#they’re clinging to you for safety | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

charliemwrites · 1 month

Text

There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #konig #konig x you #konig x reader #nikto x reader #sebastian krueger #krueger x reader #cod nikto #konig cod #neighbor!reader

2K notes · View notes

soaps-mohawk · 1 month

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 16: Big Brown Eyes

Summary: Things have returned to normal, or at least they seem to have. Nothing can ever go your way, though, can it?

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7925 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, unprotected sex, p in v sex, oral sex, face sitting, grinding, spanking (it's like once and not even on the ass), Kyle is definitely a munch, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, reader is a little shit, angst, PTSD, nightmares, trauma, mommy issues, family issues, language, the author's bias showing just a tad.

A/N: Have you ever cried while writing smut? I have. Had two mental breakdowns during the course of this chapter, the worst of the two during the smut scene. Sobbing while writing the reader getting her back blown out? That's a new one for me. But, I did it. I finished Chapter 16 this week. I'm feeling significantly better than I was, at least physically. Giving it to you a day early because I feel bad about not posting last week. The events of this chapter pick up pretty much where the previous one left off. Timeline wise, this chapter is spread over roughly a week-ish. And special thanks to the battle rattle anon for inspiring part of this chapter 🫶

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

(This is my all time favorite gif of him I swear I stare at it way too much)

You’re clawing at the door frame, desperately clinging to the last thing you can hold on to, the last shred of your life as you know it. You fight the hands pulling at your arms, threatening to pull you away from the comfort, the warmth, the safety of your home, of your pack.

Your mothers grief-stricken sobs reach your ears, her cries of desperation as they rip you from her, your father’s hate filled gaze directed at you over her shoulder as he holds her back. She loves all her children, but you were always her favorite. The bond between you two was always the strongest.

Now you know why.

The arms rip you from the doorframe seconds before the door slams closed. It’s like a gavel strike declaring your fate, cutting you off from everything you knew. You’re pulled back from the door, from the house that had become your safe space, from the pack inside.

They’re not your pack anymore. The thought is like a sharp knife, severing the lifelong bond in your mind. You’re not a part of them anymore. You’re alone in this world, cut off from what you knew, and it’s all your fault.

If only you could have presented as an alpha, like you were supposed to.

You’re sobbing, breaths coming in choking gasps. Your chest feels tight, your body tense and aching as you fight against the constricting hold around you.

“Easy, easy.” A deep voice murmurs in your ear, your senses beginning to return. “Yer alright, kitten.”

Your breaths continue to come in shaky gasps as you start to recognize your surroundings. You’re in Johnny’s room still. His arms are wrapped tight around you, your own pinned against your chest. You had fallen asleep before you even realized it, exhausted after your night with Johnny.

“Ye were havin’ a nightmare.” He says, projecting his natural beta scent in an attempt to get you to relax.

You squeeze your eyes shut, letting the scent start to numb your brain. The tears continue to slide down your cheeks, but slowly your breathing begins to normalize. Johnny begins to loosen his hold around you, not letting you go, but enough that you don’t feel like you’re being constricted anymore.

“Si gets them too.” Johnny continues, speaking quietly. His breath is warm as it fans your ear, reminding you that you’re awake now, and your nightmare is behind you. “Woken up tae elbows and fists in my face many times.”

You keep your eyes closed, taking in deep breaths as Johnny lays with you in silence, his fingers gently stroking your arms. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You hadn’t meant to have a nightmare. Not in front of them. You knew it would happen eventually, but you had hoped you could avoid it as long as possible.

You don’t want to reveal your weakness, your pain, your inner struggle to them. They have enough of their own, they don’t need to know how broken you are too.

You lay there, slowly calming your breaths and the slight tremble in your limbs as you wait for Johnny to begin questioning you. He’ll want to know, he’ll want to hear what it is that’s plaguing your mind. You’ll have to tell him, you’ll have to explain everything and then he’ll want to know more. He’ll want to unearth the brokenness and the pain that you’ve buried so deeply like an archaeologist looking for the secrets of an ancient civilization.

You don’t want to reveal it, you want to bury it again, lock it back in the recesses of your mind where it can’t hurt you. You want to compress it back down until you feel safe again without the threat of the past hanging over your head.

Johnny continues to relax his hold around you as you begin to calm down again, the tears finally slowing to a stop. You take deep breaths, trying to match Johnny’s even breathing behind you. You wait for it, the inevitable question, the prodding, the digging. He’ll want answers, he’ll want to know what plagues your mind, how much it’s been happening, why you haven’t said anything.

You’re not sure how much time passes as you lay there, counting breaths. It’s silent in the room, in the barracks. Even outside it’s quiet, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting patiently for the shoe to drop, for the truth to get revealed.

You can't wait any longer. The tension is too thick, the thought of waiting for the question to break the silence is too much. You'll rip the bandaid before he can try and force it from you. “I don't-”

“Ye don't have tae tell me.” He cuts you off before you can even start, the words slicing through yours, stopping you from spilling your darkest, innermost thoughts. “We all have them sometimes. No shame in that.” He tightens his grip on you for a moment, pulling you closer against his chest. “Simon doesn't even tell me all of his. Thinks he might scare me off, or somethin'. I'm no’ gonnae force ye to tell me anythin’ if ye don’ want to.”

You're taken aback by his words. You suppose they all have to be plagued by nightmares of their own, with the kinds of things they have to see when they're in the field. Ghost had told you a bit about the nightmares that haunt him, and that had only been one tragedy, one mission. You suddenly feel silly. The kinds of things you’re afraid of, the nightmares that terrify your mind suddenly seem inconsequential to the things they must dream about at night.

You wiggle in Johnny’s arms until you’re facing him, his eyes half closed as he stares down at you. You shift forward, pressing your face against his bare chest. His head tucks so his chin rests against the top of your head as he holds you, his breathing slowing just slightly as he drifts back to sleep. You don’t sleep, laying there awake as you listen to the slow, rhythmic beating of Johnny’s heart.

He’s snoring quietly, breath fanning across your hair as he sleeps peacefully. You let your fingers trail over his skin as you wait for his early alarm that will signal the end of your quiet moments of bliss, snapping you both back into your realities. You trace the scars lining his skin, all of them with their own stories, just like John’s.

He makes a garbled, snorting noise as your fingers brush over his ribs, his entire body twitching. His hand moves, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. “Tickles.” He murmurs, lifting your arm so it’s draped around his neck. He's asleep almost immediately, as if he hadn't woken at all from your tickling.

You continue to lay there as he sleeps, your mind drifting between sleep and your racing thoughts until Johnny’s alarm goes off. He groans, reaching across you to turn it off. He lays still, breath still fanning over the top of your head. For a moment you’re worried he’s fallen asleep again, but eventually he moves, rolling on top of you.

He presses his face against your neck, letting out a quiet groan. He’s heavy, but a solid weight above you. It’s comforting, the weight of him like a blanket keeping you safe. He presses gentle kisses against your neck, his fingers trailing across your shoulder before brushing over your mark. You let out a whine, arching against him.

“Screamin’ Jesus.” He curses, getting hard against your thigh.

“Don’t you have to go work out?” You ask as he begins to grind against you.

“Would rather stay here with you.” He growls against your throat.

“Won’t you get in trouble?” You gasp, bucking up against him.

“Worth it.” He grunts, kicking the sheets off the end of the bed.

“Someone missed the morning workout.” Kyle says as you and Johnny sit down at the table for breakfast. You’re the last ones there, despite Johnny skipping his early morning workout.

You take your normal spot between Kyle and John, sitting gingerly on the hard bench. There’s still a distinct ache between your thighs from Johnny’s enthusiasm and intense stamina last night and this morning.

“Aye, don’t worry. I still got a good workout in.” Johnny says cheekily, winking across the table at you.

You’re afraid you may combust as the other three pairs of eyes at the table look at you. It’s no secret what you were doing last night, or this morning. Johnny, as in most aspects of his life, is loud in bed. Kyle had known you were going to, and so had Simon, but you find your gaze turning to John as your face warms.

You’re not quite sure what you’re expecting as you look at him. It’s not like he had forbidden you from pursuing relationships with the others, or even shown any distaste at the idea. You were open to love the other members of the pack, just as they did one another, just as he did.

His face is stoic as he stares at you, before it begins to lighten, a gleam shining in his eyes. “Did he take good care of you?” He asks, the corner of his lips twitching.

You swallow thickly, your face getting warmer as you nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” John grins. “ Then I suppose I can forgive him for sleeping in this morning, so long as it doesn’t become a habit.” He casts his glance across the table.

“I’m a bad influence.” You say, spooning porridge into your mouth.

“Certainly worth the trouble, though.” Johnny says, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Especially when you do that thing with your tongue-”

Johnny’s words are cut off with a pained yelp as Ghost kicks him under the table. “Don’t go spilling all her tricks.” He grumbles, eyeing the tables around you.

You think your face might be permanently warm at the thought of anyone nearby hearing the topic of your conversation. Of course they know, but hearing about it was something entirely different.

Kyle walks you back to the barracks after breakfast, your hand in his, fingers laced together. His thumb rubs the back of your hand absentmindedly, shoulders brushing as you walk. Neither of you say anything, but you don’t have to. Unlike Johnny, Kyle is happy to exist in silence. They’re so very different, despite both being betas.

Your brothers had often joked about betas being boring, and how glad they were that neither of your parents were betas. You’d disagree now, after spending some time around betas. They’re just as complex as alphas and omegas, in their own ways.

Boring was the last thing you’d describe Johnny as last night.

Kyle holds the door for you as you enter the barracks, following you down the hall. You stop in front of your door, your hand pausing on the knob as Kyle leans in close to you.

His chest presses against your back, breath fanning your ear as he speaks. “Can’t wait to find out about this trick you do with your tongue.”

Your face warms again, your heart thudding in your chest as you turn to look up at him, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “You could find out right now.”

Kyle’s lips lift in a smirk as he leans in closer, trapping you against the door. “I’d love to, but I don’t think the Captain would be quite so forgiving if I skipped out on this training.”

You stare up at him, lost in his big brown eyes. “Soon?”

He smirks, leaning down to kiss you. “Of course. Just say the word.”

He leaves you there with your heart thudding in your chest, your stomach churning in excitement. You’d be more than willing to go that extra step with Kyle right at this very moment, but the subtle ache between your thighs thanks to Johnny is a good reminder why you should wait. You want to enjoy your time with Kyle.

You know it will be worth the wait.

“How have you been?”

You shrug, sinking back into the plush chair. It’s warm in the office, a stark contrast to the cold downpour outside. “Fine.” You answer, running your hands over your jeans. “Tired.”

“Oh?” Dr. Keller raises an eyebrow at you. “Have you not been sleeping well?”

“I’m...having a hard time falling asleep.” You say. It’s not entirely a lie, but it’s not the whole truth.

“Why do you think that is?” She asks, writing something down.

Your palms begin to sweat. You hadn’t planned on going into too much detail about this with her, but you knew she’d likely notice and remark on your tired appearance. “Been thinking too much.”

“About what?” She probes, staring at you.

You know you don’t have to tell her anything. What you share is up to you. Yet, you can feel the words bubbling up, threatening to spill over before you can stop them. “My family.” You say, releasing some steam from the boiling pot inside you. Tears burn your eyes, threatening to fall as you continue. “Especially my mom. I miss her a lot sometimes.”

“You had a close bond with her.” Dr. Keller says. It’s not a question.

You nod. “The closest out of all of my siblings.” You snuffle, wiping the tear trailing down your cheek. “Makes sense why.”

“Sometimes we have traits or behaviors that show before we present that hint at our possible status. Having a stronger bond with one parent over another, especially in mixed status packs, can signal what one might present as.” Dr. Keller says. “Were you the first omega to present in your pack?”

You nod. “Yeah. My older brothers were alphas, and I don’t know about my younger siblings.”

“That could all contribute to a strong bond with your mother.” Dr. Keller leans back in her seat. “I’m assuming you haven’t had any contact with them since the institute.”

“Not since I was taken from home. The institute didn’t support keeping those connections with previous packs and...I don’t think they would have reached out anyway.” You say, picking at the fabric of your pants.

“What makes you say that?” Dr. Keller asks.

You pause, not sure you want to open that bag of worms. If anyone is safe enough to do it with, you know it’s going to be Dr. Keller. She won’t judge you, she won’t think you weak or silly for having such thoughts, such fears. She doesn’t care how broken you are. You’re not part of her pack. She’s an outsider, a doctor above all.

“Well, they did send me to the institute, didn’t they?” You finally say.

Dr. Keller hums, staring at you for a moment before she drops her gaze to her notebook, writing something down. “I suppose you have a point there. Hypothetically, if you were given the chance to, would you want to talk to them again? It’s not uncommon for omegas to seek out their previous packs and families after they leave the institute.”

Your stomach twists at her question. Even if it is only hypothetical, you had existed for years in the institute thinking you’d never get to see or hear from your family again. They were behind you, lost to you. They wouldn’t accept your attempts to reach out to them, even if you knew where they were. Even after leaving the institute, you knew the chances of seeing them again or even just hearing from them was almost none. You have a new pack now, your old one doesn’t matter.

That’s just the life of an omega.

Would you want to? In this hypothetical world where this question exists as a potential option, would they even answer if you called? Would they accept an invitation to see you again, if they were given the chance? Could your father feel regret after all of these years for what he did to you?

“I...” You frown, tears pricking your eyes again. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.” Dr. Keller says. “It’s a complex situation. If you ever wanted to, though, I’m sure they could make it happen.”

Your gaze snaps to hers, the shock at her words clearly written on your face. Of course they probably could. It was their job to hunt down hard to find people, and with the CIA at their backs, you’re certain they could track down your family easily. Would they do it for you, if you asked? Would they allow you to have that connection with your old pack while still being part of theirs?

“Most people keep some form of contact with their family, even after they move on to their own pack.” Dr. Keller says. “It’s not unusual, even among omegas. Just something to think about.”

“Do you still talk to your family?” You ask her, partly out of curiosity.

“I do.” She smiles. “I talk to my parents pretty regularly, and my older brother occasionally. He’s involved in this world too. He was in the Army originally, but now he does whatever it is he does.”

You’re surprised by her answer. Not so much that she still talks to her family, but that she’s familiar with this world. It makes sense, how easily she existed in it, beyond just being a professional. “Do you think it had something to do with you being chosen for this position?” You ask.

“Most likely.” She grins. “Laswell probably wanted someone who is at least a little familiar with this world, but also someone she knew would work well with you.”

“I think she made the right choice.” You say. It’s the truth. You like Dr. Keller. You trust her. You’ve grown comfortable in her presence and you look forward to your appointments with her. It almost makes you feel bad for withholding the truth from her.

“Good. I think so too.” She says. “So, did anything exciting happen this week?”

You chew on your lip nervously, your hands disappearing into your sleeves as your face warms a bit. “Johnny and I...had our first time together.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrows raise. “And that’s something you wanted?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’d like to get close to all of them, well, as close as Ghost will let me get.” You bite your lip again. “Ghost...gave me some pointers on how to handle Johnny. It worked. He...let me take control. I liked it.”

“Nothing wrong with that.” Dr. Keller says. “I think it’s great that you’ve discovered this about yourself. I know omegas are so used to being controlled in society. I think it’s great that you’ve found a place where perhaps you can take a little control back.”

She’s not wrong. Your entire life has been dictated for you, controlled by someone else. The baton of control was just continually passed from your father, to the institute, to the CIA, and now to John. Though John has granted you the most freedom of everyone that’s held control over you, there’s still requirements for obedience and submission to him. You’ll never be your own person. That’s just the way society works, and you’ve come to accept that.

Yet, you’ve never felt quite so powerful as you did in bed with Johnny, when you’d gripped him by the mohawk like Ghost had instructed you to. When you saw the change in his eyes as you took over, controlling him, telling him what to do. You liked it, exerting control over someone else for a change. He just let you do it. It still sends a thrill down your spine at the thought of the possibilities, the things you can do now that you’ve discovered this part of yourself. You’d never show it in public, but behind closed doors...

The book was right. Perhaps omegas can be powerful.

“What are we doing?” You ask, staring up at John as he straps a tactical vest onto your body.

“We’re doing an exercise, and you’re going to help us.” He answers, double checking the vest before putting a helmet on your head. “Think of it as hide and seek mixed with tag.” He finishes strapping the helmet to your head, taking a step back. “How does it feel?”

“Heavy.” You feel weighed down with the vest and the helmet.

“You’ll get used to it.” He says with a smile, guiding you towards the door of the warehouse.

It’s dark inside, nearly pitch black except for the light coming in from the open door. There’s fake walls set up in front of you, with space just in the middle like a sort of hallway that disappears into the darkness.

“Your job is to get from this side of the warehouse, to the other without getting caught.” John says. “No weapons, just you trying to evade us and get to the other side while we try and catch you,” John lowers the goggles on the top of the helmet, the world coming alive in shades of green around you. “And night vision goggles. Be smart about it. Understood?”

You nod, looking around with the goggles, trying to adapt to using them. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. You have a thirty second head start. Use it wisely.”

He leaves the warehouse, closing the door behind him. You’re left in complete darkness, with no sound but a fan running somewhere, probably to dampen any sounds that might echo. You stand there for a moment, trying not to breathe too heavily, as it might echo in the warehouse. You stare at the door behind you for a second before you begin to move forward, the adrenaline starting to pump. You have to get to the other side of the warehouse before they catch you. Are they working together or individually? What kind of strategy will they use? What strategy will you use?

You begin to pick up speed, running until you reach the end of the first hallway. It splits off in both directions, and you hesitate for a moment. Be smart about it. You don’t have many advantages in this situation. They’ve done this before, both in training and probably in the field as well. They’re highly skilled soldiers, trained to hunt down people in all sorts of environments, sometimes with nothing more than their scent.

Scent.

Of course.

You take off down the right hallway, following it as it twists and turns like a maze. A giant maze. There’s so many hallways, so many places to run, but not many to hide. That’s not the point, though. You have to get to the other side of the warehouse before they do. You have to track your way through this maze without getting caught by four special operations soldiers.

Simple enough.

You pause at a corner, undoing your vest so you can slip your sweatshirt off. You’re just putting your vest back on when the door opens, bathing the ceiling with light for a moment. It’s started. They’re inside. You can’t hear anything over the hum of the fan, and that’s almost more terrifying to you than if you had been able to hear them. The adrenaline is pumping now as you toss your sweatshirt in the corner before quickly backtracking and heading a different direction.

You try to keep your breathing quiet as you weave through the maze, doubling back and touching the walls every so often to try and leave your scent behind and confuse them. You take deep breaths through your nose as you go, trying to catch any whiff of them, any sign that you might have crossed their path or be getting close to them. They’ll reach the same area of the maze as you’re in eventually, sooner rather than later. You need to start pressing forward. You’re not just evading them, you have to reach the other side before they catch you.

You slip around a corner, pressing up against the wall as something moves behind you. You hold your breath, quiet footsteps passing by your position. Your hands are shaking from the adrenaline, the instinctual fear of being hunted rising in you. You take a couple of quiet deep breaths, slipping your shoes off to grab your socks before slipping them back on. You peek around the corner, finding nothing.

You toss one of your socks in the corner before doubling back, pausing as you cross one of their scents. Johnny. You recognize the citrusy tang in the air. Christ, you’ve never heard him be that quiet before. You continue on, your heart racing in your chest as you carefully weave around corners, slipping through hallways. They’re close to you now. They could be around any corner.

You pause as you cross the scent of leather and musk, something prickling in the back of your mind. It’s a fresh scent. You pause for a moment, looking in the direction he went before slipping around the corner. You still have your other sock clutched in your hand, knuckles white as you grip it tightly.

You should be nearing the end. The warehouse isn’t that big, even with all the doubling back and dodging you’ve been doing. You toss your other sock in a corner haphazardly as you decide to stop doubling back and go for the exit. You have to try and get ahead of them, as well as find your way through the maze to the exit door.

Simple enough.

Except, you have no idea which direction the exit is, or which direction you’re heading. You could be going backwards for all you know. You weave through the halls, around the corners, focusing on finding the end of the maze.

In your concentration you fail to notice the scent, weaving through the halls mindlessly as you attempt to reach the end of the maze. You pay for it as the sound of boots on the concrete floor rushes up behind you. You let out a startled shriek of surprise as your feet leave the floor, your body ragdolling over someone’s shoulder.

“Got her!” He yells out, weaving around a couple corners before light floods the warehouse, making you wince.

Your squint as your feet hit the ground again, the night vision goggles lifted from your face. Your nose crinkles as you stare up at Kyle’s smug face, his lips pulled up in a smirk.

“No fair.” You pout. “I was so close!”

“You were, but you got sloppy at the end there.” He says, undoing the strap of your helmet to help you take it off. You’re sweaty underneath it, hair sticking to your forehead. You’re glad you ditched your sweatshirt now.

“Not bad.” John says, exiting the warehouse, Ghost and Johnny following. “Nice strategy.” He says, tossing your sweatshirt to you.

You shrug, hugging it to your chest. “Had to think fast with what I had on hand.”

“Running around with no socks on too.” Ghost says, holding up your socks.

“Left you a little present. You can keep them if you want.” You smirk.

“Don’t want your nasty socks.” He grumbles, tossing them to you.

“That was fun.” You say, grinning up at them. “Like being hunted.” You don’t miss the quiet rumble in John’s chest at your words, his eyes darkening just a bit. “Can someone help me out of this now though,” You say, reaching for the velcro straps on the vest. “It’s squishing my boobs.”

The TV is playing some show, but you're not really paying attention. You haven't been, not for a while now. Your adrenaline had still been pumping a bit after your participation in the exercise earlier, putting you on edge the rest of the day. It had been a bit thrilling, the idea of being hunted like that. You can understand now how omegas enjoy being hunted, beyond just the inevitable end.

The thought of that being how the exercise ended, all four of them at once, out where anyone could see you...your skin begins to prickle as heat blossoms in your veins. Kyle would get to take you first because he won, he caught you so easily. Would John go second, or would he allow the other members of his pack to go first? Ghost would be rough, taking you from behind, hands bruising on your hips. Your teeth sink into your lip as you imagine him over you, a position you often found yourself in during your training with him. He's just so big, so strong. They all are.

You won't be able to control yourself during training if you keep going down that thought path.

John would be gentle, piecing you back together after the others have had their way with you. He'd take care of you, like a good alpha, dragging one more orgasm out of you after you think you can't anymore.

You let out a shaky breath, trying to calm your scent. You're stinking up the rec room with your fantasies. You turn your head to look at the TV, trying to focus on what's happening on the screen in an effort to distract yourself.

It doesn't work, the subtle dampness between your thighs ever present on your mind. You have half a mind to get up and seek out Kyle, but like a miracle he appears in the doorway of the rec room. You see his nostrils flare, the lift of his shoulders as he inhales. He can smell your arousal, the spike in the sweetness of your scent. You have no doubt about that. He doesn't say anything, though, instead he approaches the couch silently, kneeling at the end.

He settles himself on top of you, resting his head on your chest. He lets out a breath as he settles, keeping some of his weight off of you, but he's still pressed against you like a weighted blanket. You fight the urge to shift beneath him, to press your hips up against him, to seek any ounce of relief for the warmth between your thighs.

You're not sure he's watching the TV either as he lays there, relaxed over you. Your fingers trail patterns across his back, gliding over his soft shirt. He's in blue today, one of your favorite colors on him. He looks good in anything, the perks of being pretty, but blue is one of your favorite colors on him.

It's silent between you for a while, Kyle relaxed above you while you fight to relax beneath him. If he’s affected at all by your scent, he hides it well. You have half a mind to ask him to take pity on you, to slip his hand beneath your sweatpants and ease the ache between your thighs. He had said whenever you wanted it. All you have to do is ask.

You shift slightly beneath him, lifting your hand to his head. “Kyle?” You ask, gently trailing your fingers over his scalp. He'd gotten his hair buzzed recently, the curly strands shorter than normal.

He hums in response, the sound rumbling through your body from where his head rests on your chest. When you don't reply right away he lifts his head, blinking up at you with those big brown eyes.

“Kiss me?” You ask.

Your heart starts to race as he pulls himself closer to you, his body dragging against yours. His eyes dart to your lips before they look back into yours for a moment. He leans down, slipping his arms underneath your back as he closes the gap between you. His lips are soft against yours, his kisses gentle and controlled as he holds you like you might break in his grasp.

“Kyle?” You murmur against his lips, your arms wrapping around his neck.

He hums again in response, pulling away just slightly to stare down at you.

“‘M not gonna break.” You say, dragging your nails over his scalp again. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

His lips twitch in a smirk before he leans down, pressing his lips hard against yours. It’s a searing kiss that nearly steals your breath away. His tongue prods at your lips, and you part them to allow him in. He tastes like the tea he had been drinking after dinner, rich and earthy with a hint of sweetness from the sugar he added. You moan softly into his mouth as his tongue flicks against your own, your thighs squeezing around his waist at the thought of that tongue between your legs.

