’s enough.

Five sees red.

“Get your fucking hands off her!”

“STAY BACK!”

“Five! Back off!” Diego shouts. Chest heaving and blood roaring in his ears, Five looks at him and then at your sweaty, frozen face – and against every fiber of his being, he listens and backs off, glaring venomously as his brother then turns to Lila again. “Lila? Lila, stop. Let her go.”

She turns her head from side to side, knuckles white as she keeps the knife against your throat. “No,” she chokes. “Diego, you don’t understand. They killed my parents. They took my life away from me.”

Five seethes. “For the last time, it was nothing personal –"

“And it was wrong. I know.” Diego’s eyes flit to Five’s, silently reprimanding. “You want to make them pay for what they did. But killing [Y/n]’s not gonna bring your parents back. You know that.”

“It’s not about bringing them back.”

He nods once, softly. “You’re right. It’s about justice. Honoring their memory.” Diego’s voice is gentle. “Trust me, Lila, I get it. I lost someone to the Commission too. She wasn’t family, but she was my friend, and I cared about her. She wasn’t supposed to die. She didn’t deserve to die. But she did.”

As Diego continues talking, Five keeps his guard up on the other side, watching and waiting for a contraction of a muscle, a single forewarning of violence. If another drop of your blood stains that blade, shit, he’ll kill the woman with his own two hands, Diego’s feelings be damned.

Tightening his jaw, Five shifts on his feet as he looks at you. You stare back with calm eyes – just like that night in the alley, but this time, with no signal for him to make a move.

Goddammit, they should’ve gotten you to safety by now!

“… Just think about whether taking another life would honor their memory. [Y/n] deserves a chance to start over, live a peaceful life with people she cares about. And so do you.”

Lila’s trembling. Yet, she refuses to budge. “If it weren’t for her and Five,” she whispers, “I wouldn’t need that second chance. I would have been all alone if Mum hadn’t found me that night.”

“But there’s a reason she found you. She’s using you, Lila. The Handler.”

“You’re wrong. She raised me.” Lila pauses, then asserts, “She loves me.”

“She’s dangerous,” Diego emphasizes. “And you’re scared of what she’ll do with all that new power. That’s why you dragged me to the Commission. Because I know what it’s like to love dangerous people.”

—

“Oh, my.” The Handler puts a hand on his shoulder, hovering behind him. “One hundred and forty-three kills on the simulation? That’s a new record. Very, very good, Five.”

Five bristles at her closeness, but he doesn’t move away, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of unnerving him. “Thanks,” he says tersely.

“Tell me, Five. From what I’ve seen during your training, you’d be a lot more efficient in the field if you were a one-man team. Working alone is when you work best.”

“I’m partnering up with [Y/n].”

“And you’ve filled out the paperwork and everything, I know. I know. But I implore you to think about it logically,” the Handler tells him, leading him down the hallway. “[Y/n] has highly marked assessments, but frankly, they’re nowhere near your level.” She raises her eyebrows at him and blows out a stream of smoke. “Forgive me for assuming, but perhaps this is less about a partnership that would benefit the Commission and more about your personal … relationship.”

Five smiles thinly at her. “With all due respect, we’ve worked together for years. Almost forty years, in fact. I can assure you that our partnership will deliver more than satisfactory results.”

The woman just hums serenely, eyebrows still raised and cigarette holder between her lips as he faces her. Behind her, he sees you approaching.

“Excuse me,” he says politely.

As he sidesteps the Handler to meet you halfway, your shared employer calls out to him, voice ringing through the sparse crowd of Commission drones. “You’re a dangerous man, Five,” she drawls, “and this is a dangerous job. If you want to protect someone, we won’t stop you, but don’t let it endanger this opportunity we’ve so generously provided. To the both of you.”

“Duly noted,” Five replies over his shoulder, walking away with you. He can hear the Handler’s heels click against the floor as she goes on her way as well.

“She’s suspicious about us partnering up, isn’t she?” you ask him lowly.

He frowns. “I would be too if I were her. But we have to stay together.”

“Well.” You reach up to adjust his hat, tilting it slightly. “In any case, I’m pulling my own weight in the field. Just like in the apocalypse. No one-sided protection.”

“[Y/n], this is different from the apocalypse. We’re not dealing with food shortages or bad weather – we’re dealing with people.”

“All the more reason for you to trust me.” Despite your usual controlled tone and mien, he sees the way that your eyes glint. “I’m kinda dangerous myself, Five. Especially for the people I love, and I’ve been in love with you for years.”

Five sighs.

“You’re so sappy, you know that?”

(Nevertheless, he finds himself mumbling those four words, just loud enough for only you to hear.)

—

“Difference is …” Diego glances around at their siblings, then looks down, “they love me back.”

“Shut up.”

“The only thing she loves is power. Now, the minute she can’t use you, she will turn on you, and deep down, I know you know that.”

She tilts the knife against your neck. Five sucks in a breath, his heart pounding.

“You don’t know me, Diego.” Lila’s voice is hoarse.

Diego steps closer. He lifts a hand to cover hers over the knife.

“Don’t I?” he whispers. “I know that we can be your family. If you just let us.”

Lila’s eyes are glossy with unshed tears. Hesitantly, she turns her head to look around at his family, and in that moment, Five has a cautious inkling that Diego’s words actually got through to her. She doesn’t resist when Diego pulls her hand gently.

When she releases you, he almost feels weak with relief.

Five murmurs your name as you stagger over to him; you grab his arms, and he raises his hands to hold your face between them.

“Shit,” he breathes, “[Y/n] –”

“I’m okay,” he hears you say, but his ears are ringing and your skin is cold and shit, your neck – delicately, Five tilts your head back, and you attempt to brush his hands away. “Five, it’s – it’s just a scratch …”

His fingers brush against a wetness on your skin. You wince, almost imperceptibly. He draws back to look at his hand, and when he sees the blood on his fingertips, your blood, the wave of relief crashing onto him abruptly morphs back into rage.

Before you can pull him back, Five lunges at Lila.

Gunshots echo throughout the barn.

—

You’re smiling.

—

He wakes up, gasping for breath.

“Oh, good! You’re still alive,” the Handler says, looming over him. Her lipstick is bright red through the dizzying blurs. “Lucky you. You got to see how this all played out.”

Grappling for air, Five tries to speak – tries to give one last word, to finally tell the damned snake to fuck off as he stares into the barrel of her automatic. But it hurts to breathe and he can’t. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts. His tongue feels like lead and his throat is closed up. All he can do is look.

But before she can pull the trigger, he hears gunfire.

Bullets rend flesh that isn’t his. Five’s eyes widen, stunned; the Handler gasps sharply. She turns. More gunfire.

She falls.

Shit, that could only mean.… Five struggles to lift his head, almost blacking out from the pain as the gunman approaches, crushing straw underfoot. A shadow falls over him.

The Swede silently tilts his gun down at his face, and he realizes: they are both the last ones. Everyone else is dead. The Swede’s brothers. The Handler. Lila. His siblings. You.

This is the end.

(This doesn’t have to be the end.)

… Five blinks, numb.

(You’re the one who got us stuck here.)

Unless …

(Seconds. Not decades.)

Seconds.

His lungs burn. Hope blooms in his chest.

(C’mon, Five.)

Concentrate. Hands clenching sluggishly, Five focuses on gaining back the feeling in them. Seconds, not decades. A familiar, electric buzz thrums through his bones, warm, crackling with energy. His hands begin to glow. Blue envelops them like they had so many times before.

It happens slowly, time reversing itself like molasses oozing back into a jar. The Swede lowers his arm and retreats. Bodies begin to rise. Five feels himself getting pushed up, and his feet touch the ground; he presses forward, running, refusing to look back. The sharp pains recede to a singular ache.

Seconds.

He breaks through behind the barn door with a gasp. Air fills his chest, full and crisp.

Immediately, Five looks back at you and everyone else, standing and breathing, and pats himself just to make sure.

Holy shit.

Spotting movement outside, Five leaps at the Handler just as she walks in, seizing her weapon and turning it on her. His finger curls at the trigger. She raises her hands in surrender, lips pursed.

Got you, you son of a bitch.

“It’s true, isn’t it? What Five said,” he hears Lila ask. He doesn’t dare look away from her mother, meeting her poisonous glare with an equally cold one. “Answer me! Is it true?”

The Handler takes in a breath. “Well –”

Before she can finish her sentence, blood sprays out from her chest. She collapses. Dead.

The Swede. Five stares at her body, gun lowering. There’s a pregnant pause, void of any air – and then in his periphery, Lila shoots forward.

Luther charges after her. “The case!”

“No!”

Diego tackles him to the ground. Lila disappears in a flash of blue.

One dead, one missing. Neither of which are you or his siblings. There might be hope for them yet. Rolling his shoulders, Five turns his attention to the rogue assassin, cocking his gun and pointing it at him. The Swede reciprocates.

Nobody utters a word, for fear that it may be their last. But as Five feels the weight of the automatic in his arms, he wonders, suddenly, just how much he has in common with this man. A forgotten humanity. The death of their families. The force of a person with nothing to lose.

Except in the Swede’s case, he has no chance of gaining back what he had lost.

This is the end.

Five takes his finger off the trigger, then after a brief hesitation, lets go of the gun.

“Enough,” he says.

Nothing happens at first. The only sign that the man heard him is how he looks away from Five, surveying the rest of the barn’s occupants.

Five returns his gaze firmly, muscles tense, when he meets it again. The Swede regards him for another moment, then finally speaks.

“Inte mer.”

He drops his weapon. No more killing.

—

After Vanya helps the kid and calms him down, she goes with him and Sissy to help them pack up. Everyone else exits the barn as well to rest up and say their goodbyes before leaving, save for Diego, who talks to Herb and Dot with you and Five before joining the rest of the group at the house.

As soon as everything seems like it’s on track, Five brings you straight to the bathroom before you can protest.

“Five, it’s just a scratch.”

“That’s what you said last time.”

In a familiar turn of events, you’re sitting on the edge of the bathtub, sulking as he cleans the rest of the dried blood from your neck. Five scowls as he inspects the thin, rough scab underneath your jaw. For shit’s sake, it’s more than a ‘scratch’ – but at the very least, the cut wasn’t deep enough to cause too much bleeding.

Obviously, he’d have preferred it if you hadn’t gotten cut at all.

“She could’ve killed you.”

“I know,” you murmur. He glares at you softly, and you reach over to hold his hand. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Five scoffs, shaking his head. “Worrying me? I was damn well past worrying when she –” At that moment, he makes the mistake of seeing the guilt in your eyes, and he sighs. “What the hell were you thinking?”

You shrug quietly as he opens a large Band-Aid. “That I had to do something to keep you safe.”

“At your expense?”

Your miniscule smile changes into a grimace for a split second when he sticks the bandage on, but it returns immediately after. “You would’ve done the same thing, Five.”

All he can retort with is a displeased huff.

Silently, you stand up and turn him around, urging him to sit down this time as you pluck another hand towel from the stack that Vanya had given the two of you. Five sits still, mouth shut and eyes watching, as you start cleaning his face. Your expression is tender. A familiar feeling wells up inside of him.

Suddenly, you chuckle.

“What?”

“It’s just – if I didn’t know any better,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly grimy spot on his cheek, “I’d think that you were a schoolboy that just got into a fight and lost.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, good thing that you do know better, because I obviously would’ve won.”

“Obviously.” Your eyes glint, like they have so many times before.

—

“How bad does it hurt?”

Your hand is soft in his as he glances at his wrist, propped up on a stack of books, then into the small fire burning a few feet away. “Not that much,” he answers. “Thanks for splinting it.”

“Thanks for talking me through it.” You breathe in, head on his shoulder, testing the words on your tongue before you continue. “I was worried. I’m glad it’s feeling better.”

A wrist sprain is nothing to write home about, figuratively speaking. It’s more of an inconvenience than an actual concern; Five figures that the injury will heal in a week, a week and a half at the most. Frankly, he’s more concerned about how much longer it’ll take to complete daily tasks in the meantime.

