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vulpisnocturna · 6 months

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Bloodstained Rubies - Chapter IV - Repercussions

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Masterlist

Chapters: I; II; III

Warnings: captivity, murder, violence (not towards reader), Chrollo being a menace, obsession, controlling behaviour, Yandere Chrollo, manipulation, emotional manipulation, psychological manipulation, gaslighting, suicide threats/attempt

Word count: 6k

Your preparations were complete. This was the day. The day where you would finally escape. Just before getting on the blimp, you would enter the airport, and at the gate, you would find a way to approach security and let them know you were in danger. Chrollo had already told you that you would travel alone, just the two of you, therefore, you didn’t have to worry about any of his horrid friends giving him a hand. And yes, he was a thief, and he had superpowers, but a bullet to the head always did the job, no?

You hated him more than ever. After that night you had gotten drunk two weeks before, you had woken up to find he had left a love bite on your throat. You had been seething, and had actually tried throwing things at him, which had resulted in you being tied to the bed for a full three hours, forced to listen to him monologue about everything and anything just to get a kick out of you. He asked you questions, of course. What your favourite films were, what your favourite flowers and books and artists were, and even if you did not answer, he answered for you, because he was a disgusting stalker who knew the answers already. Then, he gave his review on each of the answers, psychoanalysing you based on the things you liked.

And of course, he had not stopped kissing you. It had been wishful thinking, truly, but you’d hoped he wouldn’t press you. But no, he was even more hands-on. Like an octopus, he seemed to attach himself wherever you went. His hands may not have been sticky, but they sure felt like it. He would wrap them around your waist from behind, burying his face in the crook of your neck and keeping you still as he had his fix of kissing your neck and sucking disgusting hickies on it like he was a fifteen-year-old who had just discovered snogging.

And it should have been gross, and distasteful, and it should have made you feel dirty. And it did, but not in the right way. No, it made you feel dirty because every time he kissed your neck and told you all the things he just couldn’t wait to do to you and how good you would feel if you just let him have you, your lower stomach would feel tight and hot, and you’d find yourself aroused. And it felt so revolting to be betrayed so severely by your body.

There were few times where you had the presence of mind to thrash around and flail your limbs to hit him or get him to let you go, but by the point you put a tight leash around your mind, he had already gotten what he wanted. By the time he had kissed you and pulled you on his lap, you had already shown it took you several seconds before you bit down on his tongue or his lips. And if you did draw blood, he would smile at you, his eyes growing darker and full of lust, revealing a sadistic part of him that made you feel like it actually turned him on, and that he could barely restrain himself from retaliating in kind. His fingers would curl around your hips like a vice, and he would let out a soft groan, looking at you like you were prey.

So you had stopped biting, because you were terrified of what would happen if Chrollo Lucilfer lost control.

You hated how he played house with you. How he liked to cook for you, telling you about all the things he liked about you, forcing you to cuddle with him and acting like this was all normal. Your anger, your venomous words, your violence, none of it affected him at all. You were at least glad he never hurt you physically, but no, Chrollo was much more subtle and devious than that. No, Chrollo liked mind games. He liked bringing up the fact that he was so so saddened by the fact that your behaviour prevented him from taking you outside, from letting you see and experience the outside world. He was not expecting you to escape at all. But you would. Oh, you would that very day.

As you stood next to him in front of the door that had been the lock of your gilded cage, you felt... excited. Fearful, ridden with nerve-wracking anxiety, dreading what could go wrong, but also excited. Because you would do it. You had to believe that.

‘Now, you know the rules, darling’ he said softly, and you saw his red book appear in his hand. The lock clicked, and he picked up the suitcase, placing his hand on the small of your back and leading you outside. You walked with him to the lift, pretending to be a well-behaved dog that would follow him everywhere and never stray far away from him. You obediently got in the passenger seat, and Chrollo put on some music, seemingly in a good mood. You lowered the window to get several mouthfuls of clean air after a month of strict captivity in the house and did your best to ignore him. You didn’t even try to ask him where he was planning to take you next, and you did not want to know what job he would be involved in next.

Chrollo, on his part, did not seem particularly bothered by the fact that you were not talking, and the drive was fairly quiet. Your stomach was churning, a lump of anxiety burrowing itself in your throat, almost suffocating you. Your heart hammered like a Metallica concert in your ribcage, and you were worried he might actually hear it, because to you, it was as loud as the crack of thunder. Nevertheless, you tried to act natural and composed, fearing he would see your nervousness and be on his guard. He would notice if you were suddenly nicer to him in the hopes of relaxing him, so instead, you tried to act as dismissive and bitter as you always did.

He parked the car in the parking space of the airport, and like the pretend gentleman he liked to masquerade as, he opened the door for you and offered you his hand, which you promptly ignored. Not deterred in the slightest, he got your suitcase and walked with you towards the entrance. You swallowed, your legs weak as you glanced at him and then at the people walking around the main room. You quickly pinpointed three guards in one corner by the ticket stall and another two near the exit that led to the docking area. He grabbed two tickets from his pocket and gave you a slight smile. You shifted on your feet.

‘I need to go to the bathroom before we leave’ you said, pointing at the toilets on the other side of the room. He lifted an eyebrow.

‘You can wait until we get on the blimp’ he said. You shook your head.

‘I have to go now’ you retorted, staring him down. His dove grey eyes bored into you for a few seconds, and then he nodded. You gulped, cold sweat running down your spine as you rigidly made your way to the toilets. You could feel his eyes on the back of your head. You locked eyes with one of the guards, and brought one hand in front of your stomach, so he wouldn’t see it, quickly but deliberately showing the guard your thumb bending towards the palm of your hand and the other fingers closing over it, in a signal for help. The guard’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, and after a second, she nodded. You ran towards her and her two colleagues all of a sudden, standing behind them.

‘Shoot him! Now! He’s really dangerous’ you said, your voice cracking as Chrollo turned to look at you, his hand sliding from the handle of the suitcase, his expression growing cold.

‘Ma’am, what is the situati-‘ the female guard started to say, but before she could finish the sentence, she stopped talking with a weird grunting sound. You slowly looked over to her, confused, and your horrified eyes set on a pen sticking out of her forehead, and a trickle of blood pouring on her brow. Your voice caught in your throat, and you watched, paralysed, as the guard slumped on the ground and hit the tiles with a thud. The other guards drew their guns, and the ones behind Chrollo also came rushing over, but before you could even plead with him, they were all dead.

You shivered wildly as you saw him walk towards you with graceful, unhurried steps, though his expression was stony.

People started screaming and running, but Chrollo took out his magic book, and in a few seconds, all of them were on the floor, unmoving. Your eyes widened in horror and despair, and you quickly crouched and grabbed one of the guns on the floor, pointing it at him. He stopped walking and tilted his head.

‘I would not have had a reason to do this if you hadn’t tried to leave me, sweetheart. What’s with that look? I told you your actions have consequences. Put the gun down’ he said, his voice unwavering, calm, authoritative. You didn’t.

‘You’re a sick fuck- a sick fuck’ you said in a croaky voice, your teeth gnashing and grinding against each other to the point your jaw ached. He did not stop approaching, and did not seem particularly bothered that you were pointing a gun at his face.

With your heart and your brain filled with naive, delusional hope, you pulled the trigger.

You did not see him dodge, but the next moment, there wasn’t a hole in his face, and his head was tilted slightly, which meant that monster was fast enough to dodge bullets. You let out a choked sound of despair, your grip unsteady, your eyes brimming with tears, your breath shallow and uneven, your heart thundering in your throat. Your heart and the blood in your veins turned to ice as you realised what the only way out of this was. It was all your fault. Those people he had killed... it was all because of you. You slowly placed the gun against your temple, the cold metal of the barrel burning your skin as you stared at Chrollo. As you placed the gun to your temple, Chrollo's expression turned from calm and confident to concerned and deranged very quickly. His aura exploded around him like a cataclysm that paralysed you.

'No! No, you don’t!' he growled, his voice low but desperate.

In a single movement, he grabbed you by the wrist and pulled the gun out of your hand and away from your head. In his eyes, you saw his fear of losing you, his worry about your safety, and his reluctance to hurt you. All your hope of freedom disappeared as Chrollo threw the gun far, far away from you. Your fingers shook as your arms fell limply at your side. Primal fear of death took hold of you, and coldness seeped in the marrow of your bones.

‘Shh, shh, shh’ he murmured, dipping his head and placing a finger on your lips, instantly collected and composed again.

‘You are a very troublesome girl. My heart aches, darling. Have I not been kind towards you? I have given you everything. I give you love, affection, gifts, a nice house, nice food, expensive wine, flowers, books, films. I would take you outside, if you knew how to behave yourself. But you are one greedy girl, no? All you want is to be by yourself, all alone. Isn’t that sad? I’m not very happy now, and neither are you. See? This is a distressing situation for the both of us. Did you not think this through? Did you forget the rules I told you? That I would be forced to utilise violent methods to deal with those who would seek to take you from me? You are mine, darling. Remember that for me, yes? You do not leave me’ he said, staring at you, his face inches away from you. He wiped the tears from your cheeks, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. You trembled, frozen, rooted to the spot.

‘You can either come with me now, or I can knock you out and carry you on the blimp. Either way, you are going to be on that airship in five minutes’ he said, his voice calm and mellow. Your chest heaved, and your eyes trailed to all the corpses around you. There must have been at least fifteen. You felt the sudden urge to throw up. Your fault. It was all your fault. All these people, they were dead because of you. Why were you worth more than any of them? Why weren’t you the only corpse strewn on the white tiles? If only you’d been smarter, if only you had devised a better plan... but no, you realised all was useless in front of a monster such as he was. A monster that could kill with a pen. A monster that could dodge bullets. A monster that stood unflinching in the face of mass murder. What were you hoping would happen? You were only a normal girl. He was the stuff of nightmares.

You let him drag you towards the docking area. He took out his phone and started calling someone.

‘Shal, I need you to hack into the security cameras of Starling’s airport. Then, tell Shizuku to drive here to clean up. I ran into a little mishap’ he said, and then nodded and ended the call, grabbing the suitcase and dragging you along onto the blimp. Apparently, he had reserved all of it, so the pilot was none the wiser about the bloodbath that had ensued in the airport. He sat you down in one of the luxurious rooms, on a sofa, and poured you a glass of wine, and then one for himself.

‘Would you like to say something?’ he asked, twirling his chalice in his hand. You jerked your head “no”, your eyes fixed on the glass of the coffee table, your mind replaying the images of the corpses in the airport as the blimp took flight.

‘I hope this won’t be repeated. Otherwise, you understand I will be unable to trust you outside’ he said calmly. You gritted your teeth, your trembling hands balled up into fists as your shoulders hunched.

‘Curious how your face was not on the missing people board at the airport, don’t you think? None of the guards even stopped you. How curious. I wonder if your family submitted a missing person file to the authorities’ he mused after a few minutes, opening his bag and getting a copy of “Crime and Punishment” out, taking out a bookmark and starting to read, lounging in an armchair, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. You did not fall for the obvious bait, but you could not stop the horrible thoughts that clouded your mind. Had your family filed a report? Had Chrollo killed them? Threatened them?

You got up from the sofa, walking numbly towards the cabin and closing the door behind you, lying down on the bed and staring at the patterns in the wall paint.

Chrollo sighed, bitterly taking a swig of red wine, his grey eyes trailing to the closed door of the cabin where you had gone to half an hour earlier. He turned a page, feeling distracted and slightly hurt.

It was illogical, obviously, considering he had always expected you would try at least once to leave him. It was just human nature to seek freedom. But was freedom not overrated in your case after all? He had lifted you up from a life of boring routines, awful working conditions, inane friends and a family that did not care for you as well as he could. He was giving you the chance to travel, the chance for adventure; he was giving you affection, protection, respect, sharing all his possessions with you, treating you to the finest food, the best clothes and jewellery, he stole ancient tomes, invaluable artefacts, pretty necklaces and earrings, even paintings for you. He knew you at least found him physically attractive. He knew he was good-looking, and whenever he kissed you, you always struggled to be stubborn and reject him, because your body and your mind were not in agreement. He knew he was not a good person, but did you truly see him as such an abhorrent, unlovable monster? Was he such a disgusting individual in your eyes?

Chrollo traced the rim of his wine glass, his eyes clouded with disappointment and a slight twinge of sorrow. The truth was that he was lonely. His heart had been empty for so very long, and the moment he had met you, the world had burst into vivid colours. Emotions had sprang in his chest, joy and contentment warmed him whenever he held you. He felt alive for the first time in more than a decade and a half. Was it so wrong for someone like him to seek companionship and acceptance? Was his darkness truly so overwhelming that you would never see all of him and find him anything but repulsive?

Chrollo was not one to deny his own nature. He was prideful, arrogant, egotistical, manipulative and possessive. But with you, he also felt a twinge of kindness, respect, admiration, something he had never had with any of the many women he had spent time with in his life. He was filled with personality traits you might find unsavoury in a person, but he was also intelligent, loyal, protective, dependable, open-minded, and frankly, he thought himself to be a very interesting person. Surely, there were positive things about him you might like, if you actually considered giving him a chance. Contrary to popular beliefs, he was not devoid of human emotions. He felt just like everyone else, though his feelings were kept on a tight leash out of the belief that they could be used against him. “There is no greater curse than loneliness”, he thought to himself, taking another swig of wine and turning a page. His life had been anything but easy, but there had been times, especially when everything seemed at the point of collapse, when he had wished he had someone by his side, someone he could share his inner demons, someone who would not judge and condemn. Someone who understood him, both the darkness and the light. But those people did not exist, and Chrollo did not want to share his pain with anyone. He did not want to see the pity in anyone's eyes.

One way or another, you would stay with him for life. But Chrollo didn’t want you to be unhappy either. At some point, he thought, you had to give in. At some point, you would be too tired and lonely to keep rejecting him. But it had been a month, and you were still as proud, headstrong and stubborn as you had been on the first day. Even if he hadn’t abducted you, upon finding out what his job was, you would have been repulsed, because you seemed to have the morals of a saint. He simply did not understand, though he had to admit he found himself charmed by your naiveté and innocence at times. You were like a flower blooming in the harsh snow, or through the cracks of cement, untainted by the cruel world.

He was a villain, but he was no monster or savage. He had only killed those people because he couldn’t afford to leave witnesses to your stunt at the airport. He was no rapist, he had never forced himself on you, even when his desires had boiled and set his body aflame with lust at the sight and feel of you. He had never hit you, not once. You were too precious for him to hurt. And yet, all he got from you was bitterness, fear and coldness. He believed you would come to love him someday, but he was lonely and filled with yearning. Your presence, your body, the taste of your lips, it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted your heart, your mind and your soul too. He wanted to be the only one you held dear in the world. He wanted you to feel safe with him, to love him, to understand him, accept him and foster a meaningful connection with him. Was he destined to spend the rest of his life without those things, with the meaningless farce of a relationship?

The harsh truth was that he had felt a pang of hurt and panic when he had witnessed your attempt at leaving him, your attempt at killing yourself, naive as it had been. He had been scared of losing you.

'A human heart is a fragile thing,' he mused. He put the book down and took another sip of wine, leaning back in his armchair, a sad, almost tired look on his face. You were like a puzzle, the piece that he wanted so badly to connect with the others, to finally form an image that made sense. He wanted you to be happy, to be satisfied, but he also wanted you to be his and only his, for him to own your mind and your heart. It was a difficult conundrum; but Chrollo was determined to make you fall.

He sighed, and his gaze hardened at his own wavering thoughts. If his beliefs vacillated, he would never succeed. You would come to accept him and cherish him, one day. And most importantly, the lesson he had imparted that day would make you think twice about trying to leave him again.

