#i am PLAGUED with the image of them being soft with their Only Exception | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

helliontherapscallion · 3 years

Note

pspspsp can I just request an immortal reader who's life is just dull/sad as hell since they've seen their loved ones leave or die in front of them so many times

but when they meet SBI or anyone, their life just suddenly brightens up? (Platonic and it can be any type of fic!)

(A/N): I got waaaayy too carried away with this. Star god reader my beloved (also, I’d imagine that your cloak looks like this guy’s but on the inside with the outsides being any color of your choice (credit goes to original artist))

If you want more god!reader content with the dream smp, @wooloo-inc has a really good series about a male!nature god!reader (aka, the god of dilf collection)

In the beginning when DreamXD created you (which if you think about it, that makes him your father, but I digress) from stardust and meteorite shards, you were a ball of fun loving sunshine (well, starshine?)

You loved watching over all of humankind, admiring their determination and bonds with other humans (both romantic and platonic)

Your older brother, the god of the moon, told you about how they viewed you and you were amazed

“Oberon?” You ran up to your older brother and tugged on his cloak making him hum in question, not looking up from his parchment scroll. “What- what do the humans think of me?”

He scoffed and glanced at you with his lily white irises, “why are you on about them again? They are lowly creatures compared to us, filled with greed and misfortune.”

“They worship us and that’s how you speak of them?”

“(Y/n) believe me, you have not seen the brutality they are capable of. War, famine, greed, plague, genocide, it’s all something you have not witnessed before. You have only seen the good in those things.”

“But Oberon, I wanna-” he lightly smacked the side of your head, “use proper English. We are gods and you will behave as such.”

You huffed, “I want to know about how they view us! I do not care about the bad things they have done! Plleeeaaassseeeeeee Beri?” You willed the stars that constantly gleamed in your eyes to shine brighter as you fluttered your eyelashes at him. He may seem like he hated everyone and everything (especially his siblings), but he had a soft spot for his youngest sibling. He just stared at you for a bit before he sighed and shifted in the massive throne so that you could hop up onto his lap. With a wave of a slender pale hand, he conjured up various images of humans with stardust gazing at the stars and the moon with carefree swipes of his hand.

“They view us as… poetic of sorts. They compare us to romance,” an image of two human males kissing then gazing into the stars laying down on a cliff came into view, “fortune tellers,” an image of the Aquarius and the Capricorn constellations popped up making you squeal in happiness. He chucked and changed the picture to a mother and son standing over a grave looking up in amazement at a shooting star, “and most importantly, as a sign of hope.

“They see us as complementary, the moon and the stars cannot be as beautiful without the other. We hold the power of the night and everything it touches, (y/n). This is our kingdom, do not forget that,” the image changed to the moon surrounded by stars and swirling blues and purples of nebulas.

You looked at the images with awe, absorbing every word that fell from his mouth. “Beri?” He once again hummed, his deep baritone voice sending vibrations along your back. “Will we be together forever?”

His lanky arms wrapped around your much smaller frame, “for all of eternity. The moon is nothing without the night sky and all of the stars it holds.”

Centuries passed and your fascination with humans only grew from there

When you eventually asked if you could meet a human Oberon reacted angrily and forbade you from speaking of humans again in your shared palace, worried for your safety

When he caught you attempting to sneak out, he locked you in your room for months on end

Humans wondered why the stars hardly appeared in the night sky anymore, forming the theory that they had somehow angered you

They prayed to you more and more, begging and groveling for forgiveness

They left more offerings at shrines

You heard their every word, feeling your heartbreak with sorrow and guilt for your lovely humans

You snuck out of the palace that night determined to make it up to the humans

You quietly snuck past the main room where you and Oberon used to sit on your thrones together and control the night. The large doors were cracked open showing your older brother watching the night with boredom. As you passed, his voice startled you, “I just cannot stop you can I?”

He appeared in the doorframe looking at you emotionlessly, his eyes glinting with hidden pain. “Do you realize how cruel of a place that world is? How cruel humans are?”

“I do not care, brother! They are in anguish because they think I am angry with them! Because you locked me in here!”

“I have told you time and time again, they are ruthless creatures. Humans are constantly clashing with their own kind for the slightest bit of power, they’re greedy creatures! Have you forgotten what happened to Arachnia?”

A shiver went down your spine at the mention of your fellow deity. She wanted to be with humans but they stripped her of her grace and virtuosity, torturing her when the moon would rise. That is the reason spiders attack humans in the night when the moon and stars show themselves and are dormant in the daytime. However, that did not deter you.

“I have not forgotten what happened to Arachnia, her tale fills me with grief. But not all humans are like that! They are compassionate, loving, and sweet creatures deep down, each and every single one of them!”

“They were not showing compassion or love when they tore Arachnia limb from limb! When they languish in riches while millions die around them! What part of that is compassionate?”

“Sure they do bad things sometimes, but have you forgotten the love they hold for each other? The determination and hope shining from within them when they pray to us? Have you forgotten that?”

“THEIR ACTIONS ARE NOT JUSTIFIED IN ANY WAY!”

“AND OURS ARE? YOU ARE BLIND, OBERON. HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN THE CRUELTY THE GODS HAVE SUBJECTED HUMANS TO? WHEN OUR FATHER TOOK YEARS AWAY FROM THEIR LIFESPANS SOLELY BECAUSE THEY STOPPED WORSHIPPING HIM AS OFTEN AS THEY USED TO? WHAT PART OF THAT IS JUSTIFIED?”

He just stared at you with angry irises and his chest heaving before he ran a hand through his long ivory hair and turned around, the flowing white cape flowing wildly behind him with unseen air. He walked back into the observation room and back to his throne. Without a second glance to you, he worked on the transition of power between the sun and moon. You could imagine your sister Aelia grinning brightly as she rose the sun for the day.

“You are to never return here if you step foot out that door. You will still have control of your duties of the night. However you will never return. Do not come back groveling for forgiveness when I have given you constant warnings of their cruelty. If I see your face show up here, I will make sure father smites you down. Now get out of my sight.”

You huffed and whipped around to the front entrance, the stars that constantly twinkled and the nebulas that constantly swirled in the inside of your cloak illuminating the white floors below you as you ran. You left the palace without a second thought, leaving your old life behind in favor of spending it with the humans.

When you came crashing to the Earth in a shooting star, you were amazed by the beauty of it up close and in person

It was everything you expected and then some

You heard the humans cheering and thanking you in their prayers when the stars returned brighter than usual

You being completely enamoured by all of the humans, even if they recognized you or not you loved them all unconditionally

You set up a little cottage in the tundra where you could see the night sky clearly with the occasional aurora borealis

From the roof, you controlled the stars

The tales of you defecting from the heavens was a popular one, and you became somewhat of a symbol of the hope that humanity should hold for themselves and compassion

Occasionally sending shooting stars over humans you knew were stargazing

You have met many lovers, friends, and even your own adopted kids over the next millenia, all of them accepting your immortality and everlasting duties

But it’s all the same in the end: they come, they leave, and they die

With each death of your loved ones, you could feel your will to keep going dissipate

The stars grew dimmer gradually in the night sky

The humans gradually stopped worshipping you as you disappeared from the night skies

You became a distant memory for elders to tell children

Disappearing from the face of the Earth for a few centuries when you could not take the constant deaths any longer

Nobody knew where your cabin laid so you were undisturbed for centuries on end, left to your grief

That was until a knock sounded at your door

The knock startled you out of the comfort of your bed. Reluctantly, you left the warmth of the multitude of blankets and donned your cloak to hide your unkempt appearance. When you passed the mirror hanging in the hallway, you could see that your face was shrouded by darkness with the exception of a single glint where your eyes were caused by the lone star that was a constant reminder of your position. Before you fell into a deep depression, the stars would illuminate your entire face if you put your hood up.

You opened the front door without a care in the world. If the beings on the other side were humans that would take you away and torture you, you didn’t care. You’re long past the point of caring for your own well being.

On the other side was a man of average height and long shaggy blond hair pulled into a slick ponytail. He was dressed entirely in green with a green and white striped bucket hat placed on his head. Past you would’ve been cooing at the object, but now you dully looked at the man in front of you. You glanced behind him and your eyes widened at the huge black wings sprouting from his back. You know who he was the second your eye caught the black feathers; he was the Angel of Death.

“Hello, Angel of Death.”

He tried to peer into your shrouded features, only seeing two pinpricks of light where your eyes should be. He gave you a friendly smile, brushing off the snow that gathered on his shoulders. “(Y/n), the God of the Stars and the Night Sky. Giver of compassion to the human race, it’s an honor to meet you.”

“Why are you here? Last time I checked, my last lover died centuries ago.”

“Yes, my condolences. They were lovely when I guided their soul to the afterlife.”

“You still have not answered my question, Angel of Death. Why are you here?” You grit out the last sentence through a clenched jaw. He has no right to talk about them when he assisted in taking them away from you. Him and your cousin, the Goddess of Death Kristin. They took everybody you loved away from you. You knew that their deaths were unavoidable since they were human and you were immortal, but you still couldn’t help but resent them.

“The Goddess of Death sent me. The God of the Moon and the Goddess of the Sun sent her a request to send me to check on you.”

You stared at him for a few moments before you saw him shivering slightly and sighed. You always had a soft spot for humans, even if the being in front of you was not a human in the slightest. He reminded you of an old friend. You stepped aside and gestured lazily inside the house, “come in.”

He started to visit more and more over the next century

He eventually befriended you about half a century into the visits

It was extremely difficult to do because of how guarded you were, but he managed to break you out of your shell

You realizing how kind he was and how much he cared for you

You quickly came to the realization that he was immortal as well after reading up on the Angel of Death

After another fifty years, he became your best friend

You both opened up and comforted each other about everybody you both lost over the years

When he adopted Technoblade and then Wilbur not long after Techno, you were extremely hesitant to get close to them

Even going as far as telling Philza that you thought that it was an extremely bad idea

Mortals always end up leaving in the end anyways, it’s best to avoid the endless cycle of hurt that came with having mortals around

You told him about your own adopted children that have died over the years

You refuse to meet them, cutting off all communication with Philza for a year or two

Eventually meeting his three adopted kids when you reluctantly accept a dinner invitation one day

You attempted to appear cold and uncaring, but your love for humans (especially baby humans) shone through when an infant Tommy started to play with your cape

It seemed that the stars and the moving nebulas within the fabric entranced him

From then on whenever you visited Philza, you always held Tommy until he was too old for you to do so

Becoming very attached to the blond with your strong innate parental instincts

You introduce Techno to mythology, sharing stories of your personal interactions with certain gods and entities throughout the years

You teach Techno how to cope with the voices as you constantly hear multiple prayers to you from humans at the same time

You arrange a meeting for Wilbur with the Goddess of Music when he asks you about her

Arranging for her to start giving him lessons in exchange of a favor that will be cashed at a later date

You help raise all three of them, often taking them off Philza’s hands for a night or two

Their favorite activity with you is watching you raise the stars and turn the sky dark

They always loved to watch you move the stars and summon shooting stars for them

The stars gradually returned to your eyes and a constant ecstatic smile slowly became synonymous with your face again

Humans started to worship you again when the stars in the sky became brighter

You became your old self again after centuries of feeling lost

To repay them for everything they’ve done for you, you decided to rearrange the stars for one night

One night of having a different star pattern couldn’t hurt

Sure, it’d make a few theories pop up among the humans, but those are fun to overhear sometimes

The young boys and Philza behind you watched in awe as your eyes started to glow brightly and you slowly moved your hands gracefully raising the stars with the moon, your cloak starting to flow with nonexistent winds. They’ve seen you raise the stars thousands of times, but it never ceases to amaze them. It was just so… entrancing.

You broke into a slight sweat and started to move the stars from their original positions in the sky. Shaking slightly, you pushed back against the strain and slight pain that it brought you. You’ve never done this before, so you really didn’t know what you were expecting. You felt someone put a hand on your shoulder.

“What’re you doin, mate?”

“Uh Dad?”

“Not now Techno. Mate, are you alright?”

“Dad, look up. They’re rearranging the stars,” Wilbur breathed out.

You could hear Philza gasp slightly as he watched star after star move until they locked into place. There in the twinkling night sky was each of their names gleaming brightly in small lettering. When you were done, you fell into a kneel onto the ground and rubbed at your aching head panting lightly.

You could hear the boys around you panic slightly as you regained your breath. As you heard them approach you you looked up at them and smiled, the stars gleaming brightly in your irises. “Do you like it?”

“Y-yes but gods, (y/n) are you alright?”

“I am fine, but stars, I have never done that before. Are you four ready for stargazing?”

“That was so pog, (y/n)! How’d you do that?”

“I hold the power of the stars and the night sky in my hands. My brother once told me that the night is our kingdom.” You laid down onto the grass and took off your cloak to cover up a shivering Tommy and Wilbur next to you. You sighed as you thought about your siblings; you wondered how they were doing.

“I will gladly move the stars themselves for you four. You are my family.” There was a stretched out moment of comfortable silence as you five watched shooting stars blaze by. Eventually, you saw an aurora borealis materialize above you. Furrowing your brow, you looked at it in question. They don’t appear this time of year, so why-

“Aelia,” you breathed out as you watched the greens flow above you. She must’ve sent a gust of solar wind your way.

“Isn’t Aelia the Goddess of the Sun?” Wilbur asked you.

“Yes, she is my oldest sister. She must have redirected the solar winds over here.”

“Damn, what’s with the gods changing everything tonight? You guys need to fuckin chill.”

“Tommy!” Philza scolded and was about to continue before he heard you start to laugh. They’ve only heard you genuinely laugh only a couple of times, so the sound that left your mouth immediately brightened the mood.

“Yes Tommy, I suppose we do need to ‘fucking chill’.”

“You swore! Fuckin pog,” Tommy cheered to himself as the others looked at you in slight shock at your words. If you’re being completely honest in all of the years you spent alive (which is since basically the beginning of time), you’ve never sworn once. You were raised differently than that. When you realized that the others were staring at you, you smirked at them. The stars twinkling and giving your eyes even more of a mischievous glint, “what? Have you never heard a god swear before?”

General taglist (comment if you want to be added):

@crybabyjabby @izzybobizzy13 @goldenstarofthunderclan @bunnyz-pxstel @averytiredfanfictionwriter @dcml04 @sparkling-gayyyy @bbigbbrainn @thaticecreambish @kiinokochii @satansphatass @bxkubitch @bxmentchildxx @roxy3457 @montygator17 @feverish-dove @the-fictionwriters-hairdo @jichuuchaeng @404rynnotfound @luluwinchester @laura--444 @the-cult-classic-bitch @youngstarfishdinosaur

#sbi x reader #sleepy bois x reader #sleepy bois inc x reader #philza x reader #technoblade x reader #wilbur soot x reader #tommyinnit x reader #god reader #requests #hellion's requests #1k special #hellion's 1k special #tw: death #tw: depression #tw: grief #tw: swearing

1K notes · View notes

drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

Text

Day 41: Embrace

"Potter," Malfoy greeted with a nod, walking past him as though Harry wasn't the host of the baby shower and going straight over to Hermione. Harry watched as he greeted her with a warm embrace and a kiss on the cheek before taking a step back and putting his hands on her swollen belly. "I still think that you should name her after a constellation."

"We don't even know that it's a her," Hermione laughed.

Ron wandered over and Malfoy rested his hand on his shoulder for a moment as he said, "It's a her. I have a sixth sense about this sort of thing," he added with a wink.

"We're still not naming her after a constellation," Ron said. "How pretentious do you think we-"

Luna coming through the door interrupted him watching Malfoy cozying up to his two best friends. "Oh, hello, Harry," she said, before tilting her head in that peculiar way of hers, "I see you're being plagued by the jimmiricks."

"Sorry, the what?" he asked politely.

"Jimmiricks," she repeated, "They've pronounced all of those feelings of longing and rejection," he said, patting his arm conciliatorily and flouncing away before giving him a chance to respond.

"I haven't got feelings of longing and rejection!" he called after her, ignoring the weird look that one of the women who worked in the justice department with Hermione sent his way.

It was a lie. He knew it and Luna probably did, too, thanks to whatever wacky little creature she could see. He'd be way more inclined to believe that she was nuts if she wasn't always right.

He turned, his eyes immediately seeking out that shock of blond hair, frowning as he watched as Malfoy laughed at something Ginny said, resting his hand lightly on her forearm. Luna slipped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist and he smiled, clasping his hand over her arms and looking over his shoulder at her.

And it wasn't that Harry felt like Malfoy rejected him outright, it was just that he was the only person Malfoy wouldn't touch.

(Read more below the cut)

They'd all been friends for five years and the most willing contact that Harry had ever received was a stiff handshake toward the beginning when Malfoy and Ron had become auror partners and then friends.

He hadn't really noticed at first but Harry had watched him, as he was wont to do, and the fact of the matter was that Malfoy was always touching someone but that someone was never Harry.

"Thanks so much for this, Harry," Hermione said, distracting him from his increasingly circular thoughts.

"Of course!" he replied, shoving his thoughts back into the dark corner they'd emerged from. "I'm happy to," he added. "Ready to start the shower games?"

-------

Shower games went as well as shower games can go, really, until they got to the diaper derby.

"So, let's partner up," Harry called, "Then when I say go, one partner uses the roll of toilet paper to make a diaper on the other. Ron and Hermione are obviously the judges." He waved his arms, "go find a partner."

It took a few minutes but eventually it became clear that there was an odd number of people. Malfoy was left standing somewhat awkwardly without a partner.

"Errm," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Do you want to, um, you know?"

Malfoy smirked at him, "I would like to um, you know."

"Shut up," Harry replied without any heat, feeling embarrassed and awkward and why had he thought this game was a good idea? "Umm," he said, "you have two minutes, begin."

"Right," Malfoy said when Harry turned to face him, "I have a better fashion sense than you, so you are wearing the diaper."

Before Harry could protest, Malfoy was holding the roll of toilet paper to Harry's waist and Harry froze.

Malfoy was touching him. Willingly. And sure, it was for the purpose of a game, but still, he could have just insisted on sitting out.

"Relax," Malfoy huffed, "I won't bite."

"Right," Harry said, not relaxing one bit. Malfoy was touching him rather intimately, all things considered, it was better to keep himself still and focused lest he embarrass himself any further.

"Right," Malfoy repeated, sounding resigned and disappointed, and Harry didn't quite know what to do with that.

The two minutes seemed to somehow last for an eternity and end in the blink of an eye. Harry could scarcely pay attention to the judging. They didn't win but they didn't lose either, and as Harry was about to turn and congratulate Malfoy, Luna floated over to them and said, "oh, Draco, I see that Harry's jimmiricks have infested you as well."

Harry's head whipped to look over at the other man.

"Jimmiricks?" he asked.

"They amplify feelings of longing and rejection," Harry murmured.

Malfoy's mouth popped open and he looked like he might have replied but Ron interrupted, clapping them both on the back and congratulating them.

"Excuse me for a minute," Malfoy muttered before disappearing.

"What did you do?" Ron asked.

"Me?!" Harry asked incredulously.

Ron rolled his eyes, "Spill."

"It's not me!" Harry protested. "Malfoy's the one with the problem with touching me."

Ron's eyes widened, and if it's weren't for the nature of this conversation, Harry would have found it comical. "That is a lot of information-"

"Not like that!" He ran his hands through his hair, "He just is always casually touching everyone except me."

"And why do you think that is, mate?" he asked.

He shook his head, "Because he hates me. Because I spent too long antagonizing him and now-"

"That's not it," Ron interrupted him. "Just go and talk to him," he said, nudging Harry toward the balcony window that Malfoy had escaped through.

Steeling himself, Harry made his way out onto the balcony. "Hey," he said awkwardly as he stepped outside.

"Don't," Malfoy said without looking at him, "just leave it. Luna's just-"

"Yeah," Harry said, stepping up and leaning on the railing next to the other man. "It would be easy to think that she's just a little bit unhinged except that-"

"She's always right," Malfoy finished with a sigh.

"You touch everyone except me," Harry said, the words rushing out without his permission. "All the time, you are like a super tactile individual. Except when it's me. That's what my jimmricks are about."

He scoffed, "Well, I wouldn't want to soil your perfect, savior image."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Malfoy said, "Just that you've made it quite clear that you don't want me to touch you."

"What? How?"

Malfoy turned and glared at him, his silver eyes flashing, "What is this, Potter? You know damn well that you stiffen up every time I am near you. I see you with your friends, with literally everyone else, but whenever I am around you're quiet and you're always watching me. And then there was whatever the hell that was in there. Your body language is anything but inviting."

"Wait," Harry said, "you've got this all wrong-"

"Then explain it to me!" Draco hissed, "because it's exhausting being attracted to someone who hates you and spending every second that you are in their presence wishing that the earth would just swallow you whole so that you don't have to see their disdain for you."

"It's not disdain," Harry murmured, reaching out and touching Draco's hand, his fingers brushing lightly against Draco's. "It is literally anything but disdain for you. I spend every moment of the time we spend in close proximity to one another wishing that I was anyone but me."

"What?"

Harry shook his head, "Draco I am dying for you to touch me. Not in like a creepy way," he hastened to add. Then, "Not that I'd be opposed to like-" he broke off, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Suffice it to say, I am attracted to you, too. And very unopposed to you touching me."

The corner of Draco's lips twitched, "So, you don't hate me?"

"Godric, no," Harry said, huffing a laugh. "I thought you hated me."

Draco bit his lower lip and shook his head slowly.

"So, would you maybe like to go out sometime?" Harry asked.

"Yes, he would," Ron said from the doorway to the balcony, startling them both. "Sorry to interrupt, but 'Mione couldn't find the spinner for the next game."

