#Marrow looks done

[marrowlyavoideddisaster]

A doodle i made in class today!! I'm pretty proud of it, drew it in maybe 15 mins? Lol

(Reblogs are highly encouraged!! I love talking to people, I read all the tags people leave, it makes me happy)

(P.S. on desktop, try shift+r or shift+q to quick reblog and queue, and on mobile, hold down the reblog button and drag over the profile picture bubble that corresponds to your desired blog)

#spamton #spamton g spamton #marrow talks #my stuff #deltarune #my art #spamton fanart #deltarune fanart #hahaha this was done traditionally and i had to bake it in so many filters to make it look good. might make it my pfp

[undiscovered-horizon]

[To be loved is to be changed. And while being married to you has changed Mihawk, it's not entirely for the better. He's a possessive and protective lover to the marrow of his bones.]

(TW for unwanted sexual comments)

Mihawk knew the name 'Shantaro' quite well. Any time you told him a story from your adolescence that revolved around borderline illegal, unethical or simply reckless adventures, Shantaro was there. The little devil on your shoulder but as reliable as a true angel.

He, however, never expected you to run into Shantaro on the odd night when the two of you can go out. Comfortably basking in your presence, Mihawk is thoroughly enjoying your undivided attention.

Until.

You're suddenly rendered speechless as you notice something - someone - over his shoulder. A wide smile spreads across your face. Mihawk is unsure whether he should rejoice with how beautiful you look or seethe, knowing that another person dared to distract you from him.

"It's Shantaro!" you squeal excitedly. "I'm sorry, love, I'll be just a moment. I haven't seen her in ages!"

Mihawk doesn't even try to stop you as you make your way through the crowd at the lounge. His watchful gaze follows your steps as you approach a stringy woman in a silver dress. A hurricane of black curls sits on top of her head. Her piercing, grey eyes notice you, suddenly widening with both surprise and happiness. The two of you engulf each other in a bone-crushing hug, silently exchanging feelings of longing towards the closest friend from younger years.

The swordsman's night, however, is about to get even worse as he hears someone behind him whisper:

"She's a minx, that foxy wife of yours."

He turns around with his jaw and fists clenched. Mihawk's enraged gaze meets the face of an amused man who is casually sipping on his drink. There's a glint in the stranger's eyes that makes the swordsman's skin crawl - he wanted to get under Dracule's skin.

"Don't look so surprised," the stranger reprimands him. The man must have mistaken Mihawk's baffled expression at the bold words for genuine surprise that someone put two and two together. Truthfully, he couldn't care less whether people know that he's married. "Many pirates get hard fantasising about having their way with the Warlord's wife." Judging by the way the man licks his lips and hides a certain hunger behind his eyes, it's clear he's part of the aforementioned group. "But the Warlord himself? Unfortunately for him, she turns him soft," he drones the word as though it's a serious insult.

"Yes, she does," Mihawk answers slowly.

The events that followed happened exceptionally fast: Mihawk reached for the stranger's neck and slammed the man's head against the bar counter. Curiously, people happening to be in their vicinity carry on as though nothing bizarre is happening - they are smart enough not to get in Dracule Mihawk's way, especially when he is visibly upset.

Blood is gushing from the strange man's forehead, his eye already beginning to swell and change colour. The swordsman tilted his victim's head back just enough to lean down and growl. "Which is why I'm going to kill you much faster than you deserve for your offence."

Mihawk glances in your direction. You're still occupied, excitedly telling Shantaro about the years after you've last met her.

He'll be done before you notice him gone.

#mihawk x reader #mihawk x you #mihawk fanfiction #mihawk imagine #mihawk fanfic #dracule mihawk #mihawk one piece #mihawk opla #one piece #one piece x reader #opla #dracule mihawk x reader #dracule mihawk x you #dracule mihawk fanfiction #dracule mihawk imagine #dracule mihawk fanfic #one piece mihawk #one piece dracule mihawk #one piece fanfiction #one piece imagine #one piece fanfic #dracule mihawk opla #opla fanfiction #opla x reader #one piece x you #opla imagine #opla fanfic #opla x you #op live action #one piece live action

[inkskinned]

they keep the silverware in the same place. you forget about it a little bit when you move out, but during the holidays, it comes back. the way you smooth over your life for them, a gentle reckoning.

for a while, you tried to find yourself by being wild. throwing your body at the emergency exit. finding comfort in the sharpness of a held breath. you used to write wake up on the inside of your wrist. you couldn't calculate the weight of your own sorrow, only that nobody was looking at the anchor of it. you tried maladaptive coping mechanisms like catnip. got caught half-in half-out of them. felt, weirdly, like you should be embarrassed of all of it.

but it does get better. mostly it's just that you become a priority to yourself. it turns out that lending yourself the ragged edge is just cutting open more marrow. for a while, it felt good to see a physical representation of inward agony. but who was that punishing? you learned, slowly (so slowly it was almost invisible sometimes) that you could put love into the wound instead. that the floor was comfortable because it was certain - but it was cold, and unwanting. instead there is a warm bed. you learn to treat yourself like a kid again. gentle-parent yourself into the shower and over breakfast and into laughing without effort. you do wake up.

but then you come home again, and it is like everything is a strange kaleidoscope of childhood moments. here is how you inherited your mother's anxiety. there is the same music playing, and you can't sit down without worrying you forgot to do something. your mother's clipped words and hovering hands - are you sure? are you sure? birdlike, you find yourself seeing unwell and still end up repeating.

here is your father's anger. you are 16 again. there was a moment where you remember thinking - holy shit. i am so much more emotionally mature than you. how you have to talk him down from minor inconveniences, how you parent him like an errant and spoiled toddler who can't be told no, and i mean it. you feel the warp of you. why you can't be in the same room as people having a completely normal conflict. why your skin crawls if there's ever a hint of a fight. why you live with your hands up, placating. and god forbid you get angry. you feel that little spoiled kid rage against the iron will of you. not you, not your hands. you would rather cut your own tongue out of your head, no matter how valid her argument is.

and you're so fucking far from where you were as a kid. you've done so much healing. and there's this little sad part of you that can see the shadow of your past, and your hands wrapped into each other so tightly you made your knuckles white. and how much your parents are just people, and haven't changed much, and still keep the spoons in the drawer to the right.

there is a long dark tunnel here, and it has a name, but you haven't learned how to process that kind of speech yet. close the cabinet. make a note to go get more oat milk. close your eyes.

this place was never home, was it.

#spilled ink #writeblr

[just-a-sewer-goblin]

Imagine Price coming home to you after a long mission. He's tired down to the marrow of his bones. Eyes haunted and dark and you're greeting him with pure love and softness. He needs that, needs your gentleness to wash over the harshness he experienced. You know you won't ever wash it away, but you can soothe it, like cool water over an angry burn.

Imagine him damn near collapsing in your arms putting as much of his weight on you as you can take. When he pulls back you cup his face, his beard is long and dirty. Your eyes smile at him and a long sigh escapes him. You don't even need to speak, you let your actions do the talking, gently easing his jacket off of him, taking his bag and setting it aside. That's for tomorrow you to put away. Right now you need to bring John back home.

Imagine Price following you like a lost puppy into the bathroom, where you have him sit before the sink. You want him to be as comfortable as possible.

Then you begin the routine of taking care of him, washing his face and cleaning his beard. And you end up sitting in his lap to trim his beard.

Imagine Price putting his hands on your hips to hold on to you and keep you close. His fingers flexing every now and then as if he wants to grip you even tighter, while you carefully make him look civilized again. And when you're done you put down what you've been holding and cup his face in your hands, kissing his nose. "Welcome home John." It's the first thing either of you has said and he closes his eyes and nuzzles into your hands, finally gripping you tighter and crushing you against his body.

Imagine John kissing your shoulder and leaning his head against it while saying "I'm home, darling." And you know that by home he doesn't mean the shared apartment. No, John's home is right here, in your arms.

#the sewer writes #john price #captain john price #john price x gn!reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #price x reader #captain price x reader #gn!reader #john price cod

[lipglossanon]

Desire (I’m Hungry)

Corrupt Cop!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

<< previous installment >>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, Leon POV, dark thoughts, being filmed without consent aka Leon’s making a sex tape and reader has no clue, dirty talk, daddy kink, kissing, biting, blood kink, oral (m & f receiving), pussy spanking, clit biting, unprotected sex, creampie

not proofread ✌️

today marks one year that I officially published my first Leon x reader fic that just happened to be Corrupt Cop Leon! 💜 so happy anniversary to the OG! 😘

Title from Desire by Meg Myers 💜

It’s not unusual to see a police cruiser parked outside the library on any given night. Especially when you’re inside, finishing up whatever class work you can before heading home. 

Leon leans back against the passenger door, one leg crossed over the ankle of the other, arms folded over his chest. His walkie’s turned off since he’s not on duty and he can hear the whispers of people passing him by, from the curious looks of kids to loose women giving him sultry smiles. Except for a cursory glance, his mind doesn’t linger on any single one of them. 

Drumming his fingers on his bicep, he tilts his head as he catalogs the outside of the building. He’s done this a thousand times at this point. Even before you knew he came around, when he would follow you home and watch you from his squad car. He kind of misses those days.    

The sound of a door opening pulls his attention up the library steps. Once you fully step out into the cool evening air, your eyes immediately seek him out. Satisfaction coils deep in his gut as your face breaks out into a bright smile at seeing him. Although he loved quietly following you, having you seek him out is much better. His eyes track your body as you carefully take the stairs and walk over to him. 

He only had to chastise you one time about not rushing down the steps. (You cried so prettily on his cock after he spanked your pussy raw. But the lesson stuck and he hasn’t had to remind you once, such a good girl). 

“Hi,” your soft voice hits his ears and he’s smirking at your shyness. 

“Hi, pretty girl, ready to go?”

You nod, “All set. Thank you for taking me home.”

“Of course, don’t want you getting hurt,” he murmurs, uncrossing his arms to brush a thumb across your cheekbone, “here, let me take your bag.”

Eyes fond, you hand him your book bag and wait for him to open the passenger door for you. Watching as you sit, he sees when your skirt rucks up around your thighs and it makes his blood run hot, pulse quickening in his neck. He walks around the trunk of the car, placing your bag in the back before climbing into the driver seat. 

He checks his mirrors and blind spots before pulling away from the curb. As soon as he’s on the street, his hand grips the dough of your thigh closest to the gear shift. A giddy thrum of excitement bleeds through his thoughts when he hears your little gasp. You’re so easy for him. His pretty, perfect girl. 

He no longer stifles those thoughts or impulses that once might have gotten him locked up. You invite his dark urges in with wet eyes and an even wetter cunt. Today’s special even if you don’t know it. He’s planned a little surprise, something he’s been wanting to do for a while now. 

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he watches you surreptitiously, taking in the  changing expressions as he drives closer and closer to your house. Just seeing your face makes him ache all the way down to his marrow. He wants to sink his teeth into you until he tastes blood.

“Should we eat out for dinner?”

He glances over at you and tightens his fingers, giving your thigh a quick squeeze. 

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He parks outside your house, letting you walk up to your front stoop first as he grabs your bag. You unlock the door as soon as he joins you, his hand palming your lower back to usher you into the house. Dropping your school bag down onto the floor, he uses both hands to grip your hips, pushing you back against the closed front door. 

Desire pulses throughout his body, a deep seated hunger that makes him want to crack open your rib cage and crawl inside. He’s sure your beating heart would sate this visceral reaction to the possessive want that engulfs his thoughts.

But kissing you will have to suffice for now. 

Your lips part on a sigh as he licks into your mouth, tongue greedy and hot as he tastes you deeply. His fingers dig into your skin, thumbs pressed uncomfortably against your hip bones; he gloats to himself as the twinge of pain has you arching into him. If he could, Leon would rip you apart at the seams, swallow you whole til nothing’s left. 

You whimper into his harsh kisses while your hands grab onto his chest, badge nearly pricking your fingers as you try to find purchase against his uniform. He lets go of your waist to circle his fingers around your wrists, pushing them against the door on either side of your head. Pulling back, his sea dark eyes take in your dilated pupils and swollen lips. 

Now, he thinks, is the perfect time to drag you into your room.

Leon kisses you again, heatedly, pulling you into the bedroom with little preamble. For the surprise he’s been planning, he made sure to sneak into your house earlier in the day. He then hid a camera perfectly angled on your nightstand where you couldn’t see it. 

His mouth waters at the thought of filming everything he wants to do to you. Excitement heightens his aggressiveness. He can’t wait to take you apart in front of the lens, especially without you knowing. He shivers as he licks hungrily into your mouth. 

“Leon,” you whisper when he drags his mouth down to bite your neck, “thought we were going out to dinner?”

“Well, I am gonna eat you out,” he crudely states with a grin, “but first let’s see those pretty tits.”

Biting your bottom lip softly, you step back and pull your shirt off. His eyes watch as you nervously take off your bra and drop it into the floor with your shirt. Leon lets his hands reach out to grope and pinch your hard nipples. His cock throbs where it’s trapped in his pants.

“Get naked, pretty girl, wanna see you,” he coaxes, smile wicked when you do as he says.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, he faces the camera, pulling you down into his lap, your back to his chest. The juxtaposition of having you completely naked on his lap while he’s in uniform makes him bite down on your shoulder hard. You squeal and try to move, but he wraps his arms around you, pinning you in place. 

After you settle down, his hands move to squeeze the fat of your breasts until it dimples between his fingers. Your nipples tighten even further under his palms as he runs them across the stiff buds. 

“Such a good girl,” he kisses the side of your neck, eyes glinting when they look over to the hidden device, “bet that cute pussy’s soaked, sweetheart.”

Squirming against him, you whine pitifully, grinding your wet cunt down onto his bulge, “Daddy, please.”

“Such a well mannered girl,” he coos sweetly, luring you into relaxing against him further. 

The flat of his fingers come down in a hard slap against your pussy, a sharp gasp parting your pretty lips. Leon spanks across your fat cunt until you’re hiccuping little cries, tears streaming down your face to drip onto your chest. Even with the pain, you still part your legs for him, letting him drag his fingers across your wet slit. 

He wonders absently as he toys with your clit if you’d let him bite you here, sink his teeth in your sweet little bud til you scream. That thought alone has precum dripping from his tip, making his briefs damp. 

“Such a slutty cunt,” he whispers in your ear, feeling you shiver, “like when daddy shows you who’s in charge, sweetheart?”

“Yes, sir,” you sniffle wetly. 

That ugly need to hurt you ramps up again and he pinches your clit roughly until you bleat in pain. 

“Good girl,” he chuckles, fingers softly petting your cunt, “my perfect girl.”

“All yours, daddy,” you automatically respond. 

Your voice is hoarse from all your crying and it makes his chest burn like his solar plexus is caving in.

“That’s right,” he croons, cupping your breasts in his hands, thumbs swiping across your nipples, “daddy’s got such a smart pretty girl.”

He wants to laugh at how those words make you press against him, praise making you stupid and pliant for him.

“Get on the floor,” he pushes at your shoulders, “think that sweet mouth deserves a reward.”

Eagerly, you slide off his lap onto your knees, turning around to face him. He unbuckles his belt and undoes his pants, pushing them down his thighs so he can tuck his briefs underneath his balls comfortably. His weeping cock bobs in front of your face, tip brushing across your cheek and smearing precum across your skin. 

“Kiss it, baby, show me how much you want daddy in your mouth,” he grins at you. 

Your shyness just makes him harder as you press a feather light kiss to his dick. He watches as your lips and tongue work in tandem to gently kiss and lick at his fat cockhead. You sigh hard enough he feels the dampness of your breath before your tongue lathes underneath the foreskin, lapping up the sticky precum dripping from his slit. You moan while you taste him, eyes fluttering closed as you get more and more eager at sucking him off. 

Thighs twitching, he grunts when you suck him into your warm mouth, tongue cupping the head when you withdraw, lips tightly wrapped around the tip of his dick. He feels as you circle the head of his cock with your tongue, dipping the slick muscle into his slit to draw out more precum. 

“Good girl,” he groans when your mouth drops down to kiss and suck at his balls. 

Leon keeps his gaze on you as you try to suck both of his balls into your wet mouth, whimpering when you can only fit one. Smearing your own spit across your face, you nuzzle into his squishy sac, mouthing and lapping at the sensitive skin before sucking each of his balls again. 

Whining, you eagerly lap at his sac, tongue slowly tracing up the seam. Your lips meet the base of his cock before you flick your tongue back around his balls. Reaching down, he grabs the back of your neck, pulling your mouth up to suck on his cock. A choked off moan reverberates around his dick as your lips part to sink down around the first few inches. His abs tense when he feels the spit drip down his dick onto his balls. 

“So good, sweetheart,” he murmurs, halfway tempted to gag you on his dick— maybe even choke you on it til you pass out.

More precum blurts across your tongue as he pictures your eyes rolling back, body going limp from lack of air. His fingers spasm around your neck as the tip bumps into the back of your throat. Bucking up into your mouth, the tightness around his cock increases and you retch loudly. 

“Take it or I’m going to get mean with you,” he narrows his eyes down at you.

You cough again, a wet dirty sound as he pulls his cock halfway out of your mouth only to press back in deep, the fat head kissing the back of your throat immediately. It would be easy to keep you here, swallowing around him til he came or you blacked out. His eyes cut to the hidden camera before flicking back down to you. Maybe next time he’ll try it, but for now he wants to make this last longer for the video. 

Rolling his neck til it cracks, he lets you go, watching with hidden glee as you pull off with a gross coughing fit and wet eyes. The dough of your thighs press together drawing his gaze where he can actually see a light sheen of slick coating them. Taking a hitched shuddery breath, you lean forward and kitten lick the head, soft tongue cleaning up any precum spilling from the slit down his cock. 

A flash of your mouth split open and a bloody chin makes Leon place his hands under your armpits and yank you up, turning sideways to toss you onto the bed. He crawls on top of you and kisses you hard enough to bruise. Sinking teeth into your lower lip, he brings his vision to life as he works the wet skin til it splits, the warm taste of pennies flooding his mouth. 

Growling like an animal, he sucks your bloody lip raw. He finally leans up, taking in the mess of your mouth with unreasonable pride. 

“So pretty,” he smiles down at you, blood coating his teeth, “my sweet girl.”

“Yours,” you nod dazedly, eyes blown in arousal, “m’yours, daddy.” 

He moves off the bed and begins to undress, taking extra care to set his holster and gun on top of your dresser. Once his uniform is off, he lays it out on a nearby chair in order to keep it off the floor. It just wouldn’t do to get it unnecessarily dirty. 

He climbs back onto the bed, eyes zeroing in on your bleeding mouth with the awareness of a predator tracking prey. He smiles and grabs your thighs, shoving them up until they’re nearly touching your shoulders. 

“Think it’s time I kiss my sweet girl hello,” his eyes drop from yours down to your soaked cunt, “aww, she always cries so hard for me, baby.”

He shuffles down onto his stomach, hands still pressing on your thighs as he leans in and kisses your swollen cunt.

“Greedy little pussy,” he chuckles derisively, “always begging for more.”

He slides his hands down from your thighs to the outside of your cunt, pulling your pussy lips apart to spit on your clenching hole. 

“Daddy!” 

He hears your voice crack before you gasp when he plunges his tongue into your pussy, fluttering the wet muscle as deep as possible into your spasming walls. You always taste like heaven, like he could die suffocated on your cunt and he’ll never find anything better. His eyes roll back when your slick floods his mouth, clit fat and swollen against his nose as your cunt squeezes down on his tongue.

