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ghostaholics · 10 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐒

➸ PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!reader (established relationship) ➸ WARNING(S): [ 18+ ] body shots; oral (receiving); ruined orgasm; basically PWP with slight BDSM (disciplinary action) ➸ SUMMARY: Simon teaches you a very important lesson about holding still – extended version of this. ➸ A/N: Thank you to @mvtthewmurdvck who lets me bitch about anything and everything including this and offered kind words when I certainly lost faith in the whole thing. ➸ WORD COUNT: 2.2k

𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐎𝐍, 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄. Pilfered from his not-so-secret stash and running low with about a quarter left; the contents slosh around in their bottle-shaped confinement as he stalks into the room with a heavy hand swallowing around the widest circumference of the glass.

Good memories, usually. Like the first time he’d brandished his titanium pocket flask for you to take a sip. You’d scrunched your nose, feigning disapproval of the drink. And he'd said – cheeky as always – with a low-timbered response:

"Don't worry. The taste of your cunt's still my favourite."

But now, there’s no trace of that Simon anywhere to be seen. His face is entirely devoid of the amusement he already so rarely expressed. Stone-rigid. Unimpressed. Disappointed – seems like – and certainly not in the mood for any games.

❝ 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐇? ❞

It's a red-hot brand searing the edges of your memory (charred, ash-coated, lined by the cinders of a poor attempt on your part that had gone up into flickering embers).

See, the brain remembers it well.

Your cunt, too: the walls hugging his cock, full of his cum – excessively so, nearly bursting with it after he'd buried himself to the hilt and stayed inside just to plug your snug little hole, ensuring that none of it would dribble out after he’d fucked you senseless. He’d given you plenty, more than enough. And it’d been generous of Simon. A gift, really, considering the enormity of the initial request.

Make me yours?

He’d only had one thing to say, just a simple favour in return for doing this, for indulging you. His voice had been hoarse, sandpaper-rough from overuse – your fault entirely – eroded away after being subjected to a whole night's worth of groaning against the shell of your ear and telling you just how fucking good you felt before you'd milked him for everything he was worth with your greedy, pulsing self.

Keep it all in then.

You’d done your best not to clench, but stretched taut around the girth of his cock like that, you'd just wanted to readjust. Not a lot. But the position you'd been in wasn't the most conducive one for this. And you’d shifted – barely, practically inconsequential (or so you’d thought) – to where you wouldn’t have even thought it’d matter except—

It had.

Pushed some of it out, that is. A stream of cum trickling down onto an area of the duvet, staining it – the unfortunate aftermath of your decision to move.

Thas’ a shame. Thought you wanted it. Guess I was wrong.

Simon comes to a stop at the foot of the bed where you're sitting; he towers over you – an intimidating, subduing presence without even having to try. "Had to wash the sheets because you couldn't keep it all in.”

You blink in surprise as your mouth parts slightly in what you're sure must be a dumbfounded expression. Of course, this is nothing new. You were there. Responsible for the incident, apparently. And though it wasn't necessarily your fault, you still feel the need to explain that it was due to factors beyond your control. “There was so much—” (As if it'll help your case.)

But he's never cared much for excuses.

“How ‘m I supposed to finish inside you knowing that you’re just going to waste it?” he asks. It's a rhetorical question, not one that actually requires an answer.

Your chin tips down in a silent apology. There's something heavy sitting in your chest; remorse, you think.

He grips your jaw in his hand, forces you to look at him. “Yeah, love. We’ll fix that. Gonna teach you how to be grateful, how to understand the value in the things I give to you."

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒.

He makes you tell him your colors.

You do.

He asks if you know what you’re supposed to get out of this.

You answer that he’s probably going to have to wash the sheets again before you can learn whatever lesson he’s trying to impose on you.

Yeah, that earns you a sharp pinch to the hip.

That massive body of his sinks to the floor, one leg bending down before the other joins it, rough carpet cutting into his knees, undoubtedly. Then, his fingers curl around your legs, blunt digits sinking in – ten identical divots pressed into the flesh. He leaves light indentations with his palms spanning along the sides of your thighs to spread you open while his elbows anchor into the mattress.

Heat blooms across your skin, every surface that he touches and even in the places that he doesn't – white-hot, intentional (and he never does anything without purpose); it sparks a fever that fans out, unfurls. There's no part of you left unaffected. You're growing warmer by a few degrees. Doesn't sound like much, but it's enough to make a noticeable difference if the beads of sweat gathering at the back of your neck are any indication.

And Simon lets out a soft scoff. Cocky. Like he knew what was waiting for him—

You're soaked, absolutely drenched. Cotton panties, sticky –saturated beyond belief. If you looked there yourself, you wouldn't be surprised to find a damp patch on the fabric steadily growing in size.

He's such a sight, too: the contour of his muscles shifting and rippling, all brawn and power – his presence speaking volumes about just who holds the cards right now, undeniably the one in control here; the visual of his stature and build emphasize that. And authority bleeding from the width of his shoulders if not spelled out by his words alone.

"Haven't even touched you, and you're already dripping," he murmurs. "Why?"

Your mouth trips and stutters over your own words the same way your heart trips and stutters over his. "Because you—y-you're..."

His thumbs hook into your panties, slowly peels them away – not an easy feat, damn things are clinging to your cunt – before dragging them down your legs. "Say it, sweetheart. What do you think I'm gonna do to you?"

And your mind is racing, jumping too many steps ahead. "You're going to eat me out?"

Simon stuffs his panties in his back pocket for safekeeping. A souvenir, since there won't be much use for them now. "I'm gonna eat you out," he affirms.

"Mhm, yeah. Want your mouth on me."

"Whether or not you come depends entirely on if I feel like letting you."

"Oh—"

"Spill a single drop, and you don't come tonight," he says, never one to draw out the details. His instructions are concise, uncomplicated. Then, further inquiry. "We clear?"

"Yeah..." you say with a shaky breath before trying to regain some semblance of composure. "Yes."

"Good girl," he purrs low, almost a growl – though you're not quite certain that you deserve the praise yet.

He’s answering to a shrine, beckoned forward by the invitation of a wet cunt and the promise of a taste of your slick. He pauses, takes a brief moment to admire it in his own way, almost reverent as he takes in how your arousal’s smeared everywhere from your folds to your inner thighs (all for him, because of him – isn’t that right?).

But make no mistake, there’s absolutely nothing respectful about the act that comes next. Simon leans, forces his shoulders to hold you open, before he bows his head and he licks; it’s a hungry tongue lapping at the slit, everything terribly hot and wet – the sensation makes you jolt upon first contact because it's too much. So, so much.

And at the same time, not enough.

The feeling spikes along the circuit running from your head to your toes – empty thoughts save for the white static that buzzes in the hollow of your skull, a tingling, prickling paresthesia-sort-of-thing that usually accompanies the high of an orgasm. Except, the irony’s not lost on you in this instance; he’s hardly even begun to wreak havoc on your cunt yet.

Currents zip down your spine, down, further down, everything else collateral damage. No part of you is spared by the overwhelming fervor responsible for it – the initial onslaught of his mouth laying waste at the spread of your entrance.

Every single nerve-ending is on-edge, trigger-sensitive as he sucks, and kisses, and fuck are his groans heavy, bone-deep, the rumble of a thunderstorm gathering in his chest. They radiate from the point of origin where your core’s suffering, reverberating tremors that diffuse out to the rest of you. It makes your skin thrum like a live wire. There’s no hope of staying in a fixed position if he keeps this up. How could you? The odds are zero to none. It isn’t feasible.

You forget your place, can't help but squirm within his iron grip.

Then, Simon; a severe reprimand— "Watch it," he rasps. It’s a lull amidst the incursion, an unplanned interlude. Temporary reprieve (barely) so he can scold you for your inability to follow his instructions.

A low whimper leaves your throat. That's completely out of the question, beyond what you're currently capable of. Easier said than done. "I'm trying—"

"Then try harder."

Despite how weighed down your eyelids feel, you manage to guide your laden gaze south, let it roam over your stomach. The dark, amber liquid in your navel sways; it rocks, sloshes with the tide, a consequence born from the pull and heave of your jarring movements. Exercise caution. This is delicate work – a balancing act. Those thoughts are cloudy.

Your mind is fuzzy, thick, a drunken haze. Buzzed, lightheaded. And everything's off-kilter. But you haven't had a single drop of alcohol. None at all. Couldn’t, because everything's still sitting in your navel right there like it’s supposed to.

Simon dips his head back between your legs, continues to seal his mouth over you, flattening his tongue to lick thick stripes from your entrance to your clit. He doesn't let up, only bringing his face closer, following that same path again and again and again – agonizing – until you're trembling. The noises he’s making, something debauched and bottomless – one wet groan after the other. This isn't for you. It's for him, that much is clear.

You plead anyways, hoping he'll grant you an amnesty that you haven't earned in the least bit, "Need you inside. Anything, just—"

"Sure you can handle it?"

Breathless when you say, "Ah, yeah..."

"We'll see about that," Simon murmurs.

He doesn't believe you.

To be fair, you’re not so sure you do either.

But he's courteous, slips one finger in and lets you clamp around him. And your cunt flutters, welcomes the feeling.

You release a soft moan. “Want more, Si. Feels good."

His face turns to the side, wet nose and chin grazing along your thigh to spread the slick in more places that haven't been drenched yet. Then he bites. Gentle. An admonishment. Nothing serious about it though: scraping, the light pressure of teeth sinking into the skin as he pulls with his mouth.

You jerk suddenly before catching yourself.

"Don't be fuckin' greedy. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for it." He's curt, perfunctory. No delay as he offers up his two fingers to your mouth. The expectation is clear. “Suck.” And he's waiting.

You wrap your lips around them, swallowing him down, not one to squander an opportunity sitting in front of you, right? You understand that now.

“So tell me how good you taste.”

"I-um, taste good—"

"Yeah, you fuckin' do."

"Thank you."

“Mhm.”

You can't see it, but you can hear it: the low clinking of a belt being unbuckled, the sound of a zipper being undone. Clinking metal and rustling denim being tampered with somewhere below your line of sight as he reaches down, almost like he— is he… oh.

Most of his body's obscured by the edge of the bed, but everything from the chest up is still visible. Simon's shoulder is bobbing slightly, arm pumping back and forth in a rhythmic motion and fuck, he's getting himself off to this.

That sends another spark of arousal to your core, makes you gush. It adds to the mess coating his jaw, his chin, his lips. You whimper out something – broken syllables – his name, maybe. You’re not entirely sure.

God, you’re almost there. So close. Wound up tight, hips rolling against his mouth, chasing his tongue—

Until he stops entirely. No contact. Simon pulls away in such a rush that you gasp, startled.

"Look at that." Accusatory.

It's a trail of liquor dribbling over the curve of your stomach, down your side in small rivulets. There are streaks pooling onto the sheets underneath you. Tragic.

(Couldn't help yourself, huh?)

Guilty as charged.

Shit.

"What'd I say – told you to hold still, yeah?"

And even though you had a feeling it would happen, you still have the nerve to act surprised at the result. "Fuck," you whine pathetically. "Was so close—"

"We're starting over. Don't care if it takes us all night, we're gonna keep at this 'til you get it right or you use up the rest of the whiskey," he says, readying himself to deposit another pour of alcohol into your navel. Simon lifts his shoulder in a light shrug like he can't be bothered about the final outcome. "Better pray that it works out before the bottle’s empty. Won't let you finish otherwise, sweetheart. Understand?"

#honestly i got so lazy towards the end but that is not my problem #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod mw 2 #call of duty smuty #ghost cod

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actuallysaiyan · 2 months

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The Way You Push, Push Let's Me Know You're Good(Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader)

warnings: smut, smoking, drinking, oral sex(male receiving), rough oral sex, throatpie word count: 0.8k pairings: Nanami Kento x Fem!Reader summary: it's been a long day and Kento just wants to unwind...with his favourite drink, his favourite cigarette and his favourite girl...

It’s been a long day for Kento. He doesn’t like using you for his own stress relief a lot of the time, but sometimes it’s most needed. So when he got home and saw you in the kitchen finishing up the dishes, his cock grew hard. He knew he had to have you right then and there.

So with his glass of whiskey in one hand, and a lit cigarette in the other, Nanami watches as you kneel in front of it. The words of praise that come from his lips sound just a little more dirty tonight. Your eyes are glued to him, and your hands work to unbuckle his belt. With every action you do, you look up to make sure your husband is still happy with the outcome.

The tip of his cock is an angry purple color, and it leaks lots of pearlescent precum. Your mouth begins to salivate and water as you reach out to stroke him. Slowly, you move your hand up and down the thick shaft. Kento’s head falls back on the headrest of his recliner.

“What a good girl you are for me,” he grunts as you pick up your pace.

More of the fluid begins to leak out, coating your fist and making things so much easier for you. Kento takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the partly opened window.

“Ready to suck my cock now?” He asks even though he can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re more than ready to do so.

Your pretty lips part as you wrap them around the tip of his cock. The musky flavor of him hits your tongue, making your whole body tingle. You moan as you begin to take even more of him into your mouth. Kento lets out a satisfied hiss.

“You really are such a good little cocksucker.”

Your pretty eyes look up at him, and he reaches down with his free hand to gently caress your cheek with his thumb. Gradually, you start up at a pace that feels comfortable for you. Soft grunts and groans rumble from his broad chest as you bob your head up and down, tongue swirling over the head each time you pull up.

“Oh fuck,” he groans. “Just like that, pretty baby. It’s like you’re worshiping my cock.”

Once more, you look up at him to get that sweet approval and praise. You decide to take more of him into your mouth, but you feel your throat stretching too much and you have to pull off of him to breathe. You sputter and cough a little, and Kento reaches over to wipe away the small amount of drool that dribbles down to your chin.

“Think you can go a little longer for me?” He asks, taking another drag from his cigarette. Then he ashes it out, reaching for the glass of whiskey. The ice has melted a bit and the condensation on the outside of the glass causes his hand to become a little damp.

He wipes his hand on his expensive dress pants before his fingers tangle in your hair. He pushes you down onto his cock, watching through half-lidded eyes at the way you’re so eager to swallow him down. Kento smirks as you stop halfway, trying to adjust yourself to the sheer size of him.

“Breathe, pretty girl. Breathe for me.”

And with that, his other hand comes down to join the first one. He pushes you down onto his cock, feeling you gag and cough. But you continue to breathe through your nose just as he instructed. He pushes your head further until his cock is so deep in your throat. Your nose is pressed against the soft patch of light brown pubic hair.

“Fuck that’s it. Drool for me, pretty girl.”

The words he says hit you so hard. You feel your cunt growing hotter and wetter as he uses his mouth to his satisfaction. Slowly, his hips begin rocking and he’s fucking your mouth. You can tell by the way his thighs tense and shake that he’s close to his orgasm. You try your best to look up at him from this position, and he grunts.

“You ready for it? Huh?”

But he doesn’t need to hear the answer. The muscles in his groin begin to tense as the pleasure has boiled over the point of no return. Loud gasps and moans fill the room as Kento cums deep down your throat. His balls grow tighter and tighter with each pulse, and the cum slides down deep. You struggle to keep swallowing it all, but he’s got a strong grip on you.

When he pulls you off his cock, he admires his handiwork. Your lips are swollen, drool and cum mix together to dribble down your chin and onto your shirt, and your hair is so messy. You’ve got that cute fucked out look in your eyes too.

