#i suppose i should tag for torture?

[hirazuki]

Clematis or marjoram for Melkor?

Thanks!

Clematis | Mental Beauty | Your mind vs. my mind

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

He descends the stairs to the lowest level; the long hall at the bottom takes him lower still, past the smithies and furnaces, the vast storerooms and the deeper mines and the opening to the caverns below the mountains, where molten rock sits spewing fire up at the shielded sky.

The light underground is warm, here, in Angband -- candles and torches and liquid flame; a merry union with the air that lives inside the fortress. It is a far cry from the cold cradle of Utumno, subterranean dark swathed in blue-green lucency, the seat from where poison and peril once flowed out to stain all the land, and fear walked abroad in his name.

It sickens him.

It is not Utumno the Deep-hidden (and fear no longer leaves his side), and in the moments where spite threatens to soak his thought and touch wholly, as a corpse-sack laden with gathered blood, he craves to strangle it: choke it all out until everyone is suffocating from ash and from ice, as though that would recall old power; as though it would bring back a time when the pain was a sleepless, aching thing in his mind and soul only. Now, it is in his skin and in his bones, tightly sewn into this charred flesh he cannot shed, which, to all of Angband, he pretends does not bother him.

He walks, and his steps fall with less thunder and more substance together than they once did -- as they do yet with each passing day -- and he pretends that this does not bother him either.

Melkor slows, feet edging the doorway to his destination: a yawning room, empty save for the single lantern burning low on the floor, the shadows it casts, and the elf in chains, shackled to a wall.

Maedhros -- Maitimo; Nelyafinwë -- the first son of Fëanor and newly vested High King of the Noldor. The commanding piece on the battlefield against his own.

Anger blazes anew in Melkor, as fresh as the blood that blackens his ever-blackened hand from where he had stuck it through an orc, mere moments ago. The creature had fallen to the ground in a clatter of iron and ivory, to join the already-rotting answer to his missive.

So, the elf is not to be bartered. Nor sapped for information: he knows nothing of import; Melkor has already wrung him dry. 

What, then, is to be done with him?

Melkor longs for the release, however temporary it will prove, that he knows violence will bring; to rework flesh and mind and spirit until they are recognizable only with mounting horror as a guide, fragmented visions in broken glass.

And it has always served well, as example and as warning.

However... there is something to be said about a much different kind of blow dealt to his enemies, the damage wrought by murmurs and mistrust, were their king to return to them one day, visibly -- inexplicably -- untouched, where all others have come back disfigured.

Mairon had advised the latter, before leaving -- dutifully, reluctantly -- on his orders to scout the new elven camps with his wolves, tongue tinged with something that on anyone else would have been nothing short of insolence and insubordination.

Mairon is right, of course.

How very like his own self of older days his lieutenant has become, all fluid grace and pretty words (though with an orderliness, a precision, a lack of waste, that he himself, naturally, has never possessed), while he --

Melkor clenches his jaw, and tastes metal in his mouth.

He knows what is happening to him.

Do they think he does not? Do they think he cannot see? His moods, fey and mutable always, yes, but in both directions, now grow ever more dire with no recovery. Irascible. Implacable. Insatiable. He sees it, knows it, fears it, with the bloodless terror of clinging webs and unlight, the daily dread of recognizing a dozen glinting eyes and undying hunger across a mirror, and yet is powerless to stop it.

He desires the light as he hates it, needs it as he cannot abide it, and now that he possesses it, finally, and in a manner that he can keep it all to himself, he cannot possibly cast it aside, no matter that it is the source of his decline.

They would like the jewels gone; the orcs and the balrogs, the werewolves and trolls and vampires, the elves in his service; all his servants; Mairon, most of all -- and this he knows, too.

They shield their eyes with downturned faces before him and disguise it as reverence, scuttle down dark passageways like rodents before a flood, resentful of the violation he has brought to the underbelly of Arda -- nay, to its very womb -- and the war that it has spurred to these shores.

There is no question that the assault the caged treelight wages on their senses is unbearable.

The assault it wages on his own is tenfold thus.

The glare blinds him, everything bleeding in a white haze of indistinct shapes, and the weight bows down his head, until the very idea of rest is but a distant dream of shadows among pitiless light; a memory of breath above water, above crushing rock.

To bear the Silmarils is excruciating. How to let them go, when to bear their loss would be even more so?

How to see them fall back into elven hands?

Melkor has always begrudged the elves their existence, but his hatred of them was not always such. He had entertained himself with them, in the beginning, when all they had known was stars and dark, slumbering woods and the shadow-shapes that walked in the hills. But the war that led to his wreck and ruin was made for their sake, and this he will never forgive. After Angainor, after three ages in Mandos, after Fëanor and the accursed creations of his hands -- he has nothing but hatred left.

This one, though, he thinks, regarding red waves spilling over bare skin like open wounds, glistening dark in the candlelight, this one is different.

Mairon has the right of it -- this one, Fëanor's eldest that burns with the same fire as his sire, yet more tempered and therefore more dangerous, is of rare value, despite his apparent worthlessness as leverage. He may benefit greatly from a different touch than the heavy hand of slag and slaughter that has become Melkor's fare.

