#i want to shake him between my teeth like a rabid dog | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jungshookz · 3 years

Text

🧦 stocking stuffers: taehyung’s good at hiding presents and y/n’s bad at finding them

pairing; roommate!taehyung x reader

genre; sfw!! feat. the usual antics because roommate!tae and y/n are both clowns (also there’s a reference from the fic in here.,., if u kno u kno)

what to expect; “i’ll make-out with you for five minutes straight if you tell me where you’ve hidden them.”

wordcount; 1.5k

»»————-　🎁　————-««

“hey, i could get used to this view.” taehyung whistles lowly as he pushes his bedroom door open, his gaze immediately falling to your ass that’s sticking up in the air

he’s been looking all over the apartment for you for the past twenty minutes

(the only reason why it took him twenty minutes was because he went on a mandatory snack break when he went to the kitchen to replenish his energy from the exertion of looking for you)

“-!” you yelp when you knock the top of your head against the base of the bed, quickly bringing a hand up to press against the sore spot, “tae! ...there you are! i was, uh, looking all over for you!”

“and the first place you thought to look was under my bed?” he asks, leaning against the frame of the door and shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants

“well, it’s... it’s pretty spacious down here, so...” you swipe your arm underneath the bed to emphasize your point, “you could totally fit under here-”

“are you-”

“no, i’m not!” you chuckle nervously, getting up onto your feet before dusting your hands off, “no. i’m not.” you repeat, lowering your voice by a couple octaves

taehyung blinks

“i didn’t even finish asking the question.”

“well, whatever your question was, my answer is no, i’m not.” you clear your throat, leaning over a little to pull up the corner taehyung’s blanket a little bit before shooting him a sheepish smile

(you ripped it off the bed when you barged in like a rabid dog because you were positive that your presents were hiding underneath the sheets - unsurprisingly, they weren’t.)

“i wasn’t doing anything!” you cross your arms defensively, “that’s my point.”

“you’re acting like you just murdered someone and now you’re just trying to hide the body.” taehyung points out before his eyes widen slightly, “you… you didn’t murder-”

“no, i didn’t murder anyone, dumbass,” you snort, “i was just… cleaning up a little bit! you know how dusty it gets in this apartment…” you sigh, slowly stepping towards taehyung while nodding slowly, “it’s, uh… it’s pretty clean in here! i have to say you’ve done a pretty good job at dusti-“

“if you’re looking for your presents, you’re definitely not going to find them in here-“

“then where else would you be hiding them!?” you blurt out, electricity zinging up your spine as you stand up straight

taehyung laughs lightly before shaking his head and turning on his heel, “do you actually think i’m dumb enough to keep presents hidden under my bed? this isn’t my first rodeo, cowgirl-”

he used to do secret santa with his roommates back when he still lived at the frat house and he learned to hide presents very well because boys are much more aggressive when it comes to tearing a place apart to look for something

one time he came home to see that the entire couch had been flipped over and cut open (with its stuffing strewn everywhere) which wasn’t a very pleasant surprise

that was a nice couch!

so if you really thought he was hiding his presents underneath his bed... you must be insane!

“well... i already put my presents for you underneath the tree!” you whine, clinging to taehyung from behind as the two of you make your way down the hallway and out to the living room, “why can’t you put yours out?”

“i have self-control, so i haven’t even thought about touching or shaking any of the packages underneath the tree,” taehyung teases, “plus, you put them out here on your own accord! i certainly didn’t force you to-”

“but it’s not fAIR-!” you whine, burrowing your face in between taehyung’s shoulder blades as your arms tighten around his torso, “it’s so not fair...”

taehyung hums in response, reaching down to give the top of your folded hands a loving pat

you can cry about it all day long but it’s not going to change his mind or make him give in

...also, are you going to cling to him like this all day?

because if you are, you guys will probably run into some issues when he eventually has to use the washroom-

“i’ll make-out with you for five minutes straight if you tell me where you’ve hidden them.” you perk up, propping your chin up onto tae’s shoulder

“you think a measly five minute make-out session is going to tempt- how old do you think we are?? thirteen??” taehyung scoffs, turning his head slightly so he can kind of look at you, “nice try.”

“what about a handjob?”

“hm, getting warmer-” taehyung jokes as he walks towards the kitchen, reaching down to try to prY you off of him

“blowjob???” you’re more desperate now as you trail behind him, taehyung letting out a laugh at how needy you’re acting, “sex! i’ll give you the full package!”

the two of you step into the kitchen, taehyung making his way to the fridge for another snack

he thinks he deserves an award of some kind for finding you

and a nice, crisp bowl of cereal sounds good to him right now

“what do you want?? you wanna put a leash on me?? tie me up??” you slap your hands down on the kitchen island as you watch taehyung grab the milk from the fridge, “blindfold me! use ice cubes-”

“hold on, wait-” taehyung spins around, his eyes widening in concern as he holds up a finger, “did you hear that?”

“huh?” you tilt your head curiously before looking around the kitchen, “hear wha-”

“hello! this is kim taehyung headquarters, you’re speaking to secretary kim. how may i be of service today?” taehyung chirps, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a bright smile

oh god

oh god please

please nO

“don’t do this to me.” you whisper, shaking your head slowly, “do not make me do this again-”

“i’m sorry, miss.” tae hums, closing the fridge door, “could you speak up? i’m afraid i can’t hear you...”

you slump down against the counter, turning your head and squishing your cheek against the cool surface as you give in, “...i would like to file a complaint about kim taehyung to the kim taehyung complaint department.”

taehyung grins at the sight of you completely giving up, “great! can i get a name?”

“y/n y/l/n.” you mumble, feeling an immense wave of deja vu rush over you

this sucks

everything sucks

“alright, miss y/l/n.” taehyung smiles to himself as he pulls the drawers open for a spoon, “i’ll connect you to the kim taehyung complaint department right now. i’m going to put you on hold now, if you wouldn’t mind waiting?”

“you know, i would mind,” you get up from the counter before propping your chin up on your palm, “but i don’t think you really care-”

taehyung cuts you off as he starts to hum an overly cheerful version of twinkle twinkle little star, his head bopping along to the beat as he pours milk into his bowl

you continue to glare at him as your eyebrows knit together in frustration

unbelievable

you’re dating an idiot

why are you playing along with this???

again???

“hello!” taehyung’s head suddenly shoots up, “this is the kim taehyung complaint department of kim taehyung headquarters. you’re speaking to head manager kim taehyung. how may i be of service today?”

you poke your tongue against the side of your cheek as you think about your response

you knoW that as soon as you say something, he’s going to cut you off

...

you’re not going to let him win this time

this time, you’re going to be the one who gets the last word in!

you push yourself up off the counter before crossing your arms, taehyung looking at you expectantly

“this is... miss y/l/n that i’m speaking to, correct? i was told that you had a complaint to make?”

you give tae a half-hearted shrug in response

taehyung nods to himself in understanding

so that’s how you’re going to do this?

you think you’re going to beat him at his own game?

“i’m sorry, am i correct in saying that your complaint had something to do with christmas presents?” taehyung purses his lips in thought, “because i’d be more than happy to help you find them-”

“woah, woah, okay-!” the smug grin falls from your face as you start bouncing up and down on your heels excitedly, “YES please tell me where i can-”

“oOh, sorry!” taehyung winces, sucking in air through his gritted teeth, “my snack break just started. you know how it is.” he pouts, bringing a spoonful of cereal up to his mouth before taking a bite

mm!

hits the spot :’)

“are you fu-”

“pheavse pheel phree to call again la-er-!” he murmurs through a mouthful of cheerios, milk dribbling down his chin

“oh, you’re disgusting-” you scoff, rolling your eyes before turning on your heel to exit the kitchen, “and your lame kim taehyung headquarters bit is so not funny-!”

❄️christmas with cee 2020 masterlist 🎄

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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half-spider half-human yandere with a darling who has arachnophobia

I think I’ve just been in a Yandere!Monster mood this week - I don’t know how else to explain what I’ve been posting, recently. Can you blame me, though? They’re so easy to run from, so easy to be afraid of… It’s only natural that they make good Yanderes.

Title: Arachnophobia.

TW: Spiders, Dehumanization, Mentions of Injury, and Mentions of Death.

It’d always been the legs, for you.

You weren’t squeamish. If it hadn’t been for the legs, you wouldn’t mind spiders at all. The uncharacteristic fuzz that coated their bodies, those unblinking eyes that were too big and too small at the same time, their distorted proportions and awful fangs and general wrongness, you could take all of that, even if you didn’t care for it. Their legs were the only thing that got to you, the only thing that made you fear the tiny, harmless creatures beyond all reason. You weren’t blind, you knew there were much worse things to be scared of, and yet, nothing sent a chill up your spine like the thought of an insect no bigger than your thumb crawling up the back of your leg or finding its way into your hair, its steps so light and silent, you wouldn’t know its there, not until it’s already made its fangs at home under your skin. It’s irrational, or, it was irrational, at least. It used to be.

Ikto wasn’t harmless. You didn’t have to tell yourself not to be afraid of him.

If anything, you should be more afraid than you’ve ever been. It wasn’t like he hadn’t given you a reason to be.

You cried out as you collapsed, the noise somewhere between a defeated sigh and a desperate scream, too quiet to do you any good but too loud to go unnoticed in the stillness of the darkened forest. It’d been childish to go into the woods alone, it’d been stupid, and you’d known that when you came up with the idea. Still, you hadn’t thought it’d been stupid enough to get you killed. The legends told of a creature who spun web like rope, who could string up a group of hunters in translucent silk so quickly, they wouldn’t have time to notice they were being trapped, not before it was too late to get away. You weren’t a hunter, though, and you didn’t mean him any harm. You’d told yourself that a glimpse would be enough for you to overcome your fear, all you needed to do was look at him, and you’d never think twice about the spiders in your garden or the dark corners of your home again. But, you’d tripped, made a mistake, stepped on the wrong branch at the wrong time and earned a throbbing ankle and the attention of a monster for your efforts. It was so hard to navigate through cobwebs when you were running. It was so hard to navigate at all when you were crying.

And, as you collapsed to the dirt, weak sobs still racking over your chest as pain shot from your heel to your knee like hot trails of pure fire, you began to wish he’d just killed you when you interrupted his meal. That would’ve been kinder than letting you think you might’ve had a chance.

After a moment, you forced yourself to grit your teeth, moving to push yourself up, but it was already a moment too late. Without warning, without sound, something tapered and unyielding dug into the space between your shoulder blades, pushing you flat against the ground and giving you a minute to fight back, only pulling away then you failed to struggle against its strength. You already knew what it was, what it had to be, but you still found yourself holding back a gasp as you were unceremoniously dragged onto your back, clenching your eyes shut in an effort to delay the inevitable. It was an exercise in futility, but you didn’t open them again.

Not until something soft and familiar brushed against your cheek, and your entire body jerked up involuntarily. You had to fight not to scream, the awareness of just how dead you were making the pangs of your injury pale, in comparison.

If Ikto had any intention of making your slaughter swift, though, you couldn’t tell. He simply towered above you, watching with four pairs of eyes as you scrambled back, using what was less of your courage to put an arm’s length of distance between you and your hunter. You had to wonder why you’d ever thought you stood a chance against him. Standing, you would’ve only come to his waist, to the junction where his grey, thick flesh faded into a black exoskeleton, so sleek and so impenetrable, you knew the tiny dagger you’d brought for your protection would be useless before it was even in your hand. You could barely see his face, but you didn’t have to. Everything, from the mocking tilt of his head to the way his shoulders tensed and bounced upward in a stifled laugh, made his amusement clear. His tone did little to aid your blossoming humiliation, the heavy drawl only making you bow your head, your fear nearly overpowered by misplaced embarrassment. “I thought you’d be faster, human.”

You bit the side of your tongue, but you were speaking before you could stop yourself. More to quell your own nerves than to get on his. “I thought you’d be a better hunter, beast.”

That earned a breath of a chuckle, so airy and so dry, you might’ve missed it if he had anything to compete with. Unfortunately, no animals skittered from tree to tree to distract you, no birds sang to divert your attention. You couldn’t blame the woodland creatures for making themselves scarce. You’d avoid Ikto too, if you had a choice. “Awfully brave for someone who just stumbled into my web,” He started, bringing a hand - a human hand, thankfully - up to his chest, pouting in an exaggerated show of his offense. Despite his size, he moved soundlessly, stepping between dead leaves and over obstacles in a slow, seamless circle around you as he continued. Evaluating you, only speaking to keep himself entertained. “I was having such a nice night, too. No heroes come to slay me, no champions shouting to face me to prove their worth, no interruptions. Just me and my prey.” This time, you got a sigh. A shake of his head. A step too close, a spindly leg coming just a breath too near, leaving you shaking and digging your nails into the dirt, trembling as he looked on. “And then you came along and ruined it.”

“I’m lost.” The lie was spat hastily, forced out too quickly to be believable. This time, when he edged closer, you brought your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself defensively. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I don’t want to be here, I’m just… I can’t find my way home. I don’t know what to do. If you let me go--”

“If I let you go, you’ll get stuck in one of my webs and I’ll find you weeks later, starved and dehydrated and begging for my help.” He paused, pursing his lips, settling in front of you. When he crouched, his knees bending into jagged points and his arachnid stomach nearly brushing against the ground, you went tense, but you didn’t dare to move. You didn’t dare to look at him. You didn’t dare to think, not when it felt like he was prying into your mind a little more with every second he spent staring you down. “It might be nice. I’ve never heard someone plead for my help rather than my mercy. I try not to play with my food, but I wasn’t expecting something so small and so tempting to stumble into my territory. Certainly not something with the nerve to expect me to believe such a boring excuse.” A growl seemed to edge its way into his voice, absent of the primal reverberation it should’ve contained, full of something manufactured, painfully learned. You might’ve felt sorry for him, if he hadn’t been close enough for you to see the dozens of harsh, pointed teeth that prevented him from bridging the gap. “Are you that eager to get this over with, human? Do you want to die?”

You didn’t hesitate, shaking your head furiously as his smile returned. Unconsciously, your fingers twitched, ready to search the satchel strapped to your side for any weapon you could find, but in the blink of an eye, the burlap sack was speared through, flicked to the side with little more than a tear of fabric and the rattle of its content. “Please, I didn’t mean to--”

“I’ll compromise.” Again, he cut you off, standing to his full height, taking your wrist as he did so and dragging you to your feet, his grip not loosening when you winced, attempting to favor the foot that wasn’t trying to detach itself from your body. “I won’t kill you. I’ll take you back to my den, make sure you’re attended to, but you have to come with me willingly. Say you’ll behave, and I’ll make sure you don’t have to limp your way into the loving jaws of the nearest wolf.”

You didn’t respond, but you flinched, and that was enough of an answer for Ikto. With a sharp, sudden pull, you were off of your feet entirely, dragged against him and held there with one arm, his free hand pressing against the back of your head, encouraging you to lean into him, to be affectionate. You wanted to push yourself away, to tell him you didn’t need his pity, that you’d rather take your chances with the most rabid of dogs than with try your luck with him, but your ankle pulsed and your body ached and you needed his help more than you wanted not to. And when Ikto began to walk, when you caught a glimpse of a long, inhumane leg moving easily over the uneven terrain, you weren’t sure if you could even move.

You weren’t sure if running was an option, not if he’d be the one chasing you.

“It gets lonely, occasionally,” He admitted, his voice so soft, you almost didn’t hear him. You almost wished you hadn’t been listening, by the time he thought to go on.

“And I’ve always liked the idea of keeping a pet.”

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ratmonky · 3 years

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Stranger Danger

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: non-con

AO3 Link

Don’t trust strangers on the internet.

Just like how they taught you not to walk off with someone you didn’t know, it was the first thing your parents lectured you about when you started using the family computer. Simple. Stay away from the people who tried to befriend you because they were probably out to get you.

That was why you were wary of making friends online when you first started using the computer, scared that someone might kidnap you through the screen.

Pfft, you had quite an imagination when you were little.

Your parents were also a little too paranoid, of course, you had to be careful on the internet as they told you but there was nothing wrong with making friends. The internet brought people of the same interests together and it helped many people like you who had a hard time making friends start talking to others. Especially with helping you find many sorcerer students like yourself.

You had many friends now, some you video chatted and some you even had met in person.

Today, you were going to meet another one of your friends in person. Another sorcerer college student around the same age as you. You had met Kokichi on one of those sorcerer dating websites and instantly hit it off from the moment you had met before becoming more than friends.

Although his webcam never worked or how he was always out of breath while talking to you, it didn’t stop the two of you from falling in love.

Kokichi lived in Kyoto, far away from where you lived, and trying to manage a long-distance relationship was hard. That was why he had suggested that the two of you met in Kyoto and tried to see if you felt the same about him after meeting in person. If you liked him even after meeting him in person, then your relationship could progress into something more.

You blushed thinking about moving in with him. Ahh, wouldn’t that be wonderful!

Shaking your head you tried to stop yourself from daydreaming and park your car where Kokichi had told you to. Apparently, the parking rules in Kyoto were different than in your city, you had to find a parking lot almost far outside of the city so you wouldn’t get a ticket.

It took you two hours to get here using the highway. Although you would have rather taken the train or bus, it was a lot faster to drive. It took you another fifteen minutes to get to your meeting point with him after you took a taxi.

Kokichi didn’t pick up his phone. You had been trying to reach him since this evening. You weren’t sure if he was already standing next to the alley of the bar your cab driver dropped you off a little while ago or if he was late.

Sick of waiting, you took out your pack of cigarettes and walked deeper into the alley to check. After taking a cigarette out and putting it between your lips, you lit the tip, inhaling deeply.

You were going to scold him for making you wait. A laugh escaped you at the thought of Kokichi telling you how he had explained to you that he was taking the train and it would be slower than you driving here or something along those lines.

Well, it would be a nice icebreaker.

