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cockslutpadalecki · 3 years

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All The Good Girls Go To Hell (18)

Summary: When Sam marries into Y/N’s family he naively believes she’s a little princess incapable of putting a step wrong. But once he comes face to face with evidence that proves she’s far from angelic which also implicates his own brother in her misdeeds, Sam finds himself battling against his own moral judgement.

Characters: Step Dad!Sam x Step Daughter!Reader, Uncle!Dean x Niece!Reader.

Words: 2954.

Warnings: stepfather/stepdaughter relationship, step uncle/step niece relationship, oral sex (male and female receiving), sexting, rough sex, major degradation, dirty talk, female masturbation, daddy kink, size kink, cheesy double entendres, Dean's filthy whore mouth, consensual amateur pornography, thigh riding, cockwarming, multiple orgasms, voyeurism, threesomes, face/throat fucking, overstimulation, dom/sub themes, Sammy being an absolute deviant, cream pies, sloppy seconds, cum eating, spit-roasting, a little angst, mentions of grooming, mentions of rape. Assume all tags will apply to every chapter and warnings may differ/alter as story progresses.

A/N: As always, your comments and reblogs get me through the week. You're the best. Beta: @deanwanddamons but all the general bullshit is entirely mine. While likes are gold, feedback is golden. Masterlists can be found in my pinned post. Subscribe to Patreon and get access to fics, just like this one, two weeks before Tumblr for as little as $3.

Chapters nineteen and twenty already available on Patreon.

SERIES MASTERLIST

You’ve never heard your mom yell so loud, her shrill voice echoing through the now silent house. Without the acoustics of the music to shield it, you hear every word out of her mouth— swears and all.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, your thighs still tremble from your climax while Sam’s cum dries against your puffy folds. Fatigue claims every muscle and bone in your body, urging you to sleep, but you can’t.

Eyes drifting to your cell, you itch to text Dean, warn him of the impending thunderstorm that is bound to rain down on him in a matter of hours, but knowing your every move is no doubt going to be monitored from now on, you manage to stop yourself just as you reach for it.

You crave the reassurance your uncle always manages to give you— promising that everything will be alright even when he knows it won’t be. You don’t care that it would be laced with lies and uncertainty, just needing that false sense of security to keep you from surrendering to the anxiousness settling in your bones.

You hear your mother calling Dean a monster— deviant— pervert, and while in the eyes of everyone else, he’ll be regarded as such, you don’t see him that way. You’re as much to blame for this as he is, yet you know that you’ll be painted as a victim when you were more than willing to divulge in your wicked fantasies. You don’t realise how upset you truly are at the situation until you feel your eyes brimming with tears before one rushes down your cheek, pooling into your lap.

Not even bothering to slip out of your dress, you bring your legs up, curling them under you as you lay your head wearily onto your pillow, glassy eyes staring at your window as a spark of an idea filters through your melancholy.

Your window leads out onto the roof of the conservatory, and down into the garden. Slipping through the side gate would be an easy escape route if ever you needed one. You could make a run for it, warn Dean to get out of town, and for a moment your legs twitch, expecting you to jump up on the count of three to put your plan into action, but after the sixth round of numbers circling in your head, sleep claims you before you have chance to get to the seventh.

Sam watches Audrey stalk up and down the kitchen, an indignant darkness pulling at her normally soft features. Y/N’s laptop sits open on the island, the screen now dark, but Sam can somehow still see the lewd texts burnt into the display, the back and forth between her and Dean from earlier that evening. Inside his blood boils, furious at her carelessness for failing to see the job through properly, but he knows he is somewhat at fault.

He remembers the night she came to him asking her for his help to restore the old computer to its factory settings, wanting to give it to her little brother for Christmas. But he can only recall segments of his guidance, the lesson in technology quickly overshadowed by the need to bend her over his office desk while the house was conveniently empty. The memory of her pert little ass marred with his fingerprints makes his cock twitch just as his brain reminds him bluntly that her slick still clings to his flesh from their rushed encounter earlier this evening.

You’re just as bad as your brother, he internally rebukes as the sound of Audrey’s voice cuts through his thoughts.

“Did you know about this?” she snaps, regarding the laptop like it’s infectious.

“Of course I didn’t,” Sam responds, aghast. “How could you possibly assume such a thing?”

Deep down he’s grateful the videos of Y/N and Dean were wiped months ago at his own behest, fearful of this very situation, but it doesn’t change the fact his older brother’s texts are just as incriminating without them. And as much as he craved to video her himself, his cock nestled within her perfect pink folds, he’s thankful the fantasy has remained securely in his head.

“Because you should be more outraged. That man defiled my daughter, Sam.”

“Our daughter,” he quickly corrects.

“You brought that monster into our home,” she objects, raising a finger at him, and points it in anger. ”You don’t have the right to call her that.”

Sam can feel the familiar scratch of tears at his eyes, and his throat constricts, hurt by her words. She’s right— he doesn’t deserve to call her that, especially after all, he had defiled her too. In more ways than one. But despite the very inappropriate direction their relationship has taken, Sam still loves her irrevocably.

“Audrey, please—”

“How can you stand there so calmly?” she rages, hands balled tightly at her sides. ”Why aren’t you busting down that deviant’s door, threatening him? He raped our daughter, for Christ sake!”

“Because—”

“Because what?” she yells. “Don’t you dare try and defend what he has done! I don’t care that he’s your fucking brother!”

“I’m not, sweetheart, I just don’t understand,” he offers. “There has to be some explanation.”

“What possible explanation could there be, Sam? He groomed her, manipulated her, had se—” she squeaks, voice breaking as she dissolves into a fit of tears. Sam quickly closes the gap between them, enveloping her in his arms, and when she collapses against his chest, he hopes she can’t detect the smell of her daughter clinging to him.

“What can I do?” he queries softly after a few minutes when her cries dwindle to mirthless sobs, still fraught with despair.

“Keep your pervert brother away from her,” she warns into the warmth of his shirt, before glancing up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy. “Because if he so much as comes within a hundred yards of this house, Sam, I’ll murder him myself.”

He doesn’t doubt her statement for a moment.

Grabbing the laptop from the kitchen counter with the intent of locking it away someplace safe, Sam makes sure to give the kitchen a quick once over for any appliances that may have been left on, shutting off all the lights when he’s satisfied everything is powered down.

Audrey had finally retreated to bed over an hour ago, and while Sam promised he’d follow minutes later, he found himself sitting alone, nursing a bottle of scotch that he had hidden away in the back of one of the cupboards.

The alcohol seemed to help settle his restlessness briefly, until it began to blur and muddy his thoughts to the point he knew he needed sleep, despite knowing it would all be in vain the moment his head hit the pillow.

One last check of the kitchen and Sam turns in the hall, noticing Bobby hovering awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hey buddy, what’s up?” he asks tenderly, knowing Bobby feels in part responsible for— in his own words, ‘ruining the party’, despite how much Sam had reassured him it wasn’t. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he sniffs. “I didn’t know it was going to get Y/N in trouble.”

“It’s okay buddy, you didn’t know. You did the right thing,” Sam reassures him with a calm voice, even though deep down he’s terrified.

It’s still dark out when you wake up from a nightmare, neck sore and stiff from the awkward angle you passed out in. Your outfit from the night before is creased and damp against your skin, so as you pull it off over your head, you reach for your oversized t-shirt before slumping back onto the bed, pausing to check your phone for the time.

6am.

You turn over, about to snuggle under the covers and rest for a few more hours when the plan that was circling inside your brain last night pops back into existence. A sigh escapes from between your lips, wishing you had been more thorough in your attempts to clear your old computer of anything damning. You really thought you had— at least the abundance of videos that Sam requested be deleted were definitely gone when you checked it over one last time, but it didn’t help the fact that your secret with Uncle Dean has well and truly been discovered.

You can’t explain why the texts from him are still on the laptop. The longer you sit on the edge of your bed racking your brain for a logical explanation, the memory of asking Sam for your help in reverting it back to a blank slate but becoming… distracted halfway through skitters through your mind.

Sneaking across the hall to the bathroom, the house is silent. Would Sam really have woken up at his usual 5am for a morning run? As you slink past their bedroom, you can hear his light snores through the door, the sound of it slightly comforting as you recall those mornings where you’d wake up next to him after a night with him and Dean, cuddled into his side like it wasn’t the most inappropriate situation in the world.

With your parents both fast asleep, and Bobby comatose until at least mid-afternoon, you know now was the perfect time.

You’ve never wished you could shower away Sam’s scent from your skin before, but you know the sound of the shower running would only disturb the quiet so make the decision to grab one at Dean’s— if you make it there.

Returning from the bathroom, you sneak back to your room with a little haste in your gait. You pull on a pair of jeans and sneakers from your closet, choosing to grab one of Dean’s loaned sweaters to wear over the top of your t-shirt.

You head towards your window, and tug it open before climbing out onto the roof. Dawn is a long way from breaking, the night sky still an inky black as you glance up at the bright moon illuminating the proverbial path ahead of you. At this early hour, you know Dean is bound to still be in the land of nod, no doubt sleeping off the drunken stupor he likely ended up in after the New Year’s celebrations, but it’s now or you might never see him again.

For a minute you pause, afraid of what— or who you might find at his apartment, however you can’t trouble your mind of the what ifs right now and let them hinder your plan. You need to warn your uncle.

Sam wakes to the sound of Audrey screaming.

Not the kind you’d expect if you caught a spider in the shower, or stubbed your toe on the foot of the couch— but a blood-curdling wail like she was having her heart ripped from her chest.

He bolts out of bed, bypassing time to dress, and bounds into the hall to find her. She’s standing in Y/N’s doorway, hand over her mouth as tears stream down her cheeks.

“What’s going on?” he questions, striding towards his distraught wife.

“S— she’s gone!” Audrey cries, collapsing against Sam’s chest as he reaches her. He wraps his arms around her tightly, her head snuggled into his chest while she sobs against his bare skin.

He kisses the top of her head for comfort, before turning his stare to the empty bedroom, eyes briefly landing on the sight of the crumpled dress he had fucked her in the night before, which to Sam, now felt like a lifetime ago. Swallowing down the memory with an awkward clearing of his throat, he continues to look around noticing her phone is gone from her nightstand, but the small divot in her pillow shows her bed has been slept in recently, his thoughts fondly recalling the way she would always fluff any bumps or dips out of the pillows she used in the hotels they stayed in before sleeping on them.

He closes his eyes, trying to take his mind off of her to no avail before opening them again, gaze diverting to the small gap between the window and sill, her pretty pink curtains gently billowing in the bitter January breeze.

Dean’s on his sixth mug of coffee by the time Sam shows up, his frantic rapping at the front door startling you from the sleepy daze you’re in, head resting in Dean’s lap while his fingers stroked softly at the base of your skull as you drifted in and out of troubled sleep.

Once he realised you hadn’t shown up to make up for the lack of celebratory New Year sex, your features screwed up in fear, your uncle was extremely accommodating. He wrapped you in a blanket, hugging the warmth back into you for a while until you told him you wanted to rest. You tried to sleep in his bed, the faint smell of his aftershave clinging to the material of his sheets, but it evaded you, the extreme fatigue that had claimed you the night before was all but gone.

Which is how you ended up curled up on the couch, just happy to feel Dean’s touch on your skin. After Halloween, you felt sick every time you looked at him, the image of him fucking that damn hooker burned into your retinas. It took weeks to allow him anywhere near you after that. You knew he was by no means exclusively yours, like you were to him and Sam, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t be hurt by the thought of them enjoying their time with other women.

And when you burst into tears as he stripped you during their next visit, they knew they had pushed you too far. It was a line they promised they would never cross again.

It was three weeks into December when you let him back into your bed. Foolish girl, your brain had rebuked after the first orgasm, but by the time your third crested, all of your resolve crumbled into dust, and Dean had spent every moment he could reminding you that you were, and always would be, his girl.

While you rub the sleep from your eyes, Dean strides to the door and opens it, allowing his little brother entry. As soon as Sam’s eyes land on you, his shoulders slump, letting relief settle heavily into his joints. For a moment you think you see his eyes cloud over, but his features soon re-harden once the appeasement of finding you wears off.

Sam rolls his tongue into the side of his cheek before laughing with incredulity. “Shoulda fuckin’ known.”

“Sammy—”

The younger Winchester raises a finger towards his brother, eyes still trained firmly on you. “Stay outta this, Dean. You’ve already done enough.”

“How’d you know I’d be here?” you croak.

“Isn’t this where you always end up?” he points out, his tone sour. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was jealous you fled here.

“What are you gonna tell mom?”

Sam shrugs. “That you were at Janey’s.”

“Th— thank you.”

“I don’t want your thanks,” he snaps, pulling out his cell. “Now I’m gonna call your mom, let her know you’re okay, and then we’re going home.”

“I’m not going back there.”

“Oh, yes you are. We’ve gotta clean up this mess,” he snarls through gritted teeth. “And get that laptop back from your brother before he finds anything else.”

You slump back against the couch, arms folded across your chest in an attempt to close yourself off, hating the way Sam’s speaking to you.

“But I wiped it,” you point out.

“Well, you didn’t do it well enough.”

“I don’t know why you’re so pissed, it’s not like he found anything that could incriminate you.”

Sam roars, swiping his fist at the nearest inanimate object, sending a lamp flying to the floor. He glares down at you, jaw set hard and firm.

“That’s not the point. You were careless enough to leave your iCloud connected, what else were you careless about, hm?”

“Dude, chill. Give her a break,” Dean interrupts, stepping between you. “The kid messed up, okay?”

“No Dean, I will not chill.” He paces up and down the lounge, one hand on his hip while the other scrapes down his beard. “Audrey is about ready to have you arrested for raping her, and I’m doing all I can to convince her not to.”

“But he didn’t. Neither of you did. I wanted this,” you argue, eyes prickling hot with tears.

“Your mother won’t see it like that,” he snaps in your direction. “Especially if she finds out I’m just as guilty.”

You look away in defiance, staring down at the floor as he and Dean continue to argue back and forth about how to proceed. Their words pinball around in your skull which just makes your head throb, and soon you can’t refrain from butting in.

“Stop,” you yell thickly. They both glance down at you, your stepfather’s features softening the moment he clocks the dampness on your cheeks. “Just— stop, please.”

Sam comes to squat at your feet, hands resting delicately on your knees. “Hey, don’t cry. I’m gonna fix this.”

The voice that escapes you is childlike and timid. “This is all my fault.”

He reaches up, thumbing away your tears gently as he flashes you a sympathetic smile, and while you know that you and Dean created this entire tangled mess, you appreciate the lie Sam feeds you, the sincerity in his voice almost convincing you otherwise. No wonder he’s one of the most successful lawyers in the city.

“Nothing could be further from the truth.”

***

Please note I have tagged you if you showed interest in the story so far. If you’d like to be taken off, please let me know.

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the-wolf-who-kissed-the-moon · 3 years

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• Lady Dimitrescu x female reader 💋

• Warnings: graphic adult content, erotica, sapphic love, vampirism, mentions of blood, mild horror elements.

glass angel, part IX.

You were floating in a silent purgatory where nothing existed but the overwhelming whirlwind of agony and erotic bliss. Your body was ablaze, and yet freezing from its core. Each inch of your virginal skin remembered the slow-dance of the vampire’s mouth, transcending the tender layers of your flesh and planting the seed of sin deep within. You weren’t dreaming.

“Alcina...”

You sang her name to the gods that brought you in the altar of her arms. She possessed an inhuman strength, an allure which made you simultaneously bloom and wither. Long nails endlessly explored the curves of your body, peeling away soft fabric until you lay nude before her. With feeble arms you embraced her as you offered yourself willingly.

Her mouth was now tame. Her lips like dark rose petals, lovingly kissing away the bruises she’d left in the aftermath of her uncontrollable hunger. You let your head fall back and she cupped your delicate nape into her large palm as long strands of your velvet mane slipped between her fingers. Slowly, she drew her parted lips along your vulnerable throat, soothing the ache from those gruesome teeth marks. Each long, sensual caress of her tongue made you quiver with a different kind of need, one which made you clench your core and press your legs together. A deep murmur reverberated in her throat as she enjoyed every drop of crimson dripping down your beautiful neck. You moaned her name in sweet, shameless surrender.

That cursed music…

It was nearly debilitating; repeated verse and tune echoing off those tall, dark walls. Yet it kept you awake, and you were grateful. Grateful to be known in such deeply intimate ways by the woman you’ve fallen prey to. Fatigued, you managed to open your eyes and look at Lady Dimitrescu as she lifted her head from your chest. The sight of her was terrifying. Her gaze had darkened with macabre intentions as she leaned closer to see you better. Your blood was on her mouth, dripping down her chin and onto your breasts. Each warm drop made you shudder as it collided with your frigid skin. A low rumble escaped her, akin to a large, predatory feline enjoying her meal. You opened your mouth to speak, yet she shushed you and drew her elegant thumb over your hollowed cheek.

“Now, now, my pretty...”

You closed your eyes obediently as she slowly caressed your jaw, so delicate and careful, as if you were made of glass. In her arms, you felt like nothing more. She embraced you, overwhelming you with her abundant rose perfume, her velvet lips pressed to the shell of your ear, murmuring.

“… we aren’t done here.”

Your sizzling core begun to pulse with arousal as Alcina’s feather-like caresses traversed the plains and curves of your navel and hips. With knees pressed together, you arched into her loving palm, unabashedly starved for her touch. But she was cruel, just as you remembered her to be, and she prolonged your suffering, languidly drawing the back of her fingers over your thighs. Your lips were parched, stinging from how hard you bit them, yet you couldn’t silence the lewd prayers which left your mouth.

The tips of her claws were like thousands of prickling needles, barely touching your skin, but even the softest brush would hurt. By instinct you parted your legs, leaving yourself completely vulnerable to the beautiful predator. The silky touch of her gloved fingers felt like heaven against your sensitive vulva. Masterful talons gently parted you soft petals, slowly drawing that sinful pleasure out of you. Your chest swelled with a deep breath and you grabbed her sturdy arms in sweet anticipation as you felt her index slide closer to your throbbing jewel. She hummed with pure delight as she eagerly explored your tender honeypot, teasing just enough to set you ablaze, and then leaving you scorched in the agony of denial.

But gods… she was skilled.

Naturally, you jerked your hips forth as she circled the source of your sweet nectar, sensually rolling the soft pads of two large fingers back and forth over your pulsing need. That slippery silk felt absolutely divine. Suddenly urged by an inexplicable, lascivious need, you grabbed a hold onto Alcina’s wrist and guided her towards your aroused clit. You were a work of art incarnate, a beautiful muse in the arms of the devil, worshipping that otherworldly carnal bliss. Blood stained your heaving chest, your legs moving seductively, and you let out the most sensual cries as pleasure filled you to the brim.

“ah ...”

The fetching vampire pressed her thumb to your blooming rosebud, gratifying your wild, erotic hunger. Her palm rested over your swollen vulva, holding you still as she pleasured you slowly. The rolling motion of her fingers quickly pushed you towards a premature orgasm, and soon, Alcina’s satisfying touches turned to agony. You weakly struggled against her knowing hand, your heart racing wildly in your chest. The line between reality and fantasies was but a blur, all of your wishes spilled from the tip of your tongue with scandalous detail. Lady Dimitrescu watched you with a malicious glint in her eyes as she devoured each sultry whisper from your mouth. Her tongue touched yours, lips met; your jaw fell open and you shamelessly indulged in the ever-flowing passion of her slow, deep kisses.

“Please…”

You implored. She caught your pretty mouth again, savoring the tender skin of your plump lips, silencing your sweet cries as she penetrated you. Large fingers carefully pushed past your chaste layers, prying open a part of you no one had explored before. It hurt, it was ecstasy; a feeling so overwhelmingly powerful you clawed at the front of her elegant dress. Her pearl necklace tore between your fingers, shimmering beads rolling down your body and onto the floor, some stained with blood, some with pleasure.

