#thunder-cube | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

visceravalentines · 3 months

Text

fever dream

Bo Sinclair x AFAB!Reader

7.6k words. dubcon ofc. reader is absolutely mentally bankrupt. stockholm is where we live, it's where we are, it's where we'll die. sporadic smut, pnv, fingering, and oral (fem!rec). blood and sweat everywhere. Bo calls reader a bitch a couple times but like, it's out of love or some shit. somno. alcohol use. nightmares. ghosts. swamp things. the ever-looming threat of death and depersonalization.

welcome back to my youtube channel. I have been. working on this fic. since May of last year. and it's finally done(?) it is long and weird and maybe bad and meant for you to get lost in. a journey with no destination. a haunted house only you are the haunted and the haunt and the house. tbqh I'm rewatching HoW today for the first time in months and months and I had to get this out of my drafts so I can check back into the sanitarium with minimal baggage, y'know?? I hope it makes you feel some type of way.

The summer heat is in your blood and the swamp is in your lungs and he is under your skin.

You’ve never known an August like this, like a blister. You go to bed sticky and wake up drenched in sweat. The ceiling fan is a hurricane agent that offers no respite, just blows the humidity in vicious cycles. There’s no air conditioning in the house; it’s too old. Instead you wrap ice cubes in dish towels and press them to the back of your neck.

A storm’s been hanging on the horizon for days. Thunder rolls out of a wall of iron gray, an idle threat. The air is soupy and super-charged. No rain comes.

The nights are delirium. You go to bed on opposite sides of the mattress, oil and water. He sleeps naked, sprawled out like a water skeeter. The quilt sits scrunched at the foot of the bed for the season and he kicks the sheets off around midnight like something forcing its way out of a soft-shelled egg.

You lie awake, listening to the cicadas and waiting. Just when you’ve started to cool down and drift off he reaches over and fumbles at your leg, grabs your arm. He pulls you on top of him, hands on your body beneath his old t-shirt. You ride him with your eyes closed and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever, the sweating, the shaking.

You wake every morning suffocating under his arm in the center of the mattress with honey between your thighs.

He drinks his coffee hot even though the steam can barely rise above the rim of the mug in the humidity. You pour yours over ice and savor the feeling as it seeps down your throat and into your stomach. You curl your toes on the linoleum and almost smile at him across the table. He’s golden from all his time in the sun. You can trace the lines of his wifebeater over his shoulders, across his chest. You stare at him across the table and think about the taste of his skin. You want to run your tongue along that tan line.

He catches you staring. “What?” he says flatly.

You redirect your gaze to your hands. Shake your head. Wait for him to move on so you can resume your perusal of his body.

When he looks away, out the window, the sun catches those eyes and turns them to sea glass. He needs a haircut; walnut curls crest over his ears like kudzu. When you get up to clear the table your skin peels from the vinyl seat cushion with a sting that makes you wrinkle your nose.

“Be good,” he tells you before he leaves. You wonder what he means, what he thinks you might get up to in this house full of dust and guns and ghosts. You know better than to ask, and you nod and kiss him goodbye and feel his lips on your lips for hours afterwards.

The day languishes. They all do. You kill a thousand flies. You mop the floor and track your own footprints across it before it dries. You hang his shirts on the clothesline in the side yard and feel like an insect trapped in the sap of time. You shave your legs in a cold bath and examine your skin: sunburn, bug bites, bite marks.

When he pulls into the driveway you’re on the front step eating a popsicle and counting the minutes. He saunters across the gravel like John Wayne, shoulders exposed, hair plastered to his neck. You meet his eyes and wrap your lips around the cherry-flavored mess dripping onto your fingers. He spits into the weeds and eyes you through his lashes.

“What’s for supper?”

You suck on your sticky thumb. There’s a full spread on the dining room table, ready and waiting. “Whatever you want.”

He licks his lips.

Supper gets cold.

He brings home a bag of saltwater taffy, all raspberry.

“Thought of you,” he says when he hands it to you. To your recollection, you have never mentioned taffy or raspberries or anything of the sort. You wonder who he thinks you are, whether he has you confused with someone else.

You sit on the porch steps and amass a pile of wax paper wrappers beside you. It’s soft and melty, peels out of the wrapper with a sticky crackling sound. It’s salty and sour and tastes like cheap sugar. Like a memory of summer that may be real, or maybe not. Could be yours, or could be someone else’s.

You eat more than you want, until your teeth hurt and you can feel the hot spot on your tongue where a canker sore will form. You rake that spot back and forth across your incisors. You can’t help it. Sometimes it feels like things have to have a hurt to them.

“You ever been to the fair?” you ask him over your shoulder.

He grunts from the porch swing. “Used to go when Vince ‘n me were little. Took Les a couple times when he was old enough.”

“You ever take a girl?”

“Nah.” His boot thumps on the porch, an offhand punctuation mark. “Couldn’t find one to go with me.”

You doubt that; you’ve seen his yearbook photos. But then again, maybe he was off-putting as a teenager. Spooky. Hadn’t quite learned how to camouflage yet. Came on too strong, wore too much cologne, used too many teeth.

You survey the vast swath of woods that surrounds Ambrose and try to imagine a ferris wheel, red and blue and blinking, rising from the green like the hump of a whale. “I’d go with you.”

He snorts. “Yeah?”

You look down at the piece of taffy in your fingers. You don’t really want it. You unwrap it anyway. “Yeah.” You gnaw on the candy like a dog savoring a scrap. “Be like a date,” you say thickly.

“What, you wanna skip down the midway holdin’ hands? Makin’ out in the Tunnel of Love?”

You can picture it, sunset and a sundress. He’s laughing. You’re laughing. The crowd is made of wax. “You could win me a stuffed animal.”

He scoffs again, but then he asks you, “What kinda stuffed animal you want?”

You think for a second, unstick the taffy from your molars and push it around your mouth with your tongue. “A Louisiana crocodile.” A souvenir from your time in the South. Maybe it’ll be wearing a little trucker hat and a smile that doesn’t reach its eyes.

“Ain’t got crocodiles here, sugar. ‘S all alligators.”

“Fine, an alligator then.”

You run your hands over your shins, sticky with the humidity. The chains of the porch swing creak rhythmically behind you. The sea of trees is dark and still and endless.

“Fair don’t come ‘round here anymore,” he says finally.

You force the taffy down your throat, swallow hard, and reach for another one.

“Figures.”

You’re buzzed and reckless, sucked down a pair of beers too fast just because they were frosty. The shears snick like some needy, nipping thing. You found them upstairs under the bathroom sink once upon a time and you always put them back when you’re done. They’ve been there longer than you’ve been alive. You comb your fingers across his scalp and loose locks drift onto your clean floor.

“Don’t take it too short,” he admonishes into the mouth of his beer bottle. “You butcher me, I butcher you.”

You roll your eyes behind his back. “Have I ever?”

He grunts in acquiescence. That’s as close to a win as you’ll get.

The windows are open; the thunder presses against the frayed screens. A gigantic moth flings its feathery body repeatedly at the ceiling light. You run your hand through his hair slow just to feel it between your fingers, thick and soft. Your thumb glances off the scar on the left side of his skull and comes back for another pass.

He jerks his head, puts a stop to that. “You done?”

“Almost.”

You’re particularly fond of the curls at the nape of his neck, always save them for last. You coil one around your finger. You want to ask him if you can keep it, but you’re afraid he’ll say no or worse, that he’ll say yes. He’ll ask for something in return. You’ll give it to him, no matter what it is. You give him anything he wants, everything he wants. It’s the least you can do, the most you can do.

You snip them one by one, bittersweet.

“Done.”

He leans over in the chair to examine his reflection in the window. “Good enough.”

He stands up and drains the dregs of his beer. His hand finds your waist and he pulls you in and you bend like a reed, peering up at him, inspecting your work. He smells like sweat and sun. You grip his shirt in your fists and move with him as he sways lazily side-to-side.

He gives you the gift of a smile, half-cocked and handsome. “You wanna dance, mama?”

Your fingers spider-creep up the shield of his chest and lock behind his neck. His skin is hot and sticky against your wrists, clipped hairs poking and itching. Your hips bump against his like a car on a back road, lost, no cell service. You wish there was music playing.

He tilts his head towards you and you get caught in the trap of his mouth. The thunder moans. You can feel the sweat beading on your upper lip, in the pit of your elbows. His hands are heavy on your bones.

His jaw scrapes along your temple like a razor blade and a fever chill rolls over your skin, hot-cold. “G’on upstairs, get those clothes off.”

Have you always been such a good listener?

He comes home drunk and fucks you on the table, in the midst of supper left cold and waiting for him. You knew he’d be hungry. You are right about some things and wrong about others.

You wince every time a dish topples off the table and shatters on the faded linoleum. He doesn't look at you, not once.

Afterwards, he disappears for a while and leaves you to clean up the kitchen. You are dazed, legs unsteady, leaning on the counter like an old friend. It’s been a bad day. Dinner has soaked through the back of your shirt and so you take it off, hang it over the back of a chair for later, and set to work on the mess.

You cannot puzzle out how he managed to get blood on every dish you are trying to wash until finally you realize it is yours, seeping quietly from a slice on your palm. When he comes up behind you your spine stiffens, arching like a snake making a final stand. He puts his hands on your bare waist and his lips against the back of your head like a sweetheart, like a husband, like a different person.

“Leave it, darlin’. Come sit on the porch with me.”

You bite your lip, lift your palm so he can see it, watch the world blur with saline. “I cut myself,” you say, and only then does the sting set in, so sharp you can feel it in your teeth.

He makes a sympathetic noise and cups your hand in his. “Now why’d y’go and do that?”

You open your mouth to answer but only a moan comes out as he lifts your arm and seals his lips over the cut. He sucks, gently at first and then harder, hard enough you feel the seam of skin separate and your fingers jerk like puppets to the pain. He lets you go and you cradle your hand to your chest as he laps your blood off his lip.

“You’ll be fine,” he says, takes your arm, tugs you from the sink. “C’mon. I need a smoke.”

You follow him onto the porch, curl up in his lap with a dishrag pressed to your palm and watch smoke and moths float around the light.

Your blood dries on the dishes with the gravy.

The clouds boom a reminder that they are still hanging above the house, but you are already awake in the split second beforehand. You are cocooned in the sheets and panic for a moment, arms pinned to your chest, bedroom black as a coffin. When you claw free, gasping, the air is like moss draped spongey and damp across your face.

You worm out of the bed, out of the room, stagger into the hallway and down the stairs in the dark. You are mere steps ahead of some emaciated beast, its breath muggy on your cheeks and the back of your neck. You twist your shirt off and throw it on the floor of the den before it can strangle you, wrench the front door open and slam through the screen with both hands.

The night is wet in your nose. One hundred million insects scream to God. In the back of your mind you think about joining them. Your toes scuff to a stop on the precipice of the porch and you peer into the darkness with round eyes, bare chest heaving for more air than you can hold. You are drowning here, surrounded by trees, surrounded by more green than you ever knew existed in the world.

Somewhere out there, someone is mourning you. You can feel it tonight, crackling in the ozone like the storm that won’t break.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink to the ground, sit perched on the top stair in your panties and sweat-drenched skin. The nail of your index finger rips apart the cuticle of your thumb. Mosquitos float open-armed to your legs like swamp angels. It’s too hot to cry.

The yellow porchlight struggles to life. The screen door bangs flatly behind you. He can’t ever pick up his feet, scuffing through the dust you haven’t swept.

His fingers brush the bone of your shoulder. You don’t flinch nowadays, usually. “Y’alright?”

You don’t have to answer that. Let him wrap his hand around your throat and fishhook his fingers into your mouth to pull your jaw open, you don’t have to answer that. You grit your teeth and dig crescent moons into your thighs with all ten fingernails.

Your silence doesn’t bother him. He leans on the railing to your left, curling his toes on the concrete, looking out into the night. Sleep has mussed his hair to one side and left imprints of the sheet fanning across his chest. There’s a hickey in the shape of your mouth in the curve of his neck. Lightning flutters shy among the clouds and the thunder reprimands it. There’s something stuck in your throat, something you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Moths flock to the porchlight. If anyone was alive in the town to look up the hill, they’d see you haloed, and him too.

“‘S late. Come back to bed.”

You can’t remember your home address. You can picture the house, the sidewalk in front of it, cracks in the driveway. The rest is like a dream. The house behind you doesn’t have an address. No number, no mailbox. You can feel it sucking at the base of your spine like a leech, coaxing you in, tipping you backwards all wrong like a gravity hill. You feel eyes on you, all the time, no matter what room you’re in.

“You listenin’ to me? Let’s go.”

You can’t go back inside. You can’t go back inside. Something in you doesn’t line up right. Someone is holding a pillow over your face.

“No,” you think you say out loud. The word flutters off into the night. You watch a mosquito drift beyond the reach of the porchlight and disappear. The stars bow gracefully into the arms of the clouds.

After a beat, he shuffles out of your periphery. The screen door slams. Maybe this time. When you least expect it. Maybe he's sick of you at last. You pick at a scab on your knee until it comes loose and flakes off, and then you pinch the skin around the wound and squeeze until a bead of blood, scarlet-black, mounds and breaks and gets all over your fingers. You raise them to your mouth and suck them clean and it tastes familiar. Safe.