He smirks against your lips as if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, his body shifting over yours so he can press one of his thighs between your legs. You move instinctively, your hips grinding against his thigh. Finally you're getting some friction, some relief from the ache.

“Fuck.” He breathes, pulling you tighter against his chest. “That’s it.” He groans, pressing his thigh harder against your grinding hips. “Gonna cum on my thigh, just like that?” He nips at your jaw, trailing kisses down the line towards your neck. “Haven’t even touched you yet.”

You try to muffle your moans as you continue to grind against his thigh, the friction on your clit pushing you closer and closer to the edge. “Kyle?” You gasp out, gripping the back of his shirt. “Gonna fuck me on the rec room couch?”

He lifts his head from your neck, staring down at you for a moment. “Fuck, you’re right. Your room or mine?”

“Yours.” You say, hanging on for dear life as he scoops you up off the couch, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He walks you to his room, carrying you the entire way. He kicks the door shut, beelining for his bed. He drops you down on the mattress, your body bouncing as he hastily peels his shirt off, revealing an expanse of smooth skin marked here and there by scars. You immediately reach out, trailing your fingers over his skin. It’s just as soft as it looks, your fingers trailing the lines of his muscles.

His hand flattens over yours as it reaches his chest, pressing it into his warm skin as he leans down, kissing you again. His hands slip under your thighs, lifting you and switching your positions so he’s seated on the bed, and you’re in his lap.

“Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?” He says, looking up at you.

“I think it’s been mentioned before.” You say with a shrug, smiling down at him.

“It’s the truth.” He says, slipping his hands under your shirt. “Deserve to hear it all the time.”

“Bunch of handsome men complimenting me constantly?” You say, lifting your arms over your head so he can remove your shirt. “Can’t complain about that.”

“Luckiest men in the world.” He says, smoothing his hands across your back as he presses his face into your throat. “Pretty little omega.”

You shiver as his teeth nip at your skin, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arch against his chest, pressing yourself closer. There’s a bulge in his pants, a shiver of pride running through you at the thought that you did that to him. You elicited such a reaction from him.

“I never properly thanked you.” You say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“For what?” He asks, staring up at you curiously.

“For taking such good care of me during my heat. Couldn’t have been easy, seeing me like that, knowing you couldn’t even touch me.” You grind your hips against his, his teeth sinking into his lip as you grind against his bulge. “Tell me, how many times did you touch yourself while thinking about me?”

“Too many to count, love.” He groans, leaning his forehead against yours. “Sounded so sweet, getting ruined by our alpha.”

“Been so patient, waiting for this.” You gasp, still rocking in his lap, the wetness between your thighs intensifying from the friction. “Tell me how you want me.”

“Sit on my face.” He growls, pushing you off his lap so he can lay down on the bed.

You shove your pants and underwear down your legs, fighting the urge to be bashful. Kyle has already seen you at your most vulnerable, been up close and personal with your most private parts. Yet, it feels different like this. More intimate, and less of a necessity.

You take his hand as he offers it, letting him guide you to kneel over his face. You grip the headboard as you hover over him, his hands settling on your hips.

“Wait-” You say, before he can pull you down onto his face. “What if I suffocate you?”

“Then I’ll die a happy man.” He says, tugging you down onto his mouth.

You let out a gasp as his tongue drags through your folds, already soaked from his teasing. His tongue flicks across your clit, eliciting a quiet moan from your lips. Your hips jerk when his mouth closes around your clit, suckling at it with a lewd smack of his lips.

“Fuck!” You gasp, grinding your hips against his face as he continues to tease your clit, drawing patterns on it with his tongue.

You’re close already, your legs trembling around his head. He holds you steady, keeping you still above him as he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking on it harshly. Your knees attempt to squeeze around his head as you cum, soaking his face with a cry. He continues to lap at your folds, licking up every last bit of your release before he finally lets you move off his face.

You drop to the side, staring down at him as you try to catch your breath. He licks his lips, his face shiny with your juices. He reaches a hand over, tangling his fingers in your hair as he pulls your face down to his, kissing you. You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue and lips, already starting to get wet again.

Kyle wraps his arms around you, flipping you onto your back under him. He hovers over you, the bulge in his pants very visible, even from this position.

“Sweet little omega.” He says, nipping at your lips. “So fucking perfect.”

“Kyle,” You gasp, pulling him down into a kiss. “Need you.”

“I got you.” He soothes you, pressing another kiss to your lips before he sits back on his knees between your legs, staring down at you. He drags his fingers through your folds, still just as slick as they had been before your orgasm. “So fucking wet.” He groans, hastily undoing his belt and pants, kicking them off the end of the bed.

You stare at him in awe, his cock just as beautiful as he is. Long and thick, curved just slightly. You can’t help but ogle him as he wraps a hand around the base, squeezing it. He’s hard, raging hard, the tip leaking precum already. He really has been so patient, waiting for this. You almost feel bad making him wait so long, but he had agreed to be patient, if only to keep Johnny from making everyone’s lives miserable with his pouting if he didn’t get to go first.

It’s only fair that you let Johnny go first too, considering Kyle will likely be the one you spend the most time with. It’s only natural, thanks to your bond with John. Kyle’s your beta, just as much as John is your alpha. You’d like Johnny to be your beta too, but you know without that bond with Ghost, it’ll never feel quite the same as it does with Kyle. Regardless, you’ll continue to treat Johnny as if he was your beta.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Kyle asks, watching you as you get lost in thought.

You truly do it at the worst possible times.

You lift your gaze to his, staring into those big brown eyes. “Just waiting on you to hurry up and fuck me.”

You let out a yelp as Kyle’s hand smacks your inner thigh, the sound cracking through the room.

“Don’t get cheeky now.” He warns, rubbing the spot on your skin that’s quickly turning warm from his smack. “Just making sure you’re alright.”

“Fine.” You say, spreading your legs further for him. “Be better if you finally fucked me.”

Your laugh is broken by a moan as he drags his head through your folds, his hand falling to grip your waist.

“That needy for me, huh?” He asks, teasingly pressing the tip of his cock into you before pulling back.

“Just worried you might not make it since you’ve waited so long.” You gasp, trying to move your hips to take him deeper into you, but he pins you with the hand on your hip.

“Careful what you wish for.” He says, the warning clear in his tone. You handled Johnny just fine, you can certainly handle Kyle.

You hope.

He finally takes pity on you, sinking his cock deeper into you. You moan at the stretch, flopping back on the bed as you try to relax around him. He rolls his hips in short thrusts, sinking deeper and deeper as you open up to him. You reach for him as he sinks even further into you, his body folding over yours. You wrap your arms around his neck, staring up at him as he seats himself completely inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.

“Hi.” You breathe, getting lost in his soft gaze.

“Hi, love.” He grins down at you, fingers brushing your cheeks as he leans on his elbows above you. “Doing alright?”

You nod, squeezing around him. “Yeah. Feels good.”

“Good.” He says, leaning down to kiss you. “Been waiting so long for this. Feels better than I imagined.”

You let out a quiet whine, clenching around him again. The thought of him imagining this, trying to picture what you’d look like, what you’d feel like while he waited patiently for his turn has your body burning hot. You shift your hips below him, causing him to move inside you.

“Kyle?” You breathe, shifting again. “Please move.”

“I got you, love.” He smiles down at you, pulling his hips back before slowly pressing forward again.

Your head falls back as he moves, keeping his pace slow and languid. Heat burns through your veins, your very nerve endings alive as he slowly rolls his hips into you. Something thrums in the back of your mind, the mark on your shoulder almost tingling as you stare up at him, your fingers trailing over the mark on his shoulder, a mirror of the one on your own. A shudder runs through him as your fingers brush the scar, his lips parting in a low groan. You clench around him at the sight of such unbridled pleasure on his face, pulling him closer against your body.

He drags your pleasure out as he makes love to you, slow and passionate and deliberate with every movement. You know you won’t last much longer, the sensations beginning to overwhelm you.

“I’m close.” You breathe into Kyle’s ear, pressing kisses across his neck. “Don’t stop.”

“Gonna cum for me?” He groans, keeping his thrusts steady. “Gonna let me see that beautiful face as you come undone for me?”

Your back arches as you cum, pushed over the edge by his words. Your nails bite into his shoulders, but he offers no complaint as he continues to roll his hips into yours, working you through your orgasm as he chases his own. His pace picks up slightly as he gets closer and closer to the edge, your eyes on his face, wanting to watch him now.

“Your turn.” You breathe, still trying to catch your breath from your orgasm as you clench around him.

His head tilts back, lips parted in a deep moan as his hips jerk. His cock twitches inside you, his thrusts getting sloppy as he cums. You trail your hands over his back, sinking your teeth into your lip as you watch his face morph into complete bliss. You’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful.

He collapses on top of you, just managing to keep his weight off of you thanks to his elbows planted on the bed beside your head. You continue to rub his back, fingers tracing the smooth, sweat slicked skin, only pausing to trace the scars that you find. Kyle presses soft kisses to your face, slowly trailing lower across your jaw and neck. He presses a kiss to your mark, a shudder running through you. He lets out a groan as you clench around him, shifting so he’s face to face with you again.

“Give me a minute.” He says, slipping out of you as he presses a kiss to your lips.

“Tired already?” You ask cheekily.

“No,” He says, kissing you again before slowly sliding down your body. “Just need a minute to catch my breath. Besides,” He settles between your thighs, pressing them open so he’s face to face with your pussy. “I’ve got a mess to clean up.”

You stand outside the door of John’s office, brows pulled into a frown. You have a feeling you already know what he’s going to say, yet your mind keeps reeling, coming up with the most fantastical ideas as to why you were summoned to his office in the middle of the day. It’s weird that he’s in his office in the middle of the day. Usually they’d be off training, but he’d pulled them all into a meeting this morning after breakfast, one that had gone into your usual lunch time, and then they hadn’t gone to train after you finally got to eat.

“Come in.”

Your hand pauses on the handle as you hesitate, almost as if you could prevent what’s going to happen by just not going in. It’s a ridiculous thought. Avoiding this will only likely get you into trouble.

You step into the office, the air inside different from any of the other times you’ve been in his office. John’s face looks grim and focused behind his desk, and it’s not hard to tell you’re not facing John right now, you’re facing Captain Price.

You take the seat across from him at his desk when he motions to it, trying to fight the tears threatening to brim in your eyes as you stare at him. You won’t cry. You knew this was going to happen eventually. You knew going in what was going to inevitably happen. You had been well prepared for this part of your new reality, yet you don’t want to acknowledge it now that you’re staring it in the face.

“I know you’ve likely already figured out what’s going on.” He says, his voice gruff and deeper than normal.

You can see it in his face. He’s fighting his own battle with having to tell you. You hadn’t expected it, to see him struggle with it. He knew it as well as you did. He knew it better than you did, and yet, you can see the turmoil behind that focused gaze.

He lets out a sigh as he continues, hands closing into fists on his desk, his tone almost apologetic. The words sting despite the fact you had known they were coming, despite the fact you had expected them when you walked into the office. “This morning we had a debrief for a new assignment. We’ll be leaving tonight. All four of us.”

Taglist:

@bobaprint @ashy-kit @anunintentionalwriter @mockerycrow @hayleybarnesx @protokosmonaut @fruitymoonbeams-blog @blue-blue0 @hindi-si-ikay @thatonepupkai @redwites @kattiieee @141trash @lothiriel9 @dillybuggg @beebeechaos @konigsmissedbeltloop @kaoyamamegami @idkkkkkkk8363 @wallwriterstuff @smile-child-13 @anomiatartle @dangerkittenclaws @bless-my-demons @mystic60 @evolutionarry @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff @linaangel @codsunshine @thriving-n-jiving @slayerx147 @ferns-fics @spicyspicyliving @cityoffallencrows @ttsbaby01 @heeheehoohoohahahihi @sleepyoriana @ihatethinkingofnames10 @cassiecasluciluce @darling006 @sheep-from-rad @ohgodthebogisback @willow-sages @scythemood @daniblogs164 @mirzamsaiph

#call of duty #call of duty fic #tf 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #x reader #Kyle gaz Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #John price x reader #captain price x reader #Johnny soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #Simon Riley x reader #Simon ghost riley x reader #a/b/o #alpha/beta/Omega dynamics #omegaverse

2K notes · View notes

moonlightsolo · 1 year

Note

I send so many requests hahahaa

Feel like it would be SO cute if you’re out in the forest and you find a thanator pup lost and abandoned but it clings on to so you adopt it. Then Neteyam is like how wtf??? But he lets you keep it despite his concerned reaction and it becomes your pet :,)

CUUUUUUTE!!! & i love every request you make pls don’t stop sending them (i promise i’ll get to every one even if i’m slow)

“c’mon ‘teyam!! let’s go!” you cry out to your boyfriend. his large four-fingered hand is clasped in your two tiny ones as you attempt to tug him forward.

he’s staring down at you with a playful annoyed look, not budging from his spot planted in the dirt.

“pleeeeeeaaaaase! i wanna go see them! we don’t have to get close, i just wanna look! they’re so cute!” your voice whines, which makes his ears flick from the sound.

neteyam grimaces from your squeaky voice and plants a large hand on top of your head, “okay, okay fine. just don’t whine like that again.” he laughs with a shake of his head.

he turns his hand in yours to grasp your tiny fist tightly in his palm to lead you farther into the jungle, “come on, ma yawntutsyìp.”

the little nickname makes your heart warm in your chest. his little loved one.

“thank you! thank you! thank you!” you exclaim excitedly with the biggest grin on your face.

your tall blue boyfriend looks down at you in awe from your excitement. he smiles because he is the one that made you feel this way— he loves when you’re happy.

the tall na’vi boy bends down to your height, allowing you to hop on his back so he could climb the trees without you falling behind. he hops from branch to branch, which makes you squeal out in fear and also from the adrenaline. he’s just so quick, and knows exactly where to grab and plant his feet.

neteyam slows down as he nears a sunny clearing below. he sinks down to his stomach to crawl forward to the edge, his wide eyes darting around to examine the area. his new position lets you slide off of his back onto the branch next to him, to crawl forward and lean over the side too.

your eyes instantly spot a homemade nest in the shadows, big enough for a few thanators to rest in. “where are they?” your voice whispers out to him.

“patience…” he breathes out quietly into the warm air, sending a cheeky smirk your way. you roll your eyes at him, which just makes him smirk more.

how must you be patient when you’ve been waiting all season for this? through the mating season, and through the gestation period, and now finally the calfs are born!

you keep your eyes trained on the sunny patch of grass, looking around the perimeter of trees for the mother thanator; or even any sign of the babies.

you looooove babies— and when they come in cute forms, like little alien creatures from pandora, you somehow love them even more.

rustling to the side makes your eyes dart to the shadows as a large black cat-like figure emerges from the brush. it’s the mother, and she’s dragging food back to her babies.

she drops the meat in the center of the field, before calling out to her babies with a rumbling, clicking noise.

sudden chirps grow louder as a dozen of baby thanators emerge from the nest. yipping, and growling as they feast on the meat of the animal their mother hunted.

neteyam watches you as your face brightens from the sight of the babies you’ve been waiting so long for. you could do without the blood, and the guts, but it’s so fascinating to you.

as a human on a foreign planet, surrounded by the most fascinating flora and creatures, you feel in your element; you belong here.

one at a time, the babies retreat back into the safety of their nest to leave their mother with the leftovers. she quickly eats the rest of the carcass, before crawling into the next with her children. her large head sticks out to patrol the area with her eyes, protectively.

“oh my god, neteyam. that’s so amazing.” you breathe out, almost breathless from the experience. he smiles at you from the side, his hand comes up to rub the top of your head.

sometimes he doesn’t understand why you get so excited over the animals on pandora, but he knows it’s because you didn’t grow up here like him.

“the circle of life can be prrrretty fascinating.” he chuckles, and goes to stand up in the tree. he stays slightly crouched from the branches above his head. his attention is undivided now, only staring at you.

“wanna go back now?” he watches how your shoulders drop slightly, “we can come back— don’t worry.” he adds with a chuckle.

“yeah, we can go.” you sigh in defeat, sliding behind his back to climb onto him, “wanna go find some of your favorite fruit?” neteyam offers as his hands wrap around your thighs, once they wrap around his waist.

he wants to get your mind off of the animals for a little bit, and he knows exactly where the tree is planted in the jungle, “ooh yes!” you exclaim happily with a giant grin.

neteyam grins from your response and takes off in a sprint once he’s sure you’re secured on his back. he leaps between the giant trees, before leaping off of a branch to grab ahold of a vine.

you squeal loudly with barking laughter as it feels as if you’re free falling in the air, until his feet hit the ground. he lets you down easily by swinging you off his back with one hand strongly grasping your behind.

a flush settles on your chest, and heat rises in your chest from his hand on your ass. it isn’t uncommon for him to grab your body, but it always makes you flustered every single time.

neteyam can’t help but swoop down to peck your lips, before standing back up to his full height. his hands grasps yours to lead you through the vegetation. he bends underneath fallen logs while you can continue to stand up straight from your height. it humors you how tall your boyfriend is.

your eyes almost sparkle as you spot the brightly colored tree covered in round pink fruits. the colors are almost flourescent from the sunset growing nearer.

before you could even reach the tree, something to your side rustles in the brush. you and neteyam halt in your spot to try and find where the noise came from.

your body jolts when a soft cry echoes from the bush, and neteyam instinctively slides in front of you for protection.

before you could even try to leave, a small body tumbles from the bush and waddles up to neteyam’s feet.

“what is it?!! what is it?!” you hide your face in his back, covering your face with your hands.

neteyam almost laughs at how ironic this is, “a thanator… a baby.” he coos as he bends down to its level, but the baby lets out a menancing hiss.

“woah, woah.” neteyam backs up slightly, pushing you farther behind him. if the baby would charge at you both, he wouldn’t hesitate to drop kick it into the jungle for your own safety.

“a what?!” you shriek, and push him out of the way to look in front of him. you barely push him though, he honestly just moves out of the way for you.

once you see the sleek black skin of the thanator baby, you instantaneously drop to your knees in front of it. “hi! oh my gosh you’re so cute!” you softly squeal at it.

the baby cowers back toward the bush, it’s little legs shake as it hisses weakly at you. “don’t worry, buddy. i promise i’m not mean. are you hurt?” you ask if it would actually answer you.

neteyam really doesn’t understand how you think the babies are cute, he actually finds them quite terrifying and kind of ugly.

the baby whines as it’s eyes worriedly dart between you and the na’vi boy behind you, “‘teyam, back up!” you hush at him through your teeth.

your boyfriend feels overly protective over you right now, but he obliges and takes a step back. you intently watch how the animal takes a hesitant step toward you, it’s body still trembling in fear.

“it’s okay.” your soft tone soothes the child as it draws closer to you.

neteyam’s hand rests on the handle of his blade, ready to step forward at any given moment if the thing attacks you. his brain clouds with confusion as the predator climbs into your lap and curls up into a ball.

his hand drops from his sheathed knife as his eyes take in what just happened. your small hand gently carressss the top of the baby’s head as it lays in the crook of your legs.

“are you serious?” he mumbles out in shock, but still smiles at the scene in front of him.

“i can’t believe this is happening right now.” you breathe out shakily and look up at neteyam towering over you.

“i cannot explain how confused i am.” he replies, his big round eyes are somehow even wider as he gawks.

a crack of thunder in the sky makes the baby shake even harder, and whine quietly under its heavy breathing. “we have to take it back with us.”

“are you crazy? we can’t do that.” neteyam shakes his head in disagreement. there’s no way his parents would allow him to bring such a predator into the village. he would be lectured for who knows how long.

“well, we can’t just leave it out here by itself!” you retaliate with a stern voice. you know, that you would never be able to live with yourself if you left this poor animal to fend for itself.

“it’s almost as big as you, my love. how will you take care of it?” he points out, which is very true.

“i have to. i won’t be able to live with my decision to leave her out here in the storm by herself…” you trail off as you scratch behind her ears. the animal purrs in your lap, making you grin.

“okay, fine. come on. we gotta get back to camp before the storm hits us.” neteyam sighs as he watches you stand up with the heavy creature in your arms. he can tell you’re struggling a bit, but you still have the biggest smile on your face.

“you alright?” he asks with a little chuckle, and eyes you suspiciously, “yes, i’m good! let’s go!” you chirp and start walking past him, but he stays in his spot and keeps an eye on you.

“my ikran is this way.” neteyam points the opposite way you’re walking, and your cheeks burn with embarrassment. you don’t know what would happen to you if you didn’t have him to be your personal GPS.

“let’s go.” you march past him, with a roar coming from the baby thanator.

neteyam watches you confidently walk forward with a little chuckle, shaking his head at you. he watches your tiny body walk farther away from him, letting his eyes wander over your backside.

he can’t understand how or why the baby thanator attached itself to you, a human, instead of a na’vi. he’s not even sure if a thanator would trust one of his people.

you’ve opened his eyes to entire new world, his own world. he doesn’t understand how you work, but all he knows is that you’re his.

this little human is all his, and somehow you seem as if you’re even more connected to his world than him; and he loves you even more for it.

4K notes · View notes

clockwayswrites · 4 months

Text

City Pigeons - Part 10

WC: 817, Masterpost

Jason sighed as the tablet in his hands flashed with alerts. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“How did the meeting with Black Bat go?” Bruce asked instead of responding, because of course he did.

“You know it went fine,” Jason said, trying not to snap. “Besides, everyone likes her, there was a good chance it was always going to go fine.”

“We both know trauma isn’t always that easy,” Bruce said, his tone carefully modulated to be gentle. It rankled Jason, like it always did.

Jason took a breath and let his chin drop to his chest for a moment. Bruce didn’t mean it like that. He knew that now. This was Bruce trying as best as he was able— it wasn’t just another mask. Bruce just had to put effort into emotions that made it seem forced. Jason pushed away his flair of temper; it was harder to do than he’d like after too much worry and too little sleep.

“Ja—”

“I’m fine. It’s just like you said, trauma isn’t always that easy. I’m fine,” Jason said as he waved the concern away. “And names. You know we’re sticking to code names still.”

Bruce tilted his head, observing Jason through the white lenses. (That used to rankle too.)

“You thinking there’s a chance he’ll run.”

Jason sighed. He gave an exaggerated shrug to cover the worry that ran through him at the question. “Not run, exactly. I think he doesn’t believe that he can stay— that it’s even on the table. I think that we’re his last hope and he doesn’t believe in hope anymore.”

Bruce didn’t move. Jason gave him time to think that over.

“That’s why he doesn’t want to see… Wayne,” Bruce said, slowly, like he was feeling the idea out. “He doesn’t expect to get anything from him so it’s better to be healed up first.”

Jason shrugged again.

“Figure so. But also once that meeting happens, whatever happens, then all of this,” Jason motioned to the safe house, “is over as far as he knows. If he puts off the meeting, he puts off the risk of losing the first safety that I think he’s hand in a long, long time.”

Bruce’s shoulders hunched and he almost blended back into the shadows by the window. “If he’s already posed for it to go badly…”

“B, that’s not your fault,” Jason said— had to say. “The kid’s been through hell, maybe by his own family, of course he’s going to expect the worst.”

It was a long moment and then Bruce nodded, just once. “What’s the plan?”

If Jason really had his way, the plan would be to deal with all these ill feelings, but that’s not what anyone in the family was good at, him included. It would be what it would be.

“We’ll have BB over again for a meal tomorrow. I’m sure it will keep going well and she can help be on watch that night. We think it’s best to give that a few days before we introduce O or anyone else new, so you have to keep the rest of the horde reigned in,” Jason said pointedly. Then a though occurred to him. “Where is the little spawn anyways?”

“He’s on the roof across the block.”

“Yeah, is he? Because that was a lot of alerts—”

“Hood!”

Jason didn’t think before he was striding across the room towards Danny’s room. The kid was standing in the door. White hair stark in the low light. Green eyes bright.

Glowing.

Wide with fear.

“Danny?”

“Someone else is here,” Danny said. His voice was almost too quiet to hear, but Jason could half swear he felt it in his very bones. Danny reached out and clung onto the sleeve of Jason’s hoodie. A cold settled into Jason’s bones along with the vibration of the soft words. “Someone touched by death. Can you feel them too? They’re not not like us. They haven’t died. They haven’t died, but they reek of death. Hood, what are they?”

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe here, remember?” Jason assured Danny automatically. The words rolled out of his mouth without Jason having to even think about them, which was good, because Jason’s mind was still caught on Danny’s words: They’re not like us. They haven’t died. “Some Bats just stopped by to check on us.”

Was it Bruce? Did all of Gotham’s death cling to his shoulders like his cape?

Was it Damian? Was it the stench of the Pits?

Or did Jason miss something else slipping in with all of the other alarms.

“We’ll go check on Nightwing together, alright? I bet he has a little red and black guest who slipped in,” Jason said. He twisted his hand to hold Danny’s. The cold bit at his skin. He didn’t let go.

He hoped he was right.

He had a hard time believing in hope too.