The gramophone sang louder, drowning your cries of passion as you quickly neared another climax. And then another. Darkness enveloped you, leaving you trembling all over with the fresh memory of countless orgasms.

- To be continued…

*part X.

#lady dimitrescu fanfic #lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina x reader #alcina dimitrescu #lesbian love #sapphic love #lesbian fanfic

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chemist-ana · 3 years

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Book: The Nanny Affair

Series: The Red Room

Title: Mercy

Characters: Sam, Ana Schuyler (MC)

Pairing: Sam Dalton (male) x Ana Schuyler (MC)

Rating: 18+

Content/Series Warning: NSFW, Adult Language, Trigger Warning- BDSM

Word Count: 1600

All characters belong to Pixelberry except for my OCs.

A/N: I was listening to Sickick this morning and I came across one of my favorite songs of his and BOOM this scene started playing in my mind. I guess these two were dying to get back into the red room. If you really want the whole experience, listening to this song on repeat while you read this makes it REAL and so fire. Have fun. A huge thank you for the original fic request from @txemrn for inspiring this series. Without her, the sex would be vanilla.

Listen: GOMD by Sickick

“Red room?” I whisper against his lips as we exit the elevator into the empty penthouse.

“You read my mind.” He takes a step back, bending down to pull the silk dress up and over my head. “You aren’t wearing any panties?” He lifts a brow at me.

I give him a cunning smile and his eyes darken. He steps up to me, expertly unhooking my bra and dropping it to the floor before he grabs my thighs and lifts me up into his arms. I smile against his lips as he effortlessly carries me down the hallway.

He pushes my naked back against the door, pinning me between his body and the solid wood. Our heated and impassioned kisses continue as one of his hands leaves my ass and I hear him pull the key out of his pocket. He quickly and efficiently unlocks the door without our lips breaking.

He puts his hand on my ass again, giving it a hard squeeze as I feel the atmosphere around me change. My arms are wrapped around his neck, my hands running through his thick brown curls as an involuntary moan escapes my lips. I was so incredibly turned on that I could feel the moisture pooling in between my legs.

Suddenly, I feel myself falling and I call out in surprise as my back hits the satin of the bed. My eyes open in surprise and he is standing over me. My eyes trail up his body, lingering at the bulge of his desire evident in his jeans. I bring my lower lip in between my teeth as I clench my thighs together.

“How should we play tonight?” His husky voice breaks my fantasy and my eyes fly up to his. His chocolate brown gaze has darkened to the color of obsidian, hooded and heated as he trails over my naked and exposed body. The intensity of his gaze causes all the air to leave my lungs. “Mmmm, I have an idea. Don’t move. Do you understand?”

I nod, still chewing on my lip.

“Answer me, Anastasia.” He growls.

I take a sharp breath. “Yes, sir.”

A devilish grin spreads across his face and need coils in my body.

He pulls his white t-shirt up and over his head, and I whimper at the sight of his chiseled chest and stomach. He turns around and I watch the sway of his hips and the ripple of the muscles of his back as he walks to the chest of drawers.

“Let’s try something different.” He murmurs as he walks back towards me. My eyes are focused on the intensity of his face and I gulp. “Sit up.”

I instantly comply as he removes a silk blindfold from his pocket and promptly ties it around my eyes, removing one of my senses. “Lie back.” Again, I comply, the sensation of the cool satin sheets heightened by my arousal.

I feel the bed shift under his weight and then he gently takes each of my wrists, buckling them into the leather cuffs that are on each corner of the headboard. I pull at them lightly.

“Now, Ana, I want to do something different. Do you trust me?” He takes my ear lobe between his teeth, biting softly, making my breath hitch.

“Yes.” I whisper breathlessly.

“Good girl. Now if this gets too intense, what is your safeword?”

“Red.” I whisper.

Suddenly the room goes quiet as he places a pair of headphones over my ears, removing another sense.

Not only can I not see him, but now I can’t hear him, I can barely hear the sound of my own erratic breath. I have no doubt that the moisture pooling in between my legs is leaving a mark on the sheets.

The sound of Gomd by Sickick starts playing in my ears, loud. The intense opening chant and beat makes a moan escape my lips. Holy shit. I arch my back as I sense his lips at my navel as he presses a soft kiss to my belly button. His hot breath sent goosebumps shooting across my skin. His fingertips trace across my lips and I moan again.

He trails teasing touches down my body, tracing my nipple then continuing further south. He avoids the apex of my thighs, instead sending his fingertips down the outside of my hips and along the length of my legs. My heart is beating so damn hard as my body threatens to shoot over the edge. I writhe under his delicate touch. I feel his fingers wrap around my ankle, and he buckles a cuff around one, then the other.

Then the beat drops on the song and I feel my legs suddenly spread, wide. The spreader bar. He grabs what I think is the bar and pulls me down, my arms straining above my head at the cuffs. I am completely spread-eagle and at his mercy.

I feel more whimpers escape my lips and his presence on the bed is suddenly gone.

I let my mind get consumed by the music as I anticipate what is next.

Then as if in perfect time with the song, I feel the flogger trail up my leg, across my belly, and up one of my outstretched arms. I instinctively try to close my legs as I desperately try to alleviate the building pulses in between my legs, but the bar prevents me from moving, even a little. Then as quickly as it came, it was gone. The heady combination of the music with my senses being blinded are sending me to a place I have never imagined.

He trails the flogger up the length of my body again, this time he stops and teases at my breasts. My skin tickles at the touch and I arch my back. The flogger is suddenly gone, and as the song reaches a climax, he cracks it down hard across my belly.

I cry out. The sensation of sweet agony sending a fresh wave of desire through my entire body.

He must be listening to the same song.

He does it again, but this time across my breasts. He continues to rain down blows that make me moan and cry out with each beat of the song. My body surrenders to the darkness, as a mixture of pain and pleasure take me to a place of erotic heaven.

The song slows to an end and so does the beat of the leather frondes from the flogger.

I can faintly hear my erratic and wild breathing. The yearning I have is filling every fiber of my being.

The song starts again, and I feel the bed shift next to me. Again with the perfect rhythm of the song, I feel his tongue at my hardened nipple, licking and swirling around one while his fingers tease the other one. I groan as again, the combination of the song and his erotic touches bring me closer and closer to an escape.

I am lost, lost to him, lost to the music.

Completely at your mercy.

The chants continue in my ear as he makes his way lower, kissing and licking his way down my stomach, halting briefly at my navel. I arch my back into his touch and I feel his lips turn up in a smile. Then his mouth is finally where I need it the most. I throw my head back as his tongue finds my clit, he bites it softly, eliciting a deep, throaty, moan. My orgasm is within reach as he laps at my wetness. Then he stops.

I let out a breath.

And the song ends and starts, again.

The bed shifts and I feel his breath against my lips and I feel his rock hard cock teasing at my entrance. In perfect tune with the song I am suddenly filled with him, his cock slamming into me, hard. I cry out. But he doesn’t move.

“God, Sam!” I plead.

He starts to move, slowly. So fucking slow. In perfect time with the song, in and out. I feel his labored breath against my lips and I throw my head back as moan after moan escapes my lips.

As the song climaxes so does the thrust of his hips. He starts moving faster and his lips capture mine. His kisses are heated as our tongues dance together, I can taste my arousal. I cry out as my body falls into the most earth shattering orgasm I have ever experienced. Every single one of my nerve endings are on fire as I feel my release in every single part of my body. I cry out as he continues to pump in and out of me, his unrelenting thrusts only extending the blinding pleasure that is filling me. I feel his release as his warmth spreads into me and he stills.

I feel him collapse on the bed next to me and he gently removes the headphones from my ears and the mask from my eyes. I blink in the dim light into his stormy brown eyes.

“Holy shit.” I whisper and his pure and satisfied smile spreads across his handsome face.

“That’s putting it mildly.” His voice husky as he lets out a small chuckle. He stretches to undo my wrists from the cuffs, and he rubs up and down my arms as he lowers them down to the bed. I watch as he takes such gentle care of my body, removing the spreader bar from my ankles.

My breathing slowly comes back to normal. He spreads his body next to mine and I crawl towards him, resting my cheek on the strong planes of his chest. I listen to the strong and fast beat of his heart.

“That was incredible, Sam.”

“You are incredible, Ana.” He runs his hand through my loose hair.

I close my eyes.

Heaven.

Please let me know if you want to be taken off any NSFW fics in the future- I am just using my fic tag list!

Fic Tag list: @txemrn @secretaryunpaid @pixie88 @thefrenchiemama @sfb123 @mainstreetreader @shewillreadyou @khoicesbyk @lady-calypso @choicesficwriterscreations @somersetmummy @melalicious8383 @chrissythadon @shannonwrote @jerzwriter @kat-tia801 @thefirstcourtesan @shanzay44 @queenrileyrose @forallthatitsworth

#the nanny affair #tna sam dalton #tnansfw #choices fanfic writers creations #choices stories we play #choices tna #choicestna #choices sam dalton #m!sam dalton #m!sam x mc

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uwua3 · 3 years

Note

hi bunnie!!! i’m simping over juza again (but when am i not) so may i request some soft juza dating hc’s?? anything is fine 🥺👉👈 ilysm 💕

hi, mel~ ♡ i hope you’re doing well! :D i know you’re a fan of genshin impact, so i hope you enjoy this !!! <333 this isn’t as #Soft as i wanted, but i hope it makes you smile regardless 🥺 i love you lots !!! so does juza~ ´͈ ᵕ `͈ ♡°◌̊ (ahhh can you ever date a fatui harbringer though? hopefully some day TT)

summary: before juza leaves, he gives you a dream he will defend until the end

warnings: genshin impact spoilers(?), mentions of death

author’s note: no, i will not elaborate on why i have this extreme association of juza with childe. please do not ask me, as i will write *too much*. however, for any of my a3! genshin fans, please enjoy this piece for 11th fatui harbringer, hyodo juza! (there are no MAJOR spoilers for childe’s story—just his personality/family relations!)

+ i do NOT ship childe/traveller !!! childe is a young adult while traveller is canonically a teenager, i do not support the actual ship itself. please note juza is 18 in this writing :)

word count: 1,566

music: who are you, really? – mikky ekko, killer – the ready set

until we meet again, in snezhnaya.

🍁🍰 hyodo juza

They call Hyodo Juza, “Defender of Childhood Dreams”.

Because if you make a promise, you keep it. If you make a mistake, you apologize. If you give someone a dream, you defend it ‘til the end.

Despite always being away from his home country of Snezhnaya, Juza found himself keeping his word no matter where he went. As one of the older brothers of the Hyodo household, Juza could clearly remember his younger siblings’ tears as he departed all those years ago.

“Toymakers go all around the world for the best toys! I’ll send home lots of gifts, promise.” Juza swore on his life before disappearing away in the snow, wielding the emblem of the Fatui at eighteen.

“Brother Kumon, I will be home soon. I will take the first ship home, just as I promised—and you know how I always keep my promises.”

Yours faithfully, Your loyal knight

Juza sits in Liyue now, the ink staining the parchment against his will as he carefully signs his name. Gifts of all kinds sat beside him, such as kites, rattle drums, porcelain dolls, and snacks. After all, Juza did make a promise to send gifts. His younger brother, Kumon, deserved the best.

Before Juza could remember the chill of the snow down his spine and the numbing cold of frostbite he hadn’t felt in so long, the surface of his tea became unevenly rippled. At a distance, Juza could already tell it was you. Your rather odd companion, Paimon, could be sighted a mile away with how loud she was. On the other hand, you attentively listened as you stood out amongst the crowds.

Placing his quill down, Juza placed a pleasant smile upon his face. For a second, Snezhnaya disappeared. The frozen binding of his loyalty to her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, melted to reveal a heart longing for you to turn your head.

Even if it was for a moment, Juza’s head cleared of it all. His family waiting for him to conquer the world, his brother awaiting his latest toys, the expectation of laying all seven stars upon the Cryo Archon’s feet. All of it disappeared and all that was left was your face.

Honorary knight of Mondstadt. Hero that slayed Dvalin, or Stormterror. Lost twin looking for your sibling across Teyvat. You, a person from a different world, had made Juza forget why he had been fighting. Ever since he was fourteen, Juza fought tooth and nail just to survive. Now, Juza almost felt like he didn’t have to even move a finger as you met his eyes and returned his smile.

Juza would go through the abyss again, for three years even, to keep that smile.

When you walked over to his table of one, Juza lifted his hand in a wave as he called your name. Like you two were just friends, and nothing more. However, friends... wasn’t enough, not for Juza.

“Finally! My only worthy opponent, have you come for another fight?” Juza half-joked, his voice betraying his rumbling excitement and passion to be beaten once again. You always managed to gain the upper hand despite everything, and the rush of feeling like he was about to die gave him a thrill like no other.

But, you just shook your head as Paimon rolled her eyes, crossing her little arms mid-air. “Gosh, Juza, all you think about is fighting!” Juza held his hands up as if he surrended (he never actually would) and rested his hand on his spear, feeling the cool metal. Juza could imagine the electric sensation of his delusion, crackling for a fight regardless.

Only you could get him so worked up, Juza thought.

“No, I. . .” You trailed off, pausing to look away. The lowering sunset reflected in your eyes, like waves of Liyue’s harbor. Juza watched as your heart beat faster, uncertain, which was strange for such a renown legend in the making. Finally, you met his eyes with the confidence he knew and loved.

“I wanted to see you again before you left Liyue.” You honestly admitted and Juza let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The bustling merchants of the city of contracts continued to thrive around the two. Carts of many merchandises wheeled past them, children ran by making up fantasies beyond the ocean, and business never stopped as trade went on and on. This was Liyue at its finest, and Juza was sure he’d miss it. Or, more specifically, you.

“Really? Perhaps I’ll have to take you home to my family one day. In the snowy hills where everything is cold.” Juza spoke like he was telling a story, as if he was speaking to Kumon back in their one-room hut. As if the snowflakes were in their hair, gloves keeping their hands functional, and makeshift fire was burning weakly between them. You seemed to change, posture weakening as if you were... safe.

You relaxed and didn’t have that subconscious to fight, not when you were with Juza. While you and Juza were two opposite ends of the spectrum, you two had one similarity that bound you together: being born into a life where fighting was the only option. Your hand that always hovered above your weapon fell to your side, and you took a seat across from Juza.

Juza, eleventh Harbringer of the Fatui, feared by all for his chaotic wild card battles. Yet, here he was, writing back home and drinking tea with a traveller who had done the impossible. You made him feel like putting down his weapons and running away, you made him want a second chance at life. As long as it was with you. Only you.

“Snezhnaya... tell me about it.” You said and Juza’s fingers twitched. Visions flew by his mind rapidly, mostly unpleasant and hard to speak of at a place like this. Juza wouldn’t dare tell you about the droughts of hunger when the war left the people to fend for themselves, the iced-over corpses serving as markings in the mountains, nor the everlasting pine trees that spoke of disaster with each collapse. Juza couldn’t say it, not when you were looking at him so wholeheartedly.

“My favorite thing to do is ice-fishing.” Juza started and launched into a whirlwind of his number one hobby. Spoke of the early morning hours cutting holes into thick layers of ice, wobbly legs shaking on the large expanse of the frozen lake, and sitting in silence as wildlife swam beneath them. Juza told you about the spike of adrenaline when he could feel the ice crack haphazardly, the jagged splits uncommon but exciting every time. When Juza shared his most beloved memories, he couldn’t help but feel the Snezhnayan cold with the closest possible feeling to joy.

You listened once again, face pensive and eyes focused on Juza’s hand motions, content tone, and honesty above all. You could almost see the nameless lake, the snow banks, the shadows of fish. You exhaled, and despite the warm atmosphere of Liyue, you swore you could see your breath solidify as if it was Dragonspine.

When Juza closed off his story with a smile, you spoke without a care in the world. As if your sibling wasn’t missing. As if you didn’t have to find all seven archons. As if the fate of Teyvat wasn’t upon your shoulders. Right now, it was just you and Juza. Juza and you.

“When I come to see you in Snezhnaya, I want to have your best fish dish.”

Juza propped his elbow upon the table, before holding his pinky out. You took it with your own, and Juza shot you a wink of many unsaid words. A contract, if you will. Fitting for Liyue.

“It’s a promise. You know I always love testing my limits for my opponents.”

If you make a promise, you keep it.

Juza pulled back first, as he always did. Standing up, Juza paid the bill generously with his excessive Mora. The words “goodbye” left a spicy taste on his tongue, so Juza refused to say them. You two held each other’s gaze for a moment too long, but didn’t mention it.

“I’m sorry for leaving you so soon.”

If you make a mistake, you apologize.

You didn’t react immediately, you just nodded as if it was okay. It wasn’t, really. You both knew Juza’s sudden departure was shrouded in unknown mystery. Neither of you had the courage to properly address it, however.

“But, I’ll see you again. I promised, didn’t I?” Juza began walking away, knowing he was due to leave and run far, far away to his next assignment. Liyue had no place for him anymore. Even when the stars of Teyvat claimed there would always be a place for adventurers, Juza wasn’t so sure if they meant him as well.

All you wanted to do was run after him. Sprint towards Juza and make him stay, even though he never would. You wanted to stand up and weave through the crowds to see his back one last time. But, you didn’t. You didn’t want to make this harder on yourself than it already was.

Before Juza disappeared for a long, long time, he looked over his shoulder with a wave.

“Farewell, my friends. Until we meet again... in Snezhnaya.”

If you give someone a dream, you defend it ‘til the end.

#hyodo juza #juza hyodo #a3! act! addict! actors!#a3!#act! addict! actors!#a3! one shots #act! addict! actors! one shots #a3! actor training game #mankai a3!#mankai company #a3! x reader #a3 x reader #juza x reader #a3! juza #a3 juza #genshin impact

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hopelessromanticspoonie · 4 years

Text

Make Believe

Masterlist here

This is for @peterman-spideyparker‘s writing challenge! My prompt was: “Who said we were pretending?” I’m still super rusty, but I’m decently happy with this. I hope y’all enjoy!

Warnings: Kissing. A bit of purple prose.

“Friday, go ahead and send out for double everything of my last order. Chips, sugar, flour, all of it. I greatly underestimated the Asgardian appetite.”

“We are quite demanding and insatiable. Do you think yourself up to the task?”

Your head shot up and whipped around at the rich, silken voice directed from over your shoulder. Loki grinned down at you, entirely too close so that you could smell the cedar and cinnamon of his cologne, before stepping to your side to eye the tray of chocolate chip cookies you had just taken out of the oven.

His hand reached out to the nab a steaming cookie. With a forceful shake of your head, you reached out and smacked it lightly. “They aren’t ready yet.”

If you had thought that the menacing, intimidating, badass God of Mischief and Looking-Fierce-While-Throwing-Daggers couldn’t pout, well, he proved you wrong. The god had puppy dog eyes like you wouldn’t believe, and he directed them toward you with his lips curling in just the tiniest hint of wickedness.

Damn, he was dangerous.

“You did promise as many cookies as I could consume in the span of one month. It is still within that timeframe, and I require what was promised. Unless you would prefer to attend the wedding alone...”

You immediately stepped away from the tray, holding your hands up in surrender. “Fine. Take them, Mischief.”

The thought of attending your cousin’s wedding alone was threat enough. The constant hounding from your family about your perpetual bare finger was enough to make you turn to your Avenger coworkers begging for someone to get the heat off of your back. Everyone else was already taken or busy, which left the Prince currently eyeing your cookies like he had terrible things planned for them.

And you had to admit, he was the perfect choice to accompany you, mischief or not. From his smooth manners, to his delicious voice that secretly made you weak at the knees, to his impeccable fashion sense, he was going to make your family shut the hell up. At least for one day. And then when they were sufficiently charmed he was going to disappear from their lives and leave with you with more questions that you couldn’t answer. Only about him, this time, and not some random stranger who picked you up over thumping bass music or in the morning line for coffee.

“Tomorrow at two in the afternoon, correct?”