“Such a good girl for me. I think you deserve a reward, hm? What do you think?”

#bacon.writes #nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #kento nanami x reader #kento nanami x you #kento nanami x y/n #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami kento x y/n #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #kento nanami #nanamin #kento nanami smut

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marauroon · 28 days

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I love your new fic Hypothermic and the whole trope of Jamie being a big cuddle bug and the best friend trope always has a chokehold on me. Can you write a romantic bestfriend!james maybe about a swim in the black lake or something with a summery vibe please (I miss summer so much rn)

BALL GAME — J.POTTER

James makes the most of being your favourite person to convince you out of the castle and into the lake.

cw — james picks the reader up at one point

james potter x fem!reader || fluff || 1.3k || requests open!

a/n: best friend james has my whole entire heart i fear

Sometimes James is half convinced you’re a vampire, that your skin is so delicate that even a pinprick of sunlight will burn you into a pile of ash.

If it weren’t for your ostentatious love of the summer season—and the privilege James has as your best friend—he’d be surprised you even agreed to his request at all.

Yet there you were, sat pretty underneath the shade of one of the small willow trees lining the water with a book in your lap and a picnic blanket separating you from the grass.

Was he a little sad you’d decided not to join the group in splashing around? A little. Was he going to ask you again later with his puppy dog eyes so you couldn’t refuse him? Probably.

But right now he was content with watching how your eyebrows furrowed and left small wrinkles between your eyes as you read a particularly interesting paragraph, and the slight fluttering of your hair against the small breeze.

A sharp splash of water to the back of his head tore James’ attention from watching the way your eyes scanned the pages of your novel with your nose scrunched in a mix of surprise and disgust at whatever was printed in the ink, and he turned around with an exaggerated gesture of annoyance only to be met with another splash straight to his face.

Whilst the icy water was a nice relief from the nearly 30° heat, it was still cold.

“What was that for?” James pulls his glasses from his face to try and wipe the water droplets from the lenses with his thumb, turning Sirius’ face into a blurry pale blob in the process.

“We’re picking teams for a makeshift volleyball game? You’d know that if you stopped gawking over there like a dog in heat,” James can vaguely make out Sirius crossing his arms over his chest, and lo and behold, when he slots his glasses back on, Sirius’ expression is just as smug as he expected it to be.

“I wasn’t ‘gawking’ anywhere you twat,” James sends a splash of water in Sirius’ direction as a retaliation. “I was just appreciating the fact that she actually joined us, that’s all,”

“Appreciating her face you mean,” Sirius’ tone matches his smugness perfectly, and James lets out a short scoff with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re such a dog Pads,”

“You know it,” Sirius shoots James a wink and he pretends to gag. “Seriously though, stop staring so we can play,”

“Orrr,” Marlene wades over to the two to interrupt the conversation, laying her arm over Sirius’ shoulder. “You can go over there and convince her to join us, we’re uneven,”

James shoots another glance in your direction with an uncertain hum. “I don’t think we should disturb her,”

“We can’t play 4 to 3 James,” Marlene tilts her head and shakes it lightly. “So go bat your eyelashes and use your favouritism to get us another player,”

She gives a dismissive wave of her hand and Sirius joins her, James sending the two a very unimpressed look as he drags himself out of the water to speak to you.

It’s not the new source of shade from the sun that informs you of James’s presence, nor is it the sight of him sitting down cross-legged beside you in your peripheral vision. It’s the water droplets that sprinkle the right side of your face and the pages of your book that give him away.

“James—” You let out a low groan to voice your disapproval at him shaking his head like a dog to dry his hair, something that very clearly didn’t work very well as water continued to drip from his curls onto his shoulders, disappearing into the already soaked fabric of his t-shirt.

“Sorry sorry collateral damage I swear,” He throws up his hands in an immediate surrender, and you let out a small scoff with a shake of your head as you pull his glasses from the bridge of his nose to dry them on the hem of your t-shirt.

“Having fun then?” You leave your book on the blanket to shift onto your knees, carefully placing James’ glasses back on his face so they properly catch behind his ears.

James nods with a smile at how gentle your fingers are as they brush the sides of his cheeks when you return them to your lap. “Yeah, we’re about to play a round of volleyball, fancy joining us?”

You scrunch up your nose slightly and he can immediately anticipate your answer. “…no?”

“Awe come on we’re uneven,” James tilts his head as he gestures towards the others in the water, a small pout etched onto his face. “We can’t play 3 to 4 that’s not how it works,”

He blinks at you softly, eyes filled with carefully curated desperation. “Please? We can team up together,” He adds the idea of teaming up like it’s an added bonus to your agreement, his voice sweet, sticky, and absolutely dripping in persuasion.

He looks perfectly pathetic when he looks at you like that, and who are you really to say no to him?

“One game,” Your answer is joined by an exasperated sigh, but James reacts like you’ve just told him all of Severus’ hair has fallen out rather than begrudgingly agreeing to play water volleyball with him.

“Perfect! Let’s go,” James holds out his hand to help you up eagerly, a smile beaming across his face that almost puts the blazing sun to shame in it’s brightness.

You roll your eyes at him, but take his hand nonetheless, and he’s a little too excited in pulling you to your feet as he sends you stumbling forward from his pull, and he uses the momentum to lean down and take the top half of your body over his shoulder, hoisting you off the ground in the process.

You can sense the inevitable immediately.

“Don’t you dare—” You arms wrap tightly around James’ waist as he straightens his posture, his arms secured around your thighs as he walks the two of you towards the lake, suspiciously quiet considering his earlier excitement. “James I swear to god if you do what I think you are going to do I will destroy you,”

You kick your legs the closer you get to the water, although it’s to no real avail compared to the arm strength that is James’ chaser practice, and all it really ends up doing is garnering you an audience as James begins to wade in the water.

“James, you better put me down right now.“ Your warning falls on deaf ears, and your half surprised at the amount of will power he has to keep ignoring you as the water reaches his knees.

“James—“ You barely manage to get his name out before he dive on a you both into the water, it’s icy temperature immediately sending a chill up your spine as you resurface with a gasp, James laughing as he breaks the water himself.

“You absolute twat—” You send a splash of water in James’ direction with an over-exaggerated show of your disapproval, and he blocks it with his forearm, laughter still steadily streaming from his mouth.

Needless to say, you didn’t team with him for the volleyball game.

#james potter x reader #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #james potter #harry potter fanfiction #james potter fluff #asks 🪶

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meowbert-whiskers · 3 months

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Weird ass Resident Evil head cannons because my brain is too silly

Wesker 100% got bullied by Chris and Jill when he was working with S. T. A. R. S. and cried at least once from it.

The moment Ashely got home she started crying to emo nightcore music while downing an entire pack of shredded cheddar cheese.

Luis definitely grabbed Leon's ass at least once whenever he bent down, then got the same treatment from Leon.

Leon purposefully coughs very dramatically in front of people who smoke to make them feel bad.

Chris has frequent nightmares about marrying Jill just for her to turn out to be Wesker in disguise. Every single time he has that nightmare he wakes up in a cold sweat with tears streaming down his face like he just saw the most horrifying thing know to man.

Rebecca has a penis straw some where in her house. It was a gift from Jill.

Wesker is horribly afraid of horses. Any time he sees a horse he starts running away as fast as he can. One time a horse smiled at him and he started screaming in terror.

The only reason Claire wears a ponytail is because one time when she was younger she went to a public pool with Chris and got her hair stuck in one of the drains and had to get a short hair cut. She was bullied about it for years by Chris.

Sherry is obsessed with Pokemon, especially when Leon first started working with the government since he got a bunch of money, and had a Pokemon themed bedroom. Her favourite Pokemon is Sylveon. Leon's is Pikachu because he's a dumb idiot who never saw the appeal and just wanted to make Sherry happy.

William was incredibly nerdy to the point where Annette would sometimes tape his mouth shut while they worked or else her infodump about each way to use a syringe/suture needle/any sort of medical shit they had to use. Albert didn't mind it when he rambled, though.

Chris once pranked Albert by switching his artificial sugars for his coffee with salt and hiding laxatives in it as well. Albert has never forgave him.

Jill once smacked Chris so hard he fell over and folded like an omelette. His spine has never recovered.

Leon was 100% a fan of Oingo Boingo and Weird Al. I will not explain any further.

Ada gets her nails done every other month by the same nail tech. Rebecca is secretly the nail tech.

Leon once accidentally sat on one of Sherry's Plush Charizards and got screamed at for an hour. Sherry said that she didn't want his "butt cooties" on her dragon.

Ashley loves cheese. Specifically brie.

Leon sometimes stares outside of the windows in his home while zoning out and standing completely straight. He also falls asleep like that with his eyes open. Chris will sometimes join him in watching the outside except he stands like a dad and does that thing where he has some sort of nut in his hands and shakes them around before eating them.

Chris wants to have kids, more specifically a daughter, so when Leon was on missions and Claire had to babysit her, he'd try to bond with Sherry. Sherry was horribly afraid of him and would cry if she was picked up by him.

Chris once smacked Wesker so hard his glasses went flying off. Wesker immediately got on the floor and started searching for them Velma style.

Leon unironicaly goes "YEOWCH!" whenever he gets hurt.

In the helicopter, Carlos slung his arm around Jill to try and be hot. It backfired once he realized Jill was both sleeping and drooling all over his arm. Ew.

Leon coughs like an old man on hospice.

Wesker sneezes like a kitten, especially during serious situations. He goes, "I'LL FUCKING END YOU-Achoo! (｡>﹏<｡)"

William once mistook Albert for Anette when he was incredibly tired and kissed Wesker on the lips. Neither were complaining.

This is so fucking dumb but please listen to my insane ramblings. PLEASE.

#rebhfun #:3 #i love being silly #resident evil #leon kennedy #luis serra #re rebecca #rebecca chambers #jill valentine #jill resident evil #albert wesker #chris redfield #chris resident evil #ashley graham #ashley resident evil #theyre all so stupid i love them ♡

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st-el-la-luna · 2 months

Text

I Was Kidding Part One: The Set-Up (Kyle "Gaz" Garrick x Reader)

NSFW 18+

Gaz wakes up hungover with little memory of the night before. Luckily, you, his friend, are there to help him piece it together ➔ alcohol consumption, drunkeness, hangovers, jealousy, accidental confessions, making out, mentions of wet dreams

3.7k words

part one part two

Gaz lets out a low groan, his voice but a growl, the vestiges of sleep still lingering in his tone. He rolls over in his bed and pulls the warm sheets up to his chin, nuzzling deeper into his pillow. He feels comfortable. Safe.

A noise somewhere in the distance has him groaning again. He shifts his position, burrowing further into the bundle of plush blankets. He raises his hand to rub at his eyes without opening them, As he does, he feels something that confuses him. Soft yet ticklish. His brows furrow and he tries to bat the offending texture away. Something about it is familiar. But he has no idea why. He especially doesn’t know what it's doing in his bed.

His eyes are as heavy as lead as he blinks them open. Gaz hisses, eyes narrowed in a squinting, vengeful glare at the window. Like if he glared hard enough, it would shatter and break. Golden light streams in, bathing the room in a warm glow. He drops his head back against the pillow and slings an arm over his eyes.

He feels like his skull was being split in two.

"You're awake,"

Kyle nearly jumps from his skin at the sudden voice. He turns to the source and frowns, head cocked to the side in confusion. Is he seeing things? He has to be. There’s no way…

He blinks. He rubs his eyes. He blinks again.

Nope. Still there.

This is real.

He grumbles your name, brows furrowed in confusion, the tip of his nose scrunching up in his bewilderment. "What are you doing here?"

“In my flat?” you ask, your eyes sparkling with that teasing light he’s come to love. “Gee, I wonder.”

“Your flat?” Gaz echoes, brows furrowing. He glances around the room.

The walls are the right colour, the same drab beige as pretty much every flat in London, somewhere between sandpaper and ash. The posters and pictures that decorated the walls are familiar. At least, he thinks. His vision is still blurry. The big tell that this isn’t his room is the window had curtains. Kyle hasn’t had curtains since he accidentally set his on fire in November. His eyesight clears slightly, and he notices other things that don't add up. A shelf full of books. The plants that clutter the windowsill. The desk, not piled up with empty cans and bottles, loose bullets and dull knives. He looks down to the source of the strange texture from earlier and pulls up a small plush. That weird Webkinz that he always thought was a platypus but was apparently something called a ‘Googles’. He lets it drop onto the mattress beside him.

He is, in fact, not in his own room. He blinks dumbly. “Oh.”

You smile softly, handing him some aspirin and a glass of water. He has barely taken the glass from your hand when you’ve fished a little container of MIO from your pocket. You add two drops to the cup and watch him expectantly.

For a moment all he can do is stare back, his heart fluttering in his chest.

That's one thing that he loves about you. The little things you do for people that could be so easily overlooked. But Gaz never overlooked them. In fact, to him, those small acts meant the world. They're what made him fall for you in the first place.

Sure, a lot of people know he isn’t fond of water. He finds it plain. But most would simply hand him a glass and expect him to deal with it. Even Soap, who has known him for so long, doesn’t go out of his way to accommodate Gaz's tastes.

Gaz takes a small sip, wetting his lips which he’s only now realizing are dry. Strawberry Watermelon. His favourite. He finds himself wondering if you bought it just for him.

He takes the pills all at once, downing the rest of the glass in one go. He wipes at his lips with his wrist, staring down at the cup with a dopey grin.

He feels his heart swell, and he opens his mouth to speak only to snap it shut immediately after. He was so close to slipping, so close to saying those three words that would ruin everything.

Three words. It's crazy how three little words could mean so much. Then again, Gaz doubts that all the languages in the world combined have enough words to describe how he feels about you.

You are everything to him.

More important than his job, his team, his family or even the air that he breathes. He would do anything you asked him to without hesitation. It’s almost concerning. He'd probably thinkso if he wasn't so infatuated with you. But he is infatuated with you, truly head over heels, which is why he can never let those three words slip.

Three words. Three words that he has whispered to himself over and over in the dead of night as images of what could be but never would flash before his eyes. A mirage of you lying next to him, nose to nose, giggling at one of his jokes that he knew wasn’t funny. The memory of your touch, the fantasy of your fingers touching places they’ve never touched before. As you smiled up at him through your lashes and he couldn’t help the confession. A breathless whisper.

As soon as it escaped him, the illusion would shatter, as it did every night.

Three words that could change everything. Three words that could take years of friendship and hopeless pining and flush them down the drain. Three simple, stupid, horrible, gut-churning, heart-stopping, life-ending, amazing words.

I love you.

"Do want me to close the drapes?" you ask, taking his low groan as a ‘yes’. you walk over to the large window and pull the heavy curtains shut, filling the room with shadows.

"Better?" you ask, sitting delicately at the foot of the bed.

He grunts, nodding his head, a frown tugging at his lips. "What... What happened last night?"

You smile softly. "How much do you remember?"

Gaz furrows his brows.

Last night? Gaz could remember the mission, the last before break. The Task Force had succeede of course, thanks in large part to him.

Gaz could remember ignoring the officers and personnel after the aircraft touched down on the tarmac. He could remember going through the motions of nodding and thanking and passively agreeing. He could remember when finally, finally, he was able to break away and rush to where you were waiting at the edge of the landing strip.