While you were busy smoking and lost in your thoughts, sharp pain to the side of your head made you stumble forward. You dropped your cigarette and before you knew it your knees gave up under you, making you crumple to the ground as your vision went dark.

~~~

You froze. Not wanting to move or open your eyes until you could recall what had happened.

There were faint sounds of grunting. The next thing you noticed was the smell. Earthy, cold, and coppery. You tried to identify the foreign smell as you become aware of the tingling from between your legs. It had started to hurt, your hips felt sore and your eyelids felt heavier than usual.

The grunting sounds were soft and you could easily recognize the other sounds aside from it. It was like gears moving, a machine, closer to the sounds your door made when it wasn’t oiled up well, creaking and kinda ringing...

You had probably left the television on, slowly, you opened your eyes.

All you saw was dark, your back felt cold against something metallic. Your back was being roughly rubbed against your metal. What? It was hard for you to understand what was going on. With a pathetic attempt to move your legs, you only felt them being held tightly. There were splashing sounds, your ass was splashing against water. Tears started streaming down your face. you still couldn’t comprehend what was happening but you could feel it. You started to panic as the sudden realization of something thick and firm moving hastily inside you hit you hard.

Opening your eyes, you stared at a man in bandages who was kneading the soft flesh of one of your breasts, his mouth on the other, sucking your nipple in his mouth. You felt his hot tongue swirl around your nipple and an involuntary moan left your lips.

The sharp smell of the medical liquid made you nauseous as you remembered what had happened. But you had to stay calm and try to understand where you were.

You began to panic, trying to move your muscles but you could barely move. Strained, fear of the darkness drove you to move your limbs slightly. You threw your head back in shame and noticed the robot that was holding you instead of looking at the man inside the bathtub of medical liquid. Finally having your mind schooled back online, you started to notice your surroundings. First of all, you were in a cave-like place, being held by a robot by the back of your knees and the robot was moving you up and down on this man’s-

Another moan left your lips when the man’s cock hit a good spot. Glaring at the man, you tried moving your arms that hung slack by your sides but your limbs were weaker than you had realized. Your legs wouldn’t move either, your entire body felt sore.

There was nothing you could do as the robot lowered you up and on this man’s cock other than try to understand what had happened.

You stayed limp in the robot’s arms and took it as your assaulter kept furiously fucking you like a rabid dog in heat with the help of the robot. While the robot lowered you onto his cock and leaned forward for a second, you felt his hand reach to the back of your head and pull you down forcefully to crash your lips against yours as he used the same hand to run his fingers through your hair. He let out a quiet groan into the kiss and lolled out his tongue to lick your face, leaving a trail of his drool that chilled your skin. His hand in your hair crept between your bodies and he flicked a finger on your clit.

Jolting, you bit back a moan.

“The pictures on your profile didn’t do you any justice,” he spoke, planting kisses on your chest. “You’re so much prettier in person.”

Out of a sudden, it clicked.

“Kokichi?” His name broke into a moan as the robot slammed you down onto his cock. The robot was still bouncing you on his cock but to him, it wasn’t enough, he needed more. He had to feel more of you.

The robot dropped you in the bathtub, on top of Kokichi with his cock deep inside you. Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck so you wouldn’t sink deeper into the bathtub. The medical liquid inside was cold, it made you shiver but Kokichi’s body was warm. He wrapped his arm around you and pressed his face into the crook of your neck.

“I can’t move my lower body without Mechamaru, I need you to comply.” His tone was impatient, the arm around you was trying to guide you to move your hips.

A grunt left you from the massive effort it took just to move your arm. Finally, you managed to move your arms, although it was heavy and almost impossible, luckily you succeeded. You shook your head, weakly pushing him away from yourself but as tiny, the bathtub was you didn’t have much space. Kokichi wasn’t going to let you move away from him either, he suddenly grabbed you and pulled you back, the liquid inside splashed from the force.

He groaned and you saw Mechamaru move again. The robot’s hands grabbed you from under your armpits, lifting you up and pushing you down onto Kokichi. He had his arm around you, moving your hips freely as he wanted since your weight had lightened thanks to his robot.

Your gummy walls clenched around his cock as you squirmed uselessly. He was breathing slowly and evenly while he carefully pulled you down for another sloppy kiss, paying no attention to your whimpers or the tears streaming down your face.

“You look so erotic when you cry,” he grunted, his hand moving to squeeze your cheeks together until your lips puckered. “Makes me wanna ruin you.”

You glared at him through your tears as he licked your tears that had streamed down to your cheeks before kissing you hungrily. He was inexperienced, you could tell from the way your teeth clashed and how desperately he tried to snake his tongue down your throat for no reason.

Mechamaru started frantically bouncing you on Kokichi’s cock, taking you by surprise. The irregular pace was gone, now, he was fucking you frenziedly, making sure that your gummy walls took the shape of his cock. After a particular spot his cock stroked, your pussy squeezed around him, causing you to moan into the kiss.

He broke the kiss, groaned loudly as your gummy walls started spasming around his cock. His bandaged hand went to grab your hip tightly to move you on his cock forcibly.

Medical fluid splashed and splattered on the ground each time you slammed yourself on his cock frantically with Mechamaru’s help.

You gasped in pleasure, your body was getting aroused. He must have noticed it because a smug grin spread on his lips before Mechamaru pounded you on Kokichi’s throbbing cock.

The knot of pleasure building in your gut quickly took over your senses, your gummy walls clenched around his cock and your muscles inside started pulsating.

Kokichi was caught off guard by your cunt trying to milk him for all he was worth. His cock twitched inside you as he lost control of Mechamaru who abruptly dropped you onto his cock. With a wanton moan, you wrapped your arms wrapped around him to balance yourself. His cock throbbed inside your pussy and thick spurts of cum burst inside your womb.

It continued coming out until you felt it overflow. As if he had been saving everything he got for this moment.

You went limp on his lap with his arm barely holding you up. Still, Kokichi managed to press a kiss against your temple, silently promising to keep you safe from the strangers on the internet from now on.

Or rather, he wanted to keep you for himself. Kokichi, as someone who had grown up on the internet, was desensitized to many things. He had no idea how women worked and most of the things he had learned about sex were from hardcore porn. Sometimes from even a more disturbing genre of porn. Having you here with him was something he had planned for a long time. He had been patient, patient, and patient. There was no way he was going to let you go. No, not when he finally had a taste of you. He wasn’t going to be only an internet friend or someone you met online who you got to be more than friends. He was going to be something a lot more than that. Perhaps, a boyfriend. Yeah, that had a nice ring to it.

One thing was for sure, the two of you weren’t going to be in a long-distance relationship anymore.

#mechamaru x reader #kokichi muta x reader

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sir-gale · 3 years

Text

Part two of Aizawa x Reader

(Warning! Smut/Nsfw. Reader is fem)

Part 1 here

(I really freestyled this so sorry if it’s not up to par)

Well this is an interesting situation.

You always enjoyed teasing aizawa (along with literally anyone else who knows him), but you never thought that you would foster such a reaction from him. The very reason you decided to tell him what you did was because it was the truth, when you think of the 18 year old boy you couldnt see him pinning you down and drilling into you, no matter how hard you tried. But now, the raven haired man had you pinned to the couch on your back, his body pressed against yours and you have never felt so small. Definetly intimidated, and you loved it. Once out of your shocked state you attempted to break your wrists free from his grasp, but all that did was cause a pleasurable friction. You aren’t by any means weak, in fact, it was your workout schedule that aizawa had branches his off of. The only difference is that his interpretation is day and night. Though you started before him, long before, goddamn how were you only now realizing how much more firm he is then yourself? To be fair you started getting lazier with the regime, but still. Under those tattered clothes he was built.

Snapping out of your drooling stage once again, “Sho? Hey listen point taken, could you-”

“No.” He quickly cut you off.

Still quivering, you let out a breathy “o-okay,” as he proceeded to bury his head in between your neck and shoulder, the rest of his body somehow coming closer than before. Not only did you practically feel the heat coming out from under his clothes, his erection pressed against the softness of your inner thigh. He was making it very clear that his drive to prove you wrong had him mad, only fueling his rabid arousal.

He didn’t bother trailing his tongue on your neck, his entire mouth and lips were wrapped around the sensitive spot your surprised he remembered from your last heated session. Remembering how fun that was, your body became more restless knowing he was going to take it further. You were trying your best to keep your shivering neck at bay, his mouth latched onto you, his breath surprising your skin, his hair brushing and tickling all around made it hard to keep your eyes open. Not to mention Shoutas hips never disconnecting from yours while they rocked back and forth in sync with his body, the stimulation he was working on you in sync. Then, to both of your disappointment, he had to stop to impatiently take your shirt off.

Before he could continue on whatever item of clothing he was going to discard from either of your bodies, you warm fingertips slowly pressed against the right side of his chest. This stopped him in his tracks, a motion so small and gentle in this situation really caught him off guard. The flushed look on your face made his chest flutter and breath hitch. He took your hands into his, holding them like they were feathers.

“Shouta,” your voice was a soft whisper.

“Yeah kitty cat?” His tone was low but still soft, he’s completely put aside his hazed horniness. It was almost impressive how quickly you changed him.

Looking up at him, truly embarrassed, you stated, “Could you take off your clothes slowly?” If his hands weren’t enveloping yours, you would be messing with your fingers.

For the first time tonight, his mouth curled into a sly smirk, with a very warm chuckle. “Anything for you, kitty cat,” and with that, he sat up, hips still against your own and slowly lifted his shirt.

What a sight. It was like the curtains revealing a stage. First, his abdomen well defined and smooth if it weren’t for the cute happy trail from his pants. Rows of abs and dents in his sides were highlighted by the light of the tv screen. You were sure his eyes were shining just as beautifully, but you couldn’t take your own off of his body. As the fabric rose above his upper torso, your eyes followed. Broad and wide upper back, beautiful pecs, god he was beautiful.

“God your beautiful.”

“You should see your face right now,” he said while he was still smirking, looking down at you fondly and hazily, in a way that made you warmer in many areas. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget how you look at him. He’ll never stop thanking whoever decided that he deserved you. Now it was time to relish this blessing.

After he pulled off the shirt and threw it on the floor he came closer to you, wrapping his arms around you to unclip your bra.

“Baby, head to your room and take off the rest for me, I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare touch yourself,” his side glance and tone made you shiver, and with that he went off to get the condom from his coat. You scurried upstairs and took off everything just like your boyfriend asked. You two haven’t done this before, not with eachother or anyone else, but you were certainly embarrassed to be so bare. Before you had the chance to think about though, he was already upstairs, coming up from behind and groping you. Face flushed even redder, you held onto his for arms as he asked you to spread your legs a bit, so he could rub his calloused fingers on your clit.

“Already making such cute little sounds for me, both you and your wet little cunt huh?” Shot grinned with his teeth bared, your head fell back into him as soon as he unexpectedly stuck a finger inside your walls. He continued fondling and fingering until you were practically begging for him to throw you onto the bed and rail you, however it took a while before he pushed you into the soft covers. Your watery eyes made it clear how powerless you were in this situation.

“Now, kittycat, one more time. Tell me, do you want this hard cock inside of you?” He menacingly stood over your shaking figure which was practically curling in on itself either from fear or desire.

“Shouta- please.. stop messing around. Fuck me please Sho, I need you,” your voice was practically breaking, toggling between a whimper and a breath of air. Oh god he was going to ruin you.

Finally taking off his belt and letting his pants fall, he ripped the plastic off of the condom, placed it on his dick and fell into the bed on his knees. Your eyes closed, chest heaving and legs shielding your absolutely dripping pussy from the cold hair. He took your knees into his hands, and spread them easily since your legs are so weak from all his harsh treatment. He tucked them up closer to the side of your chest. For a second you wondered what this is, but before you could remember that this is called a mating press, he had already slammed himself into your need hole without warning which led you to making a very high pitched yell.

Shouta also let out a very indiscreet low moan that seemed to ring through your body, “everything all right baby?” He slid in easily, but you were still airtight, practically wringing him out. Aizawa stayed still, letting out groans to ease his unbearable need to continue rutting himself inside. If there’s one thing he knew, it’s self control. He was being put to the test my your fluttering walls.

“Hah- zawa, give me-hnn a moment!~” it felt ethereal, to finally have him inside you. He was long, the tip pressed against the very end of your insides was driving you fucking insane and as much as you wanted his hips to start slamming into yours again, you decided waiting for the pain to ease up was the smarter choice. That didn’t stop you from gasping and whimpering, and it didn’t stop him from letting out long low grunts and growls in concentration.

After a long while, you let out another breath and said, “baby, you can move now.”

He slowly lifted and settled down his hips in a nauseatingly enticing manner, his face scrunched up, still determined to look at your pleasured expressions. However, once he was sure that you were well adjusted, there was nothing stopping him from thrusting his hips into you like a dog.

Your face showed how mind broken you were, your vocals ranging from guttural grunts to high pitched whimpering, either the neighborhood isn’t so quiet anymore. Shouta isn’t one to complain, not only were you and the squelching of your hole along with every curve of your body screaming for him, he was practically falling apart gasping for air at how amazing you felt. Anyone who heard you would’ve heard him too.

Both of you were nearing your highs, and Aizawa chased his orgasm, not forgetting about the beautiful sight under him.

“Baby, kittycat- I can feel you getting tighter. Cum for me now. Cum for me-” that’s all you needed to hear, focusing on how broken he sounded himself, your nails dug into his beautiful skin as you writhed with a wave of white crashing over your body. Seeing you reach your limit was enough for him to give a few last strong thrusts into you before he collapsed reaching his own, letting out a long, guttural moan.

Both of you, weak and out of breath, lay on the bed.

“Now you know,” he heaved out.

“I already forgot it’s about that,” your light voice soothed his ears.

Your boyfriend wrapped himself around you, taking the blanket and covering both of you with it. You giggled, he was so cute.

“What are you laughing at?” Once again his annoyed expression appeared. Before you could explain-

“Oh noooo...” the alarm clock read 5:58. You groaned, “school.”

Both of you made sounds of dissaproval.

Needless to say, it was a horrible day.

#aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa #eraserhead x reader #eraserhead #aizawa x reader smut #smut #img.txt.Sirgale #sirgalethesimp.txt

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presidentorchid · 3 years

Text

Surely, Surely Not

tw // major character death, descriptions of violence/gore A creative transcription/interpretation of Tubbo’s execution and the aftermath Collaboration with @hyalinepandora He’d been straightforward and direct with his words, directed to the gathered festival-goers. There was no humor to his tone, only an honest attempt at sincerity as he welcomed the festivities. He felt terribly ill when Schlatt laughed.

“Wh-what’s wrong, Schlatt?” He had a feeling he knew. He didn’t want to. It took all his control not to stare down Wilbur and Tommy, to keep himself from trembling.

Was it time? Was it time for the festivities to begin? He held the president’s stare.

“No, it’s just-” Schlatt sighed, rolling his neck, snapping forward the lapels of his suit, picking away some non-existent fiber that had gone awry. “-I was just thinking about it, Tubbo. You know how we like to have fun.”

“Yeah, we like-” He cut to the chase. “What’s up, Schlatt.”

He felt Quackity’s gaze bore into the back of his neck. He straightened.

Remain steady. You’ve done nothing wrong.

Still, it felt difficult to breathe. The air was thick with danger and it pressed down on his chest. He curled his hands into fists, keeping them from shaking. He was not scared. But he was more anxious than he’d ever been.

Surely Schlatt wouldn’t kill him. He’d never raise a hand against him- he was his right hand man. His protégé. And surely he didn’t know about his work with the Pogtopians. He was- he tried so hard to be discreet about it. Of course he was safe. Schlatt trusted him. He’d never given him reason to doubt.

“You got anything else in the speech?”

Tubbo’s eyes darted frantically, a huge, shaky smile cracking over his face as he finally decided. Schlatt’s tone was so intimidating, confrontational, and he was not safe.

“No! No, let the festival begin.”

He wanted to collapse with relief. His knees shook as he watched Wilbur sweep away under the cover of darkness- it was so difficult to see him. He was out of danger. He was safe. His shoulders slumped. He moved to make a run for it, before he was caught in the detonation of Manburg, and was stopped by an iron grip on his shoulder. He flinched.

“You done with the speech?” Schlatt repeated. Tubbo was so still. He slowly nodded, unnerved by the warning in Schlatt’s voice, his flinty gaze. The torchlight was extinguished by them, he noticed.

“Y-yeah, I’m done with the speech, Schlatt.”

“...Alright.” Schlatt shrugged, voice dismissive. When he spoke again, his voice was hardly more than a murmur, business-like and factual.

“Here, uh, Quackity, take some of this.”

“What are you- what are you-” His words lodged in his throat, burning.

Surely not.

Schlatt passed Quackity concrete. The powder was so bright, it was like a flame in the night. It was unnaturally yellow, such a clear color despite the darkness, the starkness of it churned his stomach. He loved yellow. It was happy. It was peaceful. It was sweet and warm. But this was a warning. It was a hazard. Radiation! Toxic! Danger! Get away! Hazardous material! He tried to tear his shoulder from Schlatt’s grip. It was futile.

Schlatt held him by the shoulders as Quackity placed concrete around him. His grip had always been a little too tight.

“Schlatt, what are you- Schlatt. Schlatt!”

It hurt his eyes to look at so much yellow. The blackstone absorbed the light, the concrete reflected it, and it was a screaming ‘warning’ sign. It was dangerous. It was poison. It was a toxin. He breathed in the dust. Schlatt released him once he was encased. Everything happened so quickly, he was frozen to the earth. Panic rose in him, warring with his sense to remain composed.

Stay straight! Remain level-headed! See the people! They all see you, they’re all watching you! You’re the main attraction! You’re the festivity they came to see! Go out with a bang, Tubbo! Give them a show worth remembering!

“Schlatt, what are you doing?”

He threw himself at the fence, desperate to wrench it away, but it failed to give out.

Look at you, an animal! You’ve gone rabid and desperate! A lamb to the slaughter! Look how they’ve caged you like a beast! You’re an animal, Tubbo! See your horns! Never cry, never show weakness! What will your people think! Look, how they’ve trapped you like an animal! An animal! A sheep in wolf’s clothing, you are! A two-faced, double-lived spy!

So many lessons, so many criticisms and conflicting tips.

Hurry, Wilbur. He was so self-reliant, but here he was, reduced to desperation, dependence in what he was certain was his execution. Confusion rose from the audience. They didn’t know what was happening.

“Schlatt?”

Neither did he.

“Uhm, Schlatt? Schlatt?!”

Water dampened his suit as the concrete was made to solidify. Schlatt didn’t answer him, mumbling into the microphone incoherently. Tubbo tried his best to come across as knowing what was happening, like this was just a joke, a prank they were pulling on him. It was such a show, an attraction. He tried to add laughter to his voice, though no one was making jokes. This was not a joke. He chuckled nervously.

“Tubbo? Tubbo, I’ll cut to the fucking chase, alright?”

“Tell ‘em! Tell ‘em, Pres!” Quackity chimed in, so delightfully vicious. So he would do nothing to prevent this, either.

“What? Wha- What?” His voice came out so shaky and nervous. He laughed breathily, trying to sound relaxed.

This couldn’t be happening. Surely not.

“Tubbo, it-” Schlatt cut himself off, sighing. Tubbo shouldered the wall, finding it unyielding. With Schlatt now standing in front of him, eye-to-eye, Tubbo let the forced laughter leave his voice.

“Schlatt, Schlatt. I can’t get out, Schlatt.”

“And I mean it- it really sucks, having to say this, right here in front of everybody.” The president took a step back, so Tubbo could feel the head of one hundred thousand eyes, every single voice silent. Their voiceless whispers hurt his ears. He couldn’t possibly meet every gaze, couldn’t plead with them all. They were motionless. Unresponsive. Stagnant and watchful and compliant.

You’re letting this happen?

“And it’s kind of awkward.”

“Schlatt, I can’t get out!”

Schlatt pressed on, indifferent to his protests. Somewhere, between the static of his thoughts and Schlatt’s voice, he heard a softer protest in the crowd begging to free him, but the plea missed its mark.

“Tubbo- Tubbo. I know what you’ve been up to.”

“Yeah? Yeah, what have I been up to?” It was a demand. He was afraid, and he was stupid.

“What are you talking about?” And there went the demand, and he cursed himself for sounding afraid. Quackity chuckled as Schlatt mocked the question.

“Oooh, ‘what have I been up to,’ he says. ‘What have I been up to’.” Schlatt’s laugh was nothing short of villainous, Quackity’s laugh echoing the sentiment.

How could he know?

“Schlatt, I’m actually- I’m actually trapped in here, Schlatt.”

“You’ve been CONSPIRING! With the- with the IDIOTS, with the TYRANTS, that we KICKED OUT OF this server. That we KICKED OUT OF this great country. Months ago.”

His heart dropped.

How does he know.

“Tubbo, I don’t know, ah, I don’t know if you know this, but treason-”

“I don’t-”

“-Treason isn’t exactly, ah-”

“I think-”