"Right," Harry said, just remembering that they were in the middle of a baby shower for his future god child. "Right, sorry," he said, "I'll be right in."

Ron nodded and disappeared back inside.

"Sorry," Harry said.

Draco shook his head, "Don't be." He leaned forward and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the corner of Harry's mouth. "Yes, I would like to go out sometime."

"How's tonight?" Harry breathed.

Draco smiled at him, "The works for me," he said, then he added, eyes twinkling with mischief, "Maybe I can show you just how much I have been wanting to touch you, too."

----------

Day 40: Hesitant | Day 42: Sensitive

#drarry #drarry drabbles #drarry ficlets #getting together #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #my writing #day 41 #thanks for the prompt anon!#enjoy!

302 notes · View notes

b0ba-chan · 3 years

Text

Patience

request: okay virgin reader n bf omi has been plaguing my mind. all this time he thought you were avoiding his advances because he made you uncomfortable but after learning it because you're too sensitive to his touch he cant help but think of how he'd corrupt you little innocent body

pairing: sakusa kiyoomi x reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: virginity loss, too much teasing, corruption, slight dubcon

a/n: hehehe for you scorpion chan mwah!!!!!

Contrary to popular belief, Kiyoomi was a gentle lover - kind and soft words only reserved for you. He still doesn’t have a filter, but overall he never intentionally spits his mean words at you. He understands the feeling of being uncomfortable with other people as well as new things, so he never pushes you too hard to do things you don’t want to do. But when it comes to having you in his lap and pulling away from a steamy make out session every time, he has to get worried.

Again, he does not want you uncomfortable, so he understands why you would want to pull away the first few times in the beginning of the relationship. But as you two start to get deeper into the relationship, you start to shy away every single time his hands wander under your shirt or when he strips off his shirt. Kiyoomi was well aware of the fact that he was well built and attractive, years of volleyball training doing well on his body. But this is the first time he has ever felt insecure with his looks - was he just not attractive for you.

You were a beauty to him, so you should have high standards, it's only natural for you to find the best to date. And he was confident that he could be that for you, but never has he ever felt insecure about himself until now. Maybe he was not watching his mouth around you? Was that a turn off?

“K-Kiyoomi,” you whine softly and tug on his hair to pull him away. He took the gesture that you want to continue and kept sucking on your neck, biting gently into your sensitive skin. As your eyes shoot up, you gasp loud and tug harder on his hair till it feels painful to him.

He hisses and pulls away and rubs the back of his head, about to tell you off a bit. He glances up to see the tears that filled up in your eyes. Frowning, he cuffs your cheeks and thumbs the soft flesh gently as he coos quietly at you.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“‘M sorry, Omi,” you flush bright red and try to look aways from his eyes, but his hands hold your face in place. There was nowhere else to look but directly at him. He didn’t even need to say anything, his eyes were already asking “What happened? What did I do wrong?” So there was no escaping the impending embarrassment you were about to face.

“I-I’m a virgin, Omi,” you flush even darker and close your eyes from Sakusa’s possible judgmental gaze, “Every time you touch me and kiss me like this, it’s just too much for me.”

Well this now all made sense why you shied away from him. It was just too much for your pure body, and you just couldn’t help but to feel so sensitive to his touch.

“It’s alright, angel. Don’t be embarrassed, we can take our time until you’re ready,” his hands trail from your cheeks and down to your waist. You visibly relax and hug him, snuggling into his neck as all the embarrassment leaves your body.

He can’t help but to think of all the things he could do to you right now. It was possible that he could flip you onto the bed and pin you down and make you take him, but that could wait another day. Just until you’re comfortable with him giving you even the smallest touches.

To say it lightly, he is practically training you to his touch. Making his hands trail higher every time he feels up your thighs only to pull away last minute. It’s also very cute to him how you tense up, shivering under his light finger that tickles your bare skin. Only to relax when he pulls his hand away, but sending him a pout.

Or he would pull you on his lap and place small, lingering kisses on your neck. Little nibbles would trail up to your ear, smirking as you are already putty on his lap. But rather than leaving Kiyoomi on edge, he does nothing to relieve you and says you aren’t ready yet. You would never expect him to be such a tease, leaving you high and dry.

It was never his intention to tease, only wanting for you to get used to him. But it was truly amusing to see you to watch you all squirmy on his lap. Each lingering touch makes you breathless, wishing you had more already.

But the most he has ever done was hold you on his lap, hand down your pants to toy with your clit. He loves when you whimper into his ears, telling him how good it is and how you need more. The most he has given you was a couple fingers into your dripping cunny, curling to massage the tightening walls. The feeling of you clamping around just his digits has him going light headed, imaging the thought of your tightening around his cock.

Kiyoomi’s hands tighten on your hips, letting you rut helplessly on his thigh and suck on his tongue. He moans softly into your mouth, bouncing his knee to earn more pretty whines. He pulls away from your lip, about to end it here to preserve your innocence. In desperation, you grab his face to pull him back into the kiss which shocks him in the last minute. He indulges you in the kiss, deepening the kiss a bit to have you worked up.

“That’s it, angel. You’re not ready yet.” Kiyoomi hums and pats your ass, raising an eyebrow at you. You sniffle and pout at him, hitting his chest in frustration.

“I am ready, Kiyoomi! Please!” You huff out and pout, almost crying in front of him. He wasn’t prepared to see you all teary eyed while straddling his lap, just because he is denying you to preserve your innocence. He hums a bit and rubs up your bare thighs, squeezing them a bit.

“Really? You’re ready?” The condescending tone makes you wince a bit but you nod shyly, not looking directly at him. He grabs your chin and makes you look directly in his eyes, giving your questioning eyes.

“I-I am ready, I promise,” you sniffle out, giving him your sweetest eyes to convince him. He sighs a bit and brushes the hair out of your face, flipping you over onto the bed. Stripping off his shirts, he looks at you expectantly but you still shy away. He mumbles something about having to do all the work, but not complaining at all as he strips off your shirt for you. He unbuttons your shorts, sliding them off your legs to leave you in just your bra and panties.

“Gorgeous, gonna mark you a mine,” Sakusa mumbles and leans down to suck on your neck, gently biting into the sensitive skin. He loves how sensitive you are, already clinging to his shoulders from the little nibbles and pressing little crescents into the prominent muscle. His large hands snake under your back and toy with the hook, glancing up at you to ask for permission. As you nod shyly, he unhooks the straps with one hand to slide the bra off your chest.

He sucks on your chest while he slides a hand down the front of your panties to feel the damp folds on his fingers. You squirm at the familiar feeling of his calloused fingers rubbing against your clit, making your scratch lightly down his back. He takes his time feeling you up before slipping a finger into you, letting you get comfortable before allowing another finger to wiggle in. You choke out a moan when he curls his finger, arching your back to press your chest into his.

“How could you let me make someone as pure as you so dirty, angel,” he sighs softly into your ear as you lose yourself on his finger. You try your hardest to tell him but no words escape your mouth except his name, blabbering out incoherent words from the overwhelming pleasure.

Slipping his fingers out, he takes your panties off as well, chuckling at the stringy fluid connecting his fingers together. You whine and hide your face in embarrassment, pouting a bit since you’re the only one naked.

“Kiyoomi, this is not fair. Take off your clothes, too,” you huff out making him tsk under his breath, mumbling something about you being a brat. He takes his pants off anyways, slipping off his pants and boxers. It shocks you how hard his cock hits his abdomen, his tip red and precum beading. You don’t realize you’re staring and trying to reach out until he slaps your hand away, looking down in disappointment.

“Not ready yet, don’t want you touching so disgusting just yet.” Kiyoomi rolls on the condom, pumping his cock a couple times in his hands. His size of course looks normal in his hand, perfectly proportioned to his body, but the way his cock rests on your tummy makes him look huge.

“Are you sure you’re ready? You look pretty scared, angel.” Kiyoomi hums, hooking your legs around his waist as he rubs the hip on your clit. Gasping softly, you card your hand into his hair to tug on it as you try to mumble out confirmation. He presses the tip at your hole, watching your face contort to the wide stretch. He couldn’t help to keep pushing through the resistance, no matter how much your face contorted or how many tears has dribbled down your red cheeks. You already look incredibly ruined when he only makes it halfway into you, only making him more than ready to see you fully stuffed with his cock. He doesn’t wait on it either, only speeding up the process no matter how hard you pull on his hair or how many times you slap his chest.

“O-oomi, It hurts. Why di-didn’t you listen to me?” You sob a little, hiding your teary face into his neck only making him chuckle a bit while he strokes your hair.

“You just look too cute, couldn’t hold myself back.” He mutters, trying not to stumble on his words over the way your walls suck on his cock. He tries to make up for it, holding back the urge to start thrusting relentlessly into you as you calm your pathetic crying. It wasn’t until he felt your soft kisses on his neck, hinting that you were ready for him to move.

The both of you moan at the same time when he first thrust, finally having what the two of you have been waiting for this whole time. It didn’t take long until he was pounding into your cunny, gushing obnoxiously loud with each thrust he forced into you. You wail out, clinging onto his back for dear life, not caring one bit for the scratches you are leaving on his back.

“So precious when you’re crying like this for me? Is it that good?” Kiyoomi moans into your ear, grabbing the back of your knees to spread your legs wider for him, “I’ve been keeping you waiting for too long. Can feel you trying to milk my cum. Such a filthy girl already.”

You sob at his words, trying your best to say something back but each word gets jumble into your moans. His thrusts were relentless, pushing you faster and faster to your climax.

“C-Close, Oomi!” You squeal out, only to get cut off by Sakusa catching your lips into his, sucking on your tongue. His thrusts were starting to feel too deep, your eyes rolled back as your head went fuzzy from the stimulation.

It didn’t take too many thrusts until you were creaming around him, translucent white forming around the base of his cock after each thrust. To Kiyoomi, that’s all it took for him to cum, releasing into the latex barrier. He groans and rolls his hips a bit, letting you feel his cock pulse in you as he releases.

He peppers your face in soft kisses, rubbing his hands up and down your side. All you can do is heave, trying to catch your breath underneath him. His cock twitches at the sight of you, whimpering and thighs shaking from orgasm wracking your body. Your walls keep clamping around his cock as if you’re sucking him in for more. He grunts and chuckles, kissing your tears softly.

“You keep sucking me in, angel. It’s alright I’ll give you my cum another time.”

#boba!post #boba!sakusa #sakusa x reader #sakusa #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #!corruption #tw corruption #!dubcon #tw dubcon

659 notes · View notes

justimajin · 3 years

Text

Til Death Do Us Part ♜ Pt. 1

➟ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

➟ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut

↳ (3.7k), Arranged Marriage AU

➟ Summary: If someone told you that you’d be marrying the Kim Namjoon, you would think you were being lied to, or worse, that you were hallucinating. However, fate seems to have it’s own ways of making the impossible possible and before you even know it, the title of Mrs. Kim is bestowed onto you. There’s just one problem: you’re not sure if Kim Namjoon is the person he says he is and the truth of your own identity is dangling by the strength of a mere thread.

➟ Warnings: This series will involve themes of graphic violence, depictions of blood, major character death and hints of trauma. 18+ rating. Reader discretion is highly advised.

gif credit.

➟ Next Update: Tuesday, December 22

Love is a strange thing.

It pulls individuals together, sparking fireworks and blissful rays of euphoria within seconds. It renders people affectionate, words dripped with honey and caresses full of tenderness transcending without a means of stopping. To be frank, it’s majestic through the eyes of the beholder.

But love is indeed a strange thing.

It’s history has been plagued with moments of weakness and hesitation, moments that rip away layers to reveal raw, vulnerable selves from every individual. It’s inability to forget and move on clutches onto the minds of those that chose to associate with it, invading their memories and never granting them a single second to run free. Love is a strange thing, but it’s most putrid use has always been the necessity to use it like a tool.

A deep breath escapes your tinted red lips, cold hands clutching onto the delicate bouquet that’s been thrust into them. The petal pink and lilac purple flowers rest against the chaste white of your dress, the awaited arrival of yours long passed as you raise your head and sneak a peek at the person standing in front of you behind your veil.

Clad in a special tailored suit for the occasion, his dark brown hair has been brushed back and neatly tucked into the corners of his hair. He stands tall and confident, seemingly captivated by the words the priest mumbles through as he drags on through every dull phase written in his book. As if he can tell your eyes are on him, he suddenly looks in your direction and you return your gaze back to the ground, clutching onto the array of petals in your hands.

The priest goes on to dutifully declare the responsibilities you must carry, including the very ones that tie you to each other.

For better, for worse. Rich, poor. Sickness, health.

Love. Cherish.

“Until death do you part?” The priest peers up with fatigued eyes, glancing in between you. You suck in a shaky breath, eyes fixating on everything except for the man standing on the opposing side.

“I-I do.” You hastily mutter, swallowing the lump stuck in your throat. Patiently waiting for his answer, you try not to focus on the collection of eyes gawking at you from the altar.

“I do.” He states, firm and resolute with his answer. It shakes you to your core, eyes immediately flickering up to meet his warm ones.

You’re perplexed for a moment, but you’re not given time to dwell any longer once the priest shuts his book, content with your answers. Relief floods you in an instant, yet it’s short-lived and has your stomach churning instead.

“You may kiss the bride.” The priest steps back as if you needed room for the grandiose gesture, eagerly awaiting the showcase with the rest of the people seated in front of the altar. Nevertheless, your hands begin to quiver despite your best wishes and you remain planted in place.

Before you even know it, the delicate veil resting against your forehead is being pulled up and tucked away, projecting your dolled up features on full display. You can only fidget when he draws near, preparing for the worse until he pauses.

Glancing up in surprise, you’re caught off guard from the lines crossing his forehead and the dismay clouding his eyes. For a second, you could have sworn that you were gazing into a mirror, an image of your combined concerns being painted right in front of you.

You’re caught in between a daze and bewilderment when he advances again, however all you feel is a soft peck against your skin before your veil is placed back into place. Your audience seems to be at loss with the action, but once he turns around to face them in the midst of holding your hand, loud cheers and roars flood the room as congratulatory confetti bursts into the room.

Unconsciously, your hand drifts over to your cheek with furrowed brows and you steal another glance at the man you will be bound to for eternity.

***

The L/N Family.

Tactical and resourceful, known for their skillful strategies and trade explorations, a business they would go on to proudly pronounce in the arms industry. Others would look to them for support and reassurance, and they would in return cohesively make protective deals that would ensure no harm. Yonghwa, their head, would go on to make a legacy out of his family name.

The Kim Family.

Discreet and powerful, known for their relentless determination and invokable hunger, characteristics that would eventually seep into their weapon manufacturing business. They know how and with whom to pick their fights, vigorously acquiring a steady position in the industry within a flash before everyone’s eyes. Namjung, their head, carved the Kim name into a status no one would have ever imagined.

Trade and manufacturing, two able sides of the same coin. They seeked to forge an union that would unite their two sectors, to create a harmonious flow of success within their collective industries.

But not all deals, go as planned.

On the fateful day, Yonghwa was found on the ground in a pool of his own blood while Namjung was left visibly shaken. Catastrophe seemed to only follow the event there on after, with both families seeking revenge on the other. Their union seemed to be the last thing on either mind, but after the years passed and stained relations had been fully dragged out, there only seemed to be one solution that could bring peace to the two of them.

***

The wheels of the large suitcase hit the polished ground.

It’s lavish and grand, crystals littering the high held ceiling and lilies spread over the handles of the spiraling staircase. It ends right at the large chandelier, with more crystals dangling down opposite the shining marble that your slippers find purchase in.

You remain in place, staring with wide eyes and an agape jaw the scenery before you.

“Please,” A girl bows before you, dressed in a simple pale blouse and skirt that’s paired with an apron. There’s a small twinkle in her pleasant eyes paired with natural pouting lips; the delicate features drawing out the sheer youth the girl embodies. “Follow me.”

You snap out of your daze once she advances forward, her hands careful weaving through yours to clutch onto your packed luggage. At first, you’re a bit unsure as to if you should let her carry the heavy load up the stairs, but you’re pleasantly surprised when she manages to hall it all the way up.

She roughly pushes herself against a large wooden door, revealing the grand room behind it. It’s decorated similarly to the main portion of the house, however the sheer size of it has your jaw dropping again, eyebrows furrowed as its appearance.

Your suspicions are confirmed right away, “This will be your room, Miss Y/N.”

“I-I…” You can’t help but hesitate, “Are you sure?”

She nods, placing your luggage now. “Of course, Master Kim asked us to prepare it for you.”

You instinctively flinch at the sudden mention of your husband, but the girl tilts her head to the side, curiosity peeking through her.

“Don’t they have such rooms in the L/N residence?” Her eyes suddenly widen, and she slaps a hand against her mouth, “Oh no, I-I didn’t mean it that way!”

A smile curls on the corners of your lips, “What’s your name?”

She gazes at you with surprise, like she had been expecting a scolding fit for her lifetime. Nonetheless, she hastily answers your question with a bow.

“I am Eunjoo, one of Master Kim’s most faithful servants.”

“Little flower.” You decipher, “Sounds like a fitting name.”

“It could have been summer’s grace.” Eunjoo offers with a shrug, “Though I don’t really like summer, so I’ve tried my best to ignore that meaning.”

You let out a genuine chuckle from that, something that has Eunjoo instantly beam. The news of her own Master getting married to someone from the L/N family was initially difficult for her to digest, but it appears that she was too early to judge.

A lopped smile etching onto your features, “And to answer your previous question, unfortunately the L/N’s don’t have such a residence. We’ve lost much of our wealth after‒…” You pause, biting back your words, “...after, you know.”

You wave your hand away in the air and Eunjoo understandably nods, no need to delve into the long-lived history of your families that is known to all. She hurriedly aids in you in unpacking much to your reassured protests, following and assisting you around like a little fairy. Her company ends up being both interesting and comfortable, especially since the two of you discovered the other wasn’t well in adapting the titles you carry.

A knock resounds against the door, drawing out your attention. Immediately Eunjoo drops the clothes in her hands, right before she straightens up and takes a graceful bow.

Her reaction is telling of who's at the door, so with pinched lips and a creased forehead, you turn around.

He remains glued to the door frame, still adorned in his tailored black suit. Aside from the similarity in his put together appearance though, his shoulders are no longer hiked up in a noble stance, nor is there any remaining amount of warmth spreading through his eyes. Instead, he appears akin to how he was in the split-second before your ultimate union was official, the memory causing the skin of your cheek to slightly burn.

Swaying from side to side, he hesitates to step into the room.

“I see you’ve met Eunjoo.” He mentions. On cue, the servant straightens up, a huge smile on her lips.

“I was just helping Miss Y/N unpack!”

“Oh that’s nice, perhaps I can assist to‒” He isn’t able to finish his sentence, because the next thing you know you jolt at the sound of a loud crash that echoes through the room.

“Master Kim!” Eunjoo immediately rushes forward, scurrying to help the fallen man. He instantly rises up to his feet and dusts off his suit jacket, but remains of glass are scattered all over the ground.

He lets out a groan and Eunjoo sighs, “Master, you know you have to be careful.” She begins to quickly pluck up the shards of the vase, raising one up to eye level with a pout, “I especially picked this one out for your newly wedded wife.”

At the mention of you, Namjoon instantly glances up, pupils shaking. “I-I can get you a new one soon, it might take around a week but if I put in a request now‒” He scrambles around for a moment, before checking the inner pockets of his jacket for something to write on in a haste.

Unconsciously, a small smile cracks through the seam of your lips, increasing as he tries to intervene with Eunjoo to pick the shards, and she protests that he shouldn’t get his hands soiled with her errands. He eventually has to sheepishly stand to the side, staring at her defeated like a child that had just gotten scolded for misbehaving.

Eunjoo eventually collects all the pieces and ushers herself out, reminding you of the pending family dinner you’ll need to attend in the evening. She leaves the room and you decide to resume unpacking, until you come across the realization that you’re not alone.

“Do you need help?” He peers at your suitcase behind you, “I’m usually more capable with things that aren’t easy to break.”

The abrupt proximity catches you by surprise, but you merely shake your head at his kind offer, “I should be fine, thank you.”

He nods and you assume he’ll excuse himself after a moment, but he lingers and that’s when you crane your head over at him.

Appearing to be in between a deep ponder, he snaps back into reality once your questioning eyes fall onto him. “Uh I‒” A lengthy sigh leaves his lips, “I know this is strange.”

You wonder what he's referring to until you notice him gesturing to the gap between you, “It’s strange for me, and it’s strange for you. We didn’t really have a choice in the matter.”

He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck, a deep crease forming between his brows. You’re frozen in place, at a complete loss for words.

He suddenly sucks in a breath, looking up to gaze into your eyes, “But I’d like to get to know you better….a-as my future wife.”

Your eyes round and his declaration only receives dead silence in its awake. Flabbergasted, he attempts to correct himself amidst your prolonged response.

“T-That doesn’t mean right away! We can take our time and I’m not expecting anything from you, so you don’t need to worry and‒”

“I’d like that.”

He freezes, “Wait, really?”

You hum, a corner of your mouth lifting, “You’re right, it’s strange. But I’d like to get to know my husband better as well.”

His eyes immediately sparkle, like you’ve said the very words he’s been aching to hear, “That’s great!” A breathtaking smile overtakes his features, “I guess I’ll see you at dinner then?”

You nod with a smile, and he departs, the euphoria never once leaving his lips.

***

Evening draws near and long gone is the dilatory white piece of garment that’s forever confined you to your fate. Instead, it’s replaced with a delicate fabric of rose gold, perhaps to represent the luxury you have of being present in such a place or in the new beginnings that will soon follow you.