He doesn’t come back with a knife, or a gun. He comes back with the quilt and sheet from the bed, a pillow stuffed under his arm. He unfurls the quilt on the porch. The pillow flops to the ground like something hunted to extinction. He follows suit.

“C’mere.” He wrestles with the sheet, props himself up on an elbow and punches the pillow into place. “C’mon.”

You breathe, just for a minute, watching him. You want to hate him so bad it hurts. You want him to hit you so you’d have a reason to hit back. You want to fight for your life because you can feel it slipping away, waning, evaporating in the heat. Already you’ve found shreds of yourself under the couch, covered in dust. You are drowning. You are thirsty. He is water, cold and brackish.

You rise from the stairs and come to him because you need him, because he is all you have.

“Get the light,” he says.

You go and come back and his hand finds your calf in the dark, slides up the back of your knee, guides you to the ground. The quilt is a mockery of softness, the porch unyielding beneath. You curl up with him at your back and he folds his arm around you, thumb worrying aimlessly at your nipple. His breath is hot on the nape of your neck.

The air roils in your lungs. The night surges in. You are alone, so alone, aching with loneliness, now and always. You close your fingers around his wrist and guide his hand between your legs. He rubs the cotton of your panties with something like pity and you let a moan seep from your throat.

Your face lolls into the pillow and it smells like fever dreams and cold-sweat nightmares. The fabric of your underwear catches on your clit and you gasp, arching against his chest.

“Easy,” he murmurs as his fingers drag back and forth. He hooks his foot around your ankle, forces your legs open. You asked for this. You’ll take it and thank him.

Lightning silhouettes the world beyond the porch in black and purple. When you close your eyes, you see the rooftops of the town in the colors of heaven. You rock against his hand and pretend you’re someone else somewhere else. You feel the thunder in your teeth and wish with all your heart the rain would fall.

He puts an abrupt end to the friction and cups you in his palm, wide and warm. You make a plaintive sound and wiggle your hips, push your ass against him. You need to feel something. You need him to help you. Otherwise, you might disappear beneath the horrible blanket of the night.

“Please,” you moan.

He presses his lips to the back of your neck, whispers into the shell of your ear like a lover. “You love me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Yes.”

His teeth graze your skin as he slips his fingers past the waistband of your panties.

“Good.”

You wonder if he knows he keeps saving your life.

The house is a midden of family misery. There’s barely space for you between heaps of clothing and glassware and mass market paperbacks. You live sideways amid the boxes and bottles and beer cans. He refuses to let you throw anything away. No matter how much you sweep and dust and tidy, the clutter seems to crawl right back across the carpet like morning glory.

Late morning finds you in the master bedroom. It’s sweltering up here. The air sticks to your face like tattered gauze. The junk in here is of a particular breed, more meaningful—photo albums, baby clothes. Much of it has been stacked high just inside the door like a battlement. A fortification between this room and the rest of the house. You’re not allowed in here.

Neither is he.

Beyond the wall, everything sits untouched. A layer of dust rests primly on the bedside tables, the vanity, the yellow quilt still neatly made up on the bed. The art on the wall is sun-bleached in evenly spaced lines from the half-open blinds. The silence crowds your ears. It feels like standing in a tomb, the family crypt.

With courage paper-thin, you've decided you'd like to confront the heart of the horror. Like shoving your fingers down the throat of the beast trying to bite you. Like making a home in its mouth, a bed in its bed. You want to eat me so bad, you’ll have to savor every scrap.

It’s eerie in here. This room is brighter than the rest of the house by far. You can feel that parasitic presence all around you, cajoling you with hands that are soft and dry. There is a faint, floating smell of faded flowers. You breathe slowly to keep yourself from sprinting back downstairs.

You gaze at yourself in the vanity mirror. The dust almost erases you from sight, almost. You reach a finger out and draw a single streak across the silvery surface. You’re in there, somewhere. Sometimes you forget.

The front of the vanity holds a trio of slim drawers with tiny gold handles. You catch one with the tips of your fingers and tug, just slightly. It creeps open without resistance. The inside is lined with green velvet. You pull it open all the way and search through the contents with your eyes. Blush, lipstick. Eyeshadow in seven shades of blue. You slide the drawer closed and move on to the next one, the widest one in the middle.

This one holds a treasure trove of golden baubles: a jumble of earrings, half a dozen hairpins, a long, thin cigarette holder. A string of pearls that look too chipped and dull to be real. And a locket, oval-shaped and decorated with a halo of tiny vines. You pick it up and the chain slips over your fingers like a thin, shining snake.

You dig your nail into the seam and pop it open. To your muted disappointment, it is empty. No husband. No children.

It’s yours, you decide suddenly. You want it. You've earned it. A prize, a consolation for the hell you’ve been through. For the fact that you have survived him, and she has not. You wonder if he’ll recognize it. Part of you hopes that he does. You imagine the look on his face and his hands on you afterwards. Your mouth is wet.

This might be her house, will always be her house. But you do not belong to her. You have been spoken for again and again, and perhaps you should thank him for that.

In the daylight you remember that you aren’t scared of ghosts, and that you have nothing left to give. Plenty of dead women have laid claim to you already. This one cannot have you, and for that matter, she can’t have him either.

You hear the rumble of his truck out front and the thrill of fear that shoots down your spine is so cold it’s almost welcome in the stuffy room. You shove the locket into the pocket of your shorts and fling the drawer shut. It closes with a soft, complicit thunk.

You pick your way back through the boxes and slip through the door like a reptile into water; smooth, silent. You make sure it latches behind you before you hurry to the top of the stairs.

Out of the corner of your eye, just before you dip out of sight below the banister, you see something bend the light that reaches through the crack beneath the door. You freeze, turn your head only slightly. You see nothing. Only sunlight. Certainly no feet, dainty and bare, padding across the carpet with red-lacquered toenails.

Panic, delayed, breaks loose. You gallop down the stairs so quickly you forget to skip the ones that creak.

By the time he comes inside, slamming the door fit to shake the frame of the house, you are hunched over the dishes in the sink like you’ve been there all morning. If you are unduly quiet, he doesn’t seem to notice, and if he notices, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I think I love you.”

You say it half-casual, half-pronouncement, the way you might tell your mom you’re dropping out of college. Tell your boyfriend you’re over him. Tell your boss you’re moving to Louisiana. “I mean it this time.”

Bo snorts, lifts his beer to his lips. “That so?”

You shoo a bee from the rim of your glass and suck down the last of your drink. You just might be drunk. “Yup.”

“Think that’s the bourbon talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, shimmy a little in an effort to make the busted lawn chair more comfortable. You thought he’d be more excited. “Why don’t you ever believe me?”

He smacks his lips like he’s considering his answer. The sunlight shifts through the trees and you close your eyes, blissful. “Lemme ask you this. You ever set a snare, baby?”

You can feel it in your blood: the sun, the breeze, the brook bubbling over your toes. It’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Hey.” He leans over in his chair and snaps his fingers, splintering your peace. “I asked you a question.”

“Nah. Never set a snare. Some of us were normal kids.”

He ignores this and you feel like you’ve gotten away with something. “Well, sometimes you catch a critter, but it don’t strangle to death like it’s s’posed to.”

You frown.

“So you gotta do somethin’ about it, right? But you gotta be real careful. Can’t get caught up by the sufferin’. Gotta keep your head about you, y’know?” He’s not looking at you, but you can picture his lips, twisted in something like a smile. “‘Cause it don’t matter what it is…raccoon, possum, bunny rabbit…that sucker’ll take your hand off if y’let it.”

Your throat is sensitive all of the sudden, feels closed off. Maybe you swallowed a bee. “What are you even talking about?”

His head lolls lazy to the left and he stares at you for a second in a way that makes your hair stand on end. Then he chuckles, winks at you, turns away and leans back in his chair.

“Nothin’, sugar. You’re awful cute.”

The heat wreaks havoc on the lifeless inhabitants of the town. You trail behind him like a listless kite as he makes the rounds, checking for damage, hauling the worst afflicted home to Vincent. It baffles you how much he seems to care about them. How much investment he has in keeping the rot contained beneath a pristine cosmetic veneer. For what? For who?

You don’t tell him it’s all rot, all of it, the people, the buildings. The trees. The air. Him. You.

Some days, most days, you can’t quite look them in their faces. It’s guilt, you suppose. Guilt and acknowledgement of a fear so pervasive you no longer notice the way it clings like a second skin. You’ve convinced yourself if you meet their eyes you’ll find them glaring at you, envious and accusatory. Or worse–you’ll see the future, suspended in the flat, glass pupils of a dead game animal.

Occasionally you punish yourself by looking too closely. You note the receding hairlines, where the skin beneath the wax has dried and pulled taut and shifted the scalp along with it. You observe the way the light shines through plump round fingertips that are only hollow shells of wax, all that soft flesh desiccated and shriveled to a skeletal wedge underneath. You wonder, sometimes, whether Vincent smoothed over any flaws–scars, moles, asymmetrical lips. You touch your face subconsciously and think about the things he might fix for you.

It makes you feel like you are tiptoeing on the precipice of sanity, arms wide, just waiting to topple.

You take a particular interest in their clothing, wonder whether it belonged to them or to someone from the town. You never ask Bo, although you know he could tell you. You ignore the obvious parallels like a badly stitched seam. None of the clothes you wear belong to you either.

There are more residents than you ever imagined, half the houses not as empty as you assumed. Ten years, three brothers, three hundred and forty-nine holes to fill. You were decent at math in a past life, but nowadays, you try your hardest not to solve problems, no matter how they howl and scratch at the door. You’ve become adept at avoidance of the obvious in favor of learning how to assimilate into the cobwebs and shadows. No one can kill you if you’re already dead. You believe that so hard sometimes you can’t see your own reflection.

You believe it so hard that when you find it, on a girl in a house on a street you’ve only been down once or twice, you can’t make sense of it for several long seconds, staring dumbstruck and stupid while the static subsumes your brain.

“Let’s go,” he barks from the sitting room. The couches are pink and floral and faded.

You cannot move. You are made of wax.

“You deaf? Come on.”

She’s wearing cutoff jeans and the t-shirt you bought on a trip two years ago, or maybe three. There’s blood, brown and faded from half-hearted washing, streaking the collar and left sleeve.

Her hair is lighter than yours, and shorter. Her feet are smaller. Her nose is bigger. But the shirt is yours, and so is the blood, and for a second, you know you are a ghost.

“Hey.” He grabs your arm and turns you around. You think maybe she’ll move, now that you’re not looking. “You got a problem?”

You cannot answer him, because you do not have a voice. Because your lips have been glued together and painted the perfect pink. His gaze flicks from you to the girl and back and you wonder if he kissed her the way he kisses you. You hope he can see it, the way you are withering under the wax. You hope he will pick you up, cradle you in his arms, take you home and take care of you, make you whole, make you human.

Isn’t that all you’ve ever asked for?

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and you flinch, because you are real after all.

“Let’s go.”

You let him push you towards the door, hear him close it behind you, feel the floorboards shiver as he follows you down the hall. He puts his hand on the small of your back and ushers you out of the house, down the sidewalk cracked and stuffed with weeds keeling over in the heat. You can feel your feet melting to the concrete, skin crawling, sagging. You try not to stumble. You don’t want him to leave you behind.

“She ain’t you,” he mutters at the end of the street, so low you barely hear him over the buzz of the cicadas.

You aren’t sure if he’s lying, now or ever. You don’t ask him where her clothes are and he doesn’t offer. She might not be you, but you might be her. And you both might be someone else.

Either way, the shape of her is burned into your vision in blue and green, and she shakes her head at you when you close your eyes.

You wake to the sound of rain on the roof and it pulls you immediately from bed, stumbling sightless over your feet to get to the window. You yank on the mangled cord to raise the blinds and sure enough, the dust of summer is melting down the window in waves.

“Bo,” you say hoarsely. “Bo, look.”

It is then that the silence of the room seeps into your brain, the conspicuous lack of snoring. Your heart sinks into your wringing stomach.

In a perfect world, he’d be taking a leak. He’d stumble back to bed and wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your temple, and you’d drift back to sleep in the bliss of air conditioning.

Your world is a few dirt road miles south of perfect.

You have to go find him. Find him and haul him out of whatever dark place he’s waded into, before he comes back worse than he went in.

The hall is a throat you have to fight against to get to the stairs, black and humid with walls that breathe. You feel cobwebs on your face and slap them away only to realize it’s your own hair caught on your lashes. The glow of the TV laps at the bottom step like floodwater, makes the carpet undulate like something just sank below the surface. You hesitate, for just a second, before you step down and feel solid ground beneath your feet.

He sits slouched on the couch in front of a screen full of static, deadeyed, jaw clenched. He doesn’t seem to notice you, quiet, creeping thing that you are. The static sounds like rushing water. Mangroves rise from the shadows in the corner of your eye. Lilypads part around your feet. If you turn your head just right, his eyes flash red in the light.