… You, on the other hand – well, he wonders if you’ve ever gotten anything more than a few cuts and scrapes growing up. The closest he had ever seen you get to panicking was after he fell today, and you’ve been wandering around with him for years.

In a strange way, Five thinks, he was glad for it. He is glad for you. Glad for your presence, your level head. He is glad for the way you hold his hand and talk to him during the day and after dark. And he is glad, secretly, that you want to protect him just like he wants to protect you.

“I love you.”

The words slip out, rough and unbidden.

Five holds his breath when they echo in his ears. You stop tapping your fingers over his skin. Perhaps that’s a bad thing. It was not a mistake, of course, and he isn’t going to take it back, but if that wasn’t what you were saying this whole time – shit. He lets go of your hand, his throat scratchy and strangely closed up.

But then – your fingertips brush his face. He swallows.

“I love you too.”

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thefallennightmare · 3 years

Text

Rule Breaker-Eight

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: very, very slow burn, swearing, angst, fluff, and maybe some smut down the road.

Summary: Agent 16 or also known to her close family and friends, Y/N, has been one of SHEILD’s top and most trusted agent for the last 5 years. Her number one rule that she lived by since she started; don’t date your coworkers. When an alien species threatens New York, it’s up to Agent 16 and the rest of the Avengers to save the world. However, what she never expected to happen was her slowly breaking that rule with one of her own team mates; Captain America himself.

A/N: Tags are still open if anyone is interested. As always, let me know what your thoughts are! I’m always open for feedback!

Tags: @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden

The slow and steady beat of the monitor to my left is what woke me, pain immediately racking my body. My shoulder throbbed with the pain of someone stabbing me, over and over again. With a quick start, I sat up in the bed, hand clawing at the bandage on said shoulder.

“You’re going to rip your stitches open.”

To my right sat Steve, whose eyes were clouded with exhaustion, but still had a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. His white t-shirt hugged his muscles in such a wonderful way, I couldn’t stop myself from melting at the sight.

“What happened?” The grogginess of my voice startled me. “How long was I out?”

Steve sighed and leaned back into the chair. “Not long. That spear had some kind of foreign substance that messed with your blood. Docs wanted to make sure you were okay before releasing you.”

The tone in his voice told me that he was hiding something.

“Steve,” I pressed. “How long was I asleep for?”

He ran his hand through his hair, another sigh passing his lips. “About a week.”

“A week?!” I exclaimed. “Loki, the Chitauri.”

I rambled a few more words until Steve stood up to grab my hand, words immediately seizing from my lips.

“He’s back on Asgard with Thor. Him and the Chitauri won’t be coming back.”

The slight feeling of relief washed over and I relaxed into the pillows, letting the softness comfort my aching bones. I was in the climax of the fight but that did nothing to calm the anger I felt for missing the ending; sending Loki off with a swift kick to the ass.

Literally and figuratively.

My mind, however, couldn’t stay on Loki for long, replaying the scene of my last moments of consciousness a week ago. How could I allow myself to get so enamored with Steve that I had become distracted?

This wasn’t like me; a girl smitten for a man she had just met. So why did I keep finding myself stealing glances toward Steve, who sat in his previous spot eyes scanning a newspaper. I bit back a smile at the sight.

“You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” I said after a few moments of silence.

He shrugged. “This is the only thing I planned today. Plus. that Sitwell guy keeps lurking around your room.”

My body shook with disgust. “Something is not right about that guy.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Steve said while placing the newspaper on the table next to him. “You have this ‘no dating your coworkers’ rule because of one guy you dated?”

“We went on one date,” I corrected. “And it was that bad of a date. Plus, you saw how distracted I was by you. I can’t let my emotions get in the way. I never used to let my emotions step foot on the battle ground, the one time it nearly killed me.”

“I distracted you?” He questioned with a smug smile.

It took every fiber of my being not to jump out of the bed to wipe it off of his face.

Breaking out into my own smile, I shook my head. “Yes, believe it or not, Captain America is quite distractible.”

Suddenly the air shifted and Steve’s face was filled with sorrow.

“I didn’t mean to distract you. My mind went nuts when you got hurt, all I could think of was that you could have died,” Steve admitted.

My shoulders raised and lowered in a shrug. “It wouldn’t have been the first time and if we keep working together, it certainly won’t be the last.”

Our gazes held strong with one another and Steve gently placed a hand on my leg, the warmth sparking the butterflies in my stomach to life.

“What's one date?” He asked, voice just above a whisper.

I hesitated, the thought of how everything wrong could happen if we did go on a date and regretfully shook my head.

The date could go extremely well, us having more in common than we thought, and we end up dating but I continue to find myself distracted while working when we’re around one another causing one of us to get hurt, again, or worse.

Or the date could go horribly wrong, we end up hating each other and forced to work together.

I feared both options so no matter how hurt Steve was with my answer, I knew in the end it was the best choice for our work relationship.

Steve let out a sad sigh but quickly covered it with a fake smile, something I immediately could see right through.

“How about we get drinks, as friends? Natasha can come as well,” He suggested.

I squinted my eyes at him in mock wonder but eventually smiled, my heart fluttering hard against my chest. No matter how hard I tried to ignore my growing feelings for him, Steve always found a way to make my heart race.

“I’d like that. I’m going to need a drink after being in this fucking hospital bed for a week.

Steve and I shared a laugh before he went back to reading the paper and I thought about how this friend date could either go great or could go so incredibly wrong.

I pulled at the end of my black dress, forgetting how tight it used to be, and gave myself a quick once over in the mirror in front of me. The dress hugged every curve of my body perfectly and the red heels matched my deep red lips. My hair had been slicked back into a tight pony and I bit my lip, knowing that this might have been slightly overkill for tonight but anything to get that man's heart racing.

Tonight was the friend date and it took some convincing to get Natasha to come along. She quickly agreed, however, when I mentioned I would be buying the drinks all night. Her words from our earlier phone conversation burned into the back of my brain.

“I don’t want to be stuck in the middle while you two make sex eyes at each other all night.”

My cheeks matched my lips at that comment so I thanked the Gods Natasha couldn’t see otherwise I wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

Steve and I both agreed that if we were going to be working together, it was in the best interest of everyone involved that we kept it professional; much to the dismay of him. And myself but I would let him know that.

So I settled with being his friend and stealing longing glances whenever I could, knowing there wouldn’t be any repercussions.

Grabbing my leather jacket from the chair in my bedroom, I made my way down the long hallway of my apartment but my heels came to a screeching halt at the sight in front of me.

A figure sat on my couch, arms extended wide on the back of it. The leather jacket melded with the darkness of his surroundings.

Even in the dark room, I instantly recognized the man.

“I’ve been out of the hospital two days and you’re already sending me on a mission, Fury,” I scoffed.

“The mission is Level 7, which is why I need you; you’re one of the few that can get the job done,” Nick informed.

With the mention of level seven I knew that whatever mission he was sending me on, I wouldn’t be back for quite some time.

I nodded and walked over to the closet on the other side of the room, lugging out two large suitcases and setting them by the front door. On the top self was a bag that held various weapons and after I tossed that over my shoulder, I quickly grabbed the two swords that lay perfectly against the wall.

“Anything I should know?” I asked slipping into my jacket.

Nick nodded. “There will be a debriefing packet on the jet.”

“Where am I headed?”

“Siberia,” He answered.

I hummed. “I’ve never been to Russia.”

Nick looked over my outfit with a quick glance and let out a low chuckle. “I didn’t ruin any plans, did I?”

There was a quick tinge of sadness when I realized I wouldn’t be seeing Steve tonight however I masked it with a firm shake of my head.

“I just had a date.”

No other words were spoken as I gathered my things and walked out of my apartment, leaving Nick behind. I hadn’t known it then but the mission I was about to embark on would be the one that would change everything.

#steve rogers #steve rogers and reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers slow burn #steve rogers smut #captain america #captain america and reader #captain america x reader #chris evans #marvel #avengers

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kyberphilosopher · 4 years

Text

Dᴏꜱᴄᴇɴᴅᴏ Dɪꜱᴄɪᴍᴜꜱ

The reader tries to paint the Colossal Titan from memory, and Bertholdt seems to know more than most people.

Requested: no.

Word Count: 2092

Docendo Discimus is a Latin proverb meaning "by teaching, we learn." It is perhaps derived from Seneca the Younger, who says in his Letters to Lucilius: Homines dum docent discunt., meaning "Men learn when they teach”.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

The human body is home to somewhere between six hundred and eight hundred muscles. There are two hundred and six bones, seventy-eight organs, one hundred thousand miles of veins, and roughly ten pints of blood. Every individual cell has a purpose, important and needed for the body to continue to function.

Assuming the anatomy of a titan was the same to that of the average person’s, the Colossal Titan should be easier to render than this. You’d sketched the face of muscle and teeth over a hundred times by this point, and each one of them seemed to draw further away from realism than you liked.

Sure, it was arguable that the Colossal just didn’t have the same anatomy in his face as the average human. But then there should’ve been more factors in his face that shouldn’t have worked.

For example, the monster didn’t possess a muscle called the orbicularis. You could remember that specifically from the time you and your fellow cadets had gotten a bit too close for comfort. But based on the lack of orbicularis, he shouldn’t have been able to blink. And yet, he had. There was also a strange muscle in his temporal region with horizontal fibers, that couldn’t have simply been his temporal. It doesn't seem to have any particular function, either.

God damn it. It’s appearance should’ve been the one thing about this bastard to make sense, but instead it had confused you just as much as the rest of it. Never mind how smart you were. If you couldn’t solve this simple turned complex mystery, why hold out hope for studying anatomy when the world would return to normalcy?

In your frustration, you slam the paintbrush back into your cup of water. A stain of red clouds erupts in the liquid at once, angry from how direct the solid hits the surface. In front of you, the canvas shines with the new layer of red paint. Beside it is a coat of salmon, also fresh and lined with the titan’s muscles.

“So stupid,” you hiss, half to yourself. You grab your cadet corps jacket, shrugging it on swiftly before crossing your arms and stepping back.

It was supposed to be a gift for Eren. He knew you were something of a painter and had once jokingly asked you to make a dart board for him. The moment you conceived this idea, you knew it had to be a stroke of genius. But you wanted to get it right, and for that, the artist and realist inside of you seemed to be punished for it.

Was it something with the eyes? No, it was definitely the anatomy of the titan overall. “For fucks sake,” you wave off finally, turning on your heel to walk away for a while. But when you turn around, you’re face to chest with one so broad you nearly stumble back.

The figure tenses up immediately. You tilt your head up to see who it is, recognizing the nervous, kaleidoscope eyes of your comrade. Bertholdt, you’re sure his name is. You haven’t talked too many times, but you’ve seen him in your circle of friends. There’s a memory in your brain of asking your bunkmate, Annie, about why Bertholdt would hang around someone so upstanding and obnoxious as Reiner, but you can’t recall her specific answer.

“O-oh, Y/N!” Bertholdt nearly wheezes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stand so close.”

“It’s fine,” you mutter, rubbing the side of your head as you step away. “What are you doing here?”

Yes, what was he doing here? A little closeted off room by the girl barracks? And aside from that, how does someone as tall as he even sneak his way inside? It’s suspicious, to say the least.

“I was just-” Bertholdt stares down at you, sweat already beginning to form on his face. Oh, goddess. How is he to get out of this one? If Reiner was with him, he could just lie his way out of it. But now, looking down at your apathetic, borderline tired, frustrated face, he knows he’s never had much luck with girls. Especially not pretty girls like you.

His gaze shifts to behind you. There, on a perfectly square parchment of thick paper, is a rough sketch of a long face without any skin. It seems to be all muscle, labeled and detailed. Half the sheet is colored in with pinks, browns, and scarlets, with the other half marked with insane little scribbled patterns that remind him of words.