Regardless, you prepare yourself. Although you’re simply arriving to dinner, there’s a family waiting at the table that you don’t know of yet.

Eunjoo brings you down with her after putting your hair up and presenting a pair of matching heels your way. You’re wary as you walk down the spiraling staircase, barely balancing yourself on the elevated shoes. Luckily, Eunjoo notices and helps you down, but the split moment of relief is met with a jolt of surprise when you notice someone waiting at the bottom.

“I’ll take it from here, Eunjoo.” The women amiably bids. Eunjoo swiftly bows, mumbling something along the lines of Mistress Kim, before heading into the dinner room.

You immediately whirl around, eyes on alert like a deer in headlights. She mirthfully smiles at you, carrying a warm tone in her eyes that feels familiar.

“You don’t have to look so worried,” She reprimands, “I’m not going to bite your head off.”

Your eyes widen even more, “I-I’m sorry?”

She bursts out into laughter, concealing her ruby red lips with a hand that is glittering in assorted jewels.

“Nothing, dear. I’m just teasing you.” You nervously laugh at that, and she places a hand against your back, guiding you forward. “Come, I’m eager to know what my son’s wife is like.”

Politely nodding, you follow behind her and nearly freeze. If you had expected your bedroom to be astonishing, then you weren’t prepared for the enormous buffet that waits for you ahead.

Pieces of food are scattered all over the decorated table, ranging from freshly cooked to foods you would have never imagined yourself eating. It reminds you of times your family could barely manage to have a decent meal for one night, lost scavenging for food that wouldn’t make your empty pockets hurt.

You’re so lost in the thought that you don’t feel someone brush by you. There’s suddenly a warm hand planting onto your shoulder, drawing your attention with a smile full of dimples.

“Do you want to sit down first?” He gestures to the table, where his mother sits next to his father and opposite to his sister. Embarrassed that you’ve been just gawking at the table, you hurriedly take a seat and so does Namjoon.

Even though you’re only just sitting at the table, it seems like all eyes are on you, burning into your skin and tracing every move. The impending silence eventually does crack though, and it’s done by a person you would have least expected.

“Is that chicken?” Namjoon’s father blurts out, his eyes following a tray one of the servants brings by. His wife immediately interjects, dismayed by his reaction.

“Indeed,” She points a demanding finger at him, “But none for you, there’s a reason why your health hasn’t been the greatest as of lately.”

He pouts at her response, longley staring at the dish once it arrives. The childlike display catches you a bit off guard, eyebrows raised.

“That’s unreasonable though.” He suddenly looks in your direction, “What do you think, Y/N? Isn’t she being unreasonable?”

The abrupt inquiry leaves you speechless, no coherent words manifesting at the tip of your tongue. His wife whirls around, cocking up a brow in his direction.

“Why are you dragging her into this?” She faces you with a smile, “Y/N is the newest addition to our family so we should make her feel welcome, not bring her into such trivial matters.”

The pleasant response astonishes you, but more so the mention of your inclusion. He lets out a sigh, acknowledging his wife’s sentiments.

“You’re right.” He turns to you, “Y/N, why don’t you tell us about yourself?”

His mother hums, “I’d like to hear about where you grew up, Y/N.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really special,” You grow bashful, “I was raised in the outskirts of the country by my parents.”

The two of them nod, intently listening to you, “Before coming here, I studied in the imperial academy for a while.”

“Ah, involved in the industry I see.” He praises, “You must know a lot about how our businesses are conducted, right?”

“Not quite.” There’s a strained smile on your lips, “I didn’t want to actively participate in it.”

Although your answer seems to have taken both of them by surprise, his wife hums in approval. “So I’m assuming that was your personal choice?”

When you nod, a giant smile stretches onto her lips, and she elbows her husband, “A gutsy one, don’t you think?”

He smiles in retaliation, “Just like you.”

She blushes at his sudden compliment, but a voice from afar breaks the two out of their daze.

“Gross - we’re eating here.”

Appalled at the feminine voice, you notice the young girl seated across from Namjoon, a deep frown etched onto her stern features.

“Leave them be, Geongmin.” Namjoon coaxes his sister, but she lets out a grunt of disapproval in the midst of eating soup.

The corners of his mother’s lips turn up and his father faces you again, looking as if he had a million questions up his sleeve lined up just for you.

Much to your surprise, the rest of the evening is spent exchanging pleasantries with them and keeping conversation light. There even comes a moment when both you and Namjoon end up reaching out for the bread basket, only to pull away once you discover your hands had ended up meeting halfway. As you grow bashful, you notice his mother smiling tenderly and his father chuckling at the abrupt affiliation.

Once the evening begins to come to an end, you excuse yourself through the use of your own fatigue and request to head to bed first. They waste no time in understanding, with Namjoon’s father even wrapping a hand around his son and expressing that he needed to discuss some things with him anyway.

You leave the room as he heads off with his family, granting you with some much-needed time and space.

***

Treading back, you pause at the large wooden door that leads into your room. Your eyes briefly skim over the fine carvings on the wood, instead choosing to scrutinize the direction of your right and left side. A shadow casts over your pupils and your hand presses against the door, letting it slowly creak wide open.

Step by step, you stroll inside and let the light fade out, replacing itself with only darkness.

The moment the source of luminescence disappears, you move within a flash. The handle is locked, tugged at for a confirmation. There’s a speck of radiance coming from the small lamp you’ve turned on, enough to see the large suitcase you’ve brought get yanked out.

Zippers are flying and the cover is ripped off. Clothes are frantically thrown astray, dumped into a careless heep without much of a second look. Your hands are weaving through the material and running rampant, eyes flickering with something akin to desire and alloyed with increasing unease.

Once your hands meet with metal, a twinkle emerges within your orbs. The spindle of ore is unwound; detangling the material in a quickened manner. It looks distinctly similar to what one would use for electrical purposes, set with the intention of providing light in grim areas.

Right. The intention.

Unraveled, you cautiously drift over to the large window by the bedside and crank it open. Peering outside, there’s no glimmer or streak of luminescence meeting your eyes, only a dark, simple gray sky.

Unconsciously a breath of relief leaves your lips and you reach out, reclining your body just enough to reach above and then below the window’s hilt. The instrument effortlessly blends in, appearing like a simple cable that’s been tightly strung around.

You lean back and rummage through the luggage on the ground, pulling out a small plastic box that doesn’t appear to be much, but more or less, is the sole thing you couldn’t have departed without. With a small hinged click, it connects to the thin barbed string you just unraveled and right when a quiet buzz resonates through, does a smile tugs on the corner of your lips.

A knock resonates through the box. Followed by another, and then another. It’s succeeded with a prolonged silence on your part, your entire body remaining in a frozen state.

Static echoes and you let out the air you didn’t realize you were holding from your lungs.

Within seconds, you are nimbly knocking against the box in repetitive notions. Your actions range from different types of knocks; heavy, light, twice the sound.

More static echoes and your eyes immediately widen, hands balling up into tighter fists.

A heavier one.

“I have….”

Lighter.

“...successfully infiltrated….”

One last firm knock.

“....the enemy household.”

787 notes · View notes

one-boring-person · 3 years

Text

Can You Do Me A Favour?

Barney Ross (The Expendables) x reader

Warnings: injury, drinking, sexual content implied, mentions of violence, swearing

Context: the reader is a member of the Expendables and has a crush on Barney. After a job, the two have some time together.

A/N: as promised, here is some Expendables stuff! I hope anyone who reads this will enjoy it! (Just a heads up: I have more Rambo and Escape Plan stuff coming, and most likely some more TLB content, too.)

Masterlist

(I'm also going to tag @yuhhhhhhhhhhhhhh in this, because they expressed interest in Expendables stuff earlier😊💛)

The cold water is pleasant on my heated skin as I cup my hands under the steady stream flowing from the tap, splashing it into my face when a suitable pool has formed in the space. A gasp escapes me from the stark contrast in temperatures, using my fingers to rub slightly at my skin, trying to work out the headache that has set in, only to hiss when I accidentally press into one of the new scars on the side of my face. Pulling back, I repeat my action, doing my best to distract myself from the plaguing thoughts in my head, still disgusted at myself for having them.

But even now, as I massage the contours of my face, I can't get the images of my boss out of my head. Not the sight of him taking out a ring of attackers using his revolver and sharpshooting skills, not the way his exposed arm muscles flexed with each movement, not the determined look on his rugged face and certainly not the fierce eye contact he made with me when he turned around again. At the mere memory of this, a flush of heat goes through me, eyes squeezing shut to force myself to blank them out, not quite realising that his stare is branded into my subconscious. Biting my lip, I shake my head, forcing down the picture of his muscular body and large hands on my body as he dragged me from the collapsing building, not five hours ago.

Growling, I reach over and grab hold of the beer bottle nearby, glancing at my haggard features in the mirror before taking a deep drink, wincing at the stale flavour, having had the drink for far too long. I can see the tension in my body, each muscle tight and uncomfortable, my posture ramrod straight and clearly wrong, my eyes clouded with exhaustion and what I can only assume is loneliness.

As soon as I'd gotten in from the last job, I'd headed straight into the bathroom, grabbing a beer from the fridge as I went, needing to clear my head. Nothing I did could help, my head always circling back to that one person. Frustrated, I slam the bottle on the counter top, wincing when it shatters from the force, a particularly sharp shard slicing into my palm.

Damn him. Damn Barney Ross for getting into my head.

I clean up my hand, just bandaging it up when my phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. Frowning, I look over at it, confused. Nobody calls me. Nobody, except my boss.

Picking up the phone, I groan to myself as I realise it is, in fact, Barney. For a second, I debate letting it go to voicemail, before I finally give in, accepting the call and placing the phone to my ear.

"Sir?" I greet him politely, wondering what he needs.

"How many times have I told you not to call me "sir"?" Barney's gravelly voice sounds through the phone, a low chuckle evident in his tone. I have to ignore the effect his voice has on me, the sound giving me butterflies in my stomach.

"Sorry, sir- ah, shit." I sigh at my own habit, "You alright?"

"Yeah, guess so. Just lonely. Figured you might be, too." He admits, tone going soft as he speaks.

"Bold of you to assume that." I tease, but continue, "Though you are, as always, right."

"Should tell Christmas that, might listen to you." The veteran laughs again, the joke drawing a similar reaction from me.

"We all know he listens to no one but himself." I quip back, still waiting for him to tell me why exactly he called.

"True, true." Barney's grin is almost audible, my mind instantly bringing up an image of that particular expression into my head, much to my chagrin, "You got any plans for tonight?"

Surprised, I take a second to reply, unsure of where this is going.

"No, it's too late. Ain't really got many friends outside work, anyway." I inform him, going out of the bathroom and into the lounge.

"Fancy coming over? I've got a couple of beers that need drinking, and the hangar is pretty lonely this time of night."

His offer stumps me for a moment, though I am quick to recover, my mouth working before my mind can catch up.

"Yeah sure. I'll be over in twenty."

"Great. See you then." He hangs up, leaving me wondering why the hell I accepted that, knowing how much I spend too much time thinking about him (in totally inappropriate ways considering he's my boss) anyway.

Annoyed at myself, I steel myself before going and grabbing a coat, pulling on that and my boots as I leave the flat, taking my motorcycle keys with me. I lock my door behind me, leaving the apartment block quickly, glad to have the fresh air on my face as I make my way over to my motorbike. Looking on it fondly, I climb on and kick out the stand, easily getting it revved up, the vibrating engine beneath me a pleasant feeling.

Thankfully, the roads are mostly clear this time of night, cutting the twenty minute drive short by five minutes as I go at speed through the nearly deserted outer city. The hangar is usually a pain in the ass to get to, the traffic in the roads leading up to it almost always horrific, so I am only too happy to be able to go much faster now that there's not many other drivers around. With the wind rushing around me, I find that my head clears a little, my attention on navigating the roads rather than the thoughts of my boss doing things to me I'm sure he'd find grotesque in nature.

I arrive quickly, pulling into the hangar slowly, knowing Barney is most likely in the plane, as he usually is. Stopping the bike, I put it in park before climbing off, hanging my helmet on the handlebars as I do so, taking the keys with me as I walk over to the old plane. Nearing the aircraft, I frown a little at the sight of the new bullet holes riddling the side of it, unaware that we'd taken so much damage earlier in the day. Sighing, I go inside, ducking in through the small door, only now hearing the music playing from the stereo in the cockpit.

"It's gonna need a new lick of paint." I call out to Barney, who I can see sat in his seat, the muscular man turning to look at me as he hears me.

"It's been a long time coming, so I'm not complaining." He replies, grinning at me as I walk into the cockpit, dropping into Christmas' usual seat, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach from his stare on me again. As I enter, he rakes his eyes over my body, subtly taking my every curve in from where he is.

"Fair enough." I shrug, leaning back slightly, having missed his look, "Got a beer?"

"Yeah, here." Barney hands me a bottle, opening it for me as he does so.

"Cheers." I thank him, taking a deep drink from it as he chuckles lowly, voice sending a bolt of heat through me.

"You're starting to sound like Lee." He remarks, sipping his own bottle with a smirk.

"Should I take that as a compliment? Or an insult?"

"Up to you." He looks over at me.

"Eh, I'll take compliment. You two get along like an old married couple, after all. Must mean something if you're comparing me to him." I decide, teasing him.

Barney laughs at my comment, lifting his bottle.

"I can agree with that." He hums, staring out of the front window.

For a couple of moments, we sit in companionable silence, drinking our beers, Barney eventually lighting a cigar. Taking a deep inhale, he offers it to me, which I decline, choosing to finish my drink instead.

"What do you usually do after a job?" Barney suddenly asks, glancing back at me.

Surprised, I think over the question for a second.

"Nothing, really. I get myself cleaned up, have a drink, then get some sleep. I don't do much else with my life." I tell him, knowing how pathetic I sound.

"What, you haven't got anyone you can hang out with?" He questions, seemingly confused.

"No. As I said before, I don't really have any friends outside work."

"Really? No boyfriend? Girlfriend?"

I shake my head, grimacing at the turn in conversation, just missing the slight darkening in his eyes as he looks me over once more.

"Huh. That surprises me."

Lifting an eyebrow, I look across at him.

"Why?"

He shrugs, making eye contact with me.

"Well, you seem like the person who wouldn't struggle to make friends. You're kind, funny, pretty. You know how to behave in the right situations, you're a good friend to have." He clarifies, seemingly unaware of the impact his words have on me, my heart throbbing as I listen to him, longing building up in me again.

"You think so?" I ask, not quite believing him.

"Yeah, I do." He frowns, looking over at me, "Why, don't you?"

I don't reply, knowing my answer well. He doesn't push it, observing me carefully, his gaze making me blush furiously.

"What'd you do to your hand?" The veteran suddenly asks, gesturing to my bandaged appendage.

"Hm? Oh, I just cut it on some glass back home." I inform him, flexing my hand a little, only to wince at the sharp spike of pain.

Wordlessly, Barney reaches across and takes my hand in his, his touch setting off sparks through me despite the gentle nature of it. Pulling my arm closer to him, he runs his fingers lightly over my skin, the rough calluses rubbing over the palm of my hand, each stroke making it harder for me to fight off the rising need within me. Being this close to him, able to smell him in nearly every surface around me, feeling his hand on mine has sparked the feelings I've been suppressing as long as I've worked with him.

Awkwardly, I pull away, swallowing tightly, trying to suppress the urges I'm suddenly feeling, needing to get myself together again. He doesn't stop me, his dark eyes regarding me quietly, observant as always as he seemingly considers something, his gaze sliding over me once more. After a moment, he puts out his cigar, leaning back in his seat.

"Mind doing me a favour?" The muscular man cocks his head at me, a small smirk playing at his lips.

"Er, sure? What do you need?" I agree hesitantly, knowing that expression means only one thing: he's got something up his sleeve.

"Check that control panel up there, would you? It's been giving me trouble for weeks." Barney's eyes are glittering now in the dim light, clearly up to something.

"What, now?" I frown, confused by the instruction.

"If you wouldn't mind."

Lifting an eyebrow, I place my beer down and get to my feet, awkwardly reaching up to check the panel, which just so happens to be right above his head. I try to keep my body from leaning across him too much, but this is made difficult when I realise that the particular problem lies in the switches even further over. As I go to flick them, a pair of hands takes hold of my waist, suddenly yanking me down towards the chair.

Yelping in surprise, I feel my eyes widen as Barney pulls me down onto his lap, hands tight on my hips, pressing my back flush against his chest. His nose instantly finds my neck, the older man nudging at my skin until I tilt my head to give him access, goosebumps spreading across my skin as I try to process what the hell is happening, my brain short-circuiting with every one of his breaths. They fan out over the sensitive area, my own hitching in my throat as his scruff scratches over my skin, his lips not quite touching me yet, though I can feel their every movement.

I try to get back up, unwillingly, only for him to loop one of his arms around my front and slip his hand under my shirt, flattening his palm on my stomach to hold me against him.

"I'm not blind, you know, (Y/n). I've seen the way you look at me, the way you behave differently when you're with me. You're not as subtle as you hope." Barney practically purrs into my skin, his smirk obvious against my neck, sending shivers down my spine as I try not to groan.

"I- I don't know what you're talking about, sir." I manage out, not quite catching the sound of anticipation that escapes me when he suddenly presses his lips against my ear, whispering into it.

"Really? I think you know very well what I'm talking about." He grins to himself, the hand on my stomach running down to ghost over the waistband of my jeans, my body tensing in his grip, "Want me to demonstrate for you?

#the expendables #The expendables imagine #Barney Ross #Barney Ross x reader #Barney Ross imagine #Sylvester Stallone

218 notes · View notes

dracosaurusrex · 3 years

Text

Bookworms (Part 3.5)

Summary: Treasured are the little moments that highlight the fine line between friendship and love.

Word count: 923

Genre: Fluff; enemies-to-friends-to-lovers

A/N: A little scenario to wrap up the last part. If anyone can give me a light scolding to get rid of my logic-based way of thinking, I’d really appreciate it haha. Besides that, any feedback is very much appreciated! I hope you enjoy :D

Your eyes flutter to the feeling of an arm tightening around your waist; and as soon as you opened them, you were met with the early morning light. The events of the night prior were the first thing that came into mind. A majority of it was all a blur to you with the exception of one sensation, the feeling of Draco’s lips on yours. You caught yourself ruminating on the image of his eyes as they closed when he leaned in, the feeling of his hands as they caressed you after laying your back against the surface of your mattress, the way he had managed to provide you comfort with every kiss he pressed against your mouth, as well as the way the feeling of them lingered on your skin up until now. Many thoughts continued to consume you as a flush of heat graced itself upon your cheeks. To make matters worse, Draco had proved himself to be a cuddler as your attempts to remove his arm from your waist were futile.

Giving up on the effort to do so, you turn your body to face him, coming close to the sight of his peaceful features once again. It is the feel of your breath that induces his eyes open. His once peaceful expression is shattered as he scrunches his nose in distaste.

With a low and husky voice he states rather simply, “Your breath smells.”

“I didn’t even open my mouth you git. Shove off.” You laugh as you land a playful slap to his chest. A smile graces his face as his eyes flutter closed again.

“I’m kidding,” He pauses before continuing on, “Or am I?”

“You little-”

“Git? What? Is that my nickname now?” He opens his eyes and gazes intensely at yours, unleashing a wave of rapid heartbeats.

“It ought to be, huh? Stop looking at me like that.” You say as you press your palm softly against the front of his face. He only responds with an even tighter grip on your waist, pulling you seemingly closer than what you thought was possible.

“I’ve been known to be a slimy git.”

“Oh, I know.” You giggle.

“I don’t ever remember picking on you though.”

“Yes. That’s because I avoided you like the plague.” The boy feigned a hurt expression before lifting a finger to brush stray strands away from your face. He goes soft at the thought of you—even softer in your presence—but it’s okay because he feels safe doing so. His eyes search yours before scanning your face in adoration. You soon closed your own, relishing the way he traced his fingers against your skin. It is then that you feel the familiar shape of his lips brush against yours--its tenderness releasing butterflies in both your stomach and in your chest. You respond with much gentleness, before he breaks away. A glance is shared before he pulls you up onto his lap, planting another one--this time with more firmness, more pressure, and more desire. Hands begin to roam around each other's crooks and crevices. Your fingers brush his neck, down his shoulders, and onto his arm before your arms wrap around his neck. On the other hand, he slides along your waist, dangerously close to your hips, before slipping ever so slightly under your jumper and gripping the portion of flesh underneath it. A foreign tension begins to form within you, and you break away before thinking about flattering the chances of exploring it.

You cast a curious look before you ease into a soft grin. The sight of his lips all pink and swollen by your doing elicits a sense of pride in your chest. It was an uncommon feeling--all of the feelings Draco made you feel were uncommon feelings, but this in particular left you in a state of contemplation. No matter how many angles you used to perceive the situation, this person right in front of you, despite his brutal reputation, actually shared romantic feelings for you. Out of all people, it was him you’d least expect to connect with, yet the sensation of being with him felt so right. Weird, but right. Perhaps it was that very reason why Astoria had said all those things the night before. You were an unlikely pair--odds stacked against you due to your contrasting backgrounds. Nevertheless, he made your heart beat. He made it beat through the books you read, through the promises made, through flashes of smiles and snarky remarks, and through the mere state of ‘being’ individuals side by side. Your heart would have grown fond for anybody in Slytherin or Hogwarts for that matter, but somehow it grew fond of him.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time you felt willing to ride along with it.

