#deep water layouts | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dollita-fawn · 5 months

Text

The Pornstar Next Door

pairings- fan! Geto x Fem Pornstar! reader

summary- Geto is your biggest fan, so when he finds out you’re moving in next door he can’t let the opportunity pass by.

NSFW WARNING:

contains- filming, brief gagging and oral sex, fingering, manhandling, size difference, belly bulge, unprotected sex, squirting, shit plot

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Geto steps outside of the apartment complex, not really paying attention to his surroundings. That is, until he notices you. His eyes light up as he recognizes you instantly. He’s a huge fan, having watched all your videos countless times. You were everything he wanted in a girl. And now you’re moving in right next door.

He was so used to seeing you in a provocative light, but now, seeing you being real and human was kind of surreal.

Geto couldn't help but stare for a moment, taking in your real life appearance, having never seen you with clothes on before. You looked almost innocent, struggling to carry your belongings into your new home. But he knew you were far from innocent. In your videos, you were a complete cock slut. He’s watched you fuck so many guys he can’t even count.

But here you are, a pretty, normal looking girl. Looking at you like this, it’d impossible to guess you were a pornstar.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He took a deep breath, trying to control himself. He couldn't show himself to be a creep, he had to act like a gentleman. “Looks like you could use a hand, neighbor.” he offers a polite smile as he makes his way over to you.

Smiling back, you shake your head. “Thanks but i’m fine…don’t wanna inconvenience you or anything.”

Truthfully, you could use some help. You had been moving stuff all through the morning and afternoon by yourself. Having to take break after break, feeling exhausted. There were no elevators in this place, and you scored a place on the 4th floor. So when he takes the box from your hands insistently, you don’t bother to protest any further at his generosity. “No worries, i’ve got no plans for the day.”

“Names Suguru, by the way. Suguru Geto, in 404.” holding the box in one arm, he extands a hand. Introducing yourself in return, you shake the mans hand. Not the name you used online, he noted.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He helped you for the rest of the day, carrying 90% of your stuff. Not once complaining about it. You were definitely not used to being taken care of like this.

It took several hours to unload the whole moving truck. but he didn't waste any time, and before long, all your stuff was set down in your new apartment. Completely cluttering up your living room, but you were too tired to unpack anything at the moment.

“Want something to eat?” you offer, opening your fridge. “I have….”

Nothing. You had nothing. It hadn’t crossed your mind to stop by the grocery store to buy anything prior to coming here. You were to focused on getting the moving all finished. But now you felt shitty.He did all that heavy lifting for you and you couldn’t even offer a glass a cup of water because your kitchen ware was still in boxes.

He notices the way your eagerness to repay him vanishes as you look inside your fridge, quickly understanding. “It’s alright sugar,” this was the perfect opportunity for him, “How about I cook for you at my place? Stores are probably all closed right now.”

Geto didn’t exactly know what he was thinking anymore. He didn’t know if he was offering out of the kindness of his heart, or if he was just wanting to get closer to you. He’s been completely infatuated with the idea of you for so long. You being here right in front of him was absolutely insane. Just an everyday girl. His new neighbor.

Regardless of his intention, he couldn’t allow you to go hungry. Leading you into his apartment. It had almost the exact same layout as yours. “Have a seat wherever you’d like.” he urged as he went to the kitchen and began to cook. you watched in awe as he worked.

Geto worked with perfect precision, mixing, cutting and making the food look so appetising.

He put a pair of oven mitts on and opened up the oven, putting a tray of food into it before setting a timer.

While the food was cooking, he turned around to face you. There was a silence between the two of you, before he spoke again "This is quite a new experience for me. Knowing someone without really knowing them.”

What the hell was he going on about? You were confused on his random statement. And then it hit you.

A moment passed before he spoke again "I'm proud to be your fan. I’ve seen all your videos hundreds of times." he admitted with a small cheeky smile.

You wanted to deny it at first but it was no longer possible with your face covered in embarrassment. “Why didn’t you say something earlier…?”

He looked down at you with a small smirk "Why would I? You would've never come to me if you knew who I really was.” You wanted to argue with him but he was right, you would've never come if you knew the truth earlier.

"If you're willing, I was wondering if we can film a video together" he spoke up casually, not showing even a slight hint of shame in his voice.

Your face immediately turned bright red, you never thought he would go as far as to ask him this. His boldness was unexpected but his words were like smooth honey to your ears.

You hesitated, unsure if you should go through with it. The thought of sharing your time with this mysterious, handsome stranger was exciting but you have never felt so conflicted before. Usually you only filmed in a professional setting. But you didn’t really know those men either. It wasn’t that different.

"If my request makes you uncomfortable, you can say no." he said while gazing intently at your face, he was waiting for your answer. The thought of refusing his request was out of the question now, you wanted to do this. For once, you were willing to let go and agree.

You nodded your head while still feeling butterflies in your stomach "Okay, but I have certain conditions." you spoke up. "This video stays private. You're not allowed to distribute it anywhere." you stated firmly.

He listened intently to the terms you gave him, and he simply nodded in agreement. "Of course, I have no intention of leaking anything. Just want to keep it for myself."

You felt relieved after hearing his response, glad you were in agreement. You trusted that he was a man of his word.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"I'll set up my camera while you prep yourself," he was so happy he could die right there on the spot. “Just sit there and look pretty for me, yeah?”

Sitting on the living room couch, you strip down to nothing, making sure you look presentable as he sets up his phone.

Everything was in place, the lights and camera was set, the scene was perfect.

"Are you ready to be the star of the show?" he spoke up with a smirk, removing his own clothes. You nod, watching and awaiting to find out what he’s hiding underneath.

When he shows you what you’re working with, you’re a bit shocked. Sure, you’d taken a big dick before, you were a pornstar. But never in your life had you been faced with a size and girth like this. and he was only half hard. Certainly not what you were expecting, looking at him casually. Made you consider if it would even fit.

“how are we starting this..?”

“On your knees sweetheart, wanna get the camera a nice view of that pretty ass of yours while you get me nice n’ hard.” he instructs straight to the point, setting his clothes along with yours to the side.

You lower yourself to his carpeted floor, with him sitting where you once were. Settling onto your knees you get to work, leaning forward and pressing tiny kitten licks to his leaky tip. Making sure to arch perfectly as you bend forward for the camera. Slowly dribbling your saliva onto him, letting it run down before taking him into your mouth. You struggle the farther down you go. He was too big, already reaching to the back of your throat as you were only halfway down his length. Only being able to fit that much, you use your hand to stroke the rest. Twisting with slow strokes, you bob your head on the top half, making sure not to use teeth despite struggling to hold your jaw open so wide. “Aw, c’mon don’t tell me you can’t take it all? I’ve seen you do worse baby you can handle it.”

You try, but you can’t bring yourself to take it any further. That is, until his hand shoves your head down all at once, making you gag so hard you almost throw up. He holds you there for a moment with a growl, before pulling you back up to let you breathe.

“See? Told you, you can take it.” he grins, “how about you come on up here, on my lap.”

“let the camera see your pretty face, baby.” You obey, repositioning onto his lap, your back to his chest. His legs go between yours, spreading them apart to give a better view. One hand coming down to play with your pussy, the other groping your tit. “gonna get you nice n’ wet for me, okay?” his digits slip up into you, curving up and pumping in and out of you, making you moan. “that feel good baby?” he teases, his voice low and soft, right into the shell of your ear.

“mnn-…mhm..” you mewl, gnawing at your lower lip. his fingers scissor in and out of you for a while before coming out to rub at your clit. Circling over and over until you were a puffy, dripping mess.

“ready to take me?” hesitantly, you nod.

Gripping from beneath your thighs, he lifts your small frame with ease, sinking you down on his fat rod. Forcing the tip to go in. “shit-,” he groans into your neck, “how’s it possible for a pornstar to be this fuckin’ tight?” he was almost afraid he was gonna hurt you. Slowly stretching his way into you.

“Holy fuck…” he gasps. Looking down from above you as he completely fills you. He takes in the sight of your stomach bulging, the outline of the top of his dick visibly poking through. “m’ god..are you okay? does that hurt?” Though he finds it to be incredibly hot, he can’t help but be concerned.

“mhm…s’ just weird,” you breathe, “can feel you all the way in my stomach…”

Curiously he takes a hand to feel at your lower abdomen, feeling where he’s at. He’s absolutely amazed.. “sure it’s okay for me to move?”

Ar your nodding approval, Geto starts to gradually pump his hip’s into you. Watching each time his girth makes your stomach elevate. Picking up pace the more you moan. Nothing like in your videos. Now you sounded genuine. Each of your sounds, making him lose himself more and more. The squelching of your tight little hole, the whiny noises escaping your throat.

He loved it all. His own voice letting out animalistic moans. Huffing breathlessly in your ear. He jackhammers into you as fast as he can, chasing his high. Making sure to keep your legs spread wide for the camera. He was never gonna need anything more. The ding of the oven timer drives him to hurry up. He was already getting close anyways.

“rub yourself for me pretty girl, gonna cum soon…” he moans, continuing to rut into you.

You do ask he asked, rubbing relentlessly as your clit and spraying all over him. He loses it. Cock throbbing and exploding inside of you. Your walls clamping down on him, emptying his balls. “m’ fucking god…” he’s practically whimpering. Your body shaking in his arms.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The oven timer steadily sounds. Hopefully the food didn’t get burned.

#geto suguru #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #jjk suguru #jujutsu kaisen smut #geto smut #suguru geto #jjk x reader smut #jjk #jujustu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #smut #fanfiction #fem reader

969 notes · View notes

trashogram · 3 months

Text

He Chose You (Pt. 2)

Lucifer/Reader

Rated E for the smex coming next chapter I SWEAR. ((Also there will not be any non-con in this fic, so please don’t worry. You’ll see when you read.))

Tag Requests: @loslox, @for-hearthand-home, @navierkalani

‘The worst thing they could be are swingers.’

Your heart was racing, and you felt ridiculous for how uppity you felt at the prospect of having dinner with your two elderly neighbors.

Normally, meeting new people would cause a healthy amount of anxiety in you. You’d grown up into a recluse and upholding social niceties took most of your energy. It was even worse to be in their home, and among people that you likely did not have much in common with.

These were personal reassurances that you told yourself after denying the first invitation for dinner with the Farrows. The guilt you felt, paired with the subsequent relief of not having to spend more than five minutes with your chatty neighbor, stirred an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of your stomach.

Of course you’d been unable to stop thinking about what a wretch you were, how karma was going to bite you on the ass for denying an old couple some company.

And oh Karma did come back to bite you. Hard.

You felt like you were hanging by a thread at work. Three weeks into the job and you’d already been reprimanded. Even the memory of your supervisor looking down her nose at you from the other side of her desk made your eyes water.

“We have a ‘three strikes’ policy here. I’m afraid this will count as your first.”

Never having been fired from a job notwithstanding, you felt like the idiot your parents always purported you to be.

If you’d have just stayed in your hometown, living off your parents’ good graces and kept your head down, instead of prancing out the door as if you had self-respect and no need for a safety net…

Maybe things wouldn’t be so dire.

Maybe you wouldn’t be on the verge of having a panic attack at this very moment, feeling the anxiety and restlessness from declining the previous invitation tenfold.

With a deep breath in and out, you crossed the hall with the hesitance of a mouse approaching a snap-trap. You knocked on the door to Unit 606 with a shaking hand.

There was a moment left to blanch at the realization that you hadn’t brought anything with you. Like the shittiest, most thoughtless guest ever.

——

“You made it!” Mrs. Farrow held her arms out dramatically. “Come in! Come in! You’re right on time! Oh and you look lovely dear!”

“Thanks.” You felt heat rise to your cheeks as the door closed behind you.

The layout of the apartment was a mirror image to yours, but you were overwhelmed by just how much stuff had taken up the space. From the kitchen to the living room, the apartment was brimming with kaleidoscopic color. Antique statuettes of unknown deities, handcrafted vases and sculptures in-set with gems and gold filigree, expertly framed posters of old Hollywood, and Persian rugs beneath well-worn furniture were visible from just a cursory glance.

It distracted you from the unusually bitter, earthy smell that assaulted you upon entering.

“Wow,” You said in genuine awe. “Your home is lovely.”

“Aw, you’re too kind sweetheart. Too kind. Here, let me take your shawl - we’ll hang it up on the rack here, see.” She took your cardigan and placed it on an old hat stand before steering you out to the living room by the back of your shoulders.

There was a man sitting in a leather armchair adjacent to the couch. He was wearing a tweed jacket and his silver-blond hair had been combed back finely to show a pale, wrinkled face and eyes so dark they shone almost black in the lowlight.

He looked at you with interest once you’d finally caught onto his presence, and opened his mouth to speak.

‘Quack!’

“Lou!” You laughed as the duck came racing over on its little legs.

Without delay, the bird climbed onto your flats with an impatient flap of its wings, trying to balance while looking up at you adoringly.

You couldn’t help but reach down and pat his little head, murmuring ‘hellos’ and ‘how you doing buddy?’ softly and sweetly.

The man opposite you both smirked. “My wife was right. He’s quite taken with you.”

“I’m always right!” Mrs. Farrow called out from the kitchen.

You looked to the kitchen and back to, presumably, Mr. Farrow, an uncertain smile on your lips.

“Welcome to our home.” The elder man’s voice was almost hypnotically deep. His hand was outstretched and waiting. “Please excuse me for not greeting you properly. When you get to be as old as I am, your body does everything it can to make you stay put in one place.”

You shook your head. “Oh no, please don’t worry about it! I understand.”

Mr. Farrow’s smirk seemed to soften as you spoke.

“Please make yourself comfortable, my dear.” When he gestured to the couch, you awkwardly shuffled to sit down. Lou was right on your heels, loathe to spend even a second without your warmth.

The duck ended up snuggled on your lap after begging to be lifted as you sank into the plush sofa. And you were grateful, hugging Lou to you gently as if he were a plush toy.

It helped take your mind away from that spine-tingling feeling when it made a comeback — the way Mr. Farrow’s eyes glittered when he looked at you and his duck.

‘Oh god, they probably are swingers. And they lure in their targets with this crazy well-trained duck.’ You thought, punching yourself in the face mentally. ‘And you fell for it. Walked right into their den of debauchery. You stupid bitch.’

“Here’s some water, honey. We’ll save the stronger stuff for dinner.” You jumped in your seat when Mrs. Farrow appeared at your side, setting a glass of ice water down on the end table beside you.

You reached for the glass as its contents sloshed over the edge. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Farrow.”

Mrs. Farrow beamed.

“What did I tell ya, Warren? Isn’t she lovely? Just a peach. Lou is smitten.” She patted your shoulder. “And it’s Cassie, honey. Call me Cass.”

“You were right, Cass.” Warren Farrow intoned.

He took on a conspiratorial tone as he addressed you once more. “You must know, my wife hasn’t stopped talking about you since you met the other day. I wondered if she was preparing us for a new roommate.”

Heat flooded your face for the second time. “Aw.”

“Oh poo, as if you wouldn’a done the same.” Mrs. Farrow sniffed derisively. “Dinner in 5 minutes!”

Her exit left room for you to start a conversation, but you couldn’t find it in you to say anything. Mr. Farrow kept staring, smiling, which made you stroke Lou’s feathers for comfort that much more.

The silence lasted a little while, save for the clinking, crackling, thudding from the kitchen dining room. Aside from catering to Lou, you surveyed your surroundings in an effort to avoid bouncing your legs.

The Farrows didn’t have a TV, only a large fireplace that they’d positioned their furniture around. There were displays on either side of the grate. On one stood an oversized chalice with intricate, swirling patterns. The other had a statuette of a goat-headed figure sitting crisscrossed on a throne, one arm poised to reach out to the sky.

“Baphomet.”

You turned from the sight, head swiveling to face your human companion. He was eying you keenly again.

“O-oh, the statue is…?”

Warren nodded. “Baphomet. Conceived as a false god around the time of the crusades. Most people see him as a depiction of Satan these days.”

The association wasn’t too far-fetched, you figured with another look at the figure. Its goat-head and large horns were the most eye-catching thing about it.

“I apologize if the sight upsets you, dear. I hadn’t thought to remove it before your arrival.”

“Oh no, please. It’s alright.” You said. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s very interesting.”

The rumbling hum at your side seemed to signal approval, or maybe general geniality with your neutral response. “Are you religious by chance?”

You turned to Warren again.

“Ah, no.” You replied apologetically. “I grew up in a Christian area, but I was never very involved with the church.”

Warren nodded. “That’s just as well. The institution and its practices can be stifling. I was never very involved with it myself.”

“Religious artifacts have always been fascinating to me, however. There’s no shortage of temples and synagogues in this world.”

“Have you been to many? For the history?” You were genuinely curious.

The old man nodded again, stately and dignified even as he puffed up in his armchair like a peacock. “Cass and I are seasoned travelers. We’ve been to all 7 continents at least twice, seen the wonders of the world from the Hindu shrines in Malaysia to St. Basil’s Cathedral. I have a particular fondness for those countries surrounding the Mediterranean Sea. I was able to convince Cassie another trip to Rome wouldn’t put us in the poor house last year.”

Your little huff of laughter was sincere, though the idea of traveling to Rome - or anyplace outside of the familiar - sounded amazing. “I’d love to be able to do that.”

Warren’s head tilted to one side. “You’re quite young, I’m sure you’ll get the chance if you haven’t already.”

“Sure.” You scoffed before immediately falling into contrition. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me —”

“Dinner time!”

Mrs. Farrow hollered from the kitchen, stopping you from trying to come up with a suitable excuse for yourself.

Luckily, Mr. Farrow chuckled good-naturedly. He rose from his chair stiffly, legs visibly straining. “No need to apologize, my dear. But we best get going before the Missus comes out and drags us by our ears.”

——

All things considered, the dinner was perfectly fine.

The jitters never left your frame, but you had chalked that up to a simple byproduct of your skittish nature. The red wine that Cass had insisted upon you made you feel warm and solid, at least.

As did the fact that Cassie Farrow could hold entire conversations all on her own with very little effort or input from yourself.