---

AN: A myyyyyyyystery *wiggly fingers*. Gods I'm so tired.

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!

#jason has therapy but he still hates feelings #bruce doesn't know how people do feelings #this is a problem #dp x dc #batpham #city pigeons

841 notes · View notes

iwaasfairy · 7 months

Text

┌─ “ ! „ SPARKSTONE

tw. blood kink, noncon, pain play, lashing/whipping, toji’s foul n mean, degradation, prostitution, daddy kink, kinda size kink as always w me heheghe wordcount. 4.6k

a/n. thank you a million to the loveliest friends who always keep me goin when i'm having a hard timEEE rhi, wil and dymmiEE thanK YOU SO SO MUCH FOR betaing ily so much ♡ i hope i did the big man justice he is so yucky n i love it,, also extra shOutout n love dym bc she gave me the vision i saw i came i had to have it so !! iLY ILY ILY

fushiguro toji x fem!reader

If you know one thing from your years hiding in the shadows of the more powerful, it’s that danger has a taste. It sticks to your skin, longing for an opening. And tightens around your organs as you swallow it down, setting your hairs on end. Instinctually, humans know danger when they sense it, and by that same measure, they’re usually smart enough to hide before they get found. You might be simple prey in the eyes of the strong, but you hate the feeling deeply, and avoid it where you can.

You’re always aware of eyes that trail you, and you can smell it in the air.

The burgundy walls and nice chandelier bloom like a flower when it gets dark out. It fits the business. Like moths to a flame, that warmth lures men with a promise of a warm body and expert secrecy, and usually that’s plenty. Luckily for you, most of them leave before their wives start to wonder, which means you don’t have to deal with the drunk and impatient by the time you come in for a shift by early morning. Your days are easy, if you pretend you don’t know what types of people stumble home from their rooms in the seedier back of the building. Smelling of booze and body fluids and most of all, sex. That’s how it is.

Sorcerers are people too, by your cousin’s words. He’s not wrong. By the types of people that come in and out of the doors day and night, he made a smart investment starting this place a few years ago, and you’re grateful to get to work here. There’s no place for small-fry cursed energy users out in the daylight— and you’re not exactly dying to lay your life down for others in the first place. It’s this, or even less savory jobs for those people like you, who see things that others don’t. You’re more than happy with a simple life sitting behind the front desk, and going home to crash before the grosser individuals have a chance to harass you.

Which is why your skin itches a bit when the soft cling of the bell sounds so late it’s early. You’ve barely had enough time to open the doors. For not the first time, there’s a soft buzz of a warning sign that greets you as you sigh. Isn’t 5 in the morning a little early for even the more degenerate types? You get up to hang your jacket in the back room as you hear heavy steps make it into the foyer, and swallow. The slight pulling of cold under your skin has your lips pressed tight, swallowing. They don’t ring the bell, don’t yell or break things, don’t even talk. But they also don’t turn to leave.

So you smooth your hands down your pants, and eventually walk back to your spot behind the counter. It’s still dark out, still has the uncomfortable pressure that lingers as you cast a quick glance around the room.

And all you see is eyes that pull a cold shiver up your spine so quick it freezes you in place. The dark figure is splayed out with his arms over one of the couches, but those sharp eyes don’t move an inch from you when you meet them. Narrowed in their cold, metal blue darkness, and all-consuming. The man is not young, not old - but definitely older than you, scarred and quiet, and you can’t help it- when that foul, dangerous taste wells up in your mouth in the form of saliva.

After only a few seconds, you grab the phone and ring a number one, taking it off the horn for your own safety. It rings as the man gets up with a sigh and walks towards you, only leaving the space of the desk between you two. There's a soft mumble on the other side of the call, but because the horn is pressed to your desk, you can’t make out exactly what’s said before the customer - you assume he’s a customer, judging by the foul sort of stench of death that follows him around - clears his voice.

Only a sorcerer can have that sort of smell, and no sorcerer would enter here if not out for one thing. You don’t normally do intake, you realize as your hand trembles just slightly. You leave the horn of the phone for a pen instead, and try to rid your throat of the thick block that pushes on your windpipe. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

The man’s hair is messy, lazy, much like his clothing is; and he takes a moment to look around before his eyes flick to the stack of notes before you, the phone, and then you again. “Ah, uhm. Are there rooms open this late? Or early, I guess.” He ends up saying, a bored sort of lilt to his deep voice. You can’t even meet his eyes, but you can feel the painfully intense stare that doesn’t move from you again as you put on your best smile.

“There- should be, yes. Hmm, let’s see. Do you have a preferred girl you’d like to see here today?” Your hand only stops shaking when you press the tip of the pen to paper, if only to give your hand something to do as you quickly flick between the pages of the book.

“Not really.” He runs his hand under his nose, before leaning both forearms onto the desk and invading your space too much. You barely resist the urge to jerk back entirely, and feel the heat travel between you two. See, you were never able to fight curses. But you did always have a good nose, and his presence is like maggots crawling around under your skin. It’s unbearable. Your lids flutter as you stop flicking, and just focus on not throwing up entirely. Every part of him stinks of rot, oozing danger enough to suffocate you.

You simply pick one of the names at random, and start digging through the shelf for the correct key as fast as you can. Your heart hammers in your chest like that of a hummingbird, and is almost loud enough to keep you from hearing him when he speaks again. You can’t quite bear to meet his gaze, but one look up at his mouth reveals a tiny sort of curl to his lips that’s just as upsetting as the stench that swirls around the room. Everything feels wrong, and you want to stop yourself from hurling your guts out over the table. The man taps his finger on the counter a few times. “Are you new?”

Your head shakes faster than you can think about the answer. It wouldn’t be of any use lying anyway. For some reason, you feel like he’d be able to see right through you. When you finally find the right key, you feel like a weight lifts from your chest, and you slide it across the stone towards him. “I always work the morning shift, I don’t do nights.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t need to say anything else. Only when you slide the paper form across the table too, do you notice the call has disconnected - you’re not sure for how long - and you manage to force your eyes up to face him for just long enough not to seem impolite. But your blood still feels uncomfortable and itchy, even when he slowly picks up the pen and starts writing his name down at the top of the form. After a few seconds, he clicks the pen to his chin, and looks down at you with a coy smile as he straightens up. “Actually, what about you? You’re a skittish, little thing, and I have a bit of a hunger for something light and fresh today— I had the longest night ever.”

His scar pulls when the smile gets a bit more predatory, and you feel pinned in place like an insect under a magnifying glass when he aims the pen at you. “Looks like you’re a good listener, sweet girl.”

“I- I-” you start, stepping back until your back hits the wall and even then, there’s not nearly enough space between you and him, “I just work as a receptionist. I don’t do-” You might puke after all. Those eyes only seem to get wider when your bottom lip wobbles, and you feel the sick sense of glee he gets rather than see it. You don’t think -no, you know- you couldn’t take him in a fight, but still your fists ball up tight.

The lift dings though, to your relief, and a familiar face rushes out to give you an up and down. Your cousin’s got a bed head, deep grooves under his eyes as he jogs up beside you. “What the hell, you’re fine! When you didn’t respond on the phone I thought something might’ve happened to you.” You can’t say anything back, but you’re so glad to see him your mouth drops open and a little whimper comes out of your throat despite yourself. The young man frowns, before glancing to his side and - pauses. You can’t exactly place the expression he gets, but he must feel what you’re still feeling laced in the air, because he blinks a few times before taking a step back. “What’s this?”

“I was just telling him I’m- o-only a front desk worker,” you start, shuffling uncomfortably when those steely eyes find your body, giving you an awfully unsubtle once over. Pig. He doesn’t even bother to hide the way he’s undressing you with his eyes. Your cousin thankfully hums in agreement, and crosses his arms over his chest. “So-”

The brazen noiret doesn’t hesitate to nod though. And the confident tone from earlier doesn’t waver a bit. It’s like he’s barely inconvenienced by your statement at all. Like you’re playing hard to get. You’re not. "That's fine by me. But I’m going to be the exception.” Under his sloppy clothing, there’s no doubt he’s fit. He’s tall, and obviously wired with thick muscle that makes his shirt cling to his biceps, even more when he crosses over the furniture to reach a hand out to you, and make your shivers so much worse. “Come, little deer. I’m gonna have some fun with you.”

Your cousin places a hand on the other man’s shoulder though. “She’s not that kind of employee, sir. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, or else-”

“Or else what?” You swear you can feel a pin drop when his eyes finally move away from you, now at the other man. Your heart still beats wildly. “How about this, huh. You let me play with your little friend here, and I’ll decide not to kill you, her and then everyone in here for making my long night even longer.” He doesn’t even have to straighten up for you to feel like he means it. Even without flashing a weapon, or pulling out some fancy cursed technique, do you feel the increase in thick waves of tension; drowning you in that same, rotting stench of incoming disaster. You can’t ignore it, can’t do anything but gasp shallow, little breaths when he does round on your family, squaring up to him.

Though they’re both about as tall, the stranger’s built like a brick wall. He must know that, because he laughs. “I’ll be very nice to her, don’t worry.” His eyes tell everyone daring to take a peek that he doesn’t mean it, but at least you don’t flinch when he looks at you this time. Ah, that’s right. You really do hate sorcerers. The black haired man walks past to come grab your arm, and tosses the key you provided him earlier high into the air before catching it. It instantly is too tight, and hurts. You plant your heels into the floor, hang back with your whole body. You want to scream. Your other hand claws at his strong palm -wrung like a vice around your wrist- and you start to whimper.

“N-wait, let me go. I don’t work here like that, I- leave me alone, let me go!” You get pulled along anyway, like you’re a toddler throwing a tantrum; he yanks you with barely any effort and sends you stumbling behind him. “No, I don’t want- aniki! Aniki, tell him- I’m not- I’m not for sale.” Hair whips around as you try to plead with the man left standing in the lobby, but though he looks guilt-stricken and apologetic, he doesn’t move from his spot. You don’t have a say in the way the man dressed in all black drags you behind, even when you try to make yourself dead weight and stop him. “No, no, no, wait, please! Kou aniki! Kou~ help me!”

You get it.

“Let me go! Let me go, pl-please! Hck.” Your voice breaks when wetness spills down to your hot cheeks. Really, you do get it. But the lamb still spooks when presented with the gun, even if it doesn’t run.

You’re sat on the edge of the bed as tears run down your cheeks and drip off your nose.

You can’t imagine it makes for a very appealing sight, but whether it’s indifference or sexual gratification, it’s clear your grief doesn’t matter to him. Toji, he said his name is, but you only know that ‘so you can cry it later’. It makes you sick - the sight of him makes you want to dig your nails into your own palms until you bleed. This is how it is for the weak everywhere, right? Sit and wait to die. As the cold embraces your body again, you sniffle, but wipe the tears away. You’re not a fan of waiting.

If he’s going to do it, better do it quick. Before you decide to start biting anyway. The dim lighting of the reddish room doesn’t do anything to warm the mood except make you even more aware of him as he kicks off sandals, slowly, demanding attention. He stares you down like a predator keeps an eye on his prey. The scent is still suffocating, but there’s a more alarming feeling blanketing your senses now. You’re scared. There’s nothing you can do about it, it’s in the goosebumps on your skin as he walks closer, and you scoot back onto the soft mattress to avert your eyes to yourself.

You’d rather go out kicking and screaming- but with your fear ran so high, you settle for the second best thing. “So, you’re not going to kill everyone, but just me, huh?” He’s taking off his belt as you ball your hands in the fabric, and force yourself to watch him under heavy lashes, with as much hatred as you can. “You like that? Scaring girls half your size?” You’re not sure either why you’re running your mouth. It must be the high of incoming death. “Does that make you feel powerful?” He doesn’t even pause, and pulls his shirt over his head to drop it aside too, then licks his lips.

After a slight moment of silence, he just shrugs. “Yeah. It does.” You scramble back until you reach the head of the bed, and pull your knees to your body. And the man crawls closer anyway, reaching to grab one of your ankles and drag you back. You don’t know why you’re struggling. It’d be easier if you laid down and died. As if reading your mind, he chuckles as he yanks you down until you’re spread out on your back, and pins you in place beneath his heavy body. “Don’t be so frightened. I’m not actually going to kill you.” He pushes over you, and makes sure you’re nose to nose when he talks next, basically drooling as you try to escape from him. “Just going to hurt you pretty bad. Don’t you like that?”

You struggle against him, but it’s not enough. He ties your hands to the bed painfully tight, letting the frayed edge of the rope burn into your skin each time you move- and proceeds to cut your clothes off with the knife that was hidden in his waistband. The torturous pace at which he does everything is almost worse, setting your entire body on end with anticipation. You thrash against him as he places a thigh either side of your body, and grabs your face in a large, rough hand. Once again you feel reminded that you’re really nothing in the face of someone more powerful. It’s frustrating. It’s annoying, and hurtful, and a migraine starts gnawing at your head as you glare up at him. And he almost pouts at you in mockery. “It’s cute that you’re trying so hard. You can cry, you know?” He leans in to lick along the shell of your ear down to your neck. “It’s going to happen sooner or later anyway. Why deny yourself?”

The hot touch of his tongue sears into your skin like it’s poison. You try to pull your wrists loose again, to no avail. The skin just feels achy and burning. “That’s really what you want to do, right? Cry for mommy and daddy to save you?” When he pushes back up to your mouth, laying his filthy lips on you again, you’re quicker than you think - and actually manage to bite him. It’s not enough to cause much damage before he jerks back, clenching one hand over your mouth to shut you up. But he runs a thumb along his bottom lip, and slowly starts grinning. Blood glitters on that finger before he licks it away, and raises his dark eyebrows at you. “Aren’t you brave…”

Before you have time to prepare yourself, that heavy palm meets your cheek, stinging it all over and rushing blood to the surface — it’s hard enough to pull real tears out of you, and your nose to start running as you bury your face into your arm. The sting spreads under the surface like fire. The low chuckle he lets out is mean and predatory, definitely when he takes that as an opening to start groping you through your bra, and soon that’s shoved up too to let him pet all over you. “Good. I don’t have to feel bad about all this, then.”

“Mh- hck-,” you whimper, trying to ignore the painful tugs he gives your nipples, pinching you. It still sends heat to your belly, and somehow that’s the most embarrassing thing of all. You hate him. More than anyone. “I-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. I won’t believe you anyway.” He quickly whispers back, leaning in to force his mouth to yours and kiss you, tongue pushing against your teeth until you give in. He tastes like blood. His own, from the cut that’s not yet closed up; and he kisses like he’s trying to consume you. Rough hands knead and toy with your tits until you start squirming, before they glide down and make enough space to peel your panties down your thighs torturously slow. “Ahh, you look good like this. So pretty. Stay there.” He chuckles to himself as he gets up and you whine, not for him, but more his dragging it out. It’s not like you have a choice about staying…

When he comes back to you, something cold makes you jerk your eyes open. It’s something long and capped metal at the end, not sharp enough to stab you clean through— but it’s still hard and sharp and anxiety has you freezing below him. “Wh- what, what are you-” Would anyone even come help if you screamed?

Toji slaps the thing into his palm a few times, before those mean eyes glide over you, and you find yourself crossing your legs tight to protect your most sensitive areas instinctively. The sound of the metal whipping through the air is more than enough to put fear into you. Your lip trembles when he gets back onto the bed, and mirth plays in his eyes. “This is going to hurt.” Then he whips his hand down and instantly, your eyes shoot open with pain. Blood splatters as he cuts you open, each impact leaving a cut and nasty thumping that will make a bruise, telltale sign of a cursed tool.

“Ack- no, no- please stop! Stop, stop, please! Please, it hurts! It hurts!” Your eyes clench shut, but tears well up and come out anyway, making tracks down your cheeks. It stings so bad, and after even just a few lashings, you can’t stand it. Everything’s glowing and burning, hot all over as your knees knock together. Another whip has you trying to pull your arms out harder, to no avail. You don’t want to look, but the pain in your hands tells you that the heat running down your arm must be blood. Didn’t he say he wasn’t going to kill you? “Please, please, Toji. I’ll do anything! Anything, please- j-just no more.”

“I refuse.”

“Please~” you sob, only opening your eyes to see how he stands bent over you with his tongue caught between his teeth, head tilted in curiosity like a dog. The whip is dripping red, hot blood down onto his hands, and though it seems impossible to have so much blood coating everything- it’s yours, right? He stays quiet for a moment or two, and the thick tears wobble over your vision. “Please, I don’t want to die. Please. Please. I’m -” your throat closes up when he leans his heavy weight down over you and hovers his lips over your mouth, “I’m beg-begging you.” One hand comes up to grab your face, and he buries his nose into your throat, where a wet tongue starts swiping along your skin.

The soft groan he lets out is foul, coming back up with his mouth full of your blood, and he grins. “Keep going. Beg like a good girl~” Then he dips down, forcing his tongue and the coppery, familiar taste into your mouth, melting his lips to yours as he hums. His strong chest meets your naked, pitiful form as one hand comes down to yank your leg up around him, and the kissing gets more distracting, warmer, deeper — you want him to stay just like this. “Keep talking,” he whispers again, lower this time, and when you’re opening your eyes his stained hands are back to kneading your tits. “You’re sort of cute covered like this, whining like a baby. C’mon.”

Red’s covering everything. Every cut on your body is searing and tight and painful, and he’s pushing his thumbs along the closing wounds as if he’s trying to leak every last drop out of you; but you can’t really feel it. It must be adrenaline you feel coursing through your veins like a drug, goading your heart into pumping so hard you can see it bounce through the skin. “Pl-please.” Your chest rattles, as he watches you. As he degrades you, lifting both your legs up to your chest to spread you for him. “Please, Toji. Please f-fuck me instead. I w- need you to.” He takes the knife used to cut off your clothes, and ever so slowly drags it along the supple inside of your thighs.

And though you jerk, and your jaw clenches while tears fall, you can’t help it. You’re shaking your head, but your pussy clenches around nothing. “Please, please, need you. I’m sorry, I want- I want it. I wan’it… daddy.” Despite the short inhale he takes, sharp eyes pinning you beneath him like the crying mess you are, it’s not his reaction that has you blushing, heat filling your entire face with that cottony feeling. You’re so fucking weak. It’s pathetic.

“Hah,” he snorts when watching you wiggle and cry, presenting your wet, little hole to him, “whiny brat.” His hand lands onto your pussy and it makes you jerk again, squirming against his strong grip, before he turns his palm to grind into your clit and his fingers teasing into the soft folds. The wet squelching doesn’t stop the stinging tingling down your entire body, but - it’s also so unfair. You can feel yourself drip as his thick fingers slide in and out of you again and again, pushing into your plush walls just right. “Call out for daddy, go on.” You don’t want to know how much of it is blood, or how much is your own body betraying you.

You don’t see when he takes off his boxers, now finally as naked as you are - but you do see it when he starts rubbing the head of his heavy cock over your slicked up slit, catching your clit every once in a while. He cocks one brow at you at your silence, and softly hums a deep, raspy breath. You really are weak. “Daddy, daddy, please- pl-hck- please put it in, I’m losing my mind.”

“Seems like it,” he mumbles back, a cocky grin reappearing right before he grabs himself by the base and leads his fat cock inside you with no further warning. He’s too big as soon as he shoves himself inside halfway, grabbing your hair as you wiggle against him. The other half is forced deeper as his cock bumps your walls, makes your pussy drool and clench, and your mouth hangs open as you try to keep from screaming. Your back lifts off the bed a few times, legs opening wider to make room for his thick thighs as he bottoms out and stretches you too thin. “That’s a nice noise.” He’s laughing.

You can’t relate. Your entire body feels wound too tight, legs locking around his glutes in the naïve hope for some reprieve— before he pulls back and holds himself above you. Scared pecs and arms flex when he pulls all the way out, only to thrust back in too deep and have you choking on it. It’s hitting so deep it leaves you speechless. “Make it again,” he gloats as he chuckles into your face, before kissing you again, and this time he bites your lip, hard enough to taste copper. Oh, fuck. You cling onto the ropes for dear life with your numb fingers, and try to wrap your legs back around him with a choked whimper; but you can’t.

You’re shaking, and your pussy’s clenching and sucking around him hard each time his hips meet yours and heavy balls smack against your ass. You feel like he’s going to fuck you through the wall. Drool’s mixed with the blood you swallow, letting his tongue melt to yours, and make you even more needy for air. Each pump inside you gushes more slick out of your cunt, lewd noises and ‘pap’s filling the room along with his grunts. And you only pull away to gasp, and get pulled down onto him again and again. “Daddy, daddy, I’m- gonna- cum.”

And he plants a hand on your throat to squeeze until your eyes cross, free hand going to hold your shivering thighs in place as he buries his cock deep into your plush walls. “Dumb, dumb girl- I don’t need- ugh- you to tell me that.” You’re folded double entirely as he keeps the rhythm entirely ruthless, and your belly starts tightening under your body jerks shut around him, crying out. You can’t even feel your hands anymore, and your breathing’s so shallow and confused you’re lightheaded. Your toes curl so hard you feel like you’ll pass out, but Toji doesn’t stop. Not even when hot ropes of cum fill the heat of your spasming pussy up and spill out— he doesn’t even slow.

#kinktober #toji x reader #fushiguro toji x reader #toji smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #tw.dark content #tw.lashing #tw.noncon #tw.blood #tw.marking #tw.daddy kink

2K notes · View notes

sarahghetti · 3 months

Text

blood on your lies; m.s.

pairing: marc spector x reader centric, steven grant x reader, jake lockley x reader

summary: after an argument with marc, you go missing. he tears himself apart trying to find you.

warnings: a dive into the mind of marc spector, angst, hurt with some comfort (i.e. jake and steven), kidnapping, vague descriptions of violence.

word count: 3.0k

notes: kind of a continuation of all the echoes in my mind, but can be read as a standalone. written as part of the @moonknight-events bingo! prompt: "insecure", I promise that not all my entries will be this sad lol

MOON KNIGHT MASTERLIST | ALL MASTERLISTS

You’re not home yet.

It’s nearly been three hours. Marc paces the apartment like a caged animal, likely wearing the hardwood underneath his feet. Steven and Jake have run their course about how stupid he is, how he shouldn’t have said what he said, how he should’ve run after you the second you stepped out the door—

But jokes on them. There can be no harsher critic of Marc than Marc himself.

He checks his phone again in case you’ve responded to his many texts and calls, but there’s nothing. As far as he knows, you haven’t even seen any of it.

His temper still lingers under their skin, and he holds it tight with both hands; anger is easy. It’s easier than admitting that the peaks in his heartrate and the sweat on his brow is from anything other than his own self-flagellation.

Anger is familiar.

This, however? The waiting for you to walk through the door, or to give them any sign of life—so much of his sanity rests in the comfort of you being safe. Marc didn’t realize how lucky he was to not know what this was like. Now, he doesn’t know if he can ever forget it.

Jake’s voice is clipped. “Check again.”

They’re all on edge, and it’s terrible. Most of the time, at least one of them manages to keep a level head during stressful situations—usually Marc. Jake is prone to anger, Steven to anxiousness.

“Marc!” Steven yanks him out of his head, and his phone is in his hand without any memory of having taken it out of his pocket. He does a dutiful look through his notifications—nothing.

Three sets of disappointment and concern pile on top of one another and drags them all down so much further.

“Do…” Steven’s voice is quiet. Unsure. “Do you think something might’ve happened to her?”

There is no dissenting opinion, no devil’s advocate. Marc doesn’t try to calm his alters down, and only clenches his jaw.

You’ve never gone quiet on them like this. They’ve never let you leave the flat at night like this. They always opted to be the one to go take a walk because even in the middle of an argument, they wouldn’t risk your safety.

The lingering silence is Steven’s answer.

When the suit wraps itself around his body, the accompanying burst of power in his veins is suffocating. His wounds begin to numb over, but Marc barely notices. He hasn’t spared them a thought since you left.

The cool air does nothing to assuage him. Clouds blot out the sky, leaving nothing but a murky backdrop as he scales up the nearest building for a vantage point. A quick scan over the horizon—nothing. Not a hint of your silhouette under the streetlights, and a lump forms in his throat.

“Khonshu!”

A gust of wind signals the god’s arrival, who, even with a bird’s skull for a head, looks remarkably bored as Marc is clinging to any semblance of sanity. He must already know what’s going on but frustratingly just spreads out his hands, a silent question—what?

Marc grits his teeth. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Khonshu.” The name is a snarl on his lips.

He simply scoffs. “You have the gall to make demands? As if I need to be involved with your lover’s spat?”

“She’s not answering her phone.”

A lingering pause.

“She might be in danger,” Marc snaps, trying to get the god to understand even a fraction of the severity of the situation. They might bloody their hands night after night, staining London’s streets each time they go out on patrol, but it’s never enough. There are always more monsters to take their place, and the thought that you might have run into one of them—

Khonshu cocks his head. “Maybe she’s just finally had enough of you.”

Marc hates how that’s a possibility. Still, desperation crawls out of his throat. “Can you find her?”