He closed his eyes, his mind drifting to a dream of a hopeful future. A cold night of Autumn, in a home warmed by the blazing, crackling flames in the fireplace, your body underneath him on a comfortable sofa, your skin glowing, the light dancing on your curves as he grazed his fingers over your body, tracing, gripping, kneading, caressing, your laboured breaths mingling, your lips swollen with his kisses, your eyebrows furrowed in bliss, your hair strewn around your face, your legs around his hips, his mouth against your throat, your soft sighs and moans filling the room. He imagined your arms around his torso, fingers curling on the skin of his shoulder blades, your back arching into him, your nails digging in his back as he gave you pleasure. He imagined lying down with you, spent and satisfied, stroking your hair, kissing your forehead, whispering words of devotion to you as you caught your breath and smiled at him. He imagined running you a bath, wrapping you in a blanket, making you a warm drink and sitting with you outside to watch the stars in the peaceful forest he would have bought a home in. What a perfect life, he thought longingly. A small sliver of peace in a world that had robbed him of every piece of happiness and serenity. He liked the life of freedom, adventure and danger he had with the Troupe, but in his heart, there was something Chrollo had never been able to steal: peace. What he wanted with you, what he truly wanted, was someone to come back to, someone to feel alive with, someone to protect, cherish and trust, someone who loved him, a home.

He downed his glass of wine.

His phone buzzed, and he picked it up, reading the text from Shalnark. “Cameras erased. Shizuku cleaned everything up”, it read. He wrote a quick reply and picked up his laptop, connecting it to the wi-fi and absentmindedly googling a website listing houses for sale. Perhaps, you would feel safer in one place. Perhaps, he could give you a place to call home, and a place for him to call home too. Of course, asking for your input would be like poking a rattlesnake at the moment, when you were so upset over what had happened at the airport, but he could still save some possible options. Perhaps it was a good move. Besides, he remembered your routine before you started living with him consisted of long walks in the park every weekend, so he knew for a fact you enjoyed nature. Some would think Chrollo enjoyed the city life, but the truth was that he liked peace and solitude. It would do you good to get some fresh air without him having to deal with a possible escape attempt on your part. It would be perfect to have a nice house somewhere that was quite isolated, but still not too far from civilisation, both to keep you from going to other people for “help” and for him to live in relative secrecy, away from prying eyes. He started looking for houses in natural reserves, in a place that was neither cold nor hot.

The blimp landed four hours later, and Chrollo sighed, closing his laptop and putting it back in his bag, getting up and walking to the cabin. He gently knocked on the door. No answer.

‘Dearest’ he said against the wooden door, listening in for any noise. Nothing.

‘Dearest. Would you come out, please?’ he repeated, his voice calm and purposely soothing. Once again, there was no answer. He let out a deep exhale, turning the doorknob and walking in. His face smoothed and softened as his eyes set on your sleeping form curled up on the duvet. He silently walked closer, observing the damp patch under your face, a clear sign you had cried yourself to sleep. He brushed your hair out of your face with reverence, observing the face of the woman that had thawed his heart. You looked so fragile when you slept. It made him want to protect you and hold you close. He squeezed your delicate hand slightly.

‘Darling, wake up’ he said, his voice soft but slightly louder, and you stirred, gasping, your eyes snapping open, and you scrambled away from him. He observed you quietly.

‘We have landed’ he said simply, his gaze darkening ever so slightly at your reaction, but he did not let it deter him from treating you with the utmost tenderness. Even idiots knew vulnerable times were the best moments to manipulate someone into depending on them.

‘You do not have to fear me, sweetheart. I would never hurt you, you are my precious girl’ he said with a slight smile. You grimaced, and he could practically taste your next words in the tension building in the air.

‘So I’m precious, but everyone else is trash and it doesn’t matter if they die? They’re disposable? They’re unworthy? They mean nothing? But me, I’m oh so fucking special?!’ you said in a disgusted, angry voice. Chrollo straightened up, leaning towards you and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

What an obvious question, he thought.

‘Exactly. You are my woman. You are the most important thing in the world, and your life is worth millions of theirs’ Chrollo remained calm, despite the anger that blazed in your eyes.

'Is that so difficult to believe?', he continued candidly, 'when you think about it, that's exactly what every human being thinks, myself included'

He straightened up, his face serious again, his voice still soft.

'Yes, my love, that's exactly what I think. You are the most wonderful person I have ever met, you deserve the world, and everyone else means nothing at all to me. This is how the world works. A parent will let millions die if it means they can save the life of their child. People prioritise that which is dear to them’ he said simply. At the candid, casual tone of his voice, your arms flopped at your side and your jaw slackened in defeat and resignation.

‘That doesn’t mean they had to die’ you murmured, your eyes searching for something, anything in his dove grey eyes. Something that would make him human in your eyes. But what he said... perhaps that was the most human thing of all. To be selfish, to care only about one’s own, to look only after one’s own. And yet, you didn’t even think what Chrollo had with you could ever be considered “caring”.

He took a step towards you, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible, and he sat down on the side of the bed, leaning forward.

'Look at me, darling'

Your eyes slowly followed his finger and met his gaze. Chrollo remained very still, not daring to move so as not to break the balance of the moment, and he spoke softly.

'Do you care, love? Do you care if anyone else but you dies?' he asked almost curiously, with clinical fascination. You stared at him, your lips parting in disbelief at his question.

‘Of course I do’

Chrollo raised an eyebrow, his expression intrigued as he looked at you.

'Do you?' he asked, and you stayed silent and Chrollo continued to study you, his voice still soft, ‘Do any of the people who died today mean anything to you, my love?’

Chrollo's fingers slid across the duvet over your knee and he touched your skin gently, the movement of his fingers soothing and gentle, and yet to you, it was like being burnt.

‘This is just how humans work. You only care about those who are important to you. It is how you protect yourself’ he said simply. You stared at him, shaking your head stiffly.

'Do not liken me to you. I care because they are human. I care because you took human lives. Innocent lives. Just... just to stop me from escaping. You killed- so many people... do you not think of all the potential you robbed them of? Every single one of them had a life as nuanced and complicated as you or I do. And yet... you do not care, because they are not close to you? You have no humanity' you said, torn between disbelief, guilt and rage. Chrollo was selfish, you knew, but somehow, you had hoped in the depths of his darkness, there had to be some humanity, some... compassion. But you were once again mistaken.

‘I don't care. Their lives meant nothing to me’ he paused, but kept his fingers gently stroking your skin, 'I know you do not approve, but I stand by what I did. They were in my way. And I did not want you to leave me. Can you blame me for wanting you to be mine forever and not wanting another soul to touch you? I had to kill them, to stop you from leaving me. Simply put, my lovely, you signed their demise. You were aware that by trying to escape, you were putting innocent lives in danger, but you put yourself and your happiness first. Shh, it’s okay. I could never judge you for it, it’s as it should be, my darling. But you cannot play preacher with me, and speak of morality, when you also thought of your own needs above people’s lives' he said with a small smile. You froze, a cold, bitter nausea gripping your body, paralysing you, making you its prisoner in the truth he spoke. Because you had known Chrollo was powerful, strong and dangerous. You had heard him say he would kill people to ensure you did not leave him. But you had chosen to naively ignore that fact, blinded by the delusion that everything would work out in a world where nothing ever did.

‘I never wanted- I never wanted...’ you stammered, clutching your lurching stomach.

‘You didn’t want it to happen, but you overlooked it' he whispered, keeping his voice gentle and soothing. He looked at you, his eyes taking in every inch of your face, of your skin. His fingers continued to stroke your knee, his touch soothing and tender.

'I know, darling, I know. Your mind and your heart are telling you different things. I am like a poison to you, and yet you cannot resist' Chrollo tilted his head, his eyes still on your face, 'I know your struggle is a difficult one, but I will help you overcome it. You can abandon your morality, the shackles of society, the good and proper, and you can have freedom from those useless rules that society has imposed on you. It is only human nature. Break free. Life is so much easier when you do not care for those that are not your own, sweetheart' the last words were laced with some kind of heaviness as he uttered them, as if they carried a much larger meaning than what he was willing to divulge, but you were too concerned with the breaking of your own mind, the shattering of your own heart over the guilt and repulsion you felt for yourself, the dread you felt at knowing he was right, in a way. You had chosen yourself even at the expense of many innocent lives. You were selfish, heartless and a monster.

'You are my own, my love. You're the only one worth anything in this world, and I would destroy a thousand worlds just to keep you by my side. Is that not the ultimate expression of love?' Chrollo's lips curved up in a slight smile, as if he had just imparted a sacred lesson to you, as if the words he had spoken were the wisest in the world. He had some kind of dreamy look in his big dove grey eyes, as if he truly saw himself as the romantic lead in a film. It made your stomach churn.

‘You think murder is the ultimate expression of romanticism? Have you any idea how fucked up that is? That you should be obsessed with somebody, and willing to trample on the whole world and all its worth just to get what you want? Even at the expense of the happiness of the one you are so obsessed with?’ you asked, your voice straining, struggling to pass through the heavy lump constricting your throat.

‘It is not only romanticism' he replied with a slight frown on his face, 'it is reality. People murder, steal and ruin each other's lives over and over again, all over the world, every day. This is the way of the world. I know you find it difficult to accept, my love. The truth is that most people are selfish and cruel, and if you want to live a happy life, you have to be as well’ he said simply, as if it were a dogmatic truth imparted from the heavens.

‘And so, instead of attempting to better the world, you simply decided to be the worst of them all? Why add cruelty onto cruelty? Why make the world worse?’ you continued, spreading your arms as if to illustrate your point. Chrollo sighed deeply.

'Because the cruelty of the human race cannot be changed, my love. It is part of our nature, and attempting to deny our own nature is futile. But that should be a good thing. It is who we are, and we should not want to be any other way. And those who accept their human nature, darling, those are the ones who shall be free and happy’ he said with his placid, enigmatic smile.

‘I will take everything from this world, and create freedom and happiness for those I call my own. The rest of the world could burn, and I would not care' he said simply. You stared at him, shaking your head slightly. Arguing with Chrollo on morality was utterly useless. You'd probably have more luck convincing a lion to stop eating zebras. You picked up your bag and exited the cabin, wanting nothing more than to get off that blimp and get to whatever flat Chrollo had decided you would live in next and try to forget the massacre you had caused. Forget the blood and the corpses and the smell of iron in the air.

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siilvan · 8 months

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bloodsport – IV

prologue | one | two | three | next

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: your first time back in the field is a whirlwind of emotions, especially after being forced to rely on yet another enemy. new information is revealed, and you realize that a drastic action may be the only way to fix this mess.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, canon-typical violence, descriptions of blood/injuries, poorly written spec-ops, allusions to trauma and stress, reader has a bit of a breakdown, graves lol

word count: 6k

note: giving a quick PSA here— please be mindful about what y'all write. i know this fic is about a very controversial and problematic character, but i try to be mindful about how i portray him and his actions. don't romanticize things that should not be romanticized, and be respectful to people. COD as a whole is problematic, but that doesn't mean we need to be a shitty community. support real victims, don't spread hate. easy peasy.

also, yes, i changed my formatting. the little text is too hard to read without my glasses, so... yeah. hope it's not ugly now :)

you spend the rest of the night tossing and turning, trying but failing to will yourself to fall asleep. soap texts you shortly before the sun comes up - a picture of himself and the rest of the team, posing for the camera. they're covered in dirt and ash, exhaustion apparent in their eyes, but the image is enough to make you crack a smile.

you give them a few hours, pulling yourself out of bed after sunrise and occupying yourself with mundane tasks around the house, before picking up the phone and calling price.

"hey, captain. sorry for calling so early." you chuckle, leaning against the arm of the couch.

"don't worry about it," price clears his throat, hoarse from fatigue, and you wonder for a second if he was asleep before you called. "was just finishing some paperwork. what d'you need?"

a low sigh escapes from you. "i know it's only been a day, but... can i come back? i really want to get back to work."

you can hear papers shuffling from his end. "i know you want to work, but we just can't take the risk—"

"there isn't going to be any risk," you assert, raising your voice slightly and interrupting him. you pause and wet your lips, speaking in a softer tone again. "please, captain, i know i can handle it. i just want to get back to normal already."

the line is quiet for a long moment, with price silently deliberating over your request. you shift nervously, gripping the phone tighter as you wait impatiently for a response.

finally, after you shift for the umpteenth time, he exhales deeply.

"i'll see if i can convince laswell, okay?" he concedes. you can hear his chair creaking as he leans back - you're assuming, at least. "pack your bags. i'll send a transport helicopter in an hour."

⋆⋆⋆

that's how you ended up at base again, with the team welcoming you back with open arms. laswell initially rejected the idea, stating the same concerns as before, but price managed to sway her after some discussion.

so, now you're in a meeting room, gathered around a table with lists, blueprints, names, pictures— any and all of the intel that the task force has gotten their hands on, scattered across the surface. you blink when price raps his knuckles against the tabletop, drawing your attention.

it's laswell who talks, shooting a glance around the table to address the group. "as you're all aware, shadow company has been a target of the konni group in recent times," she starts, sending you a cursory look, asking you for confirmation. you nod, and she continues. "not only have they been fighting the group head-on in al-mazrah, but there's been several incidents with undercover konni operatives in their ranks."

"good, let 'em fuckin' deal with it." soap remarks, earning noises of agreement from gaz, ghost, and yourself. price and laswell aren't as entertained by it.

"general shepherd, commander graves, and their men betrayed us." laswell pauses before letting out a heavy sigh. "i know none of you were happy about the ceasefire, and i know that you were furious when graves resurfaced. but, besides farah's forces, shadow company is our strongest ally."

"—and the only one capable of making any strong moves without risking an all-out war." price adds, shaking his head. everyone's displeased with the situation, that much is obvious.

"where are you goin' with this?" ghost asks. a tense silence fills the room for a long moment, making you shift awkwardly.

laswell motions towards the door on the far side of the room with her head. you cast your gaze in the same direction, watching as the door is pushed open.

as if on cue, the very man that should've been buried in flames in las almas walks into the room. the shadow himself. philip graves.

"oh, fuck off." soap growls at the man, looking ready to lunge at him from across the table. ghost steps forward and, if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was reaching for his sidearm. gaz and price are eerily quiet while glaring daggers at him, and you immediately feel the blood rush to your ears as every nerve commands you to shoot him yourself.

"i know this isn't ideal," laswell attempts to placate all of you, though the cold stare she regards him with betrays her calm demeanor. "but, for now, we're allies. we have a bigger threat to worry about."

"yeah, those konni guys are, uh..." graves perks up, languidly sauntering up to the table. he purses his lips for a second, thinking, before clicking his tongue. "real troublesome. i've lost a lot of good men thanks to them."

"good." ghost mutters, straightening himself next to soap.

price cuts through the tension with a wave of his hand. "alright, none of us want this, but we've got no other options." he grumbles. "konni's moving towards urzikstan. if we want to stop 'em, then we need to cooperate."

you eye graves from your peripherals, recalling the information that makarov gave you a couple weeks ago. graves isn't in on shepherd's plan, but he's likely the only person who knows the general's whereabouts. you need to say something while you still can. how will he take the news, though? he's betrayed you before, he'll do it again if it benefits him.

"petra, you listening?" laswell's voice abruptly interrupts your thoughts. you divert your attention back to her and notice that everyone's focus is on you.

"i have something i need to say," you blurt out. you need to bring up the general before he potentially ropes graves in.

you receive a collection of interested stares, urging you to go on.

"when i was captured, i managed to get some information," you drop your gaze, narrowing your eyes at the documents laid out. "we're not just fighting konni and al-qatala. some of the forces occupying al-mazrah are under shepherd's command."

the silence that falls over the room is almost deafening. the group balks at you with shock and confusion written on their expressions, until graves huffs out a laugh.

"general shepherd's 'forces' are my men. i can assure you, petra, that none of my shadows are workin' with konni." he says with a lopsided smile, confident as ever.

you turn to face graves fully, grimacing. "i'm not talking about your shadows. shepherd has another group under his command."

"what group?" price asks.

"cia operatives. ex-soldiers, specifically." you turn back, eyes flitting between price and laswell. "he's sending men undercover. the unmarked mercenaries that we keep encountering? that's them."

laswell shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. "where did you get this information?"

you freeze. your mouth opens to say makarov's name, but for some reason, you hesitate. with a deep inhale, you blink away the odd feeling and force the words past your lips.