Draco removed an arm that had been previously wrapped around your waist, and gently took a strand of your hair. There was silence in the room, and the only sensation you felt at the moment was the rapid beats against your chest. Your gaze followed his movements. With much delicacy, he brings the strand close to his lips, looks right into your eyes, and presses a kiss on it.

The boy gives you a soft smile before turning away to hide the reddening of his cheeks.

“We should go brush our teeth.” He says, knowing fully well that he destroyed the moment that you just shared. Releasing one last laugh, you remove yourself from his lap, and get ready for the day ahead.

A/N: Hi! Thank you so much for reading :) I have this really bad habit of being perfectionistic and overtly harsh on myself, and lately that side of me has been projecting itself when I write. I really am new with writing, and I’m coming to the realization that not everything I create will be perfect no matter how much I want it to be. It’s okay though. Growth is never linear! With that being said, I’m really really really really appreciative of every reaction/interaction that I receive from you all. The support means a lot and inspires me to keep going. I hope you have a wonderful day!

taglist:

@fadesbrina @redheaded-hobbit @ccabian @rottenhexrt @beiahadid @ceeellewrites @xoxohollands @thatguppienamedbae @swiftlymoniquesblog @karamelssunflowers @phxntxmx @mushi98 @hahee154hq @imeanyouactuallyfainted @kaye-lantern

#draco x reader #draco x you #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy imagines #Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #slytherin imagines #slytherin

140 notes · View notes

infinity-and-luck · 3 years

Text

To Sleep Perchance To Dream || Day 5: Dreams

(AO3 Link in replies)

“Jonah, it’s really too late. I’m sure whatever it is you are working on can wait until morning; come to bed.”

“It can’t, and regardless, I’m not tired enough yet to sleep.” He was pouring over some books, faint candlelight illuminating the text just barely enough that Jonah had to strain his eyes to see what was written. Truly, he could do with the sleep; he had the beginnings of a headache at the moment, and given he’d forgotten to eat today, he was running out of energy.

Robert gave him a disapproving glare. He was standing in the doorway of the room that was officially his, but they had been sharing for the past few months. Jonah was facing away from him, hunched over the papers and books that were scattered across his desk, pretending he didn’t know well the expression on his—what were they at this point? More than friends, certainly—on his lover’s face.

This was the third time this week alone that Jonah had done this. He didn’t know how many times it had been this month; thankfully, Robert didn’t either. He’d been visiting his family, leaving Jonah alone to study.

“You’ll work yourself to death, and given how much you claim to fear it, I’d say you would do well to take care of yourself.”

Jonah tensed slightly. He was well aware that his habits weren’t necessarily healthy but he certainly wasn’t going to work himself to death; the very idea caused him some level of anguish and annoyance. Robert seemed just as annoyed, however, by Jonah.

“Come to bed, and I’ll tell you something I’ve never told anyone,” Robert tried to bargain with him. The prospect of secrets was tempting, however.

Sighing a bit too dramatically, he stood up and walked over to his companion. When he stood within a metre of the other man, he stopped. Robert took a step forward and began to loosen his cravat. Soon, it hung loosely around his neck, and Jonah went to take off the rest of his clothes since he was technically still dressed in the same outfit he’d been wearing a day ago. He’d not had the time to change nor did he have the need given he had worn it the entire time.

Robert was sitting in the bed when Jonah came to join him finally. He pulled the covers back for him with a kind smile, a happy smile that he was finally going to get some sleep. Then he blew out the candle sitting at the bedside.

“Don’t worry, I intend to keep my word; this is just a story better suited for the dark.”

Jonah was intrigued even more now than he was before. “Do go on.”

A moment of soft laughter was followed by a tense, pensive silence. It seemed to stretch for lifetimes as Robert tried to work out where to begin. “I’ve been having dreams. Terrible ones. Frightening ones. I’ve been having them for years now. They’re all different, and yet each one feels connected, somehow.”

Jonah listened intently, head resting in the palm of his hand as he laid on his side. Robert was still sitting up, propped up against a pillow.

“The first dream I had, I woke up in a field. It stretched as far as I could see in every direction. It was empty of everything except graves. Thousands and thousands of graves; I suspect one for every person on this Earth. When I looked at the one closest to me, it bore the name ‘Robert Smirke,’ and I startled, thinking it meant me, but upon looking at the dates engraved on it, I realised it was my father. Next to it, my mother. My brothers, my sisters. Despite how clearly I remember everything else, I can’t seem to recall the years of their deaths. I kept walking along a path of graves, and soon I found my own. Rather than dwell there because I know that if I were to linger, I would’ve begun to think thoughts I’d rather not. So I kept walking, and I found every person I’ve ever known’s name listed. Everyone was dead. And I suspect that is the nature of life, fear it though you might, Jonah. I think I myself feared it too, then. The sight of all those I know and love, dead, gone. It was horrible. I was hardly a man yet when I had that dream, and I clung to my brother’s side after that night, afraid that soon I’d find myself standing again in that field of graves.”

This was unlike anything Jonah had ever heard before. He’d always been fascinated by the supernatural and the unknown; he’d always wanted to know more, to study them. What Robert was telling him was beyond that though. There was nothing inherently “supernatural” about it. But he was describing a fear that Jonah dwelled on far too much. The image of the thousands of gravestones was all he could picture, and it made him tremble slightly.

After taking a brief moment to collect himself, Robert continued, “In another dream, I had, I was standing in a slaughterhouse. All that surrounded me was blood. Oddly, it did not smell strongly of that so much as it smelled of fear, putrid fear. I don’t know if you know that scent, Jonah; the scent of fear that so strongly permeates the air around you and inside you. A wretched miasma of misery. The absolute horror of, of those animals that had been butchered. Faintly, I could hear the squealing of the pigs as they must’ve begged for their lives, Jonah. After this dream, I would hardly stomach any meat for months. The knowledge of what those animals went through, even if in a dream.”

His own stomach felt queasy at the description.

Robert continued. “Another, I was on a walk with my brothers through the countryside when we happened upon a cavern. Sydney, my younger brother, had been too frightened to journey into it, so Richard had left with him. I remained, however, because I was curious to examine it. But each step I took into this tunnel, it seemed to grow deeper, beckoning me in. When I finally turned to look behind me, I could no longer find the path I had taken; the entrance was nowhere in sight. I couldn’t go back and the tunnel only seemed to pull me forward. The ceiling got lower and the walls closed in as I ventured forward, until I was completely enclosed in this tunnel with no way to escape. I felt as though I was being suffocated; I couldn’t breathe. Finally, when I thought I had passed out from lack of air, I awoke in my bed, perfectly fine,” he took a long, shaky breath. “These dreams Jonah, they feel so real. They are real, I’m certain of it.”

Jonah had pushed himself into a seated position on the bed, taking in what Robert was saying. These dreams of his sounded like just that: dreams. But he knew Robert was an earnest man who had the imagination of a rock for anything other than a design for a building. He knew his dear companion was not making these up.

“There are things beyond us, Jonah. Things that lurk beyond this world, that torment us. These things, I’m sure, are the cause of all our fear. I don’t know anything more about them, yet, but I intend to learn, to find out.” Suddenly, a low, dark laugh filled the room. “You must think me mad, don’t you? I swear to you that I am telling the truth. These dreams have been plaguing me for so long, and I have suffered in silence. But if anyone were to believe me, it would be you.” He almost sounded like he was begging Jonah to understand, to believe him like he feared Jonah might call him insane.

“I,” Jonah tried to find the right words but his mind was racing with ideas and theories, “I believe you. I believe you, and I want to join you in studying these, these entities, these fears.”

Robert, who had been staring forward for the entirety of his recounting, finally looked at Jonah, and he had what looked like tears in his eyes. He reached out and took Jonah’s hands in his own. “I knew I could trust you with this. I knew you and I were kindred spirits in a way that you would want to know this as well. With your mind, I’m certain we’ll discover the truth of these fears, as you put it. We’ll make history.”

Jonah liked the sound of that.

#jonah magnus #robert smirke #tma #jonahmagnusweek #my kingdom for schoolmates to lovers jonahsmirke #warnings for:#implied character death #(kinda)#animal cruelty #claustrophobia

9 notes · View notes

remmushound · 3 years

Text

Curse of the Clan part 34! @scentedcandlecryptid @hoshisoul

Trigger warning!! PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR! Food horror, vomiting, bugs, blood, suicidal thoughts, gore,

He couldn't take much more of it. Any time he’d close his eyes, his dreams were haunted with nightmare images of snakes and vines reaching out at him with sharp hooks and fangs. He would be running while an invisible force forced him back the other way toward an endless drop, and he would fall, but he would always wake before he hit the ground. If there even was a ground.

Every time he would drink, the once clean water would turn to sludge in his mouth. Thick, suffocating, and bitter— impossible to swallow. He’d have to spit it out, and when he did, he’d find it normal and clear. He had water— he had so much water! But he couldn’t drink. He was so thirsty…

Donatello brought an apple to his mouth and bit it. It tasted okay. It tasted… well— like an apple. The juices relieved the dryness of his throat and for a minute he’d thought he’d actually be able to eat! Then he made the mistake of looking to the fruit. Decay seemed to spread throughout the treat, making it brown and practically melt in Donatello’s hand. He could feel the apple fall apart! He could feel the sensation of writhing, living maggots eating the thing! He gagged and coughed, spitting out his mouthful and tossing the apple as far away as he could. The moment it collided with a tree, the apple was normal, if a little bruised.

The evil laughed.

Was it the next day? Or had several days passed? Donatello knew there was light, but he also knew that he could never trust the light. That it might turn off again at a moment’s notice, leaving him in blackness that swallowed the moon and stars. He was so hungry he had to risk it. It was just a banana, surely he could eat a banana? His hand shook violently as he picked up the fruit and started to peel it. One peel, two peels, and the banana held firm. The third peel, and it turned black, falling to dust in his hand. Donatello sucked in a breath and gave a soft whimper. Then the banana was back again, whole and untouched.

He swallowed his fear and brought the fruit to his mouth to take a bite of it. It tasted okay, at first. But then it started to move, and when he opened his mouth, out came what must have been hundreds of flies. A whole swarm of them! What remained of the banana followed the same pattern. Donatello vomited.

The evil laughed.

It was dark again. Donatello held his bo staff tightly to his chest, so tightly it hurt. But he didn't care. It helped even if he had yet to figure out what its power was yet. He didn't risk going far from the camp; just far enough where hopefully the evil couldn’t watch him as he relieved himself.

There was a great boom. Donatello fell back, hugging his mystic bo tightly and giving a choked whine. The auditory horror had happened so often he wondered how he wasn’t used to it by now. Sounds like grenades exploding or a jet plane flying overhead or an air horn sounding—women screaming in the woods, the yell of wild animals, the roar of fire! Fire? That one was new—and it was eating his campground fast! It had already eaten away at his tent and was spreading to the rest of the campground.

Donatello scrambled to his feet, grabbing his bucket of melted snow and tossing it over the fire! Then the fire was gone. No burns, no embers, no ash. Just a drenched tent destroyed by the water damage.

The evil laughed.

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t have been right! This nightmare had to end soon— it had to have been two weeks already, right? If not longer! They should have been here by now! His brothers, Bishop! To take him away from this hellhole that was eating away at his very mind! From that laughter that plagued him night and day without end! He wanted it to stop!

Donatello looked at his weapon. More specifically, he looked at the bladed part. He brought a finger to touch the very tip. It was sharp. Sharp enough to prick his finger and bring forth the tiniest speck of blood. Then he looked down at his wrists and screamed as a waterfall of blood pooled from them! He hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t, he would never— he didn't! The blood was gone in between blinks, and the wounds gone too. And the evil laughed.

“Your brothers have forgotten you.” The voice taunted, and it was inside Donatello head. Donatello tried to force it out, hitting himself in the head until his mind spun, but the voice remained. “You’re been here for years, and you are never leaving.”

No. No, that wasn’t true! His brothers would come for him, his brothers would never forget about him. They would come, they could come, they would come…

“The...r...rift is… s-still… closed.” Donatello managed to stutter out, his voice weak from lack of use and terrified, “S….so y-ou’re still trapped…”

“How do you know?” The evil purred, “After the things you’ve seen, how do you know that this isn’t just another illusion…?”

“I-it’s not…” Donatello gasped. “It’s not…”

“How sure of it are you?”

Donatello couldn’t answer, and the evil laughed.

Another day of torture passed like a month. He felt filthy, and he wanted to wash himself. The trails changed day to day, and this was one of the lucky days that he was allowed to go down to the river. He dipped a washcloth into the water and started to use it to dab the grime off of his skin, and then quickly dried it with another cloth so the water wouldn’t freeze. At first, the water was cold, but cleansing. Then, after the third gentle swipe of the wet cloth, it all changed.

The swipe of the cloth started to slough off Donatello’s skin. He couldn’t feel it, but he could see it. Skin and fat and muscles being scrapped off of him and leaving him bare to the bone. He screamed and tossed the rag, not thinking before he used his hand to try and wipe off the remaining water. Where his hand touched, even more of him came off. The flesh on his hand— on his arm!

Donatello collapsed on the bank, hugging his plastron as it also fell apart with his touch. He was never a religious creature, but in that moment, he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for this hell to end because he just wanted to go home.

“Why are you sad?”

Donatello opened his eyes. He looked down at himself, and the flesh was repaired. Then he looked up. His eyes met with a golden kirin staring down at him, slitted golden eyes soft with pity. The yokai looked like a centaur might, except his backside was more deer than horse, and more impossible shades of color. His tail was like a lion, long and tipped in a dark red prickle; fur of a similar shade, much longer than the gold of his pelt, was detailed over his elbow joins and his tail. His back was covered in blue and orange scales and his torso was almost human if not for the deer-like ears and animalistic face. On his head, surrounded by the dark red of his mane, was a curved branch-like horn.

The kirin tilted his head again. “Why are you sad? The Sea of Trees is a happy place.”

Donatello didn't care to stick around to hear anything else the yokai had to say— if it even was a yokai and not another illusion. He grabbed his rags and stomped back off down the trail quickly, slouched over and hugging himself to provide some sort of security. He got back to camp, and tried to get through another cold, sleepless night. His stomach gave an unsettled gurgle begging for sustenance that Donatello couldn’t provide.

The tent lit up a bright gold. Warm, gentle and safe. Donatello closed his eyes to enjoy it before his exhausted mind snapped him back to reality. He spun around, gripping his bo staff and ready to attack whatever vision the evil had planned for him.

The kirin was back, eyes just as soft and concerned as before and hands carrying a basket of berries. Donatello didn't lower his bo for a second, not even as the kirin put the berries down in front of him and slid them over with his front hoof.

“Don’t be sad.” The kirin said, “Eat. Your brothers will come soon.”

“I don’t want your food.” Donatello grumbled.

“It’s good.” The kirin insisted, “It is food he cannot touch. It is real.”

Donatello swung the bo at him when the kirin stepped closer. “Stay. Away.”

The kirin blinked slowly, and then gave the slightest laugh, “You should know I am telling the truth. You have the future right there in your hands.”

Donatello looked down at his weapon, and then up at the kirin. “What do you mean?”

The kirin didn't answer the question. “The evil is strong, but it can only lie. The rift is the truth, and the rift is still.”

The kirin left the berries and backed up. When his backside met the end of the tent, it phased out of reality, disappearing slowly as he backed through an invisible rift. Donatello watched the place the yokai had disappeared, waiting for some cruel punchline that never came. Then he looked at the berries, tantalizingly round and fresh, coated with dew drops. Just there, taunting him and his empty stomach until he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed a handful of berries and immediately shoved them in his mouth, swallowing them quickly so he wouldn’t have to go through whatever torment the food would bring.

He opened his eyes. The berries were still there, still plump and beckoning. The berries tasted like berries. He took another handful and moved it around, trying to spot any bugs or flaws or mold—anything! But he found nothing, and so he took another mouthful, and another, until the berries were gone.

#more whump!#foreshadowing~

10 notes · View notes

wolfloke · 3 years

Text

Rp Ideas

(Barista Aus)

[Character A] is a barista at a coffee shop. [Character B] comes in every day and orders the same thing, at the same time, always. One day, [B] doesn't show up.

[Character A] is all ready to pay for their coffee, when they realize they've lost their wallet. [Character B], the customer in back of them, offers to pay for them.

[Character A] and [Character B] are baristas who work the morning shift. Something more than friendship blossoms between them (Can already be pre-established or can happen over time), however, things change when [A] is moved to the night shift, and [B] stays in the morning shift.

[Character A] is tired of customers' shit. When one especially rude consumer decides to mouth them off, [A] does the logical thing, and spits right in their mocha whipped caramel latte. It isn't until they're handing the coffees out that they realize the rude customer hadn't ordered the latte. [Character B] did.

[Character A] is the new barista at a local coffee shop. [Character B] doesn't quite like them. When the two get into a fight and the hot milk machine explodes, the manager threatens to fire the both of them unless they can work it out. How do they go about becoming friends?

[Character A] is a barista working the late shift alone. It's a slow night, and the store is entirely empty, so they decide to close up shop and lock the doors. However, as they're in the back of the shop counting stock, they hear glass shatter in the front, and they know it's not just a coffee crazed customer. [Character B] can be anyone; The burglar, an employee who forgot their things and decided to head back but witnessed the burglary, or a concerned passerby who spotted the break in happening.

(Zombie AUs)

[Character A] is holed up in a locked down, abandoned mall. Somehow, [Character B] gets in. How do the two react once they realize they're not alone?

[Character A] is stuck on a rooftop. [Character B], who's stuck on the rooftop across from them, has been trying to make contact with the other survivor, to no avail.

[Character A to Character B] "Gimme all your shit. The food, the water, the weapons. Everything. Now!"

[Character A] is all out of ammo. There's a horde on their tail, they're injured, and it's not likely they're going to make it out alive. And that's when they see [Character B] beckoning them to a hiding spot just a few steps away.

[Character A] and [Character B] are traveling together. Then, one of them gets bit. How does the other react?

[Character A] is dying. [Character B] is keeping them company. How do they interact with eachother?

(Highschool AU)

[Character A] is new to a prestigious boarding school. They're lost in the hallways. Then they happen to bump into [Character B].

[Character A] manages to piss off [Character B], aka, the scariest kid in school.

(Three People RP) [Character A] is happily dating [Character B]. However, [Character C] is secretly in love with [A/B], and desperately wants them to break up.

[Character A], a high school student, is dating [Character B], a college student.

[Character A] and [Character B] are by no means friends. Then they get grouped together for a project that forces them to spend time at each others' houses. Do they become friends, something more?

[Character A] is hiding a secret. [Character B] just happens to find out.

[Character A] is the new kid in school. If the rumors are any indication, they're a bit of a weirdo. [Character B] refuses to believe them, and decides to get to know [A] for themself.

[Character A to Character B] "Yikes, I saw that fall a mile away. Looks like you dropped a lot of stuff. Want some help?"

[Character A to Character B] "Are you...Are you drawing me?"

[Character A to Character B] "Lunch in the classroom again? Mind if join you?"

(Celebrity AUs)

[Character A to Character B] "Holy shit! I've seen you before! You're...!"

[Character A] is the top model at a fashion agency. That all changes when [Character B] is scouted, and practically rips the spotlight from [A]. How does [A] respond to this? How does [B] feel about it?

It's not everyday you bump into a celebrity...Except it is for [Character A], who suspiciously keeps bumping into the famous [Character B] everyday. Coincidence, or something more?

[Character A] is a movie star visiting their hometown. However, they realize that time in Hollywood has made them forget the town. So, they appoint [Character B] as their tour guide.

[Character A to Character B] "Don't you know who I am?"

[Character A] is a famous movie actor playing the lead in a romance film. [Character B] is the clumsy rookie that somehow got the second lead. How will the two get along, especially when [Character B] can't seem to remember their lines?

[Character A] is a photographer in a park struggling to find their muse. When [Character B] happens to stroll by, they realize they've just found it.

[Character A] scores backstage tickets to a rock concert, which just so happens to be their favorite band, like...Ever. [Character B] is the lead vocalist/guitarist/whatever of the band.

[Character A], a lovestruck rookie actor. [Character B], an experienced, well known actor who's been starred as the main lead in multiple romance movies. Somehow, [A] ends up being the second lead to [B]! How does [B] react to [A]'s inexperience? Will they get along? And how will they go about about the kiss scene that occurs later on in the movie?

[Character A] is walking home one night, when they see [Character B] attempting to jump from a bridge! Dashing into action, they talk them out of it, only to find that [B] is a famous celebrity, who, for some reason or another, feels indebted to [A] forever now.

(Supernatural AUs)

[Character A] is a werewolf struggling to control their transformations. [Character B], a lycan nerd, offers to help them, but only if they can document the process.

The city is plagued by a number of mysterious killings that leave their victims drained of any and all blood. While believed to be animal attacks at first, [Character A], a detective, thinks differently. And when [Character B] is caught on CCTV grabbing a helpless woman and tearing out her jugular, well, that just confirms [A]'s suspicions.

(Multiple people rp) Ever since the dark ages, witches have been forced into hiding, lest they be revealed and punished with a fiery death. For centuries, they've breeded amongst covens, creating generation after generation of children with extraordinary abilities. Each child only has one ability when they begin the harnessing of their internal power. But, of each generation, there is one child, and only one, that shows signs of having multiple abilities. Over time, these special children became known as The Supreme Witch, and had to complete grueling and painful challenges in order to prove their powers. Now in the modern age of technology, there is a special school for the last remaining witch millennials to come to terms with their abilities, learn to control them, and strengthen them. All witches are able to participate in the test to determine who is supreme, at their own risk. However, one question remains; Just who will survive the test and be crowned Supreme Witch?

