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schrodingers-romy · 7 months

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As You Sleep [Choso x Reader]

Pairing: Choso x AFAB!Reader

Summary: The creature under your bed has been watching you for a long time...waiting...you may not remember him, but he remembers you.

Warnings: Reader has AFAB anatomy referred to with fem terms, but no other gendered terms are used. Graphic smut (MDNI). Referenced past voyeurism. Dub-con at first, becomes fully consensual quickly. Tentacles (can't believe myself). Vaginal penetration.

Word Count: ~2,300

Notes: posting a little later than I would've liked, but still on-time. Part of my little event, Strange Lovers, which is a collection of monster!character x reader oneshots for October! This, like the giyuu one, is surprisingly sweet for how nasty the concept is lol. I feel like this could've been better, but I had fun writing it so eh whatever.

[Ao3 Link]

The room is silent.

You’re not quite sure why you woke up so abruptly. It’s still dark outside, and you’re not awake enough to check your phone for the time. You should just close your eyes and fall back asleep. But you can’t shake the feeling that something woke you up.

And then you feel it. Something is lightly caressing your bare ankle.

You jerk your foot away, suddenly very awake. Your first thought is that it must be some kind of insect, and the thought makes your skin crawl. You stare intently at the place your foot used to be, but of course you can’t see anything in the dark.

You reach over and grab your phone, fumbling to switch on the flashlight. Turning it onto the rumpled bedsheets at the foot of your bed reveals nothing. You pick up the edge of the blanket and jerk it to the side, expecting something to skitter out. Nothing.

You almost decide to turn your phone light off and lay back down, brushing the feeling off as your half-asleep imagination. But then you see it.

It is some sort of…shadowy tentacle. It’s ridiculously fast too, as it’s wrapped around your ankle before you can shuffle yourself back again. It’s soft and cool to the touch, but deceptively strong. You try to flail and break its grip, but all you manage to do is drop your phone flashlight-side down on the ground.

The room is once more in darkness. Your heart is pounding. You don’t know what the fuck is going on, but you hope it’s just a bad dream. It must be, right?

Whatever it is, it has multiple tentacles. Because soon your other leg, still kicking wildly to try to free its twin, is restrained by another tendril.

You curl forward and try to use your hands to claw the thing off you. You barely graze the velvet surface of the tendril before more appear to grab both your arms.

At this point, your limbs are all pinned to your mattress, starfished out in the shape of an x. You can’t move them at all. You’re trapped.

There is no longer any trace of sleepiness left in you, washed out in record time by the tsunami wave of adrenaline sent through your body. The worst thing is the adrenaline has nowhere to go; you can’t move no matter how much you struggle, so your limbs tingle restlessly. Your eyes flicker around the room, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever is doing this to you, a futile task.

The room, for a moment, is filled only with the sounds of your panting. And then you see it.

‘It’ being two bright, purple points of light, glowing in the perfect darkness. The points are looming over the base of your bed, trained on you…almost like eyes.

You’re frozen as those points of light creep closer. You can feel more tendrils caress your legs as the thing crawls up on top of you, pressing you down even further into the mattress with its solid weight. The lights are now hovering right above your face now. They slowly flicker out of existence for a second, before reappearing. The lights must be eyes; the thing above you is blinking.

You feel like it’s examining you; slow-blinking gaze trained on your face as you feel the tentacles slither across every inch of your body. Some have already crept up to tangle in your hair; even more concerning are the ones teasingly rubbing at the skin under the very edges of your clothing, as if waiting to slip under it.

You try once more to move. It’s impossible. You are at the mercy of this creature.

The only thing you can feasibly do is scream; yet you cannot muster the volume. All that comes out is a garbled whine, almost animalistic from the pure anxiety imbued in it.

The thing above you makes some sort of rumbling sound in response. The noise is low, and hard to decipher, but it gets clearer the closer you listen to it.

It’s trying to talk to you.

There are only a few scattered words, the rest just pure sound. It seems to be trying to sooth you.

“…safe…..don’t be scared…..won’t hurt you…..just wanna touch…” the thing intones. It brings what you assume is its forehead (it’s above its eyes at least) down to nuzzle against yours. It feels like someone’s skin, if you ignore how perfectly smooth and cool it is, similar to the tentacles writhing over your body.

“What are you?” you say. You mean to shout it, to question it aggressively…but your voice comes out small and hoarse.

The thing pulls back to blink at you again. “Choso,” it rasps.

“Choso?” you whisper back. The name sounds familiar to you somehow, but you can’t recall what from.

“…don’t remember?” it asks, its strange, inhuman voice tilting up at the end in a question.

Then it hits you.

The memories of it are scattered and hazy; you were so young when it happened. But you used to have an imaginary friend named Choso. You thought he lived under your bed, and you would talk to him in whispers at night. One time he even talked back. He even told you his name.

Of course, as soon as you told anyone you knew about Choso, you were immediately ridiculed. Eventually, you stopped speaking to him, and left him behind with all the other fanciful imaginations of your childhood.

He never spoke to you again.

Until now.

You didn’t recognize him at all until he said his name. Your memories were patchy, but you thought his voice was higher, more childish when you first met. Perhaps he was a child then too, or whatever the monster-under-the-bed equivalent of child was.

You did not even notice when you relaxed, but you did. Your heartbeat went down, and you were no longer tensing against your restraints. It was absurd that you calmed down. Just because this thing claimed to be your childhood imaginary friend. Ridiculous. Imaginary friends weren’t real.

But neither were creatures like the one lying atop you; yet he undeniably existed.

The thing—Choso—shudders above you. “Forgot,” it—he—says mournfully. “…forgot me…”

You feel a pang of sadness. You did forget about him, but to your credit, it’s not like he ever gave any other sign he was real until now. It was understandable you forgot. But you still felt bad.

“I remember,” you stutter out. “I remember you Choso. It’s okay. Were you with me this whole time?”

“…yes…” he says. He doesn’t sound as upset now, but it’s hard to tell with his voice. “Was waiting. Couldn’t.”

“You were waiting for me to remember?”

“Thought you didn’t wanna talk…didn’t wanna talk to me,” he warbles. A creature like him shouldn’t be able to sound as dejected as he does.

“Aw, no…” you are slightly panicking now. This is not at all how you thought your night would go; it has been plot twist after plot twist. Your sleep-deprived mind wonders if this is what telenovela characters feel like. “It’s okay, Choso. I remembered you. I just wasn’t sure you were real. Thought I imagined you.”

“Okay…” he says. You think he is slightly mollified. “Don’t forget again.”

This is not something you will ever forget. You tell him as such.

“Good,” he huffs. He seems to settle on you fully now, flopping heavily like a disgruntled cat. He tucks his face into your neck, and you can feel his chilly breath tickling your ear.

He’s very clingy, you realize. Now that your fear has mostly dissipated, you can focus back on what is happening to your body, on what he is doing to you. The tendrils haven’t released you or stopped moving; in fact, they have only become bolder. Some have fully slipped their way under your clothes now, the tips of them stroking against your sensitive skin. You become hyper aware of them.

“Choso,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady even as one of the tentacles flicks at one of your nipples. “What are you doing?”

“Touching you.”

“I noticed that—AH” your voice goes up an entire octave as you feel a thick tendril poke at the entrance to your pussy. You hadn’t even noticed it creep under all your layers, but now all you could think about was the way it rubbed curiously between your folds. “CHOSO.”

“…wanted to touch you so bad….all the time,” he replies. You find out he has a tongue because he starts gently lapping at your neck.

“Okay, but you can’t touch there,” you say, voice wavering. You are almost reluctant to stop him, because, shamefully, you feel yourself starting to get wet from his clumsy touches. It’s been too long…and it’s hard not to slip into the full-body sensation that the tendrils are granting you; they stroke over every part of you, caressing every sensitive spot of skin you didn’t know you had.

“…you do,” he says stubbornly. “Watched you. You felt good….when you touched here. Could smell it…” He buries his face further into your neck, breathing your scent in big, wet huffs, making you shiver at his breath on your skin. “…wanna make you feel good….”

Your face is hot. The thought of Choso watching you masturbate in your bed should have been mortifying, violating, but it only made you get wetter. It was undeniably wrong, but you couldn’t help but imagine him hidden, watching you lazily rub your clit, curl your fingers inside yourself until you gushed. You wondered if things like him even felt arousal…you wondered if he felt it when he looked at you. If he felt the same heat you felt between your legs now. If he wanted to be the one making you feel good, instead of your own hand.

You find you actually don’t want him to stop. “Okay,” you murmur. “You can touch more.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you can feel the tentacles pull you tighter to him, almost in a facsimile of a hug.

And then he sets to work.

There are tendrils tugging at your nipples, pulling them to stiff peaks. Others caress all over your body, focusing on the areas that make you shudder. Choso continues to kitten-lick your neck and around your collarbones, but every once in a while you can feel the graze of razor-sharp teeth.

More tendrils make their way past your underwear. The thickest of them continues to prod at the entrance to your cunt, which is slowly getting wetter as your arousal grows. You jolt as a smaller tentacle slithers up to your clit, rubbing at it curiously. The touches get firmer once he hears your broken gasps, until he’s drawing small rapid circles on your bundle of nerves.

You can feel the heat building up in your abdomen, a slow, liquid build. Unlike your own hand, he doesn’t change pace or falter as you get close to coming, keeping a steady pace until the heat slowly overflows into an orgasm.

You shudder and whine your way through climax, whispering nonsensical praises to the creature draped over your body.

Just as you edge your way into oversensitivity, you feel him penetrate you.

You don’t get any time to adjust before the tentacle is filling your pussy.

It’s a strange feeling, not like a cock at all. The tendril pulses oddly, not thrusting so much as squirming against your walls. It wiggles around inside of you, making strange wet sounds with how aroused you are. Your overstimulation is turning back into pleasure as the tentacle finally finds your g-spot and starts rubbing against it, copying the other’s rhythm on your clit.

You can feel another orgasm creeping up on you, faster than your previous one. Choso continues to abuse every sensitive spot on the outside and the inside of your body. You’re so, so close…and then you feel another tentacle at the entrance to your cunt.

All it takes is the stretch of another, smaller tendril pressing deep inside you for you to come.

It’s much stronger than your first orgasm, pleasure burning through your body as opposed to the gentle waves of the first. You swear you can feel yourself squirt as you clench down around the dual appendages in your pussy.

Even if Choso wasn’t still holding you down, you know you wouldn’t be able to move. You almost dissolve into the mattress after the last shudders of your orgasm wash over you, feeling sleepy and sated.

Choso seems to agree with you, his strangely liquid body melts over yours. The tendril abusing your clit slips away, as do the ones around your nipples, but the ones in your pussy stay, twined around each other to make a single thicker tentacle. They’re still now, but they still stretch you out almost to the edge of discomfort, but not quite. You find you don’t mind them remaining inside you.

He continues to take in deep, heavy breaths, almost like he’s trying to huff in your scent. You think he must be smelling your pleasure, like he did when he watched you masturbate.

“…good?” he asks. It sounds less like an actual question and more like he’s prodding you for praise. You’re sure that he can already tell how good he made you feel, can taste it in the air. You let out a huff of laughter.

“Yes, you were very good, baby,” you tell him, voice raspy.

He shivers in happiness at the pet name, nuzzling his face deeper into your neck.

He doesn’t move from where he is covering you, but you feel yourself start to drift off to sleep anyway.

He continues to vibrate lightly, like a purring cat; the sensation helps lull you to sleep.

You hope this wasn’t all a dream; you would like to see him again when you wake.

#choso x reader #choso kamo x reader #choso smut #jjk choso x reader #jjk smut #choso #jjk choso #choso kamo #jjk x reader #romy can write #strange lovers event #cw // monsterfucking #afab reader

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iamthecomet · 28 days

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hi, do you still take requests? I would love to see some broken limbs related comfort (does that count as a sick fic?). like mountain helping rain walk cus he lost his crutch or cirrus helping cumulus wash her hair since it's hard to do with a cast on her arm. (implying there's a reason they can't insta heal)

I do still take requests! It just sometimes takes me a really long time to get to them. But this one got my brain whirling. I haven't written much (any?) of it in the Ghost fandom but I am a big fan of whump (the injury version of a sick fic). So thank you for giving me an opportunity to inflict some pain (and comfort) on our favorites. Almost 1.2k of Aeon & Swiss hurt/comfort under the cut (no broken bones, because this is what came to me instead).

Aeon loves quintessence. He loves the electric shock of it. The tingling warmth. The way he can ease pain, and loosen muscles with a little press of his fingers. How he chases away Dew's headaches, and Cumulus' lower back pain. How he can loosen up Rain's hips, and Mountain's shoulders with barely a flex of his muscles. The only thing he hates about it, is the limitations. The fact that he can't do it to himself. Can't turn his power around and soothe his own aches. Most of the time, it isn't a problem. He's flexible, loose, spry. His vessel isn't prone to tense muscles or joint pain--maybe a product of his quintessence nature. He doesn't know. What he does know, is he's in agony. Something happened during Square Hammer. He got a little to overzealous with his movements and slipped on errant confetti. Hand coming up to grip the closest thing to him--the edge of Mountain's drum platform. His grip kept him upright, but wrenched on his shoulder as he regained his balence. Forcing an uncomfortable pop in his shoulder that he felt radiate through his entire body. A sickening thud, followed closely by immediate alarm bells in his head. That's not right. Something is wrong. It didn't hurt--not right away. Too caught up in the sudden wrongness of it. Adrenaline, already pumping through him from the show, dumping into his blood at an alarming rate. He thought he was fine. The pain started just before the end of the song. A dull ache radiating across his shoulder. Slowly gaining heat and intensity. Now, he's standing next to Swiss, about to bow, feeling like if he doesn't get off of this stage right now he's going to collapse in front of twenty thousand people. His stomach twists. The pain is bright and not now. Molten. Deep in his shoulder. Moving it, even just a little, raises a strange sense of dread through his body. Like something at the base of his brainstem knows he shouldn't do that. That catastrophe will happen if he does. Fight or flight directed toward his own body--his own pain. He wishes he could run from it. That he could just take off--run fast enough to leave this pain on the stage. Spread out and abandoned. Instead it's all he can do to bow without bursting into tears. When Swiss claps his hand over Aeon's shoulder, he winces. Pain drags up his neck, into his skull. Swiss notices, of course he does. Gaze lingering on Aeon for a second too long. Aeon flushes under his mask--embarassed even though he doesn't know why. He can't see Swiss' eyes but he can picture the way they're narrowing behind those dark lenses. Aeon looks away first, he shrugs it off. He makes it off stage, into the dressing room, and halfway out of his uniform before the trouble really starts. Everything is fine until he goes to pull his compression shirt off. The vest went fine, and the button up shirt beneath. He'd shrugged them off, letting them fall to the floor in a heap. But now--this--fuck. He should have just worn the sleeves tonight. He curses himself, looks at the compression sleeves sitting neglected in his trunk. He thought about it--but after a few shows of constantly having to adjust them back up on his arms he'd opted for the full shirt to save him some aggravation. He swears, under his breath. Glamor rapidly failing him as he feels fangs prick against his lip, and the bite of claws into his palms. He tries to get it under control, grasping at straws for any hint of control, of magic, of relief. "You ok, Bug?" Swiss is gentle this time when he touches Aeon. Avoiding the shoulder all together and opting for a heavy warm palm on his waist. Aeon feels panic crawl up his throat, hot and insistent. Filling him with the need to go. To run. To scream. Instead, he whines. Pain breaking out through his clenched teeth. Swiss stiffens, the usually casual air of his evaporating, replaced with worry. "Aeon." "I did something--my shoulder," Aeon's cheeks get hot, eyes watering. "It's not getting better. And I can't get my fucking shirt off."

"Let me help." Swiss is gentle when he slips his fingers beneath the compression fabric. Aeon allows himself to be undressed--not much else he can do. He can barely lift his arm, but Swiss manages, gentling the fabric of hot swollen flesh and dropping it onto the ground with everything else. "Hurts," Aeon says as Swiss looks at his shoulder--investigating without being asked. Aeon wishes Aether were here, he'd at least talk to him while he did this. He'd make Aeon feel better. Swiss just looks, shifts Aeon's arm this way and that like he knows what he's looking for. "I'm sure it does," Swiss mumbles. Then Aeon feels it--a tiny spark. Quintessence. Just a little. Tenative. Like Swiss isn't used to using it like this. "I'm not Aether, obviously. But I think it's a sprain. You'll be alright." Aeon feels those words somewhere at his core. Solid. True. Maybe it's Swiss' quintessence. The power of suggestion. But he believes him. Even as the pain rages, barely touched by what little quintessence Swiss has given him. He wants to beg for more, he almost does--but Swiss is still talking. "....get you dressed and back to the hotel. I'll take care of you." "You?" Aeon looks up at him. Swiss laughs, lopsided grin finally slotting back into place. "Yeah, me. Why you hoping for someone else to play nurse?" "No! No, I just mean--you're not--I figured you had better things to do. Weren't you and Dew going to go to that bar or something? I'll be ok--" "I know you'll be ok. But I want to help. So let me." Aeon wants to protest. He knows he's a part of this pack as much as anyone else--has never been lead to believe he isn't. But he's still new, still worries that he's one misstep away from being rejected. But Swiss has never given him a reason to think that, and he looks so earnest when he asks. Wearing his glamor. Looking so startlingly human with warm brown eyes and that crooked smile that always makes Aeon's stomach flip. Swiss grabs Aeon's t-shirt and holds it out to him--ready to help, and Aeon sags in resignation. He can do it alone--he can take care of himself and battle through this pain without any help. But why would he want to. "Will you even wash my hair for me?" Aeon asks, half a joke, grinning just for the opportunity to see Swiss grin back. "Maybe," Swiss laughs, helping Aeon into his t-shirt. "But, I might just dose you with enough quintessence to knock you out so I can go party with Dew." "You won't," Aeon says, sure. Feeling lighter despite the pain radiating down his arm and into his fingers. Swiss pulls him close, guides him out of the dressing room with a steady hand on the small of his back. "No," he concedes. "I won't."

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underdark-dreams · 9 days

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Thank you everyone who has read this fic along its life! I finally got up the courage to tie it up with a bow. Here's the final chapter of my Rolan x Tav series Sage and Soldier, with links to the other pieces:

Blades and Spells [Fluff - First Meeting]

Good Night for Company - [Pining - Feelings Realization | NSFW] [ch1] [ch2]

[ch1] - [ch2] - [ch3] - [ch4] - [ch5]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.6

After the end of the world, there's a wizard's tower in the Upper City.

Tags: Mild Angst, Fluff, NSFW | Word Count: 4.8k [Read on AO3]

There was no time to celebrate the death of the Absolute—not when Tav and her companions stood trapped on its back like one of the doomed cities of Netheril. Not when her ears had already begun swimming and popping from the breakneck speed of their fall.

Tav yelled something back to the rest, some stupid bit of encouragement meant to keep them all on their feet. What else could they do but hold on, after all? They were all helpless, exhausted from battle, keeping their footing however they could as the brain’s pulsating flesh descended from the sky.

When they punched through the misty cloud layer below, Tav’s stomach leapt straight up into her throat. They were sailing across the Upper City, and the high spire of Ramazith’s Tower was rushing forward to meet them.

Too soon, her ears rang with the sickening, rib-shaking crash as the dying Netherbrain collided with the column of the Tower. Her shout of horror was lost to the explosive crumble of masonry and the whip of wind. She had only a second to fear the worst.

The impact spun the creature on its descent; Tav was knocked hard to her side, forced to scrabble for purchase on the monster’s slimy flesh as it careened sideways. Her limbs skated ineffectually over the brain’s folds—she was sliding toward the edge—

Not like this, her mind screamed in protest.

Tav yanked the sheathed dagger at her thigh and plunged it into the dying Absolute. Two hands gripped the hilt with all her might, even as her legs swung over the side of the Netherbrain like those of a limp ragdoll.

“Hells, we’re headed for harbor—!”

Behind her, Wyll’s yell of warning cut through. Tav understood at once—if they hit the Chionthar still standing on the back of the Netherbrain, its mass would pull them deep underwater with the strength of a vortex. She craned her neck blindly.

“Gale!” Tav shrieked for him, mad with panic. What if he’d fallen in the Upper City? What if he was gone, and she was beseeching a void?

Then she heard Gale’s voice call out for the Weave, and his spell hit hard along her spine. Her boots lifted unnaturally, the feet within them tingling with the power of flight—

The Netherbrain banked hard over the central City Wall. They were low enough now that Tav could make out figures with upturned faces—people watching the monster’s fall from the sky and fleeing away on foot, as if all pushed back by the same bank of wind. With one more lilt, the fleshy ground under her veered straight for the ancient wooden river docks.

A sharp glint of hope. If they timed their jump just right—if Gale’s spell lasted—

“Fuck this—” Beside her, Karlach was of the same mind. She was crouched low for balance, inching forward to the edge of the Crown for a better position.