You stop halfway between the stairs and the couch, unsure what kind of animal you’re approaching. Your hands float up like a shield, like a bridge. “Bo,” you say softly, and it echoes in the night. “Are you okay?”

He blinks, like a person. You notice a bite mark, a purple half moon in the meat of his forearm. Your skin is well acquainted with the shape of his teeth.

“Bo,” you whisper. You don’t want to get closer. “Come back to bed.”

You hear a splash in the kitchen. The carpet squishes between your toes. Something brushes your ankle and wriggles away. You need to get out of here. You can’t leave without him.

“Baby…please.” You step towards him and freeze as he lurches forward, sits up straight. His hands dangle between his knees, his gaze still locked on the fuzz of the television.

“I killed my mama, y’know.”

His voice is pitched, low and dull. A sheen of sweat glistens on his upper lip and cheekbones. The color is gone from his face and here, in this place, he looks almost green.

You fight to form breath into words. “I…I know.”

He’s speaking again as though he didn’t hear you. You can see in his eyes he is far, far away. “I watched her die. Took a real long time. But I stayed…waited. Had to make sure.”

The water is rising, cold and slick, over your ankles and up your calves. Panic rises with it, packs into your throat like silt. “You were real brave, baby. You did it. You made sure.” Your voice is thin as a reed.

A terrible, empty grin cracks his face and then vanishes without a ripple, and now he looks at you for the first time and his eyes are hollow and blue as marbles and he whispers, “Then why ain’t she dead?”

The water surges to your knees like it’s been displaced by something large, something prowling. You teeter forward, heart hammering, splashing as you regain your balance. Too loud, too loud. Do alligators eat each other?

“She’s dead, Bo. She is.”

“Don’t lie to me, bitch!” He rises to his feet so fast you lose your balance again, flinching back from him. “She ain’t and you know it. You’ve seen her, she’s here! In this fuckin’ house!”

You shake your head quickly and in your periphery something ducks beneath the surface of the water. “No. She’s not.” Convince him, convince yourself, make it true.

His chest is heaving, his gaze darting around the room, searching. You can picture a shadow in shadow, curled up and waiting in the corner of the ceiling like a fat black spider, fingers splayed wide and tipped sharp and red.

Bo grips the back of his head and moans and it echoes off the trees, too loud, too loud. “Fuckin’...everywhere.”

Faded flowers. Blush, lipstick. A trick of the light. A locket wrapped in vines. Something hunting, just below the surface. If you let it rip him apart, would it come for you next?

“She’s everywhere…in my goddamn head….” He sways on his feet like he might fall and if he does, if the swamp swallows him, you’ll die here in this place.

“Hey.” You close the distance, push through the muck, brush his elbow. “Hey!”

He smacks you away, snaps his jaws closed. “Don’t touch me!”

You cringe and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Something groans in the dark. Something moves near the ceiling.

His eyes on you are predatory, cold and empty, and his brow furrows. “Who are you?” he demands.

Wide-eyed, you open your mouth to answer him, but there is nothing on your tongue but moss. “I don’t…I don’t know.”

He leans toward you. “Who the fuck are you?”

You hold your hands up in front of you, backing away, mud between your toes. Your fingers are skeletal. Your nails are painted red. “I don’t know!”

A terribly low, vibrating sound is rising from the water, sending ripples in all directions, freezing your heart in your chest. He moves towards you and the swamp parts around him, allows him to pass like he is a part of it.

“You ain’t leavin’, baby.”

His teeth are sharp.

He lunges.

You scream.

The sound gets caught in your throat like a wad of feathers and bones and you choke, twisting, coming to in your bed. In his bed. Disoriented, you gasp for breath and release the death grip you have on the sheet. Your brow is so sweat-soaked your eyes are beginning to sting. The air is dry on your skin; the blanket is gone. The lower half of your body is tingling.

His head lifts from between your thighs and he looks at you with eyebrows raised. “Easy, sugar. Ain’t done with you yet.”

“Wh…what?” You rub at your eyes, trying to shake the sensation of water closing over your face. Somewhere, some version of you is bleeding in the silt.

His tongue makes another pass and you whimper, arms shaking with the effort of holding yourself up, of treading water, of fighting the maw of a monster. “Relax, baby. Go back to sleep.”

It’s all so insurmountable, the weight of it on your chest, and you sink back into the mattress without a ripple. His mouth is wet and warm. His dark hair is disheveled and you wonder absently if he misses it, that lock you stole. The room is silent save for the sound of your drowning.

“Is it raining?” you whisper, and hate yourself for the hope behind it.

He pauses, meets your gaze over the watery surface of your body. All you can see are his eyes and you could swear, for a second, they reflect neon red. “No.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillow, let him devour you, feel a tear slip over the brim of your lashes and disappear into your hair.

The storm breaks on a Wednesday.

At first, you don’t register the rain on the roof. You don’t even take note of the thunder anymore, after weeks of torment. It’s become a fixture like the dust, like the pervasive smell of decay.

It starts slow, cautious, rolling into town like a tourist with a busted GPS. You mistake the patter for the familiar buzz of TV static even though that makes no sense, even though you’re the only one in the house, even though the TV is off in the next room. All you can hear is the rough swish of the scrub brush on the hardwood floor, coaxing flecks of blood from the gaps between the boards. It’s already beginning to reek in the heat.

You wanted to clean it up last night when it was fresh but he wouldn’t let you, strongarmed you up the stairs and pinned you to the mattress. You’d never admit it to him, to God, or to yourself—and really, is there a difference in Ambrose—but he fucks so good when he’s riled up like that, when it feels like he can’t get enough of the killing so he’s going to take it out on you, take everything you have to offer him plus a little bit more.

The cut on your palm is half-healed and hurts when you put your weight on it. There’s something about that—familiar, comfortable, not grounding, not really, but like static. Stable. Buoyant. Like the bruises on your knees. A constant that cradles you and takes you up and out of here, not too high, just above the trees.

A stair creaks behind you and you freeze like a hare in the shadow of a hawk. It could be Vincent, but he’s busy with last night’s batch. It’s not Bo.

You ease yourself up onto your knees, rock back, stand up, and creep to the foot of the stairs. They are empty. You are alone with the sense that someone has just disappeared out of sight, retreating up into the aching cranium of the house, skirt swishing.

You are never alone, not really.

It’s only then that the sound of the rain seeps into your brain, soothes the hair standing up on the back of your neck. A weight you have been holding on your shoulders since the end of July dissolves like sugar and your spine lengthens by inches. You drop the brush, forget the ghost, walk barefoot through the bloodstain on your way to fling open the front door.

It rains.

It rains even though the clouds are thin, the sun forcing its way through in places like it just can’t bear to admit defeat. It rains and pools in the potholes of the driveway that have been waiting open-mouthed to be filled. It rains and the grass and weeds release a sigh of bliss, stop begging for mercy.

You step down from the porch in a trance, palms up and open, trailing pink-tinged footprints that melt across the concrete like raspberry taffy. You walk across the lawn, scuff your feet in the grass, wonder if maybe you’re dreaming and decide you don’t care.

You sink to the ground, sprawl on your back, feel the damp soak into your clothes and your skin and it makes you whole, makes you new, makes its apologies for taking so long. You are floating, only eyes above the water, surrounded by salvinia and duckweed.

You hear his footsteps just before he calls to you. “The fuck you doin’, girl?” he shouts, but when you open your eyes, he’s losing a fight with a grin, picking his way up the slippery hill.

You sit up halfway. “It’s raining.”

“Y’don’t say.” He drops to his knees beside you, slumped with relief.

His wifebeater is splattered with blood and water but you grab it with both fists and pull him to you, catch his mouth and coax him to the ground.

“Crazy bitch,” he mutters, but he guides your hands to his belt and grips your ass with both hands as you fuss with the buckle, even rolls onto his back to ease your way and lifts his hips so you can tug down his jeans. “Right here, huh?”

“Yes.”

“In the front goddamn yard.”

“Yes!”

“It’s fuckin’ rainin’!”

“I know!”

He laughs and the heavens giftwrap it with a roll of thunder. You're giddy, beaming at him, and he traces your smile with the pad of his finger and something akin to admiration.

You're brand-new, him too, and both of you together. Like it's the first time, a better first, another universe. His hands are on your thighs and his shirt rides up above his stomach. Water drips off your nose and onto his lips and he licks it off like it might save him and maybe it just might. Maybe it’ll save you both.

Exhausted, exalted, you wash the sweat and grime off each other with filthy hands and thirsty mouths. You wrap your fingers around his bare shoulders and ride him with your eyes open and your breath hot on your lips. It’s a fever breaking, the panting, the shaking.

The locket taps against your chest, the lock of his hair tucked inside it. He cups your face, slips his thumb in your mouth, and there’s blood beneath his fingernail. You suck it clean with greed and obedience, savor it, turn your face to the sky and let the crocodile tears run down your cheeks.

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and you bask in the rare and wondrous glow of his approval.

You come apart in splashes like raindrops, small, staccato swells in your core while he kisses the rain off your skin. His hands find the bruises they’ve left on your hips and squeeze and it’s all you could ever ask for, to be held. To be hurt. To be his.

Maybe it’s not so bad, you think. Sometimes. It’s not so bad.

“Y'know, girl, maybe you're right,” he says. "Just this once."

You’re confused until you realize you’ve spoken out loud. You look down at him, cold skin, wet curls, a smudge on his jaw that could be mud or blood, his or yours or someone else’s. He looks back like he sees you.

“You love me?” you ask him before you can think better of it. Before the rain stops.

The corner of his mouth twitches. His gaze slides past you, goes somewhere else, above the sea of trees. The sky is in his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You don’t smile, don’t sigh, just push the hair off his brow and sink slow and gentle beneath the surface and into the green, not a ripple made in your wake.

“Good.”

#this really truly took it out of me #vignette-style writing like this is SO HARD for me idk why #but i wanted so many moments of normal life in hell and i wanted them all #he's probably so ooc god but it's fine it's fine #we're so back #bo sinclair #bo sinclair fanfiction #bo sinclair x reader #slasher x reader #house of wax fanfiction

353 notes · View notes

dimorphodon-x · 7 months

Text

“There are extra cubes for Nova in the fridge and a few hard metal treats in the cupboard,” Thunderclash recounted everything, “but, are you sure-?”

“Don’t worry, Thunders,” Starhawk smiled and reached for his larger, blockier hand. The large bot slightly jumped at the surprisingly solid grip, “I’ve gotten better at interacting with physical objects. I can take care of Novabird if he needs anything.”

A small squeak escaped Thunderclash as the ghost reached up and gave the brim of his helm a quick cold kiss, “you go out and have a nice date with Roddy, ok?”

“Uh-uh huh,” Thunderclash dumbly nodded and stepped back towards the door, “t-take care.”

“Have fun,” Hawk waved the large mech off, watching him leave with the smaller flame colored mech.

Now alone, the ghostly flier went to check on the sparkling. Novabird was still sleeping, and hopefully would for a few hours. Though at the same time, Hawk wished he could play with his son now that it was just the two of them. Nova couldn’t see him, but the way the little guy laughed and squealed in delight as his toys seemingly flew over his head brought the phantom much joy.

Though playtime with Nova was often short as Rodimus would quickly investigate what all the commotion was, and Starhawk would have to hurriedly put the toys back down before he opened the door.

Oh well, there was other stuff a ghost could do to pass the time. Like a bit of tidying up.

He couldn’t do any deep cleaning of course, that would be too conspicuous. Instead Hawk went about doing small tasks, like straightening pictures, or picking up small bits of unnoticed garbage and tossing them into the bin.

Such small chores were quickly finished and Starhawk went to sit on the couch in the living room. Thunderclash had left a datapad on one of the arms for Starhawk to read through to pass the time.

The ghostly jet was about half an hour into his reading when a sound caught his attention. Small rattling and then a door being forced open a few moments after.

Someone was breaking in.

Immediately Starhawk rushed to investigate. Walls were no obstacle as he just phased through them to get to Rodimus and Thunderclash’s bedroom. The window had been opened and the intruder (or even intruders) entered the home from there. He could hear them going through some of the items in the hallway closet.

Panic setting in, Hawk rushed for Novabird’s room. There were two intruders. He didn’t recognize them, but that didn’t matter. They were making their way to the sparkling’s room.

“Frag, frag!” Hawk hissed. Nova’s door didn’t have a lock and he couldn’t yet pick up heavy items like shelves to block it. He looked at the sleeping sparkling in the crib. He doubted he could pick him up to move him to a safe hiding spot, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

The phantom’s fingers curled under Novabird, slightly lifting him up. Nova’s face scrunched up at the cold hands trying to pick him up and grunted unhappily.

“Shh shh! Stay quiet little Nova,” Hawk pleaded. His fingers were starting to phase through the little body, “oh please oh please oh please-!”

“Oh, what do we have here?”

No!

Starhawk gasped as his fingers gave, and Novabird plopped back into his cushioned crib. The short drop startled the sparkling awake and he shrieked. The two intruders hissed at the sudden cry.

“Uhg, noisy little thing,” the shorter of them snarled, rubbing at their audial. Their partner merely hummed and approached the crib. Starhawk instinctively shielded his crying son with his frame, yet the stranger could not see him.