"makarov. i'm not sure why, but he told me about it."

yet another unbearable tension befalls the group; you're getting close to ripping your hair out over it. as if reading your thoughts, gaz speaks up.

"you know about this?" he says, directed at graves. he's tight-lipped, glowering at him.

graves doesn't respond, letting the question hang in the air. he looks just as surprised as the rest of you - makarov was telling the truth, then. shadow company isn't in on the plan. shepherd has effectively betrayed his strongest ally, to your knowledge.

"i'm sure there's an explanation," graves utters, chuckling to himself. "war's a dirty business. there's good reason to send men undercover."

"he's got part of the special activities division in his pocket." laswell says.

"isn't that where you pulled alex from?" price hums, earning a nod in reply. it's a bad situation, to say the least.

you regain everyone's attention and continue. "i don't know the full plan, but makarov suspected that shepherd's doing this to put himself back on top. start a war, get himself marked as a hero, reap the rewards."

graves raises a brow at you, amusement written on his face. "and, we should trust the judgement of a terrorist?" he says while searching the room for support.

price keeps his gaze on you, though the distant look in his eye tells you that his mind is elsewhere. "i'd trust this one's judgement." he mutters, jaw clenching.

"well, there's no point in standin' around, is there?" graves seems to bounce back quickly, shrugging off the news. "we've got a job to do and a terrorist to catch. let's focus on that."

"i'll contact farah and see if alex knows anything about the men under shepherd's command." laswell says as you all break away from the table and start to file out of the room.

"keep us updated," price nods to her before turning to the rest of you. "wheels up in thirty. we'll debrief on the way."

you breathe out a relieved sigh once everyone breaks off, heading off to finish any last minute preparations before takeoff. you linger in the corridor, running a hand down your face and groaning into the palm of your hand. of course, you have no choice but to work with an enemy whilst relying on intel from yet another. at least you can be open with your team about this one.

shepherd and makarov are your targets. graves comes after. take down all three, and your headaches are gone. no more doubting yourself, no more questions, no more nights spent looking at lists of crimes that make you feel sick. you can resume your not-so-peaceful life with the rest of the task force and celebrate the world being a somewhat safer place.

your phone buzzes in your pocket, distracting you from your pondering and pulling you back to the present. you frown at the name on the caller id.

it's a single letter: 'v.'

after your conversation - if you can even call it that - with makarov last night, you saved his number. putting his name in your phone is basically shooting yourself in the foot, so you saved it under a name that gives you deniability in the event someone sees it.

you duck into an empty rec room nearby and accept the call, keeping an eye on the door as you lift the phone to your ear.

"you actually picked up the phone this time." makarov remarks upon you answering. your frown deepens, brows furrowing.

"if you don't have anything important to say, i'm hanging up."

he chuckles, far too casual for your liking. "i have an update. something that i'm sure you'll be interested in."

you shift, leaning against the back of one of the couches. "what is it?"

"in case you're planning to return to al-mazrah, just know that shepherd's men have been given strict orders to target and eliminate members of the one-four-one."

a chill creeps up the back of your spine. it's an unsurprising order, but you still rack your brain as to why he gave it. does shepherd somehow know that you know about his plans? it shouldn't be possible— until the meeting that finished just minutes ago, the only people privy to the knowledge were makarov and yourself.

of course, shepherd's allies are aware of it, but the only ally of his that you've contacted is graves. you doubt that he's talked to the general in the short amount of time since, which eliminates graves as a possibility just as quickly as you suspected him.

there has to be another source. someone feeding him information, keeping the one-four-one under watch.

"shepherd's got a mole in our group." you reply, pinching the bridge of your nose. "fucking hell. he knows that we're onto him."

"'we,' lieutenant?" he comments with an amused lilt in his tone.

"my team, asshole. he's got men undercover in your group and in my squad. he's watching all of his enemies."

makarov hums, voice dropping a little. "you have a keen eye, petra. have you asked the shadow about shepherd's whereabouts, yet?" he asks, brushing past your frustration.

"haven't had the chance," you mutter. "based on his reaction to the news, i doubt he'll give it away, though. we might have to get the location ourselves."

he exhales, audible through the phone. "it would be more convenient if you could convince him to tell you."

you roll your eyes. "yeah, of course it would. just don't expect any miracles. aren't you the one with all the mysterious ways of gathering information, anyway?" you grumble sarcastically and move away from the couch, starting to pace around the room while keeping your gaze on the door.

"i can get his location if necessary, but that would eliminate your usefulness in this operation, wouldn't it?"

he's right, and you hate him for it. "you still need me to kill him." you counter bluntly.

"i can do that, too. your team wants revenge for his betrayal. this is me being charitable - don't disappoint."

makarov ends the call before you have the chance to argue, leaving you to huff to yourself in the empty room. a moment later, a head pokes around the doorway, startling you and nearly making you drop your phone when you jump.

gaz is regarding you with a sly grin as he fully reveals himself and steps into the room. your palms immediately moisten with sweat as worry floods your mind - how much did he just hear?

"so, who you talkin' to?" gaz cocks his head to the side, teasing. he's relaxed, standing in front of you with his hands shoved in his pockets.

you pocket your phone and flash a calm smile. "that depends. you have any guesses?"

he chuckles, lifting one of his hands to playfully stroke at his chin as he thinks. "let's see... i know you weren't home for long, but—" his grin morphs into a lopsided smirk as he eyes you suspiciously. "y'got a boyfriend?"

dear god, no.

you resist the urge to gag at the thought and shake your head. "nope, it's just a... friend of mine."

gaz leans forward, an inquisitive 'ah' tumbling from his lips. "a friend, eh? they got a name?" he asks.

"he, uh... just goes by 'v.'"

"'v?' like the letter?"

you answer with an affirmative "mhm," patting gaz on the shoulder as you brush past him. "it's a nickname i gave him. don't worry about it."

gaz groans in exasperation as you stroll towards the door, trying to ignore the way your heart races. lying is a normal part of the job, but lying to your team? generally not recommended.

"most 'just friends' don't have exclusive nicknames, you know!" gaz calls out from behind as you round the corner and start down the hall, leaving him alone.

a sick part of you finds the sentiment - makarov, being anything more than an enemy - entertaining, but your better judgement steers you back on track. you've got a mission to prepare for, and the likelihood of something going wrong is as high as ever. you need to focus on the mission and getting graves to give up shepherd.

⋆⋆⋆

shadow company's gunship is a familiar sight as you climb aboard, slipping past the groups of shadows and finding your teammates gathered around what you can only describe as the command center. graves is standing close by, though the tension is palpable as you approach.

after the aircraft lifts off is when graves talks, addressing the soldiers lining the seats of the craft.

"alright, now i know we've had our problems in the past," he starts, briefly acknowledging your group before turning back to his men. "however, none of that matters right now. the one-four-one is our ally on this mission; treat 'em like your own. copy that, shadows?"

johnny snorts from next to you. "where have we heard this before?" he mumbles.

there's a resounding "yep-yep" from his men, accompanied by several nods and looks in your direction. graves pats one of the soldiers on the shoulder and looks to price.

"think you can lay out the rest, captain."

price starts down the middle row, his voice booming even over the sounds of people checking their weapons, gear, and anxiously shifting in their seats. he moves slowly, practically stalking down the length of the gunship.

"the mission is simple: konni and al-qatala have set up bases across the city. they're using gas, heavy artillery, and stolen weapons to protect themselves." price stops for a moment and lets his gaze drag over the soldiers staring back at him. "i don't think i need to remind you shadows of what konni's done to your brothers in arms. we're going to break off into strike teams - eight men - and destroy these bases. alpha team will take the nerve center in the heart of the city. you already know your assignments."

graves speaks again once price goes quiet. "the commanders are not likely going to be in any of these field bases. but, if they are, then each and every single one of you has execute authority." he announces. "first man to bag an HVT gets a reward." he adds with a smirk, earning light laughter from several of his men.

when the speeches conclude, you settle back in your seat.

alpha team includes yourself, price, graves, and five of the shadows that graves handpicked. ghost, soap, and gaz are leading the bravo team, charged with the largest and best-guarded of the field bases. the commanding chain within shadow company are leading the other groups tasked with the bases scattered around the city.

you fish your phone out of one of your vest pockets when it buzzes, reading the notification on the screen.

there's an agent in your group 11:06 am

not a shadow. special forces. 11:06 am

you frown, angling the screen back and quickly scanning the group. everyone seems to be engrossed in conversation, giving you a chance to respond.

do you have a name? 11:07 am

not yet. he's a rookie. 11:07 am

he's stationed at the base you're staying at 11:07 am

check the files. should have transferred recently. 11:08 am

thank you. 11:08 am

don't mention it. 11:09 am

you're quick to tuck your phone away again, jolting when gaz suddenly addresses you.

"texting your boyfriend, eh?" he laughs, catching everyone's attention.

soap snorts and turns to you. "since when did you start dating?"

you wave them off, sitting up again as all eyes fall on you - even ghost, who is usually horribly uninterested in gossip.

"what are you two, schoolchildren?" you ask, earning playful noises of offense. "he's just a friend. not even a close one."

you're getting yourself caught up in a lie. a shitty one, at that. all it's doing is making people more interested in who you're talking to. at this rate, you'll get caught by the end of the day.

"bullshit— no one in this job talks to a person this much if they're not special." gaz counters, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

price chuckles. "c'mon, gaz. come off it," he lightly scolds the sergeant before looking at you. "just make sure he treats you nice, yeah?" he adds, both teasing and sincere at the same time.

"he's not my— yeah, okay. i'll remember that." you concede, slumping back in your seat.

the topic is dropped not long after, leaving you to relax as people talk around you. after a couple minutes, you can feel your eyelids start to droop, reminding you of how restless last night was. the trip's going to take a while, you might as well get some sleep while you still can.

⋆⋆⋆

everything is so hot. the sun, the ground, your clothes, the air— you.

you don't have any protective gear on, your sidearm secured in your loose grip as you stumble through the ruins where a city once stood.

that's right, you think. the city was destroyed in all the fighting. reduced to nothing more than rubble. you remember when there used to be buildings here; half-toppled and abandoned, but they stood as evidence of life nonetheless.

you falter, landing on your knee and hissing as it hits the solid ground below you. your vision starts to blur as your eyes water, forcing you to rub at them with your free hand in a desperate attempt to clear them.

when you blink rapidly, trying to force back the disorientation and bleariness, you notice a figure directly ahead of you.

an ally. a friend. someone that can help.

you force yourself to your feet and stagger towards them, sucking in a hopeful breath when they start to rush to meet you. the harsh sun— fuck, it's so hot— makes you squint, preventing you from making out a face until they're already pulling you into their embrace, strong arms holding you close to their chest.

"it's okay." their voice— his voice, reassures you softly, one of his hands coming to rest on the back of your head, cradling you impossibly closer. "i took care of it, my dear. you're safe now."

hot tears streak down your cheeks, dirty with sand, dust, and ash, as you wrap your arms around his middle. you try to speak, but all that comes out is a hiccup and a pathetic sob, so you resolve to burying your face in his shoulder to muffle your cries.

you're tired. exhausted, actually. for once in this career, you want to be selfish. you want to be the protected one. fighting, losing allies, killing— it never ends.

he shushes you, but even in your state, you can tell the action is unnatural. gentleness, empathy, tender care... it isn't who he is.

you manage to lift your head enough to look at him, eyes glassy with tears.

makarov stares back at you, his callous gaze betraying the way he holds you. it makes you pause, confused, as you slowly recall why you're even here.

you were fighting konni operatives. there was a missile— no, something bigger. something that decimated the city and would have taken you along with it, had you not ducked into a shelter at the very last second. when you emerged, shaken and dazed in the aftershock, you encountered al-qatala and konni mercenaries alike.

bodies scattered in the streets, men wheezing for air despite blood displacing the oxygen in their lungs and leaking from every orifice, some still trying to fight even as they collapse in heaps of pure agony, writhing on the ground alongside their brothers in arms.

you wince when his fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, his forefinger hooking under your chin and forcing you to look into his eyes after your gaze drifts away.

"their lives mean nothing," makarov whispers, barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding against your ribcage. "not compared to you. you're better, stronger, than them. you will serve me well. you will help me usher in a new age."

he runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, slightly chapped from the dry heat. on instinct, you part your lips, and he moves his hand to cup your face before leaning in to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

it's wrong. this is wrong.

you shouldn't be here. you shouldn't be doing this.

the kiss is a distraction, keeping you occupied as his other hand falls from its spot on your hip. you don't even notice the change until a gunshot rings out, and pain equally as burning as the kiss courses through your veins.

you can't even muster a proper cry as you pull back, one of your own hands flying to the epicenter of the pain, right in the middle of your stomach. your fingers brush against the spot, and you whimper when you lift them back up to your face. dark red stains your skin, dripping down your wrist.

"i just need to fix you first. under my guidance... you will be perfect, my dear." makarov mutters, catching you and holding you up when you crumple against him. he coos at you, sympathetic yet mocking, as he scoops you up in his arms, the world around you going dark.

⋆⋆⋆

you wake up with a start, shifting to the edge of your seat as you frantically rub at your eyes. there's an ache deep in the pit of your stomach, making you press your palm against the same spot as your dream.

this time, when you look down at your hand, you see nothing. a shaky sigh escapes from you at the sight - or, rather, the lack thereof.

"y'all right?" ghost asks, eyeing you from the seat across from you.

"yeah, yeah—" you respond, shaking off the lingering effects of the dream. "we almost there?"

price comes over, having been talking with graves some feet away, and pats your shoulder in acknowledgement. "about to touch down, actually. let's go."

you disembark alongside the rest of alpha team, taking up formation with price and graves, with the few shadow company operatives behind the three of you. reaching the building isn't a difficult task despite the many mercenaries standing between it and your team; as much as you hate to admit it, the shadows are skilled in the field, even with their misgivings.

the building is another high rise, like the one you infiltrated weeks ago, half-crumpled from the effects of the fighting in the city. price leads the group as you all enter it through a sizeable hole in the wall, clearing out the first floor with trained precision.

the group of shadows form a perimeter just outside as you investigate the interior with price and graves, finding it... empty?

"thought you said this was the nerve center," you mutter, turning to the men as they search around, equally as perplexed as you. "there's nothing here."

price shakes his head, standing up from where he was crouched over some rubble. "there was something here. they must've moved."

"they knew we were comin'." graves says with a frustrated huff. "probably just protecting it to keep up the charade. the real control center could be anywhere in the city."

the two start for the exit with you in tow. "could be outside of it for all we know. we need to contact the other squads." price replies before pausing at the threshold and angling his head upwards. you stop several feet back and send him a confused look, before a low rumbling echoes throughout the building, sending dust and small debris falling from the floors above.

the rumbling stops for a second, until a louder, harsher one follows. larger pieces of wreckage start to loosen and threaten to fall, small bits clattering against the ground.

"shit, the building's too unstable— it's gonna collapse—!" price shouts as a metal beam crashes into the ground less than twenty feet away from you.

while price and graves are able to duck out amidst the falling debris, you're forced to dive backwards after a piece of the floor above falls right into your path. you search for a way around it, but as the violent shaking increases and sends more collapsing down all around you, you realize that cover might be your only option.

you scan the room quickly and dive under a pile of slabs and beams, sturdy enough to not collapse under the weight of falling wreckage, but with just enough room for you to squeeze in underneath.

it's only seconds after you find cover that the thundering sounds of heavy rubble crashing down all around you fills your ears, forcing you to cover them with your hands as each crash makes you flinch.

the worst of the destruction is short-lived. a couple minutes pass by before you're willing to move, the occasional piece of the upper floors still collapsing around you every now and then. you let out a trembling breath once you emerge, pure adrenaline coursing through your veins.

the exit. you hastily search for it, but all hope drains from you when you find it and see that it's completely blocked by the wreckage.