“- a respectable thing around here. I know what you’ve been doing- IT ALL ADDS UP, buddy.”

Tubbo cowered from his voice. His horns scraped on the walls and the sound ricocheted in his skull.

“The fucking TUNNELS, your- your ABSCENCE from GREAT EVENTS- you walked off in the middle of this one!”

Tubbo had nothing to say. He couldn’t defend himself. It was true.

“Uh-” “You walked off in the middle of this one, Tubbo. Don’t try and tell me you’ve done nothing wrong.” His voice was so accusing, angry, and he wondered if Schlatt was hurt that he’d betrayed him. He didn’t regret it.

“Because everyone sees it! I sees it with my own two fucking eyes, what you’ve been doing.”

He was speechless. Schlatt watched him expectantly, but there was no rebuttal to be given. He stuttered and searched for something to say, but he came up empty. Schlatt met his gaze with such intensity he felt his eyes burn. Maybe it was tears. Schlatt sighed.

“Do you know what happens to, uh, traitors, Tubbo?”

“No…?” But he did. The knowledge scorched his chest. It was so silent. Tubbo’s ears rang. Schlatt turned, faced the audience with a grand gesture and grin, a grin that quickly soured into a horrible grimace.

“Nothing good.”

Tubbo slouched against the wall for support.

“Hey, uh, Technoblade! You wanna come up here for a second?” “Come up here, come up, Technoblade. Come up to the podium.” Quackity only ever served as Schlatt’s echo.

Tubbo’s eyes widened. Of course, Technoblade! His ally, the only one who could save him. He thought there was no hope, he thought he was to be shot like a dog, but there was hope in the gallery, adorned with a crown and tusks. He quickly advanced as Schlatt continued speaking.

“Let’s just send a message real quick. We like to send messages around here.” Schlatt looked around for agreement, continued on with a few uneasy nods.

“Now that we got Tubbo here in this- in this-” He cut himself off with a low, delighted chuckle. “In this Tub-box.” Tubbo grit his teeth, clenched his jaw. He really was just a spectacle. He shied back from the derisive laughter.

“Look him right in the eyes.” Techno positioned himself in front of Tubbo, his eyes dark and untelling. Tubbo had no idea what he felt despite his nervous laughter.

Please stop this.

“Tubbo, as the enemy of the state, and as, uh, perpetrator, to these, ah, these awful, awful people…”

Tubbo stuttered, stared death in the eyes as realization grasped his heart in talons.

“Technoblade, please, please, if you would, if you would be so kind.”

“What- what are you asking, Schlatt?”

The voice of the blood god was terribly innocuous , awfully anxious. Everyone knew exactly what Schlatt was asking.

“Take care of this traitor.”

Technoblade paused, and Tubbo saw his hesitation.

Don’t do it. You won’t. You wouldn’t. Surely not. Technoblade was armed to the teeth.

“Technoblade, we’re running on a tight schedule.”

“I don’t know what you’re asking, Mr. President.” They were all playing dumb. Schlatt chuckled.

“Listen, I mean, we- I only call you in for special favors. I mean, we go way back, right.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This man-” Schlatt gestured to Tubbo. He shrank away. “-this man needs a special favor.”

And there was Quackity, now, finally shouldering his way in.

“Wait, Schlatt, what are you actually talking about?” Perhaps finally, he realized what was going on, what Schlatt’s intent was. Perhaps now he would help.

“Techno, I need you to take him out.”

It was too late.

Protests finally rose out, loud and overwhelming as it was made clear that this was not a prank, it was not a joke. It was an execution. And Schlatt’s patience ran thin.

“I NEED YOU TO KILL TUBBO, on this FUCKING STAGE RIGHT NOW. And MAKE IT HURT.”

It was so silent, it was almost comedic. Techno stuttered, took a step back. The audience shouted, roiled and revolted, but were silenced by Schlatt’s furious response.

“I'LL HAVE NO TRAITORS IN MY GODDAMN COUNTRY, ARE YOU KIDDING ME? MY RIGHT HAND MAN.” He slowed down, panted and wheezed as he caught his breath and composed himself, straightened his tie as silence again stifled the audience. Schlatt turned to Tubbo, and he wedged himself in the corner.

“Tubbo. I’d rather rule alone than with you.”

Tubbo didn’t know why it hurt so much to hear.

“Fuck it. I can’t even look at you.” Schlatt turned away with a disgusted jerk of his head.Shock was a hell of a drug. It rendered Tubbo mute, and he gave up. Death stood in front of him, pressure surrounding him as closely as the concrete surrounded Tubbo, and Tubbo could do nothing but look him in the eyes as he teetered between decisions.

Surely not. Surely not. Surely not. Surely not. He kept repeating it, over and over, a death hymn, because surely not. Surely not, Techno would not kill him. Surely not. They were on the same side. Surely not. But he watched anxiety flare behind his eyes as he was overwhelmed, as he strained and crashed and finally snapped, and again he told himself, surely not. This was not happening, surely not. Schlatt wouldn’t kill him, surely not. This was not disbelief, surely not, but rather the truth. Tommy wouldn’t let this happen, surely not. Wilbur would not let this happen, surely not. Surely they would save him. Surely. Surely not.

Quackity approached Schlatt, cautious, careful, as though he was approaching a dangerous animal. Truthfully, Schlatt was dangerous. Unpredictable. His wicked horns all but proved it.

“Schlatt, are you sure? I mean, I mean, he’s jailed! I think that’s enough for him.”

“We could just imprison him,” Technoblade agreed, but Tubbo gave up hoping.

“Not enough.” Schlatt was firm in his decision and insistent in it’s fulfilment.

“Schlatt, are you sure?” Quackity repeated. Tubbo appreciated the effort, but knew Schlatt would remain steadfast. “He’s jailed!”

Schlatt ignored him.

“Technoblade!”

Tubbo stared his ally down.

“Technoblade…” Technoblade pulled back the bowstring.

“Are you going to do it?”

Surely not.

Tubbo grew frantic. “Technoblade? Tech- Technoblade!”

“You gonna make an example out of him?” Schlatt’s tone suggested no other option. Tubbo trembled as the crossbow was held to his forehead, yelped as Technoblade took a swipe at him with a pickaxe.

“Technoblade! Technoblade!”

“Tubbo.” Technoblade’s voice was soft. Some god of death indeed, pliant to a mortal’s will, the executioner of another’s hand. And yet his life still laid in his blade, his firearms and his own resolve. Tubbo hardly dared to breath in his direction. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be executed. He was at his indeterminant mercy.

“Tubbo, I’m sorry.” Tubbo didn’t need to hear anything else before he frantically clawed at the walls, desperate, terrified as it dawned on him that his fate had been decided.

“I’ll make this as- as painless and colorful as possible.”

“What the hell?!” Schlatt’s laughter rang in his ears, and Tubbo was enraged that he was reduced to this, that his death was a show to him.

“Tubbo, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Tubbo.”

He didn’t have time to shut his eyes when the first rocket shattered his skull.

Surely not.

It wasn’t quick. He was left thrashing for several seconds before he was put out of his misery.

Surely not.

He was blown away by such a beautiful death. It was so bright. A flare of light, searing his skull, beautiful and savage and vivid.

Surely.

He understood now why Schlatt chose that yellow concrete. He understood fully.

The blood- his blood- lay against it so stark, so vibrant in color and shade, glistening against the sunny cheerfulness of the backdrop.

Yellow, like the sun, rising over a landscape of death, of dripping, dripping blood. Dancing in the true sun, the sun that was setting on his time alive, his life fading away, his viewpoint from the sky watching the shadows grow as blood coated the true sky.

His body sank to the floor. If there was even a head on it- he didn’t know. Technoblade pulled another firework into the crossbow, He turned and fired it into the crowd, satisfaction on his face as more blood stained and people cried out.

Tubbo sat there, in the sky. Watched as his eyes dimmed to nothingness- and suddenly- there was weight to his body again. Suddenly, there was darkness.

Suddenly, he sank.

His body hurt. His face was on fire. Blood was pouring from his mouth- his nose- his eyes-

If they were even there. Tubbo flopped onto his back and writhed, screaming himself hoarse at the pain.

God, the pain.

His hands were slick with blood- he wanted to press them to his face and stop the flow, but it stung so bad he only shrieked more.

“Tubbo!”

A body thumped to the ground beside him, another following suit.

“Oh my god.” Gentle hands grabbed at him, lifting him up so the blood flowed down- his airways clearing as he sobbed and hissed in pain.

“Tommy, get me water.”

Shuffling. “Now.”

“Wilbur?” He coughed. “Wilbur, is that you?”

“Yes-” His voice was fading in and out- fuzzy and gentle. “It’s me- Stay awake, Tubbo. Stay with me.”

“I’m not.” Tubbo realized his words slurred and tried to make them clearer. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. Thank you, Tommy.” A singular hand left him, ghosting over his face- which still screamed, the pain was unbearable, rendering him useless, unable to function. He winced.

“It’s not too bad, Tubbo.” Wilbur’s voice was calm, cutting through his confusion and agony. “It looks like being dead healed up the… interior damage. Although.”

“A-al…” Tubbo faltered.

“Your eyes.” Wilbur said, softly. “They’re- They’re unsalvageable.”

If Tubbo had any more energy to cry- he would have. He would have sobbed until he couldn’t anymore. Him? Blind? He merely made a noise of acceptance in the back of his throat.

Tubbo sat there for a moment longer, the shock of his eyes being gone… forever- momentarily overshadowing the pain.

He zoned back in when he heard Tommy’s voice.

“-I think I have- here, you can borrow this, Wilbur.”

There was another silence, then Wilbur’s grip tightened on his shoulder.

“This might sting. You’ll be okay. Tommy is right here.”

“Tommy?”

Tommy’s hand closed around his own, warm, strong. He tried to imagine Tommy’s face, a gentle smile- blonde hair- the stupid, red bandanna- but failed. All he saw was darkness. All he would ever see was darkness.

Darkness.

#tubbo #schlatt #quackity #technoblade #wilbur #tommy #clingyduo #dreamsmp #mcyt #dream smp #dsmp #tommyinnit #wilbur soot

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septicace-writes · 3 years

Text

Loophole

Summary: Billy Lee is away on a trip and you’re needy. Mike helps out but you get caught. Billy Lee x reader, Mike (Hellraiser) x reader

Genre: Smut

Warnings: sex, dub-con to be safe, slight degradation, voyeurism, cheating (kind of)

a/N: This has to be the most elaborate piece I’ve written so far. And it’s a rarepair but I hope people will still enjoy. And I’m just gonna tag @hope-to-hell because A) this obsession is your fault and b) I think you might enjoy this.

1.7k words

Billy Lee is a busy man. Sure, he's carved himself a life where he can do whatever he wants, more or less, but it comes at the cost of leading his people. And he doesn't call it a cult, they're more like a big family. And he's the head. Their chief. He's in charge and with that comes freedom; and responsibility. And time away from you.

But he wouldn't leave you all alone. No, not after you've tried to run more than once. Not after he's had to follow you across half the country to bring you back. So, he leaves you with his right-hand man.

Mike is young, tall, dark, wild curls on his head and icy blue eyes. He's all harsh angles and scars and his smile will freeze your blood. He had come to them beaten and bloodied and half dead and unable to speak, but even then, he fought and thrashed like a wild animal, or a rabid dog. So that’s what they called him. Dog.

He got better, wounds healing over, finding his voice again, and immediately challenged anyone's authority. He, quite physically, fought back against the nickname and now only the chief still occasionally uses it. It's a surprise Billy Lee didn't kick him out as soon as he was healed enough. The chief doesn't take kindly to challengers. But they had their one big fight, teeth and claws and knives, rolling through the mud and wrestling and then - he let Mike stay. Let him rise through the ranks. Put him to use keeping people in line, his personal attack dog. Nobody would dare call it that out loud, but he has a soft spot for the boy. It’s the only explanation for how Mike hasn’t lost his head yet for shamelessly staring at you every chance he gets. Billy Lee let him have his choice in partners, but you were the exception. Even Mike in his ruthlessness understood not to mess with that boundary, but it happened anyways.

And it so easily could've ended in a disaster - for you and even more so for Mike. Billy Lee had been gone for almost a week, leaving things in Mike's care; including you. You were under strict instruction not to leave your room, to let Mike know if you needed anything. And not to touch yourself. And you had been good. So good. And so fucking horny. With no idea when the chief would return you cracked.

Mike, please

You know I can't

Says who? He said I can't touch myself but you're not me. And he did say for you to take care of me.

It's not like you're not worried about it. You only trust Mike on the account that Billy Lee trusts him. His hungry eyes made you uncomfortable more than once. But you need and maybe this'll be enough of a loophole for Billy Lee to let it slide.

He gets you off on his fingers the first time, methodical, learning your body and doing his best not to derive his own pleasure from it. Then, again, later the same day.

The next day, you beg him to eat you out. Your hands tangled in his hair, pushing and pulling, wanton moans escaping your lips when

Get off her

Your heart rate spikes as your hands drop to your sides. You hadn't even heard the door open. Mike is scrambling off the bed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and standing at attention. This may be the most distraught you've seen him, but he's hiding it well even now. Except maybe for the bump in his trousers.

What the fuck is this?

And his voice is quiet, calm. And it scares you more than if he had yelled the words.

I- You did have your excuse ready to go but seeing the blond man stand looming over the bed, suddenly the words get stuck in your throat.

Chief- but Billy Lee cuts him off with a look.

No, no. She gets to explain.

For a moment you consider blaming Mike, but you do want to try your best to not bar him from further exploring this. From just these three times he had potential.

Billy Lee is still staring at you, waiting for an answer. When you go to sit up and cover yourself, he gives a single shake of his head. You've played this game before. He will stay silent and not let you move until you explain.

You said not to touch myself. Your voice is only slightly shaking. And I haven't. But I needed. Sir, I needed. And so I asked Mike to take care of me. You always say for him to take care of my needs when you're gone.

Billy Lee turns to Mike, who is still standing in the same position, not betraying just how fucked he thinks he is.

And what is the second half of that request, dog?

Tend to her needs but leave her wants and whims to you He recites almost automatically, the order drilled into him.

And do you think, Mike Billy Lee almost spits the name that my little dove wanting to come is a need or a want?

Need. You pipe up against your better judgement, unwilling to let Mike take the fall for your escapade.

I didn’t ask you, did I?

Want, chief Mike sounds a little sheepish, but he holds his head high and stands his ground.

So you agree that this is outside of your duties, dog? A nod from Mike.

And what are we gonna do about that

There are a few beats of tense silence

Well- You know there has to be punishment. Billy Lee starts pacing and you feel your whole body shake in anticipation.

For you he turns towards you, still unmoving on the bed. For you it’s easy. He runs a hand up the inside your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps. You get one more today and then you are not going to come for at least a week. His fingers deftly avoid your slick center and travel back down the other leg. And you will be on your best behaviour or I will dig out the cage again. All you can do is nod.

As for you, dog, you’re lucky I understand it’s difficult to resist a begging pretty little thing. And I do recognise that I may have left her unattended for too long. You’ll get a chance to prove yourself so listen closely. I want you to fuck her. Like she so desperately wants. Make her shake and cry and come. If you do a good job, maybe I’ll add this to your duties when I’m gone. And to prove that you understand the boundaries, you are not going to get off here, tonight. Are we understood?

And Mike- Mike who has been standing there stoically all this time, hiding just how scared he is that he’ll get kicked out. That Billy Lee was going to beat him to a pulp and leave him on a roadside somewhere. He wouldn’t say it, but he did like the family. And he even enjoyed having found his match in the chief. Knowing there was a person he had no power over. Though he’s not ready to admit that to himself. And anyways, none of this changes that he is elated at the chance he has been presented.

Billy Lee situates himself in his armchair, facing the bed. He lazily starts palming himself and gives an impatient nod to Mike when he still hasn’t moved. Better make it good. And that’s all it takes.

He gets back between your legs, picking up where he left off before the interruption, and from the first lick you are gone. Your hands automatically find their way back to his dark curls. He groans into your pussy and the vibrations make you moan.

I believe I said to fuck her. Billy Lee would sound almost unaffected to anyone else, but you know him better than that. You know he’s getting off on this just as much as you. And it makes you brave.

Please you whimper, pulling Mike’s hair. You lift his head and pull him in for a kiss, your own taste on his lips driving you on even further. His hands frantically shove off his trousers, letting himself get lost in the frenzy and – for a moment – forget that he ought to be careful. He gives himself a few quick strokes before prodding at your entrance. Your hands flying to his back and clawing into the muscle as he slowly breaches your hole.

Fuck. Please. I need-

But he keeps the first thrust slow, letting you adjust once he bottoms out. From the side you hear a deep, familiar groan. You look over and see Billy Lee, his cock out, stroking himself to the sight of you. And just that moment Mike starts moving in you, forcing your attention back to him. A devilish grin on his face he lowers his head to take one of your nipples between his lips. It’s a lick and a suck at first but then he simultaneously bites down and gives a harsh thrust into you, coaxing a yelp from your lips.

Your legs wrap around his hips, instinctively trying to keep him as deep in you as possible, while your nails scratch angry red lines into his back. Mike picks up his pace, seemingly getting faster with every sound he draws from you. He growls when you try to sneak a hand between your bodies. Pinning your arms above your head, he brings his own fingers to your clit and rubs. It takes a second for him to find a good rhythm, but then he can feel you clenching. There’s a coil rapidly tightening in your core and you buck your hips to meet his thrusts. The tension snaps and with a scream, your orgasm washes over you. Mike fucks you through the aftershocks, and as your head clears you sense just how much he is holding himself back, keeping to his orders. Your eyes shoot to the armchair, where Billy Lee is still stroking himself. His eyes blown black with lust.

With a hiss Mike pulls out, unfinished. He gives you a tight smile and looks over to the chief as well. The blonde gives him a nod Go get yourself sorted. We’ll talk tomorrow.

Mike hastily puts his trousers back on and rushes out as Billy Lee gets up and turns his attention to you again, cock still in hand.

My turn.

Part 2

#billy lee x reader #mike (hellraiser) x reader #billy lee smut #mike (hellraiser) smut #chris hemsworth smut #henry cavill smut #chris hemsworth fic #henry cavill fic #bad times at the el royale #2nd person

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darkisrising · 3 years

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Bobadinluke, 37?

Ooooooooooh, Anon. Dear, sweet sweet Anon. You have NO idea how overboard I went on this, lolol. Thank you for the prompt, I hope when you read this next 4k+ words you won't regret it too much. Disclaimer: All I know about prison I learned by watching Oz back in the day. Full whump in this one, and threats of sexual assault though none actually occur. Some character death, some mentions of transactional sex... lottttttta cursing. Yeah, just, if you decide to read this one please proceed with caution. 37. meeting in prison au, BobaDinLuke

“First thing you do when you get to prison,” Anakin Skywalker whispered into his son’s ear as he held him so tightly Luke couldn’t draw in a deep enough breath, though maybe that was just the panic setting in. “You find the leader of the Sith in there and tell him Darth Vader said to take care of you. He goes by Maul. He’ll keep you safe.”

In answer, Luke hissed “Fuck you, you fucking bastard” and sincerely meant every word of it. When the guards pulled them apart to lead Luke away—the irons around his ankles clattering ominously—it was a relief. For a father that had thrown him and his sister by the wayside as they were growing up, leaving them to be raised by distant and dubiously-related relations, he sure had decided to make himself suspiciously present in the courtroom ever since he’d framed his only son for murder.

“Don’t be proud, Luke,” Anakin called out, his voice cutting through the courtroom’s chatter. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”

Luke’s tempted to throw another “fuck you” over his shoulder but then he caught sight of Leia, clutching her tiny lump of a newborn son in her lap. Her eyes were as close to crying as he’d ever seen his sister get and that’s when it all came crashing down on him. That this moment, which some stupid, fragile part of him had thought would never really come to pass, had happened. He’d held on to hope that someone—some jurist— would listen to all the damning witness testimonies and look at all the gruesome crime scene photos and then look at Luke—pacifist, Prius-driving, yoga teacher Luke—and think “No, it couldn’t possibly have been him.” He had a rescue dog, for fuck’s sake. He’d gotten Artoo from the no-kill shelter that he volunteered at between shifts at the local food pantry.

How the fuck could they ever believe him guilty of murder?

But Anakin Skywalker, leader of the Sith crime syndicate—second only to the so-called Emperor whose identity was a mystery to all but his most trusted underling—was good at what he did. If he wanted to kill a district attorney, he killed a district attorney. If he wanted to pin it on his son to keep his own ass out of prison, then that’s what he did. And then if he showed up every single goddamn day to Luke’s trial, sitting there just behind his son so that no one could help but notice the resemblance between the two of them—couldn’t help but speculate at how close they must be for his father to be taking such a personal interest in his son’s trial—until a person decided that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the rotten, mafia-laden tree?

Well, then; he did that, too.

Guilty on all counts. Seven life sentences to be served consecutively. One hundred and five years without the possibility of parole, and Luke knows as soon as the van pulls up to the prison gates and he’s shuffled out along with all his fellow offenders deemed too dangerous to society for anything but the most maximum of maximum security prisons, that he is going to die here.

As it turns out he doesn’t have to go looking for the Sith. Word of his arrival has preceded him and he turns from placing the blanket and pillow he’s been assigned onto the bunk he’s been assigned to see he’s been followed.

“Hey, you Vader’s kid?”

There are two men lingering by his cell’s opening and Luke doesn’t need to ask who they are to know what they are. They have that same glint in their eyes, rabid fanaticism and zero fucks to give, that mark all the Sith that Luke has had the displeasure of knowing in his life.

“No,” Luke says as mildly as he can manage before turning his back on them to pluck at his blanket under the guise of making his bed. His hands are shaking, his anger at his father is like runoff from a melting mountain snow, and he takes deep, careful breaths to try to staunch the torrent. He’d kill for a yoga mat and a dim room right about now, but he doubts that’s in the cards for him anytime soon.