“Go away, go away!”

“This is Rodimus’ kid, right?” Hawk gagged as a hand went right through his head as the stranger held a digit out to the sparkling. Novabird grabbed the intruder’s finger, still crying but starting to calm down.

“Yeah. What of it?” Short One joined their partner next to the crib, but kept their hands on their hips, “nasty little vermin.”

Starhawk growled at the comment and tried to swat the other mech’s hand away from his son.

“Rodimus is a Prime, right?” Creepy One smiled down at Novabird, wiggling their captured finger, “and Primes have money, right?”

“I guess. Thunderclash at least has money. I think.”

Starhawk did not like where this seemed to be going.

“And I’m sure little guy’s parents love him lots,” Creepy’s smile widened, “enough to pay lots of money to get their bundle of joy back home safe and sound.”

Shorty’s eyes widened and their grin mirrored Creepy’s, “oh, I gotcha. Much easier than stealing junk.”

Hawk’s vision went red.

“Do noT TOUCH HIM!”

The duo recoiled in surprise, and Novabird screamed again.

“What was that?” Shorty looked around, “you heard that too, right?”

“I didn’t hear it,” Creepy frowned, “but I felt something.”

The phantom lunged at Creepy, talons extended as he slashed at the mech’s chest. The intruder yelped as lines appeared in his paint.

“GET OUT!” Hawk snarled, Shorty shrinking back at his voice.

“Who’s there?” They whimpered pathetically, looking around, “show yourself!”

Creepy jumped forward and scooped Novabird up from his crib, holding the screaming sparkling up, “don’t try anything stupid, or the kid gets it!”

The room shook with a furious growl and the shadows seemed to grow larger and darker, crawling towards the intruders. In the darkness, they could just make out the shape of a mangled jet, and a pair of yellow eyes glaring at them.

Novabird shrieked as he squirmed in the stranger’s rough hands, trying to pry their fingers off of him.

“PUT HIM BACK.”

“Who… what are you?” Shorty hid behind their larger partner. The figure grew more distorted as the room again trembled with the phantom’s rage. The two backed towards the door anxiously.

“PUT. HIM. BACK.”

A black hand shot out and shut the door before the two could escape. Shorty wailed and all but collapsed to their knees in fear, while Creepy barred their teeth and stood defiantly.

“It’s a demon!” They hissed, eyes wide. They held Novabird up like a shield, “a messenger of Unicron!”

“I’ll show you demon,” Hawk snarled, broad wings flaring and engulfing the room completely in his rage.

Creepy was unable to see anything, not even the sparkling they were holding right in front of them. It felt like cold hands snatched the child away, and they could hear Shorty screaming and crying and begging for mercy.

“This isn’t real,” they whispered, “you can’t hurt us, you’re not real!”

“Not real?”

Moonlight returned to the room and the black figure was standing at the crib, the sparkling tucked in and sleeping soundly, despite having been crying only a moment ago.

Creepy glanced at their cowering partner, then to the phantom, their spark pounding behind their scratched chest plates.

“Not real?” The phantom repeated, eyes narrowing, “you’re stupid.”

The intruder frowned, stepping back, though their heel hit the wall.

Hawk stepped around Nova’s crib, his frame solid yet flowy like fire as he approached Creepy, “enough of my spark wants to stay behind to guard my family from the likes of you vermin. I’ve picked up a few tricks here and there, but there’s one thing I really want to test out on you tonight.”

“What?” Creepy pressed themself against the wall as cold hands grabbed his shoulders, “what are you-?”

“I’m experimenting,” Starhawk smiled as his frame dissipated, almost appearing to sink into Creepy’s chassis.

Shorty hesitantly lowered their arms and looked up at their partner, seeing their frame seize up and their eyes go white.

“H-hey. What’s wrong?”

Creepy blinked, their eyes dimming to yellow, and turned to look down at the cowering mech.

“Nothing is wrong,” they smiled, seeming oddly pleased with themself, “I’m just glad this worked.”

“What are you talking about? Hey!” Shorty yelped as Creepy grabbed their arm and yanked them up, restraining them in a tight hug, “what are you doing??”

“I’m going to make sure you both pay for this,” Hawk hissed, “I can’t believe you two, breaking into someone’s home and plotting to kidnap their child? Barbaric.”

“Y-you’re-?”

“Roddy’s late husband,” the possessed mech smiled as they exited the baby’s room and made their way to the living room, “and that sparkling is my son.”

Shorty let out a strained whine as Creepy sat down on the couch with them still in their arms, “this is crazy. What are you gonna do to us?”

“Call my boyfriend,” Hawk answered simply.

Shorty made a face.

“Thunderclash,” the phantom clarified, then went silent as he seemingly made his call.

…

Thunderclash and Rodimus burst frantically into their home, but froze as soon as they saw the pair of intruders seated on their couch. The larger was stiff as a board, one arm wrapped around the other mech, and the other hand clasped over their mouth to keep them quiet.

“I… what is this?” Rodimus looked up at Thunderclash, who merely shrugged.

“Go check on Novabird, Rodimus. I can take care of these two.”

The speedster didn’t need to be told twice as he ran for Nova’s room. Thunderclash cautiously approached the couch, eying the strangers warily.

“…Starhawk?”

He nearly jumped when the bigger mech turned their head to look at him, and smiled.

“Hey Thunders. How was the date?”

“It… was fine. Until I got the call.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves. Shame these two idiots had to cut it short,” Starhawk frowned and glared at the trembling mech in his arms, “now, could you please restrain them? I’m actually really fraggin tired and it’s getting harder to move in this body. It’s also really gross in here and I want out.”

“Oh! Of course!” Thunderclash hurried to grab some tape and rope from the supply closet and was able to quickly tie up the intruders' wrists and ankles, freeing the phantom from having to possess one of them and then calling the police to arrest them.

It didn’t take long for the cops to show up and take the trembling pair away. The short one kept on blabbering on about something regarding shadows and spirits, but no one was paying any attention. Certainly not Thunderclash anyway.

With the thieves turned almost kidnappers taken care of, Thunderclash was able to join Rodimus in Novabird’s room. The speedframe had scooped the bitty out of his crib and was pacing back and forth, holding him close to his chest and muttering to the confused and sleepy sparkling. Thunderclash frowned as he watched Rodimus fret and carefully approached.

“How’s Nova?”

Rodimus stopped his pacing and swallowed. His voice cracked as he responded, “he’s okay. He’s unharmed.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Thunderclash sighed as he stepped closer. Rodimus shuddered and all but collapsed into the larger mech’s arm, “whoa!”

“We could’ve lost him, Thunders!” He gasped, “those bastards could’ve taken him away and we’d never see him again!”

Thunderclash hugged the smaller mech closer, glancing down at Novabird. The little bitty was staring back up at him with large blue eyes, confused and curious. The thought of returning to an empty crib made his lines run cold, “but he’s here, Rodimus. He’s here and he’s safe and no one will ever harm him.”

“We never should’ve left him alone,” Rodimus buried his face against Thunder’s neck, “never again, never never never…”

Thunderclash opened his mouth. He wanted to tell him that Nova hadn’t been left alone, that he was being guarded at all times. He caught sight of Hawk’s ghost, watching them from the other end of the room. His figure was faded and most of his features looked half remembered.

“I don’t think he’d believe you,” Starhawk’s wings drooped as he shook his head, “and it might only hurt him to know anyway.”

Thunderclash shut his mouth with a frown. Alright. Maybe another time then.

#spooky month so have this thing that I’ve had sitting in my docs for literally a year💀#my art #fanfic #transformers #transformers oc #starhawk #Novabird #thunderclash #rodimus #rodiclash #thunderhawk #sparklings #spector au

322 notes · View notes

saintmurd0ck · 10 months

Text

all up in smoke

masterlist

pairing: frank castle x f!reader

summary: based on the prompt: 'sit on my lap and let's smoke a joint'

warnings: alcohol, weed (rolling a joint, smoking, shotgunning), frank being a cute little whore, heavy petting/teasing but no sex, high epiphanies (mostly fluff!)

a/n: happy late birthday to the ever lovely @chelseasdagger , this one is for you babeyyyyy 💗

Home is a solace on your lips as you step inside, your keys joining the others in the bowl by the front door. Despite the events of your day, still fresh in your mind, you feel the knotted tension in your body begin to dissipate, the pressure easing in your temples. The few lights that have been left on are dimmed, filling the house with the kind of ambient coziness you’ve been longing for all day.

You round the corner, and there he is on the couch: feet kicked up on the coffee table, immersed in a hardcover book you swore he’d never touch. A pang of emotion stirs in your stomach — a cross between yearning and consolation; something you just can’t place, but are grateful for nevertheless.

“Hi, Frankie,” you smile, drawing the curtains open, letting the cool night air filter into the living room.

He lifts an eyebrow, glancing up at you from behind the book. “Hey, sweetheart. Long day?”

You stretch your arms over your head, nevermind that his voice stirs something in you, and set your bag up on the kitchen counter. “Mmhm. Glad to be home.”

Frank leans forwards, fingers closing around the drink he’s left on the coffee table. His eyes flick to yours as he takes a sip, caring not to break contact, before jerking his chin at the bottle of scotch next to your bag. “You want some of that?”

He points at you, clicking his tongue as you move to pick the bottle up. “Don’t move. Stay right there.” Setting his book aside, the pages splayed face-down onto the table, he makes his way over, utterly impervious to your flurried attempts in getting him to remain where he is.

“D’ya really think I’d let you pour your own drink?” Frank says, looking affronted, but a furtive smile spreads along his face as you shake your head.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let me take care of ‘ya,” he adds, delicately.

Carting you gently to the side, he digs around in the freezer, reaching for a couple of ice cubes that clink mellifluously in the glass. You watch intently as they bob in line with the whiskey streaming in, and then as he inspects the amber liquid closely, as if to examine its quality.

When he’s satisfied, he turns to you, and raises the rim of the glass to your mouth. “Here,” Frank murmurs, condensation collecting around his fingertips. “Drink up.”

You shudder as the whiskey cascades hotly through your veins — each note of pepper, caramel and nutmeg lingering on the surface of your tongue like molten honey. You swallow another mouthful before pushing the glass away, not taking your eyes off of him for a second as he sets it down.

Frank runs his tongue over his teeth, raking his eyes across your face. He focuses on a stray drop of whiskey at the corner of your mouth, using a knuckle to brush it away. Your heart thunders at his calloused touch; as he pauses to swipe his broad thumb over your bottom lip. There’s a faint throbbing within you — a wild drumbeat steering you towards nothing but desire — so you flick your tongue out, circling his fingertip, relishing in his taste of salt, earth and whiskey.

He lets out a soft groan, mumbling something that sounds like your name; maybe even a plea to slow down. You’re attentive, knowing he doesn’t want this night over yet, that he wants to wait before taking you to bed.

It’s a good thing then, that you have something planned.

You inch forwards, swallowing as Frank’s hand sweeps over the contours of your face, coming to rest at a spot near your ear. He tips your chin upwards, letting his ragged breathing fan over you. He stalls, allowing his dark eyes to bore into yours, and for a moment you forget where you are, the stressors of the day long gone.

All you know is him.

His beard prickles your skin as he captures your mouth with his own, but you lean into the kiss, savouring his ardent warmth. He moves with you, deepening the kiss as you slide a hand into his hair, curling your fingers at the nape. Your thighs squeeze together as he pivots you around, pushing you against the counter while his tongue melts against yours. Using his leg to knock your knees apart, you arch into his touch, gasping as the bulge in his jeans settles where you need him the most.

You won’t be able to stop if you don’t pull away now.

“Frank,” you whisper. “Frank.”

He looks at you, placing a small kiss to your jaw. “Mm?”

“Before… uh,” you start, lightheaded and fuzzy, unable to comprehend anything but the heady weight of the whiskey and the ache between your legs. “I've got something for us. A little surprise. And I think,” you indicate, wagging a finger from him to you, “we should save this for later.”

He arches his eyebrows, smiling inquisitively. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

You step aside to rummage through your bag, taking only a few seconds for you to find what it is you’re looking for. You hold up a clear plastic container, giving it a little shake in front of Frank’s face. His eyes widen in comprehension.

“God, I love you.”

“Hey,” you smirk, “not God. Just me.”

He chokes on his own laughter, draining the last of your whiskey. “You got it, sweet girl.”

You bite down on your growing smile. “Anyway, I was thinking the plan could go something like… get a little high, have some fun. You know what I mean, right?”

“S’that right?”

“We both deserve it.”

“You need some help with that?” he asks, pointing at the rolling papers you’ve set down on the counter.

“Nope. Walk away.”

You’re an image of rapt focus with your tongue between your teeth, cautiously grinding the weed before packing it into the rolling paper. You slip a filter on one end of the joint, and using your thumb and forefingers, you roll it into place. Bringing the free edge of rolling paper up to your mouth, you skirt your tongue along the narrow strip of glue, quickly moving to seal the joint.

You shoot Frank a resolute look of determination. “Not bad, huh?”

He folds his arms over his chest, leaning back into the couch. Almost hidden in the tangle of his beard, the corners of his mouth tick upwards. You can’t quite tell if he’s astonished, impressed, or a mixture of everything in between, but the expression on his face is a priceless ego boost. “Attagirl.”