His question, asked just before he popped an entire cookie into his mouth, pulled you from your thoughts. You blinked and looked up at him, processing for a moment, before nodding. “Yup. Black tie.”

He pulled a plate out of thin air and dumped all the cookies onto it, nodding at you and walking away with a quick, “Until then.”

You groaned, scrubbing your hands over your face. “Friday, make that triple.”

“Bethany is going to be so pissed at me.”

“Whatever for?”

You propped your hands up on your hips, dragging your eyes over his lean form by way of explanation. Where the Asgardian Prince put all of those cookies you’d churned out for him, you hadn’t a clue, but it certainly wasn’t in the long legs artfully encased in perfectly fitted black trousers, or the hint of rigid muscles of his torso that teased you when he twisted to stand in front of you, stepping close so each breath brushed the soft fabric of your dress against his shirt. Your eyes landed on arms so strong they filled out the sleeves of his tuxedo jacket wonderfully, as if the jacket were made for him. Which, knowing how much Stark paid him for cleaning up the team’s messes, it probably was.

When he simply quirked an elegant brow down at you and slowly wrapped his arms around your back, as if not to startle you, you sighed and shook your head. Like he didn’t know that he was sex on two legs in that tuxedo. The man owned a mirror.

“Because you’re definitely going to upstage the groom in that suit.”

His quiet laughter was low and dark in your ear, just before he clutched you tightly and the telltale rush of frigid air over your bare arms told of his taking you to the venue.

You had been right, of course. Loki was earning jealous stares from both men and women, none moreso than the green-laced glare from the bride during the reception. It had you grinning at Loki a bit wider, holding onto his arm a little bit tighter, and your heart beating just a bit faster in your chest whenever he would direct his full, rapt attention to you for a side bit of conversation.

“I was promised cake, as well. When is that part of the festivities?”

You nudged his leg underneath the table, hidden by the white tablecloth, and rolled your eyes. “I swear you have a one-track mind.”

The look he directed into your eyes, flaring with heat behind a piercing emerald gaze, sucked all of the moisture from your throat. His smirk spoke of sins you’d willingly commit if it meant learning the reason for the sparkle in his stare. “Oh, darling, I assure you that there is much more sweetness to be had tonight besides the cake.”

Clearing your throat, you ran your hands overtop your hair, smoothing away imaginary flyaways, and pointed at the newlywed couple walking over the dessert table. “They’re cutting it now.”

After he was sated with sweets, shooting the occasional question about Midgardian wedding traditions your way - Why did they do something so humiliating as the garter toss - you watched the couples dancing to thumping house music on the dance floor. It wasn’t to your taste, especially not in the daylight where everyone could see you flailing wildly in an attempt at dancing.

But when a slower number came on, an old crooner that reached into your heart with his lyrics and plucked the strings there expertly, a long, large hand appeared in front of your face.

“I grow bored. Dance with me.”

It was a demand, not a question. But the tilt of his brow and the small smile on his lips quieted any outrage that was about to rise within you at being ordered around. Your hand fit into his well, large and calloused around small and soft, and you followed him into the center of the dance floor as gracefully as you could manage.

“I’m not the best dancer…”

His hand slipped underneath your arm to splay across your back just beneath your shoulder blade, and the other held yours delicately. Holding your gaze, he led you into a graceful dance that you wouldn’t even know the name of, spinning you both around the dance floor on a veritable cloud. You lost yourself in the moment, matching his pleased smile as you fell into the temporary fantasy of dancing with the handsome Prince, decked out to the nines, for a reason other than to assuage his boredom and sell a ruse that was hurting your heart more than helping.

It was the curse of attending a wedding without a romantic partner. The happiness that radiated from the couple turned sour as soon as it reached you, irritating and cold as it settled over your skin in a thin film you couldn’t shake. Envy pulsed through your veins like a poison, and the excellent acting skills of Loki didn’t help matters. The press of his lips to your forehead when you were talking with some friends, the touch of his hand over the small of your back, the warmth in his eyes and smile as he brushed a bit of hair behind your ear and allowed his hand to linger on the soft skin of your neck.

It was the taste of forbidden fruit that would linger on your tongue for far too long after the night was over.

Eventually, the song switched to a faster number, something definitely not his style, and you stilled on the edge of the writhing and jumping crowd. The tension between you was agony, the look in his eyes undecipherable, and you squeezed his hand gently.

“Thanks, for this. For pretending so I could have one night in peace.”

It wasn’t peace. It was hell masquerading as a good time with soft midnight hair and a knowing smile. But he didn’t need to know that.

His eyes searched yours for a moment that lasted an eternity. You couldn’t have moved from the spot if the world fell apart around you, for his arresting gaze. Slowly, Loki’s hands came up to cup the sides of your neck and his thumbs dragged along the edge of your jaw to tilt your chin up to him. Yours fell to your sides, digging into the dress around your thighs for any sense of reality you could grasp. Just the faintest hint of his racing pulse was visible over the collar of his crisp white shirt., matching yours as your breath panted out into the chilled air between you.

The champagne you had both sipped throughout the evening was sweet on his surprisingly soft mouth as it pressed into yours. Seeking, questioning, the kiss lingered as you learned the pliant give and take of his lips to the tune of your heart roaring in your ears. Every hope you had of maintaining a professional relationship with the god clattered to the ground and shattered at your feet with the tease of his tongue on your bottom lip before he pulled away, looking down at you with a touch of anxiety tightening the skin between his brows after your eyes had blinked open.