“You got a boyfriend, honey? Or girlfriend? No shame in that at all. We may be old but by no means bigoted. We’ve been all over the place, seen so many things - what’s natural to you and me could be the furthest from, in certain places. Isn’t that right, Warren?”

“Men in Ancient Greece often had relationships with other men.” Warren replied. “Royals in Europe had extramarital affairs with different sexes. It was all about keeping the bloodline pure, but romance was a different thing altogether.”

“I haven’t dated in a while, actually.” You said. “It’s not been a priority.”

Cassie nodded, exuberant as she drank from her wine glass. “That’s good too! Plenty of independent women these days! It’s about time, I say.”

‘Quack quack’

Lou was beside you, red eyes locked in as he gazed upon you at the dining table. It made you giggle.

“Mm!” Cassie had a spastic moment. “I almost forgot!”

The chair lurched out from under the old woman as she rose and scuttled out of the room. It left you blinking, and out of the corner of your eye you saw that same smirk on Warren’s face before his wife had returned.

She had a small wicker basket in her arms.

“This is for you, honey. Housewarming present from your kooky neighbors across the hall.”

As she drew nearer, you caught a glimpse of the contents, some of which shone beneath the light of the overhead chandelier.

“Thank you! You really didn’t have to.” The basket was pressed into your arms and Cassie was back in her seat before you’d finished your sentence.

“Nonsense. It’s the least we could do. I still can’t believe no one welcomed you for a whole week!”

The basket was lined with shredded filler, and nestled in between were little gemstones and crystals.

“There’s jade and ruby in there, and I believe there’s moonstone as well.” Mr. Farrow recalled. “Is that it, Cass?”

“Yes, yes, and carnelian too. It’s all scattered about there, with the Scrabble and the socks and the hand cream and oh!” Mrs. Farrow laughed. “Forgive us honey, we saw that little rubber duck and just had to get it for you.”

There was a little rubber duck. It was a novelty type, with a tiny red jacket and a tiny black top hat.

“It’s a carnival barker. No, it’s something like that. It’s on the tip of my tongue.” Your nose scrunched in thought. “Oh, a circus ringmaster!”

“Exactly! See, what’d I tell you, Warren? She loves it!”

“I believe I was the one who suggested it.” His voice carried through the otherwise silent dining room.

“Oh well maybe it was, so what. She likes it. Don’t you, honey?”

“Yes, but…” You felt funny again. Tingly. “This is too much. Really. You’re both so kind but I can’t accept this.”

A hand laid gently on your shoulder and you looked up at a frowning Warren Farrow. “It’s no trouble at all, my dear.”

“The cost must’ve —”

“No cost, really. Gemstones and crystals are quite popular these days. You can find them all over. And the little trinkets are just the same. Given to you in good faith of course.” He patted your shoulder gently.

You swallowed, eyes once again roving over the little mundane treasures. Silken feathers brushed against your ankle under the table and you met those red eyes, sparkling like the crystals in your basket.

Lou was such a funny little thing. So expressive, he looked as if he were waiting as he stared at you.

So funny.

… You felt funny.

Perhaps the anxiety from before was doubling back, just like that prickling sensation. It was less of a tingle and more a shiver or chill as you sat there.

“I think it’s about time for dessert, don’t you?” Mrs. Farrow was saying somewhere far away. “You like chocolate, sweetheart? I made mousse, all fancy-like. It’s not as fancy as the kind you get at that restaurant downtown, the Ivy, but they’ve got fancy ingredients and such…”

Reaching up to wipe the sheen of sweat from your forehead, you felt heat coming off from between your temples. With a shaky breath, you slumped down in your seat.

The basket was gone.

Your chair was scraping against the wooden floor as it was pulled out from the table.

“Are you feeling alright, my dear?”

Wrinkled hands swept the hair from your face as your eyes rolled in their sockets. Words couldn’t get past the cotton-dry feeling in your throat.

“It’s the wine, the wine. Said she’s not much of a drinker, it has to be the wine.”

Cass’s voice was dampened and thick, like it was trapped underwater.

Or perhaps you were trapped. Your head was spinning, limbs heavy as if you were a puppet sans strings. You had to be picked up from under your arms like a toddler and pulled upright.

The next second you were walking through your neighbors’ kitchen, the door held open for you.

“Maybe we oughta call a doctor? Honey, can you hear me?”

“I… yes. I can hear you.” It felt like an Olympic feat, but you spoke clearly. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s happening.”

You stumbled against the wall and strong arms caught you when your knees buckled. It was Mr. Farrow allowing you to lean on him, solid as a rock.

“Cass is right, you had quite a bit of wine.” He said. Another pat to your shoulder.

Did you? You could’ve sworn it was just a glass.

Your apartment was barren and blank, the smell of laundry comforting against the memory of that earthy incense smell.

“Get some rest, honey. We’re right across the hall.”

“Thank you.” You breathed, lying on your sofa bed. “Again, I’m very sorry. Thank you for the welcome.”

“Oh no, thank you.”

——

When you opened your eyes next, you were shrouded in darkness. The outline of your entertainment system was in front of you, and the kitchen at your right.

It was raining outside; little raindrops smattering against the glass. The sound was normal, no longer muffled until you were straining to hear it.

‘Well that’s good.’

The heavy feeling in your arms was still present.

‘That’s not so good.’

You felt perfectly sane and hysterical at the same time. It was like being caught in the eye of a storm. The danger had abated momentarily, but would begin again shortly.

Your door opened, and in your peripheral you saw a shadow cut across the wall as a new figure emerged from the hall.

You squinted in the dark. ‘Lou?’

The duck’s silhouette stilled as if you’d spoken aloud. You could feel something shift in the air, tension breaking through to your mind when it could not seize your body.

That shift grew stronger, sucking in the air around it until a dazzling flash and crack of light blinded you.

Lou’s shadow was gone. Or… it had changed. The shadow on the wall wasn’t a duck anymore it was…

Your blood ran cold as the man stepped into your apartment and let the door close behind him.

“Hello there!”

#hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel

723 notes · View notes

headspace-hotel · 8 months

Text

How would one write a work of horror fiction about Lawns?

I think there may have been a post saying this, but it's stuck with me: just as zombies, vampires, monsters, and serial killers embodied deep fears within culture at the time they were extremely popular, I think the iconic horror monster of the upcoming years might be the Backrooms.

No, no not like in the crappy indie games about the Backrooms, where there are monsters everywhere. I mean like in this youtube video where it is simply a quiet, empty, endless labyrinth of rooms that superficially appear to be human-made, but they have strange, arbitrary layouts and forms, and there is no sign of the essential processes of life—no food, no place to sleep, no recognizable living spaces.

The place itself is the monster. Though it appears familiar and human, it is as fundamentally hostile to human life as the surface of Mars. Though it appears like a place purposefully designed for human needs, none of the basic resources and facilities for meeting human needs are apparent. It is something much worse, much more indifferent and at the same time much more hateful, than an uncaring and unforgiving wilderness.

Imagine, then, a sidewalk bordered by uniform green lawn, running alongside wide stretches of asphalt road. Imagine the sidewalk continuing on to meet other sidewalks, branching and intersecting in strange, illogical patterns. Imagine broad stretches of uniform green under a relentless warm sun and blue sky, no birdsong, no insects.

Imagine green grass with no dandelions, no clovers, perfectly lush and homogenous, surrounded by sidewalks that separate other plots of flat green turf, all perfect, bordering curbs that drop off into roads which stretch steadily toward the horizon, surrounded by sidewalks and green grass, splitting off into other roads that travel through a similar landscape, green and crisscrossed with paths. In every direction, this is all you see.

You keep walking, steadily following the sidewalk. Sidewalks branch and meet each other strangely, sometimes diagonally crossing lush strips of lawn, sometimes pivoting to meet the street and resuming on the other side. Some stretches of road have a broad green median also covered with green grass. In some places, there are neat mounds of black mulch around the base of perfectly trimmed yew bushes. The sun is warm—very warm.

Any perceptible grade to the ground seems to lead to a storm drain, in which there is no sign of water. Water is all you can think about. How long have you been walking? Your surroundings appear the same. You finally notice a stretch of grass that appears to be freshly wet, as though recently watered, and you are nearly prepared to lick any moisture you can collect off the grass blades, but a strange thought stops you.

Why, you think, does this grass appear so spotless, uniform and green...?

#random #lawns

648 notes · View notes

tadpolesonalgae · 4 days

Text

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 16

Azriel x third-oldest-Archeron-sibling!reader

a/n: kind of pleased how simple this chapter is compared with the last one

word count: 7,892

-Part 15-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Feyre paces quietly through the halls of her home, bare feet sticking slightly to the waxed wooden floors as she repeats the corridors. Her throat is raw and hoarse, already short nails bitten shorter, eyes red and swollen as she tries to think past the turmoil in her stomach, ringing in her head.

Footfalls approach her, steady so as not to startle her, but she jumps anyway until the familiar scent enters her lungs, and she turns to find those deep starlit eyes gazing back down at her, a hint of worry passing by. Warm palms graze up her bare arms, pausing at the roundness of her shoulders, thumbs stroking faintly as Rhys watches her quietly. She knows he’ll understand how distraught she is, devastation written across her gaunt features, harrowed by the past months of being torn between her family and her court, her mate and her baby. He reads the words she can’t bring herself to voice, hands moving to cup her jaw, thumbs brushing the skin coaxingly, violet eyes soft with an understanding she can hardly bare to recognise—to acknowledge where that understanding comes from is a wound she’s only beginning to understand the depth of.

“She’s alive,” Rhys tells her quietly, keeping her gaze locked and focused, her own trembling hands wrapped around the bone of her elbows. “Madja will be free shortly to perform an analysis on her current state, but she’s still here, Feyre.”

“She tried to kill herself.”

The words are cold and raspy, voice hoarse from disuse, and it cracks through her again—who had so nearly been ripped away from her. “She tried to kill herself, Rhys,” Feyre rasps, and his eyes shine before he’s dipping down, lips brushing the skin of her cheek as he kisses away the tears that must be falling. She falls into the sure lines of him, forehead resting against his chest helplessly, too tired for any more sobs to come up yet she feels the sting of her throat closing up, the ache of pulling a muscle stuck in her neck, trying to swallow past the lump.

“She’s alive, Feyre,” he repeats gently, palm settling over her hair, having lost its silky shine, a little knotted at the ends. “She’ll live.”

————

The room is so dark you struggle to recognise anything, and for long, stretching moments, you don’t.

The bedroom isn’t yours, the light-ish sheets unfamiliar to you, the entire layout strange and unknown. But you can recognise that scent, or at least a few small notes of it—you’ve been moved into the strange sanctuary of the River House. It’s your room.

Silently, you push the duvet back, bones aching with the movement as fatigue remains thick in your mind, making it difficult to stand. But you manage anyway, quietly making your way across the floor to the heavy curtains draping thickly on the ground, exerting surprising force to push them aside, wide enough for you to be met with— the night’s sky. It’s night.

You ease the window open, allowing the crisp air to wash over you, kissing along sweat-dampened skin, and you soften beneath the tender touch, craving the gentle caress so deeply you worry something might crack open inside of you. Swallowing thickly, you have to pry your tongue from the roof of your mouth, craving water. Turning for the door, you hope everyone will be asleep at this time, you aren’t ready for any sort of confrontation. After being alone in the House for so long, you’re unsure how to behave in a shared building—with fae hearing do you need to worry about being quiet, or are they used to sleeping through things in the night.

Twisting the handle, having grabbed a shawl from the top of a chest of drawers, you squeeze your eyes shut at the small creak, freezing as you pray nobody will have heard. When no footsteps sound, you release a silent sigh, pulling the door open and quietly stepping out into the corridor. Keen hazel eyes greet your own, and your breath catches, causing you to cough slightly as you press back into the door, hand on your chest as your heart thunders beneath your palm.

Cassian watches you silent, sat on a chair set beside your door, wings folded peacefully at his back, a book held between his giant’s hands that he’d been reading by candle light. “Something you need?” He asks. It’s quiet but not unfriendly, and you aren’t quite sure what to do. All at once you’re staring at him, eyes flitting fearfully across his features, darting from his gaze, to the edge of his lips, the set of his brows, the tension across his skin—what’s going on? Are you in trouble? Why are you here? Why is he outside your door? Is Azriel okay? Oh Gods, is Azriel okay? Did you kill him?

Cassian is unable to answer you unasked questions, so waits patiently in the quiet dark of the hallway.

“I…was getting some water,” you murmur hoarsely, unsure whether to continue or to run back into your room. Cassian nods slightly, hazel eyes flicking back to your closed door. “There’s a glass by your bed,” he supplies, and you blink.

“I didn’t know if that was for me or not…” you hedge, wondering still why he’s outside your door. What your situation is. Why isn’t anyone telling you anything?

Tension wells in your chest but you swallow it down, the questions about Azriel pushed away—how are you supposed to ask something like that? Like you’d be deserving of an answer. But is he dead?

“Is… How is…?” You ask hoarsely, words croaking from your throat, too afraid of insulting him to speak his name. “Been through worse,” Cassian asks, a slight gleam in his eyes, but it fades swiftly and you feel your temperature cool further. “Okay,” you reply, giving a small nod. “Goodnight.”

You hurry back into your room before he has a chance to reply, heart pounding in your chest as you slide down the door, sitting on the floor as you stare blankly across the room. Breathing shallowly, the night air making your skin shiver. You aren’t sure how long you sit there before emptying the glass of water, heading over to the window to open it a little wider, disliking the scent in your room. Your fingers fumble with the latch, unable to push it any further than a few inches wide—the hinge must be stuck, or rusted. You don’t want to go out there again.

Reluctantly, you settle back into bed, falling into a restless sleep.

————

When you next wake, it’s light. Foggy, grey morning sitting just outside your window.

You lean back into the deep cushion, falling further into the soft heat of the bed, wishing the world away—or to at least have it pause temporarily so you don’t have to worry over—

Three soft knocks are landed to your door, but you nestle further into the bed, limbs curling up into a ball as you pretend not to hear anything. Muffled voices come from the other side of the door, jarring with their unfamiliar hurry, words flurrying in whispered rasps between mouths from behind the wooden slab. Male and female—you can’t make out what’s being said and neither do you particularly want to, but you can hear the distinct sharpness of the female’s tone, cutting and harsh as it quietly hisses like steel through the air. The second voice then is likely still Cassian, but you bring the pillow over your head, trying to block out the analogy.

After long minutes, the knocks repeat, and your name is called softly from the entrance of the room—it’s Nesta. She’s asking if you’re awake. You keep very still, hardly even breathing so as to hopefully fool her into thinking you’re still asleep. She sighs. “You need to eat something,” she says firmly from the doorway, “Madja says it’ll help if you have something in your stomach.” You tuck yourself a little tighter, hiding away from the world beneath the cream covered duvet, dipping into the softness of the mattress.

She calls your name again, but silence follows.

The door clicks softly shut, like an arrow clicking into place, and tears drip over the bridge of your nose, sliding back into your hair as they dampen the fresh sheets.

————

By what you guess is lunchtime, you’ve managed to prop yourself up, though it took three tries to be successful.

On the first, you’d peeked over the hem of the covers, mind aching and eyes straining, everything a little blurry and bleary at the edges but preferring to be upright rather than remaining on your sides for the rest of the day. You’d managed to get as far as shifting in bed when you’d glanced down at yourself, wrapped in a long nightgown, but you could make out the pastiness of your skin. Up to your elbows, the skin was flaky and grey, flesh bumpy and lumpy in places, small swellings of tissue grouped together with crusted edges. To have taken over so much more of your body from that brief release of magic… You’d fallen back into the bed, unable to look at yourself, the gross wrongness of your skin.

The second, your head had been pounding enough you’d forced yourself to roll through the tangle of sheets to reach your bedside table, but as soon as you’d stuck your arm out to hold the glass then tears had been rolling again. Arm so speckled with flakes and lumps, grey and ugly and so distinctly not yours you’d almost spilled the water over the floor on bringing it to your mouth. On your chest had been other small lumps and bumps, though closer to the size of spots, and your stomach had sunk further, disgusted by the state of your own body—what illness could ravage you in such a cruel way?

The third, you had resolved simply to not glance down at yourself at all, resolutely shoving your arms out of sight as you pushed yourself up, propping yourself against the pillow and pulling the duvet firmly up to your shoulders so you wouldn’t have to even think of the ugly state of your flesh. It had been then the knocks had come again, and the door had opened slightly, silver eyes finding your own across the room. “May I come in?” She asks.

You look away uncomfortably, unsure if you’re allowed to ask her to go away. Would that be too much? This would be so much easier if any of them were being openly hostile to you, but it feels like they’re hiding it away, silently encouraging it from the light, harbouring and nurturing it where you can’t see until resentment is strong enough to slither out and strangle you with a single, venomous bite.

Nesta pauses, then pushes the door open with her foot, coming in with a tray of food and setting it on the bed. There’s a brief silence, then, “how are you feeling?” You dip your head slightly in a vague answer, but it sends an ache through your skull so you decide you’ll try not to do it again. Silver eyes drift from the tray then back to you. “Madja will be here this evening to have a look at you. You should eat.” You swallow thickly, not looking at her.

“I’m not hungry,” you manage softly. Another silence passes, and you hope she’ll leave soon. “You need to eat,” she says firmly, a touch gentler than before.

But you stay quiet, not looking at her.

She moves abruptly, sitting down on the edge of the bed, making to reach gently for your hands beneath the duvet. You flinch, recoiling to the other side of the bed, upsetting a small carafe of cream as it spills across the tray, bleeding into the toast and pastry, softening them into mush. Your eyes unwillingly flinch as they meet her own set, sharp and silver and hurting, her brows curved, but she puts it away swiftly, recovering.

Nesta nods her head faintly, wordlessly, standing elegantly from the bed, collecting the tray in her warrior’s hands. “I’ll go find you something else. Just rest here, okay?” She requests softly. But you’ve already torn your eyes away, looking low elsewhere. “I’m not hungry.”