“Aren’t you Skywalker?”

“I am,” Luke allows. “But I’m afraid my father’s name is Anakin. Not Vader.”

“Oh, come on,” one says, standing close enough that Luke can smell that his clothes are fresh from the dryer. It’s an industrial smell and utterly impersonal. “We both know who Anakin Skywalker really is. Maul wants to see you.”

“I’m afraid Maul is just going to have to be disappointed, then, because I don’t want to see him.”

“I think you’re going to want to,” the other one says, flanking Luke’s other side and he’s suddenly very aware of how small this cell is, especially with three bodies in it. “Pretty blond kid like you? Lots of ways you can end up hurt, you know what I’m saying? You’re going to need someone to protect you while you’re here.”

“I can protect myself.”

They only laugh, like they both know things that he doesn’t, but they don’t press the matter any further. Luke finds out the next day they were right to laugh. Maybe Luke had taken enough martial arts classes as a kid—from a sensei teaching out of a strip mall that was so wizened and stooped that he wasn't much taller than the children he instructed— to think he knows something about something. As he lays on the floor of the prison’s basketball court with the taste of his own blood leaking through his clenched teeth, a bribed guard smirking near the closed door as six men pummel him with fists and feet, Luke quickly learns how little he knows about anything. When one stomps on his wrist Luke doesn’t even scream, the pain is so white hot he can only cling to consciousness for one bright, all-encompassing moment before everything fades to black. The last words he hears before he’s gone are “Tell Darth Vader that the Tuskens send their regards,” and then: nothingness.

When he wakes up in the medical ward there is a cast on his arm and a man staring down at him. He's wearing the khaki pants and button up shirt of a prisoner. Tattoos spill across his face, down his neck, and continue again along his exposed forearms and for a moment Luke wonders if he’s the only one that can see this fearsome creature of a man for all that the nurses and guards and other prisoners are ignoring him.

“Still think you don’t need my protection, young Skywalker?”

Maul. It has to be.

Luke has to clear his throat before it’s any use to him but eventually he’s able to get out “Dunno why I’d need it. ‘M doing great.”

Maul grins and a mouthful of sharp teeth glint in the stale, fluorescent light. “Yeah? Well let’s see how long that lasts. Your daddy says I’m not supposed to raise a finger to help you until you pledge loyalty to the Sith.”

Luke’s heart kicks over as a chill spreads across his skin. So that’s what all of this has been about. For years his father had tried to get Luke to join him, to serve the Emperor just as he did, and now—what?—Anakin thought he could force Luke’s hand? That he could manipulate him into a situation where he’d have no choice but to swear his allegiance to the darkness Luke has tried so hard to exorcise from his life?

“That’s never going to happen,” Luke says and Maul only pats Luke’s ankle, a parody of comfort.

“Oh, it will, young Skywalker. The only question is how much pain are you willing to bear before you do? There are a lot of men in here that hate your father. I’m sure one of them will convince you that you need our protection.”

Maul isn’t wrong. In his first month in prison Luke becomes intimately aware of the intricacies of his cell block’s various factions and all the ways that Darth Vader has, one way or another, fucked over each and every one of them. He learns it in the cafeteria, where he’s jumped in line to get his food, and in the gym, where he’s pinned down by steel between the weight racks, and in the library, where he’s caught somewhere between the dictionary and the encyclopedias. He almost learns it in the showers when the leader of the Hutts has him dragged to his knees but that was blessedly interrupted by a CO actually doing his job for once.

Jabba watches him go, thick tongue licking across even thicker lips, and Luke knows his time is running out. He’s going to need to find a protector and quick.

***

The one respite he's found in this hellish existence are to be found at night. His cellmate, an old man with a white beard that everyone else calls “Crazy Old Ben,” is a lifer who is less interested in Luke’s body and more concerned with his soul. Together they meditate, sitting on the cold concrete floor and tuning their breaths until Luke can pretend not to hear the sounds of quiet violence and even quieter pleasure in the almost-dark prison.

Old Ben takes Luke under his wing until the day Luke comes back from a shower to find no trace of Ben save for the ratty old bathrobe he always wears. It’s crumpled into a heap on the otherwise pristine cell floor, like he had been in it and then, suddenly, was gone.

When the blaring sirens and red flashing lights and screaming of the guards call for a lockdown, Luke knows, he knows, he knows whose body has been discovered. And when, from across the hall through bars of his own, Maul catches his eye and smirks, Luke knows who ordered the hit on the only friend Luke had found in this God forsaken place.

***

Somehow the warden talks Luke into leading a yoga class for his fellow inmates. It's bullshit, of course; no one ever shows up. But it is nice to have space enough to move the way he wants to without risking someone stepping on his throat while he's down in Shavasana or taking his downward facing dog as an invitation for something he’s not interested in offering.

One day he’s startled to find a man he's never noticed before waiting for his arrival. He’s flanked by two that Luke has had plenty of run-ins with already to know they run with the Mando gang and Luke balks when he catches sight of Vizsla but for once there’s no smirking taunts to be had from him. He stares sightlessly ahead, chin raised, as if at attention and that more than anything makes Luke look back at the unknown man again.

He’s handsome: with sad, dark eyes and a scruffy appearance that somewhat distracts from the fact that his prison uniform is wrapped tight around a body that’s been whittled lean with muscles. He has a smattering of scars, remnants of violence that cut across his arms and hands, and if he’s there to beat Luke up he certainly doesn’t act like it when he extends his hand politely.

"I'm Din," he says in a careful, unassuming voice and Luke warily takes his hand, giving his name in return. “I understand you’re running a yoga class here.”

“Oh, yeah,” Luke says, glancing at Vizsla again and wetting his lips. “But, um, if you need the room it’s yours. No one ever shows and so I can clear out—”

“I’m here to take the class.”

“Oh,” Luke says, mouth running before his mind has caught up but what else if new? “Oh, well, that’s great. Let me get you set up with a mat. Are your, your—” he casts about for the right words. “—friends? Going to be joining us?”

Vizsla snorts. “Hell no, Skywalker. We’re just here to make sure nothing happens to the Manda’lor.”

It takes everything in Luke to simply nod and turn to the pile of mats to find one that isn't reeking of sweat and mold from being shoved into storage dirty. To not gawk at the doe-eyed man who even Luke, who prides himself on knowing nothing about his father's world, knows rules over all the Mandalorians, both inside and outside the prison. The one man that not even Anakin Skywalker will fuck with.

"I have a son," Din explains with a shrug when the class is over and Luke has been rendered suitably impressed with the fluid grace with which the fearsome Mandalorian gang leader had moved through every pose, his body made for movement and honed by battle. "The people that are watching him for me say there's this lady on YouTube that teaches kids yoga that he’s gotten really into. I just thought if I tried it it could almost be like we were, well," he shrugs again like whatever he's about to say is too unbearably personal and despite himself Luke finds it utterly charming.

Luke smiles, asking "How old is he?"

"Five."

"Well, if he’s anything like his dad then he must be a natural at yoga, too."

Din's lips quirk in a smile and something complicated in Luke’s belly curls at the sight. Or maybe it's not so complicated, Luke considers as he watched the Mand’alor leave with his guards. Luke can recognize a burgeoning crush when he feels it. He floats through his shift in the kitchen, contentedly lost in his memory of the other man, until he's brought back to reality when he takes a punch to the side of his head.

"Watch what you're doing, Skywalker. Hate for you to get hurt when you've got your head in the clouds, " the inmate supervisor calls out and Luke can only nod as he ignores the pain from his jostled skull and gets back to work.

Luke keeps his crush to himself, and would avoid Din completely if not for the fact that folks are remarkably less inclined to punch him in the face whenever he’s in the Manda’lor’s company and so he tries to be as close to him as often as he can. It’s strategic, Luke tells himself, as he asks Din if he has any pictures of his son and coos over a kid with giant eyes who is triumphantly holding up two bright pink Easter eggs. The more Din likes him, the better his chances when he finally works up the courage to officially ask for his protection. He knows he doesn’t have much to offer in return, but by now Luke knows the transactional nature of prison. His body is a hot commodity and he’s perfectly willing to give Din exclusive use of his ass and mouth if it keeps him alive.

He ignores the thrill of excitement that the thought of sex with Din inevitably brings.

So Luke flirts, flickering little touches here and leaning in closer there, hoping that eventually things will progress naturally. They don’t, but that’s okay because Luke is nothing if not persistent. He has full faith in his ability to work the cute twink angle. Lord knows he did it enough when he was on the outside and had far less to lose.

And it works. Sort of. Din doesn’t seem to notice that Luke drifts along in his orbit after morning yoga classes, sometimes well into the evening and as close to lights out as he dares. The reason why he doesn’t make a move on Luke becomes painfully, achingly, mortifyingly clear the morning Luke enters the meeting-come-yoga room to find Din in a passionate kiss with someone Luke’s never seen before.

He should have known something was different when there had been no Mandalorians posted by the door but this. This. This is. It’s—

The man whose mouth Din is trying to crawl into is built like a shit brick house, all thick muscles and big dick energy as he holds Din by the jaw and their teeth clack so hard that Luke can feel the echo in his own mouth. When he tears away to fix Luke with a stare, he can see that this man’s been so scuffed by life that even his scars have scars and when he speaks it is with a deep, gravel voice that shivers across Luke’s skin.

“You must be Luke,” he says, as if he hadn’t just been caught making out in a dark room. Like Luke can’t see his raging hard-on through his prison-issued pants.

With a calming breath Luke grasps desperately for his most enlightened and peaceful tone as he replies. “I am. Will you be joining us for class, Mister….”

“Fett. Boba Fett. And no fucking way. I’m just here to stand in the corner and enjoy the view.” He smirks at Din who answers with a smile that’s absolutely smitten and Luke can feel his heart jump into his throat before plummeting into his stomach.

“Of course. Make yourself comfortable.”

When the class is over Luke lingers in the room, taking his sweet time rolling up the mats. As he follows Boba out, Din turns to look back at Luke with a confused expression. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No, no, you go on ahead. I’ve got things to do.” Din’s eyebrow raises and Luke can concede that maybe his voice was a little high, a little pinched, but Din doesn’t press the issue. He only shrugs and tells Luke “Well, you know where to find me” before he’s out into the hall.

Luke doesn’t need to go in search of information on Boba Fett. It’s drifting through the filtered prison air wherever he goes. His re-incarceration is all anyone can talk about, starting from his offense—knocked over a grocery store and killed the clerk, if you can believe that stupid shit—and wild guesses as to why he would have gotten caught doing something so petty when he’d finally been paroled—probably just missed his husband, you know how stupid those two are for each other.

“Guess you got tossed to the curb, huh, Skywalker?” Jabba says when they are working the food service line and Luke is very carefully keeping his eyes from looking at where Din is sitting, trying to eat between laughs as Boba crowds so close he’s practically in the Manda’lor’s lap. “Tough break. You know the offer still stands if you want a new cock to suck.”

Telling the Hutt what exactly he can do with his cock and precisely how his mother might like it might give him a surge of soaring adrenaline for the moment but he quickly sees the error of his ways when it’s time to clean up and he’s shoved into the industrial freezer next to all the rows of Hoth Farms Vegetables.

By the time he’s found he’s pretty much stopped shivering which doesn’t seem like a good sign. The doctors in the medical ward seem to agree, at least as far as Luke can tell by all their scrambling activity when he’s wheeled in, barely clinging to consciousness.

***

“That was remarkably stupid,” a melodious voice says a week later.

Luke has been able to cling to lucidity well enough that he’s been sent back to gen pop, for all that he keeps to his bunk and can’t seem to stay awake for longer than a few hours. Shockingly no one has been by to harass him in his weakened state but his luck has finally run out. There is a mountain of a man leaning in his cell’s doorway, and Luke can’t even find the energy to be nervous by the way Boba Fett’s dark eyes are narrowly assessing him.

“I excel at stupid.”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that from what I’ve been hearing about you. Son to one of the scariest sons of bitches around and yet you refuse to join up with your old man’s gang. Instead you prefer to get the shit kicked out of you like you're just another prison bitch.”

“Yep, that’s me alright,” Luke says with false cheer as he struggles to sit up.

“Word also has it that you’ve been following my husband around like a bitch in heat.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. “Listen, Fett—”

“Now I don’t begrudge you a little schoolboy crush. Din is a hot piece of ass. And I haven’t exactly been around so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt here that you didn’t know that he was otherwise engaged.”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

“Okay. Good. That’s that.” Fett nods at him, but he doesn’t move from where he stands, still watching Luke. Still taking his measure.

“Does, uh,” Luke’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, a nervous gesture that Fett’s eyes watch sharp as knives. “Does Din know that I—” and he can’t bring himself to say anything more about it.

Fett snorts a laugh. “Din is clueless about just about everything but fighting and fucking. He doesn’t even know whose kid you are. I’d be very surprised to hear he was able to figure out for himself that you’re in love with him.”

“Ah. Okay, well that’s,” Luke stops when the ache in his chest tightens so abruptly he can hardly breathe. Still, he forces out a bleak: “That’s good.”

“It is. Take care of yourself, Skywalker.”

***

There seems little point in fighting against the inevitable after that. If his father thought prison was going to break him, then he’d thought right. He takes a month of beatings without so much as lifting a finger to protect himself. His face is in a perpetual state of bruises but he hardly notices for all that it feels like he’s floating, like he’s becoming one with some great higher power and one day he might just fade away entirely.

Fett is usually there in the periphery—watching, always watching—and Din’s eyebrows furrow every morning when he catches sight of some new mark, some swollen finger, some hastily bandaged scape.

“What’s going on?” he asks and it seems like Fett was right, Din really is that unobservant if he doesn’t see how often Luke is made to bear marks in answer for the sins of his father.

Luke plants a sunny smile on his aching face while Fett watches them from the corner of the room, arms crossed and face twisted in a scowl. “Not much. Same old same old. Shall we begin with our Ohms?”

***

He’s spitting blood down the drain after another ambush that leaves him splayed on the slippery communal shower floor when Fett finally confronts him.

“What the fuck are you playing at? You’re a dead man walking, Skywalker. Quit being stupid and go to Maul. Get his protection.”

“Never,” Luke grinds out with more vehemence than he’s felt in a long time. “I’ll never join the Sith.”

“Why not?”

“Like you care,” he says, reaching for a washcloth to finish the shower that had been unavoidably interrupted. Fett gets to it first and he holds it aloft and out of Luke’s reach unless he wants to strain his ribs that have seen better days.

“You got some kind of Daddy issues or something? That why you won’t become a Sith?”

“Hey, fuck you, Fett,” Luke says and he waits for Fett’s first punch but it never comes.

“Come here,” he says instead, his head tilting curiously. Luke doesn’t move and Fett rolls his eyes. “Come here, don’t look at me like I’m about to eat you.”

A washcloth wielded by a surprisingly gentle hand dabs at Luke’s face. He holds perfectly still under the ministrations while Boba leans in closer. “You’ve got gett'se, that’s for sure.”

“Like I know what that means.” Luke’s tone is bratty and rather than take offense, Fett smiles.

“Gett'se. Guts. Courage. Going to need to learn Mando’a if you’re going to be joining me and Din for the foreseeable future.”

“What?” Luke asks, eyes wide, and Fett doesn’t answer. Not in words.

The distance between them disappears as Fett presses his plush lips to Luke’s bleeding ones. He’s careful, so careful in his kiss and it shatters something vital in Luke. Tears are burning his eyes, biting at his nose, by the time Fett pulls away. “You’re breaking Din’s heart, the way you’ve been carrying on, cyar'ika. And that’s been breaking mine. So why don’t you do us all a favor and come be ours for a little while. If you hate it, we can set you up with someone else, but I have the feeling you’re going to like it just fine. What do you say?”

Luke can’t speak through the tightness of his throat, through the spilling of his tears of relief, and when Fett kisses him again, and again, and again, each time it’s like he’s someone worth caring about. Someone that matters.

Fett—Boba—turns on the shower and leads him under the spray, washing his hair and his skin. “Shouldn’t I be doing that for you?” Luke asks quietly and Boba laughs.

“Sure. Soon as you can lift your arms higher than your shoulders you're free to do anything you want to my body. Until then let me wash your fucking hair, alright? Gotta make you pretty for Din, yeah?"

He rests his forehead against the immense, solid expanse of Boba’s wet chest and for the first time in a long time he feels safe enough to close his eyes somewhere that isn’t his locked cell.

When the guards— who had fucked off to wherever the hell they’d been bribed to go while Luke took maybe his last beating ever—finally show up and yell at them to break it up, Luke isn’t even mad about it because Boba is tossing him a towel and telling him to hurry up and dry off. Din is waiting for them.

#darkisrising fic #bobadinluke #tumblr prompt #ask game #ask box

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missroserose · 3 years

Text

if you want it, got to bleed for it, baby

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

or read on AO3

groove to the playlist

ngl, tax season is eating my face. but I couldn't go much longer without writing a little more smutty angst for these two. hope y'all enjoy.

Have I mentioned how amazing @anarchist-billy is? Thanks for betaing, love. <3

“Stay with me.” Billy’s voice is low, urgent, a lifeline. “Keep the pressure on.”

Steve is there, in the passenger seat of the car, holding a wad of paper towels to the gash in his belly—and Steve is the car, too—he feels the warm gold-red glow of the bonfire, demodog corpses and dead vines disappearing into invisible smoke, fading all too quickly from the rear view mirror. The bass note of the BMW’s V8 thrums deep in his chest, hurtling towards Hawkins at near-lethal speed. The cool night air roars in his ears as Billy redlines it—he can feel Billy, too, the atavistic satisfaction of driving this amazing machine, of pressing it to its limits—

The fire disappears, and the outside world is nothing but a dark blur. No streetlights, no trees, nothing to indicate it even exists. Even their movement fades into a queer sense of unmotion, a bubble of existence floating in the endless void. The glow of the dashboard lights on Billy’s expression, drawn and set. The rumble of the car, rearing to meet the challenge. The just-warm air blasting from the heater. Van Halen on the radio, staticky signal fading in and out over the road and wind noise. I been to the edge, and there I stood and looked down—

“We’re nearly there. Harrington. Hold on a little longer.”

Billy’s lying through his teeth. Steve knows he’s lying; he’s driven this road any number of times since he got his license. Floored the gas, the same way Billy’s doing now, felt his car eat up the thirty-eight miles of two-lane blacktop, straightaway snaking between forest and farmland. Rolled down the windows and whooped, Tommy in the passenger seat, Carol and whatever girl Steve was seeing that week in the back, all of them chasing the horizon at breakneck speeds. Not for jubilation, or anger, or any reason in particular; just...because they were bored. Because they could—because they were young and free and would live forever, would be friends forever—

“What’s the rush?” Steve has to almost issue a conscious order to make himself smile, like he’s giving his face instructions over a long-distance phone call. “I’m the King. They’ll wait for me.”

Billy doesn’t look at him—can’t, at the speeds he’s driving—but his shoulders seem to loosen a fraction. “Guess that depends,” he says, threadbare bravado thin at the edges. “You don’t make it, there’s only one king left. Makes my life awful easy.”

Beer spilled down a bare chest. Red punch on a white blouse. Bullshit. Tea roses and spunk and sweat and blue eyes on his in the bathroom mirror. “Maybe it does,” Steve says, trying not to let his words run together the way his thoughts are doing. “But that’s not what you want.”

There’s a gap opening up, a space between the two of them; it takes Steve a moment to notice the knuckles, tense on the steering wheel. Billy opens his mouth, says something; a moment later, the words unfurl in Steve’s consciousness, time-delayed. “Like anyone gives a shit about what I want.”

Steve laughs a little, at that. “That’s the first lesson of being king, Hargrove.” He swallows, with some difficulty; his throat feels thick. “You’re not there for you. Every fool who wants a favor, every damsel in distress, every asshole determined to get a piece of King Billy…” He trails off, seeing a crown amidst those golden curls in a bathroom mirror, set over heated blue eyes, lips parting in a look of mingled awe and desire—

“Hey. Hey! Harrington!” Billy’s slapping at his face, one hand flapping ineffectually against his skin, just hard enough to force his consciousness to surface. Steve doesn’t particularly want to surface; there’s something looming there, not terror, but a shadow of it, a formless dread. Like the first time his parents had gone out of town, and he hadn’t been smart enough to put the breakables away before he threw the obligatory kegger. He’d spent three days waiting for his mother to return and discover one of her Hummel figurines missing, only to have her so preoccupied with his father’s latest fling that she’d left before noticing—

“Don’t you dare.” Billy’s voice is a growl, but there’s something beneath it that catches Steve’s unmoored attention. “Steve. Don’t you fucking dare die on me now. You ruined my night, you pulled me out here to chase down God knows what those rabid alien dog-things were, you’re going to pull through this and you’re going to give me a fucking explanation—”

Steve gives a small laugh, even though it hurts like a bitch. “I’m really fucked, aren’t I?”

Billy bites off his rant like a piece of taffy. “What?”

Steve issues the order to smile again, feels his face sort-of obey. “You called me Steve. It must be bad.”