“Who said we were pretending?”

~~~

Little Bit o’ Loki taglist: @myownviperroom @darealbellabelleoftheball @boubouinscarlet @iamverity @rt8815 @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore @ms-cellanies @rosierossette @thathedonistgirl @lokixme @hellethil @myraiswack @birdgirl90

Whole Shebang taglist: @just-the-hiddles @yespolkadotkitty @nonsensicalobsessions @vodka-and-some-sass @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @brokenthelovely @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian @toozmanykids @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius @sabine-leo @lovesmesomehiddles @peterman-spideyparker @wegingerangelica @bluefrenchfries604 @catsladen @snoopy3000 @silverswordthekilljoy @villainousshakespeare @kitkatd7 @nonbinarylowkey @lots-of-loki

#peterman-spideyparker2020 #kristen2020 #loki x reader #loki fluff #loki fanfic #loki #loki fanfiction #loki likes sweets #hopelesswrites #make believe #fake dating

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livesincerely · 4 years

Text

you only have to ask (i’d give you absolutely anything)

Also on Ao3. Rated E

00000

“Hey there, beautiful.” Davey turns towards the source of the voice: a stocky blond in a pair of cargo shorts. He waves his hand at a small stretch of unclaimed space at Davey’s right. “Mind if I grab the spot next to you?”

“Um, no, go ahead.” Davey moves over slightly to make room but the stranger steps confidently into Davey’s space with a cocky, flirtatious grin.

“You’re new here, right?” the guy says, giving Davey an obvious once over. “I mean, I haven’t seen you around before and I’d’ve noticed a pair of eyes as pretty as yours.”

“I just moved in yesterday,” Davey confirms, blushing despite himself at such a blatant come on. “I’m David.”

“David, huh?” The stranger chuckles, trailing his fingers along Davey’s arm, then cupping a hand around Davey’s elbow. “And why’s a guy as good looking as you standing here all by himself?”

“Do you know Jack Kelly?” Davey asks, still trying to decide how he feels about the unexpected attention. “He’s supposed to be showing me around but I lost him somewhere in the crowd. Figured I’d post up someplace visible and wait for him to find me.” Davey finishes his drink, then throws his empty cup into a lone trash bag hanging off the back of a fold-up chair. “The fact that all the booze is here is just a convenient coincidence.”

Davey flashes the guy a grin but he doesn’t seem to share in the humor. Actually, his eyes have gone incredibly wide, a look of sudden comprehension sweeping across his face.

“Wait, David— Davey?” He snatches his hand back like Davey’s skin has turned scalding hot. “You’re Kelly’s Davey?”

Davey frowns. “I guess? I mean, I didn’t know he’d talked about me—“

The stranger’s eyes catch on something just over Davey’s shoulder, then he takes a large, deliberate step away. Davey turns to look, but a part of him already knows what he’s going to find.

Sure enough, it’s Jack. He making his way across the room at a steady clip, not hindered at all by the crowd of bodies between him and his goal, his gaze fixed unerringly on the guy standing next to Davey. He looks absolutely furious.

Davey’s breath hitches in his throat.

“Whoa, Kelly, sorry, I didn’t realize—“

Jack steps between them, positioning himself so that Davey is slightly behind him and decisively out of the stranger’s grasp. There’s an edge to his expression, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Don’t fucking touch him.”

The stranger backs even further away, his hands raised in surrender. Davey thinks he must disappear into the crowd but he’s honestly not watching, too distracted by the way Jack’s chest is heaving, by the fierce set of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw.

“Fucking asshole,” Jack fumes. “He’s lucky I didn’t knock his damn teeth out, always prowling around and never knowing when to back the fuck off. He shouldn’t have put his fucking his hands on you.”

The words fall out of Davey’s mouth before he can stop them. “Why not?”

This seems to shock Jack out of his anger. “What?” he asks, brow furrowed.

“Why not?” Davey repeats, meeting Jack’s gaze, chin tilted up in challenge. There’s a warmth rising up Davey’s belly: years of longing finally kindled by a combination of alcohol and the undeniable spark of Jack’s jealousy. “Why shouldn’t he put his hands on me?”

Jack’s gaze is a hot, heady thing. Davey imagines he can feel the weight of it sweeping over him, catching on the planes of his cheeks, the line of his throat. He licks his lips, just a quick little flick of the tongue; Jack’s eyes follow the motion and linger.

“Eventually someone’s going to,” Davey continues, stepping forward until he and Jack are standing almost chest to chest. “If not him then someone else.”

He reaches out and draws a finger down the side of Jack’s neck, scratching lightly at Jack’s pulse point as he goes. Jack swallows audibly, perfectly still except for his hands, which flex and clench erratically—like he’s using all his self control to keep them at his sides.

“Does that bother you, Jack?” Davey asks, soft but pointed. They’re teetering on the brink now: any action could be the one that topples them over the edge. “That someone’s going to have me? That someone else is going to touch me?”

Davey leans ever so slightly closer. “That I might want them to?”

“Dave,” Jack finally growls out, a warning and a plea. It sends a shiver of delight down Davey’s spine. “Davey, what’re you—”

“Jack,” Davey breathes, looking at Jack through his eyelashes. “Put your fucking hands on me.”

Jack moves like a dam bursting, grabbing Davey’s hips and shoving him back up against the nearest wall. Their bodies are plastered together, every inch of Davey molded against every inch of Jack, and the heat between their bodies is almost unbearable because Davey has wanted this, has asked for this, but he’d never dreamed that Jack would actually give it to him.

“There,” Jack says. His forehead rests against Davey’s, their lips only inches apart. “Got any other requests for me, sweetheart?”

The endearment almost seems to hit Davey like a physical blow—the low rasp of Jack voice and the simmering heat in his eyes are a merciless combination—and Davey has to bite back a whimper.

“I think you should kiss me,” Davey says, already dizzy with desire. “I want you to kiss me, and then I want everything you’re willing to give me because jesus, Jack—”

Jack’s eyes go impossibly dark, and then they’re kissing, Jack’s mouth moving hard and desperate against his own. It’s better than Davey could have ever imagined, the hot press of Jack’s lips and the rough slide of his tongue. Jack’s hands drift up, catching against the hem of Davey’s shirt then slipping underneath, palming greedily at the bare skin of Davey’s back. The touch makes Davey shudder and pant, and his hands curl against the collar of Jack’s shirt, the fabric bunching up as he clings to him.

“Jack,” Davey moans as Jack ducks his head and starts blazing a trail down the side of Davey’s neck, wet and searing. “Jack, oh my god⁠—”

“Is this what you wanted, Dave?” Jack’s voice rumble’s right in Davey’s ear, his teeth scraping against Davey’s skin. “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?”

Davey gasps and trembles. Sweetheart.

“Yes,” Davey eventually gets out. “Fuck, Jackie, can I⁠— can we⁠—”

“Tell me what you want, Davey,” Jack orders, and one of his hands moves to curl under Davey’s thigh, the other a hot brand against the small of his back. “You gotta give me your words, I gotta hear you say it.”

“I already told you,” Davey pants, fingers digging into Jack’s shoulders as he melts into him. “Everything. Anything.”

Jack groans somewhere deep in his chest, then kisses him again, messy and frantic. “Shit, Dave, are we actually⁠—”

“Take me back to the dorm,” Davey says. The party is still in full swing, drunken chatter and bass-heavy music pulsing all around them, but Davey only has eyes for Jack. Always for Jack. “Take me back to the dorm and fuck me like you mean it.”

Jack makes a noise⁠: a throaty, involuntary little keen. His expression is a mix of awed disbelief and simmering lust. “Jesus Christ, Davey, where the hell is this⁠— I’d give you anything, anything you ask me for, but are you sure you want to⁠— Are you sure you want me to⁠—”

Davey stops that line of thought in its tracks with another biting kiss. “I want you. Jackie, I want you.” He gives Jack a considering look, then lets his gaze wander away. “But if you don’t want to, I can go hunt down the guy from earlier—he seemed plenty interested before you scared him away.”

Immediately, Jack’s lip curls up in something like a snarl, his expression shading dark and possessive once again. It’s exhilarating.

“Are you tryin' to provoke me?” Jack grinds out. His grip has tightened to just this side of bruising.

“It it working?” Davey breathlessly asks.

Jack’s fingers close around Davey’s wrist and the next thing he knows Jack’s dragging him through the crowd and out of the frat house, only letting him go when they come up to Jack’s car. The journey home passes in a blur. Jack drives like a mad man, knuckles white with how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel, and between one moment and the next they’re pulling up to Jack’s dorm.

Jack’s hands are shaking as he works his key into the deadbolt, cursing under his breath as he wrestles the door open. He ushers Davey inside and kicks the door closed with his foot, but before he can get his bearings Davey shoves him up against it.

Their next kiss is absolutely filthy, all tongues and teeth and frenzied heat sparking between them.

“Off, off,” Davey says, tugging at the bottom of Jack’s t-shirt. Their lips separate just long enough for Jack to wrestle his shirt off, then clash back together.

They move clumsily towards Jack’s bed, neither one willing to let go of the other long enough to cross more easily. Davey pushes Jack down onto the mattress, then climbs on top of him, his thighs bracketing Jack’s hips.

“Holy shit, Davey, I can’t⁠— Is this real?” Jack groans, watching with wide, wide eyes as Davey pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, then settles himself more firmly in Jack's lap. “Or did I drink too much and pass out under a coffee table somewhere?”

“If this is a dream, I’m going to be incredibly upset when I wake up,” Davey answers, rocking his hips down against Jack’s until they’re both gasping at the friction. “Yes, Jack⁠—”

“God, this is like somethin’ straight out of my dirtiest fantasies,” Jack says, his hands splayed wide and possessive around Davey’s ribcage. “You at the party, looking up at me all pissed off and gorgeous, desperate for my hands on you. Fuck, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted you.”

“Tell me,” Davey demands, cupping a hand around the back of Jack’s neck and leaning in to slot their mouths together in another passionate kiss. “Tell me how long you’ve wanted me.”

“I’ve… wanted you⁠... for ages,” Jack pants against Davey's mouth, his hands shifting down to wrap around Davey’s waist and pull their bodies even closer together. “Like, since junior prom, if not earlier. I saw Lonnie Vega groping your ass in the middle of the gym during the slow dance and hadta stop myself from breaking his nose.”

“I’ve wanted you since the summer after sophomore year,” Davey replies, fingers curling in Jack’s hair. “You got drunk at Amy Nelson’s pool party and told me I had the most stupidly pretty eyes in the entire universe.”

Davey bites his lip, then confesses, “I almost climbed into your lap right then and there.”

Jack’s hands spasm against Davey’s skin, then clamp down even harder around Davey’s hips. “Fucking fuck. You can’t just—”

That’s all the warning Davey gets before Jack flips them, leaving Davey flat on his back with Jack cradled between his thighs. Jack pulls him into an absolutely scorching kiss, devouring his mouth so thoroughly that Davey can’t do anything except hold on and let him, until he’s a breathless, pliant mess sprawled across the bed sheets.

Jack’s tears himself away, his fingers fumbling at his fly. Davey goes to do the same to his own and second later they’re tangled together⁠ again, this time with the intoxicating slide of bare skin against bare skin.

“Jack,” Davey whimpers after several long moments of kissing and touching. “Jack, I want⁠—”

“I know, sweetheart,” Jack says. “I gotcha.”

Jack pulls away to dig around in the drawer of his nightstand⁠ and Davey feels the loss of Jack’s body heat, of Jack’s weight pressing him down into the mattress, like an ache in his chest. Jack comes back with a condom and a bottle of lube, which he quickly uncaps and drizzles over his fingers.

“Yeah?” Jack says, looking to Davey for permission.

“Yeah, Jack, just hurry up⁠ and—” The rest of Davey’s words dissolve into a throaty sigh as the first of Jack’s fingers presses inside of him. “Mmmmm, yes.”

“God, Davey, you’re perfect like this,” Jack murmurs, expression reverent. “So perfect for me.”

It’s overwhelming⁠—the gravitational pull of Jack’s gaze, the protective cage of his body over Davey’s⁠, the incredible feeling of Jack’s finger stretching him open. Jack bends down to kiss him as he works a second finger inside and Davey’s arms come up to loop around Jack’s neck to keep him there, desperate for something to anchor him in the wash of sensations.

When Jack curls his fingers up and finally brushes against Davey’s prostate, Davey throws his head back with a choking moan, his nails digging into Jack’s shoulders as he writhes and shakes. Jack zeros in on that spot with a single minded focus, a third finger slipping in as his movements speed up, and Davey nearly sobs with how good it all feels.

“Jack,” Davey begs. “Jackie, that’s enough, come on.”

Jack presses a kiss to the inside of Davey’s knee, then tears open the condom and rolls it into place. Davey tilts his hips up for a better angle and the tip of Jack’s dick rubs directly over his hole, causing them both to moan. Then Jack finally presses forward, filling Davey in one careful, fluid movement, and Davey almost can’t breathe with how much he wants this.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Jack hisses as he bottoms out, his hips sitting flush against Davey’s ass. He’s biting his lip so hard it looks like he might draw blood, his eyes blown out with desire. “You feel so damn good.”

“Jack,” Davey whimpers. He squirms a little, impatient and longing for more, then wraps his legs around Jack’s waist to draw him even closer. The adjustment causes Jack’s dick to sink that much deeper inside him, and Davey’s mouth parts around a strung-out whine. “Jack, fuck me.”

Jack’s response is a full-body shudder. “I⁠— shit, yeah, okay.”

He pulls out the barest amount, then slowly thrusts back in, starting to work up into a steady pace. Davey’s hands scrabble against Jack’s back, each grind of Jack’s hips sending bolts of pleasure shooting down his spine, and Jack leans down and slants his mouth across Davey’s in another kiss⁠—full of emotion, full of promise.

And it’s amazing, it’s more than amazing, but there’s something that Davey wants, and Jack said he’d give him anything if he just asked for it it.

“I thought you were going to fuck me like you mean it,” Davey gasps out between thrusts.

Jack’s hips stutter, then still. “...What?” he breathes.

“You heard me,” Davey says, though he can’t help but squirm a little, feeling a hot blush spread across his cheeks. “Fuck me like you fucking mean it.”

Jack stares at him, and the expression on his face is like nothing Davey’s ever seen.

“David,” Jack says in a voice like gravel⁠⁠—one final warning.

Davey lets his arms stretch over his head, his head tilted in offering. He looks up at Jack from under his eyelashes and murmurs, “Please?”

Jack snaps. His next thrust has enough power behind it that it threatens to send Davey’s head slamming into the wall above to the bed. Jack sets a brutal pace, driving into Davey hard and fast, and Davey cries out, clawing at Jack’s shoulders, helpless to do anything except feel as Jack thoroughly wrecks him.

“You never know when to stop pushing me, do you sweetheart?” Jack growls out, his words punctuated by a rough, dirty grind of his hips. Davey bucks and keens. “I’m so damn weak for you⁠—you can’t even imagine how much I want you, how much I need you.”

“Jack,” Davey sobs. “Yes, yes, yes, fuck⁠—”

“So fucking gorgeous,” Jack continues, and Davey thinks he can feel the words dragging over his skin, can feel the grit of each and every syllable. “Had every single person at that damn party staring at you and didn’t even notice. Made me wanna mark up your neck just so everyone knew not to fucking touch you.”

Jack bends down to draw the flat of his tongue across Davey’s collarbones, then bites down on the juncture between his neck and shoulder, his hips still pistoning in and out, in and out. “Because no one’s supposed to touch you but me, isn’t that right David?” He circles his hips, then snaps them forward, the head of his dick hitting right against Davey’s prostate. “No one’s hands but mine.”

And Davey can barely speak through the fire racing through him, can barely think through the sheer ecstasy of it all, but he manages to babble out, “Yes, Jack, just you, only you, god, please don’t stop⁠—”

“Mine,” Jack growls. “Mine.”

He reaches between them to wrap a hand around Davey leaking, neglected dick and Davey vision whites out, back arching high off the bed as he comes hard against Jack’s stomach. He comes back to himself just in time to watch as Jack follows him over the edge, his rhythm faltering as his orgasm washes over him.

They stay right where they are for several long moments afterwards, just breathing together. Then Jack says, quietly but full of feeling, “Anything you want. All you have to do is ask.”

Davey kisses him one more time, chaste and sweet. “I want everything,” he promises. “Everything you want to give me.”

#newsies #jack kelly #davey jacobs #javid #*final cut #*the writing desk #*editor's note #Tease series #tada more possessive jack #i don't have a reason for this except that i wanted it #i absolutely wrote this for me but hopefully some of yall like it too

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mimiwrites2000 · 4 years

Text

Betrayal

Aruani week 2020 - Day 2 - Betrayal

AO3 ~~

Pairings: Armin x Annie

Rating: Mature

Words count: 4223

Summary:

They met in an alley, a narrow, foul-smelling passageway, in the middle of a cold night

A few months later, he found himself walking to that place, the place where his life crumbled and was reborn, and just like last time, she was waiting for him.

a journey of lies and deception, desires and emotions

He walked down the street, one street-light bulb was flickering on and off with blips. Loud, tall buildings contouring both sides of the road, fluorescent squares of college students’ rooms queued in lines, inundating the moon’s light. The music gashing from cheap speakers leached out from the opened windows, belching ear-deafening tunes by another random mainstream singer, disturbing the serene night. The startling, overabundant alcohol aroma could be smelled from where he stood, mixed with a suspicious scent of sweat and other things he didn’t want to think about.

It was surreal how this exact same place, a few months ago, was vacant, deserted, abandoned enough to commit a crime and get away with it, a perfect place to find a victim bleeding to death.

He turned right and stepped into an alley, so narrow, invisible to anyone who didn’t know it existed, dumpsters crammed in crocked lines, a black cat jumped from one, sneering at the unwanted invader. A tiny circle of an igniting orange made him aware that he wasn’t alone, that yet again, she was here before him.

“You’re late,” she said, letting out a breath of smoke, he smelled strawberry, adding another aroma to the blend, this type of cigarettes that he never heard of before, with fruity flavors, masking these deathly pillars with sweet, sweet aromas, feigning a compelling innocence.

“I’m not, you’re just early,” he retorted, stepping towards her. Red cascades leaked through the cracks in the concrete walls, smearing the ground, his ears picked up the whiny voices of a victim, calling for help- he shook his head; the red and the voices vanished, he knew he was hallucinating, maybe depriving himself of sleep for the past three days finally exacerbated his senses, or maybe awakened old memories from the depths of his unconscious mind, memories that he tried to bury and forget they existed.

In the reflected light of the moon, he watched how her fingers delicately curled around the pillar of paper, her scarlet-drawn lips circling around the tip, before another cloud of fatal fumes left her lungs. The sting aroma of iron sliced through the air, red, thick moisture oozed from between her fingers and from her eyes, trickling down her pale cheeks before dripping onto the ground, mixing with the excess stench water of botched trash bags, its intense color fading.

He shook his head again, and the blood disappeared, the artificial-strawberry smoke infiltrating his nostrils. He forced his attention back on why he came here in the first place, he promised himself to finish the business, easy and quick.

She lobbed the burnt cigarette on the ground and stomped it with her leather boots, leaving it crinkled-dead on the ground as she took her time striding to him, her arms crossed, and her hips swaying.

He didn’t move, but his eyes caught the rim of her red and black checkered knee-length skirt move from side to side as she inched closer to him. If he doesn’t say anything, he will lose again to her, he will surrender to her touch and get lost in her eyes, so he greeted her: “Annie.”

“Ah, I see you’ve discovered my real name,” Annie mimicked, a smirk in her voice, even though her face was as stoic as a stone, “didn’t like Maddie? I thought it suited me.” She halted two steps away from him, looking straight into his eyes, the only resemblance between them, those ocean blue eyes.

“It wasn’t hard to know who you truly are, you’re not exactly secretive,” He was trying hard to not glance at her lips.

“I am, I am,” Annie contradicted, “you just did your homework of digging into files, or did you…” she took another step, close enough to feel his breath on her face, and she heard his heart racing in his chest, “or did a little friend of yours help you?”

“I don’t need help from anyone,” unlike you, he almost spat out, but he held himself from doing so, he still had a lot to glean out of her, one step at a time.

Annie raised an impressed eyebrow at him, with a fake preaching voice she praised: “Look at your smart ass, I wonder what else you know, you’re smarter than you let on,” She eyed him up and down, he was wearing a dark blue suit with the jacket on, even though it was a hot, humid summer night, but the upper buttons of his shirt were left undone, no tie to be seen.

“I’m a respected scientist.”

Annie hummed.

“I graduated from Harvard.” He added.

“Same goes for me.”

He snorted, an actual, authentic laugh, she was a professional liar, one who slipped lies as if they were nothing, she could concoct anecdotes that never existed, she could fathom a smile that was no different from a candid one, hiding her poisonous fangs behind her lips, she could cry tears of pain that she never went through, she could feign the role of a victim, lay on the ground in this same alley, drenched in her own blood, crying in soft, hurt moans, praying someone would peak into this unseen passageway. She would mistake a drunk man to be her knight in shining armor, or two college students whom hormones were out of control to be two angels who descended from heaven to save her.

Annie clicked her tongue and pouted: “Someone didn’t do their homework good.” She ran her tongue on the inside of her upper row of her white-pearl teeth, an apprehensive expression on her face, but he couldn’t tell if it was fake or real, “I remember you, you used to wear glasses.”

He froze, his heart skipped a beat and shuffled through the following three.

“You were always rushing from one class into the other, you must’ve had a busy schedule.”

He swallowed.

“No wonder we graduated in the same year, even though I’m a year older than you.”

He remembered, and he wished he didn’t.

He took a step backwards, this closeness to her made his mind buzz with timely-wrong thoughts, things he shouldn’t think about when he was in the presence of this woman.

He cleared his throat, he tapped the heels of his feet on the ground, shifting his weight from one foot to the other: “Technology? Really? Is that what you wasted four years studying?” he knew his words were in vain, he knew exactly why she majored in that, she was the living proof that computers will take over humanity in no time.

That a time will come when privacy will be a fantasy humans can only daydream about, that holding a phone is no different than holding a bomb, a place where all your info rests unbothered, until the delicate fingers of a hacker taps some keys in a remote place, and everything you once had, is gone.

Same goes for teenagers, business companies, doctors, or maybe a conservative, illegal lab.

“I missed my graduation,” Annie dodged his question, her head lolling to the side, her lower lip curling outward.

She’s faking hurt, again, he had to remind himself, otherwise he would trust her external emotions, “Let me guess, you were busy hacking into a bank or something?”

Annie gasped and put her hand on her chest, right above her heart: “How dare you?! I was beside my father before he died.”

“That’s a lie-”

“How can you be this heartless?”

The crack in her voice, the blip on the last syllable, all was an Oscar-worthy act.

She sniffled, though no tears were seen, before she shook her head and scrounged: “I thought you were the good person.”

For a moment, he wanted to strangle her throat and shake her until everything he needed to know was out of her, to shake off all this charade she was putting up, this charade that got worn out and had holes in it, or maybe it was already shredded from the beginning but he was too blind to see it. He blamed her hands, her soft touch, her moist lips, he blamed her, she was the one who blocked his vision, the one who blurred his world into a dizzy, vast rollercoaster loop, a never ending one.

But this was the end of this wild ride, and he was getting off of it soon enough.

Annie didn’t wait for an answer, she walked past him, but he was quick to react.

With one swift motion, he pushed her to the wall, slamming her back into it, she gasped, and before she could fight back, he held both her wrists above her head, “In a hurry to see Reiner and Bert?” he sneered through his teeth.

Even if it was swift, he glimpsed panic flash in her eyes, and he knew he hit a nerve.

“Looking for your next victim?” He hit the nerve again when he felt her pulse quicken underneath his grasp.

“Says whom? The one who plays with chemicals?”

For the first time since the beginning of the meeting, he heard her tone change dramatically; abhor soaking each syllable, her voice was choked behind her teeth, her breath was hot on his face.

“You can’t get enough, Arlert,” She seethed, venom dripping from her tongue when she said his name, hatred enveloped her first phrase.

Arlert rose his eyebrows, he was trying to keep his cool, to not lose it, so he focused on one thing: “You finally said my name, my real name that you knew from the start, from that night.”