Tav used her dagger for leverage to push herself crouched. “Aim for the roof of the Counting House!”

She heard the others fighting to their feet behind her. Gravity was accelerating their fall; sharp rain and river mist buffeted against her face as they swung rapidly for the water. But first, they passed beside a wide expanse of flat stone ramparts.

And then—they jumped.

—

Tav’s limbs cried out in exhaustion; her rain-soaked leg plates jangled heavily with each boot tread. She dragged herself through the streets of the Gate on adrenaline alone.

Those streets were in chaos. Though the battle was newly won, each corner she rounded brought a fresh skirmish.

Newborn mind flayers stumbled about in swarms, hungry and rudderless without direction from their Elder Brain. Many still dripped with blood from the death of their human forms. Those Baldurians who weren't running from them with crying children in their arms had snatched up tools and blades alike to run the creatures through with the ruthlessness of survival.

The chaos helped. Grit and blood and thudding bodies distracted Tav from the one sight she wanted to turn her head to, yet couldn't bear to see.

As her boots climbed the cobbles north toward the Upper City gate, Rolan’s tower crumbled over and over in her mind’s eye. She felt like retching. Her lungs were on fire.

Please let him be alive, please let him be alive, please let him be alive—she prayed to any god who might still be listening.

A child’s scream brought her up short on reflex.

Silfy—the timid one from the Grove, the little girl who cried when Tav caught her stealing a worthless trinket. A young mind flayer was reaching for her, one long-fingered hand directing its neural heat where she stood frozen in terror.

Tav’s teeth ground in her skull. She was so thoroughly fucking done—her longsword scraped out of its scabbard and arced straight toward the creature’s throat.

Just as the blow connected, an arrow shaft pushed out between the mind flayer’s dark eyes. It crumpled lifeless to the pavement in a heavy heap. Silfy turned tail without a backward glance; Tav squinted through mist and smoke, trying to identify the Flaming Fist who still held her shortbow poised.

“Lia!” Tav could have sobbed in relief. “Thank gods—is Rolan—?”

“I don’t know—” Lia’s voice was desperate as she ran closer. “Cal and I took the Sundries portal to fight with Cerys. Last we heard, Rolan was up manning the turrets.”

Tav could have swayed and collapsed where she stood. Only adrenaline kept her upright.

“I’ll find him,” she shouted above the surrounding chaos, half to herself, half to wipe that terrible fear from Lia’s face. She pushed away into a sprint without another word to her.

He’s not dead—he wouldn’t die like that—

Would she even be able to find Rolan’s body in the wreckage if he was? Tav’s knees wanted to give way at the thought. She gasped air into her lungs, wresting that image of him out of her mind with everything she had.

When she rounded the road from Flymm’s Cargo, a powerful wall of heat nearly knocked her back on her rump.

The ancient prow of the Blushing Mermaid was ablaze. Flames the height of ten men towered into the gray skies above, unaffected by the steady drizzle of rain. Her steel chestplate grew painfully hot as she forced herself up the crest of the hill.

Shouts and acrid air clouded her senses as she dashed beside the scene. Tav caught sight of Zorru and Danis, leading a bucket line all the way from Gray Harbor; their voices cracked from heat and smoke as they yelled directions.

All at once, like the emptying of a giant basin over their heads, a crash of water fell over the blaze and its surroundings. The cobbles under her feet were abruptly drenched; Tav slipped and careened forward, catching herself hard on both hands in a clang of plate armor.

There was a deep, ominous creak from somewhere above her. Knocked breathless, Tav nevertheless craned her head back.

The heavy wooden spindle on the ship’s prow that jutted over the street was already weakened from fire; now it was soaked through from the magical downpour. As she watched dumbstruck, it splintered with a slow twang. Then the wood snapped clean down the middle, and the length of it swung downward, straight for her legs.

Tav scrambled forward on hands and knees. Her boots and gauntlets scraped over the wet stones toward safety—

Footsteps were sprinting closer. There was a shouted incantation and a flash; Tav smelled roses as the Weave enveloped her completely for the space of a blink. Then she landed flat on her stomach in the middle of the street.

Thoroughly winded now, she coughed and wheezed for breath. The blaze and heat of the fire was strangely distant from where she lay.

As her lungs finally filled again, Tav realized she wasn’t just lying on pavement—something soft under her torso had cushioned the fall. She lifted up with a groan to look down at what she’d fallen on top of.

Rolan was entirely covered in soot and masonry dust from horn to foot. The effect was that he blended almost completely into the gray cobbles at first glance. Only when he opened his eyes did she recognize the two golden flames staring back at her.

“Tav!”

Rolan sat up so suddenly his horns nearly collided with her forehead. His hands gripped around her forearms with bruising force. “The Brain—I thought you’d—”

Her body had begun to violently shake as she took him in, each inch of his face strained with anxiety and streaked with dust and thoroughly alive—

Unable to go another second without him, Tav threw both arms around his neck. Rolan gripped her ribcage in turn, so tight and so long that her vision went spotty from lack of air. She couldn’t care less; in this moment, she would have dissolved right into him if she could have.

“I thought you were dead, Rolan,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Your Tower—the Netherbrain crashed right into it.”

“Only the observatory.” Rolan’s voice was muffled against her hair. “Never planned to use it anyway—not much of an astronomer—”

Tav could have laughed hysterically if she wasn’t so out of breath. Rolan continued against her neck.

“I was following it to the harbor, Tav, I had no idea what became of you—but then the fire, there were people inside—”

“You had to help,” she finished. She felt tears streaming fast and hot down her cheeks. The strength of her relief could’ve bowled her right over again. “I know, I know, just—”

They released each other at the same time. The kiss was stained with sweat and grime, yet it was the most satisfying one Tav had ever felt. She gripped Rolan’s face between two gauntleted hands, crushing his mouth against her.

“Lia’s okay,” she gasped out when Rolan’s lips finally left hers. “I met her south of here. She and Cal went with Cerys. Cal must be fine too, she would’ve said,” Tav added in a rush.

Rolan jerked his head in acknowledgement, his expression punch-drunk as he took her in. He was smoothing her hair back with both hands as if the motion was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was very small.

Rolan nodded at her again. Clearly spell-spent and dusted in plaster, he looked like his own ghost. “Are you?” Despite all that, his baritone reverberated warm and familiar in her chest.

“It’s so quiet,” she whispered hoarsely. Her words fell in almost comical contrast to the distant sounds of shouting, fire, and steel meeting illithid flesh.

But she could tell from the way Rolan’s eyes moved over her expression that he understood. The tadpole was finally gone—her mind was entirely her own again.

Rolan’s spark was beginning to return. “Can you stand?”

As he rose, Tav wobbled experimentally to her feet along with him. Her knees were bruised from the tumble, and her calves threatened to cramp from exertion—but she put on a brave face.

Unconvinced, Rolan kept an arm looped behind her back just in case; one hand fastened along her waist. Walking with him close at her side, the adrenaline began to ebb in her veins. Bone-weariness was instead closing in like a shroud.

“We should find Cal and Lia,” she said, trying to sound purposeful. Her boots dragged with each step.

“Yes,” Rolan agreed. He was holding her very firmly—practically supporting half her weight. “And we should be sure your friends made it safely from the docks.”

Tav gave a mumbled assent. It was difficult to care about any of that now, though she knew she should. She found herself staring up at his profile beside her.

“Rolan?”

He looked down in concern. “What is it?”

“After that…will you take me home?”

“My darling—” His lips pressed firmly to her brow. “Yes.”

—

Tav shifted on top of him with a mumble.

Rolan froze with arms still looped around her; perhaps the crinkle of scroll parchment had awakened her.

But then her face snuffled back into the bare crook of his shoulder. The dead weight of her across his chest assured Rolan that she was still fast asleep.

It was a lucky thing that he’d settled with reading material at arm’s length—the small pack of rare scrolls Tav herself had gifted him. She’d been out cold since dawn, when they all made it back to the Tower. It was nearly twilight now, and the sun’s last orange rays were fading fast through the high windows of Rolan’s bedroom. The distant streets had grown quiet as the city retired to nurse its wounds for the night.

Rolan hadn't seen much of her battle with the Netherbrain. Tav hadn't been in a state to tell many details once it was finally over, either. She could barely keep her eyelids open. The only thing clear was that she was completely exhausted from it.

Before anything else, Rolan coaxed several very potent healing elixirs down her throat. Then he drew them a bath and helped her out of her bloodied armor. She leaned heavily against him under the water. By the time he wrapped her in a towel to dry, he practically had to carry her back to his room.

The only hint of her fire came out when he’d tried to guide her toward the bed for sleep. Tav refused to go anywhere near the large four-poster frame that had belonged to the Tower’s previous archwizard. In fact, she declared that the whole thing was to be burned, mattress and all.

Rolan couldn’t decide whether he was more amused or touched by her vehemence.

Instead, she’d grabbed a fistful of the blankets and dragged them away in order to fall against the massive direwolf pelt rug in front of the fireplace. It was no feather bed, but still leagues more comfortable than how either of them had slept on the road to Baldur’s Gate.

Especially so with Tav draped over him, Rolan had since decided. She’d promptly held him to her and drifted off. Her bare torso was a comforting weight on his chest. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she slept, little steady breaths tickling against his neck.

Home. That’s what Tav had called this, hadn’t she? Silently, Rolan leaned his cheek against her hair as he read.

Lia and Cal had moved all their things into the Tower the same day its ownership changed hands. The few of Rolan’s possessions remaining in their Heapside flat had been left in a little pile just inside his bedroom door. Among them was the small leather scroll pouch Tav had gifted him on her arrival to Baldur’s Gate.

By this point, Rolan was certain he could find a much larger wealth of arcane knowledge in his new library. Still…it felt important to study from these first.

For one, they were certainly beyond anything he’d managed to teach himself from hand-me-down textbooks back in Elturel. Whoever she’d stolen them from must have been an advanced practitioner of the Weave. Or perhaps just a man with the wealth and fancy to build a collection, much like Lorroakan had been.

They were also a gift from Tav. That simple fact made them more valuable to Rolan than most of the wealth he’d inherited along with Ramazith’s Tower.

Had she collected them one by one in her travels here, thinking of him while she did? A warm affection bloomed in his chest at the thought. He’d have to ask her when she finally woke.

It was as if she sensed the thought.

With a deep inhale, Tav arched and stretched full-body against the length of him under the covers. Her hands both landed to tangle in his hair against their makeshift fur bed.

“Morning,” she purred sleepily against his neck.

Rolan decided then and there—he could very much get used to waking up like this. However, it seemed the right thing to correct her.

He kissed her brow. “Evening, actually.”

Tav raised her groggy face from his chest then, wiping one corner of her mouth. His eyes left the page to watch her blink around his bedroom in a daze. The blood-orange light of sunset was stretching long and dim across the floorboards now.

“Oh,” she said softly, a single word holding great recognition. Her wide eyes flicked to his face.

“Have—have I been laid on top of you like a dead fish this whole time?”

“I’d never call you that,” Rolan assured her calmly. “But yes.”

Tav looked at him in appraisal for a long moment.

“I think you like it,” she decided, and laid her head back down over his heart. He chuckled to himself and raised his free hand to smooth the hair back from her face.

Tav sighed happily at the gesture. “What are you reading, Rolan?”

“One of the scrolls you gave me.”

“Oh? Tell me about it, then. I’m curious.” One hand had gravitated suspiciously close to his ear. Sure enough, her thumb and forefinger began tracing along its edges to the pointed tip.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Rolan sighed. He’d always been unable to ignore the shivers that flowed down his spine when she touched him there. “I’d tell you regardless.”

“I'm sorry—” Her touch fell from him immediately. “I don’t do it on purpose, really. They’re just so pretty.”

Rolan cleared his throat. “It’s fine. You can—go on. If you like. Just know it’s a bit distracting.”

After a moment, her fingers cautiously returned. She was careful to keep the motion smooth and predictable this time. Rolan focused back on the page he’d pressed to fall flat before she woke.

“This one teaches a technique for arcane portal conjurement. The linking of two locations with a path carved through the Weave.”

Tav swiveled on her chin to look up at him. “Like the one from the Sundries to your library here?”

Rolan hummed in assent. “I've read about wizards who linked much more distant places together. The distance from here to Waterdeep, for instance. It requires a tremendous bit of spellwork.”

“How on earth?” She frowned at him in curiosity. “Where do you put a portal if you can't see where it's going?”

“Not sure yet,” Rolan mused, already being drawn back in by his reading despite her affectionate intrusions. “Most likely it requires two casters to sculpt the spell properly. I’ll need to understand the basic mechanics first.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Tav replied. She snuggled back into to the warmth at his neck.

“Of course I will.” Rolan shook the parchment out with his hand to punctuate the statement.

Tav let out a quiet exhale of laughter—but she said nothing to question him. It made Rolan swell with pride a bit.

He held her for another quiet moment as the fire snapped and danced in the hearth beside them. Its light seemed to burn brighter and even warmer now, with the sun finally gone behind the horizon.

When Tav shifted further over his lap, he didn’t think anything at first. Perhaps she was still trying to get comfortable on their makeshift sleeping arrangements.

Then she ground the heat between her legs over his half-hard cock, and a reflexive sound was pushed from Rolan’s throat.

“Tav,” he groaned.

“I’ve always loved that confidence of yours.” She had propped herself up with hands on his chest to gaze down at him. The covers fell back to bathe her lovely bare shoulders and breasts and stomach with firelight. “You don’t understand, it’s like catnip to me.”

“Where's this coming from?”

“What? Is it not enough that I just woke up naked with the most handsome, brilliant young archwizard on the whole Sword Coast—”

As she showered him with teasing flattery, Tav canted her hips harder against his own. Rolan leaned back against the tips of his horns with another involuntary groan; the scroll fell away dangerously close to the fire, forgotten.

“Tav,” he repeated more forcefully, pushing himself up on one elbow. Her face above him was full of mischief. “You’ve just been through hells—are you sure you’re well enough to—?”

“Yes.” She threw her head back in a moan with the word. Rolan’s hands flew instinctively to her hips. She was already rocking and grinding in rhythm against him, leaving a wet patch of heat where their hips slotted together.

“You’re unbelievable—” Rolan held her arms back insistently, forcing her to look at him.

Tav panted and bit her lip as they watched each other. He was of half a mind to return the favor. Look at the pretty hero of Baldur’s Gate, fresh from battle and already writhing on my cock—but the clear desire between her legs had rather scrambled his own thoughts.

Instead, Rolan did what he could manage to tease her. “Tell me how you feel right now.”

“Hot.” Her voice was low and tempting; her eyes were dark with desire. “Wanting you. Needing you inside me—”

Even without leverage from her palms, Tav managed to shift over his ridges in a way that made Rolan twitch and shudder under her.

“Good gods—I want you too,” he heard himself gasp out.

It was all the encouragement she needed. His grip had gone slack in distraction; with one hand guiding him, Tav angled herself up and sank down over the hard ridges of his length.

Her tight, wet heat all around him nearly knocked him breathless. Rolan lay back and ran his hands up her thighs. The firm muscle there led him straight to the lovely swell of her hips, and he gripped each hand with nails dimpling into her flesh.

Strong and soft—Tav was somehow both of those things at once. As she sat adjusting to him, her eyes certainly had never been softer than they were now, moving over his face.

“I missed this,” she breathed.

Rolan nodded in silent agreement. From tonight on, he swore to himself, neither of them would ever have a chance to miss this.

When she began moving, it was slow and deliberate. Her hips glided up and down to take him—so warm, so perfect. Rolan glanced where their bodies met, watching his length disappearing into her again and again. The sight was almost too much; he felt compelled to close his eyes.

Instead, Rolan pushed himself seated. He couldn't be close enough to her.

Tav folded her arms around his shoulders at once, adjusting to the new angle without breaking rhythm. Her face was bathed in firelight.

As he took in every inch of her, Rolan caught sight of an old blade scar under her jaw. He’d never noticed it before now. He leaned to press his lips against it.

She tilted her head with a soft sound, opening up the rest of her throat to his mouth should he want it. And he did—Rolan kissed and nipped at the flesh there while Tav rode him, her voice softly gasping and whispering his name over and over like a prayer.

The rhythm of their hips together increased to something desperate. Rolan felt heat licking under his skin, burning like flame everywhere their bodies touched. She clutched desperate fingers over the deep ridges along his shoulder blades.

“Come in me,” she gasped. “Please.”

That one little word was his undoing. Who was he to deny the woman who had just saved everything he loved in the whole Realms, herself included?

Rolan forced his mouth away from Tav’s throat to watch her come apart. She was already close—he could tell from the way her mouth fell open, the way her walls twitched and gripped him tighter each time she bounced down onto his lap.

“I love you—”

He wasn’t sure she heard with the way she arched and tensed into him—but then she already knew, didn’t she? Tav’s arms were trembling around his shoulders when she came, as if he was the only thing keeping her anchored down to earth.

When he felt the coil inside him unraveling, Rolan buried his face into her shoulder again. She was whispering praises against the tapered shell of his ear—things too sweet to even commit to his own memory. Rolan clutched at her back with both hands as he finally shuddered and spilled inside her.

He kept his arms locked tight around her middle as the twitching waves at his core echoed and subsided. Then they tipped backward together, their bodies still connected, to land in a soft pile of fur.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the way they both panted against each other. Lying on top of him again, Tav’s lips brushed against the trail of ridges below his collar bone.

Soon enough, one of his long fingers began tracing over her back. He practiced the shapes of his somatic spell components along the empty expanse of her skin. She was so soft and smooth there—so unlike the way Tieflings were formed.

He felt goosebumps raise where his fingers touched. Tav shivered against him.

“That tickles,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Apologies, darling,” Rolan told her. Some other time it would be very interesting to investigate how ticklish she was. For now, he stilled to press his palm against her lower back instead.

Tav heaved a deep sigh against his chest. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Rolan crooked his head down at her. “What do you mean?”

“Now that it’s over.” Tav propped her chin on both hands to meet his eye. “I can barely remember what it feels like to just…live my own life. You know?”

Rolan carded one hand back through her hair. He understood the feeling well.

“There’s still plenty to occupy both of us,” he assured her. “I need to complete the Tower repairs before the next storm, which could be any day knowing Sword Coast weather. And the Lower City is in a state of absolute ruin. I’m sure you’ll have a hundred people knocking on my door come morning, asking for their hero’s help with a hundred different things—”

To his surprise, Tav sat up on his lap in a huff. The motion reminded him he was still softening inside of her.

“There you go spoiling my fun,” she complained good-naturedly. “Here I expected you to be thrilled at the prospect of finally having me in your bed day and night, with no mortal peril hanging over either of our heads, no less. And you only want to discuss Baldurian civics—”

Rolan felt himself beginning to laugh at her, a relaxed and throaty sound. “Is that what’s troubling you? Tav, I thoroughly intend to fuck you often and well.”

“You’d better,” she warned, but the corners of her mouth had begun to twitch. He wanted to devour her.

“And since you’ve declared my own bed permanently off-limits—”

In one motion he rolled their bodies to pin Tav under him. It earned him a little ‘oh’ of surprise; he was conveniently still buried between her legs. “You’ve put me in the position of having to be resourceful.”

“Big change for you, that?” Tav teased. But her legs crossed behind his flanks to keep him close. As they did, one of her heels inadvertently rubbed against the sensitive base of his tail.

Rolan hissed in air between his teeth. He saw her eyes spark with recognition, and leaned down to kiss her senseless before she could do anything wicked with this new information.

By the time they surfaced from lips and tongues and teeth, he was already achingly stiff inside her again. Her hands ran down his front, flowing over each concentric pattern on his chest with open want. It sent a shiver all the way down his spine, from neck to tail.

The way Tav looked at him—the way she touched him as if he was perhaps the loveliest thing she’d ever seen. He decided it would take him years to get used to. Maybe he never would.

Rolan kept still regardless, waiting for her to finish her explorations. All traces of teasing were long gone from her now.

Tav’s eyes reflected the warmth of the dying fire as reached up for him. She passed one more deliberate hand over the planes of his face, as if she’d like to memorize the feel of them. Her fingers landed to gently clutch around his jaw.

“My wizard,” she said softly.

Rolan had never been one for pet names; even from the people he cared about most. Those words should have sounded diminutive and sentimental to him, even spoken by Tav.

Instead…

They fell sweetly against his ear, flowed like honeyed wine down his throat, and nestled into a space that glowed with warmth somewhere behind his ribs.

And why shouldn’t they? He was her wizard, after all.

#sage and soldier #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #bg3 fanfic #rebgrrl writes #underdark-dreams #spicy #nsft #crying (me)#holy rolan empire

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lying-hyperion-jackass · 5 months

Text

dreadful need in the devotee

the dark urge x enver gortash

rating: explicit | word count: 1517

notes: canon typical violence, female reader, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv

summary: durge wants to celebrate a job well done

You stalk down the hallways towards him. His simpering minions practically dive out of your way, desperate to avoid your eye.