You’re still waiting for an answer. He sees your steady, patient eyes and your balled fists by your hips, and Bertholdt wonders if you already know. “I saw you bring in those cans of paint, and I guess I got curious.”

“Oh,” you reply flatly. “Yeah. That.”

“It’s um...” Compliment her. Compliment her painting. “It’s a nice painting. What’s it supposed to be of?”

“The Colossal Titan,” you tell him as you rub the back of your neck. Then you turn on your side so you can view your art, immediately narrowing your eyes in disgust at it. “It’s not my best.”

Bertholdt’s words come out a bit louder than he intended. “Actually, I think it’s really, really great, Y/N!”

You turn back to meet Bertholdt’s nervous, almost quivering eyes. You certainly wouldn’t call yourself an expert on the male gender, but this tall bastard was exactly the stereotype of someone who wasn’t an expert on the female gender. It was almost funny. No, it was almost ironic.

“I just mean that... it’s really good. It’s easy to see that you have heaps of talent,” the brunette reiterates, seemingly calmer this time.

What a nice thing to say to someone.

“That’s not really my point though,” you borderline sigh. “The point is that no matter what I seem to do to him, it doesn’t seem realistic does it?”

“What do you mean by that?” Bertholdt questions, his eyebrows furrowing. That’s right, he wouldn’t be able to squint without his orbicularis. Something your art model was currently lacking.

Do you even bother to explain it to him? It’s not like either of you are close, or like he’d exactly understand what you were saying to him anyway. But where was the harm, really?

You walk back towards the parchment, with Bertholdt just a few steps behind.

“See this area?” you ask, gesturing to the Colossal Titan’s eye area. “There's a muscle here that’s supposed to let people close their eyes. But the colossal titan doesn’t have that.”

“W-why is that?”

You shrug. “Damned if I know. But doesn’t it look wrong on him?”

Bertholdt observes the painting. He sees all the details, all the time you’ve put into it. While you are right about the image and the titan’s strange features, it’s now that Bertholdt realizes just how intelligent you really are. Unlike other people, you actually knew things. If he were an enemy, he might be starting to feel threatened right about now. Ironic indeed.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” the boy says shyly. “Why does it have to be perfect, though?”

Good question.

“No real reason,” you tell him, trying to hide the hint of smile. “I guess it’s just how it is. Eren is the one who asked for this.”

“O-oh... you mean like a...”

Your eyes flit back to Bertholdt. “Like a what?”

Bertholdt can feel the sullen wave of anxiety wash over him. He hadn’t meant to let the stray thoughts fall from his lips, but now he can’t take it back. Now what does he say? “I just mean, is it a gift or something like that?”

“Sure.”

Were you and Eren...?

“I might be able to help you with it,” Bertholdt stutters, again, louder than he’d intended. He’s lucky at least one of you is level headed during this interaction.

“How so? Do you paint?”

“No, but I think I might know some things about the Colossal that you don’t,” Bertholdt offers. His right arm reaches behind to rub at his sweaty neck. In that instant, you can see that the boy has an almost identical structure to that of your subject. You’d have to note that the tall boy would make a brilliant model for something like this.

“Like what?” you question. “Could you give me some feedback on my piece then?”

Shit. Shit. Shit. You were going to find out.

Bertholdt pretends to be in deep thought for a minute, knitting his dark eyebrows together. His green, blue eyes sweep over the picture, watching the slick settle. “Well, you’re right about the muscle around the eye. I’d take that out, but maybe place the shadow of it?”

“The shadow?”

“The outline. And maybe make his eyes more glossy than this. Titan’s have a second set of eyelids.”

You don’t have time to question him further. Bertholdt continues the onslaught of information.

“I think you should also make some of these areas here a bit lighter,” he says, pointing to the side of the Colossal’s face. “From the steam and the high body temperature, it would get a bit smoky.”

“Yeah,” you begin slowly, watching the shine in Bertholdt’s previously nervous eyes. “I hadn’t considered that.”

The lanky male in front of you lets his lips curl into a sheepish smile, closing his eyes as his fingers thread themselves between his hair. “I doubt most people do, so you’re not really in the wrong.”

“How do you know so much?” you ask. “You’ve been quiet with everyone up until now. Do the higher ups even know all this?”

“I mean, they’d have to right? I guess I just took a lot of notes in class.”

You hadn’t remembered your professor mentioning most of these things during your Titan Studies period. But maybe it wasn’t really worth questioning him over. Maybe Bertholdt was just more observant than you had ever really considered. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Your eyes are fixated on him. Bertholdt was kind of cute, actually. His eyes are both big and slim, with pale green orbs. His skin was always a bit illuminated with a nervous sweat, and he was incredibly mild mannered. But maybe that was actually a good thing compared to all the boys in camp who seemed to lack any conception of manners. Pouty, chapped lips, a gentle smile, messy dark hair. He seems like someone reliable. Kind. Trustworthy.

“Yeah,” you say again, breaking eye contact. “So, are there any other suggestions you have for me?”

Bertholdt is still for a moment, thinking it over. “No, other than don’t think so hard about it, probably.”

“You two sort of have a similar face,” you say, staring at the muscled beast you’d attempted to replicate. “Maybe you should pose for me sometime.”

Bertholdt tenses.

“I’m only joking,” you assure. Bertholdt’s broad shoulders fall as he relaxes, and a soft exhale leaves from between his lips. “But I would like it if you’d let me model after you.”

“Me?” Bertholdt stutters, shocked. “You mean you’d want to really paint me?”

“‘Course,” you say, nonchalant as always. “You’ve got one of those faces.”

Bertholdt smiles naturally. Soft, but noticeable. You return it after a few seconds, feeling your previous frustration and anger at the piece begin to wander away.

“I should get back to work,” you say as you turn around. Bertholdt watches you unclip the parchment from your sturdy easel, place it on the stone floor, and grab another paper from a pile.

“Y-you’re starting again?”

“Of course,” you say. Your dominant hand laces around a piece of charcoal, preparing to drag it across the page. In one swift and scratchy motion, an onyx line appears at the top of the paper.

Bertholdt’s cheeks dust pink from behind you. He’s about to offer if you want him to pose for you so you can memorize what’s underneath his shy skin, but he stays quiet. Instead, Bertholdt is happy that he even got to speak to you in the first place. He wanders out of the room with butterflies in his stomach, and guilt in his heart.

And you, with your eyes narrow, basing the monster that ruined your life off the boy who had just helped you.

.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.

I didn’t proof read this. I feel like I’ve just been cranking stuff out lately. someone remind me to go back and edit thank you

#bertholdt x reader #bertholdt imagines #bertholdt hoover x reader #bertholdt fubar x reader #bertholdt fubar imagines #attack on titan x reader #attack on titan imagines #attack on titan fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #aot x reader #shingeki no kyojin x reader #shingeki no kyojin fanfiction #shingeki no kyojin masterlist #aot masterlist

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dragonsareourfuture · 3 years

Text

Death Note/GN!Reader — Pick Up Lines

A quick little scenario in which your Death Note sweetheart uses a terrible pick up line on you! I feel as though these all kinda suck since I write this a while ago but it’s fine. It’s fine.

Mello

Staying up late every night and watching security footage was not fairing well for Mello. Dark circles started to form underneath his eyes, and you pointed out that he was turning into L, all he needed was black hair and a haircut. He simply responded “The day I cut my hair short is the day the world ends.”

Usually when Mello got tired he would turn into a grumpy, adorable gremlin but, mixed with the excessive amount of chocolate he consumed due to boredom, he had turned loopy. Matt had relied on his headphones to keep him sane, whereas you were left with no escape from the babbling blond.

Mello rambled on and on about how he was going to beat Near with every fiber of his being, slowly getting sidetracked into a conversation about sheep.

“They’re so fucking fluffy. Standing around, eating grass, taunting me.” The blond mumbled, his head resting on your lap as you stroked his hair, listening with genuine interest.

“Mhmm, how do they taunt you?” you inquired, wanting to know more before your boyfriend fell asleep and you never got to find out why he felt so threatened by white, fluffy animals.

“They just...do .”

“Well, I’ll always keep you safe from the mean, mean sheep.”

Mello shifted so that he was gazing up at you. He lifted his hand to your face and gently smacked your cheek with his palm, rubbing his tired eyes with the other hand.

“Aw, babe you’re so sweet when you talk like that... You make me melt like chocolate in the summer~ ”

“I do what?”

Before Mello could answer, unconsciousness grasped him and pulled him down into the dimension of sleep. You sighed, disappointed that you wouldn’t get to hear more, yet also relieved that Mello could finally get the sleep that he needed.

“G’night, Mels,” You whispered, brushing his bangs to the side and kissing his forehead, “You make me melt, too.”

Matt

Matt’s been acting strangely clingy all day. As soon as you noticed this fact, you immediately figured that it was an anniversary or either one of your birthdays and it had slipped your mind. However, upon further inspection of your phone calendar, today appeared to be nothing special.

You were seated on the couch, watching a bit of television while Matt washed the dishes. You had insisted that you could handle that task yourself, but the goggle-wearing sweetheart had insisted that you relax.

Suddenly you heard the sink turn off and footsteps lead up to the couch. You turned around to see the redhead wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind.

“Hey, I lost my phone number...can I have yours? ” He asked with a sly smile.

“Matt, you have my number. Is that a pickup line? You know we’re already dating, right? Is my number not working?” You interrogated, grabbing his phone from the coffee table and calling your cell from it to ensure that your phone number still worked.

“No- it’s... you’re supposed to go along with it!”

“Well, come up with a better one next time, dumb ass,” You tossed Matt’s phone back at him, the device landing in his lap. He pouted and shoved it into his jacket pocket, getting up to return to the kitchen.

“You’re no fun.”

The room grew dim and increasingly empty as the hours ran further into the day, eventually turning to night. Despite the signs that you should be on your way home, you stayed with the only detective who thought it appropriate to work into the ungodly hours of the night.

You glanced over at L, back turned to you with his nose practically pressed against the computer screen. You rolled your eyes and switched on the main light of the room, saying, “You’re gonna ruin your eyes reading in the dark like that.”

L did not respond but, at the looks of it, kept on reading the minuscule words on his screen with intent.

“Do you need anything? Water? Maybe some cake?” You asked, giggling at the end of your words for no other reason than the tiredness getting to your brain.

“No, thank you. I already have you, and you’re sweeter than cake, anyway,” L droned matter of factly, not even tearing his eyes away from the luminescent screen.

“Awww! Oh my god, L!” You squealed, running up to L and enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug.

“Ah...(name), I c-can’t breathe...”

Near

You could practically hear the blood flow to your brain as you spun around in a desk chair at painful hours of the night. The screens that filled the SPK headquarters shone in your eyes, keeping you awake along with the unhealthy amounts of caffeine you had consumed.

Your white haired boyfriend sat crouched on the floor by your feet. The clicking of building blocks rang throughout the otherwise empty room as he stacked them on top of one another, paying no mind to anything else.

You sighed, placing your chin on the palm of your hand and deflating on the spot. No amount of caffeine could keep you here as late as Near always stayed, no matter how much you wanted it to. You hated that he was here alone all the time and, even though he always tried to convince you that he didn’t care, you knew it took a toll on his mental state.

You shifted in your chair, about to heave your body up when Near’s monotonous voice kept you still.

“(Name).”

You waited for him to continue, and spoke up when he stayed silent, “What’s up, babe?”

“Do you like LEGO ?” Near inquired. His eyes finally met yours as he twirled a LEGO piece in between his fingers.

“Uh, I guess—“

“Because I want to build a world with you... ”

You froze, wondering if the caffeine was getting to your head or if Near had actually used a pickup line on you — and a goddamn adorable one at that.

A weak smile tugged at your lips. You slid off the office chair and dropped to your knees on the cold tile beside Near, throwing your arms around the boy without another word.