[Character A]'s family moves into a new house. It doesn't take [A] very long to figure out they're being haunted by [B].

[Character A] thinks that their boyfriend/girlfriend, [Character B] is acting a little odd. They're always cold, pale, and they seem to be uncontrollably thirsty all the time.

[Character A] is a clumsy witch struggling to harness their internal energy. [Character B] is an older witch, who offers to teach them, on one condition.

[Character A], a sailor on the S.S Jolly Fellow, awakens from a nap below deck to find the boat anchored in the middle of the ocean and the crew gone. The only other person they can hear is [Character B], a mermaid/merman sitting on a nearby rock, singing a soft harmony.

[Character A] finds a fairy out in the woods and traps it in a jar. This fairy, [Character B], demands they be let go. And [A] agrees, but on one condition; [B] must grant them any wish they want.

[Character A] is bitten by a wild wolf one night in the woods. They hide it from their friends and family in fear of being scolded for being out when they weren't supposed to. But soon, weird things start happening. For instance, their hearing seems to be super good. Their eyesight is enhanced greatly. And they can smell every hamburger in a five mile radius. But along with the hamburgers, they can also smell certain people with "different" powers (Vampires, witches, other werewolves, etc). And their nose seems to be leading them right to [Character B].

[Character A], a fledgling vampire, attacks [Character B] and turns them. Now apart of their pack, [Character B] must now be mentored by the very person that turned them into a bloodthirsty monster, [A].

[Character A] is a professional hunter hot on the trail of [Character B], a monster.

[Character A], a mermaid held in captivity. [Character B], a worker assigned to their tank. How do the two come to trust each other? What happens then?

(Darker AUs)

[Character A] wakes up in a dark room with a chain around their ankle. They can't remember anything from last night, except maybe.. A blurry image of [Character B]'s face.

[Character A] knows not to talk to strangers, but there's something so endearing about [Character B] that they can't help but to chit chat. Little does [A] know, they'll be regretting it very soon.

[Character A] has had [Character B] chained up in their basement for a while now. At first, they'd just meant to kill [B] and be done with it. But for some reason, [A] can't bring themselves to do it. Why? What will they do in the end?

[Character A] wakes up covered in blood, next to a sleeping [Character B]. What happened? How did [A] end up there?

[Character A] is a twin to a royal family, their sibling being a princess/prince destined to marry into a richer kingdom. For years, [A] had dreaded their parting. It finally came in the form of [B], a sadistic tyrant who insists he marry the beauty that is [A]'s twin. Refusing to let their sibling fall into [B]'s hands, [A] dresses up as them, and takes their place instead, becoming [B]'s hand in marriage.

(War AUs)

[Character A] is a freshly drafted soldier. [Character B] is the bitter, apprehensive sergeant, tasked to whip [A] into shape.

[Character A] and [Character B] are soldiers on opposing fronts, who so happen to be severely injured, and who so happen to be hiding in the same house. Unfortunately,

Disclaimer. I don't own any part of the art nor do I own nor do I own the context of this of this post. I am reposting this so all who love to role play has access to it.

#rp #erp #role play #role play ideas #creative writing #writers block #writing ideas #short story #one shot plots #plots #rp plots

8 notes · View notes

jetaime-jespere · 3 years

Text

Various Storms and Saints

Narcos - Javier Peña / Helena

I am ridiculously nervous about posting this, as I have written solely Hotchniss/CM for over a year and never thought about writing anything else, let alone Narcos of all the things. But, this somehow solidified itself in my head over the last few weeks (there is a nearly complete chapter two as well) and here we are. These two deserved so much better than what they got in the show. There are some trigger warnings for references to and mentions of past assault and trauma with this story, consistent with what happened in s1e2, along with angst/references to drug use and violence. This is actually posted on ao3 under a different username but I might transfer it to my main ao3 account at some point. The first chapter is under the cut! 🙂

At first Javier thinks he imagines her, as if she’s nothing more than a figment of his own weary mind, a byproduct of the years that run together like a painting that’s gotten wet, colors running together, edges curling at the sides. He always expected the past to catch up to him, somehow, yet she is the very last thing he expects to see in the middle of a farmer’s market just outside of Laredo on an unnaturally chilly November Saturday morning. This is south Texas, for fuck’s sake, he thinks. His head still throbs with the lingering haze of too much whiskey, as if such a thing could exist by now, and the cool air does nothing except make him feel even more numb. He was never expecting her.

Helena.

Why he’s even here is lost on him - a favor to his father, one he remembered at the last possible moment when he’d awoken that morning with a splitting headache. His mouth was dry, his stomach churning as the sun bled into the sky, the empty bottle and an ashtray littered with cigarettes not far away. But he went, because he’s watched his father age before his own two eyes, knowing innately the small act in and of itself will save the aging man a bit of his much-needed strength for later on. Javier meanders aisles with the same sharp eye of his father to find the best produce hidden while hiding bloodshot eyes behind his aviators.

He’s lost in his own thoughts - the trancelike state he often falls into when he thinks of how things panned out - right back to where he started all those years ago. How close he got to Escobar, at the expense of so much, only to not actually get there at all. The phone call from Murphy, relaying the news of the shootout and his death, plays on loop in his mind, coupled with the endless droll of the smoky bar, the plague of relief and satisfaction and a hint of jealousy, a tightening in his chest he wasn’t sure what to do with. He still doesn’t know what to do with it all - his life or lack thereof.

“Excuse me,” comes the soft, raspy voice from the much shorter person beside him reaching around for tomatoes. It renders him frozen; it takes him right back to Bogota, to the confined four walls of his apartment, a sanctuary in the middle of a fiery hell. A voice Javier was never able to forget. The voice in his dreams and his nightmares, even if the latter was more frequent. The voice that brings a memory of her, wrapped around him, or vice versa. Those images are vivid - laying her back on his leather couch to savor the last few moments inside of her, his teeth scraping her chin as tremors ran through her, a blissful smile on her face. The brace of her knees against his hips as she sat in his lap, full of him, his hands guiding her hips as she rocked over him, her fingers digging into his hair in the hours he spent between her legs, coaxing release after release out of her.

Your hands, she’d said once, her Colombian accent thick in the hazy, smoky dark of his apartment. He knew what she was thinking. How could hands like his - ones that touched her tenderly, reverently - wield a gun with exact precision, be responsible for the deaths of so many. How do you do it? She’d asked once, cradling his right hand in her own much smaller ones. He didn’t have an answer, he just passed his flask and reached for his wallet. He never asked where the money went, just that she took it. Only when he was in way too deep did he realize he didn’t care about the money. And only after she was gone did he admit to himself he never actually cared about it at all.

It can’t be. “Helena?”

He turns a little, shuffles his feet. And there she is, not at all imagined but in fact very real, close enough to touch. There’s an audible gasp that comes from her, one of her small hands clamping over her mouth as the other tightens around the seam of her jacket. It’s because she recognizes him immediately, as she tilts her head back to meet his stare, the sun reflecting on her dark brown hair like a halo.

It’s been years, he’s lost track of exactly how long. Years to bury that night in Medellín that has never gone away. But it managed to haunt him forever. They’d been moments too late. If only, he thinks a lot. If only he said no, if he refused to put her in harm’s way. If only they’d been faster. He could have saved her from the hell he’d found her in, from what came after. It’s her face he saw with every arrest he made, every step they took closer to Escobar, as if each was somehow done for her, revenge for what she endured, not for the good of a nation under siege.

But there she is, in Texas of all places, mere miles from where he’s essentially started his own life over, clearly having done the same. She was right there all along, a woman he once knew and yet, doesn’t anymore. Gone are the impractical shoes and heavy makeup, the confidence she exuded even with the dangers of her profession withered away. He always admired her for that confidence - he never told her as much, though. She’s wearing a casual jacket and jeans, simple shoes and barely a stitch of makeup. Her hair is a little shorter and lighter; it looks different but he can’t figure out why. He never paid much attention to those things. He’d always liked this Helena better - without the painted facade of lies she concocted to stay alive. He never told her that either. There were a lot of things he never said, things he should have told her long before it ended.

“Javier.” It’s slow, drawn out, as if she’s learning how to pronounce it for the first time. “It’s … what are you …-” she stumbles over a greeting as her head starts to spin, not unlike his own. She’s clearly overwhelmed by it all. She swallows hard, takes a few wary glances around. “You’re .... how?”

“I live here, remember?” He immediately regrets it; maybe she doesn’t want to remember any of it. So he backpedals, lowering his sunglasses to offer a kind smile. “My family is from Laredo.” He’d told her some things about himself during the times they were together. Not much, but he’d found himself asking her things - seeking more, something they could never have, yet he sought nonetheless.

“I remember.” She studies him, the weight of her gaze familiar, taking in the lines that have deepened in his face. They mirror the ones on her own, the culmination of it all having taken a toll over time. “You’re not there?” She means Colombia, he realizes. She’s asking why he’s not in Colombia.

“I live here now too.” His tone answers her question more than his words do. “Have for a little while now. I had no idea you were in Laredo.” It seems too close for comfort; he would have demanded she be further away from the border, for her own protection. Those details hadn’t been shared with him. He hadn’t asked.

“Maybe conduct this little reunion somewhere else?” An older woman clears her throat, arms crossed over her chest, clearing her throat to make her presence known behind them. “Some of us are trying to … you know. Keep things moving around here?” She means no ill will, yet it’s as if they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t, as if everyone in their vicinity is watching.

It’s the way Helena startles at the woman’s sudden intrusion that splinters his chest a little bit as a quick apology falling from her lips. The subtle tremble that racks her shoulders for a brief moment before she steps away, granting the other woman access to the tomatoes they’ve both forgotten all about. As they walk away he wonders, before he can stop himself, just how much she’s struggled, how unbearable it must have been to start over as she had, after what she’d endured. He has hard questions that undoubtedly have no easy answers.

A few steps from the aisles is a tree, providing reprieve from the early morning sun. They find themselves there; he leans against the tree and tucks his sunglasses into his shirt pocket. Helena keeps her distance, an arm’s length away, arms crossed protectively over her chest. Whether it’s subconscious or not, it deepens the crack in his chest that being in his proximity might make her uneasy. But they’re out of earshot of others now, and Helena speaks again, choosing words carefully. She’s guarded, cautiously aware of her surroundings, he notices - constantly looking over her shoulder, nervously toying with the ends of her hair.

“I’ve been here since I left Colombia.” She pushes her hair off her neck, drags her finger along the row of tiny hoop earrings at her ear. “We, I mean.”

She means her son. Hearing that he’s safe too is a relief. “How is he?”

“Good.” The mention of him brings a smile to her face; it’s been so long since he saw her smile. Something inside of him aches when he sees it, like he doesn’t deserve to. Javier remembers the way she beamed with pride when she’d told him one night that he called her mama for the first time, the guilt in her eyes when she explained the little boy stayed with her sister when she worked. He’d be at least 5 now, he reckons. “He’s good.”

“And you?” What he’s asking is a loaded question. He isn’t owed an answer though. His culpability in it all can’t be denied; he pushed it for information, to get closer to Escobar and she agreed because she believed it would be her out, that he would follow through on his promise of getting her to the US.

In some cruelly fucked up way, she got her wish in the end.

“I’m okay.” Good seems too generous of a description, and anything less than okay would shatter him, Helena knows. Despite the transactional nature of their relationship, it eventually morphed into something more, something that, had the circumstances been different, could have worked, maybe. It takes more effort to smile this time but she does, even though she knows he’ll see right through it. Her last memory of him isn’t a pleasant one; thinking of it makes her vision blur and her hands tremble with the moist rush of bile in her throat. He’d carried her from that disgusting warehouse, doing his best to calm her down and failing miserably. She clung to him, trembling and shell shocked silent, only to become hysterical once outside in the cloyingly oppressive Medellín heat. It was his face she saw when she felt the pinch of a needle in her arm and a heaviness in her veins, an apology written all over it. It was the very last thing she remembers before the sedative took effect and the world went black.

When she woke up more than twelve hours later in a narrow bed at a hospital, she was alone. Alone as she had always been, except this time it set into her bones and never quite left.

“That’s good.” He doesn’t believe her. How could he? She’s lost weight since then - she’d always been slender with delicate bones and narrow wrists - once he remarked how he could fit both of them in the span of one of his hands, then did just that as she writhed beneath him - but now she’s more borderline gaunt, with sharp collar bones and sunken in cheeks. “Good.”

“You?” Helena twists the cuff of her sleeve around her wrist, a nervous habit. She didn’t expect it to physically ache when she looked at him, but she never expected to see him again, either.

“Good.” Javier fumbles in his jacket pocket in search of a cigarette. The pack is empty; he curses. There’s a thick silence, full of everything that isn’t said, what never got to be said. Maybe had he been fucking honest with her none of this would have happened. “God, Helena, we used to be better at this.”

Her eyes well with unshed tears. She thought by now she would have run out of tears by now. “We had more practice then, Javier.” The expression that ghosts over her face is wistful with remembrance for that night, the night that started all of this. When they played their hand so horribly wrong. “Remember?”

He remembers it all, every last detail. It seems like a strange twist of irony that they ended up in the same place after all this time. He’s too jaded to think it could possibly be fate, something that was meant to happen all along.

But then what was it?

#narcos #javier peña #javier x helena #they deserved better #I am very anxious about this but I did have a few cocktails so here we go

6 notes · View notes

dottiechan · 3 years

Text

Tempest (Pt. 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Read on AO3

Pairing: Ava Du Mortain x f!Detective

Wordcount: 1950

Warnings: gay pining, denial of romatic feelings none

Summary: Ava waits for the private detective to arrive while pondering their relationship. (1890s AU)

A/N: I am plagued by the late Victorian AU and Miss Du Mortain, so this happened. I wrote the detective as a female private detective, but other than that I have not specified any details about her. It also passes as a reader insert fic! (You can check out the full art here.)

Ava watches the grey sky as it persistently batters the window with rain, the small streaks on the glass pane casting lines on her handsome face that could be mistaken for tears by someone who doesn’t know her. Anyone who does know her knows that she’d sooner shed her blood than her tears. That is just the way she is. The way she likes to be thought of. The only way she is truly safe.

The heavens have let loose, and god is baring his teeth. And Ava just stands there, hands shoved in the pockets of her trousers, gazing out into the busy street as still and cold as the marble statues dotting the hallway. But only on the outside. Because inside of her, there is a storm to match the tempest that assails the city.

She is agitated the moment an image of her slips into her mind, and she begins chewing on the inside of her cheek when she realises that every minute the private detective isn’t in her sight, she is losing her mind. The nervous gesture is soon quelled by hundreds of years of self-discipline, and is replaced by her signature frown, lips pressed into a thin line, the muscles running along her jawbone tensing under her opaque skin. She is... mortal, she wants to think. Fragile. Unimportant. A job.

But she is also everything.

Which is why she must sever her ties to the woman before the job is over, otherwise the eternity to come will turn into hell on earth without her. Ava deserves hell, she knows that. Not that she believes in the devil, but the sharpness of his pitchfork and the heat of hellfire are sensations not unfamiliar to her. Eternal damnation is just guilt and anger and fear hiding in Satan’s clothing. But she can’t even begin to assign words to the kind of torture a world without her would mean. Ava’s ever so logical mind paralyses in terror at the thought of existing in a time when she isn’t.

She inhales sharply - even brushing the surface of the topic causes so much pain to course through her whole being that she needs to focus on something else - anything else - to continue functioning. So she listens to Nate’s soothing voice as he discusses myths with the professor down the hall. She registers the footsteps of people mulling about the museum on the floor below, the idle chatter of ladies clad in expensive dresses, the booming voices of three men arguing over the origin of a painting in the first hall. She turns her piercing attention on the street now, listening to the sounds of horses and vendors and street urchins, feeling thankful to the steady rain for considerably dulling the sharp tang of the muddy streets in her nostrils. She pulls out her pocket watch then, the ticking matching her now once more steady heartbeat.

The detective isn’t late yet, though she has a feeling that she will be, with the rain clogging the streets with carriages and hansoms as it usually does, especially at such a lively hour in the late morning. Ava wonders what she will wear, how her hair will be styled. She wants the rain to kiss her face, she wants the wind to rake its fingers through her tightly pinned up hair and loosen some strands from their captivity. She wants the warmth of the museum building to engulf her once she steps inside, bringing a rush of blood to her cold cheeks. She wants all this and more, for her own body must stay still for everyone’s sake, thus leaving her to live through the rain, and the wind, and the warmth of the radiators, her own fingers and lips and skin left yearning for a sensation she must deny herself.

Her daydreaming is cut short when two men pass her by, throwing her wide-eyed stares as they clutch their books to their chests and mutter quiet greetings to her. Students of the professor, no doubt, and shocked to their very core by the sight of a woman in trousers easily towering above them. It fills Ava with a savage sort of satisfaction before her insecurities - awakened by the private detective’s appearance in her life - creep up on her. It has never been particularly acceptable for a woman to wear men’s clothing throughout history, and 1896 is no exception. Then again, Ava has never been particularly bothered by this expectation, so it has all been well. Until now, when she begins to wonder if the detective likes this. She has commended her on her bravery before, and agreed with her choice of clothing because of its practicality, but that is hardly an admission of approval or attraction. And besides, she seems to favour dresses herself, even if she is nowhere nearly as extravagant or tightly laced as the dames of the decade. Admittedly, the detective’s pulse always picks up when they speak, especially alone, and her pupils are blown when she catches her staring but...

“I’ve got what we came for... and more,” Nate speaks with quiet excitement as he stalks up to her by the window, and Ava forces herself to look at her friend, hands balling into fists in her pockets. She had been so absorbed in thoughts of the private detective that she almost didn’t notice Nate at all until he reached her.

Pathetic. She needs to focus.

There’s a supernatural on the loose, murdering in the streets of London, and she is thinking about whether or not a mortal woman likes her choice of clothing. She takes the folder Nate hands her, and pries it open to reveal several new pages filled with his neat handwriting. At least their initial hunch has been correct - they’re definitely something corporeal that can pass off as a human, and now thanks to Nate’s research, they’re all but confirmed to have come from Scandinavia originally. And yet it doesn’t help her ease her mind that she knows what they could possibly be - after all, they’re out for the detective by the Agency’s estimate.

“Could it be a dark elf?” she mutters, blonde brows furrowed as she skims through the pages.

“Dökkálfar. My thought exactly,” her friend nods, pleased that Ava has come to the same conclusion.

“Haven’t seen one of those in... well, in a very long time.”

Nate’s shoulders sag a little as his initial enthusiasm ebbs. “I suppose we are about to face one again.”

She wants to reprimand Nate for forgetting the real objective of their mission - it’s protection, after all, not hunting down a rogue. But she thinks of the detective again, a woman so unique and individualistic in a world that tries so hard to oppress her along with her ambitions, and she knows she won’t be able to rest until the threat to her life is no more. It’s her duty, she reasons meekly against the swell of affection filling her chest and pushing against her skin, threatening to crack the solid marble of her stoic facade. But she knows a lie when she hears one. She suddenly thinks of last year, Paris, the Louvre. Nike of Samothrace. The statue of the Winged Victory. Headless, and yet still the symbol of triumph. She has lost her common sense ever since she started working with the detective, but she knows she must win as well, because if she fails... Well, she dare not even think about the consequences it would have on her.

And above all, she must remain as cold to the touch as that carefully carved block of marble.

“I wish we could tell her,” her friend presses on gently, concern and guilt marring the edges of the soft curve of his long lips.

“It’s better this way. Safer,” she croaks, hating the way her voice softens and breaks mid-sentence.

“Safer for whom, I wonder?” Nate sighs, taking the folder Ava hands him and closes it with delicate fingers before leaning against the wall next to her. She hasn’t even realised she sought to support of the wooden panelled hallway until Nate mimicked her movement absent-mindedly.

“What do you mean?”

“Safer for her...” he sighs before glancing at Ava with sad eyes, “or safer for us?”

She averts her eyes, her long ignored self-loathing clawing its way up from the deepest pits of her mind before she clenches her jaw. “For all parties involved.”

But mostly for me, she admits to herself inwardly. The lie obscures her true nature, and she revels in it for once. She doesn’t know what she’d do if the detective flinched away from her in fear instead of being drawn to her like a moth to a flame in the middle of a heavy summer night. For the past 800 years, she thought of herself as nothing but an agent, an element operating in the shadows, making the world a less dangerous place. She hunted her emotions and burned them at the stake, but this witch hunt can only go on for so long without consequences. She always thought of herself as a vampire first and foremost, her base nature being a bloodthirsty monster, but she was human before that. And she’s never felt more human than now. Probably not even when she actually was one.

And that is a terrifying thought to live with, especially when its source is so easily pinpointed. Her. It’s all on her.

“So we lie once more?” Nate sighs, breaking the silence and drawing her attention outwards once more.

“Yes,” she states firmly, the word feeling strangely sour in her mouth. “We tell her this was a dead end. She doesn’t need to know anything else. The Agency, on the other hand, needs to be brought up to speed. Will you do it?”

“I’ll brief them,” Nate nods, pushing himself away from the wall before straightening down his coat. “I suppose that leaves you with watching her?”

“Yes,” Ava speaks through gritted teeth, ignoring the heat crawling up her neck at the thought of being alone with the woman. Her reaction to the detective is unbearable, and yet she brings it upon herself like a masochist inviting the pain. She doesn’t understand why she does it, and yet she has no will to stop.

A nod, retreating footsteps, and Nate is no longer to be seen or heard, not even by her eyes and ears. She slips out her watch from her pocket once more and flips the silver lid open - she is late. Her heartbeat turns into a wild galloping crescendo when she hears a familiar voice on the street though, her heart’s rhythm no longer matching the steady ticking of the pocket watch as it did before.