“Mmhm,” you reply drily, admiring your handiwork from up close.

“Baby?” Frank calls, breaking your tethered focus. A glimmer of a smile in your periphery catches your eye.

“Yeah?”

There’s a sound of rustling fabric as Frank spreads his legs, motioning you over to him by patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

Your gaze softens at his request. “That sounds good, Frankie. Let me grab my lighter.”

“Got it right here,” Frank chuckles, holding it up and thumbing it open.

Twirling the joint in your fingers, you meander over to his spot on the couch, watching the tiny orange flame dance in his eyes as he holds down the lighter button.

He’s a solid comfort under you as you sit down on his lap, shuffling back until the side of your body is angled to his chest, using the armrest as additional support. His scent is a blissful, pacifying force – distilling in you where it matters.

Frank wrests the joint from your grip, assiduous in the way he places it between your lips, then as he lights it for you. The lit end glows as the papered edges begin to burn, flickering in its reflection in the window ahead. You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your mouth before inhaling it into your lungs. Maybe it’s in your head, but your body feels lighter already; even more so as you exhale.

The grey-tinged smoke remains opaque for only a second, vanishing into the air as soon as you pass the joint to Frank. You breathe out again, more deeply this time, allowing the grassy, herbal scent of the weed wash over you in waves of tranquil calm.

You cock your head to the side, studying the normally terse man before you leisurely smoking the joint, taking two drags instead of one. Gratitude forms a lump in your throat — nights like these are rare, and to see him so carefree, his mind unoccupied by the workings of the larger world, is a luxury you’ll never get tired of.

After tapping the gathering ashes into his empty whiskey glass, Frank hands the joint back to you, closing his eyes while he waits for your next pass. As the weed-induced euphoria starts to take effect, you wrench one of Frank’s hands from its spot on your thigh, interlacing your fingers together. You take your time in mapping his knuckles, tracing over every crease, scar and perfect imperfection.

You tap on Frank’s shoulder, wanting him as a credible witness for a successful smoke ring, but like all your past attempts, it morphs back into a cloud, hanging there in contempt.

He laughs softly, putting you right to shame with a series of flawless rings that fall forwards in an arc towards the coffee table.

You giggle, jabbing him in the chest with an expertly-placed elbow. “Don’t get too cocky now, Castle.”

His mouth quirks to the side. “Yeah? What are you gonna do, hm?”

“I’ll…” you search around the room for something to say. “I’ll withhold sex!”

He gasps, feigning an expression of outrageous offense. “That’s cruel, darlin’.”

Laughing, you reassure him you wouldn’t, really, but he takes the opportunity to soar through the cracks of your defense, hauling you backwards until his face is flush with the shell of your ear. “Really think you could resist it? Not havin' sex?”

The retorts crumble away as he tells you to ‘open up, sweetheart’, lifting the joint back to his lips. He breathes in deeply, turning his head to then exhale the smoke into your parted mouth. Your eyes roll back as he seals it with a kiss, and it catches you a little by surprise, but you run with it, inhaling as much as you can.

Not quite ready to let go of your earlier comments, Frank does it again, shotgunning into your mouth until you're left with nothing but a dreamy expression and no thoughts left in your mind.

You let out a contented sigh as the weed goes to your head, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where his beard scratched your lip.

Eyes drooping, Frank wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you as close as he can, trailing kisses along your shoulder blades, down your arm, whispering sweet nothings and notes of ‘I love you’ until you slacken in his grip. You touch your lips to his forehead, now resting in the crook of your neck, his steady breathing keeping you anchored to your reality.

The next hour passes by in a haze — you’re mildly aware that there was another joint rolled in that time, courtesy of Frank, probably, but your memory retains the best parts: the giddy, high epiphanies, the smoke-filled kisses, the long-drawn-out touches… the fact that his skin has never felt so soft.

Exceptionally and utterly stoned, you move, draping your legs over his lap, clinging onto his neck so you can bury your face in his shirt – so spaced out that you barely register him talking.

“...Who the fuck is “Drake” anyway?”

“What?!” you sputter, snickering as if it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. “He’s a rapper, Frankie.”

“He’s off limits, so don’t even try” — you stumble over your words — “enacting your justice or… whatever.”

Frank frowns at you, pressing his lips into a thin line.

And then he bursts into laughter. Unequivocal, heaving sobs of hysterical laughter. And it might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever heard.

“Enacting my justice? That what you think it is?” he howls, bringing his fist down onto the couch. “You really think I’ve got nothin’ better to do than hunt down rappers?!”

“A little bit,” you sniffle, wiping away the tears of joy streaming down your face. “You know who’d love this conversation?”

He shakes his head as you continue. “Micro.”

“Micro,” he nods, affirming your point. “Bet he’d know more about “Drake” than me.”

You chortle at his aggressive hand gestures. “You don’t need air-quotations every time you say Drake, you know.”

He waves a hand in the air. “Ahh, I know.”

“Frank Castle,” you say, kissing his cheek once, then twice, “I think this is the wisest you’ve ever been.”

“Oh, c’mon. Really?”

You gesture at the stub of your second joint, floating in the bottom of his whiskey glass. “Yep. You might have to do this more.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

“Better me than what’s out there. Right, Frank?” you croon, batting your eyes at him.

“S’right, darlin’. That’s right.”

tags {x} @darlingshane @castlesnchurches @reborn-rekall @marvelswh0re @itwasthereaminuteago @simple-lovebot @chvoswxtch @pedrito-friskito @chellestrash @theradioactivespidergwen @twilightbarnes @splendiferous-bitch @bl4ckpr1ncess @kaybeeboop @kdogreads @swearwolf13 @rqgnarok @qu1etwolf @honeyedheartss @runa-falls @whistle1whistle @awkwardalie

#frank castle x reader #frank castle #frank castle smut #frank castle fluff #frank castle fanfic #the punisher #the punisher x reader #the punisher fanfic #frank castle fanfiction #x reader #rhi writes 💻#tw weed #cw drugs

820 notes · View notes

superficialdomina · 5 months

Text

Awful things

Summary: A short alternate read on the "Terrible, awful things" moment in S2. GN reader.

Word count: 940

Warnings? Lots of Loki angst, implications of past trauma/pain. Spoilers for S2 I guess? No smut in this one (explicit or implied).

Note: I know this won't be for everyone, but I just wanted to give him this.

Lean hands gripped the controller, knuckles white.

Loki’s voice was even, despite the rising breathlessness. “I’ve done some terrible, awful things.”

X-5 gasped as the cube compressed, but Loki barely registered him over the ringing in his ears. The prisoner spoke again; Loki couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t need to.

“Please tell me the truth.” There was a pain in Loki’s chest, a tightness constricting in parallel with the light cage in front of him. Hide it, his inner voice whispered. Be what they expect you to be. He pasted a carefully crafted sneer over his face.

“Well, if none of this is real, I guess you aren’t either.” The light behind his eyes was blinding, but it was almost over…

And then it was. Mobius was striding into the room; they had their answer. “Let’s go, Zaniac.” As Mobius and B-15 led X-5 from the room, Loki felt the familiar rush of blood thundering through his head. Sucking in breath, he sank to the floor.

***

Booted footsteps echoed as you negotiated the TVA corridors, dim lights bringing a familiar ache to your searching eyes. He must be here. Somewhere.

Another corner, another empty interrogation room – no, not empty. There, slumped against the wall. A pile of a man in a crumpled jacket.

Not a man, you heard his voice in your mind.

You dropped to one knee, facing him.

“Loki, it’s me,” you murmured, “It’s OK. I’ve got you.” You reached out and took his hands, which were surprisingly cold. He raised his eyes, and you gave a sharp inhale; they were red with grief.

His hands shook as your fingers traced their thick veins, gripped his palms, helped him to stand. It was alarming, seeing him like this - his strength, his swagger, vanished. “I’ve got you,” you murmured again, and he took you at your word, letting his not insignificant weight fall against you as you half-led, half-carried him back through the maze of hallways.

At last, the door to your simple TVA living quarters closed behind you. Together you sank to the floor, his back to your chest, you supported by the bare, beige wall. You circled your arms around him, pulling him flush against you. And you waited.

Slowly, his breathing steadied; his trembling abated.

“What happened, Loki?” you whispered gently. “Tell me what happened in there?”

Loki slowly turned his head, resting his cheek against you. His eyes were closed as you soothingly carded your fingers through his inky hair. “X-5,” he muttered. “We – I – tortured…” Pain briefly twisted his beautiful features. “We interrogated him. It was… cruel.” He shuddered again.

You pressed the flat of your palms into his broad, solid chest. If I want it enough, can I be his armour? “You hurt him?” you ask quietly.

Disgust crossed his face again. “No,” he spat. “Not pain. Not really. But he… He was afraid. Terrified.”

You bit your lip in confusion. “Loki, I… I don’t understand. You didn’t hurt him? But that’s… That’s good, isn’t it?”

Loki opened his eyes, but he was staring at nothing. “He… believed… No, he knew I would hurt him.” He swallowed. “I watched a seal, once, being hunted by a pod of orcas. It was trapped on a shelf of ice, surrounded by predators. Nowhere to run. Nothing to think or feel but absolute, abject, terror. I saw that terror in X-5’s face. I smelled it. The fear of someone who knew he was going to die.”

It was your turn to shudder.

“Your reputation precedes you,” you said gently, understanding. You’d seen the footage. I don’t enjoy hurting people. It was necessary… for the illusion…

“Indeed,” he replied bitterly. “What’s that expression you’re so fond of? ‘Living down to their expectations’?”

“Loki, you didn’t hurt him.” You lifted his chin so that he met your eyes. “You could have. You didn’t.”

“I have done,” he began, “terrible, awful things -”

“Loki, stop.” You let a hint of steel through, a desperate attempt to reach him. “You’re spiralling.”

There was a pause as several breaths trembled through him. Considering at length all that he had done, all he had lost. What it had cost. When he did speak again, it was gut-wrenchingly quiet.

“I’m not – I don’t want to be – that man. Anymore.”

Nodding, you closed your eyes. “You choose your path, Loki, and I will walk it with you as long as I can.”

You’re not sure how long you sat like that; the two of you, pressed together, as if you could hold him long enough that all the pain of his eons-long life would bleed away. As if you could be the chrysalis he needed. You knew it would pass; Loki felt things fiercely, but eventually this, too, would be packaged up and added to the growing shadow he carried. As you sat, quietly listening to Loki’s breath become even, you thought about the other times he had come to you like this, twisted in self-curated torture at an act, a memory. It hurt, to watch him hurting. But you also realized what a deep privilege it was. What an honour, that he let you see him like this; bared, broken, exposed.

Eventually, Loki pushed himself to seated, and turned to face you.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, his nose grazing your cheek.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes… I will be.” He stood, straightened, sweeping errant locks from his flushed face, shaking himself free of the residual cortisol like a cat after a fright. He offered his hand, and pulled you to standing.

“Dinner?”

“Italian?”

“Divine, my love.”

This is outside my usual content so I'm not even sure if I should tag you guys, but here we go: @lokisgoodgirl @infinitystoner @muddyorbsblr @divine-knight-hand @acidcasualties @lokischambermaid @so-easy-to-love-me @sarahscribbles

#Loki fic #loki angst #loki spoilers #loki x reader #loki x gn reader

162 notes · View notes

assortedvillainvault · 5 months

Note

I said I was gonna request you, and i'm finally here. Can I request more fluff Headcanons for Facilier, Headless horseman and Horned king?? 🥺 Thank uuu 💫💫 hope you're doing amazing btw <3

BUBBLY i'm so so sorry for the wait on this, I've done nothing but rotate this ask in my head for 12 months, please enjoy-!

FLUFF HEADCANNONS

Dr Faciler:

- This MAN-

- Smooooooth as butter in a slow warmed skillet in summer.

- He’s an elegant chaperone draped in shadow, a hand in the darkness, a gentlemanly escort through the city streets, he’s basically able to hear you through every dark nook and cranny in New Orleans and assistance for anything is only the bat of an eyelash at a dark alley away.

- There’s. There’s so many petnames. The way he purrs ‘Darlin’’ feels like some kind of sin.

- You better believe half of New Orleans owes him a favour or two, so when he decides to take you out on the town, you’re getting nothing but the best service. It may not be the kind of highfalootin’ places he feels you deserve, but hidden in alleyways and in cellars lives New Orleans most raucous, lively, swingin’ nightlife and you’ll both be dancing till your feet fall off.

- Even as you both go for a pleasant walk around town, his ceaseless fingers are dipping into pockets and swiping passersby to get you something nice.

- While you’ve grown used to the sensation of being watched from the darkness, Facilier started taking pains to steer you away from where the city borders the bayou after you told him you felt watched there too.

- Mama Odie has her ways of keeping tabs on you both – and the horrified look on Facilier’s face when she hollered across the river “Stand up straight!” and “Y/N better be eatin’ right!” and “I better see some grandbabies!” (regardless of gender, she has her ways) was priceless.

Headless Horseman:

- Though he can vocalise, it often hurts, so when you appeared with a book on sign language he couldn’t help but sweep you up into a tight embrace.