Though he stiffened at first, Near melted under your embrace. He buried his face into your shoulder and wrapped his noodle arms around your torso. You stayed like this for either a minute, or an hour. It was so quiet that you could hear your hearts beating in sync. Everything was so perfect, so loving, so-

“ARE YOU GUYS STILL HERE!?”

Your heart nearly burst from your chest at the sound of a door banging against metal and the rough tone of Rester calling out to you.

Near grumbled and shoved his face into your neck, trying and failing to escape the booming echo of footsteps that approached your little heap on the floor.

“Yeah,” your voice came out ragged and small, but enough for Rester to hear and follow, “right here.”

“You both look exhausted! Come on, let’s get you to sleep.”

When Near barely moved a muscle, you took it upon yourself to pick up his limp body from the floor bridal style and carry him to bed. Though you almost dropped the poor boy more than once, you’d say you did a fairly good job. And, once you were both snuggled up in bed, you got a good nights rest of a solid three hours of sleep. It was the most Near’s gotten in weeks, so you were not complaining.

Light

Though you were already in a relationship with Light, the cheesy lines and swooning from him never ceased. You wouldn’t have to fend him off with a stick but he loved to be all over you even when he already won you over, and you loved that about him.

This was mainly exhibited when you two were alone together, him finding public displays of affection to be childish and overall unnecessary as everyone you hung around with at school respected your relationship quite nicely.

The two of you were strolling on the sidewalk after a headache inducing day of school. His arm was resting lazily over your neck as you walked while all attention was focused on you and you alone. You ranted about the difficulties of the day and, although they were mostly all minor inconveniences, they really got under your skin once all added up.

When you had finished, you huffed and rubbed at your temple.

Breaking the silence that followed, Light blurted, “How would you like to be the goddess of the new world? You wouldn’t have to deal with that crap anymore.”

You laughed, reaching up to lace your fingers with the hand that dangled by your shoulder. “Dude, I barely know what taxes are. I don’t think I can handle being a goddess.”

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Light pouted jokingly.

The two of you came to a stop in front of his house, him pulling you flush against him and just staring wistfully (up/down) at you. “Do you want to come in? I’m sure Sayu will be delighted to see you.”

“Oh, I’d love to but I don’t want to intrude—“

“Nonsense. Come on.”

And so, Light guided you into his home, his mother and Sayu cheerfully greeting you at the door and whisking you away into a night of wonderful conversation and a lovely dinner.

Matsuda

You took advantage of the daylight, working nonstop so that you wouldn’t have to stay after hours to get your unfinished work done.

Through your tireless efforts, you failed to notice a pair of familiar eyes glancing back at you every so often. You only noticed a change in your boyfriend’s behavior when he came rolling up to your desk in his wheely chair, resting his chin on his elbows and looking at you expectantly.

“Hey, what’s up, Teddy Bear?” You greeted, barely tearing your eyes from the papers splayed out all across your desk.

Matsuda grinned from ear to ear every time he heard that nickname. It made him feel wanted and loved whenever he was around you. Sometimes, this caused the filter between his brain and his mouth to thin, allowing whatever he’s thinking in that moment to slip out.

“Do you have a map? Because I’m getting lost in your eyes... ” he said dreamily.

Your head shot up in an instant, puzzled by the seemingly random affection, only to see Matsuda covering his lips as a dark blush began to rise on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “Th-that’s not...I-“

“Honey...” you shook your head and sighed, placing your pen down flat on the desk, “That is the literal worst line ever but it sounds wonderful coming from you.”

“O-oh. Thanks?” He chuckled nervously, massaging the back of his neck as his skin became slick with sweat.

You leaned over the desk and pecked his lips before collecting your paperwork in a neat stack, placing it all carefully in your shoulder bag, careful not to bend any corners. “Why don’t I finish my work in that nice little coffee shop across the street. Join me?”

“Y-yes! I’d love to. It’s getting a little stuffy in here, anyway.”

Misa

“Ughhhhh I’m so tired! What a day!” Misa exclaimed, stretching out her arms above her head as she walked over to her folding chair. The white, feathery wings fastened to her back smacked people and equipment as she passed them, but you saw her as nothing but elegant.

Your girlfriend plopped her butt down into the fragile chair, giving Matsuda a scare when it nearly toppled over. With beads of sweat trickling down his forehead, he handed the girl her coffee.

“Aw, thanks, Matsu! And you too, (Name)! I wouldn’t be able to do any of my scenes without you guys cheering me on!”

You chuckled, cheeks turning a dusted shade of pink at Misa’s praise. “Dont give us all the credit, babe. You’re the one giving your all up there.”

Misa twisted in her chair to grab at your hand and intertwine her fingers with yours. “You’re too sweet, honey! Y’know, if it were up to me, you’d be the one wearing these wings!”

“Oh, I don’t know, I couldn’t take your place!” You said, gesturing to the fountain where Misa’s scene had just been filmed.

The blonde giggled and brought your fingers to her lips, giving them a couple kisses before shaking her head. “I meant I’d have you in these wings because you’re an absolute Angel , silly!”

Before you could even begin to respond, Matsuda beat you to it. “Aww my gosh, you guys! Could I be the best man at your wedding?”

“Hmm...” you pretended to ponder while tapping your chin with your index finger. “How do you feel about being the flower boy?”

“Done!”

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hotdamnhunnam · 4 years

Text

Whore for the Sword

A/N: SO EXCITED to finally write about King Arthur!! Charlie was so fucking smoking hot in it 😍 The premise of this fic is that the king gets epic superpowers when he wields Excalibur—he’s fucking you (his favorite whore) right afterwards, and some of that big sword energy sort of carries over…

Pairing: King Arthur x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, rough sex, this absolute god of a man being too hot to handle but you take it all of course ‘cause you’re his fucking whore

Word Count: ~2.6k

It’s good to be the king’s whore.

You’re a sack of holes for him to fuck and nothing more. An object for his pleasure, to be ravaged at his leisure. There are times your silly mind wanders, to wonder why he seems to show you so much... special favor, over all the other maids who scrub his floors, and all the ladies in his court. For to be sure, they all would kill just for the privilege to serve and kneel before their sovereign lord.

But that’s a privilege reserved for you alone. He summons you often, to wrap your loving lips around his mighty scepter while he sits upon his throne. Or to his chambers every morning when he wakes, for him to bend you over his majestic bed and fuck your cunt until it breaks. Sometimes he’ll take you for a session in the halls, without warning, your moans resounding through the castle as he slams you hard against the cold stone walls.

“Take me, Your Majesty,” you’ll beg him even though he’s staked his claim to every inch of you already. “I am yours. Your fucking whore.”

There’s never been a king more beautiful, more powerful than Arthur. Never been a man who could possibly fuck you any harder. Just why he shows you so much favor, you will never understand... but you convince yourself that can’t possibly matter. For it can’t. You’re just a kitchen wench, a peasant with a pretty face, a pleasant piece of ass. Surely you’re just his favorite flavor for the moment, and you don’t know how much longer that will last. Your only task is just to savor every minute in the presence of this true god of a man, while you still can.

When the king summons you this morning, you arrive to find him with his fabled sword within his hands. Hefting its weight, gauging the balance of the blade. Excalibur, the glorious and great. The weapon that imbues him with such superhuman strength, raw power coursing through his veins, so palpable that you can see it fucking radiate. He won another epic battle with it yesterday.

Witnessing him like this today... he’s never looked fiercer and stronger, full of feral drive and hunger, and you cannot help but wonder how it’d feel to have him fuck you in that way.

You may not have to wonder any longer.

As you cross the room toward him, he raises his gaze, and those beauteous blue eyes are fucking ablaze. Blue as the sky and twice as bright, always—but never full of so much fire as you see today. You stop and stare at him in this... amplified state, as aroused as you are amazed.

You know now is the time that you should bow low and address him as His Highness, but you have been rendered speechless by the sight of him like this.

He lowers his hand to his side, then moves toward you with a steady stride, sword hanging down so that the tip scratches across the tile floor. Everywhere it touches the surface, sparks ignite—much like your skin, now as you stand before him, utterly electrified.

The king can clearly see just how this is affecting you. Wants you to feel it, too. Slowly places the palm of his free hand upon your cheek, making your knees go weak, as this unspeakable force seeps into your blood and courses through.

Somehow you sense that he has never shared this energy, the otherworldly power of the sword, with anyone before. Certainly not some lowly whore. It will undoubtedly intensify the fucking that’s in store; you curse the part of you that wishes it meant more. To fuck is privilege enough. You’re here to get fucked, hard and rough, and that is all you’ll ever live for.

Can’t stop your stupid heart from wishing, though.

“You know...” Arthur says as he brushes a stray lock of hair from the side of your face, while you melt beneath his regal gaze, mesmerized by his eyes as they glow, “...it doesn’t stop when I let go.”

His thumb slides down your cheek and then across your trembling lower lip, hilt of the sword still at the level of his hip. Everything about him in this moment calls for your complete submission. Service. Worship.

And every word he utters makes your blood run even hotter. “This... this white hot energy, inside of me—when I let go of the sword, it... carries over, for a minute. Just the slightest bit.”

... just the slightest bit? You wish it were a lot. Words finally come to you, expressing what you’ve always thought, as you gaze up at the perfection of his face; he is still fully clothed as yet, but you’re all too familiar with just how stunning he is naked, with the way he looks and feels and smells and tastes. “My king, you are a fucking god.”

He smiles and softly shakes his head, as if he’s not. From all the time you’ve spent within his bed, you’ve somehow come to have a sense of just how much he hates himself, for reasons you will never understand. “No. Just a man. Never more, far too often less.”

On instinct, your hand rises up to press against his chest. To reassure him of the heart that beats within, so beautifully human. “What do you mean by this, Your Highness...?”

“A bloody animal,” he tells you what he means. “A dog after a bone, unworthy of the throne. A monster, if you will—a beast that lives to kill. Farther from human than any creature you’ve seen.”

Perhaps it should be shameful that the thought of getting fucked by such a monster... makes you thirstier than you have ever been. You move your hand off of his chest and bow your head as you reply to him. “I’ve not seen many monsters, my lord. Never been on such noble adventures as yours. I just keep to my place here in this castle as your humble little whore.”

The king reaches to tilt your face back up toward him, propping his forefinger fondly beneath your chin. “Y/N. Have I told you yet that you are fucking perfect?”

No—by all the gods, he most certainly hasn’t. And he shouldn’t. You are far from it. The king himself, and no one else, is worthy of such compliments...

As you struggle in vain to make sense of what he just said, Arthur’s hand drops from your chin to your neck. “How is it that something so perfect...” he murmurs, encircling your throat in a tender and yet terrifying caress, “...seems made to be wrecked.”

You don’t have much of any sense as to what happens next. All of your senses have descended to the aching, soaking heat between your legs. The moment he released the sword, you heard it clatter loudly to the floor—yet he’s still just as much in touch with all its power, all its force, surging beneath his skin and burning where it makes contact with yours.

The bed is altogether too far, so he shoves you up against the nearest wall, hard, claiming your lips in a kiss that has you seeing fucking stars. Grabs at the cheap cloth of your dress and instantly rips it to shreds. The tattered pieces scatter all across the room, much like the pieces of your soul as you surrender and submit to him, with every godforsaken fiber of your being. He knows your body is his fucking kingdom and has always been.

“Do you want this, Y/N?” he growls against you now as if he has to ask. “The monster that I am? The beast, fucking unleashed? Me at my darkest?”

“Y-yes...” you gasp, dizzy and breathless. “Yes, Your Highness. Always yes.”

“That’s a good little whore,” he says as he tears off his shirt and casts it to the floor, baring his chest, the planes of sculpted muscle you so ardently adore, beneath which beats the heart that you love even fucking more.

You could spend hours just adoring and admiring him—but not now, given the state he’s in, such primal power coursing through his limbs. Right now he needs to fucking take you, and he does, shifting position from the wall to pin you down onto the rug spread out across his royal floor. He takes you like he’s waging war. Not against you, for you both know you want the same thing as your king. A war against himself, and no one else, raging from deep within.