————

Nesta had returned with another tray of food, instead setting this one on your bedside table so there would be no risk of it getting upturned. You don’t look at her, keeping your gaze to the floor on the other side of the room until you’d heard the door click shut, and again the memories swell across your skin, and you fall into sadness.

Madja appears in the evening, Elain accompanying her, and you can’t help but be certain she’s been kept this long attending to Azriel. You have no idea what state he’s in, only that he’s been through worse, according to his brother. Little assurance that gives, knowing what’s probably a small fraction of the things he’s experienced. And now you’ve added to that list. Shame tugs at your gut, guilt starving hunger away. It would be better if you didn’t eat, at least that might be some way to begin atoning.

“Will you show me your hands?” Madja asks gently, having brought in a chair to sit by your bedside. Reluctantly you pull them out, apologies naturally falling from your mouth as they’re presented to her, and you’re embarrassed by their stark ugliness in contrast to her own withered hands, but she shakes her head, assuring you there’s nothing to be sorry for. But you suppose that’s part of her job, too. To make even the most unnatural creature feel seen and reassured.

A faint warmth ghosts across your skin where she’s touching you, and Elain watches from beside, a wariness in her cocoa eyes as Madja’s brows narrow in concentration. “Is it—” You swallow thickly, heart pounding in your chest, “can you fix it?” You scan her features eagerly as she opens her eyes. It would be nice to not have to find arm-length gloves. But Madja offers a quiet smile, “let me finish with my examination, then I can tell you my findings.”

You flush a little at your haste, but nod briskly, leaning back into the pillow as one hand settles over your forehead, the other over your sternum. Elain meets your eyes, and you give a small smile that belies your excitement. None of the nurses you had as children could hold a flame to what Madja can do, the experience and knowledge she has, and it’s exciting being treated knowing you’ll be able to get better. You’re in a land of magic, after all. They have a cure for every known illness.

That tingling feeling sharpens into something a little uncomfortable as it passes over your lungs, but Madja makes no reaction so you guess it can’t be anything bad. Her hand drifts over your stomach, Elain having helped to push the duvet down, and her middle and second finger begin pushing and prodding at different parts of your abdomen, feeling either side of your ribs, above your belly button, close to your hips, gently over your stomach, each time keeping that faint tingly warmth in her touch. At last she pulls away, gently settling her hand over your sternum again, eyes closed as she does her work, and you give Elain another excited look. She smiles faintly back, and an unfamiliar warmth tingles across your chest, independent from the magic of Madja’s fingertips.

When she’s done, you look at her expectantly, arms resting more easily at your sides. You look at her with eyes more bright than they’ve been in a while, and her features remain peacefully neutral, kind. She takes your hands in hers, and you cast a hasty glance at Elain to make sure she’s watching with as much attention as you are. “You asked me if I can fix your hands at the beginning of this session,” Madja begins, watching you kindly, and you manage a small nod, all your attention on her. Madja shakes her head a little, “I cannot.”

You blink, the smile fading from your mouth, heart picking up in your chest. “What? You can’t? What do you mean you can’t?” You ask in a quiet flurry, confusion muddling your thoughts. Madja gives a patient smile, squeezing your hands lightly, “your skin is exactly as it’s supposed to be. There’s nothing wrong with how they are.”

“There definitely is,” you urge, panic creeping into your voice as you stare into Madja’s warm brown eyes. “Madja they look…” you flush, humiliation creeping in as you lower your voice, “Madja, it’s hideous. You can’t tell me you can’t fix it. You must be able to… There has to be something wrong for you to fix.”

She gives you another smile, this one sad but understanding, but you don’t feel understood at all. “I agree it might appear as though there’s cause for concern, but there’s nothing in your body I can identify as wrong. With wounds or bruises there are clear patterns within someone to follow that have been damaged, and that is instinctively how a healer knows what must be corrected without causing external changes or mutations. But with your skin, it’s simply different. There’s nothing wrong standing out to me. I can only assume this is the way your skin is meant to be, possibly to facilitate the use of your magic.”

“What do you mean assume? Possibly? Do you— Don’t you know what’s happened to me?” You ask quietly, frantically, hold tightening on her though she doesn’t seem to mind at all. “Madja you can’t tell me I’m alright,” you urge, pointedly forcing yourself to look over the lumpy, discoloured flesh.

Madja gives a pause, glancing down at your arms, before again returning her calm gaze to yours. “I have never seen something like this; all I can tell you is at this moment I can only observe what is happening inside of you. I cannot tell you whether it is good or bad, only what it is doing. I will continue with these check-ups—if you’re okay with them—and document your development so we can learn. Though my instincts are leading me to believe this is a phenomenon caused by however your magic is choosing to manifest. I would guess learning more about your magic will give us some insight into what’s happening, but for now all I can offer is to report on what I find in you over these coming weeks.”

————

Another day has passed, it having started with you awkwardly wobbling over to your bathroom to throw up, heaving saliva into the toilet as flaky fingers gripped the pristine porcelain-looking shine of the seat. The grey sheen to your skin stands out more against the blinding white of the bathroom, and you feel like grime clinging to the tiles.

————

Your next visitor is Feyre, and your stomach hollows out when she steps through the door. She looks worse than you do: her hair isn’t as resplendent as you remember, looking slightly greasy at the roots, little light in her eyes, slight lines carved beneath them and around the edges of her mouth. Indeed, she looks older than when you last saw one another, haggard and strained, and guilt kicks you hard in the unprotected soft part of your stomach—it’s your fault she looks like that for at least partly contributing to her worries.

Feyre manages a small smile, walking over to your bed like a ghost and you watch silently, how she’s changed. “Hi!” She says softly, eyes crinkling at the edges as she pauses at the edge of the mattress, looking at you expectantly. “Hi,” you manage, hardly more than a horrid whisper as you stare at your younger sister. She looks like she’s been dragged from one end of the world to the other. “Can I sit down?” She asks, and you remember the last time you spoke together, alone in your room. You aren’t sure if she’s remembering too, but you manage a small nod and she smiles, crawling onto the foot of the mattress and crossing her bare feet over her lap. “So?” She asks gently, conversationally, “how have you been?”

“Fine,” you answer instinctively. Both of you pause at that, unsure which of you should call the lie. “I’m fine,” you repeat, trying to speak it into existence, and Feyre watches you quietly, something changing in her gaze. It might be sorrow, but you look away before you have time to examine it.

“How was the visit from Madja?” She asks at last, switching to an equally awful topic, and you shift beneath the bedsheets. “She doesn’t know what’s wrong,” you reply. At least you can be truthful with this answer. “She thinks…” you almost tell her Madja encouraged you to look into your powers, but after what’s happened… “What does she think?” Feyre asks when you’ve seemingly drifted into space. You blink, then sigh, “that this, is— that’s it’s fine.”

Feyre’s brow furrows, a look of concentration settling over her features. “Does any of it hurt?” She asks, but you shake your head.

“Not anymore.” Her expression shifts at that, concern deepening and you internally shrink away from the small lines deepening on her face, how you’re carving the worry lines into something more clear. “It used to hurt?” You sink into the pillow—you don’t want to burden her with all those strange pains and sharp discomforts, the blood and pasty flesh. “It’s fine.”

Quiet passes, full and heavy, but you have no interest in continuing the stunted conversation.

“Feyre, I’m tired, so…” You begin, but she speaks abruptly, looking directly into your eyes like she’s been preparing herself for this question. “Why did you do it?”

As soon as the question is out however, her eyes are filling with tears, shining in the early light, her nose reddening as she hastily wipes at her cheeks with the sleeves of her top, trying to pull herself together. Her own tears make your eyes heat so you look away, sniffling so you don’t have to wipe your nose on the sleeve of your nightgown. “I don’t know,” you mumble defensively. “I don’t know. I was just— I was just scared, and tired, and I—” You cut yourself off, realising you’re mumbling out nonsense that you aren’t properly thinking about. “I don’t know,” you settle on, hardly a whisper.

“Were you,” —Feyre stumbles, drying her eyes— “I mean, did you not feel like…like you could speak with us?” She manages, voice wet with tears.

“I don’t know,” you cry softly, covering your face. “I just—… I didn’t want to be forced to…to kill someone. I didn’t want to be a murderer, Feyre. I just— I didn’t know what to do, so I guess I just figured it would be easier if I…if I wasn’t here…” your voice breaks on the last part, shoulders shaking as you try to muffle your sobs. “It would’ve been easier,” you whisper.

The mattress dips as she crawls further up, settling at your side, and her arms wrap around you, both of you shifting to face one another as you cry, hiding your face in her hair as her own tears wet your night gown. “Please,” she whispers. “We’ll find a way through this. We’ll get through it. It’ll pass, and things will get better. You have to trust that they will get better.”

“I can’t,” you whisper hollowly onto her shoulder. “What is there?”

“So much,” she breathes, clutching you tighter, “there’s so much out there. And some of it’s awful, but a lot of it’s good, too. You just have to find it.”

“I’m tired,” you cry quietly, fingers shaking as they hold onto her, wary of leaning too much on her. “I can’t. I don’t want to.”

“Please,” she repeats. “Please.”

You’re quiet, allowing tears to fall as she holds you tight, refusing to back off even as your own hold lightens, and you lean closer into her, both of you settling against the pillows for support. “I’ve been so worried,” she admits softly. “I thought you wanted space.”

“I did want space,” you whisper back. “I still do,” you cry, grip tightening on her a little.

“Should we— We should have been around more. I should have visited you more,” she murmurs, sniffling lightly. You shake your head, more tears falling, “you couldn’t’ve done anything. It wouldn’t’ve…it wouldn’t’ve worked.”

“What about…what if it happens again?”

“It won’t.”

She gives you a slight squeeze, and you know she doesn’t believe you. “Feyre, it won’t. I was just— I thought I was going to kill him,” you plead quietly.

“So you tried to kill yourself first? Why? That wouldn’t have solved anything,” she cries, and guilt washes through you. As well as something like relief… She pulls back, gripping you firmly by the shoulders. “You would have been missing instead of him,” she breathes, pain-soaked words like a balm to a wound you didn’t know you had. But you still shake your head, “it would’ve been better.”

Feyre’s brows curve in pain, and she looks like she wants to continue the conversation, but a soft set of knocks come from the door, and you raise your head enough to spot gentle cocoa eyes peering in, silver looking from overtop Elain’s silky, ringleted hair. “Can we come in?” Elain whispers, pausing at the door as Nesta watches from a little further back. Your lower lip wobbles as fresh tears fall, and you nod your head, allowing the other two to enter, closing the door behind them.

They settle seamlessly on the bed, arms tangling as bodies are pressed together in a familiar mess, leaning back into the plump cushions as tears fall heavier. Both you and Elain are pressed in the centre of the bed, Feyre hugging close to your back with one of your own arms wrapped around Elain and the other in Nesta’s hand who lies solemnly close behind Elain. It’s so strange to be lying like this again, and you feel so stupid crying that you try to muffle your sobs, embarrassed by how you want to grip onto all of them now that they’re here. You hadn’t been aware of missing them, but now they’re lying at your side, and you can feel the heat of skin and the familiar press of joints and limbs you wonder how you’d made it this long without them.

Everyone seems to be holding the others equally tightly though.

It’s not just you who’s scared of losing.

————

The evening has come, and you’re feeling surprisingly awake.

Despite having spent the afternoon locked inside you bedroom, spending the time lazing with your sisters, you don’t feel at all fatigued. Maybe some weight on your eyelids, a slight stiffness to your joints, but you’re awake. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you search the cupboard for a mug, having departed from the group temporarily to find yourself some tea—the others were fine without. It feels good to get along with them, though you know it won’t stretch for longer than a day. This is your one small blessing, which makes it precious. There will be no reason for you to spend time so lazily together tomorrow, nor to sprawl inelegantly upon your bed, nor play cards until your mind hurts from all the schemes being cooked up.

Footfalls come quietly into the kitchen, and you turn, expecting to find Feyre, only to find Rhysand stood at the threshold, just the other side of the border. His features are neutral, but there’s something different in his eyes that you don’t know well enough to make out. You stiffen at his presence, temperature cooling suddenly as the warmth leaves your body, smile dropping from your mouth.

“Rhys,” you greet anxiously, wondering if you can get away with excusing yourself now while the tea is still steeping. You can drink it without milk…without sugar…there’s no way he wouldn’t notice your rudeness, and after the mess you’ve made for all of them…you push your hands anxiously behind your back to hide their tremble as you try for a friendly look, forcing a strange curve to your mouth, hoping your eyes will reflect the smile. He inclines his head in greeting but remains by the threshold of the kitchen. “You look well,” he remarks.

You blink. Because you don’t. You know you don’t. Is it just a compliment? Is he trying to make you feel better? Is it a test to see how you’ll react? See if you’ll try and play up how ill you are in attempts to excuse yourself? What if he’s waiting to see if you’ll ask about Azriel? Or Cassian? You haven’t seen Cassian since you were first brought to the River House. Are you supposed to ask after him? Or should you just reciprocate the compliment? But what would you say to not sound insincere? Or what about Nyx? Should you apologise for causing Feyre to worry? Should you apologise to him for causing Feyre worry? For causing him worry? But what if he wasn’t worrying? You don’t want to assume care where there’s only duty? Maybe you should try and make normal conversation? But what about the House of Wind? Is it wrecked? Did you ruin it? Should you ask about that? Oh gods does he know where you were? Nobody’s mentioned Eris yet, is that what this conversation will be about? Mother above can he read your thoughts? Feyre mentioned sometimes thinking loudly. Are you thinking loudly? Goodness, is this weird?

“Thank you,” you manage to choke out, though it sounds obviously strained, and you clear your throat.

Rhys smiles faintly, then enters the kitchen, and you swiftly turn back to your tea, stirring the cup. You nearly spill some liquid, and slow your rotations of the spoon. Are you stirring too slowly now? Can you stir a cup too slowly? Everyone has their own pace. It’s fine. Out of everything that’s happened surely he won’t decide to call you out on this. You’re fine. It’s all fine. Everything’s fine.

A silver ringed hand waves lightly at the corner of your vision and you blink, realising he’s speaking, flinching slightly how you hadn’t heard him. “Sorry, pardon?” You ask, peering at him. He smiles again, and you wonder if he’s doing it for your sake, if he’s actually incredibly irritated and busy. He totally is. Your temperature cools further. “I asked if you’re feeling well-rested,” he repeats, opening a cupboard and glancing inside. “Oh,” you swallow, nodding your head, “yes. I mean, no. I mean, I slept well, yes, but I’m still physically fatigued, I think?” Is that an okay answer? Was it too much? There was a lot of information he hadn’t asked for. Should you ask how he slept? No that would be weird. Or would it be polite?

Rhysand nods, pulling out three mugs, and you wonder who they’re for. “Az said more-or-less the same, just more grumpily,” he replies lightly, and you glance at him. You’re lost. Is that an invitation to ask about him? Should you ask about him? Would it be rude not to? But given everyone knows how you feel about him wouldn’t it be weird? Kind of invasive? You don’t want to bother his space… “He’s well?” You ask hesitantly, metal spoon warming your fingertips.

“He’s well,” Rhys confirms, catching your nervous gaze. “Well enough to receive visitors, at least.”

Now what does that mean?

His gaze is still on you, and you’re unsure whether to look away or to continue holding it. Is your tea ready?

“It might be worth speaking with him,” Rhys says with a tone in his voice that you can’t figure out. “He can be tight-lipped when he wants to be. Though I suppose that’s what makes him excel at his position. It would be nice to know a little more about what’s going on, in my own Court though.” Do you tell him? Is he asking you to volunteer the information? Does he not know Azriel brought you back from the Autumn Court? Oh gods that makes everything so much worse. You had assumed they knew, and they might not be angry with you, but if he hasn’t told them… “Azriel hasn’t told you?” You manage to get out, fear crawling up your spine.

“No,” Rhys replies, “but I can put some theoretical pieces together. One thing I can’t figure out, however, is what you were doing with a bow tipped with ash. I trust you know that’s our weakness?” You manage a small nod, ice practically dripping down your spine despite the pleasant temperature of the kitchen. “So? Would you mind elaborating?” He asks, setting the three mugs down to brew. He has the time to wait.

“How much…did Azriel tell you?” You manage, voice strained, fingers gripping one another and you slide the ridge of your nail beneath the other, playing with the ring on your index finger. “Enough to lead me to believe you were somewhere in the Autumn Court,” Rhysand replies, violet watching you intently. You freeze beneath that look, words failing you. Why hadn’t the arrow flown true? Just another second…and everything would’ve—

“I don’t believe you did anything to intentionally harm Azriel,” he says quietly, and you want to tear your eyes away, feeling as though he can read something secret, something you want to keep hidden despite everyone already knowing. “You were in the Autumn Court, weren’t you?” He asks, voice a touch gentler than before. You answer with no more than a stiff nod, unable to lie to him. “And were you with Eris?” He asks. Your heart pounds in your chest, turning preternaturally still as you blink at the question, brows worrying slightly, too scared to answer—but it seems to be answer enough, as Rhys nods.

“And the arrow?” He pushes, in the same quiet, light voice of his.

“Eris,” you reply softly, panicking. Rhysand pauses, regarding you quietly.

“Eris gave you the arrow? The ash arrow?” He questions, and you wonder if your mind is fabricating the note of doubt in his voice. You want to shrink away somewhere, hide in some dark corner, go back to your bedroom, sprawled across the mattress with your sisters. Why had you wanted to get tea?

“And what did he tell you?” Rhysand questions, seemingly accepting your answer and not pushing for any more details. You’re glad, because you don’t think you could recall any in that moment. You blink, repeating the question in your head. “About what?” You ask nervously—was there anything he’d mentioned that’s rising to your mind now? No. Rhysand’s violet eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and you feel your feet itching to step away, becoming conscious of how little warmth the shawl is providing. “No one’s angry.” He says, watching you still with that look in his eyes, and he looks like he might speak again but you’re already shaking your head. “I— He didn’t tell me anything… or, nothing I can think that would be important?” Had he? Should you have listened harder? Was Rhys expecting you to have gotten something? Were you supposed to have overheard something? Seen something? You hadn’t thought to do any of that. Were you supposed to? Your stomach plummets through your feet, blood turning cool in your veins—is he angry with you?