- You’ve gotten familiar with the signs for ‘hello’ and ‘come here’ and ‘I love you’, the last being something he takes great pride in making you blush with.

- If you don’t know how to ride, he’ll teach you, though you know for a fact his horse Alpatraum only tolerates it because the Horseman is there to supervise. You’re getting thrown otherwise.

- (since learning said horse has a severe weakness for sugar cubes you’ve been graduated from ‘annoyance’ to ‘my annoyance with snacks’. He’ll let you pet him eventually, don’t worry.)

- If you have your own horse, it’s romantic nighttime rides through the woods as far as the eye can see. But HH's favourite is when you smirk and dare him to catch you, taking off at a gallop and laughing as he races in pursuit, the horses hooves like thunder as he gives chase.

- He loves it when you get chilly, because it means he can wrap you up in his cloak and snuggle in the saddle.

- Lowkey loves it when you carve him new faces/heads for halloween, though does have a slight caveat that you please keep the design somewhat frightening. If he’s left with the hello kitty pumpkin again yes he’ll begrudgingly wear it because you worked hard on it but you’re getting stuck up a tree as penance.

The Horned King

- Tf do you mean fluff he’s cold he’s hard he’s ragged he is terror he is death whispered on the wind-

-If you kiss his hand he nearly pitches over.

- The longer you’re in his company, the more you can observe his mocking use of endearments become ever so slowly more sincere, until only he is allowed to call you sweet things – which becomes a rule enforced with ruthless efficiency in his castle.

-He enjoys walking and talking with you, which is good because you’re the only person on the goddamn planet that can convince this lich to leave his depression hole of a private tower and get him to experience a change of scenery. Even just around the parapets would be enough, and then he gets to offer you his arm for the uneven ground and have you lean on him and oh, yes absolutely dear we can make this a daily occurrence-

- His major love language is quality time – simply being in your presence is enough to soothe the hard edges of any day. His favourite thing is just the two of you existing in the same space, quietly doing your own thing, and maybe settling in for some idle handholding just to make things Perfect.

- As a sidenote – you know the thing? With the gentle handholding and the little thumb-stroke over the back of the hand? Yeah. Yeah. That.

- Because he struggles with actually directly verbalising soft feelings (he’s allergic to announcing he’s secretly made of bone shaped mush), he’s come up with the genius coping mechanism of ‘Acts of Service – gaslighting edition’.

- Example:

- “...Sire did you order the men to renovate my room??”

- “The castle requires upkeep, my dear.”

- “...but the renovations seem to comprise of. Just my room.”

- “...Perhaps once the men and Creeper prove themselves deserving of leakproof roofs and sufficient insulation I will order their quarters improved also. Now hush.”

Once again Bubbly I'm so sorry for the wait, I hope you like these little bits!!

#thalassa responds #disney villains #x reader #disney villains x reader #the horned king #dr facilier #the headless horseman #fluff fluff fluffity fluff

121 notes · View notes

sserpente · 1 year

Photo

A/N: Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! ♥ Requests from @incurablyromanticsblog and six (!) anons. I had so many super short requests that wouldn’t have made a whole story on their own, so now… here we have a spicy-President!Loki-Bonnie-and-Clyde-like-but-somehow-also-fluffy-Valentine’s-story! Enjoy, everyone!

Words: 4768 Warnings: succubus!Reader, smut, fluff, violence, poison, imprisonment, blood, starvation

Moaning in a satisfied manner, you rolled over, letting the warm morning sunlight warm your naked skin. The sheets shifted a little during your movement, revealing your bare back to the barely awake God of Mischief resting next to you on the enormous king-size bed his magic had conjured up.

You shivered when his long digits ghosted over your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Good morning, pet,” he purred, his mischievous smirk speeding up your heartbeat in an instant.

“Morning…”

“Are you hungry?” His left eyebrow rose a little, daring you to an answer. You smiled, your eyes falling back shut.

“I’m good, actually. Not many men keep me up all night, you see.”

Loki chuckled. “There are no men like me, I can assure you.”

You had been fucking like wild animals for the past few weeks now. The sexual tension had been growing ever since you two met and when the God of Mischief found out you were a succubus… he offered you to feed on him in exchange for pleasure. He was different from the other men—the men back home who didn’t treat you like more than a body to have sex with because you needed it to survive anyway—no. Loki saw you. He saw your desires, saw your will and your persistence to survive after you had confessed your life story to him.

That you had fled your home to not be married off into a harem. To not serve incubi and their mortals men-slaves as warm a warm body to keep their cocks warm. Loki must have been sent to you by fate. When he told you about the Tesseract—an ancient artefact powerful enough to send you to different dimensions—you were intrigued and he had proposed a deal.

Help him, become his ally, and in return, he would ensure the blue cube would send you wherever you wished. You scoffed into the soft pillow. When you’re on the run, it was easier to flee to another dimension altogether. They wouldn’t search for you or find you there.

There wasn’t much you knew about Loki aside from the fact he was an Asgardian God and a Frost Giant by birth. You had learned quickly enough his adoptive father had neglected him and that his brother, Thor, was irritable enough for him to curse his very existence even though part of him loved the God of Thunder.

Having sex with him started out as a means to an end—to help with the constant sexual itch lingering between you two, a distraction as you raided Midgard for the Tesseract like a modern Bonnie and Clyde, leaving nothing but chaos and havoc behind. But then, one innocent morning, when he had still been asleep peacefully and you’d watched his relaxed features, stroking his gorgeous cheekbones… you realised you had fallen for him. Loki was an outsider much like you. He was mischievous, intelligent and oh, he could be so deliciously evil if things didn’t go his way.

Just now, you had lied to him. You were hungry again already. But if you fed on him now, a quick fuck would likely turn into Loki chaining you to the bed and having his way with you until you could all but whimper his name, over and over again. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You had work to do. The Tesseract had last been located in a government facility here in New York—a place Loki was only too keen on keeping away from even though he had no intention of letting you know why.

“I will get dressed and head down to the facility, lurk about and spy a little. I’m sure I’ll find a security hole within an hour.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. We need the cube sooner rather than later.”

Loki frowned, propping himself up on his elbows when you stood. Stark naked, you tiptoed through the room in search of your clothes that were scattered all over the floor thanks to your uncontrolled passion last night.

You resisted the urge to jump back into bed and lick every single inch of his godly body. His naked upper body looked gorgeous in the sunlight shining through the open windows. You hadn’t bothered closing the curtains yesterday.

“You have barely slept, pet. It will take time to retrieve the Tesseract. You don’t know the Avengers like I do. They will do everything in their power to keep the cube out of harm’s way.”

“Why? What do they want with it?”

“Nothing, except for an undying power source for electricity and weapons. They have no interest in travelling through dimensions, even though I would argue SHIELD does indeed.”

“The Avengers… SHIELD… you speak in riddles, Loki.”

The God of Mischief smirked. “That shall be a story for another time.”

“You say that a lot, you know.”

Humming, he stood, revealing a delicious view of his behind before eventually turning around to face you again. You licked your lips, your eyes automatically travelling down to his length which had been inside of you only a few hours before.

“You need rest, pet. You will be of no help to me if you drop unconscious out of exhaustion sooner or later.”

“I’m fine, Loki. I’m not human either, remember?”

The God of Mischief lifted his chin, his hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. Your eyes fluttered shut. You did love his gentle touches. In fact, now that you thought about it, Loki’s hands were on you constantly. It wasn’t just the body parts men usually found sexually attractive, though you had little grounds to complain about his palms exploring your breasts, buttocks and pussy whenever he got the chance. Sometimes, Loki’s knuckles brushed over your forearm, other times, he would rest his face on your bare stomach after a long day of causing just enough mischief for the guards and SHIELD agents to remain distracted and stressed. It was almost like… like he was touch-starved.

You had seen this god murder men who stood in his way, had seen him drive another insane with wit and manipulation but with you… with you he was as soft as the light touch of a feather sailing to the ground.

Standing on your toes, you brought your palms against his well-defined chest and kissed him hungrily. Your senses awakened as soon as you initiated the act of intimacy, your body more than ready to feed on the sexual energy seething inside of him.

No time, not now. You could still fuck him senseless tonight when you were both back in this mediocre hotel room Loki’s seidr had turned into a small palace. Perhaps, however, there was just enough time for you to suck him off in the shower, to sate your hunger just a little?

“I’m going to get washed,” you announced, reluctantly releasing his lips. “Care to join me?”

Loki’s grin was louder than any verbal yes could have possibly been.

If he truly loved you back, Loki was guarding the secret like the SHIELD agents were guarding the Tesseract. You decided to make your move the same night before you’d pass on from impatience. Perhaps it was ridiculous to hope that once the Infinity Stone was in your possession, Loki would take you with him wherever he went. Perhaps it was selfish, too and yet, the closer you stepped to the cube, the more you began to despise the very idea of parting ways with the cheeky God of Mischief.

The horrifying thought, ending up alone yet again and losing the man you had fallen in love with, kept you distracted. You had to rely on Loki once he opened a green, shimmering portal to the inside of the facility.

“Let’s have some fun, shall we?” he whispered into the utter darkness, allowing you to cling to his leather armour as you sneaked through the dark and empty hallways. The guards were positioned around the securely locked room containing a “confidential” object. You could feel it in your very bones. It must have been the Tesseract.

Loki nodded at you once you were close enough. You could barely make out his features but it was enough for a mute understanding. Kill everyone on sight because they will not hesitate to take your life either.

You had murdered many times in your life. It was necessity and raw survival instinct that had made you who you were—what were a few more deaths, now that your freedom was so close you could practically feel it?

Your senses were tingling, your breath shaky. It was then you heard it. Footsteps. Footsteps that did not belong to Loki or you. Bracing yourself for the fight, you clenched your fists, claws replacing your manicured fingernails. There were perks to being a succubus, after all—ripping your foes to shreds was one of them.

“Brother?”

The warm and deep voice, however, let you pause. Tilting your head, you glanced over to Loki whose lips had parted ever so slightly. He took a deep breath, lifting his chin proudly. One heartbeat passed, then another… and then someone turned on the lights.

You squinted in order for your eyes to get used to the sudden change of brightness. You spotted five people blocking your path, one of them you recognised as Loki’s brother himself, if only because he was carrying his beloved hammer. The others, you did not know but you were fairly certain it was the infamous Avengers Loki had warned you about.

“Thor… what an unpleasant surprise,” the God of Mischief mused. You remained silent. They were a bunch of awkward creatures indeed. One of them was dressed in black, wearing sunglasses even though it was night. Strapped to his back was a quiver filled with arrows you doubted only pierced through people’s skin. Another one was wrapped in a red and gold metal suit, with only his face showing through an open hatch. The redhead woman was pointing one of her guns at Loki and the average guy wearing glasses had put his hands in his pockets. The last one was wearing the most ridiculous superhero suit you had ever seen. You raised your eyebrows at them.

“Listen to reason, Loki. You don’t have to do this.”

“Do I not?” He chuckled. “I am not the Loki you fought here in this monstrosity of a city, Thor.”

“Why, because you got a new haircut, dipshit?” The man in the iron suit bellowed.

You, on the other hand, frowned. “Loki, what are you talking about?”

“So it is true then. We were warned about you. I should have listened,” Thor roared all the while the other’s gazes travelled over to you for a moment. “How did you escape the Void?”

“The Void? What’s the Void?” Loki ignored you completely, fomenting your anger.

“How did you know we were here?” he asked instead, possibly stalling. You were unsure what his plan was—but if the Avengers were as smart as he made them out to be, brute force would likely not suffice to beat them, not tonight.

“We had help—a lovely organisation calling itself the TVA. You might have heard of them, Loki. Rumour has it you’ve been causing them quite some trouble,” the man with the ridiculous blue eye mask and stripes and stars on his armour said.

Loki rolled his eyes. “The TVA was no more than a detour on my journey to glorious purpose. I write my own destiny and for that—I will need the Tesseract.”

“Over our dead bodies.”

“With pleasure.”

The redhead kept her gun pointed at Loki. Her expression did not let on a single emotion. “Agent Romanoff,” Loki chided, directing his attention towards her. “You know those bullets will not so much as scratch my skin.”

“I know. That’s why they’re drenched in poison. You might be a god… but she isn’t.” Her threat came too fast for you to react, for in the next moment, Romanoff had already pulled the trigger. The bullet hit you in the shoulder, knocking you back and against one of the metal pillars. You barely registered the pain of your back colliding with it, too great was the stinging and burning sensation of the foreign object in your flesh.

Loki attacked, daggers materialising in his hands. Any moment now, he would slaughter them where they stood—not for you, you weren’t naïve enough to think that—but in order to end this nonsense once and for all, to bring the Tesseract into your possession at last and then get the hell out of here. You’d survive. It wasn’t the first time you had been shot, although… although it was the first time the bullet had been poisoned. You were warm. No, you were hot. You were sweating. Dizzy, you sank to the floor, shaking like dry autumn leaves in the wind. What… what kind of poison was that? How could it have such an effect on you, an immortal being?