You were bounding up and down in excitement, hands clasped before your chest. you were shouting, but he couldn’t make out what, the roaring of jet engines successfully drowning your words out. you had shouldered your way through the crowd to access the tarmac, colliding with him in a warm hug. He’d picked you up of the ground, and swung you around, treasuring the moment.

“Way to go!” You'd told him, grinning so wide Gaz had worried it may have hurt. “You did so well!”

He remembered not wanting to let you go, to leave you. But he had to get out of his sweaty clothes. So, with hesitation, he pulled away, and, grabbing one last quick hug, ran off after the rest of the team.

Gaz could remember arriving at the bar with the Task Force to celebrate their win. He could remember when you had arrived with your friends from the Intelligence Department not even ten minutes later. He remembered the way you had looked in your dress. Just thinking back on the memory of it makes Gaz's knees weak, and his chest hurt from yearning. Heat floods his body, the tips of his ears flushing at the memory.

He blinks and swallows, trying to ignore the molten arousal that’s starting to build.

He could remember mingling with people, accepting congratulations and toasts with a smile, you at his side. He remembered the burning jealousy that coursed through his veins when Johnny fucking MacTavish arrived. When you left Gaz's side for Soap... Soap, of all people! Gaz could remember the way his hands had clenched into fists, knuckles white, nails digging into his palms so hard they drew blood, as the Scottsman picked up your hand and pressed his lips against it in a playful greeting.

He remembered glaring at Soap from across the room as he laughed and flirted with you. He remembered the pang in his heart as he'd seen your blush, giggling softly as you placed a hand on Soap’s. He remembered the burning anger intensifying as, after noticing your shivering from the cold, Soap pulled off his hoodie and draped it over your shoulders.

Gaz could barely stand the sight.

You looked great in it. Of course you did. you would look good in anything or nothing. He just couldn’t fathom that the jacket wasn’t his. Oh, how wonderful you'd look. For a moment he pictured it was his sweater you were wearing. The colour of it suited you perfectly, looking absolutely adorable with your hands curled at the end of the sleeves in little sweater paws.

The illusion had broken when you’d turned, and he saw Soap’s name where his should have been.

Gaz can remember downing the rest of his bottle and immediately going to get another. He had hoped to drown out the burning jealousy with the burning of whisky. One shot. Then two. Then three. Then he'd moved on to rum. Then vodka. Then tequila. Then... nothing. He was drawing a blank.

"How did I get here?" he asks, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

"Well, after what must've been your twentieth round of drinks, you were really out of it," you begin to tell the story, the soft smile gracing your lips a stark contrast to the emotions that are swirling in your eyes. Confusion. Concern. Guilt. Did you think this was your fault? He hopes you don't think this is your fault. "You then proceeded to stumble your way over to Soap and me."

Gaz can’t help the low growl that rumbles from deep within his chest at the mere mention of Johnny’s name. Jealousy and rage course through his veins like lightning, something primal stirring within him. You shoot him a look but don't press.

“One second, he and I are dancing, the next you have him up against the wall, shouting until you’re breathless. You threw him down and started to, like, choke him out. By the time Price was able to separate you you’d chipped one of his teeth, busted his lip and his nose.”

"Okay," Gaz nods. He can vaguely remember that. Not his best moment. Soap would never let him forget it. “But how did I get here?"

"I'm getting there," you tell him with a roll of your eyes. "You were obviously wasted so I told you I’d be taking you home. You refused, told me that you were going to get your dick wet and that I couldn’t do anything to stop you.”

Gaz buries his face in his hands. “God I’m sorry.”

You don’t acknowledge his apology, simply continuing with your tale. “You stumbled around the party for another half hour after that, downing whatever you could get your hands on. I tried a number of times to get you to leave but you kept telling me ‘the night is young, baby!’ Then you threw up on Ghost’s dog and the bartender cut you off... I tried to say goodbye to everyone before leaving with you, but anytime I got close to someone, you would snarl at them and try to start a fight,"

He grabs his head between his hands. He could remember that. God, how stupid had he been?

"So eventually, I gave up and told Kate to do it for me, and I started to take you home," you smile softly and reach out to run a hand over his hair in an attempt to comfort him. Gaz hates how well it works; he melts into your touch immediately. "But you denied it and said that the only way I could get you to leave would be if I took you home with me," You gesture around the room, "and so here we are,"

"Oh God, you... I'm so sorry," he says, regret pooling in his eyes as equal parts guilt and shame bubble up in his stomach.

"Don't worry about it," you wave him off. "Parties aren't really my scene anyways. You should really be apologizing to Ghost and Riley. They’re the real victims here."

"I didn't..." he trails off for a moment, unsure of how he wants to word his next question. "I didn't say or do anything stupid to you, did I?"

"Well, I guess there's one thing..." you hum, tapping your chin with your index finger.

His eyes widen in panic, and he’s overcome with dread. "What? What did I do?"

"You professed your undying love to me, and we preceded to have hot, carnal sex until the wee hours of the morning,"

Kyle, far too hungover and caught up in a mess of his own anxieties to notice your teasing tone nor the mischievous glint in your eyes, pales. "Oh my God... I'm so sorry... Believe me; this isn't how I wanted this to go. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to find out in such a way. I-I... I love you so much, and I... God, I'm so fucking stupid."

When he looks up to meet your gaze, he can tell you’re surprised by his admission. Eyebrows raised, eyes wide, mouth dropped open to form a small ‘o’.

His lip trembles. "W-what?"

"I was kidding," you say.

"Oh," Gaz mutters, his voice wavering. "So we didn't...?"

"No," you shake your head, answering the unspoken question. "You passed out the second we got through the door. I had to practically drag you into bed."

He swallows hard, unable to meet your gaze.

"So..." You started hesitantly. "You love me, huh?"

He nods, not trusting himself to speak.

You nod in response, pursing your lips. "Alright."

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this," He says, his voice cracking with overwhelming emotions. "I wasn't going to tell you at all. I don't want to ruin our friendship..."

Gaz hiccupps, furiously rubbing away his tears with the back of his hand. "I just can't help it! I've tried to stop liking you, I've tried so hard! But you're so smart and kind. You're an amazing cook, and you're insanely fucking funny, it's unreal. Not to mention beautiful, God, you're so fucking beautiful it's not even fair! It's like every time I see you is the first time. Like the air is being torn from my lungs, and I'm being picked apart and put back together over and over again, and I love it. I love you so much, and I think I always have."

He lets out a noise that lies somewhere between a laugh and a sob, gripping his head so hard that you wince just seeing him do it. But he doesn’t feel it. He can��t even feel the ache in his head anymore. All he can feel is the sinking in his gut and the pain in his heart. "I know that you don't feel the same way, and I know that you hate me now. And I'm just... I'm sorry, I’m so sorry."

Gaz feels the bed shift as you move to sit beside him. He turns his head away and tries to shrink in on himself, to make himself as small as possible in the hopes that he might disappear completely.

You take his chin gently in your hand and turned his head so that you’re both facing each other. Gaz wishes that he could hide from the soft look in your eyes. He knows what’s coming. He hated this part.

Kyle feels like throwing up, and not because of his hangover. He can only wish that you will let him down gently. His heart wouldn’t be able to take much more than that. It’s already splintering, sending painful shards all throughout his chest. He doubts it would ever be whole again.

And yet, despite everything, Gaz finds himself melting into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut on instinct. You've always had this effect on him, and he knows that you always will.

"I don't hate you, Kyle" Your voice is gentle and calm.

He blinks up at you through his tears. "You don't?"

"No," you shake your head, offering him a soft smile. "In fact..."

You lean in close, tilting your head to the side. Gaz's heart stops working, and his breath catches in his throat.

He doesn’t even register that you’re kissing him until a moment later. When his lungs kick back in, and he can inhale again. He's always felt giddy when he was with you, but now he feels like he is flying. Gaz, overeager and sloppy, accidentally knocks the tip of his nose into yours, as he returns the kiss feverishly. His heart feels as if it is dropping down a bottomless pit. Like it’s sinking deeper and deeper while his head becomes lighter and lighter.

You kiss him passionately, your hands reaching out to touch and hold. Gaz's hands latch onto your waist as he pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss. His fingers tugg at the hem of your shirt, clawing desperately at anything he can reach with trembling, shaky hands. Your hands slide up his sides and neck, stopping a moment to cup his face as you deepen the kiss. Then your hands drift higher, and you dig your fingers into his dark hair, nails dragging across the scalp. Black curls tangled around your fingers, you give his hair a gentle tug and Gaz can't help the whimpering moan that escapes his lips. He pulls you in closer until your bodies are pressed so tightly together that you practically became one.

Gaz's head is a mess. So much so that he can’t keep track of where his hands are supposed to go, or how he is being kissed. So much has happened in so little time. He is completely overwhelmed in the best possible way.

He wants to burn this into his memory forever. The pressure of your soft lips against his, the warmth of your body as you press against him, the weight of you comfortable and perfect on him, the plush of your thighs on his lap. Gaz wants to be able to remember this forever, when he’s scared or alone in the dark of night. When he’s out on a mission, unsure if he’ll ever make it back home. Home to you. Whenever his depression gets so bad he couldn’t think of anything to live for. When the memories of the things he’s done and the things he’s seen become too much. This is something to live for. The only thing.

He prays to whatever spirit there may be out there that this won't be the last time he'll get to touch you like this. That he won’t open his eyes only to find out that it was another cruel, torturous dream. That you won’t pull away from him and laugh.

If this is the last time, if this is a dream, if this is some heinous joke, Gaz doesn't care. He can’t bring himself to. Not when you’re in his lap, lips slotted against his, breath hot and heavy against sweaty, kiss swollen lips. He is going to make the most of this.

He runs his tongue against your lips, and you oblige, parting them slowly. Gaz grins into the kiss as he let his tongue explore your mouth, intertwining it with your own, like he’s trying to tie your tongues together, as he tries to swallow his sounds. He savours the feeling and the taste of you, and he knows that nothing else will ever satisfy him again.

When you let out a moan against his lips, Gaz can’t help but to roll his hips in response. You let out a soft gasp that quickly turns into a groan as he deepens the kiss further. Noses bumping into each other. Teeth clashing. Hands grabbing at anything that they can reach.

Gaz is out of control in the best possible way. Holding you in his arms. Kissing you. Making your his. It is more intoxicating than any alcohol he's ever had in his life. And he’s had a lot.

When you pull back for air, your chest is heaving, and your cheeks are flushed.

Gaz chases after you desperately. He feels like he can’t breathe without you, like without your lips on his, he'll suffocate and die.

You give him a quick kiss, holding it for no more than a second before backing away once more.

He draws in an uneven breath and stares up at you through a daze of wonder and disbelief. Your lips are swollen and red. A string of saliva runs from your mouth to his own, connecting you in the most delicious way. The spit snaps, falling down to him and only then does he realize that his chin is slick with a mixture of your combined spit, dribbling down his neck and soaking into his shirt.

A shiver runs up his spine, sending shock waves through his entire body. He can’t remember ever feeling so good.

"So," Gaz swallows, a deep blush staining his cheeks, flushed with heat of arousal.

"I love you too, dummy," you laugh breathlessly before leaning in and capturing his lips once more.

Gaz grins into the kiss, gripping your waist as you pressed your hips harder against his. He flips you over, pining you beneath him. He pulls back for a moment to admire the sight. He dives back into the kiss with renewed passion, hands sliding down to grab at your ass, taking greedy handfuls of the fat as he moans into your mouth.

Who knew that a drunken night could have turned out so well?

please comment and reblog to support my writing!

Masterlist!

#cod #call of duty #cod mwii #x reader #cod x reader #cod smut #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz

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bkgpackets · 20 days

Text

CHP. FIVE | YOU'LL FALL IN LOVE ON YOUR OWN PACE (WITH MY LITTLE THINGS)

SUMMARY: Katsuki has settled into a routine-like dance with you ever since your debut as a hero. He takes care of you like harmonious clockwork, but as he peels layer after layer, he’s caught up with his own tantalising feelings when he finds your blood staining his hands. You teach him, slowly, of what it means to fall in love.

TAGS: pro hero au, fem reader, banter, hurt/comfort

CHAPTER LENGTH: 1,288 | SERIES MASTERLIST

When you wake up, the sight before you is beyond gorgeous.

Last night, plagued by the heavy sleepiness in the afterglow of sex, you two had tumbled onto the bed before he had the chance to shut the curtains. Now, rays of golden sunlight stroke themselves across Katsuki’s face meekly, as if they’ve afraid of being grazed by the sharp corners of his visage. The ash blond of his hair becomes sandy in colour, edges rounded as he stirs in his sleep. You breathe, and you get lungs full of him— woody caramel sweetness.

You fight the urge to hold his face with all your might, so much so that your concentration wakes him from his slumber. He looks domestic in the way he slowly blinks to get the drowsiness out of his eyes, eyelids barely staying open as his pupils begin to focus, and you see the moment everything registers in his head, the memories flowing from last night and the view in front of him right now clicking— and he lets his eyes widen and his lips part, before yawning and rolling into the bed again, with you in his inescapable hold.

Getting up proves to be difficult after that, only with the umpteenth ringing of your alarms that you finally decide it’s time to leave the safe haven and begin your day.

You can tell he’s in a chirpy mood, despite not being a morning person. The way he shuffles from hallway to bathroom and back, the way he slips on his clothes, they’re all done with less aggression.

You also cannot deny that your mood has been lifted from the slight change in routine. Your morning run was shorter— two minutes faster than your usual time; when you had your shower at the agency, the cold water hit your back more pleasantly; usually insufferable sidekicks became more compliant, easier to deal with.

An hour before your first patrol, your manager stalks into your office with a cheshire grin, demanding you to tell her every little detail of last night’s rendezvous with the Nation’s favourite hero. You put up little fight, though you knew you’d tell her someday anyway, you comply and begin the retelling of your favourite story, how careful he had held you in his palms, how loving he had been shampooing your hair, and all the other moments in between that are still burned into your mind as clear as day.

Your work goes by in a breeze. You find that little inconveniences in your life can be smoothed over by imagining how Katsuki looks when he wakes up, but recalling might be a better word.

It’s six o’clock, you’re packing up and getting ready to leave the office, your glass desk is wiped clean, shreds of paper thrown away. The door knob is cool when you hold it, you have your earphones in your pocket, for when you finish greeting the passionate interns working overtime out in the hall with tight-lipped smiles.

The evening sun is particularly orange when it hits the tall potted plants, giving the sacramento leaves a brownish shine; the off-white walls look old, like they’ve already been filled with memories of past owners. When you walk through the corridors and lobbies, you’re thankful that you haven't lost your quirk, your heartbeat, nor your Katsuki. Maybe a few months back, the disappearances of these everyday occurrences wouldn’t cross your mind, they’re regular constants in your life that have made their markings on you— made you a mosaic of them. It strikes you that just as Magnesium is a metal, death is always walking next to you, no matter where you go, he’ll be stepping with you when you cross the road, when you go on the balcony, and when you cook dinner. An inescapable truth that cannot be denied by anyone, not even the most powerful parts of society.

So when you leave the door of your agency and see a familiar-looking Lexus parked on the side of the road, with that unruly bunch of blond hair that you’ve found yourself too enraptured by, your smile is uncontrollably vehement.

When Katsuki drives you home, it’s done without a word. You know this path by turn, every street name and every corner is familiar, you know that he’ll strum his fingers against the steering wheel aimlessly while he waits for the red lights to turn green, and when he pulls into his penthouse building’s parking lot, you know that the monthly cost is roughly ¥70000 and that his assistant pays it on the first day of each month.