Ava stares as she exits the hansom with a graceful ease that should be categorised as a criminal offence, wet pieces of stray hairs sticking to her delightful face as she rushes across the street with a purpose that almost leaves her breathless.

She wants to catch the killer, she tells herself. That’s all she wants and nothing more.

Yet as she moves swiftly towards the staircase, unable to wait for her in one place, and wanting, no, needing to see her as soon as possible, deep down Ava hopes the detective is just as eager to be with her as she is.

And then at the very last moment, right before they’re about to come face to face, she schools her features into a blank expression, a great lie of a tabula rasa, her face hardening like sculpted marble - commanding, ancient, beautiful, but so, so cold.

#dottiechan writes #ava du mortain x detective #a du mortain x detective #the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #twc detective #ava du mortain #a du mortain #what the fuck is proof reading y'all #also it's been a hot minute since i last posted any writing

36 notes · View notes

winchester-fantasies · 4 years

Text

Jump Around

Summary: Sam has been your best friend since childhood, and you have feelings for him. But being on the thicker side, you know he’s too out of your league.... Right?

Word Count: 3753

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, swearing

Pairing: Sam x Plus Size!Reader

A/N: This was written for an anonymous request: Can you write a Sam x plus sized reader fic? They’ve been friends for years, but reader has never acted on her feelings because she feels like Sam is way out of her league. Pining and angst, but ending with fluff and smut. I know you’re busy, so no rush. Happy Holidays! 🎄 Thank you for your request! I’m just now getting to my requests after the holidays and trying to catch up so thank you for being so patient! Hope you enjoy!! ❤❤

Winchester Fantasies’ Masterlist

You took another sip of your beer, letting the cool sting of the liquid run down your throat. You glanced over to the bar where Sam was leaning against the high top, talking to the bartender. Her laughter floated through the air, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy as you wished with every fiber that it was you on the other side of the bar. But it wasn’t.

She was pretty, you had to admit. Dark, wavy hair, tanned skin...thin. You glanced down at the small roll of your stomach and your thick thighs. It was no secret you were on the heavier side. You sighed, looking back at the bar, pulling your flannel a little tighter around your curvy waist.

Sam didn’t like girls like you.

“You okay, sweetheart?” You glanced up just as Dean slid into the booth seat across from you.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a thin-lipped smile. “Just kinda tired. I think I might just go back to the motel.”

Dean frowned but didn’t question you, much to your relief. “You want me to walk you back?” he asked.

“No, it’s alright,” you said, waving him off. “It’s just right across the street.” You tossed a few bills on the table before grabbing your bag.

“Okay…” Dean said. “Well, if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Thanks, Dee,” you said, squeezing his forearm affectionately. “See you later.”

You walked to the door, glancing back at the bar, your stomach dropping. Sam was still talking to the bartender, a wide grin on his face.

***********

You jerked awake when you felt the mattress dip, your body tensing and your hand instinctively reaching for the pistol you kept under your pillow.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Sam whispered reassuringly. You relaxed when you realized it wasn’t an enemy, but your stomach was in knots as Sam climbed under the covers. You’d forgotten it was your night to share a bed with Sam.

“You left,” Sam whispered after a few moments of silence.

“What do you mean?” you asked in confusion, turning your head slightly so he could hear you but not meeting his gaze. You felt him shift, his body coming closer to yours, his chest practically pressed against your back. You tried to ignore his heat and the way you ached to reach out and touch him. But it was nearly impossible as butterflies filled your stomach.

“You left the bar early,” Sam said. “Our song came on and I couldn’t find you.” You could hear the disappointment in his voice, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit remorseful at your sudden departure.

You and Sam had been best friends since you were teenagers and “Jump Around” by House of Pain had been your song for nearly as long as you’d known him. It didn’t matter what you were doing, if you and Sam were in the same place, at the same time, and your song came on, you got up and danced, acting like a couple of fools and not caring who saw.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. “I...I wasn’t, uh, feeling too good,” you lied, shoving down the pang of guilt that pricked your heart.

“Oh,” Sam said simply. “It’s okay. Hope you’re feeling better.”

“I am,” you said, hoping against hope it would be true, at least by morning.

There were a few moments of silence; Dean’s soft snores from the other bed and Sam’s steady breathing the only sounds breaking the quiet. You wanted so badly to turn over, to tell him how you felt tonight watching him flirt with the bartender. God you wanted to. But you couldn’t - not when you knew how he felt about you. He was too far out of your league.

“Good night,” Sam said quietly, rolling over, his back now facing you.

“Good night, Sam,” you whispered, turning away from him as well and staring at the window as tears began to fall.

**********

You took in a deep breath as the haze of sleep began to fade. You cracked an eye open, finding sunlight streaming through the yellowed shades. You let out a light groan as you rolled onto your back, raising your arms above your head and carefully stretching, relishing the slight sting of your muscles.

“Mornin’,” Sam said from beside you, his voice deep and slightly raspy from sleep.

“Hi,” you said, watching as he shifted to a sitting position. You couldn’t help but smirk at his tousled hair and puffy eyes. But you had to admit that even now he was the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on.

“Sleep well?” Sam asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“I slept okay,” you said, stifling a yawn. “You?”

Sam held out his hand, rocking it back and forth in a so-so gesture. “Oh,” you said with a frown. “Why?”

Sam glanced at you, his eyes looking a little remorseful. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, you stomach instantly in knots as you waited for his next words. “But you were kinda the reason….”

“Oh,” you said, your eyebrows rising in surprise.

“But like I said, don’t take that the wrong way,” he hurried to say. “I was worried was all.”

You frowned again. “Worried about what?”

“You were talking in your sleep,” Sam said. “But it sounded more like...crying. Thought I was going to have to wake you up at one point.”

Your stomach roiled at his words. Your dreams had been plagued by images of Sam and what had happened at the bar. Except in your dreams you’d told him how you felt, and he rejected you. You could still see the disgust in his eyes as he told you he could never desire someone who looked like you.

Now you were nearly sick at the possibility that you had let something slip while you were sleeping. “But I couldn’t really tell what you were saying, and you settled down pretty quick after,” Sam said, glancing out of the corner of his eye as if expecting you to enlighten him.

You released the breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding as you threw off the covers and got out of bed. “Probably just a bad dream or something,” you said dismissively before hurrying to the bathroom.

After relieving yourself, you stepped into the shower, taking a few extra minutes to shave your legs. You and the boys were visiting the morgue to get the scoop on just how the victim had died in the case you were currently working on. And you wanted to make sure you looked as presentable and put together as you could. Especially since you had a new outfit you were wearing.

But now as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror nearly an hour later you silently berated yourself for forgetting to pack your FBI slacks. You didn’t know why you’d forgotten them; they were practically a hunting necessity. Thankfully you found a pencil skirt lying at the bottom of your duffle bag. One you hadn’t worn or even thought about in almost five years - when you had been a little thinner apparently.

The skirt fell to just above your knees, but despite the slit in the back you felt more than a little restricted. It hugged your hips securely, the front of the cotton material wrinkling as it fought to stretch across your thighs.

You inwardly groaned as you pulled the last button on your white button down shirt through its loop. The material was just as strained across your ample bosom as the skirt was across your lap. Thank god you’d packed your blazer.

You rummaged through your bag you’d placed on the toilet seat, searching for the blazer, but after a few moments of searching and coming up empty handed your anxiety flared. Surly not. You couldn’t have left your blazer, too, right?

“Well, fuck,” you said, stepping back in a huff, the blazer nowhere to be found. You put your hands on your hips, biting the inside of your cheek as you surveyed the situation. You finally sighed in defeat. You had no choice but to just roll with it.

Grabbing the brown clip from your bag, you stepped up to the mirror, twisting your hair into a makeshift French twist and securing it with the hair piece. You swiped on a little mascara and then you were ready.

“Let’s do this,” you murmured to yourself before stepping out of the bathroom. You were met with a low whistle as you entered the main room.

“What’s up with the fancy getup?” Dean asked, surveying your outfit. “Trying to impress me?” he added, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No,” you scoffed, setting your duffle on the table and making sure you at least had your FBI badge.

“For Sammy?” Dean asked. You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks and your heartbeat pick up at Dean’s line of questioning. You let out a sarcastic laugh, trying to play it cool.

“Where is Sam?” you asked nonchalantly.

“Went on a coffee run,” Dean said, pulling on and lacing up his oxfords.

You didn’t say anything as you zipped up your bag and brought it to the foot of your bed. Just then the door opened, a cool breeze rushing through, causing goosebumps to rise on your bare legs. You shivered before turning to find Sam, just as he closed and locked the door.

“They were all out of regular coffee, so I got you a latte,” Sam said, handing a paper cup to Dean.

“Really, dude?” Dean asked, his face contorting in disgust.

“Sorry, man,” Sam chuckled before turning to you just as you sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam’s eyes roved over you before handing one of cups to you. “You look nice,” he said.

“Uh, thanks. I guess,” you mumbled, taking a cautious sip.

“I’m just surprised you wore a skirt,” Sam commented, leaving the coffee holder on the table before taking a seat beside Dean.

“Oh, yeah,” you said vaguely, fiddling with the lid on your cup nervously.

“You ready to head out?” Dean asked, getting up and tossing his now empty cup into the trash. You and Sam nodded before following Dean outside.

Thirty minutes later all of you were at the morgue. “Agents Fogerty, Clifford, and Cook,” Dean introduced, all three of you flashing your badges to the receptionist.

“The police have already been here,” she said, looking between you suspiciously.

“Well, we’re FBI,” Dean said with a smirk as if that automatically cleared everything up. She gave Dean a skeptical look and seemed as if she were about to say something when Sam spoke up.

“We know what it must look like, three strangers coming in, claiming to be FBI,” Sam said. “Truth is, we’ve already talked to Sheriff Johnson, and they’re in over their heads with this one.” He flashed her his signature grin, dimples pronounced. A pang of jealousy pricked your heart as the receptionist returned his smile, her blue eyes sparkling with attraction as she subconsciously twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“Let me just go tell Dr. Lambert you’re here…” she said, getting up from her swivel chair and disappearing behind a swinging door that read OFFICE.

Moments later, she re-emerged. “Dr. Lambert will see you now,” she said, her grin growing wider when her gaze landed on Sam.

“Thank you,” he said before you both followed Dean to the back.

“Hello, agents,” Dr. Lambert greeted, standing from his desk and shaking each of your hands before gesturing for you to sit. “I’m sure Ashlyn told you the police have already paid us a visit.”

“Yes,” Dean said.

“We’re just here to follow up,” you cut in.

“Very well,” Dr. Lambert said. “I’ll have Ashlyn take you back to the morgue. My assistant, Zach, can assist you in whatever you need.”

Dr. Lambert called Ashlyn back into his office before she led the three of you down a long hallway that led to double doors. She pushed them open and walked inside. “Zach, these agents have a few questions about the body that was brought in yesterday. Dr. Lambert said to fill them in,” Ashlyn said before leaving the room, her gaze lingering just a little too long on Sam.

“Agents,” the middle aged man said, tipping his head in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

“We just need to follow up on the autopsy,” Sam said.

“How did the victim die?” you asked.

Zach stared down at the metal table in front of him before huffing out a chuckle. “You’re probably going to think I’m crazy,” he said. “Neither me nor Dr. Lambert hardly believed it ourselves. But...the victim’s heart. It...it was gone. Like...it had been ripped out.”

You, Dean, and Sam exchanged looks before Dean asked exactly where the body had been found. Zach gave him a strange look. “Didn’t Sheriff Johnson already…?”

“Yeah, he already told us where,” Sam interrupted quickly. “We just need the address,” he said, smiling.

Zach nodded, seeming to accept Sam’s story. “Ashlyn can help you with that,” he said.

Sam nodded. “I’ll be back,” he murmured to you before exiting the room, leaving you and Dean to ask Zach a few more questions.

You and Dean were discussing the case, agreeing it sounded like a werewolf, as you walked back to the waiting area. But your heart nearly stopped as you came around the corner. Sam was casually leaning against the front desk, a wide grin on his face as he talked to Ashlyn who was giggling and once again playing with her hair.

Sam looked up as you and Dean approached before turning back to the woman in front of him. “So...Friday,” he stated.

She nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. Sam smiled again before shoving away from the desk and coming up to you. “Address,” he said, handing the yellow sticky note to Dean. Sam thanked Ashlyn for her help before you and the boys left the morgue, jealousy burning your insides.

**********

Thursday came and went in a blur of sweat, blood, and hunting. It indeed turned out to be a werewolf wreaking havoc on the town. It was a fairly easy hunt and by the time Friday evening rolled around you and the boys were ready to head back to the bunker the next morning.

You were just packing the last of your clothes into your duffle when the motel room door opened. Dean had gone to the bar, claiming he was in need of some rest and relaxation, but you suspected it was to see the waitress he’d been checking out two days before. And Sam had left on his...date with Ashlyn. You had expected to have the evening to yourself so you were surprised when Sam walked in.

“It’s getting cold out there,” Sam commented, quickly shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Mm,” you said with a thin-lipped smile before turning back to your packing. You could hear Sam pulling off his jacket and tossing it to the bed before going to the mini-fridge and taking out a bottled water.

“So…” you said cautiously. “How was your date?”

“My...what?” Sam asked in confusion.

“Your date,” you said, stuffing your despicable pencil skirt back into the bottom of your duffle bag. “With Ashlyn,” you said.

“I didn’t have a date,” Sam said with a light chuckle.

“Then what were you talking about with Ashlyn when you mentioned Friday the other day at the morgue?” you asked a little more suspiciously than you intended.

“There’s this record shop that she was telling me about. She said they were having a huge sale on records, but it was Friday only. So I went and checked it out,” Sam said. “(Y/N).... Are you...jealous?”

“No!” you stated a little too quickly. “No,” you said again. “I...was just curious. Plus...we all know you’re way out of my league,” you murmured.

“Who says?” Sam asked, his words startling you; you hadn’t known he’d heard you.

The room fell silent. You stopped what you were doing and slowly turned to find Sam standing by the table, water bottle in hand. He was staring at you with an almost pained look.

He set his bottle on the table and without warning, he had crossed the room. He took one final look at you before pulling you into him and capturing your lips in a kiss, fervent and heated. It was almost overwhelming and by the time Sam broke the kiss, you were more than a little lightheaded.

“Wh...what was that?” you panted, your lips numb.

“Y...you have no idea do you?” Sam whispered, his grip on you never lessening. He leaned his forehead against yours, his breath warm, fanning across your mouth. “I’ve wanted you…. For longer than I can even remember.”

Your breathing hitched at his words, and you felt warmth flood your lower belly as arousal coursed through your body. “You’re so beautiful,” Sam murmured, his hands leaving your hips, and slowly caressing up your sides. “Baby...you drive me insane.”

You’d never imagined you’d hear those words fall from his mouth, especially to you and you were dumbstruck as you stared up into his hazel eyes. “Do you maybe want to say something?” he chuckled, pecking you lips softly. “Please don’t leave me feeling like I just made a terrible mis….”

You never let him finish as you wrapped your hand around his neck, pulling him down into a forceful kiss. His hands slid back down your sides, settling under your ass and picking you up in one swift movement. He sat down on the bed, your legs falling on either side of his lap. He pulled you ever closer, his long arms wrapping securely around you.

You couldn’t help but grind your hips against his, feeling his growing bulge against your aching sex. He groaned, his head falling against your chin. “Baby,” he breathed. “This feels amazing, but I...I gotta feel you.”

You rocked your hips once more against him, eliciting a deep and throaty groan from him before getting off his lap and standing in front of him. You slowly lifted your shirt over your head. His eyes were wide, pupils blown, as you unclasped your bra, letting it fall to the floor in front of you. Next you slid your shorts and panties down, letting them pool to the ground before stepping out of them. You stood in front of him, letting him take in every aspect. Maybe it was because he was your best friend or perhaps it was the love that had been blossoming, but whatever the reason you didn’t feel the need to hide.

Sam met your gaze, his eyes swimming with awe. “I know I said you were beautiful…. But y...you’re breathtaking.”

You felt a blush creep up your face and you looked to the ground. “Your turn,” you whispered.

Sam jumped up from bed, quickly undressing. Your eyes caught flashes of smooth skin and rippling muscle before he all but picked you up and brought you to the bed, laying you out underneath him. “You okay with this?” he asked, his erection gently nudging your folds.

“Yes,” you said, rolling your hips against him, showing him just how okay you were with what was about to happen, your wet folds sliding along his cock. He groaned, his head falling forward and his hair tickling your face.

After composing himself, he gripped his erection, lining it up with you before pushing in. You moaned at the slight sting of him filling you before he finally bottomed out, staying still for a moment as your bodies grew accustomed to the feel of one another.

The pressure soon faded into pleasure as he started moving. “Feels so good,” Sam grunted, your walls softly contracting around him.

You whimpered as he thrust into you steadily, his pelvic bone hitting your clit with each rock of his hips. “Sam,” you breathed. “I...I don’t think...I don’t think I can….”

“It’s okay,” he said breathily. His hand gripped your thigh, bringing your leg up around his waist as his pace picked up. “I’m right there with you,” he reassured, burying his face into your neck, his lips brushing against your heated skin.

You moaned as he pressed into your sweet spot, the pleasure building to all new heights. You wrapped both legs around his waist, his arms coming to pull you close. Your hands snaked into his thick and sweaty hair, tugging softly, a low and throaty groan escaping his lips.

You cried out as your orgasm suddenly washed over you. Sam came seconds after, his hips stuttering as he tried to ride out both of your orgasms. “(Y/N),” he whispered in your ear as he stilled.

You stroked his head and neck, his arms still wrapped around you securely. You hissed as he slowly removed himself from you moments later, your core oversensitive, bordering on sore. It had been heated sex, driven by years of pining and unrequited love.

Sam rolled to his back, bringing you with him. You sighed as you laid your head on his broad chest. You were both silent, reveling in what had just happened, the feel of love and scent of sex thick in the air.

“You want to know what I got at the record store?” Sam suddenly asked, brushing the hair off your shoulder and stroking your skin.

You looked up at him with a smile and nodded. He gently disengaged himself from your side, going to the table and picking up a record you hadn’t seen him enter with. He came back to the bed, immediately reaching for you once more.

A wide grin spread across your face as he handed you the album. “House of Pain,” you said, turning your gaze to him. He was smiling just as widely.

“I didn’t want to wait anymore for our song to happen to come on,” he said. “I wanted to be able to play it whenever I wanted so I could dance with you whenever I wanted.”

He brushed a strand of hair out of your eyes and cupped your cheek. “So I could hold you…. Kiss you…. And call you mine,” he whispered, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for reading! If you liked what I read, let me know!! ❤❤

***Please do not share my content on any other platform without my consent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tags:

Everything:

@divadinag @mogaruke @calaofnoldor @defenderrosetyler @coffeebooksandfandom @emoryhemsworth @satans-0-spawn @fandom-princess-forevermore @titty-teetee @gallifreyansass @swiftrogerswinchesterthot

Sam Girls:

@saladsammys

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x plus size!reader #sam x reader #sam winchester smut #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester angst #supernatural #spn #supernatural one shot

538 notes · View notes

houseofhurricane · 3 years

Text

ACOTAR Fic: Bloom & Bone (13/32) | Elain x Tamlin, Lucien x Vassa

Summary: Elain lies about a vision and winds up as the Night Court’s emissary to the Spring Court, trying to prevent the Dread Trove from falling into the wrong hands and wrestling with the gifts the Cauldron imparted when she was Made. Lucien, asked to join her, must contend with secrets about his mating bond. Meanwhile, Tamlin struggles to lead the Spring Court in the aftermath of the war with Hybern. And Vassa, the human queen in their midst, wrestles with the enchantment that turns her into a firebird by day, robbing her of the power of speech and human thought. Looming over all of them is uniquet peace in Prythian and the threat of Koschei, the death-god with unimaginable power. With powers both magical and monstrous, the quartet at the Spring Court will have to wrestle with their own natures and the evil that surrounds them. Will the struggle save their world, or doom it?

A/N: This chapter includes descriptions of physical and emotional abuse towards Vassa. If you find this potentially troubling or triggering to read, I'm providing a summary of the chapter at the very end of this chapter, so that you're able to skip it and keep following along with the story. You can find all previous chapters here, or read Bloom & Bone on AO3. If you'd like to get an early peek at chapter 11 and all future chapters, follow me on Instagram at @house.of.hurricane. Thank you for reading! ❤️

When Koschei claims her, the fire rages in Vassa’s veins, threatening to consume her. She hates that Lucien’s last impression of her will be the screaming of a wretched, frightened woman, but in those last moments in the Spring Court, Vassa is certain that Koschei will turn her body into filaments of bloody flesh. She can feel her flesh separating from bone.

When she opens her eyes again, she is back at the lake and Koschei looms over her, silhouetted against the full moon. The only indication that any time has passed is the white gossamer gown that Koschei has always dressed her in, translucent even in the moonlight.

“You put up quite a fight, my darling,” he says, nearly purring the endearment. Bile rises in her throat. Before, he never touched her except to strike. He’d never called her darling. “I had to force you to sleep for days. And you will notice that the enchantment on you is more tightly wound than before. After all, I was asked to keep you from escaping.”

“Briallyn is dead. The rest of the queens have left their thrones behind. Who still binds you?” She imagines herself in the throne room. It’s the only way she can keep her voice level.

“You’ll find I always keep my promises, little bird. Unlike your ragtag group of friends. You should know that they have not appeared to try and claim you.”