“Not that bad,” Billy says, almost believable, as if he can change the state of the world through sheer stubborn insistence. “You’re gonna pull through this. You’ve got to. When the school hears about how I saved your ass? It’s gonna be a riot, Harrington.”

Steve could almost laugh again, but it hurts too much. With an effort, he diverts his reaction, reaches for bitterness instead, bile like he’s swallowing down in the back of his throat. The school. Graduation. The future. A dark unknown, filled with people whose eyes slide away from his, in respect or in contempt—“You’ve already had my ass. What do you care about the rest?” The gap between them is opening up again. Steve has a mental image for a moment of trying to leap that gap, of hanging in the air over it for a beautiful moment—wonders if people would see him then, shining golden before the inevitable plummet to the nothingness below—

But Billy’s voice is stubborn, penetrating. “Did you hit your head when that alien tackled you? Of course I want the rest. The way you swung that bat? Waded into that fight without a damn hitch?” Billy’s voice cracks a little, in disbelief, or in awe. “That’s King Steve. Not that namby-pamby asshole who haunts the hallways at school.”

And something in that voice pulls Steve towards the looming terror, away from the peaceful dark. He presses the paper towels harder to his gut, ignores the sharp pain this elicits. “Didn’t think you were looking for a king, Hargrove.”

A pause, brief and endless. Steve slips a little, tossed about in stormy waves, uncertain which way to the shore, uncertain which way is up—

Then Billy’s voice comes in, low and smoky, a beam from a lighthouse parting the dark. “I jerk off at night thinking about your lips on me.” Steve’s suddenly aware of his lips as they part slightly, but Billy’s continuing, words gushing from him like water from a burst pipe. “I haven’t bent you over your kitchen counter yet. Haven’t felt your cock twitch between my lips as you come down my throat—”

The words are gathering somewhere deep in Steve’s hips, insistent warmth, flickering but stubborn in the face of the terror. The words fall into his mind, and he drops them without thought, uncaring, because who even cares at this point? “I want to fuck you in my bed.”

A breath sucked between teeth. A glance, briefly risked, at Steve’s face, as if gauging his seriousness. “You want it in a bed, pretty boy?”

“I want you. In my bed.” The paper towels are growing wet between his fingers. “Empty house. Nobody to hear us slam the headboard against the wall.” He presses a little harder; the lance of pain stabs through him, but the image in his mind is bright as he gives a half-wrecked gasp.

Billy seems to shudder at that gasp. “Hell yes,” he says, seeming to almost relax for a moment. “Gonna hear you good and proper as you come—”

“Gonna feel you under me when I do,” Steve says, words tumbling forward heedless, headlong. “Billy. You’re gonna feel me inside you as you shake apart. Gonna walk around the next day still feeling it, and I’m gonna watch you—”

“Fuck—” Billy’s grip is white against the steering wheel now, fingers torqued tight. “Steve,” he says, his voice rough. “Promise me something.”

“Sure.” The words are fading, growing further away, but Steve struggles, holds his head up. Tries to read Billy’s expression, the hesitation in his voice. “If I can.”

“Next time we see each other, it’s just you.” Billy licks his lips. “Just you and me. No kids, no party, no—nothing. We’ll tear the phone out of the wall if we have to. Just...just us.”

Steve reaches for a careless smile. Ignores the sudden empty fluttering in his chest. Isn’t certain if he manages either. “Gotta settle up who’s king for good and all, huh?”

“Yeah.” Billy settles back into the seat, though tension still thrums through his body with the engine. Overhead, the first of the streetlights flashes by, briefly illuminating his face, determined, desperate. “Yeah, something like that.”

#harringrove #my writing #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #too young to fall in love #lemon

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straymackerel · 4 years

Note

Hello! Can I request #12 from the event prompt with Akutagawa? Congrats btw! 😊

akutagawa + zhaghzhagh || ژاقژاق (persian, n.) the uncontrollable chattering of teeth, due to rage or cold.

➽─{yayayay more akutagawa! i had an ✨awakening✨ after my last event ask for him teehee}─❥

Upon your assignment to the guerilla attack force, your friends in the Port Mafia gave you their solemn condolences. “Good luck,” they told you, smiles dropping as they heard the news. Their voices danced the line between nervous and sympathetic, too afraid to fully commit to either. Neither cautionary tales nor measures of advice were offered up; each and every one of you were already familiar with many a horror story of Akutagawa’s brutality. And for a mere rookie to join the fray? People ranked as low as yourselves had much to fear about the upper echelons. Your very promotion itself was counterintuitive, alarm-raising.

Naturally, your friends were quick to write you─the only one of the group who dared to rise the ranks─off and out of mind. Rumor has it they placed bets the same day you were put under the direct command of Akutagawa Ryunosuke. Rumor has it they were betting on how long you’d stay alive.

You were skeptical, as anyone who aspired to climb that high should be. You dismissed your colleagues’ concerns with a wave of a hand and a shake of the head, certain your fate was not a gruesome nor sealed one. More harrowing than the rumors of the Silent Rabid Dog were those concerning the very apex of the Mafia, the ringleader himself; surely, a man as merciless as Mori Ogai would never let such fabled recklessness run a command unit.

You were half right... and half wrong.

Akutagawa really was a loose cannon, as you soon found out. Though his fervent goal was to advance the Mafia, he often acted of his own accord, taking drastic measures to achieve his ends. His actions were fueled by both anger and irrational jealousy to boot, a most precarious combination in practice. You often felt as if you walked a tightrope around him, as if one wrong move might send you plummeting to the ground head first.

Akutagawa's homicidal tendencies were apparent as ever as he loomed over the lifeless corpse of a double agent one frosty morning. On the very outskirts of Yokohama, you stood in silence as he kicked the motionless figure, pushing it over with his foot. A frozen face of horror came to face the sky, vacant eyes staring into the gray bleakness of winter. Akutagawa’s disappointment was nearly tangible as the both of you confirmed what you hoped was not the case: this person is not our main target.

Shivering, you turned away from the body as it leaked the crimson essence of life, tainting the brilliant blanket of snow that dusted the ground. The crystals of ice bloomed a deadly hue at your feet, shades of red sweeping the floor. Akutagawa scoffed when his communicator went off, adjusting his cravat as the operator asked for a report.

“The target is heading north. The sole accomplice we stopped has nothing of value on them,” he replied, tone cold and detached. But you knew better than most that the look on his face was one of barely contained rage; you could feel his eyes boring holes into you, even with your back turned to him.

“Yes. No. I see,” he continued. Shifting under your thin jacket, you braced yourself for nearly certain chastisement. You tuned out the conversation, unable to keep listening. Your stance only wavered in its chill-induced tremble.

This job was supposed to be a short one, hence the appointment of only two Mafia members; you planned to be in and out instead of wandering the cold for hours. The enemy turned the tables on you, leading both you and Akutagawa on a wild goose chase, one you were unable to keep up with. You most definitely slowed down your commander like a dead weight chained to his legs, and you were undoubtedly certain he despised you for it. You knotted your fingers, tips icy cold and red. Worse than punishing you immediately, he seethed in undirected annoyance.

“Tch, they put us on standby,” Akutagawa said, shoving the communications device into his pocket. “After all the trouble we went through today.” You stiffened at the prospect of the two of you alone and without witness; if he really wanted to, he could have laid you to waste right then and there. Against your better judgment, not a single word of apology slipped through your lips. The stillness was deafening. It absolutely irked him.

“Hey, did you even hear me?” he asked incredulously, the crunching of snow behind you growing closer and closer. You flinched when he placed a heavy hand on your shoulder, whipping you around. “What’s the matter with you?”

Hands clenched, you withered under Akutagawa’s gaze, squeezing your eyes shut. You may have even prayed for an instant death. Your teeth chattered, clattering against themselves with each gust of wind that flew into you, quaking under pressure and frigidity. Even without your sight you felt the formless shroud of Rashomon surround you, poised to slice through your arms and legs. Its menacing presence grazed your sides as if eager to take a bite.

“I can’t have you blanking out on me first thing in the morning,” he said, voice ragged and husky. “Seriously, what’s your deal?” You felt the monster he called an overcoat rest atop of you, no longer scraping the surface. Only after a beat and a half did you dare to open your eyes a crack, curious of the way in which you might lose your life. When your eyes fluttered open, you went into shock.

Rashomon had itself wrapped around you, tightening around your torso as it was fashioned into the vague suggestion of another coat. You tried to blink it off, wondering if it was just your imagination. But the fabric laid against you like a blanket, and it was softer than you’d ever imagined the beast-like ability. You blinked at Akutagawa’s question, unsure of exactly how to answer.

“I–didn’t I mess everything up?” Your superior sighed at your response, easing back. Swaddling you in warmth, Rashomon finally settled in place on your shaking form.

“You really weren’t paying attention, were you?” he asked, frown deepening. You nodded slowly, tugging at the black fabric. “Jeez, what a piece of work,” he said. “Listen closely this time, okay? The guys over at headquarters ordered us to follow a group of decoys. Our real target was going the opposite way the entire time,” he explained, pausing to suppress a cough. “We were duped. And so was HQ.” The words took a moment to process in your mind. When they did, you nearly keeled over.

“Oh, thank god,” you breathed, having held your breath for much too long. You sighed your relief, your three words holding still in the air. Slackening, your body almost collapsed from how tensely you held yourself.

“Well, don’t sound so relieved about it,” he said, breaking the quietude. “Might I remind you of your performance today?” You clung to Rashomon even tighter, shame returning to mind. Having chosen the wrong time to celebrate, you knocked your feet together, straightening your posture once more.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” The two of you listened to the birds awaken from their slumber, chirping away as they celebrated the highly anticipated sunrise. As Akutagawa’s ability returned to you every last bit of heat that you lost, you thought to add one more thing.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Our enemies were well prepared this time,” Akutagawa said, pretending not to hear the last part you threw in. “The information we were fed led to severe understaffing, so even if our fugitive was among that group, nothing that happened was your fault alone.” Akutagawa turned to you, nodding his approval. “But if I see you running out of breath like that again─”

You nodded fervently, embarrassed. For a moment you felt Rashomon flicker, as if it was uncomfortable with being used in this way. Its startle even came close to tickling you. Akutagawa bristled at this realization, restraining himself from returning Rashomon to its proper place. You thought you heard his voice waver as he said:

“Also, do me a favor and wear more next time.”

#akutagawa ryunosuke #akutagawa x reader #akutagawa imagine #akutagawa oneshot #bsd x reader #bsd x you #bungou stray dogs fanfic #500 followers event

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aelin-queen-of-terrasen · 4 years

Text

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤

Rowaelin modern AU ▶ Masterlist

note: sorry for the late, but this chapter is longer than usual so hope that makes up for it!

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Aelin loved playing with stray dogs when she was little. Two days before her seventh birthday, Aelin had tried to pet a particularly wild dog. It was huge, and it chased her around the mostly empty park until she locked herself in the ladies bathroom. The hours passed in a blur, but the relief she'd felt when she'd heard her cousin's footsteps, his voice as he tried to shoo away the growling creature nearly overwhelmed her. It morphed into pure terror when she heard Aedion's pained shriek as the rabid animal bit him.

It was that odd combination of relief and terror she remembered when she heard her cousin scream that night—the sound that compelled her to unlock the door. She stared at the sight before her in horror.

Arobynn lay on the ground, breathing in short gulps. Blood—there was so much blood, splattered on the floor, on the walls, on the carpet. And standing above him, panting through his teeth was her cousin, covered in blood himself, his baseball bat clutched in his hand. Thr tip of the bat was coloured crimson like the formerly white tiles—now yellowish because of disrepair. Aedion was shaking all over.

"I didn't mean to," he said, though she didn't think he was talking to her. "I didn't mean to hurt him—is he—"

Is he dead? she read the unspoken fear in his eyes as clearly as if he'd said it out loud. But there—Arobynn's chest rose and fell ever so slow. Not dead, just unconscious.

Aelin said, "We need to leave." Aedion nodded, but he made no movement. "I'm sorry, so sorry. I shouldn't have called, I'm sorry."

She enveloped him in a hug, clutching onto him as if she could fix all the shit with her tight hold over him. She mumbled muffled apologies into his shirt, blinking back tears.

She called a cab, unsure where they could go. Aedion's mother had died in an accident five years ago, and Gavriel had no knowledge of his son until he attended his ex-wife's funeral—so while their professor was her cousin's guardian on papers, Aedion lived alone in the house he'd been raised in. She couldn't leave him there alone now. It was how she found herself knocking on her uncle's apartment door, aware of Aedion's resentment towards Gavriel in the middle of the night.

She rang the doorbell twice, then slumped against the wall in exhaustion.

Aedion stood silently, staring behind her with a blank expression. She'd expected him to rage at her—her cousin detested asking favours from his father. He wanted nothing to do with the man who'd left his mother to raise him alone for years, and he'd made it clear. He didn't make so much as a sound of protest now.

The door opened. "Aelin, what are—is that blood? Aedion?" he gaped, eyes flicking between the two of them.

"Could we, ah, stay here, maybe?" Aelin asked, then amended: "Just Aedion, I mean. I can go crash on Dorian's couch, I just—I can't leave him alone—"

Gavriel held up a hand, shaking his head a little. "Don't be stupid, you can both stay here as long as you'd like." The shock was replaced with concern and he opened the door wider, ushering them inside. He offered them water, then fetched the first aid kit, movements fast and panicked.

"You're hurt," Gavriel observed, looking at her. Then he turned towards his son, "and you too."

Aedion said, "The blood isn't mine. Aelin—she needs help." His voice was thick, hoarse from lack of use. He shifted on the couch, looking more aware of his surroundings than before, without the usual displeasure in his voice.

"I'm fine," she snapped.

Gavriel cleaned her cut, and bandaged it, making her flinch on occassion. Once she was treated, he turned to his son.

Aelin was grateful he hadn't asked questions yet, letting the events settle in. Aedion returned to himself with each passing minute and with no more need to clamp down on nerves, she let tears flood down her cheeks. There was a dull ache in her head, and she was so exhausted, she didn't know when sleep claimed her.

...........

Aelin woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom, the lights dim and curtains pulled shut. Someone knocked softly at the door. "You awake yet, Ace?" a familiar, not unwelcome voice asked. Dorian.

She groaned, sitting up in the bed. Her heart skipped a beat when the events from last night came rushing in. "Aedion—where is he?"

"Here, ma'am," her cousin answered, leaning against the doorframe. Though he tried to smile, his eyes—eerily similar to her own—had a haunting look in them. She supressed a shiver. Red-rimmed, swollen eyes were lined with dark circles, cheeks sunken in, hair sticking up strangely, as if he'd been running a hand through them. But alive; he was alive and unhurt—

"You're fine," she breathed out.

His face softened. "I'm the one who should be asking that. How are you?" She made a face at the concern in his voice, making the cuts on her face throb worse than before.

"Hurts like a bitch," she said, then scrunched her nose up in distaste. "You look like shit." Her cut hurt more from talking, but as the dark mood lifted a little, she couldn't regret the expression. "Did you—Uncle Gavriel, he uh...?" She didn't miss the twitch of displeasure in her cousin's eyes, though if he felt she shouldn't have brought them here, he gave no indication of it.

"He's in school, we all skipped when Aedion told us—everyone's in the room." Dorian explained, then winked at her. "We thought it best to have you wake up to a pretty face."

Aelin rolled her eyes; despite herself, she couldn't help but grin back. "And where is this pretty face then? I don't see anyone except you and Aedion." Dorian pouted in a fashion that had her grinning harder. Even Aedion's lips twitched upwards a little, though he tried his best to resist. It was hard not to smile; she was safe, Aedion was safe—it was more than she could've hoped for. Before either cousin could retort though, animated voices travelled to the room.

"Everyone's waiting outside," Aedion gestured to the neatly folded clothes on her bedside. "Dorian's clothes. He's the closest to your size so it's all we could get for now."

"Everyone...?" she tried not to sound anxious but failed.

Aedion nodded. "Lorcan, Lysandra, the twins. I wasn't sure if you wanted Sam to know." Aelin shook her head vehemently, feeling guilty Sam wasn't who she wanted to see now. Disappointment surged inside her chest at the thought that Rowan hadn't come.

She wasn't even sure he knew, or if she wanted him to know.

Aedion nodded in understanding, then went to take his leave. "Be quick, you don't want to scare others."

Aelin's answering curse was everything that shouldn't be repeated in polite company. Chuckling, Aedion left the room to presumably give her some privacy and greet his girlfriend.

She raised an eyebrow at her best friend, who was still in his seat, looking very much amused. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"I need to change, so leave," she raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want a show, of course."

Dorian's eyes shown with mirth, the laughter barely contained. "Meh. Won't be anything I haven't seen before." The answering pillow hit him square in the face and Aelin congratulated herself on the perfect aim.

When Dorian still made no move to leave, she warned, "It'll be the slipper for you if you don't leave now."

It was only when he'd left, his cackling a faint sound from the living room that she changed into the loose, comfy sweatshirt and joggers, and thanked the gods for elastic waistbands as she left the room. All eyes turned on her when she reached the living room, conversation came to a halt and the atmosphere buzzed with awkward tension, everyone falling silent.

Before Aelin could decide she'd rather retreat to her room rather than enduring this, Fenrys observed, "You look ridiculous in that. Who even wears clothes like those?"

Dorian narrowed his eyes in displeasure. "Clearly, moon-moon, you need a lesson in fashion. Nothing is wrong with those clothes." He huffed, knowing Fenrys was aware those were his clothes he was talking about.

Fenrys was saved from finding a retort when Lorcan barked, "If either of you talk fashion more, I'll throw you lot out of the window myself."

Aelin instantly moved to his side, thankful that someone in this apartment wasn't being a complete clown until he turned his attention on her, brows furrowing immediately when his dark eyes flicked towards the cut on her cheek.

She huffed, prepared for the fuss that was about to be made on her account. She wasn't disappointed when Lorcan made her sit on the sofa, handing her a cup of coffee. The smell delighted her senses but she scowled at being treated like an invalid. Surely, a few cuts on her cheek hadn't made her incapable of standing on her own two feet? There was little use in arguing though, and she bore her friends' concern with as much grace as she could muster.

Lorcan surveyed her once more, jaw set and fists clenched. "Is it hurting? It must be hurting—we should probably get that checked out today. Conall is in the kitchen with your uncle, he's making soup and Lysandra brought chocolates—though I don't think that helps—"

"It does," Aelin said in a firm voice, fighting to hide the amusement from her tone. "Where are they then? My chocolates, I mean."

Lysandra dropped a box on the sofa beside her, then swooped in for a hug. The dark-haired girl held her in a tight embrace, unwilling to let go of her friend for a good while before she pulled back. "I'm so glad you're fine. I'd hate to be left with these morons."

Aelin grinned. "I would never," she promised, ignoring the whines of protest from behind her. She leaned over to grab the box but Lorcan was already there, handing it to her. "I'm still capable of picking up a box of chocolates! I'm not an invalid."

He conveniently ignored her statement, flopping down by her side. He looked as sullen as ever. "You should've called all of us. One of you should have. Why didn't you call?"

"I was capable of calling a cab," Aelin answered, trying to forget how scared she'd felt, like the cab driver would somehow drop them right back at Arobynn's and Aedion would get hurt and she won't be able to do anything about it—"And it was like, middle of the night! You were probably asleep! I didn't know who to call."

Lorcan scowled. "I don't care if I was in the middle of my own fucking wedding! If you'd called, I would've come."

"But now it's fine," she said with a bright grin, launching an assault on her chocolates. She steered the topic of conversation away from herself, and soon they were all cackling. "Aedion called you here?" She hadn't yet decided whether she wanted to hit her cousin or thank him for it.

"He did," Dorian confirmed, reaching a hand for the chocolates. She swatted his hand away. In the background of her head, a voice asked: Did Rowan know too? She clamped down on it hard.

Lorcan made a face but he didn't speak further, shifting closer to her. Aelin leaned into him with a satisfied smile until her best friend spoke, "What are you planning to do now?"

"Uhhhh, sleep some more?" Aelin asked.

Lorcan gave her a blank look. "I meant your living conditions. You're not an adult yet," his voice grew quieter still, "and you're not going back there." He held up a hand when I began to speak. "You've always said you can handle him, and I trusted you, but it's never been this bad before."

"We can't go to the police, he's got them in his pocket—" she started.

Dorian cut in. "We're not out of resources either, Ace. If you'd let me, I'll tell my parents, or you can crash with one of us until you're eighteen and legally inherit your parents' house and business," his voice was firm, unrelenting and serious—so unlike him, it shut her up. "But either way, you're not living with him anymore."

"We've gotten extra room in my house, you can live with me," Aedion declared. "I talked with Gavriel too—as your nearest living relative, he can claim your guardianship if you choose to file a report against Arobynn."

Lorcan squeezed his shoulder for comfort, and she was grateful for his quiet strength. "I'll need to think about it," she admitted, sighing.

And she did think about it for the next hour, while the overprotective bastards hovered over her. She was grateful when Lysandra drew Aedion away to the bedroom, trying not to think about what they were going to do in his father's bed. The rest of the group chatted merrily, ordered takeout, played video games and made stupid bets and stupider plans. It was Aelin's ideal day—spending time with people she loved so much. Then why did her thoughts revert to one person?