You know him, so you’re not surprised when he opens the door for you, his house unfurled and vulnerable in the dimming golden rays, laid bare in front of you, letting you take in all its glory when it’s still daytime, and similarly, you do the same to him, Katsuki.

You think he had just finished showering before he came to pick you up, the way his hair sticks up is funny-looking, wild in every sense of the word, when he walks past you to grab your bags and shoes to set them down, the woody scent trails after him. You wonder whether you look awkward and out of place, unmoving in the entry with your hands at your sides, covered in fabrics that are dark in an apartment that is warm and next to a person who is bright.

He doesn’t let you think far, he soon takes your hand in his, and gently leads you to his living room, where your feet drag and thump on the carpet in dull thuds. He leaves you, awkward and out of place, in the middle of the room, in front of the TV and next to the signed All Might poster he framed, he walks over to the— oh, the record player you gave him for his first ‘Hero of the Year’ award. It’s placed neatly on a dark wooden stand, and under it are stacks of vinyls, from local bands to overseas artists that you introduced to him, he clicks it on and gravity takes you with both hands as you put one foot in front of another, stumbling along the rhythm of music.

Bakugou has always been a hummer, but when he sings to you for the first time tonight, it’s thick and heavy, laced with something he can’t say aloud, it sounds a lot like a confession that soothes over you like a second skin.

In a few, dinner will be served, you two will eat shoulder to shoulder with a quiet chatter, and in between are the whispers and soft spoken words, as if there’s someone eavesdropping behind you, he’ll lean closer towards you as the night settles in, drowsiness and exhaustion will begin to creep onto the way he speaks and into the way he looks at you with half-lidded eyes.

In an hour, you’ll be hands deep into his sink, scrubbing hard at the dishes while he stands next to you with a torn rag in hand and with a dish rack to his right, he’ll take the two plates and the four chopsticks you hand him, then he’ll place them tidily into the rack, like you’ve been doing this for years— like harmonious clockwork.

You’ll shower, then his fingers will tease and dance around yours under the sheets, you’ll feel for his callouses, the rock solid proof of his hard work, and you won’t be able to brush lotion onto them, but only snuggle your head closer and tighter and more intimately to his shoulder.

He’ll learn to say I love you on his own terms, he’s got all the time in the world.

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asumofwords · 1 year

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: Depiction of gore and injury, violence, threats and general creepiness.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Well, well, well. If it isn't the man of my dreams....

Chapter 6: An eye for an eye

A loud crack ricocheted through your room.

Jolting forward in your bed you frantically searched the room for danger. The lightning flicked across your walls, mind still foggy from sleep before it slowly realised there was no danger, only the storm.

You felt your heart beating frantically in your chest, causing the back of your eyes to throb. Pulling your duvet back, you swung your legs out of bed and dragged your feet across the room to pour yourself some water.

Flashes of light from the storm lit up the room casting shadows, increasing your unease.

Stepping back to stand next to the fireplace, you looked into what was now mostly ashes as the fire had begun to dwindle. You sipped from your cup, wishing the throbbing behind your eyes would ease. You felt the telltale signs of an oncoming hangover.

Another crash of thunder made your body clench. The feeling of being watched again rolling over your body, ears straining to listen for noises.

Walking towards the window, you look out, and although the rain was not as heavy as it was before, it still poured down. The sky lit up in zigzags of crackling bursts of lightning, crawling across the sky like cobwebs. A large storm indeed.

Turning back to seek the sanctuary of your blankets, you looked into the dark room. The hair on your arms standing up as your breath caught in your throat.

In an armchair on the far corner of the room near your bed, there was a shadow. You blinked your eyes rapidly, willing the trick of your eyes to go, but the shadow stayed. You thought it must be the way the storm is casting light, or perhaps the wine had muddled your mind.

Taking slow and cautious steps forward, clutching onto your glass you moved, breath shallow to not alert the shadow of your presence.

“You’re quite the heavy sleeper, Princess.”

A sharp gasp left your lips as the glass in your hand fell to the floor by your feet. Little slices of glass cutting your feet in the process as it shattered beneath you.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest as you struggled to pull air into your lungs. Opening and closing your mouth, you tried to find a way to speak, yet another boom of thunder crashed and lightning lit up the room, illuminating your uncle who sat comfortably on the green armchair, goblet of wine sitting lazily in one hand.

“Do not tell me you have gone quiet now, hm? You had so much to say at dinner.”

You could hear the smirk in his tone.

“How long have you been in here?” You hissed, hand coming up to clutch at the front of your dress, willing your heart to slow.

Aemond stood languidly, taking lazy and smooth steps towards you, looking down at his wine, swirling it in his hand. His long fingers delicately grasping the rim of the drink as he did so.

With every step he took, the better you could see him. His shirt had now been unbuttoned at his chest and his coat long forgotten. The sleeves of his white dress shirt had been rolled up to his elbows, showing off his toned arms and veins which stood out on his pale skin.

“Your handmaidens took such lovely care for you, even fetching your favourite book.” He spoke, casually with no emotion, emphasising the last word.

“You know,” He took another large step forward, still observing the wine as if the conversation bored him,

“Sometimes I would sneak into your room when you were gone and read it.” His eye still on his drink.

Taking a step backwards, you felt a piece of glass slice through the bottom of your foot, embedding itself inside. Pain shot up your leg and you whimpered, taking quick hopping steps backwards, walking atop more in the process.

He still stalked forward, his eye suddenly looking up into yours. Your unbalanced steps took you backwards until your back pressed against the wall next to the fireplace.

Only then did he stop walking forward.

“You reminded me of something at dinner.” He reflected, brow lifted in thought,

“I had not truly seen my dear niece since the day I lost my eye.”

He walked to the side placing his goblet upon the table next to the decanter, stopping to pause and look out at the storm flashing across the sky.

Your feet throbbed and you felt the warm sticky essence of your blood begin to seep out underneath them, causing the floor to become slippery and wet.

“We were children,” You said quickly,

“Lucerys was just a boy.” You looked him in his eye, begging him to leave you be.

“Hm.” He hummed, still staring at you.

“I was a child too,” He uttered, looked down at your injured feet, lips curling up in a smirk, then let his eyes trail slowly back up your body to your face. You felt naked in your thin nightgown, goosebumps rising along your skin.

“I think most people forget that.” He hummed in thought.

Quickly his demeanour changed, a sneer on his lips. He leant forward and hissed,

“I should take out your eye."

Pressing back into the wall you begged your heart to calm, slowing your breaths. How many years had you been preparing for this? How long had you known that this day would come? How many times had you dreamt of it?

You tried to swallow but your throat was dry. Sucking in a sharp breath you pushed your body forward to stand straight, weight painfully on your feet as you felt shards of glass sink further into the tender flesh of your soles.

“If you want to take my eye, then so be it. Then maybe you will stop this obsession. How many years have you waited, uncle? How many? Too many for a sane man.” Your voice shook as you spoke.

“Hm.” His eye looked you up and down, measuring you, to see if you were true to your words, or if this was a trick.

Head tilted to the side he continued to stare at you. Your breath had evened out but your heart still raced. He took another slow step towards you and then another, the light of the small fire illuminating his face. You held strong.

Lifting your chin high, you continued to stare right back, when suddenly his hand slowly rose to the back of his head.

“I want you to see what my sweet nephew did to me.” He said, fiddling with the buckle at the back of his head.

Slowly the leather straps became looser, sagging against his hair. At this, he pulled the leather patch up and away from his face.

You stilled as you took in your uncle.

The scar cut cleanly up his cheek, through his eye, slowly fading into his forehead. The socket looked shallow and cold, darker than the rest of his face, the scaring changing its shape.

Nestled in the empty socket where his eye once was, sat a shimmering sapphire stone, carved and polished to be the perfect size of the eye that he lost. Where the light of the fire shone against it, beautiful shades of lavender and turquoise shimmered back.

It was beautiful.

Your lips parted and your hand came up out of reflex, fingers extending as though to touch it.

Your uncle was a handsome man, his jaw had gotten stronger with age and his lips more full. His eyebrows were drawn down into a hard line as his one good eye looked to where your hand had come up.

Aemond rapidly crowded your space, stepping forward pushing you back into the wall of the fireplace, his forearm pressing heavily against your throat.

You desperately tried to suck in a breath, your lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. His eye searched yours as he huffed a heavy breath out of his nose. Then slowly he started to push harder against you, your hands flying up to clutch at his arm.

“Aemond…” You wheezed quietly, digging your nails into his arm trying to get him to ease his weight from you.

His other arm reached behind him, slowly pulling forward a blade, the light glinting off of the tip. The blade was long and thin, a small sparring blade one would normally hide in their boot. The handle was gold with three serpents winding up the hilt to wrap around a large red stone at the top.

“Hm.” He scoffed, raising the blade to slowly trail it up your cheek, resting it under your eye. Gently he released the pressure against your throat, but kept his arm firmly against you as you sucked in a greedy breath.

“I won’t blind you, I’m no monster.” He smirked, lightly pushing the blade on your skin.

“An eye for an eye. Justice my mother never got.” He purred.

You felt the sharp tip of the blade press harder into your face, a small bead of blood rising to the surface. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, reopening them to stare back into his one good eye and the shining orb that sat in the other.

“Then do it.” You resigned, waiting for the sharp blade to slide through your flesh, pulling your eye from its place.

He stared at you more intently now, still holding the blade tightly against your skin, eye flicking back and forth to yours.

His face slowly came forward, his sharp nose almost brushing against yours. He huffed a breath, its warmth flowing over your mouth. His one eye looked down at your lips then back up to your eyes.

Turning his head towards your ear he leant forward and whispered breath tickling your neck,

“Perhaps you are a Dragon after all.”

And with that he pulled back, glancing at your lips once more, releasing the arm against your neck. You gulped down air, lungs throbbing and throat dry. A slow smirk spread on his face once more.

The knife pressed below your eye and slowly slid down, not breaking the skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps following in its wake. Trailing the knife down along your neck, his eyes looked to your heaving breast and then back up to your face.

He towered over you, looking down his nose whilst he tucked his blade back into his pants behind him.

You frowned at him suddenly confused by his change of mind. Was he unsatisfied? Was this too easy for him, had he wanted you to cry in fear? Beg for mercy? Was he to go after Lucerys now? Or Jace?

He watched as apprehension flickered behind your eyes.

“Worry not niece, I wouldn’t want to ruin your beautiful face.” He drawled, looking at you more intently.

“Dōna riña,” (Sweet girl) He said quietly, softly touching where the blade touched your face with the tip of his finger,

“Ao va moriot gōntan emagon se perzys.” (You always did have the fire.) He continued, taking another step back then turning towards the door, hair flipping over his shoulder in a flurry.

“Skoros gaomagon ao nūmāzma?” (What do you mean?) You exhaled, stepping forward towards him reaching out to grab his arm.

He continued to walk towards your door away from you, the same guttural hum coming from his throat.

The reality of your injuries came jarringly quickly as your feet ached. Every step you took left small bloody footprints leading away from the fireplace in chase of your uncle.

“Kepa?” (Uncle?) Your outreached hand grasped his wrist, stilling him before he turned just his head towards you.

"Take my eye now. Let us end this game you play."

The One-Eyed Prince looked down to where your hand was digging its fingers into the skin of his wrist. A sharp tug pulled his arm free from you and he continued to walk to the door, ignoring your demands and faltering steps.

“Craven!" You shouted at him as he finally reached the door.

Anger and fear blended together inside you as your panic for your brothers began to rise. Your feet bled heavily from the new movements, sticky pools gathering under your feet as your heart thrummed in your chest.

He turned one last time to look at you.

“Sȳz bantis zaldrītsos.” (Goodnight little dragon) He hummed, before the door was opened by your Knight.

Aemond paused in the doorway, not turning to face the knight as he spoke whilst looking out towards the corridor,

“Fetch my niece her maids,” he said flatly, “It seems as though she has had too much wine and has injured herself.”

And with that he turned and walked away from the room, the Knight bowing as he shut the door to your chambers.

The storm outside raged on, whilst the storm within you built.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List: @izzicle

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rookthorne · 1 year

Text

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥'𝐬 𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

Diamonds and glamour, fancy gifts and galas — all superficial and superfluous when you had him at your every whim and him at yours, it’s how you learnt diamonds weren’t as superior as you had first thought.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✦ Mafia!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ✦ 2.3k

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ✦ Angry!Bucky (not at reader), tension ჻჻჻ SMUT: Thigh riding, choking ჻჻჻ KINKS: Praise, daddy, dumbification

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ✦ My first bingo fill and I have no idea what came over me, but this is... a lot — If anyone wants to yell at me, I will be at church in a confessional booth ✌🏻

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 ✦ 7 rings by Ariana Grande

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ✦ @allcapsbingo 𝗜𝟭 — Mafia AU — Masterlist

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞, 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The halls of Bucky’s home were vast with floor to ceiling works of art hung on burgundy walls, soft lighting that led to the open living, dining, and kitchen - each space as luxurious as the last. Your bare feet padded softly against the dark herringbone floor until you reached the kitchen, where black and gold marble countertops shone under downlights.

Soft voices were coming from the double doors to the left of the living room, too low to make out but the tone was clear; business, not pleasure. The soft whirr of the coffee machine drew your attention from the expansive view, and you smiled as you grabbed your favourite mug from the top cupboard, the fabric of Bucky’s shirt riding up your bare thigh with the stretch.

“You know what-” A smash of glass echoed from the closed doors and you startled. “I fucking told you to keep your fucking nose clean!”

“Oh, boy,” you murmured. Bucky was angry, but at who–your endless guesses may not even come close, he had many men under his command being at the head of the mafia empire he built from the ashes.

Abandoning your mug of steaming coffee, you tiptoed to the door and pressed your ear to the cold wood. There were shuffling sounds, a hiss of annoyance, and a grumbling voice that sounded like Steve. Bucky spoke up again, this time his tone measured and tense. “When I tell you to do something, I mean it. I am fucking sick of cleaning up after you two.”

“Yes, boss,” another voice spoke, almost too softly to make out.

“Fuck it,” you whispered, glancing up and down your body. “They’ve seen worse.”

The door opened smoothly and you peeked inside. Sam was by the door, his posture screaming ‘fuck around and find out’, and Steve was pacing behind the two seats where two men sat, straight backed and tense like a rod had been shoved up their ass.

And to be fair, having an angry mafia boss targeting his considerably controlled rage at you - that would make anyone shit bricks.

“Not now,” a voice whispered and you looked at the source to find Sam staring at you from the corner of his eyes. “Later.”

You nodded once and backed away from the door when Bucky’s voice suddenly piped up, hostility null and void. “Hey, baby, c’mere.” The door opened further, and you looked inside properly, still hanging back in the doorway - just in case. “I missed you,” Bucky breathed, the honeyed sound of his voice your calling card, and without thinking you stepped into his office where every eye landed on you.

The diamond necklace that Bucky had gifted you was cold between your fingers when you fiddled with it, a calming presence in a much too heated environment. It was a nervous tic that Bucky had known, and picked up on very quickly.

Bucky’s seat scooted back on the wooden floor, and he pointed to his lap. “C’mere, sit down.”