“I told them not to rescue me,” Vassa says, injecting as much fire in her words as she can bear. Inside she still feels ragged, every joint and sinew sore and tender, though her skin is still unmarked, the moonlight making her skin unnaturally pale, even against the white gown. An image, her golden brown hand on Lucien’s bronzed arm, the way they were shining and alive together, streaks across her mind. She banishes the thought quickly. Vassa has never been sure if Koschei can read her mind, especially now in this weakened state.

“Surely you are scheming,” the death-lord says, curling a finger and using it to raise her chin so that she’s forced to meet those depthless eyes, “but I will warn you, your cadre will not find me quite the fragile opponent that plagues this world.”

“Why am I so important to you?” she asks, forcing herself to meet his gaze, to keep from looking away. Best to keep him talking. Maybe then he’ll reveal a key part of his strength or magic, maybe somehow she’ll be able to pass it on to Lucien and he will know what to do, will know whether the words are sincere or a carefully baited trap.

But Koschei only gives a little smirk and turns away from her, sweeping his cloak in a gesture she knows means she is to follow.

Vassa had always been dimly aware of her relative weakness as a human, but now, unable to remember what has happened, unable to free herself, unable to focus on her goal with the same single-minded passion she’d had during her first captivity, she feels weak as a wet piece of paper, ready to dissolve at the faintest touch. She’d trained with a sword, once, gave speeches that brought her people to their knees. But no words can save her now, and even if she had a sword, what use would it be against a magic so powerful that none of the fae in this world could find a way to overcome it?

It was a hard lesson to a woman trained to be a queen, but in her first captivity, she learned how to be powerless, how to bide her time. So Vassa heaves herself to her feet with as much grace as her throbbing joints will allow and follows Koschei.

The sorcerer is bound to this lake, so Vassa has never been sure how he manages such a richly appointed table, more elegant than anything she has witnessed in her own court or in Prythian. The food, too, is exquisite, and though she is worried it has been drugged, after three days without a meal, she wolfs down everything so artfully arranged on her gilded plates, trying not to notice the gleam in Koschei’s dark eyes.

When she begins to feel sleepy, Vassa hopes it is merely the effect of being sated, the wine she drank. Koschei did drug her before, in those first days when she had not yet realized the futility of fighting him. After a week, the helplessness was enough to break her. Still, she thinks, as a heavy unconsciousness claims her, this means he thinks she can escape. That somehow, in some way she still cannot parse, the death-lord is vulnerable.

She wakes submerged in the dark waters of the lake, weeds clinging to her ankles, her lungs burning, and Vassa barely has the strength to hoist herself to the surface, pushing the water away from her body until she can gasp in the air. Above her, the stars are brighter than she’s ever seen.

Taking in the beauty as she paddles to shore, Vassa thinks of Elain. A peace that is nurtured by beauty, the legacy she’d wanted. At the time it had seemed a lovely wish, if a little anemic, the kind of thing that girls dream of. But now, as Vassa watches the stars fill the great dome of the sky, glittering above her, she thinks that maybe Elain knew all along, the necessity of this wish. If all along she was lost in her pragmatism, while Elain Archeron, the sweet-faced gardener, was the one who really saw the world.

She does not know if she will ever see Elain again.

She’s still not sure why Koschei let her leave with Gabriel Archeron, though Vassa has wondered if Hybern’s magic, their command of the cauldron, was too great a threat for even the death-lord to allow. But perhaps, in spite of all his promises, Koschei will let her go, or perhaps Lucien in all his cleverness will find a plan, and Elain will wield whatever fearsome gift is inside her, and Tamlin will storm the gates alongside them, the sword under which all their cleverness and strategy can thrive. Her companions at the Spring Court could be the stuff of legends, she decides, if only they’d realize their own capabilities. Perhaps this is nostalgia, but still it glows inside her, an ember of hope.

It’s this hope that allows Vassa to steel herself for the dinner with Koschei, that keeps her from fully slaking the growling hunger inside her. So that she pretends to fall into the drugged sleep early, her limbs sprawled heavy on the table, her face on the half-laden plate for effect. She knocks over the wine and worries this is one flourish too many, but once she’s really evened her breathing, Koschei begins to croon over her. The tone, which reminds her of her fellow queens exclaiming over babies and puppies, makes her skin crawl, but she cannot understand what he’s saying, the language unlike anything she’s ever heard on this earth. She wills her muscles to stay relaxed. Even a twitch will give her away.

Without warning, he picks her up by the back of her dress, the delicate seams digging into her skin, and flings her across the room.

For a small eternity, Vassa is in the air. Eyes closed, she tries to keep herself from panicking, from anticipating the fall.

When she hits the wall, and then the ground, the pain in her head is bright in her eyes, an explosion of pain that shoots through her body. The food she ate rises, burning, in her throat. Her joints are clanging. All the while, she tries not to make a sound, to keep her breathing low and even, though each breath is its own sharp pang.

Boots cross the room. Will he kick her next? Is this what Koschei does every night?

Somehow Vassa wills herself to stay still, nearly relaxed. She wanted to know what was happening to her. If he continues with a beating, eventually she will lose consciousness, but at least she will not be some limp doll with only a few precious moments of clarity, of starlight and beauty and memory.

But Koschei does not kick her.

Instead, he crouches down by her.

“I know you’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice so gentle it could belong to another person, not the sorcerer who flung her across a room as if to shatter her, “I am at least a bit more clever than you think I am, little bird.”

She stays quiet. Koschei has never rewarded reluctant obedience.

“Do you know what I think? I think those faeries convinced you of their friendship and now you mean to spy for them. Perhaps that’s why you offered so little resistance when you felt my call. I want to believe you missed me, but as I said, I am not quite as foolish as you believe.”

His fingers are on her face, tracing her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. The pad of his thumb presses into her bottom lip.

Lucien touched her like this, only a few days ago. Your lips are perfect for kissing, he’d said, how is it that they’re so soft?

“I smell that faerie on you, Vassa,” Koschei says, obliterating her thoughts. His voice approximates a song. “I know you took him into your bed. Did you think the fire would burn off my enchantment? Or did you know that your lover’s true father is known across this world for his acumen at breaking spells? Did you think they would find a way to free you?”

He brushes his thumb against the seam of her mouth, so lightly that her lips do not part.

“The creatures of this world are weak. I would have thought you’d know better by now.”

Vassa does not whimper or cry out, only waits for him to speak again, to strike or violate her. She will be limp as a doll, she tells herself, a dead weight in his hands.

Instead, there is silence for one laden moment, then another. She hears the sound of his boots on the floor, walking away.

Then he turns back. Before Vassa can register the sound of his quickened steps, his booted foot is at her stomach and his fingers are in her hair and once again, she’s flying.

This time, oblivion claims her before the pain.

Vassa wakes up inside the firebird. The world is still alive, the water of the lake spangled with rainbows and the afternoon sun, and the absence of pain is a miracle. She tries to remember why she is so glad to notice all these things but she cannot remember. Instead she wonders why the lake is empty, why the other birds scatter when she draws near.

Why, if she has wings, does she not fly?

This time, when the sun dips below the horizon, Vassa’s mind is ready and she swims to shore before the fabric of her dress is soaked through. The pain from the previous night’s assault has vanished from her head and her stomach, her back and her shoulder, even in this form. She realizes that perhaps more than a day has passed, that it could have been weeks since she was last conscious. Somehow this possibility is more appealing than Koschei healing the damage while she was incapacitated. Even when there’s magic involved, a healer needs to put his hands on the patient, skin to skin.

When she hoists herself up on the bank, Koschei looms over her.

“How was your day?” he asks, as if they were completely different people in completely different circumstances, friends parted for a day by their respective obligations.

Vassa is careful to modulate her voice so that it’s all sweetness.

“Did you know that birds can see more than humans?”

“I have heard the shapeshifters among the High Fae make such a comment, but I suspect their own vision is relatively weak. Particularly if they’re devising artificial eyes.”

She takes a deep breath of the evening air to buy herself a bit of time to think, notes the chill of autumn beginning to creep into the summer evening. Soon, the water of the lake will be frigid and she will have to stay in her right mind if she wants to avoid swimming those waters when winter comes.

Koschei misinterprets her silence as acquiescence and holds out his hand to her.

He does not decide what her gestures mean. It’s what she tells herself as she grips his palm with her cold fingers, allows him to pull her upright. When he turns away from her toward his home, she follows without comment.

Let him think she’s already broken, she thinks with a little smirk, trying to keep from tripping on the sodden skirts that cling to her ankles.

Koschei passes his entry hall, the dining room, leads her deeper into the house, further than Vassa would expect the walls to extend based on the outer dimensions of the structure. He ascends a spiralling staircase, passing the hallways to two shadowed floors, then leads her to a landing that would be beautiful in the day, with high windows and wooden floors that would gleam red-gold in the sunlight. The color of her own hair.

But this moment of enjoyable vanity is destroyed when Koschei stops, gestures with elegantly pointed fingers at an open door. The room lit with candles is a bedroom, the bed large and inviting.

During her first captivity, she slept outside, under the stars. Even the freezing nights were preferable to this implicit threat. Nausea rises through her, the remembrance of those fingers caressing her face. She tries to keep these thoughts from appearing on her face, knows that she’s probably failing. Her queen’s training only preserved a certain lack of respect, not the threat of capture or abuse or even rape. Her tutors did not prepare her for this scenario when they taught her how to modulate her voice.

“I only thought that you would like to change into a dry gown before dinner,” he says, his voice a perfect simulacrum of charm.

“And deny you the pleasure of drying the fabric through your own magic?”

“I am given to think that you human women detect such interventions as unpleasant. Unless you have learned otherwise during your time in Prythian.”

She thinks of Lucien, the way he’d warm his hands or feet so that he never caused her a single shiver of cold, only of pleasure.

“I learned many things in Prythian,” she says, trying to keep the expression from her voice. “Will you wait for me, or should I meet you at the table?”

“Are you planning on escaping through the window?”

“I’m sure you’ve already considered this possibility and warded the room.”

He smiles at her, runs his tongue along his pointed teeth. She has to work to hold her resolve. There is a benefit in letting an enemy think he has won. Even if it feels like a real loss.

“Join me at the dinner table. I expect that you will not linger unduly.”

She nods, dips into a curtsy for good measure, then waits until she hears him pass the second landing before entering the room. Quickly, quietly, she opens every drawer, looking for a weapon, a document, anything that could help, but there are only washcloths and cosmetics and jewels and perfumes and handkerchiefs and underthings. Because of course what she needs most at this moment is a functional corset.

She does not, cannot, ask herself how Koschei acquired so many items of a woman’s toilette. At best he summoned them to himself with whatever magic populates his flawless table. The worst options will wreck her utterly.

On the bed lies the dinner gown, sumptuous in a deep green velvet, no adornment but a line of pearls at the wide collar, which she knows will glow against her skin. The gossamer gowns are for virginal princesses. This is a dress that a queen wears when addressing her subjects.

She lets her sodden dress and underthings fall to the floor with a wet slap. The velvet is heavy enough that she does not bother with undergarments. They will only leave her itchy and haunted by the women who wore them before her, why Koschei kept them prisoner and how he managed to make their lives miserable.

In all her time with Koschei, she’s never seen another woman. Only the sorcerer, until Gabriel Archeron negotiated her freedom.

Nevertheless, and perhaps it is only her imagination, but Vassa swears that she can feel the spirits of these unknown women around her while she fastens jewels around her neck and in her earlobes, arranges her hair into a coronet. Their spirits gild the air around her when she fashions a stiff necklace into a diadem that’s pleasantly cool against her forehead. She has never liked bracelets or rings, which have always felt constraining, especially after Koschei, but when she looks at herself in the mirror, she looks passably queenlike. She even manages to muster a haughty expression, the kind that would send Lucien rolling his eyes at her whenever she aimed it towards him in the bedroom. A traitorous clutch of hope pounds in her heart, just at the idea of him.

I believe you will find a way to free me, she thinks in his direction, hoping one of the clustered spirits will pass the message. Their presence does not scare her. They have not assembled to do her harm.

Finally, heaving a deep breath into her lungs, Vassa exits the room, descends the winding staircase until she’s in Koschei’s lavish dining room.

Koschei is alone at the table, angling a goblet of wine to his lips.

“You look lovely, little queen,” he says, rising as she walks toward the table. He pulls out a chair for her, brushing a kiss to her temple.

For a second, his beard snags on the chain of her diadem, and Vassa forces herself to smother a smile, her first in days. Then she forces the hair free and sinks into her chair, letting her palms sprawl on the arms, the way she’d sit on her throne, the youngest and most willful of the seven queens who ruled the human realms of this world. With her people she was all easy grins and drawling delivery, witty and clever and sure, but with six other queens, Vassa knew enough to keep herself in check, to hide the whirling of her brain behind flawless manners.

She eats the food before her, her bites demure and chewed in silence, and eventually Koschei begins to speak about nothing in particular, the harvest in a nearby village and the berries of the forest, the signs which predict the weather in the coming days and seasons. Vassa sips her wine and makes encouraging little sounds in the back of her throat, watching for the small detail that will signal disaster.

This evening is practically a kindness coming from Koschei. His kindness is always suspect.

Vassa waits for a drugged sleep to claim her, but the meal continues the way a state dinner does, a new course periodically revealed as the most boring guest drones on and on about subjects that interest him only. Luckily, Vassa has had years of practice at smiling and nodding while crucial diplomatic relations can crumble over the improper acceptance of a compliment.

When dessert is finished, along with the smallest sip of port Vassa can manage, Koschei says, “I would like to offer you a room to sleep in, as a symbol of my faith in you.”

“That is a great kindness,” she manages to say, though all her senses are screaming.

“It would not do, if you were to sleep outside in the coming days. The nights are growing colder and colder. I would hate to see you freeze. Do you know what happens to a human body in such conditions?”

She expects him to continue speaking but he looks at her as if he expects to answer. She lets her eyes widen, as if the thought is too horrible to consider, as if he himself has not flung her across the room and allowed her bones to fracture.

“Believe me, little bird, you do not want to experience this pain. I insist you take the room.”

How she makes herself murmur a thank-you, Vassa will never know.

She climbs the stairs slowly, turning to look over her shoulder, but Koschei does not follow. When she reaches the room at the top of the staircase, she removes her jewels, pulls the blanket from the bed, and wedges herself against the closed door.

“If you have any ghost-magic, I would appreciate your protection,” Vassa whispers to the spirits that thicken the air of the room.

There is no silence. There is also no attack.

Vassa wakes into the gray pre-dawn, and manages to make her way outside before the world, her mind, all dissolve into a haze of colors and movement which overwhelm her thoughts completely.

The next few weeks fall into this routine: a new dress for every dinner, Koschei’s endless small talk, peppered with increasing yet innocuous questions about her mundane preferences and youthful memories, and a night spent curled on the floor with her back to the door, sleeping and yet alert to every sigh and creak of the house in case it’s an alert to Koschei’s presence. He never comes, and Vassa never feels more feral than in those half-dozing hours, when she realizes the way animals must sleep in the wild. Luckily she’s able to sleep on the lake as the firebird, which she realizes as her human mind learns once again how to work within the confines of the bird’s mind.

One night, when Vassa is preparing herself for dinner, there is a voice inside her mind.

Have you seen my sister? The voice sounds like Elain but with more gravity. Feyre.

You know I am a captive, don’t you?

Elain wants to rescue you more than anything. She and Lucien. I am worried they have made some terrible decisions in the course of pursuing your safety.

A death-lord holds me as his captive, High Lady, she says, not bothering to hide the derision in her voice. Once, she’d asked Feyre to free her. She’s not convinced that Feyre took her plea seriously. She’s heard the stories, of course, which tell of Feyre Cursebreaker, who, as a human, bargained for Tamlin’s life against Amarantha. Her trials and the torture she endured before she was reborn as High Fae have become legend, to the point where Vassa wonders how much is true, or if Feyre has given up the memories of her experience. Because if she endures this, if she ever leaves Koschei, there will be no women in captivity in her lands, no girls locked in strange rooms at the behest of men.

We are working on a plan to rescue you.

But you have lost Elain and probably Lucien, as well.

A silence, and then a sound like a sigh, so deep it’s nearly a groan.

Is he… harming you?

At first. Now he is being too kind.

There’s a silence. Vassa doesn’t know if Feyre understands or thinks she is being ridiculous. She has never been more aware of all her weakness than in this moment, when she cannot so much as parse a simple mental conversation.

We will rescue you.

There are only a few moments before Koschei will be suspicious, so Vassa decides to blurt out everything she knows. Let Feyre and her court work out the implications.

Lucien is working on parsing the spell that binds me. He’s working with Helion in the Day Court. And your sister -- I cannot detect power the way the fae do, but your sister is much stronger than you think. Koschei knows about her powers, probably more than you do. He will want her at his side.

Has he mentioned Elain to you?

Not yet. He doesn’t trust me with much information. She blows out a breath, fogging the mirror so that she’s only the red mass of hair and golden skin, the heavy purple folds of her dress. I am late to dinner and I am sure he will detect this conversation.

I’ll erase it behind you.

When you see your sister, tell her she was right about beauty. And Lucien has not betrayed you. I think Lucien is the best male in all of Prythian.

There’s a tug at her chest, the harness of the spell pulled tight.

I’m being summoned, she thinks toward Feyre, and then, as she descends the stairs, Vassa begins to wonder why it is that, despite the perfect ordinariness of the day, she feels a spark of hope inside her like a flower unfurling its petals.

Dinner with Koschei is a little quieter than usual, and Vassa finds herself worrying that Koschei will notice the difference in her, the lightness. As usual, she makes sure to keep quiet, hum her acquiescence in between careful bites.

“It is not so terrible being here, is it?” he says, when the plates of their entree have vanished and the dessert has not yet appeared. She longs to reach for her glass of wine.

“The forest is lovely in autumn,” she responds in a voice like honey, keeping her barb well-cloaked. “There’s a certain angle of the light that is quite beautiful at this time of year.”

He scoffs a little, the smile on his lips revealing the points of his teeth. Whatever Koschei was in the world of his origin, he was never meant to have an endearing grin.

“I am speaking of this life you have, every night. The dinners and dresses, the well-appointed room. You would like it to continue?”

She wants to say you know I am a captive, don’t you? The words feel familiar but she knows they are not safe in this place.

“You keep the finest table I’ve ever known, Koschei.” She meets his eyes when she says this, tries to make them earnest as she offers this one tiny pleasant truth.

“There is so much more I could offer you, little queen.”

He leans toward her, across the table, reaches out her hand. Vassa allows him to clutch her fingers. He runs his thumb against her fingertips, his skin against hers. She does not wince. She forces her face into a pleasant expression.

“Tell me more.” She cannot say what are you talking about. She will not be able to make the words sound pleasant.

“I could make you my wife and queen.” His thumb is on her wrist, the dip at the base of her palm where her pulse thrums. “Forget Scythia, Vassa. You could rule over all the human lands. The whole of this world.”

“And what would be left for you?”

She cannot keep the fear from her voice, but Koschei does not seem to mind. He regales her with another smile, a predator’s expression.

“There are other worlds, my little queen. Soon I will enter them as ruler.”

Vassa is too stunned even to attempt a correction to the posessive. At some point, her hand falls to the table, empty.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN SUMMARY

Vassa is imprisoned by Koschei at the lake. She is barely conscious in her firebird form, and is physically abused by Koschei when she's awake. Still, despite the abuse and the fact that as a human queen she is in every way outmatched, she tries to keep fighting. Vassa becomes seemingly acquiescent to Koschei but stays alert for any apparent weakness, though she begins to despair. After a short time, Koschei begins to show kindness to Vassa, offering her a new gown every evening and a room in his house which she's never seen, which is inhabited by the spirits of other women. She is afraid that Koschei will drug and/or assault her, but instead he offers her dinner and shelter. After a few weeks of this confusing treatment, Feyre speaks into Vassa's mind, looking for the missing Elain and Lucien, and promising a rescue, a promise that Vassa doubts. At dinner that same night, Koschei offers to marry Vassa and make her queen of this world, with himself as the ruler of every realm. Horrified, she does not answer him.

2 notes · View notes

smokahuntis · 4 years

Text

Why Do You Only Call Me When You’re High?

Why do you only call me when you’re high?

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Song: Why do you only call me when you’re high? - Arctic Monkeys

Warnings: alcohol abuse, fluff, little bit of angst. Mentions of sex.

Summery: after a terrible day, Javier finds himself drinking, and later calling his ex girlfriend.

Authors note: I made these gifs

The mirrors image, tells me it’s home time

He looked at himself in the stained mirror of the bar bathroom, blurry, discolored. The world around him was shifting, he really over did it tonight. He couldn’t help it tho, today makes 3 months he’s been with her. With her out of his reach, out of his bed and into his head.

He was wrecked already so when he walked out to talk to Steve, Steve already knew. Grabbing Javier’s shoulder and looking at him.

“Want me to take you home? You look pretty spent...” Steve’s concern was pushed aside as Javier shook his head and grabbed his jacket.

“I’ll walk... need to.... clear my head.” He said walking away from Steve, lighting a cigarette on his way to the door.

“Is he going to be okay?” Connie asked looking at Steve, Steve’s eyes never left Javier.

“I think he’ll be fine...” Steve said before sitting down again.

But I’m not finished, because you’re not by my side.

Once he got out onto the streets he reached for his phone, dialing the 10 digit number he memorized from the moment he met her. The dial tone run threw his ears as he walked the humid streets of bogota, she’d answer. She always did.

He stumbled threw the streets with the bulky phone to his ear trying to listen for her voice from the other side, but instead all he heard was a beep.