His mouth feels hotter than it’s ever been, a furnace of desire setting fire to your skin. He claims your lips again, and then descends, sucking and biting at the soft skin of your neck while he works magic on your tits with his ferocious fucking hands. Grabbing and groping, marking you as his in every way he can. You twine your fingers in his golden locks, already desperate for his cock, as you can feel the length of his majestic manhood rub against you through the leather of his pants.

Beyond blissed out, you moan so loud you barely recognize the sounds erupting from your whorish mouth, forming a string of words somehow. “Fuck—please, my king... need you inside me now...”

He reaches up to frame your face in both his hands, his bright blue gaze burning with more intensity than you can stand. Then calls you by a word he never has before, though you’re too lost in lust to even fucking notice when he does. “Love, if I take you... it could break you.”

Arthur had said it as if that would be a bad thing. He should’ve known that it’s the only thing you live for, and would die for; should’ve known because it’s so painfully true. “Yes, my king,” you beg of him. “Please do.”

That’s all he needs to hear. Although the thought of breaking you fills him with fear—that much is clear—the moment you uttered those words... the fearless fire from the legendary sword, fused in his blood, forces its way into his heart, and he no longer has the power to deny you. To resist the urge to tear you right apart.

In one swift motion, faster than you can even process what happened, Arthur yanks his leather pants down, as his other hand clamps hard around your gasping throat to pin you to the ground. You cannot breathe, and yet it’s not as if that matters now. For you’ve long since forgotten how, and have no need for oxygen. All you will ever need is him. Your fucking god, your king. Your everything.

He wills himself to pause like this, for just a moment, holding his enormous cock within his fist. It’s so thick it can barely fit within his grip. Your eyes go wide as you take in the sight, tongue flicking lustfully across your longing lips. It’s never looked so fucking big, so worthy of your love and worship. Though it’s always been a massive piece of meat, it somehow seems just that much larger now it’s harboring such superhuman heat.

It’s everything that you could ever want and need.

His hold around your throat loosens enough for you to breathe, to give him what he needs—to hear you beg for him again, to know that you’ve given yourself to him completely, as if he doesn’t already.

“Take me, my king,” you wholeheartedly plead. “Break me.”

Words you will not need to repeat.

You sigh in breathless pleasure as he reaches down to slip two of his fingers in your core, just to make sure, that you are truly fucking ready for what he’s about to feed, as ready as a cunt could ever be—and sure enough, your folds are fucking dripping with the slick of your submission and the juices of your love. You’re wetter than you’ve ever been for your beloved king.

He groans out, ravenous and loud, just at the feeling, then leans down to passionately kiss your panting mouth... in sync with the exact moment he fucking plunges in.

It feels as if you’ve quite honestly died upon the instant. Feels like heaven, soaked in sin. The fire of a thousand suns upon your skin, where every inch is pressed against your perfect king, fighting the flood swelling within, filled to the brim with the breathtaking length and girth of him, drowning deep in a fucking ocean of sensation that you cannot fathom, can’t even begin.

The only thing you know for sure, the only truth to which you cling, is that you live to serve your king and that you are his fucking whore. That you were put upon this earth to take whatever hell he gives. For you it’s heaven, all the hellfire he’s given. You can take this. You were made to take him, all of him and more.

The kiss with which he sealed his entrance in your cunt still hasn’t ended—as the king fucking impales you with his cock, your lips and his remain inseparably locked, breath interlaced as if each is the life on which the other has always depended. There is no way now to describe the heights of total bliss to which you have ascended. He should be using you as if you’re nothing but a plaything for his pleasure, yet he’s holding you as if you are some kind of fucking treasure. Whatever has happened, inside of him, between you and your king... whatever magic has been summoned by the sword of epic legend... you can’t bear for it to end. Ever.

You know it must, though, just as soon as he is done, using you up as what you’ve always been, an object for his lust. He’s bound to send you off once he is finished with your services, a thing to be dismissed. He always does. For that is what this is. It’s what you are to him: his whore. All you will ever be good for.

You strive to brush away the thought—it has no business in your mind, while you are here with him experiencing something so divine. Just for a moment you can let yourself forget that Arthur is a living god, everything you are fucking not. See him, be with him as a man, the man you love—a man you could almost imagine being worthy of... almost...

In every way, you’re both so close. The moment you at last explode, in seamless sync with one another, is the moment you look up into his eyes and realize, in spite of everything you thought you’d ever known... that you might not have to imagine any longer.

In spite of what just happened, having been fucked with the force of such a legendary weapon... you’re not broken. You are whole, more than you’ve ever been, body and soul. So is your king. Somehow as you and he bask now in this, this most euphoric state of bliss, all of the truths between the two of you that went so long unspoken... have been suddenly awoken.

“You know, love...” he murmurs as his gaze traces your face, tender and soft, still sparkling blue even as Excalibur’s magic slowly fades, and as a different kind of magic takes it place, “the power of the sword—I always thought I’d never feel anything stronger.”

You answer him now in a self-assured and playful way that you’d never have dared, until today. This is the day everything changed. “And what do you feel now, my lord? Are you going to tell me how wrong you were?”

He shakes his head, his smile mirroring your playful spirit as he swiftly lifts you off the floor and sweeps you off your feet and toward his bed. “No need for words anymore. I’m going to make a fucking queen out of my favorite little whore.”

***************

... Continued in this sequel fic!

Thank you for reading!! Hope you enjoyed this, and would love to hear if you did! 🤗💖

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anthemxix · 3 years

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whumpay day 22: mind control

hi there hello, may i offer you some hyrule angst in these trying times?

wasn’t able to write on the 22nd but wanted to do this prompt. i’m going to do at least 2 more whumpay prompts, time and technology permitting. (having computer trouble and had to write this on my phone. not ideal, lol.)

warnings: blood, major injury, death

Once he crosses into the next room, Hyrule is instantly on high alert. Sinister magic washes over him, raises goosebumps on his arms as the stone door thuds and squeaky metal bars slot into place behind him.

“It’s about time!” Wind’s exclamation reverberates through the massive, seemingly empty chamber. Grinning manically, he whips out his Phantom Sword. “I’m so sick of puzzle rooms. I’m ready to kick some monster ass.”

Sky sighs, drawing his weapon with much less enthusiasm than the Sailor. “Personally, I was content with the puzzle rooms.”

There are some nods and noises of affirmation, and Wind looks around the group incredulously. “Gods. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Left it behind three rooms ago,” Warriors deadpans. “I am very much over this whole ‘dungeon’ thing.”

Ignoring his companions’ frivolities, Legend sidesteps closer to Hyrule. He narrows his eyes, scanning the room, and privately murmurs, “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” the Traveler says. The chilling magic wriggles and writhes beneath his skin. “I don’t recognize this type of magic. Do you?”

“No...but there is something very dark and very strong here. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

Beaming at Wind, Wild brandishes a rusted blade. “Well, I’m ready for adventure. I bet the Traveler is, too!”

Before Hyrule can answer, Four cuts in, mouth twisting in plain disgust. “Please tell me you’re not fighting with that. That thing is going to break after two hits.”

“Nah, she’s got at least four swings in her!”

“Guys,” Twilight interrupts. He stands braced at the front of the group beside Time; both of their weapons are at the ready. “There’s nothing here. Where is the monster?”

“Something is wrong,” Time states. His somber declaration sobers the others, has everyone bristling and glancing around.

“Listen,” Legend says, drawing everyone’s attention. “I don’t know what it is, or where exactly it’s coming from, but there’s some dangerous magic in here. Traveler senses it, too.”

As if on cue, the foreign magic swells, starts to pall over Hyrule like a burial shroud, and he shudders.

“It’s getting stronger,” he adds.

Stiffly, Legend turns towards him, brow furrowed, adjusting his grip on his sword. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

The Veteran stares at him a moment, his cautious scowl morphing into open concern. “It’s...concentrating around you. Like it’s magnetized to you or something.”

Hyrule frowns. “Meaning what?”

Legend shakes his head. “I don’t know, but—”

Hyrule doesn’t hear the rest of the sentence because suddenly, the magic isn’t only gathered around him, buffeting him, caressing him. He feels it pierce him, gouging a hole in him and trickling in.

Gasping, he nearly drops his sword as the cold, scratchy magic claws through him, slithers radial along his nerves, creeps down, down, down. It permeates, roots itself. Clings, burr-like, to his capillaries. Hooks into every muscle fiber. Burrows into every bony crevice.

Desperately, he glances at Legend. The Vet’s distressed face is the final thing Hyrule sees before his senses cut out. When the magic cuts them off, whisks him away from tangible reality, and traps him in his mind.

From there, it devours his consciousness.

Parasitical, the magic feeds off his essence, chopping Hyrule into digestible segments. It disassembles him, splits him into pieces, into particles. It divides and dilutes and removes everything that is him, until he is meaningless, and only his body remains, a mere manipulable rind.

He fights. Hyrule wrestles the magic, wrangles for control. He grasps at flimsy, fleeting specks of fragmentary consciousness, catching flashes of off-putting sensory input: a smatter of red, a steely glint, a strangled yell.

Urgency kicks up a notch, and Hyrule scrabbles. Struggles. Fights. He’s not a knight or a hero, but he is a fighter, he tells himself. He survives not with smarts or skills but by obdurate resolve. It’s all he has, all he’s ever had, and all he can hold on to now.

So he fights, and he fights, until, after ages and ages, the magic begins to ebb. Hyrule has a terrible inkling that he held no sway over the magic, that now it siphons away of its own accord, draining out from his pores like his skin is a sieve.

Whatever the impetus, the magic dwindles, and Hyrule, blessedly, feels his senses slowly return, awareness unfurling bit-by-bit like the petals of a blooming flower.

His relief, however, is swiftly marred by dread as he tunes back into the reality around him.

When the sensation of magic retreats once and for all—recedes like tides, shrivels and dissolves—he gazes around the chamber, absorbing the scene.

The aftermath of a battle. Not just a battle, a...a rampage.

Hyrule blinks, dazed, at the carnage. At the impossible amount of blood splashed across the floor and walls and ceiling. At Sky, whose hands are badly burned, with a fist-sized wound on his abdomen gushing. Four kneels next to him, hands visibly shaking as he tries to stitch the hole shut, even as blood falls freely from his own nose and mouth in alarming amounts.

At Twilight blankly gazing at nothing, his left arm dangling by sinewy threads. He holds Wild firmly to his chest with his other arm, and Wild, his back a mess of fresh, peeling burns, wails into his neck.

At Warriors, who has a jagged bit of bone draped with strings of flesh and meat, jutting from one leg. He’s slumped against a wall, and Wind leans on his shoulder, fading in and out of consciousness, a gash on his forehead streaming blood down his face, neck, torso.

And finally, at Legend. His head is in Warriors’ lap, and the Captain feathers his fingers through the pink locks that match the tangle of pink entrails spilling across the stone floor.

Belatedly, dazedly, Hyrule registers that Time is sitting next to him, his armor dented and smudged with ashy burns, blood leaking from one ear. He turns to Hyrule, expressionless, and rasps, “You’re back with us.”

“Back?” Hyrule asks. Time turns away, and Hyrule croaks, “What... What happened?”

Time doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. Hyrule gazes at the blood that stains his own clothes, his hands, his discarded sword, and knows. He doesn’t remember, but he knows, implicitly, that none of this blood is his.

Hyrule feels a scream tripping out of his mouth, and he doesn’t stop it. He screams, and Time glances at him pityingly, and Hyrule wishes, so desperately, that he had never returned to himself at all.

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu #fanfiction #fanfic #lu hyrule #hyrule #whumpay2021 #my writing #blood #death

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10millionyearsdungeon · 4 years

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Kinktober #14 - Blood

A/N: So, after discussing prompts with @hisoknen at great length, we came to a conclusion that there wasn’t enough darkfic content for Mr. Sunshine Personified-- Mirio “Lemillion” Togata. Turn away now if you’re the slightest bit squeamish. Apparently this one has been anxiously awaited for a while...