Khonshu turns to look over the city, the silence stretching out between them. Whatever divinity he’s channeling, Marc isn’t privy to; all he can do is stand there like a useless dumbass and wait for some hint of you to show up on the god’s radar. Even if you had had enough and never want to see him again—he’ll swallow down that fate in stride as long as he knows that you’re safe.

When Khonshu finally breaks from searching, his head cocks slightly to the side. “Interesting.”

This is hardly the time for theatrics. “Do not—”

“I cannot find her,” the god admits. Not apologetic or ashamed, but—awed. “Where she is right now, her footsteps through the city—there is nothing, Marc Spector. There’s not even a trace of her in your own home.”

The blood rushes in his ears. His chest constricts until he can barely breathe at all. Marc barely manages to wrap his head around the information before Jake and Steven come roaring back again, shocked and confused.

“Stupid fucking bird—”

“She was right here!

“Let me out, pendejo, I swear—”

“What the bloody hell does he mean—”

“How?” Is all Marc manages to get out, every one of his senses on overload.

“Something is hiding her from me; whatever took your lover is very powerful indeed.”

Took. Not a single doubt about it now: something took you. Kidnapped you because Marc couldn’t keep it together for ten-fucking-minutes. Jake and Steven can prattle all they want in the background—his mission is clear.

“Where do we start?”

The flat seems even bleaker when they return, your absence all the more chilling. Steven clamours to take the reins with the obvious assumption that research is the first step they need to take, but that’s quickly dashed away when Khonshu returns with a name.

“Apep.” God of darkness and disorder, Steven supplies from their head. “He’s been cast away for eons, but there have always been those trying to get him to return.”

“It’s another cult?”

Jake swears under his breath. “Figures.”

Ignoring them, Marc presses on. “Who are we dealing with now?”

“If it were easy to find them, I would’ve done it already,” Khonshu bristles. “Apep is helping them—hiding them as they work. I will continue to do what I can.”

“Fine.”

The god disappears in a whirlwind of loose papers, and Marc switches gears. Steven might have the advantage in research, but tracking? The skills he’s honed as a Marine and as a mercenary wait for him like an old pair of shoes; the others can’t help but let him work in peace.

He finds some old tourist map that spans over the city and unfolds it across the dining table. There are only so many places you would’ve gone, so many routes you could’ve taken. London doesn’t become deserted at night and barring any divine intervention, kidnapping someone would cause a scene—you would have caused a scene, he thinks, imagining you fighting tooth and nail against your assailants, screaming for someone to help—

Marc closes his eyes, clenches his jaw. A wave of pain washes over him, and he languishes in it for a minute, not a moment more.

His eyes reopen, spots dancing across his vision as he analyzes the map again. The feeling has been sealed shut into a box, shoved into a corner of his mind. Steve would throw a fit about his mental state if it were any other time, lecturing him on coping mechanisms and compartmentalization, but there’s no time for him to feel sorry for himself.

He grits his teeth and refocuses his train of thought. If they’re up against a cult, then they probably would’ve sent multiple people to grab you. Would’ve had to lure you somewhere quiet if it was by force, or they could have convinced you to go with them somehow. Or threatened you. Or…

The more he gets into it, the more he feels himself detaching from the situation, piece-by-piece. The memory of you is like a minefield; it’s a testament to his will that he can recall anything about you without breaking down. What you were wearing—and not the look on your face—when you left. Your favourite park—and not how your hand fits perfectly into his as you walked down the paths—that you might have passed through.

He reduces you to intel, just another folder on his desk. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He wouldn’t have made it this far if he couldn’t take an objective approach to his work. But it’s different because it’s you, because the stakes include you, and when he looks up to try to ground himself again, he spots your favourite mug on the coffee table. Half-empty.

If Layla were here.

The words bounce around his head as Marc stares up at the ceiling. He didn’t mean it. Steven and Jake are both better with words than Marc, but he’s never loved you any less—he’s never wanted you to be anyone but yourself.

It’s been almost two days since you left, and it’s only now that he’s allowed himself to be corralled into bed. His grip of the hot seat is ironclad, however, which means that the body isn’t getting any sleep tonight. The sun will rise soon, and he’ll pick up his work right where he left off.

Quietly, from the back of his head: “Marc?”

“Could’ve taken the victim anywhere,” Marc murmurs, mind still whirring in the dark.

“’Victim’?” Steven’s voice shifts to be full of indignance. “How could you possibly call her that?”

“Ay, easy on him,” Jake pipes up. For Jake to immediately to jump to his defence means that Marc must be worse off than he thought, but he can’t bring himself to care. “How’s it going, hombre?”

“No sightings on any security cameras. Nothing reported to the cops.” Hours of his time—your time—summarized in a breath. His face remains blank. “I’m going to sweep the remaining areas tomorrow. Find some people who might’ve seen something.”

He’s been doing nothing but cross possibilities off his list. It’s barely any progress and his remaining leads are weak, but his resolve is as strong as ever.

“Nothing from Khonshu?”

“No.” Marc has no idea what the god is doing.

They lay in silence for a bit, listening to the maddening tick-tick-tick of the clock on the wall. Anger is unsustainable, but Marc wishes that they’d return to yelling at him again. At least he knows what to do with that.

Instead, all he gets is Steven’s restrained tone: “Something has to change, you know.”

“Are you really telling me to go to therapy right now?”

“Can’t do much else.” For a moment, Steven’s bitterness resonates. There’s another conversation to be had here—one about their individual capabilities and protective natures—but Marc lets it rest for the night. He knows he’d be driven up the wall if their situation was reversed, if you were in danger and he had to rely on someone else to save you.

He still deflects. “Not the time for this.”

“Maybe not,” Steven concedes, “but you need help, Marc.”

Distantly, Marc recognizes that he’s always needed help. Even after reconciling with Steven and Jake, even after meeting you—the wounds are still there, despite how hard he’s tried to ignore them. He’s stubborn and self-destructive, not stupid.

“We’re with you, always,” Jake adds. Discomfort crawls under Marc’s skin from the supportive words, and he knows that his alters are well aware of it. It’s never stopped them, of course.

“We can talk about this after—after we save her.”

A general murmur of consensus. Marc quickly regains his footing, eager to move on from this line of conversation.

“I’ll find something. Or Khonshu will.” Steady and reassured—trying to convince them and himself. “We’ll get her back.”

Steven’s voice is small, even in the confines of their head. “But why would they take her in the first place?”

“He needs an avatar?” The body hasn’t slept in days. That void of feeling pulses with anger, desperation, fear—it simmers low in their gut, a torch passed along between them.

“Apep will need a vessel once they release him.”

“Here I thought one of his cultists would volunteer.”

Khonshu taps his staff against the ground thoughtfully. “They knew we would come after them, and we’re not the only ones.”

For the briefest of moments, Marc feels hopeful, like the odds aren’t as stacked against them as they thought. It disappears just as fast—Khonshu doesn’t deliver hope. The blood drains out of his face as he actually starts to consider the god’s words.

“If Apep possesses your precious lover, would you really be able to stop her? To take up arms against her?”

Khonshu leans in close then, hollowed eyes burrowing into him.

“Would you let others do the same?”

Over the next week, things begin to look up.

Someone’s girlfriend’s cousin says that they saw someone who looked like you walking down The Mall. There’s a fuzzy image of a car with no license plates. Khonshu catches the briefest hint of you on Westminster Bridge and follows you far, far east—it’s a mere grain of information that’s slipped through Apep’s power, but it’s enough for Marc.

They find the car abandoned in Dover, near the water. It rules out France—driving through the Eurochannel would’ve been the fastest route there, after all. Trying to take a public ferry would’ve been stupid with a captive, which means that they probably chartered or owned a boat.

The remaining pieces fall into place, and he can feel the anticipation from the others build in the background. Marc has led the charge so far with very few breaks to let Steven and Jake breathe a little. Steven misses you so much, he cries whenever he fronts. Jake has gone eerily quiet, and Marc knows what’s simmering underneath the surface; when the fighting starts, Jake will be called to action. His excitement is brutal.

It's all coming to an end soon. Laying on some dirt in the Norwegian countryside, shrouded in darkness, Marc’s never seen more stars in his life. If he’s right—and he is right—they’ll be bringing you to a nearby compound for the final step of their ritual. He couldn’t care less about the how or why. Come the morning, you’ll be here. Marc will get them inside. Jake will get to you. And then…

Marc will probably never be the partner that you deserve, and you never should’ve been subjected to his life. To sleepless nights and patching up his injuries and comforting him after nightmares that has him thrashing in the sheets—

But he can’t survive without you. It’s a simple little fact that gives him the power to move mountains; there are none bigger than the mess of his own head.

Exhaustion creeps up on him, and he can’t help but struggle against it. Fighting to keep his eyes open, his thoughts spill into the air. “Need to take care of her first.”

“Taking care of yourself is taking care of her,” Steven says gently. Have they had this conversation already? Marc’s been so singled in on this mission that everything else has fallen by the wayside. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, or what he’s wearing under the suit. The ground is the softest thing he’s ever felt.

If there’s any comparison to be made between you and Layla, it’s that he’s failed both of you. Maybe he could be different this time. Even if you decide that you want nothing to do with him after all this, he could still get help. He’ll have Steven and Jake. He’ll have himself and his scrappy resolve and the memories of this heart-aching pain, and maybe he’ll finally get better.

Marc lets his eyes close; the body needs rest for what’s to come. You don’t deserve any less than their best.

Just a few more hours.

Marc watches the fight from their headspace. Jake doesn’t miss a single shot and never so much as falters when one of them manages to land a hit. This is the longest break Marc’s gotten from fronting in a while, but he can’t bring himself to look away.

Jake loops their arm around the neck of cultist unlucky enough to be nearby, gripping his hair so hard Marc can nearly feel the strands through his fingers, feel it when Jake jerks their arm to the side and twists—

Your handlers left you alone in another room with nothing but a hard cot to curl into as you waited for them to retrieve you again. Locked inside but unbound—Marc hates how you startle when he breaks through the door.

Eyes wide, your mouth opens and closes multiple times without success. “You—you came.”

Marc wishes there weren’t so much surprise in your tone. Of course he came for you, it was never a choice for him—for any of them.

But clearly there was a part of you that thought he wouldn’t, wasn’t there? That he might just leave you in the clutches of some power-hungry cult because—because what, you’re not his ex-wife? Because you think he doesn’t love you?

The need to rectify that pierces his heart. He pulls you close, knuckles white in your shirt. “I love you.”

You shake in his arms. “Marc—”

“I love you.”

The words don’t stop; they fall from his lips like a prayer. Even as you weep, soaking the suit with your tears, he says it. I love you. I love you. I love you. In every variation, in every way—he’ll never let you believe otherwise again. He’ll say it over and over, work tirelessly to become the man you both deserve. For the rest of your lives. For the rest of time.

However long you’ll give him.

#moon knight x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley #moon knight fanfic #my writing #mk bingo 2024

855 notes · View notes

azsazz · 2 months

Text

Little Bird

Kinktober Day 24: Lorcan x Reader [Size Kink]

Summary: You're tired of sword-fighting with Lorcan. You want to practice endurance with him instead.

Warnings: Smut, size kink, choking, fingering.

Word Count: 2,452

Notes: Sorry these are taking so long...

_________________________________________

You don’t know if you should be more worried about the sword millimeters away from your neck, or the looming body that pins you to the ground. If he decides to rest his weight down on you, if you even think about trying to squirm away from him, he will fucking crush you.

It shouldn’t make you as hot as it does. Lorcan’s hot breath fanning across your face as he bends over you. Your torso, pinned between the thick of his thighs, large as mountains. Onyx eyes peer down at you, and there’s no distinction between the color and pupil. His equally dark hair is pulled from his face, but there’s a strand fallen free and brushing the skin of your hot cheek, clinging to the dew.

“What are you going to do now?” he asks you, his voice is low and cold, but his breath across your lips is hot. Draws your focus. That’s what he wants.

Your own weapon is just out of reach from where he’d hit it from your hand. You’d tried to defend yourself with your fists, but Lorcan is easily thrice your size and acts like it too. He doesn’t hold back with you, because you’ll never learn how to defend yourself against someone his size, even though you’re not sure there could ever be another person his size, because he’s fucking huge.

You could try to jut up your knee between his legs, but your attempt wouldn’t do much damage because the part you’re aiming for sits thick and heavy on your stomach. Your arms are pinned in one of his large hands with nowhere to go. You’re out of options. Or, almost out of options.

There’s one thing left in your arsenal that you can use. One that will have Lorcan growling at you for not taking any of this training seriously, but only for a moment.

You arch your body under his, pressing your breasts from the ground to rub against his chest. Lorcan blinks, nostrils flaring at the sweet scent that suddenly invades his senses, and he grits his teeth as he catches on immediately to your plans.

“I’m going to let you fuck me, Lorcan.”

“No, little bird, we’re going to train.” He demands it of you, even though you feel his cock twitch in his pants. You squirm and he pulls his blade slightly, not wanting you to accidentally injure yourself, and you swallow back your triumphant grin. The way that he’s keeping you pinned, looking out for your safety, makes you hot.

“Let’s work on endurance, then,” you challenge. “I know you can use come work.”

With that, you know you have him. Lorcan bares his teeth, sharp canines gleaming in the sun’s lowering light. The growl that accompanies it rattles your bones, reverberates deliciously against your clit and your breath hitches harshly.

Lorcan chases the sight, your chest flaring a little at your gasp. The sweat that beads between your breasts. Your lips part with the inhale and he wants to bite, tear the perfect pink skin of your mouth until they’re swollen and panting and in a perfect circle for him to stick his cock into. That would teach you, he’s sure, to taunt him like that, when his cock is shoved so fucking far down your throat that it nearly tears around his girth.

“Little bird,” he says, deathly calm. “You do not want to fuck with me.”

You roll your eyes, “Of course not, Lorcan. I want to you to fuck me.”

You whimper as he tosses his sword away and flattens his body against yours. You loose your breath with his weight, but he’s heavy and hot against you, smothering you with that large frame of his.

“You won’t be able to train for days,” he murmurs against your skin. His teeth scrape your cheek and you shiver. Your arms strain beneath his grip with the intent to cling to him, but he’s too strong, easily keeping them tightly pinned to the ground above your head. You whine a little, and his grip only gets harsher. “Oh no, little bird. If you don’t want to work, you don’t get to touch. I’ll fuck you as long and hard as I please for your insolence.”

His words shouldn’t make you shiver with pleasure but they do. Your nipples tighten with interest and Lorcan’s pupils dilate at the feeling, his chest pressed to yours.

“Hands,” you pant, because he’s rubbing himself tauntingly against you and you no longer know words. He’s thick and full in his pants, hot against your thigh. You think you’re pleasing for him to release your hands, or touch you with his, but you can’t be sure. Either works, though.

Lorcan hums, pulling away from the dark mark he’s sucked into your neck. There are two little indents, not quite his fangs breaking skin, but they look incredible on your flushed skin like this.

“Hands,” he hums thoughtfully, pulling back to meet your gaze. “Want me to let you go, bird? Want my hands all over this tight little body? Or perhaps around your neck? You know how pretty you look with my hand around your throat, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, more than ready for him to force the air from your body while he impales you on his cock. With his hand wrapped around your throat, breathing will be a struggle until the male above you allows it. Just like he’s allowing you to taunt him, to land a swipe at him with your sword. Nothing happens that Lorcan doesn’t want to happen. He is always in charge, leading the bull.

Lorcan’s free hand has released your arms but you keep them high above your head even if the urge to rip out the tie in his hair and bury your fingers into it is so great it makes your arms shake. A grunt of approval leaves his lips and it sends heat right down to your core, pooling between your thighs.

“Open your mouth for me bird,” he commands, brushing his thick fingers across your lips. They part automatically, and your skin is bussing with his touch as he dips two fingers in. “Yes. Good girl, just like that.” Lorcan’s praises, and presses those long fingers of his further down your throat. You choke, a squelching sound coming from your mouth that sets his charcoal eyes alight, his cock twitching between your bodies as he struggles not to grind. “Look at you, taking me so well. Should we find out what else we can fill?”

You moan, sucking them in bliss. You’re harsh with it, just the way that he likes. He likes it so much that Lorcan starts thrusting his fingers even faster, saliva pooling in your mouth as he moves, but he likes it messy, loves the way your lips swell and the way that you drool for him. Maybe he’ll even stick his fat cock down your throat if you’re good.

Your eyes roll into the back of your head. Your throat is tight around his fingers and you’ve forgotten just how big he is all around. Not just his cock that he’s hastily tugging from his trousers and tugging roughly before he’s removing his fingers from your throat.

You whimper at the loss but gasp as he kicks your thighs open, not wasting any time to reach down and tear a hole right through your own fighting leathers. The sound of the fabric ripping echoes through the thicket of trees and you’re thankful he made you hike so far out today, though with the way that his cock is standing straight and leaking at the tip, red and ready for your perfect, tight cunt, you know your cries of pleasure will be heard for miles and miles.

“Please,” you beg, and you relent. You don’t care how he’ll punish you, you need to feel his flesh embedded beneath your nails, need to feel the dips and valleys of the muscle stacking his body. You need to see the way that his hands smother yours, how he doesn’t even have to strain a muscle folding you into the positions he likes. “Please, Lorcan. I need your cock.”

He grunts in response, a disapproving sound as he stares at your tiny cunt, shining and wet for him. As much as he’d love to lean over and fuck right down to the hilt, you’ll only break. So, he needs to take this slow.

“Fingers first, little bird.”

The moan you release as his first finger dips into your wetness turns pinched when Lorcan adds a second, then third on the next plunge in. You scream around his fingers, at the feeling of him stretching you. Loran hushes you softly but keeps moving, his other hand coming to caress your face, trailing down your neck to grab a fistfull of your breast through your shirt. Your fingers scratch at his skin, begging him not to stop, working your cunt ready for his cock.

He towers over you, covering every inch of your body with his. The ground is hard beneath your back but he’s even harder above you. His onyx eyes are all you can focus on as the fire builds in your gut and then it’s only darkness and sparks of light that surround you when your eyes roll into the back of your head while you orgasm.

Before you can even catch your breath, before you can even force your eyes open again, Lorcan is nudging the head of his cock into your entrance. It stings, because no amount of prep from him can compare to the girth of his cock as it stretches your channel wider and wider.

Your soft fingers turn to snake bites against his shoulders as he wedges himself inward. Your body is coiled with tension, with the intrusion of his large cock, and he leans down to take your mouth against his as he works to distract you.

You whimper painfully against his mouth, and Lorcan growls. “Take it bird. Take all of me.”

And you have no choice but to. Your body is made for him, slick and hot and greedily accepting every inch that he’s giving you. He groans like a pained man when you constrict around his cock, not following his direction. Slipping a finger between your bodies, he rolls your clit between his rough fingers and slowly you begin to relax.

Your pained sounds turn to pleasured moans, your back arching with need and your stomach bulging with the tip of his cock. His hips meet yours and it’s always a surprising feat that he can fit that far inside of you, pressing into your organs with his head.

“Too deep,” you gasp when he pulls his hips out and thrusts them back in. Lorcan doesn’t falter in his movements, only hooks his hands under your knees and presses them to your chest, forcing himself further. “You’re too deep, Lorcan.”

“You’re okay, bird,” he grunts low. He bends over and licks a tear that’s escaped the corner of your eye, pressing a gentle kiss to the skin afterward. “You can take it. Arch your back for me. Gods,” he pants when you follow his command. “Just like that.”

Lorcan adjusts his hips and slides into you at an angle that makes every pinch and twist of pain worth it. The head of his cock brushes up against your walls, hot and leaking, and it feels so good.

“Please, kiss me,” you beg and Lorcan doesn’t hesitate. He lets you lead the kiss, taking everything that you need from him and giving you even more. His tongue brushes across yours at the same time he hits that bundle of nerves inside of you again and you moan deeply into his mouth. He swallows it like the greedy fucking male he is, smothering you, taking you, because you are his and for no one else.

Lorcan thrusts harder and you tighten your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck as your body vibrates with pleasure. You know that he’s close, and you can feel the building of your own orgasm threatening to crash over you as well. But you want to wait, you want to cum with him, feel your juices mix together as he fucks them deep into your womb.

“Don’t close your eyes, little bird. Look at me when you cum,” Lorcan says, and it almost feels wrong, the way he’s so gently smoothing back the hair clinging to your damp cheeks. You cum with the feeling of his calloused fingers so tender on your skin. He may not let anyone else see this side of him, showing you how much you mean to him, but here and now, even after you’ve all but taunted his skills, he continues this kindness, and it makes your heart swell with joy.

Lorcan’s name is a desperate cry on your lips as you cum for the second time. His chest vibrates with a growl that only has your cunt constricting tighter around him, so tightly that he has to put more effort into jerking in and out of you. The feeling of your warmth choking his cock is more than enough to shove him over the edge as well, spurting rivulets of cum into your cunt with a growl that shakes your core.

“Such a good little bird, aren’t you?” he asks when he comes down from his own high, enjoying the feeling of himself dripping out of your cunt around his cock that’s still shoved deeply into you. If you weren’t on the tonic you’d be worried about how easily Lorcan would be able to impregnate you, but as you lie beneath him in bliss, the both of your chests sticking together with sweat, you might not mind baring his children someday.

“So good,” you swallow roughly, caressing his sides. You squeal when Lorcan grabs your hips and rolls you so that you’re lying across his chest, and your cunt pulses at the feeling of his cock grinding with the mauver. Lorcan groans softly, his large hands pinning your hips in place so that you don’t get any ideas about rolling your hips while he’s still coming down from his previous orgasm.

“Give me a few minutes, bird,” he huffs, closing his eyes. His eyebrows are strained but you can feel his cock twitch in your cunt.

You hum, clenching around him on purpose. Lorcan growls and bares his teeth again, but you only stroke the pad of your finger down the length of his sharp tooth. “But Lorcan, I thought we were working on your endurance.”

#lorcan x reader #lorcan smut #lorcan #lorcan salvaterre #throne of glass #azsazz #azsazz kinktober 2023

443 notes · View notes

pepsiconcoction · 11 months

Text

Bathroom Breakdown | Bang Chan x Reader

pairing: bang chan x fem!reader

tags: insecurity, comfort, fluff, chan is so sweet y'all, minor explicit language

requested? nope, this was all me baybee!

wc: 1,450

If you had to say, getting in your own head was probably your strongest skill. You do it a lot, more than most people, but the funniest thing is, you don’t even realise you’re doing it half of the time. The thoughts in your head are so common that you truly believe them now, they’re just facts!

The recent topic of discussion inside your brain has been your love life. Specifically, your wonderful boyfriend, Chan. He really is wonderful, he’s kind, generous, funny, smart, and handsome as hell. You consider yourself lucky to be his girlfriend for the past six months. Insecurity has been slowly eating you recently, gnawing at you in the back of your head. You know everything that it’s saying is wrong, and that he loves you, and he’s lucky to have you too, but there’s just something convincing you he’s lying, that one day he is going to turn around and decide to leave.

Sniffling, you fold up a wad of toilet paper and bring it to your face, wiping your eyes one last time. You throw it into the toilet from your place on the cold tile floor and grab onto the edge of the sink to help hoist yourself up. You see your reflection in the mirror and let out a long, shaky breath. You were seemingly done crying, using the last 45 minutes as a good release, and your legs wobbled as you stood.

You turned on the tap, feeling the cool water on your fingers. Gathering some water in your hands, you bring the coolness up to your face, gently pressing your face, and massaging around your eyes, attempting to wrangle the puffiness of your post-sob face. The cold water was refreshing and helped to bring you back to reality.

A few minutes later you were ready to face the world again, the world inside your apartment at least. Unlocking the bathroom door, you take one final deep breath. You swing the door open and nearly scream. There, leaning against the wall opposite, is Chan.

“Jesus Christ.” You clutch your chest.

“Sorry, I did text you but,” he trails off. Oh, right. You didn’t have your phone on you, you had left it in the living room.

“Oh, sorry, yeah, it’s in the other room. How long have you been here?” You ask. He must have let himself in with the spare key you had given him.

“Uh, not long, maybe 15 minutes?” He stands up, awkwardly. You think he’s lying to save you the embarrassment.

“Oh,” you say, neither of you really knowing where to go with this.

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Are you okay?”

You speak at the same time. Your eyes widen at his question, and you think for a second that you look like a deer in headlights.

“Ah, yeah, I got a free evening so thought I’d come over,” he explains. “But maybe I should’ve waited for a response.”

“No it’s okay, I was just, thinking too much.” You don’t know what to say. He opens his arms and you fall into them, wrapping around you gently.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” He speaks softly into your hair.

“I think I’d cry again.”

“That’s okay, you’re allowed to cry.”

You take a deep breath hearing his words and you feel everything coming back.

“Hey, let’s get you somewhere comfy first, sofa or bed?”