“Nothing?” Rhys questions, still watching you closely. You shake your head, trying to prove your innocence. He pauses, and you feel like your heart is thundering in your chest, slamming against your ribs. Will he be angry now? “I promise,” you try uselessly, “he didn’t tell me anything.”

But Rhys nods, “I believe you.” Your brow furrows, perplexed and desperately confused. Are you okay then?

Rhys sighs, running a hand through his hair, glancing absently at the three mugs of tea, and they vanish abruptly from the side. You blink, still not entirely accustomed to the minute facility of magic. “You don’t know why you were given the arrow?” He asks, and your shoulders slope, completely lost. Should you know? Either way, you shake your head truthfully, and he nods again. “Alright,” he murmurs, making to step away from the counter, sighing heavily. He glances at you before leaving, a gentle but slightly stern look on his features. “Rest well, and look after yourself. You gave us all a scare.” Then he’s walking away out the kitchen, letting you breathe away the remaining tension that had worked its way into your body while you were speaking.

You add milk, and the right amount of sugar, stirring your tea and sipping at it, finding the taste to be pleasant and relaxing as its heat washes through you, able to feel as it spreads throughout your body.

Your name cuts through the silence, and you flinch at the naturally sharp intonation, tea dripping over your fingers. You glance over your shoulder to find Nesta leaning slightly against the kitchen doorframe. “You were taking a while,” she surmises, glancing around the kitchen suspiciously, then her nostrils flare delicately and a look of distaste passes behind her eyes. “I thought I’d come and check on you.” You swallow, nodding your head, hastily wiping up the small mess you’d made before gripping the hot cup and turning to go with her.

When you approach, her gaze sweeps over you analytically, and you pause, shying slightly from the cutting look. “Rhysand was here,” she states, a note of displeasure in her tone, and you nod. “Did you two speak?” She prompts, turning on her feet to head back the way she’d come, with you in tow, and you nod again. “It was a little unnerving,” you mumble quietly, keeping an eye on your tea to make sure none of it spills again. “He’s an asshole,” Nesta mutters under her breath, teeth flashing briefly, and you settle into step with her. “Feyre loves him,” you murmur, not entirely sure why you mention it. “Still an asshole,” she replies bluntly, doing nothing to soften her voice, and you wince, hoping fae hearing isn’t good enough he’ll be able to hear her.

“He can be scary,” you concede quietly, taking another sip of your tea before ascending the staircase.

————

Your head is quiet and buzzing at the same time. A dull drone having a cool sensation settling wetly against the nape of your neck as you make your way down the unfamiliar hall to the closed door on the right. Behind it, you’ll find out what condition Azriel is in. What condition you’ve left him in, after… You’d rather not think about the situation that had led up to now. The forced vulnerability is too much; it’s too soon for you to begin sorting through the events.

Having been asked directly by Feyre why, you answered the first thing that came to mind—that you were scared, that you hadn’t wanted to murder someone, a choice she would understand with more clarity perhaps than any of them, having been forced to take the lives of three innocent fae to save Prythian while she was still human. Perhaps if Elain had asked, you would have instinctively chosen something relating to an embarrassment of rejection, of how it felt to be left to yourself out of disinterest and the humiliation of being pushed aside because you aren’t good enough. Perhaps if Nesta had asked why you would have answered with a dislike for yourself, might have told her it felt so wrong to continue you’d had no choice but to remove yourself, the strain of simply living far too much for you to struggle through each and every day. When every morning is spent wishing to return to sleep, and each hour is counting closer to oblivion, but knowing deep down you’ll never pass eternally…how could you resolve that restlessness?

None of it would have been a lie, each answer would have offered a peek at a single shard, but there are lots of shards scattered inside of you. A complexity that’s been metaphorically shattered, so many reasons messily broken on your floorboards. It’s cruel in a way to be asked why, quite simply if she doesn’t understand you can’t hope to explain. It’s a heaviness that’s relentless, not always appearing as a deep sadness but sometimes just a constant fatigue each morning. When every day is grey it’s hard to remember the sun, even if there’s no storm.

Would you have been able to tell any one of them the conflict between yearning for company and knowing you’ll never know the kind you desire?

The door comes into view, and you steady yourself before it. You’re fairly confident Rhysand had wanted you to speak with him, or at least see him. You shouldn’t worry about what to say, the conversation will either flow or not on its own. But you will not thank him for saving you.

You knock lightly on the door, easing breath into your lungs to help with the tension as you listen for a sign to enter. Instead you hear muffled footfalls, and your heart jumps in your chest, stepping back into the hallway and you smooth down your clothes out of habit, making sure your hair is a neat as possible—you should have checked a mirror before coming here to make sure you don’t look unpresentable.

Instead the door opens halfway through trying to smooth your hair out, and you freeze when amber eyes meet your own through the break in the door. The breath catches in your lungs, and after a pause you remember to settle your hands to your sides, unsure where to look as your breathing quickens. “Is Azr—… Is he awake?” You ask softly, looking away as your hands join in front of you. Mor is silent for a beat before answering. “He’s asleep.”

“Oh…”

Since stretches between you, and you wonder why she was in there.

To check on him, obviously. They’re close. They care about one another. Why wouldn’t she be there, even if he’s sleeping?

“I—… Is he okay…?” You ask quietly, not wanting to cause any excess sound that might wake him. You’ve done enough harm already.

Again Mor pauses, then she’s stepping out into the hallway, softly shutting the door behind her, and your heart begins pounding in your chest. She remains stood in front of the door, but makes no motion to speak, and you shift uncomfortably on your feet. You fumble for a conversation topic, unsure whether to try persisting or whether it would be wiser to subtly excuse yourself.

You shift on your feet, fingers mindlessly playing with the ring on your left hand, twisting it around lightly, pulling it up over the knuckle then sliding it back down again. “I…thank you for…for when we went out,” you manage thickly, heart still pounding as you keep your gaze firmly on your ungloved hands. “I don’t think I…I’m not sure if I mentioned it, or really felt it at the time, but thank you. For just…being around. And—…trying. Thank you, for…” you trail off, nodding subtly. “Thank you.”

She’s still silent, and if it weren’t for the fact that you can see her shoes in the tops of your vision, you’d think she walked away. You blink, and shift nervously, unsure what to do now—should you continue or try to excuse yourself? You won’t get anywhere if you don’t reach out for help.

You shift on your feet, steeling your spine how Nesta would, meeting absent amber eyes. Swallowing, you know what you want to say. “I would…” the words choke you, warmth flushing your skin as your eyes dart away, before returning to her own. “I’d like to do it again, sometime,” you manage to tell her, heart pounding in your chest. “I’d like to go into Velaris again. With you,” you add on for the sake of clarification.

Mor regards you quietly and time stretches far between you; you can feel your pulse thundering in your ears, blood rushing through your body as your heart pounds. But her eyes soften marginally, lips curving with a hint of a smile, and you permit the tension to ever so slightly drain from your shoulders. She closes her eyes briefly, glancing down as if finding something amusing, and you can’t help the way your own mouth begins to curve with relieve she isn’t angry. Or at least, not as angry as you had convinced yourself.

Amber eyes meet your own, and you allow the smile to tentatively spread across your lips.

“I’d like that,” she says quietly, but not softly. Mor sighs, then stands straighter, the amusement flickering out of her gaze. “You’ll pay this time though, right?” She asks, and the floor falls out from under your feet. She glances down at her nails briefly, examining them before again meeting your own gaze, distraught. She tilts her head, “I paid last time. It’s only fair, don’t you agree? And if this is your way of apologising…”

You stare at her, the smile having dropped clean from your mouth, splattered on the floor far below. Mor makes no effort to change what she’s said, no attempts to amend the choice she’s made, but you can’t remove your gaze, staring at her, lost. She doesn’t take it back, but she doesn’t smile either. This is more than a small jab from her—it’s resentment. A line in the sand.

A line you crossed without care, or even thought.

You remove your gaze, lips closing as the understanding begins to settle into your skin, the way pain disperses through flesh after a blow is struck. There’s no changing how your actions impacted her, no cleaning the mud you’d mindlessly splattered on those around you from running so recklessly.

Neither of you speak as you turn from her silently, understanding the conversation is at its end. You know when you aren’t wanted, and you know not to push if you won’t be accepted—if you’d known that from the start, you would have been saved a life’s worth of upset. You hardly register the steps you take as your feet carry you away back down the hallway, unable to raise your eyes from the floorboards. Head lowered as you make the walk back to your…to the bedroom you’ve been assigned.

“You know, it’s better this way,” Mor calls, and you pause in your steps, casting a glance over your shoulder. “Even if you hadn’t done what you did, even if we had become friends…you’d always have been second to Feyre.” She quietens then and shakes her head gently, some golden hair shifting over her shoulder with the motion. When she meets your eyes again they’re…pitying.

Of you.

“Maybe you just aren’t made for first choice.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes

#azriel x reader angst #azriel x reader fic #cbmthy #azriel x you #multi part fic #azriel angst

198 notes · View notes

powdermelonkeg · 5 months

Text

Personal headcanons for Gale's tower layout:

5F: An astronomical observatory with an orrery in it. The stardome is enchanted to reflect whatever sky and weather Gale wishes; if he wants to see the stars in Kythorn, that's what it shows him. If he wants rainy weather to read to, guess what. The stars reflect whatever position the orrery's been set to. There's a walkable ledge around the exterior of the roof for Tara's pigeon-hunting.

4F: A portal room, surrounded by three guest bedrooms and a bathroom. The bedrooms are themed: one smells like a sea breeze and faces the harbor, colored with sunset shades with gold accents, one smells like rose potpourri and fresh grass, mostly pastel purple with brass, one smells faintly spiced, deep maroon and bronze. Morena prefers the rose one. Each one comes equipped with a vanity that has three (magic) mirrors, a wardrobe that removes wrinkles and stains of anything hung in it and repairs minor stitches, a set of candles that never burn down their wicks, and curtains that, when drawn, enact a silent barrier around the room. The floors are polished hardwood with plush, patterned carpets. The bathroom is self-cleaning, has running water on command, whatever temp you want it, warms towels for you, and has a magic mirror (magic mirrors in my headcanon show hairstyles and things you WANT to try before you actually try them out).

3F: Gale's floor. His bedroom, a walk-in closet, a room for Tara, and a personal bathroom. Gale's bedroom has silence-spelled drapes, glowing crystal sconces he can dim with a wave, a desk, a large canopy bed (the one he summons during his last night in Act II), a small bookshelf for whatever he's currently reading that doubles as his nightstand, and a plush window seat. The walk-in closet is neatly sorted, with everything from travel robes to finery to wear to the annual Blackstaff Ball, and has the same enchantments in it as the guest room wardrobes, with the added effect of making anything put in it inexplicably smell like a library. His bathroom is just like the guest ones, but larger. The bathtub inside, when activated, always assumes he wants his bath piping hot and lavender-scented. Tara's room is smaller, but fully designed for her little cat body. Scratching posts, cat-sized perches and comfy cat towers, and a little bookcase and window seat of her own. She keeps her space VERY neat, in contrast to Gale's "organized chaos" sort of living.

2F: This is the floor we see in Gale's Act II illusion. The packed library, the messy desk, the private study, the balcony... He sorts his books by topic, then by date rather than author. Tara is appalled by it. The balcony has a minor enchantment to keep weather, pigeons, and seagulls off of it. Tara is upset at the lack of birds; it's SUCH a cozy napping spot, and you're going to take away her free breakfast, too? Gale's compromise was the 5th floor's walkable ledge, which is a prime pigeon-hunting perch.

1F: The entry floor. It's got a sitting room to entertain guests with, and a large, well-kitted kitchen. The dishwashing basin does the washing for Gale. On the wall in the sitting room, there are two notable paintings: one is of young, 10-year-old Gale in a cape, standing proudly with both his parents and holding his first-ever proper wizard staff. He's TRYING to have Tara on his shoulders, he insisted, but she's just too big, so he's wound up leaning forward where she awkwardly perches on his back. He has a snaggle tooth. The other painting is of a much older Gale, dressed finely and standing with his mother, smiling. It was made before he got the beard, so he looks a decent bit younger than he is. Tara is wrapped around Morena's shoulders like one of those feather boas, but she's headbutting Gale's shoulder affectionately.

B1: Gale's wine cellar and well-stocked pantry. He collects all kinds of wines from all over Faerûn, usually getting them from merchants that pass through Waterdeep, but he's not opposed to cracking open an expensive vintage with the right company. There's a locked cabinet labeled "in case of Elminster" that contains some cheeses and wine to offer the older wizard, that way Elminster doesn't raid Gale's pantry when he's not looking. If you don't feed Elminster, he WILL feed himself at your expense.

B2: Gale's spell workshop, scroll storage, alchemy lab, and vault. Gale's not especially well-versed in alchemy (I think Wyll's got dibs on that, personally), but he DOES mix himself up some Arcane Cultivation elixirs from time to time. And if a potion recipe intrigues him enough, he likes to have a place on hand to try things out. The vault is well-guarded with spells, but, sadly, pretty empty; it just has his savings there now, where once it held all sorts of enchanted items he'd picked up through his studies and younger adventuring days.

An additional note: Tara has perches all throughout the house, on every floor, basically anywhere Gale spends a lot of time doing things. The cushions that are hers are magically heated and smell like tea and mint.

#long post #bg3 #gale dekarios #gale's tower #see i think gale knows all about elixirs #resistances to magic? see invisibility? right up his alley #but i don't think he could look at a rogue's morsel and be like 'ah yes. that's for healing purposes'#mans needs a recipe book for his chemistry #whereas i think wyll would know just about every edible and useful plant out there AND how to treat his own wounds

387 notes · View notes

munsonsfairy · 9 months

Text

🍒🥧🤎 MY COWBOY • EDDIE MUNSON

ib layout: @beforeimdeceased

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ sfw

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who sees you pulled over to the side of the road looking into the hood of your old truck. he sees you standing in front of it with no clue of what is wrong.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who’s voice is sweet and warm like apple pie. his dimples have you giggling like a high school girl.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who refuses to take your money after fixing your truck, but does say, “i think a home cooked meal will do the trick, sweet girl.”

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who shows up to your door in white shirt and blue jeans that hug his legs in all the right places. he has a bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in newspaper and you swear you could kiss him.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who could instantly melt seeing you in an apron with a floral dress underneath. the porch light shines the color of your eyes just right and he wishes he could stare at them forever.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who blushes when you pull him into a hug giving him a chance to smell your perfume.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who sits at the table and watches you do your things in the kitchen. you’re babbling about your job at the local nursery and he can’t help but admire how animated you get while talking.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who wishes he kissed you that night after dinner, but he promises himself next time.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who talks real slow ‘cause his uncle is in the other sleeping before work.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who takes you driving through the backroads. you’re sitting shotgun with your hair undone in the front seat of his truck.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who lays with you in the back of his chevy truck to look up at the stars. when he looks up, he just stares at you with love and whispers, “the way your eyes shine puts these indiana stars to shame.”

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who promises to build you the life you dream of. he probably can’t buy it but he will try his hardest to give you everything you deserve.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who kisses you that night under the stars. it’s passionate and breathless. his rough hands hold you close to him as if he’s scared you’ll disappear.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who’s favorite thing to do after a long day is sit on the porch swing with you cuddled into his chest. he will sometimes smoke a cigarette or sip on some warm honey tea you made. (it’s usually the tea lol).

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who stopped his truck during a tim mcgraw song and dragged you in front of the headlights just to slow dance. your head laid on his chest and it suddenly felt like home.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ nsfw

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who has you pinned down in the back of his truck. his mouth leaves sloppy kisses on your neck while he thrusts deep inside you.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who whimpers when you pull his hair while his tongue laps around your clit. his rough fingers fill up your hole having you cry tears of pleasure.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who makes you rub yourself against his bulge when you give him an attitude. he sits back smoking a cigarette while you cry and leave marks all over him — begging him to have his way with you.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who ties you up in the barn and has his way with you when he needs a break from working. the warm breeze hardens your nipples making eddie lose his mind.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who is the sweetest man ever to your parents only to have you bent over the sink while you’re washing dishes. you see his reflection in the window with his shirt unbuttoned and sweat dripping down his chest.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who wants to make you barefoot and pregnant so always finds a chance to fill you up. loves to watch his cum leak out of your abused pussy then uses two fingers to fuck it back inside. doing this only makes him hard again, “gotta make sure it stays inside sweet girl.”

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who watches you from across the ranch. you’re wearing your a cami with your panties — his favorite too. he has his hands on his hips with a smirk on his lips. you’re “watering the flowers,” but he knows damn well what you’re doing. “saw you lookin’ so cute from other there. think i don’t know what what you’re doing?”

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who isn’t giving you enough attention so you lay in his truck with nothing on. he hears your whimpering along with your wet pussy being fucked by your dildo. he’ll stand in front of the door and lean in making his muscles more prominent only sending you over the edge. eddie eddie eddie is all he hears. he licks his lips when he sees you cum all around the toy.

ꕥ cowboy!eddie who sits you at the edge of the tailgate with your legs wide open for him. your fingers are buried in his head of curls. his hand reaches up for your tits when his tongue flicks your clit. when you try to hide your moans, he squeezes your cheeks open with his rough hand then slaps you. “next time it’ll be harder if you don’t let me hear those pretty noises.”

#eddie munson #cowboy!eddie munson #eddie munson au #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson headcanons #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson smut

515 notes · View notes

becauseicantthinkwritings · 7 months

Text

Nightfall (4)

Vampire! Billy Russo x Female Reader

Part 1// Part 2// Part 3

Warnings: Dubious Consent, smut (18+), mostly dirty talk, some fucked up dynamics where he lets her press a stake to his heart, oral (f receiving), edging, orgasm denial, teasing.

For @stardustmorozov, Nicky I'm sorry but you're gonna yell at me again... and I'm gonna love it.

You sit on his bed, listening to the sound of the shower going.

Your mouth tastes like spearmint, and your hair is still a little damp after your shower despite your attempts at blow drying.