Silence pressed against your eardrums while you moved around his desk and sat on his thigh, the corded muscle straining against the black fabric of his slacks. Once settled, you leant against his chest and rested your head in the crook of his neck, facing forward to look at the two men staring in absolute shock at you.

A cold hand rested on the small of your back and Bucky’s chest rumbled under your ear when he spoke. “Good girl.”

You shivered, but not from the sudden cold of his prosthesis.

“Now,” Bucky began lowly, a dangerous undertone to his authoritative voice. “Where were we?”

The men spoke and you tuned it out, preferring to stare with curiosity at the seated men while they spoke, studying their faces that were twisted in distress at was evidently one hell of a fuck up.

The one on the right was built like a bear with dark blond hair down to his ears and a neat beard, he was staring pointedly at Bucky with unwavering conviction and determination to right his wrongs. Beside him sat a man that looked smaller but not by much, his hair was dark like Bucky’s though he had strands falling over his forehead. The nonplussed expression and relaxed features of his face came as a surprise.

You shifted to get more comfortable and gasped, the sudden change of pressure against your clothed heat on Bucky’s thigh taking you by surprise. “Easy, kitten,” Bucky drawled, loud enough for the room of men to hear and you whined low in your throat - a sudden need to move consumed you and set your body alight. “Be a good girl for daddy.”

“M’kay,” you whispered, settling down with a huff. This was business, not pleasure, you reminded yourself. Bucky’s left hand suddenly cupped your ass and you whimpered when he squeezed once, twice, three times before he relaxed his hold.

“Behave,” Bucky purred, quiet enough for only you to hear. “And I’ll give you a treat.”

They continued talking for a while - Bucky’s hand moving up and down your back as they discussed deals and partnerships. You focused on Bucky’s voice, still clipped and tense, though you sitting in his lap seemed to abate the worst of his anger. He hated having you witness his violent bouts of rage, especially at the incompetence of his men at their worst moments.

“I expect this to be fixed before the end of the day,” Bucky snapped, his arm momentarily tightening around you. In an act to soothe him, you placed an open palm against his chest and shifted even closer so your knee was on the edge of his seat and closer to his crotch.

“You got it, boss,” the dark-haired man said, saluting.

Bucky snarled, a low growl building in his throat and you tensed. “Hal, quit the-”

“We’ll take our leave now, boss,” the blond interrupted, sending a sharp glare at his partner, who shrugged lightly and the two rose.

“Ari, I expect a phone call no later than sun down with the news that this fucking mess is fixed,” Bucky called, his cold hand creeping up your back while his tattooed hand pointed right at Ari, his pinky ring shining in the light of the sun from the window behind him. “Do you understand?” Ari nodded and pulled Hal from the room and Sam finally moved, a nod of his head and moving to stalk after Hal and Ari to escort them out.

“Stevie,” Bucky asked, looking at his most trusted man, his voice rumbling in his chest. “That deal that they fucked up, make sure they actually fucking fix it. I don’t want another loss or it’s their heads.”

“Got it, Buck,” Steve answered. He smiled at you softly and strode from the room, closing the door with a click behind him.

The chair holding the two of you scooted back even further and Bucky’s hands, one warm and tattooed, the other metal and cool, moved down the back of both your thighs and dug in. “C’mere,” he murmured. You squeaked in shock when he lifted you and your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips. “You behaved for me there, what’s goin’ on with you, hmm?”

Your breath hitched at his lowered octave, his accent shining through with the heady tone of his voice. Entirely unbidden, your cunt clenched with want when he lowered you both onto the couch against the far wall by the fireplace - it wasn’t your fault when he showed off his strength that it awoke something within you. You were straddling one of his thick thighs now, and you exercised every last slither of self-control not to sit down, not before you were told to.

“Wanted to be good for you-”

“Oh, that’s sweet,” Bucky interrupted. His right hand cupped your jaw and he ran his thumb over your bottom lip, his cerulean eyes blown and eclipsed with lust. You opened your mouth and swirled your tongue around his thumb like it was the head of his cock. “You wanted to behave for daddy?”

You moaned and nodded, not breaking eye contact as you sucked at his thumb hard. “Oh, baby, you were such a good girl for me.” His left hand gripped your hip and pushed you down roughly against his thigh. “I want you to sit.”

“Ah! Daddy, please-”

“What? What is it, kitten?” Bucky pouted, his mocking tone only serving to send a fresh wave of heat through your body. “You can’t be stupid for me yet; I haven’t even touched you.”

“N-No,” you whimpered, clutching at the lapels of his suit jacket. “Please, I was good, I-I want you, to– fuck-” The sudden heat of Bucky’s mouth placing open mouthed kisses on your neck made you whine loudly.

“So sensitive, aren’t you? Poor thing,” Bucky sneered and you nodded feverishly, unable to move from the bruising grip he had on your hip. “Goin’ all silly on daddy, huh?”

“Ye-Yeah,” you gasped, Bucky had moved his right hand from your jaw and placed it on your hip in line with his left. “Oh, god, daddy, please!”

Bucky hummed and pushed your hips down, the pressure against your clit now becoming unbearable and you cried out, a sound thin and high that bounced off the walls of his office.

“What do you say, kitten?” Bucky snapped, his left hand suddenly grasping your throat so the cold metal shocked your skin. His right remained on your thigh, controlling you like a rag doll to grind back and forth, back and forth, again, again, and again.

“Fuck! Thank you, daddy, oh fuck,” you sobbed.

Bucky smiled like a predator - a wolf who had caught the lamb.

The force of his hold on your hip began to smart and you whimpered, bringing your hands from his chest to his left wrist and holding on for dear life. “Please, I need more- daddy-”

“Aww,” Bucky cooed. “No, kitten, you know that daddy knows what’s best for his girl, and right now she’s being a fuckin’ little slut for her daddy, isn’t she?”

“Yes!” You cried when a tendril of pleasure wound up your spine. “Yes, for you, only for you!”

“Atta girl.” The grip around your throat made you wheeze in sharp pants that fanned over Bucky’s lips when he pulled you closer. A sharp stab of pleasure coiled low in your stomach and you broke out in a sweat, the diamond necklace underneath Bucky’s wrist clinking against the metal with your forced and desperate movements.

“Ah- ah- oh, fuck, please,” you moaned, and Bucky chuckled darkly. He squeezed your hip in warning when you tried to move faster.

“You wanna ride my thigh? Is that what you want?” Bucky asked. His chest had begun to heave with heavy breaths that showed he was only barely holding on himself. “You just need that pretty head of yours empty while fucking my thigh, huh, baby girl? Don’t worry, daddy’s got you.”

The relief of hearing Bucky’s promise was overwhelming. His grip around your throat loosened until he only squeezed the sides while his right forced you to move in earnest, the pace of your hips brutal to the already tight coil.

“‘M gonna come, daddy! Oh- fuck, oh my god,” you babbled, hysterical on a high you had tasted many times before. “I-I can’t stop-”

“I know, baby, I know,” Bucky soothed. “Such a good girl for me, c’mon.”

You gasped loudly when Bucky pulled you forwards, his brute strength forcing you closer and in turn, your thighs clenched around his to keep you balanced.

“I know you’re close, kitten, fuckin’ look at you–such a slut, and you’re all mine, fuck,” Bucky breathed, his claim ending in a chuckle when you whined loudly at the change of position. “Be a good girl for me. I want you to come, now.”

The words leaving his lips were the catalyst of your release. You screamed when it hit you all at once, far too much and far too little in its devastation.

“That’s it, that’s it, oh, baby, look at you,” Bucky breathed, his tone hoarse with restraint when you could finally hear him over the dull roar in your ears. “You were so good for me, ‘m so proud.”

You fell boneless against Bucky’s chest and his arms wound around your waist, hugging you tightly while he whispered praises and soothed you from your high. His tattooed hand cupped the back of your neck where the clasp of your necklace sat against your sweaty skin, and he heaved a happy sigh through his nose. “Do you think they heard you?”

“Probably,” you giggled, moving to sit up so you could look into Bucky’s face. The diamonds adorning your neck were warm and misted with sweat while you fiddled with them. “Why?”

The dangerous glint in Bucky’s eyes and the devilish smirk was all you needed to know to understand why, if his hard length brushing against your thigh wasn’t enough of a hint; after all, his hard cock was better than a diamond by far.

“I need you to scream a lil’ bit louder for me this time, baby,” Bucky said impishly. With a grunt of effort, he lifted you again and stood from the couch.

“Bucky!” You squealed, hanging on for dear life around his broad shoulders. The damp patch on his slacks brushed against your thigh with his sudden movement and you giggled - that was you, you had made a mess on his ridiculously expensive pants. You had marked him.

It was a vice, the possessiveness he held over you and you over him, and parading his come-soaked slacks where his men would see?

Oh, god, you thought.

“Nope,” Bucky sighed, his hands gripping your ass tightly in reprimand. “I’ve gotta fuck you until you don’t know nothin’ but who I am, kitten. Besides, I have time to kill until that idiot calls me with good news, and I wouldn’t wanna waste an opportunity to be buried so deep in your fuckin’ cunt that you’ll be feelin’ me for days.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑 ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

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biographydivider · 1 year

Text

Calling it a warmup for a busy writing day ahead, but it’s really a present for @yamujiburo - I read that ask about my favourite awful feline scamming his way into two meals and got inspired. For the most accurate reading, Meowth is in his Maddie Blaustien era, because she was the best thing to ever happen to the character and that was the version of Meowth I love the best.

It was a beautiful, sunny day in Pallet Town, and Delia was in her vegetable garden; occupying herself while Jessie took Arbok and baby Ekans for a training day in Viridian Forest. Ash was supposed to be home soon, and she thought she’d make a fuss. She had some garlic growing, and a crop of beautiful tomatoes that were practically falling off the vine; she’d make a nice pasta sauce. Oh - and those razz berries were looking just delicious, too! Perfect for a sponge cake.

“Haaa...oh, woe is me...”

Delia looked up to see the strange little Meowth that Jessie and James had adopted on their travels wandering along the path that led to her home. Delia knew that Meowth had taken the breakup of Team Rocket to heart; he technically lived with James, but sometimes he just took himself off on an adventure to Pallet to bother Jessie for a few days. He’d follow her around, yammering about this and that, bringing up the Good Old Days, and Jessie would pretend to be annoyed by him right up until the second he planned to leave. Then, the tears would start.

“I just don’t tink I can go on for much longer...”

With a swoon, Meowth flopped down just outside Delia’s garden gate.

“Oh my goodness!” she cried, scrambling to her feet and running to his side. She scooped the Meowth’s massive head into her lap; noticing how hot his fur was to the touch. “Are you alright, Meowth?”

“Huh? Who’s there? Come closer...”

“It’s me, Meowth. Delia. Jessie’s partner.”

“Oh, Delia!” coughed Meowth. “You were always so - hack! - so kind ta me...”

“Have you walked all the way from Celadon City by yourself?”

“Yeah...James was busy for the weekend. Wit his fashion stuff, yanno. He said he didn’t have time to feed me, so I...hack, hack! I wanted to see a friendly face.”

“Well, Jessie’s not home right now --” The pitiful whine from Meowth didn’t so much tug on Delia’s heartstrings as yank them painfully out her chest. “But you can stay with me until she gets back! I have a glass of fresh lemonade chilling in the fridge, you really must quench your thirst after that long walk...”

“Really? You’d do that for lil’ old me-owth?”

“Of course, dear.” Delia set Meowth on his wobbly two feet. “Now, run inside and have a nice long drink. Then, when you’ve cooled off, you can help me pick some razz berries for later.”

“Okay!”

Meowth dashed into the house happily, and Delia tutted under her breath. She loved James - really, she did - but she sometimes wondered if he and Jessie forgot that Meowth was a living creature who needed their care. She couldn’t imagine Ash forgetting to feed Pikachu, after all.

“Yanno, I gotta say, Deels - can I call ya Deels?” Meowth asked, popping another berry into his mouth, “You got real a nice setup, here. All’a this food, just growin’ on your doorstep?!”

“Well,” Delia said, filling up her basket with berries, “it takes a lot of work. But I’m happy the end result is so tasty, Meowth.”

“Oh, yeah; an’ after such a long walk, too, I really - ooh, chezz berries! - I really needed some sustanance. So, whaddaya pickin’ all this food for, anyway?”

“Ash is home, soon. And I’m going to make pasta sauce from scratch, and a cake.” Delia looked out over the horizon; wondering idly what the plume of dust rising from Viridian Forest was. It seemed to be approaching fast. She hoped Jessie and the Pokemon were safe. “I know Pikachu will appreciate a good tomato sauce, and Ash always did love my sponge cakes.”

“Oh. How, uh, how nice. For the twerp.” Meowth chewed thoughtfully on a chezz berry. “Say, uh - d’you think I could maybe stay a lil’ while longer? Maybe, uh, try some of that pasta you was talkin’ about before I go...?

The plume of dust was getting closer. Delia watched it race along the footpath, until a familliar and beautiful and violently angry figure emerged from within it.

“Jessie...?”

“MEOWTH!” Jessie shrieked. “I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU’D GO RUNNING TO DELIA, YOU LITTLE SNEAK!”

Meowth was on his feet as Jessie crashed into the garden gate, Arbok and baby Ekans in hot pursuit. “Hahahaaaa...Jeeeessiiiiee!” he cried; voice breaking, hands held out in front of his body - trying either to placate his friend or protect himself from bodily harm, “Whaddareya doin’ here? Delia said you was out training Ekans in the forest?”

Delia blinked down at Meowth. “I didn’t tell you that,” she murmured.

“I was,” Jessie hissed, “until we met you and James for our picnic. Until you ate all the food and wouldn’t stop blabbing for longer than five seconds. Until James told you that you can’t have cupcakes because sugar is bad for Pokémon --”

“Dat’s a gross oversimplication of events, Jess --”

“And until you --” Jessie picked Meowth up by the face and shook him violently this way and that, “went flouncing off into the forest saying he shouldn’t have brought anything you couldn’t have, and that you didn’t need our stupid picnic anyway! I should have known you’d go to Delia with some sob story, you greedy little freak!”

Meowth kicked out, aiming for Jessie’s face with his long, brown-and-white feet. “At least she’s nice to me - unlike you, ya big nasty mean ol’ lady!”

“What did you call me you --”

“That’s enough.” Delia hated pulling out the Mom Voice, but as both of them fell into guilty silence, she had to admit it gave results. “Jessie, I know you’re angry at Meowth but I wish you wouldn’t hurt him like that.”

“Ha!” cackled Meowth, wriggling out of Jessie’s grasp. “See, Jess? You should be nicer ta me, coz Delia says so --”

“And you.”

Meowth froze.

“You took advantage of my kindness, Meowth. You lied to me and told me James was mistreating you. That really hurt my feelings, and I’m very, very disappointed in you.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then, to Delia’s surprise, Meowth plopped down onto the floor and began to sob. “I-I-I’m sooorryyyyyyyyy...” he wailed, thick wet tears falling down his cheeks. “I didn’t wanna hurtcha feelin’s, but everyone’s so busy and the gang’s all split up an’ you’re so nice an’ I just wanted someone ta be kind ta meeeeeee...”

“Meowth, kindness goes both ways. Now,” Delia pushed the basket of berries into his paws, “you can go wash these for me in the sink, and put them in the fridge until I need them. That would be a good thing to do, to show me how sorry you really are. You want to show me you can be kind?”

“Yeeees...”

“Then scoot.”

“Okaaay...”