Leon’s tongue laps at your hole before he runs the wet muscle up your slit to suck sloppily at your clit. He’s being as messy as possible; he knows you love it when your cunt’s coated in his spit after eating you out. The only thing better is when he cums all over your pussy, making you wear your panties to keep that sweet cunt wet and sticky with his seed. 

Your cries and whines fall on deaf ears as he eats you out at his leisure. He makes you cum twice before finally trying out the little earworm that has eaten away at his brain since earlier. Thighs shaking from the last orgasm, you're completely out of it when Leon dips his head and bites down on your fat throbbing clit. 

He growls and humps the bed as you thrash under him, hips trying to buck up to throw him off, hands digging into his hair but he doesn’t budge. He closes his teeth even tighter around your swollen bud and you screech, legs kicking out at him. Leon laughs at you, arms coming up and pinning your lower half down onto the bed. He readjusts his mouth and bites your clit harder than before. 

“No, no, daddy! Please!”

You sob brokenly and Leon feels like he’s going to cum all over the sheets. Letting go, Leon pulls his mouth away for a second wanting to see your tortured little bundle of nerves. It looks so swollen that it makes his jaw ache. He licks and kisses over your clit until you’re whimpering in pleasure, hips writhing as Leon bathes your cunt with rough swipes of his tongue. He works you up to another orgasm and right as your pussy cums, clenching around nothing, he sinks his teeth back into your clit with a groan. 

“Daddy, daddy! Leon, please!”

Your cunt gushes slick as the pain morphs into pleasure, babbling and pleading for more even as Leon sucks your bud into his mouth, hot tongue circling your abused clit. 

“Ready for daddy to to fuck your pretty little cunt?” He rumbles, tongue lashing across your bundle of nerves making you whine. 

“Please, daddy.”

There’s drool and blood all down your chin and he thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon. If he were a better man, he would tell you so. 

Leon crawls back up your body, dragging his cock against your thighs until the tip bumps against your sopping wet pussy. His eyes catalog your wince when his dick drags across your clit and he kisses you until spit runs down your jaw. Balancing himself on one forearm, he brings his other hand down to notch the tip of his cock at your soaked hole. 

“Let me in, pretty girl,” he licks up the blood on your chin as he works his cock into your cunt, “let me stuff this soft little pussy with cum.”

Keening high in your throat, you grind your head against the pillow and Leon takes that opportunity to savagely bite into the side of your neck. He can feel you wheeze in pain underneath his teeth at the same time your pussy walls flutter and clamp down on his cock. Sweet satisfaction hums like electricity in his blood. He trails kisses from the nasty bite mark up to your ear, nipping the lobe. 

“You like what I do to you, don’t you, sweetheart?” He kisses your temple before shifting until his forearms are on either side of your neck, hips rolling back before thrusting forward. 

The tight clutch of your pussy makes him dizzy with lust, knowing he can do anything to you and you’ll not only take it, but like it. The camera is practically an afterthought by this point. Leon’s focus is now on making your hot little pussy cream all over his cock before he shoots his load deep into your hole. 

“Always take it so well,” his baritone rumbles low in his chest and you shudder under him, “got daddy addicted to your soft chubby pussy, baby, always wanna be buried in her.”

Your nails dig into his skin but he loves the stinging scratches you leave on him; proof that you need him just as much as he needs you. He has half a mind to drag this out for hours and hours, but he really wants to send the tape over to Chris. Smugly show off his pretty girl and the sweet sounds she makes for him. 

Leon prides himself on keeping his cool even when he’s buried to the hilt inside your deliciously hot pussy. This time, his nerves fray quicker than he’s used to; too many fun things have happened and all in front of the camera so he can look back on it later. Being able to watch your face again as he bites your clit makes his hips rabbit fast and hard against yours, pussy squelching loudly between your bodies. 

“Got me so worked up,” he laughs, one forearm moving all he can glide his fingers down your side and across your hip, seeking out your sore clit, “squeeze the cum out of me, sweetheart, let daddy give you a nice thick creampie.”

“Ohhh,” you moan shakily, “daddy, please, w’nt it.”

“You’re gonna get it,” he promises, voice dark, “you’re gonna take everything I give you.”

The hot pulsing walls of your pussy makes his hips flex harder, bullying his cock into your cervix, needing to get as deep as possible in your body. 

“Sucking me in,” he murmurs, fingers gently circling your sensitive bundle of nerves, “your sweet cunt’s made for this, isn’t she baby?”

“Yes, Leon, ‘m made for you,” you babble out, eyelashes sticking together from tears as you pant and moan, “daddy, I’m g’nna cum.”

“Fuck, then do it, pretty girl, cream all over me, work this cum into that sweet hole,” he groans when your walls clamp down on his dick. 

He swipes across your clit a few more times as he ruts his cock in and out of your pussy, grinding the fat tip across your g-spot until your back arches, a loud scream pouring from your mouth. 

“Good girl,” he praises, knowing you can't hear him, “doing so well for me, sweetheart.”

As your soft walls pulse and flutter around his dick, he adjusts his hands to hold him up above your body so he can rail you into the mattress. 

“Too much,” you whimper, “Leon, s’too deep.”

“Shhh,” he reaches down to twist a nipple until you clench around his cock, “let me rearrange those guts, baby, daddy needs to cum, too.”

You nod, tears falling down your temples to collect on the pillow and his hips snap harder— the sight of you crying on his cock always does him in quick. He thrusts half a dozen more times before his hips begin to stutter. Burying himself balls deep, Leon’s cock kicks and throbs while he spills hot sticky cum all inside your clenching pussy walls. 

While he fills your cunt with rope after rope of thick jizz, he groans long and low against your ear, “Perfect baby, taking it so well for me.”

“Leon,” you whisper lightly, hands carding through his hair and giving him goosebumps.

He settles his body weight down on you, cock plugging up your pussy so his cum doesn’t leak out onto the bedspread. 

“Gotta surprise for you,” he kisses the side of your head and slowly maneuvers until he can quickly shuffle you around to face the hidden lens. 

He pulls out his half chubbed cock, cream colored slick oozing from your pussy when he spreads it open. 

Smiling up at you, he nods to your nightstand, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Show’em what a messy little pussy looks like.”

He watches in utter delight as your brows pinch together before realization dawns across your face. Tears bead in your eyes and he chuckles. 

“Aww don’t be that way,” he croons, fingers digging into your used hole to work more cum into spilling out between your thighs, “be a good girl and let everyone see the creampie daddy left in your pretty cunt.”

Your cubby lips stay spread as he fingers more of his cum out of your hole. 

“So swollen baby,” he groans, fingers glancing across your fat clit, “can’t wait to watch this back.”

You squirm but he catches the hitched breath and dilated eyes. Grinning darkly, he nuzzles against your ear. 

“Maybe next time it’ll be a livestream of how I ream my pretty girl’s tight little pussy,” he kisses the shell of your ear as you moan quietly, “yeah, or maybe we’ll get someone in to watch me take you apart.”

You shiver and writhe against him, pussy sucking his fingers in even as he slowly drags them out of your spent cunt. 

“Guess we’ll need to save that for later though,” he clicks his tongue, moving away from you to shut the camera off, “now let’s go get a shower so we can go out to dinner, sweetheart.”

#lipglossanon #lipglossmasterlist #corrupt cop!leon kennedy #corrupt cop!leon #leon s kennedy #leon s kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x y/n #leon s kennedy fanfiction #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #au #resident evil smut

[sprout-fics]

Poly TF141 x Omega! Reader Headcanons

(Poly TF14 x F! Omega Reader)

(Part Eight: First Rut)

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Hidden designations, Alpha! John Price, Alpha! Simon 'Ghost' Riley, Beta! Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick, Omega! John 'Soap' MacTavish, Omega F! Reader, Group dynamics, Poly TF141, Slow burn, Courting rituals, Omega discrimination, Sexual harassment, Protective Ghost, Team dynamics, Alpha rutting behavior, Possessiveness, Scenting

Masterlist

Ghost has been acting...odd since your last mission

It was a complete success, you eliminated a cell of terrorists, managed to display the full scope of your skills, seamlessly integrated yourself into the style of the team around you. 

Yet despite the success, Ghost seems…unsettled. Not himself.

You see it in the tight draw of his shoulders, the curled fists at his side, the way he barks orders harsher than usual at recruits. He’s a taut ball of pent of frustration and anxiety, and even when you try to gently press towards him, try to assist, Ghost only shrugs you off and stalks away

You think it’s something you’ve done, and you can’t even fix it. It doesn’t help that you’re busy with a new assignment to inquire into Ghost’s sudden shift in demeanor

In fact, it only seems to make it worse. 

Being an omega of your rank is its own set of issues, a scrutiny placed on you unlike your beta and alpha peers. Yet it's the fact that you're still off your suppressants, waltzing around base carrying the scent of more than one person that draws an unfortunate amount of attention to you

There's whispers about you on base, low murmurs you hear as you pace past other soldiers in the hallways. They shoot you scathing looks, sneer under their breath words you can't hear

You ignore it as best you can, knowing the more you pay attention, the worse it'll get. Nobody has the courage to say what they're thinking to your face

Not until they do

You're in a disagreement with a fellow officer about a supply cache, and he's flippantly dismissing you, waving you off like an errant fly that bothers him with your noise more than anything

It infuriates you, and you know exactly where he's coming from with his dismissal of your feedback. When you challenge him on it, the man wheels on you, snarling, showing teeth. He rises to his full alpha posture, towers over you even as you stand your ground, hissing down at you

"Why should I take orders from the 141's omega bitch?"

You bristle before you can stop yourself, barking a retort back that has the officer snarl, raise his fist in retaliation

Before it comes down, the arm is wrenched back at a horrible, painful angle with a skeletal gloved hand, and the alpha yelps

“The bleedin’ hell did you just say?” Ghost snarls, towering over the younger officer, the snarl so deep in his chest it bottoms out in his lungs. The man before you pales at the sound, quickly drops his arm back to his side. Yet he doesn’t concede, not yet, instead trying to press up to Ghost and snarling another insult about you like you aren’t even there

Ghost growls, and though he doesn’t move forward you feel the air around you grow thick as he throws his scent out, refusing to conceal the utter fury that lurks there. Untamed, unrestrained, a taut rope of lethal energy that has the man before you shrink, has you shiver at the pure, unadulterated display of alpha prowess Ghost shoves in the other man’s face

Yet then he leans down to the other man’s ear, whispers something there you can’t hear, something that makes the man pale, face ashen with fear

He excuses himself quickly, ducks his head and skitters off

Then Ghost turns to you

It’s only then that you catch the full extent of his scent. Carnivorous, lethal, yes. Yet beneath that there’s the tightly held energy he’s been holding onto all week, one that’s been picking his bones clean and leaving only marrow to remain

There’s lust.

Oh. You realize belatedly. He’s going into rut.

Simon takes a single step towards you, and you remain where you stand, allowing him to close the distance between you even as your heart beats like a war drum in your chest

His scent washes over your senses, charcoal and aphrodisia, intoxicatingly sweet and overpowering all at once. The utter sensation of it, of smelling this alpha who has scented you, protected you, fucked you, is too much all at once

There’s something in your hindbrain that rapidly overpowers any other thought, replacing it only with protection, shelter, strength, provider, submission, alpha-

It clenches low between your legs, the memory of him between them, of your head cradled in Johnny’s lap as his mate fucked you through your nearly fatal heat pooling low your belly with a licking, fiery warmth

You tilt your head towards him on instinct, baring the flesh of your neck and scarcely containing a mewl when he rumbles deep in his throat, pleased

Your knees go weak at the sound, and when you tremble Ghost pushes you back so you’re flush with the wall, trembling as one hand keeps you upright, the other snaking up so a thumb begins to skim over your gland-

Ghost removes himself abruptly with a snarl, completely disattaching himself from you and stalking away with long strides, gripping at his mask as if it’s suffocating him

Leaving you, trembling against a wall, breath too warm and quick in your chest, reeling from the lingering scent that curls in your brain with a sickeningly sweet temptation of Mate.

You’re not sure what to do. You want to help, the desire to assist one of your packmates itching uncomfortably in your brain. Simon has locked himself away, and you catch Soap with a small satchel of supplies making a beeline towards the lieutenant’s quarters, prepared for a days long assist to one of his mates

He smiles at you when you inquire, not unkind, ang gently pats you on the shoulder in reassurance, tells you Simon’s rut is unexpected and needs some special handling, then leaves you

So you go to Price, finding him cradling his brow in his hands, a furrow which only deepens when you express your desire to help

“No.” He tells you flatly, and you can’t contain the little look of hurt that flickers across your face. Upon seeing it, he softens

“When was the last time you were with an alpha in rut?” He asks, and though it’s invasive, you don’t necessarily mind given the context. Even so, you shift on your feet, eyes downturned, and your silence speaks volumes

Price nods, as if he expected this

“Ghost can be rough with his partners when he ruts.” Price explains gently. “He doesn’t want that so early in your relationship, and I don’t blame the man for it.”

That, at least, gives you pause

The Ghost you knew when he fucked you through your heat the first time was almost clinical, doing what he could to flush toxins from your system, removing his emotions from the situation in favor of saving your life. You realize now that this is different

So you sit that evening in your bunk, mind chaotic with the want to help, to please an alpha that is not yet yours, remembering the feeling of his warm breath on your nape, the answering mewls you gave him as his knot wedged inside your dripping entrance

Fuck

You’re torn from your thoughts at a knock at your door, and when you open it you find Gaz. The beta is a little disheveled, eyes just a touch glassy but mostly still coherent, but reeking of the acrid, musky smell of an alpha in rut

“Sorry to ask, doll.” He confesses quietly, not stepping inside and instead hovering at the door “Can I bother you for a blanket?”

You almost want to ask him if he can’t get one from the commissary, but then realize why he needs it

You strip your bed, removing the blankets and sheets thick with your scent, pushing them into his arms and feeling your chest flutter when the sergeant take s long, deep inhale of them before smiling wearily

“I’ll have them clean when they come back.” He tells you, and turns to leave

“Wait.”

Gaz blinks, pauses, and then sucks in a sharp inhale when you lean up, drag your cheek across his and nuzzle the underside of his jaw, leaving a deep impression of your scent across him

You hear Gaz groan

He smiles then, sunny as a fresh morning, and returns the gesture with a soft peck to your forehead

“See you in a few days.” He tells you quietly, and once more needs coils tightly between your thighs. After he leaves you fail to help yourself, burying your face into the bed as you palm yourself through your underwear, lost in the reminder of their touch on you, of Ghost’s voice purring in your ear as you whimpered into the desert sand

Taglist:

(Please have an 18+ or similar age disclaimer in your bio to be tagged in this fic)

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#call of duty x reader #cod mw2 x reader #mw2 #poly tf141 #omegaverse call of duty #cod omegaverse #tf 141 x reader #my writing #my fic #x reader

[charliemwrites]

Yes yes, I know. Part 9 for Charmed Slasher is coming out soon, I promise.

BUT! I had this Thought and just had to do it real quick!

(CW for violent imagery and actual violence)

Simon's been watching you for weeks.

You're such a sweet, quiet thing. Shy. Happy to let your coworkers lead conversations, chiming in only when directly addressed. You smile like sun peeking through clouds, slow and beaming, prying through darkness.

And they way you peer up through your eyelashes, the corners of your mouth tipping up. Oh, oh... he wants to ruin you.

Thinks of you while he strokes himself in bed, looking up at him through those thick lashes. Sticking together with unshed tears as you choke on his cock. That quietly pleased smile when he purrs that you're doing so well, almost halfway there...

It's becoming a distraction, this preoccupation with you. So many others just let their eyes slide over you, but not Simon. No, he sees you.

That you shred your bottom lip bloody when you're deep in thought. You wrinkle your nose and squeeze your eyes shut when you're trying not to sneeze. Always burn your mouth on your first sip of coffee.

He watches you in your home. The way you curl up with your favorite blanket, leaned up against the arm of the couch. A perfect open space for him to share with you. He memorizes your routines and imagines slotting himself into your life.

He shouldn't. That's not going to stop him.

Price has been staring at him hard when he thinks Simon won't notice. Gaz has been jumpier; the recruits whispering more fervently. They can sense him slipping; too many missions. Too much bloodshed. It's soaked past clothes and skin, muscle and marrow. His soul, if he has one, must be drenched crimson.

He needs an anchor to keep him from floating adrift in this sea of blood.

He's found you. So precious. So delicate. He couldn't let himself be too rough with you; you'd break so easily. Oh, his hands itch to break you down piece by piece like his favorite gun. Gut you and clean you out, only to put you back together again with his own hands, his initials stamped into you.

There's no salvation for someone like him, but you're all the Paradise he needs.

And then you go and do such a stupid, silly thing.

You go on a date. Look like something he wants to stain in your clingy jeans and low-cut top. Hair done just so. He wants to see it sweaty and tangled after burying his fingers in it; his vision goes red at the thought of anyone else getting that honor.

But no... no. It's not your fault, really. You don't know any better. But you will. You will very, very soon.

Simon watches your date greet you outside, slip an arm around your waist like it belongs there. Like you belong to anyone but Simon. The only things that saves the man from a bloody end right there is that you gently extricate yourself to go inside.

He seethes on the sidewalk across the street, fingers twitching for his Ka-Bar. The images of his initials on your perfect skin is burned behind his eyelids, and afterimage superimposing itself over his vision.

It's time you knew who you belong to.

--

Your father always said you have a temper like the Devil. Didn’t understand what he meant as a sunshine six-year-old, giggling after butterflies and munching on cheese sticks. Your parents’ pride and joy, their first and only babygirl.

You understood later, though, standing at the broken window and watching a pool of blood spread and spread and spread….. like leaving a marker tip on the page too long.

You’re Old Testament wrathful, fire and brimstone, churning beneath a lake of oil and ink. Pitch black, iridescent rainbow on the surface, too thick to realize what roils beneath until one misstep breaks that molecular tension—

Rage will boil up in your stomach, scorch your chest. Burns acidic in your throat and stains your teeth on venom. You don’t drown in anger, you wade into it until you float.

Not to say that you’re an angry person. You’re not. Not much to bother being angry about, by your estimate. Disappointed, resigned, annoyed, exasperated - sure. But the raw fury that sharpens your teeth and claws? It’s an energy expenditure your mind hardly ever feels the need to spark.

But there are some things…

“C’mon don’t be a fucking prude.” He’s drunk. He’s drunk and pushy and you feel your ribs expand, expand, expand…

“You fuckin’ owe me something.”

You show a little too much canine as you reply. “Because you bought me a couple drinks I didn’t ask for?”

“Fuckin’ spoiled bitch. Wha’ else d’you want, huh? Fuckin’ money?”

He pushes you. Your shoulders bump the alley wall behind you. The sky is so so dark above, no clouds, no moon. Even next to trash, the stink of that awful whiskey burns your nose.

You think of broken windows and blooms of blood.

“Just fuckin’ get on your knees.”

“No.”

“The fuck do you jus’ - it wasn’t a fuckin’—”

“No.”

His face twists, ugly and red (not the right shade of red) puffing up like a particularly loud bird.

“C’mere, you little—“

It’s nothing, nothing at all. A sidestep and a full-body shove. Your timing is perfect. You didn’t touch your second drink when your nail polish turned black.

Your “date” however, is wobbly and uncoordinated, you lean forwards on the balls of your feet in anticipation. Watch him bounce off the brick, stumble over a couple overfilled bags, and crack his temple on the metal corner of the dumpster.

You tilt your head as he collapses in a pathetic heap, barely conscious. Make a point to roll him over onto his back. The last sky he’ll ever see with any luck. You lean your foot into his stomach, watch him turn pale and then green. He’s not going to be able to roll over before all that drink comes up.