Surely, he remembers how; he's not so far gone as that.

He may not be able to discard this body anymore, but he can still craft illusion -- and so he wraps an image around himself that hearkens back to shapes of old, larger but not too large, imposing yet sinuous, like black smoke coiling in the air, hair dancing around his head in tendrils with the languor of oil in water. He keeps his face constant, eyes glowing like the ice of the northern wastes, but little else: hands and limbs, all materialize and dissipate in dark mists as he pleases, as needed to caress, to cajole, to taunt.

Melkor is not certain what he is aiming to achieve with this, how this will aid in his deciding the fate of Fëanor's son; but, then again, there never has been much purpose beyond impulse. It is his nature, after all, and he merely follows it.

He allows himself a prick or two; a scratch, here and there, carved so shallow that not even his lieutenant can complain.

There is no response to his attentions.

It is only a matter of time before he teases the elf with those much-sought after jewels that live upon his head, the first time since donning his crown that he has removed it, in an effort to provoke a reaction -- any reaction, to break that stony composure that has quickly turned from amusing to aggravating until it crumbles like dry clay beneath his gaze -- and he presses them against his face, in the space between eyes and jaw.

Maedhros screams.

He recoils as he is burned, viciously cracking his shoulder on the wall behind him, and the acrid stench of seared flesh fills the air: it is a scent Melkor knows well.

They stand there in stillness, elf and Vala, one heaving with enough force to empty out his innards, the other regarding the iron in his hand, both silent; both surprised.

It is Melkor who recovers first -- and he laughs.

"Oh, this is precious," he finally breathes, returning the crown to his head and shedding his guise in his elation.

Maedhros is hissing and swiping -- like a cub, belonging to one of those long-fanged beasts of horn and plated bone that he had fashioned in the dark beyond the Lamps, that has been deprived of its morsel -- and saying something, but Melkor is no longer listening.

He runs his hand through hair red like blood, tangling his fingers in the strands, claws grazing skin gently, the urge to harm sated -- briefly; a mere flake of snow before open flame; never fully -- by this new knowledge. For no thing he can visit upon the spawn of Fëanor could ever surpass this.

It has been a terrible game, this affair of theirs, he thinks -- Fëanor's mind against his own -- absentmindedly continuing to stroke the elf's head, as though it is one of Angband's cats that he is soothing through a restless night.

But, however this ends -- whatever becomes of him; no matter if they throw down his towers, wrench the wretched West from its dim horizon to these far shores and hew his feet from under him -- he is secure in the certainty of one single thing:

His mind has already won.

• ────────────────────────────────────────── •

Anon, I hope you like this!!! Thanks so much for sending this in and giving me a chance to show my actual serious take on canon-verse Melkor instead of the humorous comic version I keep throwing at all of you ♡

#melkor #morgoth #maedhros #silmarillion #tolkien #silm #my writing #hira writes tolkien #cw: torture #i guess? i should probably tag? i can never tell how much requires a tag #but this is like. a whiff of torture. Torture Lite™ #i'm SO SORRY this took so long!!! Melkor was *N O T* cooperating.T_T #this was supposed to be like. only a couple of paragraphs. but he just wouldn't shut up about how sad he is. #he really wanted to let everyone know how incredibly sad he is. #(edit: also stuck a read more on there because i didn't realize. just how. fucking long this is rip X_X)

[khalaris]

Kapitel 9: Das Wiedersehen im Kaleidoskop nimmt ein jähes Ende. Und Moritz kämpft mit sich selbst.

#tatort wien #tatort #fanfiction #moritz/ernst #banter and flirting #should I tag this as Moritz whump? #I mean his issues are definitely torturing him he can't even really enjoy himself (sorry) #it wasn't supposed to be that bad #it..... just happened? 😅

[scattered-winter]

anyway if anyone deserved to be on the suffered more than jesus poll, it's rei because on god that boy has suffered

#ive started it im voltronposting w my cooler version w zero context. i am cringe but i am free etc etc #BUT ANYWAY. #my guy has eldest daughter syndrome he has trust issues he has abandonment issues he's on the front lines of a war #that both his parents left him to fight in so that he wouldnt have to. but he's fighting anyway. #he was supposed to protect his sister but she was chosen by a magical sentient lion robot and now he's helpless to protect her. #he sacrificed himself to save her and was tortured for months as a result. he can't remember what his mother looks like. etc etc. #bro deserves to be in the bracket more than anyone else i would wager. #damn i should make a suffered more than jesus tournament but its for ocs. like. anyone's ocs not just mine #hm. something to think abt. #winter speaks #rich inner world voltron #oc tag #rei (oc)

[elvesofnoldor]

.