“L-Loki… s-something’s wrong,” you choked out. Hoping he’d hear you, you covered your wound with your right hand, your dark-red blood—almost black—staining your palm. Your sight was too blurry to make out the details of the fight, couldn’t make out if Loki had the upper hand. What you did register was him flipping around, concerned… for you. The blow your involuntary distraction earned him sounded painful, lest it was Mjölnir knocking the God of Mischief to the ground. Still—his stunning blue eyes never left yours and they widened when he realised… when he realised… you gasped for air. You might actually die tonight if you didn’t feed soon to heal yourself. Whatever poison this was… the Avengers had been prepared for him, for you both. And they’d had help—possibly from this secret TVA organisation Loki seemed to know only all too well.

“Alright, stop! Stop!” he shouted. Panic was sizzling in his voice, an emotion you had never seen him display in all of your time together. In your delirious state, hope crawled up your guts. Hope that perhaps the God of Mischief did in fact reciprocate your romantic feelings for him. “I yield! I yield! Let me take her away, she needs to feed.”

Loki’s defeat was the last thing your ears were able to process before you succumbed to darkness and fell unconscious.

“Thor, listen to me! If you lock her up on her own and don’t provide her with sustenance, she will die.” Loki hurried to keep up with the God of Thunder. The handcuffs they had used on him had been forged on Asgard, blocking his magic and enough of his strength to keep him in check—for now.

“She is a succubus, Loki. Mother warned us about them when we were young. They lure you into their trap and before you know it, they suck the life out of you. It’s good riddance.”

“Brother, please. Let me into her cell then. Let me be with her.” Thor halted so suddenly that the God of Mischief almost bumped into him. It was obvious he was unfamiliar with such strong emotions from him but so was he. Loki had realised the very moment that bullet had hit you that he loved you, truly.

The sheer thought of losing you to death was unbearable, suffocating. For once in his life, he had an equal. Someone who understood his ways, someone who sided with him, someone who had chosen him over Thor. He dreaded what would happen once you would ask the inevitable question and find out who he truly was. But none of that mattered as long as you stayed alive.

When you came to, your surroundings had changed. Thick metal walls trapped you inside a cold and sterile room with a metal floor. Somebody had laid you down on a hospital-like bed but there was no blanket, no pillow.

Coughing, you attempted to sit up only to be greeted by a singeing pain tearing through your shoulder. The bullet. The poison. Loki. Loki!

Your eyes darted around the room but you were alone. Where was he? Was he alive? You would skin them alive if they had hurt him…

Terror rippled through you when the cell door was unlocked with a start—the amount of relief you felt when the man in question stepped into your view even overpowering the pain you were in for a moment. As soon as he had slipped inside, the door was pulled shut again—with the sound of the locking mechanism echoing through the small room yet again. Loki did not seem to care. He rushed towards you in an instant, worry evident on his handsome face.

“They will not let me stay with you for long.”

“You’re okay… I thought they… you’re okay…” you mumbled. Loki nodded. “What… What is wrong with you?” You failed to sound reproachful or threatening even though part of you knew the answer to your next question. “Why did you surrender?”

“You would have died had I carried on. I have seen death too many times than I can count, pet. I know what it looks like when it reaches for you. You need to feed. Now.” Loki would not allow any contradiction when he lifted you off the mattress as if you weighed nothing and sat you down on his lap. Green shimmering light surrounded his whole body for the fraction of a second, dancing on his naked skin as his armour melted off of his body, leaving nothing but the shoulder piece with his green cape, the arm pieces and his boots behind.

Arousal surged through you like liquid fire at the sight of him despite the growing weakness of your body.

“I will remove the bullet now. Take a deep breath and close your eyes.”

You nodded, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

“One… two…” He did not wait until three before his magic ate through your flesh to pull out the foreign piece of metal in your body. Screaming, you bit down on the remaining bits of his armour, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly you saw stars blinking before your vision.

Whatever spell Loki used on you though eased the pain only the twinkling of an eye later. You sighed when it subsided, making way for the growing hunger in your core. Loki acted on your behalf. His magic took care of your leather trousers and underwear, leaving you naked from the waist down and leaving behind a faint tingling.

He had you ignited within a single heartbeat, heat pooling between your legs, your cunt getting ready to welcome a cock inside for you to feed. With a quiet moan, you ground against him when a tingly sensation spread all over your pussy, an aching reminder that you wanted him, needed him, now.

But you were too weak to even buck your hips up to let him impale you. Was he hard already? Was he… Releasing his shoulder plate at last, you swallowed to chase away the taste of leather and instead, buried your face in his neck. He was. Whether it was the fact you were a succubus and lured men into your bed for your own survival or the effect that you had on Loki, you did not know and now was not the time to ponder over it.

Your breathing hitched when he lifted you once more, this time carefully guiding you onto his awaiting length. Inch by inch, Loki slid inside of you, your wet walls gripping him eagerly. He kept you just high enough to thrust up into you slowly and intimately but changed positions when he realised that you couldn’t take the initiative.

“Am… too weak…” you uttered, your eyes threatening to fall shut yet again. With his cock still sheathed inside of you, he laid you back down on your back, positioning himself between your legs. His blue eyes never left your face when he started fucking you, his strokes more controlled and firmer this time.

It took you longer than usual to feel his energy flow into you like a gushing river, sizzling through your veins and pumping strength back into your body in tune with Loki pumping into your willing cunt. Normally, when you were fucking, your hunt for pleasure and completion had him rutting into you like a beast. Hair was pulled, flesh was bitten, skin was spanked. But this, right now… this was love-making. You did not have enough energy left to prepare your body for an orgasm this time and yet, it felt more intimate and more pleasurable than anything you had ever experienced with the God of Mischief.

“L-Loki…” you whispered, his name leaving your lips like a prayer. “Fill me… please… I need you… t-to cum… in me.”

The way he hovered above you like you were his most prized possession filled you with both pride and satisfaction and as Loki neared his climax, his arousal nearly overwhelmed you. Wave after wave of delicious energy filled you from head to toe, healing your wound and fighting the poison in your blood until you felt your strength returning to you.

You never realised you were moaning when Loki came with a grunt, burying himself as deep inside of you as he physically could. You could feel his member throbbing against you, his hot seed coating your walls.

Loki drew out his orgasm for as long as he could but instead of collapsing on top of you once you had fed, he wrapped his arms around your middle and rolled you both over so you came to rest on top of his naked and sweaty chest.

“Thank you…” You weren’t sure whether you muttered the words out loud. Only there was no time to rest yet, not even after escaping death. “Loki… who are the Avengers, really? Why are they your enemies and why did Thor ask you how you escaped a void? What was he talking about? You are keeping something from me and I don’t like it.”

The God of Mischief sighed—the sound was directly at your ear all the while you drew invisible circles on his exposed skin. He was still inside of you, filling you up, making you feel whole.

“You’re on the run too, aren’t you?” you muttered, inching up a little and leaning your forehead against his in the aftermath. “You’re wanted for murder, you… what did you do? Why did you never tell me?”

“Tell you what exactly? That I attempted to subjugate this very planet? That I manipulated thousands of humans to make me their president, their voice of prudence and wisdom? Or that I failed and was hunted down by brainwashed Variants with prune sticks?”

“I’m not sure what you thought was going to happen if I found out. If you assumed I would be disappointed you were no good and if you thought I’d leave if I knew or if… or if you thought I’d be disappointed you failed. Which one is it?”

Loki took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted. A pause, heavy and suffocating. “The TVA—the Time Variance Authority—controls the multiverse. There used to be only one single timeline. The sacred timeline, they called it. Until there was not. One of my Variants killed the keeper of time to take revenge for her stolen life. Chaos was raging when the TVA found out about the dozens of timelines they could no longer control and annihilate. I’m assuming… they turned against each other, for when they ended up in the Void—it is a place without time, a place where every unwanted reality and their parts go once the TVA prunes them—my people turned against them and stole the one thing that could get us out of there.”

“They pruned you before,” you concluded. Another sigh.

“According to the TVA, a reality where a Loki rules Midgard must not exist. And the Void… the Void is a battle for your life with no way out.”

“I don’t care, Loki. What you did, what you were about to do, even what you’re doing now. I’m not exactly a saint either like the humans would say. I feed on men. I’ve killed to guarantee my own survival and…” you paused, hoping you would not go too far with what you intended to say next, “…and I would not hesitate for a second to be your queen if you did end up ruling Midgard as its king.”

“I must say I am relieved to hear that,” Loki responded with an audible smirk in his voice. “You are mine, pet. I will not allow you to leave my side. Do you trust me?”

You nodded, feeling his seidr tickling over your skin once more to put both your and his clothes back onto your bodies. You whined at the loss of him inside of you, even more so when he turned over yet again to stand.

“Wait here for my sign.”

“What, what sign?”

“You’ll see.” He disappeared with a wink, your lips parting. One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three. You started pacing around the cell, not realising until a blue portal opened up right behind you that… Loki had it. He had the Tesseract. How…? Wait here for my sign.

You took a deep breath—and then jumped into the portal.

Loki caught you with ease. His smirk was so triumphant you couldn’t help but grin from ear to ear, wrapping your arms around him in relief. It instantly got colder here.

“How? How did you do it?”

“Thor. He might be strong but he can be quite dull. Removing my handcuffs was his first mistake. Remaining so persistent on not letting me roam free around the facility was his second. I realised soon enough the Tesseract was not where we had presumed it to be—there was something Thor did not want me to find out. And while I took care of my dying bride, one of my duplicates distracted my brother—another stole the Tesseract for me.”

Surely, it must have been more complicated than that and yet… all your mind could replay on repeat was bride.

“Bride?” you stressed. Loki’s smirk grew even wider but he did not elaborate.

“So where… where are we?”

“Jötunheim, for now. We’re near a friend of mine. She will give us shelter until we have planned our next steps.”

“Oh, will she now?” A woman stepped out of the shadows—she was beautiful, a sorceress without a doubt. Dressed in a long black dress complimenting her raven hair, she crossed her arms before her chest.

“Angrboda… it is good to see you.”

“You too, Trickster. Is there a particular reason for why you bring a succubus to my doorstep?”

Well, you could not blame her for her suspicion. If she took you in and away from the Jötun cold, you would be grateful. Loki introduced you to her quickly, your name rolling off his tongue so deliciously you felt to urge to pounce on him again already. Angrboda shook her head when he proceeded to summarise your situation and eventually nodded in defeat.

“Alright, then. Come inside. I have cherry ale that will warm you up.”

Angrboda’s space was nothing but an open cave, presumably warded through spells and other supernatural means of protection and you assumed that she shielded the parts of her home that she didn’t want you to see with equal measures. In the middle of the room, however, there was a cosy fireplace with dozens of furs spread around it to get comfortable.

“Sit by the fire. Drink, you two… lovebirds,” she said when two cups filled with a red liquid appeared next to the small bonfire. “Only you would manage to fall in love with a succubus, Loki Laufeyson.” She chuckled. “You see… Midgardians call this very day of the year Valentine’s Day. Did you get her chocolate, Trickster? And roses?”

“He saved my life today,” you responded for him.

Angrboda nodded. “Ah, I see. Well… I have a feeling this is only the beginning of the story then.” Giving you a knowing look before disappearing off to only the gods knew where, you smiled at Loki, inching closer to kiss him. Fireworks exploded within you as soon as your lips touched his, the gentle affection quickly turning into a heated fight of lips, teeth and tongue. Angrboda was right. This was only the beginning. Your beginning.

A/N: Did that NSFW statue of Loki that I saw the other day inspire the smut scene? No. Maybe. Yes. Absolutely, 100%.

627 notes · View notes

blindmagdalena · 1 year

Note

I wanted to send in a request I thought of :) Homelander watching reader run to their work because they're late and thinking they're cute, so he flys them there. Thank you!

Admittedly, there's something neat about the toil of people's mundane little lives.

Homelander has a bird's eye view of it all from atop the city skyscrapers. Above it all, with the roar of the wind in his ears, it's easier to find a moment of peace. He can lose himself watching the hustle and bustle of the world moving beneath him, like a child staring down at a colony of ants swarming around a sugar cube.

Amidst the mess of them, he sees one moving quicker than the others. A mad dash of sorts. At first, he thinks it might be a job: a robbery, or some kind of pursuit. He hones his vision in on you, but instead of anything exciting, he sees that the thing you're racing for is just the bus.

Which you miss.

Homelander smirks to himself, canting his head to one side. You're braced against a light post, breathing hard, flushed. Your clothes are disheveled, a work bag hanging haphazardly off your shoulder.

You look... cute.

Glancing around, Homelander shrugs. He's got nothing better to do. Stepping off the building, he lets himself fall several dozen feet before his flight kicks in, and his body takes to a horizontal angle. He debates for a moment stopping, explaining himself to you first, but where's the fun in that?

Instead, he slows just enough not to give you whiplash, and plucks you right up off the curb, trying not to laugh at the way you scream. You're perfectly safe, his arms supporting your legs and your back, keeping you tucked against his chest, but you still clamber for purchase. You immediately take hold of his collar, while your other hand blindly grabs a fistful of hair at the back of his head.

He very nearly swerves before collecting himself.