Jessie watched her friend head into the house - head bowed, sniffling - with a look of total wonder. “Did you just get Meowth to admit he wants to go straight?”

“Yes,” Delia said, standing up and kissing Jessie on the cheek. “I did.”

#hanamusa #yamujiburo #pokemon #meowth #delia ketchum #team rocket #my best boy forever #donnie may be living in my brain #but Meowth is part of my genetic makeup at this point

381 notes · View notes

kaiso-woo · 6 months

Text

Sunshine to the Moon

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

-> Masterlist　

PART 4 of my ‘Stay Series’ - a long hypothesised journey of a relationship between Bang Chan and Reader.

WC: 4.2k | Synopsis: Slice of Life, another night after closing shop. Your Café has gotten busier thanks to that Skz-Code Episode filmed there finally being released. Tonight however, Chris is here to brighten the night. This is the first time you both admit to loving each other by the way - but it’s cute I promise.

Notes: FLUFF, Angst (if you squint, and I mean really squint), Second Person Narration, Skz Fluent in English, Swearing, Idol!Chan, Barista!Chan, CaféOwner!Reader, Fem!Reader, Cringe Cringe-Cheesy-Corny-Slight Suggestiveness-Insufferable Flirt (Thanks Chris), Shirtless!Chan (IT’S BED TIME), Swearing, Pet Names Used (Jagiya, Jagi, Baby, Sweetie, Love), Kisses (Duh)

Here for a reading marathon? Head right back to the start!

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Overall ‘Stay Series’ Synopsis: Bang Chan experiences the suic!des of Stays, so when you lot choose to die, he dies right along with you. Reader is the “antidote” to this condition - NOT MENTIONED IN THIS PARTICULAR FIC

PART 4

!!Casual reminder this is entirely fictitious - Chris/Christopher in my work does not represent the actual Bang Chan - this is purely my imagination and nothing more - this goes for all other SKZ-Members too!!

—

It’s been another tiring day. Perhaps even more chaotic than ever before. Chris had given you warning, but JYPE had only just released the Skz Code Episode that they filmed ages ago here. Chris had argued to have it released at a later date, to protect your privacy and give you more time to live normally before things suddenly changed.

He was right of course, with Stay’s being the detectives they are, and Stray Kids being the famous idols they are, your Café was soon discovered, and before long you had a stream of customers flowing in and out practically around the clock. They’d take photos where the members sat, ask if they left messages around the place, ask you so many questions about them that you didn’t feel you had the right to answer.

Even with Ashley by your side, doing her best to help keep the business afloat on a daily basis things were strained. You’ve just recently set up an application process for new employees because dear lord, you needed them. Ashley even suggested adjusting your usual policy, which you were hesitant to do at first, but eventually caved at the exhaustion evident in your poor, younger friend and employee.

Customers were no longer allowed to stay overnight, and you closed at 11pm rather than 1am now. It was perhaps your least favourite thing to do – going around to wake up sleeping customers when it was time to close shop. Chris was right, Ashley is bright… and awfully considerate. She even considered that it’d be beneficial for your relationship with Chris, closing shop early, so you can spend more time together when he’s here.

Naturally, Chris can no longer help you at the coffee machine, even if he wears a full disguise, Stay’s would recognise him immediately. Whenever he visits, he can’t do much except lounge around in your upstairs apartment. It pains you to have to lock him up, but both of you know you can’t risk a scandal. Previously, Ashley would be able to hold the fort, allowing you and Chris to escape out on a little date, but not now… now you’re too busy to leave Ash by herself. You really really need new employees. Preferably people who aren’t Stay’s… so you can explain your relationship with Chris and not have them leak any information.

This… this is too much.

–

You sigh and rest your forehead on the cold glass of the window. You’re meant to be pulling down the shutters, having finally kicked James out of your Café. As per usual, he was asking too many questions, wondering why you’re suddenly so busy. He asked you out again the other day, and you finally snapped. You told him, straight and clear, that you were taken. In hindsight it probably wasn’t the best idea, because he now spends a lot of his time asking you who you’re dating; of course, you can’t tell him.

A pitiful groan rumbles through your throat, and you try to quell the hurricane of thoughts swirling incessantly in your mind. The chill of the glass is a small reprieve, but it still hurts to think.

“Jagiya… baby, are you okay?” someone calls out to you. Your heart leaps into your throat at the endearment, and you muster the energy to spin yourself around, eyes lazily falling onto the man standing at the bottom of the staircase, his face distorted in concern.

“Another boring day for you, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, Chris,” you murmur, dragging yourself towards him with your head drooping. He meets you halfway, immediately pulling you into a tight embrace and placing an affectionate kiss on the top of your head, “Sweetie it’s okay. I’m perfectly happy to work on our songs all day.”

You sigh into his shirt and twist the fabric in your hands desperately, your heart aching, “You might be but I’m not…” you pull away so you can see his face and pout sadly, “You’re meant to be here on break, not working away.”

His soft smile causes your heart to melt, the ache only intensifying after he pecks your nose with a delicate kiss, “Jagi. You’re working, so why can’t I?”

You frown at him and lightly thump your forehead into his chest several times, frustrated, “We both shouldn’t be working.” His hand drifts up to knot itself in your hair, stopping your actions, “Shhh shh, don’t be like that baby.” You grumble and pull away from him properly, but not before he swoops in to kiss your cheek.

“It isn’t so bad… once you finish closing up we can hang out, yeah?” his eyes are sparkling mischievously, and you sigh in resignation, knowing that he’s right. You turn to finish closing the shutters, and Chris continues to talk, “Besides, I’m the one who should be apologising…” The shutter hits the ground with a little click, “Why?”

“If I hadn’t asked to film that episode here your business would never have gotten this busy,” he frowns, absently fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie. You swivel on your heel and stalk up to him, “Don’t-” you lightly pinch his arm, “-you say that. Ever.”

Chris smiles shyly down at you, his gaze sorrowful, guilty. You shake your head at him, grab his wrist and tug him along up the stairs, “Come on, you go wash up and I’ll whip up a late dinner, if you haven’t eaten already.”

Chris pushes ahead of you suddenly, opening your apartment door with an elegant twist of the door handle, “There’s no need baby, dinner’s in the fridge. I’ll heat your share up for you.” You blink at him in confusion, but he merely grins back at you. “You… cooked me dinner?”

Chris snatches at your waist and pulls you in for a swift kiss, stunning you, “Anything to make your life easier.”

–

After half an hour of arguing with Chris about why he shouldn’t have cooked dinner for you (in which you only shut up after he physically shoved food into your mouth), you’re now sitting comfortably in your bed, blankets pulled over your knees, as your eyes skim the page of the book you’re reading. Chris insisted you wash up first, so you’re currently waiting for him to finish up in the bathroom.

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday isn’t it?” He asks, emerging from the bathroom in only his boxers. Your eyes briefly flicker from your book to the defined lines of his abs, before you return to nonchalantly reading, “Yeah. Café’s closed tomorrow.” “You can look longer you know,” Chris grins, his arms crossed over his chest. “Shut up,” you grumble back, turning to the next page of your book.

Chris giggles happily and crawls into the bed next to you, his arms immediately taking residence around your waist despite you sitting upright. “Mmh you smell good,” he mumbles, and you spare him a glance. His nose is buried in your shirt, his hair askew over his eyes. Carefully, you brush the curls away, and he snuggles even closer, “I just showered.”

Chris’ voice comes out muffled, “Okay and? I just showered and I don’t smell as good as you.” This elicits a small chuckle from you, “Maybe you should start using my products then.” He inhales obnoxiously and then sighs in content, “I think I will.”

“Chris, I’ll be back, I've got to turn the lights off,” you murmur, massaging his scalp briefly. He only tightens his hold on you, a little whine escaping, “No. You stay.” “Baby let me go please.” “No.” “You literally left them on.” Chris sighs and rolls away from you, his displeasure evident on his face, “Fineeee.”

You roll your eyes at him and pad over to the bathroom, hyper aware of your boyfriend watching your every movement. He sits up as you amble over to turn off the light for the bedroom, your thumb holding the current page in the book you’re reading. Finally, in the darkness, you fumble around for the lamp beside your bed so you can continue reading for a little longer. Its warm glow reveals Chris still watching you, a half-smile, half-smirk plastered on his face.

As you crawl back into bed and try to get comfortable, Chris chuckles and leans his head back onto the headboard, “You might as well call me that lamp,” he begins, eyes boring into the ceiling as though something fascinating was up there.

“Why…?” you pause, preparing yourself for the inevitable joke you’re about to hear. Chris grins evilly, and tilts his head towards you lazily, “Because you turn me on.” You hiss and make to whack him on the head with your book, but his reflexes kick in and he swiftly grabs your wrist.

“Oh I knew you were going to do that,” he laughs, leaning over so he can kiss a trail of warmth down your trapped arm. Your eyes are wide as he grins sinfully up at you, his tongue poking his cheek playfully. “Go to bed you little shit,” you gripe, yanking your wrist away from him and turning the lamp off in a rash decision.

At least he can’t see the crimson blush on your face now.

“Awh… you don’t want to read anymore?” he mocks, his arms finding home around your waist again, pulling you in close so he’s spooning you, his breath tickling the back of your neck. “Nope. We’re sleeping now,” you demand, linking one of your hands with one of his that’s on your stomach.

The pair of you settle into silence, your mind drifting off into haze at the steady sound of Chris’ breathing, the rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back. You’ve been absently tracing his knuckles, trying to memorise the specific rise and fall of each, and the spacing between them. After a while, you stop, not because you want to, but because your mind has fallen deep into that state of fuzziness between almost falling asleep and being barely conscious.

“Is it possible to get… water hungry?” Chris murmurs, dragging you out of your semi-slumber. “Hmm?” you croak, as Chris adoringly rubs his nose on the back of your neck, making you shiver. You can feel him grin at your reaction, and you’re half tempted to shove him away from you so you can sleep in peace.

“Water hungry. Is that a thing?” he repeats, and the question properly registers in your brain. You frown and shimmy yourself around, so your noses are now touching. Your eyebrows are furrowed as you squint to try and see his eyes in the darkness, “Do you mean thirsty?”

A small smile cracks onto your face when Chris inhales sharply and stops breathing. After a loud silence, he makes a noise of embarrassment, and you giggle lightly. “I think I’m tired,” he whispers, trying to inch himself even closer to you. “Then go to sleep,” you scoff, closing your eyes again. “Can’t,” he bites back. “Why not?”

“You’re not hugging me,” Chris’ leg shifts to tangle itself in between yours, and after another little giggle, you wrap your arms around his waist, resuming your soothing rubs on his back this time. “Your hands are cold,” he complains against your lips.

“Then put on a damn shirt.” “Awh but you like it when I’m not wearing one.” Stomach swooping, you blow sharply on his face in feigned annoyance, causing him to draw back slightly with a laugh. “Go to fucking sleep,” you say once more, because clearly he didn’t understand you the first time.

–

Later on in the night, the bathroom summons you, and with a quiet grumble, you roll yourself out of bed. Thankfully, Chris has drifted over to his side of the bed in his sleep and doesn’t have himself tangled around you. Carefully, you click on your lamp and tiptoe to use the toilet.

When you’re done, you decide you don’t really want to go back to bed yet. Instead, you crawl over to sit cross-legged on the floor, analysing your boyfriend’s face in the half-light of the room. He’s snoring gently, his lips slightly parted. Your heart softens at the way his cheek is squished up against his arm, strands of his curly hair clinging adorably to his forehead.

You hoist yourself up onto your knees and brush the strands back, heart swelling as your gratitude for his existence threatens to tumble out of your mouth. No, you must stay quiet. Don’t wake him, he needs to sleep. You’re still stroking his hair back softly, your thumb brushing his forehead delicately when his snoring stops.

You gulp and pull away from him, hurrying back around the bed so you can crawl back under the covers, Chris’ back to you. Still, you don’t turn the lamp off, not entirely finished with admiring him, even from behind. His back is slightly exposed to you after you had pulled the covers down to get out of bed, and you make no move to hide it again.

It’s in this moment, smiling gently at his figure, your heart full to the brim, that you realise it all over again. He’s yours. You’re his. You’d die for this man. You’d play limbo with the devil just to crawl your way back up to him. You’d pledge your life to counting the stars if he so asked. It doesn’t matter that it would take forever, because your forever lies within him.

You shuffle closer, and after a brief hesitation, begin to happily trace the lines of his back muscles, relishing in the softness of his skin. You pause, checking to make sure he’s still sleeping, and then continue your drawing motions. You’re lost in thought, thinking about where you could possibly take him out to tomorrow because you’re finally free. Your gaze is watching your fingers absently move, but you’re not really paying attention. It’s after a minute of repeating the same action that you realise what you’ve done.

Subconsciously, you’ve been writing the same words over and over on his back. You stop, fingers ghosting his skin, and swallow. Then one more time, confirming it for yourself, you rewrite the same words.

I Love You

You do. You love him. You love- you love him. This sudden understanding causes you to gasp slightly, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. You trace the lines again, a little faster this time, fully picturing the words on his back.

Chris abruptly rolls over, his eyes immediately boring into yours, and your hand snaps up to your mouth in an attempt to stifle your surprise. He’s smiling softly, eyes crinkling in delight.vSlowly, he reaches for the hand covering your mouth, opening your palm out to him. With a single finger, he lightly traces your palm, and you realise almost instantly that he’s writing letters, one by one.

He's nibbling his bottom lip slightly in concentration, and when he finishes, his eyes flicker back up to you. You know of course, exactly what he’s written there, each stroke of his finger sending the letters jolting towards your heart. You had just spent the past few minutes writing the exact same thing on his back. You’re still silent though, trying to process, mind whirring faster than it ever has before. Chris takes your silence as confusion and begins to write the words again, as gentle as the first time.

He's halfway through writing “love” when you slip your wrist out from his hand and promptly bury your face into his chest, hands snaking around his back tightly.

“Are you serious?” you whisper, curling up on yourself, face burning. “Are you?” he whispers back, caressing the back of your head. You pull away from him and sit up, eyes wide with shock. He stares right back at you, waiting for your answer, his dark eyes searching yours. You lean down and peck his forehead, “I love you,” then his right cheek, “I love you,” his nose, “I love you,” his chin.

You kiss him everywhere you can possibly reach from his shoulders up, avoiding his lips for whatever instinctive reason, repeating those same words over and over again, a mantra. Your actions reduce Chris to a mess of giggles and happy laughs, “Okay, okay, okay!”

He grabs the back of your head and roughly pulls you in for a real kiss, but his lips are soft against yours, tender. When you pull away, your lips still linger, and it is like this that you feel and hear him say the disastrous words back, “I love you too.” Your laugh comes out as a breathy giggle, and suddenly you’re kissing him again, everywhere you can. “Baby, baby,” he laughs, “Stop it.”

But you can’t. You literally, physically can’t. Somehow you’ve managed to crawl on top of him, straddling his bare chest. Chris grabs your shoulders and pushes you up, grinning at you from below, “Since when were you this affectionate?” he coos, hands sliding over to cup your face and squish your cheeks. You roll your eyes at him and press on his chest lightly, again, feigning annoyance.

“You’re adorable,” he murmurs with a dopey expression, “My love is adorable.” “Shut up,” you whine, collapsing on top of him and hiding in his neck. My love. My love. My fucking love. “I love you. So much. And you love me back,” Chris laughs, wrapping his arms securely around you, “Wow! You love me back. Wow… This is the best day of my life.” “I said shut up,” you grumble.