===============================================

On the surface, everything was smiles and effortless bravado. After regaining his quirk, Lemillion was everything the public wanted to see in one of their top heroes; he was compassionate, devoted to service, and protected the weak. He went out of his way to ensure that justice was served with a million-watt smile. But that wasn’t the Mirio Togata you knew. You had lived with him for a few months in his home, though he wished you would grow to know it as your own. It tugged at his heartstrings to watch you cower away from his shadow when he’d open the door to the room you shared with him. He smiled the same warm smile he flashed the cameras and approached you casually, stripping his costume off with careless, unhurried fingers. Chains tinkled as the links rattled against one another. You scurried to the wall, crouched in on yourself as he continued to change. In the low light of his bedroom, he looked every bit the gilded god he projected himself to be. All blond hair and sky-blue eyes, he strode to meet your curled form and crooned softly as he rested a heavy hand on your head. “Hey, there. Is that any way to welcome me home?”

You whimpered in reply, words long escaped you when he was this close. It had been months since you had seen the sun, let alone interacted with anyone other than the grinning hero bearing down on you. “W-we...w-wel…” He smirked at your attempt to mimic the word. “It’s been a day.” Mirio stretched, his muscles quivering under his tanned skin enticingly. He took a knee and met your frantic gaze, heavy hand still resting atop your head. “It’s time to play!” he sang out, patting your hair like you were just another child he had rescued from the clutches of some villain. You shrunk and whimpered at the phrase, eyes immediately welling with tears as he strode to the nightstand to pull out his toys-- a familiar flash of silver glinted in the light and only added to your growing dread. It had been the same every night since he took you. Every night had been punctuated with blood and silver-- your blood. He took great care in hiding you away, making sure your connections had been tied off so none could discover his dirty little secret. “Oh, you’d think by now you’d enjoy our time together, Y/n.” He took out the first blade, a scalpel sharpened meticulously, and he held it teasingly against your skin. “I mean, you’re the first to have lasted this long.” The first cut always took you the longest to acclimate to-- the sting of the blade dragging in long, loving strokes into your tender flesh coming long after the cut had been made. Mirio sighed audibly at the sight of first blood beading up along the trail left by his tool. By virtue of your quirk the skin mended itself slowly, leaving behind a stream of claret in its wake. You hissed at the sensation of your body knitting itself back together only to be met with another slash at your chest. Skin split, you dared to look down only to be met with the sight of muscle fiber and more red shining back at you. Mirio added a thick finger to the cut and dug around, marvelling at the sensation of slick muscle under the calloused pad. With a loud gasp, you choked out a cry that drew his attention from the red oozing around his fingers. Your skin fought to mend itself around his busy fingers, only to be beaten back by your captor savagely ripping the newly puckered skin open with a finger curl. Your screams were exquisite, every note colored with both fear and anguish as he continued to explore the trail of vessels and arteries running along your exposed meat and tendon. Pulling back his hand, he inhaled the iron and copper scent of your blood as if he were appreciating a rare vintage wine. Dragging his tongue along his bloodstained palm, he moaned low and painted his chin in your colors. His eyes were chips of ice in a sea of gold, sharp enough he could cut you with his gaze alone. Your back thudded against the drywall, a rabbit caught in a snare you knew what would come next. His cock twitched to life against his bare, muscular thighs and dread set back in. Your exhausted body writhed futility against your chains and the cold wall at your back as he closed in, the surgical steel blade shimmering in red and silver.

It came down quickly. The sudden slash across the tender meat of your neck left you soundless, barely breathless before the spurt of your scent drew him to his work. Your body slunk to the floor, your blood pooling around his feet as he knelt down and watched the life start to leave your eyes hungrily. “You’re so beautiful like this…” he whispered, awed at the red staining your paling skin. Your hand held feebly against the gushing injury, doing little to slow the flow. He made another series of more superficial cuts along your neck and shoulder, all the while minding the depth and rate of your breathing. Your vision was beginning to fade. Tendrils of black invaded and threatened to overtake you. Your body heaved with every struggling breath you took, oxygen failing to meet your ever growing demand as your blood continued to run freely down your arm and onto the floor at your captor’s feet. He dropped to his knees and lowed his head to drag his tongue along the puddle, pulling up with a groan you could only describe as ecstatic. Consciousness was leaving, and the slash was mending under your hand, but the damage was already done. With a third of your blood volume wasted on the floor, coherence was a luxury ripped away with eager hands.

Senses dulled, your scalp burned with the sudden pull to your knees. Your torso was sticky in trails of drying scarlet, a sight that stirred more desire in Mirio. His cock bobbed proudly against his chiseled abs; he drank in your dazed whines and parted your lips with the head of his throbbing girth. “Say aaah,” he grinned, tongue lapping at the remnants of your life drying on his lips. His grip on your hair tight, he pulled you onto his length until tears pricked your eyes and he could see the noticeable bulge of his cock in your throat. Your gag was weak, and your reserves were few when he brought another swift flick of his tool along your cheek. He flayed your skin from your cheekbone to marvel at the tendons holding your face together and shivered at the moist tightness of your esophagus contracting around him. Your quirk was working slower, the healing taking minutes what once took seconds. The sight of his cock peeking between tight cords of sinew and slick muscle made him swoon. It wouldn’t take long for him to hold you until consciousness faded from your eyes and he came into your stomach with a howl. When you came to he was already rutting into your abused hole with abandon. Your body tensed instinctively at the intrusion, but you felt his fingers rummaging through the new gashes he had made just below your ribcage. The sensation of his fingers digging into your wounds left you moaning. His conditioning brought you to the brink of delirium. Pain washed with pleasure, an ocean of suffering meeting an estuary of ecstasy and you were caught in the middle riding each wave with a shriek. “Oh, you’re finally awake. Hope you don’t mind. Of course you don’t mind! Look how tightly you’re squeezing my cock when I do this!” He wiggled his fingers against what you were certain was your liver and your heart rolled over in your chest. Your cunt clenched around him tight enough that you thought you would split in half from the force alone. Legs trembling, you came at the feeling of his head bruising into your cervix and him scissoring your wounds open with curious fingers. Panting, you groped around despite your shackles for something to ground yourself with. In your shuffling, a thought occurred to Mirio. It was one thing to feel your blood rushing around his fingers and under his touch...he wondered…

You came down slowly, still floating in that in-between when you felt cold sink into your bones. Your body convulsed against the permeation hero at the new sensation. He’d never used his quirk on you before, and the sensation filled you with equal parts dread and revulsion. He held you firmly, his fingers like meat hooks into your ribcage as he rooted around through your back until he found what he was looking for. Your heart thrummed in your chest like a trapped bird in a mine against his fingertips. Breath left you in a sharp exhale as he materialized his hand around your heart and gave it an experimental squeeze. He could live off your screams alone feeling your heart chambers fill and contract with blood in his hand. With nowhere to run to without facing that indescribable pain ripping through your being, you dug your nails into the floor. More pain burned through your nerve endings, reminding you that you were ever present despite the fog of your continued blood loss. Pain kept your mind with him, kept you close. It was as if he had planned it from the start, knowing how he could draw out the most broken parts of you and leave you bare for him to exploit. Your walls clenched tighter with every gentle squeeze and caress of his hand as he salivated at the sensation of your aorta pulsating with every strangled beat. “I could end you, y’know...just one squeeze and your life ends in blissful agony…” he whispered lovingly into your ear. It was almost intimate, the way he held you and your life in his hands. You were cradled against his solid muscles as he draped himself over your back, hips still idly pistoning into your aching heat. Your heart beat tirelessly in his hand; in that moment he felt himself fall even deeper for your broken being. Rapt in your exquisite suffering, he clenched his fist tighter around the pumping chambers and buried himself deeper into your gaping hole, emptying himself into your waiting womb with a joyous groan.

Your breathing stopped with that final squeeze, cueing him to release and rhythmically massage your exhausted muscle back into being. Your body shuddered; your lungs burned with the promise of more pain in the hours to come. Part of you missed the loss of your captor, but you knew it wouldn’t be long before he had you doubled over for him to wring dry; after all, it was your job to help your hero unwind. Maybe you could learn to love him in spite of the monster bleeding you to unconsciousness to explore your body uninhibited. After all, he has your life in his hands...

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hope-to-hell · 3 years

Text

A Possession, part three: Dissolution. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time. This is it: the last chapter. A little smut, a little angst. Nothing lasts. Part one is here, part two is here

—-

Shake, shake

—-

Somehow, impossibly, you make it more than a week without touching him. And somehow, you figure out a way to exist in the same space. Thank god for quarantine, at least, so you have an excuse to stay at home, to keep this weirdness out of the public eye.

Walker turns out to be a surprisingly competent cook, but hesitates when you ask what his favorite foods are. And despite everything, it’s so hard to shake the feeling of being a host, of providing for your guest, however uninvited he might be. So you make a grocery order and start in on the best dishes you know: pies and roast lamb, hamburgers, risotto, whatever comes to mind when you think of meals you’ve enjoyed. He eats them all dutifully, but it’s not until you hit upon rainbow trout in parchment that you get your first real sigh of pleasure. Huh. You would’ve pegged him for a red meat kind of guy.

And everything you do, everywhere you go, he’s there, watching. Considering. Ten feet away.

It’s like this. One evening he braces one hand against the wall of the shower and drops his head in a pose you know so well. You don’t mean to look, but Christ, he must want you to. Must, because he draws open the shower door to stare straight at you from under his sopping curls as he fists his cock. Must, because he kicks his legs apart to press hard behind his balls with his other hand. Must, because he hisses your name like a curse when he paints the bathroom floor white. And the whole time his eyes are locked on yours.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says again, and somehow you find the voice to answer.

“Wouldn’t mind isn’t good enough. You’ve got to tell me you want it.” And you have the satisfaction of seeing August Walker poleaxed, however briefly. He hmms a little, thoughtfully, and brushes past you into the bedroom, water droplets shining on the curve of his ass. His gait hitches as he approaches the limits of separation, and you hurry to follow, clean enough to get by for another night but feeling filthier than you have any right to. And when you slide carefully under the covers, he inhales deeply, like he’s scenting you. He smiles, victorious, in the half-dark as you lie there with both hands fisted in the sheets just like you have for days, but now you know exactly what he looks like when he comes.

Fuck.

He escalates, because of course he does. He waits until you’re soaking up sunshine in the kitchen window, then presses in close to cage your body against the counter. He brushes scarred fingertips down the side of your face, and it’s like your mind has been ripped straight out of your body. You feel him touching you, and fuck. You feel him touching you. It’s the strangest sensation, touches doubling and echoing. Licking into his mouth and tasting your own tongue, pulling him in by the hips and feeling matching bruises rise on your own body. And from the way he surges against you, he must feel it too.

Remember. Your nerves are my nerves. You want me to say it? Here it is, directly from my mind to yours. I. Want. This.

This is the part of the movie where it fades to black, where the last thing the audience sees is the lovers, entwined, maybe a flash of light on a naked thigh. This is the part where the music swells, climaxes, spills into silence.

This is the part where the next scene is either a soft, affectionate embrace or a hasty exit from the bed, a quick redressing and an angsty downtempo tune, maybe a walk in the rain.

This is the part where he starts to rise, where you wrap your hand around his wrist and whisper, “stay.”

—-

Untethering

—-

It isn’t clear, at first, what’s happening. A little extra hair in the drain is easy to explain away; you’ve got two people sharing the shower now. Same with the bruising that appears on his arms, his back, his ribs, because for all he grips at you, you give back in equal measure. And if he takes a little longer in the shower than before, if he seems to spend an awfully long time just leaning back and letting the spray hit him, well, maybe he’s finally relaxing a little.