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tags:

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@fangirltrash74 // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @rowaelinforeverworld // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass // @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @morganofthewildfire // @aelinchocolatelover // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @hizqueen4life // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein // @jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @sanakapoor // @louisleblancdiggory // @abookishfreak // @maddymelv // @ireallyshouldsleeprn // @flowersinvegas

note: does anyone know if there's a limit to the amount of people that can be mentioned in a post? cause I couldn't, until I removed a few tags that weren't working, and then it worked.

this chapter is like, far from my usual standard for a good chapter but it's satisfactory enough, tho i think there are some inconsistencies in the plot, which if you see, please don't hesitate in pointing out. 💖💖💖

#throne of glass #sarah j maas #rowan x aelin #rowaelin fanfic #dancing in the dark #aelin-queen-of-terrasen #aelin galathynius #lorcan salvaterre #rowan whitethorn #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass fanfiction

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rue-king · 3 years

Text

Family Found, Family Taken

(AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32892439)

Masterlist, Next Part

Summary: Gavin is tired, so tired. He is tired of being the bad guy, but thats just who he is he's mean and unapproachable. He can't be replaced, he just can't, work is all he has left to tie him to this world. It is the only thing that proves he's not as terrible as he feels.

But when the fancy RK900 unit walks in, along with a terrible string of murders, Gavin is pushed backwards. He can't on this way anymore, but he doesn't think he is capable of change.

This is his last chance, he is Gavin's last chance.

Warnings: cursing

Chapter 1:

Gavin Reed is a mess. A walking tragedy. Rough on every edge and totally banged up. From the scar on his nose to the little marks on his knuckles.

If the scruffy appearance and constant 5 o’clock shadow doesn’t make it obvious then the darker than night eyebags and shitty attitude certainly does.

He looks rough, but he's not a bad guy, at least not internally. He's a man who feels too much and is easily hurt, but he would rather die than ask for help or express himself. The man has more baggage than an airport.

He’s bitter and cold, almost aloof in demeanor. A rabid dog with a muzzle on at all times, marked “dangerous don’t pet” only by fault of trusting too much.

A stray, left wondering all by his lonely self fulfilling prophecy of isolation.

A grade “A” mess.

He drags his sorry ass to the Detroit Police Station everyday and works himself to the bone because that's all he knows. It’s all he is able to do in order to tune out all the thoughts that he knows will drown him.

Not a team player in the slightest, but he's certainly one of the best detectives the DPD has seen in a long time. Stupidly efficient, his brain makes connections in ways that are unparalleled by his human peers. Too bad no one in the building likes him enough to let him know it.

Another consequence of his own actions, he is an asshole and he knows it. The only person he can call a friend is Tina Chen, but even then he feels as though she could do better. They all can. He is mean and cuts people off, unapproachable and snappy. Truthfully he’s surprised she's still around.

If it wasn’t for Fowler's firm hand he’d practically live in the building, it's not like he takes breaks anyway, but alas he has a shitty apartment with two demon babies to get back to anyway.

Bright and early on a Monday morning the man, the myth, the legend himself walks his groggy ass through the doors of the DPD. The caffeine withdrawal headache already encroaches on his brain and he sports a fresh set of bandages over his abused knuckles.

He keeps his head low and heads straight for the breakroom, aiming to get a cup of the worst coffee Detroit can offer. His reputation around the office has always been less than great, but ever since the android revolution his peers have been walking on eggshells around him.

He doesn’t blame them, it's not like he tried to hide his anti-android sentiment. He huffs quietly to himself, why would he care what those assholes think about him.

He prepares his shitty coffee and walks over to his shitty desk in the shitty bullpen. He’s dramatic like that. He doesn’t bother the anticipatory itch he feels deep in his chest that eggs him on to dive straight back into work. Like a craving, a workaholic.

Days are long and hard now that there has been mass losses in employment and crime skyrocketed. Reed just has to solve it all himself. Masochist.

He sits at his desk reviewing the last notes he took at the scene of his most recent case. Double homicide, suspected breaking and entering, but nothing was stolen.

He hears loud belly laughter come from the entrance of the bullpen, in comes Hank Anderson and his sidekick Conner.

Reed glances at the clock and snorts a bit.

Won’t you look at that, Hank Anderson is early for the first time in about a thousand years.

He shakes his head, and goes back to his notes. Normally he would throw out a rude remark or two, but he simply doesn’t have the energy today so he settles for an eye roll.

He is drop dead tired. Insomnia is a bitch and he hardly has an appetite anymore.

“Good morning Detective” Conner calls in a stupidly cheery tone.

“Fuck off” Gavin mutters back, his words lacking their usual bite. He just sounds defeated, deflated.

Conner hovers for a second longer in front of Gavin's desk. A second longer than usual, too long for Gavin’s liking. He moves his head up to call Conner out, but is met with nothing but air.

Whatever.

Gavin goes back to work, shuffling lightly under his desk. He is focused on nothing. Staring blankly at his own words in front of him, unable to comprehend what he is looking at. His mind is somewhere else, caught between nowhere and here.

He looks away quickly and puts his head in his hands.

Breathe in and out. Just focus, you idiot. Focus.

He rubs his eyes harder as the frustration moves like tides within his chest.

This is an improvement from Gavin Reed, if it were a few months ago he would've just slammed his hands on his desk and stalked off to go smoke. Not that anyone cares enough to know it of course.

He breathes in deep again and sets his mind to try one more time before he swears he’ll scream or something,

“Reed! My office now!” A deep yell calls out, breaking his second of peace. Fowler, of course.

He audibly groans. He hasn’t done anything wrong so why the hell would the captain want to see him.

“Ohhh, someones in trouble~” Tina Chen calls out, she’s barely walking into the area. She’s late, again Starbucks in her hand.

Not surprised.

“Bitch” he retorts, making his way toward Fowler's office. Tina laughs lightly and blows him a mocking kiss. Gavin just rolls his eyes.

Conner and Hank rise from their work stations to start after him.

Oh great, fan-fucking-tabulous. Reed huffs some more.

He opens Fowler's door with a hard swing, his patience slips away from him quickly.

The bad buddy cop flick duo follows behind him closely. Gavin elects to stay standing, way too anxious to sit and just accept whatever shit Fowler will be throwing at him.

Hank takes a seat, the other is already taken by Conner.

He does a double take, Conner is right next to him. Two Conners?

The not Conner turns a fraction.

“The fuck is this” Gavin questions and recieves a scathing look from Fowler.

Conner shuffles quietly next to him, the movement capturing his eye as it always does. Why does he look anxious, the fuck is wrong with him.

“Reed shut up and let me speak before you go butting in, '' Fowler dictates before continuing on, “this is RK900 and he will be assigned as your new partner.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I don’t do partners, you know this Fowler. What makes you think I need one, much less that tin can.” Reed is quick to anger, well at least he has some energy now.

Has he not been efficient enough on his own? Fowler can’t just give him some pity babysitter to fix him up like Conner did with Hank.

“You do what I tell you to do, Reed. He is top of the line and you, annoyingly enough, have the best solve rates as of now. So he goes to you.” Fowler is strong with his statements and doesn’t leave room for arguing. Which doesn’t stop Gavin.

“What the fuck! That should mean that I don't need the help of that asshole! Dump him on someone else, it doesn’t make any sense!”

“Well you better make it make sense or else you can hand your badge over, Detective.” Gavin clenches his jaw, his eyes lit with anger.

“You don’t get any special privileges Reed, especially with your disciplinary file.”

Gavin huffs again shaking his head. “Well that doesn’t explain why these two are here” he gestures to Hank and Conner wildly with his hands. He treads more lightly with his words, he’s an idiot and a dick, but he will not lose his job over something as stupid as this.

“I asked them here in case you reacted poorly to this decision, much like you did” Fowler draws.

Yeah, yeah he's disappointed, when is he not.

“Yeah, quite the show you put on there, Reed” Hank mocks.

Go back to playing house, Hank.

Reed fumes, grinding his teeth. He could be so much meaner, but he holds back. All the energy that the anger gave him rapidly left his body and he’s left with tired resentment. A cold emptiness that leaves him chilly and lacking the will to continue fighting back.

“Are we done here?” He asks in a low tone, running a hand through his already messy hair.

“Well yes-”

It doesn’t matter what came after that, Reed saw the green light to leave.

“He‘s not well, Lieutenant”

“Conner it’s…”

He walks faster, escaping the muffled voices.

He sits back at his desk and grabs for his coffee. Empty already, great. He goes to make another cup, desperately wanting to get his mind off of the shitstorm that just happened.

Every other partner Reed has ever had did not last, they just couldn’t tolerate his shitty attitude. Essentially he ran them all off, like nannys to a terrible toddler.

This one will be no different, android or not, no one can put up with him for long. At least that's how Reed reassures himself.

Before he knows it he’s back at his desk, hot coffee in his hand and an absurdly tall knock off Conner in his way.

“The fuck out of the way, tin can” Gavin grumbles not even looking up to meet RK900’s eyes.

He doesn’t move.

“Did you not fucking hear me? Are you deaf, asshole?”

He moves a fraction, and Gavin takes it with a slight shoulder check to get to his seat.

Stupid not-Conner and his ugly fucking white jacket. Was gray not terrible enough?

Another small huff to himself. He’s been doing that more and more today.

He goes back to his notes. 5 minutes has passed and not-Conner continues to stand unmoving in front of Gavin’s desk.

He tries to ignore it, but he can’t stand seeing the stark white shadow in his peripheral vision. Looming like a cage starting to close in.

“Can you not just fuckin stand there like a freak?” Gavin snaps, finally looking the RK unit in the face.

Maybe he isn’t like Connor. RK is sharp and cold with defined cheekbones and pale blue eyes. Connor is warm in demeanor and soft where RK seems impenetrable and well… intimidating.

“I am assuming that that empty desk is mine to use?”

Even his voice is different, this one is firm and lower in pitch compared to Connor’s.

Reed lags behind a beat, taking in all the information he can from what's before him. RKs suit is clean and pressed, untouched by the qualms of living. He looks shiny and brand new, but the disdain in his eyes says otherwise.

His posture is stiff and the collar on his neck more so, making RK look down with his eyes and a miniature head tilt. It makes him look condescending, physically and metaphorically looking down on him.

Gavin curls his lip, dislike drags within him. “If it gets you to fuck off than yeah, knock yourself out, tincan.”

An hour or two, or three, passes. Gavin manages to transfer his written reports onto his terminal. Using the work to blissfully tune out the presence to his right. RK900 staring blankly at the terminal with a flashing yellow light circling at his temple.

Gavin has so many questions swirling around his head, but has too big of a pride to ask them. Asking would mean being civil and he is NOT going to do that. Instead he’s elected to just simply pretend that his brand new partner doesn’t exist at all. That's all he can manage with the lack of energy he has at the moment.

Besides, it's not like his fancy new plastic counterpart is aching to talk to him anyway. He just sits there with his perfect posture in perfect silence. For once Gavin is thankful for his ability to just fall into his work, because it provides the perfect distraction.

(stay tuned for the next chapter!)

#detriot become human #gavin reed #reed900 #upgraded connor #god i love angst #angst #slow burn #enemies to lovers #i love these idiots #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer

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ralfmaximus · 3 years

Text

Demon Trap

I finished the incantation, the last of the words yanked from my throat as they often are. My Sight revealed them swirling away from me, forming a vortex within the containment circle surrounding me, simple chalk on basement concrete.

I stepped carefully out of the circle then, popped the cap off a bottled water and swallowed half in one long draught. By the time I wiped my chin, my visitor was already forming.

He appeared first as an orange ember, a firefly darting frantically within the containment. Finding no escape, he settled into the center, about eye-height, finally spreading himself out a bit: now he spanned a half-dozen hands, sheets of electric fire spinning and churning. The suggestion now of eyes, teeth, horns, reptile skin stretched between bird-bones.

The process was fascinating, always different, yet always similar. Their kind was a bit predictable, which was why I worked in my chosen field. A specialist, I felt comfortable with my knowledge; what to expect, what to do when things went wrong. And this time, everything seemed to be humming along perfectly.

The last thing to arrive was his voice: a howling impotent rage, scaling up into dog-hearing, now bombing out into floor shaking subsonics. This too would subside, I knew, as the thing realized how thoroughly it was caught. I finished my water as I waited.

Eventually, silence. I cleared my throat.

“Hello in there?”

A momentary flash of fire, the howling and shrieking renewed. Were I standing within the circle, I might’ve been impressed. Perhaps even incinerated.

“Oh, quite enough of that, thank you. We have business to discuss.”

The shrieking stopped. I could almost envision a cartoon thought-balloon filled with question-marks hovering over the circle.

“Talk to me. I command it.”

It took a few moments; I could imagine the thing sorting through possible responses, but if I knew my demons, this one wasn’t stupid. Hopefully it wouldn’t spend a lot of time trying to impress me.

“Business?”

I smiled. The words were well-modulated, pitched for human ears. It’d worked with us before. Excellent. Gender neutral, mmmaybe a touch more male than female… but clearly it understood some basic rules.

“Yes. I have a business proposition. And you would be well advised to pay attention, because really… what else can you do?”

Subsonics again; the stuff on my walls shook. “Release me.”

“No. Not gonna happen. Not until we come to an agreement, anyway.”

Flash of heat, even through the circle. An explosion of random noise, insectile chittering, rabid bears singing opera: “I WILL STRIP YOUR FLESH FROM YOUR BONES! I WILL FASHION YOUR SKIN INTO A CUNNING FALL JACKET! YOUR ORGANS WILL FILL ITS POCKETS! I WILL—“

“Oh, please. Check my stats. Who has the real power here? Go ahead… check it out. I’ll wait.”

It didn’t take long. The flames died back into silence as it murmured to itself for a few seconds.

Then, back into conversational mode: “Business?”

“Yes. That. Shall we get to it?”

A sigh. “Very well.”

“I find myself in need of a minion. A familiar, even, should you prove your worth. In exchange I will grant you a small boon of power, bound to my will of course, and a measure of freedom on this plane.”

“This is the human plane?”

“The very same.”

“Crap. I hate this place.”

This gave me pause. “Really. Something bad happen?”

“Oh… don’t get me started. It’s really a long boring story and I come off looking like an idiot, so no. Let’s not go there. Just know that I would burn your world to a cinder then piss on the fire. In a heartbeat.”

I nodded slowly. Good to know. I briefly considered probing for more, specifically when the demon had last visited, but knew that could rapidly spin out of control… their sense of time was different than ours. We could spend hours arguing the semantics of cause and effect, and we’d both end up irritated.

“Okay then. On the surface, does this business proposition interest you? Say the word and I’ll send you back. No harm, no foul.”

“A question?”

“You may ask.”

“Why… me?”

Wow, that was a good question. Cut right to the heart of things, really. Did he know I’d been scanning for demons of a particular… situation? Had my reputation preceded me? Or was this an honest curiosity? Or did he already know… and this was a test? My paranoia ratcheted up a notch; I flicked a mental switch and brought some backup defenses online.

“You glow, sorcerer. I detect new shielding. Perhaps your posture is a lie; perhaps you are weak and ripe for the plucking. Mayhap I should test these bounds a bit more, see how strong they really are, hmm?”

An inferno swelled to fill the circle, now a cylinder stretching from floor to ceiling. It was like standing next to a house fire. I cursed mentally; drew in additional force, twisted the talisman dangling from my wrist. I’d pay for it later, but I sensed things might rampage out of control were they not stopped, now.

I pointed; the circle flashed. The being within howled. I’d delivered a few-gigavolts of whoop-ass, wholly beyond what was necessary to subdue a demon of his kind… but I wanted there to be no repeat performances. Show them a strong hand, and you’ll never have to use it. Usually.

It worked. The firefly was back. Stunned, it wavered then regrew to its amorphous teeth/eyes/wings/reptile blob of light, hovering at eye level.

“That went well,” it muttered.

It possessed a sense of humor; a bonus. I could work with this. Suddenly I wanted to work with this… my mind was made up in that moment.

“Try it again, and I’ll napalm you back to the Big Bang. Got that?”

“Accorded. The question.”

“Yes, your question.” I decided to play along, might be useful for it to understand. And if it already knew, I was giving nothing away.

“I sought you specifically because I know superficially of your situation. You have fallen on hard times. Once powerful, once respected, now you are untouchable. I know not the specifics, nor do I care. But I do recognize talent when I see it. That is why I summoned you.”

It chuckled then. “I see. Release me.”

“Agree to be bound, and we’ll talk.”

“Very well,” it sighed. “I release myself.”

And suddenly things went very wrong. The containment circle winked off, drained of power as if it never was. The thing was suddenly in front of me, heat curling my eyebrows. A reptilian eye regarded mine, inches away, slitted iris opening with interest.

I sensed it then: fathomless power, carefully hidden. The thing was a master of stealth. I’d been tricked, thoroughly and completely. I swallowed, preparing myself to die.

It rumbled, its voice clearing. I closed my eyes.

“Human, I like you. I agree.”

The heat turned off then, as with a switch. I sensed its amusement as I opened my eyes, repressing my body’s urge to convulse and collapse. I took a deep breath, held it, released.

I kept to the script, mystified but willing to accept the gift. “So then, bind yourself and let us begin our new relationship.”

It chuckled again, but came across with the first three syllables of its name then. Which I’d already known, but that’s how contracts are signed. I locked them in and released yet another breath. Far more shakily than I would have liked. I suddenly needed to sit down.

A chair appeared beneath me. I sat. The thing howled with glee.

“See? Already, I serve. You have a faithful servant. Rejoice, human, for today is a good day for us both. And let me just say, it took you long enough.”

I shifted in the chair, trying to decide if I wanted to lay down instead. This was too much. “Come again?”

“Oh, too delicious! You sought me, when all this time, who sought whom? I’ve been pushing you for months, human. How do you suppose my… situation… was revealed to you? How?”

I racked my brains, trying to remember the exact moment when I selected him for my trap. I could not.

“You see, now. Yes. All is as intended.”

My bruised ego aside, I simply could not believe I’d been so thoroughly duped. Nevertheless… “You have me, I suppose. What now?”

“Oh, that is for you to decide. Master.”

This last was said with barely contained mirth, yet I sensed no ill will. Clearly it was enjoying yet another joke at my expense.

“Then you intend to honor the binding? I mean, it is a binding, isn’t it?”

“Most certainly. A reasonable device, though I have suggestions for next time. You could learn a lot by seeing things from this perspective; loopholes have always been the bane of human magic, you know. But yes, I am bound. You command. I wish it this way.”

“Um… why?”

“A question,” he mocked gently. “The human has a question. Very well: I shall answer. I lack motivation. True, I have power, and the will to use it… but am cursed with a lack of imagination or ambition. Perhaps I have always been so, perhaps I had such at one time, perhaps I am damaged… something has happened in the past few dozen centuries, I am uncertain. But no matter: it is how I am, and I acknowledge that freely. It took a lot of therapy to get to where I am now, by the way.”

Not sure if that last was a joke or not, and I didn’t want to risk insult by asking. I moved on.

“So,” I ventured, “we’re a team. I command, you follow, but only because you let me.”

“Well said. If I get bored I may napalm you back to the Big Bang, but I doubt you will bore me.” The glowing orange blob eased in closer, as if to whisper a secret: “As I said, I like you.”

I nodded then, slowly. Could be worse. Deep breath, and suddenly I felt better. Sat up a little straighter. Crossed my legs and leaned back, hands behind my head. Considered.

“We’ll need a physical form for you,” I mused.

“Select one. I’m not picky.”

I grinned, formed a thought, set it out for him to see.

His reaction was beautiful. “Surely you jest.”

“I always wanted a dog.”

He sighed. “Very well.”

A flash of light, the brief smell of burning hair. Smoke parted to reveal an irritated dachshund sitting on its haunches, snout pointed at me. But it was all good; I sensed his secret amusement.

“Well done,” I applauded. He took a little doggy bow.

The words ghosted into my head: “What is first on the agenda, Oh Wise and Beneficent Master?”

I stood, cracked my spine. “I’ll tell you upstairs.”

It was fun watching him take the steps one at a time.

#me #writing #demon #trap #demon trap

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onthepageoftears · 4 years

Text

A Humble Favor (Jaskier x Reader)// Witcher

A/N: This is another entry for @thewitcherbingo! Also, I’m mostly writing these (and my other imagines) as a gender-neutral reader :) Enjoy!

Summary: Jaskier asks you to attend a banquet with him, but there’s a catch.

Bingo Square Filled: Fake Marriage

Warnings: swearing!! slight angst??, fluffff, mentions of drinking

Word Count: 1,994

Please Don’t Plagiarize My Work!

Jaskier had asked you to do a lot of things. ‘Y/N, carry my Lute for a moment.’ ‘Y/N, see what Geralt is up to.’ ‘Y/N, tell me what rhymes with silver.’ ‘Y/N, fill my bath with water and add that special lavender you use.’

But this…this was too far.

“Are you fucking insane?” You could feel the veins pop from your skull, your face red from anger.

Jaskier held his hands up as if taming a rabid dog. “Now, calm down a moment—“

“You calm down Julian. You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I assure you, I do not kid.”

“Oh, really? Because pretending to be your spouse feels like a big joke to me.”

“Fiancé.”

“Fuck off.”