"petra? can you hear me?" price's voice crackles through your radio.

you go to respond, coughing harshly due to all the dirt and dust floating in the air. "i hear you— i'm all right," you tear your eyes from the exit and look for another path. it's a big building, surely you can find something. "just stuck in here." you grumble into the radio.

"we're gonna try to find another way in, see if you can meet us somewhere." he says. you can hear graves barking orders at his men in the background. "be careful." price adds in a rushed tone.

you drop your hand from your radio and clutch your gun close as you carefully traverse the field of debris, mentally thanking whatever higher power that the building only partially collapsed on top of you, instead of crushing you completely.

every movement out the corner of your eyes makes you stop and aim your weapon at it; it's highly unlikely - but not impossible - that you're not alone. anyone could've snuck in after the collapse, or hidden themselves like you did. al-qatala, konni, shepherd's men— you have a lot of enemies and very few allies in the area.

you spin around at the sound of something shifting, but only see a few pieces of wood hitting the ground. you're getting too paranoid. you try to steel yourself, breathing deeply, before a smooth voice makes you choke on the air that gets caught in your throat.

"you are very unlucky, aren't you?"

you turn again, gun drawn and finger on the trigger, but stop short upon seeing a friendly...

well, you see makarov standing across the room. it's an enemy that doesn't seem all-too interested in killing you - for now, at least.

"how did you..." you trail off, lowering your weapon.

apparently understanding your question, he vaguely motions behind himself. "there's a breach." he says, glancing over the destruction as he approaches you.

you squint at him as he draws closer, briefly tightening your grip on your gun. he stops several feet away, though, so you allow yourself to relax just a bit, lowering your weapon.

"i figured you'd be staying far away from al-mazrah, it's an active war zone after all." you comment, earning a dismissive look.

"i don't mind getting my hands dirty," makarov utters with a lofty grin tugging at his lips. "besides, we need to talk."

you cock your head to the side, curious. "and, you couldn't call or text me about this? that's been working out so far." you chuckle softly.

he steps closer again, standing a little over an arm's length away. "i happened to be close by." he responds. "this is also something better discussed in person."

you nod, hesitantly slinging your gun over your shoulder to cross your arms over your chest.

"after our last exchange, i managed to gather more information from my... source." he punctuates the last word with a half-assed attempt at a conciliatory smile. "the mole planted within your group reported to shepherd recently; he's aware of our communication." he continues, before you interrupt him.

"wait, no one knows about this, not even my squad." you assert, taking another step closer to him. you're just under an arm's length away, now.

"there was an agent within the group assigned to your care when you were captured. one of the two men that accompanied us on the first day - he listened in on our conversation and delivered the details to the general." makarov speaks in a hushed tone, one you can just barely hear over rubble crumbling somewhere nearby. "the agent on your end tracked you after you reunited with your squad. something of yours was bugged, they heard us that night."

how could he... most of your belongings were clothes, which you know for certain weren't bugged. the only other item that traveled home with you is your cellphone—

"shit," you mumble, practically tearing your vest pocket open and grabbing your phone. there's nothing obviously wrong with it at first glance, but once you pop the case off and check inside, your suspicions are confirmed.

there's a small tracking device flashing red at you, mocking you, and you rip it out before tossing it on the ground and stomping on it.

"he's heard everything," you say, twisting your boot to scatter the broken pieces. "fuck, if this gets out— i can explain this to my team and make do with the judgement, but if shepherd tells any of his friends in their cushy government positions, i'm dead."

makarov shifts, looking past you, but you don't even notice the action thanks to the adrenaline reflooding your system. "that would be an issue," he mutters, reaching for the holster at his hip. "i suppose i could protect you."

you snort, dragging your gaze from your boot to his face. "i'm not joining your side, even for this."

a thin string of red light shines from the darkness behind you, aimed at the back of your skull. makarov follows it to its source, all but ignoring your rejection, as his fingers wrap around the handle of his desert eagle.

a loud gunshot rings out, echoing against the walls. you instinctively reach for your stomach, preparing yourself for the pain you felt in that dream, body tensing up as it flies into survival mode.

the pain never comes. a heavy thump makes you turn, however, watching as a soldier collapses to the ground. unmarked uniform. one of the general’s men.

"shepherd has not earned your blood. if anyone is going to kill you, it will be me." makarov lowers his gun and meets your muddled gaze. "i suggest you reconsider my offer, petra, and give me a call when you make up your mind."

you’re left in that state as he sidesteps and saunters past you, seemingly disappearing into the darkness himself. you’re sure there’s another exit that you missed, one he’s taking to avoid running into your squad.

his offer. joining him for protection.

you'll never follow makarov or his ideals, much less join him for such a selfish reason. if you can kill shepherd, then you can destroy any evidence and get yourself out of this mess. with graves' cooperation and your team to help, that possibility is well within your reach. the only crime you'll have to answer for is severely disappointing your teammates, but they'll understand.

except, there's no guarantee that graves will help, and the rules of engagement prevent you from taking effective action against shepherd. he may be on the run, but he's an american general - killing him could land the one-four-one in hot water with the government.

that'll only lead to more restrictions, more eyes on you, more questions— there's nothing you can do to stop it.

you need someone without limits. someone the government doesn't have their hands on.

you need makarov.

a series of heavy footsteps alert you to a new presence, snapping you out of your trance. you lift your head in time to see price, graves, and the shadows appear from around a large pile of debris in the same direction that makarov originally approached you from.

"petra!" price calls out, jogging ahead of the group and stopping just in front of you. "you broken?" he asks, placing a firm hand on your shoulder and dragging his gaze across your form, searching for any injuries.

"no, i'm fine. nothing major." you mumble, struggling to find your voice all of a sudden. "just, uh..." you lose it again, your tongue darting out to nervously wet your dry lips.

"something wrong?" he murmurs, quiet enough that graves and his men can't hear from their positions farther away.

you can feel every beat of your heart, rapidly thumping against your ribs to the point of making your chest ache. only price can give you approval to do something so risky, so stupid. he'll understand. he knows the job isn't perfect, but you do what you have to do—

"i have something to confess, captain."

taglist: @sofasoap, @roosterr, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @thorrsexual, @miss-nob0dy, @woodeelf, @fbs-fc-ur-mommy, @soap-mactavish, @itsyellow, @johfaam0, @cumbermovels, @chxe-zdechnac, @imagineswritersblog, @emorgz33, @sparda-ly, @ponyboys-sunsets, @frazie99, @chensipstea, @thriving-n-jiving, @preciouslittlecreature, @infinitewhore, @jade-jax

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist! (18+ only please <3)

#call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #mw2 #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #makarov x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #cod makarov #vladimir makarov #sylph.writes

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f1nalboys · 8 months

Text

Movie Night ; Randy Meeks

Randy Meeks x Fem!AFAB!Reader

haiiii guys :3 sorry ive been away for so long. im still not totally back, i had inspo for this after a convo me and tati had and i needed it OUT of my brain tbh!!! pls be gentle with me this is legit the first thing ive written in months JSGJBSGB anyways!!! i hope u all enjoy it take this as a silly kinktober kinda thing? idk <3 peace and love babies ily all

WORD COUNT: 1083

WARNINGS: smut, dark!randy and if you squint, ghostface!randy, handjob, implied fingering, slight dom!reader but it's switchy, randy gets jerked off to a slasher film, just kinda fucked up if you look at the implications of everything... not proofread bc im so lazy please be kind to me <3

The apartment was dark. Everything had been flicked off, even the overhead light of the oven that Randy always kept on so he could see in the middle of the night, leaving the TV as the only source of light in the entire apartment. On the slightly out of focus screen was a generic slasher from the late 80’s, one Randy had rented and seen a million times before, but he wasn’t focused on the screen. No, he was sitting there with his eyes closed and his head tilted back, his lips pink and swollen, your hand wrapped around his cock.

“Does that feel good, baby?” You purr into his ear, your other hand running through his hair. Your movements are slow, calculated, and Randy is barely able to swallow back a moan as he nods his head, his eyes still squeezed shut. He can feel the vibration of your chest and he flushes, knowing you were laughing at him. “Your favorite scene’s coming up, Ray,” you say, your hand stalling its movements at the base of his cock as you squeeze gently, drawing a sharp hiss from him. “Don’t wanna miss that, now do you?”

Randy shakes his head, swallowing heavily as he forces himself to open his eyes. His pants were shoved down his thighs just enough to pull his cock out and yet you were still fully clothed. He glances over at you and the large smile on your face and he squirms, breathing a little harder as he tries to talk to you. “You sure you don’t wanna ride me, baby?” He asks, giving you a small smile when you shake your head. “You’re such a tease.” He murmurs, moaning when your hand moves up slowly, your grip still tight.

“How am I a tease if I’m letting you cum?”

“Beacuse, fuck,” his head tips forwards before he swallows, looking back up. You were still curled into his side, pressed tight against him, and the movie had gotten to Randy’s favorite chase scene in the entire movie. He glances at you. “Because you’re using your hand.”

“You seem to be enjoying my hand.”

“Oh, I am, don’t worry. I just know, mmf, fuck, I know that your tight pussy would feel so much better.”

You laugh, shaking your head as your movements speed up a little bit. You squeeze tighter around his tip, drawing a long moan from him. “You’re such a charmer, but you asked for this, remember?” You say, your lips just by his ear as you whisper. “Now, keep your fucking eyes on the screen or I stop completely, okay?”

Randy nods as he lets out a shaky breath, his eyes searching your face and, after deciding you were actually serious, turning to look at the TV. The final girls best friend was being chased all through her large house, the masked killer wielding his knife chasing after her. Randy swallows heavily as your hand begins to move faster, just a little bit, his heart beating in tune with it.

“Fuck,” he moans as the killer slices at the girl who’s name he can’t even remember, her shirt getting cut off. It was cheesy and stupid, something Randy would normally roll his eyes at, but he knew what came next. His cock throbs under your palm, slick with your spit and his pre-cum, and he whimpers as you begin to swipe your thumb over the head of his cock with each pass of your hand. “Ke-keep going, please?”

His question is closer to a beg, but not quite there. His eyes roll into the back of his head for a second but he keeps them focused hazily on the screen. The girl was running slower, the house dark. Randy’s breathing picks up and his hand, which had been on your thigh, squeezes you tightly, his nails digging into your flesh. The girl was cornered now, the killer standing above her as she begs for him to stop, to leave her alone, to go away. She slinks down the wall, the killer looming tall, his mask and the knife the only discernible thing about him.

Randy’s hips twitch ever so slightly as the killer drags the blade down the girl's tear-streaked cheek, a thin line of blood bubbling up in its wake. He can’t help but replace the girl with you, imagining the fear in your eyes as he, masked and unknown to you just yet, hunts you down like an animal. “Holy shit, baby, fuck!” He grunts as the killer raises his knife and your hand speeds up, jerking him off as quick as you can. Randy’s hips thrust up into your hand as the knife is plunged into the screaming girl's chest.

He grunts, an almost animalistic sound, thrusting his cock into your hand in tune with the knife. He lets the pleasure overtake him, his cock the knife, your hand your body, and he cums, the only other sound besides his moans being the gurgle of life leaving the poor girl’s throat one final time before she slumps over. Randy lets his head tip backwards as he finishes cumming, your hand and his cock covered in cum. His hips stop moving and he sits there beside you, staring at the dark ceiling as he catches his breath.

“How was that?” You murmur. “Everything you thought it would be?” Tilting your head, you bring your hand to your mouth and lick away the cum that has covered your skin, a smug smile on your face. He looks over at you, his cheeks flushed pink, and he gives you a toothy grin, leaning in to kiss you. It’s a sweet kiss, one you always expected from Randy, with just a bit of heat underneath it. “It was fucking amazing, Y/N.” He says against your lips, his hand coming to rest on the back of your neck. The kiss deepens for just a second before the noises of the movie draw his attention; it was the final chase scene, the bloody battle against good and evil.

When he pulls back his hand slides down your shoulder and arm down to your waist, his large hand tugging at the hem of your shirt. “Get this off,” His voice is gruffer as his hand slides down again, this time to your pants, your breath hitching in your throat at the feeling of his calloused fingertips dipping past your waistband. “And these. Let me repay the favor, final girl.”

#f1nalboys masterlist #f1nalboys writing #f1nalboys works #randy meeks #scream 1996 #scream 2 #scream 1997 #randy meeks x reader #randy meeks x y/n #ghostface!randy meeks

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tinycozycomfort · 10 months

Text

rest in the cup of my palms (part one)

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x art student f!reader

chapter one: drawing from life

series masterlist | next chapter

series summary: you went back to school to find out who you are—to make another leap in the hope of self discovery. when you finally find that first glimpse of yourself, it’s in someone else. what happens when the mirror tries to pull you in? or you’re everything joel could’ve hoped to find. he doesn’t let go easily.

chapter summary: ellie volunteers joel to model for a drawing class on campus. you find someone worth dreaming about.

warnings/tags: no outbreak, no use of y/n, (for everything) -> mutual pining!, possessive behavior, smut (w individual tags to come), unnecessary descriptions of joel being beautiful, ellie is joel's daughter, ellie and reader attend the same university but reader is in post-grad, age gap (joel is late 40s, reader is not), alternating pov, slow-ish burn, joel miller wins girl dad of the century via unanimous vote (for this chapter) -> masturbation (f), intense feelings of loneliness, existential rumination

word count: 7.2k

rating: explicit (18+ only! mdni)

A/N: some good ol' work up, necessary to explain the rated r plans i have for them. ive been terrified of writing a series but i'm also tired of editing everything down to be one-shot appropriate, so today we try. im full-swing into my fixation era and on my 'i cant be loved + ive known how to love you for 1,000 lifetimes' bullshit. this fic is as self indulgent as they come, but i hope you can enjoy it! and for those of you willing to trudge through this with me, i love you.

read on ao3

“To photograph people is to violate them, by seeing them as they never see themselves, by having knowledge of them that they can never have; it turns people into objects that can be symbolically possessed.”

Susan Sontag - On Photography

───────

A halo of hot light falls through the pane of glass above the sink. Joel’s got one eye pinched semi-shut, trying hard to focus on not burning himself while he drains boiling water out of a pot of pasta.

When he woke up this morning, the blinds on every window in the house had been strung up to the lip. He’d barely gotten a hand around one of the strings in the glass frame above the couch before Ellie appeared out of nowhere to literally slap his wrist, ‘I’m drawing’. Still groggy, he tried to challenge her, ‘Do they all have to be open?’, to which she patiently explained—for what she probably feels is the millionth time—that she needed the extra light, and if she had them all open when she started, they’d need to stay that way until she was done.

So he left her to work, knowing she’s got midterms to finish, walking around with his eyes closed until he felt his way back into his bedroom. He came out once for coffee, and not again until dinner. This is their weekend.

Joel spoons out some of the food into bowls, leaving them to stay warm by the stove before he steps into the dining room. He stops himself half-way, hanging back in the archway to give his daughter another minute as the last shreds of strong sunlight start to wane out.

Ellie’s right where he left her: at the table, cross-legged in her chair with an eraser-less pencil held tightly in her fist. She’s hunched over a large pad of paper, the back of it lifted at an angle under a pile of old books and dog-eared tool catalogs. The sketchbook she uses as a reference guide is propped up on the corner of her left knee, leaned against the edge of the table. She rifles between two pages of it, eyeing some of the quick sketches—visual notes, as she puts it—that she took in class to help her navigate the larger, more detailed version with ease. Silent save for her short huffs of breath, she’s concentrated, wrist-corner lifted to not misplace any graphite. Her process is always the same; a little creature of habit.

She’s wearing her headphones, the cord winding dangerously low, threatening to dip into a cup of water she’d placed in the empty triangle between her lap—the same one he’d seen her with six hours ago. She hasn’t even touched it, still full nearly to the brim. He wonders if she’s gotten up at all. The girl works herself a bit too hard, he thinks, always falls head first into whatever project she’s working on, nothing if not like her dad. The corner of his mouth tugs up so tight it hurts. What is he going to do without her?