#caught up with killing eve finally. take: eve is louis (vc books. NOT the AMC show). villanielle is lestat (vc books. NOT AMC show) #(ok villanielle = at least 70% lestat; eve= 40-60% louis as the story progresses) #and this wasn't supposed to be a love story but the actors got the wrong memo. maybe #idk i just read up a lot on what the writers said about their relationship and im pretty sure they were going for lestat and louis' bullshi #and they didn't successfully pulled it off as lestat and louis' bullshit #also. like. nobody even understood louis and lestat's complicated. miserable. tortured relationship and how it wasn't quite a love story #so how is a site of people growing up on at worst s*pernatural fanfic and at best star trek fanfic supposed to get what's going on #they should have just gone with villanelle books' ending. there was no need to make things unnecessarily complicated #but yeah. even though the ending does seem abrupt at first and it is a miserable ending. i actually do not mind it [hit the hornet nest] #actually i would only be hitting the hornet nest if this shows up in the kv tag. i hope it doesn't #mae overshares

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Captured.

A Continuation of This Piece.

Pairing: Yandere!Geto x Reader x Yandere!Gojo (JJK).

Word Count: 3.3k.

TW: AFAB!Reader, Dub/Con -> Non/Con, Implied Kidnapping, Oral Sex, Threesomes, The Pervasive Aire of Homoerotica, Slight Exhibitionism/Voyeurism, Violence, Intimidation, and Biting. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

He let you wait outside while he booked a room. It was a test, obviously – to see if you’d try and run as soon as he let you out of his sight. You didn’t. You kept your back pressed against the peeling cement wall and your hands in your pockets as the man at the front desk screamed, as you listened to the slick sounds of carnage and Geto’s muffled laughter. By the time he came out, his clothes dotted with dark stains and his hands lathered in the same dripping scarlet, you thought you might’ve been too sick for whatever he wanted to do with you.

He held up a hand, two keys and their accompanying plastic tags hanging from each finger. “Pick a number, one through ten.”

You just wanted to get this over with. Then, you wouldn’t have to worry about monsters or mysterious men or any of this ever again. “Eight.”

“Oh, the honeymoon suite.” Your eyes widened, and he cocked his head to the side. “Kidding, kidding. That’ll have to wait, for now.”

The room was nicer than you’d expected. Not quite the oppressively beige monstrosity you’d feared, but not as far from the eye-bleedingly pink love hotel that’d be the permanent backdrop in your worst nightmares as you would’ve liked. Currently, you were sitting on the edge of a king-sized bed with faux-velvet sheets, staring at your feet as Geto washed his hands in the in-suite bathroom. So lost in your own spiraling thoughts, you didn’t notice the water shutting off, didn’t hear him approaching you until the mattress dipped at your side and a pair of hands came to rest on either side of your waist. In one smooth, effortless motion, you were hauled into his lap, left to balance on his thigh as his eyes raked over you unabashedly. “You should try to relax. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were afraid of me.” His hand fell to the hem of your sweater. You’d gotten dressed in a blind panic after waking up to an apartment crawling with those awful things, but now, you regretted not throwing on as many layers as you could, not putting as many barriers as you could between yourself and the feeling of his calloused fingers skirting over your skin. “I can help take the edge off, if you’d like.”

For the first time that day, you felt a spark of relief. “Do you have anything? I’m alright with pills.”

“I was thinking something more along the lines of…” His hand splayed over your stomach, his tone laced with a dark edge. “Choking you until you black-out, then having my way with your helpless body?”

“Oh.” Just as quickly, that spark was extinguished – crushed under an unforgiving heel and stamped into total nonexistence. “I… I think I’d rather be awake, thank you.”

He hummed, tapping two fingers against your hip. “Have it your way, little one.”

Without warning, you were thrown onto the center of the bed. Before you could haul yourself up, before you could fully realize what was going on, Geto was between your open legs, mouth latched onto the inside of your thigh and his hands tearing at your shorts. The flimsy material gave away easily, and your panties didn’t last much longer. You took back what you’d said about wearing less revealing clothes; making this take any longer than it already did would’ve been torture. As deftly as he worked, the knot of dread forming in your chest was faster, quickly overshadowing every rational thought you might’ve had in favor of telling you that you weren’t supposed to be here, that this was dangerous, that you didn’t know what was going on, that you—

His broad tongue laved over your now-exposed slit, and your panicked mind went completely blank. His mouth was hot, and he didn’t waste time, latching onto your clit and sucking before you could think to push him away. Your body, nerves fried by adrenaline and senses dialed up to the point of hypersensitivity, responded immediately, your back arching as you struggled to swallow back a fractured moan. He encouraged your reactions, laving over your clit as two of his fingers found their way to your now-dripping entrance.