Satisfied, you step back as you brush brick dust and dirt from your pants and sleeves. Movement at the head of the alley catches your attention, but by the time you look, the disturbance is gone. Likely someone just passing by. You don’t care if you're wrong.

Below you, the man - you never bothered to actually remember his name - gurgles and starts to rasp wetly. The fury ebbs, a tide dragging out with bloody foam at the edge. You let out a slow, satisfied sigh and navigate to the alley's entrance.

You've barely stepped from the shadows of the buildings when there's a sharp pinch in your neck. The world goes black in seconds.

#thoughts™️ #cod #my writing #fanfiction #dark fic #reader fic #kidnapper ghost

[suguru-getos]

| Bully!Satoru Gojo x F!reader | Part 2 |

-> Part 1

Summary: You had just transferred schools, and your first day was an encounter with your new bully. He’s mean, terrifically hot & absolutely a menace. Though there’s more to that personna. Chapter Summary: After humiliating Gojo in the cafeteria, he has better ways to force pay-back. Hey! That shirt you ruined, was expensive.

Warnings: Oh he is a real piece of shit here with a barely there moral compass. Mentions of humiliation, bul!ying, belittling, teasing. The reader is slowly getting into an auto-pilot mode.

New chapter every week, comment down below if you want to be tagged! ^^

Taglist: @mc-reborn @tvdumarvelhpsimp @alula394 @getoxmahito @knanamii @he4rts444mi @localginger22 @animeisforkings @ran6ia @creative1writings @lenaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @nerdiel-has-no-braincells @zoemaelol @shoutascoffeepot

It feels like pure humiliation, the way you walked off from the cafeteria. Satoru stood there, the warm, sticky gravy sticking to him. It feels like a sensory nightmare. White hot rage simmering through the very marrow of his bones. He exhales, glancing up just to see if there was anyone dumb enough to enjoy his misery he could stomp on. Nobody had the balls to, nobody has the balls to until you come across.

What was your fucking problem?

He walked away from the cafeteria, long strides eager to seek you out and punish you ruthlessly for your deranged and depraved, bratty behaviour. Satoru Gojo is worshipped like the literal god, who the hell are you? Meanwhile, you, amidst all your molten courage flowing in your veins, were the epitome of anxiety. You can't mistake his blazing steamy rage filled blue eyes greying… to be anything but merciful. You're not delusional.

A veiny, pale hand gripped your hair, the other wrapped around your mouth as you were dragged through the lonesome corridor. You whimpered at the burn in your scalp and before you could register what was happening, Satoru was standing in front of you. Baring his hostile teeth as he grits. "You've done it." He's almost amused, contemplating what more he can do to you, what more can you really handle… then again, does it matter if you can or can’t handle?

"Here's what's going to happen…" He pushed himself against your chest, unrelenting at how disgusting you might feel, transferring the filth on his shirt to yours. You struggled like a fish out of water. Satoru is taller, bulkier, stronger and you realize that soon enough.

"You will be my silly little pet, because guess how much this shirt costs?" He chuckled, whispering gravely against the shell of your ear. "1800 dollars, missy."

You feel shocked upon hearing the price, eyes widening as he slowly leaned his hand away so you could speak.

"Either you fucking pay me back, with interest for each day. Or you shut the fuck up and be my silly little pet for a month I will stomp on, my little useless errand girl. Sounds fitting to someone who looks like you, no?" He smirks, watching the colour fade in your eyes. He is sort of impressed by himself, the way he instantaneously thought of such a brilliant idea. That money means nothing to him, but not everyone is that blessed.

Once you finally gathered what was happening, you raised a brow. "Why should I be an errand girl to someone who collided against me and is now begging to be paid for his filthy shirt? Learn to walk properly asshole!" You spit back, eyes siren and jaw gritted.

"Kay then, I will ask your mommy and daddy to pay for their daughter's bullshit." He left your hair, the pain subsiding into a dull ache.

He wasn't fucking serious was he? You and your parents weren't essentially on the best terms, they have just shifted to Tokyo and while they would be willing to pay, your self-respect wouldn't allow you. Your mother would keep taunting you about this for the rest of your life… you really don't want that.

Satoru noticed the shift in your behaviour when he mentioned your parents - "Heh, guess they don't like you either huh?" He smirked, not caring how hard it would jab you. It kinda did.. but you couldn't care less. Not coming from him especially.

"10 days, of me being your errand girl." You wanted to be ploughed down into death once you uttered these words. There was nothing you could do anyways. Parents involving, not so much…

"A month." Satoru shrugged, smirking. He has you exactly where he wants. His sole goal is to make you cry every single day and make sure you apologize for being a little shit to him.

"And, you do whatever the fuck I say you to. If I tell you to clean my shoe with your tongue, you 'fucking' clean my shoe with your tongue."

Oh it felt like dying, like you were stabbed endlessly by a thousand swords when he said that.

"How do I know after a month you wouldn't bother me or my parents with the money?" Satoru raised a brow, smirking. "I'm a man of my word, little bitch." He squeezed your face in a single hand, watching your puckered lips. "I say you're free after a month, then you're free after a month, though you'll wish every single day that you paid me back." He chuckled, rolling his eyes as he let go of your face with a jerk, letting the back of your head collide a little with the wall.

You were so cute, small, stompable…

"See me when the school ends."

Satoru walked away with that, and your shoulders slumped. This is what it has truly come to? You needed some time to yourself after this, why are you always so pushy and so cocky? What if you didn't humiliate him… a month of sheer torture is what you've signed up for, just to not be tortured by your mother. Besides, it's a lot of money and you don't think your parents owe you because a shitty ass senior got pissed.

You dragged your feet to him, after the school ended. His whole group was present, they were busy chitchatting. Satoru perked up like a spoiled brat the moment his eyes glazed through you beneath the glasses. "My little lap bitch is hereeee~" He perked, walking towards you and smirking at how you grimace when you see the way he was treating you.

"Go, fetch us popsickles." He grinned, giving you the money. You didn't say anything, trying oh so hard not to slap him across the face and breathing out. "Mkay."

You looked up, counting the number of people, "Excluding yourself, no popsickles for you." He simply shrugged.

Oh he was getting beneath your nerves so bad. "I wouldn't buy them for myself." You explained anyway, "Don't wan' em." With that, you walked away, getting to the vending machine and getting those fucking popsickles which you rather wish were poisoned so he dies for good.

When you're back, he made sure you give them to everyone, made sure you give it to him- after opening the packet- and then dropped it.

"Whoops, gotta run again lil girl." He chuckled, his friends were… stunned too. Satoru is a cunt, they all know that. He pushes people through their limits but he's never been this much of an asshole towards any girl. Maybe because none of them did anything except slither around him and worship him.

You tear up, you have never… felt this humiliated in your life ever. Nanami gives his popsickle to Satoru, "Here, Gojo san. I don't want it. Please take it." He is so polite, kind… but his Senpai had other plans.

"Didn't you hear what I just said?" He raises his voice a little, and you are left with nothing but a reminder of him demanding this money from your parents. Your feet are stoned to the ground though, unmoving. "Okay." You managed to say again, taking a deep breath as you force yourself to the vending machine yet again, bringing back his popsickle.

You thought highschool would be fun, you would make new friends, go to karaoke parties, excel in subjects, in extra curriculars, whatnot.. you never expected yourself landing into the clutches of rich asshole Gojo Satoru.

Once you're back, you unwrap it again and give it to him. For fuck's sake he finally accepted.

"Kay, gimme your number." He extends his hand with his phone on it, letting you reluctantly add your number and saving it as 'Servant'. Showing it to you to rub salt on your wounds. "Off you go, see you tomorrow." He smiled. You were relieved you don't need to see his face for the rest of the day.

Once you reached home, you cried. All the emotions overwhelming you all at once. Guess he was right, he will make you cry everyday..

The rest of the day passes by in a haze before you find yourself back in school again.

"OH good morning little errand girl!" Satoru's presence looms, he was waiting for you at the entrance, you looked up at him. Not responding for now. You needed to get to class. OH so you're being indifferent now? Satoru is pissed…

"So eager to go to class, I have a job for you though!" He snickers, watching your stompy feet come to a pause. Good, you were still listening. He will push you a little more. "During the lunch time, go and bring my lunch for me, kay? You won't eat unless I finish." He smirked, walking away.

The problem is… it's not fun anymore. At least… not how it was when you retaliated. Maybe he shouldn't have used the money thing and just teased you when you had the means to push it back. You just nodded and left.

During the lunch time, you did as directed. Bringing his plate to him in front of everyone… oh it satiated his silly little ego so much.

Though he wonders if you will snap… finally. If not, he can just push it. No? He extends his hand to Haibara who reluctantly gave his water bottle to Satoru.

Before you could process what happened, you were drenched. The white shirt now translucent, showing your bra. Everyone laughed, some of them were gawking at how the shirt does no justice to you, now that it sticks to your skin, you look much more delectable. "Oops, my hand slipped." He says again, though he knows he's pushed this one too hard. Today was only the second day. Besides, a vile feeling erupted beneath him when he felt others gawk at you. Look away. Look. THE FUCK. AWAY.

Rolling his eyes, he puts his blazer on you, "Here, go get changed.." He mumbled, your silence was not helping. Not fucking helping when you shivered at the coldness of your body, how you just… took it. You didn't even cry, this was to be expected from him anyways.

You nodded, walking towards the infirmary alone. "For fuck's sake…" Satoru snarled, whatever left of his inner conscience slapping him hard as he followed you to it. Making sure you change your clothes and gave you a juice.

You were silent again, taking it from him. "Got nothing to say?" He raises a brow, "I thought you were all big and mean…" He emphasized again.

"Nothing to say. I expected worse." You shrugged, walking away. You expected 'worse'? What kind of worse…

"What the fuck do you mean?" He holds your wrist, "You know, like beating me the fuck up or something." You looked at his eyes. Wow… you truly think of him as vile and disgusting don't you? Why does it pinch him so hard? He's done nothing but bother you and made you believe he is trash.

"Kay." He mumbles, walking away. He's the one bullying you and he's the one being bullied at the same time.

Satoru Gojo doesn't bother you for the rest of the week and the weekend after.

Monday… he asks you to hold his bag for him all the way to his home. Watches you cutely manage both yours and his bag when he could easily hold your bag and you…

You're panting softly when you reach the Gojo estate, cutting the call from your mother and texting her you'll be late. "Here's your bag." You gave it to him and he took it from you easy peasy. "Alright, well.." He can see the sweat beads on your forehead, the way you are twisting your shoulder for relief. Suguru has already stopped talking to him because of this behaviour. You look cute, even when you piss him off so bad.

"Go run home." Satoru scoffs and leaves. Maybe he should just shorten the duration from a month to 15 days… but then, would you become the rebel he liked you to be or would you just ignore him…. contemplation, contemplation… and lots of contemplation.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #bully!gojo #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk imagines #jjk drabble #jjk fanfic #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk fanfiction #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo angst #jjk angst #jjk x reader insert #gojo x reader insert

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter three

the red circle

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the truth.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, mentions of rape/SA, cars, bill is here, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, hitman!joel finally hitmans, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, ANGST (still unresolved oopsie), we're getting there though, exposition, conflicting emotions, joel's tattoos are sexy but they're also plot-relevant, Sleeping Together, but not like That, the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 7.6k a/n: this chapter marks this fic being halfway done already, which is madness. also, can i just say that i'm loving the amount of people who've specifically been watching john wick because of this fic?? this is my agenda!! as always, thank you so fucking much to mya baby @cavillscurls for beta reading this fic and being, idk, generally the loml. i hope you enjoy chapter 3, my friends! i'm sorry it's been such a long time coming, but life lifed, y'know?? prev | next

“How much?”

“Two million. For now, at least. It’s open.”

“Goddammit, Tommy.”

“I told you to be careful, brother. Now look at you. You’re a loose end.”

Joel resisted the urge to toss his phone. The shower continued running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed door. 

He couldn't lose you. He didn't know life without you. Love had no name until he knew you. He'd christened it with that first kiss, maybe even in the first breath he'd shared with you.

If there was a chance Cabrera’s kid could come back for you, even if just to hurt Joel, he needed to see this to its end. There was no choice. 

“He tried to rape my wife,” said Joel. “He's lucky I’m only tryin’ to kill him.”

Tommy only sighed, and the call ended.

I married you, Joel.

I loved you.

You lied to me.

He rests his elbows on his knees as he watches you doze. The sunlight shines neatly through the break in the curtains, and you squint against it in your sleep, turning over with a little huff and bringing the duvet over your head. You’ve always needed total darkness for a half-decent sleep. 

You’ve been crying. The tears leave remnants on your cheeks, a dryness at the outer corners of your eyes, salt seeping moisture from your skin. He’s never known a thing so soft as the drag of his hand down your back. 

I loved you.

You lied to me.

You will never understand. There are reasons—too many to count—that civilians cannot know. He may have gotten you to relative safety in the Continental, but there are a hundred dangerous people in this building who have a long-standing grudge against Joel Miller or the man he worked for. A hundred people who would take you as collateral the moment you stepped outside the grounds. But as long as you remain inside, you’re safe.

He just needs to finish the job. He needs to see it through, and he’ll be out. You’ll realise he’s done it all for you.

I loved you.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he watches the rise and fall of your chest beneath the sheets. He broke your heart last night. He watched you turn in on yourself, your eyes so cold, so far away. He listened to you scream, and inside he pleaded: Keep hitting me, baby. Keep shouting. Be mad. He wanted you loud and furious and spitting fire. If you were angry, you still cared. He could work with that. 

And to see you walk away, the fire frozen over, the fight in your marrow sucked out… 

The anguish of losing your ire still stirs in his chest. The guilt peels him away in layers. Acid. 

She’ll understand, he tells himself, you, anyone who’ll listen. She’ll get it someday—why I did it, why I lied. She’ll forgive me.

Forgive me, baby. Don’t let me live the rest of this life never seeing you smile.

“Stop looking at me,” you grumble, your eyes still closed.

Joel averts his eyes. His throat feels tight. “You sleep okay?”

You haul yourself upright and stretch out your back. Joel studies the curve of your spine and the nape of your neck. You’re the muse painters rave about. The reflections of sunlight on water at dusk. The pond of water lilies. 

“You didn’t. Your sheets haven’t even moved.”

“I can’t sleep without you.”

You give him a heavy look, your eyes bleary with sleep. “You managed all those years before me, Joel. Let’s not do this.”

“What if I want to do this?” he says, dropping to the floor next to your bed and taking your hands in his. You try to pry yourself free, but he drops his head and traps you in his rapt vigil. 

“Joel…” Your voice is still groggy, but there’s agony in the way you say his name.

“You’re my wife,” he says against your skin. “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved. You’re the girl I saw that night in the restaurant with the pretty eyes and you’re the girl I called every night just so I could hear your voice, and you’re always gonna be the only fucking girl for me. You’re my reason for everything, baby. I need you. Please… please just understand. You have to know that.”

You’re silent for a long while, your legs curled under you as your own husband kneels as if in prayer. Your throat burns with more tears you have little energy left to shed. You whisper his name.

He looks up and you find you cannot meet his eyes. So you stare at one of the patches of skin that disrupt the brown-grey of his beard. “That first night at the restaurant,” you say, trepidation colouring your voice blue, “you disappeared after the second course. When you came back, you told me you had to take a call. Was that the truth?”

Joel’s eyes are frantic in their search for an answer. “Don’t,” you snap. “Don’t lie to me again. Was that the truth?”

“There—” His voice cuts off, his eyes shuttering. “There was a target. That’s… why I was there in the first place.”

Your sob dies in your chest. It doesn’t even make a noise. You wrench your hands out of his, and he lets you, still kneeling at your bedside like a lost sinner. “Love has never been the problem. You might love me, but you’ve never told me the truth. Not from the first day.”

One of his hands wraps around your ankle. “I wanted out. I wanted out my whole life, and you’re the one who made me find the way. Cabrera, he… He gave me an impossible task. I completed it. And I gave you this ring.” He brushes his thumb over the knuckles of your third finger where your bands are still secure. “You said yes. You married me. Doesn’t this mean something?”

The sound of your hollow laugh hurts more than any words you could use to cut him. “It did,” you confess, “when I knew exactly who my husband was.”

He shakes his head, his lips parting in another desperate cast, but you’re standing up and crossing the room, gathering your toiletries for the bathroom. “What happens now?” you ask. 

Joel stares at the ring on his finger. “I’m going to talk to the Manager. You have to stay here.”

“Okay,” you say softly. Your back is rigid. “Just tell me something.”

“Anything,” says Joel. 

“If I asked to leave,” you whisper, “would you let me go?”

Joel feels his heart crack in two. He remembers the small outdoor wedding, in the heart of May, when he’d seen you walk down the aisle toward him and struggled to find the words, as he always did, that would be good enough. 

I vow to love you, he'd said, his hands trembling as he took yours. I vow to be your partner in all things. I vow to show you every piece of my soul, the way you've given me yours, and to be gentle with your heart. 

I vow to be the man you want, the man you need, and the man you love. 

He’s failed. He knows that. But you smiled at him that day, your eyes brimming with tears that turned black from your mascara, and you kissed him before the officiant said the words. 

I loved you.

“I’d do anything you asked me to,” he says, “but not that.”

Joel made a stop at the Continental Tailor before he went to find the Manager in the lounge. He paid the Tailor a bit too much for the new suit, he realises now, the sleeves a bit too tight, the pants not quite tapered. He was dressing a different body than the one he knew all those years ago. 

Joel weaves through the darkness as a crooning voice sings something about evil men up on the stage. The band is playing along, a smooth jazz tune, and the bodies around him smell of expensive cologne and perfume and vodka. He remembers with a start why he hated this place so much. 

Adjusting his jacket, he finds the Manager sitting in the VIP section on a long curved booth upholstered in crimson velvet, sipping a dry martini. 

“Joel,” he says, lifting his glass in toast. 

“Bill.”

The Manager doesn't look particularly thrilled. “You know there’s an open contract on your head. Who did you have to kill to end up back here?”

“Just a couple people.” Joel sits opposite him. “I need information.”

“And you're here on more business. Does your consort have anything to say about that?”

Joel curls his fingers into a fist atop the table. “I’m invoking my guest privileges. And she is my wife.”

Bill sniffs in amusement. “So, you did end up marrying the gal. Good for you, Joel. She's a stunner.”

“Fuck you, Bill.”

A short, booming laugh. “Nobody will so much as look her way. You have my word and all it means.”

“Doesn't mean much,” says Joel. “I’m just visiting.”

“Don't be the idiot I know you aren’t,” says Bill, leaning forward and setting his glass aside. “You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, and you won’t get out so easy. Sometime, somewhere, someone’s going to come to you with another impossible task.”

“And I’ll complete it,” says Joel. “Emiliano Cabrera. Where is he?”

“You really wanna do this, Joel?”

“Yeah.”

“Your wife may be safe now, but she won’t be forever.”

“That’s why I’m going to finish it. That’s why I’m going to kill him.”

The Manager sighs, polishing off his martini. “You know damn well business will not be conducted on Continental grounds, Joel. You may as well go have a drink at the bar, take a load off. I can’t tell you anything while you’re inside my hotel.” 

Joel suspected as much. “Then tell me something you can.”

Bill’s nostrils flare and Joel feels some satisfaction knowing he can still push the old man’s buttons. “I’ll tell you what: the game has changed since you left it. Your only chance is to get out now, while you still can. What could possibly warrant the Boogeyman reentering the fold?”

Joel licks his teeth. Your eyes blurring with tears as your skull connected with the ground, your body going limp as he stood above you. The clink of a belt buckle echoes still in his head. If he hadn’t been fast enough—

“It’s personal.”