He just stands there, feet crossed on top of each other and arms in a twist over his chest, and watches her while she’s not looking, knowing she still gets shy sometimes when he catches her like this. She’s the sweetest reminder of everything good Joel’s ever done; another life he’d gladly offer his own for.

It’s always come naturally—to be what someone needs of him—in a way that transcends reward or expectation.

Joel had been his brother’s primary caregiver first, from birth and then well into their adulthood—always around to bail him out of jail or lend him money he didn’t have. Because he cared. Loved him. He couldn’t ever really say it, always had a problem with the wording, but he knew that at least some of what he wanted to explain had come across. He can see it in the way Tommy is with his own family.

His brother has Maria now, and the kids, and seeing how happy Tommy could be in spite of their upbringing was the first time Joel had ever put his priorities into question. Somewhere in all the caring-for he did, he’d forgotten about himself; the possibility of having his own wife and child and home. He’d always ached for that, deep down, but didn’t even know it was an option until he saw it happen. By that point, he wasn’t sure if he could do any of it, or if he even had the time to start. Then came Ellie.

She entered his life when a close friend of Tommy’s had died unexpectedly and no one came forward to claim her, unknowingly giving him a second chance; one he worked to make count. She was tough to crack at first—also like him in that way—but the love had always been there, waiting its turn after all the awkwardness and misunderstanding and adapting before finally showing its face. She’d needed him then, as much as his brother had all those years ago, carrying on the torch of purpose that Joel so feverishly searched for.

He rolls his eyes at himself; he’s been having too many misty-eyed moments about her lately. It’s so unserious, the actuality of it; of being her dad. Going to work and the supermarket and museums, being there to chaperone field-trips and take one-thousand mostly-blurry photos of her graduation. But it’s been everything to him. He’s desperately clung to the five years of her life that she’s shared with him, and he’s so proud to witness it, but he knows she’s getting to a point where she needs to be her own person. He’ll miss her when she’s only home for summers, then only home for Christmas, then only home once in a while—so he holds on to every bit, and tries not to think about what’s next for him.

He walks closer to her, tilting his head to try and steal a glance of what it is she’s working on. He catches a glimpse of the face of a woman, a portrait from shoulders-up. She’s pretty, with a soft and thoughtful expression, looking downward off the side of the pad. From what he could make out between the movements of Ellie’s hand, she even looks a little shy. His daughter rubs at the cheeks and nose of the girl on the paper, imitating the shadow-less areas where light would fall. Joel is mesmerized by the way she creates so effortlessly, like breathing.

Without moving her head, she pulls a tiny white bobble out from her ear, “I know you’re watching me, weirdo.”

Joel laughs, wet and thick in his mouth with the emotion he’s still climbing down from, “Is this how you treat me when I’m trying to feed you?”

She smiles, he can see the fat of her cheek rounding out even from this angle, “You should’ve just said that.”

Ellie leaves her set-up untouched, just getting up and moving down to an empty seat while Joel goes to bring the food out.

She shifts around in her seat, feet folded again on the flat of it, eating too fast—ill-mannered—and it reminds Joel of all the nights they spent at Tommy’s for family dinner, right at the beginning, back when they’d just begun to become close. When she’d push his patience with her behavior to see if he’d say something, to see if he still paid her mind—he always did, still does, “Jesus Christ, kid. Have I taught you nothing?”

She holds back a laugh, mouth full of tomato sauce, “You love it. I’m charming.”

He snorts, the two of them falling into a comfortable quiet for only a few minutes before she breaks it again, “Speaking of how much you love me, I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Oh no,” He jokes, “What now?”

“Remember those drawings I turned in of you last month?” She starts pushing around the last bite of her spaghetti, never a good sign, but he nods anyway for her to continue, “Well my teacher really liked them. And there’s been an issue with finding people to sit for the drawings. Sooo,” she really drags it out, “I signed you up.”

“What do you mean, you signed me up? For what?”

“To model,” Joel’s mouth pops open in an immediate attempt to oppose, but Ellie’s quicker, “Didn’t you say you’d always support me in school?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Joel finishes his plate and then they’re both just clinking their forks against porcelain for a heavy eightnineten seconds before she gives it another shot.

“C’mon, seriously. I’ll get extra credit if you do it,” She lets out a long sigh like she can’t believe she has to explain anything more than that, “My professor teaches a Monday session for the master’s program and they need people. It’s just one time.”

“Ellie. It’s Sunday. How are you gonna tell me this now?”

“Please, you just sit there for, like, two hours while they draw you and you don’t have to talk. That’s two of your favorite things. Three if you consider that you’d be helping me out.” she looks at him with a sticky-sweet smile, eyes crinkled—like she knows she’s getting away with it.

She might be.

“Why don’t you ask one of your friends to do it?” Joel gathers up their plates from the table to carry them into the kitchen. Ellie picks up their still half-full glasses as an excuse to follow him.

“Because we all have class together tomorrow on the other side of campus. Plus, you’re easy to draw and—”

“Hey.”

She ignores the flat look he shoots her, flipping on the sink, “That’s a compliment, by the way. But really, it’s no effort and you’d be getting me into a good place with my professor ‘cause she’ll be super grateful. The budget’s kinda tight this semester.”

“Then what am I payin’ for, if you’re gonna make me do this stuff myself?” It’s a half-hearted dig—he’s mostly annoyed because she probably already figured out he’s going to agree.

Her little smirk graduates to a shit-eating grin, she knows it, “Best dad ever.”

“You’re a pain in my ass, y’know that?”

“Just because I knew you were gonna say that, I actually signed you up for two.”

───────

Joel stumbles out of the elevator, filing hurriedly through groups of students with a new-found purpose now that he’s managed to make it to the correct floor. Ellie made a point of not mentioning that he had to be at the school at 7:30am until she was saying goodnight to him a few hours ago, because she thought it would dissuade him—she was right—so now he’s running late on top of everything else.

He’s got the little scaled-down, splotchy-printed version of the campus map gripped tightly between his hands. Room 14B is seemingly only two turns and one corner from where he stands—if he’s holding it the right way. He wants to ask for directions, but he feels too out-of-place to set aside his embarrassment. He’s older than at least half the staff, and some of the attendees are even younger, and he doesn’t want to run the risk of looking incapable, as foolish as it is. He wishes Ellie would have just offered to show him where to go before she headed off to her own class.

For someone who prides themselves on their ability to parent, he feels hopeless now without his daughter; not for the first time, but it’s especially harsh considering the circumstances. It hurts something bittersweet, to think about how much more they’ve bonded since he started working less and she decided to live at home her first year of college (though it’s coming to an end sooner than he’d like). Again, too many sad thoughts, and she’s not here, so he trudges on.

He walks in two more circles before he finds the right place—down a fucking hallway and hidden behind a door he didn’t know he was allowed to open, of course. A woman with long, dark blonde hair is sitting at a desk by the door when he enters. She doesn’t look up at him.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sorry I’m late. My—uh. You teach my daughter? I’m here for—”

“Ellie’s dad,” She cocks her head without meeting his eye, “Late? You’re about twenty minutes early, she told me you probably would be.”

She knows me too well, the brat. He chastises her in his mind but outwardly he corrects himself, “Yes, right, sorry. I’m a little turned around.”

“That’s alright. There’s just a waiver you need to sign, and you can get undressed in the bathroom down the hall. I’ll give you a cover-up to wear until I come to grab you.”

Right, he’d have to be naked. He already knew that—sort-of—having seen dozens of Ellie’s sketches from semesters past. He knows the students don’t see it that way, knows that they’ve all drawn the same things so many times they would be desensitized to his nudity. They’d probably all be desensitized to him as well; in their eyes, he was just a reference, as familiar as any of the memorialized piles of fruit or arrangements of glass that Ellie's also brought home.

Still, Joel feels a wash of anxiety come over him. He’s more than comfortable in his body, after putting it through so much, but this degree of vulnerability is severe in comparison to vanity or sex—it’s a state of living he hasn’t participated in for a long time. He doesn’t like to be seen, and being documented—having physical evidence of how he’s interpreted by others—makes his stomach turn. He hasn’t looked in a mirror for more than a moment in months, but it can’t be that bad, right? Ellie’s always given him a favorable light, but he worries she has a bias beyond belief. What if he sees something about himself he doesn’t like? What if everyone’s been able to see it all along?

Caught in his thoughts, he doesn’t realize the woman is still talking, “We have a scheduled break halfway through class. You can leave then. Next week it’ll flip and you can come for the latter half so they can finish.” She slides the form and a swath of black fabric across the table, and almost like she can sense his apprehension, finally raises her head to give him a meaningful look, “Thank you again for doing this. I know it can feel weird, but it makes a difference for them. There’ll be a joint show at the end of the month, too, with Ellie’s class.”

He just offers her a little nod of his head, thank you, signing the form and padding to the bathroom to unceremoniously disrobe in an empty stall.

It’s just two hours.

───────

If they make you take another figure-drawing class, you’re going to scream.

You’d think this far into a second degree, the school board would stop requiring you to take what is essentially the same class every semester. Sincerely, the only thing that changes is how long the session runs and what number follows the class title. It’s getting old.

To be fair, it’s not necessarily that you dislike drawing—it provides a pretty firm foundation for your personal work to stand on—it’s just tedious. Nothing is inspiring about assignment-based work, especially when they’ve decided the only way you can prove your skill-set is to make you draw the same three objects five-thousand ways.

But it’s not up to you.

So here you are again, two weeks from spring break, back in this frigid building after surviving another forty minutes of traffic, body still stiff from fighting the urge to fall asleep at the wheel.

It’s important, you remind yourself, to show up and put your fullest effort into everything, no matter how much you don’t enjoy it. Even if just to prove to yourself you can still finish things.

Coming back to school was an idea you’d toyed with for years after graduating.

There had been a lot of pressure on you to go in the first place, from your parents and your teachers and your nightmare of an ex, because according to them you’d get nowhere without it. After enough pressure and in a need to appease them, you folded and went; suffered every long night and pushed through every period of self-doubt and smiled for every ‘worth-capturing’ moment right up to the end. And then when it was over, gone faster than you could comprehend, you felt like something was taken away from you, even with how low it had made you—the worst kind of stockholm syndrome.

In an attempt to keep some momentum, you were over-eager for more right out of the gate. There was an initial need to continue, because you’d been reliant on academic structure just by the nature of familiarity, and maybe a little ill-prepared to face who you were without guidance. Without the instruction of someone with two degrees and a smoking addiction and no teaching license. Now it sounds silly, but then you spent a few too many nights uncontrollably looking into post-grad institutions or internship programs, googling professors and reading forums for first-hand accounts.

Then, after a year, the thought of continuing got a little less exciting, and you became comfortable in the freedom of nothing after being in school your whole life. So you pretended to research, emailed everyone about how great the options looked, signed up for one-on-ones you didn’t show up for—until people stopped asking.

It was at that point that you finally had the time to process what you were doing and why, and accepted that you didn’t have to have all the answers, despite what everyone had led you to believe. Truthfully, you still had no idea who you wanted to be and that’s okay—living with it and living alongside it weren’t mutually exclusive. You just took time to practice being yourself—sucked up the embarrassment and did the work, little exercises in unleashing yourself onto the world instead of letting every experience be done to you. If you were going to do anything anymore, even something like continuing your education, it had to be on your own terms, to try it all in the effort of self-discovery.

So yes, applying and getting accepted and attending every class—even this one—this time around was for you—to better yourself instead of just filling an expectation. You’re determined to make good on the opportunity.

And it has been better, so far. You even have friends this time around. Okay, two, and one of them is your roommate, but it's more of a support system than what you had going into undergrad.

You say yes now, too; not to everything, but to more than before. Which is maybe how you got roped into getting ‘introductory’ drinks later this evening with everyone, now that more people have joined the program as winter thaws out and it’s easier to commute. It’ll be nice to swap ideas and catch up and maybe even get laid instead of spending hours staring at the ceiling and willing time to pass. That thought alone is enough to keep you here.

It’s just two hours.

The room this semester is a little bigger, at least; probably the only perk that moving up so gracefully from Drawing II to Drawing III had earned you. It’s still unfortunately just another classroom; windowless to protect it from outside influence and drenched in fluorescent light to create a controlled environment. Old, stained art horses form a circle in the center of the space, crowding around a painted-gray wood pallet like an audience. A metal stool sits atop the make-shift stage, providing a seat for the subject. It’s clinical, the way the elements come together; a perfectly disarrayed scene that’s been neatly curated to emulate every ‘socratic seminar’ model you’ve seen in education since you can remember. Always the same.

You’re hoping for someone new today to rest on the chair; the department has been in less-than-preferred financial standing lately, so you’ve seen the same faces interchanged for most of the term.

Your professor is at her desk when you make your way in, greeting you with a grin despite the tired look on her face. A hardworking woman, the shadows under her eyes gave her a beauty you could only explain as determined. You knew she cross-taught for both sections of the department, and you respected her for it. It couldn’t be anything short of a struggle to toggle between those modes of seriousness—to have the patience to answer the younger students’ unending questions and the passion to keep the post-grads engaged.

Moving to get a seat as far on the outskirts of the cluster as possible, you watch as your classmates arrive slowly until all the slots are filled. No one really talks, probably all similarly bogged down by the early start and the cold weather outside. Ian, your friend who’d invited you out tonight, waves at you from four horses down and you halfheartedly nod back at him.

“Good morning everyone, we’ve only got two more classes after this until your week off, so we’ll make this next one a two-parter and have critique on the twenty-first. I want you guys to focus on composition more than anything else,” She turns in her seat to write some names on the board behind her, “We’ll go for two hours then break. If your name’s up here we’ll have a conversation about your thesis. The rest of you can go.”

Thankfully you’ve been spared this time—granted another seven-nights-straight writing the segment of your thesis that was meant to be finished two months ago. Your brain hurts inside of your skull.

You set up your little station, sketchpad raised against the easel, body straddling the drawing horse as you fiddle with some dirty erasers in your pack.

You can hear the slap slap slap of the model’s feet on the concrete floor as they enter—a long gait paired with hard, thudding steps; probably a man by the sound of it. Tall and heavy.

“Okay guys, we’re starting,” She winds up the dial on a plastic kitchen timer and sets it on the edge of her desk, “Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be making a few passes throughout and we’ll exchange thoughts.”

You roll your neck, knowing the model tends to take a minute to find a comfortable position, and that people watching didn’t do anything to help. A tempered soundtrack—the poorly contained buzzing of the clock and the moan of the air-conditioning—plays on in the background. Your leg is asleep. It’s cold in here. You count to thirty in your head. That’s enough time, right? You shift again, stretching your arms once more just in case.

Looking up, you peer over the side of the easel to get a quick look at the model’s pose and immediately do a double take.

It is a man.

He’s sitting on the chair, facing the girl a few seats down from you so that you can only see him from a three-quarters view. He has one long, thick leg pushed against the lower bar of the stool, the other one, closest to you, hiked up on the seat, folded so that his knee points towards the ceiling. His arms are crossed, hugging his erect shin with his wide back wrapped over his thigh, effectively shielding the ‘naked’ parts of him from view. He looks shy, but not uncomfortable; either like he’s done this before or he’s accustomed to protecting himself—to hiding.

The frame of his body is captivating; he looks strong but used, little nicks and scars littering his shoulders and hands. Weathered. As you make your way up his torso, you find it’s a similar state of experienced, tan profile and neck bearing the slightest difference in color from the soft of his side, and you can see the faintest curve of a hem-shaped tan-line across the dip in his shoulder. Little wisps of gray-dusted brown curls frame the edges of his face. He’s beautiful in a gentle way, with a dark, heavy brow that leads into the sharp slope of his nose, plush lips pursed like he’s concentrating.

Part of you feels bad about staring, but it’s easy enough to disguise it as working, so you map him with your gaze again and again until you can still see him when you blink. It takes the constant movement of your classmate’s hand sketching something in your periphery to remember you’re being timed.