That night, when he found her in this alley in a puddle of red, her limbs twisted in pain. He wanted to call 911, but she didn’t let him, she begged and pleaded with him to not call anyone, tears of implore mixing with tears of pain, merging with the trails of blood on her cheeks, before her eyes rolled to the back of her skull, and her body slackened against his own.

That night, he carried her home, he showered her in his bathtub, cleaned her cuts and washed dried blood off her cheeks and out of her hair, cleaned her clothes in his washer, and tucked her in his blankets, on his own bed.

“Huh,” Annie ’s voice brought him back from the far lane of his memories, “you’re used to being called Mr. Arlert, aren’t you? The way they call you at work.” her nose was pointing to the sky, “do they pay you enough?” she asked, “do they?”

“It’s rude to ask people how much they earn.”

“Or maybe it’s rude to ask people how much they get for altering humans’ genes?”

Her comment threw Arlert off, and in a second, their positions were switched; his back pressed into the wall, the ragged stone digging into his skin through the thick fabric of his suit.

His heart was beating against his ribcage, each beat sending painful jolts into his veins, and he finally saw the fang sticking out from beneath her smirk, that fang that she kept well hidden from him.

His knees shook under his weight that seemed to amplify under her glare, her hands on his shoulders screwing him in his place, and he wasn’t scared because she exposed him, he knew before-hand that she sneaked into each notch of his files and belongings, that she most likely memorized every substance in the countless drugs he made, the names of his crewmates, and the names of the hostages that were experimented on.

After all, one hostage must have meant something to her.

She had enough time to dive deep inside of him; to uncover every secret about him, she had four full months to do so, and she didn’t waste a minute of them.

She slept in his bed for these four months, had three meals on his dining table daily, she no longer was a guest, he got too accustomed to her presence that he couldn’t imagine how he managed to live on his own before.

But here he was, imprisoned in her cage-alike arms.

Annie glided down her hands down his chest, and even though she was no longer pining him down, he couldn’t get himself to move, to shift a limb, or unclench a finger from his clutched fists beside him.

She rubbed small circles on his shirt, watching how the fabric dented under her fingers, and she imagined them on his bare skin, trailing shapes on his chest, on his back, on his cheeks and running through his short, blond hair.

Beneath the shirt, thunder-shaped fire was kindled on his skin in the trace of her finger tips, the skin burned and charred, but he didn’t move, he didn’t run even after she pressed her thigh into his, and he felt a cold, hard thing pushing into his flesh.

Annie waited for a reaction, a flicker of an eyelid, a twitch of a lip, a quick breath, but nothing.

She smirked, so even after he knew she was armed, that she had a gun in her hand reach, he kept his I’m-cool act up, “You’ve got guts,” she said, not backing away from him, but she did lean her weight off of him.

Arlert almost breathed in relief; her body against him was making his already fucked up mind buzz with horrible thoughts that he shouldn’t be occupied with while his life was on stakes.

But he didn’t get to relish in it; Annie stepped on her toes and bent closer to his face, her hands resting on his shoulder once again, though this time her touch was soft, delicate, like a feather, and even though he knew it was hopeless, a tiny candle of hope was lit inside of him, a tiny farfetched wish that maybe, he could get her back to him.

The sirens in his mind belched and ordered him to turn his head away from her, to do something about her, to not surrender, but he was too frozen to oblige; and when Annie brushed her fingers against his lips, these sirens were too loud to comprehend what they were shouting anymore.

“You’re not running, you’re too used to it,” Annie looked into his eyes, and something flashed inside of them, a thing so intense, a thing that was her only fear. She escaped his gaze and averted her eyes, leaning towards the lob of his ear, a smirk pulled on her lips when she got a shudder from him, and she was itching to weaken him further, to make him crumble and bow to her, to melt him into a puddle underneath her feet and watch her reflection in it staring back at her.

She pressed her lips against his ear and whispered: “You got used to that.”

“Stop it.” Arlert teemed from between his teeth, his fists clutching tighter, he thought his fingers’ bones would crush under the pressure.

“You liked it when I called out your name,” she pressed her frame into his, her voice dropping lower, her cheek rubbing against his, “when I moaned your name-”

“Stop it.”

“In your bed.”

His back was as stiff as the stone behind it, the heel of his feet digging into the solid concrete ground beneath, his teeth gritting into a powder, and his breath was quick and shallow, his ears drumming each time his heart sent blood circulating in his veins.

His hands on his sides sweating and on fire, they were near the edge of sprouting up and engulfing her frame, to run them all over her back and in her hair, to feel his skin against her, her body arching into his, pressed into his, his fingers emitting notes from her that were music to his ears.

Just like that night.

“Armin,” Annie whispered, so low, her voice breathy, her fingers trailing down his neck, “Armin,” she planted an open-mouth kiss on his neck, and he trembled, “Armin,” her fingers reached the short hair of his undercut, “Armin.”

“Stop.”

She stopped.

But her hands on him lingered.

Armin, who squeezed his eyes shut, was trying to control his breathing, trying to slow it into a rhythmic melody, but it was impossible with Annie this close to him, he wanted her to step away from him, to let him breathe.

But he also didn’t want to let her go, if anything, he wanted to wipe that ridiculous red lipstick and break the tie holding her hair up in that small, tight bun, he wanted to repeat what he did the morning preceding that night, bring her breakfast in his bed, feed her with his hands, and listen to her story, pausing every now and then to wipe her tears with his fingers, until her tears were spent and her story was told.

He shook his head, all of it was a lie, he couldn’t let himself fall into that deep hole again, it took him long enough to pull himself out from it, it was all a lie.

Annie withdrew from Armin, and he couldn’t hold back a tiny sigh of relief, but when he opened his eyes, he wished he didn’t close them in the first place.

Her hair was down, and the blood-red lipstick was smeared around her lips in a failed attempt to wipe it off, leaving a trail of smudged red on her sleeve.

He really shouldn’t have closed his eyes, he shouldn’t have given her another chance to deceive him, to curl her snake-tail around the last bit of his senses.

When he looked into her eyes, they were dead, prosaic, and they didn’t suit her shoulder-length golden hair, her angel-sculpted face, these were the eyes of a criminal hunting the only good memory he had of her.

And he wanted to lurch his fingers into her eyes sockets and embowel them of these foreign eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached beneath her knee-length skirt and pulled out the gun he felt a minute ago and pointed it right between his eyes.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Annie said, watching Armin’s eyes widen, the truth that he’s living his last moments sinking in.

Armin closed his eyes, feeling the cold metal pressing between his eyebrows, and counted.

One

Two

Three

Blue

Four

Soft

Six

Golden

No, five

Gracious

Seven

Eight

A click of a gun

Nine

“I really loved you that night,” she confessed.

Ten

The cold metal was no longer on his forehead, and when Armin opened his eyes, Annie was pointing the gun to the sky.

And the look in her eyes, a sad blue streaked by darker ocean-like hue, and maybe it was a trick of light, but he could swear he saw them glistening with tears.

“I really did,” She said, before she pulled the trigger, a wire shooting from the gun barrel, clutching into something above with a clink, and in a second, she was no longer standing in front of him.

A minute, five minutes, an hour, or maybe a couple, Armin lost track of time and sense, and he wasn’t snapped out of it until he heard the sirens of police echoing in the distance.

His legs were numb, and his throat was dry.

Armin walked out the alley the exact moment the cars pulled out next to it, he was tired, so tired, he just wanted to go back home and sleep for three days straight, but he knew he won’t be getting any rest for some time.

“Put your hands up!” A female voice commanded, and Armin acted like he was told.

Multiple uniformed police officers bolted out the car, one of them got closer to him, her gun already pointed at him, but the moment she got a clearer look at who he was, she dropped the gun and placed it in the waist belt she was wearing.

“What exactly happened in there? Are you ok?” She said, she gestured for the other police officers to go into the alley. Even though she was much taller than Armin, she had to bend her back to get a look at his tilted down face.

“I’m sorry, I failed, Mikasa,” Armin said, he finally looked up, his eyes looking straight into hers, and he didn’t realize that he probably looked like shit until he noticed her frowned eyebrows.

“We thought something bad happened to you,” Mikasa sighed, “the mic, we could no longer hear you and-”

“What?” Armin asked, his hands already reaching into the fold of his jacket’s collar, before his fingers touched the small circular device.

“We didn’t lose connection, but the sound suddenly got muffled and- oh.”

Mikasa got her answer as Armin held up the tiny, wireless device, now covered with dough-like substance.

“Shit,” Armin hissed and wrangled the tinkered-into-uselessness device to the ground, he ran his fingers over his sculp, tugging at the roots of his blonde hair, he turned around from Mikasa and huffed, not only did he fail to rat out Annie to the police, a wanted hacker that they couldn’t catch for years, but this hacker knew all about his plan from the very beginning.

She knew he was mic-ed, and she knew he was there to betray her.

Just like she betrayed him.

“What about the tracking device?” Mikasa inquired, crossing her arms.

“What about it?” Armin regretted the question the moment it left his mouth.

“You tell me, we found it two miles from here down the street, and we were in full panic mode because we had no idea the whereabout of you and her.”

“Oh…” Armin’s mind was short-circuiting with all the excuses he prepared for this question, but unlike when he first thought of them, now they sounded lame and unreal.

“Besides,” Mikasa took a step closer to him, looking around, making sure that her words were audible to only him, “what’s going on between you two?”

Answers rolled in his head one by one.

Lovers? No, too cheerful, too innocent.

Friends? Friends don’t strip you and fuck you senseless.

Enemies? That’s a strong term to describe what they had.

“I was behind her father’s death,” he didn’t choose to say it, nor did he think of it, it just slipped off his tongue.

Mikasa’s eyes widened, she blinked, and crooked her head to the side, as if waiting for Armin to tell her it was all a joke of some horrible sense of humor.

When he didn’t budge, she inched closer to him and whispered: “Does anyone know about it?”

Armin shook his head.

“Let’s keep it that way, you already have enough on your shoulders, and you breached our contract; you get her, we let you go, but if you don’t…” Mikasa sighed and pulled out the cuffs hanging from her waist, and Armin, without questioning it, held out his hands to her, “Armin Arlert, you’re under arrest for helping out a wanted criminal, and for illegal experiments in an unauthorized lab.”

Armin let out a slow, long breath; even though his life technically was over, and his career had turned into dust, a sense of relief washed over him.

All of it was over.

No more stressing out about being caught, no more pressure to keep working from the shadows.

He knew this would happen one day; he knew it too well.

It was just a matter of time.

Guilt gnawed at his stomach as he saw disappointment in Mikasa’s eyes, his childhood friend taking his hand and guiding him to prison, the place where he would most likely spend the rest of his life in.

How ironic.

She opened the passenger door of the police car for him, he got in and before she closed the door she whispered: “Don’t worry, I got you.”

Mikasa tapped on the car’s roof, and the wheels started spinning; Armin in the backseat, his hands cuffed, and a police officer taking him to wherever next was to happen to him.

Armin threw his head back and let out a groan, he fluttered his eyes shut, trying to let the events of this one night to sink in, this was all just a nightmare, an actual real life nightmare that he was trying to avoid it for the past nine years or more, but here he was in the back seat of a police car, alone, waiting for whatever the next days held for him-

Wait

He was alone.

In the backseat.

Who in hell would let someone under arrest alone in a car with just one police officer, who had their hands full with driving?

Armin looked into the rear mirror and was met with piercing blue eyes, already watching him.

Ones that were similar to his own eyes, but female features framed them.

Armin’s jaw opened; this nightmare was only getting ridiculous with each passing minute.

There was no way Annie Leonhart was in a police officer attire and driving this car.

But she took off the hat, flung it outside the window, and her golden locks flew around her face, and Armin wasn’t mistaken; it was her, and her only.

Annie put a shushing finger on her lips, before she turned her gaze back on the road.

Armin slanted back in the seat, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

UM HELLO

ok wow I'm so excited that I've finally shared this with yall, it's really something new to me and certainly out of my comfort zone

I really hope you liked it and I hope I delivered the story in an understandable, clear way, because as I said, this is new to me, feedback is appreciated!!

OK HELLO GUYS COME JOIN ME ON TWITTER UWU

sometimes I post art there, warning: I'm not good at it

one last thing, this was written for Aruani week 2020 on tumblr, go through the hashtag and see what others created! really awesome art so I highly recommend

ok that's it have a good day/night

byyeeee

#Aruani #armin arlert #Annie Leonhardt #annie x armin #aruaniweek2020 #aot fanfiction #aot #snk #uwu I'm nervous

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glorious-blackout · 3 years

Text

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Five

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still haven’t settled on a more fitting title than ‘Mark Needs A Hug’ (though my brain keeps coming up with The Shining/Hotel California references) but he does get several of those in this chapter if that helps? 😉 Part Six should be up soon as well! 🥰

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

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

Mark wakes to find his face half-smushed against his pillow, limbs heavy and sluggish from sleep as his mind clings to the last remnants of a pleasant dream.

An aura of peace lingers like a warm flame as he recalls the circumstances of his fantasy. He’d been sitting on the floor of a modest living room, clad in pyjamas that were too small for his rapidly growing limbs; too entranced by the shiny electric guitar in his hands to make note of his surroundings. It was the exact model he’d been begging for on a daily basis since spotting it in the window of a music store, and had no doubt been living in his parents’ closet for months as they coyly teased him in the run-up to Christmas. Music was playing from a battered old CD player residing on a stacked bookshelf, and he strummed along despite not having the faintest clue how to play a single chord.

His lack of experience couldn’t have mattered less. Nothing could have broken his contentment in that moment. Not even his mum asking him to “turn the music down, love” so he could pay heed to his other presents had disturbed him from his trance, and Mark had awoken with a pervading sense of peace as the unmistakable melody of The Strokes’ ‘Last Nite’ wormed its way into his brain.

It was one of those dreams that feels more like a long-lost memory than a fiction. One of those subconscious reminders of a simpler past that manages to elicit a smile even when the world at large is falling to pieces. Mark knows this cannot be the case here. He has too many memories of partying his way through the seventies to reconcile those experiences with the notion of being a teenager at the height of The Strokes’ popularity. And yet, the sweet taste of childhood nostalgia is one he appreciates all the same, enough that the thought of waking sends a sharp ache through his heart.

Seeing no obvious reason as to why he shouldn’t slip back into restful slumber, he lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs as he feels his limbs go pliant once more. He can almost taste the sweet embrace of sleep, only for it to be yanked from him once again with a brutal shove. A low whine escapes his throat as a persistent intruder nudges his shoulder, and he swipes a vicious arm in their direction in a wordless protest. His efforts are ultimately feeble, not to mention futile. The nudging continues, now accompanied by the constant repetition of his name, and when his tormenter gives no indication of surrender, Mark is forced to abandon his state of bliss and re-enter the realm of the living.

He squints, bleary-eyed, at the formless blob hovering over him as he lifts his head from the pillow, flattened hair clinging to one cheek as his brain swims in the wake of his rude awakening. It occurs to him that doesn’t remember how he got here. Judging by his position he must have collapsed face-first at some point in the night - still fully-clothed if the wrinkled cotton of his shirt is any indication - but all memories leading up to that point are absent. He only vaguely recalls receiving a call from Murphy in the evening and senses that it must have dragged on far longer than usual, but he would not be able to describe how the call ended even with a gun to his head. Not that it particularly matters. He’s only grateful for the fact that Murphy must have taken pity on him at some point and let him surrender to his all-consuming weariness.

His vision finally clears following several exaggerated blinks, rendering him somewhat relieved when the humanoid blob morphs into the fretful form of Nick. The man is dressed remarkably casually for someone who likes performing in three-piece suits, and his shoulder-length hair hangs lazily around his face. It takes Mark far too long to realise that Nick’s informal apparel is no doubt related to the fact that he has inadvertently given him several days off from his day-job.

“Hey,” Mark croaks, cringing at how utterly wrecked he sounds as he settles his aching back against the wooden headboard.

“Hey yourself,” Nick replies with a breathy chuckle which does little to mask the concern etched on his face. His outstretched hand is still resting on Mark’s shoulder, as though he suspects he’ll drift off into the abyss again if he dares let go. “I were startin’ to think you were out for the count.”

Mark frowns at that, casting his eye to the bedside table in an instinctive search for his phone, only to find that it isn’t there. He spots it lying neglected on the desk by his computer, too far away to bother checking the time. The room is illuminated by a soft yellow glow as the hanging lights do their best impression of the afternoon sun, and beyond the circular window he can see that the spotlights have bathed the hotel in blinding gold.

“How long’ve I been asleep?” he asks, rubbing the lingering exhaustion from his eyes and groaning as every movement sends a dull ache shooting through his muscles. No doubt the question will be impossible to answer, given that even he doesn’t know when he slipped into unconsciousness, but Nick may be able to give an indication of how badly he’s overslept at least.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Nick admits with a shrug, before lifting himself from his crouched position and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, his hand finally leaving Mark’s shoulder. “Jamie came by to check on you about eight hours ago, then Matt popped round at lunch. Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in the meantime.”

Mark frowns. It isn’t like him to sleep so heavily. Usually a single nudge is enough to have him wide awake and alert. He shivers as he envisions two of his best friends waltzing into his suite without him having any recollection of their presence or even of his sleep being disturbed. He trusts Jamie and Matt implicitly of course, but the notion that he has been so dead to the world makes him feel too vulnerable for comfort. Anyone could have swanned in, and by the sounds of it he wouldn’t have so much as shifted in his sleep.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, trying not to sound suspicious and doing a terrible job of it. He tears his eyes away from Nick’s face in shame and decides that tugging on the duvet will be a better use of his time. The fact that he’d awoken with it wrapped snugly around him strikes him as odd. He doubts he’d had the mental faculties to pull it around himself last night. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he pictures Jamie giving up on his efforts to wake him and proceeding to tuck him in instead; the mental image filling him with a strange sense of longing.

When he braves a glance at Nick’s face, he feels fierce heat return to his cheeks as he takes in the man’s confused - almost hurt – frown, and he inwardly scolds himself for planting that expression there.

“You gave us all keys on our first day, remember?” Nick reminds him, extending a hand into the pocket of his jeans and revealing the offending object, complete with shiny silver keyring in the shape of a bass guitar.

“Oh, right,” Mark says lamely, eyes glued to the set of keys as though seeing them for the first time.

Of course he remembers giving the lads keys to his room. He has copies of all of theirs too, set aside for emergencies. He remembers the painstaking effort it had taken to pick out individualised keyrings, and the delight that lit up his friends’ faces when they received them all those years ago. It just strikes him as odd that the keys have barely seen any use in all that time. They don’t tend to hang out in each other’s suites anymore now that the lads have families of their own, and barring one miserable fortnight where Mark had been holed up with the flu, he’s rarely been in such a state that he’s needed someone to keep a constant vigil over him. If his friends have been driven to this level of fretting, he must truly look horrendous.

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, Nick shoves the set of keys back in his pocket before lifting himself to his feet. Anxiety tugs at Mark’s heart as he half-expects his friend to leave him alone, but it quickly turns to relief when Nick makes his way over to the coffee-machine instead. Good coffee seems like an excellent idea given that for all the sleep he’s had, he still feels utterly bone-weary. At a guess he must have been out for upwards of sixteen hours, yet every muscle fibre in his body is telling him that he won’t be fully sated until he’s been comatose for a week. At least.

He groans as he sits up straighter, shoving the duvet away from him in the process, and he’s forced to bring a hand to his forehead as a persistent throb settles behind his eyes.

“Bad hangover?” Nick asks from his perch by the kitchen counter, the coffee-machine giving off a low rumble as it brings the water to boil. Mark can’t help but laugh at the assumption; it’s certainly a fair guess.

“Surprisingly no,” he admits, lowering his hand and pointedly ignoring the way one of Nick’s eyebrows quirks upwards in subtle disbelief. “Haven’t had a drink in four days, believe it or not.”

“Coulda fooled me!” Nick scoffs, and despite the lightness in his tone, Mark can’t help but flinch. His discomfort must not be very subtle, for Nick’s smile drops instantly and he directs his gaze to the floor as though silently ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just... We’ve been worried about you. Me and the lads. It’s not like you to cancel shows without running it by us first, and whenever one of us tries to check if you’re okay, there’s no answer.”

Nick’s tone isn’t accusatory in the slightest, but Mark still wonders if the guilt unleashed by his words will swallow him whole. It’s true. He hasn’t said a word to his friends since he abandoned them after their last show, and even before that he’d been aloof and stuck inside his own head. He’d cancelled all of their upcoming performances without even notifying his bandmates first; no doubt they’d turned up to rehearsals only to be chased away in bewildered confusion by the orchestra’s conductor. And while Mark has barely checked his phone over the past few days, he has noticed several missed calls and unread texts which hadn’t struck him as particularly urgent at the time.

The others have no idea what’s got him so wound up. They don’t know about Matthew, or the armed guards who came after him, or the cupboard with the flashing red lights in the impossible corridor. For all his thoughts of calling Jamie in the hope that he’ll somehow rationalise those events with logical ease, Mark has neglected that opportunity at every turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, unable to bring his gaze to meet Nick’s for fear the shame will kill him. His voice sounds impossibly small and he feels completely unsure of himself in a way that he never has before. Even the self-consciousness that characterised his youth cannot compete with the crushing uncertainty which consumes him now. “Truth be told, I haven’t really been feeling like meself these past few days. Probably needed some sleep if I’m being honest.”

“Well, you certainly got some of that,” Nick jokes with a fond smile, and a surprised laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he shrugs in wordless agreement.

The coffee-machine finally halts its racket and Nick sets about preparing them both a simple Americano, having correctly assessed that anything more complicated would likely not be tolerated in Mark’s current state. Mark swings his legs over the side of the bed and briefly closes his eyes as a new wave of pain racks his skull, but he greets Nick with a smile when he settles beside him, gratefully accepting the proffered steaming mug in both hands.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, cradling their mugs and blowing off steam before taking careful sips. Mark’s eyes close in satisfaction at the first taste of coffee – prepared just the way he likes it – and while he doubts it’ll achieve the impossible task of revitalising him, he feels a little more human with every sip.