His digits slipped into you without resistance, scissoring apart and splitting you open as your own hands balled around the sheets, as you locked your jaw into place and did what little you could swallow back any sounds that’d make you seem more pathetic than you already were. Your pitiful attempts at resistance earned a throaty chuckle that reverberated against your clit and made your thighs clench together. Vaguely, in the distance, you felt his hand curl around your ankle, then you were being bent in half, your legs thrown over his shoulders as he ate you out like a man starved. It was all you could do to keep your eyes shut, the tears that would’ve escaped otherwise safely locked away, to make sure you didn’t kick or thrash or do anything that’d make him decide you’d be more entertaining after you’d been half-mauled by one of his monsters. It was all you could do to keep your mind blank, to block out the terrible, wet noises rising up from between your thighs, to—

The door creaked as it swung open, and you scrambled to pull away from Geto, to cover yourself before someone saw you being brought to the brink of climax by a murderer. He held you in place, though, his grip turning vice-like as he kept you splayed-open and on-display for the familiar, white-haired stranger now standing in the doorway. “Satoru,” Geto started, still idly pumping his fingers into you. “How kind of you to join—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. You closed your eyes, and when you opened them again, Gojo had him pinned to the far wall, a small crater blown into the cement where the point of collision would’ve been. You could see an orb of blinding, blue light forming in his other hand, but Geto only clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Keep your dick in your pants, pervert,” he purred, eyes flitting to you. “There are innocents nearby.”

The orb of light disappeared, but Gojo didn’t move. “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty.”

You watched a first form at Geto’s side, watched in a daze as his knuckles collided with Gojo’s cheek with enough force to send him flying across the room and into the side of the bed, fracturing the steel frame. “Me neither, ‘toru.”

Letting out a ragged exhale, Gojo pushed himself to his feet and their conversation devolved into a rush of blows and kicks and insults half-finished before Gojo’s fist collided with Geto’s chin or Geto caught Gojo’s throat in his teeth. Clothes were torn, blood spilled across cheap carpeting, and you blinked once, twice, before shaking your head and hauling yourself up and taking stock of the situation.

They were fighting. Eventually, one of them would probably win, and that winner would probably want to fuck you. Maybe, after that, one of them would also help you. Maybe.

Gojo caught Geto’s hair in his fist and pulled. You could’ve sworn you heard Geto moan.

Okay. Alright. Yeah. No. Fuck this, actually.

Slowly, careful not to make a sound, you stood up and pulled your sweater down to cover your still dripping cunt before inching towards the door which was, surprisingly, still in one piece (it would dawn on you later that Geto must’ve left it unlatched, if not open, much to your delayed mortification). You could figure something else out. There were two other people who knew about your monsters, which meant there must’ve been at least one more. Gojo had been wearing a uniform, when you first met him, running for your life from the mangled mess of teeth and claws that’d managed to sink its talons into you, and you thought you’d heard him mention a school. You could find someone else, someone who wouldn’t ask for sex, someone who wouldn’t know your name before you introduced yourself, someone who’d give you a protective charm or a talisman and then demand for money or unpaid labor in return. You could—

It felt like vertigo, like the surface of the Earth had shifted underneath you. Your body tilted, collapsed, and then Gojo’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his chest pressed into your back and his fingers burrowed into the flesh of your side. “Trying to get away?” His voice was raspy. Geto must’ve gotten his throat. “That’s not very nice.”

“You were the one who burst in uninvited and distracted me,” Geto muttered. His lip was busted, and he cracked his nose back into place as he hauled himself up from the floor. “If you hadn’t interrupted us, they’d still be cumming on my tongue so adorably.”

Gojo didn’t seem to pay him any mind. His attention remained fixed on you, his free hand drifting to your vulnerable pussy. Using his thumb, he gathered some of the slick staining your inner thighs, toying with it as he spoke. “I thought the first time I touched you like this would be more romantic.” He paused, his ears ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Or, the first time I touched you while you were awake, at least. It… it got harder to control myself, toward the end.”

You snapped to Geto, teeth bared. “This wasn’t what we agreed to. I don’t want to—”

“Don’t talk to him.” His fingers slipped into you, curling against the walls of your cunt. Your breath hitched in your chest, and Gojo pressed a fleeting kiss into your cheek. “Don’t look at him. He’s not supposed to be here.”

“I could say the same thing about you, Satoru.” Stretching his back, he made his way back to the bed and collapsed onto it, letting out a strained groan. “If I hadn’t been so kind as to donate all of those very valuable, very hard-to-come-by curses to your pitiful cause, you would’ve waited… how long? Another year before so much as breathing the same air as your little crush?” His half-lidded stare met yours, and he smirked. “You should have a taste. The poor thing is heavenly when they’re scared.”

“He’s always been this bossy. I’m sorry you had to deal with him on your own.” Gojo drew back, but didn’t let you go. Rather, he looped an arm under your knees and pulled you off your feet, carrying you back to that fucking bed. He laid you out with more care than Geto had, but his expression remained uncannily blank. He’d been blindfolded the first time you’d met, and whatever eyewear he’d come with had been either removed or torn away, revealing eyes that were almost painfully blue. The only mercy was his hair – long enough to fall over his face and obscure his empty gaze, his parted lips. His hand drifted to your injured leg, still bandaged from the knee down, and his lips quirked downward. “I’m sorry you had to get hurt, too. But…” He smiled, leaned in until his forehead rested against yours. “It’s good that we’ll get to be together, right?”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell him to stop touching you, to let you go home, but you couldn’t go home, so you said nothing.