Bill’s gaze dips. “Well,” he says, “then, unofficially, I wish you the best of luck. But, as a former friend”—Joel snorts —“let me give you a piece of advice. Take your wife home and forget about all of this. I like you, Joel, but for her sake and yours, I’d rather never see you again.”

Joel doesn’t take it personally. “Tell Frank I said hello.”

Bill grabs a full glass from a passing server. “Fuck you, Joel.”

He nods his head, closing the lapels of his jacket and slipping the first button through the opposite slit. As the singer on the stage transitions into the next song, Joel orders a glass of bourbon and watches the bartender slide his drink over on a pristine white napkin. 

“On the house, per the Manager’s request,” says the bartender. “Welcome back, Mr. Miller.”

Pristine—save for the small red circle drawn with marker on the centre. Across the bar, Bill raises his glass in another toast, and Joel leaves the lounge, his drink untouched. 

It’s a Tuesday night, and the Red Circle is lined up around the corner. One must know someone to get inside, and that someone must be a paying member. Joel had a membership by default, being contracted under Cabrera, but it was revoked along with his other privileges once he had completed his task. 

You would hate this place. It’s throbbing bass and flashing neon lights and sweat-slick bodies rubbing up against one another. It’s brick and industrial metal and glass and the people don’t mix, either. 

Maybe part of him is hedonistic, too. He doesn’t think he ever used to be. The job gave him wealth to spend that he never cared to; when he met you, he began to understand the pleasure of material things. Gold shone when it hung around your neck and wrapped around your fingers. Diamonds glittered like the jewels in a crown when you wore them on your ears. And when he pulled you close to him for the first time, undressing you slowly, hooking his fingers in the lace panties he’d bought for you and bringing his mouth to the heat between your legs, Joel began to understand the draw of pleasure. 

It isn’t that he’d never had sex before you. He’d just… never been interested before you. Bodies always felt… too cold. They were complex. They were things to be followed, things to be killed. They were names on a piece of paper. They would bleed all their warmth and light into his palms and he would return, limping, to a house he never cared about and absolve himself of red. He’d never known the thrill of a body until he tucked his hand under the soft swell of your naked breast and put his mouth on yours and felt your heartbeat bleed into his hands. He never wanted to wash it off. 

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

After the orphanage, Joel visited a church only once. 

He hadn’t meant to find it. He’d heard an organ humming from within. The cathedral was taller than it was wide, built for a small gathering. He’d slipped inside during a sermon, delivered by a pastor with white hair and a pair of wilting hands. Joel watched the tremors pass through his face, the agonising pulse of the vein in his throat, the way he would gulp down mouthfuls of water. He spoke with rhythm, with melody, and when he was finished, he grasped the edges of the pulpit, his head bowed in silent prayer. Joel thought he had never seen a more devoted man in his life. 

When the sermon was over, he waited his turn to speak with the pastor. He did not know why. He hadn’t felt a stirring in his chest at the word of God; he never had.

I’ve never seen you in here before, my son.

Joel shook his head, frowning at the ground. I… left the faith, in a way. When I was young. I’m… sorry.

Devotion is a choice, said the pastor, taking Joel’s hands in his own. They were wrinkled, speckled with age spots. Joel lifted his gaze to find the pastor smiling. As with all things in life. Devotion, my son, is not a birthright. We must find it. Though it may not be His word, you will know someone’s word. And you’ll find it will move you enough that you choose to follow it. To whatever end. 

Joel has been slashed, burned, drowned, whipped, beaten, strangled. He could count the telltale black spots in his eyes like dreamers count sheep. He developed a reputation because he was good at what he did. He was efficient, fast, lethal. He once killed three men in a bar with a pencil, they whispered. A fucking pencil. Word in the Underworld spread of a boogeyman who would take your life in your sleep if you wronged the wrong person, if you were just an unlucky bastard.

Their word never mattered. He’d never knelt in the blood of a victim and prayed for absolution. He would never find it, anyway. His soul was black. 

If I asked to leave, would you let me go?

No word has ever cut so deep as yours. How could he wake up every single day next to the love of his life and lie so easily to your face? How could he put a ring on your finger knowing damn well he’d betrayed your trust every second of your time together and you never even knew about it?

How could he wear the mask of your husband and dream of blood on the very same hands that touched you each night?

Joel checks his watch. It’s one o'clock in the morning. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast. You won’t sleep a wink tonight if this keeps up, but it seems you’d rather do anything in the world than speak with him. 

He doesn’t blame you.

He found his word that night in the restaurant. He’d followed it, followed you, wherever you took him. And he will follow you, his almighty word, beyond the grave, to whatever end you decide. 

He will not abandon his faith. His purpose. He will not throw up his hands and let you walk away. He’s made mistakes he cannot mend. He can’t go back to the day you met and tell you all he should have, rules be fucked. He cannot fix what he’s already broken. You cannot put a piece of tape over fractured glass, a bloodied hand over wounded skin. 

He made his fucking vows. It’s time he lived up to them.

Across the street, Joel watches, turning over the knife in his pocket by the hilt. Emiliano Cabrera and his lackeys step out of Joel’s Mustang and toss the keys to the valet. They skip the line, smacking one another around and jeering at the ladies in line, and Joel feels the hunger pull at his teeth. 

His first target is posted by the east entrance. Joel takes the alley, stepping aside trash bags brimming with used needles and slipping the Glock from the lining of his jacket. The weight of it is formidable in his hand. Under the cover of dark, he slides into a second skin, black as the names they call him. Bringing the gun to the back of the guard’s head, he watches those huge shoulders stiffen.

“Francis,” he says politely.

“Joel,” says the guard. 

“Workin’ late?”

“Why?” says Francis. “You want in?”

“Yeah,” says Joel, “I do. You lost weight.”

“Twenty-seven pounds, if you’ll believe it.”

Fuck. 

Twenty-seven guards tasked with protecting the little shit. Joel may have a reputation, but it’s been years. He was ambushed in his own home last night. And after it all, he’d let the bastard slip between his fingers. 

“Why don’t you take the night off?”

Francis lowers one meaty hand to the piece in his ear and takes it out. Turning his head, he says, “Can you at least lower the gun?”

Joel does. “Wasn’t sure you’d remember me.”

“Word’s going around. They say you’re back.”

“I’m just passin’ through.” 

“Sure, Joel.” Francis offers his hand, and Joel shakes. “You better make it quick. I don’t feel like getting fired.”

“Understood.” Joel slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him. 

Even from afar, the music lives in his chest, a writhing thing that seeks departure by way of his throat. He tries to swallow and it wriggles back up again. The bass throbs hard against his ribs. 

There’s a bathroom on the VIP floor. As he sneaks by the frosted glass partition that separates him from the public, Joel hears the squeak of locker doors. He puts his palm on the door and pushes inside.

Did you see the tits on that girl? says one man in Spanish. Emil got a pretty one.

Another lets out a booming laugh. Shut the fuck up, man. Good pussy and you tuck your tail and run.

Yeah? And you're in here because you scored? 

I’m in here because bitches prefer to choke on clean dick. What's your excuse?

Neither feels the breeze of the shadow slipping behind them. Neither of them sees the man in black lock his arm around one of their necks and squeeze until there's no air left. By the time the other has turned on the porcelain sink and begun to splash his face, the boogeyman has him by the scruff of his neck, fisting the collar of his fluffy white bathrobe. The sink continues running, and he’s choking on the warm water as Joel holds him down.

“Jesus! Fuck!”

“Where is Emiliano?”

“Vete a la mierda,” he splutters. “Let go of me, motherfucker!”

Joel takes one of the man’s fingers and bends it all the way back. His screams are muffled by Joel’s hand.

“Where is Emiliano?”

“The bathhouse, downstairs,” he groans. “Fuck, let me go, pendejo!”

Joel bares his teeth, breaks the man’s neck, and leaves him slumped over the sink, the water still running. 

The bathhouse is doused in red and blue. The water is illuminated from within, and the whites in his victim’s eyes glow where he stands half-submerged, toasting a bottle of champagne to his rowdy friends. Joel flattens himself to the wall, listening for the tread of dress shoes. The music pounds too loudly for him to hear, but he can see the shadow before he sees its owner. 

“Clear,” says the voice. 

When he rounds the corner, Joel drives his knife into the man’s throat and silences his gurgling moans by clamping a hand over his mouth. He slides down the wall, and Joel holds his gaze while the light slowly dims in his eyes. 

One. 

Two more men are waiting behind the partition, hands folded in front of them. Joel does not recognise them. Their suits are pressed, Italian; it seems Cabrera has made some alliances. Joel lies his first victim on the ground and prowls toward his next two. 

They go easily: unsuspecting, they bleed out under his blade, choking on their blood, and he leaves them lying by the foggy partition. Three. 

The music is dreamy, the crooning of two voices set to a throbbing track. In the bathhouse, he hears the sloshing of water and the singing of a group of men nearby. They're singing an old folk song, Joel realises. A song about a ghost. 

Hurry, fall asleep, or the Boogeyman will come for you…

They don't sound particularly frightened by the spectre haunting them. Joel watches them toast their bottles of champagne and grab the waitresses’ asses. It's Emiliano and his friends, all right. Joel spots another five guards around the waist-deep water and another two by the doors upstairs. 

There's a childlike self-assuredness about him—this kid. He thinks he's protected, safe, almighty as God. He sings about Joel and smiles. 

A guard leans over him and sneers. “You need to stop drinking.”

“Are you scared of the fucking boogeyman?” jeers the kid. “I’m not! Hijo de puta.”

The guard plucks the bottle from his hand and passes it off. “You wanna vomit while you run away? Or would you just prefer to get shot in the head?”

Emiliano’s haughty sniff makes Joel wonder if a bullet in the head is retribution enough. “Get me another fucking bottle!” he says to his friend. 

Joel picks up a bottle of complimentary cologne and tosses it. The glass shatters, potent liquid pooling on the shiny floor. Three guards flank the partition. The music is too loud to let the sounds of his blade in flesh seep through. 

Six. 

On the other side of the glass, coloured blue and red and slick with humidity, the singing continues. 

From the swamp he will come…

He feels the wet splash of blood on his face. 

… and take the children that don't behave. 

Another man rounds the corner as Joel is tearing the knife from the last guard’s throat. He doesn't have enough time to slash his throat, so he pulls the handgun from his holster and shoots. He crumples to the floor, but Joel’s cover is blown. 

“He’s here! Miller’s here!”

The partition explodes. Glass rains on him as he rolls to evade the gunfire, raising his barrel to strike at the remaining guards. 

Seven. Eight. 

The men by the stairs are shouting some Spanish, some Italian. The music carries on, but the song they're singing has ended. 

Joel finds the man he's been looking for: hiding behind a petrified waitress, Emiliano Cabrera looks like a goddamn child. He's wrapped himself hastily in a bath towel around his waist, and his eyes are wide as saucers. Yeah, Joel thinks, I’m going to enjoy this a little. 

He locks eyes with Emiliano for only a moment. The guards at the top of the stairs begin to fire at Joel. He ducks behind the wall as shots chip brick from the wall or plunk uselessly in the water. By the time he flanks them around the other side of the wall and brings them tumbling down the stairs—ten—the kid has already run. Joel growls at the loss of the kill and follows him into the club. 

With an eruption of deafening music, Joel bursts into the crowd. Behind him, a gigantic LED screen is illuminated with spirals in red and blue and white. Women dance in elevated cages while the crowd below becomes a sea of skin and sequins and sweat. Joel reloads, checks the clip, and resumes his hunt. 

Eleven, twelve, thirteen. Joel feels the punch of the barrel into their chests as he fires, again and again and again. The commotion is lost in the din of the music and dancing. Bodies connect and grind and Joel kills. 

Fourteen. A guard by the wall. Fifteen. Another lurking by the LED spirals. Sixteen, seventeen—two men rushing him in an attempt to ambush, eyes wild with rage and a bit of fear. Joel puts them down like sick dogs and continues to push through the crowd, his eyes locked on the retreating Emiliano, who's waving a gun about like a white flag. 

But it's no surrender. It's a beacon, a sign that the deer is spooked. Joel feels his lip curl. So frightened, he thinks. 

Eighteen, nineteen…

Your bleary eyes, blinking through the pain, limbs limp and helpless as he unbuckled his belt above you. A cut on your face, barely bleeding. The red still consumes him. 

You were so afraid that night. 

Twenty. 

Twenty-one. 

He's getting closer. The crowd parts down the centre as Joel marches toward his goal. But the music is loud and he does not hear the approach from behind. 

The gunshot grazes his shoulder, but he feels the flare of pain ooze its way down his arm. Joel grunts, knocked askew from his path, and turns to forge at his assailant. 

The man is fast, though, and rushes him. The tackle brings him down to the ground, winding him just enough to briefly stun, to send his Glock spinning along the floor. He’s taller, broader, madder. 

But he shoots one-handed. 

Joel knocks the gun aside and it misfires into the gap in the crowd. In the dispersing, he sees more guards closing in his periphery. The only protection he has is the hulking body on top of him. So Joel uses it, bringing his elbow to the man’s throat and bunching the lapel of his jacket in his fist. The guard attempts to reach for the blade in his thigh holster, but Joel reaches down and bends his arm backward until the crunch crackles in his ear. The man howls, and Joel grasps the hilt of the knife. 

Twenty-two. 

He picks up his gun and fires a shot into each of the three approaching guards, but Emiliano has fled to the first floor. Joel grimaces as he stands, blood on his fingertips where he's prodded the wound in his arm. “Goddammit,” he mutters, following his target upstairs. 

The air is dizzying. Hot. Joel never liked clubs. He hated the closeness and the bodies in cages and the way skin felt so sticky, too tight, like he needed to step outside of it. He hated the feeling of being suffocated by strangers, as if any of them could be lurking low in the darkness, waiting to strike. 

He didn't understand the lure of the scantily-clad body until he saw you wrapped in a tight black dress. He didn't know the pleasure of dancing until you took his hand one night, his old vinyl player crackling out Frank Sinatra, and lay your head on his shoulder. It felt like stepping over the threshold into consecrated territory. He should not be touching you. But you were touching him. 

Joel spots Emiliano running for the back entrance, shoving another guard in Joel’s path. 

Twenty-six. 

The final man, approaching Joel from the lounge, pulls his gun in time to shoot, but not in time for Joel to notice. The bullet shatters a glass of wine and topples a waiter’s tray. Joel fires. 

One to go. 

He has no choice but to lunge for the kid before he can run out into the street. Joel’s heart is pounding in his chest, his blood electrified. The take-down is sloppy and his ankle rolls, but Emiliano Cabrera is pinned beneath him and yelping like a kicked dog. 

“My father will kill you,” he gasps, his cheek pressed to the floor.

“Your father knows exactly why I’m here,” says Joel, “and he knows how stupid you are.”

“Hijo de puta, it was just a fucking car,” he spits. “I was just going to have some fun with your bitch. I would've given her back.”

Joel isn't quite satisfied. He turns the kid onto his back and grasps him by the jaw, forcing him to meet Joel’s incendiary gaze. 

“Everything has a price.”

The knife goes in smoothly, the flat of the blade glinting in his gaping mouth. No light flees his eyes. There is nothing but cold slate-grey. And although Joel feels no happiness feeling the pulse slow to a crawl beneath his palm, he does not pull the knife out. 

Your body, sacred, helpless, lying on the floor. A predator’s gaze. The clink of a belt buckle. Joel steps over the body and leaves, limping to the valet and slipping him a golden coin. He slips back inside his Mustang, turns on the engine, and drives back to the hotel. 

You’re tucked in the alcove by the window, staring out at the moonlit night. Your chin rests on your knees as you hug yourself close. The lamp between your respective beds colours the room orange. 

“You’re limping.” 

You haven’t even turned to face him.

“How—”

“I know how you sound when you walk.” Your temple is cool where it rests on the windowpane, your breath frosting the glass. Joel staggers to the small table and braces himself on the back of a chair as he watches you. 

You’re as warm and bright as the day he found you that night in the restaurant. Your eyes may be a little older, but the glow is the same. He folds his bleeding hands around the back of the chair. Everything around you curls in, darkens, and wilts when it confronts your beauty. 

“I’m all right.” He doesn’t deserve your concern. He’ll swallow any bullet to keep you from worrying.

You stand at last and cross the room to face him. His heart jumps like it’s the first time you asked him on a date. Like the first time he kissed you, his chest taut with tension and nerves and the assumption that you’d reject him. 

“You can lie to me about lots of things, Joel, but I know this face.” The pad of your thumb ghosts over the crease between his brows. “I’ve painted it a hundred times. It doesn't lie.”

It's the first time you've touched him in days. Joel closes his eyes. Part of him, the part that jolts back to life under the tender weight of your soft skin, means it when he says, “I’m okay.”

You seem to ponder him for a moment. “This wouldn't be the first time I patched you up,” you say, as if resigned. “Go on. Bathroom.”

He winces. “You don't have to—”

“Go. And afterward, you can tell me everything.”

The pads of your fingers memorise the ridges on the gold coin. The time is close to dawn. 

He’s no longer bleeding, and although you have nothing close to the Doctor’s prowess, you’ve managed to disinfect and wrap the wound in his arm. You can’t do anything about his ankle, but it’s a sprain; he’ll heal in time. The mangled black and blue on his tender skin reminds you of a night sky without the stars. It doesn’t seem to pain him. It only makes you wonder what sorts of agonies he’s faced—ones you never knew about.

The hurt has festered in your time away from him. He’s an open wound in the shape of a hand on your back, searing cold through to your heart. The hand sports a golden band, and it reflects in the one you still wear. You don't quite know what to make of it now. 

He looks exactly like the man you knew. Not a part of him has changed—he's still scruffy, still tired, still jaggedly gorgeous. You paint him with blurred edges, with blues and greys. Your heart still pulls when you look at him. Your chest still gapes wide open, and he digs his thumbs into the bruises. He lied to you. He broke your trust. And there's still so much of your Joel in him, from the skin to the bones. 

“It’s beautiful,” you muse, turning the coin over. 

“Technically, it’s not money,” Joel says. “It is currency. They can be exchanged for favours, information, relationships.”

“A hotel room,” you add. “Good to know I don’t have to move any savings around. Where have you been keeping these?”

“There’s a safe in the basement,” he says, “under the floorboards. When I left, I buried all of it. Weapons, coins, contacts, anything I had from the Underworld.”

The Underworld. A fitting name, if you’ve made any sense of it at all. “Do the police know about all of this?”

“Most of them are in the pockets of High Table members. Those are the ones who control how it all works. Rules and consequences,” says Joel, “is how they operate. They're what separate us from the animals.”

You lift your brows. “And who sits at this High Table?”

“Twelve leaders. They're the ones who run most of the major crime families and organisations. They control police, politicians, banks—”

Your shuddering sigh makes him stop in his tracks. He watches you lean back in the chair and bends forward slightly, as if tied to you by an invisible thread. 

“So… the girl who serves me coffee on the corner by my office could be part of it.” You frown at the coin in your hand. “She could be a witness, a runner, a messenger. She could be like you.”

“She isn't,” says Joel, “but that is the general idea.”

“But civilians are immune.”

“More or less,” says Joel. “There are… heavy penalties for harming them.”

“Penalties like death.”

“Most of the time,” he says. “And there are rules here, too. No business can be conducted on the grounds of any Continental hotel.”

“Any? You mean—”

“There's a Continental in every major city in the world. It's where we go to remind ourselves we’re civilised.”

“Civilised,” you scoff. “Civilised murder, sure. I’m buying it. And now that you’re back—”

“Visiting.”

You just glare at him, and he ducks his head. 

“—there's a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “Two million.”