“Bed,” you mumble into his chest. He’s wearing a soft, black hoodie that smells just like him, the scent of his cologne faintly clinging to the material. With ease, he guides you to your bedroom, and you get into the safety of your covers. He excuses himself for a second, and leaves the room, returning a few minutes later with a few things. Your phone is one of them, your heart crying a little as you read his texts from earlier on the lock screen. He climbs into bed next to you and gets comfy. You keep him at a distance, thinking it would be better to put space between yourself. He insists on at least holding your hand.

“Okay, tell me everything.”

“I’m just feeling insecure. It’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about it. I feel like I don’t deserve any of this.” You begin to put it into words.

“This?” he asks, gently.

“You, Chan. I don’t deserve you, and I know I do, I know you’ll say I do, but my brain is so good at convincing me, and I don’t know how to get her to shut up. Like, I look in the mirror and I don’t understand why you love me, like look at you, you’re perfect, I’m not.” You see his eyebrows furrow but you don’t give him a chance to say anything.

“I just feel so fundamentally unlovable, which is stupid, but there’s just something in my head. And I’m so scared, I’m scared that I let you in fully, and get so comfortable with you, and one day you decide I’m too much, or not enough, or too weird, or too something, and you leave me for some stupid or shallow reason that I was a fool to think wouldn’t happen.” The tears are flowing now, not as hard as before but you wipe at them. You’re no longer looking at Chan, but down at your hands where your fingers are pulling threads from the bed sheets.

“So I guess my head has just decided that you’re better off without me, and I want to disagree so badly, but she’s so fucking convincing, Chan, I’m sorry.” You wipe at your tears roughly, but Chan quickly replaces your hands with his own, taking your face in his hands gently. His thumbs are wiping at the tears still slowly falling.

“Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe.” You do as he says, and your tears begin to slow down even more.

“Can I say something?” Chan says after a minute. You nod, preparing for the worst.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Your eyes look up and meet his, a look of sincerity in his own glassy eyes.

“I could never leave you, not as easy as you seem to think. No part of you could be too much or too little, or too anything for me. I love you. I love all of you. I love the parts of you I’ve seen, and I can’t wait to see the parts I haven’t seen yet so that I can love them too. I know this isn’t easy, I feel the same things sometimes, but you just have to believe me, and if you ever doubt me, I will fight you.” He ends with a chuckle.

“Okay?” He runs his fingers through your hair gently. You nod, smiling.

“Also, who are you to decide who I love, hm?” he asks.

“An idiot,” you mumble, making him chuckle.

“I decide who I love, got it? I am choosing to love you.”

You nod your head, utterly defeated, and fall into his chest. He catches you swiftly, rubbing your back with one hand and petting your hair with the other. After a few minutes, you pop your head up to look at him. He looks at you questioningly.

“Be honest, how long were you here before I came out of the bathroom?”

“Oh, I, uh, think I heard most of it,” he says sheepishly. You groan, burying your face into his chest once more. You feel him laugh more than you hear it.

“Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

“I don’t know…” you trail off. “Loving me? Letting me cry? Being here? Something like that.” You play with one of his hoodie strings, avoiding his intense stare.

“Something like that,” he repeats quietly, half chuckling at your words. “Of course, I'd do all those things, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say, finally looking up at him. He’s smiling at you, eyes soft. You lean up and press a kiss to his soft lips. He accepts it, indulging you for a few seconds until he pulls back. You’re about to pout but he catches you off guard by planting kiss after kiss on your face. Your cheeks, nose, forehead, and finally your mouth once more. You’re giggling by the time he’s done, and he pulls back, eyes sparkling.

“Feeling any better?” he asks.

“No, I think I need one more.” You giggle up at him. He rolls his eyes but leans down, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that the both of you are smiling into. The kiss feels right, and for the first time in a little while, the voice in the back of your head is quiet.

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added!): @lethallyprotected

1K notes · View notes

historiaxvanserra · 2 months

Text

These Violent Delights | Chapter Three

Summary: The day has come for you to forsake the safety of Velaris and make your solemn oaths to Beron Vanserra; the cruel and tyrannical High Lord of the Autumn Court and his son Eris Vanserra. Your mate. Cruel and beautiful and yours.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader

Word Count: 8k

Main Masterlist

Waking from the ether feels like being torn from your old life again. You need a few moments to shed the fleeting remnants of your mortal life; the winter cold as it permeates the thin walls of the cabin, the warmths of the sister nestled at your side, that feeling of hunger like a devouring cavity that lives within you even now and that dresser-- adorned in painted flame, flowers, eternal night and the murky depths of the sea. That dresser haunts your memories almost as often as that infernal Cauldron.

In these moments when sleep still shrouds your conscious mind, you give leave to your anger; it runs like water into old wounds and it festers there. The saltwater purifies in ways that fire cannot. In a few moments, when the visions abate you, then you will be able to face the fire. To watch as the hues of your bedroom move from murky green and chalk blue into pearl and burning gold. For now, let the morning come in with the subtleness of the tide.

You're still cocooned between silken sheets, allowing the sunlight to thaw out the morning chill from your bones, when you notice the wraiths as they work. Nuala and Cerridrwen are the personification of shadow and smoke as they glide through your rooms, drawing the curtains with a flourish as golden light seems to pour into the room. Nuala tends to your laundry while her sister begins to draw your bath. The smell of steam and wildflowers from the meadow fill the air; juniper berries and chamomile soap that seems to cling to you.

The sound of the water lulls you into a misty wakefulness which is sullied by the opening of the apartment doors again. This time three sisters spill into the room, each dressed in varying shades of night; black, navy and indigo, accented with jewels strung tight against the hollows of their throats and the morning light catches in the crystals and casts the room in speckled light.

With as much grace as she can muster this early in the morning, Elain unceremoniously slumps down on your unmade bed and crawls to sit beside you as you once had when you were girls.

“Get up!” Nesta commands briskly leaning against your vanity.

“Morning, love,” Elain says, her voice airy on the morning breeze. She looks particularly wraith-like this morning, her eyes are ringed purple and her rich sienna irises are glazed over, glassy and veiled with a milky film that speaks to an oncoming vision.

Your bed shifts under the weight of movement again as Feyre places Nyx, swaddled in his favorite blanket, into the space beside you. He moves against the confines of his wrappings, coiling and loosening and he is half-free before you pull him into your embrace. His smile and quiet babbling tugs on your emotions in a way that almost feels like a carefully crafted ruse.

“Using the baby against me is cruel.” You chastise, pulling yourself to sit against the headboard as you take Nyx in your arms so that he is resting on your knees.

“I know but you really do need to get up.” Feyre says, still half-wrapped in the arms of sleep herself. Feyre is the night; dark, and vast, strangely comforting.

“The High Lord has asked to see you before the ceremony,” Nesta says. Her voice is filled with something sharp and wicked. They’re all looking at you now; each saturated in her own shade of sympathy as you resign yourself to action. Rising from the bed in feigned indifference, you wordlessly hand Nyx off to his mother, before walking over to the copper tub in front of the dying fire. The cold copper draws the heat from your skin and in its wake leaves an icy metallic sting that cuts bone deep.

“Very well then,” You say with a heavy sigh, “I best not keep him waiting.”

You look to your sisters then, once they had been three girls; mortal and each afraid and now they stand before you half-divine and formidable. And where did you stand amongst them? You don’t feel particularly formidable.

You feel fractured, all adrift in a violent sea.

So today you will wear your sisters virtues like armor. Until you have sworn yourself to him.

“We’ll not keep you,” Nesta says, cutting through the poignant silence as you rise on uncertain feet towards the tub nodding curtly at them as they disperse.

The swathes of your ivory nightgown pool like water at your feet as you wade into the tub before sinking low into its comforting warmth. The water is white-hot, burns in the most sadistic way, and when the burning subsides it gives way to a misty wakefulness saturated by the aromatic smell of juniper and jasmine. You recline your head against the lip of the tub and cast your gaze to your sisters again. .

In this light Nesta looks like a vision; draped in black and silver, her hair braided like a crown atop her head and her face has an austere beauty that could bring a King to his knees. Nesta is a silver flame; wrathful and vengeful, and should she let it, her fire would ravage worlds until all that stood between her and total destruction was herself.

Eris is flame too; terrible and red. Slow-burning, all-consuming and utterly devastating.

Like calls to Like.

Once your sisters have left you let yourself sink into the scalding waters, sinking lower and lower until you are submerged entirely; the water becomes you and you it. Nesta always said that you were water; calm and clear with a dangerous anger that swells like a storm under the skin's surface, violent like the sea. And should you let it, the tempest will tear you apart, and perhaps the world with it. Looking up from underneath the fractured rays of sunlight spill into the room and pierce through the dark waters– there is something sacred in that sinking feeling. Then visions come to you in flashes of black, red and–

“I dreamt of you last night,” It’s Elain’s voice that lingers on the edges of your room. It’s airy and haunting and her eyes are wide and glassy as she exhales. Elain is flowers; painted in the pastels of Springs early blooms and her hair shines like shadowed sunlight in the pale morning.

“I dreamt of you and him.”

“A dream or a vision?” You ask, your voice wavering and curious.

Elain takes a tentative step into the room, her fingers buried into the skirts of her dress and she broaches the subject again, “I hadn’t had a vision in months”.

“But last night I saw you.”

Elain’s soft hands brush over your own, the tips of your fingers tangling together and your draw in a sharp breath as something in you calls to her and all the breath is taken from you when she reaches out a pale hand to your cheek.

It burns through you like fire and Elain begins to speak.

'These violent delights have violent ends

And in their triumph die, like fire and water,

Which as they kiss consume.’

Elain falls through the ether with a deep inhale as the trance falls away from her and she scrambles to find something to ground herself in those moments.You brace yourself against the lip of the tub as Elain falls to the floor in tears, hands desperately grasping for anything to hold onto. Soaked to the bone and bare to the world you take your trembling sister in your arms and hold her there until the ragged breaths soothe and settle to a steady inhale-exhale. You run a confronting hand through Elain’s unbound hair, pressing a chaste kiss against her hairline repeating the words to her. It’s okay. I’m here. Elain looks up at you through dark lashes, wet with unshed tears when she whispers hoarsely.

“Please don’t marry Eris Vanserra.”

---

The cloister in the royal temple on the outskirts of Verona is steeped in near darkness save for the jade light from the stained glass windows that pierces the veil of the dark, like sunlight as it cascades down into the murky green depths of the river that flanks the Autumn’s capital city. There is a solemn silence that hangs in the air and for a moment this room feels more like a watery grave than a quiet reprieve from the ceremony below. The orchestral music plays and you pick out the sounds of lyres and harps as their music washes over you. You suck in a sharp breath and all at once you feel panic hit you like a raging tempest, wild and raging as it drags you into its merciless depths--

The sharp knock on the screen door reverberates through the silence of the cloister.

“Come in.” You say, your voice hoarse and shaky as clutch at the tight lacing of your corset, trying to catch your breath again. Light spills into the room like the tide and you turn, half-expecting to see one of your sisters standing there, her face painted in sympathy as she takes you in her arms and whispers a few comforting words to you.

The man that stands before you is a much more volatile prospect indeed.

“My Lord.” You greet him coldly.

“High Lord now, isn’t it?” Beron Vanserra offers you a saccharine smile as he crosses the threshold of the makeshift bridal apartments. He’s dressed in a deep crimson tunic, embroidered with threads of gold; It is wholly perverse for a man so cruel to look so poised and striking. You notice the way his shoulder length hair looks like polished bronze and his eyes shine like onyx in the morning light as he regards you.

“Don’t you make a beautiful bride,” Beron’s voice is laden with false flattery, undercut with an air of threat, “you’re going to make my son a very happy male.”

Beron all but leers at you. His eyes trail lazily over the curves and divots of your body in the obscenely intricate dress he had chosen for you. It is adorned in rubies and pearls that catch in the light like drops of blood. You feel your skin begin to crawl when he presses a chaste kiss to your outstretched hand.

“It is a shame about Eris though.” Beron says dangerously low, as if daring you to ask what it is he means.

“The flowers look very beautiful” you muse absently, it is all you can offer him-- some small, non-committal response to placate him.

Beron pays you no heed.

“I’m assured no expense has been spared with the ceremony.” Beron continues, picking at some stray threads on the sleeve of his tunic. His lips are set in a straight line and you notice the grimace that graces his features as he takes in the decor from your spot in the cloister overlooking the antechamber of the temple.

The walls are carved into ivory marble and sandstone, and the high, Gothic archways are adorned with carvings of mythological heroes and Princes from songs. The large circular window behind the altar is decorated with stained glass that casts a myriad of dappled light onto the marble tiles. You swallow thickly thinking of the obscenely large sum of money being spent on your mating ceremony to the Autumn heir.

“So I’ve heard, High Lord.” Beron nods at that, the use of his title softening him to you again and you dip your head in a show of false deference.

“Yes, well,” Beron says, his lips twitching lightly as he traces the swell of your breasts and the slope of your neck, “I have reason to believe you will be worth every penny.”

Beron takes a step towards you and you loose a breath as he draws nearer still. His frail, aged hand reaches out to touch you. From your position in the cloister Beron Vanserra towers over you. His presence is a looming reminder of your position in this world. His slender fingers feel warm and smooth against the skin of your throat as he tilts your chin so that you are looking in his eyes. You wonder if Eris’ touch feels as perverse.

It wasn't that night in Hewn City, you remember. That night he had touched you with such careful reverence.

Like you were a Goddess worth kneeling too.

“You should be warned,” Beron says to you, his eyes bore into yours and in them you see something akin to devilment cross them. Beron’s voice is soft and pensive in a way that seems rehearsed “The Autumn Court is an inhospitable place for outsiders.”

“Rhysand might be content for you to play at war and politics but you will find that in Autumn it is not becoming of a Lady of your position.”

“Yes, My Lord” you say, your voice equally as soft, with an almost breathless quality to it as the realization of his words takes root in your chest. Your heart is thunderous in your chest-- it beats so loud you’re sure The High Lord of Autumn is privy to it.

Beron hums thoughtfully as he lets go of your chin once more.

“Eris has a dangerous temper -- the fire runs hot in his veins” Beron’s words are chosen carefully, crafted to intimidate. “I can assure you he will not abide these foolish notions any more than I will.”

You nod meekly, recalling the words of Elain’s vision. These violent delights will have violent ends.

“He might be blinded by the thought of a pretty face and a tight cunt for now but it won’t last.” He muses to himself and again you see that light fade from his eyes and morph into a sadistic joy as his words spark outrage on your face.

You don’t dare look at him again lest he see the tears that have gathered at your waterline. Beron considers you for a moment, sweeping you up in his hold so that your arm is wrapped around his bicep loosely and he begins to lead you from the darkness of the cloister and into the light.

“And what will my position be at court?” You ask carefully, observing the harsh set of Beron’s jaw as you talk.

“As Eris’ mate you will be a Lady of the Autumn court -- you’ll take tea and play cards, attend balls -- bear him sons.” Beron laughs, casting a glance to you as you continue your descent down the temple stairs before he takes his leave. Then he is gone with the wave of a hand and he leaves the charred scent of wyrmwood and valerian root in his wake. You lose a shaky breath and try ceaselessly to wipe the unshed tears from your eyes before continuing your descent into the heart of the temple.

Your storm rages violent and cold then; You were born from the depths of the sea. To be cruel and beautiful. You are not some docile little girl or a brood mare destined to bear sons and obey.

You are a storm incarnate and by the time you are done, the whole world will know it.

The temple in Verona is carved deep into the natural sandstone of a cliff face, its sharp peak cleaving it from the valley and river beyond. The grand temple overlooks the river and on days such as this, the smell of seafoam and salt, stains the air. The stained glass windows line the junction between the walls and ceilings, and illustrated in them, is the story of birth, creation and rebirth. It breeds a strange sense of reverence in you. As the sun filters through the windows in beams of shadowed light, the aisle is dappled in a technicolor glow. The air is thick and heady with the smell of wine and smoke and from your spot at the end of the aisle, you can see The High Priestess intoning her mass. The Priestess is obscured by plumes of incense smoke and the flicker of candle flame illuminates her face. She is a vision in the lonine orange light; she is heavily veiled, runes adorn her arms and face, and her eyes shine with a cerulean clarity as she chants her blessings to the Fae in attendance. Her altar is littered with offerings to the mated pair, amphora’s of fae-wine, bouquets of lilac and patchouli, small trinkets and garlands of laurel and pomegranate. The temple is alive with ceremony; a possession of veiled priestesses, anointed with incense, leave a trail of petals in their wake, as they kneel at the foot of the altar before filing into the pews.

“Last chance to run!” It’s Cassian’s voice that jolts you from thought.

He laughs as you clutch at your chest as you reel from his intrusion. He’s dressed in his ceremonial uniform; it’s much prettier than the frayed training leathers you’re used to seeing him in. His broad shoulders seem to strain against the navy fabric that is decorated with embroidered silver brocade. His hair is pushed back behind his ears neatly, a few errant strands catch on the breeze and he looks more like the Cassian you had grown to care for.

“I think it’s a little late for that now.” Rhysand says pointedly to Cassian as he retreats into the aisle to find his seat at the front of the temple with the rest of your family and friends.

On the opposite side of the aisle Beron Vanserra stands near the altar along with Eris and his favorite courtiers and trusted soldiers that gather behind him to bear witness to the hastily brokered mating ceremony his father had managed to coerce you into. And there’s a woman. She’s tall and beautiful with hair the color of sand and a face that is bright and warm. She looks out into the aisle with contempt and then back again to Eris and from here, on the outside looking in, you can see it. Not quite love but fire; consuming and searing through her and the heat seems to seep into his bones as he turns around to meet her eyes and you can swear you see the ghost of regret grace his face.

You will make him kneel to you, you think. As you had done that night in Hewn City. He had called you Goddess then.

A storm incarnate, you remind yourself as you approach the aisle hesitantly. Violent, merciless, and beautiful. With all the force of a raging tempest.

As the orchestral music begins to sweep through the temple you feel Rhysand clear his throat and come to stand at your side, his eyes burning holes into the side of your face. Rhysand is dressed all in black. In his High Lord robes he cuts an intimidating figure. In this holy light he looks quite beautiful, in a boyish sort of way, never really having shed that youthful magnetism that seemed to enamour everyone so. On any other day, you wouldn’t have looked twice at Rhysand but as your freedom hangs precariously in the balance you want to cling to something you know-- something warm and familiar and safe. So you take his arm as he guides you out into the aisle.

Your vision is partially obscured by the light mesh veil that adorns your face. It’s honey coloured and decorated with tiny ruby crystals that fall like tears. The dress itself looks like wine red; satin and chiffon that clings to you like water as it marks the contours and caverns of your body in a way that makes you feel laid bare. The fabric is gathered about your bust delicately and accentuates the slope of your shoulders. Rhysand’s cool fingers rub comforting circles into the flesh of your arm where he holds it tight. He feels your tense involuntarily as the harps swell to a stop when you step up to the heart of the temple.

Then you see him; it’s hypnotic and slightly aggravating as he examines you, his eyes trailing over your body and coming to land on your face. He looks at you and you feel as though light goes all through you. He’s steeped in jewel tones that saturate him in autumnal light as he stands against the cool marble and stone of the temple. His hair is tousled and rust coloured in the half-extinguished candle flame and his eyes shine like amber, incandescent and devastating. His tunic is jade coloured and embellished with gold thread along the cuffs and collar.

“Come forward, child,” the Priestess gestures to you as you take a step towards the altar, bowing your head in a show of devotion. She takes your hand in hers and kisses it chastely, murmuring a blessing against your skin. She repeats the action for Eris before gesturing to you to face him. When you turn to face him he takes a step forward on certain feet and takes hold of the sheer fabric that veils you, briefly admiring the feel of it between his fingers before bringing it over your head in one fluid movement so that your face is entirely unobstructed from view. Eris burns bright; a slow-burning flame. It’s warm and all-consuming but no less volatile, no less devastating. As the priestess continues to intone her blessings, you and Eris stand, looking at each other in the light searching for something to cling to in each other’s eyes in those sinking moments. In a flurry of movement the priestess takes your hand again before pressing the ceremonial blade to your palm, the metal glints in the dappled light and a slicing burn gives way to blood that pools like rubies at Eris’s feet.

Stepping to the altar he grasps your hand in his as a pained hiss escapes you. His hands are broad and warm and his fingers are long and graceful as they ghost over your cold skin. Your fist clenches in his unrelenting grip and when he feels it, he yields to you, his hand going slack as your fingers curl around his. He had the strange tenderness of someone who has never been loved, it seems almost rehearsed. His palms and the pads of his fingers are rough and mottled with fire and the way he holds your hand in his is possessive.

Sacred and perverse.

His hand pulls away from you now and in turn he offers it up to the priestess, she turns it over in her grasp and slices into his palm as she had done to you. He places his hand in yours again. Palm to bloody palm as he sinks to his knees before you. He kneels to you in his own show of reverence; you, the visage of some ancient deity and he, the last devotee.

Eris Vanserra works diligently, threading the ribbon through your joined hands, binding your bloody hand to his. The crimson ribbon that joins you, a representation of the oaths by which you are bound together.

Your shared sin.

The words come next; spoke in unison and recited like a prayer:

Ode to my love;

Blood of my blood, bone of my bone;

Here, I surrender myself unto you;

In sight of The Mother;

I give that which is only mine to give;

My word, my bond, my fealty,

I pledge to shield your back, and keep your counsel,

I pledge that yours will be the name I cry aloud in the night,

And yours the arms in which i wake

I pledge to you my living and dying;

I am yours and you are mine,

From this day until our last day.

The next few hours seem to pass in a perpetual state of anxiety induced haze and you bear witness to it all from somewhere outside of yourself; a ghost or spectator to the tragedy that had become your union to The Autumn Prince.

Your beautiful mate.

This should have been a happy occasion; the union of two souls, bound together by the Gods themselves. Born from the same star. But Beron Vanserra had robbed you of any romantic notions that today is anything but a warning fire.

You are a vulnerability. His mate. And whether Eris Vanserra loves you or not Beron intends to exploit that vulnerability; a pretty ornament to bring Eris to heel.

The ballroom is a show of opulence; soaked in the amethyst fae-light and chandeliers glitter like moonglow on open water. The paintings hang on the wall, rich oil on canvas, framed in gilded gold and the high table is decorated with fine ivory place settings and delicate china adorned with painted autumn leaves. The retinue of Beron’s courtiers look like a jewel-toned fire; flames of amber, topaz, and ruby that burn through the cool light of the ballroom as they take to their seats. It’s a great farce. The way that the colours of night and autumn come together in a crude harmony. You wonder if Eris sees it too.

The music is soft and loud and mixed with the laughter and idle chatter the hall is a cacophony of sound, no longer ceremonial and orchestral but rather, jovial and light-hearted with an undercurrent of anticipation. From your position at the heart of the high table, you can see the courtiers of Night and Autumn mingling on the lower tables, and as the fourth course is served, it seems inebriation is beginning to set in. Their faces in the crowd are exaggerated and expressive, the distinct wine-blush staining the room a specific shade of hedonism. The air is thick with it, wine and body heat. It’s almost tangible.

The sound of Cassian’s voice echoes along the high table as he and Nesta seem to be in the midst of a heated debate. Feyre and Mor are quietly discussing court gossip with animated gasps and hand gestures that you only catch from the corner of your eye. All of that is drowned out by the conversation between Rhysand, Beron and Eris.

You only stare on, watching and waiting as the evening begins to unfold before you.

You cast your eyes along the table to see that it is laden with food; roasted meats, and seasonal vegetables, garnished with fragrant spices and herbs that taint the air with their aroma. It’s pure gluttony. More food than you have ever seen, piled high and largely untouched. It seems cruel to you. To be confronted with such abundance now, when once, hunger was all you knew. It should feel like heaven to live in the knowledge that you will never know poverty again but sometimes it feels like condemnation. To live knowing that your life, meagre as it was, had been stolen from you and in its place, this.

The stiffening of the body next to you brings you back from the precipice. Eris is a vision in the sapphire light; his face is beautiful in the most conflicting ways. He’s all delicate and angular; soft slopes and harsh lines that come together in opposing harmony. His face is a perfect juxtaposition. He’s a slow-burning fire tangled in the amethyst moonglow.

“You should eat something,” His voice is tense and low and he doesn’t deign to look at you when he speaks. Even his presence is contradictory in nature; the way his face is set in a neutral expression that arches on contemptuous, and yet, his hand, still bound to yours, is warm and tender, as the calloused pad of his thumb strokes slow tortuous circles into the skin of your hand.

“I’m not hungry,” it is a lie, an obvious one at that, as at that moment your stomach seems to betray you. He laughs then. Much to the ire of Beron who sends one measured glance to his heir, never quite looking away from Rhysand as he talks about some foreign policy or the other.

The laugh itself is not wholly cruel but teasing, meant to make you feel small as he finally turns his gaze on you. It’s fierce and piercing, warm and you think that when he is looking at you the whole world melts away for a few moments. Eris is handsome; of that there had never been any doubt. Especially in this light he almost takes your breath away.

“Please eat something, little fox.” is all he says finally, cutting through the tension that had settled over the two of you.