When his mug is half-empty, Nick takes it upon himself to break the silence with a gentle, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mark admits with a sigh, unable to tell whether he’s being entirely truthful. Telling the whole story is out of the question. He has little desire to leave Nick questioning his sanity, and he doubts he’d be able to explain everything that happened that night in sufficient detail even if he prepared a script beforehand.

Nick isn’t going to let him get away with saying nothing though, judging by the bemused expression on his face.

“Fine. I met someone the other night and he just... freaked me out a little,” Mark attempts eventually. That part is true at the very least. “Haven’t been able to get him out of me head since.”

It’s a lame explanation and he knows it. Even if that wasn’t already obvious, the way Nick’s brow furrows in confusion hammers the point home with all the subtlety of a brick smashing through a car windscreen.

“Did you and he...” Nick starts, before thinking better of it as his face becomes alight with flame.

“What?” Mark asks, only for the insinuation to become clear as day with the spreading blush across Nick’s cheeks. “Oh no, definitely not. It weren’t like that.”

No doubt his current state of mind would be less confusing if he and Matthew had simply stumbled into a drunken mistake, but the man’s looming influence isn’t driven by any romantic inclinations. It strikes Mark as odd how easily Nick had accepted the possibility, though he can’t say he minds. He’d almost prefer the prospect of his aloofness being driven entirely by shallow ‘guy problems’. At least there are plenty of words in the English language to describe dilemmas of the heart. In contrast, the explanation “A stranger presented a rather compelling argument for our existence being nothing more than an elaborate, pointless lie before disappearing into a cupboard which no longer exists” is a little less run-of-the-mill, and that’s before you throw in the notion of a boss who may or may not be the mastermind behind the whole sorry affair.

Huh. Somehow in the midst of his exhaustion, he’d forgotten about Murphy and the smug satisfaction plastered all over his face towards the end of their call.

“Well, whatever happened, he’s clearly left you in a bit of a state,” Nick remarks, oblivious to the turmoil raging within Mark’s head. His voice cuts through the noise and serves as an anchor, returning him to the present, and he can’t quite hide his relief as his mind quietens. “Do you want one of us to have a word with him? Give him a warning shot, perhaps? Matt’s taken up boxing, I’m sure he’d be all for it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mark retorts with a burst of shocked laughter, before descending into a fit of hysterical giggles as Nick indulges in a victorious grin. It doesn’t take long for Nick’s laughter to accompany his own. The prospect of his bandmates collectively ganging up on an unsuspecting Matthew is so ridiculous that the absurdity of it lightens his heart. Though he’s not sure how to explain that if they’re going to beat anyone up, he’d much rather they go after Murphy instead.

“You wouldn’t get the chance anyway. He’s already gone,” Mark clarifies once their laughter has settled. He neglects to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding Matt’s disappearance, settling instead for polishing off his cooling mug of coffee. “And honestly, it weren’t like that. He was a nice guy, all things considered. Just a bit strange. He had a way of getting inside your head and I don’t think he realised he was doing it. Besides, all of this is my fault. I shouldn’t ‘ave let him get to me like that.”

“Right,” Nick says sceptically, no doubt still hoping for something or someone to blame for Mark’s recent state. Mark can sympathise. He imagines he too would be frustrated if he were forced to bear witness to one of his bandmate’s private struggles only to be offered no obvious means of fixing the problem.

“Seriously Nick, I’m okay,” he insists, turning his body to face his friend head-on and suddenly feeling more sober than he has in days. “Or I will be soon enough. I just... I needed some space. Have done for a long time if I’m being honest. I reckon the other night were just the breaking point.”

He aims for flippancy, but watching Nick’s face fall is enough to inform him that he’s missed the target by a country mile. Concern darkens his friend’s kind eyes and sends guilt coiling in the pit of Mark’s stomach. He’d give everything to wash away Nicks worry; to convince him that he isn’t worth the anxiety his friends are wasting on him. He feels responsible enough for dragging them to this blasted rock in the first place, away from their homes and families and ambitions. Lumping further pain upon their shoulders is simply unforgivable.

“You could have just told us that, you know,” Nick says after a while, not unkindly, and Mark feels his heart ache. He does know. No doubt all three of his bandmates would have leapt at the chance to hijack Murphy on the phone and bully him into offering Mark some time off, but he’d never wanted it to come to that. The running of the hotel and the responsibilities associated with it are his to bear alone. The band is a separate entity entirely - something pure and liberating amongst the daily deluge – and dragging his friends into his messes has never been his intention. Not that his efforts have come to much in the end.

“I’d miss a million shows if it meant you were okay,” Nick adds when Mark doesn’t say anything, twisting the knife deeper without intending to. “I’m pretty sure the others would do the same.”

Moisture gathers at the corner of Mark’s eyes but he furiously blinks it away. His face is sticky enough with dried tear-tracks, though he can’t remember where they came from for the life of him. Heaving a sigh, he tears his gaze from Nick’s face and rests his head on the man’s shoulder, closing his eyes in quiet contentment. Nick’s frame stiffens for only a moment, before he wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.

This is okay, Mark thinks to himself. Despite the madness of the week, it finally feels as though the lost, fragmented pieces of his identity are coalescing into a coherent whole once again.

“I love you all,” he says without a hint of reservation. “You do know that, right?”

“I dunno,” Nick retorts with a gentle shrug, careful not to shift Mark’s head from its perch. Mark doesn’t need to look at him to sense the gentle, teasing smile on his friend’s face. “You’re usually shitfaced when you say it so I’ve always been doubtful.”

Nick gets a light punch to the side as punishment for his jest, and he laughs before pressing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple.

“We love you too, you daft pillock,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone like syrup. He hugs Mark closer as though frightened that he’ll slip away if he loosens his hold, and the hand perched on his shoulder starts tracing a path down to his elbow before creeping back up. The action is so soothing that the effects of the coffee instantly vanish, and Mark thinks he could easily drift off again. He wonders if doing so will take him back to that peaceful dream, with the guitar in his hands and a loving family within reach.

They stay like that for a little while; Mark on the cusp of a peaceful doze and Nick doing very little to dissuade him from slipping away. There’s still an unmistakable sense of unease clogging the air – a sense of foreboding that has burrowed its way into every corner of the hotel since Matthew’s disappearance - but Nick’s presence keeps it at bay like a shield warding off demons. No doubt that protection will vanish in the same instant Nick elects to leave, and Mark will be left to fend for himself against unseen monsters lurking in the dark, but for now he can’t remember the last time he was so content.

He almost finds himself lost in the dream again – can feel the sensation of rough guitar strings dancing beneath his fingertips – but he’s pulled away at the last second by the buzzing of a phone. It isn’t his, though even if it was he wouldn’t be inclined to check it. Nick pulls his own device from his pocket and replies to the message as subtly as he can, but the damage has already been done. Mark opens his eyes and makes note of the softer light outside as the spotlights dim to a soft orange glow in an attempt to simulate an evening sunset. Deciding that he’s wasted enough of the day as it is, he finally lifts his head and stretches his weary limbs with a groan.

“You know what you should do?” Nick says, pocketing his phone and taking advantage of his newfound freedom to rise to his feet, giving the impression of towering over Mark even more so than usual.

When Mark’s only response is a half-hearted shrug, he goes on: “You should get yourself out of those clothes and go hop in the shower while I make you a very late breakfast. No, I don’t want to hear any complaints, Turner; you reek and something tells me you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, so I’m not giving you a choice. You’re going to eat what I make you, then you’re going to get dressed up nice, and then we’re gonna meet the lads at the bar so we can all get properly wankered. Sound like a plan?”

Well, that solves the mystery of the buzzing phone. No doubt one of the others has noticed Nick’s extended absence and is attempting to rescue him, all while trying to put a stop to Mark’s reclusive act in the process. It’s ingenious really, and he can’t fault their line of thinking. Part of him can’t help but be wary of returning to the bar given his last visit is what reduced his mind to a frazzled mess in the first place, but knowing the others will be with him lifts his trepidation somewhat. And now that he dwells on it, Nick’s other suggestions don’t sound half bad either. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and a low growl emanating from his stomach implies that his body isn’t best pleased about his neglectfulness. He can’t even recall when he last changed his clothes with any certainty, let alone took a shower. Perhaps some food and a wash will make him feel alive again, or at the very least make a start to the process of resurrecting him from his zombified state.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” Mark asks, grinning without restraint as Nick releases a bashful laugh topped off with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s a burden I must bear,” he concedes, his expression settling into one of fondness before his parental instincts take over. “Seriously though. Shower. Now. The more time you waste, the less time we have to get shitfaced.”

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.

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

The calm before the colossal, world-ending storm lasts all of two hours. Two hours in which Mark manages to wash the sweat and tears from his face under a piping hot shower, before adorning the most casual t-shirt and jeans combo he can find at the bottom of his drawers. Two hours in which Nick thrusts a hastily prepared cheese and ham sarnie into his hands – mocked up from what little food he has in the fridge – and insists that he eats every bite with crossed arms and lips pressed into a stern line. Two hours in which they eventually make their way to the ballroom to meet Jamie and Matt at the bar, where Mark is greeted with a crushing hug from Jamie and an enthusiastic “Welcome back to the land of the living!” from Matt. The latter tops off his greeting with a firm embrace of his own, before ordering the first round of beers with renewed vigour.

For those blissful two hours, Mark feels as though life is finally returning to normal. The burden of responsibility is temporarily lifted from his shoulders, and he lets himself laugh at his friends’ lame jokes as he downs the first pint and swiftly follows it with another. They must resemble a bunch of teenage holidaymakers who have accidentally stumbled into a high-end establishment – their casual attire clashing with the sharp suits and stylish frocks of the waltzing guests – but Mark couldn’t care less.

At one point Jamie turns to him with an unvoiced question resting in gentle blue eyes. Palpable concern radiates from him like heat and for a moment the scrutiny is unbearable, but when Mark responds with a genuine smile, Jamie’s worry melts away in a heartbeat as he follows it up with one of his own. A light buzz takes hold after the third pint and Mark’s aware that he’s done little more than smile like a fool all evening, but he cannot bring himself to care. Those two hours are the happiest he can remember experiencing in a long time. A tiny microcosm of perfection that he wishes he could live within forever.

And then the world shudders.

It begins subtly enough. Little more than a low rumble permeating through the air, barely resonating over Nick and Jamie’s spat as they intensely debate over which of them looks better with long hair. Mark is the only one who takes notice as the rumbling begins to rise in volume; brows furrowing as narrowed eyes scan the ballroom in search of the culprit. Nobody else appears to be alarmed. The guests are mostly in the process of getting royally drunk over a dinner of roast beef or venison, and the waiters continue about their business without a trace of panic.

Only, the sound doesn’t abate with time. With great effort, Mark tries to drown out the surrounding ruckus and closes his eyes to focus solely on the new disturbance. The groan sounds like it’s coming from far away – like a distant car-crash or fireworks display – but the harder he listens, the more it feels like the rumble is creeping towards him from beneath the earth.

“Can you hear that?” he says to no-one in particular, having to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of violins and chatter and clinking glasses. Three pairs of eyes turn in his direction – the petty argument momentarily forgotten – but as they listen intently, Mark sees only a growing sense of cluelessness clouding over their features.

“Hear what?” Jamie asks eventually, which strikes Mark as odd, for that persistent groaning has now become so loud that he can practically feel it hammering against his skull.

He draws his gaze to the half-empty pint resting on a coaster before him and watches with detached curiosity as ripples spread across its golden surface. It isn’t just his glass either; the same effect is visible across the entire countertop. It’s little surprise when the faint clattering of glasses joins the growing commotion. Mark looks up towards the bar and sees unopened bottles trembling against each other on the shelves, vibrating in time with the ground which has started to shift uncontrollably. A bottle of scotch topples to the floor with a mighty crash but no-one pays it any heed, and it is soon followed by several priceless bottles of champagne, drenching the floor with booze and fragmented glass.

The low rumble graduates to a deafening roar as the room begins to shudder relentlessly, and Mark lets out a sharp cry before shielding his ears and pulling his head towards his chest. Logic screams at him to get out - to take his friends and run to safety - but whether by fear or something deeper than that, he finds himself immobilised on his chair. It strikes him as odd that nobody else appears to be panicking. The air is alive with the clatter of shattering glass, the rattle of the looming chandelier, the roar of the moon’s underbelly as she protests against those who have desecrated her surface... but not a single scream. No frantic activity or barked orders from level-headed security guards. Not even the chatter which overwhelmed the hall only moments before remains. The room is filled with hundreds of people and yet, as the world trembles around them, they are all as silent as the grave.

Mark included.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t taken a breath since the ground began to shake and his chest burns in protest, but even the simple act of gulping in air feels like a complex task. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart begins to roar in his ears, but doing so offers little relief. If anything, the sudden blackness makes the situation worse. Imagination runs wild; he pictures cracks snaking up the walls and the floor giving way to the rocky depths below. Envisions ivy crawling through those very same cracks and burying the entire building until it resembles an abandoned ruin on Earth. Envisions the curved ceiling giving way and burying him alive beneath several layers of marble and plaster.

He still can’t tell what’s causing the floor to shake with such ferocity. Can the moon experience earthquakes? The thought is so ridiculous that he finds himself giggling hysterically, but what is the alternative? Unless his perception of time has been drastically altered, the quake has gone on far too long to be secondary to an explosion, and the space station is too far away for any launches to be felt as anything more than a minor shudder.

Hours seem to pass. His skull whines in protest as he presses his hands even tighter against his ears, and a single tear spills from the corner of one eye from the effort it takes to keep them clenched shut. His jaw aches as the shudders grind his teeth together and he can feel acid rise in his throat, his gut protesting against a cruel wave of fear. Everyone else remains eerily silent, even his friends who surely wouldn’t have left without him. He knows he could always open his eyes to check on them, but a burst of terror as he comprehends what he’ll find stops him in his tracks. Instead, he simply remains sitting there, curled up like a frightened child, as his surroundings continue to shatter around him.

And then, without warning, the world becomes a brilliant white behind his eyelids and everything stops. The cacophony reaches its abrupt coda as all sound is sucked through a vacuum. Only his shuddering breaths remain, followed by a desperate sob. The whiteness refuses to abate, and for a moment it occurs to him that he may well be dead. That he might be nothing more than a shattered bag of bones, crushed among the ruins of the very hotel he built from scratch. There’d be a certain poetry in that, he thinks, though the persistent cramping of his muscles and the burning in his chest implies that he hasn’t ascended to ghostly status just yet.

It’s impossible to tell if hours or mere seconds pass. The world is so still, so silent, that time loses all meaning and Mark can feel his mind begin to empty, as though the featureless light is consuming him whole. When small details finally do make a reappearance, they do so slowly. He becomes aware of his elbows digging into the hard oak surface of the bar counter. A glass clinks somewhere off in the distance. He becomes painfully aware of the cool sweat on his brow, and his inability to take in a deep breath without his chest hitching with choked hiccoughs.

The silence is finally broken by a single unprovoked chuckle, followed by a muted wave of laughter echoing across the walls. With the flick of an unseen switch, the usual chatter flares up once more and the violins resume their task of reciting an old Tchaikovsky piece, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. With a considerable degree of trepidation, Mark tears his hands away from his head and opens his eyes to face a complete wall of booze with no missing bottles in sight. No glass fragments or wet stains litter the floor. No cracks creep up the walls; no ivy sprouts from the ground. The ceiling above remains stubbornly unmarked, and the chandelier glitters as immaculately as it had on the day it was installed. Casting a glance over the assorted faces around him reveals only unaffected smiles, with no trace of fear or even the slightest acknowledgement of the quake that rocked the ballroom only moments before.

Even drawing his attention to his friends brings little clarity. Rather than looking as shellshocked as Mark himself, Nick and Jamie have settled for resuming their debate – this time arguing over who looks best in a ponytail – while Matt grumbles something about not being able to grow his hair without sprouting an afro.

The world has elected to carry on as normal, and yet Mark can’t shake the feeling that everything has irrevocably changed. That the very foundations of the ground he walks on are set to crumble at any moment, taking him down in the process.

It’s impossible to keep his breathing under control, and a weak sob rips from his throat as air escapes in frantic gasps. The sound draws Jamie’s attention back to him, and his eyes widen with fear as he extends a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder with a careful, “Hey, what’s going on?”

The contact doesn’t help in the slightest. Mark tries to answer but his throat seals shut, turning his words into a low whine, and he settles for shaking his head instead. He needs to get out of here. There isn’t enough oxygen in the ballroom and he can feel the weight of the gathering crowd suffocating him, and before he can think twice, he stumbles to his feet and pushes away from the bar.

That turns out to be a terrible decision. The sudden change in posture has his stomach dropping, and his vision narrows to a fine tunnel before blurring altogether. No doubt the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because of the hands which appear out of nowhere, holding him upright as his ears drown out a puzzled, “Easy!” followed by a shaky, “Let’s sit you back down mate”. His friends may as well be faceless for all the attention his broken mind grants them.

It feels like his frayed nerves are dangling by a thread; the cool blades of a scissor resting barely a hairs-breadth away, threatening to sever his sanity with an unfeeling snap.

And then the dam breaks.

The buried chest keeping his memories concealed behind a rusted padlock bursts open. Assorted moments in time spill forth from the wreckage, drowning him beneath their weight like the horrors trapped within Pandora’s Box. Only instead of horrors, his mind is suddenly overcome by melancholic nostalgia and untouchable bittersweet memories.

He remembers sitting by the piano as an eight-year-old boy, trying in earnest to play the tunes his dad loved to listen to on his record-player. He remembers sitting in class, drawing his eyes away from the window in silent awe as the profound beauty of John Cooper Clarke’s writing set up camp in his heart. He remembers listening to The Strokes’ debut album with Jamie and Matt before begging his mum for a guitar, followed by the sheer contentment that consumed him as he strummed his new love by the light of a Christmas tree. He remembers countless shows - from shy appearances in small clubs to major headlining slots at massive festivals - and the thrill of terror and excitement that thrummed through his veins before each one. He remembers all of his loves and all of his heartbreak; remembers how the latter had always been overcome by a pervading sense of joy, as he dwelled on how lucky he was to do what he loved with his best friends by his side.

And he remembers the hotel. Remembers excitedly developing the concept and expanding the world and the characters within it. Remembers crafting the model by hand, carving his creation out of cardboard and wiling away the hours as it slowly came together. Remembers the rush of pride when the model was finally complete. Only he had never intended the hotel to be a real place, and he certainly had no inclination to run it.

Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino was always intended to be the setting of an album and nothing more. The fact that he’s currently confined within its walls is nothing short of impossible.

He doesn’t acknowledge that his vision has faded to black until colour slowly creeps back from the fringes. A persistent burn lingers in his chest and it occurs to him that he should probably breathe, but doing so only encourages another sob as hot tears spill down his cheeks. He lets himself be manhandled onto a chair without protest, his limbs reduced to jelly, and even when his eyes offer a glimpse of his worried friends gathered around him, all he can focus on is a section of wall directly ahead. A voice breaks through the roar of blood pounding in his head – a panicked “C’mon Mark, you’re scaring me now!” - but he cannot identify its owner, nor can he bring himself to look at his friends closely enough to see whose lips are moving.

A further memory spills forth from the unlocked chest, prompted by the frantic hands holding him in place. The setting appears to be Bonfire Night, judging by the ecstatic burst of colours lighting up the darkening sky and the acrid smoke wafting from the fire in the local park. They’re gathered in one of the lad’s gardens with a stolen pack of fireworks; far too young to be playing with them on their own, but too swept up in the rebelliousness of it all to care about the inherent risk. Jamie and Matt are chasing him around the garden with sparklers in their hands, mindful of the unlit fireworks planted on the grassy lawn, but his younger self decides to push his luck and edges just a little too close. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he trips and falls, taking his sparkler down with him and inadvertently lighting a fuse.

He clearly recalls the rush of panic and the realisation that he is far too close. All he can do is stare in wide-eyed terror as heat dances along the fuse, threatening to release the firework at any moment and send white-hot sparks of flame in his direction. Before he can brace himself for the exquisite pain however, two pairs of hands grasp his arms and yank him roughly to his feet, dragging him as far back as he can possibly go until he slams against a solid wall. Mere milliseconds later, a burst of sparks erupt from the ground and a high whistle shoots into the air, followed by a stunning explosion of scattered reds and golds.

They remain frozen for what feels like an eternity, until the panicked silence is broken by a high-pitched “Fuck!” on Matt’s part and the release of hysterical laughter on Jamie’s. All he can remember doing himself is staring up at the sky – eyes fixed on the lingering embers of the firework that nearly melted his face off – and noting at the back of his mind that neither Matt nor Jamie have released their crushing hold on him. No doubt they were experiencing the same aftershocks of terror that were gripping his tiny frame.

Eventually Jamie had let go, and he remembers his ten-year-old friend stepping forwards, donned in a navy-blue tracksuit, before turning to the others with a crooked smile and a shaky declaration of, “That were a close one, weren’t it Al?”

A similar form of fearful desperation clings to Jamie now, as he crouches by his side. There’s no relief in his friend’s features this time, only panic and an unmistakable sense of frustration borne of cluelessness. It occurs to him that his inhalations are still coming thick and fast and his head is swimming as he sways in his chair and yet, paradoxically, his mind feels infinitely clearer than it has in years.

“Mark?” Jamie asks cautiously, bringing a warm hand to his cheek in an attempt to anchor him. “Wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”

The utterance of that name sends a flinch shooting through his body, and before he can even think, a hand shoots out and grabs Jamie by the wrist. The man stills, blue eyes widening as they draw level with a determined gaze, and though he can sense Matt and Nick edging closer, he doesn’t dare break eye contact as he utters his next words.

“Alex,” he hisses, chest heaving with the effort required to voice that old, familiar name. “My name is Alex.”

#Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino #Simulation Theory #Muse #Arctic Monkeys #my fic #writing

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kylowrens · 4 years

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Pas De Deux: Chapter 2

Read on AO3 Read Chapter 1 Summary: Kylo Ren pays you a visit through the Force. What does he want now? Word Count: 2500 Rating: Explicit (LOTS OF VIOLENCE AND VIOLENT SEX) Characters: Kylo Ren x Reader Warnings: finger sucking????? A/N: Hey guys!! I hope you guys dig this chapter!! It’s kinda slow but this is a slow burn after all. Hehehehe

You could sense him near you, through the Force. His presence demanded attention and his energy read like no other as it radiated heat, singeing your fingertips. You scoffed lightly, as there was no better time than to connect through the Force than right now, as you lied on your side on your bed in a thinly veiled dress that complimented your figure. Your bedroom oozed an elegance like no other, with a large canopy bed adorned with pillar posts and an intricate fountain sitting across. You fiddled with a rose-gold colored flower that was only native to your planet and its various moons. A smaller flower of the kind sat in your crown, which laid on your head.

Shortly after your less-than-pleasant introduction with the Supreme Leader a few weeks ago, you quickly recovered in a nearby medical bay where nurses and medical droids alike tended to your wounds, emotional and physical. A lightning bolt shaped scar plastered your collarbone, much to your cynical delight.

Your heart raced slightly as you felt his presence growing closer and closer to you as though he was merely a room away. You shut your eyes for a brief moment and opened them, exhaling in amusement as he loomed in front of you. You couldn’t tell where he was, but based on his thoughts and disposition, you knew he was somewhere safe, presumably on one of his ships. He stood, motionless, his mask further straying any signs that a human laid behind it.

“Back for seconds?” your voice, sarcastic, was laced with an extra tinge of bitterness. You rashly leaned over to grip your lightsaber.

“Perhaps,” Kylo answered. “But I consider this to be more of a completion of sorts.”

Heat coursed through your body as it prepared to fight once again. His overwhelmingly authoritative stance unnerved you with a rage of annoyance- you couldn’t stand his confidence, his self-assured notions that he could take whatever he wanted. You tried your best to put up a fight, and you nearly lost. You found solace in the fact that he seemed to not know where you were.

“I’m not quite sure I understand, I-” you began to say.

Kylo stepped towards you, his boots hitting the wooden bed frame. You looked up through long lashes and seared a wrathful stare into the Supreme Leader. “What I’m saying is that I’m not allowing you to get in my way. I will find the Wayfinder, with or without your help. It’s up to you to decide which way I’ll get it.”

You slowly bit your lip to suppress an uproar of laughter. You let a chuckle seep out. “You’re delusional if you truly believe that I’ll help you.” You lolled on your bed, sighing seductively as your back touched the soft and silky fabric of your sheets, arching upwards. You heard his thoughts, cluttered and filled to the brim with a fury with what you could only assume was born through the means of finding the Wayfinder, as well as your appearance. Your soft sigh evoked a tinge of arousal, much to your surprise.

“So, you decide on making things difficult for yourself, then,” Kylo responded.

You rolled over once again, now on your hands and knees. You crawled closer to Kylo and glanced up at him hungrily with mischievous eyes. “You’re not the only one who likes a good challenge.”

“A kingdom burning down in flames isn’t a challenge. It is a threat to you and your people, and you should believe it as such,” his voice rumbled lowly through his modulator. “I thought you’d know better.”

“Doubting my ability to lead once again. Very hypocritical coming from you, honestly,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’d do anything to protect my people from scum like you.”

“Then help me.”

“No,” you raised your voice. You sat up and hopped off the bed, standing face to face with him. You craned your neck upwards to look up at him, longing to tear that mask off his face. “Aid from my planet is the last thing you and your order deserve. Besides, I believe I can handle whatever you give me.”

“So foolish,” he extended his hand and cupped your chin with a gloved hand. Your heart skipped a beat and you felt electricity strike your lower belly. “I will destroy everything you have built.”

“I find your confidence to be admirable,” you resisted the urge to punch him in the stomach. “But it will ultimately be your folly. I’ve told you once before that I would be your demise, did I not?”

“You will be proven wrong, by any means necessary.” He stroked your cheek with his thumb, and you fluttered your eyelids in frustration, conflicted with your feelings of growing lust and anger. You briskly attempted to swat his arm away, but he caught your wrist, bending it at an unnatural and painful angle. You whimpered in pain, hearing his thoughts of delight. Your whines of pain were music to his ears. A lewd image flashed across your mind- it was of you, bound up, recreating the same noise you had made mere seconds ago. Your intuition immediately recognized that as not a thought of your own, but his.

“You’re fucking sick,” You spat, limbs trembling. “Let go of me!”

Kylo’s grip tightened and you screamed louder, your face scrunching up in a winced pain. “You asked for this, your highness,” he said. “Possibly, it will be your confidence that causes your downfall.”

You bent your fingers slightly and sent a wave of piercing pain to Kylo’s head, causing him to let go and hunch over. He groaned and gripped at his helmet before succumbing to the pain and mustering up the strength to overpower you. His back straightened and you felt a familiar pressure constricting your neck.

“How are you doing that?” His voice was a deep snarl. You opened your mouth to speak but no words came out. “Tell me.” he released his invisible grip on you and you fell to the floor, coughing while on your hands and knees. Once your coughing fit was over, you raised and sat back on the bed, resting on your palms. Not once did you break eye contact with him. A part of you stared so intensely because you desperately longed to see who was under the mask. You couldn’t tell if the lack of identity was why his intensity seemed so alluring, so full of potential.

“I. Don’t. Know.” You said through gritted teeth, growing increasingly exasperated with his repetitive qualms. “All I know is that you’re sick in the head.” You stood up and walked around him, leering at his figure and orbiting like a predator to its prey.

“I hear the way you think about me. The way you want to devour me whole...the way you see this as a conquest...There’s so much heat inside you,” you continued, making an extra effort to have seduction leak from it. You grazed your hand across the fabric of his tunic. “Too bad I would never let you do any of it.”

“That’s why I won’t stop until I win,” he turned his head to look at you. “You know I can take whatever I want.”

“What is it that you need, truly?”

“I need to end you.”

You chuckled sardonically at the thought of losing to him, at such a time in which your empire and strengths were only now beginning to ripen, bearing fruits of a labor that was almost ready for harvest. “Why end me when this is only the beginning?” You glided your fingers gently down the length of his sleeve, fingertips rolling justly over the thick ridges of black material; you were cautious, knowing he would bite at any second. “You’re afraid. I’m flattered.”

Kylo abruptly reached out for you, but you swiftly dodged his attack, leaning and stepping to the side. You sensed his anger swelling inside of him in unfurling and incendiary waves. He huffed boldly and shifted towards you, and you felt a leather hand squeeze your neck before you could react. “Do you wish for me to end you right at this instant, hm? Your pride will cost you your life,” He pulled you closer, your face so close to his that your breath slightly fogged against his wretched mask. Your jaw hung low as your mouth was left agape, desperately trying to hold onto any lingerings of oxygen. “You’re so arrogant, so naive.”

“Now, allow me to clarify some things. You will not get in my way. You are to never get inside my head if you truly value the lives of your people.” he continued, tightening his fingers around your neck. “I will not hesitate.”

Ever so slightly, the weight on your neck lightened itself and you inhaled as your throat’s passageways opened up. Tears of strain welled up while scattered thoughts rambled within your cranium; you didn’t know how to not hear him, let alone want to. “But-”

“But nothing. That is my final word on the matter. Find a way to resolve this, or come to find your land in flames.”

“Until you prove that to me, I’ll consider this as child’s play. I’m not a weak little girl, Supreme Leader. I’m not afraid of you,” you challenged him. “Besides, trust me, I’d rather not be aware of your...fantasies of me.”

He stepped even closer to you now, towering so much that you leaned backwards to look up at him. “I will give you a reason to be afraid. Also, I disagree. I’m beginning to believe you relish in my thoughts,” he paused. “Which is why you’re nothing but a pest to me.”

“A pest,” you repeated. “I thought we were more than that.”

You could hear him exhale underneath his mask. A part of you yearned for him too; it wasn’t the hardest thing to reciprocate on account of how difficult he was being, as you appreciated challenges as they came. Perhaps you were masochistic in that sense. His domineering attitude only shown itself to be a target of attack for you, a hurdle you so desperately ached to tackle. You were curious, intrigued by the idea of giving him the location of the Wayfinder, the possibilities of surrendering to such an honorable figure twinkled right in front of you.

But you knew better than that. The galaxy deserved better than that.

You were going to get under his skin.

“You’re wrong,” Kylo chuckled cynically. “You’re nothing.”

“No use lying to me now,” you grinned and shook your head, gaining confidence. “You’re dumber than you look.” You laughed but abruptly stopped when a sharp pain seized your brain and overtook your senses, needling its way through your skull and causing you to grip the sides of your head and whimper. You squeezed your eyes tightly in pain, then suddenly felt a leathered hand squeeze your cheeks together. He forced your face upwards and towards him.

“Look at me.”

You tried your best to open your eyes despite the searing pain. You saw a monster, and he was beautiful.

“I would watch that mouth of yours, if I were you,” He held your face in one hand, your lips pushing immaturely together as if you were a fish. He ran his thumb over your lips with his other hand, immediately surging a sting of arousal through you. You wadded up saliva as much as you could as you ran your tongue across the roof of your mouth and gleamed internally when it slid down his mask. He immediately released you and wiped off your spit, gathering it onto two of his fingers. You watched with intrigue and slight confusion as he gripped your face once again, although softer and looser this time.

“So impulsive,” He commented, watching your saliva glisten over his gloved fingers. “Clean up the mess you made.” He pushed his fingers towards your mouth and the sick side of you took over, welcoming the dampened fingers onto your tongue. You wrapped your mouth around his digits, swirling your tongue around them. You could feel the heat again, the lewd and crude thoughts filling his head. You allowed him to get away with it for a little while, basking in the wantonness of it all yourself. His arousal increased and at the peak of it, you smashed your teeth onto his fingers and chomped down as hard as you could. The Supreme Leader groaned and leapt back, clenching his fist.

“What? Was I a little too rough for you, Supreme Leader? You smirked, wiping your lips with the back of your hand.

Kylo shook his head, reaching out to stroke the scar on your collarbone. “You always bite off more than you can chew.”

“I like to learn things the hard way, can’t you tell?” You felt him press down on your scar.

“Oh, I know. I will be using that to my advantage.”

“All of this because I didn’t want to partake in your dictatorship. You’re very diplomatic.” you rolled your eyes.

“You have potential,” he noted. “It’s a shame you’ll never know what could become of it.”

“I’m very aware of my destiny, thank you very much. One part is becoming the newer, better Supreme Leader, in fact.” You said proudly.

“That would only be possible if you had decided to work with me, not against me. Your arrogance could only take you so far, your highness.”

You laughed once again at the thought of joining him, which by proxy, meant joining the fight for imprisonment, death, famine, and corruption amongst the stars. As the thought passed by, an overwhelming wave of hatred poured into you as you remembered who you were talking to. “Overthrowing the First Order is also possible. Don’t forget that option.”

“You seem to forget that dying is also an option.”

“Why haven’t you killed me yet, then?” You paced towards him. You two needed to be physically near one another, it seemed, as you both took turns sizing the other up, almost chest to chest, magnetically attracted to each other by an unseeable force. “So many warnings and you still haven’t been able to deliver.”

“I’ve decided to give you a death with honor. It’s the least I could do.”

“And what kind of death is that, may I ask?”

“When you’ve actually become something,” he answered. “When you actually pose a threat. In your own words, I too enjoy a good challenge.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place.”

“I know I have.” He stroked your face with his hand, then plucked the flower from your crown. It looked so lively, so bright as it contrasted with the dark glove. “Don’t forget who you’re up against.”

You reached up and placed a hand on his wrist as he cradled your face. You felt the cold leather for one moment, then he vanished into thin air, leaving you yearning for something you couldn’t quite identify.

#kylo ren #star wars #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren fanfic #kylo ren fanfiction #kylo ren imagine #kylo x reader #kylo ren smut

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sage-studies · 3 years

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Tag 9 people to learn about their interests!

Thanks for the tag @the---hermit!

MUSIC

Favourite genre?

I also grew up listening to metal/rock, so a lot of my music taste comes from that but I don't really have a favourite genre, I just like music that has a lot of energy to it

Favourite song?

I honestly can never pick a favourite song, I always have like 20 at a time. Tho my favourite new release is Tom Cardy's new album that he put out yesterday

Most listened song recently?

Jubilee Line - Wilbur Soot (I've just been listening to the whole album on repeat lately, as well as Lovejoy's ep)

Song currently stuck in your head?

Monster Truck - Tom Cardy

5 fave lyrics?

'A man delivered can never find his way in darkness, a man surrendered can never find his own forgiveness.' (Cardiff - Stone Sour)

Pretty much all of the lyrics in Trust Me Not - Backseat Vagabond

'You belong in a museum, where the normal people see you, cameras flash, they pay attention... We talk about angels like they don't exist, but how can I deny looking up at this?' (Venus - Saint Street)

'Can't help but smile when I'm sitting here beside her, she smells like cigarettes and cheap apple cider.' (Cheap Apple Cider - Saint Street)

BOOKS

Favourite book series?

Probably Vampire Academy or the Iron Fey series

Comfort book?

Also Vampire Academy

Favourite book?

It's so hard to choose ughhh

Perfect book to read on a rainy day?

Maybe the Heartstopper series

Favourite character?

Rose Hathaway from Vampire Academy, or Valkyrie Cain from Skulduggery Pleasant

5 favourite quotes from your favourite book(s) that you know by heart?

I can't remember things like that for the life of me, but I'll find the one scene that breaks my heart everytime. (Actually, I lied. There's 2 and they're both from VA)

'The next words stuck in my throat, and I sank to my knees as I spoke them.

"Is he... is Dimitri a Strigoi?"

Mason hesitated only a moment, like he was afraid to answer me, and then - he nodded.

My heart shattered. My world shattered.'

- VA Book 3

'"This isn't over. I won't give up on you."

"I've given up on you," he said back, voice also soft. "Love fades. Mine has."' - VA Book 5

(Insert meme 'wanna see how hard I can cry?' here.)

I've read this series through multiple times and those scenes never fail to make me ugly cry.

hardcover or paperback | buy or rent | standalone novels or book series | ebook or physical copy | reading at night or during the day | reading at home or in nature | listening to music while reading or reading in silence | reading in order or reading the ending first | reliable or unreliable narrator (only for the shock in realising that the character isn't what the appear to be - I'm thinking of the Virginia Andrews Mirror Sisters sorta style here) | realism or fantasy | one or multiple POVS | judging by the covers or by the summary | rereading or reading just once

TV AND MOVIES

Favourite tv/movie genre?

I like horror/thriller, but I also like watching nature/science documentaries

Comfort movie?

Not really sure tbh, I don't watch much tv/movies anymore, maybe any Studio Ghibli movie

Movie you watch every year?

Don't have one

Favourite movie?

Probably Your Name

Favourite tv show?

I don't really have one rn, unless I can count Dream SMP as a tv show

Comfort tv show?

If we're calling DSMP a tv show, then I'd say that

Most rewatched tv show?

I think it'd be The Umbrella Academy or The Witcher

5 fave characters?

Vanya and Klaus from TUA, Bee Duo from DSMP and Eret from DSMP :)

I kinda get bored after a few seasons, so unless they're really good I won't watch past maybe 3 seasons (I think I watched Supernatural up until maybe season 5, but that also took me like 2 years).

I'll tag @a-students-lifebuoy, @kkul-bee and anyone who wants to do this :D (no pressure tho)

#long post #sage post #tagged #tag game #thanks for the tag!

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lady-spieroles · 4 years

Text

Sleepsong

Dedicated to the lovely chaotic fucks that are Nerf House

Here’s 1200 or so words of @transvav‘s Twin AU.

I’m bringing back song fics because 2020 is already crazy enough, lets throw music back in our writing so you might need this

“Jonah, where is your brother?” Ianite asked quietly. The portrait painter, a man who’d travelled far at Ianite’s request for this painting, looked impatiently at his pocketwatch. Ianite gave him an apologetic look but then turned back to her son, an expectant violet eyebrow lifting over her emerald eye.

“I don’t know. He was still asleep when I woke up but I haven’t seen him since then. He knew what time we had the sitting.” Jonah replied primly, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in his tunic.

“I’m here! Sorry!” Jordan’s voice called as he ran into the room, shirt unbuttoned and hair disheveled, his bow clutched in one hand. “I overslept.” he offered by way of explanation, shooting his mother a small guilty smile.

“I reminded you last night, how did you forget?” Jonah questioned, accusation in his tone.

Jordan frowned back at him “I didn’t forget. I just overslept. But I’m here now so-” he stuck his tongue out at his brother, Jonah rolling his eyes at the childish behavior.

Ianite said nothing, letting her sons get their teasing out of their systems. Oh to be young with a sibling. She remembered her own childhood growing up with Mia and Dia, the hours spent making mischief and arguing over the smallest things. It was with a bittersweet smile that she ran her fingers through Jordan’s unruly hair, straightening it somewhat, but not too much that he didn’t look like himself.

If this was to be the last image she had of her sons, then she wanted it to be as they were.

She’d known the fate her sons would face from the moment they were born. She, of the three divine Gods of this world, had been blessed with the gift of prophecy and far sight. The void that filled her home realm spanned across every dimension, it was because of it’s power that she could catch glimpses into other worlds and other futures. As she held her boys in her arms that first night, soft and small and so very fragile, she saw their destiny.

She saw them, grown into handsome men, respected and powerful warriors. Leaders among mortals and proponents of Balance. She saw that one day they would leave the End, each coming into the service of another version of herself, her Champion in all realities. She was proud of them, even now mere hours after meeting them. She placed a kiss on each of their temples, whispering “You will go on to great things my sons.”

As they grew, their futures became more clear. She had a great many years to come to terms with them. She would be forgotten by them one day. They would lose their memory of her when they left their home in The End. After that realization, she’d poured herself into researching spells to prevent such an outcome, but all she came to understand was that destiny was not something that could be tampered with. Her sons were needed by the other versions of herself. So she would have to let them go.

Knowing that she would lose them one day only drove her to spend more time with them. She spent every waking moment she could joining whatever games they played and indulging their fantasies and wishes. They had visions as well, she came to realize. Nothing as concrete as her own, but visions nonetheless.

“Why is Jonah the Commander and you the Captain?” She asked Jordan during an explanation of a game of make believe they were playing.

“He just is. I like being the Captain and he likes being the Commander.”

“Yar! Surrender your ship Captain Sparklez! Ye are being boarded by the notorious Commander Redd!” Jonah shouted, brandishing a toy cutlass that one of the pirates had brought when they’d last come to visit.

“Never! I will protect My Lady till me last breath!” Jordan retaliated with a smile, waving his own toy sword.

As the years passed, a sense of melancholy anticipation began to grow within her. With each day that passed it only grew stronger. It was their 15th birthday that she finally realized what it was. They would be leaving her soon. One way or another she would lose her children.

They began to notice her mood as the melancholy built to an almost crippling level. It was Jonah who suggested the portrait. Both he and Jordan had begun to discuss in passing what lay beyond the End, what worlds there were to explore together, for no matter how much they fought, they never planned to leave each other’s side. He must have assumed that she was sad at the thought of them leaving, not knowing just how right he was.

When Ianite woke the day of the portrait sitting, something in her knew this would be the last chance she had to create a physical memory of her sons. She did her best to keep the sadness contained, lest the boys catch wind and grow suspicious. She wanted their last day together spent like any other, not with them trying to comfort her of a future she’d known was coming their whole lives.

Hours after they’d gone to bed, Ianite carefully crept into her son’s bedroom, closing the door softly behind herself. Without a sound she settled into the plush armchair she’d spent hours in when they were young, reading to them, cuddling them, consoling them. They were both sound asleep in their beds, tufts of dark hair poking up past the blankets. It had always amused her how different they were asleep than when they were awake. Jonah, so put together and proper, tangled himself among his blankets while Jordan, normally the one rushing from one thing to another, was still as the dead, his own blankets with hardly a crease in them.

She took in the sight, not even bothering to wipe the tears that welled in her eyes. She’d known for a long time that they would leave her and she had come to accept it, but she would hardly let them go without one last gift.

Ianite, the Goddess of Balance, lifted cupped hands to her heart and quietly began to recite the spell she’d spent much of their lives crafting.

Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay And I'll sing you to sleep and I'll sing you tomorrow Bless you with love for the road that you go

May you sail far to the far fields of fortune With diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet And may you need never to banish misfortune May you find kindness in all that you meet

May there always be angels to watch over you To guide you each step of the way To guard you and keep you safe from all harm Loo-li, loo-li, lai-lay

As she let her voice trail off, wisps of violet magic filled the room, drifting and swirling around her sons and blessing them with her power. Whatever they may face in their futures, whatever would bring them to their own Ianites and whatever tasks she set for them, they would be protected.

She stood from her chair and moved to kiss each of their foreheads as the glittering magic settled upon them.

The next day she watched from a window as they took off the edge of the island, elytras on their backs and laughter on their lips.

She knew that they would not hear her but still, she whispered a mother's final plea “Never forget the love I have for you, my sons.”

#mianite #mianite au #theadel #transvav #angst #Captain Sparklez #Jordan #Jonah Redd #my writing #Mianite fanfiction #words words words

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jerkbitchidjitassbutt · 5 years

Text

What Mattered Most (2)

Characters: Dean x Reader; Sam

Summary: Dean wakes to find she’s gone. What would make his best friend leave him? Sam may just know.

A/n: This will be a mini-series of two to three parts, based on the song “What Mattered Most” by Ty Herndon. This has been rumbling around in my head for a while, so I finally committed to getting it down. This is a little later than I was hoping to get it to you today, for that I apologize.

Warnings: Angst. Sadness.

Dean stood in the doorway of the bunker’s kitchen, resting his weight against the wide frame as you stood at the stove, flipping sizzling bacon in a cast iron skillet. Your hips were swaying to the sounds of music flowing from your headphones and you would shimmy your waist every few beats, oblivious to the world and thoroughly enjoying the Saturday morning off. A smile played at his lips as he watched you, content to savor the moments where you were lost in a melody as you took care of him and Sammy.

You turned slightly and caught his movement out of the corner of your eye, making you jump and yank the cords from your ears, “Dean! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” you yelled, clutching a hand to your chest.

A small chuckle erupted as he held his hands up in surrender, “Hey, you can’t blame me. There was no way I was going to ruin that show.”