Bloody footprints mark your path. Your body thrums with adrenaline, making your limbs tingle and the blackness in your chest pulse with pride. Today you made your father proud, and he blesses you for it.

The door to the audience hall is unlocked, but when you enter you find a meeting in progress. Gortash sits at the head of the table as always, patriars and nobles surrounding him, discussing some business you couldn’t give less of a shit about.

“Leave us,” you say as you stalk across the wide hall. All heads snap in your direction, eyes going wide at your appearance. Perhaps you could have taken the time to clean yourself up before you came to see him.

But where was the fun in that?

His mask remains in place. “Excuse the intrusion gentlemen,” he says to the table. “Perhaps you could wait in my office - there is business still to be done,” he says evenly, dark eyes meeting yours.

You’ve reached the table now. “Ma’am if you please, we are in the middle of-” one of the windbags at the table begins to speak to you.

As if he deserves to even look at you. Punish his insolence.

He screams as you drive your knife into his hand. Blood pools around the wound nicely, spilling onto the ornate wooden table. You pull the knife from him as he whimpers, running your tongue along the blade as you move towards Gortash.

He looks incensed, so you smile at him. “Clear the room,” he says. The rest of the noblemen scatter as you finally reach him, sliding into the chair and settling yourself heavily onto his lap.

“No one could say you don’t know how to make an entrance,” he growls. “You have just made my life much more difficult.”

You toss your knife to the floor and grind your hips against his. “On the contrary actually,” you say. You lean in close, bracing your arms on the back of his chair. Your lips brush his ear as you whisper, “Stelmane is dead.”

His hands come up to your hips, holding you firmly against him. “That is excellent news,” he purrs, irritation dropping from his tone.

“Wouldn’t beg for her life. So stoic, so serious,” you say, nipping at his ear and pressing yourself against him to feel his racing heart. “But she screamed so prettily once I had my blades in her.”

Gortash slides one hand up your back to your shoulder. You pull back far enough to see his face. Eyes alight, flush creeping into his cheeks.

His eyes should show fear. He underestimates you.

The whispering behind your eyes is drowned out by the arousal pooling at your center. You’re sticky with blood and still he slides his hands into your hair and pulls your mouth to his, licking into you, swallowing your moans.

“Tell me more love,” he says against your lips, golden nails scratching against your scalp. You let your own hands wander to his chest, reaching for any exposed skin.

“I drove my blades through her guards one by one, right into their necks so no one could hear them scream,” you whisper between heated kisses. “She was alone when I found her. I could practically smell her fear.” You shiver, grinding your hips against his and you can feel him now, hot and hard beneath his robes.

“I questioned her first, cut off little pieces when she gave the wrong answers,” you smile, leaning in to sink your teeth into the muscle of his shoulder. He keens and rocks up against you. “Her blood was so sweet,” you continue, kissing your way up the line of his throat. “But not nearly as lovely as yours.”

Gortash stands, lifting you with him. As your feet hit the floor he’s already pushing your trousers down. You throw your head back and moan as his fingers slip between your folds, wet and waiting for him.

You seat yourself on the table behind you, grinning at him as you use one foot to knock him to his knees between your spread legs.

“Cheeky little pup,” he says, cold metal fingers spreading over your bare thighs. “You think you’ve earned such a reward?”

You thread your fingers through his hair and yank him towards you. “Always.”

His eyes stay locked with yours and leans forward and licks a stripe up your center. His tongue works against your clit and you pull harder on his hair, grinding against his mouth. You can feel his muffled moans vibrating through you.

He digs his claws into your thighs hard enough to draw blood, and it sends a chill up your spine. So few have ever been permitted to make you bleed.

He does not deserve to have you this way.

Any hesitation is once again washed away by his tongue finding its way to your entrance, lapping up the wetness accumulated there. He slides his mouth back up to suck hard on your clit and you groan. “Gods yes. Make me cum,” you growl, catching his eyes again.

There’s a gleam in them as he redoubles his efforts, snaking one finger inside and curling it just right. It’s one of the three without the claws, but part of you wishes it wasn’t, wondering what the sharpness would feel like inside you.

There isn’t long to consider it as he stretches you around a second finger, and it’s enough to send you careening over the edge, clenching around him and rocking against his face. Your thighs are so tight around his head you wonder if he can even breathe. You find you don’t really care.

Your body tingles as you fall back against the table. Gortash stands, looking smug, mouth shiny with your release. His eyes rake over you, devouring every detail. You decide to reward him, unbuttoning your shirt and wrenching it open until you’re on full display.

His mouth quirks into a smile and he leans over to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue and it makes you arch up into him. He pulls back just enough to show you his gauntlet, your blood still pooled on the tips of the claws.

You lean forward to lick it off, sucking on each fingertip. He watches with rapt attention. The muscle in his jaw twitches. You know him well enough to know how hard he is working to look composed.

“Stop holding back,” you growl, before crashing your mouth against his, more teeth than lips. But it seems to get your point across.

You find yourself flipped, face pressed into the wooden table. Cold metal presses into the back of your neck to hold you down. You laugh wildly, grinding back against him.

You get little warning as you feel his cock pressing against your slit, before he slams into you. You scream, but it's an exquisite kind of agony. Too fast, too deep, too much, but perfect all the same.

His free hand digs into your hip, pulling your back against him with every thrust. Your laugh dissolves into a loud series of moans. “This is what you interrupted me for? To get fucked on my table like some common whore?” He groans.

Glancing back over your shoulder at him, you smile. He’s still in his ridiculous robes, his hair mussed and out of place, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “Gorgeous,” you purr at him.

His hand twists on your neck and presses your face back against the table. You keen as he somehow fucks you faster, harder. His hand tangles in your hair and pulls you up, forcing your back to arch for him.

It allows him to hit some new angle inside and you’re coming again, pulsing around him as he swears. He pulls you up entirely then, back pressed to his chest, hand coming around to hold your throat.

You fall back against him, letting him hold you up as he chases his own release. “Gods you’re insufferable,” he whines against your ear and you clench around him just to hear him moan.

He pulls out then, pushing you back down against the table. You hear him working himself with his own fist until you feel his spend, warm and wet across your lower back.

The sound of your heavy breathing echoes through the large hall. You roll over, smearing cum and blood across his table. He narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything, instead extending a hand to you.

You take it and sit up, aching in all the right places. He puts a finger under your chin and leans in to kiss you, more gentle this time, but still hungry.

“Everything is almost in place,” he says as he pulls away. “We’ll rule this city yet.”

There is no we. You will take his life. The only question is when.

You silence the voice by kissing him again, content for now in sharing your victory.

#enver gortash #the dark urge #durgetash #gortash x durge #baldur's gate 3

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sunflowerharrington · 2 years

Text

Come on, Angel, Let’s Exchange Our Experience.

pairing - Steve Harrington X GN!Reader

author’s note - Happy belated birthday to my wife, @eddiemunsonssslut, I love you babes! I hope you enjoy this, I put my whole heart into it 💕💕💕 This is my first time I’m posting something I have written for Steve Harrington, I hope he’s in character! And so here’s a lighthearted oneshot for you! (Ignore the tags, I swear it’s fluffy)

summary - Something goes wrong in your plan to take down Vecna while in Henry Creek’s house in the Upside Down and the unfortunate price to pay is somebody’s life. Grab your tissues, it’s a doozy!

warnings - Angst, hurt/no comfort, death, a lot of crying, sobbing, yeah a lot of tears, Vecna, death by asphyxiation and toxic fumes, I think that’s it. I tried to use (Y/N) as little as possible 💕

word count - 1462

taglist - @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @quickiesgirl @taecube @sunnymunson @eddies-bat @sympathyforher @wzrlds @will-byers-is-my-boyfriend dm, comment on this post or slide into my inbox if you would like to be added or taken off from future updates 💕

The underpinning feeling of a foundation to your wacky plan became finalized as you, Robin, Steve and Nancy set foot inside Victor Creel’s house in the Upside Down.

You could still feel your lips tingling from when Steve gave you an impulsive, chaste kiss before you landed in Eddie Munson’s living room, in his trailer, in the Upside down. Your body was still warm from the hug Steve had given you afterwards. Your eyes lock on the faint mark from your cherry colored lipstick stain on his right cheek, the sound of silence ringing in your ears.

Your heart was beating to a smooth yet close to frantic rhythm; too calm for the events to come. The adrenaline pumped through you as you stepped over the tendrils on the floorboards, careful to not touch any as you were in Vecna’s lair and he was barely fifteen feet away from you. The adrenaline of sitting in the passenger seat of a speeding car was an unmatched high… Until now.

Steve’s arm looped its way around your waist to steady himself, and you began tracing the veins of his forearm as a coping mechanism, waking every sense of his being in the process. He pressed his chest against your back and rested his chin on your shoulder, nuzzling his face into your hair, breathing in your scent as if it would be the last time.

You giggled as you felt his fingers wrapping around your neck, hastily pressing you against the wall. Only it wasn’t him. You gasped in shock as the tendrils tightened around your throat and limbs, and they did the same to Steve, Nancy and Robin, forcing you all up against the walls.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, and braced himself as he felt the tendrils tightening around his wrists, ankles and neck. The spores in the air danced around him and his best friends as you so desperately tried to free yourselves.

You felt breath hitch in your throat in anticipation as Robin started wriggling in the grip, managing to free her right foot from its restraints. Taking a look at Nancy next, you noticed the look of determination on her face and it kept you going. And then you looked at Steve, wide eyed, your eyes glazing over.

Which was probably the stupidest idea of your life.

As the tendrils tightened around his neck, Steve began to feel his airways closing up, and he let the switchblade he was holding drop to the ground. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the vines and attempted to pull them away from his neck, nightmares of the bat’s tail also cutting off his circulation entering his mind as his brain clouded.

Did you ever notice that when you’re exhausted, your fingers don’t grip as tightly as they could? That some things slip right through them when you don’t want them to. Right now, Steve was those fingers, and the thing slipping through his fingers was his life. Inch by inch, falling to the ground as he desperately attempted to pull the vines away from his neck.

But it was too late.

“Shit, Steve?”

“I’m fine, Robin. I’m fine, I just gotta—” he choked out, Robin picking up the switchblade as she was released from the makeshift shackles around her throat and limbs, slitting the tendrils away from Steve’s bruised neck.

You watched wide-eyed as Steve’s body fell to the ground, on his hands and knees, gasping for air, and you felt her world shattering into crystalline pieces beneath you.

“I’m-“ he choked. “I’m gonna make it, Nance. Don’t worry about me. Y/N, I’m gonna—“

“Steve, we’re going to get you out of here. Please hold on a little longer,” Nancy pleaded, holding him in her arms.

“Nancy, can you do something for me?” He stuttered out, his laboured breathing raspy, reaching up to caress her cheek the best he could. “Please.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything you want, Steve.”

“Tell Y/N…”

“I’m right here, Stevie. I’m right here,” you said quietly, taking his hand in yours, salty tears trickling down your face, landing on Steve’s, your tears mixing together like the saddest, most heartbreaking cocktail on earth. “What did you want to tell me?”

“I love you, Y/N. I have always, always loved you, and- and I know you don’t feel the same way about me but that’s fine. I… I’m used to that. But I just had to tell you before I—”

“Is that why you can’t get any girls? Because you don’t want to? Because you wanted Y/N this whole time?” Robin chimed in, fishing the liquor out of her backpack. “Damn, Harrington. How long? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! I’m a great wing-woman! You two could have been together, like, two years ago!”

“I’ve been in love with you since the first moment our eyes locked, on your first day of highschool when you sat next to me in chemistry. You made me feel so happy, more happy than anyone else can,” he sniffled, bringing your face down closer to his. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I remember that day so well, Stevie. And you made a joke about us having chemistry. I love you too, Steve Harrington,” you said back to him, smiling through your tears. “Steve? You still there, honey?”

“Still here,” he choked out. “Can you do something for me, Y/N?”

“Anything for you, Stevie.”

“Could ya take care of the kids for me? Take on the mom role in case I don’t make it? And have some fun, yeah? Don’t want you to be wasting your life away waiting for me...”

You slumped down to sit next to him, pulling him into your arms. “No-no-no-no-no, you are not doing this right now, Harrington. You’re gonna take care of ‘em yourself, with me. Who’s gonna cheer our kids up? Who’s gonna keep Henderson in check, huh? Who’s gonna tell Mike that he’s wearing too many clashing patterns, and who’s gonna give him fashion advice? Who’s gonna be the big brother Max never had?”

“Y/N, I—“ Steve began but you cut him off.

“Steve. I’m not letting Vecna take away the one thing that I love. It’s not happening.”

Your feelings and emotions began to dance around you like an ignited flame, mocking you, and you were left there, listening to the sound of the love of your life’s hoarse breathing. Alone.

Nancy and Robin had run upstairs to tackle the mission of killing Vecna, with their lighters and bottles of flammable liquor, and two pairs of sunglasses Robin robbed out of Dustin’s halloween costume box so the fire wouldn’t blind them both.

And you were left there, the person you loved dearly looking up at you with an almost lifeless look in his eyes, fading away in your arms as you kept talking to him, kept trying to keep him away. But that would be soon gone as his soul began to drag away by an angel to a place where he could feel like he belonged. Hopefully.

Steve was a lover, a fighter, a mother to seven wonderful children (and Robin and Eddie), and a hero for the town of Hawkins that put everything he had into everything he did. And now he was slowly withering away, laying to rest in peace in your arms as you sobbed uncontrollably.

“Steve? Steve, my love, can you hear me?” You asked softly, combing your fingers through his soft hair, and you wondered how the Upside Down hadn’t even matted it a tiny bit. “Stevie? Steve, wake up, handsome. Please. Steve!”

You sobbed into his cold neck, your salty tears stinging your eyes as your lover looked up lifelessly at the old wooden ceiling, and so you shifted your body to sit up next to him, delicately pushing his eyelids down to close with your shaking hands, the pads of your fingertips pressing lightly against his cold skin.

“Please, wake up.”

But even though Steve had died in your arms that night, everything felt right. Like it had all fallen into place perfectly, like this was written into the story of his life, and that this was his destiny. To die a hero. Even if he didn’t know it.

And that night, after pulling yourself back into Eddie’s empty trailer, you kept Steve in your arms, Eddie in Dustin’s, not wanting to leave their bodies behind. And maybe, just maybe, that night when you were down on your knees praying to your God/Gods, which you normally didn’t do: when you wished to swap places with him so he could continue his path in life, because you would give up anything for Steve Harrington… Your wish may just have come true.

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington angst #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things angst #angst #fanfic #eddie munson #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #st4 #stranger things 4 #Spotify #my phone’s on 2% so i’m posting this now #i’m in sad girl hours can you tell?

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vcrgreen · 2 months

Note

[ sms ] kinda wanna take you out for dinner . kind of want you to be my dinner .

self - explanatory , though it'll be hard to tell which mood johnny is in . good luck , julie .

"You'll have to work for your meal, Pig!"

Julie barked, her fiery viridian gaze glowering in Johnny's direction. She was so beautiful when angry, her thick brows furrowing and white teeth clenching behind dry lips. She could feel it, that nagging pulse within her core, throbbing painfully almost like the cuts she had endured through this hell.

Now she was in a staring match with the psycho who had her pinned for hours as no matter where she went, he was there.

'Damn it, I think... I think he's gotten me good', thought Julie as she glances down at her legs, a searing gash staring back at her. Quickly, Julie foolishly touches the damage to make quick judgement--it was bad.

'Oh God, this hurts so much. I can barely move and he's looking...'

Julie breathes hard out from her nose, eyes turning back up to him as one hand was braced against the cold wall behind her. Her free hand stayed in front, consoling Johnny like he Is was a wild animal.

The only thing that separated them was a wooden table saturated god-knows-what but the sight of severed limbs was revolting to see.

Julie was scared shitless but she wasn't going to let this vampire get the better of her.

"You're going to stay right fucking there, Johnny, or I'm going to stuff my fist in your fucking face. Swear to God!"

She stresses his name--eyes glancing for a way out. There was none other than the crawl space next to her that she was trying to shuffle to--she just needed to keep talking right?

It'll buy her time and he was too big to squeeze through that small hole. Tingles ran up Julie's center as her mind, this really wasn't the time. The shit eating grin and an iron nerve--Julie could only imagine his large hands and build, he could crush her.

Julie swallows thickly and continues to nervously shuffle towards the small escape--eyes glued on Johnny with scrutiny.

"So you just-- what? You're going to eat me now? You must really like the taste of my size 5's. Yeah, you can tell your friends up there that Julie fucking kicked your ass too."

She was referencing to Johnny how earlier when he had tracked her down from up top, he had spotted her in the grass. It was only by pure luck that Julie was able to drop on all fours to crawl through the small space of the shack.

Until her brown dress gotten caught on the metal sheet, her heart then sinking from the firm grip on her ankle. Gloved and rough to the touch paired with his teasing tone, it was like a wolf gripping the leg of a rabbit and dragging her out from her then.

Only in that moment, Julie reflexively kicked her free foot backwards--connecting with his face-- and making her escape back downstairs.

"And I'll do it again, so come on big boy. Work for your meal."

Julie breathlessly said as most of her oxygen was too riding the adrenaline through her body. She would then feel her back press against the cool wall of the basement, the intense red lights casted above them eating away at the encroaching shadows every corner. Her fingers felt cold but her body felt hot all over as the confusing combination of excitement and thrill coursed through Julie's veins.

#julieresponse #[ JulieCrawford ]#thrill of the hunt tcm

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wormofcans · 10 months

Text

Pop Rocks

Word Count: 2,777 words

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Relationship: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski

Tags: Fluff and Crack, POV Stiles Stilinski, Hospitals, Confusion, Monster of the Week (kind of), Stiles Stilinski has Diabetes, Diabetes, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Disabled Character, Chronic Illness

Summary: Another week, another monster tango, and Stiles was seriously contemplating starting a Yelp account, solely to leave a scathing review of this godforsaken town.

Or: Stiles may be lacking in the insulin department, but he more than makes up for it with his penchant for getting himself into embarrassing situations.

Read on AO3

For the ‘Healing Machine Malfunction’ space on my @badthingshappenbingo. Card under the cut.

Another week, another monster tango, and Stiles was seriously contemplating starting a Yelp account, solely to leave a scathing review of this godforsaken town. He’d title it something like 'Not suitable for sane human beings' or 'Reserved for those who enjoy flirting with danger... and death'.

He was single-handedly going to destroy Beacon Hills' already minuscule tourism sector. Petty? Maybe. Hilarious? Absolutely. But, hey—survival first, Yelp reviews later.

This evening’s uninvited party-crasher was a feral Alpha with a mug almost as ugly as Peter’s, and that… Well, that was a feat in and of itself.

Seriously, what about Beacon Hills was so freaking interesting to everything that goes bump in the night? Why the hell did they all wind up here? Did the town possess a supernatural magnet or something? Because it sure fucking felt that way.

Anyway, Stiles didn't have the time to unravel the mysteries of the supernatural migration patterns right then. He had more immediate concerns, like staying alive and preferably keeping himself in one piece in the process.

The odds, as they stood, seemed somewhat in their favor. Derek and Erica were a force to be reckoned with, fighting like a well-oiled machine, using the rough forest terrain of the preserve to their advantage, and Scott… Scott was trying his best. So far he seemed the most injured, his shirt now more red than white, and more hole than fabric, displaying the unmarred skin underneath. Oh, the perks of lycanthropy.

As for Derek and Erica, they were a bit better off, though not entirely unscathed; He was able to make out a few flesh wounds on them from his less-than-comfortable perch against a tree. Stiles himself had been a bit roughed up when he involuntarily shoulder-slammed a boulder, and the spot already felt like it was going to turn into one hell of a bruise. But, at least no one had lost their head yet (literally or figuratively), and Stiles definitely counted that as a success.

Stiles kept observing the fight, feeling like his limbs had turned to jelly, adrenaline-fueled panic crawling up his spine. His trusty metal bat felt heavy in his hand, his grip on it wavering as his fingers tingled, betraying his exhaustion.

Not that he’d actually done much in the last half hour except for running for his life and being tossed around like a ragdoll. Super productive, Stiles. Hard work, indeed.

Of course, he had attempted to throw himself into the fray, get in a good-whacking and all that, but let's just say that tripping over a tree root had earned him a stern growl from Derek, demanding he evacuate the "claw zone" immediately. Yep, that’s right, Stiles was put into time-out because he couldn’t watch his step. Talk about embarrassing. Maybe he should consider switching out his bat for a gun. At least then he wouldn’t feel so utterly useless.

Now normally, he’d put up a fight, or any fight to be precise, especially if Derek was concerned. But right then, he felt more like a microwaved marshmallow than the obnoxious, bat-wielding boy who ran with wolves. So he’d rolled his eyes and caved, banishing himself to the safe zone.