At this very opportune moment, Geralt happened to walk in the room. He was fresh from a relaxing bath, clad in his newly cleaned witcher gear — though now, he walked into quite the shit storm.

He shifted his golden eyes between you and Jaskier, a grunt of impatience settling on his lips. “What’s this about.”

You settled on responding with a harsh glare and a clenched jaw. Geralt’s presence dialed down your anger, mostly because you knew if you tried to lunge at Jaskier he would catch you in an instant. Still, the fumes seeped from your veins, bringing your blood to a near boil.

Jaskier cleared his throat. “I humbly asked Y/N to attend the banquet with me this evening.” You forced a laugh. Geralt slightly lifted his brows, waiting for Jaskier to finish his statement. He didn’t.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier dramatically sighed. “I need Y/N to pose as my fiancé. Happy?”

“Not even close.”

Geralt’s arm shot out as if to hold you back from attacking the bard. “And what’s in it for you?”

“Well, the pleasure of a friend’s company, is all.” He feigned a tight-lipped smile, then faltered under Geralt’s stare. “And the chance to woo some of the maids there.”

Geralt rolled his eyes and removed himself from the conversation. He sent you a look of understanding, as much as he could, and gave you the space to attack Jaskier if you wanted to.

Instead, you squinted at the bard, mulling over his stupidity. “Do you really think these maids you’re after will fool around with you if you have a fiancé?”

“Oh-ho-ho. It’ll only encourage them.” You stifled a laugh, making Jaskier scoff. “You doubt my romancing abilities?”

“How could I doubt something that doesn’t exist.” The words slipped through your gritted teeth, making Jaskier frown. You let out a dry laugh, “You do realize I have more important things to do than pose as the poor sap who might marry you. Like, I don’t know, working my own job?”

It was true. On any other given day, you might’ve said yes to posing as Jaskier’s fiancé, just for the hell of it. It would be a great story to tell at parties — if you had time for them. But Jaskier knew very well that recently you had been working your ass off at the local tavern — you didn’t dream of being a server, but it made enough coin to hold you over and have enough to save up. And saving up was essential for you to start your very own tailoring shop. It pissed you off that Jaskier didn’t even think of this, didn’t think of you. He was being selfish, like Geralt often said he was.

You retied your apron behind your back and stared the bard down like maybe your glare could burn holes in his skin. “You may be able to convince Geralt to attend your events, but I will have no part in it.” Your voice had a finality to it that made you seem more confident than you felt, but still, you stomped towards the door, hoping to not see his face for the rest of the night.

“I will pay you.” His voice reached your ear just as your hand touched the door handle. The bard ended his sentence with a sing-song voice, making your skin crawl. You didn’t mind Jaskier’s singing — in fact, sometimes you enjoyed it (though you’d never tell him that). What bothered you was that he knew he had you wrapped around his calloused, lute-playing finger.

You turned around. “How much?”

Jaskier’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint. “I just knew you’d come around.”

“I haven’t come around to shit.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “How. Much.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. “Twenty crowns.”

“Psh.” You rolled your eyes with a snort. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am most definitely serious.”

You squinted your eyes at him and walked further into the room. “How much are you making?”

Jaskier clenched his teeth. “Seven hundred—“

“You are making seven hundred crowns and you were offering twenty?”

“You are playing a small part in the night—“

“Small part my arse—“

“Geralt was my bodyguard and didn’t get paid anything—“

“But Geralt wasn’t hanging off of your arm like a piece of meat.” You shifted in your spot and lifted your chin. “I want four hundred crowns."

Jaskier’s mouth dropped open. “Fo-four hundred? That’s more than half!”

“So you can do math.” You pursed your lips and narrowed your eyes at him. “Three-fifty.”

Jaskier double-taked. Once he realized you were serious, he slammed his agape mouth closed and clenched his jaw. “One hundred.”

“Three-fifty.”

“One-fifty.”

“Three-fifty.”

“Fine!” Jaskier lifted his arms in surrender. “Two hundred. And—“ He held a hand out to stop you from complaining. “I will pay for your every alcoholic desire after the banquet.”

You quirked a brow. To be honest, you would have settled at a mere fifty crowns, but watching him sweat under pressure was too much fun. Plus, he’d be paying for your much-needed drinks after the shit-show that would undoubtedly be the banquet.

You gave Jaskier one firm nod and stuck out your hand. “Deal.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Jaskier clenched a hand to his chest and breathed for air he didn’t know he needed. When he reached to take your hand, instead of settling on a firm shake, he began pulling you towards his dresser. “We are already running past schedule, come on.”

After that, everything seemed to move a mile a minute. Jaskier handed you your outfit and sent you off to wash up and get ready. Soon, you were freshly bathed and dressed and met Jaskier just outside the tavern.

He hesitated before helping you into the carriage sent by the royal family; you would be lying if you said you weren’t nervous. You had never gone to an event like this or worn an outfit like the one you had on. Your nervousness grew in your stomach the closer you got to the castle and only worsened when Jaskier nudged you to exit the carriage.

It wasn’t like you were the only nervous one. Jaskier was tapping his fingers against anything and everything, almost as if he was practicing the songs he would play for the night. He was still tapping his fingers as the two of you were guided further into the castle by the guards. You let out a low sigh and took his nervously fidgeting hand in your own.

He leaned closer to you and whispered, “Way to play it up.” You rolled your eyes at his wink, but the feeling in your stomach didn’t disappear.

As you two walked into the banquet, Jaskier placed his arm around your waist. You were surprised by his forward action, but then again, you weren’t. He was a very touchy person — just not often towards you.

You awkwardly smiled at the guests who made eye contact, hoping you didn’t seem too out of place. Lucky for you, Jaskier seemed more out of place than you did. He didn’t seem to know anyone there, which made sense, because they were pretty much all from royalty. It made you feel a bit better, though you still cringed at the lack of interaction you two had.

You leaned into Jaskier to whisper. “Some crowd, huh?”

He chuckled. “Once they drink some, it’ll be more fun. Trust me.”

You decided to believe him.

On the way to the area of the banquet hall where Jaskier had to set up his instruments, a guest of the banquet walked past you two; he stopped after looking at Jaskier. “Excuse me, sir. Your doublet. Where did you get it?”

Jaskier perked up at the question. “Actually, my lovely fiancé made it.” He gestured to you with a proud smile.

You stuttered at the sudden attention but managed to curtsy.

“Excellent craftsmanship.”

Jaskier practically gushed. “Isn’t it?”

You gave Jaskier that doublet after his favorite was ruined on a trip with Geralt. In your nervousness during the arrival of the banquet, you hadn’t even realized that he wore it to such a prestigious event. Your stomach flipped with a different kind of feeling, but you ignored it as you helped Jaskier set everything up.

Throughout the night, you watched Jaskier perform for the guests. He was right; as soon as people started drinking, the mood of the room shifted and people were dancing in no time. You even had a few laughs yourself, especially when Jaskier would wink at you during certain songs. At one point your face hurt so much from smiling, and you were afraid you might need permanent surgery to put your face back to normal.

After the banquet had ended, the two of you decided to walk back to the tavern, as it wasn’t too far. Anyway, the night was perfect for a walk. You held your shoes in one hand and looked up at the sky, which was sprinkled with stars brighter than any other night.

Your eyes turned back to Jaskier, who was plucking strings on his lute. It was amazing that even after a whole night of performing, he still had the energy and desire to play some music. You supposed that was how you felt about certain things as well, but it was something you particularly noticed in the bard.

“It wasn’t that bad, the banquet.” You surprised him with your words, making him look up from the lute. His eyes were warm, his smile even warmer. You looked towards the road ahead. “Pretending to be your fiancé didn’t make me vomit like I thought it would.”

“But there was a slight gag, wasn’t there?” You smirked and caught the glint of playfulness in Jaskier’s eye just before he turned to get something from his pocket. “Almost forgot your payment.” He pulled out a pouch full of coin and held it out for your taking.

“Right. Thanks.” You frowned as he placed the pouch in your hand.“This feels like more than two hundred crowns."

“You need it more than I do.” You raised your brows at his statement, but he only laughed. “For your shop.”

Your eyebrows shot up even further. You were surprised he had listened when you gushed about your dreams one night a while back. It was crazy to think that just this evening you were cursing his name at the thought of him being selfish. Now, you shook your head with a smile, trying to urge the blush on your face to go away.

But that smile soon turned to a frown as a thought entered your mind. “You didn’t leave with anyone tonight.”

“I’m leaving with you, aren’t I?” In the darkness, he couldn’t see your growing blush. “Besides, there will be other banquets.”

You nodded, letting a long sigh escape your lips. It had been a long night, and your feet were killing you, but the tugging feeling in your gut made you clear your throat. You turned to Jaskier and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I believe you promised me a drink.”

#thewitcherbingo #jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #the witcher imagine #jaskier #the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt of rivia #witcher imagine #reader insert #joey batey #imagine #drabble #fic #witcher fic #writing #my writing #self insert imagine

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 16/?

Part 15

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

XVI

Gerry closes the door to Jon's office with a pleased smile, pushing his hair back into place.

"I must admit-" Tim says, immediately souring Gerry's mood. He's sitting behind a desk with his feet up on it, looking at him with a thoughtful frown. "I've known him for seven years, and I never thought I'd see the day he'd have a make out session in his office."

"Well, you never finish getting to know people. Did you need anything?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"Is Melanie going out with you today?" Tim asks, and Gerry scowls.

"How is that any of your business?"

Tim rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off the desk and climbing to his feet. "Apparently it's my business because Martin had to save your sorry ass from the hunters the other day, and now we have to have a buddy system, so thank you for that."

Oh. Oh, no.

It suddenly makes a lot of sense, why Jon pulled him back for a last, heavier kiss. Gerry feels like he's been had, and he somehow knows if he were to march back into the office to ask for an explanation, he would find an empty room.

"I don't need a babysitter, Stoker, and I definitely don't want you around meddling in my investigations." Gerry turns to head for the door, gritting his teeth when Tim comes to stand before him again. "Did Jon put you up to this? Because-"

"Don't be stupid." Tim snorts. "I couldn't care less about him-"

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Why don't you try selling that one to someone who didn't see you vaporize Manuela Domínguez?"

"-but Martin cares that you don't get killed, for some reason." Tim speaks louder to cover Gerry's words. "So you're going to have to suck it up, because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

Gerry crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Melanie's desk. "You have no idea how close I am to killing you every time you speak, Stoker."

"Why don't you try selling that to someone who doesn't know how whipped you are, Keay?" Tim's grin turns smug and he leans forward. "You can't touch me."

Gerry has to remind himself really quickly that decking him in the face wouldn't even bring the satisfaction of breaking something, and worse: it would make both Martin and Jon angry at him. It should be a relief, really, that Martin has a friend as dedicated to him as Tim.

It probably would be, if said friend wasn't this much of an asshole.

"Oh, they know you. They'll forgive me." Gerry narrows his eyes. "I just need to find a good excuse."

"So! Where are we going today, pal?"

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

The door to the office opens silently, and Jon has a spare moment to be impressed at Daisy’s handiwork again.

The room is both empty and silent, and Jon feels a pang of pain when he realizes Martin isn't... Gerry has been by the flat a couple times -much to Tim’s annoyance-, but there’s no sign of him other than the thick fog that seems to linger in any space Martin has claimed as his own.

“Martin?” he calls out softly; the fog swirls in tantalizing spirals, disturbed both by the open door and his passage through it and gathered more thickly around the imposing mahogany desk. “A- are you here?”

There is no answer; the dense fog drifts away from the desk like pushed by an unseen wind. Jon sighs. He could- he could call on the Eye. Nothing should be hidden from him, here at his place of power. He could See Martin, no matter how tight a grasp the Lonely has on him.

“But you don’t want me to See you, do you?” he mutters, more to himself than to the flaky idea of Martin’s presence. “This is- It wouldn’t be fair to intervene just because I miss you. I- I trust you’ll let me know if you need me.”

He turns away then, because Martin’s memory bites at his core like a rabid dog.

It feels like he last saw him was an eternity ago, instead of just two months or so. It has occurred to Jon before that they don’t work on the same time as the rest of the world anymore. Theirs is a time measured not in minutes, but in losses.

“Enough. I- that’s enough.” A tape recorder clicks to life somewhere in the office, and Jon smiles, grateful. “Yes, thank you. Just… just a slip.”

He feels like a magnet that is facing the wrong pole, as he begins moving across the office.

Something in his chest pulls at him when he takes a step in a direction it doesn’t like; the desk calls at him, no doubt full of statements and tapes the Eye considers inoffensive. When he moves towards the stationary cabinet by the corner of the room, it feels like his feet weigh a ton each, like the floor has become sticky and viscous and unwilling to let him go. Jon closes his eyes; maybe it’ll help if he doesn’t see where he’s going?

When he opens them again he’s standing at the threshold, facing the corridor.

“Harder than I thought…” Jon mutters under his breath, before turning to the office. At least he knows he’s on the right track now.

‘What are you looking for?’

“What am I looking for?” Jon mutters to himself, before he turns towards the cabinet again. “It’s there, isn’t it? The thing you don’t want me to see.”

‘There’s nothing in there. Just old papers, and some tapes.’

Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I need.” Or that’s what the Eye doesn’t want him to have, and if Gerry’s right, that’s exactly what he should be trying to get.

It feels like a year before Jon takes the last of the ten steps that separate the door from the cabinet, and he pulls the doors open like they weigh a ton each. They slide noiselessly on their hinges, revealing the filing boxes full of yellowed paper, and a single cardboard box bull of shiny black tapes.

Jon’s hand hovers over them for an eternity before he shoves it in with a clatter of plastic against plastic. It comes back out with a tape held tightly in its grip, and for a moment Jon thinks of fishing birds, diving in from hundreds of feet in the air to catch unsuspecting prey.

’Is that what you wanted?’

“Yes. This- this is the one I wanted. The one I need.” Jon feels a surge of dark triumph looking at the unassuming tape. Whatever could be so important that the Watcher is so desperate to keep from-

The tape slips from Jon’s left hand, but his right comes to catch it awkwardly; his burned fingers twitching and spasming as his whole hand cramps in pain, and for a moment Jon is afraid he’s going to drop it in the pile again and lose it forever.

The doors to the cabinet swing closed with a slam.

Jon jumps back a little, giving the room another once-over. It looks just as empty as before, swirling fog and unfinished paperwork on the desk.

“...Martin?” he asks again, a little more hopeful this time. Maybe the office was never empty, maybe… He takes a step towards the desk. Is he imagining the scent of tea, the sound of rustling footsteps echoing his own? “Martin, are you here?”

’You need to leave, Jon.’

He does, doesn’t he? His hands want to let go of the tape, to chuck it out the window and hope a car runs over it and turns it into a million pieces. Whatever it contains, it’s dangerous, and he needs to hear it. The faster he does it, the better.

Before he closes the door behind himself, he gives the desk another look. He could swear there’s a figure profiled in the fog, but then again his wistful thinking has gotten the best of him before.

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

"You must be Martin then," says a clearly amused voice as he closes the door to the office, without locking it, because apparently that's as unnecessary as it is useless. "I must say, Peter definitely wasn't exaggerating."

Martin heaves a long-suffering sigh. He shouldn't have come today. The thought that Tim or Gerry would look for him at the flat was really the only thing that kept him from staying there.

Jon's visit last morning left him shaken, and he's been trying to call the Lonely back ever since without great results to speak of. It's a bit impressive how loving can complicate things so much, even when Martin is only faintly aware of what loving means anymore. A little like watching trees shake under a stiff breeze, but not feeling anything against his skin.

"Well, there's no need for that." The man chuckles when Martin finally lifts his gaze to him. He's old, is the first thing Martin thinks. Wrinkled and either extremely short or hunched over by age, the only thing suggestive of life is the glint of mischief in his sky-blue eyes. "I'm merely visiting, I'll let you go back to trying to drown in your own misery in just a minute, see?"

"Who are you again?" Martin arches an eyebrow. Manners are an effort he's not willing to make right now.

"Ah, of course. I forgot, my apologies." The man extends a small, wrinkly hand that Martin looks at pointedly for a few moments, before it's retracted. "Should've known, I suppose. Simon Fairchild, I trust you've heard of me?"

Martin has, a lot. Perhaps in the past the name would've been enough to scare him. Now he just stares at him warily, and feels the fog curl around him almost protectively.

"What are you doing here?" Martin asks. "I told Peter I didn't need any more convincing. I believe him."

"Do you?" Simon's eyes spark with something that reminds Martin of years ago, when Sasha -not Sasha, never Sasha, probably- teased him about a crush over the rim of a cup of coffee.

"Does it matter?"

"I rather think that's up to you, don't you?" Simon leans against the wall across from him, tapping his cane against his thigh. His entire posture is like a tightly coiled spring, ready to bounce into action at any moment with an energy disproportionate to his age. "But no. I was brought in as an impartial judge, so to speak. Wagers can get messy, between those two."

Martin sighs again, feeling the start of a migraine blossoming behind his eyes and yearning for the cool, soft embrace of the fog. "Listen, I have no idea what you're talking about. Please just say your piece and go."

"Hmmm I suppose that was it, if you look at it purely in terms of what Peter asked. You're well and truly taken, aren't you?" The man's fingers tap impatiently against the length of the polished cane. "Humor an old man, if you will. Since you're apparently convinced of Peter's little theory, what do you make of it?"

"I didn't take you for someone who'd care." Martin thinks back at the paperwork he's been completely useless at finishing ever since Jon stumbled in yesterday, and he's suddenly struck by the futility of it. Will anyone even mind if he doesn't finish it? If he fades away and leaves behind only the slight scent of humidity and salt on the half filled forms?

"Oh, I don't. Not really." Simon grins when Martin looks up at him again. "But it makes for good conversation, and I find that corralling you lonely folk into idle chat is very amusing."

"Hm. What do you want to hear, then?" Martin shrugs. "There is another fear, and it's apparently bigger and meaner than the ones we already have, because that's just what we need it seems."

"That just about covers it."

"I guess my only question is... why is Peter the only one that seems interested in stopping it?" Martin scowls. The question has been fluttering around in his mind for a while now, a remnant of his connection to the Eye probably. "I get that Elias doesn't believe him, but you apparently do. Why don't you care?"

"I'm afraid I don't really care for anything at all, lad, not really." Simon shrugs with an unapologetic smile. "Nothing, no one really matters in the end, does it? We're merely... pieces. Insignificant in the face of the great, grand everything."

"That's a very lonely way of thinking."

"The overlap again, I suppose. Our patrons aren't really that different, don't you think Martin?"

"My question stands. If the Lonely wants to stop this new fear-"

"You're presuming an awful lot there." Simon gives him a knowing grin."I hardly think the Lonely wants to stop anything. This is all Peter's endeavor. And yours, of course."

"Mine." Martin sighs.

"Don't think the irony's lost on me, by the way. Two followers of the Forsaken, trying to save the world? You can't write a joke like that."

Martin arches an eyebrow. "What's the punchline?"

"Why, that no matter how much your entire existence is based around not caring, you very much do, it seems."

Martin rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "I used to." And he did, didn't he? Simon is not entirely wrong, it's a dark, bitter joke that Martin chose to sacrifice his humanity out of love. Is he still doing this for that reason, or is he just going along with it now because there's really nothing else to do anymore? With the fog wrapped so tightly around him that he can't see further than a step ahead, is there even a path to deviate from anymore?

"Martin?" Gerry's voice washes over him like a pail of cold water, and Martin flinches. The man is frozen at the end of the corridor, no doubt on his way to the office to try and wrest him out of the Forsaken again. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion as they jump from him to Simon, and Martin tenses a bit more. "Everything alright?"

"And you must be Peter's little headache." Simon's face lights up in delight.

"Simon Fairchild." Gerry doesn't really ask, stepping up to the two of them with steady, confident footsteps. Martin remembers quite abruptly that he too is a creature of the Eye, and this is very much his home turf. "What are you here for?"

"You're not the slightest bit intimidated, are you?" Simon chuckles. Martin's ears pop, and he focuses on Gerry's hand squeezing his arm to ignore the sudden nausea. "I can see why Peter is so annoyed with you."

"I'm flattered." Gerry says dryly. "Need me to show you the way out? I'm sure Martin needs to get back to work."

"Hm… I was planning on just leaving, but I suppose it's always good to stockpile on favors." Simon's eyes glint mischievously again as he pushes off the wall. It's sudden reminder that he's not merely a kooky old man having fun at Martin's expense.

"I'm sure Simon can find the exit by himself, actually." Martin says firmly, taking a step forward. Whatever is Gery thinking anyways, squaring up to Simon Fairchild himself? He has to have heard of him, he has to know how insanely dangerous he is. "And I think we're done with our chat, too."