You curl your fingers over the coin in your palm as your stomach bottoms out. “That's a lot of incentive to put a bullet in your brain.”

“They won't,” he says. “Cabrera holds the contract, and he only opened it because of Emiliano. He’d pull it the second I agreed to stop looking for his son. He doesn't want me owing him.”

“I don't know if I’d call that a debt.”

“Considering everything I did for him,” says Joel, a bite to his voice, “anything short of killin' his kid is a favour.”

Despite yourself, you open your hand and slide the coin toward him. “Tell me what you did.”

His head shoots up, his brows knitted together. “What?”

“Tell me what you did to get out. Tell me about this ‘impossible task.’”

“Baby, that’s…” He rubs his hand across his jaw, and it strikes you then how deep those half-circles colour the space beneath his eyes. 

“Stop,” you whisper. It never used to hurt when he called you baby. “Tell me how much blood you thought I was worth.”

Joel’s jaw ticks. His knees barely touch yours under the table. “You don't wanna hear the answer to that.”

“Then start here. What did you do, Joel?”

The sigh he releases feels heavy. “I came to Cabrera, asking him to release me from my contract. He told me he'd let me out, no strings attached… if I hunted down his enemies.” 

Your mouth drops. “Which enemies?”

He picks up the coin and turns it over in his palm. The silence drops an anchor on the ground. Your belly churns with the movement of the golden piece as it catches the light. 

“All of them,” says Joel. “All of ‘em, in one night. That was his impossible task.”

The scrape of your chair legs across the floor is grating. But you stand anyway, your head vaguely stirring with the beginnings of a headache. 

“Oh my God.” 

You barely feel your own hand on your cheek, barely smell the iron tang of blood on him, barely see the red cutting through his pressed white shirt. “How many people?”

Joel shakes his head, his shy eyes lowered, still as the paintings you've made of him. “I… I don't know.” 

I lost count, he means. There were too many, he means. 

Your throat is just wide enough to let your breath escape. The air you take in feels poisonous. He killed every single one of them. All because he wanted to marry you. 

All because he wanted peace. 

“Is there anyone in the Underworld who doesn’t know your name?”

Joel’s repentant silence, head ducked as if in prayer, is all the answer you need.

“How did this happen?” Your voice is uniquely quiet. 

“When I was a kid,” he says, and your heart sinks, “I lived on the streets. Lived like a rat, mostly, but I survived. You know that much.”

You nod solemnly, lowering yourself into the chair once more. “The Sisters reunited you with your brother.”

His dark eyes reflect the lamplight and it resembles a flame igniting in the depths of the iris. “Found me on Canal Street, runnin’ drugs for a mobster I don't even remember. Tommy was only five, but he must've told them about me. They took me to the orphanage and started my training.”

You swallow, your temples pounding. Deep in your gut, something wild and dry begins to kindle. “They were the ones who taught you all of this?”

“They teach the word of God above everythin’ else, but yeah. They train children to thrive in the Underworld. We were taught knives, guns, hand-to-hand. Hell, they even taught us how to dance—how to move faster than the opponent. I knew how to kill someone before I could read.” Joel chuckles, and part of you thinks he actually thinks it's funny. “Probably why I’m so slow.”

You aren't slow, you want to say. You've never been slow, not from the first day. 

The kindling curls and you can feel your mouth pull at the corners. He had only been a child. An orphan. A child had no way to choose, to resist how they were raised. He hadn’t been given a choice—his life in exchange for a roof over his head. 

“Those fucking bastards.”

Joel’s laugh is mirthless. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it.”

You angrily swipe the tears that warm your cheeks. “No adult should have that power. They should nurture and comfort and protect, not—” Your breath hitches. “You were a child. You didn't deserve that.”

Your fingers have curled into a fist atop the table. With both hands, he gently lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. You expect it to feel foreign, wrong. It just feels like Joel. 

“The Sisters were cruel,” he says softly. “But I made myself into a weapon. It was the only way I would survive.” He reaches out as if for a wounded deer and brushes his thumb over your jaw. “They never made me believe, sweetheart. That was all you.”

You sniffle, your head bobbing absently. You don't know what to think. You don't know how to feel. Your own husband has been through the seven circles and crawled back out only to teeter back over the pit once more. There’s an ancient weariness in the black of his eyes, an old hurt, a mansion slowly crumbling at the edges. 

“You hid this all from me, and never told anyone,” you say, the ache widening. You find you want to assume, consume, even a modicum of the pain that he's felt. 

One of his shoulders lifts in a mild shrug. “I wanted to forget all of it. I wanted to make something of the new life I’d killed for.” He meets your gaze and you swear part of the open wound in his pupils has sealed. “I didn't want any of it to touch you.”

And you remember lying in bed with him that first night, after that first time, tracing a scar on his back. White and ridged, it spread like lightning feelers from the middle of his spine to the dimples in his lower back. 

You'd put your mouth to his shoulder blade and felt him melt into you. 

What happened? 

The silence that followed could have heard the brush of a feather over skin. 

I was raised in an orphanage. In a church. They weren't kind. 

And that was that. You'd prodded and fussed and he'd said I’m fine. It was a long time ago. 

“But that's what you do, Joel,” you tell him. “You hide your hurt and you bury your feelings and you do it all because you're afraid it'll make everyone leave you.” 

Sometimes he would wake in a cold sweat, heaving, tossing aside the sheets, but he would never make a sound. You'd see him, pretending to sleep, and place your hand over his chest. His fingers would grasp yours as if marooned on the water, seeking driftwood, his hand suffocating yours. He'd keep it pressed to his heart until the beats slowed. 

You regret those times you never pressed. In a way, you were afraid, too. If you opened your eyes, if you asked him to confess, he would close the lattice and turn his back to you. You didn't want to lose him, either. 

But you did. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, but it doesn't hold the weight you want it to. It doesn't blow out the candles in the cathedral. It doesn't pluck the scared little boy from the streets or give him a warm bed. It doesn't stop the beatings and the lashings and the pain. 

It does not pry the pain from his heart and bury the shrapnel in your chest instead. It is something he bears, as he always has, and must. It is something you cannot take from him. And you feel more helpless than you ever have. 

He shakes his head. “I know we can't go back,” he says, tracing one of the little daisy charms on your bracelet. “But it feels… good. It feels good to finally tell you. Even if we were too late.”

The sound of his voice breaking shakes your heart loose from your rib cage. 

“Come to bed.” Your voice is raw and used. “Just… come to bed, and sleep.” 

He doesn't dare look hopeful, though you can see the tremor that courses through his hand. He wants to take yours, the way he did the day he proposed, dropping to one knee with your palms flush. 

He looked a little hopeful that day, too. With rapt attention, he'd taken hold of you and said, I love you. I love you more than anything. You’re my best friend. Will you marry me? Will you let me be your husband?

You realise now why he'd let himself hope. He'd gotten out. He'd started his new life. With you. 

You can see his old scars, even in the dark. You think, in all your time together, you've learned his body as you learn the earth you tread upon. The praying hands of Dürer lie beneath the name inked in small black lettering. 

Your name. 

You gingerly reach out and place your hand on his back. Joel shudders. He does not turn to face you where you both lie on your sides. 

“If you bleed on the bed sheets,” you say to the darkness, “will management make us pay?”

He chuckles. “Strongly worded phone call at best. I’ll take the hit.”

You frown, ghosting your fingers over the tender skin around the makeshift patch job on his shoulder. “Does it still hurt?” 

“No,” he says, leaning into your touch, “not anymore.”

“You never told me about this scar on your back.” You touch the edges of the puckered skin. “I never stopped wondering. But I should never have stopped asking.”

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Don’t say any of that like it's your fault.”

The silence bleeds as viscous as an open gash into the dry air. His watch broke the day of your wedding. He told you it was all right, that we've got all the time in the world, and you'd kissed him and laughed. He’d replaced the battery since then, but sometimes the little hand lags behind, as if afraid to chug forward. Afraid to let time, of all silly, trivial things, consume your world. 

“Do you remember your vows?” you ask him. 

“‘Course I do.” 

“Do you remember mine?”

His head bows slightly on the pillow. “‘I vow to be your partner in all things,’” he recites. “‘I vow to protect your heart like it's my own. I vow to take your pain, and to shoulder it so you don't have to.’” 

The tears saturate the pillowcase beneath your cheek. You fall asleep with your arm around his waist, your hand next to his, not touching, but nearly. 

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us hbo #the last of us #tlou fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller au #joel miller fic #john wick au #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader

[diaryofanidiot]

The Experiments

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem! Reader

Chapter list: Prologue, 1, 2, 3, <4>, 5

Cw: Swearing; torture; blood; medical experiments; panic attacks; malnourishment

Summary: For over a year, Y/N was held in a soviet experimentation facility. Forced to fight and claw her way to live, she managed to stay alive. When the 141 rescues her, they get way more intel than bargained for.

Chapter Four

The walls surrounding me felt blurry as i was dragged off. Were they going to kill me? Had i outgrown my usefulness? This wasnt happening... none of it felt real.

A muzzle dug into my jaw as it had been strapped on too tightly. I had discovered what they've done to my vocal chords. This was my punishment for trying to use it against them.

My face scrunched in agony as i was painfully thrown to the side. A long-range tazer was pointed in my direction as a warning, while my binds and the muzzle were roughly undone. I looked around wildly, trying to figure out where i was or what was going on.

"(Y/n)???"

I was forced to my feet roughly.

"Go." Was all I heard as two metal prongs pressed to my back. They were forcing me into a room like a zoo animal. I wanted to fight, but the threat of being electrocuted kept me from doing so as i complied with the orders.

As I stumbled into the room, I noticed another person looking at me with fearful eyes. He looked worse off than I did. His arms and legs were littered with deep cuts and bruises, some still bleeding.

Before I could question it, the door slammed shut behind me and locked. I rushed to it, banging relentlessly. When i finally processed that it was a futule effort, i searched the room desperately. Plain walls and a floor stained with blood were all there was.

The sight of the dried blood caused a panic to stir inside me. I looked to the only other person in the room, as if he had the answers. He was keeping his stare on me. It looked... feral. No longer fearful. His eyes peered through each layer of me. From skin to muscle, bone, and marrow. It looked as if every movement i made was being dissected down to the last atom. Was this what I was to become?

An intercom crackled and a voice came through the speakers "ебать ради... Fight." It commanded.

A chill went down my spine. This wasn't a cell. It was my own personal Collosseum. A test. One that this man had clearly taken before as he began to stalk circles around me like a wolf.

"(Y/n)... alm down- not ther-"

A shiny spot on his neck caught my attention. Scales? I wasn't sure. All i knew is he was done sizing me up.

With a hungry grin, he charged me. I didn't want to fight, but in this enclosed space, it was clear I had no choice. I weakly dodged the throws he sent my way. I wasn't as experienced in fighting, but adrenaline was a surprising thing.

After minutes of being on the defensive, I realized I'd need to switch it up. I was getting tired. Maybe if I won the fight, this would end.

I dont know how many attempted punches i threw before a leg swept under me, knocking me onto my back and ripping the air from my lungs. I felt a weight straddle my hips and hands wrap around my throat.

A sickening feeling settled in my gut once I realized. This fight was to the death. There were no announcements to stop what he was doing as he choked out my life force. Just me... and him.

"Ghost, we need you!"

I turned my head and bit down, my canines piercing the skin of his wrist with ease. I opened my eyes once the grasp on my throat was released; my surgical scar now throbbing from the pressure that had been put on it.

"Bitch." My opponent cursed. I watched fearfully as he opened his mouth. Two glands were surgically attatched to the roof of it. I barely had time to realize why before a mace like spray had been shot into my eyes from the glands like a spitting cobra.

I cried out in pain as I was blinded, my body turning in an attempt to crawl away. Somewhere in my adrenaline filled brain, I remembered my new ability.

The moment a hand grasped my ankle, I turned and screamed louder than I ever had before. The sound echoed off the brick walls, bouncing all around. Something was different this time.

While I was blinded, my hearing had amplified. The scream was louder in all places but one. The space right next to my ankle.... the space where my assailant was writing on the ground, assumingly covering his ears in agony.

I took this moment to fight back.

"Come back to us, (Y/n). You're safe."

....who was speaking to me?

I began to let out small screeches, listening to the sound as I blindly searched for my opponent. He fought me once my hands brushed his body. Found you.

I quickly moved closer to his face and let out a deafening level screech before taking bite after bite out of him. My jaws soon found their target clamped around his throat and clenched down. I could feel his esophagus crushing between my maw with a sickening crunch. I could feel the flesh move between my teeth like an unsteady beating heart as he struggled to breathe. The metallic blood filled up in my mouth before spilling out the sides of my lips, dripping down his skin like a fountain.

He stopped struggling in seconds. To kill a serpent? Aim for the neck.

I understand now. To defeat your opponent, you need to truly understand him. I became just as feral as he at that moment.

"(Y/n) snap out of it." A gruff yet familiar voice flooded my ears. "You're safe. Nobody is going to hurt you here."

My visual input flashed between past and present. I didn't know which was real. The only real thing was the pounding in my head and the spasms of my muscles. Along with...a soft touch on my back?

"That's it... you're safe. You're here with us. I need you to breathe (Y/n). Can you do that?"

I tried to speak, but a strained whimper was the only sound that made it past my lips.

"You're alright. Just keep breathing."

I blinked myself back into the present. Greeted by an all too familiar set of eyes.

"Ghost..."

"Yea, I'm here now. You're just having a flashback. Youre safe here with us."

Us? I looked around the room and saw the rest of the 141 staring at me with concern. Price handed me a bottle of water from my peripheral. I accepted it with shakey hands.

"Where am I?" I asked timidly. Ghost must've noticed my struggle with the cap of the water bottle and took it to open it for me. My body shook with each adrenaline infused spasm.

I felt a hand remove mine from my arms, where i had been digging my nails into my skin until it bled.

"We're in Price's office." Soap explained. "He asked you a question, but your mind spiraled before we could keep you in the present."

I nodded slowly. "Im sorry... what was the question?"

"Did you ever interact with the other experiments?"

My jaw clenched as I swallowed thickly. Ghost was standing now, no longer at eye level, but he kept close by just in case.

"If you can't answer, we can move onto the next few or wait a while longer." Price assured me. I instantly shook my head.

"No... I'm fine. I can do this." I took a deep breath and accounted what I could. I could see concern written all over their faces as I described the first cage fight and the many others that came after. A deep dive into every person and ability I've faced and conquered. Despite my stuttering, rapid breaths, and the occasional shutdown, I was able to manage.

"We're... meant to fight these things?" Gaz was looking at Price, his eyebrows furrowed in worry.

Ghost inturrupted. "Doesn't matter. If it bleeds, you can kill it."

I felt the blood leave my face after he said that. Did he forget that I was one of these things?? "...excuse me?"

He turned to me, that cold look coming back in his eyes. "Not victims like you. But if there are any who accepted their use as a weapon, we will have no choice."

"They dont have a choice!" I yelled, using my crutches to stand up. I was indignant now. "I was through with the cage matches! I won every battle! Do you even know what they had planned for me after?! Do you?!"

The room was quiet after my outburst. I felt a crossbreeze from the air conditioner hit a wet spot on my cheek. Shit was I crying?

I heard Price sigh as he grabbed a file off his desk and held it out to me. "We know more than you think. You never got to read your file, have you?"

I frowned and hastily wiped my tears before accepting the file, sitting down once more to read. It had been translated into English and was a clear copy of the original translation.

Test subject no. 237

"Banshee"

Blood type: ###

Sex: Female

{REDACTED}

{REDACTED}

Weight Class: Malnourished. (Begin protein heavy diet before the next procedure)

Trials: Successful. (Adaptive; high intelligence)

Alterations: Vocal chord modification. Dental adjustments.

Notes:

Highest recorded scream 190+ decibles.

Keep muzzled. Ear protection required when interacting with the subject.

Proven high IQ. Suspected around 145-155.

Has managed to exterminate all other subjects pitted against her.

The subject has proven adequate for the indoctrination process.

"...indoctrination process?" I whispered, my eyes still scanning the paper just before it was gently taken from me.

"If any of the other experiments are currently out there being used as weapons," Price explained, "then they are already lost. We will rescue who we can, but (Y/n)... The facility you were rescued from isn't the only one out there."

The room suddenly felt like it was spinning. I gripped the arm of the chair I was sitting on, my eyes never leaving the floor.

"We're done here." Gaz's voice. His hand was on my shoulder now. "She needs time to process this."

Price agreed and dismissed us. I dont remember the walk back to my room. The world was somehow both too loud and too quiet.

The only certainty I had was that I needed to do something. An odd sense of duty. They were like me.

Nobody deserved that.

A/N: i know it's another short chapter, but it was so heavy with backstory that to add more would only water it down. Im genuinely so stoked that this fic has reached such a vast audience, and i love you all for the kind words.

Shitty google translation:

"ебать ради": For fucks sake

Taglist:

@warenai @linoskitten11 @jamesrifftapes @justmare @hk-4ever @thriving-n-jiving @katelouis98 @tayaisback @josieguts @btszn @lemmyyy0606 @msecho19 @cory-viv @cybercl0ne @randomhumans-blog @vinithechocolatevampire @embermdk @itsryuken @neothewitch @undercover-smutlover @noeltako @y2cade @ghostindeath @soundsfunbutno @untoldshortsofthefandoms @emily-roberts @x4vern1a @kuwizo @theimaginaryheir @bitchoftoji @stunkbiggu @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @theredviolets @v1naco @berryjuicyy @serenitysmind @mundane-frogola @sushiumex @thorninspaceandtime @tooruenjoyer123456670 @kingkonig @hotchlover @sebastianstans-slut @chieflawyerpastatoad @enheduannasposts @doodle-cat16 @tiny-kasper @hanellokey @my-green-earth @undeadgod

(Taglist too long lol. Gotta repost with more)

#cod mwii #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #captain john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick

[xjoonchildx]

kanalia | jhs x reader | final chapter: because i couldn't stay away

banner by the amazing @kth1 💕

⚜️summary: secrets and uncertainty plague a young queen in her arranged marriage to a kind but distant king. the farther she drifts from her husband, the closer she gets to one of his most trusted men.

⚜️pairing: queen!reader x royalguard!hoseok

⚜️rating: mature, 18+

⚜️genre: royal AU, historical AU, smut

⚜️warnings: infidelity (it’s complicated, y’all) mentions of pregnancy, fertility issues. OC struggles with depressive thoughts and episodes. smut warnings in effect.

⚜️word count: 10.2K

⚜️author's note: happy birthday month to my forever muse, jung hoseok. i hope that i did this poor, tortured version of you some justice. and yes, it did take me years to finish this story (😭) , but i did. thank you to every single who has ever taken an interest in this story and cared enough to stick with me through long delays and rough writing spells. once again, i have to shout out the OG @hobi-gif who lent her eyes to part of this story. i appreciate you all so much and if you enjoyed it, i would very much appreciate a reblog as well as your feedback.

thank you guys so, so much 💕

previous chapter masterlist

Love doesn't discriminate Between the sinners and the saints It takes and it takes and it takes And we keep loving anyway We laugh and we cry and we break And we make our mistakes And if there's a reason I'm by her side When so many have tried Then I'm willing to wait for it I'm willing to wait for it

– “Wait for It”

Hamilton, An American Musical 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

One perfect loop is followed by another. And another. And another.

You need not look back and check your work, not anymore. Now you know simply by the pull of the thread that each stitch you place is snug and uniform. You sit in your chair by the fire and repeat the motion over and over again, staring unseeing into the pattern in your lap. 

“It’s a beautiful day, Your Grace.”