Leaving the frenzy was at least good for one thing—checking if his medical equipment was still a go or if it had been roughened up along with Stiles. Not that a broken insulin pump would be an immediate threat to his life—just his to dad’s wallet since the stuff wasn’t cheap, even with their fancy medical plan. But, it would be a major pain in the ass.

Because if something got dislodged or broke, he'd have to manually manage his blood sugar until he could get it replaced. It had happened before, and it wasn't a pleasant experience, not only because he loathed needles but also because ADHD and type 1 diabetes were an unholy union that turned him into a forgetful, hyperglycemic mess. And keeping track of his blood sugar levels was somewhat crucial to his continued survival.

Plus, having to explain to his dad that he'd somehow destroyed his medical equipment (again) while fighting monsters that didn't exist would be a conversation he'd rather avoid. He could already imagine how that would go: 'Hey, Dad, you know that expensive insulin pump I need to stay alive? Yeah, I kinda broke it while whacking a werewolf with my baseball bat. No biggie.' Yep, he’d really rather not.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to since all of it was in order. His CGM was still sticking firmly to his arm, and the cannula to his stomach. The pump was up and running and the tube connecting it and the cannula was free of any kinks. Crisis averted, at least on the diabetes front.

Now, if only his knees had received the memo about avoiding catastrophic collapses.

Just as he contemplated inventing a crush-resistant, werewolf-proof case for the pump, they sent a distress signal, urging him to slide down the tree before he ended up flat on his face, again. His mouth was still tingling from that epic faceplant, reminding him of that one time he’d crammed it choke-full with three packs of pop rocks. Alas, it wasn't caused by popping candy but rather… Ant pee. On his mouth. Ew.

But now that he was thinking about it, his mouth and lips weren’t the only parts of his body prickling, no, his whole body tingled and shook, almost in sync with his erratic heartbeat. Stupid adrenaline, couldn’t it just stick to the good stuff? The stuff that actually helped him survive? Nope, it just had to throw in the “impending heart attack” feeling because who didn’t love a good panic session? Well, certainly not Stiles.

Speaking of panic sessions, Scott chose that very moment to fly past him, or at least that’s what it looked like when his best friend’s body crashed nearby with a resounding thud. Stiles couldn't help but freak out for a moment before Scott popped back up, perfectly fine, like he hadn’t just momentarily turned into a werewolf missile. Seriously, could he not do that?

“You okay, man?” Scott asked before Stiles could even open his mouth. Stiles gave him a weak grin and a shaky thumbs-up, and Scott was off to throw himself back into the frenzy before he could even think about returning the question. Not that he could ask, considering that adrenaline had turned his brain into mush.

Stiles decided to shift his focus on stifling the panic gripping his chest, trusting that the three werewolves had the situation handled and that he wouldn’t immediately die if he didn’t actively pay attention to the happenings around him.

So, for a while, he sat there, leaning against the tree, one hand on his carotid artery, feeling the thump-thump of his blood. But then, he sensed somewhat of a shift in the air, and his attention snapped back to the spectacle before him. His senses were right, the fight was reaching its peak, and he watched in awe as Erica, agile and fierce, leaped onto the back of the massive beast. Her claws dug into its skull, giving Derek the perfect opening for the final, decisive blow. The sight of Derek's muscles rippling as he extended his arm back, then finally swiping a clawed hand across the Alpha's throat was both terrifying and impressive. And kinda sexy. And that was totally beside the point.

The beast collapsed like a sack of potatoes, and Erica howled in triumph. Stiles had half a mind to join in as well. Victory at last!

But his happiness was short-lived. As the adrenaline began draining away, Stiles felt a strange sensation washing over him—weakness, dizziness, and disorientation—all rolled into one neat 'Oh God, please, no' package.

Scott's concerned voice penetrated the fog in Stiles' mind. “You don’t look so good,” he said, flaunting his keen observation skills.

Stiles grunted, trying to dismiss the notion, but truthfully? He felt like he’d been run over. Twice.

Forcing his eyes open (apparently, he had closed them at some point?), he squinted in confusion as he was confronted by not one but two Scotts. Wait, when did that happen? Had he inadvertently stumbled into some bizarre parallel universe? He blinked, trying to focus on the real Scott, but they both stubbornly remained in his line of sight.

His mind swam, struggling to process what was happening. “Why’s there two of you?” Stiles slurred, his words slow and muddled as if he were in a dream. Wait, maybe he was dreaming; he certainly felt like he was floating.

And just when he thought things couldn't get any weirder, two Dereks materialized in front of him. “Two what?” they grunted.

Stiles’ poor heart skipped a beat at the sight—two sourwolves, both brooding and mysterious. A dream come true, perhaps?

A thought wormed its way into Stiles' bewildered mind—maybe this second Derek was the nicer version, the one who'd spare him from wall collisions and excessive growling. Not that he minded the growling, really, it was sort of a turn-on (not that he'd ever admit that out loud), but growly Derek seemed to take pleasure in pretending Stiles didn't exist. Derek two, though? A glimmer of hope.

“Oh hey, Derek two,” he drawled, the corners of his mouth twitching, "D’you wanna go on a date? Derek number one doesn’t like me much." He chuckled, though it sounded more like a feeble wheeze.

“Did he hit his head?” Derek number something grunted.

Stiles couldn't help but pout. There went his hopes and dreams.

“He smells weird,” Erica chimed in with her usual bluntness.

Scott took a whiff and cursed under his breath. “He smells like insulin. Like way too much of it.”

"Uh-oh, Houston, we have a problem," Stiles joked weakly around his numb and tingly mouth, his vision now an abstract watercolor painting, shapes swimming together. One Derek, two Dereks, a blob of color. "Someone... someone pass me the pop rocks, please." He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a slurred mumble.

"I got him," the Dereks spoke in unison, their voices eerily synchronized. Two Dereks, one voice. How confusing.

The Dereks acted quickly, hoisting him up with strong arms (just two, Stiles verified), and placing him on his feet.

“Can you stand?”

“Uh-huh.”

Stiles’ eyes rolled back, his legs gave out, and the world fell away.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Stiles groaned as he slowly came to, realizing with exasperation that he was in god-forsaken Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Again. Seriously, this was becoming too much of a normal Wednesday afternoon for his liking.

He glanced around the sterile room, trying to gather his wits as he attempted to recall the events that led him here. But nope, the memories eluded him. It was like trying to reassemble a jigsaw puzzle. With all the pieces upside down.

His head hurt like someone split it with an ax—wait, was that what had happened? Nope, definitely no ax-wielding murderer. That would be very unusual, even for his life, and he’d remember it for sure. Did a truck run him over? Possible, but way too simple. Maybe it was an amnesia-inducing, soul-sucking monster? A dementor? Did those exist?

Thankfully, someone entered his room then, however, not so thankfully, it was his dad. Not that Stiles didn't want him here; he just hated seeing his old man so worried.

"Hey, Daddy-o," Stiles said with a weary smile, "did I make it into the record books for most hospital visits in a year yet?"

The sheriff approached, his concern mingling with amusement. "Not yet, but you're gunning for it, son. Though I'd really prefer you to break some other kind of record. How are you feeling?”

Stiles shrugged nonchalantly, instantly regretting it as pain shot through his skull like a lightning bolt. "Oh, you know, just like I tried to headbutt a moving train."

His dad nodded in mock seriousness. "And how'd that go for you?"

"Let's just say the train won,” he said. "But seriously, what happened?"

His dad grimaced, clearly worried about Stiles' memory lapse. “Your insulin pump malfunctioned, somehow. It just… kept pumping insulin into you.”

“Oh, wow.” Stiles grimaced. “Hypoglycemia? That’s a new one.”

Giving him a tense smile, his dad leaned against the wall, gaze never leaving Stiles. "You scare the hell out of me sometimes, you know that?"

Stiles sighed, guilt washing over him. If his dad knew only half the things he got up to every week, he’d probably have a heart attack. “I know, Dad. Sorry," he finally said, though he knew those words wouldn't ease his dad's anxiety in the slightest.

The older man's expression softened, and he moved closer to the bed, reaching out to ruffle Stiles' unruly, growing-out hair. The gesture hurt his head, but Stiles leaned into it, craving that bit of comfort. Sadly, it was over too soon, and he almost pouted. Almost.

"Scott's waiting outside.” The sheriff patted his shoulder and made his exit, muttering something about coffee and visiting Melissa.

Not two seconds later, a full head of curls appeared in the doorway, and Scott, wide-eyed and grinning, came inside.

“Hey, dude!” His best friend beamed, coming to a halt next to the bed, probably trying to keep himself from jumping onto Stiles like the overly excitable puppy he was. “You’re awake!”

Stiles grinned, the sight of Scott's perpetual excitement immediately lifting his spirits. "Hey, buddy," he greeted warmly. "Yep, I'm back from my unplanned, insulin-powered nap."

“Sugar crash, huh? That’s a new one.”

“Tell me about it.”

Curiosity flickered in Scott's eyes as he leaned in. "So, what's the last thing you remember?"

Stiles furrowed his brows, ransacking his memory for clues. "Uhm, Erica jumping on the Alpha's back, I think?"

“Uh-huh.”

Suddenly, Stiles was hit with a bolt of suspicion, sensing there was more to the story than he remembered. "Wait a minute," he said, eyeing the werewolf suspiciously. "What happened after that?"

"Nothing," Scott replied innocently, but his eyes showed a mischievous glint.

"Oh, God. What did I do now?"

A devilish grin spread across Scott's face. "Well, you might have done something... bold."

"Define bold in the context of my actions."

“You may have asked Derek on a date," he said, trying to stifle his laughter.

Stiles felt his heart stop, then accelerate at an unhealthy pace. "I what?!" He choked. No way. There was no freaking way he’d done that. What in the ever-loving hell had possessed him to say something like that?

“Well, Derek two. You saw double.”

Stiles slumped back into the pillows, contemplating whether he could ever convince his dad to pack up and leave this cursed town. "Fuck my life," he mumbled under his breath.

And as if the universe delighted in tormenting him, Derek Hale, the perpetually annoyed, brooding, and sexy Derek Hale that he’d asked on a date before freaking collapsing, stepped into the room, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but there.

"Speak of the devil," Stiles muttered, smirking up at Derek, hoping his crimson blush wasn't glaringly evident. Not that it mattered, though, because there was no way to top the stunt his hypoglycemic self had pulled. He had officially reached the maximum level of embarrassment with Derek.

“So,” Scott said, cutting through the awkward silence that had settled in the small room. “My mom told me to check in with her—”

“Don’t you dare, Scott.”

"Just for a sec."

"Scott!" Stiles shouted after his friend, but it was too late. The traitor had vanished, leaving Stiles alone with his humiliation and an Alpha werewolf who looked like he wanted to claw his way out of the room.

"Let's just pretend it never happened," Stiles blurted out, attempting to salvage what was left of his dignity. "I mean, seriously, we don't have to talk about—"

Derek cleared his throat, putting an end to Stiles' desperate rambling. "Actually, I... I wanted to ask if the offer still stands," he said, his usual aloof demeanor wavering ever so slightly.

Stiles' brain experienced a sudden Arctic freeze, leaving him momentarily speechless. There was no way he heard that right. "What offer?" he finally managed to ask, his voice an octave higher than normal.

Derek looked a tad awkward, scratching the back of his neck. "Of a, uh, date," he replied, sounding surprisingly human and, dare he say, vulnerable.

And there they were again, the pop rocks, making him erupt in tingly sparks all over. But this time, it wasn’t because of the hypoglycemia.

Stiles couldn't help the massive grin that spread across his face. “Hell yeah.”

#teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #scott mccall #ao3 fanfic #healing machine malfunction #bad things bingo #bad things happen bingo #monster of the week

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bunsofhoney · 1 year

Text

There'll Be No More

@febuwhump day 24

(Peter)

. . .

There’s a sickening second where I’m just waiting for what comes next. My head is throbbing, my limbs don’t work at all, my body is trying to purge the drugs. I can barely move him - this man that used to ride on my back while I webslinged across Manhattan. He’s a mass of solid muscle, literal dead weight on my chest, so crushing I can’t even breathe right.

I’m expecting them to pour in any minute and pull him off and tranq me again. And at this point, honestly, I’m ready to stop fighting and let them. It would be easier than trying to get up and carry on, with Wade's current death on my hands and on my mind. I can feel his hot blood seeping through my clothes and the tears burning my eyes, which I haven’t built up the courage to open yet.

Then suddenly, Miles’s voice buzzes through the intercom above me.

“Execute plan 37. Attention all staff. Execute plan 37. This is not a drill. Destroy all evidence. 60 second evacuation. Plan 37. Move!”

There’s a clamor of shouts, a shuffle of feet, the doors swing open, and then silence again. Then, the whole building starts to…beep? There’s a high, regular tone that seems to be coming both over the intercom and from the other side of the wall.

The tingling sensation of danger flicks at the back of my neck and zings through my nerves like lightning. Panic grips my heart and every muscle tenses in preparation to fight or flee.

60 second evacuation.

Does that mean…a bomb?

I use the adrenaline flooding my muscles to shove Wade’s body off mine. The scrubs I'm wearing are sopping wet and stained red with his blood but I can’t even think about that right now.

Ch 24 of The Bell Jar, or the one where Wade kidnaps Peter - an ongoing story that uses a prompt-a-day from @febuwhump

prompt: Bloody Clothes

#tw blood #febuwhump2023 #febuwhump #febuwhumpday24 #spideypool #peter parker #wade wilson #the bell jar boh #my work

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littl3-val3ntine · 2 years

Text

every breath you take (pt. 2) ❥ edward nashton

PART ONE

《♡》

summary // riddler always has everything planned, from the moment his plot begins up until the day after it has happened. he expects himself to be able to expect everything, until his mind is taken elsewhere during a routine stakeout on the police response to his latest hit... now he finds himself, as well as the item of his affection, caught up in his issues and lust for vengeance.

warnings // depiction of gore kinda???, hospital environment, eddie's a wee bit creepy, not much 2 see here tbh :)

author's note // here it is my little friends. the comfort after that really angsty part one :,)) hope u enjoy and lmk what you'd like to see in the future!! asks + feedbacks are open :3

《♡》

It couldn't have been a dream, because you're certain that you never fell asleep. One moment you were upright, body pumping with adrenaline, and the immediate next you were completely stagnant. Everything just, stopped. Like a light switch was flicked off.

You aren't even sure yet if you've woken up. Coming back around feels more like rising shamefully out of bed, dizzy with the worst hangover of your entire life, than actually waking up. Whatever happened to you was more equivalent to a nightmare than a sleep, judging by how your body aches.

It takes you a moment, but you can see it now. Playing in your mind's eye like a cheap horror flick, except these special effects are so good and so real that you can still feel them brutally warm on your face and raw at the base of your palms where you crashed against the asphalt.

You're sure it wasn't a dream. The beeping of the heart monitor beside your bed draws you closer to the conscious world with each sound, and soon your extremities tingle to life after god-knows how long of lying still. The evening starts to roll back to you in waves, each gruesome detail presenting itself against the empty canvas of your closed eyes. The sterile fluorescent light from above punctures some of the memories through your eyelids as you rise further into consciousness, but the gist is still there.

The van exploded. You saw it happening, the vehicle rolling to a stop in the center of the intersection. The black Corvette that smashed right into its front end. You thought it could be your big break— you weren't unaware of the antics of Gotham's latest vigilante, and the symbol was what caught your eye in the first place. The headline was already beaming in your mind: Riddler Takes to the Streets With New Tactics For Terror.

It should have killed you. Is this death? You're hesitant to open your eyes as the thought situates in your mind.

The heart monitor picks up in speed, simultaneously reminding you of your anxiety as well as your own beating heart. Now hyper-aware of your body, some of those worries slide out of your chest. Indeed, you're certainly, and very painfully, still alive.

So, tentatively, you try to open your eyes. You have to squint while they adjust, wincing as the harsh light pierces your corneas and sends spikes of pain through to the already tender backside of your skull. You realize you must have hit your head. Was that how you went out?

Your entire cranium throbs as you move to sit upright, your eyes still glossy and limbs heavy with slumber. You try to lift your palm to your forehead— anything to ease that horrible pulsing— but find yourself unable to even move your arm.

Panicked, you blink your eyes open wide and stare down at your hand. You're unsure of what you expected; amputation, or maybe a cast? But you know it definitely isn't what you found. Wrapped up in your fingers, which are now scratched from the glass and the pavement, is someone else's hand, a man's hand, clutching onto yours as firmly as he could afford to without aggravating the scrapes on your palm.

His skin is warm, and his hold gentle. You could feel the calluses at the base of his fingers— he had the hands of a writer. He makes little circles on your knuckles with his thumb, stroking you so softly it's as if he were convinced you'd shatter beneath his touch.

Your gaze travels up his arm. His dress shirt is wrinkled and damp, but he has it folded just at the elbow to expose a slim forearm. His raincoat is draped over the back of the chair he's slumped into, and that, too, is not quite dry yet. Neither is his hair.

His face is delicate, especially as he sleeps. His glasses, with their lenses covered in raindrops, are folded neatly and left in his lap while he dozes off. The hand that is not absentmindedly stroking yours holds up his heavy head, perched on the armrest in a manner that can't possibly be comfortable. He's pretty. That's the only right way to put it.

You know you recognize him, but from where? The dream you didn't have? The feeling of your hand in his is still too foreign for a boyfriend, and you can't bring yourself to even remember his name.

You stare at him a moment longer. Cogs turn in your foggy mind, flipping through the metaphorical files until something clicks. And it does.

Edward Nashton. From your job at the press office. The senior editor for your department.

What the fuck is he doing here?

Admittedly, his presence isn't unwelcome— just unexpected. He'd only ever been polite to you, sure, keeping his distance in the office as best as a maze of cubicles with a conference table at the center would allow. But you didn't ever speak much, not unless you absolutely had to. Every "Good morning, Mr. Nashton," was met with a tight lipped smile and a dip of his head. The occasional "Should I leave the coffee pot on?" found its quiet "No, I can fix my own." Eventually you just stopped trying.

You came close to assuming he just flat-out hated you. As opposed to his hesitance to even look to you, it wasn't long before you noticed he had no problem giving your articles... special attention when he edited. Whenever you'd submit something for publishing, you could expect it back on your desk the very next morning, absolutely defaced by his handwriting in bright red pen. A detail you'd forgotten, a comma you didn't think you needed; little, nitpicky things that served only to get under your skin. It got to the point where you cornered him on your lunch break, demanding an answer, an apology, anything. In reality, that was the only real conversation you two have had...

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Your work is always amazing, this doesn't flow as usual. Fix your sentence structure. Could be better.

You just stared at it. Coffee in hand, bag still slung over your shoulder, not even sat down at your desk yet. The longer you stood and stared at those words, the harder they glared right back at you.

The urge to slam your leather bookbag right down into the desk was nearly unbearable. It was too early for this. Especially considering how you'd stayed up well past midnight working on that campaign analysis per the request of one Edward Nashton, senior editor of the Politics section for Gotham Chronicle, only for him to senior edit the entire goddamn thing to a sad, red-inked pulp.

Fix your sentence structure? That was just low. As you read his annotations, it became clear to you that none of them actually pertained to the content of your piece. Just the sentence structure. Or the indent you forgot. Or the fucking flow.

Bookbag clattering to the floor, you sat into your creaky desk chair and started up your computer to open your e-mail. The cursor hovered over the icon, some invisible force keeping your finger from clicking.

No. No e-mail this time. He didn't deserve such mercy anymore, you decided.

This shit ends today.

x x x

You offered him the decency of at least making sure most people had cleared the bullpen before you tore him a new one. You sat there, five minutes burned out of your lunch, reading through that damn article again. Not fixing a single thing.

You knew where he'd be. He didn't exactly speak to anyone else at the office, so you highly doubted he had any elaborate lunch plans. When you crept up that staircase that led to the top offices, he was right where you expected him. Sitting at his desk, hunched over some papers, red pen in hand.

You knocked at the heavy wooden door, and through the frosted glass you could see him startle. He was quick to scramble up from his chair, making a detour to turn down the CD player atop his filing cabinet (which was, as usual, playing something classical at an unreasonable volume), and finally peeking through the blinds to see who so decided to interrupt his routine.

The look on his face when he saw you. In the moment, it was priceless— satisfying in all the right ways. That split second of panic that had his typically unreadable green eyes widening.

You thought it was because he knew what was to come. But he didn't. That's what terrified him.

He wasn't hasty to open the door for you. If you were quiet enough, you might have been able to hear his thoughts racing. Is this a setup? Did I forget something? The place is a mess. Gonna hate me for it.

You watched, impatiently, as the doorknob twisted and the door swung open. Ready to let it all out, mangled article in hand, you thrust it at him but couldn't force yourself to speak once you saw his face.