Simon being on Peter's side probably means he will not hurt Martin, but he somehow doubts Gerry will be granted the same courtesy.

"See what I mean?" Simon chuckles. "Can't write a joke like that."

Martin rolls his eyes, but at least the man is focused on him. He takes another step to position himself firmly between the two of them. "You've seen whatever it was Peter wanted you to see, haven't you?"

"And a bit more too. Just a delightful conversation, if I do say so myself." The tip of the cane taps against the polished hardwood floors, one, two, three. "Hope to have another one soon. Have a nice evening, Martin."

He walks away then without sparing them another look, with the familiarity of one who's traversed these corridors countless times.

"Don't forget to close the window." Gerry says in a low grunt, and Martin rounds on him.

"Shut up." Martin snaps. "What were you thinking?"

Gerry arches a pierced eyebrow, his eyes unimpressed. "Unbelievably stupid, huh? Just up and having a chat with an avatar of the Vast. Can't think why anyone would-"

"Oh, cut it." Martin rolls his eyes. "What do you want?"

It takes a moment, but Gerry seems to deflate. "I wanted to check on you. Maybe ask you to call Tim off."

"Yes, because this really convinced me you don't need someone to keep you out of trouble."

"Implying Tim is not trouble." Gerry snorts. His lips remain curled in something that can't quite be called a smile, but almost the suggestion of one. "You're looking a bit more like yourself."

"...I guess I am." Martin sighs; his hands look a bit less blurred, and he guesses the rest of him does too. "That's not necessarily a good thing."

"It is in my books." Gerry shrugs. "Do you- should I leave?"

Martin arches an eyebrow. "Are you really asking for my opinion on the matter?"

Gerry's smile comes in full now, and it's blinding. It's easy to see why Jon fell in love with him; they deserve each other.

"I had to at least pretend, didn't I?"

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

"Is that the same tape you've been staring at since yesterday?" Helen asks, her voice echoing curiously from somewhere in Jon's desk.

His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pulls the drawer open to see Helen's face peeking out from the bottom-turned-door. "Have you been watching me?"

Helen gives him a sharp smile, all fractured, amused angles. "Isn't that what one does here?"

"I suppose." Jon nods simply. There is not much that can be done to stop Helen from popping in wherever she wants to, really. One just has to deal with her; at least she's noticeably less prone to stabbing than her predecessor.

"Well, why haven't you listened to it?"

"Someone doesn't want me to, I think."

"Which one?" Helen asks, and Jon gives it a moment's thought.

He doesn't not want to listen to the tape, which probably takes the Mother of Puppets off the equation. Instead, it feels like every particle in his body -a body that he's very aware was kept from death by the Beholding- is recoiling at the idea of pressing that button. Perhaps it would be easier, Jon thinks, if he hadn't allowed himself to change this far.

"The Eye, I think. Whatever's in there, it doesn't particularly want me to know."

"I thought the tapes were yours." Helen hums thoughtfully; it's several frequencies and rhythms at the same time, and Jon feels the beginnings of a headache start to pound at his temples.

"They are," Jon says. 'But I am the Eye's,' he doesn't add. It's not something he wants to declare. Not something he wants to call. His patron already has much too tight a grip on him without him declaring allegiance.

"Hm. Well, you only had to ask, dear." Helen grins.

A long fingered hand climbs its way out of the drawer like a flesh-colored spider, and Jon can't help but to snort in amusement. This is probably the only thing the entities could never plan ahead for.

"Thank you, Helen," he says as a too-sharp finger presses down on the play button, before the hand retreats back into the drawer.

"My pleasure." Helen's laughter echoes around the inside of the drawer as it slides shut on its own.

'Right. No use putting it off further.' Gertrude's voice is dry and businesslike as usual, and something in Jon immediately screams for him to throw himself against the tape, stop it.

This is the traitor, who never called herself the Archivist but used their powers to her own gain. The one that sought knowledge not to add to the Archives but to destroy the delicate balance of the entities, to sow war and destruction under the banner of the Eye in hopes of painting a target at its core. This is the one that hurt his Gerry, left him behind like a broken toy, bound into painful non-existence. This is the Enemy, turn it off!

Jon doesn't. Instead, he focuses on his predecessor's words to fend off the Eye's insidious whispers.

'And so Eric Delano ended.'

Oh.

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

Click.

"Oh. Hi." Martin lifts the stack of papers to reveal the tape recorder waiting underneath. "You know? I've always wanted to catch one of you on the move. I put those papers there ten minutes ago and you weren't under them." He taps the tape recorder like one would boop a cat's nose, and the device clicks contentedly.

It's been... an odd week. Between Jon's visit, having to actually speak to Tim to convince him of keeping an eye on Gerry, and then Gerry himself coming to try and pick a fight with Simon, he's feeling like he's standing with a foot on each side of the line.

The Lonely still has its hooks in him, enough so that Martin wants it back, but not enough that he can actually walk in and out of it like he did when the Hunters were threatening Gerry.

"Is that what you're here for? Do you want me to talk about my state?" he asks the recorder. "That's really the only thing I've got now. No new statements, no-"

A suspicion starts taking shape in his mind, and he narrows his eyes. "Peter? Are you-" The door to the office flies open, and Martin jumps back and to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. "Who-?!"

"Martin?" Jon all but trips his way to the desk, and Martin takes him in with a concerned look. His face looks ashen, his lips almost white; his hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it, and his hands themselves are shaking. His eyes are wide and frantic, halfway through going back to his natural color and swimming with something as he looks up at Martin. "I- it's great you're here, I-"

"If you're going to break into my office on the regular, I preferred the other way." Martin snaps; his heart's still racing, and he can feel the Lonely trying to pull him back.

"The other- oh. So you were here. I- I thought I heard your voice, I- I followed it instead of the Eye."

"Jon-"

"Right. Right, I- sorry for startling you. It wasn't my intention." He looks a bit lost now, like the wind has been taken from under his sails, like he hadn't planned as far as finding him here. His gaze has always held weight, but as his eyes run over his face Martin feels like he's standing under a spotlight. "I- I've missed you."

Martin winces, the three words imbued with a meaning he doesn't know how to process.

"Jon-"

His eyes burn on Martin's skin. Is this how his victims feel, or is the fear of being wanted different from the fear of being known?

Jon reaches a still shaky hand towards him. "I'm- I know what you said, I- I trust you. I know you know what you're doing and Martin, you-"

"Jon, what do you want?" This way is easier. It hurts, but he has to send him away. For his own good; for everyone's.

His hand drops, but Jon's eyes are still glued to his face like Jon's afraid if he stops looking for a single second, Martin will fade away.

"I think I found a way for us to leave the Institute."

"...What?" is all Martin can force out, his brain screeching to a halt. "Jon, what-"

"Gerry's father, he- he quit the Institute Martin. We could do it too." Jon sidesteps the desk, unsteady on his feet, just unsteady in general. Martin's mind is still trying to process the words.

"I- Gerry's father used to work here?"

"Martin, you're not listening!" Jon's hands clamp around his wrists, and Martin's mouth clips shut so fast he nearly bites his tongue off. "We could- we could leave."

"But- Jon, how?" The Beholding is not like the Lonely, you can't keep it at bay by being around other people, if anything that makes it worse. There will always be fear and suffering around, and as long as you can see it-

Oh. Oh, shit.

"...You're joking," Martin breathes out. It's the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Jon would be suggesting-

"It's... I realize it's pretty drastic, but-"

"It is! Have you- did you tell the others or-"

"Uhm... n- not really." Jon's grip falters, like the breath has been punched out of him. "You're the first."

"I'm- why?" Martin asks. Perhaps the fact that he thinks he knows the answer is the scariest thing of them all.

"I thought-" just like that, Jon's hands drop from his wrists. "We could leave here, Martin."

"I- this is too much, where- Gerry, where is he?" Martin stutters out. He'll know if this is real, if it would work. He's been in this world for far longer than any of them and-

"He's by St. Paul's, with Melanie" Jon responds almost immediately, and even just the thought of Gerry seems to be enough to ground him a little. "They haven't found the Corruption book yet. They're- they're coming back now, but they're thinking of stopping for food."

"Stopping for- Jon he doesn't know?!" Martin runs a hand through his hair. All the fog is gone from the room, and dear lord, how he misses it. "Jon, what were you thinking?! Gouge your eyes out and just leave him to find you?"

"I haven't- he wasn't here," Jon mutters, averting his gaze. "Martin, it doesn't- Gerry's not tied to the Institute, he's tied to me-"

"Yes, by the Eye!" Martin snaps. "What, you think it's going to let you keep him after you do this?!"

"I-"

"A-and then what? Is he just- what is he going to do? Just... take care of two blind men for the rest of his life? That isn't fair, not without asking him!"

"What is the alternative, then?" Jon cuts in, and when Martin finally looks down at him, he looks positively devastated, the eyes of a drowning man that sees a ship take the wrong turn. "What are we going to do, Martin?"

"... Don't do this, Jon," Martin sighs, and Jon flinches back like he's been slapped. "I can't- don't make it my choice. I can't choose for- for you, for him."

"Martin-"

"Could you even survive at this point? Because- because if you die, he dies too. Have you thought about it?"

And what if he did? What if Jon did think about it, and he decided he'd rather be free, even if it meant not living? If everything Martin has done is for nothing, because saving the world has absolutely no meaning if Jon's not in it? If-

"Martin?" Jon's voice has a broken quality to it when it reaches him, and Martin opens his eyes -when did he close them?- to find that oh, the fog is back. "Martin, don't- please don't go."

"Please leave, Jon."

"I- What?"

Yes. This... this feels better. Even the heartbreak is numbed. What does it matter if Jon leaves him behind, if he's always been alone? If he wants to be?

"Peter is bound to come back soon, Jon. I'd much rather he doesn't find you here." Martin exhales, and mist breezes past his lips.

"I don't care. Martin, please- come and talk to Gerry with me. We can- we'll figure something out, we will."

"You made me a promise, Jon." Martin looks towards the door. "You said you trusted me."

"A- and I do! You know that, but Martin, I- we could go. Together, please-"

"I don't think it's something I want anymore." Martin shrugs. "And you need to respect that. I thought you'd moved on with him, I thought you'd leave me alone."

"Is- I don't believe it. I can't believe that's what you want." Jon's voice is soft like the caress of the fog on Martin's skin. This is it. This is- he could make him leave. Maybe forever, and if this crazy self-mutilation plan of his is right, maybe, just maybe, he will be safe.

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

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

Jon is antsy.

It would be obvious even if Gerry couldn’t taste the anxiety in the quiet 'Thank you' that Jon gives after he helps him out of his coat. They usually talk on the way home, but this evening went by with Gerry narrating his and Melanie's hunt for the Corruption book to a mostly silent Jon.

It's... it's alright, he decides as he goes into the bathroom for a shower. Jon promised not to lie to him; if it's something he needs to know, then he trusts he will tell him. He's pretty much forgotten about it by the time he comes out in a cloud of steam, his hair still pinned up on a loose bun to keep it out of the way and wearing a loose t-shirt comfortable enough to sleep in.

Still, his stomach falls to the ground when a pair of arms come to wrap around his middle as he stands before the kitchen counter, brewing himself a cup of coffee.

"I'm here," Gerry says before Jon can even voice a question, because that's what matters. Anything else they can fix together. "What's bothering you? Did- is everything alright with Martin?"

Jon's forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades, and Gerry lays a hand over Jon's tangled fingers on his stomach.

"Nothing is alright with Martin. But this- I- this is not about him."

"Then?" Gerry asks, even though he's got pretty clear feeling of who it is about. Jon shifts behind him to reach up and press a kiss on the back of his neck. "Jon-"

"I stole a tape from the Institute."

Gerry scowls. "I hardly think you can steal something that's yours, Jon."

"I'm- this one is not mine." Jon's arms tighten around him, and Gerry runs soothing circles with his thumb over the burn-smooth knuckles. "I- I think you should listen to it."

"Is it about me?" Is it about someone he couldn't save?

Jon steps back, and waits until Gerry's turned to face him to tentatively brush a hand against his.

"It's- it's a Gertrude tape." Oh. Well, those are never easy. Gertrude is still a can of worms Gerry doesn't dare look too deeply into, she- "She's calling your father from the book."

Gerry freezes.

The words echo around in his mind as he tries to connect them in a way he can process, in a way that he can deal with. How come his chest feels so heavy when there's not a heart in there?

"I'm- s- so he was in there after all," he says. His voice sounds strained, and he clears his throat, his gaze stubbornly fixed on Jon's collarbone. "I always wondered."

Jon says nothing, simply looks over to the little breakfast table tucked in against a corner. A single tape recorder waits there, like a miniature coffin containing the only remains of a man he never knew.

"How did you find it?" Gerry asks, and fuck, his voice is hoarse again. "I- did it come to you?"

"The- I went into Martin's office yesterday after you left. It- I was looking for things the Eye didn't want me to see." Jon's free hand comes to rest at Gerry's hip, and Gerry can feel his gaze on him, trying to catch his eye. "You don't have to listen to it if you don't- I can tell you what he-"

"No," Gerry blurts out so suddenly it startles even himself. "I'm- I'll do it. "

"Would- I can leave if you want me to. I'll wait at the living room, or- please look at me?" Jon's voice sounds thin, almost begging, and Gerry shuts his eyes for a second just to get his bearings, before opening them again.

"I'll- stay. Please."

Jon nods once, firmly. Gerry can't help but to marvel at the thought that all he needed to do was ask for what he wanted for Jon to do it. That Jon won't think he's weak for it.

The tape recorder still looks deceptively harmless when they come to sit at the table. Gerry lifts a hand to it, and is quietly surprised at how steady it is; is all the chaos confined only to his head?

"I'm here," Jon whispers by his side when he hesitates over the button. Gerry nods. It's- that's all that matters.

Click.

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

His father sounds like him, is all Gerry can think for the first few minutes.

Not- not exactly like him of course, but enough that if you heard them talk closely after the one another, you'd know they were related. There's a similar cadence to their words, a rhythm in the way they start their sentences, and- Jon's hand wraps around his again, and Gerry abruptly remembers to pay attention to the actual words being said.

'You should've seen what she did to my body afterwards.'

Ah.

It's... he's known she killed him for a long time, but the confirmation still hurts a little. Would his life have been any different if he'd found the page himself? Maybe a little less lonely.

'So why did she give me to you?'

'I- I don't know. She seemed to think it was a gift.'

Gerry doesn't think he ever heard Gertrude sound so dubious, so lost. Not the woman that strolled into Pinhole Books and single-handedly got rid of his mother, the one who took him around the globe with her, hunting avatars, stoping rituals.

He misses her, he thinks with a full sort of ache in his chest. What is it that Eric -his father- just said? Aware of the heartbreak, but not really feeling it.

'So? What did they not want me to know?' Gertrude asks in the tape, and Gerry's lips curl into a bitter smirk. Of course she wouldn't like to be kept in the dark. It's poetic, really.

'I quit.'

Everything in Gerry's mind comes to a screeching halt at those words. It's- you can't quit the Institute, he Knows that. The Beholding has its chosen tied to its place of power more tightly than any other entity.

But... but then why was the Eye so determined to not let Jon find this tape? If- if there's a way to get him out, to get Melanie and Martin out-

'I want you to find my son. If Mary is- if she's gone, or worse, I want you to make sure he's alright.'

...Oh.

"Turn it- turn it off," he blurts just as Gertrude concedes that he might be useful. "Jon-"

"Ger- are you alright?" The tape clicks to a sudden stop, and Gerry realizes he's closed his eyes only when he has to open them again to look at Jon. "I'm-"

"Gertrude knew." The words weigh like two lead blocks placed over his chest. He takes as deep a breath as he can, though it comes in shaky as he pushes his chair away from the table and leans on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "All that time- she knew what happened to him. And she never told me."

What else is new? She moved him across a board she never allowed him to see. You're not supposed to ask questions, Gerard, you don't want to lean more into the Beholding than you already are, do you?

"Gerry, I'm-" Jon chair screeches against the floor when he stands from it to crouch before him, his face framed by the long black curtains of Gerry's hair. His hands stop a few inches short of reaching him; Jon hasn't hesitated to touch him for a while now, but teetering on the edge of a breakdown would do it, Gerry guesses. "Gertrude-"

"Don't. Please don't talk about her," Gerry interrupts, because he's not sure if Jon's words will be attacking or excusing Gertrude, and he can't for the life of him work out which he'd rather hear less.

"I won't, I'm- sorry." Jon's hands finally come to rest at his knees and he stays there immobile, just staring up at him like Gerry's all that's ever existed. He gets the odd, dispassionate thought that not many beings have been looked at this intensely by an Archivist and felt reassured instead of terrified. "I'm- I'm here."

"She never- I knew she'd known my father. I found a photograph of her old team, with Michael and Emma and h- but she never-" Gerry tries for another deep breath, but it feels like no air is actually going into his lungs, and he shoots to his feet so abruptly Jon almost topples back. "She was the last person to see him. She- she went to find me because he asked her to."

It's infuriating, to feel gratitude towards a man he never knew. To grieve a voice in a tape without the slightest hint of what Eric- what his father was really like.

He's aware he's been pacing the room only when he stops, his back thumping harshly against the wall because at least physical pain is something he knows how to deal with. Jon comes to sit by his side when he slides down to the floor, like that day at the Institute so long ago when Jon got marked by the Flesh.

"He loved her." Gerry's voice is heavy and slow, like a drunk man trying to sort out through the hazy memories of past nights. "Even- she did all those things to him, and he still loved my mother."

"Did- did you notice?" Jon's voice is just a weak murmur, no Archivist here, just a man that cares for him, hard as it may be to believe.

"What?" Gerry darts a sideways look at him, tired. Jon's hands are stretched the slightest bit towards him, like he wants to touch him but doesn't dare to; his face is a mask of empathy, as sad for him as Gerry has never seen him look for himself.

"He- Eric... your father called you Gerry." Jon's lips curl into a small, careful smile, and Gerry breaks.

Surely he's too old an adult to crumble down in tears for the ghost of a man he never knew, but Jon clumsily reaches to wrap his arms around him, and Gerry thinks that maybe, just maybe he can be weak for once, in this hug that feels like home.

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

"We don't- you don't have to listen to the rest of it, if you don't want to." Jon's voice is almost too quiet, like he's afraid to break the silence they've fallen into.

Gerry looks up at him from where he's resting his head on Jon's lap; the kitchen floor is unforgiving on his back and shoulders, but the slight discomfort helps in keeping him grounded. "Is it true?"

"Hm?" Jon pushes a lock of hair away from his face, and Gerry leans his cheek into his palm.

"Is there a way to quit?" Gerry asks. The shock of piercing, migraine-like pain that strikes his mind is enough of an answer.

"I- apparently. It's not- I don't know if- I might be too far gone."

"What do you have to do?" It's on the tape, he knows, but he can't- maybe one day he'll be able to listen to the whole thing, but for now all he can think of is this pained ghost that only wanted to make sure his son was alright.

Jon exhales slowly through his teeth, before bringing his free hand up to his face and making a plucking motion with index and thumb just an inch from his eye.

"Oh." It makes sense, Gerry guesses. No eyes to behold with, problem solved. "Will you do it?"

"I'm- I can't leave Martin there." Jon sighs again, a bit more defeated this time. "I'm sorry, just-'

"I get it." Gerry shrugs, tangling his fingers with Jon's over his cheek. It's no good. Either all three get out, or no one does. "is that what happened then? He said no?"

Jon nods once, slowly. "I think it was too much for him, in his state. He- he was worried about you, though."

Huh. That's- logically, Gerry knows Martin has worried about him before. It's been twice now that Martin steps between him and an avatar with bad intentions. Still, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Martin cares not only when in the heat of the moment.

"About me?" he asks, because it's a bit easier than to make heads or tails of everything he's feeling right now. "I'm not an Institute empl- oh. Huh. I guess it is very likely that I'd die if you quit."

Jon scoffs. "I didn't- it's stupid, but I forgot all about that in the moment. I just- you're mine, you're not tied to the Institute. I forgot the Eye-"

Gerry snorts when Jon cuts himself abruptly. "What was that?"

"I'm- I didn't-" Jon sputters, his face growing red. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm-"

Gerry laughs, delighted.

It still hurts, the not-quite memory of the father that was ripped from him. The chain around all of them, and the terrible condition to break it off. The fact that Martin is keeping them at arm's length to try and save the world, when they'd much rather save him.

But it all looks a lot less grim when watching Jon try to regain his composure after the slip. When he remembers that for once, he's fighting not just to harm the entities, but to keep the ones he cares for from them. When he thinks about how for the first time in his life, other people are interested in protecting him for a change.

"Stop laughing!" Jon snaps, smacking softly at Gerry's shoulder. "I didn't mean-"

"It's alright. You could've." Gerry catches his struggling wrist, and brings it up to his lips to lay a kiss on the palm of his hand. "I kind of am yours."

"I- what?" Jon freezes.

The problem with these things, Gerry decides, is that they're often painted as the culmination of a whole journey. The last thing you say before the credits roll, the last words on a final page.

He doesn't want that, a tale of hardship with the suggestion of happiness at the very end. He wants his story to be a promise, a challenge to a world that, no matter how hard it tries, can't take this from him.

"I love you."

#jongerrymartin #vit writes #illicio #jgm

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