Hyeri’s voice taps at the edges of your consciousness, muffled as though she’s standing outside the chamber door instead of seated right beside you. You ignore it and push another loop through the fabric.

“Not a cloud in the sky,” she persists, gentle. “Perfect conditions for a walk, if you feel up to it. I could even accompany you, if you wish?”

There was a time, not long ago, when Hyeri’s prodding would have set your teeth on edge. But you do not have the energy to muster any such emotion. And so you give Hyeri the same answer you’d given her the day before. And the day before that one. The same hushed words, spoken in the same decisive tone.

“I’m content to stay in today, Hyeri. Thank you.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

She drops the matter with a quiet sigh.

It’s unlike her. The Hyeri you know would fret and fuss for as long as it took for you to relent; until you had no choice but to quit your chamber simply to enjoy a moment’s peace. The Hyeri you know would be shooing you away from the fire, prattling on about how one errant thread could catch and send your entire dress up in flames. 

But the Hyeri seated beside you does none of those things.

So you sink deeper into the plush chair perched in front of the hearth and watch the flames dance. The embers at the base of the fire glow deep red, putting off a heat blistering enough to scorch your bare feet. 

But you cannot feel it. You cannot feel anything.

You’ve surrendered to the weariness now; let it consume you. Allowed it to fuse itself to the very marrow of your bones. For days you’ve done little beyond sleep and spend your few waking hours seated by the fire, needle in hand. 

Twice you’ve left your chamber and neither time by choice, but rather because the King had insisted on your presence at dinner. To what end you still cannot be sure seeing as you’d taken both meals in stilted, awkward silence. Apparently His Grace is far less bold without a bit of ale in him.

“The hunting party leaves in three days' time,” Hyeri says. “There’s been quite a fuss in the kitchens over it. They’re taking enough supplies to travel for months, by the looks of it.”

You make a non-committal sound under your breath. Hyeri forges on, undeterred.

“There will be a send-off in the courtyard, of course. Will you – “ she pauses to choose her words carefully. “ – Well, I assume that you’ll want to see the King off.”

You do not want to see the King off. Were it not for his pigheaded adamance that you keep up appearances for the sake of this sham marriage, you’d be content to never see him again. But you’ll not tell Hyeri that. Not when she’s made it clear where her loyalties lie and not when she still holds on to the delusion that one day you’ll decide to embrace your role as the placeholder by the King’s side.

So you say nothing at all. The fire pops as one of the logs crumbles in the hearth.

Hyeri clears her throat. “Your Grace, I only want what’s best for you. Surely you know that by now? And I don’t want people casting aspersions, which they most certainly will do if you’re not there to see the King off. The staff is already asking questions about why you’ve not been seen in days.”

“Has he asked for me?”

Hyeri blinks. “The King?”

“Yes, Hyeri,” you say slowly. “The King. Has His Grace requested my presence at this send-off ceremony?”

The color seems to drain from her soft face as she admits, “No, Your Grace. He hasn’t.”

“Then I see no point in worrying yourself over the matter.”

You return your attention to your needlework and place another yellow thread in the center of your Mugunghwa flower’s pistil. The flames crackle in perfect, undisturbed silence. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

“It’s cold out there today,” Hyeri says. “But if you bundle up tight, it’s quite pleasant in the sunshine.”

“Thank you, Hyeri,” you reply evenly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it. You have no intention of leaving this chamber today and much to your relief, the King did not require your presence at his evening meal the night prior. Hyeri had ordered your dinner sent up and then proceeded to dine with you herself. An insidious voice inside your mind whispers she’s afraid to leave you alone.

You ignore it.

Instead you try to focus on your Mugunghwa flower. You study it, blinking until the riot of colors before you has clear, defined boundaries – fiery crimson at the center which slowly bleeds into a subdued pink which in turn dissipates into a milky white. You pull fresh white thread through your needle and set to work on the flower’s edges.

“Your needlework is much improved, Your Grace,” Hyeri notes. “You’ll be finished with that pattern by the end of the day, as I see it.”

You thumb over the fabric and consider her assessment. She’s right, you’ll be done with this pattern in a matter of hours. And the only thing that awaits on the other side is another pattern. And another. On and on and on. 

“Perhaps when you’re done, you’ll consider mending this for me,” Hyeri says, gesturing towards her lap. “My eyesight is not what it used to be. I’m terrified of ruining the old man’s beautiful design.”

You set your embroidery down and turn to look at Hyeri, gaze falling to the opulent plum fabric in her hands. Slowly, the details sharpen into focus. The rich velvet trim. The gold threads glinting back at you in the firelight. The room begins to tilt.

“A footman found it in the woods last night,” Hyeri explains, her cadence slow and deliberate. “By the stables.”

You are keenly aware of the way she watches you in the weighty seconds that follow, one gray eyebrow lifted as she awaits a response. You do your best to appear calm despite the panic clawing its way up your throat.

You’d lost that shawl in your mad dash back to the castle. You’d been tearing through the dark, paying little heed to the branches that tugged at your dress and occasionally scraped at your hands and face. One of them had caught the shawl, but you’d been so desperate to reach the refuge of your chamber that you’d hardly noticed when it was wrenched away. You’d had, after all, your humiliation to keep you warm.

And you’d earned it, hadn’t you? With your drunkenness. With your recklessness. You’d let every one of your baser emotions take control. You’d risked every advantage of your carefully curated life just to throw yourself like a wanton at the feet of one of your husband’s closest confidantes. Like a fool. 

When Lord Jung turned on his heels that night and abandoned you in the woods, he’d done far more than just rebuff your clumsy advances. 

He’d finished you. 

“Your Grace?” Hyeri’s curiosity is evident. “Are you alright?”

Hardly. Your mouth waters as your stomach threatens to cast up what little you’ve eaten today. One glimpse of that garment had been enough to bring a torrent of memories rushing back; vivid, awful memories that you’ve worked hard to banish to the deepest recesses of your mind. You grip the arm of your chair hard enough to make your knuckles go white. 

“Your Grace?”

You don’t answer until you’re sure that you won’t retch the very moment you open your mouth. Hyeri studies you in the interminable silence, lips parted in an expression of concern. Your tongue is thick when you finally collect yourself enough to speak.

“Please do thank the footman for me, Hyeri. And I think it best to leave the more intricate needlework to you.”

Hyeri stares as you reach for your needle and thread with trembling hands, but you don’t dare look her way. You try to place a loop at the edge of your flower but the Mugunghwa’s colors have gone blurry again and you’re forced to back the needle out and start over.

Perhaps there was a time when the Mugunghwa was as vivid as a rose. With petals of rich orange-red, opaque from pistil to tip. But perhaps it was asked to weather too many storms. Too many droughts. Too many winters. 

Perhaps the Mugunghwa looks the way it does today not because of how it was made, but rather what it’s had to endure. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

The first snow of the season arrives early.

You stand at your window and watch it fall, noting how quickly the fields turn from green to white. You press your fingertips to the windowpane and the cold seeps through it, chilling you instantly.

In the courtyard below, the horses are draped in heavy blankets. Stablehands scurry around them; dusting snow off their muzzles and checking their shoes. Footmen work in teams, sharing the weight of the heavy trunks they load on to waiting carts. 

“I’ll wear the blue walking dress today, Hyeri. The one with the white flowers on the bodice.”

“Your Grace?” Hyeri is on her feet at once to join you at the window. “You’ll see the king off, then?”

“I’ll need the matching cape too,” you direct, brushing her question aside as you watch the newly-packed trunks take on a layer of white snow. “If the conditions are as awful as they look.”

“Yes of course,” Hyeri breathes, hurriedly whirling about the chamber behind you as she gathers your things. In a matter of minutes she has you dressed and seated, fingers twisting your hair into a plait at the base of your neck. She loops the plait and pins it into an elegant bun, fingers smoothing the hairs into place before her hands come to rest on your shoulders. She squeezes them gently.

“I’ll not ask you why you’ve changed your mind, Your Grace,” she says softly. “But I’m so glad for it. It’s important that people see you. For them, of course, but for you most of all. And besides, you look so lovely.” 

You don’t feel lovely. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all. And if Hyeri had pressed you as to why you’ve changed your mind, she’d not be satisfied with your answer. You’ve changed your mind because you cannot bear to cause more conflict with the King. Because you have no desire to create a scandal that you’ll somehow have to fix. You’ve changed your mind because you have no fight in you left. This is the path of least resistance.

You rise from your seat and Hyeri’s hands fall away. She clutches them to her chest, rheumy eyes soft with sadness as she watches you take your place at the window once again. Outside the snow falls harder, and you watch the footmen leave deep divots in it with their boots.

“Tell me when it’s time,” you say quietly.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

You can scarcely recognize anyone in the throng of well-wishers gathered outside the castle.

They’re all bundled tight in winter coats and pelts; some wear hats and scarves. The snow doesn’t help either, and from the moment you enter the courtyard you’re grateful for your cape. Not only for the warmth of its thick lining, but for its hood, too. It affords you a bit of privacy in this otherwise very public affair.

You weave your way through the crowd and do your best not to make eye contact with anyone. Surely Boram is among those gathered with sweet Yeona in tow, here to see Lord Min off on his adventure. But you cannot bring yourself to seek her out – not when she’s already called on you twice without so much as an explanation for your disappearance. At any rate, you don’t think you could bear to look at her right now. To see the worry and concern you know you’ll find written all over her face. 

So you keep your hood pulled tight and your eyes down as you set off in search of the King. And you have no trouble finding him despite your reticence to make your presence known. It’s not just that he stands a head taller than most. It’s in his stature, in his stance – in that self-assured air that seems to come naturally to those born with power. He catches sight of you as he’s speaking to a footman and pauses, gaze locking on yours.

Your legs feel heavy. Your boots sink into the snow as you approach, each step more tiring than the last. When you are finally standing before the King you bow, dipping your head as you peer at him from beneath your hood.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs, lips twitching into a cautious half-smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d come down to say goodbye.”

“And yet I have,” you respond evenly. A snowflake lands on one of his long eyelashes and you resist the urge to reach out and sweep it away. “So I do very much hope that you are pleased.”

“I am pleased.”

The King reaches for your gloved hand. He waits a heartbeat before bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to your leather-clad fingers. Beneath your hood, your cheeks burn. You withdraw your hand quickly and let it fall to your side. 

“Well. Then. I wish you a comfortable journey,” you say. “As well as a safe return.”

The two of you stand there for an awkward moment, the King’s expression expectant as though he’s waiting for you to say more. But you have no more to say. The words you’ve already offered him will do. They’re as empty as the vows you’d exchanged little more than a year ago.

“We ought to head out, Your Grace. We’re losing precious daylight and this weather will slow us as it is.”

The voice comes from somewhere in your periphery, but you need not see the man to know exactly who it is. Suddenly each breath you draw is painful, the frigid air pricking your lungs like a thousand tiny needles. You will yourself not to turn towards it, not to react in any way. 

“You’re right.” The King acknowledges Lord Jung with a brusque nod. “Have the stablehands check over the horses one more time.”

You won’t look at him. You can’t look at him. Not when the sound of his voice reverberates through every wounded place inside of you. Not when you can close your eyes and still feel the hot trickle of embarrassment that slid down your spine that night in the woods. But then he leaves you with no other choice.

“Your Grace.” 

The low timbre of Lord Jung’s greeting makes the fine hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end. You turn to him, slowly, and his dark eyes briefly connect with yours before he bends into a shallow bow. Your knees nearly give way when you return the gesture, along with a subdued, “My Lord.”

What must this man think of you now? What has he told the King? The nausea you’ve managed to stave off for days returns at once. 

You startle when a gloved hand wraps around your forearm and the King beckons you to face him. You flick your eyes up to meet his and find that they – along with his countenance – have darkened. By now Lord Jung is yards away, tending to his horse as the hunting party readies to embark. Your lungs ache with each deep pull of cold air.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no. Not at all,” you insist, contriving a weak laugh. “I’m not accustomed to this kind of cold, is all. I’ll need to go back inside to get warm.”

The King’s brows furrow as he studies you. But you maintain your mild expression until his face relaxes and the disquiet subsides. He leans in to place a chaste kiss to your cheek. 

“Hyeri assures me you’ll be well taken care of in my absence.”

You lift the corners of your mouth in a gesture that you hope will pass for a smile.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Be well.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Hyeri does not protest when you ask to undress upon your return to the chamber. Nor does she fuss when you climb into bed with the morning sun still high in the sky. She simply presses a soft kiss to your hair, draws the curtains tight and leaves you with a whispered rest well. 

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Your chamber is dark when you wake but for the soft glow of a fire. 

As you come to, so does an ache in your temples, a quiet thud that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Your muscles protest as you roll onto your side to find Hyeri seated at the hearth. 

She’s yet to realize that you’ve roused and so you lie there for a while, studying her. She has a strange, far-away look in her eyes as she stares into the flames, her grip tight on a book in her lap. After a few minutes she opens the book and begins to thumb through it and you watch, curious, as she pulls a worn piece of vellum from between its pages.

She unfolds the missive and reads over it, face crumpling as she fights back a sob.

“Hyeri?”

The older woman nearly jumps out of her skin when you call out to her.  She hastily folds the vellum and slips it back into her book, smoothing down her dress as she stands at attention. “Your Grace,” she says, voice huskier than usual, “I hadn’t realized you were awake.”

“It’s alright,” you say absently, voice rough with sleep. You steal a look at the book left lying in Hyeri’s chair as she hurries over to bring you some water. Her countenance is that of someone who’s been caught doing something they shouldn’t have. You stare at the glass she offers you, watching the water slosh back and forth. 

Is she trembling?

“You ought to eat something,” she admonishes gently, waving a hand towards the food waiting on the table nearby. “You slept through the evening meal. I had my mind made up to wake you if you’d gone much longer, but thankfully I didn’t have to. So come,” she beckons, “Eat something. It will do you some good.”

Your stomach twinges at the mention of food. It’s been in upheaval for days now, and as such it’s been far too long since you had a proper meal. But whatever awaits in the dishes nearby smells enticing enough, so you allow Hyeri to help you out of bed. Your muscles are stiff with disuse and you grimace as you make your way to the table. Your eagle-eyed handmaid takes note.

“A long, hot bath will do you some good, too,” Hyeri remarks as you spoon lukewarm bulgogi onto your plate. You eat slowly as she busies herself with lighting the torches and stripping the linens from your bed. “I’ll have the maids bring up the water after you’ve had a chance to eat.”

You’ve only managed a few bites of the bulgogi before there’s an army of maids filing into the chamber, flitting about the room like a swarm of bees. You watch the entire affair in a daze as the maids make quick work of the tasks set before them: tidying and sweeping the chamber, draping your bed in fresh linens, filling the tub with steaming hot water. And when all the commotion is finally done, Hyeri dismisses them with strict orders not to return unless they are sent for. 

You are grateful at once for the silence that immediately falls over the chamber. Even Hyeri leaves you for a while, disappearing into the antechamber to prepare your toilette. But when you glance over at her chair, Hyeri’s book is gone. Along with whatever was written on the vellum inside.

“Come now, Your Grace,” Hyeri says, at last. “I’m ready for you.” 

She leads you into the bathing chamber, where the air is humid and sweet. Then she helps you out of your rumpled nightgown and holds out her hand. You accept it, leaning into her as you step over the tub’s steep rim. Slowly you ease yourself down, sucking in a breath as the heat blazes a path up your feet to your legs and thighs. The water is hot almost to the point of pain but you withstand it, sinking until it laps at your shoulders.

“I used rose oil tonight,” Hyeri says, kneeling behind you and cupping your head in her hands. “I thought you could do with a bit of pampering.” 

The delicate fragrance envelopes you, carried on the curls of steam that rise just above the water. You breathe in the soft, floral scent and close your eyes; try to clear your mind. Hyeri presses her thumbs to your temples and starts making firm, soothing circles. 

“I remember the very first moment I saw you,” Hyeri muses softly. “I’d been so impressed by your poise.” Her hands move to the column of your neck and she kneads at the tight muscles there, pulling the tension from them with each pass. “You were little more than a girl then, but I could still see that you were lovely, inside and out.”

Were you? You’re not sure that you would even recognize the girl that stepped out of that carriage so long ago. You’d been so idealistic – so certain of the comfortable life that you would find here. Of the affluence and status and yes, perhaps, even love that you’d enjoy once you’d ascended to the throne. But that girl had been a nitwit. The woman you are now will never entertain such foolish notions again.

“I know that so much of this has not been easy for you,” Hyeri continues, setting to work on your shoulders. “I know that there have been days when you’ve struggled to put one foot in front of the other. But you have. And that means something.”

It does mean something. It means that your mother’s great work is finally complete. She’d spent her entire life molding you into the polished, empty creature you are today. If only she could see you now; see how biddable and pathetic you’ve become. It would fill her to overflowing with joy.

“Anyhow, when you’ve lived as long as I have you realize that nothing is forever,” Hyeri says thoughtfully. “Same as what you’re going through right now, Your Grace. It won’t be forever.”

Nonsense. Hyeri cannot change the King’s heart. She cannot save you from a lifetime of awkward exchanges and forced smiles simply because she believes things can change. And she cannot will a child into your womb simply by decreeing that it should be so. The swell of emotion that surges inside you is more powerful than anything you’ve felt in days. And it’s anger. 

“Hyeri, stop,” you order tersely. “No more.”

Her face falls at that, features going slack with dismay. But she heeds you, holding back whatever she’d meant to say next. Then she reaches for the soap and begins to wash your hair in silence. You chase the beads of oil that float along the surface of the water with a fingertip, cheeks hot with embarrassment. You hadn’t meant to be ugly to Hyeri. 

But then you’ve done many things of late that you hadn’t meant to.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“It’s alright, Your Grace. I know you meant no harm by it.” Hyeri dries her hands off and then rises to her feet, looking down at you with a kindness you do not deserve. “I’ll leave you to soak for a bit. You can have a few minutes of peace before I return.”

You’ve been unfair to her, haven’t you? The realization cuts you deep as you watch her retreat from the antechamber. She’s served you in so many ways since your arrival here: as caretaker and as advisor and as confidante. And how have you thanked her? By being cold and distant. By unleashing all the frustration and resentment you feel towards the King on her. And what of the tears you’d seen her hold back while she’d been sitting by the fire? Have you been so mired in your own anguish that you’ve neglected to see hers? 

The water has begun to cool and your skin has begun to pebble by the time Hyeri returns.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she says upon her return, helping you out of the water. “The time got away from me. You must be freezing.”

“Only a little,” you lie, teeth chattering. Hyeri sets to drying you, throwing the damp linens on the floor to catch the rivulets of water that fall from your hair. Her dark eyes dart from your shoulders to your neck to your ears, but they do not meet yours. 

“Is something wrong, Hyeri?”

“No, no. Not at all,” she answers quickly, “Just a bit tired.” Her reassurance rings hollow because she keeps her eyes trained on the floor as she bends to reach for the rose oil. When she straightens, you catch her hand with yours, stilling her. 

“What were you reading tonight?”

Hyeri’s mouth opens in surprise and then quickly closes.

“I saw you sitting by the fire,” you admit. “You were reading something that looked to upset you.”

“And here I thought you were sleeping,” Hyeri grumbles, taking her hand back. She pours the oil into one palm and then warms it before pressing it to your neck, letting a long moment pass before she speaks. 

“It didn’t upset me,” she explains. “Not in a sad way. Those were happy tears, I suppose.” She pours oil into your hands and begins to gently massage it into your fingers. “It was a letter from my Sanghun, back when he’d been courting me so many years ago. You might find this hard to believe, but I wasn’t always the old woman you see now. I had more than my fair share of suitors.”

It’s not hard to believe. Time has been kind to Hyeri. Her features, though soft with age, are still striking. She must have been quite fetching as a young woman. 