He looked so... upset. His eyes couldn't even meet yours, training themselves on your hands and the papers between them. He reached tentatively for it but didn't make contact. Scared to touch you. Scared to even look at you.

A brief moment of sympathy enveloped you as you watched him there. So tall, but slumped over so much he seemed almost smaller than you.

And there you were. A standoff the in the doorway. He didn't seem inclined to speak first, so you broke the silence.

"What am I doing wrong here?" You slipped the papers into his hands, inevitably brushing his palms with your fingers in the transfer. "Every time I feel like I finally write something good, it's just... this. Every time." You motioned weakly to his annotations. Anger bubbled up inside you again, but you swallowed it back down.

"You always write something good," he mumbled. As he thumbed through your work, you realized his face had changed entirely. Appreciative. Proud.

"Then why do you constantly feel the need to give me bullshit about my grammar?" you snapped.

His gaze shot up to you, and the guilt was back in an instant. But it was different than right before. It was deeper.

He reached for you, fingers almost brushing your arm, but redirects himself and leans for the door instead. "Please come in," he all but whispered, "Let's not do this out... here."

You sighed, stepping past him and into his office. You noticed an antique clock beside the filing cabinet, just out of view of the window into the bullpen. 12:43. Lunch was nearly halfway over.

You continued into the room, taking just a couple more steps to assert yourself. It smelled of him, the little whiffs of his cologne that you got when he brushed past you every now and again: like coffee and linen and old wood. Really, most of his office was wooden. Wooden desk, wooden clock, wooden trim. All the while he stood stiffly at the doorframe as if it were him you were staring at, and not just his workspace.

"I just want a straight-forward answer, Edward." It felt informal to use his first name— especially since he was technically your superior. But in the same vein, it felt necessary. You wanted respect. You earned his respect. "Do you hate me or something? Because if you do, I just want to know, and I can submit my work to be edited elsewhere if it really bothers you that much—"

"Do you think I hate you?"

You stopped dead in your tracks. Turning over your shoulder to see him, you locked eyes. And he held your gaze. The ferocity in his tone shook you, like he was offended that you even considered the possibility. When you turned to him, he was simmering. Not quite boiling over, but something within him burned. You couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was before you were crumbling beneath his intensity, and then he was pushing off the doorframe to take a slow step toward you.

"I-I didn't... I wasn't trying to imply that you did, I just figured since you were so harsh with the paper—"

For a moment you regretted turning to face him. He was tracking you like prey, scrutinizing every movement you made. Analyzing you. Picking you apart to your core. Accusing you, and yet begging you to prove him wrong.

Another step. "But you asked. Do you really think I could hate you?"

For as small as he was earlier, a tiny presence in the doorway as you stared him down, he was now abnormally, intimidatingly tall. He was lean, long, and calculated in each of his movements, slinking toward you in a way that couldn't be solely human. He looked animal then, his hair tousled, top buttons undone, head cocked to the side in backhanded curiosity.

Your mouth dried up immediately, eyes going doe-wide. You took a step back, trying to restore the space that he was rapidly closing, but you were stopped short by his desk. You damn near fell into it, stumbling but catching yourself on the edge of it. When you swiveled back to face him, he was barely inches from your body, papers held out beside you two as if he were offering to look at them together. His other arm came down on your other side, and his hand planted itself firmly on the desk. You couldn't look up at him. You didn't figure you'd be able to handle it, even though his eyes boring a hole into the top of your head couldn't have felt much better.

"Answer the question, please." He phrased it like a request, but it came out as a demand. There was a quiet rage that lurked at the base of his tongue. Briefly, you toyed with the idea of drawing it out further. Where are we going with this?

"Answer mine first." Despite your will, you still sounded meek compared to him. You pressed your tongue to your teeth indignantly as you finally looked up at him. And just as you expected, any bravado you could have dreamed of in that moment melted away.

His gaze wasn't cold, or mean. His eyes were a beautiful kind of green that wasn't quite emerald, but softer and more inviting. But the way he looked at you then... it's as if he wanted to throw you out of his office and bend you over his desk at the same time. You learned in that instance why he didn't make eye contact much. There isn't a soul on this earth that could stand under that sort of glare.

But you held him there. Nails digging into the wooden underside of his desk, head tilted upward, you kept him right there. And even as you felt his entire body tense at whatever urge he was resisting in the moment, you and him kept each other locked in that moment, waiting until the other caved.

He shut his eyes slowly, taking in a deep, long breath. His head drooped forward, and out of the corner of your eye you could see a smile forming on his face. An amused chuckle silently leaving his nose. When he lifted his face again, he didn't look back at you. Instead, he toyed with the paper he held out before you both.

"No, I don't hate you. And I apologize if I went overboard with the suggestions, I just..." he trailed off, taking the inside of his lip between his teeth as he wrestled with his next words. There was that bashfulness again, as if he wasn't just stalking you like a carnivorous beast. "I see a lot of potential in you. Raw talent. Raw talent needs to be refined in a way, and sculpted.”

"There are better ways to do it," you quipped, and suddenly the hem of your shirt became the most interesting thing you'd seen in a while. Taking it between your fingers, you rolled it over, and over, and over... waiting for him to speak. Testing him again.

What he wanted to do was apologize, again and again until you accepted. Drop to his knees and kiss your knuckles until you leaned down, hand under his chin, and brought him back to his feet. Maybe he'd stay down there anyway. Apologize for nearly snapping on you, apologize for any way he made you feel about your work with his comments, apologize for not speaking with you about it earlier and forcing you to waste your lunch on him, but you didn't know that. You didn't need to. It was in your best interest to be wary of him. To fear him, even.

I can submit my work to be edited elsewhere. Why was that what almost sent him? Initially he figured it was the thought of someone else mentoring you, but that wasn't it. It was the idea of someone coming between the only thing he shared with you. The work you two, as a pair, created. Despite the distance between you, Edward knew you and him were a well-oiled machine. Minds, great and powerful, thinking alike. You researched the corruption, he annihilated it. You were a team. That hadn't been threatened before.

He wasn't prepared to let it go so easily.

"You won't need to take this to be edited elsewhere. I can work on being less critical. No one else here is worth a damn for editing anyway."

He tried to lay it out stoic and flat, but the jealousy was difficult to water down. You were quick to pick up on it, but you doubled down. Why would he be jealous over something like that?

You didn't fully comprehend yet the way he looked at you. His treasure, his prodigy, his perfect little thing. Never before had he encountered such a beautiful creature with an impressive mind to match, and the idea of you taking your genius to anyone but him for review? No one else reserved that privilege. Even worse, someone else validating your work? Praising you? It made his blood boil. And God forbid anyone else dare to criticize you.

In that moment, mere inches from you for the first time, that's when he became certain. You were made for him. The only one capable of understanding the vast expanses of your brilliance was him. You would be wasted on anyone else.

He’d claimed you before you could even realize it happened.

"Thank you, Mr. Nashton. I appreciate that. I'm sorry for hijacking your lunch," you murmured, pulling the papers from his hands and standing from your place at his desk. He nodded and shoved off from it abruptly, returning from the incessant mumbling of his inner monologue. Clearing his throat, he smoothed down his shirt to avoid meeting your eyes.

As if this entire encounter hadn't happened, back to not even looking at you.

You sighed and stepped over to the door, tucking your article under your arm as you reached for the knob. Just as you were about to make your escape, you heard him call your name, like an afterthought. You glanced back at him to find him leaning against the desk where you previously stood.

"Yes?"

"Just 'Edward' is fine."

You smiled, nodding and disappearing down the stairs on shaky legs. The heavy door swung shut behind you, and the music returned soon after.

And he was never so harsh again.

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The rubbing at your knuckles makes your entire hand tingly. It feels electrified, like it’s limp and warm and shaky all at once, but you assume it’s probably just the morphine. The same feeling is in your throat as you stare at the man beside you. His name rests heavily on your tongue, but it takes a moment to muster up enough courage— and energy— to put it out there.

“Mr. N—“ You catch yourself. “Edward?”

He swallows thickly, blinking his eyes open. They’re still droopy and glossed over when he turns to you, and he looks at you for a second before the situation registers in his mind. And when it does, the panic that wakes him fully is evident both on his face and in the way he yanks his hand from your hold. Suddenly he’s alert, wide awake. His ears are tinged pink.

Surprising yourself, you miss his touch immediately. The electricity is gone from your fingertips, and left in its place is the heavy, groggy feeling deposited in your muscles by the morphine.

He just stares at you, blinking, wide-eyed, like he was waiting on you to yell at him. To chew him out for being a creep, a disgusting pervert, waiting at your bedside for an hour after the doctors drugged you up to pop your finger back into place. The pulling away of his hand revealed the bright blue bandage taping your middle and ring fingers together. Is that what he was doing? Soothing your wound?

“I heard what… happened,” he murmurs. It wasn’t often that he spoke first, but you’re grateful he did. He’s still watching you, not quite making eye contact but instead waiting for your face to twist in disgust. When it doesn’t happen, he continues. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

You just nod, unsure of what to say. You glance around the room for a clock, trying to get your bearings and take a guess at how long you both had been there, but there wasn’t one to be found. “What time is it?”

“Oh, it’s…” he trails off, squinting at his watch. Without his glasses, he has to hold it barely an inch from his face to read it, and the sight of it pulls a small laugh from you.

He turns red immediately. “Two twenty-three.” He’s hurrying to rub the lenses clean of the rain and put them back on his nose.

Now he sees you. Hello there, you tell him silently with a smile. Then it processes.

“Two? Like, in the morning?” you gasp, turning around in your bed to take a peek through the window. Pain radiates upward from your tailbone, clicking each excruciating disc on your spine as you twist yourself. You yelp, clutching your side as you try to lay back down. Another hand, large and warm, appears at the back of your head and guides you back into the pillows.

“Don’t move, don’t move,” Edward coos. His touch lingers a moment, a comforting presence at the nape of your neck, as he notices the tears pooling on your waterline.

And while you look up at him, you see it again. That same complex guilt that you recalled from your confrontation, splayed across his face. Like there was context you were missing, a depth to the situation you didn’t fully comprehend. Like all of this ran so much deeper than you could even begin to know.

He reaches across your bed and plucks a tissue from the side table. As he looms over you, you smell him again. The scent of him makes you want to bury your face in his neck, especially with how he’s exposing it to you as he fumbles with the items on the nightstand.

“Here you are, be careful,” he whispers down to you, and he places the tissues gently in your hand.

“Thank you…” Christ, it hurts. “What even happened? Everything just… aches,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else.

“The doctor told me that you got knocked backward and smacked your head on a curb. You must have tried to brace yourself judging by how your finger popped out. They said once you came around, you should be able to go home tonight.”

“You spoke to the doctors?” You’re thinking aloud. The words leave your mouth before you can think, and suddenly he’s caving in on himself again and his eyes are blowing wide and his ears are turning red again.

He detaches from you, sitting back in the chair beside your bed. “I-I did, yeah. When I came in, he was in here, and I just… wanted to know how things were going.”

His thoughts are relentless. Now you’re certain he’s a creep. You’ve got to be. It wasn’t his place to stick his nose into your business like that, but here he is, lurking in your fucking hospital room at your bedside. What was his problem?

To be fair, it wasn’t like he was lying to you. The doc was in to make sure you were stable when Edward arrived. But he wasn’t itching to let you in on how he just had to tell the doctor he was your fiancée to be let into the room with you, and to get the details in the first place.

And really, that wasn’t much of a lie to him either. He knows he’s going to marry you at some point anyway. In a way, that did make him your fiancée, even if you weren’t quite aware of it yet.

You could see him running through it all in his mind, eyes dancing on the bedspread as opposed to looking you in the face. You’re tempted to ask what’s on his mind, but not wanting to intrude, you just nod in acceptance. Much to your relief, whatever chaos was happening in his head visibly dissipates at that.

“Glad to see someone’s awake! How are you feeling, honey?” The new voice slices through your thoughts. You hear him before you see him, all impersonal amiability and stiff charisma, but still he’s everything you expected him to look like. White, middle aged, with flashy veneers and a shitty box-dye job on thinning hair. He’s exactly the type of man that makes your stomach churn with dread. You know he’s done his research on how to stay humble but consistently remind people I live on a doctor’s salary.

“I’m fine, thanks,” you reply, trying to keep it curt. You don’t want to stay here any longer than you have to, even though you genuinely have no idea how you’re meant to get home.

“How’s the finger? Any pain?” You shake your head while Edward stares, eyes cold, right at the doctor. You try not to read too much into it when he moves the chair ever so slightly closer to your bedside.

“Okay, great. I’m just going to take a quick look at the swelling and see where we’re at, and then we should be all clear to let you two head out for the night.” You two? He keeps addressing Edward, and not you. And Edward doesn’t seem to mind, not with the way he’s got his sight locked on to every last one of the doctor’s slightest movements.

He doesn’t like the way the other man’s touching you, the way his fingers slide up your palm. He should be more gentle. Nevermind that, he shouldn’t even be touching you at all. Is this really necessary? He already had his hands all over you when he was getting the glass out of your forearm. And the way he put the bandages on… they should have just let Edward do it. It’s not right for others to be able to feel you like that. He’s not a fan of other people touching his things.

You glanced between the gloves moving against your fingers, gently prodding at the now protruding flesh, and your coworker sitting rigidly beside you like he’s ready to pounce. His leg is bouncing undeterrably and his knuckles are white as he holds his opposite knee. The silence that settles over the room is heavy and thick. Eventually even the beeping of the heart monitor disappears as you’re unhooked from everything.

“You’re gonna be tender for a few days or so, but everything is stable and back in order,” the doctor tells you firmly. He removes his gloves and discards them, reaching out not to shake your hand, but Edward’s. Hesitantly, Edward takes it and offers a firm shake. What is going on here?

Turning back to you, he continues through an uncomfortably fake smile, “I wouldn’t recommend driving yourself back home considering there’s still some sedatives kicking around in your bloodstream, but I assume you can drive, sir?”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. “Oh, no no, you don’t have to drive me home. It’s okay, I can call–” You pause. Scanning the room for your belongings, the realization hits you.

Your phone is in your bag. Your bag is in your car. Your car is still parked two blocks up from Grange Street, in front of that goddamn sushi place you were meant to be at… about eight hours ago.

The doc cocks a brow at you. “I’ll let you two figure that out then. Have a nice night, you guys.�� His tone is different. Tense, like he’s intruding on something. With that, he turns and strides out, sliding the privacy curtain shut behind him.

“Shit,” you mutter, holding your head in your hands.

“What’s wrong?” Edward leans forward, shrugging into his green overcoat. He reaches out to help you as you sit up from the bed and swing your legs over the side, but you don’t take his hand. Something’s up with him.

“All of my stuff is still in my car.” You brace your hands on your knees as you sit all the way upright for the first time in hours. Your back still aches and your head is dizzy, but it’s better than being stuck on that lumpy hospital mattress. Your clothes were beginning to stick to you. “I– I’ll be okay. You can go home, I know it’s really late. I’m sure I can find a ride home,” you begin to ramble at him, not wanting to inconvenience him any further than you already had. You’re still unsure of why he’s here, why he stayed here, but either way you were grateful for his presence. It wouldn’t have been fun to wake up after that evening alone, and it didn’t seem as though anyone else had stopped by.

He waves his hand at you, trying his best to maintain his composure, to swallow down his excitement as he tells you, “No, I can drive you home. It wouldn’t feel right to leave you stranded in the middle of the night.”

You’re hesitant to agree. Part of you is suspicious of him, picking up on little things about him that send your mind screaming like a fire alarm. Things that aren’t just right. There’s a good deal of his behavior that you couldn’t interpret, and while that intrigues you in a way, it was also one of the most threatening aspects of his character.

But then you remember his hand at the back of your neck. His thumb stroking featherlight circles on your swollen joints. The way he smells, and how quickly it comforts you. The feeling of being tucked between his chest and the sturdy wood of his writing desk at the press office.

And against your better judgment, you nod. The inside of your head is screaming at you. No! No! No! Don’t go with him! Somehow, though, you find yourself standing from the bed and when your legs almost give out, and there he is beside you, forearm braced against your back and fingers holding firm on your waist. And he’s looking down at you with care forefronted in his eyes, and that falls quiet again. How quickly he could silence your thoughts is terrifying.

In a way, the fear is what thrills you.

《♡》

PART 3

#edward nashton x reader #the riddler x reader #paul dano riddler #riddler fluff #edward nashton fluff #im gay 4 dano tbh #cliffyfics

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bratkook · 3 years

Text

another taste. (m) jjk.

pairing. rockstar!jk x reader genre. smut, pwp word count. 1.2k warnings. oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, needy bed humping, spit, jk cums in his pants <3 note. ily pasc, muah ! (will tumblr tag this who knows!!)

The soft skin of your thighs rubs against Jungkook’s cheeks as he peppers kisses onto them, warm to the touch, slightly trembling from the earlier orgasm he had drawn out of you. He isn’t satisfied though, he never was until you were left in tears, writhing on the bed.

“Kook,” you whine, breathy and thick with lust, but he loves when his name sounds like that coming from you. And when your fingers tangle into his long black hair and give it a good yank he looks up at you, brow raised in question, teasing smirk on his shiny lips.

“What baby?” he mumbles, large hands gripping the meat of your thighs tightly, slowly spreading them out further and blowing a gust of air onto your sodden folds. A teasing laugh escapes him when you shudder, hips rutting up in search of more, desperate to feel his mouth on you again.

“You’re teasing me.” How you have the guts to say that when you’ve cum twice already from his mouth and hands alone is beyond him. He appeases you though, dark eyes staring at you with so much hunger swirling in them as he leans closer and places a soft kiss onto your clit, the sensation making you tremble.

“Sorry baby, just want another taste.” he whispers, sending you a wink before he's diving back in. The sensitivity instantly makes you gasp, back arching off the bed as the dull throb rekindles the fire inside of you, spreading to your limbs until you were turning into the sinful vixen he loved to see.

Jungkook always got like this after shows, high off the adrenaline the crowd gave him, needing a final ego boost in the form of you crying out his name. The minute he was off the stage he was dragging you out of the venue, sometimes he didn’t even make it that far, but he preferred the comfort and privacy of a hotel room, not a fan of you having to muffle your cries.

This show of his had been one to remember, being called for two encores, the crowd matching the band’s energy like no other; safe to say Jungkook didn’t even bother stripping out of his clothes before he was slipping his hand between your thighs, letting his mouth follow. He was always insatiable when it came to you, wanting nothing more than to live between your thighs, feel the sting of you pulling his hair while you lost yourself in the pleasure. Seeing you fall apart beneath him time and time again got him off, left him aching in his jeans, had him moaning into your pussy while he slowly rutted his hips into the edge of the mattress.

“God, you’re so fucking sexy,” he rasps, leaning back a bit before suddenly, he’s spitting onto your messy folds, watching in awe as it drips down your slit and over your entrance, mixing in with your arousal before meeting the bedsheets.

When his middle fingers slowly slip inside you, you melt into the sheets, head thrown back as you moan out. Jungkook revels in it, latches his lips around your swollen clit as he thrusts his fingers inside you, warm walls wrapped tightly around them. He already knows how you’d feel around his cock, sucking him in each time he pulled out, always so greedy.

His own hips speed up, humping the bed like a horny, desperate mess. It makes the bed rock and it grabs your attention. As you slowly lift your head, licking over your dry lips, you smirk when you see his hips moving. The dark strands between your fingers get twirled around, a small gasp spilling out of you when he gets the rhythm just right, the way he always does.

“This gets you off huh?” you giggle, letting one foot press into his back, urging him closer to your dripping pussy, letting you feel his movement better. Jungkook just groans, curling his fingers inside of you until they met the rough patch a few inches in, satisfied when you choke and stutter on your teasing words. “It’s—fuck—it’s hot, seeing you like that. God, Kook,” you cry, keeping your strong hold on his hair when you feel the coil inside of you tightening up, the earlier orgasms bringing you closer to release faster than before.

Jungkook feels the way you tighten around his fingers, and when he glances up at you with a mouthful of your pussy, he sees the way your stomach tenses, how your tits bounce as you gasp in a breath, your face scrunching up in the most adorable way, it almost made him forget the filthy things he was doing. He wanted to feel you cum on his tongue one more time, the remnants of the last two still lingering but he needed more.

He whines louder now, the friction against his cock sending tingles up his spine, increasing as he quickened his pace. He’s been hard for what seems like hours, heavy and aching in his jeans while he took his time with you, pushing away your hands when you attempted to touch him, wanting to focus solely on you.

You could tell he was close, his left hand gripping onto your thighs tighter, dimpling the skin, the flicks of his tongue getting faster. Jungkook was about to blow his load from eating you out, and you had never seen a sexier sight. Your breathing stutters, throat tight as you gasp lewdly when he sucks with force, knowing just the right way to push you over.