Dean smirked as your cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink and a hint of a grin made a small dimple appear on the left side of your mouth.

He loved mornings like this; in the safety of his home, his brother snoring down the hall, and his favorite girl waiting for him to wake up.

“Yeah… well, you could have warned me. Not given me a heart attack.” You grumbled, but still cheekily beaming as you turned your back to him, setting to work at the stove with the pancake batter.

Dean moved slowly, placing a foot in front of the other methodically and allowing his strong legs to carry him to you. He rounded the small island, reveling in the sight of your falling in ribbons around a messy bun and your bare legs tucked beneath your sleep shorts.

It was a sight he adored. You.

When he reached you, he planted his feet on either side of your stance, his arms sensuously winding around your midsection. His fingertips trailed lightly against the skin exposed as he pressed his lips against your collarbone.

“How are you this morning, sweetheart?” he purred, caressing the shell of your ear with his mouth.

Reaching behind you to thread your fingers in his soft locks, you replied with a hum, “I’m good. Slept well, had good dreams.”

“Oh yeah?” he questioned mischievously. “About me?” he asked, attaching himself to your backside and locking you within his large frame.

You giggled. He could get lost in your laughter. “Of course, honey. Always about you.”

He spun you gently to cage you against the counter, leaning in to run his nose along the curve of your jaw, “I had good dreams too. I missed you when you weren’t there when I woke up, though.” his lips curling while he brushed a few stray hairs from your face, feeling the smoothness of your skin against his palm.

Stretching to your toes, you pressed a longing kiss to his plump lips, slipping your hands under the hem of his shirt to feel his muscle beneath. Dean knew he could live in this feeling for eternity.

“I’m sorry,” you whined, hugging him tightly and burying yourself in his chest, “but I had to go.”

“Go?” Dean questioned, confusion knitting his brow.

“Yeah, Dean.” You stated simply, pulling away from his embrace to look into his eyes, a sadness in your voice that he hadn’t heard before. “Remember? I left. I’m not here anymore.”

Dean stood speechless, witnessing the once happy glow fade from your gaze. A single tear flowed down your cheek, but you were steadily fading even as he still felt your warmth in his arms. “Y/n…”

Before he could continue, you slipped from his grasp, his hands still reaching for you as you vanished, words echoing in the darkness, “I’m gone. You can’t find me. I’m never coming home.”

Dean awoke gripping the sheets around him, a thin layer of sweat covering the length of his body and a panic in his chest that he couldn’t calm. He sat up quickly, searching his surroundings for something he wasn’t sure he’d lost. Sleep still fogging his memory, he struggled to remember what he was holding onto, but his dream haunted him none-the-less. He shook the covers from his legs and swung his bedroom door open with force, moving towards the room across the hall. Sam’s gentle snores could be heard from behind his cracked door to the left as he stood in front of yours.

When he twisted the knob gently and the door opened with a whine. He flipped the light switch, illuminating the pitch-black space to reveal a pristine, yet empty bedroom. He felt his stomach turn in knots and his eyes burn with fresh tears.

It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t his imagination… You really were gone.

He’d tried for two months to find you, but every shred of your identity was left behind. Every link or connection he had turned up empty. Fake badges, ID’s, and every burner phone he knew of yours sat on the small desk adjacent to your bed. He dragged his body towards it, slumping into the chair and resting his elbows on his knees to run a hand through his hair tiredly. Retrieving your most recent license from the stack before him, he took a moment to study the photo displayed on the plastic pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Your eyes, your nose, your lips. The smile hidden beneath them.

The images of his dream flooded back to him. He felt your skin touching his, your body cradled against him, and the smell of your shampoo. His hands could still feel your heat, though they were cold to the touch.

The scene in his vision wasn’t entirely fantasy, but one that he’d been a part of years ago. A memory of breakfasts you’d shared so many times made his chest tighten in agony. They were always filled with laughter and deep conversations. The secrets you kept from the world were often shared over the most amazing coffee and arguments ensued over the last shred of bacon. The only difference now was the intimacy. The touching. The kissing. Holding each other. That was something that had never been reality. It was never that he didn’t love you—at least not in the profound, elegant way, but rather it was something that hadn’t blossomed within him, until recently.

Until Sam told him everything. Until you left.

Now there was a longing in his heart that bloomed like a thirst that could never be satiated. He reasoned that it was just the feeling of missing his best friend, the person that had been there for him through all of the ups and downs that accompanied this life. But he knew. Deep within him, Dean knew he was in love with you—he could deny it, pretend he didn’t know the feeling, but there was no mistaking it. He also knew that he was too arrogant to appreciate it when he’d had the chance to act. He drove you away to the point that you didn’t want to be found, all the while burying himself into a hole of his own creation. He could try to move on, to try to forget and pretend to be his old self with a devil-may-care attitude, but there would be no use.

He stood from your desk chair and moved to stand by your bed, envisioning you lying there curled beneath your favorite blanket. Strangely enough, your scent was still etched into the very fabric of the room he now stood in. Your once decorated nightstand and dresser were bare, drained of the photos that use to adorn them. Dean resisted the urge to crawl into your bed and instead settled for running his fingertips along the hem of your pillow, cold and unused.

Dean shuffled back to the confines and darkness of his own room; closing your door to hide the haunting sight of its bareness, before slowly lowering himself back onto his mattress. He tucked himself tightly beneath the sheets, praying for the release of sleep if only to see you once again.

Hours passed before he was being gently shaken awake by Sam informing him of a case. In a state of confusion and hollowness, Dean packed his small bag of belongings and kept the radio silent during the entire drive, pertinently ignoring Sam’s questioning stares. He tried to pretend with Sam; pretend he wasn’t torn apart, but his brother knew him all too well.

Now, here he was, in a bar in nowhere, Nebraska, trying to chase the tiniest bit of his sorrow away. They’d arrived in town at 7 p.m., too late to follow any leads of the case, so Sam elected to stay behind and do research as Dean elected to do anything but stare at motel room walls.

“Another round?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah, then close out my tab.” Dean replied; opting that two was actually a good place to stop for the evening, something he potentially wouldn’t have done two months ago.

The bartender, a man probably in his late 40′s and hardened by life, grabbed the bottle of scotch and poured another three fingers over the remaining ice in Dean’s glass, “You from around here?”

“No.” Dean shook his head, lifting the amber liquid to his lips. “Just in town for a few days.”

“Didn’t think so. Only a few newbies ever make there way to these parts. But, let me give you some advice…” the stranger replied, reaching behind him, “This place has the best steak in town. My neighbor owns it; it’s an institution around here.” He set a paper menu in front of Dean on the glistening wood, next to the coaster that would house his drink.

Dean picked it up, prepared to thank him before he excused himself to help the new round of guests that poured in.

As he was studying the menu, a commotion sounded from the other end of the room, where two men were in a heated discussion about a recent game of pool. Dean took notice of the increase in bodies in the small area, not surprising for a Friday evening in a small town bar. At the other end of the space, a squeal from the speakers sounded as a few workers set up equipment for karaoke that would apparently be happening later that evening.

Glasses clinked together, the cracks and clanks of the balls being pushed by pool cues flooded his hears, and voices sounded from all around him; but nothing could have drowned out the sound of the voice he’d missed for months.

“Can I have a Jack and coke, please?” he heard from the opposite end of the bar, causing him to freeze. It was unmistakable.

He slowly turned his eyes in the direction of the wonderfully chilling melody and was met with the sight of you leaning over the edge of the bar, your Y/h/c hair falling in waves around your face and your eyes shining as you smiled at the bartender.

Dean attempted to force every cell of his body to tear his eyes away from you, but to no avail. Your skin was flushed and healthy. You were wearing a new shade of lipstick; a slightly darker red then the natural pigment of the flesh of your lips.

The bartender passed you a glass as you left a few bills on the counter, but you stayed planted where you were standing when you ordered. There was a lightness to you that Dean hadn’t witnessed in many years, feeling a fresh wave of guilt as the knowledge passed that it had been his doing that you’d lost it.

As he was taking you in, Dean felt a new found determination and strength to right whatever he’d done wrong. In that moment, he’d give anything to give you everything.

He began to stand, until he heard your name called.

A new fire rose to your eyes as you glanced in the direction from which it came, a bright, dazzling smile gracing your lips.

Dean watched as a man made his way through the crowd, steadfastly making his way to you.

And when that man captured your lips with his, Dean felt his heart shatter.

To be continued...

Masterlist

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misskikuwrites · 4 years

Text

Fantasy

Bederia Week 2020

Day 4: Fantasy

Bede/Gloria (dressedinpinkshipping)

@bede-x-gloria

Bede didn't know what he'd been thinking, taking a sky taxi to Postwick so early in the morning. The sun rested low in the sky, a lingering chill in the air that he breathed in before sighing. He felt warm despite the cool morning. Heat churned in his gut as he leant against a tall fence, resting his arms on the white-painted wood.

What was he doing?

Rookidee had begun to wake, chittering and squabbling in the grass. The cries of Wooloo rang in the air. It was early. He had no reason for being here.

And yet, his eyes drifted down the path towards Gloria's house. Wedgehurst was a short walk away behind him. He could hear the first train rumble in the distance as it took off down the tracks.

Would she be awake at this hour?

Would she even be home?

Bede had been struck with a desire to see her and had ended up in Postwick before he'd realised. The longing burning through his veins had cooled somewhat, but the sharp tug on his heart remained.

He wanted to see her.

Bede sighed, blowing out a harsh puff of air. Walking those few, final metres towards her house felt like a marathon in his mind. The distance between them expanding endlessly the longer he looked.

A flash of light burst at his hip, Hatterene appearing at his side. Bede glanced at his Pokemon, Hatterene tilting her head curiously at him.

"This would be so much easier if I were a Pokemon," Bede said absently. "Gloria loves Pokemon as much as anything else in this world. I bet she'd greet you with open arms." He shook his head at Hatterene.

A smile bloomed on Hatterene's face. She brought her tentacle up in front of Bede. Light flashed, enveloping Bede in a wave of warmth as he yelped, his whole body surging with energy. The light blinded him. His mind spun, the world spun, and he fell to his knees.

The light faded slowly, the back of Bede's eyes throbbing as he blinked through the pain. The ground under his face came into view as his vision cleared. Dirt and stones and paws.

Paws?

Paws. Not hands. Pink, fluffy paws were where his hands should have been. Bede flinched, recoiling and trying to back away from those paws but they moved with him. No, he moved them.

They were his.

Not only that, but the world was huge. The stone wall lining the path towered above him. The fence behind him more than twice his height. The trees had grown like skyscrapers.

Something had gone horribly wrong. Bede glanced around frantically, Hatterene nowhere in sight. He was alone on the dirt path. Alone and tiny in a world that was now suddenly so huge and foreign. Bede dashed towards Wedgehurst, his legs - paws? - moving swiftly beneath him. He skidded to a halt in front of a store, staring at the Sylveon reflected in the glass.

Bede stared back. A cold wave of horror slammed into him. He sank onto his hind legs, the Sylveon in the glass mirroring the movement. It was him.

Bede was a Sylveon.

"Aw, what a cute Sylveon!" a woman called, reaching down to pat him. Her hands descended over his face, sudden and large and Bede shot off like a bullet. He flew over the ground, legs thundering beneath him as the woman gasped. He powered out of Wedgehurst, rushing down the path in a bolt of panic. This was bad. Extremely, horribly and incomprehensibly bad.

Bede shot down the path without thinking. Panic rose in his throat, adrenaline roaring through his veins. He wanted to get away. To run, to escape whatever magic, whatever curse had afflicted him. He wanted to-

Bede slammed into a Rookidee, flying over the stunned Pokemon and crashing into a heap on the dirt. He skidded, his legs flailing and fumbling, and tasted dirt. Pain rippled across his body. He groaned, struggling to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him and he winced.

And froze as a flock of Rookidee rose out of the grass. They swooped in a frenzy of snapping beaks and swiping claws. Bede yelped and bolted in the opposite direction, ducking his head as claws flashed in his vision. Beaks snapped at his heels, at his tail. Claws swiped at his head. Bede drove his legs faster, further, harder, and skidded around a corner. He stumbled, almost tripping on his legs, and rushed into the garden of a house. Budew scattered. He slammed into the front door. His lungs burned, body ached, and he scratched frantically at the wooden door as the Rookidee descended once again.

The door flung open, Bede toppling onto his back.

"Shoo! Shoo! Get back!"

Feet stepped around him, the figure shielding him, waving and shouting at the swooping Rookidee. Bede saw the sky, a flutter of black wings. Hands lifted him up, cradling him close, familiar eyes meeting his.

"Aw, you poor thing! Are you okay?"

Gloria held Bede close against her, her face mere inches from his, and brought him inside, closing the door behind her. Bede couldn't breathe, frozen in her warm arms, at her sleep-mussed hair, the half-asleep glaze in her eyes. Bede snapped his gaze to the silken pyjama top she wore, the material soft beneath his paws. His paws that rested on her chest.

Bede scrambled in her arms in a fit of panic. He thrashed and struggled as she yelped, fighting her grip until she lost her hold on him and he fell to the floor. He unceremoniously crashed to the ground, landing painfully on his side.

"Are you okay?!" Gloria gasped and Bede jolted, rushing to his feet - to his paws - and backed away. Gloria held her hands up in surrender. "It's okay…! I'm not going to hurt you…!"

Bede's mind spun wildly, a torrent of panic and fear and confusion swirling together and blurring his thoughts.

"You've been through a lot, haven't you…?" Gloria smiled sadly at him. She knelt on the floor slowly, cautiously, and shifted her hands behind her back. "Did someone hurt you? Is that why you're afraid?"

Bede hadn't realised that he'd tensed his whole body reflexively. His heart hammered in his ears, and he managed to shake his head as his mind began to settle. This was Gloria. Her smile, soft and tender, began to ease the torrent of nerves in his blood.

"Can I touch you?" she asked, lifting her hand up slowly. "I'll be gentle, I promise."

Bede swallowed. She saw a Sylveon, not Bede. She saw a hurt, lost and vulnerable Pokemon that needed help. He saw the pain in her eyes and moved towards her without thinking. He pressed his forehead into her hand and closed his eyes.

He needed help, and knew she would understand that simple gesture.

"It's alright," she said softly. "You're safe now."

And Bede believed her.

He sighed when she brushed her hand over his head slowly. She patted him gently, cautiously, with a single hand, and Bede eased into her touch. He melted when she ran her nails across his scalp and scratched behind his ears.

Arceus, why does that feel so good…?!

Her skillful fingers continued their ministrations and Bede's brain ceased functioning when she scratched beneath his chin.

Her laughter was music to his ears. "Does that feel good?"

Mother of Arceus, he would have purred if that were possible. His tail swished behind him furiously. Her touch was electric, his skin buzzing alight wherever she touched. He burned inside, mortified at what he was doing - at what he was letting Gloria do to him - but it felt too good. Her touch was addicting and addled his mind, turning his thoughts, his willpower, his clarity, to mush. He was utterly and completely addicted to her that he didn't realise that she'd picked him up again until she'd placed him onto her bed.

Bede blinked through the glorious haze in his mind, before it dawned on him where he was. He was in her bedroom. On her bed. His heart caught as he jolted alert. He looked to Gloria in a spike of panic, and saw her unbuttoning her top.

Bede could have died on the spot. He snapped his eyes away, turned away from her completely, his body flushing alive with heat. An incoherent scream burst in his ears, in his mind.

Arceus, this was bad.

He tried to block out the sounds of shifting fabric, the soft whisper of clothing that was too loud in the silence. He squeezed his eyes shut tight as if that would help.

The mattress depressed as Gloria sat beside him. "Are you feeling sleepy? You can have a nap if you want."

Bede peeked at her cautiously. Thankfully, she'd finished changing into her familiar pink dress. He stifled a relieved sigh, and turned to face her. She smiled sweetly at him.

"Do you have a trainer?" she asked. "I guess there's one way I could check…" She grabbed a Pokeball from her desk and turned to Bede.

"Don't!"

The Pokeball dropped from her hand. It rolled off the bed, clattered to the floor. She stared at him. Blinked at him as her eyes widened.

Bede's blood ran cold.

"Did you just…?"

He could no longer breathe.

"You just talked!" She gaped at him, pointing with an accusatory finger. "Oh, Arceus - are you a person? Have you been turned into a Pokemon like that one guy in Kanto?! Did you- you just wanted me change!"

"I did not!" Bede snapped, flushing with heat. If he wasn't a Sylveon, his face would have burned a deep crimson.

Gloria stole the pillow from her bed, holding it up as a weapon. "Who are you? Tell me now or… or I'll…! I'll set my Cinderace on you! Or feed you to the Rookidee!"

"I-It's me, Bede!" he squawked.

She paused before narrowing her eyes. "And how do I know that you're not just a creep impersonating Bede?"

"You expect me to be able to offer you proof to my identity when I'm like this?" Bede huffed.

"That… does sound like something Bede would say, actually…" Gloria studied him for a moment. "You're Bede? Like actually, legitimately, Bede? Fairy Gym Leader, competitive-to-a-fault, wont-say-what-he-means Bede?"

Bede huffed again. "Do you know any other Bedes you haven't told me about?"

Gloria quietened, lowering the pillow. She sat on the bed, looking at him for a moment. "You really didn't see me getting changed…?"

"I-I looked away!"

She nodded slowly, a slight blush warming her cheeks. "So… how did you end up like this?"

Bede sat on his hind legs and furrowed his brow in deep thought. "I'm not entirely sure of that, to be honest. Hatterene may have had something to do with it, but I haven't seen her since I became like this."

"Your Hatterene?"

Bede nodded. "Yes, I was… I made a comment about being a Pokemon to her and then there was a flash of light. The next thing I knew, I looked like this."

"That's strange. I've never heard of Hatterene being able to do that. The guy in Kanto I read about used a machine to do it, but he became a Clefairy, I think." Gloria pouted her lips as she thought. "I've read a few fictional stories about people turning into Pokemon; one of which turned into a Sylveon."

Bede would have rolled his eyes about using fiction as a source if the situation was different and he hadn't been turned into a literal Sylveon.

"Did they manage to turn back?" Bede asked.

"Hm?" Gloria looked at him, blinking as if he'd stolen her from her thoughts.

"In the book - the person who turned into a Sylveon. How did they manage to turn back?"

"Oh. Um…" She looked at the pillow in her lap. "Well, it was actually a comic and… she'd turn back into a human with… a kiss."

Gloria glanced at him, a sheepish blush darkening her cheeks. A spear of heat shot through Bede.

"Th-That's completely ridiculous," Bede scoffed, the words catching in his throat.

"R-Right?" Gloria laughed bashfully. "It was a stupid suggestion. I don't know why I even brought it up, there's no way something like that would work."

"Exactly." Bede couldn't look at her, the nervous pitch in her voice lighting his nerves on fire.

A stiff silence fell over them for a moment.

"Well… it might not be that far-fetched," Gloria began, looking off into her room.

Bede shot his gaze up at her. "What?"

"J-Just think about it - usually in fairytales and stories with magic, a kiss is what breaks the curse, right? And you weren't turned into a Pokemon using a machine, but with magic."

"We don't know that for sure," Bede pointed out.

"We don't know anything for sure and we… won't know if we're right or not unless we try."

Bede's heart skittered in his chest. Dizzying and breathless. He couldn't find the words to reply. Gloria lifted her eyes to meet his and her gaze set something alight deep inside him. It stole his breath.

Gloria ducked her head into her pillow. "S-Sorry, it was a stupid suggestion; just forget it-"

"Okay."

She looked at him over the top of her pillow. "Okay…?"

His heart fluttered painfully, breathlessly. Too light and full and rising in his throat. "We won't know if it'd work unless we try," he said, forcing the words out. Forcing himself to meet her gaze.

"Oh." Her gasp of surprise was deafening in the fragile silence. Slowly, she lowered the pillow, shifted it off her lap. "Okay…"

Bede swallowed thickly. His heartbeat pounded harder, faster, thumping in his ears as she shifted closer. Her eyes studied his, looking deep into his eyes as if she were searching for any hint of hesitation, of doubt.

"If this works and you're not Bede…" she warned, leaning towards him.

Bede didn't get to answer as her soft lips pressed against his and everything felt right. Complete and perfect, as if the walls surrounding his heart had fallen and bathed him in warm, glorious light. He relaxed into her kiss, let the moment last and linger in his mind, and felt something shift. Warmth flooded his veins. The mattress dipped beneath him. His lips melded perfectly against hers and he sighed wistfully. He threaded his fingers into the blankets and-

Wait - his fingers?

Bede snapped his eyes open just as she did, their gazes colliding with a flash of realisation before they pulled away with a start.

Bede couldn't breathe with his heart lodged in his throat, staring wordlessly at Gloria. His lips tingled from the memory of her kiss and he absently touched them with his fingers. Gloria held the back of her hand across her mouth, blushing furiously at him.

Neither could speak. Their eyes met with a jolt of heat, a snap of lightning ricocheting between them, and they looked away. Bede slid his legs off her bed and sat up, trying to cool the scorching heat on his cheeks with his hands.

It had worked. Bede was back to normal.

And…

They had kissed…

"It… it worked…" Gloria said quietly.

Bede chanced a look at her, saw her cuddling her pillow again and staring at the floor.

"Y-Yes, it did…" He tugged at the collar of his coat, finding it suddenly too tight.

"There's just… one other thing…"

"What?"

Gloria looked at him, struggling to meet his eyes. "Well, in the story… the character turns back into a Sylveon whenever she kisses anyone. So, if that rule applies to you as well…"

Bede held her gaze. "There's only one way to know for sure…"

She nodded stiffly. She shifted closer, an anxious beat passing as she drew up to him until barely a breath remained between them. The scorching pink on her cheeks mirrored his. With a surge of Courage, Bede slid his hand over hers, lifting his other to cup her cheek. She flustered, looking away quickly before bringing her eyes back to his. He heard her breath catch as he dusted his fingers down her cheek and brushed his thumb across her waiting lips. Her lips parted with a silent gasp. A confirmation of her desire. Bede lowered his hand to catch her chin, tilting it up slightly as he leaned in to kiss her.

Her lips were soft and plush like velvet, intoxicating and addicting. He lost himself as she kissed him back, as she molded her lips to fit perfectly against his. A slow dance of their lips together, cautious and trembling until they began to follow one another, to find their rhythm and confidence as they came together again and again. The warm pressure against Bede's lips was nothing like he'd ever felt before. Warm and soft and…

He couldn't breathe.

Bede snapped his eyes open, instinctively shoving the fluffy mass off his face. Sylveon scampered off him, leaping to the floor and trilling happily as if the Pokemon hadn't half-suffocated Bede. He sat up with a frustrated huff, looking around his room with a rush of confusion.

His room. Not Gloria's. The gentle song filling the room was his alarm; Bede stole his phone off the bedside table and silenced the alarm. He sank back onto his bed with a sigh. Slowly, the realisation, the memory of his dream, came back to him with a flooding of heat. Bede slapped an arm across his face with a strangled groan. He could still feel the touch of her lips against his, so vivid and striking as if it had been real and not a horrible, tortuous conjuration of his mind.

That stupid dream was all Gloria's fault, after she rambled on and on about that ridiculous comic she'd been reading. He should have realised right away that it had been a dream, that his lovesick mind had moulded the information Gloria had told him into a dream.

Arceus.

Bede touched his lips with the tips of his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut with mortification.

Oh, Arceus.

He wanted to kiss her so badly.

#bederiaweek #bederia #btyu #dressedinpinkshipping #bede #gloria #pokemon swsh

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