“What made you choose Sanghun?” you ask.

“I don’t know that I had a choice in the matter at all,” she laughs as she helps you slip into a nightgown. “The moment I saw Sanghun, no other man existed for me. It was him or no one.” Her eyes go soft with a faraway look as she recounts the memory. “The other girls thought him too practical, too serious. But I saw a side of him that no one else saw. A part of him that was just for me.”

“You must miss him,” you say gently.

“Every day,” Hyeri admits. “Ten years he’s been gone and I think of him every day. Those letters remind me of what it’s like to be young and so in love that you’ll not see rhyme or reason. But –” she trails off and waves a hand as if fending off fresh tears. “Never mind that. Come sit.”

It’s unclear which of you she’s sparing from the memory. But as Hyeri begins working her comb through the lengths of your hair, you’re struck by how shortsighted you’ve been. There is suffering in never having the chance to love and be loved, certainly. But there is a different kind of suffering that comes with having that kind of love and then losing it. The thought humbles you.

Hyeri comes to stand behind you and begins working your wet hair into a loose plait.

“I’m sorry, Hyeri,” you say softly, gaze dropping to your hands. “I’m sorry that I haven’t thought to ask you about Sanghun. I haven’t been myself and I’ve just – “

Hyeri silences you with a soft hush. She secures your braid with a piece of linen and then drops to her knees to look her in the eye. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says softly, stroking a hand down the side of your face. “Nor do you owe anyone an explanation for feeling the things you feel.”

Her warmth thaws the frozen places inside you. It causes tears to spring to your eyes. And when she takes your hand in hers, you squeeze it gently — hoping that the gesture can convey the feelings you can’t put into words.

“Now put all of that behind you,” she says, smiling through her own unshed tears. “And come sit with me for a while.”

Hyeri leads the way into the chamber and you follow, only to stop short when the hearth comes into view.

When your gaze falls on the silhouetted figure near the fire, you nearly scream. You try to scream. But fear seizes your body, inch by inch – rooting your feet to the floor and closing around your throat like a shackle. You have no choice but stand there, staring in horrified silence as the figure begins to emerge from the shadows. In the span of one frantic heartbeat, the figure has a shape. In the next, it has a face. 

And in the next, it has a name.

“H-Hyeri?” you stammer, swaying on your feet as your legs threaten to give way. Your handmaid doesn’t answer and so you call out again, voice quivering. “Hyeri?”

You cannot take your eyes off the man standing before you. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and so you stare as the firelight flickers over his stark, beautiful features. Shadows dance across his clenched jaw and knit brow. And his eyes – those dark eyes you know so well are fathomless, inscrutable – smoldering coal set in unblemished, unforgiving stone.

“Hyeri!“ you call out to her again, desperate – reluctantly tearing your gaze from the man to look for her. And when your eyes finally land on Hyeri, you find your handmaid standing near the chamber door, hands clasped together tightly. Streaks of color running up the thin skin of her neck and into her soft cheeks.

But she’s not surprised, is she? Not flummoxed in any way by finding Lord Jung lying in wait inside your private rooms. The realization comes over you slowly, wholly, until a strangle tingle runs from your scalp to the tips of your fingers. She’s arranged this, hasn’t she? 

“W-What is this?” The words leave you as more air than sound, but they ring out clear enough in the silence of your chamber. Lord Jung and Hyeri exchange a long look, but neither utters a sound.

“Someone speak!” you cry, wincing at the hysteria in your voice. 

Hyeri finally clears her throat, her face now fully aflame. “I believe the two of you – “ she pauses, swallowing hard. “Well, I believe the two of you have some things you need to discuss.”

Discuss? You and Lord Jung? Suddenly the panic you feel metastasizes, growing into something much darker. Has he come to admonish you, then? To punish you for your disloyalty? Has he come to lay bare every humiliating detail of that horrible night at the stables for Hyeri to hear? 

“No,” you whisper. You do your best to appear composed, despite the way your knees tremble. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Hyeri. I have nothing to discuss with Lord Jung.”

“Yes, you do.” The man in question speaks for the first time, his voice little more than a low rasp. “And we will.”

“No,” you repeat your refusal, shaking your head as though the movement will help sort your jumbled thoughts. “No. You have no right to turn up here and say what I will and will not do. And where did you come from? I saw you leave. I saw you mount your horse and ride off with – “

You stop yourself before you can finish the thought, flushing fiercely at the unspoken mention of the King. Your tedious, disinterested husband would be anything but if he had any inkling of this clandestine encounter.

“I was called back to the castle,” Lord Jung explains evenly. “A palace rider came bearing a missive bidding that I return at once to address an issue at the stables. I was but an hour’s ride away at the time.” Once again, he looks to Hyeri and they exchange another one of those maddening looks.

“But there was no issue at the stables,” you deduce quietly, the pieces falling into place, one by one. “Was there, Hyeri?” Your handmaid seems to shrink beneath the weight of the accusation in your eyes. 

“No, Your Grace,” she confesses weakly, “There was not.”

Oh, but your head is truly spinning now – each new revelation more disorienting than the last. How long have these two been conspiring together? What does Hyeri know about what’s transpired between you and Lord Jung? What does he know about the many private things you’ve shared with Hyeri? Both thoughts cause the bile in your stomach to rise.

“You can leave us now, Hyeri,” Lord Jung says. “Thank you.”  

Leave you? Has the man lost all good sense? You open your mouth to protest, but when met with the intensity in his glittering dark eyes, words fail you. You just stand there, mouth agape, rendered mute and immobile with shock. You look over at Hyeri, who has fixed her pleading eyes to your wide ones, her expression urging you to comply. And though you cannot make sense of a single thing that you’ve witnessed tonight, you do.

“Very well, My Lord,” she says quietly. “Rest well, Your Grace. The staff rouses at dawn.”

And with that Hyeri takes her leave, the chamber door closing behind her with a heavy thud that echoes the one in your chest.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Once you are alone with Lord Jung, you realize how truly vulnerable you are.

With little more than a thin nightgown to cover you, he can see far more of you than would ever be considered proper. All it would take was one shout from the man to bring the guards running, to compromise you both to the point of expulsion. Perhaps worse.

But the situation is far weightier than that. 

You’ve been vulnerable to this man from nearly the first moment you saw him. You’d been weak to his attention and charms. You’d allowed him to see you in ways that no one else has: not Chaehee, not Hyeri and certainly not the King. And the only time in your life that you’d thrown caution to the wind – and acted with abandon, not restraint – he’d mortified you. The memory of that night is a wound that’s just barely begun to heal, and now here Lord Jung stands, poised to pour salt on it. 

You’ll not allow him to devastate you again. 

“Go on then,” you say, lifting your chin and speaking with feigned bravado. “You’ve gone to great lengths to speak to me, so speak. I assume you’ll enlighten me as to which matter is so pressing that you felt the need to steal into my chamber and risk ruin for us both.”

“I know what I’m risking,” he growls. Then he stops to collect himself, exhaling deeply as he shoves a hand through his hair. “I know what we both stand to lose. But I could not come to you any other way.”

“Why have you come to me at all?” you demand. “You made your feelings quite clear the night of the festival, did you not?” You can no longer contain your bitterness and it drips from your every word. “You should go back to your sovereign, My Lord. Back to your King.”

Lord Jung looks stricken when you use his own words against him. There is a despair in his dark eyes that might have pained you once, but not now. Not anymore.

“You have every right to be angry with me, Your Grace,” he acknowledges. “And if you bid me to leave, then I will do so. But not without telling you the truth. You deserve to hear the truth.”

“Everything here is a lie. Perhaps you, most of all.”

He looks at you for a long moment before turning towards the hearth to gaze into the fire. Orange-red light illuminates his profile, sweeping across his smooth brow, over the elegant slope of his nose and down to his strong jaw. He is still the most beautiful – and most terrible man you’ve ever known.

“The King said he would give her up,” he says woodenly, staring into the flames. “When your marriage was announced, he swore it. And I believed him.”

Every muscle in your body pulls tight.

“I knew that he loved her. We all did. But he vowed that he would respect his father’s wishes and I’ve never known him to be a duplicitous man. I’ve never known him to say one thing and do another. And when I realized that he’d been deceiving you, deceiving us all, I – “ he stops and shakes his head at the memory. “ – I wasn’t thinking clearly. I confronted him at once and demanded that he explain himself.”

The argument in the courtyard. The memories come back to you in an instant. The way they’d both looked so irate, the way their voices would rise and then fall. Lord Jung turning his back on the King and stalking away into the dark. 

The tightness in your chest is unbearable now, viselike. 

“I was so damned angry,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “Never once in my life have I imagined putting my hands on the King, but in that moment – I don’t know. I don’t know what I might have done had I not walked away. But I confronted him because I had to know why.”

He rips his gaze from the fire and turns to you, eyes flashing.

“And do you know what he told me? Do you know what he said when I asked him why he would insult you by keeping a lover? He told me that he couldn’t stay away. That he’d tried to do the honorable thing but he couldn’t stay away.”

“Why are you telling me this?” The tremor in your voice belies your pathetic attempt at composure. “If you mean to cause me pain, it’s too late. I’ve known about the King’s lover since the early days of this marriage, and I’ve accepted it. Just as I’ve accepted that I’ll never amount to more than a trinket he dusts off to show to his people.”

Lord Jung takes a step towards you, his beautiful face hard in the firelight. There’s a maelstrom behind his eyes, a polite violence that sets you to shiver.

“I’m telling you this because I need you to understand,” he says. “I want to hate him. I have tried to hate him. But I cannot. I have no position of honor to stand on. No rightful claim to virtue. I have no right to condemn the King for his sins when I have so many of my own to account for.”

“I – I don’t understand,” you say weakly.

“I have no right – “ his voice breaks, thick with emotion, “-- I have no right to denounce the King for coveting another woman.” He drags a hand down his face, distraught. “Not when I have spent every single day since you stepped out of that carriage coveting you.”

You stop breathing entirely.

“So no,” he continues, voice graveled. “I cannot bring myself to hate the King. And you were right to think me a liar. I’ve pretended that my nearness to you was benign, nothing more than an act of service. I’ve tried to make myself look honorable to you, when I have been anything but. I’ve been a liar since the moment I met you.”

You are trembling now, head to toe. Rendered speechless by Lord Jung’s confession. Slowly, the maelstrom in his eyes starts to recede. He looks as vulnerable now as you feel. 

“You deserved to know the truth,” he says quietly. “If from no one else, than from me.” 

There is a heavy silence in the seconds it takes you to find your voice.

“My Lord, I – “

“Don’t call me that,” he pleads. “Please. Not now. Not when I’ve come to you like this.”

“Very well, Hoseok. But you sent me away. In the woods that night, I’d asked you to – “ you stop, not wanting to say the words aloud. “What’s changed? Why are you telling me this now?”

“I have tried to leave you alone.” His voice is ragged now, anguished. “I thought if I could just put some distance between us – if I rose earlier and worked harder and retired later – that I could exhaust this need out of me. But I can’t.” Torment is etched into every line of his beautiful face. It makes you want to reach out and touch him but you resist, uncertainty keeping your hands pinned to your sides.

“I cannot war with myself any longer,” he says hoarsely. “I cannot continue to lie to you or myself. And if he is not willing to give you the things you desire, then I will.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, your neck. It gathers in your belly, too.

“So if you’re asking me why now?” he says, taking another step towards you, closing what little distance remains. “It’s because I couldn’t stay away.”

He touches you then, takes your face into one warm hand and strokes his fingers down your temple, smooths the pad of his thumb over your lips. The featherlight touch raises goosebumps all over your skin. It’s more intimate than anything you’ve ever experienced with the King. 

“Do you still want me to kiss you?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you breathe. “I want so much more than that.”

He looks at you with such heat that the warmth in your belly goes molten. Then he presses his mouth to yours and slowly coaxes it open with gentle strokes of his tongue. He tastes of whiskey and smells of fine, heady soap and he does not relent until you are panting. Moisture gathers at the juncture of your thighs, beneath your thin nightgown.

But suddenly you are apprehensive. You’ve no idea how to kiss a man properly, much less satisfy him as a lover. And you’re not sure that you could ever live down the shame of disappointing him. When he finally pulls away to look down at you with heavy-lidded eyes, you have no choice but to confess.

“There’s something you should know, Hoseok,” you say, the sound of his given name still foreign in your mouth. “It’s just that – well, I am by no means a maiden but in some respects, I might as well be. I know almost nothing about how to please you.”

Anger flashes in his eyes, and for one terrifying moment you fear it’s for you.

“That is through no fault of your own,” he says darkly. “And if he’s been too much of a fool to see to your needs, then so be it.” He dips his head to press a kiss to your ear, then whispers, “Your pleasure will be mine and mine alone.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Hoseok spends an inordinate amount of time tending to the fire. 

You sit on the edge of your bed and watch him, feverish with anticipation as he moves the weakest logs and adds fresh ones. Once he’s satisfied, once the chamber is glowing with fresh flames and warmth, he cleans his hands and comes to you.

Your heart rattles harder with each step he takes towards your bed. 

When he’s finally standing at the foot of your bed, he takes off his belt. And then reaches behind his head to pull his tunic away. The sight of his bare chest is enough to make your mouth go dry. His body is lithe and sleek and strong, his muscles rippling as he puts his hands down on either side of you and lowers his mouth to yours for a kiss.

“Tonight is about you, pretty bird,” he murmurs, trailing more kisses across your cheek, down your neck. “So I want you to tell me everything you want.”

“I want to see you.” The words leave you in a rush an account of the way his mouth moves from the juncture of your neck and to the hollow of your collarbone. “All of you.”

Hoseok wastes no time in straightening to his full height to remove his breeches, and then his smallclothes. And try as you might not to stare, it cannot be helped. You’ve never been able to study a man like this. Not even the King.

“Can I touch you?” 

“Please,” he groans.

And then you are cautiously reaching for him, wrapping a hand around the length of him, marveling at the way he pulses in your palm. You run your fingertips down the skin of his shaft, awestruck by how silky and warm he is. But when your fingers reach the blunt head of him, he flinches.

“I don’t – I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “Did I hurt you?

“No, no. You didn’t hurt me,” he assures you, his voice sounding a bit strangled. “I’m just sensitive there, is all.”

“Will you show me, then?” you ask, curiosity far stronger than any self-consciousness you might feel. “Show me how to touch you.”

“Of course.”

He sits down on the bed beside you, taking hold of your hand. And then you watch with a heady mix of confusion and excitement as he takes your fingers into his mouth one, by one. He finishes the unfamiliar preparation by licking a long stripe up the palm of your hand. The stroke of his tongue sends a bolt of desire racing through you.

“It’s easier like this,” he explains, guiding your hand back to his length. You take hold of him again and this time he wraps his hand around yours. He moves your hand for you, up and down the length of him, until you can feel him growing hotter and harder in your hand. You’re fascinated by it all – by how firmly he wants to be touched, by how labored his breathing becomes, by the way the muscle and sinew in his legs seem to twitch at your command.

He leans over to capture your mouth as he begins to buck into your hand in earnest. And after a while his own hand falls away, leaving you to take control of his pleasure. And what an intoxicating power he’s given you – taut muscles in his abdomen flexing with each of his strained breaths.

“That feels so good, pretty bird,” he groans, taking your bottom lip between his teeth. “Just right. Your hand feels so good around me like this.” 

The wetness you’d felt between your thighs when he’d kissed you the first time returns, and each sound of pleasure he rewards you with makes you wetter and warmer. He is rock hard in your hand now, the dusky head of his manhood shiny with moisture. You watch a bead of it appear at the tip and you slide your fingertips over it, transfixed by how smooth it feels. Beside you, Hoseok shudders.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he says, breathless. “I’ll be of no use to you if you keep that up for much longer.”

You have half a mind to protest, but then his hands are sliding over the thin material of your nightgown, cupping your breasts through the gauzy fabric. He takes one of your nipples between his fingers and teases it until it’s standing at attention. You sigh.

“Can I take this off?” he whispers, pulling at the nightgown. 

You hesitate. Not even the King has seen you nude. Not once has he ever asked you to remove your nightgown and so for a long time, that is what you’d assumed he preferred. That is, until you’d caught him in bed with his lover. 

“Look at me,” Hoseok says, sensing your anxiety. He tips your chin up until your gaze meets his own. “I’ll not ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t want to use my mouth and hands on you. On all of you.”

You inhale deeply, flustered by the way he speaks so plainly about his desires. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? What you’ve longed for all this time. And that’s what he’s promised you, isn’t it? Pleasure. Pleasure that will be his and his alone. 

You draw your nightgown up to your thighs and then raise up to pull it even higher. When you’ve finally discarded it, when there is nothing left between you and Hoseok you flush, looking away.

“You have nothing to hide,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful. Believe me, pretty bird – you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Emboldened by the praise, you draw nearer to him and trace the outline of his heart-shaped mouth with one finger. And then it is your lips that find his; your tongue that moves past the seam of his lips and your teeth that find the shell of his ear. You thread your fingers in his hair, and he groans, gathering you close.

“You can’t imagine how many nights I’ve dreamed of you like this,” he says, gently laying you back on the bed. “You can’t imagine how many nights I’ve taken myself in hand to these fantasies.”

Oh, but you can imagine, can’t you? The few times you’d dared to try and seek your own pleasure, it had been him in your mind’s eye as your hand was between your legs. It had always been him. 

Hoseok’s mouth leaves yours and when it  finds the tip of one aching breast, you gasp.

“Do you like that?” he goads, laving your nipple with his tongue, taking it between his teeth. The pang of pleasure he incites in you is so sharp, you cry out. “Your body is so responsive,” he murmurs. “So damned responsive.”

There is only so much of that particular torture you can take, and so when his mouth finally leaves your breasts you exhale a sigh of relief. But then his mouth is on your sternum, and then your stomach, and then –

You freeze.

“I want to kiss you here,” Hoseok explains, cupping your mound with one large hand. “I promised you pleasure and this is the surest way to it. Will you let me?”

He looks up at you from the edge of the bed, his dark hair wild and his dark eyes glossy with desire, his mouth hovering over your most secret place. Your pulse skitters, heart pounding erratically at the thought of him kissing you there.

“Is it – is it proper?” you ask, chiding yourself at once for asking such a stupid question. Your face flames when Hoseok raises a brow. “I don’t know that I’ve ever thought to consider the … propriety of such an act,” he says slowly. “But I know that you’ll enjoy it if you allow me to show you. And if you don’t enjoy it, I’ll stop.”

In the seconds that follow, you think about the way he’d let you take him in hand. How he’d showed you how to bring him pleasure, without reserve. How powerful you’d felt when he’d been shuddering under your touch. He’d trusted you, hadn’t he? Just as you now must trust him.

“Alright,” you whisper, nodding your assent. “I trust you.”

He grins at you then, wickedly, before lowering his mouth to your mons. And then he is kissing you there, softly, each brush of his lips moving lower and lower still. Until you feel the heat of his breath at your entrance. You tense.

“Relax for me,” he instructs, licking a long, wet stripe up the length of you. The touch sends a frisson of sensation shooting through your limbs. “Close your eyes and try to think of nothing but this.”

And then he sets his tongue to the tiny pearl at your entrance. 

And at once, you see stars.

“H-Hoseok!” you gasp, your hips flying off the bed at the contact. The urge to snap your legs shut is almost as strong as the urge to push deeper into the pleasing press of his tongue. Almost.

But he pins your legs down with his arms and continues the onslaught, stroking and licking at you with his tongue, nipping at you with his teeth. You grab fistfulls of the duvet as though it might ground you somehow, keep you from bursting into flame.