You’re in one of his shirts, having raided his drawers when the duffel bag he’d given you earlier held nothing but sheer lingerie disguised as sleepwear.

Maybe you shouldn’t stay here, so instead you stand, and begin wandering around his apartment.

His bedroom is farthest from the front door, and you step out, roaming down the hallway, and stopping when you see another door.

It’s open, and you peek in to find an office that you promise yourself to explore after.

It’s the only door in the hallway, and the end of it opens up into a large area with a high ceiling. There’s his kitchen to your left, and on the opposite end of the room from where you are, is the living room area. There are no walls here, just windows that show off the glittering lights of the New York skyline at night. You wonder how he’s able to stand the sun, knowing that vampire eyes were hypersensitive to light, and that most of them avoided the sunlight. Only the very old ones, managed to walk in the sun like humans did.

You tuck that snippet of information away for further examination.

You turn to examine the kitchen, scanning the cupboards, surprised to find regular household foods like pasta and rice, wondering if he had bought these items for you, or for other human friends of his.

Another hallway at the other end of the kitchen catches your eye, and you walk slowly, more deep in your own head than you were paying attention to the layout of his apartment.

You find the bedroom you’d first woken up in, all walls and no windows, a place that protects from the light, with its own en suite bathroom. You decide that maybe you can sleep here tonight, away from him and his wretched mouth.

Backtracking, you look at the door for a long moment, before moving forward to examine it.

You reach for the handle, pushing down, you realise it’s locked. You sigh, eyes falling on the latched deadbolt, reaching up to open it, before trying the door handle again.

The door opens this time.

Your stomach twists.

Damn, had it really been that easy the entire time? You study the elevator just a few paces away from the door.

You don’t even think about it, closing the door and snapping the deadbolt shut.

You turn away from the door, and you gasp in fright as you see him standing just a few steps away.

You jerk, back hitting the door as fright slams through you.

You suck in a deep breath, pressing your hand to your chest.

He’s only got a towel wrapped around his hips, his chest and shoulders still glistening with water after his shower.

You stare at each other, a silent showdown of who’s going to speak first.

Billy tilts his head, studying you intently.

“Why didn’t you leave?”

Your brain comes up with the dumbest, most obvious answer possible.

“I’m- not wearing pants.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“We could go get some. Would you leave then?”

“No, cause it’s three in the morning and I’m tired.”

He takes a step toward you, a teasing smile on his pretty face. Your eyes trace the lines of his scars as he draws nearer. You relax as he approaches.

“And in the morning?”

He’s so close now, you’re eye level with his dripping wet chest.

“Maybe. If I feel like it.” You whisper, studying the scars on his chest, and then flitting your gaze up to meet his.

He takes a deep breath, bracing one hand beside your head, and then after a moment, uses his other hand to trap you in place.

Except that you don’t feel trapped, all you feel is heated want.

“What if I don’t want you to leave?” He asks, his voice stirs something inside of you, a dangerous feeling, something disastrous in the making.

“You can’t stop me.” You murmur, as his fingers touch the bottom of your chin, gently tilting your head higher.

He smiles then, all fangs and pearly whites on display.

“If only that were true.” He hums, leaning in till his lips brush yours.

You push against his biceps hard, and he moves back just enough so that you’re able to slip away from him.

“Why don’t you go kiss someone else. I’m going to bed.” You grit out, walking in the direction of the spare bedroom.

You don’t get very far, before he’s gripping your wrist tightly to keep you in place. You turn to face him, a look of calm irritation plastered on your face.

“That’s what this is about? The kiss?”

“It’s about nothing. Let me go.” You pull on your arm.

He doesn’t budge.

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m not-” You grunt as you pull on your hand again, “-You’re just pissing me off.”

“You’re the one that called me ‘sick’ and now you’re jealous cause I kissed someone?”

“I’m not fucking jealous-” You gasp as he pins your body to the kitchen counter, your body freezing in shock at the angry expression on his face.

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me.” He grits out, blinking after a second and seemingly calming in the same space of time.

He takes a deep breath before speaking again.

“Don’t forget I can hear every beat of your heart. I can smell your cunt. I already know how wet you are. Don’t think you’re capable of a lie.”

You let out an angry sigh, turning your head away from him.

“Whatever.” you say as harshly as you can.

There’s a moment of silence, where he looks at you, and you make a point not to look at him.

“Alright. I’m gonna fix this.” He says decidedly.

“I could care less- what the fuck are you-” You gasp as he picks you up easily, tossing you over his shoulder.

“Billy what the fuck! Put me the fuck down now you asshole!” You grunt, his shoulder digging near painfully into your hip.

You kick your legs, trying to escape and after a moment you realise that it doesn’t make a difference.

If you really wanted to, you could maybe straighten your body and fight your way out of his grip, but there was an inevitability to his movements. It didn’t matter how long it took, or how difficult it was, Billy was persistent, and he would get what he wanted eventually.

So when your body lands softly on his bed, all you do is look up at him angrily.

“Stay there.” He orders, untucking the towel from his hips and dropping it to the floor. You look up to the ceiling to avoid looking at his nude form. You don't want to give him the satisfaction.

When he turns away, your eyes find him once more, studying the broad expanse of his back, all the way down to his ass.

You clench, grabbing a pillow and dropping it on top of your face to hide your desire. You try your very hardest not to remember the look of him, the feel of his body on yours, his cock-

He tugs the pillow away from your face, and you sigh in annoyance up at him.

You don’t want to look down, but your eyes have almost a mind of their own.

Your eyebrows draw together in confusion when you notice that he’s wearing a fitted pair of grey boxers on his lower half.

When your eyes meet his in confusion, he grins.

He finds his way up to you, hands sliding over your legs, up your calves and to your knees.

"Did you think we were gonna fuck, baby?" He teases, with a tilt of his head.

His hands slide up more, and you're just confused when he reaches under your shirt to tug at your panties.

"We're not fucking tonight, sweetheart, I just wanna talk to you."

Then why the fuck was he taking your panties off?

When he gets the garment off, you watch him close his eyes for a brief second, tilt his head up and take a deep breath.

He was-

"God. You smell good."

His eyes are red when they reconnect with yours.

You don't say anything- you find that you can't. You want him and he knows it.

He grips your thighs, pressing them upward so that your cunt is exposed to him fully.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, you're sure he can hear it. Open and vulnerable as you watch him look at your glistening cunt.

"Pretty. Did you know that?"

You gulp, eyes glued to his form, admiring the look of his arms and the swell of his biceps.

"I want to taste you every day, all the time. You have no idea how hard it is to stop myself from dropping you on the first surface I can find and burying my face in your cunt."

He watches you clench around nothing, the corner of his mouth curling up into a smile.

He releases your legs, letting them drop a little and he looms in above you, pressing your body tightly to his.

Chest to chest, your bare centre pressed right up to the hardness of his clothed cock, there's no space to breathe where he doesn't exist.

He angles his head so that his lips are pressed to your ear.

"I want to lick that pretty little cunt till you pass out, and then wake you up so I can do it all over again." He whispers in your ear, your body tense and on edge from just his words.

"I want to fuck you till you beg me to stop, and even then, I'll still be giving you just one more."

You think you might be ruining the sheets below you with how aroused you were.

"Then do it." You challenge, hoping for some reprieve to the ache inside of you.

His hand moves up slowly, fingers tracing your cheek before covering your mouth firmly.

You make a muffled sound of protest, raising your hands to try and push him away. You hear a quiet laugh, before one of your hands is pinned above your head.

It doesn’t matter, whether you have one hand free or two- you would not be able to get out from under him on your own.

“My poor sweet little huntress,” He hums, your ear vibrating with his low words, “If you want me to fuck you till you cry, you’re going to have to ask nicely. Actually no- you’re going to have to beg.”

Your groan of annoyance is muffled behind his palm. There was no way you were going to beg him for anything.

You feel him smile against your neck, and then you still as you feel his teeth.

He drags his sharp teeth gently over your neck, avoiding the spot where he bit you earlier.

“You’re so helpless under me, isn’t that nice? I can do anything I want to you, and you’d have no power to stop me.”

To prove his point, you feel his tongue swipe over your shoulder, and then purposefully over your bite, sending brief little shivers down your spine, and then he trails his tongue up the column of your neck, and then even further, licking over your cheek as well.

Your body feels like a livewire, vibrating with sheer desire each time he touches you.

You want to grunt out so many things. That he was filthy, that he was just downright fucked up in the head.

That you wanted him to keep going.

“You like that, don’t you? You always have.” He lets out a slow sigh, “You always get so wet when you can’t fight back.”

Fuck you, you wanted to say.

“What if we made this interesting?” He hums, raising his upper body off yours for a second to reach into his bedside drawer.

You’re no longer fully trapped under him, and if you wanted to get out, you could. Instead, you wait curiously to see what he was going to do.

He pulls a stake out of his top drawer.

“You- just have that in there? I could have killed you this whole time?”

“Of course.” He teases pushing the drawer shut, “Now’s your chance.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s sliding the silver stake into your hand.

What the fuck?

“Now, you can stop me if you really want.” Billy says ominously.

“That’s the most fucked up-” Before you can finish, he’s slapping his hand back over your mouth.

“Don’t care about what you have to say, baby, I’m gonna do what I want to you, and you can stop me if you feel like.”

And then, he starts tugging your shirt up, exposing your stomach.

In retrospect, you don’t have to kill him to make him stop, you could just mortally wound him. One well placed stab near the heart would be enough of a deterrent. You could slip free and be out the door in minutes.

Billy pulls your shirt up higher, exposing your breasts to the open air. Your hand tightens on the stake.

You should do it. You really should.

He groans when his tongue slides wetly over your left nipple. You shudder blissfully.

Your eyes roll back in your head, before fluttering shut. A breath of air leaves your mouth in a rush, fingers hold taut on the warming piece of silver in your hand.

One quick swipe of his tongue on your left breast, then your right. He raises his head.

“Do you want more?” Billy asks.

With your eyes still closed, you shake your head.

“Then stop me.” He says, before his lips wrap around your pebbled nipple.

His short beard scratches along your sensitive breast, he kisses his way up to the spot below your collarbone, white hot sparks splintering over your body everywhere he touches.

You still when you feel his teeth graze your skin.

“Still want me to stop?” He checks in.

No you don’t.

“Yes.”

His teeth press into your skin.

A sharp cry spills out of you, tingles as he breaks skin, followed by a jolt of pain and then heat.

You jerk when he extracts his fangs.

Billy moans when he gets his first mouthful.

You pant, unable to understand how having him drink from you could hurt, and yet feel so blissfully good.

He takes another, and then another.

Was he going to kill you like this? Should you stop him now?

He rolls his hips, rock hard erection just bumping your clit and you gasp.

Fuck, why did every part of him have to feel so good? You could feel your arousal, slippery and messy between your thighs, begging you to give into him, if only for a moment so that he could ease your ache.

Instead, you move your hand, pressing the stake to his shoulder.

From his spot, drinking from your chest, you feel him make a sound of amusement.

You groan, disdain for him building in you, you press the weapon deeper till it breaks his skin.

He pauses, raising his head from your chest, lapping slowly at the trickling droplets of your blood before drawing back.

“Silly girl, didn’t anyone teach you how to kill a vampire?” He asks, grabbing your wrist in an iron grip, and though you try to fight his guidance, he’s too strong, pulling your hand until the stake is pressed to the centre of his chest.

“My heart is right here.” He murmurs softly, and with his hand on yours, he pulls the weapon closer, breaking skin once more.

“Stop.” You say, panic building inside of you, tugging at your hand in hopes that it can slip out from under his. You didn’t want this, you didn’t want to kill him.

You pull hard at your hand, gasping gratefully when you manage to pull away.

You look at him, sharp breaths trying to calm yourself when you get your hand away.

He gives you a soft smile, pulling the stake away from his chest and dropping it on the bed.

You gulp, watching the wound he’d caused heal before your eyes.

“You are,” You breathe, “Absolutely fucking crazy.”

“Maybe,” He agrees with a hum, “But at least you can admit to yourself now, that you want this too.” He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours chastely, “That maybe you actually like me.”

“Not wanting you to die is not the same as-”

“-Oh give me a fucking break.” He grunts, pulling back.

He grips your knees, and before you can figure out what he’s doing- he flips you onto your stomach.

You let out a little grunt, pushing yourself up, but suddenly pressed back down by the weight of his body covering yours.

“You’ve cum on my cock way too many times to be lying to yourself like this.” He hisses.

You turn your head, so that you can see his face in your peripherals.

"You're such an arrogant fuck." You grunt out, your rucked up shirt causing your nipples to press against the bed, the exposure of your body makes you almost quiver with delight.

He leans in, his breath against your ear as you feel his hands gripping your hips.

"Why can't you just admit to yourself that you might want me, hmm?" He hisses lowly in your ear, his breath brushing against your skin, tormenting you.

"That deep down," He continues, pressing his hand between your hips and the bed, "Somewhere in that pretty head and wet cunt," You feel his hand sliding lower, fingers touching the top of your mound, "You want me with you," He kisses your cheek, "Over you, under you, inside you." You feel him take a deep breath, his nose pressed to your neck.

"I want to lick your cunt so often that I can taste you when you're not there. Is that too much to ask for?"

Your head spins, too drunk on him to formulate words.

He makes it even harder, by slipping his hand lower, fingers meeting your wet slit.

He doesn't hesitate, fingers gliding easily down, meeting your clit and you let out a low, shuddering moan as your ache is addressed in the slightest way possible.

You tilt your hips forward, into his hand.

"Billy." You sigh, widening your legs instinctively, anything to encourage him to keep going.

“God, you’re so fucking wet.”

You mewl, nodding your head.

His finger slips gently over your clit, and your breathing pauses, you don't want to do anything that would make him stop giving you this pleasure.

He gives a firm press, and you feel your body shudder, a wave of pure bliss sinking over you.

You say his name again, shifting your body, trying to display your impatience to him.

"Ah ah ah, little girl. Where are your manners? I told you I wanted you to beg."

"Fuck you." You groan angrily.

His finger slips lower, massaging your entrance for a few moments before slipping his finger in.

You gasp, your body going lax at the feel of the pleasure building in you. It’s good. It’s so good and it’s so wrong that he makes you feel like this.

"So fucking tight." He hisses, "That cunt's begging for a stretch."

Focusing on his words are hard with the way his lone finger moves, pumping in and out of you easily, your body desperate for him.

Something goes off in your head, like a gun when he curls his finger, and touches that spot deep inside of you. It pulls a groan from the very depths of your soul. You pant, trying to keep your thinking focused with the way he’s trying to steal it.

"That's it. You like this huh? Like the way I take what I want?" He leans in till his lips are at your ear, "I like it too." You clench around his finger.

"You're a sick fuck." You groan, half your mouth muffled from where your face is pressed to the bed.

"Yeah? Am I? Do you hate me?" He pulls back, and before you can make any sound of protest, two of his fingers are sliding into you.

Fuck, you can feel your body stretching for him. He uses his other hand to grip your jaw, tilting your head up almost painfully so that your face isn’t muffled in the sheets anymore.

"Tell me you hate me." Billy whispers in your ear.

You cry, his fingers beginning to move slowly, spreading you open and forcing you to feel him, to ache for more of him.

His fingers slow when you don’t immediately answer, and you groan internally, assembling the words in your head.

“I- I,” You stutter out, tears dripping from your eyes uncontrollably and pooling around his grip on your jaw, “I h-hate you.”

“Yeah? Poor little girl. Should I stop then? Leave you alone?” He coos, voice condescending in every way possible.

“Nh-” You immediately vocalise, begging him in your head to not stop, but the words can’t seem to come out of your mouth.

He laughs in your ear, understanding what you were about to say without you having to say it.

The pace of his fingers quicken, you hiss, arching your back, feeling your orgasm swiftly approaching. You’ve wanted him since this morning, since he pulled you onto his lap and told you that you were his.

Your body trembles, eyes rolling back in your head, on the brink of release-

-And then his fingers stop.

A cry of despair leaves your lips, and the denial in your body aches, and then hurts even more when he pulls his fingers away, withdrawing his hand from under you. His grip on your jaw loosens, until your face is pressed against the sheets once more.

You raise your head groggily, turning your body onto your side when you feel him lift himself off of you. You catch sight of him sliding his fingers, wet with your denial into his mouth.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard, on the brink of begging for him, pleading with him to make you cum, and then take you in any way he saw fit.

But that’s exactly what he wanted.

So instead, you stay still, trying not to speak, feeling the fire of denial burn through you.

You tug your shirt down, looking at him with angry eyes as he observes you.

“Are you done having your fun?” You ask bitterly.

The corner of his lip twitches.

"You know what to say if you want to cum, baby. Don't act like this isn't your choice."

You feel petulance build up inside of you, anger beyond thought.

"Go fuck yourself." You hiss, moving to slide off the bed.

He grips your hips, hauling you back, until you're on your back, looking angrily up at him.

"What's the rush, sweetness? Don't you want me to clean you up?"

“Clean me?” You repeat in disbelief, sitting up, propping the weight of your torso onto your elbows. Your brain stalling on what that could possibly mean.

His smile is devious, the look of a man that has everything he wants and then some.

He takes his time, shouldering his body in between your thighs, his face so close to your dripping centre that you’re not sure if you have any brain cells left functional

“God.” He murmurs, his breath brushing along your mound as he takes in an unnecessary breath, his eyes immediately locking on to the messy place between your thighs, “You make me feel like the most insane person on the planet.”

“You are the most insane person on the planet.”

He grins, lowering his head slowly, anticipation building inside of you, a simmering heat, a thrumming pulse.

“Love it when you talk dirty to me.” Is the last thing he murmurs before his lips meet your cunt.

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together, begging yourself to not make a sound. He places a gentle kiss to your slit, and then another, before you feel his lips part, and his tongue snake out.

You make a muffled groan behind your clenched teeth as he gets a taste of you.

What starts off gentle, turns slightly rougher as he lays a harsh swipe of his tongue along your pussy, a gasp leaving your lips as you feel Billy begin to slowly lick your cunt.