“F-fuck fuck fuck,” you chant, attempting to shut your legs around his head, running from the feeling but he has none of that, keeping his hold on you until finally, you’re pushed over the edge. “Shit—“ you scream, cutting off the rest of your sentence as you writhe around, hips rutting up into his mouth while he coaxed you through it.

The way you gush around his fingers, drenching his digits and the bottom half of his face, the thick smell of sex filling the air and the soft mewls you let out push him over. Jungkook groans loudly as his hips stutter on the bed, pulling away from your cunt and letting you see his jaw drop as he finally cums. Warm spurts of cum soak into his underwear, smearing around as he milks his own orgasm with shallow ruts, whimpering in sensitivity as he comes to a halt.

“Wow,” you pant, resting your arm over your forehead as you try to catch your breath, skin tacky with sweat, inner thighs messy with his spit and your arousal. Jungkook hums in response, resting his cheek on your thigh before placing another soft kiss to the skin.

“Jeon Jungkook, notorious rockstar, cums in his pants. Who would’ve thought.” Your foot playfully nudges his back, snickering when he shoots you a teasing glare. You know you’ve done it when he starts to crawl over your body, not caring about the obvious wet spot on his jeans. “Should I give TMZ the inside scoop?”

“Yeah, go ahead and let them know how I made you scream my name so loud the hotel filed a noise complaint.”

“That didn’t happen,” you tut, smirking up at him as you playfully tap his nose. The smirk gets wiped off your face when he grabs your hips and flips you over, delivering a swift slap to your ass and laughing when it jiggles.

“The nights still young baby.”

#ficswithluv #btswritingcafe #btsghostie #bangtansorciere #heartsforbts #bangtaninn #jeongguk smut #jungkook smut #bts smut #jeon jungkook #btscreatorscorner #new

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some-messed-up-writing-for-you · 3 years

Text

Short Prompt #52

Warning: descriptions of confined/claustrophobic spaces, near-death experience.

The villain's chest rumbled with a groan as he slowly came to, awaking. Tiredly, he brought his hand up to his throbbing head but stopped midway as his arm banged against something hard above him. He opened his eyes, blinking, trying to adjust his vision as he felt around his surroundings.

...

Why could he not see anything?

...

And why... Why were there walls all around him?

...

Where was he? There was so little space. It was so tight he could barely move around, and-

...

He was in a coffin.

He was buried alive.

But- But who-

Villain inhaled sharply. Other Supervillain... His boss...

He remembered now. The other supervillain had called him in for a meeting. They were talking for a while, and- and everything was normal until- until...

...

'You played your part well Villain, but that's the thing... You did your part.'

...

'I don't need you anymore.'

...

The villain banged on the coffin door, punching, kicking with all his strength. He wasn't thinking straight, panic taking over his mind as his breathing turned chaotic. His limbs started to hurt, his body protesting for him to stop, but he refused to. As more and more of his energy became wasted, he clawed at the wood, desperate to get through, and hissed as something cut his hand.

Shaking and pausing his thrashing for a moment, he carefully felt around and found something sharp sticking out from the top of the coffin. It was long and slim in shape, as well as cold and metallic to the touch.

...

A nail.

The coffin had been nailed shut.

...

Villain screamed, adrenaline fueling him as he yelled, begging for help. He called out futilely, pleading, apologizing, making promises, claiming that he would do better, that he would be better. His throat began growing hoarse as he screamed out the names of the few allies he had...

But nobody answered.

Nobody came to save him.

...

It was so hot. The air had turned stuffy with the villain's frantic shrieks and struggles, but the tears that streamed from his eyes were worse, making his skin tingle as if it was on fire.

He pawed at the door, fingernails pathetically scraping against the wood as he became too tired to continue his attempts at breaking out. Despair filling his thoughts, soft whimpers and cries gradually slipped past his lips, bouncing off the coffin walls and echoing loudly inside his head.

...

SHH-HLINK

...

What... what was that just now? Did- Did he imagine it, or... or was that-

SHH-HLINK

...

SHH-HLINK

...

SHH-HLINK

...

Someone was above him, digging.

...

Villain screamed for help again, ignoring the pain that rose inside his throat. He hit the coffin walls once more, moving like a rabid animal, a shred of leftover adrenaline making him forget his exhaustion. The sound above him seemed to speed up in response, and his breath hitched as hope twinkled in his hectically beating heart.

A THUD sounded right on top of the door, shaking it under the villain's trembling fingers. The shovel scratched at the wood, getting rid of the last bits of dirt, and Villain followed it with his hands, helplessly feeling the small vibrations. He cried relieved tears as the wood creaked loudly, his savior peeling the coffin open. With a snap, moonlight suddenly assaulted his eyes, and he had to squint and blink rapidly to keep them open.

Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him up, and Villain grabbed on with a bruising grip as the stranger got him out of the hole they had dug up to free him. He buried his face in the other's chest, shivering and frantically mumbling, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you," over and over again.

"Shh, it's alright, sweetness." - a smooth, male voice comforted, holding him tightly. It sounded so pleasant to the villain's ears. It made him want to just... go limp in the other's hold... and... let him take him away... into the night...

...

He tensed up. Who... Who had saved him?

Slowly, he lifted his head, and as his gaze met with that of his savior, his blood ran cold.

Bright crimson eyes stared back at him, amused by his sudden terror. A small smirk adorned the other's pale lips, showing off one of his fangs.

A vampire.

And not just any vampire either. This... This was...

"Supervillain...?" - Villain's voice was so meek, he barely heard himself speak. His grip tightened in his fright.

A dark chuckle left the master criminal as the villain's heart began to race once more with newfound fear. Without warning, he rose to his feet, taking Villain with him.

Yelping in surprise, the smaller criminal wrapped his arms around the vampire's neck as he was lifted into the air. "W-Wait! What- What a-are you-"

"Relax, sweet thing. I didn't come all the way out here just to kill you." - the supervillain reassured, his features turning softer than the villain had expected.

The smaller criminal whimpered, untrusting. "T-Then why?"

"Other Supervillain betrayed you."

...

Villain averted his gaze, going silent. It wasn't a question or even a suspicion. It was a fact, plain and simple.

...

"I can help you get revenge on him, sweetness~." - Supervillain enticed in a gentle sing-song voice.

...

"W-What do you want in r-return?" - the villain asked quietly, side-eyeing the other nervously.

The vampire smiled. "Join me, and help me with my plans."

Villain tensed up, a shiver crawling down his spine. "Y-You- You don't have any h-humans working for you. Y-You always t-turn them..."

The supervillain's grin widened as he tilted his head playfully. "And~?"

"I- I-" - the smaller criminal stuttered, shaking fearfully in the other's hold. He- He just barely escaped a slow, painful death. He- He didn't want to-

"Aww, don't worry." - Supervillain cooed, furrowing his brows in pretend concern as he held the villain closely, leaning his face towards his. His voice turned low and gravelly, sending a different kind of shudder through the human in his arms. "I'll be sure to make it feel good, my sweet little Villain~."

Villain gulped, his face burning at the other's implication. His gaze jumped from one spot to the next, unsure of how to reply. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and taking an uneven breath, he buried his face in the master criminal's shoulder, silently choosing to agree. He knew struggling would be futile as the supervillain was much stronger than him and would turn him no matter what he said, so he might as well cooperate and make it, at least, somewhat pleasant for himself.

And besides, the vampire did save him from certain death... he owed him now, didn't he?

Pressing a soft kiss to the top of the villain's head and lightly chuckling when he cringed, Supervillain turned on his heel and began to walk off into the shadows.

Exhausted both physically and emotionally, Villain let the bigger criminal's powers wash over him, lulling him to a calm dreamless sleep.

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the-iceni-bitch · 3 years

Text

No Scrubs

Well a scrub checkin' me, but his game is kinda weak

And I know that he cannot approach me

'Cause I'm looking like class and he's looking like trash

Can't get wit' a deadbeat ass

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader

Words: 3.1k

Summary: You try to keep Steve from dying of boredom at an Avengers charity gala.

Warnings: explicit language, explicit sexual content (oral sex (f receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex, squirting, public sex), little bit of a fight, SMUT!!! 18+ ONLY!!!!!

A/N: My official entry for @cockslut-padalecki’s “Not My Ninth” challenge!! My prompt was No Scrubs by TLC and Charity Gala. I picked our boy Steve for this one, but like post Avengers pre Winter Soldier Steve. Also, is Thor the best wingman? I feel like I’ve been using him in this role a lot. Happy 9K babe!

Check out my masterlist and join my taglist if you want!

Steve had never felt so uncomfortable in his life.

He hated talking about himself normally, and having to parade around in front of a bunch of rich people was a special kind of torture. But Tony was insistent that the whole team had to be there, and it was for a good cause so he couldn’t say no without being a complete asshole.

He downed the rest of his champagne as some other billionaire asked him the same damn question about how different things were for him now, how much he must miss the 40s, like the war was some golden age of Americana. He just smiled and gave the same polite answers he’d been giving all night, wishing he was able to get drunk. Maybe Thor had snuck in some mead, that could usually do the trick.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Captain Rogers, but Mr. Stark sent me to come find you. Something about the silent auction.”

Steve felt his face relax as he turned to look at you, his breath coming out in a deep sigh. You looked amazing in your silver gown, all shimmery and gauzy.

“Sorry folks, duty calls.” He said with a shrug as he followed you away from the stuffed suits. “What does Tony want? I don’t have anything to do with the auction.”

“Yeah, I know, but your jaw was clenched so hard I was worried you were gonna snap something, so I figured I’d come rescue you.” You said, grinning over your shoulder at him.

“God, you’re the best.” He sighed, following you to the bar and leaning against it as you ordered yourself a cocktail.

“I know, right? You want anything?”

“Not unless Thor snuck anything in. It’s only been an hour and I’m this close to ramming my head through a wall.”

“Sorry Cap, I hate these things too but it comes with the territory.” You said with a shrug, sipping on your Manhattan as you turned to face him. “Now, lets go find our Asgardian friend. As your handler, I can’t have you destroying property out of boredom, and I’m pretty sure I saw that giant sipping from a contraband flask a little earlier.”

He grinned as he moved to follow you, weaving through the crowd as you expertly turned away the whales that kept trying to approach him. You were his fifth handler since the battle of New York, and the only one that had lasted longer than a week. Mostly because you didn’t actually try to handle him, just let him be Steve and deal with any PR fallout that came with that. It helped that you had an easygoing nature that he found endearing, and you could always make him laugh. The fight you’d gotten into with Tony about changing his suit had really done it for him though, he hadn’t seen anyone make Stark back down so fast.

“Odinson!” You shouted, beaming once you found the massive blonde. He’d been cornered by a group of old blue hairs who were tittering and trying to touch his biceps. “Sorry ladies, the god of thunder is needed elsewhere, auction business.”

They all made sounds of disappointment as you extracted the relieved looking god from the group of old biddies, pulling him away towards one of the empty corners of the ballroom.

“What is this auction you speak of?” Thor asked once the three of you were separated from the crowd.

“A clever ruse, my good friend.” You said with a smirk. “You’re welcome by the way. The Captain here is on the verge of committing violent acts out of boredom, and expressed a desire to get drunk.”

“Yes, thank you Y/N.” He said with a grin. “I don’t think I can help the Captain with his problem though, maybe he should head to the bar.”

“Oh, you can’t help?” You said cocking your eyebrow at him before shoving your hand inside his tux jacket and pulling out a silver flask. “What’s this then?”

Steve chuckled as Thor tried to stammer out a reply as you just shook your head and tutted at him, handing Steve the flask.

“Listen, just be a good boy and share. Now, I need to go to the ladies room but if any of these rich assholes tries to come bother you again, just start talking about the horrors of war, and get graphic. They hate that shit.”

Steve handed Thor back the flask after taking a sip, already staring to feel a bit of a tingle in his fingers.

“That woman is not to be trifled with.” Thor said appreciatively as he took a swig, handing it back to Steve. “Have you slept with her yet?”

Steve choked on the mead, his eyes bugging out of his head as he tried to cough up a lung and Thor clapped him on the back, scolding him for wasting good liquor.

“Jesus, Thor! What are you talking about? I don’t want to sleep with Y/N!”

“Oh my god, you midgardians and your hang ups. Your hormones spike every time your around her, it’s very distracting.”

“What?!?! How do you know that?” Steve loosened his tie a bit as he felt himself starting to warm up, telling himself it was just from the booze.

“I’m not just the god of thunder, I’m a fertility god.” He said with a grin. “And every time you two are near each other, it’s like being around a couple of rabbits in the spring.”

“Oh god, please stop.” Steve said as he ran his hand over his face in embarrassment.

“No you stop. We’re in a hotel, just get a room and , what’s the phrase I’m looking for ‘fuck her brains out’.”

“Jesus Christ, who taught you that? Never mind, I know it was Tony.” He said, waving a dismissive hand at Thor as he gave him a wicked grin.

“Oh no.” Thor said suddenly, looking over Steve’s shoulder towards the ballroom.

“What now?” Steve said with a heavy sigh, turning to follow his line of sight to where you were standing, talking to an unsteady looking man in a sloppy tux. “Rumlow.”

“Yes, apparently your STRIKE team leader has been sniffing after your handler for months.” Thor narrated, leaning against one of the columns and taking another pull from the flask. “She’s always rebuffed him, though. I don’t think he’s ever tried when he’s drunk before. Wait, Rogers!”

Steve ignored him as he strode towards you, growling under his breath and loosening his tie even more as he watched Rumlow wrap his hand around your bicep and yank you towards him. Steve was close enough to see you roll your eyes, but couldn’t hear what you said to the man as he wrapped his other arm around your waist and smashed his mouth against yours.

“Hey!” Steve shouted, his brow furrowed as Brock pulled his face away from yours to see what the interruption was about.

You took your chance and head butted him, a curse leaving his mouth in a hiss as he released you. You gripped his left wrist around his thumb and drew it back hard, smirking when you felt a snap at the same time you drove you fist into his ribs.

Steve had to pull you off him as you started beating him with your clutch, opening it up at the same time to search for your brass knuckles.

“You don’t fucking touch me, you goddamn sloppy deadbeat motherfucker!” You screamed as Steve carried you away from the main floor, your limbs flailing as you tried to charge back at Rumlow. “Learn to tie a fucking tie you cocksucking son of a bitch.”

Steve did his best not to crack up at the shocked looks the blue bloods were giving you, a chorus of offended gasps following the two of you as you released a steady stream of profanity. He pushed open the doors to the balcony with one hand as he kept his other hand wrapped tightly around your waist as you were still trying to squirm free.

“Damn it, put me down Rogers! I’ll kick your ass too!” You hissed, turning to swat at his chest.

“Okay, okay, Jesus Christ!” He said as you started to kick him, catching him in the shins a couple of times. “Ow.”

“You’re fine.” You said with a shrug, taking a couple deep breaths to calm down.

“Yeah, well Rumlow definitely isn’t. Who gave you brass knuckles?” He said, pulling the weapon out of your clutch.

“Nat did. And it’s not like I even got to use them on that asshole.”

“Yeah but you would’ve.” He said, shaking his head as he handed them back to you. “He didn’t hurt you did he?”

You just snorted as you shoved the knuckles back into your clutch, leaning your back against the railing.

“Good.” He mumbled, suddenly not knowing what to say to you.

You somehow looked even better after your altercation. Your hair was a wild tangle now, loose strands blowing in the breeze. Your lips were swollen from the unwanted kiss, and Steve could feel the heat coming off you as your chest heaved with deep breaths. He hissed through his teeth when he noticed the torn skin on your knuckles.

“Shit, Y/N, you’re bleeding.” He growled, grabbing your hand to inspect the damage.

“Huh, guess so.” You said, watching him through your lashes as he brought your hand closer to his face.

You felt your breath hitch as he ran his thumb over the back of your hand softly, his brow still furrowed with worry. Maybe it was just the adrenaline from the fight, but all you could think about just then was sucking on his thick fingers.

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?” You must have zoned out for a second.

“You sure you’re ok?”

“I’m great.” You said, your voice a little squeakier than you would’ve liked.

He took a step closer to you and you gasped, suddenly feeling very light headed as you felt a rush of slick flood your panties. His hand left yours and moved to cup your cheek, his thumb tugging at your bottom lip where you had it pressed between your teeth.

“I think I’m gonna kiss you now.” He muttered, his eyes boring into yours, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Good.” You whispered.

His mouth devoured yours, his teeth pulling your lips open so he could slip his tongue inside, curling it against yours as he wrapped his arm around your waist and pressed you against him. You moaned as you felt his cock hardening against your abdomen, your pussy throbbing with need as he ground himself into you.

He started to sink to his knees and you followed him, your mouth still pressed to his desperately. His hand moved from your waist to dig under your skirt and he let out a growl when he brushed his fingers against your core, pressing them against the soaked silk of your panties.

“Fuck, I wanna taste you so bad.” He grumbled, his lips still pressed to yours. “Wanna see if you taste as good as you smell.”

“Oh god, Steve.” You moaned as he hooked his fingers through the side of your panties and ripped them off you, the elastic snapping against your skin and a shove going up your spine as the night air cooled the wetness between your thighs. “Do it.”

He grinned and gave you a quick peck on the lips before he started to move his mouth down your throat. His hand between your legs started rubbing you in big slow circles as he laid you down, putting just enough pressure on you that you were quickly turning into a wriggling mess.

“Hold still, honey.” He ordered, pulling the sleeves of your dress down just enough that your breasts could pop out, your nipples pebbling in the chilly air. “I’m gonna take my time with you.”

“Fuck.” You moaned as he dragged his tongue over your nipple in a heavy stripe before flicking it softly. Your hands dug in his hair as he sucked and licked at it, just barely brushing it with his teeth until it was raised to an overly sensitive peak before he moved to the other nipple and repeated the process, making you whine.

Once he was satisfied with his work, he pressed a soft kiss to each breast before moving his face between your legs. His hand was making soft wet sounds now as he kept rubbing your sex, and he groaned when he removed it to take a good look at you.

“Fuck if that ain’t the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmured as his lips brushed over your inner thigh.

Your cunt was pulsing with need under his gaze, your plump folds swollen and flushed with heat as he watched you clench around nothing. Everything between your legs was coated in a thick layer of your arousal, and he bit his lip as he watched even more leak out of you.

“I bet I could make you cum with almost nothing, sweetheart.” He teased as he nipped at the soft skin of your inner thighs, inching closer to your pussy before moving away again.

“Steve, please!” You whined, trying to arch your back into his face as you tugged on his hair.

He just grinned before pressing his tongue over your pussy and swirling it through your folds. He had to press his palms down on your hips to keep your body from curling back on itself as he ran his tongue over your sex, lapping at your pussy like his was the first meal he’d had in weeks.

“God you taste so good.” He murmured as he gazed at you through his lashes. “Like fucking peaches.”

You sobbed as he thrust his tongue inside you at the same time his lips wrapped around your swollen clit, making you come immediately. He curled his tongue inside you as your release flowed into his mouth, moaning into your pussy as you spasmed against his face.

Your breath was coming in ragged gasps as you came down, your muscles still twitching randomly as aftershocks shook through your abdomen. He grinned as he sat up over you, undoing his tie before moving to take off his belt as you writhed underneath his gaze. Your brain finally reset and you sat up between Steve’s legs, nuzzling yourself into his neck as you worked to unbutton his shirt.

“You back, honey?” He chuckled as you ran your teeth over his collarbone, dipping your hands under his shirt to press against his chest. “I was a little worried.”

“You’ll find I’m extremely resilient, Steve.” You murmured before sinking your teeth into his pec as you started to undo his fly.

“Shit, good to know.” He groaned as you drew his cock out of his pants and gave it a squeeze.

He gripped your chin and drew your face up to his, raising you up to your knees as he gave you a soft kiss. You moved his cock in your hand to line him up with your entrance, teasing his tip against your folds. Steve wrapped his hands around your waist and lifted you a bit higher before slowly drawing you down onto his length.

You let out a thin keen as he stretched you open, relishing the sting as your cunt fluttered around him, adjusting to his girth. He rested his forehead against yours as he started moving his hips at a languorous pace.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He muttered against your lips before moving to bury his face in your shoulder. “So tight and warm and soft.”

You gripped the hair at the base of his neck tightly as his hips started moving faster, slapping against yours. You felt yourself clench around him as he ground against your clit, making you gasp.

“Shit, Steve! Right there!”

“Jesus, already?” He murmured, running his lips over your throat.

“Just... fuck, you’re so big, Steve. Oh my god, I’m cumming.”

He hooked a hand under your ass to keep you from collapsing as your entire body arched violently, almost bending backwards on itself as you swallowed a scream. Your cunt fluttered and spasmed around him as he lifted you to wrap around him, his breath hot against your neck.

“Holy shit honey.” He muttered as he pulled you down against him, making you whimper. “You ok?”

“I’m great. Don’t you fucking stop.” You said, tilting his head back so you could press your mouth to his.