You laugh back at him now as he watches you carefully, his stare is unyielding and burns into the side of your face. Yet you refuse him the satisfaction of looking back at him. It is Beron’s stare that has you shrinking in place, searing and critical as it bores into the side of your face. It is then you notice the woman he had brought with him looks at you both with a peculiar mixture of envy and scorn that makes heat coil in your stomach, it creeps up on you, kissing its way up your throat and ghosting over your cheeks, leaving blush stains in its wake.

You look at him once more, forlorn and dejected when he won’t meet your gaze. You look down to the space between you to the place where your hands are bound to his. Your hands are clasped together and come to rest on your thigh innocently as his thumb continues to rub small circles into the skin of your hand. It’s absent-minded and self-soothing on his part. You doubt he realizes or cares about the comfort it has been bringing you in these moments when you feel like you are drowning. So you surrender yourself to the tide.

You are the sea; wild and untamed, sacred like salt. A force to be reckoned with. And try as he might, he will not burn you.

When your stomach elicits another growl you relent to him and decide to eat something after all even if the satisfaction on his face is enough to awaken the storm brewing inside of you. It’s not quite anger but either way, it washes over you and awakens you with a jolt.

With your free hand you grab the first thing in front of you; pomegranate, ripe and sweet-smelling and red. Red like the thread that binds you to him. You spend a few moments contemplating it before letting your free hand fall to your thigh, to the place where his body joins with yours. You begin tugging at the binding in an attempt to free yourself from his tender grip.

“No!” His voice is louder and sterner than he meant for it to sound as he pushes you away with his unbound hand.

“Why not?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at the harsh tone in his voice, “it’s just a stupid ribbon.”

You attempt to free yourself again, only this time his grip is rough and unrelenting.

“That stupid ribbon is thousands of years of tradition, girl.” It is Beron’s voice, cruel and malignant that chastises you.

“My apologies.” you say dumbly in response, looking down to where your hands are joined in shame, “forgive me High Lord.” You’re not sure if it's Beron of Eris you are apologizing to. But it is Beron’s words that play on your mind.

Eris bids you to look at him when his father is once again taken into conversation with Rhysand and you notice then how Eris’ amber gaze softens with his grip as he lets go of your free hand and he waves you off as you look on apologetically. These are the traditions of his people. And foreign as they are to you, they are his; yours now too you suppose.

“The ribbon signifies the sacred vows we have made to each other.” Eris explains carefully and those amber eyes never once leave yours. Even as he brings his free hand to cradle your face in one hand, or as he runs a tender thumb over the the smooth flesh of your cheek.

“I’m sor-” you move to apologize again though the words are cut short when Eris squeezes your hand comfortingly beneath the table and offers you a secret smile. A secret courtesy to be kept between you and him.

“Think nothing of it, wife.” There’s a little bite to the words that speak to his jest and you feel once again that you are talking to the man that had enamored you so that night in Hewn City.

He clears his throat again to speak.

His voice is measured and calm this time as he says “It can’t be removed until the wedding night.”

“The wedding night?” you ask, looking up at him as he turns away again.

“Until the marriage has been consummated.” Eris clarifies, not daring to look at you he shifts a little in his seat, crossing his boot-clad leg over his knee.

“Ahah! The bedding!” Beron leers at you and you notice the twitch in Eris’ jaw but his face remains set in a perfectly neutral expression before morphing into his own rehearsed smirk. He mutters something to his father that you can’t quite catch but whatever it is, it is enough that Beron hums in satisfaction and turns back to The Night Lord of Night with a dangerous smile on his lips.

You swallow hard.

Your throat goes dry and makes it harder to swallow your dread. Silence settles over you both again, you’re not sure that he notices or pays much mind to you in those moments but drowning in the silence, you feel his hand squeeze yours with a fond pressure that makes your heart swell with something close to affection.

After a few more moments of that awkward silence and his hand squeezing yours, you dare to look along the table again. Beside you Rhys is sat in a grand chair that marks him as a High Lord, next is Feyre who cradles Nyx in her arms as he sleeps soundly despite the music and chatter of the courtiers. Nesta and Cassian seem wholly immersed in each other, each drinking deeply from their cups as their conversation becomes louder. At some point, she catches your eye and quirks a brow at you in question. You can’t think of what to do so you only shake your head a little in response, hardly enough for anyone else to notice.

Moving on you find Azriel in the crowd, he’s pressed against the wall, drink in hand, spectating from the sidelines as he does, lying in wait for something to catch his attention. Something does catch his attention though; it’s you. He sees the way you watch him carefully. There was something dark and reassuring in his eyes, a wordless conversation contained between you and him in that moment. He’s been a friend to you this whole time, and his distrust of Eris meant he was the only one openly vocal about his reservations regarding your marriage to the Autumn prince. Apart from you of course. Azriel slinks off into the shadows and not long after you notice that Elain has also managed to escape. There is some amusement in how obvious they are in their affections for each other and yet, not one person is observant enough to take notice of it.

“Your sister, Elain,” he starts, there is a menace in his voice and a thread of amusement as he cocks a brow to Lucien who is dancing with Feyre now, “She’s my brother's mate, yes?”

“She is, My Lord.” You nod, your eyes fixed on Lucien, who had been begrudgingly invited and you find yourself enamored by his graceful movements as he sweeps Feyre up in one fluid motion, turning with her in his arms before placing her on the ground again. Lucien is beautiful you think; not in the same way as Eris perhaps, Lucien is sunlight where Eris is fire-- but beautiful still.

“Have you noticed the way she always seems to disappear in a room full of people and no one seems to notice,” It’s not meant to be a jape or a taunt just simple observation on his part as his eyes scan the room and Elain is nowhere to be found amongst the masses of bodies.

“The spymaster, too.” he adds, his tone is careful and bereft of emotion.

“How strange,” you say, offering him a weak smile in response. Any smart retort lives and dies on the tip of your tongue at that moment and you’re left trying to scrape some dismissal together but no matter how hard you try, nothing will come forth.

“Perhaps they have retired to their beds for the night.” he offers, a sly smile on his beautiful lips.

Clearly, someone else is taking note.

He turns to you then and you can see the wicked smile that takes over his features but it is gone just as quickly as he looks down at you clumsily holding your knife in hand in an attempt to tear open the fruit in front of you so that you may finally eat.

“Here,” he says softly, reaching over you with his free hand to take the pomegranate from your hands, “give me the knife”.

“Don’t trouble yourself, My Lord,” you say quickly, your hand covering his to stop him in his tracks.

“No you don’t” he says simply waving your hand away again. Eris holds out his large hand to you, his palm open and expectant as his eyes find yours. Gods, he is devastating, you think. And intimidating. You see a flash of fire cross his eyes and Beron’s words play in your mind once more.

You twirl the cheese knife in your hand once more before handing it to Eris with a trembling touch. Eris is skilled with a knife. His fingers are elegant and deft with a blade like he knows it innately. It is malleable under his touch and glides through the air as he carves into the pomegranate. Fruit flesh relents to the sting of his blade; sweet liquid spills onto his fingers like blood and the seeds shine like rubies in the candlelight. Eris takes a seed between his thumb and forefinger, holding it to the light before holding it to the sulk on your lips. Fruit flesh is cool and wet against your lips, the juice is tart and sweet and red.

Almost metallic.

Almost like blood.

It takes you a few moments to relent to him but when you do, you obediently open your mouth to him; all pretty pink lips and canines. It’s feral the way he watches you. The way you watch him. Like two predators circling their prey. There’s the ghost of a dare glinting in his eyes when you lean into him and wrap your lips around his fingers. It’s metallic and sweet, a heady mixture of skin and seed. You moan gospel around his deft fingers and when you are done he looks as though he is ready to devour you.

The little peace that you had found in those moments seems to subside with the abrupt ending to the music as Rhysand stands beside you raising a glass to the room, with others following one by one to also raise their glasses.

“As the night draws to its close, let me be the first to wish you both well; my greatest wish is to see your bond grow strong, and with it the pledges we have borne witness to today. Your union is tangible proof of the alliance between our two courts and with your love, let those allegiances too grow strong so that we may all know peace and abundance in equal measure.”

As Rhysand’s speech draws to its close you feel Eris’s hand again squeezing at yours as if in warning for what will come next. Rhysand’s words didn’t surprise you as you thought they might, they lacked any brotherly sincerity and in its place was the proof that you had been sold to Eris so that Rhysand may profit off your sacrifice.

“As is tradition, the bride and groom will now retire to their bed.” As those words leave Beron’s lips you feel yourself pale in a mixture of embarrassment and dread. It’s Cassian who draws your attention as in his drunken stupor he hollers at the mere mention of the bedding. Nesta is quick to silence him with a jab to the ribs and she sends you an apologetic half-smile. Not that it appeases you any. This is the fate they have designed for you. It is easier to resign yourself to it, and relinquish control instead of having it taken from you. Breaking is easier than being broken.

As the music begins again Eris seems to don a mask; his smile is saccharine as he rises to his feet in one fluid motion and you follow shortly after. He leads you to the middle of the ballroom and looks again at where your bodies are joined together. He places his free hand on the small of your back and in turn, you wrap your arm around his shoulder. He leads you effortlessly into a slow, sultry walk as you and he slink from the opulent ballroom and into the long, narrow corridors of The Forest House.

“Are you afraid?” Eris asks gently as he examines you carefully and you don’t miss the way his eyes linger at the swell of your breasts or the way his fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hip as he leads you up the grand staircase.

“Should I be afraid, My Lord?” you ask incredulously, offering him a sweet, amenable smile. That is what they want you to be, isn’t it? Agreeable, obedient, docile. A pretty thing to warm his bed and keep his counsel until his father is dead and buried.

He looks down at where your hands are bound together and you swallow hard.

You have already been bought and sold and with every passing second you can’t help but think your fate is to be a broodmare to birth sons and live in quiet isolation.

As Eris’s own mother has.

That behind Eris’s scheming and his initial hesitancy to claim you, there is still a lingering sense of ownership. That he felt entitled to you, to your body and your life should it come to that. All because The Mother deemed him worthy of you. For all his solemn promises he still bought you for a price.

“I won’t touch you,” there is sincerity in his voice that warms you, nerves set alight as his broad hand ghosts your uncovered shoulder.

“Not until you ask me to, anyway,” he adds, there is an air of playfulness in his voice but there is something else. At that moment you are assured that if you would have him, Eris would ravage you. He might be a cruel prince with a wicked temper, but there is an irresistible and undeniable tension between you. Something that calls your body to his. Perhaps it is the wine, or the gravity of the vows you have sworn to one another but either way, this man before you is lust incarnate.

“What if I never want you to touch me?” you retort, there is something unserious about the way you say it. Both of you know that it is only a matter of time before you permit him into your bed.

“I can’t say I’ve ever dreamed of the priesthood.” He laughs a little. It is sweet and careless as his hand dips a little lower on your hips.

“I’m sure you’ll find some pretty little nymph to devote yourself to,” you say, thinking of the sandy-haired woman who had been watching you all night. Eris’ face twists into a fox-like grin. Like he has finally got you right where he wants you.

“Who was the woman here today, the one with the golden hair?” you ask, your gaze wavering under the heat of Eris’ stare.

“Her name is Chryseis, but you needn’t pay her any mind” he reassures you, forcing you to look at him. And only him. He’s right. She isn’t important, not truly. What’s more pressing is the way her eyes trailed you contemptuously and the feeling of volatile jealousy that toot root in your body. It is unnatural and selfish. Whatever Eris and that woman share predates you, and any vows he made to you.

“She is very beautiful” You don’t quite know where the words come from but it tastes like saltwater on your tongue, “Is she what you gave up to have me?”

“She is nothing to me,” he says honestly. You think it is nice to see him like that, in those small moments where he is unencumbered by all that plagues him.

In that moment, you stand there, your hand still bound to Eris and again you allow the world to dissolve like sugar on your tongue when he is looking at you like that. His fire is gentle and slow-burning now, it comes off him in hot plumes of smoke.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” he quips as he tries to catch his breath, painfully aware of how your hearts beat in tandem, “Or only when you’re jealous?”

He’s toying with you now and humiliation coils tight in your chest.

“Why would I be jealous of your lover?” you say, all bared teeth and venom as the tension between you cools to anger. It’s unnerving, and your hairs stand on end in morbid anticipation. As he closes the gap between you so that you are chest to chest. So close that his lips ghost over your own as he comes to whisper in your ear.

“I never said she was my lover” Eris jibes, only half-amused as he takes in the way you shrink before him as his fathers words ring in your ears once again each time you bring yourself to fan the flames of his anger.

“If you want me to forsake all other women, all you have to do is ask.” his breath is hot on your neck and he stares down at you, hypnotized by the rise and fall of your chest. “I offered as much that first night in Hewn City, don’t you remember?”

“Let it be my first act as your husband.” The way he says it is full of ardour and taunt. You’ve no doubt that he would too. But you are the sea; violent and willful and you will not surrender to him yet.

You don’t say anything then only press your bound palm to his before leaning into him. His eyes pierce your soul and warmth pools in the pit of your stomach as his hot breath fans your face, lips coming to meet yours in a tender kiss. Only before you can heed the call of your soul to his, you pull away from him.

Eris hisses at the sudden loss of touch and he drops his free hand and begins to untether your hand from his. He turns his back to you, readjusting his posture to a cool, calculated slouch that exudes an aura of arrogance that he wears so well. The sounds of his riding boots against the tile cut through you like a knife. He tosses his head to the side, long russet strands framing his profile as he speaks again.

“You called me a Goddess once, do you remember?” Your eyes search his and in that strange amber gaze you see the man you saw that night is Hewn City. Wicked and vulnerable and good, despite it all. Eris nods and you watch the long column of his throat as he swallows thickly.

“Tonight I will let you kneel at my altar.” Eris Vanserra moves like a man starved; all teeth and tongue and ardent hands as he pushes you up against the wall outside of him apartments. His kiss is all consuming and devouring as he claims you with reckless abandon. His hands are warm and sure against you; one that holds your jaw gently and the other holds your hip in a bruising grip.

“You are going to be my ruin, wife.” His echoing whisper answers as his figure retreats into the darkness with the promise of what is to come.

#eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris acotar #acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction

378 notes · View notes

genshin-scenarios · 6 months

Text

pacts and their marks: demon au

Summary: Where you've accidentally summoned a demon (you’re an exorcist) and now you’re in a pact with them! They’re now your assistant of sorts, some more willing than others…

Characters: Venti, Xiao, Lyney, Wanderer

Content warnings: minor injury and blood (Xiao), mentions of fire and smoke with allusions to death (Lyney), mentions of death and human experimentation (Wanderer)

Generally speaking, Venti likes to float rather than walk if he can help it; he’s gotten the habit of flitting around your form often, hanging off your shoulders and clinging on to you absentmindedly. You might be more annoyed about it if it wasn’t for his voice as he greets you, light and deceptively soothing.

Venti’s music hypnotizes the heart. Whether it be singing or another instrument, he has the ability to convince any being, living or dead, to do as he wishes—so long as his melody isn’t overpowered by their strength of mind.

Honestly, sometimes you wonder if he’s testing the safety-precautions of your pact. You’re invulnerable to his powers thanks to it, but with the way he endears himself towards you, you wonder if his true motive was to steal your affections in another way.

He’s one of the rare demons that blend in with people well. You found him as a spirit living inside an antique lyre; while Venti says he was sleeping there for a lack of anything to do, you have a feeling that there’s another story behind his attachment to the item. He often uses it in battle—its strings glowing with an old magic that matches the shade of his eyes and braids.

You sometimes forget how deadly it is to lose one’s mind in the heat of a fight, when Venti’s lying next to you on the bed as he scrolls on your spare phone. Noticing your attention he peers up, twirling his hair—currently unbraided—between his fingers.

For how much he teases you about praising him, Venti’s never mentioned anything about playing his music to get rid of your nightmares. One time, when you were especially sick, you recall him singing a song in a language you didn’t recognise.

It was hauntingly beautiful, and so was the way he brushed his hand through your hair, too gentle compared to the demons you had to hunt down.

Xiao’s most unique feature had to be his wings; the same dark shade as his hair, dipped in streaks of teal.

During a quiet night, he’d told you they used to be white as snow and gilded with gold. But an angel that kills to protect is destined to fall from the clouds, shrouded by the ghosts of those they have slain.

You know there are others like him, but he says they’ve succumbed to corrosion. He is the only one left, and is one of the only demons you’ve met that hunt down their own species. In an effort to save him from his own corrosion, you’d made a pact with Xiao to link your life forces.

Despite how he’d told you to leave him, his spirit still reached for yours—towards any form of light and warmth it could meet. Xiao still finds the marks of the pact distasteful, however, always glancing at the dark patterns now etched into your skin. You tell him it’s more reassuring than not, now that you can summon him with a call of his name.

If there’s one word to describe his powers, it’s destructive in every form of the word. Xiao leaves the battlefield entirely demolished after a fight. Sometimes he struggles to control his strength, but it’s been getting easier to do so with your presence to balance his.

He prefers to throw himself in as the weapon. Which is why when you’re the one that gets injured this time around, all Xiao can do is panic. He holds you in his arms, frozen as he realizes he cannot help.

Thankfully, it wasn’t a serious wound. But after that, Xiao has been a lot more protective of you; almost hyper-aware.

“W—What are you doing, Xiao?” You flinch as he bites into your palm, drawing a small line of blood.

Xiao hums. “Did you know that even using your blood, I can only heal you a limited amount with our pact?” Another bite, this time with his fangs, frustrated. “Keep that in mind the next time you plan on getting hurt.” You’re lucky the hospital could treat you this time around.

All Lyney knows is that he was reborn in a fire. At the back of his mind, he’s searching for his siblings—though he’s not sure where they are.

Like smoke filling a room, Lyney’s able to create illusions that trick all the senses. At your first meeting, he’d tried this on you; only for one of your protective amulets to diffuse his powers, revealing a larger demon he’d been working with that’d been ready to devour you.

Suffice to say, Lyney was quick to switch sides once he noticed that you were winning. That, and the demon he was working with turned out to have lied about having a lead for him. After noticing your potential as a partner, he’d been quick to scout for your help.

He often uses his illusions to fool enemies into fighting one-another, redirecting their attention away—but after the pact, Lyney seems to lose his larger-than-life traits and falls into a casual routine with you. It makes you wonder if he’d been human before this, though sometimes he’s more cat-like than not.

If nothing else, he does like to put on a show when you’re faced with a battle. He makes your job easy, considering that your bond allows you to see past his illusions and maneuver around enemies, finding the perfect blind spots. Despite the oddity of your partnership, you start to enjoy the pattern of working with Lyney, from your smooth conversations to his smarts.

One thing that does throw him off however, is when a demon you were trying to exorcize attempts to form a pact with you. Not that you can’t have multiple pacts at once, but it’s the first time you’ve seen Lyney openly aggressive towards an enemy, striking it with a sharp bolt of flame that diffuses it long enough for you to dispose of it.

With the threat gone, Lyney was quick to check on you, looking for any traces the other demon might’ve left behind. He calms down once he finds nothing, eyes widening when he realizes your faces are only inches apart.

“I…” He looks like he’s about to apologize, but decides against it. “Please don’t make a pact with anyone else. I don’t want to feel like that ever again.”

When you first met, Wanderer had tried to turn you into a puppet.

It was his power, after all—to attach strings onto any form and take control of them. These strings could be cut off, but it would only take so long for him to attach them again.

Most people don’t survive their encounters with him, but you’d managed to trap him into a pact right before things went dire. Now you could restrain his actions to a certain extent, though Wanderer would always push against your control, keeping you on your guard.

Many coworkers have told you to simply be rid of him—but just as you’d tricked Wanderer into a pact with you, he’s since linked your heart with his soul. That is to say, if he was exorcized, you’d be going down with him.

It’s a small relief to learn that Wanderer could also puppeteer other demons, thus you put him to work on the field by your side, turning into an unwilling duo. He has a habit of not doing anything unless you make it a ‘command’, leaning closer with a challenge in his eyes even as an enemy charged at the both of you.

Then, with a snap of his fingers, they’d stop mid-air. As large as the pact's patterns are on your skin, you had to admit that Wanderer’s power was a deadly one.

You’ve always wondered why he had no reactions to injuries; no matter how serious, you’ve never seen Wanderer express pain. Much, much later into your partnership, you learn that he’s become numb to physical sensations a long time ago. And that him turning into a demon was a gift of reprieve more than not, as he’d destroyed and escaped from an experimental facility shortly after.

During a fight where you'd been affected by a tranquilising venom, Wanderer had been the one to save you; your eyes met briefly as you felt his strings take a hold of your form.

“Don't make me look bad now.” He'd said. “Just relax.”

With not much of a choice, you allowed him to guide your movements. Somehow, it does feel different compared to your first encounter with his powers. With a push and pull between the strings, you could almost say it felt like a dance.

Were Wanderer's movements always this graceful?

Preorders for my wanderer fanbook and genshin letters are open! If you liked this, consider checking out the purple link on my pinned post!

#genshin venti x reader #xiao x reader #lyney x reader #wanderer x reader #genshin scaramouche x reader #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin reader insert #genshin writing #genshin x you #genshin headcanons #traveler wishes

735 notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 5 months

Text

Part 5 — y’all have had it too good for too long. Time to suffer again.

Content warning for angst, nightmares, and non-descriptive panic attack

You’re bleeding.

Can’t tell who shot you, only that it’s hard to breathe. Your chest is a bloody, mangled mess, your entire front painted crimson. A puddle expanding around your boots.

Your head feels leaden as you drag it up, searching for help, searching for —

There they are. The 141. SpecGru. All of them, standing just out of reach. They could help, they could save you. But they’re not, they’re just standing, watching. Could be statues if not for the sneer that twists Soap and Nova’s face when you make desperate eye contact.

Your captain takes a single step forward, crouching as you fall to your knees.

“You’re just not a good fit, anymore,” he explains, shrugging. “Nothing personal, kid.”

“Baby. Baby!”

Keegan’s face is above you, jaw dusted with dark stubble. He’s wide awake, eyes huge and worried, showing you both his hands. His mask is gone, hair tussled.

Bed. You’re in bed. You fell asleep with him tonight.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” he whispers.

“K-Keegan…” The shivers start almost instantly, like you really were bled out. Before he can ask, you reach for him. Let him bundle you against his chest, arms tight around you, and legs bent up on either side of you. A cage of safety around you, keeping you safe and close.

“I’m here, sweets. Right here,” he murmurs into your hair. “‘M not goin’ anywhere.”

You sniffle, press your face against his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat. Too fast; because he’s worried about you.

“Which one?” he asks.

You shudder. “A new one.”

“Fuck,” he whispers. Drops a kiss on your head. “Just me, or do you need someone else?”

You squeeze your eyes shut as the tears start flowing, guilt gnawing at your tight stomach.

“C-can I see the captain?” You ask. “I-I’m sorry, Kee. I just…”

He shushes you. “That’s why I asked, baby. It’s okay. Nothing to feel bad for.”

He doesn’t even give you the option of walking. Just tucks you into one of his sweatshirts — sandalwood and vetiver — and scoops you up. You tuck your face against his neck against the hall lights as he walks with you.

“Dreams again,” he says to someone — Nikto, probably.

Three sharp knocks. A single beat. Then a door opens. You peek out, relieved to see your captain standing there.

“Hi babygirl,” he rumbles, “bad night?”

Keegan hands you over with practiced ease, your captain letting you loops your arms and legs around him. His skin feels almost burning, warm enough to drive out the lingering chill. He smells good too. Like sleep and home.

“Y-you still… you still want me right?” You whisper, eyes stinging.

“Always,” he answers instantly. “My girl, my soldier, mine. Just like Keegan and Nikto and Nova.”

You cling tighter, but he just hums and smooths his hands over your back.

“Keegan, get Nova and an extra mattress,” he orders.

“On it.”

The captain carries you in, a shadow from the corner of your eye telling you Nikto is still there. You’re set on the bed in a spot still warm; it dips as another body settles with you. Nikto again. Mask on as always, but dressed down for sleep. He’s even got his gloves off and lets you play gently with his fingers while your captain turns on a light and fetches you a glass of water.

“Still with you,” Nikto murmurs.

You sniffle and wipe hurriedly at your eyes, trying to preserve what little dignity you’ve got left.

“None of that now, baby,” your captain soothes, tilting a glass to your mouth. “Cry if you need. Get it out.”

The tears some slow and quiet, only little sobs escaping as Nikto’s arms curl around you. Keegan appears at the door soon after, Nova helping him drag a mattress into the captain’s quarters. She comes to your other side while Keegan and the captain start arranging the other bed.

Soon, they switch you over, drag the first mattress onto the floor as well. After that, arrangements are familiar and automatic. The captain takes one side, fits your back against his chest. Keegan takes your other side, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. Nikto nestles up behind him - needs the access of the end of the bed. And Nova distributes herself on top of you and Keegan, a gentle warm weight soothing you.