You choke out a cough, repositioning your body and grabbing some charcoal.

The way you usually approach this task is simple: get down the general gist of the body, careful to keep out the details of the person in favor of capturing light and weight—there’s a graded challenge to be considered, after all.

Yet as you watch him, you decide you can fulfill the requirements in a way that gives him more room to exist. You crop the drawing tighter, paying careful attention to the landscape of his face; the hills of his cheekbones and the valley between his lips. You want to immortalize him.

You’re suddenly deeply concerned with the history that’s woven itself into the shape of him, in what happened to make him look this way. It seems like life has been useful to him, but that he’d had to grow from something to make it so—like he had to work for it. He’s the living manifestation of his own grief and enjoyment and passion, and you want to know all of it.

Countless minutes pass as you take him in and spill him out, fingers moving quickly to recreate the weighted feeling of his posture, exhausted and heavy, muscles held together on the string of bone that runs through the center of his back. You write him down, again and again, flipping to a new page half-way through to get in one last version of him—one for yourself.

You’ve never seen him before, but you see part of yourself in him. He mirrors the anxious peace you’ve been operating under for the last few years, humming with energy but willfully stagnant. It makes you feel seen, less burdened by your recent inability to connect—he makes you want to keep trying.

You wonder if he writes or draws or makes, and if he’d show you. You want to hear him talk. You want to see the other side of him, literally and metaphorically. You want to feel—

The tinny ring of the alarm sounds off, and you’re taken out of the fantasy.

The second drawing is only really half done, but you didn’t make it with the intention of sharing it anyway, so you flip back to the original to hide it..

You try not to watch the man when he stands—remembering that just because he’d been hidden before doesn't mean he wasn't naked the entire time—maybe more for your sake than his. You peek around the room instead, taking a healthy, albeit competitive, glance around for other interpretations of the man; did they see him too, the way you do?

When you look up to take a comparative look, he’s gone. You’re a little disappointed, admittedly, but there’s still one more chance to interact with him, and you can make up for it then. You start to pack up your things in an effort to make it to the parking lot before the crowd. A sudden rise in the volume level in the room tells you that the shock of the early morning has started to burn off. You try to tune it out, so much so that you don’t hear someone walking up behind you.

“Wow.” It’s a man’s voice, deep and smooth. You pivot in your seat.

It’s him, in all his communal-robe wearing glory, even more gorgeous from head on. It’s a pleasant surprise, this reveal; his beauty is evenly distributed, like a handwritten note that extends into the margins or when a movie’s ending is just as good as the start.

“Oh. Hi. Thank you.” You feel exposed, like you got caught doing something bad, even though there are ten other people in the room with even more detailed portraits of him.

“Can I see the other one, too?”

“What?”

“You flipped your page. I didn’t see anyone else do that. Did you make two?”

You just nod, shocked that he was watching you back, peeling back the paper to reveal to him the unfinished drawing. He won’t question it if you don’t give him a reason to.

“Are you gonna finish it?” He asks, eyes rolling over it with an intense curiosity.

“Uh, probably not. I don’t like it as much as the first one.” Maybe lying your way through this would provide better reasoning than ‘I wanted a part of you that no one else could see’.

“Can I have it?”

When you can’t find something to say fast enough, he just continues.

“I’m sorry, is that rude? If you’re just gonna get rid of it, I’ll take it. It just… looks like me. I mean they all do, I’ve been told I have a ‘simple face’,” He coughs awkwardly in acknowledgement of his own tangent, “I just mean to say that it feels a lot like me. If that makes sense.”

“You’re actually very visually interesting.” Is the first thing you can think of, and fuck, did that come out really fucking wrong, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s better if he takes it, if it’ll stop you from fumbling, “But yeah, you can have it.” You pull a little plastic mail-tube out of your bag, ripping the drawing free from its perforated tether and rolling it in on itself.

The edges of his mouth pull up, a cute little thing, free of laughter or judgement, “Thank you. I’m Joel.” One of his hands drapes across his stomach, palm spread over the knot of the wrap—he’s holding himself at length again. Why?

“Hi Joel. You seem to know a fair amount about this whole thing. Not your first time, then?” You offer him your name in return, and he parrots it back—guard still up, still standing too far away.

“It is, actually. The closest I’ve come to this is sitting in the yard for my daughter,” He watches as you slide the drawing into the cylindrical case, “You’re very talented.”

“Thank you.” It feels weird to hear the praise twice, “How’d they get you to pose for no money? I heard the department’s a little strapped. I’ve been subbing in for the undergrads too when I can.”

“My daughter volunteered me, she’s on the other side of the program. Your teacher was giving out extra credit.” He takes the roll when you pass it to him, going out of his way to grab it from the middle, his thumb grazing yours. Your skin heats up where he’s touched it, and you look down at the floor, suddenly nervous.

“Wow, this is the first time I’m hearing anything about that.” You continue to pack away items into your bag, “I’m owed quite a lot if that’s true.”

His face falls in on itself in a wince, “Oh. Didn’t mean to do her in like that.” You can feel him looking at you for a few beats too long, and his eyes narrow like he’s about to say more.

In the same moment, as if summoned, your professor turns on her heel, walking over to your bench.

“It’s okay. I’ll be okay without it. I’ll see you next week, right?”

He shakes a little, releasing his stare, and throws a thumbs up in your direction with his protective hand, “Yeah, see ya next week. Nice to meet you.”

───────

After another four-hour class and a too-long nap and a break for dinner, everyone from this morning joins together in a few cars to head to a bar downtown. You meet up with Ian, who offered to drive as a bargaining chip, because he knows by now that you’d back out if you had to show up on your own.

The bar is dark and divey and perfect for being overly-observant in secret. You’ve warmed up to this crowd enough, but you’re still on plus-one basis with a lot of them, Ian serving as your invitation. You like to just listen to them at first during these outings, strategically planning your involvement so you don’t feel put on the spot when they give you a turn.

It’s a lot like being in class; the group of you occupying a dimly lit corner, a round-table of bodies, with the person in the center alternating as the topic changes. Tonight you stay at the furthest end.

You cling to the single tequila soda you ordered, watery and flat by now with pea-sized ice chips bobbing around in the center to avoid the heat of your fingers. You watch them swim, tipping your cup to see them swirl in a frenzied circle until they disappear.

Some guy from your English class—Andre or Andrew or who cares—is talking at you, making his best attempt at what you think is supposed to be flirting. It’s really just him asking your opinions on his five favorite books, not hiding his disapproval when you mention you haven’t read one or the other.

You watch Ian, who left you twenty minutes ago in search of the bar-top for another drink. He’s caught now on his third conversation on the way back, maybe thinking he’s doing you a favor by taking his time. You try relentlessly to catch his eye instead, and he bounds over without question when he sees you. The glass of wine in his hand is already half empty, and the English-class-guy spooks at the sight of what he probably thinks is competition. So much for that.

“Having fun?” he prods when he slips in the chair beside you, already aware that you are absolutely very much not having fun.

Ian’s a nice guy, and he means well. You met him a week into your first semester—almost a year ago now—at orientation, because your last names were the beginning and end of the line of their respective letters. He was from somewhere in Canada, studying photography with a minor in painting and drawing. He’s maybe a year or two older than you, though you’ve never asked to confirm; tall and long and pretty, for lack of a better word, with big eyes and a permanent split in the little bangs that cover his forehead. He’s the first man in years you’ve been comfortable around, never initiating anything or pushing too hard for your friendship. All in all, no one’s been as welcoming to you, except the person you literally live with, and you’re happy to let him drag you out if it means he’ll continue to look after you the way he does.

“Of course, when have you ever known me to have a bad time?”

“No luck with Adrian?” Adrian. You were close.

“Just likes to hear himself talk, I think. I wasn’t interested in being an audience.”

He hums, “Someone else on your mind?”

“Like who?” You lean the lip of your cup against your mouth.

“Saw you making eyes at the model today,” He teases, nudging you in your rib when you take a sip of your drink so that you keel over slightly. You sputter, unamused with the tactic to get you to fess up.

Was it that obvious?

“Isn’t that the point of the class?”

“Yeah maybe, smartass, but that’s not what I meant. I saw him talking to you, saw you give him a little gift,” He bobs his eyebrows at you suggestively, “Excited for him to come back next week?”

“So I can stare more, you mean?”

“So you can get his number.”

“Ian.”

“I’m just saying you should try and find someone outside our section of the building. No writers, either, obviously.” He gestures to where Adrian is already trying his shtick on some girl from your class.

“He’s a little too old for me, don’t you think? His daughter goes here.” You muse. He’s mostly right about you needing to expand your reach, but you won’t let him off that easily.

“Maybe. But if you don’t care, and he doesn’t care, what’s it matter? He’s not too old to fuck you.” He makes a face and you roll your eyes.

The thought is nice, but you know forging relationships is unlikely when you’re concerned, at least as of late, “I don’t want to spend my night talking about people I’m not going to fuck.”

“Whatever you say.” He slinks out from his seat, mumbling something about a glass of water. A few steps away, he looks back over his shoulder, “You’re not doomed, by the way,” the asshole can read your mind, “You can enjoy yourself without feeling guilty. You’re allowed to like people.”

And then you’re alone again.

It’s like that for another hour, small attempts at chatter and meetings until you realize you’re too tired to fuck anyone, let alone continue to sit upright. Being up so early this morning took more of a toll than an hour nap could fix, and you're begging Ian to take you home. He agrees, spending the trip trying to plan another outing later in the week before everyone’s gone on vacation.

You give him a sleepy goodbye when he pulls into your apartment complex, making sure he’s still going to class tomorrow before letting him drive away. Once you’re inside, slipping quietly in through the front door, you realize your roommate isn’t home. She’s probably still in a late class or at her boyfriend’s or somewhere else. You enjoy the quiet enough to not think about it too hard.

The five sips of tequila-mostly-water has settled into your stomach by now, making you a quarter-second slower when you strip all your clothes off and climb into bed.

You twist under the sheets, and after a while your skin starts to feel too hot, even in the cold air of your room. Breathing deep, you try to think of something boring to get your mind to still, but when you sense the sleep about to take over, it switches.

You see his face behind your eyelids, the man from today, strong and pretty and delicate, remembering all your favorite details—the length of his fingers and the depth of his voice. You curse yourself for assigning this importance to him. He’s just another page in your portfolio, if you even keep him, yet you can feel a slow heat bubble up at your core when you remember the stretch of his body under the robe. It’s okay to be taken with him, you think, he’s objectively gorgeous.

Your conversation with Ian replays in your head—less about his sincere advice and more about how you need to get laid. It’s been too long; maybe you are just horny, and maybe taking care of it just this once could be enough to stop this hollow interest from growing.

You reach a hand down under your blanket, the tips of your digits pushing into the slit of your cunt. You’re wet, arousal tacky and pooled so much that the light pressure you meant to be exploring with is enough to have you accidentally slipping inside. Okay, he’s really hot. So what? Was it really that bad if you thought so?

You dip a finger further in, timid at first; you’re used to keeping quiet for this kind of activity, and even though your roommate was gone when you got here, it doesn’t mean she hadn’t come in in the thirty minutes of rolling around you’d done before giving into your desire. You lay your free hand over your mouth just in case, teeth biting into the meat at the base of your thumb to keep yourself quiet.

You slide in a second finger to the knuckle to join the first, the light stretch of it enough to make you pant. You see him again, hard and soft and beautiful. You think about what his skin would taste like, if he’d let you sink your teeth into the sinew of his neck. It feels weird to know what he looks like without his clothes, and you’re weirdly proud of yourself for holding back from seeing him fully; it's easier to dream about that way. You wonder how he’d present himself to you, how he’d want to fuck you. You imagine him winding a hand around the hinge of your jaw, fingers pressing hard into the soft of your cheeks. Would he be gentle? Would he make it hurt? You suspect either would be too much. You feverishly palm your clit, hips canting in an effort to climax. The pictures flash faster—his cock in your mouth, his tongue in your cunt, the way he’d spit and grip and hold—and you’re coming, drooling over your hand as you hear him say your name in your mind.

You take your hand away after a minute, breath pushing out heavily from your nose. It’s fine, you needed to do it, just one time. No shame in that. It’s out of your system now.

And if you see his face one more time before you fall asleep, it’s probably an afterthought.

───────

By the end of the week, you come to a horrible conclusion.

It starts the next morning when you take your sketchbook out, itching to get a handle on the many writing assignments you’ve been dutifully ignoring, hoping for an outline or a free-flow of ideas. Nothing comes to mind. You draw a little bit to fill the space while you think, just a mess of material on the page, strokes of your hand that leave barely anything behind.

Then on Wednesday you’re at your laptop, typing with one hand while the other one slides against the wood of the dining table, down and around in a loop, mimicking the same shape each time.

And again last night in the shower, letting the shame of a different semi-failed night-out wash over and off of you. You slosh your foot around in the water in the basin below, catching it as it runs down and pools, ankle dragging in a tiny, controlled movement.

It’s not until now that you put it together.

You’re sitting at your desk, with creative materials at your disposal this time, trying to make sense of what it is you’re forming. You find that no matter the medium, your hand automatically makes a single hard line. The same line, from memory. It’s negligible at first, just a light press of pen or pencil or crayon, until it drags down, down, down. It’s not until you lift your utensil that you recognize it. The hook of a nose and the crest of a top lip.

A hard pit forms in your stomach, blood draining from your head to gather in the center of your chest, a blooming sickness of obsession you haven’t felt in a long time. You’re drawing him. You’ve been drawing him. You know this feeling, have participated in this kind of behavior. These are the actions that cause the humiliating dregs of attraction to bleed over into fixation—juvenile and universal and unavoidable. He’s going to be a problem.

#joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller smut #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #joel miller/reader

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tapesfrom1980 · 1 year

Note

can u do dating sean headcanons? and if u could keep it gender neutral-ish i would appreciate thank u <33

dating sean diaz would include..

IVE NEVER GOTTEN AN ASK/REQUEST THIS IS SO EXCITING YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW HAPPY THIS MADE ME THANK YOU ENJOY <33333

-either frenemies to lovers or he just thought you were hot and you rejected him multiple times till you gave in a longgg time later and he never gave up <3

-definitely a bestfriends type of relationship, he’s very comfortable with you and he knows he can make jokes with you without worrying about hurting you

-he’s lowkey awkward at first just because he hasn’t really had real?? experience with relationships before but he’s so excited to finally have you he goes all out if he can

-he’ll get you concert tickets for one of your favorite artists and be like “just because I love you 😘”

-sometimes it’ll be estebans money too and if he gets caught he’ll yell at sean but make sure to say “it’s not your fault though y/n you did nothing wrong” and go back to scolding

-he didn’t know when to drop the L bomb since he’s never felt that way with someone and didn’t know when it was the right time to say it

-he eventually said it mid-argument and there was a lot of making out after that

-getting sketches of yourself that he drew basically everyday

-he draws you at the most random times, bummy looking or not

-his favorite is the one he did while you danced around his room to your favorite song

-he always draws you as an absolute angel and has some hung up

-even just in his school notebooks his doodling always goes to your face so a lot of his homework or quizzes have your face in some corner with little hearts around it

-daniel tries drawing you too, and you take some home with you even if it’s just you with a deformed blue face and wonky yellow eyes

-being ABSOLUTE besties with daniel

-sean tries to act like he hates sharing your attention but you know he likes that you love daniel as much as he does

-sometimes you’ll come early to the diaz house just to hang out with daniel

-“y/n? how long have you been here why didn’t you wake me up?”

-“daniel called me to help him with his new batman lego set”

-“…”

-he sometimes joins in your guys’s dates and sean tries kicking him out everytime

-being super close with esteban too

-he’s happy sean found someone who’s good for him and pushes him to be a better person

-gossiping with him while he’s working on a car

-usually it’s when sean is busy or you’re just annoyed at him

-“oh y/n, whatd he do now?”