–

You wake in the darkness, mind immediately tracking back to your moment of “I love you’s” earlier, butterflies swirling intensely in your stomach. Then you realise the reason you’ve woken up in the dead of night again, is because Chris isn’t sleeping with his arms around you. You roll over and find him sitting up in bed, his headphones snug around his ears, forehead creased in concentration as he clicks away on his laptop. You sit up and place your chin on his shoulder, staring at him with googly eyes.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” Chris mumbles, turning his head slightly. “What’re you doing awake?” you ask, carefully slipping the headphones off his head to rest around his neck. “Mmh… inspiration struck me, so I wrote a new song,” his eyes haven’t left his computer screen, even without his headphones on he continues to work.

“Chris it’s 2am,” you sigh, taking over the touchpad to check the time in the top right hand corner, “go back to sleep, love.” He inhales sharply and fully turns towards you, a slow grin emerging, “You see, that is exactly why I cannot sleep.” You blink at him in confusion, and he elaborates, “You can’t just brush my hair out of my face, spend the next five minutes writing ‘I love you’ over and over again on my back, pepper me with a billion kisses, and then expect me to sleep.”

You grin shyly at him, your head drooping, “Now you’re just making me feel bad because I fell asleep.” “No. No that is not what I-” You interrupt him by reaching over and sliding his computer out of his hands. Carefully, you hit the command to save his work, eyes briefly skimming over the saved title ‘For My Love’.

“You were inspired to write a song for me?” you chuckle, closing the laptop and removing his headphones from his neck. Carefully, you place them both on your bedside table, and grope around to pull him down into the bed. You can tell by how warm his face is when you press close that he’s blushing.

“So what if I was?” he asks. “So… I think you’re really cute, but your love wants you to get more sleep,” you giggle, pulling his head underneath your chin. “Okay…” he mumbles, breath growing laboured with sleep.

–

Chris wakes with his nose buried in your hair, and he immediately grins. He abandons your warmth to grab his phone and check the time. It’s just past 9am, you both should really get up and get going, but he doesn’t particularly feel like it. You roll onto your back in your sleep, and a mischievous glint catches his eye when he notices your shirt hike up a little, revealing your bare stomach.

Chris swiftly scampers into the adjacent office, plucks a random marker from your desk, and then carefully crawls back onto the bed, doing his best to not wake you. He lifts your shirt up a little higher, then with his tongue sticking out, uncaps the marker and writes the message ‘Chris was here!!’ on your stomach, complete with his little dino-worm drawing.

Just as he’s finishing up, you groan and your eyes flutter open, noting the sharp prod of something on your stomach. In a second however, it disappears, and Chris has crawled on top of you. He moves to kiss your cheek, but still hazy with sleep, you don’t register what he’s doing and accidentally move your head.

What was meant to be a wholesome good morning peck turns into a surprising peck on the lips. You stare at him with wide eyes, and his cheeks immediately bloom red. You grin at how embarrassed he is and lean up to give him a legitimate kiss good morning. You’re both grinning like idiots now, and you’ve completely forgotten about whatever it was that Chris was doing on your stomach earlier.

Exactly Chris’ plan. Distraction… successful.

“Good morning sunshine…” he happily chirps, the familiar endearment causing you to smile happily. This time though, you have an idea. “Good morning moonlight,” your smile intensifies as Chris pauses, stunned, and you wriggle your way into a seated position, forcing him to do the same.

“Moonlight?” he questions, his voice cracking slightly in the early morning. “Yeah. Moonlight. ‘Cause even in the darkness you still shine.” Chris blinks at you, then after a second, grabs your arm to pull you into his lap, “Okay sure,” he pecks the top of your head, a favourite action of his, “but you got one thing wrong. If you’re my sunshine and I’m your moonlight… then I shine because you do.”

You laugh and let Chris drag you both under the blankets again, hugging you tightly as if his life depended on it. After a minute of tranquil silence, you yawn, stretch and move to get up and out of bed. Chris doesn't crack open an eye as he grabs your head and forces you back down into the pillow, causing you to yelp.

“Chris! We’ve got to get up now,” you chide, pushing yourself back up and glaring at him. He’s smirking cheekily but his eyes are still closed, and you shake your head at him, “C’mon.” "Who says we have to get up?” he asks, finally staring back at you.

“I do.” You demand, and a little staring contest is initiated, neither of you blinking. Chris begins to pull faces and tease you, but you refuse to give in to his antics. “Okay fine fine,” he relents, “I’m getting up. But come here first.” You raise your eyebrows at him.

“Please,” he adds with a tiny nod. Bewildered, you shuffle over to him, only to scream in shock when he swiftly grabs your shirt and pulls it up over your head. The act is so out of the blue, and he’s unnecessarily strong that you can’t do anything about it. He runs off with your shirt and you curse, chasing him out of the bedroom and into the lounge room.

Chris grins like a mad man, sticking his tongue out at you from the other side of the couch. “Give me my shirt you fucking rascal,” you spit, but you’re grinning just as hard.

“Come and get it,” he teases, waving it around like it’s a flag. You move to one side of the couch, and he moves to the other. You both run in circles around the couch, giggling and yelling. Eventually, out of breath and panting, Chris laughing his heart out with his hands resting on his knees, you decide that this game should come to an end. While he’s occupied, you leap over the top of the couch and tackle him to the ground.

“Oh shit-” Chris wheezes as you wrangle your shirt out of his fist. You’re about to put it back on, when Chris sits up and stops you, struggling to talk properly through his laughter, “Hang on, babe wait. Look down.”

You do, your arms up in the air, halfway through the sleeves of your shirt. It takes you a moment to read his little message, and then with a yell, you use your shirt to whack him repeatedly.

His laughter doesn’t cease even after he’s pulled you on top of him to stop your playful, indignant hits. “God I love you,” he chokes out, resting his head back onto the floor, “Don’t rub it off, leave it there for the rest of today.” “I love you too, but I can’t leave it there, what if people see?” “Who’s going to see it underneath your shirt?” “What if I wanted to wear something cropped today?” “Then wear something cropped. Let the whole world know who you belong to.” “Chris. You know I can’t do that.” “Mmh but I want the whole world to know.” “Christopher.” “Fine fineeeee, okayyyyy. Just don’t wear anything cropped then. Want one of my hoodies?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺

-> PART 5 　 -> Masterlist

A/N: Yay! Milestone Event 4 Check!

Feedback is always appreciated, negative and positive alike. I apologise for any editing errors, I’m forever learning.

Until next read! - Kaisowoo

#bang chan fluff #bang chan x reader #stray kids #bang chan #bang chan imagines #fluff #skz fluff #christopher chan bang #christopher bang #skz #toomuchflufflimactuallygonnadie #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader

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pensat-i-fet · 7 months

Text

Behind the mask (Ferran Torres x Reader) / Halloween '23

Masterlist

Wattpad

On the night of the 31st of October, the whole Barça squad was divided in between two houses. Both Pedri and Ter Stegen decided to organize Halloween parties, and so their teammates had to either attend one or the other…and some attended both.

For Ferran, it was an easy choice. He had to go to his bestie’s party. Ter Stegen would understand. What no one understood well was his costume.

“Why do you have a chainsaw in your arm?”“Is that from that chainsaw movie? The one with the massacre?”

Had none of them watched the Evil Dead movies? He shook his head and stopped answering questions about his costume. If they couldn’t appreciate the genius that Ash Williams was, it was their loss. But it turned out that not everyone in the party was as uncultured as his teammates.

“Love the costume, mister Williams”, said a female voice, making Ferran turn to look at her.

“Thank you…what are you supposed to be dressed as? No one gets my costume and now I look lame not knowing yours”.

The woman laughed and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m Dollface, from the movie The Strangers. I’ll take it you haven’t seen it”.

“I can’t say I have. Is it any good? Or does it just make for a good costume?”

“Don’t tell me you actually don’t like Evil Dead and just dressed as Ash because he’s hot”.

“I love Evil Dead”.

That made you smile. It was your favourite franchise. “Well, this makes for a good and comfortable costume. But the movie is also good. I would recommend you watch it”.

Ferran sat down next to you. Your voice was so beautiful and so…captivating. He felt like he couldn’t leave the room without talking to you more.

“So what’s your name?”

“Let’s say I’m Dollface tonight”.

“Come on. Do you know who I am? Because if you do, then it’s a bit unfair I don’t know your name”.

You laughed and Ferran felt it again. That attraction towards you. He was going to find out who you were.

"I do know. I'm surprised you didn't dress as a shark, actually".

"Too on the nose", he laughed.

You both kept talking and his frustration kept growing, because you wouldn't take the mask off.

"Do you want a drink?", he offered, knowing you would need to take it off to drink, right?

"I would love one, yes. Diet coke or something similar. I'll be driving home. I don't want to drink".

"Got it".

He knew the house well and found the sodas quickly, pouring one in a glass for you.

"Oh wow, I get the good glasses and not paper cups. Fancy".

"Well, you're sober so I trust you won't drop it".

He kept looking at you, expecting the mask to be off soon. But then you looked around, got up, picked up a straw and started to drink without fully removing the mask. Was that some kind of joke? Ferran could only see your lips and chin. That was about it. There was a little beauty mark on your chin, though. So he tried to memorize that for when he maybe saw you around the party later, finally without a mask on.

But that didn't happen. He got a text from one of his teammates, asking where he was. And he knew he couldn't just ignore all of them the whole party.

"My friends want to see me. You could come too. Or I could see you later, maybe?"

"I'll be around. I'm sure you'll find me", you said.

But he didn't see you again after that.

Hours later, the only people left in the house were Pedri and his brother. And Ferran who offered to help tidy up a little. But there was also a selfish reason why he stayed there.

"So, ummm…do you have a list of the people who were here tonight?"

Pedri raised an eyebrow. What an odd question. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious".

"Did you like a girl or something and want to find out if I have her number?"

"Sort of. Not the number just…the name would be enough".

"Didn't you ask for her name?"

"I did. But she didn't want to tell me".

"What did she look like?"

"I don't know".

Pedri laughed. He knew his friend could be weird but this was too much.

"Are you drunk?"

"No, you idiot. She had a mask on and I didn't get to see her face. But I was talking to her for almost an hour”.

“So that’s where you were. Speaking to ghosts”.

Ferran shook his head. Pedri wasn't going to help. No one was going to help. He was never going to find out who Dollface really was.

A couple of weeks passed and the Halloween party seemed to be just an afterthought. But sometimes, Ferran still thought about the mysterious girl he talked to.

"Yes, I'm going to order a coffee now, mum. I'll talk to you later. Bye".

He hung up the phone and ordered his coffee. After paying for it, he moved to wait for it at the end of the bar. There were a few people there and he noticed them looking. He was used to it already. But someone was looking at him more boldly.

"Hi", he said. And then noticed the beauty mark on the chin. His eyes went from it to your eyes, trying to work out what was happening. "Is it really you?"

"Hello again. I see you found me".

#ferran torres #ferran torres imagine #ferran torres x reader #ferran torres one shot #ferran torres fluff #ferran torres x yn #footballer imagine #footballer one shot #footballer fluff #footballer x reader #footballer x yn

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rose-lunaire · 7 months

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mattheo riddle | halloween special

grand finale of ‘slytherin halloween’ inspired by ‘honeymoon’, lana del rey, the queen of my heart

slytherin halloween masterlist

pairing: mattheo riddle x gn!reader

warnings: none

“nobody cares about the music unless it’s their favourite song playing”

“what?” despite being the dj he heard you perfectly, he just didn’t want to believe what words just left your lips. “i’m saying: you can leave your post, comrade, and dance with me for merlin’s sake” you laughed while dragging him from the stage. you were right, no one batted an eyelash. in mattheo’s case it was from shock.

a little party never hurt no one - it was an unofficial slytherin motto. the serpent house was famous for unforgettable moments, breaching the lines between fantasy and reality. they were reserved for the strict elite, shrouded in an aura of mystery. cases of the finest champagne stacked carelessly, empty absinthe glasses sparkled with cigarette ash. groans of pleasure mixing with hysterical laughter. it was crazy, it was classy, it was addicting.

how easy it was to get lost in the feeling of letting go. music reminiscent of a siren’s song, making you forget all about you everyday life. your deepest urges taking over the reins once and for all. at least until the sun rises again. unwanted memories gone, the best moments irreversibly imbedded in your brain, making you come back every time. ‘cause you want more.

the parties combined the wild energy of the gryffindor raves with mysterious dress-ups of ravenclaw. nobody knew who you are, unless you wanted it to be known. people smoking, people drinking. jokes could be heard at every corner of the room. as soon as one stepped into the common room, the became enveloped in the carefree atmosphere, reminiscent of a hufflepuff get-together.

a loose gown falling on your perfect hips, spinning with each turn you take. the fabric skipped through the air, finding no obstacle in other party goers. you were the only one on the dance floor, mattheo’s gaze fixated on your dance. every move hypnotising, tantalising, burning with devotion. like a child dancing in the rain, you were laughing. oh, what would he do to hear this sound all over again! it was like all thoughts left his head, leaving pure desire in place: a blue flame charring his insides.

“screw your anonymity, loving me is all you need to feel” his hands were on your waist, grasping onto your skin hungrily. it was too much, never enough. he was choking on the unknown.

so your slowly untied the ribbons keeping the mask in place. carefully placed his palms onto the smooth surface, his trusty muscles the only thing separating you from being uncovered. like a priest serving his deity, he lowered his head in respect.

and then he saw you. eros and venus, devil himself. beauty eternal, he would like to serve till the end of his days. you smirked at his naivety. blink of an eye and you disappeared.

your allure transfixed in the music around him. forever unobtainable and fickle. but he felt you with his whole being. mattheo inhaled this illusion of closure, smiling blissfully.

he created you and now you made him your man.

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verysadghostieinacloset · 3 months

Text

So…Hi tumblr. This is a fic that I’m posting here so… enjoy it? Eheh.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandoms: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson, The Glass Scientists

Relationship: Edward Hyde & Dr. Henry Jekyll

Characters: Edward Hyde, Dr. Henry Jekyll

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Self-Harm, Blood and Injury, Murder, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Toxic Co-Dependency, mentions of mental institutions, Disassociation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Non-Graphic Gore

Language: English

Words: 3,603

Not beta read

Summary: Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

OR The aftermath of Hyde murdering Carew, but I mashed it with Glass Scientists.

OR OR Can I really call Jekyll my favourite character if I haven't torn him apart first?

Reap your self-destruction

Fuck.

This is atrocious, and despicable, and really in no way good for him at all. Dead- there on the street, sights for all to see; dead. Dead. Rotting and never coming back, hacked to the pulp of an unidentifiable, red mess, there in the street, half way in the moonlight.

Bloody, and messy, and all over him because he’s a murderer now.

Shit.

This is only half the issue; the fact that he’d murdered a man and that man is never ever ever going to come back to life, and that he’d see it, all the gore, and it was undeniably him who had done that-

He’d done it all with Lanyon’s cane. The cane he got gifted for his birthday some years back from his closest friend, such a tender memory, was the very same cane he’d used to beat Danvers’ body to fine, scarlet mush as it screamed. The thing had snapped with the bones and he’d lost it in the wreckage, carrying back with him the bloodied other half, all the way to Soho. There were no officers on his trail, at least, but he could not go back to the Society- not like this.