And then he slides one long finger into you.

You are incoherent now, moaning and begging in broken sentences that do not make sense. But your body is responding in ways that your words cannot, hips moving in time with his mouth. Each pass of his tongue sends sharp spikes of pleasure to your core. You’d thought you’d known what this pleasure felt like, that perhaps you’d be able to reach it on your own someday, but never once had it been like this. 

And then you can feel it – the coil turning inside you, the desperate ascent to the one place you’ve never been able to reach. And it’s so close, so so close – the promise of whatever awaits on the other side strong enough to sate this nameless craving that you’ve felt for so long. It’s within your reach now, if only you can just hold on.

And then it stops.

He takes his mouth and tongue away and the pleasure vanishes. “Hoseok, no,” you cry, sapped of all energy, robbed once again of the relief you so desperately seek. “Please,” you beg weakly, “please.”

But he’s at your side now, the length of his body resting against yours, his manhood hard and hot against your leg. “Come now, pretty bird,” he soothes, “I didn’t bring you this high just to let you fall.”

He presses his lips to your ear at the same time he presses his fingers back to the aching bud between your thighs. “Go on then,” he whispers. “Fly.”

He brings every sensation he’d wrought from you rushing back with his fingers. His mouth hovers at your ear, whispering his encouragement until the coil inside you snaps. He must have known that you’d not be able to contain yourself when you came apart because he covers your mouth with his own, swallowing the sobs he wrenches from you, bringing you down slowly as you come apart.

And when you finally come to your senses again, when your breathing has evened and your heart has slowed and every part of you feels liquid and languid, he smiles.

“I couldn’t risk you waking the entire castle,” he explains apologetically, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” you shudder through your quiet laughter, aftershocks of sensation rippling through you. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve never – never experienced anything like that.”

“That’s mine,” he murmurs, going up on one elbow. “Just as I told you it would be.”

Indeed. But what about his pleasure? The firm reminder of it remains pressed against you, the rigid length of it leaking onto your duvet. You reach for it and he draws a sharp breath through his clenched teeth.

“I want to feel you inside me,” you say softly, noting the way a muscle tics in his jaw. You wrap your hand around him and squeeze, astounded by how feverishly hot he feels. “Please.”

Hoseok nods, climbing over you and settling his hips between your thighs. He takes himself in hand and when you feel the blunt head of him at your entrance, you tense again. But he doesn’t enter you right away. Instead he looks down at you, his dark eyes brimming with emotion.

“Are you certain,” he breathes, his brow dotted with a fine sheen of sweat. “I need to hear you say it.”

You lift up to kiss him, pressing your lips to his. “Take me, Hoseok,” you whisper. “Now.”

And in one sure stroke, he’s buried to the hilt inside you. 

Bodies sealed, fates sealed.

The force of his entry steals the breath from your lungs. And though you’ve been breached before, it’s never felt like this. You’re still sensitive from the pleasure he’d given you only moments before and each of his thrusts only heightens the sensation. 

You cling to him as he rocks against you, closing your eyes to revel in the fullness. He buries his head in your neck and thrusts harder, the sound of his skin meeting yours just as gratifying as it is lurid. And when he reaches between you to press his fingers to your pearl once again, impossibly you feel fresh pleasure begin to bloom.

Broken phrases fall from his lips, a string of curses and blessings and everything in between. And his coarse language doesn’t scandalize you; in fact it only causes you to hurtle towards the peak faster. And then you’re flying again – flying apart, scattering into a million pieces. Crying into his mouth as your release explodes into color and tiny wisps of fire slowly drift back to the earth.

But you come back to yourself just as his rhythm has started to falter, just as the steady cant of his hips becomes so frenetic that you know his own release is near. You have only a moment to mourn the loss of his weight and his warmth before he’s on his knees before you.

You’ve never seen anything more erotic. Firelight flickers over him as he throws his head back, the cords in his neck clenching as he takes himself in hand. And then he is groaning, long and low, as his release spills on to the duvet.

Then he collapses onto you, wrapping you up in his arms, turning you both until he’s on his back and your head rests upon his chest. And then you both lie there for a while, skin to skin,  watching the flames cast shadows on the stone.

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

Neither one of you sleep, the threat of dawn too near to indulge in any such luxury. 

“What happens now, Hoseok?”

You ask the question after he’s made love to you a second time, both of you too exhausted to move. Hoseok inhales and exhales deeply. “I don’t know. I have no control over the world outside of that chamber door, pretty bird.”

You map the lines of his chest with one finger, thoughtful.

“You told me earlier that if the King would not give me the things I desire, you would. Did you mean that?”

“I did,” Hoseok says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “If it’s within my power, then I will. I will give you anything I can.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, closing your eyes and breathing deeply. “Thank you.”

⚜️⚜️⚜️⚜️

You sit by the window and take in the afternoon sunlight, eyes drooping as you fight to stay awake.

You cannot ever remember being so tired. You sleep in fits and starts now, two or three hours at a time. And your body is too fatigued to talk up walking again, though the fresh air and exercise would do you some good. But you will walk again, soon. It won’t be long before you’re sitting with your birds and reading in the gentle Spring breeze.

Hyeri charges into the room like a bull, the tea tray in her hand clattering loudly. You narrow her eyes at her as she approaches and she fixes you with a sardonic look.“Oh, hush you,” she grumbles, setting the tray down on the table and walking over to you. “I wasn’t that loud.”

But her scowl falls away as her gaze locks on the baby at your breast, her muted eyes glowing with admiration. 

“That’s a fine Prince you have there, Your Grace,” she says softly. Then she looks up at you and her scowl returns. “Though at the rate you’re going, I’ll never get to hold him, will I? You’ve an entire staff to help you with him, and still you refuse. You’re going to make that boy rotten.”

You chuckle under your breath as you stroke your hand over the tuft of downy hair at your son’s crown. He blinks up at you with his huge dark eyes, and your heart is filled to overflowing with a love that you once you thought you’d never know. 

⚜️⚜️⚜���⚜️

y,all i finished it! hahah okay so listen. if you'd like to talk to me, i'd love to hear from you. please consider reblogging and dropping me an ask 💕

#hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #j-hope smut #j-hope x reader #bts smut #bts fic #bts x reader

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 60

part 1 | part 59 | ao3

cw: reference to canonical minor character death

Max slams the phone down, knocking her forehead against the wall. Sixteen calls in a row and still no answer. “I give up,” she sighs. “You should just go.” “Seriously?” Steve protests. “And just leave you here? Alone? After—?” After all that? He throws his hands out like an umpire calling a safe. “No. No way.” “Look, my mom will be home soon, you can’t—” “—I’m not letting you get hurt—!” “—What are you gonna do? Fight my nightmares for me?”

“Maybe I will,” Steve mutters under his breath, pissed off and replaying the conversation on repeat while he gets ready. Feels like a psycho for doing it; feels certifiably unhinged just going about his evening after everything that happened, putting on a clean shirt and choking himself in a cloud of Farrah Fawcett spray so he can go pick up the sweet-but-stupid girl named Brenda he promised to take to the game tonight; so he can go cheer in the bleachers like he didn’t almost die.

(Or like, very vividly hallucinate his own death, which... Yeah. Doesn’t feel any less horrific.)

But whatever. Max is right. Without El, there’s really nothing to do but wait. Hop’s dead, Bob’s dead, Joyce is thirty hours away. Owens is off the table, too. What’s Steve gonna do? Call the government and tell them to come nuke the boogeyman? He doesn’t have any proof. 

He also doesn’t want to freak Dustin or any of the other kids out without knowing for sure what’s going on and what, if anything, can be done about it, so...

Fuck.

Fuck!

He gets dressed; he goes out. Picks up Brenda and does his best to be nice to her even though she gets on his nerves the moment she gets into his car, and he buys them sodas at the gas station and doesn't say a word when she spills Sprite down the side of his passenger seat.

The school is packed when they show up — the crowd in high spirits, the marching band leading chants. Nancy's reporting from the sidelines, Lucas is laughing with his teammates on the bench, and Steve leads Brenda toward the bleachers and does his best not to think. Not about the graveyard, not Max, not the looming threat of cosmic terrors. Not about the fact that Eddie is somewhere in this building, probably looking all hot and menacing while he leads tonight's campaign. Probably perched on a prop throne drinking Mountain Dew from a painted chalice like a fucking dork; probably making it look sexy, anyway. Tight jeans, legs spread, an air of casual command…

Steve could go find him. He could make everyone else leave; he could get on his knees and crawl between Eddie's legs—

"Does it bother you that we might win the championship, like, right after you graduated?"

Reality comes back like a slap in the face. "Yeah, that's an excellent question, Brenda, thank you so much for bringing that up."

They get settled into their seats, and Steve wishes he were more excited when the ref throws the jump ball, but he mostly just wants to go home. ("You always want to go home," the Robin in his head reminds him, and the Robin in real life throws him a weird look when she catches him snorting to himself about it.) He's just tired. Worn down in his bones, hollowed where he thinks his marrow should be, and he's clinging to normalcy with a sort of sweaty desperation that he’s pretty sure Brenda can smell on him because the date just sucks; it’s so bland, so mutually boring and bored. He spends most of the night mouthing stupid shit at Robin or keeping a sharp eye on the court — anything to ignore his proximity to Eddie; anything to drown out his messed-up head and heart. 

When the game finally ends Brenda gets a ride to a party with some friends. Steve goes back to Dustin’s place and paces a hole into the carpet. Stays up until 3 A.M., humming a Fleetwood Mac song.

In the morning, he tells himself as he drifts into fitful sleep. 

In the morning it’ll be fine. 

In the morning Max will come by the store like she promised, and they’ll keep trying until they get ahold of El, or Owens, or someone, and that someone will know what to do and how to help.

—

In the morning the TV tells him there’s a dead girl in his house.

—

part 61

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

#trailer park steve au #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson

[whispering-ways]

Hear me out. Softdom!Mike (fnaf) takes you to work with him and wants you to cockwarm him while he looks over the cams

˖⁺‧₊˚♡ checking the cameras ♡ ˚₊‧⁺

◉ summary: mike takes you to work, but you become incredibly bored incredibly quick. luckily, Mike has a solution for that.

◉ pairings: mike schmidt x reader

◉ tags: cockwarming, nicknames like love and baby

◉ notes: anon I literally adore you for this, i know in my bone marrow that Mike is a soft Dom!!! hope you like this short fic!

You were always a fan of true crime since you were little. So when your boyfriend, Mike, offered for you to come with him during a shift, you jumped at the opportunity. I mean the place was just riddled with mystery; I mean missing children at an entertainment place? You knew there had to be some sort of clue to what had happened so many years ago and you were going to get to the bottom of it.

You were expecting a fun night of snooping around, but Mike had said that was absolutely not allowed. It was understandable; he was working hard at this gig and he couldn't have anything fuck it up for him. 

Nevertheless, it actively killed any excitement the pizzeria once had. It didn't take long for you to become absolutely mind-numbing bored. You'd practically done everything you could in Mike's office. Flip through manuals, make paper swans out of old napkins, watch the training VHS tapes, there was nothing more you could do within that office.

"Well, almost nothing," you thought, looking over to Mike. You had to admit, he looked pretty good in a uniform and it's not like you had anything better to do. You walked over to his chair and climbed in his lap, thighs trapping him down to his seat. 

His focus shifted from the cameras to you, moving his hands to hold you up from the small of your back. "What's up love?" he asks with a soft but tired smile.

"Babe~!" you said dragging out each syllable. "I'm so bored...can I please just ride you?" you whine.

Mike's face flushes red, but it slowly leaves as he lets out a tired sigh. "As much as I'd love that, and truly I would, I'm too fucking tired for that and plus I've gotta watch these cameras baby."

You didn't want to push him, so you nod your head, dissapointment written all over your face. You lay your head in the crook of his neck; if you couldn't have his dick inside you, you were at least gonna cuddle him. 

Mike hated to see you upset like this. How could he concentrate on work when his love was in his arms feeling so sad? He patted your back, making you sit back up. "Why don't you just cockwarm me for a bit love? Itd be nice to have you around me while I look at the cameras."

You nodded enthusiastically, happy at the compromise. You quickly reached to pull your shorts off, leaving you in your panties as you ground down on his crotch. Mike put his hands on your hips, pulling you up just enough for him to unzip and push his pants down just enough for you to have access to him. He placed you back in his lap gently and you conrinued to grind down on him, feeling his erection poke through his boxers.

It didn't take long for you to pull down your panties and line yourself up with Mike, impatient to have him inside you. You slowly slipped the tip in, hissing at the stretch. 

"Fuck baby, you're so tight~" Mike groaned out. You loved how raspy his voice would get every time you both messed around. You slipped all of him inside you, finally bringing your hips down to his. His dick filled you up in all the right places; although it was average in size, it made up in length with thickness. 

Instinctively, you started to raise your hips to ride him, before feeling Mike's hands on your side again, pulling you back down roughly. "Remember you're just cockwarming. Don't disobey okay? If you're good for me, maybe we can mess around later after my shift."

"Ugh~ fine," you say reluctantly, sinking back into his  chest.

He chuckles at how much you wanted him. "Good girl," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

Something about being so close to Mike managed to make you sleepy and although you did your best to prevent it, you felt your eyes close.

You woke up to Mike tapping your back again to let you know it was time to go back home. You look up at him groggily before noticing you'd been cockwarming him all shift. Mike wordlessly helped put your clothes back on and led you back to his car, letting you sleep in the back seat as he drove him.

After checking in on Abby and sending the babysitter away, he brought you to his bedroom, gently laying you down on his bed. You instinctively pull the blanket around you, only to have it ripped away a few seconds later, the cold air now jolting you awake. 

You look up to see Mike above you, blanket in hand and a smile stretched across his face. "Baby you can't go to sleep just yet. I have to reward you for being so good don't I?" he said in a low voice.

#five nights at freddy's #fivenightsatfreddysfanfic #fnaf #fnaf movie #fnaf x reader #fnaf fanfic #fnaf fandom #mike schmidt #mike fnaf #micheal schmidt #michael schimdt #josh hutcherson #mike x reader #mike schimdt x reader #mike schimdt x you #mike schimdt x babysitter #five night at freddys #fnaf smut #fnaf x y/n #fnaf x you #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt x you smut #fivenightsatfreddys

[mystra-midnight]

In the Mountains Shadow

summary: in which he comforts you.

tags: panic attacks. ptsd. hurt/comfort.

w/c: 1.1k.

a/n: no one will ever convince me that the 100 delinquents that were sent the earth, and the subsequent 48 of them that survived mount weather don't have serious ptsd. none of them are okay.

In the late afternoon hours, there was no peace to be found—not for her.

The feeling had come from nowhere, starting so small that she hadn't even noticed it before it crashed against the shore of her emotions, where it shattered into a thousand pieces, and infected her blood. If she could, she'd pull the blood from her veins to stop the feeling.

She was breathing in shallow gasps as she stared at that mountain of death—its shadow looming over her, blocking out the sun until she felt swallowed by darkness. She clutched the handle of the rover to ground herself; her fingers wound so tightly around it that they ached; and her legs wobbled and threatened to give out.

It was getting harder to breathe. It felt like someone had punched her in the chest, grabbed her heart, and squeezed the air from her lungs. Why had she agreed to come back? She never wanted to see this place again, not after...

She gasped loudly and suddenly.

The memories assaulted her all at once, without warning or mercy. The humming of the drill replayed in her ears, a haunting melody that accompanied her torment. Pain scored through her limbs, radiating from the scars on her thighs. Screams echoed around her—Raven's, Abby's, and her own. She could hear Marcus begging and pleading with Cage to stop, insisting that they would donate their bone marrow.

Her stomach twisted into knots, threatening to bring her breakfast up and dump it on the ground right there beside the rover. Waterfall tears fell from her eyes, streaking down her cheeks, leaving her vision blurred. Her body shuddered as a sob welled up in her chest.

"Bellamy..."

Her voice was impossibly soft, so full of fear as the memories of her time inside the mountain continued their relentless assault. She reached out blindly for him, needing something real and warm to hold onto—someone to ground her in the storm that was threatening to undo her. "I don't think I can do this."

She hated this place; no, that was too kind of a word. She loathed this place with every fibre of her being and with every beat of her broken heart.

The mountain was filled with so much needless death—not only the mountain men and grounders but their own as well. Another sob spewed from her trembling lips—the sound gut-wrenching, cutting the dark-haired man to the core—as she remembered being trapped on level five while guards took her friends one by one. They had fought. They had screamed. They had run. None of it mattered in the end.

She remembered Fox's face when they'd found her after everything had been said and done. The blank look in her eyes, the blood dripping from her mouth, the expression etched upon her features, forever frozen in time.

"Oh god."

And then he was there.

Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and dragged her into the shelter of his body, where she buried her face against his chest, hiding from the world just as she'd done when he found her wandering the halls of the mountain. He felt her ball his shirt in her trembling hands, the material being pulled taunt across his back as her tears soaked the front. Bellamy held her tightly as the tears shuddered through her body. He wanted to cry with her, to break down and be weak, but he couldn't.

They had all been broken by the mountain, left tired and scared, but he couldn't break down. He had to be strong when the delinquents couldn't be; he'd bear it so that they didn't have to.

PTSD ran wild through the survivors of the one hundred, all forty-eight of them, and no amount of talking or time would help. Sure, their wounds would heal and scar, but the psychological trauma—the torment—would remain with them every day until they died. None of them would be okay again.

"She doesn't have to go," Bellamy said, his voice gentle as he patted her head, running his fingers through her hair in a soothing gesture. She didn't have to do this, and he wouldn't make her; he wouldn't let anyone make her.

There was a very strong loyalty that Bellamy felt for the delinquents in particular. He had a great deal to make up for, and going into Mount Weather to save them barely covered it. He would go in again, alone; he could find the things that would make their lives on post-apocalyptic-and-current-apocalyptic earth more comfortable.

Her breath was wild and erratic, impossible to catch. Inside, her lungs were burning, desperate for air, as she sobbed and hyperventilated against his chest. She clung to him without shame, her arms wrapped around his torso. He was the only thing that kept her grounded when the trauma threatened to consume her. "I can't, Bell, I can't." She repeated the words, babbling mindlessly.

She remembered how peaceful the mountain had seemed and how utterly perfect it was—a paradise found in a world trying to destroy them. She had loved being inside Mount Weather. All the history at her fingertips, real food, a soft bed, and books!

There had been so many books.

It was home.

Until Clarke pointed out the flaws and inconsistencies, and then the bubble burst. The mountain men's secrecy had come to light, and the superficial charm of Cage Wallace had peeled away like a snake's skin. She remembered Clarke escaping and how hopeless she'd felt while still trapped inside. But most of all, she remembered the feeling of the cuffs around her wrists and ankles—how her skin had been rubbed raw, cut open, and her bones drilled into.

She had been left devastated. Even the whirring of a power tool at Camp Jaha would send her into a panic. There was no concern that she was appearing weak in front of Bellamy. There was only a fear that she might not escape the mountain alive this time.

Bellamy waved for the others to go on ahead, ignoring their concerned stares. When one of them took a tentative step forward, his arms tightened around her, iron bands of muscle pressing her into his body. Above her, he shook his head, silently telling them not to look or touch.

He knew her; he saw her.

And he knew that comfort from anyone else, especially one of the adults that had been responsible for sending one hundred children to earth, would only break the little resolve she was holding onto. So Bellamy held her as she cried; he let her bury her face against his chest and hide from the world. And when her legs gave out, he went to the ground with her, and he held her still.

"I promise you're not alone," he whispered, his lips pressed against the crown of her head, his own heart breaking. He pulled her closer, held her tighter. "You'll never be alone again."

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