-sometimes even while sean is in the room

-“i’m still here guys”

-weekly movie dates!!! drive ins or sneaking into the theater (sean says 15 bucks just to watch a movie is outrageous)

-getting him to listen to your favorite artists/bands

-sometimes he’ll pretend to hate it if it’s a genre he’d never listen to but you can see him trying not to drum his fingers or bop his head

-dragging him to every school event

-matching halloween costumes always

-if he wants to do a character you don’t know you’ll still match him for his sake vice versa

-if you have a pet he’ll probably try his hardest to befriend it even if he’s lowkey scared at first

-he’ll get jokingly jealous about you and your pet saying how you don’t give HIM that much love

-speaking of jealousy, he’s def the jealous type

-he’ll try to hide it but then say something petty to you or the person making him jealous

-“that wasn’t even that funny 😐”

-“you guys should go to that restaurant you’ve been talking so much about together”

-“sean 😒”

-lyla!!!!

-as both of sean’s bestfriends you guys are really close too

-“he will never get between us y/n.✊”

-lyla joking about how she has to third wheel even tho she’s absolutely happy you guys are together

-sean and lyla fighting over you

-“i don’t care if you and y/n are dating. i’m still the favorite. right y/n??? right??”

-making sure to include her at some point on valentine’s day too even if she pretends to hate it

-arcade dates & picnics <3

-sleepovers!!!!!!! always so much fun

-sometimes you’ll just lay in bed listening to music and it’s one of the most special moments together

WITH STORY PLOT

-you were with them minutes before that had happened, but you went to go pick up your guys’s food from the deli near the house

-you came back to esteban on the floor, the crashed cop car, and no sean and daniel

-you were so in shock nothing came out your mouth for a while

-once your brain processed what was happening you yelled around the house for sean and daniel

-you screamed and screamed till the other cops got to the scene

-even then you kept calling for the boys

-you didn’t know what to do with yourself you’d just seen your boyfriends dad dead on the floor and your boyfriend and his little brother missing

-when the cops explained what happened you were so disgusted about how the situation was handled and how sean had been blamed

-you knew sean and daniel, you knew sean and you knew the story was mixed up and the diaz boys were blamed obviously due to racism

-you never gave up looking for them, you went into the woods and everything

-you were looked down upon, even by your own parents, because it looked like you were supporting a “criminal”

-when sean finally called, you were so happy you bawled the entire time

-you were so so relieved he and daniel were alright

-you understood why he couldn’t tell you where they were or why he wouldn’t be able to call again

-he also didn’t tell you their location because he knew you’d try coming to them, he really did know your love for them both

-with one last goodbye and i love you, that was the last time you talked to sean

if you ran with them

-sean 100% didn’t want you to come with them

-you were in the house when it happened but you rushed outside, but the cop didn’t see you

-he knew that if you went with them you couldn’t come back without being taken in to custody as you were now an accomplice to them, things would never be the same and he couldn’t ask you to do that for him and daniel

-“y/n please, stay here” he was already in tears and his voice was cracking but you refused

-instead, you took your bag with more supplies and stuff that was already in visible view that you knew would be helpful for whatever situation you guys were going to be in

-“i don’t know why you’d think i’d leave you sean”

-you also knew even with the rush of adrenaline you were having what you were giving up

-you were giving up your family, your friends, and a normal life

-but you had been with sean for a long time and you knew you were never gonna leave him to fend for him and daniel in who knows where

-you never complained, even with the bad circumstances

-you helped the boys ration supplies and find shelter in the woods

-sean felt so much better with you there, so did daniel

-they both felt guilty for being glad you came with them

-they knew you left a whole life behind and felt like they took that from you, even if it wasn’t their fault

-but it was your choice and you didn’t regret it even in the worst moments, and you always reminded them both of that, no matter what the ending was

#life is strange #life is strange 2 #sean diaz #sean diaz x reader #daniel diaz #esteban diaz #sean diaz imagine #dating sean diaz would include #tapesfrom1980

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auroraborealyss · 2 years

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐋 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢𝐢.

⊹ pairing: morpheus x reader, corinthian x reader if you squint

⊹ summary: you reunite with an old enemy and an even older friend, the corinthian, and confront him about his betrayal to morpheus, and more importantly, to you

⊹ tags: unexpected hints of a love triangle (more like a love V since there's no third line), contains more corinthian than morpheus in this part

⊹ warnings: violence, spoiler for 1.09

⊹ word count: 3492 (an absolute menace)

⊹ previous part: part ii

⊹ up next: part iv → coming soon

⊹ now playing: run boy run by woodkid

𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚛𝚞𝚗! 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚢 𝚛𝚞𝚗! 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞

The basement is cold and empty.

You shiver as you walk quietly through the hall. The years have taught you how to step lightly as if you were gliding on the marble rather than stepping.

Even though there was no logical reasoning that bound the Corinthian and you, you can still feel his presence. He was somewhere on the floor, getting closer and closer with each step you take even though your not working purposefully in a directions. You can feel him waiting for you to find him. To come to him — ironic, considering it’s been him chasing you all this time.

You don’t know what will happen when you see each other again. Will he hurt you? Try to claim the very bounty he set on your head? Has he finally gotten tired of your cat-and-mouse game?

Your thoughts are put to a pause when Jed Walker appears ahead, just a few doors from where you’re standing. You whisper his name but it goes unheard as he pushes open a set of doors and steps through, disappearing from your view. You still don’t know what the Corinthian could want with two young mortals, but given his track record, you don’t trust him with them. If saving them means your game has to continue, then very well.

“Jed!” you whisper louder. You hurry after the boy, slipping through the doors just before they close and nearly bumping into him.

The room isn’t empty. In fact, there are four—technically, three—other people in the room. A dead mortal, two killers, and in the centre of it all, the Corinthian himself.

The Corinthian smiles at you.

You push Jed behind you. He grips onto the back of your shirt, trembling in fear as you and him both look at the Corinthian and the man being stabbed to death behind him.

Even with those dark shades on, you know the Corinthian is looking at you. You can feel his stare burning into you, taking in every inch of you greedily. It has been a century since he last saw you, after all. An entire century since he stopped you from entering the basement of Rodrick Burgess and freeing your husband and his maker, and instead put a bounty on your head.

“Hello, my lady,” the Corinthian says, his honey-like drawl drawing shivers from you. He takes a step towards you, and you take three back. “I’ve missed you.”

He hasn’t changed much since the last time you saw him—nearly a hundred years ago. He still insists on indulging his materialistic side—something he got from Morpheus’ tendency to spoil you, probably—by wearing high-end suits. His golden hair is still the same length, though he no longer wears his hat. And he still wears those damn shades that covers his eyes—eyes that Morpheus spent days crafting specially for him.

You shove Jed further back, and the boy thankfully takes the hint and bolts. You stay.

“Who’s she?” one of the killers, a woman with straight hair, asks.

“She’s mine,” the Corinthian says dismissively. “Just continue with him.”

The woman looks at you before shrugging. She raises her hand to resume stabbing the man.

“Both of you, stop,” you command, and the two behind him immediately stop. Not just their arm, but every muscle in their body has frozen in compliance with your order. Even their hearts have frozen, and though you’re sure they’re feeling terrified, their bodies can’t show it because of what you’ve done to them with a single spoken word.

“All these years, and you still can’t control it, can you?” the Corinthian says. Though he sounds slightly disappointed, he keeps his tone light, as if remarking that it was raining when it should have been sunny. The casualness in his voice enrages you.

He’d always been a nightmare, but the last time you saw him, he had also been your friend. Not the maker-and-created relationship he has with Morpheus, but a friend. You hadn’t been surprised he’d want to keep Morpheus trapped and stop you, but you hadn’t expected for him to put that bounty on your head and reveal Morpheus’ and your’s, secret. To Morpheus, it was an act of defiance. To you, it was an act of betrayal.

“Corinthian."

His features softens slightly at the name you chose and gave to him. “My lady.”

“What have you done?”

“I inspired people, just like you said I would be able to.”

You flinch, as he’s spat your words back at you verbatim. You and him had been walking through the Dreaming once, your arm linked around his. It had been after your wedding to Morpheus but before the power transference ceremony. The Corinthian had asked what your intention was for him, as while it had been Morpheus who crafted him for you, you had decided his purpose. Even Morpheus had been surprised that you would choose to craft a nightmare rather than a dream, but you defended the Corinthian by saying nightmares had just as much power influencing a person and their decisions as much as dreams did.

“Confronting one’s fears challenges a person, but when they emerge, they come out stronger and firmer in their beliefs,” you had told him. “That’s what I want you to be. To be a mirror for humanity’s darkest self so they would choose to be better.”

He had smiled down at you in response, and dipped his head in a small bow. You tightened your grip on him as you resumed your walk, the sun warm down on both of you—so different from the cold that filled the air between the two of you now.

“I wanted you to inspire others to be good, Corinthian. Not…this.”

“I’m letting them be their true selves.”

“You’ve taught them to be selfish and cruel.”

He tilts his head before taking a step forward. You take another three back until you hit the door. But you don’t run. Not yet.

“Are you disappointed in me, my lady?” he asks lowly.

You toss your nametag to his feet in response. Of all his atrocities to you, that was the worst. “You made me that,” you spit out. Lady of Whispers. The name he gave you. He was the one who blew on the flames and built your reputation when he knew that you never meant to hurt anyone. It was his fault that people feared you, when you had been the complete opposite in the Dreaming.

“I gave you a name of your own,” he says through gritted teeth. “Something for people to know you by other than being someone’s wife.”

There is truth behind his words. People still knew you as Lady of the Dreaming, but now they feared you for you, and not because of Morpheus solely.

The two killers behind him fall to the ground, dead. Death was always the only one able to put a stop to your powers.

The Corinthian bends down to pick you your name. As he does, you seize his distracted nature and run, going after Jed wherever he is. As the doors swing shut behind you, you hear the Corinthian’s throaty chuckle, the sound raising bumps all over your arms.

You sprint up the stairs rather than wait for the elevator.

Floor after floor, you search the halls, hissing out Jed’s name. By the fifth floor, you’re breathing heavily. By the eight, there’s a sharp cramp in your side. On the tenth, you’re forced to stop against a wall to catch your breath. As you will the fire in your lungs to go away, you remember the key in your back pocket. The room reserved for you is on this floor. It’s a completely irrelevant point, but you can’t help but wonder what you would find if you entered that room: one bed or two.

A girl walks past you, her head tilted upwards to the room numbers. You stare after her in surprise, recognizing her from the picture you’re carrying.

“Rose Walker?” you ask.

She turns to you. She blinks, and you see the recognition flare in her eyes. “I know you, don’t I?” she says thoughtfully. “I think I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

That wasn’t possible. Mortals already rarely remembered the full extent of their dreams. They rarely remembered Morpheus being by their side as they went through the Dreaming, you even more, talking to them and guiding them through. The most they remembered was the warmth of your presence.

“Y/N,” she says. “You’re Dream’s wife.”

You stop. “How do you know who I am?”

“He told me I’d know who you were.”

“My husband?” You step closer. “He’s spoken with you? Is he here? Is he alright? What did he say?”

“He told me to tell you something.”

“What is it?” you ask insistently, the desperation clear in your voice. Was it an explanation for why he isn’t here? Anger or hurt? Understanding?

“He told me to tell you that I’m a vortex,” Rose says.

You freeze and stare at Rose. It takes a few seconds for the pieces to click—why your husband would want her to tell you that apart from everything else. But when it does click, your shoulders relax and you smile at her. Of course he’d have her tell you that. You never would have figured it out on your own.

“Why would he tell me to tell you that?” Rose asks. “Does it mean something special to you?”

Of course you pity her for what has to be done, but you’re also relieved that you’re almost done. But before you can give her an answer—a partial truth to not be so cruel—someone calls her name.

You both look down the hall and see Jed Walker standing there. Rose breaks into a smile, forgetting you, and hugs Jed tightly. You recognize the man behind Jed, Fun Land, who’s too busy looking at him like prey. He moves forward and starts to tug Jed from Rose, who screams at him and you for help.

You rush forwards and slam your elbow down on Fun Land’s neck, hitting a nerve that sends him crumpling to his knees.

“Run, Rose!” you bark at her, and though her eyes don’t turn gold, she does as you command anyway.The three of you sprint down the hallway, only to be forced to a stop as you reach a locked green door. You try to kick it down, but the lock is thick and made of metal. As Rose and Jed begin to knock on it desperately, shouting for help, you think about who you’d call for help—Morpheus. But he isn’t here. At least, not yet. And you couldn’t let someone like Fun Land appease the appetite that the Corinthian had inspired in him.

“Cover his ears,” you command Rose. As Fun Land reaches you, you shove the kids behind you, using your body as a protective shield.

“Stop,” you command. Gold fills his eyes, swirling in his irises like sand. Fun Land halts a few step from you, standing completely still and waiting for more instruction. “See yourself for who you really are.”

Immediately, he flinches and recoils into himself. He starts to whimper and seek forgiveness from Jed and Rose and every other unfortunate child he’d collected that would not and should not ever be given to him.

“What are you doing to him?” Rose whispers.

“Exactly what I said,” you say coldly. If the Corinthian inspired them to be who they really are, then let them see just that. He would see the monster he is.

Fun Land’s whimpers begin to turn into screams as he slaps his hands over his eyes to hide the world. Because that isn’t enough, he digs his fingers into them, the squelch as he hits his eyeballs echoing in the hall despite Rose’s horrified gasp and Jed’s cries. You only continue to stare, true, merciless and just, just as the Lady of Dreaming should be.

Fun Land’s cries are cut off when he suddenly drops dead. His body falls to the floor, a dagger protruding from the back of his head. Standing behind where he one stood, is the Corinthian.

“What a waste of a snack,” he says with a tut of his tongue. He licks his lips. “But my lady. We haven’t finished our conversation. Shall we?”

The Corinthian tosses your nametag to you. Out of instinct, you catch it.

“I did not make you this way,” the Corinthian says. “Dream did. If there’s anyone to blame for your talent, your gift, it’s him. He made you this way, just as he made me this way.” He takes a step towards you. “This is who we are, and if you would just stop running for one second and look in the mirror and see how much better you are in this form—with your powers and without him—you would be a lot happier.”

“With you?”

The Corinthian looks taken aback. “What?”

“Do you think I would be happier with you than with my husband?”

If Morpheus made him, then perhaps he had put his affection for you in the Corinthian as well. Perhaps that was why the Cortinthian insisted the bounty be for you to be taken alive, and why you had never been able to use your powers to stop him. You’ve always known those emotions were there, even if it went unsaid by you or him. Even before Morpheus’ capture, the Corinthian’s affection for you had always been soft, gentle. Lingering touches on your arm, laughing a little too loud at your jokes, his gaze on you longer than a friend’s should. But you always ignored it, as you never saw him in the way you saw your husband. You loved the part of him that was Morpheus,, but you could not love him completely. You could never.

“I did them for you,” the Corinthian insists. “Inspired them for you. They worship you, just as everyone should. Dream never let the others see your beauty and talent, but I did. I let them see you as you really were and they adored you. Because of me, you are loved.”

His words and the veneration in his tone—something you wish he was faking but can tell is genuine—struck you into silence. He’s standing before you now, one hand brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His movement is gentle. A caress.

“My lady,” he says quietly, his voice deep and thick with emotion. “I have missed you.”

Was it possible that he was right? That he loved you in a way Morpheus loved you differently? In a way you should be loved? Whereas Morpheus hid you from the world to protect you, the Corinthian showed you to the world and gave the world a reason to fear you—your own protection. Was he right?

He’s about to brush your cheek with the pad of his thumb when you grab his wrist tightly; painfully. A stark contrast against his touch.

Through his shades, your eyes meet. “Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Though you don’t see his eyes, you know they fill gold as the effects of your powers take control. The Corinthian yanks his hand back like you were the surface of a hot stove. He tries to slap you, but his hand stops inches from your cheek and he cries out in pain as his other hand grabs his wrist and pulls it away forcefully. He stares at his hand in repulsion, then up at you in anger, and just like that you know that whatever emotions he has for you is gone. The Corinthian had rebelled against Morpheus so he would not be under his maker’s will, and now you had just forced him under yours.