“Sleep if you can, babygirl,” your captain murmurs in your ear. His thumb sweeps gentle arcs over your hipbone. “We’ll be right here when you wake up.”

—

The nightmares were the worst when you first joined SpecGru. The first six months. You’d wake up in a cold sweat, apologies to an empty room on your tongue.

Nikto would find you out on the obstacle course at all hours of the night, in all kinds of weather. Running and jumping and climbing without so much as penlight. Pushing and pushing until you were panting on bloody hands and knees, driven by the single-minded need to be better, to be worth it.

When he found out, your captain put a ban on you from running the course unless he himself was present the entire time. You were pissed at first — even went so far as to bitch him out one day, exhausted and strung out on stress.

And he’d let you. Just sat behind his desk listening. Unimpressed, but not pissed, either. When you’d finally run out of steam, he’d stood.

“Still mad?”

When you nodded, he nodded towards the door.

“C’mon, we’ll go for a spar,” he explained when you gave him a distrustful look. “And then you’re going down for a nap.”

You frowned, shifted. “What about…?”

He snorts. “All that a minute ago?”

When you nodded, he shrugged. “Nothing, unless you feel like you need a bit of discipline to keep it together.”

You’d wrinkled your nose. “Definitely feel like socking you now.”

He’d smirked. “Good.”

#thoughts™️#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #sad fic #angst #former 141 reader #specgru reader #cod nikto #keegan p russ #nova cod #task force 141

1K notes · View notes

hotchnisslvr · 25 days

Text

for her, i’d endure

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

rating: t

word count: 7.6k

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

warnings: torture, descriptions of blood/injuries, drugs

summary: When you and Emily are kidnapped by The Chameleon, an elusive unsub that team had been tracking for years, you’re forced to watch her endure torture at his hands. In the hospital, you reel from your own injuries and the guilt of not being able to stop anything from happening to her. Angst and hurt/comfort with a happy end.

It’s hard to keep them open from the pain it causes you to try. You can’t help the slow drowsy blinking that follows. If they’re closed it doesn’t hurt as bad. Maybe this is a dream. Yeah, a dream. Just close your eyes and go to sleep, you tell yourself. You’ll feel fine in the morning.

Someone harshly whispers your name. You stir, but ignore it. Closing your eyes, you murmur something that isn’t quite a response, and try to welcome the darkness to take over. You just want to sleep whatever this is off…you try to at least. The harsh rasping whisper returns. There’s your name two, three times.

“Huh?” is all you can muster as you crack your eyes open once more. There’s a fluorescent light somewhere to your left, casting strange shadows over your field of vision. Your eyes burn. You want to close them again.

“Yes, that’s it!” cries the whisperer, “stay with me!” There’s an urgency in their voice, and as you take a few measured breaths, you gain more and more control over your senses. “Are you hurt?”

Emily. That’s Emily’s voice.

“My head,” you complain about the throbbing in your temples. “I think I hit my head.” You move to touch the side of your skull to assess the damage when your wrists don’t follow through with the command from your brain.

“What the—” There’s a sudden clarity that takes over as you hear the clatter of metal against metal. Your wrists are bound behind your back. You kick your legs out, or at least you try to. They’re bound too with zip ties to the legs of a metal chair that’s bolted to the floor.

“Don’t panic.”

“Emily?”

Fingers brush against yours from behind your back and you cling to them, though it’s awkward as you try to reach them. You’d know the feel of her hands anywhere. He’s got you and her back to back.

“I’m here,” she says soothingly, despite the edge in her voice.

“What happened?” you ask as your field of vision begins to clear and the picture of where you’re being held begins to form. It's dark save the fluorescent light you noticed earlier. There’s a few panels in the ceiling still flickering to life, though most are dark. Wires and cables hang haphazardly from the ceiling and water drips from a cracked pipe that stretches over the width of the room. The floor beneath your feet is concrete. You can’t see a door and the only windows are two small rectangles high near the ceiling. You’re underground. “Where are we?”

“The Chameleon,” Emily says after a short while.

Your heart skips a beat and you have to take a few measured breaths to keep the panic from creeping in. “You’re sure?”

The Chameleon, nicknamed such by the local media, is a serial killer that you and the team had been chasing across the East Coast for the last two years.You and the team didn’t care much for these nicknames as they often sensationalize the killer and detract from the victims, but it the name was fitting due to his nature to blend in to every environment he’s been a part of. This is largely due to how he is able to gain his victims' trust. Some of his known ruses include posing as law enforcement, a member of the clergy, other first responders, caretaker for a “lost” elderly patient, and more. He’d feign a scenario that caused the victims to unlock their doors, stop their cars, or otherwise pull their focus under the guise of safety. Once their guard was down, that was all he needed to ensnare them in his trap. Victims were initially blitz attacked, as evident by the bruising to their heads and faces, but as he evolved he began to dose them with heavy sedatives before taking them to a secondary location where he’d hold them for twenty four hours. During this time, he tortured his victims indiscriminately; sometimes cutting, sometimes burning, sometimes removing pieces of them or utilizing a combination of all three before ultimately succumbing to his need to kill. He favored a knife, often slitting the throats of his victims once he’d grown tired of playing with them. Despite his ability to blend in and kidnap his victims undetected, everything else originally pointed to someone just starting out, unsure of their preferences. However, this unsub evolved quickly. Victimology stopped differing and he’d settled on a pattern for women in their thirties, dark features, and often in roles that provided some sort of power. Though methods of torture varied, the rotation or combination of torture implicated states similar enough to create a pattern. He stuck to the routine, though. One woman every three months for the last two years. That was until recently. Now, a woman had been going missing weekly, suggesting a major deviation. Something had changed for this unsub, increasing his need to kill quicker and more often. Emily fits the victimology, but taking you too? It didn’t make sense? He’d never taken in pairs before.

“Fuck,” you mutter. You pull at the cuffs around your wrists, but they’re clamped too tightly. They don’t budge. “How long was I out?” you ask.

“Hours,” Emily responds. She sounds tired. “I don’t know how many.”

You blindly reach for her fingers again, this time with your other hand. When you brush against them, they’re slick with something.

“Emily?” you ask, concern edging into your voice. “What’s he done to you?”

“Cutting,” Emily answers clinically. “Left arm, chest, and right leg. They’re superficial.”

Red clouds your vision knowing he’d hurt the woman you love, and that you’d not been conscious enough to at least try to do anything about it. When you get your hands around this bastard’s neck…you yank hard against your restraints and hiss when all it does is cause the metal to dig deeper into your wrists.

“Baby, stop,” Emily whispers, keeping her voice low in case The Chameleon can hear. “We’ve been closing in on this guy. We just have to hope the team recognizes we’re gone before…” her voice trails off as a door opens.

Your heart stops and then starts, it’s usually steady beat now pumping erratically against your chest. You remind yourself to breathe, to take measured breaths to slow your heart and fight off the instinct to panic. The body’s natural inclination for self-preservation is astounding, but you couldn’t just think about yourself right now. You needed to be alert and look for anyway to wriggle into this guy’s psyche, anything to keep him from hurting Emily any further.

There’s a metallic clank as whatever door that’s out of your eye line slams shut. Heavy footsteps echo in the space and you count. Twenty four. There’s twenty four steps. You can’t fight the way your body tenses as a silhouette begins to emerge from the shadows. As the figure comes into focus, your eyes widen in surprise.

“Surprised to see me?” the man says, a twisted smile curving on his

“You know him?” Emily asks as she attempts to crane her neck to look at him.

You take in the man before you: white, mid-30s, average build, dark curly hair, and blue eyes wild with evil intent. You don’t know his name, but you've seen him before. You all had. Your mind flashes to each body dump where the team had investigated and gathered initial evidence to further flesh out the profile. You close your eyes and let your mind’s eye expand your field of vision to include the gathering crowd of onlookers. As you mentally guide yourself through each crime scene, you can clearly see him.

“You were there the whole time,” you say with a surprisingly level of calm as you open your eyes and meet his gaze directly.

He extends his arms to either side, a look-at-all-i-have-accomplished gesture, though there’s no audience save the two of you to take in his performance. “What can I say?” he says. “The media named me for my ability to blend in anywhere I go. I like the nickname, I do.” He points his finger at you as he begins to circle around you and Emily like you’re an injured seal in shark infested waters. “Though you profilers don’t like when these major news outlets do that. It sensationalizes the killer while taking away from victims.” He stops in front of you and bends at the waist to look you in the eye. You muster as much contempt into your gaze as possible.

“Good,” he snarls. “Those sluts aren’t worth remembering anyway. Any thoughts on that, agent?”

You nod. “Yeah, actually, I think I’m pretty tired of listening to you whine about your mommy issues.” A fire ignites in his eyes as you say this. You smirk. “Ooo, that did something. Did that strike a nerve?”

His lip curls as he takes a shuddering breath.

“I think I did, didn’t I?”

His knuckles collide with your face and there’s an explosion of stars behind your eyes as you feel your lip split in two. Emily calls your name and curses the unsub’s. There’s a buzzing in your ears as you blink the fog away. You sit up as best as you can and spit blood onto the floor. If his attention is on you, it’s not on Emily.

“Is that the best you can do?” you say, leveling your gaze back on The Chameleon. “You had to hit me from behind the first time. Are you scared to face a woman head on? Too much of a coward to face them? Or are you just too weak?” You incline your head toward your lap. “After all, you’ve got us tied up. Untie me and we’ll see just how well you do one on one.”

The Chameleon seethes, nostrils flaring as his rage blossoms. “You know nothing!” he bites.

“We know, everything.” You answer. He may not have been on the team’s radar, but you’ve seen this type before; a man that’s been forced into a submissive role and emasculated his entire life finally snaps and turns the tables on innocent women to make up for the lack of care he missed out on from a mother figure his entire life. He blames them because he can’t take his anger out on the person he wants to most. Mommy.

“Do you?” he sneers and you don’t flinch away from his hot breath on your neck.

“You’re easier to read than a children’s nursery rhyme,” you taunt.

The Chameleon snarls and this time his knuckles collide with the center of your face and there’s a sickening crunch. Blood pours from your broken nose onto the front of your shirt.

“Enough!” Emily shouts. “She’s not the one you want.”

You blink through the haze and blaring pain. Emily’s name is garbled as you try to say it, but there’s too much blood in your mouth. Just like the flickering gaze of a reptile, his eyes shift instantly to her. The desire that alights his face makes you want to throw up. She’s the one that fits the victimology. She’s the surrogate, the object of desire in his twisted fantasy.

“I think,” he says slowly, and you’re surprised you don’t see a serpentine tongue flicker between his lips. “That this next part will be more fun with an audience.”

Your vision shifts in and out of focus as you follow his movements. He shuffles just out of view of your peripheral vision and trying to force your eyes to see farther than they can exacerbates the splitting pain in your skull and face. Everything throbs. You can hardly see straight.

He returns with a syringe in hand. He holds it up for you to see. “Maybe I am weak,” he says bitterly. “But I’m the one in control and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He pushes the syringe into your arm and a slow, metallic heat creeps through your veins. Your limbs quickly grow heavy and your senses begin to dull.

Behind you, Emily pulls at her restraints. “Hey! What are you giving her? Leave her alone. You don’t want her, you want me.”

A choked laugh escapes the unsub as he cuts the zip ties at your ankles. You want to kick out at him and knock that smug look off of his face but the signals from your brain are cut off. Your body won’t follow the command your mind is ordering due to the drugs scrambling your system. Your eyelids are heavy. You want to close them. The unsub recognizes this and slaps at your face. “No, no. You can’t close your eyes, now. You’ve got a show to watch.” His lips twist into a sickeningly delighted smile. He slips a key from his pocket and undoes both sets of cuffs keeping you bound to the chair. You slump forward against him and he catches your weight easily. He wraps his arms around your waist and grunts as he hoists you over his shoulder. There’s static coursing through your limbs and despite every wish and desire to lift even a finger, your limbs don’t cooperate.

You slide off of him like rain down a windowpane, though instead of coming to a gentle stop you hit the ground like a stone thrown into a pond; all of your weight crashing down. Your head rattles against the wall and stars explode across your vision once more.

Emily calls your name and you try to focus on that. You blink and her form comes into focus. She’s bound in the same manner that you were in a chair exactly like yours. There’s blood staining her clothes, her blouse cut to ribbons and her pant leg tattered from where he slit it open with a knife; the same knife he used to cut into skin. Blood drips onto the floor.

She smiles at you and her gaze is so tender as her eyes meet yours. “Whatever he does to me, it is not your fault.” She’s soothing you. She’s about to endure more torture and she’s trying to comfort you.

You want to speak, to tell her you’re sorry, that you love her. You want to stand, to untie her and take her to safety. Most of all you want to put that unsub in the ground. A single tear leaks from your eye as The Chameleon wheels a tray table near Emily. The soft eyes she reserved for you steel upon seeing him.

He picks up a scalpel, his fingers gentle as he curls them around it; a stark contrast to the violence he inflicts with it. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

Emily licks her lips and raises her chin to look him in the eye, defiant in the face of danger. “I’ve already come back from the dead once before. At least if you’re successful, I know whose ass I’m haunting first.” She narrows her brown eyes to slits. “Come on, lizard boy. Let’s dance.”

•

Tears leak down your cheeks as you’re forced to watch what he does to her. She continues to taunt him, but her voice has grown weak. She’s losing too much blood.

“I wonder,” Emily says, her breathing labored. She lifts her gaze to meet the unsub’s. “You love that knife.” She inclines her chin toward the blade in his hand and his fingers twitch. “Tell me, is it because you can’t get up? Are our mommy issues too severe?”

A wild scream tears from his throat as he backhands her. A sharp grunt of pain leaves her lips but no scream. She sheds no tears for him. She’ll show no fear to him and allow him to feed off of her emotions like he did with his other victims, but he knows she must be feeling the weight of the torture, of the exhaustion settling in.

Her voice is tired, but her words are dagger tipped. “You’re not a man,” she spits blood on the ground, her teeth stained with it as she bares them at him. “You’re just a coward, a little boy missing mommy’s hand to guide him through your pathetic, wayward life.” Each word is sharp and articulated, a needle digging a little deeper and deeper into his flesh with each cutting syllable.

“Enough!” he bellows, spittle flying from his mouth as he lifts his arm. In one swift downward motion, he plunges the scalpel into her thigh.

She screams, her voice ragged and raw. A panicked sound bubbles in your throat, but the drugs overpower your ability to call out to her. Your fingers twitch as you try to summon any amount of strength to them, but to no avail. You can’t move them anymore that. You try to wiggle your toes and only feel a tinge of movement from them. Tears leak down your cheeks and drip off of your chin. The tear stains left behind are cold overtop of the dried blood smeared across your face from your broken nose, still throbbing with pain.

Emily sits hunched over, her shoulders heave with shuddering breaths. She’s breathing. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive. The thought plays on repeat in your mind. If she dies, there is no place this slimy, spineless creature can hide where you wouldn’t be able to find him.

A strangled moan rumbles from behind your lips as The Chameleon approaches Emily. There’s a smirk on his lips as he brushes his fingers along her jawline. Just as quickly as the smirk appears, it dissipates as he shoves her face away from him, disgust twisting his features.

“I think I’ve had enough of you,” he grits through clenched teeth. “You’re all the same. There is no place for women like you. I’m doing the world a favor by getting rid of you.” He picks up another knife off the tray table and moves to stand behind Emily, knife poised beneath her throat. His shifting eyes fall on you and his smile returns. “I hope you’ve enjoyed the show.”

You feel your brow pinch as a wash of emotion floods through you. Your hand twitches and you manage to ball it into a fist, but you can’t force much more than that.

“Emi—” your tongue lolls inside your mouth and you can’t get her name out but it’s enough to get her attention. Her wavering brown eyes fall on yours and you hope she can feel your full apology and profession of love in your eyes as you await the inevitable.

“I love you,” she mouths and a sob shudders free from your own.

A single gunshot cracks through the air like a whip.

As the unsub slumps to the ground, Derek’s hulking frame comes into view. “He’s down!” He calls as he holsters his weapon and rushes to Emily. His hand moves to the knife in her leg.

“Don’t!” Emily warns. “Let the medics handle it. The keys to the cuffs are in his pocket.”

As Derek squats beside the unsub Hotch and Spencer clamber down the stairs, spilling into the room.

“We need medics,” Derek says to them, eyes filled with concern. “We need them now.”

“Copy that,” Spencer states as he presses against his earpiece and relays the information.

Hotch holsters his gun and rushes to your side. Crouching down, his hands smooth your hair back from your face to inspect the damage.

“Can you hear me?” he says. You blink heavily as his face comes in and out of focus. He repeats the question and says your name. He’s asking you to talk to him, but you can’t.

“He injected her with something,” Emily says weakly as Derek works to uncuff her. “A sedative or a paralytic, I don’t know. She can’t move. She can’t, she can’t—” Emily’s eyes flutter and roll back in her head. Your eyes widen as she slumps forward. Derek catches her before she can face plant the concrete and risk dislodging the scalpel sticking out of her thigh before the medics can do their job to ensure she’s not at risk of bleeding out, if she wasn’t already.

Your hand twitches, fingers jerking against your palm as a sound of desperation eeks past your still lips. Hotch presses his hand into yours and squeezes. His hard eyes meet yours and there’s pain and understanding in them. He’s born witness to seeing the love of his life killed by an unsub. It was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. He had to hope that Emily would survive what she’d endured here tonight. He squeezes all of that hope into your palm as the medics crash down the steps, backboards and kits at the ready.

“She’ll be okay,” Hotch promises, though there’s a hint of doubt on the edge of his words. “You’ll be okay.”

As the medics make way and his hand slips free from yours, you can only hope and pray that what he says is true.

•

A gentle beeping is the first thing you hear as your senses slowly creep back to life. The sound is soft, but each punctuated tone sends a pulse of pain to the space behind your eyes.

Your eyes crack open and you squeeze them shut again as the bright white of the fluorescent lighting blinds you.

“Shit,” you hiss. Your voice is hoarse.

“Hey, you!” greets a female voice. Penelope’s voice.

“Too bright,” you grumble.

“Oh! Hold on!” Her heels click against the tile of the hospital floor, a switch flicks, and the light behind your eyelids darkens. You feel the relief immediately though the bruising around your eyes and throbbing pain reverberating through your nose and cheeks starts to overwhelm your senses as you become more alert.

You crack one eye and Penelope’s bright face comes into view. Her pink cat eared headband matches her glasses frames and lipstick. Her smile reaches her eyes and that only just eases some of the anxiety that floods your system, the only other thing you’re able to feel besides the pain. If Emily was dead, Penelope wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye right now.

“I need to see her,” you say, sitting up and immediately regretting it. The room spins and your hand flies to your head, fingers pressed against your temple in a poor attempt to stop the whirling sensation.

“Sweetie, oh my God, don’t—” she stands up and crosses the room, but you’re already pushing the sheets back.

You curse as you rip the IV from your arm, the tape holding it in place ripping out the hairs on your arm. Garcia tries to take hold of your hands, but you bury them inside the folds of the hospital gown as your fingers feel for the numerous electrodes tacked to your chest. Hooking the tips of your fingers around the wire once you find a place to bunch them together, one swift tug is all it takes to dislodge them. The machine beside the bed flat lines as it no longer receives your heart rate.

“Honey please don’t make me—” Her face scrunches as you move to stand. She sticks her arms out to block you from doing so “Oh, you’re going to make me, ok— Derek! Hotch!”

Her shouts are like a drill through your skull. You blink and black spots your vision as it blurs. The pain in your face is so intense, but you have to push through it. If Emily could endure what she did, you can push through this to get to wherever the hell they were keeping her in this goddamn hospital.

Hotch and Derek burst into the room, eyes frantic and scanning the scene. Morgan swiftly cuts through the space, swerving in front of Penelope and taking you by the arms. Garcia may have hesitated to stop you in your tracks but Derek has no reservations whatsoever.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks sternly.

Two nurses rush into the room and Hotch placates them with a gesture implying things are under control . He says something to them in a low voice and they glance your way once before nodding and leaving the space.

“I need to see her,” you say as you push against Derek, but in your current state you may as well be trying to push the Leaning Tower of Pisa upright.

His grip around your wrists is firm, but gentle; his hands placed just above the bandages from where the cuffs had bitten into your skin.

“She’s not awake yet,” Derek says. His features soften as he looks into your panic filled eyes. “She’s stable. She’ll be okay, and I promise you that the minute she wakes up I will take you to see her.”

“But Derek—”

He clicks his tongue. “No buts. You’re no use to her if you’re not well. You nearly overdosed on the drugs that man gave you. He broke your nose so badly, they had to re-break it to set it correctly. You have a concussion. Are you hearing me? You need to get your ass back in that bed.”

“Honey, listen to him.” Garcia adds, her voice equal parts soothing and concerned. “You can barely stand.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as hot tears well in your eyes. They slip down your cheeks and seep into the medical tape plastered to your face and nose. You draw in a shuddering breath as Derek guides you back into the bed. He presses a warm hand to your shoulder before stepping back and putting an arm around Garcia.

“Come on, mama, let’s go get a coffee while the nurses get her hooked back in.”

Penelope’s mouth drops into an o-shape as if she’s about to protest.

“I’ll stay with her,” Hotch assures her. “Go. I’ll call if anything changes.” That comforts her enough to let Derek steer her out of the room and into the hallway.

As the sound of their footsteps fade away, Hotch exhales a heavy sigh. The heels of his loafers click against the tile as he crosses the room and takes the chair Penelope had been occupying at your bedside.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he reaches over and presses the call button to summon the nurses.

“Like someone cracked me in the face with a sledgehammer.”

A hint of a smile passes over your supervisor’s lips and a ghost of a laugh passes your own. You wince as the motion sends a new wave of pain rippling throughout your face.

“How bad is it?” you ask.

“The doctors say it should heal fine. They’re baffled that the break didn’t do any damage to your septum. The bruising will take time but you won’t need surgery so—”

You lift your eyes to meet his. “Not me, Hotch.”

His lips press into a firm line. “She lost a lot of blood,” he says after a moment. “In total, he cut her about fifteen times before stabbing her. She was right to tell Morgan not to pull the scalpel out. It was dangerously close to her femoral artery. The unsub was either incredibly calculated in avoiding it or it was dumb luck that saved her.”

Your brow pinches as his words sink in. “What was his name?”

Hotch’s chin dips in response to your question. “Carson Peters. He was a Vet Tech on the perimeter of the geographic profile. We never even interviewed him.”

“The whole time we never knew his name,” you breathe.

“If I know Emily, I’m sure she came up with a few,” Hotch remarks, trying to lighten the mood.

Your lips twitch, but a smile doesn’t take shape. There is an entire slew of names you’d wanted to hurl at the unsub, to say anything that would have taken his attention off of Emily for even a second but you couldn’t because of the drugs he’d pumped into you. You squeeze your eyes shut as an image of him cutting Emily flashes through your mind.

Hotch says your name. You hear the deep tenor of his voice, but it’s as though you’re underwater. Emily’s cries of anguish echo in your ears.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as a tear leaks from the corner of your eyes. “Emily, I’m sorry.”

A firm hand slips into yours and you gasp, flinching from the contact. The image distorts and vanishes. You open your eyes and take a deep breath, dropping your gaze onto the hand in yours. You lift your eyes to meet Hotch’s hard stare. His fingers squeeze around yours and he nods.

“You’re safe,” he assures you. “Carson Peters is dead. He can’t hurt you, Emily, or anyone else ever again.”

Your fingers twitch around his as you blink back the onslaught of tears that want to pour out of you. “I couldn’t do anything.”

Hotch’s features soften. “I know.”

“I couldn’t stop him.”

“There’s nothing you could’ve done.”

You swallow the growing lump in your throat. Hotch squeezes your hand again, intentionally doing so to keep your mind from wandering. He’s keeping you grounded.

Your voice cracks when you speak. “I felt so helpless.”

“I know,” Hotch states as he levels his gaze on hours. His brown eyes waver as he speaks. “Witnessing a loved one’s abuse and not being able to do anything about it is a torture all its own. In our positions we have the authority to do something about it and in most cases, we can. When we can’t,” he pauses and takes a deep breath. “It’s natural to play it over and over again, to wonder where you went wrong, to think that somewhere along the line you could’ve done something, anything, to change the outcome.” His brow lifts toward his hairline. “We will kill ourselves ruminating on the what ifs and what could have beens.”

We. He’s not just talking about you anymore. He’s talking about his past when the unsub George Foyet killed his wife, Haley. You’d joined the team several years after her murder, but you’d been briefed fully on the case. It was well known to everyone in the BAU.

It’s your turn to squeeze his hand and you realize how out of the ordinary this exchange is. You’re as close to Hotch as anyone else on the team, but he’s not usually the touchy-feely type; the occasional half hug or handshake sure, but this level of vulnerability is uncommon.

A nurse walks into the room and Hotch stands to greet her. He shakes her hand and introduces himself formally; name, rank, and title. Establishing credibility for what, you wonder. He speaks in low tones and after a moment the nurse looks at you before looking back at him. She nods her head and he thanks her before she exits the room.