“Hey, it’s me... it’s- it’s Javier I ... I really need to talk to you” he started before looking up down the street towards where her apartment would be, as if she was looking back at him. “I miss you...”

And as I arrived I thought I saw you leaving, carrying your shoes.

He saw her face everywhere he went, in the faces of people passing. In the brothels, in girls at the bar. She was everywhere, plaguing his mind and heart with the memory of her. It was never supposed to be like this, he was never meant to fall in love with her.

Steve started to notice his distress when someone brought up her name or called her “the informant.” It wasn’t like that, she was never one of those girls he slept with for information. She was technically an Informant but categorizing her with the others disgusted him.

Decided once again I was just dreaming, of bumping into you.

It started with her being one of the cops Escobar bought out, when she turned herself in, the DEA started using her to get information from him. They’d always meet in private so none of Escobars men would see her go to the embassy. And it was always Javier, no one else. He missed when it was simpler, when it was them talking about what she knew and having a few drinks. He missed the first time, when she thought she’d been discovered and had a break down and he comforted her, and one thing led to another. They swore it was a one time thing but he always came back for more.

They broke up because they weren’t meant for a relationship, Javier slept around for information and she was a C.I . When Escobar got locked up in “La Catedral” a lot of the people he paid were cut off, and that included her. She was no longer an informant, therefor not important to the embassy, but that didn’t change his visits to her. She called it off because she couldn’t take what he did, how he acted and who he was with. He understood, but it broke him more then he’d care to admit, because she wasn’t sex and information for him. She was someone to come home to, someone who cleaned him up after a bad day and took care of him.

Now it’s 3 in the morning, and I’m trying to change your mind.

He called her again, leaving another message. Then another, and another. It was killing him to not hear her voice, to not hear his name roll off her tongue, or a simple hello.

He’d give anything to just be with her right now, to have her in his arms, in his bed. To kiss her skin and lips, to lay her down and make love to her like he has no other. Love, that’s what this feeling was, he was in love with her.

Left you multiple missed calls and to my message you reply.

It wasn’t the first time he’d done this either, it became a normal thing on days like this. It’s why Steve didn’t force him into the car and back to his apartment, he knew where Javier was going, knew the phone he was calling and the name he was asking for. Sometimes it hurt Steve to see Javier like this, but sometimes it reminded him the he too has a heart.

So when Javier stumbled out of the bar Steve let him, knowing the outcome as always. (Y/n) would take him home and put him to bed and leave, leaving an upset Javier for Steve to deal with the next day. But Javier needed it, needed her to push him away so he’d understand. She never answered the phone, never left him a message, because it hurt her as much as it did him.

“Why do you only call me when you’re high?”

The voice startled the DEA agent, not used to hearing someone at the end of the line. He was at a lost for words. He tried processing the silence thinking maybe he didn’t hear it. But she spoke again.

“Javier?” He voice was annoyed but still gentle. So he said the first thing that came into his head.

“Hi, why do you only call me when you’re High?”

She rolled her eyes on the other end, she hated him when he did this but she didn’t want him to be alone. “How much did you drink Javi?”

Javi... she said Javi, she gave him home. So much hope.

Somewhere darker, talkin the same shite

“Only a little...” such a liar, and she knew it. She let out a small chuckle, enjoying hearing his voice again, even if it was like this. After her pause he spoke again, just to keep her on the line. “Okay maybe a lot...”

“What are you doing right now Javier?” She asked concerned for his safety, checking the time. On a normal day he would be there by now to annoy her and have her take him home. She looked out the window not seeing him, it worried her.

“I need a partner, Well are you out tonight?”

She groaned and looked out again finally seeing him come around the corner. “I’m where I always am Javi...” she watched him stumble, biting back a giggle. “Now hurry up I need to take you home...”

he groaned threw the phone. “I don’t want you to take me home.” He looked up seeing her threw her window and he stopped and smiling. His heart fluttered seeing her in the oversized shirt as she looked at him from her second story apartment.

An’ I can’t see you here, wonderin where am I

She looked at the time again seeing how late it already was. She really didn’t want to drive this late, so she’s let him in. She walked over buzzing him in when he got to the main door.

He was even more shocked when it clicked and let him in, he still knew how to get to her apartment like the back of his hand. Knocking on her door, she opened up looking at him, he was quick to notice the tan button up that covered her body was his. The top two buttons undone teasing him.

It sort of feels like I’m runnin’ out of time.

She moved letting him in, helping him take off his jacket. He looked at her, neither of them said a word as his heard beat out of his chest. He really didn’t know what to do, he never got this far. Javier Peña, at a loss for words.

“Aren’t you going to take me home?” He finally let out looking at her, her apartment hasn’t changed at all, plants still flooding over the shelves and making it feel like home. Yet something felt off.

I haven’t found all I was hopin’ to find

“I don’t feel like driving all the way across Bogota this late.” She said going into her room and grabbing a blanket for him. Laying it down on the couch before grabbing a bottle of water for him. “Here...”

He took it from her before walking around the small apartment looking for what felt off, she just crossed her arms and watched him as she leaned against the arch way to the living room. When he couldn’t tell what was wrong she finally answered it for him. “I got rid of your pictures...” he turned looking at her kinda hurt but he knew why. She continued.

You said you gotta be up in the morning, gotta have an early night.

She sat him down on the couch, helping him out of his boots. “Why do you take such good care of me...” he mumbled out looking at her.

“Why do you show up at my house still?” She asked looking up at him from her spot on the floor. He reached down taking her hand, she didn’t stop him as he pulled her into the couch with her. She knew she’d regret all of this in the morning but right now she was to tired to care.

An’ you’re startin’ to bore me, baby

She sat next to him, partly on his lap as he pushed loose hair away from her face. His eyes flicked to her lips then her eyes, his tongue darting over his bottom lip. “Because I love you...”

She couldn’t believe the words that left his mouth, he’d never said that to her sober so she wasn’t excepting it while he was drunk. “No you don’t...” she said shaking her head trying to push the thought of him meaning it away. His hand came up to caress her cheek lazily.

“How do you know that?” He asked looking at her, and she quickly countered with another question.

“Why do you only call me when you’re high?”

He shook his head, and looked at her. “Because I’m scared...” his voice didn’t have its normal cocky tone, it was quiet and tired and sad. “Because I don’t think sober me can take the rejection...”

“The rejection?” She took in a deep breathe and ran her fingers threw his hair. “Javi... I broke up with you because I thought the only thing you cared about was my job... what I could give to you...” he looked genuinely hurt, hurt that she thought she was just work to him.

Now it’s three in the mornin’

“You weren’t just a job to me, mi amour...” he looked over her figure, cloaked in his favorite shirt, a shirt he thought he lost. Her legs exposed to him as his large warm hand came down to run across the soft skin of her thighs.

“I can tell you didn’t think of me as work either...” he said, his hand now playing with the end of the shirt.

And I’m tryin’ to change your mind

“I never thought of you as work...” she said looking at him, her head playing with his hair. “The moment you kissed me you weren’t just work, you weren’t just a hook up Javier, not for me...” He nodded his eyes finding her lips again.

“Then why did you end it...” he asked finding her eyes again.

“Because I thought this was work for you... if I’d have known I wouldn’t have...” even drunk he could tell she meant it, plus he was starting to sober up at this point.

Left you multiple missed calls

“Can we try again...” he asked quietly, barley Audible, she wouldn’t have heard him if she wasn’t so close. She chuckled and nodded.

“How about we talk more in the morning...” he nodded, but before she could move away from him she captured her lips in a kiss that spoke volumes to both of them. Her hands moved finding his cheeks, his hands falling to her waist pulling her onto his lap completely. The kiss lasted for a minute before she pulled away and he tried to chase her lips, needing the contact. Her finger rest on his lips stopping him.

“You’re drunk...get some sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.” She said looking at him.

And to my message you reply

“Lay with me?” He asked and she nodded, he quickly shifted them so he was laying on the couch and she laid on him. She giggled in surprise as she looked down at him now.

“Goodnight Javier...” she said giving him one last kiss before laying her head on his chest. He smiled and closed his eyes, slowly drifting to sleep. Right before he fell into the abyss of sleep his head repeated her question, wondering the same thing.

Why do you only call me when you’re high?

Taglist: @pascalisthepunkest @thinemineours @morgannope @fleurdemiel145

#javier pena fluff #javier pena angst #javier pena smut #javier pena #javier peña #pedor pascal #narcos x reader #why do you only call me when youre high?#AM #arctic monkeys #song fic #arctic monkey #AM arctic monkeys #steve murphy

145 notes · View notes

definegodliness · 4 years

Text

The Amish Brothel

When I was young and wild, well, not that much wilder, but definitely plagued by the hormonal discharges that come with adolescence, it happened. No less than five years into my professional masturbation career (I was a natural), I suddenly found myself fed up with the sport.

Now, you're probably thinking, he did not try hard enough to be a professional jerk-off, but I had tried and brought to fruition the Norwegian Numb Strangler; the Alabama Twister; the Nubian Knob Flopper; the Spanish Sprinkler; yes, the Venezuelan Semi-Flaccid Fold 'n Toss, and even the Japanese Zen Garden Hose, but after five long and hard years none of them could give me the much sought after release of my all-overwhelming horny fornicorny sex on the brain-ness. I believe that is the medical term. But let it go without saying that it was plain and clear to me, I needed to get laid.

Now, how hard could it be for a sixteen year old to get laid; certainly in these days of moral decay? Very hard. You see, I was shy. Very shy. I was so shy that in the presence of the opposite sex I would freeze on the spot. And, as is well known, humans have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. They don't see unmoving things well at all. That's probably the reason why girls never noticed me.

So what I decided then was, that in order to keep my sanity, I needed to lose my virginity. And because I was so shy I realized that the only possible way of reaching this goal was to find a hooker. Which in these days of moral decay seems easy enough. However, it was important to me that she did not live in my home town. You see, I come from a very small town. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

So. Not willing to take any risks, I decided to start my Quest for the Whory Va-jay on the exact opposite side of the globe. But after a couple of days treading water in the Pacific Ocean, just off the New Zealand shore, it started to dawn on me that whores, much like me, were terrestrial beings.

So I swam back home to once again grab my globe, and now, making a concession, find the place that was exactly halfway between me and the exact opposite of the globe. I spun it 'round and blindly stopped it with my finger. It had landed on Pennsylvania, Ohio. I booked a flight immediately.

Long story short, I soon arrived in an Amish town by horse carriage.

Short story long again:

Now this might come as a surprise, but The Amish Brothel was surprisingly easy to find. Not because of any brightly red glowing neon lettering, of course, but because I had arrived in a very small town. Furthermore, the brothel was secret. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

The Amish Brothel was at the back of a bar facing the town’s church, as bars are often situated facing a church, and semi-legal brothels are often situated at the back of bars. In this we might see the duality of man. But that’s food for philosophers. Not for horny sixteen year olds who’ve traveled a quarter across the globe trying to covertly get sum.

Anyway, I went inside with a fistful of sweaty dollars, and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit quarters. Inside, there was a strange atmosphere. First of all it was dead silent, and the people inside seemed to roam about aimlessly trying not to come in contact with each other. The way they moved through the room reminded me of a wind up waddling penguin toy I once had. Strange. However, I swiftly deducted the only logical explanation would be that they were shunning each other.

As by now you might have guessed, I am a man of logic.

There were three women standing in the center of the room, holding a candle. I reckoned these were the nightly ladies I had come for.

So I made my way through the waddling crowd, and, believe it or not, the first thing I noticed about my potential defloweration candidates were their wrists. Wrists, that I've later been told were called the perfect 'butter churning wrists'. They were big. Very big. They were so big that one of them actually wore a belt as a bracelet. I knew it was a belt, because I had bought the exact same belt in the tax-free shop at the airport.

It had a big ol' buckle with the inscription: Big Ol' Buckle.

I knew very little of America at the time. I was just trying to fit in. And when I thought of America I thought of blue jeans, belt buckles, boots, and cowboy hats. You can blame TV for that if the image isn’t fitting.

Anyway, while I was sizing up my potential defloweration candidates I noticed the Amish prefer different qualities in women than I, modern day degenerate, do. The three women did not expose much skin, but the skin that was exposed was rough and calloused. Never before had I seen backs of hands that were calloused. I didn't know it was possible. Suppose it shows how much you can actually achieve when you work hard.

To continue the description of the hookers, it appeared to me they had broad shoulders, in any case much broader than mine. And their large, painstakingly developed trapezius muscles made them hunch over a little like France's most famous bellringer. Each of the three stood little under five feet tall, with hips little under five feet wide, and on sturdy, stubby legs with large all-terrain feet.

Indeed, these were women at peak Amish performance.

I could see that much, despite our cultural differences. And though I personally did not see the appeal, I could understand it.

Initially their faces, locked in that typical deep creased crinkled frown you see developed in people who are convinced we are here on earth to suffer, came across a little hostile to me. And for a second I doubted the good of my whole endeavor. But I had come all this way with a mission. Surely a couple of minutes of eyes closed defloweration was worth my salvation. It was settled.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the middle hooker, the one with the Big Ol' Buckle bracelet, seeing the two of us at least had some common ground to start off with. Yet as I, in my best English, complimented her on her smashing bracelet, and then nervously, half under my breath, muttered: "How much to fuck?", all I got was a vacant stare.

I reckoned I didn't speak loudly enough. Too nervous. So I took another deep breath, and then, admittedly a bit brash and far too loudly, repeated the question: "How much to fuck?!"

What happened then I can only describe as a Hive Minded Synchronized Telekinetic Charge on my person. As all the waddling penguins in the room instantly and simultaneously turned to face me in intense disapproval. I could not move or resist as I felt myself slowly getting pushed to the exit. It was like a barraging conjoined aura. An invisible force field shooing me.

Later I learned that what I experienced that night in the Amish brothel was nothing other than The Full Power of Shun.

(Source: The Art Of Chores, by Pennsylvanian writer Shun Shoo. A good book, you should read it. Once you take the knowledge in that book metaphorically, its wisdom is still very much applicable today.)

After feeling The Full Power of Shun, I realized that Amish brothels don't work the same way as ordinary brothels do. The kick they get out of it lies in the test of will they subject themselves too. To come eye to eye with the greatest sinful seduction, and persevere, yet in that perseverance feel no pride. To stay unmoved in most rousing circumstances. The Amish find it important to stay unmoved, and soon I'd find out why. Not all too soon though.

First, I made my way out of town, disillusioned, feeling frustrated and lonely, and only guided by the light of the stars and the full moon, but that was also when it happened:

I heard a sharp 'pssst!' coming from within the shades in between two houses. Then, as I turned my head inquiringly, I saw the flashing pale of a bare ankle's skin. I don't know if it was due to me in my depraved deprivedness witnessing a woman's bare skin, or rather because of my body's instinctive preparation in anticipation of sex, but hot blood surged to my loins, so much that I could only follow the boner. I had found her. The town harlot.

Now, if you're from the city you probably don't know this, but it's a well known secret that every small town has one (1) town harlot. These mystical beings do not appear to the locals, who in fact haven't the slightest idea of any aphrodisiacal apparition living among them, but on full moon nights, when the timing is just right, they present their physical manifestation to other small town folk, visiting. So goes the legend.

She took me inside via the back door, then floated upstairs to her bedroom. And I, dragged forward by the tent in my pants, followed after in ascension. Bumpily gliding over the stairs with just the tips of my two shoes. When I entered her room she was already lying on the bed, half-sunken in the soft mattress. Fully clothed and thereby covered, except for her ankles.

Oh, great seductress.

Without moving much, or even looking at me, she curved her index finger to beckon me on the bed. And without any hesitation, I jumped on. Like a wild animal. Like a being of pure instinct, heart thumping in my throat. I might have even growled when I started attacking the layers of fabric that still hid the soppy pink treasure trove of lovin' that would change the boy I was in the man I would be. It went as follows:

Apron, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, skirt, dress, cape, fuck there's the mattress, cape, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt.

Long-johns!

Hers were tied up with a thick beige string, laced in a bow tie, which I fumblingly undid with trembling hands. Then, spreading the two now loosened pieces of fabric open. Finally. The plain white slip.

Carefully, I pulled it aside with two fingers and witnessed the fiery red version of what I had grown to do The Japanese Zen Garden Hose. It all seemed so long ago. 'Let bygones be bygones', I thought to myself, as I lunged forward into my very first woman, and thereby into the bright star spangled future.

Or so I thought.

Cause at the very second of my second thrust, she gasped and exclaimed:

"No, no, no, stop! What are you doing? Haven't you ever had sex before?"

I, frozen in position, stuttered that I hadn't.

"We need to lie perfectly still, else God will see us. You got that? Lie perfectly still."

And I, greener than the grass of the English Royal Garden on the first bright spring day in May after many many showers, complied. Lying perfectly still upon and within the harlot of whom I did not even have a name.

Lucky for me, she was very soft. And, also lucky for me, I had frozen up in a very comfortable position. In fact, I was so comfortable that it took only a couple of seconds for me to fall into a deep sleep.

That night I dreamt of God.

I was sitting on a stool in the bar that in its back hid the Amish brothel, when I heard a deep echoing voice resonating through my brain.

"Do you want a handjob?"

Surprised, I looked over to the side, inspecting the silvery haired man sitting next to me. There was no one else at the bar, so I just said:

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want a handjob?” He smiled comfortingly. “I noticed you are lonely. I get lonely too sometimes. Handjobs help then. If it’s any consolation, it isn’t all that different from a Norwegian Numb Strangler."

He was right, of course. I was lonely. And, in all honesty, a Slipside-reversed Numb Strangler didn’t seem so bad. Even if it wasn’t a proper Norwegian one. But in the end I did politely decline, and silence fell for a short while, until I cleared my throat to ask the big question:

"Are you God?"

"It's you that say I am."

"Then you are. How peculiar, I was just thinking about you today. Is it true you can't see people... ya know..."

Here, I made a gesture by repetitively penetrating a circle made by the thumb and index finger of my left hand with the outstretched index finger of my right hand. In some cultures this gesture is considered vulgar.

"Fucking", God interrupted.

"Yes... fucking... when those people lie perfectly still?", I completed my question.

"Ah, my child, yes. That is true. You see I have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. I don't see unmoving things well at all."

"Ah, like humans."

"Made in my image."

I don't know about you, but everything started making incredible sense to me at that point. Even more so, I started to like the guy. He seemed like a pretty honest and straightforward chap. That's why I empathized, remembering the little sentence he dropped priorly. Which I had so rudely ignored.

"You said you get lonely too sometimes."

"That is true. These days it happens oh, so rarely that people see me. In fact, you are the first one in hundreds of years. To be honest, it really makes me doubt myself. I worry..."

"Hey now, come on, God. You seem like a good guy. There must be a logical explanation for all of this. Something we're just not seeing."

At that time the irony of my statement still eluded me.

I took a big gulp of the whisky that had been standing in front of me, and looked to the side observing the still, silvery figure next to me. He looked absolutely dejected. But then it hit me:

"Do you move around all that much?"

"I am omnipresent."

"Well there's your problem. If your everything is everywhere at any given time, how can you create the movement needed for our basic amphibian visual system to see you.” I gulped down the rest of the whisky. “Can't you be less present? Like, semi-omnipresent. Half... omni... present?"

"Alas, no. That I cannot be. For if I'd be anything other than omnipresent, I'd be subject to the laws of relativity. Then, there is always a bigger fish. Probably by my own making, but, you know, it's like Greek Mythology states: 'The son always overthrows his father'.

He paused. Then started jabbering:

“T- that's always been the rule. I mean, I found a loophole, but..."

God stared in his glass pensively. Then, as awoken from a daydream, suddenly sat upright, speaking clear again:

"No, any other existence cannot be. I cannot allow myself to get in such a predicament."

"Aren't you all-powerful as well; how can anything that is created by you, and therefore is you, be more powerful than you?"

"I am a man of many paradoxes."

"Same."

I tapped on the rim of my empty whisky glass for a while, thinking about omnipresence. Trying to find an easy fix. But all I could think about is how omnipresence and non-existence are two different words used to describe the exact same phenomenon, limited by the vocabulary containing our understanding of the world and the ever-expanding universe around us.

I thought about our amphibian visual system, and wondered what else we can’t really see that is there. Or could be. Or...

“Hey, wait a minute, why can I see you?

I looked at God inquiringly. God, with his kind smile. He nodded at me.

"It's time for you to wake up."

With that I opened my eyes. It was morning, and never had I awoken so well rested. I pulled my shriveled, flaccid penis out of the now cork dry crevice of once meat marinating mind-boggling pleasure, and heard the harlot whisper: "Best sex I ever had." I took her word for it, after all, she was a harlot, and harlots are like experienced pros when it comes to the game of fleshy be-bop-a-lula.

As a matter of fact, I am proud to say that I have become quite an MVP in this game as well. No one lies stiller than I, and these days I can stay awake for a solid two minutes. I leave girls in such ecstasy they do not dare to lay with me twice, afraid to be maddened by the mind, body, and soul shattering sensation of unrivaled pleasure.

I promise I am wielding this power responsibly.

Of course, at the time I had no clue what a stud I had become that day. All that mattered was that I lost my virginity (does it count when you don't cum? It does count, doesn't it? Anyway), I was a man now. And as a man I strutted back into my small town village. Straight back, head upright. All would behold my manly stride. And all did, until Hank the bicycle repair guy cupped his hands in front of his mouth like a makeshift megaphone and shouted:

"Hey Bozo, how was the Amish brothel?!"

I hate living in a small village. You can't have any secrets.

---

#short story #write #absurdism #prose #long read #story #fiction #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writer #alt lit #literature #spilled ink #spilled writing #spilled thoughts #spilled words #words

148 notes · View notes