It’s days and days of rutting against one another, of watching in the mirror as he takes you apart. And he loves it, that grinding ache in his fingers as he presses them inside you. He loves it, and you know because you feel it; you feel an answering ache in your own hands and a twinge in your cock that’s almost but not quite unlike anything you’ve felt before (it’s close, so close, to the first time, when he was still just a voice in your head).

Somehow, it’s still a surprise when he shakes you awake and hisses, “Get inside me. Now.” And when you reach for him, a little hesitant because you’ve had each other in nearly every way except this, you taste something strange and metallic, chilly on your tongue. He’s anxious, desperate. The metallic taste increases in its intensity as he surges at your mouth, licking into you with savage competency.

“Are you—“ are you sure is what you want to say, but he’s pressing lube at you with one hand while trying to tear your sleep pants off with the other, and it feels like he’s got half a dozen hands roaming all around you, and it’s unfair because he knows exactly what this does to you, exactly how you respond to every touch. It’s overwhelming, and soon you lose that peculiar metallic taste in the static that sparks hot down your spine and right into where you swell and pulse with the sudden desperate need of him.

And you want to watch his face, watch those eyes shine in the darkness, want to rub your face against his as you open him but he’s turning away, over, hitching a knee under himself and reaching blindly back for your hand. “Now,” he grits out in a voice like the bottom of a dry well. And it’s too soon, has to be, before he’s demanding two and then three fingers and then “godfuckingdammit, that’s enough. Get in me already.”

And when you press into him it’s, fuck, for a moment your vision whites out and you are nowhere, hurling aimlessly through a great expense of nothing, and it’s simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilarating thing you’ve ever felt. Is it like this for him? Can’t be, he’s always so controlled, so precise. It’s impossible even to think like this,

I’ll think for you. Don’t worry, just act.

so you don’t think, and when you return to your body it’s to find yourself draped over him, clinging, rolling your hips like a ship in a storm. Desperation doubles back and builds on itself until you feel as though if you don’t come right now you will die. And you don’t want to die, but you also aren’t sure what the rules are, so you try to withdraw and that’s when his hand closes around your wrist, hard and tight and don’t you fucking dare.

And that’s it, that’s all it takes, his touch and his blessing, before you’re spilling inside him in long shivering pulses. And even then, even when he clenches so tight around you it’s like he’s pulling all the blood from your body, he doesn’t let you go.

You stay with him, in him, until you soften and slip free, and when you wrap an arm over his belly he lets you. He feels warm, as relaxed as he ever gets, and most of all relieved. “Better?” you ask, and in return he twists his neck, rolling his shoulders back till he can reach to kiss you. It’s soft, but almost mathematical in its precision. And he still tastes like metal.

—-

Waves and light (how bold I was)

—-

He’s stopped sleeping. In the night you reach for him and find the bed cold. He’s there, of course, ten feet away, staring out the window. He’s all hard muscle, luminous in the moonlight, a demigod or an avenging angel. He turns and tilts his head, and you can see his breath hang frosty in the air. You wake in the morning to find him still standing at the window, and for a split second you could swear the light passes right through him.

He’s stopped sleeping, and he hovers a little closer than he used to but he doesn’t touch, not until you sigh and tell him to “get over here. C’mon. I don’t have to touch you to know you’re worried about something.”

So you enclose him in the circle of your arms, bump your face against his scars to feel that little spark, that staticky sensation from nerve damage, to feed him the pleasure that touching him brings. You breathe softly, saying nothing, until he relaxes by degrees.

He smells like blood, but then again he always does. Chaos and death are embedded into every fiber of his being. If he were to shed his skin, to slither pink and naked into the world as a man reborn, maybe it would be different. But he is who he is, and you are who you are, although tangled like this it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. One of you sparks a slow-burning arousal, the kind that takes hours to come to a head if it does at all, a slow soft yearning. You sigh into it, nuzzling at him a bit, feeling your stubble scrape across his cheek. Like this, you can almost forget who and what he is.

And he hears you, huffs a little. What I am doesn’t matter anymore, not outside these walls. And I—

He sucks in a breath, harsh and wet, sucking air up from your lungs. It burns, scraping bloody up your throat.

Metal again. And pressed against him like this, you can catch the echoes of fear, of a strange sort of dissolution. Light through greasepaper, snow drifting through broken windows. Shoulders straining against his jacket. Blood and bone and a lonely valley. Trying to breathe but the shards of his ribs dig into his lungs—

Oh.

Oh fuck. You realize, then, that he’s dying, pulled back to that moment. None of this mattered in the end; all it did was delay the inexorable march of fate. You can almost see it happening, scars brightening and blooming into wounds, bruises rising where he hit the ground. And you hear it too, the slow scrape of metal across the floor, the heavy tread of boots and a soft susurration of fabric. She’s here.

And it’s strange: you’d expect her to revel in this, finally capturing this soul that’s eluded her for so long. But it’s almost like she’s trying to be comforting. Things fall apart. Entropy comes for us all, in the end. And you got more time than most.

Listen, I don’t want to you have to go. His fingers tremble against yours, coppery fear blooming heavy on your tongue.

I’m not unkind, you know. It’s just the way it has to be. Think of this as a gift. Better than falling apart piece by piece, isn’t that right?

Is it? Maybe, with more time, you could figure something out, maybe if he took just a little more, a few of your years, you don’t need that much time, you could spare him that—

No. Hey. We. We had a good run, didn’t we? Just, remember me. Please.

He’s terrified, pulse rabbiting in his chest, fingers clutching yours as the scythe descends. And you feel it when the connection breaks, tension dissolving as he fades, the cruel hard core of him pulling free from your chest. Your hand is your hand again, grasping at nothing. He manages a smile, almost, shimmering through a film of tears. Hey, listen. I—

And then he’s gone, nothing more than motes of dust in the air, as you blink hard, trying to pull him back into your sight.

—-

Epilogue (the last thing inside the box was)

—-

You see him sometimes, a flash of cold eyes in the crowd or a particular way someone has of standing. You listen to the wind, and watch frost crawling up the windows in winter, and you miss him.

You return to the world, you smile and wave and show your teeth. It’s not a real smile, not quite, but you’ll get there. You always have.

You bake trout in parchment, and American biscuits, and you eat alone.

On a wintery afternoon you climb aboard a packed train, mercifully anonymous in the crowd. Your bare hand brushes against a stranger’s. You feel a spark, pins and needles, like a waking limb.

#henry cavill #august walker #my fic #mission impossible #mission impossible fallout #Henry cavill fic #august walker fic #Henry cavill smut #august walker smut #august walker x henry cavill smut #august walker x henry cavill #mission: impossible fallout fic #mission: impossible smut

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decayandfanfics · 3 years

Text

The great book of sayings

PAIRINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x FemReader

SUMMARY: He looks at you, his scarlet eyes fixed on yours, burning a hole through your head, every bit the predator he is, but you are as tough as it gets, so, against your better judgment and any well-founded logic, you answer his silent threat, the animalistic look he gives you with nothing less than a fearless smirk, irises burrowing into his pupils.A clever girl. He thinks, finally labeling you inside his head, cursing himself in the very moment he allows his brain to think of you as more than an asset. He is sure (he knows himself enough to know) he’ll think of this moment many times from now on.A clever pretty girl.

Reader is a typical college student until she gets herself tangled with the league of villains.

WARNINGS: Unhealthy/complicated relationships, violence, Tomura being Tomura, mentions of murder, heroes’ abuse of power, smut later.

A/N: I’m trying so hard to write crusty boy here really in character. At least after AfO is taken. Any misspelled words, english is not my native language so i’m trying Helen.

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Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

You show me the man and I’ll show you the rule.

Tomura thinks he knows nothing about beauty, but then she proves him wrong.

(He thought her pretty before already, but after seen it…he concludes she’s the most beautiful, terrific thing he’s ever seen. Not that he would tell her that.)

A feral dangerous creature living inside of her with no other match.

No other but him.

Oh...you have no idea...She told him.

It happens so fast. One moment she’s there, sitting in front of her laptop, pretty and quiet and serene. All harmony and light, resting softly under the sunlight, between her dumb succulents and the spices that fill her home. Then he can hear Dabi’s caustic laugh and the wrong words. He’s disrespectful, an instigator, skilled in the art of making others lose their composure like is his favorite game.

He hears the foul words, the berating, and the mocking aimed to him, while she sits wide eyed and impossible flustered by the kitchen table.

Dabi smirks triumphant, like he always does after giving everyone a piece of his drama and Tomura watches him, wincing, reminding himself again that Dabi is supposedly oldest than him and Toga, and yet he does his best to being an annoying brat.

Tomura knows better to just let him bark, his remarks mean nothing to him, he knows what he is, and he knows what he isn’t. He’s a freak, yeah. That too, but he isn’t a child anymore, so he let it slide, keeping his eyes glued to his phone arching an inquisitive brow, ready to just let it die there.

He just forgot about the stupid little stunts of bravery she has this tendency to commit. (An annoying dangerous trait that makes him chuckle with something akin to fondness.)

She’s having none of the bullshit, Dabi’s little remarks had fed her up after a whole week of spiteful teasing, her precious patience has run thin.

“blue eyes are a mutation too, so you are no one to talk about it.”

The moment she opens her mouth, Tomura feels something warm filling the hollow place where his dead heart should go and it’s so foreign to him that for a moment he panics and thinks (very stupidly) that maybe his energy drink-based diet is finally going to kill him, and he (barely in his sweet twenty’s) is having a stupid heart attack.

But the pain never comes, it’s just her, voicing a clever answer, defending him.

“A quirkless little bitch? Seriously, Dabi? Where you raised in a fucking barn that you know nothing but fuck this and bitch that?

He wants to make her shut it, but he can’t find the words. Not when her remarks are sharp and funny to hear. (Besides, her voice sounds so sweet when she’s throwing smart ass angry comments just to back him up.)

It warms him and enrages him equally. How dare she to defend him? He can speak for himself on his own and doesn’t need her to make any back up about an insult he doesn’t care for. Stupid pretty woman. Trying to shut Dabi, putting herself in danger for the likes of him...Is she insane? (later that day, he’ll conclude that she must be pretty fucking nuts to have them all in her home after all, but somehow the thought only makes him like her more.)

“yeah. I know stupid cunt too.”

Dabi likes to cause havoc and now he’s pissed, so he throws a vulgarity aimed at her. Tomura feels the hot pang of anger at the other man, because the offense is not only an insult, but also a lie. She’s not stupid nor a cunt. She's sharp as a knife and kind enough to share with them.

“Dabi, cut it out.” He warns with a grimace, and now the fight has everyone tense in the room.

“I’m sure you do. Pretty useful to describe yourself I bet.” She snarls showing her teeth, an angry frown darkening her features and Tomura swears her eyes begin changing color.

“you sure like to bet, like how you are betting I don’t burn you alive for being an annoying bitch.”

This time Tomura gets fucking furious, something animal revolving inside of him at the idea of Dabi threatening her. But the fight is escalating so fast, he can’t say anything before she answers back.

“Fuck off, Dabi. This might be shocking for you, but you don’t scare me.”

He wants to laugh at this, truly. Feisty little thing she is when angered, all her soft ways and nerd knowledge thrown out the window in a fit of cocky bickering and a part of him is living for the chaos of it.

“now, that’s pretty fucking stupid of you.”

“Dabi, shut up!” Tomura growls irked with the way her hair has begun to float over her shoulders, now completely convinced that she’s not quirkless at all.

“I’m not the one insulting everyone just because I cannot deal with some fucking daddy issues.”

God fucking dammit woman, just shut up. He thinks frustrated, giving her a look worth a stab.

“YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT” Dabi snarls before kicking the little table in the living room, breaking one of its legs with a loud crack.

“CUT IT OUT!” she screams this time, standing from her chair “I don’t have to know when it’s plainly obvious you have problems with authority.”

“you really think you are so clever, don’t you?” Dabi states, crossing the living room, aiming to her, so Tomura leaves his place in the corner to stand at her side without even thinking why.