“What was that about?” you ask.

“A favor,” he answers as the nurse guides a wheelchair into the room.

“Five minutes,” the nurse says, aiming a pointed look at Hotch.

“Understood.”

The nurse leaves and Hotch pushes the chair up to the edge of the bed. He slips a hand behind your back to help stabilize you as he extends his other hand for you to grab hold of.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you take the proffered hand. You groan as you sit up and your head spins. You swear you can feel every bone in your face throbbing as pain threatens to split you in two.

“To see Emily.”

Your heart swells. You look at Hotch, eyes widening. “I thought—”

“I told the nurse you’d stay put and allow them to do their jobs and help you if you were allowed to see her. Hence, the five minutes.”

“Five minutes,” you repeat, nodding your head.

Hotch smiles reassuringly. “Five minutes.”

Slowly, Hotch assists with the transition from bed to chair. The shift exhausts you and it sinks in just how weak you are. However, the prospect of seeing Emily keeps you alert enough to push through.

The trip to Emily’s hospital room is short. She’s two right turns and one long hallway away from yours. The door to her room is cracked when you arrive and JJ opens it as Hotch reaches for the door.

“Sweetie!” JJ smiles brightly at you, though her eyes are tired. She leans down to pull you in a gentle hug, minding your face as she does so.

Her eyes flit between you and Hotch. “She’s in and out of consciousness. They’ve got her on some pretty strong painkillers, but she’s going to be alright.”

“Are you ready?” Hotch asks.

Your heart hammers in your ears, but you nod your head and whisper, “Yes.”

JJ steps out of the way so Hotch can wheel you inside the room. You raise your chin to peer over the threshold and whimper upon seeing Emily, hand moving to cover your trembling lips. She lies still beneath the sheets, which are pulled up over her lap. Her arms sit atop the sheet, her left arm bandaged from above the elbow to her wrist. Bandages peek out from beneath her hospital gown. An oxygen cannula is fitted under her nose and butterfly bandages hold close the split in her eyebrow. Hotch puts the brake in place after wheeling you right up to her bedside. He places a gentle hand on your shoulder. “JJ and I will be right outside. Five minutes,” he says.

Your eyes don’t leave Emily. “I understand.”

When the door clicks shut you let the floodgates open. You take Emily’s hand in yours, minding the IV jutting out from it, and cradle it to your cheek. “I’m so sorry,” you sob. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t do anything to stop what he was doing to you.”

You blink away the stars that dot your vision as each sob sends an intense wave of pain through the break in your nose and bruising under your eyes.

Emily’s thumb sweeps slowly across your cheek. You take a shuddering breath and swallow your tears as you turn your attention to her. Her eyes crack open and a small smile ghosts her lips.

You gasp and choke back a sob. The smile that splits your face sends a burst of pain through your bones, but you don’t care. It doesn’t matter. You’d feel this pain and all that she endured to see her warm, brown eyes on yours like they are now. Her smile, despite the pain meds dulling her senses, reaches her eyes and they’re so bright. As you look into them, for a moment you’re no longer in the hospital. You’re on a bench overlooking the Potomac and the sun is setting; its golden rays falling over Emily’s face and her eyes changed from brown to liquid gold. It was then you knew you’d never love looking into someone’s eyes as much as you loved looking into hers, that you’d never love anyone as much as you loved her.

You blink once and you’re back in the hospital. “I’m so sorry,” you blubber and clutch her hand to your chest. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

Her voice is hoarse when she speaks, but the way she says your name is as soothing as ever. She shushes you and presses her fingers into your skin as she grips your hand. “Shh, baby, honey, look at me.”

You swallow and try your best to still your quivering lip as you raise your eyes to hers. Hers are focused as she looks at you. Her perfectly manicured eyebrows arch toward her hairline as she inclines her head toward you. “There is nothing that you could’ve done that would’ve prevented this, and that is okay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head in refusal.

“Hey,” Emily says, pulling you back in. “Look at me.”

You sniff and take a deep breath as you open your eyes. “If anything,” she adds. “Your being there saved my life. He drew out the torture because he had an audience. If you hadn’t been there, there’s a chance he would’ve killed me before the team got to him. Do you understand?”

Your gut response tells you that she’s right, and you have to fight the part of your brain that’s telling you otherwise.

Her hand slips out of yours and reaches to cup your face, keeping her palm along your jawline to avoid your injuries.

She smiles and gestures to herself with her other hand. “Most of this is superficial anyway. The knife he jammed into my thigh will scar and take a while to heal, but that’s the worst that was done to me. I was,” she presses her lips together as tears glisten in her eyes. “I was so worried about you.”

Something between a laugh and a sob escapes your lips. “We make quite a pair, don’t we?”

Emily laughs in turn, the sound enough to make your heart swell three times over. “At least we’ll be able to spend our recovery together,” she says hopefully.

You smirk and tilt your head, considering. “My place or yours?”

Just then the door creaks open and Hotch steps inside. He smiles. “Sorry to cut the reunion short, but if I don’t get you back, I think the charge nurse will have my gun and badge.”

You all share a laugh. As he fixes the brake on the wheelchair, Emily tugs your hand toward her mouth and places a soft kiss to the backs of your knuckles. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You smile and nod as the tight feeling in your chest from before ebbs away. “Okay.”

As Hotch exits the room with you in tow, JJ hands you two cups of coffee. “For you and your watchdog,” she says with a nod towards Hotch.

You thank her and as Hotch pushes you back towards your room, you finally feel like things will be okay.

•

Two weeks later, you’re still on medical leave, but you feel as though you're getting back to normal. You’d been released from the hospital first and a few days later, Emily. Her apartment was bigger, so you’d gone to yours and with help from Penelope packed a bag. It was easier for you two to be in the same place knowing how often the team would be checking in.

Garcia had stayed over with you, helping you keep track of the medications the doctors had prescribed. She helped take care of Sergio too. The little guy had been all too happy to see you, weaving in between your legs and rubbing his furry head against your calves. When Emily returned home a few days later he couldn’t stop meowing. When she rested, he’d fall asleep beside her or curled up in her lap.

Just as expected, members of the team had been through in pairs, on their own, or as a whole. Penelope stopped in daily with coffees and pastries from the shop next to Emily’s building. Derek came by every other day, occasionally with Savannah when her work schedule allowed. She’d checked Emily’s wounds a few times from your insisting as you were worried about infection. Savannah assured you each time that Emily was and would continue to be fine so long as she kept up with changing her bandages and taking the antibiotics she’d been prescribed. Hotch had only visited once, which was unnecessary but still so kind of him. You knew he often stayed late working to ensure everyone else could go home on time. He did this all while balancing his responsibility as a father and the fact that he sacrificed a little bit more of his personal time just to check in on you two meant so much. Rossi had sent homemade Italian with Penelope or Derek. This week you’d been given enough carbonara to feed an army.

You’re fixing two bowls now for you and Emily, a late dinner as you’d both fallen asleep around 3pm and napped until 7pm no thanks to the pain medicines that kept you two on relatively similar sleep schedules. You shred some parmesan and sprinkle it over the top before sticking a fork into each.

“I’ve got dinner!” you call as you make your way back to the bedroom.

“Thank god, I’m starving.” You push open the door with your hip and place the bowls on Emily’s bedside table.

You lean down and kiss her, wincing slightly. The bruising around your eyes and cheekbones has gone down dramatically, but your nose was still bound and held in place by a splint and medical tape. The doctors say in about a week or so, it should be healed completely but to still exercise caution with day to day activities.

Emily rests on top of the covers. Her hair is up and out of her face in a loose ponytail, pieces of which had fallen out while sleeping and now stick to and around her face in various places. You try your best to smooth them down before cupping her chin in your hand. You smile and stroke your fingers along the smooth skin of her jaw before dropping your hands to pull the throw blanket down off of her waist, exposing her legs, bare except for the plaid pajama shorts she wears and bandages wrapped around her thigh.

She shivers in response to the air against her legs. “Sheesh, give a girl some warning!” she protests and you throw her a cheeky grin.

You open the bedside drawer and retrieve the supplies to clean and dress her wound. “We should finish the rest of that movie,” you suggest as you climb onto the bed to kneel beside her. Using a small pair of scissors, you carefully snip away the bandages to reveal the square gauze pad covering the wound. “I want to know how it ends and we keep falling asleep.”

Emily snorts. “That’ll happen when we both take narcotics before bed thinking we’ll make it to the end.”

“Yeah, but,” you remove the gauze and inspect the incision, searching for any signs of infection around the twelve carefully placed stitches. As you squeeze a bit of the antibacterial ointment onto your finger and gently rub it over the spiky black threads of the sutures, you can’t help but think of how much it resembles the caterpillars that used to invade the trees in your backyard as a kid, a story Emily did not care for your retelling when you first did this. “It shouldn’t be so hard to make it through a two hour movie.”

“I still can’t believe you’ve never seen The Parent Trap,” Emily says, bristling as your fingers rub over a particularly sensitive area.

You apologize as you lay a fresh gauze pad over the wound. Your fingers move quickly as you unroll and wind a new roll of bandages to keep the gauze in place. When you finish, you wipe your hands off and gently massage the skin around her thigh knowing it helps to stimulate blood flow to the area.

Emily moans in response to the treatment. Her head lolls to the side and she peeks at you from behind long lashes. “I can’t wait to show you how grateful I am for your incredible nursing skills.”

You arch a brow at her as a smile quirks at the corner of your mouth. “Down girl,” you tease playfully.

Emily bends her opposite leg, raising her heel to curve around your body. She pokes her toes up under your tee shirt and your back stiffens as they touch your skin. You reach behind your back and grab her by the ankle, chastising her as you laugh and place it back on the mattress. “Emily!”

“What??” she asks, laughter tumbling from her full lips.

“We’ve not been cleared yet for that!”

She pouts in response and you clamber over her, carefully, so as not to disturb the injuries of her leg. You straddle her waist and lean down to place a soft kiss along the curve of her jaw. “Trust me, I want to get back to that as much as you do.” Your eyes drop to the swell of her breasts, her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her camisole. “But you and I both know neither one of us are capable of having gentle sex, and I don’t think our doctors would be happy if we did anything to make this take any longer than it already is.”

Emily groans in frustration. “Stupid doctors and their stupid orders.”

You laugh as you lean down to grab your dinners off her nightstand. Carefully, you lift your leg and roll over her body to your side of the bed; passing Emily her bowl as you do so. You reach down and pull the throw blanket up over both of you as you snuggle into the uninjured half of her body. She turns and places a kiss on your temple as she grabs the remote and clicks on the tv.

As she twirls pasta around on her fork, she turns to you and smiles. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” she says, eyes twinkling.

You smile in turn. “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than with you here, right now, at this moment in time.”

“I love you,” she says.

“Not as much as I love you,” you answer.

“Impossible,” Emily promises.

228 notes · View notes

usedtobecooler · 7 months

Note

I don’t know how it will happen but I need upside down Steve, all bloody and scratched up, underneath me. Idk in what universe I’d prioritize riding him over getting him to safety but….. I am only a woman. A man in pain, writhing and whining and gripping on to me to keep me going with what little strength he has, will always be the best ride. 5 stars on Uber

oh babe, this would 100% happen due to a sex pollen caused by brushing a weird looking plant in the upside down.

steve’s bloodied and broken up from fighting off a demodog, a gnarly gash on his inner thigh that’s bleeding hard, and you go on instinct, rushing to sit between his spread legs on the grimy ground. tearing at his jeans where they’re ripped to shreds around the gaping wound, pressing a firm hand to apply pressure.

the wave of heat courses through your body, the sharp sting from your skin touching is imminent. steve’s more reactive, hissing and bucking up into the touch despite the sheer amount of war wounds that are bleeding profusely all over his body. it hurts so good, so good in fact that he’s sweating with it, moaning. chest heaving with the need to be touched.

shared looks, hot and desperate but communicated perfectly without a single word have you tearing off what’s left of his jeans. every little touch sending flashes of pleasure up your spine, brain clouded with the violent urge to fuck. you mount him easily, slide down onto him with fingertips digging harshly into mauled shoulders.

“gotta be qu-quiet, fuck, fuck,” steve whimpers, slaps a hand over your mouth as your hips work together in a sort of tandem, you bouncing up and down as his hips punch upwards. your eyes roll back, it was always good with steve, but this? you’d never experienced pleasure like it.

the backs of your thighs are covered in his blood, and he’s so lost and gone from the pleasure that he doesn’t even feel the wound anymore, can’t feel anything past the tight heat sinking up and down on his length. he groans, desperate and pathetic, big hands smearing dirt and spattered blood all over your hip, your mouth, as he helps you bounce.

it doesn’t last long, you lean forward to kiss him and the sharp sting of your lips pressing to his cut ones have him pushing you down on him, hips pressing up to bury himself deep as he comes. he releases the kiss and bites down hard on your jaw to muffle the sound of his cries as he rides out the aftershocks of it, clinging to you so tight you know his fingertips will leave bruises in their wake.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington drabble #steve harrington brainrot #i got carried away lmao #steve harrington x reader #mine #drabble #smutty anons #my fanfic

496 notes · View notes

lewisyellowhelmet · 8 months

Text

soft sound

matty healy x named!ofc (18+)

summary: matty doesn't go to his own house after the show. he goes to hers.

By the time Matty arrives, she’s almost asleep.

In some pre-dream she’d heard the front door open, rooms away. A moment of guilt for not having left the hallway light on. She can see her spare key next to the one for his own big house. Pearl doesn’t open her eyes, willing sleep to come anyway, despite the distraction. She can hear him opening the kitchen cabinets, the sound of liquid into a glass. She can imagine his fingers curved around the wine bottle, the rich redness of it. The ringing sound of him setting it on the counter. She’s watched him pour it so many times, the same easy movement, the way he wets his lips as if he can already taste the acidity.

The patio door sliding open, his footsteps closer now, just in the next room. She can almost smell the cigarette smoke, a memory curling around her nose. She wrinkles it. She can taste it on her breath, the harsh scent of it. She wonders if he has pulled the second chair around, the one she sits beside him on. If he’s used it to put his feet on, if they’re sore from the show, jumping around. There’s a stranger in her house, using her things, drinking her wine, moving furniture like he belongs here. She feels no fear. Something like comfort is settling around her heart, making space in her chest. It’s enough just to know he’s close.

Sleep is edging closer, the longer he stays away from the bedroom. She can feel his presence, the promise of his limbs tangled with hers. It soothes her, a heavy hand stroking over her body. A dreamscape beckons. She doesn’t hear Matty open the patio door again, the slide of it, close it behind himself. Numbed by sleep. Only when a shape leans over, her name is spoken, cold fingers brush hair out of her face, does she awaken again.

“Pearl,” he’s just said, “are you awake?”

“No,” she mumbles, but doesn’t turn away from his hand as it skips over her cheek bone, a thumb over her mouth, feeling her speak.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” He asks.

She wonders what he would do if she said no, rolled over, tugged the covers up around her chin. Pearl keeps her eyes shut when she says, yeah.

He doesn’t bother walking around to the other side, just starts pulling things out of his pockets and finding space to leave them on the side table, keys, his phone, a lighter, three pound. The coins clank together. She opens her eyes when he starts unbuttoning his shirt, fingers skimming over the white material. His head his bowed, dark hair over his face. She reaches out to tug the shirt out of his waistband, feel the fabric between her fingertips. She can feel the tense in his stomach as he breathes in, the release as he breathes out. Matty shrugs out of the shirt, leaves it crumpled on the floor. His hands go to his belt, unzip, and she pulls her hand back to the safety of the bed, begins to shift back to the middle of the mattress, start to make space for him.

His body is chilly as it slides in beside her. Aligns to the shape of her. She squeaks at his cold hands on her ribs, her spine.

“You’re so warm, share it with me,” Matty whines, cold nose nuzzling into her neck. The smell of smoke pervades her clean sheets.

“You’re freezing,” she groans, attempting to peel him off her, but he clings like a child. He’s stronger than her.

“Stop moving,” he tells her, half a laugh, holding her down so she can’t wriggle away. She’s giggling, enjoys the play fight.

They don’t talk about the gig. They don’t talk about the thousands in attendance. They don’t talk about what happened in New York.

Instead, he whispers about how warm she is, curling his hand in her hair. Pearl still feels the pull of sleep, it’s hard to keep her eyes open. She wants to ask him what the time is, but is afraid to know. His leg is in between hers. She wants to take her pyjamas off so she can feel his skin. He’s kissing her head now, his mouth on her hair, then her forehead, a gentle graze of his lips over her eyebrow, the very tip of her nose.

“Darling girl,” he says, the rasp of his voice. She can hear how worn out it is. A world tour will do that.

“Here I am,” she murmurs, tilts her head back so he can access her whole face, kiss her cheek, her jaw, her chin.

“Here you are,” Matty echoes, something reverent. He breathes against her mouth. Her hand flattens against his chest. She can imagine he curling lines of ink under her clean palm.

“Do you have work in the morning?” He asks.

“Is it a weekday?”

“Don’t be mean,” he whines, nips at her nose, “I’m just a silly pop star, remember?”

“Mmm,” she hums, her fingers skating up to his collarbone, the line of his throat. He keeps looking at her mouth.

“Yes, I have work,” Pearl says, as he runs the tip of his finger over her eyelashes. His thigh is pressing up into the crux of her body. Just a suggestion.

“I’ll make the coffee,” he promises.

“I only have oat milk.”

“I’ll survive.”

He’s kissing the lobe of her ear, the pulse in her neck. Her lips feel cold from the lack of attention. When he speaks she can feel it vibrating on her skin, like he’s pressing the words into her. A scarring.

His big hand is on her stomach, fingertips slipping into the waist of her pyjamas. Her body sparks.

“Is it very late?” She asks, finally getting the nerve. She doesn’t know what the cut off time is. If it’s after two would she stop this? After three? Is there a line?

“Do you really want to know?” Matty says, but withdraws his hand, leaves it on her hip.

“Maybe not.”

“I’ll make the coffee really strong,” he says.

“Is it that bad?”

He laughs, a quiet, secret one that makes her smile, “It’s not good.”

Maybe it’s close to dawn. Make the light will peek through the curtains soon. Matty is smiling at her, eyes glinting, and she’s smiling at him. She does’t care what the time is. Pearl takes his hand from her hip, lays it over her breast. Matty breathes in, his fingers already scrabbling with the buttons of her pyjama shirt so he can get inside it, under it, his palm a warm pressure over her nipple. His thigh presses up between her legs.

“Can you help me get undressed,” she whispers, shifting onto her back. Matty is so quick to follow her he almost falls.

“Yes, of course,” he tells her, up onto his knees, throwing off the covers. The cold is sudden, her body revealed to the night air. Made worse by Matty helping her out of her top, her nipples hardening. He takes his time with her pants, following the retreating material with his mouth, kissing down her thighs, under her knees, the muscle of her calves. His eyes drag over her when she’s naked, and she wriggles under them.

“I’m cold,” she tells him.

“Let me look for a second,” Matty says.

“It’s too dark to even see anything.”

“I can see,” he says, his voice heavy. Pearl feels a bit like a painting, an art piece. Laid still underneath him for his viewing pleasure.

“You want me to warm you up?” He asks, shifting her so he can get between her legs, still in his underwear, black material clinging to the hard line of him. It makes her dizzy that she can get him like that just from being naked. Just from him looking at her.

“Yeah,” she says, her hands folded over her chest. He picks them up, brings them to his mouth, encased in his. He breathes hot air into the opening of her fingers, like he’s coaxing a fire. Pearl watches, enraptured.

When he lifts his head from their hands, he’s smiling, a curl fallen out from where it was safely tucked behind his ear to lie against the line of his cheek.

“Thank you,” she says.

“All warmed up?”

She shakes her head, loose hair rustling on the pillow. Matty frowns, over dramatic.

“No? Where else are you cold?”

She blushes, but twitches her hips. Matty’s face lights up.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Let me see what I can do,” he assures her, rakes a hand through his hair. Pearl has a sudden memory of the first time they did this. A shitty apartment. The horrible way it snows in Manchester. The smell of weed.

His mouth is hot and wet on her, lavishes his attention. She squirms and pants, tugging on his hair. He’s easily guided. He knows what she’s going to ask for her before she gets the chance to say it. Harder. Lower. Slower. His big hands span her thighs, holding her open and steady for him. Her feet flex. She groans as he gets a finger inside her, two, crooks them towards himself. He shifts, pressure increasing, and she cries out. Matty is lying prone on the bed, and she can see how he’s grinding into the mattress when she lifts her head up

“Do you wish that was me?” She asks, breathless. Matty looks up at her, fingers still pushing in and out. His mouth is shiny. He looks dazed.

“So badly,” he says, nodding for too long. He seems overwhelmed by the experience, turns to sink his teeth into her thigh.

“It can be,” she tells me, and feels him groan into her. He turns his head, mouth dragging over where she’s wet and pink. Licks into her, over and over. Her orgasm is small but enough, her knees tight around Matty’s head, holding him there. He doesn’t stop until she yanks his head away, oversensitive, lifting his head up like a rag doll, black hair clumped around her fingers. He’s grinning.

“Again,” he says, voice raw. She laughs at him, her body warm and relaxed.

“Don’t be greedy.”

He’s a pleasant weight as he crawls up her body, comes up to lie over her, supported on one elbow. She helps him out of his underwear, drags fingers over his hips, his ribs, the muscle of his shoulders.

“I love you so much,” he tells her, earnest and boyish. Pearl smiles, tucks his hair behind his years. Silver threads.

“I know you do.”

He’s hot and thick against the opening of her. Matty seems to be satisfied with her answer, or chooses not to press it, reaches between them to help himself into her, a steady push that makes her eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” she says, wraps her arms around him to bring him low and close to her, his face in her neck as he finds a familiar rhythm. It makes her delirious. He’s saying nonsense against her jugular, shifting to bend one of her legs back against to her body, his hand under her knee, opening her up more for him.

“Is that good?” He pants, like he doesn’t know the answer every time is yes, yes, yes. Pearl reaches for his face, kissing him messily. He tastes like her, his tongue eager.

“Matty,” she gasps, when he gets a good angle, sat back on his heels, her legs in his hands as he fucks into her, his necklace sticking against the planes of his chest.

“I know,” he says, “I know, I know. You feel so good.”

She wants to thrash and scream, settles for her a breathless sob and grabbing at his shoulders. He curls over her, forehead to forehead. She can taste his breath, hot air passed between them, lung to lung.

“I’m really close,” Pearl says, reaching between them to rub over where they meet. Matty knocks her hand away, does it himself, knows her body too easily. She can see how he’s working to keep the rhythm for her and not chase his own orgasm, his jaw loose and eyes glazed.

“Oh my god,” she cries, everything in her tightening.

“Do it, do it,” Matty is saying, “Let me see.”

She can hear him from very far away as she arches up into his embrace, held down by the weight of him, holding her safe and close as he fucks her through it. This orgasm is whole and overwhelming. Matty inside her and over her and around her.

She lies limp and lax when it’s over, one arm draped over him, gazing up at him in worship. Matty looks like he wants to eat her whole.

“Is it okay if I - ,” He starts, but she’s already urging him on.

“Yes, yes, come in me. I want it.”

“Oh fuck,” he says, hastening, his movements urgent and rough, “Oh, fuck. You want it, you want it.”

“I want it so bad,” she tells him, wrapping her legs around him, holding his face in her hands. He looks young, his face blurring into every single time she’s had him like this, begging for her. Matty screws his eyes shut, mouth hanging open, his head heavy in her hands as he comes, fucking messily into her.

Pearl feels sleep close at hand, even with Matty a boneless weight on her, still dripping out between her legs.

“Are you okay?” She whispers, her lips against his temple. The sweat is making them stick together.

“Yeah,” he says against her throat, “Just resting. Are you?”

“Sleepy,” she says, fingers careful at the base of his spine. He gets ticklish there.

He seems to draw his energy together, willing his muscles to work, before he gets up, fumbles his way to the bathroom. He returns with a damp face cloth and her full water bottle.

“How romantic,” Pearl teases him, even as he drops the cloth unceremoniously on her belly and takes a long swallow from her bottle before he passes it to her. He waits for her to clean herself before he takes the cloth, throws it back towards the bathroom where Pearl hears it land on the tiled floor.

This time, when Matty gets in bed beside her, he’s warm, fitting his body around hers. The duvet is almost too hot now. Her breathing is still unsteady.

“Don’t let me snooze the alarm,” Pearl tells him, her spine curved to his chest. Matty presses his mouth to her bare shoulder, a lazy kiss.

“I won’t.”

“Remember you’re making the coffee.”

“I remember.”

Sleep is an old friend, willing her towards it. Her body feels overworked and exhausted. Matty is draped over her like a favourite blanket.

#matty healy x reader #matty healy x you #matty healy x oc #matty healy imagine #matty healy smut #matty healy #the 1975 #matty healy fanfiction #*

491 notes · View notes