He’s thorough and unrelenting, his face buried between your thighs, licking at you without a care in the world.

You want to spit every degrading word you can at him, hating the way you know in the back of your head that only he has ever made you feel so good.

“Oh fuck you.” You gasp as his tongue finds your clit easily, a laugh vibrating through your nether regions as he hears you.

You give up trying to resist, reaching to grip the back of his head, hoping to urge him on.

It has the opposite effect, he raises his head, and you whine, a low, pained noise at his torment.

"I'm not clean enough yet," You argue, looking down to meet his scarlet eyes.

You look at each other for a long moment, the heat of unsaid words crackling between you.

You want to beg, you're almost on the brink of it.

"I agree." Is all he says before he lowers his head again.

"Fuck-" You gasp, your back hitting the bed as your arm refuses to support your weight for any longer.

His tongue is too dexterous, licking at your clit, and then dipping down to your entrance. He groans, tongue catching your arousal straight from the source.

Your toes curl, blissful orgasm near, your body tingles with the anticipation of your impending release.

You moan his name, putting every ounce of desperate desire into the one word.

He pulls away right when you're on edge.

The sound that leaves you is pitiful, tears of frustration spill from your eyes as you look up at him.

"I'll give you anything if you let me come."

"You know what I want." He says, licking his lips.

"Besides that," You try to bargain, "I'll blow you again, or I'll let you bite me."

His smile is one of amusement, it makes you feel like a child, begging for something you're not going to get.

"I think we've already established that if I wanted those things, you wouldn't stop me. Even if you could."

You frown, letting out a sharp breath, fully understanding that he would not take pity on you tonight.

"Fine, asshole, I'll do it myself." You grunt, slipping from under him and sitting up with the intention of a shower.

He grips your bicep harshly to stop you. You grit your teeth angrily, unable to look into his eyes.

"If I catch you touching that little cunt- my cunt- without permission. I'll teach what real punishment would be like."

He pulls you closer, till his lips are pressed right to your ear again, your stomach flipping at his proximity.

"I'll tie you to the bed, and edge you till you forget your name. I'll use you like my own personal fleshlight and I'll never let you cum."

You hiss angrily, nether regions throbbing at his words and you tug your arm out of his grip.

"Fuck. You." Is your only reply as you head to the bathroom for the coldest shower possible.

After all of that, you sleep in bed beside him.

Because you know him now a little, and you know there's no way he was letting you have your own bed.

You'd gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed, but you'd woken up in his arms.

"Thought vampires didn't need sleep?" You ask, voice unsteady, having just woken up.

"We don't." He answers, looking down at you.

Your eyes trace his scars, you want to touch them, ask him what happened.

"So why did you lie beside me all night?"

"Because I wanted to." He answers.

Your stomach flips, and you have to look away as you feel blood rush to your face.

"Will you tell me more about this…imprint?" You ask softly.

He makes a little sound of displeasure.

"It's not exactly an imprint- It’s like-" He lets out a low sigh.

"It sounds worse than it actually is, but- ugh- do you know what quantum entanglement is?"

"Do I look like a physicist?" You answer.

He rolls his eyes, a small smile on his face at your snark.

"As simple as I can explain, when two particles are entangled, they remain connected, regardless of distance."

"What entangles them?" You ask.

"Physical interaction, but, with people, it's a lot harder to explain because there's a lot that isn't understood. It can happen with anyone, but not everyone, and at a subconscious level, it has to be accepted by both."

"You're saying I chose this?"

"Some part of you did, yeah, some part of me too, and then, no matter how far I got from you, I could still feel you."

"Feel me?" You press, hoping for him to elaborate.

He raises a hand, his knuckles carefully brush your cheek.

"Like you were always standing in the room with me. Like I wasn't alone."

You blink, trying to figure out if you'd felt the same way. You had so many questions flying through your head and difficulty putting them into words.

“Is there any way to break it?”

You can almost feel the air go frigid between you.

“As far as I understand, nothing breaks the bond except dying.”

Great.

“And what happens if we stay together?”

“I’ve heard different things from different people.” He responds.

“Like what?” You ask, trying to think it through. You remember Ethan had mentioned that there was the prolonging of lives involved.

He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

"I don't want to tell you what I'm not sure about. I have a friend, bonded to a human, maybe you can ask them whenever."

You swallow, nodding, trying not to fret over the possibility of more vampires.

Deep in thought, you blink in surprise when you feel his thumb brush over your cheek again. You look up at him in surprise.

"I have another question, but it's very personal."

"What is it?"

You stall for a moment, studying the look in his eyes, the dark reflectiveness of them, the way you can almost see yourself in his eyes.

"Exactly how old are you?"

It changes the sour mood, the corner of his mouth curling in amusement before he gives you a fanged grin.

"That is a personal question, and maybe I'm not comfortable with answering." He says, tapping the tip of your nose with a slender finger.

You huff.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to freak you out, and telling you my age is gonna freak you out."

Maybe he was right, maybe it was better that you didn't know.

You sigh, rolling onto your back to stare up at the ceiling. He gets closer to you, fingers tracing over your cheek and down your neck, only stopping when they reach the healing bite on your shoulder.

Experimentally, he presses his thumb against the wound. You turn your head sharply to look at him, feeling the pain swim through your body but not reacting to it.

“Ow.” You say simply.

“How bad does it hurt?” He asks quietly.

You smack his hand away, sitting up, your back to him.

“Why does it suddenly matter?” You jab, moving to dangle your feet off the side of the bed.

There’s a big silence, he doesn’t answer, and after a moment you’re forced to glance back to make sure he’s still there and hasn’t dissolved into the air because of you.

He’s looking at you, as if he somehow understands something about you that you don’t know about yourself.

“How many times have you been bitten?”

The question brings a laugh to your lips.

“Enough times that I'm used to it.”

“Does it hurt any less each time?”

You turn away, an amused and thoughtful smile rises to your face.

“Every time I get bitten, always hurts like the first time.” You say in finality, leaving the room soon after.

Whatever bond he was describing- you didn’t feel it. There was nothing there but a deep seated need to explore him. It was more curiosity than desire.

At least, that’s what you told yourself to feel better.

You’d showered, looking at your reflection in the fogged mirror, trying to think clearly with so much frustration in your system. In the moment, you close your eyes, and recall the first time you’d ever fucked him.

It had been frantic at first, the way he’d used his tongue on you had your body begging for more, and you honestly thought you were going to die after you’d tried to kill him.

You’d put everything into it- savouring him because you wanted to seal yourself into his memory- if he was going to kill you by the end of it.

You’d gone pliant when he'd lined himself up with your entrance, and you can still remember the way your brain spiralled in surprise at the ridiculous amount of pleasure. No one had ever made you feel like that before.

Over and over again, you’d fucked till you could barely hold yourself up, till you’d been sitting on his lap, his hands gripping your hips to do all the work because you couldn’t even lift your head from the crook of his neck.

He’d been quiet, not like the second time, or even last night, when he was so vocal, the only thing you could compare it to was sin itself.

Your lower regions pulse. You can feel the heat between your thighs, begging for him, and the pleasure he gives regardless of how annoying he was.

It’s why you grab the dress at the bottom of the duffel bag to wear, deciding that you didn’t have to beg to get what you wanted.

It was actually a really cute dress, blue, with little printed flowers all over it. Most importantly, it was short, only coming up to mid-thigh, which meant that if you bent over, he’d see the smallest scrap of lace you’d decided to call underwear today.

If he could play games, so would you.

He’s making breakfast when you step into the kitchen. It kind of amuses you, that he’s only cooking for you.

“Can I help?” You ask, stepping up beside him at the stove to look down at the omelette he’d been working at.

He glances at you, looks down at the stove, before blinking to look over at you once more.

You watch his jaw stiffen, you resist the urge to bite your lip as you watch his eyes trace down your body.

Oh, what power.

“Butter.” He says, “Fridge.”

You offer him a teasing smile, before turning away.

You bend unnecessarily, feeling your skirt rise up, cool air brushing the back of your thighs.

The butter is on the middle shelf, making your bending completely unnecessary in the first place.

He's not looking at you when you turn around. You're not even sure if he's seen your little display.

He takes the butter from you without a word, and you're very intrigued by the way he cooks, the move of his wrist to flip the omelette.

"Can you get the bread toasted for me?"

How was he doing this? Being so calm and casual with you? Seeing this side of him was so much worse for your sanity than anything else.

"You have bread?" You ask curiously, looking around, but not able to spot any.

"Yeah, here-" He steps away from the stove to reach into one of the overhead cupboards. You glance down at the pan on the stove, to make sure nothing is burning. The deep indentations on the handle of the pan barely catches your eye, and you blink in surprise.

There were deep impressions of his fingers… caused by squeezing too hard.

Maybe he was more affected with your display than he let on.

You fight a satisfied smile, giving him a knowing look when he returns to place the bag of sliced bread into your hands.

"You bought all of this for me?" You tease, "I'm flattered."

He looks hot when he rolls his eyes.

“It’s not like I had much of a choice. I can’t let you starve.”

“Because you like me?” You pry, swaying your shoulders playfully from side to side.

He huffs, using the spatula to flip the finished omelette onto a nearby plate.

Billy doesn’t respond, simply shaking his head without looking at you.

It only urges you on, like a match, sparking as it rubs against coarse paper.

You brace your hands against his kitchen counter, stiffening your arms as you use your toes to push you into an effortless bounce, using the momentum to raise your body, sitting yourself on his counter, facing him.

He doesn’t look, simply preparing the pan for toast.

“Ah,” You tease, parting your thighs subtly, “So you don’t like me then.”

Yet still, he doesn’t respond, calmly observing the bread as it toasts, the smell of it in the air makes your mouth water a little.

But it’s not what you’re hungry for.

“Maybe you only think you like me because of how sweet my blood tastes. Maybe it’s all in your head-”

Your voice goes quiet when he finally pins you with a stern glare.

His movements are decisive, turning the stove off, moving the pan away from the residual heat, and then turning to you.

Goddamn.

You gasp, raising a leg to back away from him while also making an attempt to push him back with your foot, but there’s nowhere for you to go, your head bumps a cupboard door, and that’s all the distraction he needs to grab your ankle.

You let out a little squeak, gasping as he pulls you forward and right up against his body, encouraging your legs to wrap around him.

You open your mouth to speak, to protest, to fight him in an unmeaningful way, but you don’t get the chance as his hand grips the back of your neck, forcing your mouth onto his.

God fucking damn.

Your eyes shut, your body relaxes, and then sings with delight as he delves his tongue past your lips.

You moan into his mouth, unable to fight it, leaning in because it feels so good to have him.

Fuck every part of you that told you this was wrong. You wanted him and nothing would stop you.

You grip his shirt in a tight fist, leaning in, meeting his mouth with an undeniable force. He presses back, and for a moment you feel so blissfully wanted, maybe more than you’d ever been before.

Only when his hand weaves into your hair, his fist tightening to hold your head in place as he leans away, do you remember the taunting remarks that got you here.

Your scalp stings, mouth falling open to gasp in air.

His eyes are dark red, like the blood he drinks to stay alive.

He doesn’t speak, releasing your hair to support your behind as he lifts you off the counter, moving quickly with your body pressed to his.

Your vision shifts too fast for comprehension, and the next thing you can process is lying face down across the marble kitchen island.

He grips the back of your head to keep you there, warm cheek to frigid marble and you stay, refusing to move, wishing that he takes in this moment, everything that you’re willing to give.

He leans over your body, until his mouth is pressed to your ear.

“Do you ever shut up?” Billy hisses, and you have to fight a satisfied smile.

He’s not done ranting, continuing on as if he doesn’t care for your answers.

“I know you just said that to get a rise out of me, but the very idea of me only wanting your for your blood- makes me fucking sick.”

He leans in even more, taking a deep breath in the space of your neck.

“I want all of you, every single piece of you, over and over again until you’re fucking mine.”

He leans away a little.

“Is that what you wanted to hear? Hmm? When you put on this little dress and flashed that cunt at me?”

He moves away even more, and the next thing you feel is him pushing your dress up, his hand pressed securely to the small of your back so that you can’t raise your body.

He's still for a moment, and so are you, burning with anticipation, your cunt getting wetter by the second.

You gasp in surprise when you feel his nose graze the back of your thigh.

You shudder, feeling his breath along your most sensitive areas, your skin tingles as he runs his nose upward, your hands curl into fists beside your head when you feel a small puff of air against your skin.

He’s still for so long that you find your body tense with anticipation, biting down on your bottom lip hard so that you don’t beg him to just put you out of your sordid misery.

You make a small mewling sound of surprise when you feel his tongue lick along the lace gusset of your panties.

He tugs at the scrap of fabric, pulling it away from the tacky seam of your cunt so that he can get a better look, an uninhibited view of your desire.

You want to say his name, so badly that you can feel the resonant sound of it in the back of your throat. Instead, you repeat it in your head.

Billy, Billy, Billy, Billy…

“I can’t believe how fucking messy this cunt gets. All for me.” He says softly, as if you’re not meant to hear but you do anyway.

“Such a fucking shame that you won’t beg. The things I want to do to you, the ways I want to make you cum.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, panting hard against the kitchen counter, your inner walls fluttering, begging.

“Fucking tease.” He breathes out, as he watches more arousal spill from between your thighs.

Billy, please-

Your gasp gets caught in your throat as his tongue licks a wet trail from your clit to your entrance.

“Fuck- didn’t mean to do that but I can’t help it.” Is all he says before his tongue starts licking you slowly.

Your eyes roll back into your head and stays there permanently for a few seconds. The flood of bliss is almost too much for your body to manage.

He grunts, his hands gripping your thighs to spread your legs further apart.

His tongue is forceful as it dances over your clit, and then, after what you assume is a moment of contemplation, you feel his tongue push its way against your entrance.

Your breathing is sharp and shallow, you reach to grip the other edge of the counter, trying to get some leverage to remain sane.

The pleasure is shallow, but your body is hypersensitive with denial, his tongue fucking into you at a reasonable pace is almost enough to have your breath stalling in your throat.

When he finally gets control of himself, his tongue slows, carefully licking you, daring your body to think about orgasm.

After a few more moments, he raises his head, and you breathe a sigh of relief, your body releasing the tension of pleasure, your hands relaxing its grip on the marble countertop.

But you should have known better than to think he was done with you, not satisfied until you know for sure that you’ve lost this interaction.

His hands on your hips, gripping them as he turns you over, pulling you up into a sitting position.

Nose to nose, you look into his eyes with a half-lidded gaze.

“Your blood is nice,” He whispers, hand raising to cup your cheek, “But it’s you I want, huntress. Don’t forget that.”

You sigh, pressing your cheek into his palm and closing your eyes.

“Say it for me. What do I want?” He asks.

You breathe out a huff, an unknown emotion squeezing your throat tightly.

“Me.” You whisper softly, eyes still shut to avoid his gaze.

He doesn’t mind, thumb caressing your cheek.

“Good girl.”

And then he’s gone- right back to toasting bread, as if nothing had ever happened.

It almost drives you insane.

Happy Halloween!

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #billy russo x female reader #my writings #the punisher #billy russo smut #dark!billy russo #monster!billy russo #vampire!billy russo

386 notes · View notes

noxturnalpascal · 2 months

Text

Devotion 🖤 II. Predator or Prey? (Ch 6)

CultLeader!Joel x OFC!Reader

Series Summary: When is it enough? When is it too much? When does Devotion become Obsession?

Visit the Series Masterlist for series warnings, cult info, timeline info, and HCs on ages. Reader has a nickname and some minor physical descriptions - is an OFC from Reader POV.

*This series is 18+ MDNI. I will not be listing individual chapter warnings as I don't want to spoil the plot of each chapter. Please see the series masterlist for entire series warnings to decide if this is for you.*

⚠️PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE SERIES WARNINGS, ESPECIALLY: possessiveness, manipulation, Joel gets mean, Joel gets verbally and physically abusive.⚠️

LAYOUT OF JOEL'S HOUSE

II. Predator or Prey?

CH 6 (5.8k)

It’s two weeks into the New Year and you’ve been spending every day plotting and planning how to keep away from Joel. It’s not easy, especially since you don’t even have a bedroom door to keep his wandering eyes from staring at you while you get ready in the mornings, as he stands in the hallway in overbearing silence. Your task was made even tougher when Tess said he wouldn’t allow you to leave the house anymore for your daily chores.

You’re stuck inside this dusty old prison all day, awaiting his return. The day might go as usual and he’ll threaten to force feed you at meal time. Maybe it will be another glorious day of him digging bruises into your arms or throwing you against walls. What if he really changed things up and grunted all sorts of fucked up things in your ear while you brushed your teeth? Oh wait, he already does that.

As snarky as you try to be about it – lamenting your life as you drape yourself over the couch, passing the hours in silence and slowly going mad – the whole situation really stresses you out. You weigh your feelings of safety and security in this community with the vicious and unpredictable behavior you’ve been enduring in this house. Is it still worth it to stay here? Are you better off in The Valley or would you be better off out there, alone in the wilderness? You’re on edge all the time, never sure what’s going to set him off. You spend so much time thinking about him, every moment you’re awake really, just so you can try to avoid him as much as possible.

He used to be on your mind all the time, thinking about his body on yours, the warmth of his skin under your hands. You’d fantasize about a future with him and what that might be like, letting him protect you and take care of you. Now you think about if you’re always going to be this hurt by his duplicity, feel this raw about his deception. Deep down, in a place you don’t like to acknowledge, you still wonder if there’s any future for the two of you. You push that thought away to compose a plan for how to stay out of his way when he gets home for the day.

And yet, every night at dinner you sit right next to him, unable to escape, watching out of your peripheral vision as he stares you down with a hateful look in his eyes. There was a time when you thought that the scariest thing he could do was touch you without your permission. But now he touches you every day – with open palms and closed fists, clutching fingers and rough grips. You never even considered these kinds of touches as an option from the man who used to be so gentle and tender with you. That man is gone.