“I know I am, asshole!”

Dabi stops his tracks, looming over her like a monster. His eyes scanning her face before looking at Tomura, who stands by her with his hands open in front of him in clear warning.

The black-haired man looks at her before moving to Tomura, his brows raised in surprise as he chuckles darkly.

Shigaraki hates the way he looks at him, like he knows his thoughts. Like he knows he’s been creeping into her room to watch her sleep and the sinister lustful visions that sometimes plague his dreams after some playful back and forth every time she defies him with some smart-ass comment.

“stupid woman. You should know better.”

And then…he just slaps the laptop out of the table; the computer smashing open against the cemented ground.

Tomura remembers this moment like one would remember the witness of a car crush or a catastrophe. A simple second enough to amaze him for a lifetime.

The way her eyes just ignite into scorching red lights shining like burning embers under her frown brow. Her hair floats free from gravity over her shoulders like a terrible chaotic crown as her mouth flash pearly teeth in a feral snarl.

He watches how she claws her right hand, fingers curling, knuckles tensing and Dabi is suddenly choking under the pressure of some raw power. His limbs twisting painfully in horrific motion and unnatural angles in complete agony.

A second later and before anyone could grasp what’s happening, her other hand pointing pinky, index and thumb to Compress, Toga and himself, keeping them frozen in their place, a strange rigid pressure making him feel like he’s full of cement and any movement will shatter his bones and snap his spine.

He can’t move, he can barely breathe. Feeling like if every fiber of his being, every muscle, every cord is solid hard under his skin, unavailing him to get away.

But he can watch, so he watches her terrified and amazed.

Her quirk is rare, and powerful and dangerous. But she keeps it locked away, sleeping soundly, safely caged inside her ribs, like the best hidden weapon, perfect for torturing bodies and bending wills. Buried deeply under her layers of kindness and humor.

One twitch of a finger, and Dabi’s neck would snap in two and they can do nothing but just watch when little blood vessels begin to burst in the white of his eyes as he pants desperate for air, his veins contorting furiously under the marred skin of his neck and the flames scatter in some random parts of his body without any control.

Tomura swears he can hear Dabi’s bones crackle under the invisible force as his spine bends backwards in a sickening angle.

And, as sudden as it begins, ends.

Her hair falls and her eyes are no longer red. Dabi breathes again falling to his knees and for a moment Tomura thinks he will cry out of pure fright.

For a moment he wonders if Toga and Compress want to cry too because that felt like certain death, but is sweet, somehow. Something within him squirms joyfully with the notion of her own violence. She is as dangerous as him, no damsel in distress, no little girl in need of care, no simple quirkless girl, but a horrifying woman. A dangerous and powerful creature with a quirk made for torment, just like-

He looks at her, just to find a sad disappointed face. A thick trail of blood began sliding silently from her nose, tainting the perfect bow of her lip. Only then he notices the bloodshot eyes and how the color has run from her face.

She stands quiet and bitter watching between her hands and Dabi trying to catch his breath. Her face giving away guilt and self-loathing (two feelings he’s very familiar with.) but unlike him, she is no tormentor, she grasps no joy in watching Dabi suffer, nor do she wish of making them quiver to the sight of her.

She is kind, and brave, and witty. Humorous girl, quick at wordplay and puns; buying vitamins and oranges for them and something about no one getting scurvy under her watch.

He wants to laugh hysterically at her sight because she is magnificent, and for a moment he thinks that the boy with the destructive touch and the girl with the tormenting gaze sounds like a hell of a name for rulers and his heart shivers in excitement, but she is crying and clutches her guilty hands against her chest and ask them to forgive her for using her quirk on them.

She didn’t mean to; she didn’t want to. She likes them all very much, so she promises she’ll never hurt them again, and somehow it reminds him of something, but he cannot place a finger on what exactly.

He feels the sorrow drowning him. A grudge so horrid it makes him want to vomit and scratch his neck raw because something in her resembles something in him, but he cannot really grasp the motive of such connection, only knowing it has something to do with the hands he carries around like a symbol of his own distress and a little black-haired boy crying in some familiar backyard.

The sound of the bathroom door startles him and she’s no longer in the living room, but he can hear the quiet sobbing coming from behind the door.

Finally, Dabi decides to just fall backwards against the cold floor, still panting, an arm over his eyes.

Only then Spinner breaks the dreadful silence and ask the question they all want to make.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT.”

Chapter 10

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cynettic · 3 years

Text

Red String of Fate

A/N - Not really genshin, its more of a quick vent drabble. Angsty and nsfw for triggering topics and gory stuff :’) I felt kinda proud of this one which is why I’m posting it, any constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!!

_-_-_-_-_

I’m a murderer.

Red string idly tied around my pinky, delicately swaying with every whisper from the wind. Caressed and woven into this world by fate. A gentle binding, thread spilling down to my foot and loosely littering the wooden panels of my floor with loops and twirls. Adorning the dust and encasing me whole in its meaning.

Its promise.

I’ve always hated being bound, held and grasped by an irrevocable hold. Ones I’ve put myself in, ones others have clutched me in.

Pinching the red string that hung around my finger, I tugged at one of the loose ends of the knots.

Ones that the red string of fate has tied me to. Several, tangling along the jagged ridges of my knuckles and slipping past the gaps between my fingers. A soft velvet against dry skin, the calloused pad of my thumb gentle when nimbly rolling it along the back of my palm. Silken texture brimming in abundance and pulsing in rhythm akin to one of heartbeat. Slow, steady, eternal.

Full of life.

The darkness in the cramped space of the apartment cages me in like an animal, body growing numb and sending a tingling sensation up my spine. Subduing aching muscles into a deep heavy sleep, complexion falling into well needed slumber. Till it was just the consistent thrum of the thread along my hand that held me awake, fate wrapping its hold on me once again.

Snip.

The motion is always slow, prolonged with the weight of the scissors in my hands. A spectator to the red thread as it slowly dissolves into ash, a ticking time bomb to the end of a life. Another. Seeping at their lifeline until the string finally dissolves at their fingertips, draining the last of their existence and sparing mine.

Greedy for comfort, I selfishly choose myself.

I can’t feel my elbows as I lean forward, ice prickling at my toes and cold slivers digging into my fingertips. Hazy, guilt eats me up like the snowstorm that enraptures my body in snow. Freezing me in place and biting at my mind, frosty reach clawing at my sanity.

But its my body thats numb, I wish my head was.

To be pliable with the nothingness that threatens to devour me, stained and greasy hands fervently scratching the fibers of my tunic. Dirty, I was oh so dirty. Contaminated with a bubbling hatred that quelled inside, pounding with deprecating fists that begged to get out. Pleading, because hands and knees dug for an eternity on the ground wouldnt be suffice to the lives I’d taken. But thread against skin arose an anxiety I could not thwart. Until I was no longer sure how long I’d spent sitting on this desk, staring into the pale grey walls of my apartment. Absent. Knives and scissors littering the corners of the wood, small chunks scraped with only the splinters in my nails to blame. Soiled hands incapable of holding life, a desperate cry to the heavens to spare me the responsibility, to let me go.

Because no matter how feather light the thread felt, the weight of a life pulled me under. Down into the depths of anxiety, because no matter how much I choked in the sea, I could not breathe. No matter how much my arms flailed, I could not rise. No matter how much I screamed, I couldn’t be heard. Not by others, not even myself.

String grows laden with water, a weight pulling me down to the bottom where I cannot rise.

I’m sinking.

The strand pulls me into a gentle hold of uncertainty, coaxing me into the decision to choose myself again and again. Until I’m hesitant to determine whether snipping the vibrant red cord is a punishment or a relief. To finally make it to the shore of the beach, form lifeless against grains of sand. Condemned in self pity, looking for the blood on my hands.

My hands are clean.

I want to cry because they shouldnt be.

An endless cycle when the waves wash over my ragged form, snaking through my legs and under my arms. Sand letting the sea take me. The murky water is salty against my tongue, and I can only feel the dim sensation of something around my finger before I’m once again plummeting down.

But I always come back up.

Unable to rectify my crimes, I keep adding onto the list, nails slowly biting into the wood of my desk as I mark another one. Another death.

Snip.

I’m so cold.

But regret is like a spider, a horrid looking thing that scales up my leg, embedding sharp legs into the icy numbness of my shins. It leaves me petrified, the idea of swatting away leaving me with immense disgust. So does leaving it there. I don’t want to touch it, not when its on my thigh, on my stomach, up my shoulder blades. Not when it slowly makes its way across my arm, flexing its angular legs until it reaches my hand. Spiders terrify, they make people do things they dont mean to do. So does regret, reaching my frostbitten hands and sending a rush of warm blood. It's a spiking pain that hits, biting the soft skin of my palm and leaving ugly red flush in its wake.

Regret was my drive. My push when I decided to sever the digits that let fate take control.

It was easier to grasp the knife on the side when I was running on raw hatred and self loathing. When my hands were throbbing and I could picture the red string that held me captive, feel the thread palpitate against my finger. Knowing with certainty that someone was on the other end of that string.

Bound to them.

The first few fingers were easy, blade sharp against unnourished and neglected skin. Soft ligaments and weakened bones posed no threat to my determination, body willing to my wishes. One by one, until the hilt was in my mouth and I was shaking my head back and forth with a strength I hadnt had for days. Wooden splinters buried themselves in the cracks of my teeth, gagging when the tail of the handle caught on the inside of my cheek and dug further into my mouth. I didnt stop, not until I was cutting the wood of the desk.

Until all ties to this wretched fate were cleaved.

Hands all but circular blobs of discolouration, blue and purple tinting the tips of bumpy flesh and splintered bones. Blood coated pads that soaked into the rotten planks of wood, spilling over the desk and onto the floor.

Finally. Finally my hands were stained in blood.

Not nearly as much as their ought, but it served its reminder perfectly. A pang of relief slipping through my body just like the crimson liquid that oozed down to the floor. Matting the hollow lines between floor panels with trickles of blood and soaking into my socks.

I was free.

Eyes fluttering closed, the sharp icy pain was gone, shock taking over my body and leaving me motionless. Solace was an odd little thing, consolation after actions of regret. But it was warm, and I could dimly register the ease that spread through my body like a drug. Bitter tasting but leaving me weightless, mind overdosing on the dopamine that pumped through my veins. Vasoconstriction quickening my pulse and leaving me breathless in the best way.

I was free.

Delusional satisfaction left my head buzzing and I didnt know if I was smiling or my face seemed to rise. Eyes rolling to the back of my head before returning to my sockets, head tilting forwards and nearly touching the puddle of blood on the desk. But I was happy, I was free.

Until I wasnt.

Till a bright red string settled once again, blurred vision transfixed on the way it slackened right above my collarbone, below my chin.

Around my neck.

It was soft, warm as I struggled to realize it was someone elses heartbeat pressing against my jugular. Throbbing at an inconsistent pace and sending my thoughts into a whirlwind of activity. Till all I could think about was taking the scissors in my hand, grip firm and unrelenting to the viscous game destiny played.

Snip.

The realization came too late, palm on the base of the tool when it occurred to me I couldnt grab it. Simply watch as blood slipped through the gaps where my fingers shouldve been, pain seizing my wrist and presenting itself to me for the first time. It was electric, jolts of torment taking me by surprise and leaving me stunned. Shocked, but not enough to tip me off my high. Wretched grin widening across my face when I stared down at the red string, parched lips letting out a measly croak as I spoke. “You outplayed me.” Because at that moment it all felt strangely hilarious, pain building up in the nonexistent slim skin of my fingers. It was as if I could still feel them, and a feverish laugh spilled from the bosom of my throat as I sagged, shoulders shaking.

The realization was bittersweet and brief before I leaned my forehead on the puddle of blood, baring with the pain of my actions. The consequences to my regrets.

I cannot escape fate.

#angst #writing #what even is this #reader #cynsbadbadnsfw #;-;#this kinda makes me sad #and really empty

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