He grinned against your lips as he fucked his hips up into you, keeping his eyes locked on yours as his cock dragged over every inch of you, nudging against your cervix and making your breath hitch.

“Right there?” He asked as you dug your nails into his scalp and bit at his lips.

“Fuck, oh goddamn it, Steve.”

You shrieked into his mouth as you came apart, your muscles seizing as your pussy strangled his cock. His hips stuttered and you were suddenly flooded with warmth, his spend sitting into you and coating your canal in thick white ropes. He sat back on his heels and pulled out of you, and you shuddered as your release squirted all over the front of his pants.

“Shit, did you just squirt honey?” He asked, giving you an appreciative glance as he started to tuck himself back in and button his shirt up.

“I think so. Fuck, that’s never happened before.” You said with a shrug.

“Well, damn baby.” He said as he stood up, offering you a hand to help you to your feet.

“Shit, we’ve gotta go back in there.” You said, running your hand over your face. “Oh my god, Stark is going to kill us. Hold on and give me a second to think.”

Steve just leaned back on the railing and gave a satisfied smile as he watched you pace back and forth, wringing your hands.

“Ok I think I’ve got it, just one second.”

You went to the door and opened it a crack, popping your head through, jumping when you found Thor leaning against the wall right there.

“Hey, Thor. What’s up buddy?”

“Just keeping the other guests from wandering out and seeing you and the Captain humping like rabbits.”

“Appreciate it. We need a distraction though, cuz we’re both a little messy, and I don’t really feel like explaining that to everyone.”

“Got it, what if I blow out the lights in that chandelier?”

“I think that’ll probably work.” You said, giving him a nod before turning back to Steve. “Alright Rogers, we’re making a run for the elevator. Thor, blow it.”

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1K notes · View notes

zeewritez · 2 years

Text

Lilith’s Revenge - Part I

Fandom: Walking dead (Season 6 and onward)

Pairing: Daryl x Gender-neutral! Reader

Warnings: Usual TWD violence

Word Count: 915

Chapter Summary: While taking out Negan’s men, Daryl, Rick and Michonne stumble upon a girl that had been taken in as prisoner not too long ago. Though they seem abrasive at first, it soon becomes apparent that y/n would make a helpful addition to the team.

Part I - These Four Walls:

Leaning my head against the wall, I closed my eyes. I had become bored of staring at the same room over and over again. Every scratch, scuff, and mark, every chip, seem and splatter had been memorized. These four walls of the cold cell were all I’d known for the past week or so. I felt nothing except a slight tingling in my limbs. My hands, tied tightly in front of me, were almost completely numb. Behind my shut eyes I found little rest, however. Though my body was in a trance, I couldn’t find sleep. My mind raced even when my body was still.

I thought I must’ve been dreaming when the door opened with a loud squeak, but sure enough, a man stood in the doorway just two feet away from me.

In my final attempt to seek freedom, I lunged at him. Though my hands were bound, I had the element of surprise and enough adrenaline to take out a dozen men. Once I had him pinned to the ground, he looked at me with a plain expression.

“I ain’t tryna hurt ya,” he said. “My group and I are taking out Negan’s men.”

“You are?” I looked at his face, searching for any giveaway that he was lying.

Sets of footsteps echoed through the hall. Looking in the direction they came from I saw a woman and a man making their way towards us. They were clearly acquainted with this man.

“Let him go,” the second man said, his gun aimed at me.

I hadn’t cared if I lived or died for a long time, but I didn’t get that close to my liberty to be taken out by some random man. I stood up and held my tied hands above my hands.

“Are you with Negan?” the man who had just threatened me asked.

“Does it look like I’m with Negan?” I asked dumbfounded while gesturing to my restraints.

“Why did they restrain you?” he asked.

The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes at the man before swiftly pulling out a sword and cutting my restraints.

“Leave them be, we have bigger things to worry about,” she spoke. “They’re clearly a captive.”

The man looked at the woman with furrowed brows but gave her a nod.

“Daryl, you take this person down the left corridor, we’ll go down the other like planned,” the woman commanded before running off.

“This way,” he who I now knew as Daryl instructed. I reluctantly did as said.

I wasn’t quite sure what these intruders were doing here, but I soon found out. After entering one of the sleeping chambers, Daryl stabbed one of the men in the head. I watched as he went over to the other man and stood above him.

“Let me do it,” I whispered.

He gave me a questioning look but took a step back anyways. He pulled out a switchblade from his pocket handed it towards me. Raising my hands, I took one last look at the man before he would die. I knew his face, knew it well.

His name was Clyde, and he had introduced himself when I was locked up at this facility, but I had known him longer. He was one of the men who’d ambushed my sanctuary. I remembered his face well because it was covered in my sister’s blood the last time I’d seen him. I brought the knife down and watched his own blood cover him.

Just as swiftly as I had gone into that room, I left and followed my new companion into the next. We took out the men two at a time, and I almost regret to say I enjoyed it. Only almost, because these men had killed my family, destroyed the only home I’d ever known, and taken me captive.

Right before we entered the last room, a shrill alarm began to ring through the halls. If I had time, I would’ve run, but two men exited this final room. Daryl took the first one out easily, but the second one was quicker. He lunged at me, slashing a cut along my lower abdomen. Out of habit, I kneed him in the stomach, which caught him off guard long enough to gain the upper hand. With a swift movement, I stabbed him right under his sternum and twisted the knife.

His eyes shot open as he fell to the ground. They were dark green and I knew them well, for he was the man who’d taken me, prisoner. Unable to look at him anymore, alive or dead, I turned him over and stabbed him in the back of his head.

“Here you go,” I told Daryl while offering back his knife.

His eyes looked at me, the knife, and back at me.

“My bad,” I said. How could I have forgotten to clean it off? I wiped the flat sides off on my thigh, the blood slipping off like melted butter. “Good as new.” The man took the knife back reluctantly before following me out of the exit.

Outside, my feet touched the grass for the first time in what felt like forever. I stood half-naked and covered in blood, yet I had lost all sense of shame long ago. The bright sun shone on me and a dozen pairs of eyes gazed at me. I could see what they were thinking on their faces: Who the hell is that?

Soon enough, they would know exactly who I am.

A/n: Hey guys! I wanted to post a new story in between Count Your Blessings uploads. Hope y’all like it! Much love, Zee :)

#twd #twd fanfiction #twd daryl #twd imagine #twd x reader #The Walking Dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead imagine #the walking dead reader insert #daryl dixon #daryl #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl x y/n #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x y/n

60 notes · View notes

downywrites · 3 years

Text

Purpled is interrogated about his linkage to the alien things that have been randomly appearing everywhere. Unfortunately for him, he genuinely has no clue. Aka, just an excuse for lee Purpled. Literally.

Ayo, mates! My requests are still open, if anyone wants anything written!

The whole alien theme was getting out of hand, in Philza’s opinion. The bird man couldn’t find a single place that hadn’t been affected by either the egg or the suspicious alien structures that kept popping up everywhere. They were pretty, but they were a nuisance otherwise. Tommy had been recently complaining of them appearing in front of his house, blocking his way out directly. Tubbo and Ranboo had complaints of the same caliber, having to blow the structure up with a few well-placed pieces of dynamite in order for them to get to their respective places of work on time. Techno had also spoken of random failed ship specimens slamming into him before, although the veracity of that claim is still hotly debated at the dinner table. Nonetheless, it was a problem. A very large, relatively irritating problem. And he knew one of the most likely causes was walking around the area at this very moment.

He scanned the area, sharp eyes undulled by the years scouring the grasslands. A small speck of purple made him grin. There he was.. Purpled. The alien hybrid was known to be a wanderer of his species, getting stranded on the SMP after his UFO failed to take flight again. Then, almost mysteriously, it disappeared. (As in, it blew up, and everyone tried to ignore the shrapnel that landed surreptitiously on their houses.) He had taken to wandering around, fiddling with the extra structures lying about with a look of indifference and a slight flicker of confusion, which added onto the SBI’s belief that he knew what they were, at the very least. Thankfully for the eagle hybrid, the alien usually didn’t pay attention to his surroundings when not in the field of battle. The key word there was usually, though. If he didn’t time his ‘attack’ correctly, he might get a wingtip chopped off by his quick-access dagger. Kneeling low to the ground, he slowly moved closer to the younger of the two. The other didn’t seem to notice, lounging about underneath the shade of a specifically tall tree. A bee landed on his face as he did, but he seemed to not notice, too absorbed in his thoughts. Perfect. The grass gently whacked his face as he slunk closer. Closer….a little more….

Purpled shrieked at the sudden sensation of being tackled to the floor, hand automatically reaching for his knife holster. His eyes shot open to stare straight into bolt blue. “What the fuck?!?” “Sorry mate, I thought you’d run away from me if I walked up to you normally.” He spluttered, mind quickly processing the absurdity of that statement. “So you tackled me instead?” Philza grinned from above him. “I mean, sounds about right.” Purpled narrowed his eyes at him. Wariness was a part of his genes, and he sure as hell didn’t think now would be a good time to let down his guard. “We’ve been wondering what the alien sculptures were. Y’know, the ones that keep miraculously appearing in the mornings. Half-startled the shit out of some of my pals.”

“Uh huh.” The alien deadpanned at the other, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “And this is the reasoning behind tackling me because…?” “I thought you’d know. It does look like you’re familiar with the markings and stuff on the sides of it. Is this true?”: The avian tightened his grip ever so slightly, in the hopes that he would take the hint and answer the question in a straightforward manner. “...Well, I don’t believe I can help you with that. I am not of that species of alien.”

It was Philza’s turn to deadpan at him. He cocked a corn-silk colored eyebrow at him, all playfulness forgotten in the staredown that he and Purpled were currently engaging in. “No, really. What’s going on, mate?”

“First of all, I’m not your mate, and second of all, I still don’t know. What, do you think I can magically glean things from markings?” Philza scoffed slightly. “Doesn’t your species do that? You know, your clothing and your fancy underskin lights?”

“Well,” Purpled answered, matter of fact tone slowly driving the hardcore warrior up the wall, “Our underskin lights and clothes don’t always match up, either. Do humans not have accents or...what was it?...dialects. Yes, that’s the word.”

Philza retorted, “I thought you were a child of your species. How the hell did you even get here, anyways? Do you think your family’s out looking for you? Is that why you don’t know anything outside of your species?” His words struck home.

A small spark of anger lit up in the backs of the alien hybrid’s eyes, pushing at Philza with a strength the other didn’t know he possessed. When he spoke again, his voice was brittle like ice frosting over wood. “My family didn’t want a mutant like me.” The avian felt a pang of empathy for him, loosening his hold a little. His eyes softened, a look of pity slowly growing on his face. The alien didn’t seem to like that very much. In a blur of purple and moss green cloak, Phil found himself smothered by his own garments, his prey’s footsteps leaving him behind. He shoved it off himself, trotting in the same direction to catch up. “Hey! Get back here!” The sound of his footsteps on the pavement echoed slightly, catching his attention. With a powerful beat of his wings, he boosted himself onto the street, sandals making a screeching noise as they made contact with the cobble. A small shape in his line of sight made him ready himself for another boost, wing muscles rippling and wind blowing his family braid around.

Purpled thought he was safe. He had done everything to plan. It was all within his calculations. That was, until the sound of wing beats caught his attention. ‘Can he fly still? I thought his wing was damaged? Oh shit!’ He pushed himself a little more, panting from exertion. He was tempted to use his own to get away, but he shoved the idea back down to the pit of hell it came from. ‘Oh, fuck no. Not dealing with that trauma chapter today.’ He swiveled his antennae around, straining to hear wingbeats… or any noise, for that matter. Confused, he slowed down to a jog, scanning the area for his pursuer. “Where..?” Suddenly, the world careened sideways. He found himself in a very familiar situation. “Uhhh...hi?” “Hello, mate. And sorry, mate.” The hardcore warrior unbottled a potion quickly, the grey potion swishing around as he did so. WIth a flick of his wrist, he poured it over the boy below him. The cold tingle of the potion made him yelp and buck under him. “No! What are you doing?!?”

As the potion’s effects began to make itself known, Purpled’s mind began to fog up, drowsiness slowly suffusing through his body. “If you won’t tell me straight up, I’ll have to enlist some help in finding out.” The alien wanted to retort, but the words stuck in his throat. Against his volition, his eyes began to flutter shut, his focus shifting from trying to push him off to just keeping himself awake. Philza decided to be a little daring. Before he lost his nerve, he pushed his hands through the boy’s platinum-blonde hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.

If he had any last fight in him, it dissipated. With a small whine, the boy’s eyes shut fully and did not open again, his chest rising and falling with his slow breathing. “There we go. And now, I just need to recruit my boys to help me get to the bottom of this mystery. No more of those stupid scupltures, not if I can help it.”

“Seriously, are we just going to wait until he wakes up?”

“How else would we get him to wake up? Prime, Techno. Who do you think we are, brutes?”

Through the thinnest slit of sight he could, Purpled glanced at the menagerie of people nervously, hoping fervently that his antennae haven’t given away his consciousness. With the slightest movements of his limbs,he tested the bonds tying him down to the table. He was slightly grateful for the position, seeing that it had kept him from being in the direct line of sight of the duo next to him. The partially spread-eagle position still kept him in a state of unease, instincts screaming into his ears to struggle, to escape. The two people arguing sounded familiar. ‘Wilbur and Techno, maybe?’ It sounded similar, although he was pretty sure he was used to hearing the softer tones of the former’s voice from Ghostbur.

The only sight he had was the inside of the kitchen, the whole place brimming with chaos and entropy and… life. The fruit and food in the pantry was messy, certainly the product of the other people in the house. A twinge of longing snagged in his throat, stopping his smooth breathing pattern for a split second. He prayed that none of them noticed. It didn’t seem as if they did, continuing their banter and arguing over how they were to wake him. A heavy body got up from a chair, the furniture making an ugly shriek as it rubbed over the wood. Equally heavy footsteps moved into the kitchen, appearing in the boy’s view. The visage of the piglin made him sigh inwardly.

‘Yep, I think that’s Techno. And if Philza, Techno, and Wilbur are around together, that means the whole Sleepy Bois Inc. is here.’ An afterthought gave him pause. ‘And Tommy. I really hope Tommy’s not here right now. That would be embarrassing.’ Another pair of footsteps made him force his antennae from moving towards the sound mentally. ‘Shit, this is going to be a challenge. Curse my stupid biology! Why couldn’t I have had a better pair of sensory equipment?’

Philza came into his view, sending a slight chill down his spine. Was it fear? Was it adrenaline? He didn’t know. Whatever it was, it made his heart beat louder and louder, blocking out any ambient sound in the room. “Is he awake yet, lads?” A small frustrated huff escaped the only other person in his view. “Not that I know of. He’s out cold. How much of the sleep potion did you give him?” The avian had the audacity to scratch his head and look away sheepishly. “..the whole pot.”

At the startle and the turn of the head that the winged warrior got, it was evident that it wasn’t supposed to be used like that. “Heh? A whole potion?!?” Techno morphed into a significantly sleeker body, arms stretching out to grab at both of his shoulders. He shook the other slightly, eyes still wide with astonishment. “Why did you use a full potion on a child? Phil?!?” Wilbur piped up from behind him. “Shh, Techno. If you wake him up now, I don’t think we can discuss the plan of interrogation.” ‘Interrogation? Are they going to hurt me?!?’ A slight burst of panic flooded through his veins, forcing him to focus on tamping down his reactions in favor of listening to the others around him without clueing them into his awakeness. ‘Uh huh. The plan. As if we didn’t already discuss this twice before.” Techno made gestures he couldn’t quite understand. “We make sure we don’t hurt him, we get the info, so on and so forth.” Even his gestures were sarcastic. Purpled liked him already.

“Let’s just get on with it. Just wake him up already.” A smile played on Phil’s face. “Mate, I don’t think we need to wake him up…” He trailed off, tone smug and knowing. His antennae, the fucking traitors, curled up a little subconsciously as the man made side eye contact with him. The avian all but crowed. “I knew it. How long have you been awake, Purp?” The jig was up. He opened his eyes completely, wincing a little at the sudden burst of light coming from the skylight above him.

A gasp escaped Wilbur- at least, he thinks it was from Wilbur. It’s kind of hard to see who is who when you’re focused on one person and one person alone. “Don’t call me that.” His voice sounded unused, as if he had forgotten to drink water before he went to bed. Phil didn’t say anything in reply to that, simply grinning wider. “So, the three of us decided that we wanted to get info from you in a way that didn’t hurt you. It’s not something I’d like to have on my consciousness, the harming of an innocent person on the sidelines of something. Besides, it’s not that important.” Purpled’s muscles relaxed a little, reminding him of how tense he was at the moment. “But. I still need info, and it seems that ribbing you again and again won’t be effective for your caliber of stubbornness.” He had to bite back a retort to that, trying not to ignite the ire of the most merciful person in the room.

“I decided on something that I can guarantee has never been used on you as a convincing technique.” The avian moved closer to him, purple eyes following his every movement. WIth a slow, deliberate movement that he must have learn from ages of working with his hand-eye coordination, he placed his hands on his stomach, resting his arms there. Purpled tilted his head, puzzled. “How is this going to make me tell you anyth-”

He choked on his words at the sudden sensation of Phil’s talons scraping on his stomach. He froze in place, willing himself to not flinch or show any sign of weakness in front of the older. Wilbur and Techno stayed back, watching Philza’s movements with a focus that was almost unnerving to the teen. “What does this feel like? You stopped talking, are you okay?”

The avian definitely knew what he was doing, testing out different spots on his stomach with the accuracy of a well-learned tickler. Purpled trembled lightly in his bonds, still trying his best to not show his reactions. It was a challenge, especially so because of the bondage tugging at his limbs with every slight shift in his positioning. The feeling of being helpless was equally as maddening as the careful touch on his tummy. Even through the fabric, he knew that he wouldn’t last long with the way he was tickling him.

Just when the boy thought that he had gotten used to the sensations, the warrior shifted to his sides, nails barely scratching through his hoodies. “Snrk!” ‘Shit.’ “Oh? That was something! Purpled, you can make this stop if you tell us about those structures landing everywhere. Come on, little guy!” His antennae twitched slightly at his words. He shook his head, eyes determined and sharp. “N-no.” A sarcastic voice sounded out behind Philza. “Ooh, baby’s first words.” Purple bristled at the comment. “Why, you-”

With his mouth open, it was impossible to hide the squeak that escaped him as the light scratching turned into kneading. “H-hey!” Techno snorted. “Hook, line, and sinker. He is ticklish, Phil. Just need to find the ‘on’ switch.” Purpled really, really didn’t want him to find any of his sweet spots. He squirmed away from the winged man, trying to evade his clutches now that he was aware of the effectiveness of his interrogation methods.

“Stohop!”

“Oh, no you don’t. No escaping, Purp!”

He squeezed both of the alien hybrid’s sides, kneading a little more into the softer spots. The younger couldn’t hold his laughter back anymore. “Nohoho! Thihihis ihihihis uhuhunfahahair!” His legs and arms strained against the bonds, body bucking and thrashing in a vain attempt to escape the sensation arcing through his body.

“What’s unfair? All you need to do is to give us the info!” Phil’s eyes trailed up to his antennae. “Aww, your little feelers are getting all trembly! That’s so cute!” At the mention of his appendages, he turned his head to the side bashfully, a small bit of flush coming to color his face. “Shuhuhut uhuhuhup!”

“Is that flustering for you?” The eagle cooed a little, before an idea came to mind. “Hey, just a question for you...are your feelers sensitive?” Purpled’s eyes widened. “Noho!” The response was way too quick for his answer to be true. A cheshire grin slowly grew on his face, coinciding with the sinking/fluttering feeling pooling in his stomach. “Oho, is it your sweet spot?” His hands trailed teasingly from his sides up to his antennae, fingers barely grazing the bases of them. Just the lightest touch on them made him squirm and giggle. “Nohohonohoho! Nohohot thehere, p-plehease!”

“Oh? And why not, then?” Wilbur chipped in, chair making a squeaking noise as he stood up. “I think I’ll give you a helping hand, Phil.” A small, quiet “about time” escaped the avian’s mouth. Purpled wanted to speak on that, but the sensation of the light touch moving at such a sensitive spot made him bite his lip in a final resistance to the tingling sensation lingering there. He silenced himself, trying to stifle his giggles as well as he could. “What if I do this, Purp?”

The fingers scratched at either side of one of his antennae’s bases. He squealed, hiccupy laughter escaping him against his will. “EEE! Ihihihi! Nohohoho! Plehehease!” The alien hybrid shook his head, laughter squeaking a little when the movement accidentally scraped Phil’s nails against his skin. The fingers followed his movements, not giving him a moment to rest. Thankfully for him, the man ‘interrogating’ him seemed to understand how ticklish his feelers were, not doing much to speed up the tickling and absolutely destroy him. He was grateful for the moment of relatively gentle tickling, struggling slowly getting less and less and protests beginning to die more and more often before they escaped his mouth.