Geto let out an exaggerated yawn. “I didn’t put this little reunion together because I wanted to hear you talk, ‘toru.”

“See what I mean? So fucking bossy.” And yet, one of his hands fell away from you. You heard fabric rustle, metal clink, and then his cock was free, prodding against the inside of your thigh. You could feel your heart drop into your stomach as your eyes broke away from his and raked over his pale shaft, his flushed head, already leaking beads of ivory precum. He was tall. They were both massive, but nothing attached to a human being should’ve been that big. “You’re lucky I’m letting you watch.”

“Who said I’d be watching?” So preoccupied by your own terror, you didn’t notice Geto shifting until you felt his hands on your sides, then at the hem of your sweater, pulling your only remaining protection over your head. You scrambled to stop him, but there wouldn’t have been much you could to do fend him off at your best, let alone in the state you’d been reduced to tonight. With a breathy chuckle, he finished stripping you down, his attention immediately falling to your chest. “You wouldn’t want me leaving you alone with him, would you, little one?” He bowed his head, catching your nipple with his teeth and pulling harshly. A pained whine slipped past your lips before you could choke it back, and he turned towards Gojo, grinning. “See? They like me.”

Whatever rage Gojo felt, he managed to bury it beneath a soft smile, a pulse of pure electricity in his eyes as he took his cock in his hand, dragging the tip over your entrance. You thrashed, kicked, fought, but he only cooed as he thrust into you, like he was trying to comfort you. Like you would need to be comforted if he just stopped.

He bottomed out, his hips pressing into yours with a blissful sigh, and you lurched forward, moving to claw at his eyes, to wrap your hands around his throat, to do something. Geto caught your wrists before you could so much as touch him, though – laughing as he forced your arms flush against the mattress. As Gojo started to move in earnest, Geto slotted his lips against yours, taking advantage of your distress to force his tongue into your mouth while Gojo fucked you open, whatever gentleness he’d been attempting to show you falling away in favor of burying himself that much deeper in your tight heat. As soon as Geto pulled away, Gojo took his place, his kiss not quite as aggressive but no less invasive, no less unwelcome. You should’ve never left your apartment. You should’ve never run from your monsters. At least they might’ve been kind enough to kill you quickly.

By the time he broke away from you, your vision was spotted with black, your lungs aching from a lack of oxygen. Jerkily, he straightened his back and raised a hand, his fingers soon tangled in Geto’s hair. You watched in a daze as teeth clashed against teeth and lips collided with a bruising force, and considered the terrifying possibility that you might’ve been the first person either of them had ever kissed.

Gojo’s pace turned erratic, his hold on your hip crushing. His pelvic bone caught on your clit every time he thrust into you. You’d been able to control yourself when faced with Geto’s teasing, but now, every little cracked moan and pained whimper slid past your lips, barely audible above the sound of slick squelching and skin slapping against skin. Unwillingly, you clenched around him, and Gojo doubled over with a throaty groan, burying his face in the side of your neck. You felt his mouth on your throat, then his teeth, sinking into your skin deep enough to draw blood. You clenched your eyes shut, willing your body to go numb to the pain, to ignore the coil of pure agony winding tighter in your core, but Geto caught your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back and stare up at him. “Trying to run away again so soon?”

“S-stop,” you half-sobbed, trying to pry his hand away from your face. “Don’t touch me—”

“We’ll have to bring a gag along, next time. That is, unless you learn to be more appreciative.” He shrugged his sweatpants below his waist, wrapping his fist around his cock and guiding it to your lips. “Open up, little one.”

You grit your teeth, keeping your mouth shut as tightly as you could, but Gojo bit down on your collarbone and you screamed, jerking against him. Geto took advantage of your misery, slipping a thumb into your mouth and prying your teeth apart, forcing his cock down your throat. “Bite down,” he muttered, voice low and tone sharpened, “and I’ll make sure he knocks you up.”

A wave of cold dread washed over you, but you didn’t have time to linger on your newly realized fear. Geto was already fucking your skull, already leaving you struggling not to choke as you tried to remember how to breathe around him. Where Gojo was uncontrolled, Geto almost seemed… unaffected, holding your head in place while he rolled his hips with the idle pace of a man determined to milk every second he could out of you. It was unbearable; the burning in your throat, the heat in your core, the feeling of Gojo battering into your cunt until you couldn’t stop your legs from twitching, your back from arching, your pussy from clenching around Gojo’s length and drawing a sinful noise from somewhere deep in his chest. You let out a ragged moan half-suffocated by Geto’s cock, and then you were coming undone around him, your body convulsing underneath his. Gojo wasn’t far behind. With a hitched groan, he pressed his hips into yours and pushed another open-mouthed kiss into your neck, making no attempt to pull out before flooding your pussy with something thick and awful.

Geto wasn’t far behind, his eyes falling shut as he came down your throat. For the longest time, neither of them moved, Geto forcing you to choke down every last drop of his cum while Gojo stare down at you, eyes blank and lips parted, his expression caught somewhere between tender and awe-struck.

Finally, he glanced away from you, looking to Geto instead. “Let’s switch. I want to feel their mouth.”