This day, however, looks like it might turn out alright when Sasha and Tess return shortly before sunset from a scavenging trip they made to a family lodge situated on a rocky outcropping a few hours hike west of The Valley. They pile their haul on the dining room table, emptying out packs and bags they came back with stuffed full, and a stack of books catches your eye.

“Who are these for?”

“Anyone,” Sasha answers while sorting the clothes by size into neatly folded piles. “There were a bunch in a makeshift library up there but most of the collection was damaged by water and mildew. There were only a few we could salvage.”

You stand still, staring at the books, not wanting to pilfer something that Tess and Sasha worked hard to collect for the entire Valley. Tess sees you hesitating and pushes the stack towards you.

“Go ahead, look through ‘em and read any you want,” she shrugs. “When you’re done we can put ‘em back in the community library.”

You lift the first book up, going through the stack slowly, not recognizing any titles. The first two are young adult books, their covers adorned with pennants for their high school team and smiling teens talking on the phone. The third is the 1994 National Electric Code Handbook and the fourth is a non-fiction book on the Native American tribes that once inhabited New England. But the fifth one makes you stop in your tracks.

The fifth book is your favorite book.

You turn it over in your hands, its dust jacket long since removed. The faded red hardcover is soft with wear, but the simple tree in gold foil on the front is still gleaming. The Secret Garden. Your eyes begin to sting as you recall the places your imagination used to take you to when you read this story, wishing as a child that you had a secret garden of your own to find, hide away in, and restore to glory. You kind of wish you had one now.

“You read that one?” Sasha calls over her growing piles.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice breaking, “It’s my favorite book.” You look up and meet her face, tears in your eyes. But she’s not looking at you. She’s looking past you, face solemn. Your smile disappears as you slowly turn around, already knowing what you’re going to see. You don’t look at his face. You don’t meet his eyes. You take trembling breaths as your eyes fall on the center of his chest, less than a foot distance between you. Joel.

Favorite book you’d said. Just like that. Offered it up like the most casual thing in the world. But would you tell him when he asked? Of course not. He gave you so much. He gave you food and shelter. He told you about himself – shit, he even told you about Sarah. But you wouldn’t tell him about a stupid fucking book, wouldn’t give him your fucking name, even after all this time. Wouldn’t give him what he needed.

You. He needed you.

You withholding little bitch.

He grabs the book out of your hands, turning it to read the title on the spine.

“Look at me,” he demands.

You don’t.

He doesn’t ask again. He lifts the book to your eye line, grabbing a chunk of pages in his right hand and yanking them out of the spine. He holds his hand up and releases the pages, letting them flutter to the ground, single sheets and some clusters still bound together covering your socked feet. The tears collecting at your waterline spill over and you let out a quiet whimper. He shoves the carcass of the book back into your hands and walks out of the room, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Tess follows him, pushing open the closing door of his office behind him.

“Why’d you do that to her?” she asks, stepping into the darkening room, the short winter day having just seen the sun set.

“Don’t give her any more books,” he snaps, ignoring her question.

“You made her cry–”

“Oh boo-fuckin’-hoo, she’s always cryin’.” Her eyes are adjusting to the dark and she sees him moving across the room.

“Joel–”

“No more books,” he shouts, turning to stomp back to where she stands. “She has a fuckin’ book and it’s out there sittin’ on the mantle,” he points at the wall, momentarily acknowledging the book he pretends he hasn’t seen remain untouched since Christmas, everytime he walks through the goddamn room.

Tess holds her hands up in defeat and backs out of the room, leaving him alone to pace and grumble to himself. She decides to make a plan that night, determined to find a way to snap Joel out of it and keep you safe in the meantime.

–

Alone again, Joel feels himself thickening in his pants and he wants to scream, wants to put his fist through the wall. He wants to shake you and slap you and squeeze you and make you look at him like you did before. You won’t look at him at all. Why won’t you fucking look at him?

There’s no moon in the night sky so even with multiple windows in this room it remains quite dark. He rounds his desk, bumping his hip into the corner as he throws himself into his chair. He pulls open a bottom desk drawer and withdraws an item he’s kept hidden under a pile of maps: a pair of your underwear. He remembers the night he took them, the week before everything went to shit. Before you looked at him like everyone else. Before you broke yourself open for him. Before his true self was revealed to you.

Before you hated him.

He shucks his jeans open and reaches into his pants, his dick already hard. He spits into his hand and begins stroking up and down, bringing your underwear to his face and taking deep inhales, setting a fast pace. As he takes whiffs, he opens his mouth, letting the heady scent of you permeate all his senses, rolling his eyes back into his head. He thinks about that night he pulled these down your legs, how you looked on all fours bared open for him and the way you rolled your hips, moaning his name. He thinks about what you tasted like when you came on his face.

He hisses, squeezing hard at the base of his shaft, suddenly aware that he’s about to come much too quickly. He slams the underwear down on the desk, cursing that he lets you affect him like this. He’s barely touched himself these past weeks, getting too angry every time he thinks about you and how badly he wants you, how you won’t give him what he wants. He’s neglected the aching hardness he awakes with each morning and ignored the other women knocking on his bedroom door at night, knowing it isn’t you on the other side. You won’t give him what he needs.

He wraps his hand around his shaft and resumes stroking, slowly this time, staring at the underwear he’d stuck in his back pocket after you begged him to take them off and keened when his mouth touched you. His eyes have adjusted to the dim room and he thinks he can see a stain on the gusset, reaching forward to brush his thumb along the fabric. His calloused finger scrapes across the dried remnants of your arousal and he groans loudly, squeezing his cock firmly again, willing himself not to come yet.

He watches his hand continue slow movements on his length, rolling his fingers along the underside of his head, over the tip, gathering the precum there to swirl and spread on his downward strokes. Why the fuck does he let you do this to him? Why does he let you get in his fucking head? He can’t control himself, he’s losing his goddamn mind. He should go back out there and grab you by the hair, drag you in here, and remind you how lucky you are to be here.

He looks over at the couch he used to sit with you on. He should throw you over that couch, pull your pants down past your ass and fuck you from behind. He’d grab the books he’d read to you off the shelf and smack your ass with them, listen to you cry out and whimper, hear your growing wetness as his cock pounds your perfect, willing pussy. He’d make you grovel for his forgiveness, make you beg him to let you come. He’d make you thank him for your Christmas gift. He’d make you fucking look at him.

That’s what he’d do.

He’d grab your face and make you look him in his eyes while you came, feeling the spasming walls of your cunt around him. He’d keep fucking into you, listening to you wail through your orgasm, watching your eyes roll back and your face go slack. He’d make you watch his cock disappearing inside you, covered with your creamy arousal as he hits that perfect spot deep inside you. The place he earned. The place you refuse to give him. He grabs the underwear off the desk and wraps them around his length, increasing his pace again.

The only sounds in the room are his panting breaths and the thumps of his fist hitting his pelvis with force as he pumps himself over and over. His head is thrown back when he feels the familiar tension in his balls and he brings his chin to his chest to watch his release darken the fabric covering his cockhead. He pulls your underwear off him with one hand and continues to jerk himself with the other, pressing himself down, aiming it so the white ropes pumping out of him cover the stolen garment. His breath hitches in his throat with short, desperate gasps as he squeezes the last of his climax into the cloth.

He clenches his hand around the underwear, letting his spend press between his fingers and run down his fist, dripping onto his denim-covered knees. What a fucking waste. Your denial, your refusal, your goddamn obstinance. Look where it gets him – coming into his hand like a pitiful virgin, as if he can’t get a woman of his own to fuck him. How dare you treat him like this, withhold yourself from him, have him resorting to these degrading acts.

You seem to forget how good you have it in the safety of his dominion, protected under his watchful eye. Maybe you forgot how ugly the world is out there, how cruel people can be. How many people in this world would kill to be in your place? How many women here in The Valley wish they were you, fortunate enough to be the object of his desire? You’re so fucking ungrateful. You need a lesson in how to behave, how to be more appreciative of him. You need to learn some loyalty.

–

The following Thursday you’re facing the front door, bundling up your coat for the walk to the meeting and waiting for Joel to come out of his office to walk with you since you’re not allowed to leave the house without him. You hear the door open but don’t look back until you hear an unexpected noise in the form of a female voice. Kerri is walking with him through the living room. They were in his office together.

It’s fine, you don’t care. You’re not jealous. You have no claim over him. He’s not yours. You don’t want him. He does whatever he wants and you can’t control it. So let him have it his way, you don’t care.

You catch him staring at you out of the corner of your eye but you don’t dare turn your head. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Behind you, you think you hear Kerri getting her coat and shoes on as well. Tess is wiping down the dinner table and sees the group of you gathered at the door.

“Kerri, where are you goin’, hon?”

“She’s coming to the meeting with me,” Joel answers for her. He said me, not us. Like you weren’t even there. You let a scowl take over your face. He’s being such an asshole. Tess doesn’t question him, probably for the best. You hear him huff out a laugh.

You look his way and see the smug grin on his face as he opens the front door and motions for you to go out of it. You don’t let it bother you. It’s fine that he’s bringing Kerri to this meeting even though Thursdays are supposed to be your meeting nights. It’s fine that they walk hand-in-hand behind you on the walk to and from the meeting. It’s also fine that he ordered her to sit in your usual seat next to him at the meeting and for you to sit on the other side of the room instead.

He doesn’t try to put his hands on you, he doesn’t chase you up the stairs. It’s fine. It’s what you wanted. You’re glad for it. So then why do you feel like your insides are on fire and you’re fighting the urge to spill them all over the ground? Back at the house Joel and Kerri head towards his office so you go to the kitchen to get some water and get away from them.

Moments later they’re coming into the kitchen and you hate the way your stomach rolls at the sight of them. Out of the corner of your eye you see her reach into the cupboard for a glass and you watch him push her against the counter, pressing himself into her ass. You just know he’s digging his erection into her. He used to do that to you. You used to like it.

A shiver goes through your body and you almost drop your glass, but as you recover you see in your peripheral vision that he’s watching you. Is he doing this to get a reaction from you? Is he waiting for you to cry again? You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Goodnight, Kerri,” you say as you turn quickly and head out of the kitchen.

He grabs you before you can even make it through the dining room.

“Not gonna say goodnight to me?” He digs his fingers into the tender underside of your upper arm.

You hiss quietly in pain.

“You should know better than to be so rude,” he spits, bringing his face within inches of your own. “Seems like I need to teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

He lifts his other hand and swats your ass, laughing when you yelp in surprise.

“Well, I’m gonna go to bed,” Kerri says in the doorway.

She might as well be invisible for how Joel completely ignores her while he swats at you a few more times, mumbling how you’re such an ungrateful little cunt in your ear. You try to wriggle away and push him back but his grip only tightens. You’re reminded of a blood pressure cuff, the pressure and pain with which his hand cinches around you.

Has he been playing this charade with Kerri all night just to get a rise out of you? Was he always like this? You thought he was a good man; compassionate, hospitable, affectionate, genuine. Did he only show you enough of himself to lure you, to make you trust him? Was he lying the whole time about his true intentions? Were you really that gullible? God… he’s so fucking manipulative.

You don’t know what you’re thinking but the throbbing in your arm has your free hand scrabbling to get away and before you can measure the consequences of your actions, your open hand slaps across his face. Joel relaxess his grip on your arm immediately, the shock evident on his face, but before you can wrench yourself completely free of his hold, he throws you across the top of the table.

You come crashing down over the other edge, your limbs flailing and knocking over a chair on the way down. Before you can steady yourself enough to stand up on your own, he’s come around the table and put his hands on you again, lifting and shoving you against the front wall. Each hand grips your arm above the elbow, bracing your shoulder blades hard against the wall. His face comes to your neck and you feel him inhaling, feel his moist breath huffing against you, feel his stubble scraping you, feel his tongue dragging along you.

“Why the fuck are you making such a big deal of this bullshit, baby?” he coos. “The world ended. None of that old nonsense matters anymore.” He moves one hand up to your jaw, gripping your face hard.

“It matters to me,” you squeak through gritted teeth.

“All that matters to you is me, you understand?” He holds you so firmly that you can’t open your mouth to speak or even shake your head in response. “This is all that matters.” He begins to place gentle kisses along your pulse point, in opposition to the crushing embrace he’s got you in.

Eventually he loosens his grip on your jaw and, without hesitation, you take your free arm and place it over his sternum, shoving him backwards as hard as you can. Shock is quickly replaced by anger on his face. You hold your hands out in front of you, distracting him enough to stop his advancing aggression. You gather courage from somewhere deep inside you, lashing out for his callous disregard of you all night followed by this gaslighting manipulation.

“I’m so tired of you spouting your bullshit dogma just to try and get me to fuck you,” you seethe.

He raises his hand like he’s going to slap you but when you hold your head up, somehow managing not to flinch, he doesn’t follow through. Instead he lowers his hand to shove a single finger in your face.

“You think I want to fuck you?,” he bellows, “I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to want you. I don’t want to think about you every fucking second of every fucking day.” He reaches forward and grabs the flesh at your hips. You side-step out of his clutch and take a few steps towards the stairs before he grabs you by the wrist and holds it tight. “Do you see how fucking weak you make me?”

You walk backwards, trying to put distance between you but his wrap around your wrist is firm.

“You’re hurting me, Joel,” you mutter. He doesn’t let go.

“Look at me,” he orders. “Fucking look at me, goddamnit.”

You don’t.

Something inside him snaps. He yanks you closer with the hand around your wrist and pulls your body against his so that his chest is to your back, snaking his arms around you and cinching them tight. He scrapes his stubble hard along your neck and buries his nose in your hair, taking several deep inhales and groaning in between breaths.

His lower arm bands across your hips, digging into your soft flesh there while his other arm loosens and moves its way up your front. He grabs one of your breasts tight in his hand and presses his erection against your backside. You’re constricted tight, arms trapped as well, and unable to move away from him. You manage a breathy exhale of his name, meant to serve as a plea, but it can barely be heard.

“You can’t get away from me,” he growls in your ear. “You can never get away from me.”

He goes back to holding you with both arms, wrapped so tight that he knows it’s probably hurting you. You’re clearly struggling to breathe and even your feeble wriggling feels futile. Then he looks down and notices your struggling movements have shifted your sweater to expose the top of your shoulder. He recalls the mark he once sucked into your skin there, and the way it stayed on you for weeks. You need another reminder of who you belong to.

He moves his mouth to that same spot, baring his teeth, and bites into your flesh. Hard.

He barely hears your screaming over the pounding of his pulse in his ears, his own ragged and panting breaths, his drawn out, animalistic moan. Suddenly there’s tugging on his arms and he looks up to see Tess’ wide eyes staring at him, mouth moving. She must be saying something but he can’t make it out. Someone is yanking at his shirtsleeve on his other side and when he turns his head, teeth bared in a snarl, he sees Kerri recoil in horror.

Tess punches at his arms, claws at his neck, and tugs on his hair, finally managing to get him to loosen his arms enough to free you. She yanks you away from him and as she pulls you up the stairs you see him watching you from the bottom, eyes black, hair a mess, your blood dripping down the corners of his mouth. Tess drags you down the hall into her room, locking the door behind her. She puts a chair under the doorknob and tends to your wound with a first aid kit stashed under her bed.

She lets you sleep in her room that night. Joel doesn’t come for you.

–

The next evening you’re standing in the shadows behind the old ice skating rink, which is used as makeshift stables during The Valley’s Friday evening events. It’s off the main road, set back in the woods a bit, but you have a pretty good view of the town square from here. You can see people coming and going, see Joel shaking hands with them all, nodding while they talk to him but looking over their heads, probably searching for you.

“You’re gonna catch a cold.” You nearly jump out of your skin at Tess’ words. You didn’t even hear her coming. “I told you to wait inside.”

“It smells like horseshit in there. Besides, I’ve got this,” you say pointing to the knit scarf around your neck.

She just nods, knowing you have a scarf because she’s the one who put it on you. She helped you get cleaned and dressed for tonight since you spent all day in her room hiding from Joel. She looks you over once you’re all dressed and then you both look at the bandage she has taped at your shoulder, peeking out from under your shirt collar. She grabs the scarf out of her drawer and circled it around you several times, tucking the ends into your coat.

“Do you know Beth?” Tess asks abruptly.

“Beth?”

“Yeah, Beth,” she continues. “Short brown hair, she lives with Hank Mansfield’s family, down at the dairy farm.”

“Oh, Beth. Yeah, she comes with Hank to the Thursday night meetings,” you nod.

“Exactly. She used to be a seamstress,” Tess adds. “Did you know that?”

“No, I don’t think we’ve talked much.” You know you haven’t talked much because you spent most of the Thursday meetings staring at Joel’s lips and waiting for them to be planted on yours.

“She makes all her own clothes. She’s been helping the Mansfield’s too. I think she could help here in town if she lived closer.”

“Yeah I bet,” you reply.

“I was thinkin’, maybe you and her could trade rooms,” Tess answers your unspoken question.

“Trade rooms?”

“Yeah… she could have your room and you could go help out at the farm.”

“The fa–” you begin to question when her meaning hits you like a fist to the gut. You turn to look at her, a pinching pain behind your eyes, panic obvious on your face. “You want me to leave?”

“No, of course I don’t want that,” Tess immediately replies in a soothing voice. “I just think Beth could really help out here in town, but she’d need a room. And I thought maybe you might be willing to give yours up.”

“Give it up? I don’t understand.”

“I mean, you don’t have to live in that house if you don’t want to,” she nods towards the big house you share on the other side of the square. “It’s your choice. You can live anywhere you want.”

That doesn’t seem true. You don’t live at Joel’s house because you chose it. You live there because he invited you. He asked you. He chose you. You didn’t feel like you could say no and you’re pretty sure he wouldn’t let you choose somewhere else, especially not now.

“I don’t think he’d–,”

“No, it’s not his choice,” she interrupts you and repeats, “It’s your choice.”

“It is?”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation. “You could give Beth your room so she’d be able to help us here in town and you’d get a room at the Mansfield’s. You’d be able to help milk the cows. I hear a couple of them are pregnant, so there’d be babies this spring – get yourself a little change of scenery….”