"Hiya!" He greets, sporting his finest hero's grin. "Where ya headed?"

You do a double take, looking from him to the ground, and then back at him, wide-eyed and in disbelief. "H-Homelander?! What-why-I-"

"Heyy, hey, hey! It's alright," he laughs, rolling to fly on his back, sitting up slightly, offering you more support. "Saw you miss your bus. Thought I'd lend a hand. Well, two hands. So, where're you headed?"

"Work..." You answer breathlessly, staring up at him with wide, buggy eyes. Your heart is thundering, your skin warm with the flush of it.

He slowly quirks a brow. "Which is... Where?"

"Oh, right, sorry, it's, uhm, the corner of Bowery and 4th," you say, hands still locked tight on his collar and in his hair. Disbelief looks good on you.

"Quite a grip you've got," he says, twisting once more through the air, rebalancing so that he's looking where he's going.

"Sorry!" You chirp, quickly pulling your hand from his hair. You look mortified with yourself, but curiously enough, you've not once broken eye contact with him.

"Ever met a hero before?" He asks, shamelessly fishing.

"Uh, no. Lamplighter spoke at a seminar I attended once, but he didn't... No, I haven't." Your grip on his collar has eased some, but you're still clinging to it, knuckles just barely brushing his bare throat. He's trying not to be too distracted by it. "Do heroes often ferry civilians who're late to work?"

"Just the cute ones," he answers with a sly wink.

Your eyes widen, lips parted. You look dumbstruck and kissable, but for now he's enjoying his little game too much. He's luxuriating in personifying the mysterious hero who descended from the heavens and inexplicably ascended with you, rescuing you not from death or destruction, but something as simple as a late start to your day.

After a beat, you laugh sheepishly. "Just the cute heroes, or just the cute civilians?"

"Looks to me like it's both," he quips, wearing charm as easily as any mask.

"You think you're cute?" You bounce right back, settling into a smile of your own.

Your quick wit earns a bark of laughter from him. "Who, me? I think I'm adorable," he says, waggling his brows. He's charmed by the way you laugh at that: not overly pitchy or false. You have a sincerity to your laugh that he likes. "Oh, brother," you say, finally looking away. There's a fond kind of exasperation in your voice that makes the exchange feel familiar. You're not just cute, you're real, too.

"You disagree?" He asks, feigning offense with an exaggerated lift of his brows.

You keep your gaze averted, chewing at your bottom lip. He can tell you're biting back your smile. You can't help it. You must be terribly endeared already. How could you not be?

"Would you drop me if I did?" You ask, throwing him a sidelong glance.

He pretends to consider it. "Mm, yeah. Probably."

You laugh, sounding equal parts alarmed and amused. "Then, out of self preservation, I guess I will have to agree," you say, turning to look properly at him. "I think you're very cute."

Unexpected warmth blossoms in his chest at that, softening his expression into a gentler delight, his smile emphasizing the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

All too soon, the two of you arrive at your destination. Homelander floats gently to the ground just outside your office building, parting the flow of civilians who eagerly take note of Homelander's presence, pulling out their phones to snap a photo or thirty up close and personal.

Homelander sets you on your feet before his hands reflexively settle on his hips, the classic hero stance. You pull out your phone, and huff a soft laugh. "Wow, I'm... almost twenty minutes early," you say, slipping your phone back into your pocket. "I... Thank you, Homelander."

"My pleasure, ah...?" He extends a hand to you, and you make a sweet little noise of apology as you shake his hand, giving him your name. Homelander smiles as he repeats it back to you, testing the weight of it on his tongue. He likes it.

"I guess I will... see you around?" You say, taking a step back. There's a crowd starting to gather, circling the two of you with cellphones at the ready, taking either photos or videos, both of the two of you and of themselves with the two of you. Your face is going to be all over Twitter in seconds, he knows. The world will want to know who you are.

He finds himself wanting to know the same.

"You just might," he replies, smiling broadly. "After all, I know where you work."

He's not kidding, but you both laugh like it's a joke anyways.

"Uhm, excuse me, mister Homelander? Could I get a selfie?" Someone from the crowd asks, tentatively stepping forward.

Homelander glances over at them, and then back to you. He offers you a little salute, and says, "Catch you later." Next, he turns back to the crowd, and beckons the person forward. "Course you can! C'mon over."

Patiently, he takes a couple dozen pictures. He grins broadly for each one, though the contrast between these smiles and the ones he shared with you feels sharp. However, something that keeps him around a little longer is the fact he can see you out of his peripheral, lingering in the doorway of your building, smiling at him.

Eventually, it must come to an end.

"Alright, alright, thank you folks! Always a pleasure! Thank you! Ahah, remember, you guys are the real heroes! Get out there and prove it! Keep this country great!" He says, rattling off his party lines as he points to random members of the crowd, lifting up from the sidewalk.

He chances one last look to the doorway, but you're already gone. He's surprised to feel an unsettling pang of disappointment at your absence. He hums softly to himself. With that, he takes off across the sky.

No matter. He's already decided that he will be seeing you again.

#homelander x you #homelander x reader #ask and you shall receive #my writing #thank you for the adorable ask!!!#this was fun to write #fluff #gn reader

381 notes · View notes

shaunamilfman · 2 months

Text

monsters turned out to be just trees

Summary: "Vampire!Jackie takes a bite out of you. Only, you didn't know she was a vampire."

A/N: stuck between the idea of writing "jackie's a vampire 😨" and "jackie's a vampire 😍" so expect the second one (unconnected) to be out sometime soon as well lmao

You make a pleased noise as Jackie shifts closer to you, burying her face further into your neck. You tighten the arm you have around her back in a quick squeeze, trying to ignore the cold feeling of her nose rubbing up against you. You weren’t sure how any one person could be so fucking cold all the time, even under the two blankets she’d forced over you it was still like cuddling an ice cube. You’ve always run hot, and you think it’s probably the only thing that’s keeping the inside of this blanket at a bearable temperature.

It’s certainly something that Jackie loves about you; You’re pretty hard-pressed to be in any room with Jackie without her cuddling up to you to borrow all your warmth. You’d once joked that she was going to be mistaken for a corpse one day when she’d climbed into your lap on the bus to press her cold hands against your back, and she had laughed so nervously you had thought for a moment that she was losing it.

You laugh quietly as she wraps one of her legs around your hips trying to pull you even closer. “Don't laugh,” She whines. She's pressed close enough against you that you can feel her pouty frown against your neck and it takes everything in you not to laugh at her again.

“Cold?” You ask softly, slipping your hand up the back of her shirt to rub at her bare back. The noise she makes in response to that is certainly something. You make a mental note to come back to that later after she heads home. Judging by the sudden feeling of warmth emanating from Jackie's face you think she's noticed how interesting of a noise she just made.

“Not cold,” She murmurs. “Just missed you today.”

“Missed me? When did you even have time to miss me?”

“You left me all alone when you went to class,” She whines.

“For an hour. A single hour.”

“A single hour is too much.”

“You're getting so clingy,” You murmur sleepily.

“Am not!”

“Are too.”

Jackie nips pointedly at the nearest skin she can reach in lieu of an actual response, as she's prone to do. She's always been a biter so that in itself doesn't surprise you. No, it's when the playful nibble suddenly turns into a sharp pain as her teeth sink into your neck. “Jackie!” You cry out, a mix of shock and fear.

Jackie stumbles away with a mortified expression that quickly turns to horror at the look of utter terror on your face. “Oh my god! Oh god!” She squeals, panic evident in her voice as she sounds like she's on the verge of hyperventilating. You watch as she pales even further as she notices your eyes slowly fixate on her fangs, stained with your blood as it drips down her face.

She wipes frantically at her face as she tries to erase the evidence of her transgressions, but it's all for naught. The only thing she seems to achieve is to thoroughly smear your blood over her face. There's something almost childlike about her desperation as if she's trying to convince you just as much as she's trying to convince herself. It's oddly like catching a child sneaking a cookie: the innocent denial of what's obviously occurred even with the chocolate smeared on their face and the crumbs on their fingers.

Still, the sight of your blood smeared all over her face does little to reassure you. Your hand suddenly flies up to your neck on pure instinct alone, too in shock to make the connection till now. You start scrambling away from her as your hand comes back wet with blood, quickly reaching the headboard and finding there's nowhere else to run. Your heartbeat thunders in your ears, each beat a fresh wave of sound echoing through the otherwise chilling silence. What you're feeling is beyond apprehension, beyond even panic. It’s almost tangible, suffocating even. Your chest shudders with every quick and shallow breath as you struggle to get past the fear crawling its way up your throat and wrapping itself around your heart. You want so badly to run, but you feel like there’s something sitting on your chest: a blanket of terror that’s permeated your entire being.

Jackie’s frozen like a deer in the headlights, her lips trembling as if you’re the one that’s hurting her. Her eyes shine with tears that slowly trek down her face, leaving small tear tracks in the blood still staining her mouth. She’s unnaturally still as if you were a frightened animal caught in a trap, and any movement would startle you away. You imagine that you might just be willing to gnaw off your own arm if it got you away from her.

“Don't,” She pleads, startling you with her suddenness. She begins to crawl up the bed towards you on her hands and knees. You feel oddly as if you're standing in front of a truck, unable to move away as it barrels toward you at highway speeds. It’s almost funny given how slowly she’s actually moving: as if you were something fragile. As if you were something she could break. She carefully rests on her knees in the middle of the bed, palms resting on her thighs as she tries to appear non-threatening.

“I’m sorry,” Jackie chokes out, right on the verge of a whimper. “I ruined everything. You, your room, your bedsheets. It’s a disaster.”

You watch her in panicked silence, your heartbeat slowing the longer she remains docile. You slowly bring your knees up to your chest, subconsciously putting more protection between her and your neck. You glance down curiously at your sheets to find them also stained with your blood. You sigh. That’s never coming out.

“Why aren’t you– Why aren’t you saying anything?” Jackie asks. “You’re not dying, are you? Or, are you? Did I–”

“You don’t– you don’t know whether you’ve killed me or not?”

“I don’t know, Y/N! I’m kind of new at this. Do you feel like you’re dying?” Jackie rushes out.

Your eyes go wide, the all too familiar feeling of panic making itself known once more. "I don't know Jackie! Maybe you have fucking vampire rabies and it's inside me and I'm already dead and don't know it!"

She gasps in offense as she shakes her head. “That’s not a thing!”

Jackie pauses for a moment before adding, “I don’t have anything. That’s mean, Y/N.”

“Mean? That’s mean? You just tried to fucking eat me. Not even in a fun way,” You accuse.

“I would never try to eat you, “ She grumbles. “Either way, actually.”

You snicker despite yourself, your hand flying up to cover your mouth in surprise. She grins smugly, leaning back against her feet as she seems to finally relax. You finally let go of the death grip you’ve been holding on your legs, crossing them as you lean back against the headboard and watch her. Despite her sudden levity, you notice that she’s made no move to look you in the eyes, focused on a spot just behind you as if she can’t bring herself to close that final distance to look at you directly.

“I’m so sorry,” Jackie repeats again, fingers tapping anxiously against her thighs.

“I don’t… I don’t want to be afraid of you, Jackie. I love you. But I can’t help it, okay? I can’t help it.”

She nods solemnly. “Maybe you should be. I don’t know why I did that, but I didn’t want to hurt you. I promise. I wanted…” She trails off, clearly deep in thought.

“Wanted?” You ask hesitantly.

“I wanted a part of you, I guess. To be connected to you. I didn't mean to bite you. It just sort of... happened,” She fidgets with her fingers, eyes flickering anxiously across the room as she can’t seem to pick one spot to focus her attention on.

“It was selfish of me,” She admits, a clear look of shame crossing her face. “I screwed it all up. For nothing.” The words are rushed and nearly intelligible as if she can’t bear to hear herself say it. You think it might be the most honest she’s ever been with you.

You reach out slowly to grab her hand, lacing your fingers together cautiously. Jackie gasps softly in disbelief, eyes focused on your joined hands like it’s the only thing that exists for her at this moment. Jackie looked at you like that a lot: as if nothing outside of you mattered, as if her whole life was just a distraction that kept her from you. It was like the entirety of her existence centered on you, a devotion unmatched by even the most fervent believers. This knowledge was the only thing that allowed you to give her the absolution she’d been craving. Even if she hadn’t asked, you knew she needed it desperately.

“I forgive you,” You say softly, squeezing her hand. Jackie seems conflicted, face warring between the lingering guilt and her desire for your forgiveness. She sniffles quietly, trying to hide the sound of it.

Jackie lunges forward suddenly, wrapping her arms around you as she climbs into your lap. She cries quietly into your neck, careful to press her face into the uninjured side. You’d be lying if you said the position didn’t fill you with a certain amount of apprehension, but you knew that had she actually wanted to hurt you there would have been little you could have done to actually stop her.

“It’s okay,” You murmur, wrapping your arms around her shoulder. “We’ll have to talk about this, you know?” You can vaguely hear a noise of agreement as she continues to sob into your shoulder. You can’t help but roll your eyes fondly.

Leave it to Jackie Taylor to take a bite out of you and still end up being the one comforted.

#yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #jackie taylor x reader

98 notes · View notes