Geto let out a breath of a chuckle. With your body limp, your jaw slack, he pulled away from you, leaning just close enough to let his lips brush against your temple before straightening his back and moving to take Gojo’s place between your legs. “Whatever you say, lover boy.”

~

Hours later, when your skin was little more than a patchwork of hickeys and bruises and you couldn’t feel anything save for a constant, excruciating ache in your cunt, Geto had fallen asleep with his arm around your waist and Gojo laid next to you, head propped on his fist and a soft smile painted across his lips. You could see the sun starting to rise from behind the thin motel curtains, feel the dread that accompanied being in a strange place with strange men at a strange time, but it all seemed secondary, pushed to a distance by your exhaustion, your devastation. When Gojo wrapped his arms around you, pulling you out of Geto’s hold, all you could summon was a whine of protest, and even that was quickly glazed over with an airy laugh, a quiet hush.

Geto’s shirt (discarded three hours in, when he stepped aside for a shower while Gojo made you cum on his tongue for the fourth time) was pulled over your head, Gojo’s glasses (lost in the initial fight, found briefly while Geto was bouncing you on his cock with one hand and jerking Gojo off with the other, then lost again) snagged off the floor and pocketed. As he slipped out of the beaten motel door, you shut your eyes against the dim light, burying your face in his chest, and he encouraged you to, cupping the back of your neck as he pressed a kiss into your forehead. With his lips still lingering against your skin, he spoke, his voice muffled by his proximity. “It’s alright. You can sleep, if you need to.”

It might’ve been sweeter, if you hadn’t been able to feel every inch of his smile cutting into your skin.

“I promised I’d keep you safe, didn’t I?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #yandere jjk #jjk imagines #yandere geto suguru #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #yandere gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #yanderecore #yancore

[dreaming-medium]

No Contact

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Word Count: 7.6k

Tags: ANGST with a happy ending, amnesia, memory loss, grief, pining, yearning, hurt/comfort

Summary: It was one of the worst car accidents the city has seen. You weren't supposed to be in that car, but you were. When you lose your memories from the incident, Chan is ordered to stay away for your recovery's sake; but it takes a larger toll on him than anyone could have imagined. Until one day, he just can't take it anymore.

A/N: inspired by this post. Angst ahoy <3 I had too much fun writing this. Maybe I like writing emotions. Enjoy <3

—————————————————————

No contact. That’s what Chan was told was best for you. That’s what was going to help your healing process. 

No contact whatsoever. No texts, no calls, no little surprise visits. No fucking contact. None. 

He was told it would just hurt you if he talked to you— that he would just make it worse. That you would only become more confused and upset. It would be absolutely detrimental for him to see you.

Hell, it might even make you worse. 

It’s killing Chan slowly. Every single day feels like torture for him. The days get exponentially worse. He feels like a hollow shell of his former self, like the wind goes through him when he steps foot outside. It feels like his shoulders are permanently sagged forward. 

But the worst part is that you don’t even know it. You don’t know how he’s collapsing inwards like a dying star. 

It was one of the worst car accidents the city has seen in years. A friend was driving you home that night; Chan had begged to be the one to pick you up, but no, you said it was fine, the friend was heading that way anyway. Why make the unnecessary trip?

You told him he needed sleep. Always putting his needs before your own. You always did. 

He should’ve put up more of a fuss. He should’ve put his foot down. He should’ve already been outside the house in his car with the passenger seat warmer on by the time you left that stupid party. 

He should’ve gotten out of the car and opened the door for you and had a cold bottle of water waiting in the cup holder. He should’ve kissed you on the cheek and asked you all about your time. He should have been there.

But he wasn’t. 

A drunk driver slammed into the passenger side of your friend’s car at a speed that you shouldn’t have even survived.

Miracles do happen, though. But what a price to pay for a miracle. 

For as long as he lives, Chan will never forget the sheer panic and terror he felt when the call came in from your mother. You were already at the hospital undergoing emergency surgery.

He was the last to know. 

After all, he wasn’t your emergency contact. He’s only your boyfriend.

Was. Was your boyfriend. Was? Is that the right word? He isn’t. But he is. There was no breakup. 

Is that what he’s going through right now? A breakup? 

You’re not on a break. But what is this? What is this loss? This severance is so horrible. 

It’s fucked up. It’s a fucked up, amnesia induced breakup. 

Memory loss is a funny thing. Doctors scratch their heads and shrug their shoulders without any answers. The brain is a tricky thing. 

Chan did what he was allowed to in that hospital. He sat in that stark white room under those harsh LED lights and he waited until you were awake. He even waited much longer after that because only two visitors were permitted inside your room at a time— and he wasn’t about to force his way in and kick one of your parents out. 

He let your sister go in first. He even let your cousin go in before him. But when it was finally his turn… 

He never got to see you. 

“The last five years?” Chan asked with a tight throat. Did he even have any more tears left to cry? How is there any liquid left in his body?

“She says doesn’t remember anything, Chan.” Your mother’s voice was just as hollow as his. “She was asking about her freshman roommate.”