Tess doesn’t want to seem like she’s overselling it but she really hopes the promise of baby animals tips this in her favor. She hopes that she’s getting the message across without having to say the actual words. I need to take you away from him, PJ. He’s going to keep hurting you, PJ. I’m trying to save you, PJ. She wants you to think that this was your idea, but mostly she needs you to agree to this. Right now.

“It’s far away though, isn’t it?” you say, staring in the direction of the town square now, where Joel is no doubt shirking his duties and obsessively searching for you.

“It’s far enough,” she replies, letting the implication remain unspoken.

“I– I think he’d be mad,” you whisper.

“It’s not up to him. It’s up to you,” she nods, a soft smile on her face when you meet her eyes again. Please, she pleads silently. “What do you want, PJ? Do you want to help me out? Give Beth your room?”

A long moment of silence passes, breaking eye contact and looking down at your feet shuffling them several times before looking back at Tess, a hint of sadness in your eyes, a touch of defeat.

“I– I could do that, yeah.”

“Great! That’s great,” Tess exhales, unable to mask her relief. She quickly reels back her emotions and expresses simple and stoic gratitude, as if it’s a run-of-the-mill thing that’s just been agreed to – no big deal. “Thank you PJ, that’s really nice of you.”

–

Joel stands next to Sasha, her cold hand clutched in his warm one, looking around the square. He’s waiting for everyone else to meet them in front of the bakery so they can all walk home together. He sees Tess coming down the sidewalk, walking towards him with someone who isn’t you. You must be with Rosie and Kerri.

“Joel, you remember Beth, right?” Tess asks him when she comes to a halt at his side, “Lives with the Mansfield’s out at the dairy farm?”

“Of course,” he nods his head, barely looking in their direction. “Hank’s daughter. Hi, Beth.”

“She’s not Hank’s daughter,” Tess corrects. Joel finally looks at them, giving Tess most of his attention and Beth a quick glance. “Beth has just been livin’ at the farm since she came into town with Olivier and his wife, from the Montreal Safe Zone?”

“Oh, sure,” Joel says, as if this isn’t brand new information, “That’s what I meant.” And his attention is diverted once again, scanning the park across the street, looking at the departing crowds from the night of fun festivities.

“She’s a seamstress, did you know that?”

Joel doesn’t even bother responding this time. Why would he know that Beth was a fuckin’ seamstress? Why would he have ever talked about that with Beth? He doesn’t think he’s ever talked to Beth about anything at all. Why would he fuckin’ care? He vaguely hears Tess saying something about staying with us a while and he hums in acknowledgement. Why is Tess bothering him with all this stupid fuckin’ information? He’s obviously busy looking for you.

His head on a swivel he sees Rosie and Kerri approaching from the other side of town. Wait, where are you? You were supposed to be with…

With Tess. You were with Tess. He turns to look Tess square in the eyes now. She has his full attention.

“Where is she?” he fumes.

“Like I was saying, Beth is a seamstress and she needed a room–”

“Who?” Joel sputters, not comprehending the words coming out of her mouth.

“Beth,” Tess repeats, motioning to the woman standing silently beside her. Beth waves awkwardly.

Joel whips himself around and takes off towards the house, dragging Sasha alongside him, not even fully realizing her hand is still clutched tight in his. He bursts in the door and lets go of Sasha, taking the stairs two at a time and entering the small, darkened room at the top of the stairs with no door. The sheets and blanket are fresh and crisp, the bed is neatly made. Five hangars swing empty from the curtain rod at the window, a half moon shining behind some scattered clouds and casting dim light through the sheer curtains.

He touches the empty bedside table. It used to be covered with books, leaves, and rocks you found interesting in shape or color. Things you collected when you walked together. Things you collected when you walked alone, after you stopped looking at him. Things that proved you were still here. That you were still his. Now they’re gone. You’re gone. Tess took you away.

He comes down the stairs slowly, Sasha standing just inside the dining room rubbing her wrist, the other women coming in the door. Tess stands at the bottom of the stairs with that girl whos’ not you at her side – Beth.

“What the fuck did you do?” Joel seethes. He reaches the last step and looks across the living room, his eye catching on the spine of the book he gave on Christmas, sitting on the fireplace mantle. It’s still here. You’re not.

“Beth needed–” Tess is cut off by a palm striking across her face.

She can’t say she wasn’t expecting a bad reaction from him, but she would have braced herself better if she knew it was coming right then. The slap sends her tipping sideways and she thinks she might even fall down except that Joel grabs the front of her shirt with both hands, keeping her from landing on the ground. He barks for everyone to go to bed and Tess watches Beth’s horrified face as Sasha takes her hand and pulls her up the stairs.

Tess knows he’s not done. She knows he’s going to keep going, keep hitting her, keep blaming her. She’s going to look like she got kicked by a horse tomorrow but it was worth it. He’s not hitting you. She can take it. She’s taken it before, from men with quick tempers. Joel will get his venom out tonight and tomorrow he’ll be remorseful and apologetic. Soon enough he’ll detox from you and eventually he’ll emerge from the haze, able to see clearly again. He’ll get his head on straight and be able to deal with things rationally.

At least that’s what she hopes. Everything depends on her being right. If he keeps going down the path he’s on now, she thinks this whole place – and everyone in it – is doomed.

🖤

Thank you to my amazing editor, @papipascalispunk, for helping me with this series, and for both fully understanding and appreciating my direction with these two. 🫂You work so hard (for free) and I appreciate everything you do.

TAGLIST (lmk if you wanna be added or removed) @strang3lov3 @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin @covetyou @iamasaddie @sr-lrn @clawdee @theywhowriteandknowthings @beefrobeefcal @merz-8 @speckledemerald @alltheseperfectimperfections @survivingandenduring @afraidtofear @millennial-teenybopper @missladym1981 @xdaddysprincessxx @lumoverheaven @ghoulettesinspace @brittmb115 @wintersquirrel @obscurexsorrows @littlevenicebitch69 @lulawantmula @pedroswife69 @joeldjarin @heimtathurss @untamedheart81 @pixielou5 @feel1n-h1gh @elegantduckturtle @koshkaj-blog

#devotion series #cult leader joel miller #noxturnalpascal #ofc!reader #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

167 notes · View notes

aidansloth · 4 months

Text

Coffee and Chamomile

Summary: Hitoshi can’t sleep (again) so he decides to get up and make himself some good-ass coffee ‘cause he’s smart. When he reaches the common room, he realizes he’s not the only one who wanted a hot beverage.

Warnings/Things to keep in mind: slight hurt/comfort, swearing, suggested low self-esteem on Shinsou’s side and some dirty jokes because they’re teens. And adorably cute. Reader is referred to as they/them or ‘you’, this takes place in the dorms and Shinsou is part of Class 1-A (or 2-A, whatever you want). Also I don’t remember perfectly the layout of the dorms so pretend. I’m not up to date with the episodes (stuck on season 4) so please no spoilers! Last disclaimer: this is KIND OF self-indulgent and I’m autistic so if you think the reader is acting weird, that’s why.

Words: 2.3k

Posted this on AO3 too! You can find it here.

2:38am

Hitoshi turned in his sheets, covers uncomfortably sticking to his form as he sank his face into the scrunched-up pillow.

3:04am

An exasperated groan escaped his lips, half suffocated by the cushion; his arms wide around the mattress and his breathing deep and empty.

3:29am

That’s it. He’s getting up and making himself some damn coffee or whatever the others left in that poor kitchen. His sheets are hurled carelessly as his feet instinctively find their place in his cat-shaped slippers. Trying not to make too much noise (an act he had mastered by now) he opened the door and made his way to the common room. His phone, used as a make-shift torch guided him across the corridors; as he got closer and closer he noticed light becoming brighter, when he finally reached his destination the realization dawned on him. Someone else was up.

He quickly turned his phone-torch off before turning the corner, to find one of his new classmates dancing (or whatever that was) with their back turned to him, hands busy with what looked like a cup of tea.

It wasn’t long since he joined the Hero Course but he was starting to remember some names and whatever faces he didn't remember from the Sports Festival. Unfortunately, he wasn’t that good with names. No one talks to him anyways, why should he care?

While he did recognize you from behind he did not remember your name. You were nice to him, he thought. Nicer than the rest at least. That Denki guy seemed nice too- a bit too intense though. You lent him a pencil- or was it a tissue? No mind that, what was he gonna do now? Leave? No, you’ll turn around and notice him and think he was spying on you. Did you even want company? You seemed pretty busy. On the other hand it’s his common room too- but has he been there long enough to intrude on your private moment like that? He might not be here to make friends or be nice but that doesn’t mean he has to be an ass.

That’s when he realized you hadn’t noticed him yet. Ah. So aware of their surroundings for a hero.

He decided that grunting awkwardly was the best course of action. Bummer, you were wearing earphones. He tried a louder cough, but you only noticed him once you found yourself face to face with him. A loud curse left your lips and your hands instantly slammed against them as instinct. Hitoshi’s eyebrows raised and he pressed his lips together to suppress a chuckle. Good thing you placed your tea down earlier. Their eyes were now staring straight into his.

“Ehm- hi.” You licked your lips, saliva suddenly missing.

“Hi.” He managed to grunt out. Now this was awkward. He watched your eyes dart back and forward before settling back on him. He really wanted to say something, anything to get this uncomfortable feeling out but that little voice at the back of his head held him back.

“You here to make yourself some tea too?”

His mouth opened slightly, the careless innocence of the question taking him aback. Still, no words came out. He nodded. He actually wanted coffee but he didn’t think himself able to explain that through words now.

“Cool. I boiled extra water accidentally. What kind of tea did you want?” Your smile looked so genuine and again, careless. Like you didn’t think he was dangerous. Out of habit he was about to nod again but stopped in time to force some words out.

“Is there carcade?”

“Yep!” You were definitely too chipper for this hour in the morning. He tried not to think too much about the fact that you answered his question with no hesitation. He watched as you moved your hands swiftly along the mugs and tea bags, your movements rhythmic, like you do this a lot. In no time your teas were ready, so you placed yours in front of your stool and in front of his. Not that he sat down yet, no. His eyes were too busy watching you. The tea caught his attention quickly enough. Sitting down his hands snaked around the mug, his hoodie sleeves just a bit too long.

A string of silence hung.

“I guess we’re both awake for the same reason.” Hitoshi was glad his voice was back, though the ever-lingering anxiety stayed. He actually didn’t know why they were up but he thought this was a decent conversation starter. His gaze was too occupied marveling at the tea to notice your tilted head and dog-like expression.

“You’re writing fanfiction too?”

Well, he certainly wasn’t expecting that.

“Ehm- no- no I’m not.” Suddenly he felt weird and sorry he wasn’t writing fanfiction. His classmate nodded understandingly while taking another sip off their mug. Looking back at the kitchen island he felt particularly stupid for not noticing the laptop with an open Google Document page open. There was a small beat of awkward silence before the next sentence.

“Then why are you up?”

Ah. There it is. What was he supposed to respond now? Oh yeah, basically I have insomnia, meaning I get no hours of sleep and I do manage to miraculously fall asleep I’m awoken by nightmares and now, as our new guest of honor, the gracious sounds of the guys’ snoring which breaks the laws of time and space by getting across all those walls!

“Just- stuff.”

He thanked every god in the universe that they didn’t ask anything surrounding his very weird and suspicious answer but opted for a simple nod and a ‘cool’. Clinging his fingertips against the mug he realized he should try to keep the conversation going as well; you probably thought he didn’t want to talk to you with all his dry answers. His grip tightened and his teeth sank into his bottom lip.

“What- what is the fanfiction about?” He swore he never saw someone’s eyes light up faster, their lips immediately stretched into a painfully wide smile.

“Basically, you know ‘Lord of the Rings’, right? The fantasy book? There are these two characters, a dwarf and an elf. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, these two races have a really tough history which led to prejudice and hate on both sides. But for this certain world-saving quest they have to interact with each other, trust each other, you know? For the first quarter, maybe, of the quest they don’t get along very well. I mean, not trying to kill each other or anything, but petty threats and jokes are thrown around. At a certain point in their journey they have to take a break in this elven kingdom and by the end of it they are the best of friends! Now, I ship these two characters together, so, I’m writing a specific fanfic that takes place during their pause there and since Tolkien didn’t really go into detail with what they were doing during that time I have lots of creative freedom,”

Hitoshi’s lips pressed together as he watched them gesticulate their way through what could only be defined as a speech; his half-open eyes never left theirs while his chin rested on his hand. His eyes lingered from one feature of their face to another, still listening of course: he was good at that. Though his eyes may have lingered a moment too long on their lips.

“-not even mentioning their relationship later on at the end of ‘The Return of the King’, commenting on Minas Tirith’s architecture like a bunch of housewives! Really, in the middle of a war ‘This place needs more trees!’-” Their face dropped and Hitoshi’s heart with it. Did they notice him staring too much? He did that, didn’t he? Fuck. He made them uncomfortable-

“I’m sorry. I’m boring you.” They say huffing out a half-regretful chuckle. It nearly tricks him.

He stared just a little bit longer before talking.

“You’re not.”

He watched as their lips turned into an awkward smile, like they thought he only said it to be nice. The silence slowly crawled back. Hitoshi didn’t know what sudden urge slapped him in the face enough to have the courage to speak, but he did.

“Your voice is relaxing.” Good job asshole, now they think you’re a creep. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from your surprised one, which quickly turned into one of joy. And now he was blushing. Might as well dig my own grave with that one. Fingers tapped on mugs. Their mouths opened once, closed and then opened again.

“Do you mind if I- we move to the couch? I hate stools.”

“Sure- yeah.”

And moved to the couch they did. Fanfiction-writing long forgotten, they placed their teas on the small table in front of them; Hitoshi was surprised when they got blankets for the both of them and instinctively covered him too but he wasn’t about to complain about it. For a little while they sat in comfortable silence, only sounds of breathing and sips were heard. Just for a little while though. Until he noticed they kept yawning and their head dropping a bit every couple of seconds. His eyebrows scrunched up.

“You tired?”

“Meh, just a bit.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you up? I mean, we’re not that busy right now with school, you could write during the day and not in the middle of the night. Unless you can’t sleep but it doesn’t look like you can’t.”

“Well-” They huffed out a smile. “-it’s not exactly about having time. It’s a bit more complicated. Like-” They exhaled again, squeezing their eyes shut and then reopening them. “There aren’t enough hours during the day to- to be. The whole day feels like a dread and the only thing I look forward to is those hours in the night where I can do anything I want without that senseless guilt. The night is the only time I feel free to be.”

Hitoshi stayed silent for a moment, elaborating every word meticulously.

“That’s- that’s-”

“Sad? Pathetic? Depressing?”

He chuckled. “I mean- a bit.” Their soft laughter mixed together. “What I meant to say was, that’s- relatable.” A simple shared look was enough to fill the silence between them.

“So, why are you up?” Before Hitoshi could excuse himself again they stopped him.

“Don’t you dare say ‘just stuff’ again to me, I just gave you a tear-ripping, punch-to-the-face, gut-wrenching speech.” With their index finger pointing at him he let out a soft laugh, though his eyes lost a bit of their shine for a second when he started speaking.

“I have insomnia.”

“Ah. So you got up to make yourself chamomile or something?”

“Well, I wanted to make myself some coffee.”

“Coffee?”

“Coffee.”

“And you let me make you tea, why?”

Hitoshi adjusted himself quickly and cleared his throat. “You looked happy.” He felt their eyes stare through his soul, he felt naked.

“Is this helping?” God thank you for changing the subject.

“Is what helping?”

“Talking.” He thought for a moment.

“Maybe. I’m not sure. Don’t usually talk to people.”

They smiled. “I noticed.” He grinned.

“Are you going to go back to sleep then? Well, not sleep- you get it.”

“Don’t know. This couch is very comfortable.”

“Oh yeah?” You said, raising your eyebrows with a shit-eating grin. A wide grin grew on his face and he let out a laugh.

“Yeah.” You nodded again.

“You know, I won’t get offended if you want to go back to sleep- or to your fanfiction.” He said.

You shook their head. “I’m fine here.”

He gulped, praying that the low light won’t show his blushing cheeks. Their conversation went on for another half an hour at least, Hitoshi couldn’t tell honestly. Their teas finished and mugs cold, they got up (mostly because they realized the time). Cups in the sink, they began talking again once Hitoshi yawned.

You chuckled. “Is my voice that relaxing?”

“Incredibly so.” He grinned seeing them laugh again. He cleared his throat.

“So, you going to sleep?” Hitoshi watched them as their shoulders dropped.

“Yeah- yeah, is that okay? I don’t mean to leave you alone but-”

“Yes- yes it’s fine don’t worry about me, I won’t die,” he grinned, his hands in his pockets “sleep, you need it.”

“Oh, and you don’t?”

“No, I’m like Batman.”

“Are you implying he doesn’t sleep because he calls himself Batman?- He’s not even- He doesn’t have super powers like that, you are aware-” Their soon-to-be ramble was interrupted by his laughter.

“Sorry, sorry, I’m not mocking, promise.” He bit his inside cheek, clenching and unclenching his fists in nervousness. “I just- like how passionate you are.”

“About Batman?”

“About Batman.” They looked at each other for a second before you nodded.

“Alright… Well, I’m off to bed. Nice slippers by the way.” Hitoshi grinned like a lovesick boy at your comment.

He nodded smiling and moved away a bit from the entrance of the corridor to let you pass. They smiled and wished each other a good night. It only took a few steps before you stopped and whipped around.

“Wait!” You ran and before he knew it they had plunged into him, his torso wrapped nicely within their arms. His body froze at first but quickly came back and wrapped his own arms around their frame. Hitoshi could feel his muscles relax. It wasn’t long before they moved away leaving an empty feeling in both of them.

“Goodnight!” They said and Hitoshi swore that was the sweetest smile he had ever had the luck of witnessing.

“Good- goodnight.”

As if he was able to sleep after that.

Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism/advice is welcomed.

#shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi #shinsou hitoshi x reader #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #i love him soso much #first time writing for hitoshi #hope you like it!#wrote this instead of sleeping #hitoshi shinso x reader

201 notes · View notes