Subconsciously, his antennae curled closer to the avian’s fingers, as if they were trying to mutually stroke him back. The warrior glanced at Techno, then back at the feelers. ‘Is that some sort of sign that he likes it or something? Damn it, I should have tried to read up more about extraterrestrial body language.’ A sudden buck stopped him from wallowing in his thoughts. “AHA?!?”

“I knew your hips are a good spot!” He turned to look at his son, eyes snapping back to full focus. A beat of laughter from the younger below them passed. “Wilbur. Why did it take so long for you to get from the chair to here?” The musician shrugged. “Took my time, I guess.” Wilbur continued to rub slow circles into the squirming boy’s hipbones, a small smile playing on his face at the reactions he was getting from him. “Stohohop! Ihihihi-Ihihi cahahan’t!”

Purpled’s flustered facial expression and wide smile showed just how effective WIlbur and Phil’s tickling techniques were. The latter chuckled. “Guess the big strong bedwars player can’t handle a little tickling~” He spidered his fingers over his scalp teasingly, just barely grazing the feelers he was scratching earlier. The appendages twitched at the sensation, a small squeal escaping the owner through his already high-pitched laughter. “NohohoHO tehehehe-AH!” His words were swallowed up by his own giggles.

Wilbur grinned triumphantly, kneading his hand into one hip while gently fluttering his fingers over the other. Purpled’s sweatpants blocked some of the sensations, but it wasn’t enough to keep the sparking feeling from coursing throughout his body like an adrenaline shot. He threw back his head, this time avoiding contact with the bird man’s hand. “You ready to tell us, mate?” The duo slowed down a little, giving him a chance to speak. Purpled gasped for air, a smile still plastered on his face. He panted, eyes glazed over a little from the exertion. “You...you guys suhuhuhuck…” His hands balled into fists, resolve (and lee mood) taking over for him. “Ihihihi’m nohohot gohohonna.” Wilbur scowled at him a little.

“Seriously? You have some stamina for a gangly kiddo.” “I’m not gangly!” “Says you. You’re so short.” He growled at the musician a little. Suddenly, a hand laced itself into his hair, making him flinch in surprise. “W-wha-?” “Shhh, Purp. Let me pet you for a bit. How does this feel?”

The fingers slowly raked down his scalp, careful not to nick the then skin. The feeling was heavenly. There was no denying it. Eyes fluttering shut, he pushed his head into his hand. His feelers twitched happily after each round of stroking, making Wilbur stifle a coo at the adorable sight. Techno put down his book, sighing. “Do you really need me to help-” A finger at his mouth stopped him from speaking.

“Shh, let Phil work his magic. Maybe he’ll be willing to give us the info then.” Wilbur whispered, his glasses slipping down on his nose and giving him a disheveled look. A single hoof-hand pushed it up for him. Soft silence surrounded the group for a bit, all for the low, rumbling purr that was emanating from Phil. Wait, from Phil? The two of them snapped to look at their father, a flash of surprise overtaking them both for a moment. Purpled was….purring? Almost reluctantly, the hardcore warrior untangled his hand from his hair, a whine and a stuttering purr following him a little with his head. “Hmm…”

“More headpats after you tell us.”

“Mmmmnooo….”

Purpled opened his eyes slowly, almost boneless in his relaxed state. Philza gently spidered his fingers over the alien hybrid’s neck, smiling slightly at the sleepy giggles it produced. “Aww, come on. You sure you don’t want to tell us, little guy?” Through his giggles, the alien shook his head no, a louder bout of laughter escaping him when the warrior’s hands trailed down to his collarbones.

“Ehehehehe!”

“Kitchy kitchy coo~”

He squealed quietly at the tease, his face blossoming with color again. Wilbur decided to join in again. He carefully traced shapes on the boy’s thighs, enjoying the hybrid’s laughter. “Man, your laugh is so cute! So, Purplee, you going to tell us yet? Or are you having too much fun?” Purpled squirmed in his bonds, sleepily nodding along to what he was saying. He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You are?” A mumble underneath his breath. “Phil , what did he say?” The winged man chuckled. “He just said he didn’t know, he just wanted to fuck with us.” Techno snort-huffed. “Of course he did. We are so getting him back for that.” “Why not now?” Blood red eyes shifted to the floor, then back to the bound alien hybrid.

“Because. Look at him. Do you really want to snap him out of this?” Coffee-colored eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief. “Is the great Technoblade being soft for a lil guy?” Techno cleared his throat, shaking his head and making his ears flop. “No. Wilbur, no.” The musician walked closer to him, looking up to stare directly into his eyes. “Is the great Blood God getting whipped over a bedwars player?” A low growl cut through the air. “Wilbur, if you don’t stop now-”

Another round of purring stopped him mid-sentence. “That’s it, Purp. You did great.” Phil glanced at the duo who had done virtually nothing to help him, a small glare hinted in the back of his eyes. ‘You will pay for this.’ Wilbur took a step back. Techno did the same, tail whipping at the floor in anticipation. The hardcore player treaded his hands deep into his silky hair, coaxing him back into a resting state. “Did you like this? I hope you did.” Sleepy eyes opened just barely, eyes twinkling with adoration. “....yea...will y’ do ‘t again?”

A breath that he didn’t know he was holding escaped with a happy trill and lilt. “Of course, mate. Sleep well.” For the second time that day, Philza gently coaxed the boy into slumber. A sleepy smile plastered on his face, Purpled’s chest rose and fell rhythmically once more, calm and deep like the lapping of a purple-platinum ocean. “Now, as for the fact that you two didn’t help me at all with that…” He stepped closer to his sons, wings spreading outwards like a rippling wave of pitch. Nervous giggles escaped Wilbur and Techno.

“Nonono! Phil, pleasE-”

Purpled didn’t wake until the morning rays shone down on his face, the scent of pancakes and the smell of home wafting into his nose. And, no, he didn’t inquire at all about why Techno and Wilbur refused to look the eldest in the house in the eyes.

It felt good to be with them.

He hoped it would always last.

#my writing #downywrites #downy writes #tickle fic #sfw tickle #my fic #mcyt tickle #dsmp tickle #lee!purpled #ler!wilbur #ler!philza

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spacestationdaedalus · 3 years

Text

when my demons won’t let me be

or: not in his right state of mind, Jon accidentally compels Martin. It’s not okay, but it’s okay.

or or: i spend so much time reading sick fic and i finally wrote one of my own angst and plenty of hurt/comfort, warnings for canon-typical compulsion and descriptions of panic and disassociation

Martin wakes to a shifting of weight and a cut off breath. It's a hazy half-awareness, coming to him under a snowdrift, on a radio station drowning in dull static.

In a well-practiced motion, Martin extends an arm over the covers to rest on Jon's chest. He doesn't let the full weight fall, not yet. Enough for Jon to know he's there, a touch light enough that Jon can readily push away or lean into. It depends on the particular brand of nightmare, the terror that's chosen to follow him to sleep. Sometimes he sets Martin's arm aside with a gentle squeeze, sitting up against the headboard and taking comfort in the cool bedroom air and the sound of Martin's breathing. At least, in Jon's own words. Other times, he holds Martin's arm to his chest, taking comfort in the weight and warmth of it.

Neither of those things happen, though.

Jon rolls sharply, seemingly ignoring Martin's arm in favor of the other side of the bed. He curls around himself with a low whine, harshly cut off in the back of his throat.

"J'n?" Martin props himself up on one arm. Voice rough with sleep, but no less concerned.

Jon shifts, a back and forth movement that looks like it could be the shaking of his head. His shoulders are taut and trembling. He makes another sound that could be the beginning of a shout, and it brings Martin to full awareness. He moves his hands to Jon's shoulder before he has time to think, desperate to help, to comfort, to something.

"Jon, it's alright-"

“Don’t touch me!” Jon bursts out, dripping and full of static and oh oh oh. It cascades over Martin’s mind, oily and slick. His hands pull away like they've been burned, but numb and far off. As though belonging to a stranger.

He shifts away from Jon and off of the bed, limbs moving robotically to pull back the covers, to move him away until his back meets the bedroom wall. Martin's hands are raised halfway, frozen in a caricature of comfort. A puppet on strings. He wants to move, shout, anything. But the gaze of eyes he can’t see bears down on him, an insurmountable weight holding him in place. Like a butterfly pinned inside a glass display case.

Jon is sitting up, now. Eyes (eyes, eyes, he's all eyes) blown wide, bright and glassy even in the low light of the room. His breathing is ragged and uneven in obvious panic. Even with his hands clenched tight in the front of his nightshirt, Martin can see they’re trembling. Martin’s heart aches and he wants to help but he can’t move and Jon’s eyes are still on him and he can’t breathe and it hurts. And he's afraid. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, the eyes are still watching him and it feels so much like burning paper and righteous anger and Elias's face and everything Martin had been trying to forget.

Jon brings up a hand to cover his mouth. Horror and panic clear in his eyes, which Martin knows are reflected in his own. Then Jon backs away, clearly unsteady on shaking legs. Martin's vision starts to blur (when was the last time he blinked?) but he hears Jon's steps fade into the hall. And Martin can do nothing.

The back of Martin's mind still using logic was hoping the feeling would fade once Jon wasn't looking at him. Unfortunately, Martin is used to being proven wrong. Face blank, body rigid, mind screaming.

Autonomy comes back to him slowly, a tingling in his fingertips that trickles down his arms and leaves an awful shakiness in its wake. Nerves making up for lost time, maybe. Trying to catch up with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. A grip Martin wasn't aware of begins to loosen from around his ribcage, and his first real breath in ages is a shuddering gasp. The force of it combined with the jelly replacing his knees sends him sliding to the floor, using the wall for support.

Martin breathes. In. Out. The first breath is molten in his lungs. His eyes water against it, and the second one is even worse. The third leaves as a sob that echoes back at him. In one last betrayal of his body against him, the tears spill over to drip down his cheeks. Martin rests his forehead against his knees and wills himself not to fall apart.

The Lonely was easy, in that regard. For months, Martin didn't have to worry about this kind of thing - the fear and anger and gaping misery that had been following them for so long. But evidently suppressing your trauma with more trauma wasn't a healthy coping mechanism. Go figure.

Leaving the Lonely was hard. Martin had spent most of the first 48 hours oscillating wildly between numb detachment and emotion so overwhelming he thought he would drown in it. Jon helped. He was patient, gentle, all the things Martin thought were too good to be true.

Martin forces himself up as soon as he's able. Maybe sooner, given the way the room sways when he stands. But it passes after a moment, and Martin goes to find Jon.

The house is dark. The occasional creak from the pipes and floors could be off-putting, but compared to everything else, it's benign. He uses fingers brushed against the wall to guide him down the short hallway.

"Jon?" He calls. The floor creaks in response.

Martin reaches the threshold between the hall and the kitchen. The haze of the moon behind thin clouds bleeds through the window above the sink, providing just enough light to see. Martin catches a shadow out of the corner of his eye, but it isn't actually a shadow, and Martin lets himself feel a hint of temporary relief.

Jon is tucked in the corner between two cabinets. Head buried against his bent knees, hands gripping into his hair in a position that mirrors Martin's from mere moments ago. Martin's heart leaps into his throat.

"Oh, Jon." Martin kneels in front of him, slow as to not startle him. If Jon notices, he makes no sign of it.

"Jon?" Martin reaches, but stops halfway. He doesn't want a repeat of before. His palm itches, but he keeps it airborne. Until he knows it's okay.

Jon makes a sound in the back of his throat, one that Martin hasn't heard before. His next inhale is strained and wet and - oh.

Martin had never seen Jon cry before. Angry, upset, shaken, sure. But not this. It twists something awful and thorny in his chest. Martin wants to hug him, but he keeps the few inches between them.

"Don't-" Jon starts suddenly, and for an awful moment the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand up on end. But Jon cuts himself off with a keening noise, and curls further into himself. His shoulders are trembling, either from holding back sobs or the biting chill of the poorly-insulated kitchen floor, Martin can't be sure. Probably both.

"I-I'm sorry-" Jon stutters, sounding like each word is a fight to get out. "I-I-I don't - I don't know…"

"Just breathe, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head against his legs. "N-no, you need to-" A sob cuts him off.

"Need to what, love?" The term of endearment slips out naturally on Martin's tongue. If Jon notices, he doesn't say so.

"Leave." The last word crackles slightly in the air, like static electricity threatening a shock. Martin freezes. The compulsion threatens to overtake him, but it's weaker than before. It rings in his skull, and Martin fights it back until it fades to background noise.

Jon whispers, barely audible. "I can't - I can't control it."

Oh.

"Alright, alright…" Martin bites his lip for a moment. Nods to himself.

"Okay, let's just - I'll ask you yes or no questions for now. You can, ah - just nod for yes and shake your head for no. Is that alright?"

Jon's face is still hidden, but that's alright. After a moment, he nods enough for Martin to discern the movement.

"G-good, okay-" Martin pauses, not immediately sure what question to go with first.

"Did you have a nightmare, earlier? Is that what scared you?" Martin silently chides himself for asking two questions, but hopefully it won't matter.

Jon nods.

"Has this happened before? The, uh-" Martin makes a hand motion, but Jon can't see it. "Th-the 'not being able to control the compulsion,' thing?"

There's a pause, then Jon shakes his head. Martin frowns.

"Alright, that's alright. Do you think you can look at me?"

Another pause, longer. Martin doesn't press as the seconds pass. Then Jon slowly raises his head.

Jon's eyes are wide, rimmed with red and dark circles more pronounced than they had been in the last few days. Tears are steadily dripping down his cheeks, flushed dark against his complexion. His lips are pressed tightly together, and Martin can see the barely contained panic mingled with exhaustion in every line of his face.

"Hey." Martin greets, feeling like a small victory. Jon quickly casts his gaze down and to the side, not meeting Martin's eyes. He also moves his hands to wrap around his torso, shivering harshly against the cabinets. Martin frowns again. He racks his brain for the seemingly mundane moments from the previous day. Jon talking less as the day had gone on, his less-than-already-finnicky appetite, going to bed early because he said he was a bit tired. Nothing individually out of the ordinary, not after the hell they'd dragged themselves through just to get here. But-

"Jon, is it alright if I touch you?"

Jon nods almost immediately, but still avoids Martin's eyes. Encouraged, Martin moves carefully to press the back of his hand against Jon's cheek. It's warm - hot, even - to the touch. Martin checks his forehead for good measure, feeling the heat before their skin actually makes contact. Martin's winces in sympathy, moving his hand back to Jon's cheek. He uses both hands, for good measure, to cup Jon's face, and wipe the stray tears still dripping from his lashes.

"Oh, love. You're burning up." Martin says, gently. "That must have something to do with it."

Jon's brow furrows. He brings his own hand up to his face, seemingly to try and feel his own temperature. Martin can't help the quiet laugh.

"First let's get off the floor. 's not exactly comfortable, yeah?" Martin offers.

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Martin's heart leaps into his throat. "Oh, hey, hey-"

Jon's words are muffled by his hands, and broken up by harsh, jagged sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-I didn't-"

Martin moves forward slightly so he can wrap his arms around Jon. He can feel the shivers wracking Jon's frame, and the heat radiating off of him in waves. Martin tucks Jon's head under his chin, and holds him.

"Hey, it's okay." And it's not a lie. Martin was scared - terrified, to put it lightly. He knows he can't just brush that fear away. But he's not scared of Jon, never has been, never will be. And Martin know Jon, knows him and loves him and knows that he loves him back. Martin thinks that this might be more complicated than that, but right now, with Jon coming apart on the kitchen floor, it feels that simple.

"I know you didn't mean to, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head weakly in protest. Martin can't make out his exact words, jumbled as they are. But he feels the intent behind them, with the way they reverberate in his chest.

"We can talk about it later, when you're feeling better. But I'm not mad, I promise." Martin runs a hand through Jon's hair. It might have been a braid when Jon first went to bed, but it's mostly undone now. "Right now, I'm just worried about you. That's a nasty fever you're running."

They stay like that for a few minutes more. Jon's form is still a trembling leaf in Martin's arms, shallow and uneven breaths punctured by the occasional apology and stifled cry. Jon's forehead is pressed into his neck, burning like a furnace against Martin's skin.

Martin almost asks Jon if he can walk, but instead-

"Jon, is it alright if I pick you up?"

Jon tenses, and Martin immediately regrets asking. But then Jon nods affirmative, relaxing slightly into Martin's hold. Oh thank god.

Jon fits easily into the bends of Martin's arms, one at his back and one under his knees. Jon's hands clench the front of Martin's shirt, tightening and loosening in an uneven rhythm as Martin stands. It's easy for Martin to carry him the short distance to the bedroom, mindful of the narrow door frames.

The quilt and sheets are pulled back from before, which is helpful now. Martin eases Jon onto the bed. He brushes Jon's hair away from his face in what Martin hopes is a comforting gesture. But Jon still has that faraway, panicky look in his eyes, and Martin has an idea.

"Don't move, alright? I'll be right back, I promise." Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, hoping he heard and understood enough of that to not mind when he leaves the room.

Martin comes back with a damp cloth and a glass of water. And a bottle of pain reliever - one that Martin had originally picked up from the store as an afterthought, but is grateful for now. He sets the glass and bottle on the nightstand and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Next to Jon, who hasn't so much as shifted in Martin's admittedly brief absence. Martin lays a hand on Jon's shoulder, but after a moment, moves to Jon's cheek. An olive branch to Jon's clouded awareness.

"Alright, love. I'm gonna lay this on the back of your neck, okay? Can you lean forward a touch for me?"

Jon doesn't move or otherwise react for a moment, and Martin is almost sure he didn't hear it. But then he pitches forward slightly, and Martin shifts so he can support Jon's weight against his shoulder. He brushes Jon's loose curls to the side, letting his fingers linger there for good measure.

"It's gonna feel really cold, but it'll help. Easy," Martin murmurs, placing the folded cloth on the back of Jon's neck. Jon flinches at the touch, hissing between a groan and a whimper.

"I know, I know." Martin soothes easily, adding other words of comfort here and there, lost to his memory as soon as they cross his lips. He holds Jon close, taking the chance to comb his fingers again through Jon's bed-moussed hair. He knows Jon likes having his hair played with, so Martin ever so gently works his way through some of the tangles, careful never to pull too hard or too fast. Jon's breaths slow and deepen - still marred by the occasional hitch, but a vast improvement from before. He gradually sinks more of his weight onto Martin's shoulder, until Martin is sure he's the only reason Jon is still upright. But Martin doesn't mind.

"Better?" Martin asks, when Jon's trembling passes and his breaths sound less like someone on the verge of drowning. Jon clears his throat.

"I- yes." He rasps, hardly a whisper. The word pulls a cough out of him, but he keeps going. "Th- thank you."

"Of course." Martin says. He all but beams at the sound of Jon's voice, wretched as it sounds. He considers making tea, but something about the bonelessness of Jon's posture tells him Jon won't be awake long enough to see a cup finished. But he does grab the glass of water from the nightstand, and shifts so Jon can take it in both hands.

"Drink some of that for me." Martin presses, and Jon doesn't argue. Martin reaches for the pain reliever next, shaking two pills out and handing them to Jon. He seems surprised at first, but quietly offers a thank you as he takes them from Martin's hand.

"How are you feeling?" Martin asks. It feels like a stupid question, but one of those stupid questions that you just have to ask in lieu of anything else.

"I'm-" Martin knows Jon is about to say I'm alright and something in his face must stop Jon from finishing, because he cuts himself off with a sigh. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, suppressing a wince. "To - to be honest, uh, quite terrible."

The frankness of it could almost be funny, but Martin's heart aches instead. "I'm sorry. The medicine should help, at least."

Even without his glasses, Martin can make out the two in the hour place of the digital clock on the nightstand, and yeah, it's time for bed.

"And some proper sleep."

Jon nods, eyelids heavy. Martin takes the half-empty glass from his hand, and encourages Jon to lie back with a gentle push. Martin joins him on the other side of the bed, pulling the covers back over the two of them. He leans, partially sitting up against the headboard, inviting Jon into the place at his side if he wants it.

Jon fills the space immediately, burrowing his face into Martin's shoulder. Arms curled in front of him, pressed into Martin's side. He sighs softly. Martin watches the last of the tension bleed out of Jon's face, eyes closed. Jon's fever leaves Martin's side overly warm in minutes, but Martin can't bring himself to mind.

He's sure Jon is already asleep, but-

"M-rtin?"

"What is it, Jon? Do you need something?"

Jon makes a negative sound into Martin's shoulder, shaking his head. It's quiet for a moment, save for their breathing.

"I love you."

Martin freezes, and the response comes as naturally as an inhale after an exhale.

"I love you too."

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma fics #my writing #i have not proofread this but i'm also proud of it pls forgive me

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