A doctor stood in between him and your mom. “It’s best if we don’t throw everything at her at once. Amnesia victims rarely never get their memories back, but we’ve found that it needs to happen organically. Seeing her will overwhelm her and that could stunt the healing process.”

Chan’s mouth opened and closed several times but no words came out at all. His heart may have stopped. 

Does that mean…?

No…

“He can’t see her at all?” Your mother asked quietly. “Not even to visit? He doesn’t have to mention he’s her boyfriend, he can just say that he’s a friend, or a coworker, or—“

The doctor cut her off. “No contact. Not until we’re a bit through recovery and she’s starting to get her memories back.”

Chan was suddenly in a chair. 

When did he sit down? The Doctor’s hands were on his shoulders and he was looking down at him with a sympathetic stare.  

“It’s not forever, son.”

Chan was only able to nod. His mouth was so dry, the back of his neck felt clammy. His head was spinning.

Books often speak of moments as ‘Earth-shattering’. Of moments so catastrophic that the planet stops spinning on its axis and time stands still.

He gets it now. 

The doctor spoke a few more words to your mother before walking away. She looked down at Chan sadly. 

Your mother sat on the chair next to him and wrapped him up in a hug. His world was falling apart around him. You were slipping through his fingers. He couldn’t even see you.

Hot tears poured down his face while he sat there with his head in his hands. Why does it feel like he’s losing you? Why is this the only way? Why are these the cards that are being dealt?

Why didn’t he pick you up from that fucking party?

“She loves you, Chan… she’ll come to her senses, I promise, I promise.”

It’s been two months, one week, two days and eight hours since he’s talked to you. That long since he’s known peace. Since he’s known any sort of comfort. 

You’re the last thing he thinks about before he closes his eyes at night and the first thing he thinks about in the morning. No matter how many times he wakes up and feels the cold bed next to him, it never dulls the ache in his chest.

It’s not a healthy mindset, he knows. And it’s not that you were codependent on one another, that’s not it at all. You were just… ripped away from him. 

Food has no taste. The sky isn’t as blue as it used to be. Clouds don’t make fun shapes like they did with you by his side. The stars are still in the sky, he thinks, he hasn’t had the guts to look at them. 

God, you love the stars so much. You always talked about how pretty they are— how absolutely breath-taking you think the universe is. Chan would simply listen, he would always listen. All he ever wanted to do was listen.

How is he supposed to look at anything the same way? How is any day supposed to be normal when half of his life is suddenly missing. What’s the point of making music if you’re not there to listen to it?

5:00 PM is the hardest hour to get through. You don’t open the door to his apartment when you get off work. You don’t tell him about the things that happened during your shift. 

He can’t leave little snacks out on the counter for you to eat when you get home like he used to. 

Mice would get to it before you did. 

His lonely apartment is slowly losing your smell. He could spray your perfume, sure, you keep a bottle at his place, but it’s not the same. You somehow made the scent sweeter by letting it linger on your skin. 

All of your old toiletries are still there where you left them. Your spare toothbrush has been bone dry and untouched since 9:28 AM that morning. Your shampoo bottles are still half full and waiting for you on your shower shelf.

It had rained a few days before your accident. You had started a puzzle on his dining room table that day– you told him it was the perfect rainy day activity. It was a picture of different comic book covers. It’s now collecting dust. Unmoved and unsolved. 

Just like him.

It was a battle and a half to throw away your leftovers from two nights before your car accident. He felt like he was throwing away your normal life, your tiny domestic traces. 

He didn’t want to cleanse you from his life, but you were washing away. Your ghost was eroding with time. 

Your spare car keys are still hanging on the key ring. Your rain coat is on the third hook draped right over your work bag. Even your phone charger is still plugged into the wall on your side of the bed.

Did you know you forgot to put your favorite gold earrings on that night? You left them on the nightstand. They’re still there, don’t worry. Right next to the glass of water you drank half of. 

Do you even remember them…? He got them for you for your first Christmas together. 

There are so many signs of a life interrupted integrated so deeply into his. 

You’re a clock whose hands stopped suddenly at 1:24 AM. 

This sort of haunting is unbearable. You’re not a phantom in his life, though. You’re something so unattainable that he had once but it was taken away with empty promises of return. 

It’s like you’re a shiny diamond hidden away beneath lasers and traps like in those stupid, cheesy spy movies you love so much. 

Do you know what he would give to watch one of those with you in his arms right now? 

Chan feels like he’s banging on the glass of a one sided window, screaming for you to remember him. Meanwhile you’re on the other side only staring into a mirror, trying to pick up the pieces from before. 

Your mom sends him updates on your condition all the time. He knows that you started working at the local library about three weeks ago. 

You had worked there in college before graduating and getting your last job. It was one of your favorite jobs you ever had. That library was so special to you. 

To him too. 

It’s the library where he first met you. 

The same library Chan finds himself in front of now. 

He shouldn’t go in. He can’t go in. He absolutely should not go inside. 