No; he’d rushed to his apartment, hands surprisingly steady, breathing calm as possible, (he is a psychopath, a madman, really. He was breathing so normally when Danvers could never breathe again, lungs collapsed in and it was all his fault, and he’d done it with Lanyon’s gift and-) uprooting notebooks and papers from dusty draws, feeding the fire to feed his desperation and ensure there was not a splotch of evidence against him.

Jekyll’s voice stuttered frantically in his ears, the entire time, and Hyde was distinctly aware of his incoherent rambling, no doubt consumed by the gruesome sight they’d both caused. He is only Jekyll’s anger, after all.

In any case, nothing was being helped, but he’d prefer it over silence. He did not want to be alone with what they’d done. At least Jekyll could provide the understanding they’d never get in the gallows-

No, no; they’re not there yet, they won’t get there, he promises, he promises, he promises!

The papers were stained with his fingerprints, bloodied with impressions of scarlet blood that didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t think too much about it, or he’d stop what he’s doing and get caught red-handed (literally) by the police. He didn’t have time.

With this thought, he threw the remainder of the papers to the fire, watching the angry thing rise with a defiant cackle and eat away at his sins. He’d doused the other half of the cane with gasoline- ‘reserved specifically for emergencies,’ Hyde had said when he’d brought it and right now was a fucking emergency- and fed that to the monster too.

It had flared madly, but there were only ashes left of his crimes. He’d killed the flames with water- pure, clear, safe; something he’d never be ever again- and not thought once before downing that wretched draught in his pocket. It’d swirled bright red then purple then green in mockery and he’d taken every last, bitter drop until he’d felt himself heaving.

Now, everything is too tight and too bloody, and the glass has shattered onto the floor and he’ll have to clean it or that’s proof against them and he’s putting them all in danger, all over again because he’s so reckless-

His bones pop disgustingly into place, bringing with them the sickly nausea that comes with the unnatural feeling of his insides turned out and replaced to make an entirely new man. Innocent, he could claim with this face and this voice. Innocent-

But his hands are still bloody! He has to get the blood off; just so it won’t stain Jekyll’s clothes, he tells himself- certainly not because it’s stifling and spreading and unstoppable.

Of course, he is completely logical, and sane; so he scrubs his hands over a basin of cold water hard enough that he thinks the skin will start to crack. The water is red. Not pink- not just stained- but so fucking red that he thinks he can dye something with the water and it’ll come out the deepest maroon.

That’s bad.

He needs to get rid of the water. It’ll stink up the place if he leaves it- well, it already is; the air is shimmery with a metallic scent that he swears to heaven will haunt his dreams. He doesn’t plan on coming back here, it’s not really his problem anymore; but the thought of leaving the water to go stagnant and rotten, with such a pungent odour as to tell the whole world what he’s done, makes his stomach churn.

So, he dumps it over the ashes in the fireplace, now clumped together, and watches the dirt drink up the river of red he’d made. It was all him, always him, every single part- the anger, the blind rage, the stab through the body, the cracking of the bones; every last bit of it is all him.

It might still smell, but at least the basin of blood is out of sight. At least it’s masked with the scent of something long burnt and no one can tell where the smell would’ve come from because there is no obvious source, no liability. Just that the room is a mess, and the fire has been put out with too many ashes, and some human is clearly missing from this place.

But that is not his issue ever again: he is human- he promises- not an animal, not a madman, not the devil. No; he is Henry Jekyll, in the blood-stained, ruined clothes of Edward Hyde- with whom he is in no way associated- and the tightness of his shirt makes him want to scream. Frantically (there is no time to waste, no time to waste, Hell is at his heels), he flings the doors to Hyde’s wardrobe open, shifting through the few clothes to find the only ones that could possibly fit him.

Again, safety measures- he kept an outfit of Hyde’s, Hyde kept an outfit of his. Just in case.

But, here, he had to be careful. If he left his clothes in a mess, he might give the police reason for suspicion.

‘Calm down.’ Hyde urges, though his voice is anything but calm, stuttering at every other vowel like a nervous child. ‘Do this logically. Don’t give the coppers a reason to suspect anything other than an escape.’ Yeah- that made sense! He could do that.

Henry’s hands shake quite violently when he looks down at them- they have been the entire time; it’s a surprise he didn’t spill the water earlier- but he’s sure he can do it. Just; take the clothes he’d messed up and fold them coherently and properly. It feels wrong doing such a mundane task when, not even an hour ago, he had murdered a member of parliament.

‘But it’s ok.’ Hyde pacifies, trying to keep his own voice calm. ‘You’ve done this before- it’s not difficult.’ No- he certainly hadn’t murdered someone before, thank you very much. ‘Folding clothes. Focus on folding the clothes.’ And he does. It’s messy and disorganised, but it can be arranged in a way to make the closet seem untouched. He heaves the biggest sigh since that body lay in moonlight, as he closes the closet doors. Nothing was taken. These clothes are his, he is fine.

‘The glass.’ Hyde hisses, just so Henry doesn’t forget. How could he? The shattered remains of the phial drip with hot, green formula, glittering in the streaming light like explosive stars. Where would he put the glass? He had pockets- pockets. The police wouldn’t suspect Jekyll to have proper connections to the murder- not after that fire.

Ok. This would all be ok.

He kneels on the carpet, just where he’d stood last as Hyde- the last time ever as Hyde. He would never come out again; Jekyll couldn’t afford it- neither could his other. Or the Society. Or everything else relying on him surviving this night. Then, with careful hands because he doesn’t want to nip himself (‘That pain would be inviting? The punishment we need. The punishment we must-’) on the glass and get even more blood stained to him, he’d had enough of the accursed substance tonight, he starts picking the shimmering shards from the ground.

Collecting the glass off the floor is easy- he just hopes to God (‘If God will listen to us anymore.’) that nothing about the few drops of potion on the carpet gets noticed. Otherwise, his pocket gets steadily heavier with the tinkling of the glass as it drops in, and soon enough, the last piece is in his hand (it’s shaking again, shaking with his breath, shaking because he knows there is only one way forward, one way to run, but he should be in the gallows, hanging like the murderer he is, all to Hell).

It’s no use. He can drop the last piece in with the remainder of the phial, but the edge cuts his fingers, slices clean into the skin and stings as red starts welling at the wound.

The careful facade of his calmness, of fixing his breath just until he’s out of Soho, shatters like the phial in his pocket.

There is blood on his hands. It’s red- it’s everywhere because he’s just murdered someone. He’s just murdered someone and they bled so much. He was a doctor- he knows how much a person can bleed before they die, that they bleed after they die too, that blood gets everywhere and never comes off and it won’t come off him because he’s bleeding and he’s a murderer and he’ll always be a murderer and nothing will ever change that.

Red. On his hands. He needs to stop it. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Hyde informs him, in some vain attempt to wake him up. ‘It’s your blood. All you need is a handkerchief.’ Right. A handkerchief to press to his finger then he can get out of here, leave this place forever and go home-

(‘The walk to your punishment?’)

No time to be hysterical. Just remember that. Hysteria gets you killed- or you end up in Bedlam. You don’t want that, Jekyll. I don’t want that. No.

He fumbles for a moment at the desk, searching for one, and finally breathing that shaky sigh of relief once he pulls one from the drawers. He presses it to the cut, watching as the scarlet invades the white of the cotton, trailing up and up through the fibres until he thinks the thing is doused.

Ok. Now, he can go home. Just- ‘My clothes are still on the floor.’ Mutters Hyde, somewhat urgently. Jekyll clenches his fist, squeezes his eyes shut as he nods- cannot force his breath to calm at all- and scoops up the bloody pile. He can take it outside to throw away somewhere. Yes.

It’s all so simple, if only he was calm-

He bundles the soft cloth between his arms; it’s drying stiff in the patches that are far bloodier. The roughness is a horror- instead, he tries to keep the softer parts running between his fingers, just to calm him until he can discard the wretched garments. Besides, the therapeutic feeling helps with the steady pain from his cut finger, handkerchief still clenches around staunching the blood.

For the last time, Jekyll turns his back to the room, surveying the wreckage he’d left behind, eyes shimmering in the fractured moonlight slipping in through the window. A wreckage like the body, discarded for the rats and writhing maggots, all done with such a holy gift that he had ruined. How dare he?!

There were still papers scattered to the ground, the last frantic writings of a madman. ‘Not enough to take us to court.’ Hyde promises; something softer, a hint more certain in his voice. Jekyll trusts him; blindly- what more can he do? For now, Hyde is the only one who knows, who will ever understand, who will ever get the feeling of his disgust and anger and pathetic self-loathing. When he hangs, Hyde is the only thing left to say goodbye to.

But with that, a murderer leaves his room, and stalks out into the thick mist of London night, hands bloodied beyond reparation.

He is breathless when he arrives at his street. The clothes (Hyde’s clothes. The last clothes Edward Hyde would ever be spotted in) have long since been abandoned in the back alleys of the city, a good distance away from his apartment in Soho. He’d stalked out of the borough on brisk legs, not risking getting a cab until he was rid of the wretched weight of ruined cotton in his arms. Besides, the walking had helped. Cold air in his lungs whilst it rushes through his hair was the blessing a sinner like him did not deserve, no matter if he found it polluted like the inner clockwork of his soul.

Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

He takes his key from his pocket, hand grasping the cool metal press of his door handle, a grounding weight to the inner dwellings of panic still clutching at him because there is still blood on his hands, he is still a murderer, Danvers is still dead. What is changing that? What is changing-

With a snap and a click (the breaking of bones, the snap of a cane, the click of his brisk footsteps away from the scene of a mutilation), the door stutters open uneasily, and, thankful at last for this one small shelter from the eyes of the world, for the heaving anxiety lifted off his shoulders of the police following him down, he steps in with a breath.

‘To your punishment.’ Hyde’s voice curdles sickly, reassuringly in his mind. After all, Jekyll knows he is right, has seen this coming from a long way. It was one of the genuine reasons he’d rushed home (does a reprobate have a home? In hell, perhaps? With the moulding images of rotten, unrecognisable bodies, ever consumed by mycelium and fungi?), with the throb of the cut gently increasing, Jekyll had- at some point- become desperate to inflict the harm on himself purposefully.

There had been a moment of respite between the cut and his loss of composure, between the initial slash and the blood flooding through, skin opening to his darkness, inviting all other monstrosities to peek in and cower at the evil in himself. Of course there had been. There always was this feeling of pride, of calm. Knowing you did well because you punished yourself, you got what you deserved, without bothering someone else to do it for you.

That is all waiting for him now, in the depths of this cold house, with his cold blood and rotting heart ever consumed by illogical fear. Who must he be afraid of? He is the murderer, after all.

He unclips the cloak around his shoulders, maybe the last thing holding the faint lines of his soul together in a clutch of vile tendrils, moving through the shadows to his room, and only then letting it drop when the door clicks behind him. With the stuttering of some broken, sick thing, he, frantically, stumbles to the ground near his bed, no longer desperate to keep the emotions threatening to consume him trapped in, no longer concerned with anything besides raw truth and the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks, and the wretched voice in his head.

He looks down, at the bloodied cotton pressed to his hand, focuses on the sting of it when he presses too hard. But, this is all he does in the moment, all he can bring himself to when he is the spluttering mess of a last breath gone wrong. ‘Now, you know what we must do, Henry?’ Hyde mutters, and it's all Jekyll can do to make himself nod along, to lift the sleeve of linen from his forearms, a patchwork of silver spider webs stalking up it on the underside, from days when he’d been obsessed with the concept of human pain and what it truly was.

No need for morbid curiosity anymore, not when he was intimately familiar with the causes of human pain, and how to make it, and what it did to one and his mind. ‘It sends someone to Bedlam. They should’ve done that to you so long ago, because look where we are now. Henry, isn’t the glass of our broken phial so pretty?’

To Bedlam. He doesn't want to go to Bedlam, he doesn't want to be locked up with the horrors he deserves because they are the horrors he’s caused. At the end of the day, he supposes Hyde is right- a man, human and whole, would never have reason to wonder about something so horrid as suffering, lest he was mad, and Henry is far past that.

He takes a shard from the heavy pocket at his side, with those ever shaking hands, and looks at it cradled so softly in his palm like it was something new and innocent and fragile and all that he never ever would be. It was pretty, he supposed, with the way the moonlight caught it, filtered in through the windows, making it sparkle like the last wings of an angel, and with its sharp edge gleaming in the anticipation of smooth skin. It would, obviously, look a lot more prettier doused in red, dripping down to the floor, stained with all the sinful stuff inside of him.

With a shaky breath, and a screaming desperation, he brings it to press cooly against the delicate workings of his veins, and closes his eyes stained with glass tears, wrists quivering because he knows he can't do this, can’t fall back into such a habit that had eaten away so hungrily at his life.

‘Having second thoughts? Then give me the control, give me your hand. What awaits us but the punishment you cower from, coward?’ That voice spits, in all its stuttering truth.

Jekyll knows he should be fighting for control, he knows he should be doing all in his power to deal logically with this, to not hurt himself, to lay his head down and sleep and hope that will fix the wrongs he’d caused. But none of this fixes Danvers’ body, lying still in the streets, blood splayed around him, left for the rats; none of this fixes the phantom feeling of blood under his nails and ribs cracking beneath his hands. No, logic is not for him to take right now, sleep is not his luxury, the only thing he must do is this.

So, he lets Hyde do it to him (lets him do it to himself), sits idly in his body, staring as the impressions of far rougher, crooked hands ghost his, and guide the edge of the glass down words into a sloping arch. Blood blooms from the cut with intricate pain, red and the last drips of green hissing into each other as they run down his arm in a careful rivulet. It’s not enough.

He brings his hand down, Hyde following his every move, once more on his skin, watching the edge of the glass get coated in thin scarlet. An adjacent cut mars the flesh, and tingles with the delight of sweltering pride in his chest. His heart clenches at the thought of this being his downfall, of this being the thing that finally snubs his disgraceful flame from the face of the world. He’d frowned at the thought of death, but musing it now, as Hyde cuts again and again and blood pools steadily into wood with each droplet, brought by hands that are (deniably) undeniably his, it is a simple thing. Maybe even right.

Again, the heavenly edge (a devil-send) of that curved blade comes to quietly stained flesh, where his tears fall and mix with the pain of his fear and rot and peace all slipping away from him.

Another cut befalls him (he brings the blade on himself). ‘Is it not so easy?’ Says Hyde, the haze in Jekyll’s mind too sweet and simple and painful to ignore the way his words curl like the body of a snake on its latest kill. And would a death like this, for him, not be so simple? All it would take was the careful positioning at the one place he’d been avoiding, to carve the final breath from his deceitful lungs. He could fall to hell so easily, he could destroy it all now and not have to reap the consequences because he doesn’t have to look to the future.

He can die, and rot here alone for days, with a body unfound and all his blood drained. It would be so easy.

The haze grows thick like honey, seeping into the crevices of his thoughts and clogging them with undeserved, unnerving peace. He can’t feel the pain anymore. Why can’t he feel the pain anymore? Why isn’t Hyde speaking to him?

Why is the floor so red?

With the quiet plink of a shatter, in the earliest depths of a winter morning, a shard of glass splays into ten, bloodied fractures.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the glass scientists fanfiction #the glass scientists #tgs #tgs jekyll #tgs hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #dr jekyll and mr hyde #writing

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