His lips curl into a nasty smile. He directs his attention to Rose, who’s been watching with fearful eyes this whole time.

“You don’t think she’s going to protect you, now do you, Rose Walker?” the Corinthian says, his tone sickly sweet and charming. “Do you know who she is?”

“Dream’s wife,” Rose says hesitantly.

“Oh, she’s so much more than that. She’s one of his tools.”

“His tools?”

“Dream is known for three of his tools: his pouch of sand, his helm, and his ruby. But what’s lesser known is his fourth tool: his wife. While the first three were crafted, his fourth was given to a mortal that he fell in love with.”

“Enough,” you snap, but the Corinthian doesn’t listen.

“The ceremony was beautiful. A slice from his palm to draw blood, which he placed on top of hers so that his blood may enter her veins. In his blood was his power. When the blood had dried, it was done. She had been remade into one of his tools, and like his other tools, she has powers. Did you see what she did to Fun Land?”

“She told him to stop,” Rose says slowly. You can hear her piecing it together, and as you turn to her, you see the growing fear and apprehension in her eyes. “You told me to cover Jed’s ears…it’s because you didn’t want him to hear what you would say. Your order. Is that your power? You can tell people what to do?”

“The proper term is she inspires,” the Corinthian said.

You aren’t blind. You’ve seen the slow, small steps he’s taken to Rose, as if he’s offering her his protection. And you can see how Rose has been leaning away from you and towards him too. He’s always been good with words. That he got from you.

“Dream stored inspiration in her,” he says. “The ceremony turned her into the physical manifestation of inspiration; of the aspect of our thoughts and dreams that incline us to do something.”

Rose looks at you, perhaps waiting for you to say he was lying or there was more to the truth, but you don’t say anything. You can’t.

“Dream’s coming to kill you, Rose Walker,” the Corinthian whispers in her ear.

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re the vortex.” He turns to you. “And as Dream’s tool and his wife, she’s going to kill you too if she can.”

There’s betrayal in her eyes towards you as she tugs Jed closer to her. And fear. That’s what’s in her eyes. That’s how everyone’s looked at you in the past century.

“Is he telling the truth?” she asks. “You’re both going to kill me?”

“You have to die, Rose,” you say, void of emotion. “For everyone. For your brother’s safety. You are the vortex.”

“Is that why he had me tell you that I was one? So you could finish the job if he couldn’t?”

Perhaps it was one of the reasons he told her that, a sign that he still had trust in you. But you knew the main reason he had her tell you that was to reassure you that he still loved you and was coming for you. As the vortex, Morpheus had to come for her. His message—the unspoken words behind it—was to tell you to stay close to Rose Walker so that he could find you.

In other words, he was asking you to wait for him.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” you say softly. Behind your back, you reach for the hilt of your dagger. Morpheus will find another way to get to you. But he won’t be able to do that if the Corinthian has Rose.

But before you can grab onto it, the Corinthian moves. He’s a blur of speed and strength, and you’re soon slammed against the wall with a syringe sticking out of your neck. You gasp and dig your nails into his wrist, hard enough to draw blood, but it’s too late. When he pulls the syringe out, it’s empty. The liquid burns through your veins and dulls everything immediately, and you go slump against his body as he brushes your hair out of your face.

“He’ll come for me,” you mumble.

“Oh, I’m counting on it, sweet thing,” the Corinthian murmurs. He grips your chin with his thumb and points and points your face towards him. “What do you think the reward for the bounty is?”

Your eyes widen in horror. The Corinthian smiles and nods.

“Dream, your husband who’d do anything to get you back. Well. Let’s see just how much he means that, shall we? When you get home, why don’t you tell your husband that I’m waiting for him?”

You try to push away from him, but you’re too weak. Soon, you can’t feel your limbs. Then, you begin to drift. For the first time in a long time, you’re falling asleep and entering the Dreaming. But before you do, you feel the Corinthian press his lips against your forehead. His words are the last you hear.

“I’m sorry, my lady.”

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴛ…

Morpheus walks slowly towards the Corinthian, the weight of his footsteps and anger to be felt by all as the world tremors. Across the waking world, dreamers encounter nightmares that haven’t been seen since the Morpheus was first captured. They stir and cry out in their sleep, unable to wake and escape the monsters. Some wake up and find that the monsters have followed them into the waking world.

They all scream.

But in the hotel, where the cult of serial killers are asleep in their seats, it is only the King of Dreams and Nightmares and the Corinthian.

“Where is she?” Morpheus asks eerily calm. His voice is deep and dangerous; wrath being barely restrained from being unleashed on the Corinthian.

The Corinthian smiles. “You can feel her, can’t you? Feel her strength? Or shall I say, her strength diminishing?”

“What have you done, Corinthian?”

“I want to kill you, Dream. And what easier way to kill you, than to kill your wife.”

ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ…

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗂 𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀? 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝖼𝖺𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝗂'𝗌 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖼𝗁. 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾𝗌, 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌??? 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋𝖽 𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗄 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂'𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗒 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽??? 𝗐𝗍𝗁 𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗇.

𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗒𝖾𝗌, 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋. 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗒. 𝗂'𝗆 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝗂'𝗏𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 (𝗅𝗈𝗐-𝗄𝖾𝗒 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝖼) 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗆𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖿. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾'𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍!

𝗂𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗋, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗂 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇'𝗍. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗂 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗂 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗂 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂 𝗐𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗂 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌: 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗉𝗁𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖻𝗒 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵!

╰┈➤ 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘧!

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nonbinaryeggrolls · 10 months

Text

Battle of the Larynx IV

Miguel O’Hara x afab!reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4

Synopsis: Having Spider-Man as a boyfriend was becoming increasingly more difficult, and his reoccurring absence is tearing you apart

Warnings: SMUT (rough v & p penetration, use of the term “daddy”, oral f receiving, praise, degradation, breeding kink, unprotected sex,) ANGST to fluff to smut, self destructive Miguel, Wholesome Peter!, Y/N doesn’t get preggy let’s just imagine she’s on birth control, WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT BABES!

MINORS DNI. AGELESS AND MINOR BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

Spider society was bigger than you thought it’d be, SOOOO much bigger. Its 10x bigger than your university was. You and Peter walked silently down the empty halls

Peter: “Lyla you there?”, a woman in all white appeared on his watch greeting Peter, “Is he up there?” He asked

Lyla: “Yeah, he’s been up there for a while.” She responded, “Someone should go talk to him…”

Peter: “Thats all you kid, he’s in the only room on the top floor.” He smiled at you and you pulled him into a soft hug, thanking him for bringing you here.

His floor was quiet and a complete mess. Wires sparking all over the place from being ripped out the wall, desks broken in half and holes punched into the wall; but in the middle of all the wreckage you saw him in the middle of the room with his back turned away.

Y/N: “Miguel?”

Miguel: “…Y/N.” He looked broken when looked back at you, his eye bags were bigger than usual and he was downing countless boxes of empanadas that he had gotten from the cafeteria

Y/N: “Miguel stop you’re going to give yourself stomach cramps.” You ran over and sat down beside him, pushing the boxes of food away so you could sit beside him. You used the sleeve of your sweater and wiped away at the grease and crumbs that were littered all over his face. He kept opening his mouth to say something but no words managed to form, “Talk to me Miggy.”

He crumbled at the sound of his nickname, he didn’t know how much he missed hearing those two syllables until they finally left your lips. Tears started to fall down his cheek and soak your sleeve.

Miguel: “Did you…did you have sex with him?” He finally asked. At first you were confused and thought he actually wondered if he thought you and Peter had sex, but then your eyes widened and realized who he was talking about, “I was just trying to make sure you got home safe, a-and I saw the two of you. God I’m so sorry I pushed you away Y/N, I’m sorry I know I pushed you right to him but please just tell if you—

Y/N: “I’d never. I pushed him away.” He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. All night he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind; of another man giving you pleasure, making you scream, you moaning a name that wasn’t his. It destroyed him knowing how close he was to losing you to someone else

Miguel: “I’m so s—

Y/N: “I forgive you Miguel.” You said pulling him into hug and allowing him to rest on your chest, “I’m not mad anymore. I understand, you’re a really really complicated person but I know you love me. I know you regret the choices you’ve made these last few months you showed that when you opened up to me. That’s all I needed Miggy, was for you to open up to me and not leave me in the dark like you did every time before. I need you to let me be there for you like I need you to be there for me.” You rocked him back and forth and slowly you felt his breathing calm and his arms wrap tightly around your waist.

Miguel: “I’m so sorry for what I did…I don’t wanna hurt you like this ever again.”

Y/N: “You better not or I’ll have to fucking kill you”

You both giggled and he looked up at you through his puffy red eyes. Miguel draws you in closer and his smooth lips find yours in a passionate long awaited kiss. It’s soft and gentle then suddenly becomes desperate and feral. That warm sensation that you had once forgotten rushed through every corner of your body. You felt your body move on its own and start rocking against his thigh. He moves down to your neck and his breath on your skin makes you shiver

Miguel: “Can I take you home? Please cariño?” He begs and caresses your nipple with the pad of his thum

Y/N: “God yes. Please I want you so bad Miggy…

Miguel practically broke the door down to get into your bedroom, acting like a wild animal gnawing and prying at your baggy clothes. He craved you, it’d had been so long since he knew the warmth of your walls clenching around his cock

His suit disintegrated leaving him in his boxers that showed the outline of his erection and his toned structure. It leaves you hazy with desire. Fuck you missed it so badly, you felt a wetness soak your shorts just at the sight of him.

Miguel: “You’re so beautiful Y/N…so fucking prefect.”

Slowly, he kisses you starting at your lips, then to your neck, and down to your chest. Whispered praises leave his lips with every each kiss he lays on your body. However these ones felt different than all the other times, they felt desperate and needy. As if he was afraid that if he stopped now he’s never get the chance again

Miguel: “I don’t know what I’d do without you…I love you so much, I wanna love you for as long as I can. For as long as you’ll let me…” He lays one final kiss on your lips and presses your body up against his broad chest

Y/N: “Miggy please…” you moaned

Miguel: “What do you want baby? use your words.” He wrapped a firm grip onto your hair and pulled, exposing your neck even more and once again latching his lips on

Y/N: “Please, fuck me already!”

He couldn’t take it anymore. He wanted to draw this out as long has he could, make it meaningful, but seeing you in his shirt and those skimpy little rib knit shorts that hugged your ass so well made his member leak and throb

Miguel grabs you by your waist roughly before pushing your back onto the soft mattress. As he spreads your legs apart he palms himself and examines the dampness that is showing through your shorts. He hooks one finger on each side and slides them down revealing your slick pussy

Miguel: “No panties baby? You knew i was gonna fuck you this whole time didn’t you?”

Y/N: “No i didn— OH FUCK!” you screamed at the sensation of his tongue entering your heat and darted at a delicious speed

He ate like he was starving. His lips latched onto your clit, soon entering his ring and middle finger. The two curled and pressed against that spongy sweet spot repeatedly and you swore you saw stars

Miguel: “You taste so good baby, so fucking sweet. I missed this cunt so much.” He said between each lick on your clit.

With each passing moment you felt yourself grow closer and closer. The knot in your stomach grew tighter, god you were almost there

Y/N: “Fuck Miguel Im gonna cum. Fuck! please let me cum!” you pleaded and thrusted your pussy against his mouth

Miguel: “Shit cariño cum for me! Cum so I can rip you open with this dick!” He postponed his fingers into you

Y/N: “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

With one last suck on your bud you feel the knot snap. Your eyes roll back and you spasm in his grasp as your orgasm hits you like a truck. Your legs tremble as you come down from your high. Miguel brings you into a sloppy and moist kiss mixed with both his saliva and your juices.

You feel his tip position at your entrance but a twinge of hesitation shows in his face

Y/N: “It’s okay Miguel, you can be rough with me. I want it to be just like before.” you say through heavy breathes

Miguel: “Are you sure?” He asks. You bring him into another kiss this time slower and deeper, grabbing onto his locks

Y/N: “Fuck me like you hate me.” you whisper in his ear

It was all the incentive he needed. He grips the meat of your thighs and rams his cock into your tight cunt, not caring if you needed time to adjust. Your cries go ignored as he bullied his dick into you at an unforgiving pace, each thrust making your walls cling to his girth.

The moans Miguel let out were downright pornographic and they filled the room. The room is filled with your combined screams, grunts, and the sound of your skin slapping against eachother

Miguel: “Oh my fucking god baby, you’re so fucking tight Aaagh! Look how fucking good your pretty little cunt is taking me. I SAID FUCKING LOOK AT ME WHEN I FUCK YOU!” he screamed and pulled you in by your throat extracting a loud whimper from you

You couldn’t stop squirming in his hold, his cock was hitting every spot so perfectly

Miguel: “Look at it baby, look at the mess you’re making.” You glanced down at where the two of you connected. Your essence mixing together with his and glazing his shaft. The milky ring that started to form at the base of his shaft made Miguel’s cock twitch

Y/N: “Your so big Miggy, you stretch me so good every fucking time. No one fucks me like you do!”

Suddenly Miguel flips you over and shoves your face into the mattress. You feel a hard slap against your ass, it brings out a moan so sexy Miguel felt as if he could cum right then and there.

Miguel: “Fucking right baby nobody fucks this pussy like I do.” He groans while shoving his cock back in side of you, “If he ever tries to touch you again I’ll rip out his throat.” He whispers in your ear, his new possessiveness made you absolutely feral

His strokes are different now, they’re slow and deep

Y/N: “Miggy I’m so close, I’m almost there!” You sniffled

Miguel: “Beg for it, or I’ll pull out and leave you here to finish yourself off.” He lied of course, he was too close to cumming to stop now but he wanted to here you cry for his release

Y/N: “Please daddy! I want to feel you pump my pussy full of your cum. Please give it to me!” You cried with tears brimming from your eyes. His eyes widened at your request, you had never asked him to cum inside you before

Miguel: “Good Girl. GOOD. FUCKING. GIRL.” He growled putting a harsh thrust between each word

Miguel: “Fuck…Uuugh Fuck baby! I’m so close, so fucking close. I’m gonna paint you with my seed ~fuck~. You want that cariño? Want me to fuck my babies into you? Take daddy’s cum like a good little slut. FUCKING TAKE IT!”

Y/N: “OH FUCK MIGGY!”, You clench around Miguel one last time as he pulls a violent orgasm from you

Miguel throws his head back letting out the most guttural moan you had ever heard from him and finally finishes inside you. His hips spasm and shake, refusing to move until he was sure you took ever drop of him. He stays hurried inside you for a few more seconds then eventually pulls out his softening member.

Your breathing settles and you feel Miguel lay down and pull you in next to him, it brings you so much peace hearing his heartbeat again. His hands loving rub down your back and strokes your shoulder blades, something Miguel regularly did if he thought he was a little too rough during sex. It was silent for the next few minutes, but not an uncomfortable one, one that allowed the two of you to enjoy each other’s warmth.

Miguel: “It feels so good to be back in a bed I can fit in, Peters twin size was terrible.” You both chuckled

Y/N: “Oh my god that must have been awful, I’m sorry no wonder you looked like you hadn’t slept in days.”

Miguel: “Don’t be, I did it to myself…I was kind of a dick.” He said and pulled your head into his chest

Miguel never wanted to stop feeling like this, he never wanted to stop feeling safe with you. He’d never forgive himself for how he treated you but he’d spend whatever time he had with you making it up to you. And he prayed to whatever God or presence that ruled over this world, that the canon wouldn’t take you from him. For the first time in a long time Miguel was truly, effortlessly happy.

Miguel: “You know you were never a replacement, right baby? I don’t need you to be anyone else but you.”

Y/N: “I know…I love you Miguel.”

Miguel: “I love you too Y/N, always.”

#miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel x reader #peter parker #hobie brown #across the spiderverse #miguel angst #miguel o’hara angst #miguel x y/n #miles molares #gwen stacy #atsv #miguel smut

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