Bang Chan you should not and cannot go inside this library. Under no circumstances should you step foot inside this building where your other half is working. 

Absolutely not. 

The door emits a soft ding when he opens it. Electronic. Quiet. Peaceful. 

There’s a certain type of silence that sits in a library. It’s closer, thicker— warmer. It’s an expected silence. They’re supposed to be quiet. 

Chan can hear his sneakers take every step on the carpeted floor. There’s no one sitting behind the front desk; that’s where you usually were. 

His eyes look all around, but there’s no sign of you anywhere. A few people toddle around the shelves. 

There’s more soft beeping coming from the self checkout. That’s new. They didn’t have that when you worked here years ago. You probably hate it. 

On the day he met you, you were wearing a pair of dark green pants and a black long sleeve shirt. Your hair was clipped behind your head and pieces were falling over your face. 

Chan was only in the library to look for the bathroom. He was on his way to lunch with a friend, but he just had to stop somewhere. The library was the closest option. 

When he had heard the sound of books falling, he investigated and found you in the center of the carnage, the glasses on your nose sat crookedly and you rubbed your head. 

Your eyes met. He was a goner. 

How disgustingly poetic that he finds himself here now. Where he really shouldn’t be. He was quite literally prescribed a restraining order against you. 

Chan meanders around with his hands in his pockets, the silence getting louder and louder the further he gets inside.

Maybe you’re not working today? 

No one is anywhere to be seen. He’s checking down all the aisles but he doesn’t see you anywhere. 

Maybe it’s for the best that you’re not here. He’s not supposed to see you anyway. He’s breaking the doctor’s rules by doing this anyway. 

He needs to leave. He needs to get out of here. 

His feet stop in front of the very aisle where he saw you for the first time. 

Empty. 

You-less. 

If he thinks hard enough, Chan can picture you in front of him, laughing quietly with the most adorable, embarrassed blush on your cheeks. 

What a moment. 

Is it possible to spend eternity in that moment? Obviously internal clocks can be rewound, paused, flipped every which way; can he go back to that day? Can he go back to the day where every single poem suddenly made sense?

He would take any day, really, any day that had you in it. Birthdays, holidays, late night dates, Hell, he’d even take a day where he only saw you when you dropped off a drink for him in his studio. 

Anything, he would take anything just to see your smile bloom on your face while he watches.

“Can I help you find something?”

His breath catches in his throat, it feels like he’s physically punched in the chest. That voice. That beautiful, melodic voice. He hasn’t heard it in person in months, only in videos he had on his phone. 

Slowly, Chan turns to face the source of his favorite pitch. 

His throat immediately tightens. 

There you are. You. Beautiful you. 

Standing right there. Looking at him like a complete fucking stranger. 

“I…” his voice is hoarse. Chan can feel the tears in his eyes begin to form. He didn’t think this through, did he?

You’re staring at him expectantly, waiting for him to say anything. You’re waiting, come on, Chan. Speak up. Say something. 

Looking up at the shelf, you look back down at him with a smile. “A history guy, hm?”

No.

“Yeah.”

You giggle. “I always had a thing for History.”

He knows. 

“Really?”

“Mhmm.” You respond with a grin. 

Specifically Ancient Rome. He knows. 

You continue. “Specifically Ancient Rome.”

Chan nods and clears his throat. His palms feel so sweaty. His chest is almost panting. Every single cell in his body just wants to lunge forward and wrap you in a hug. 

He wants to bury his face in your neck and sob while you hold him. He wants to tell you that he missed you so much. He wants to tell you how your pillow is losing the scent of your shampoo. He wants to tell you that he’s been DVR-ing your favorite show so that you can watch it later. He wants to tell you about his day. He wants to kiss you until you’re breathless. He wants you to hear the new song he’s been working on.

But—

“If you need anything, let me know.”

You start to walk away.

Chan feels his heart physically break. It’s happening again. He’s on the other side of that one way mirror. It’s happening again! No, no please. 

His eyes widen, the words get caught in his throat. Fuck, Y/N, please!

“W-Wait!” he says quickly. 

You turn around with a curious look. 

“The Odyssey,” he blurts. “Where uh… where can I find it?”

Your eyes light up. “Oh, I love The Odyssey.”

He knows. You collect different translations of it. 

“I collect different translations of that book, here I’ll show you where it is.”

With a little hop in your step you lead him towards all the classics. 

He watches you like you’re an oasis in the desert— maybe it’s because you are. You’re what he’s been crawling towards for two months. 

You lead him all the way to the shelf where the Odyssey lives. Your nimble fingers reach forward and grab one of the copies. 

Green nail polish. You still paint your nails green. You picked that habit up a year after he met you. 

The memories have to be there, Y/N, they have to be. Chan bought you that first bottle of green nail polish as a joke on Saint Patrick’s Day. 

Y/N, please. 

“This translation is my favorite,” you whisper and hand him the book. 

Chan smiles sadly and takes the book from you, unable to meet your eyes. He knows if he gazes into those gorgeous eyes that he’ll lose it. He’ll fall to his knees and cry. 

“Thank you,” he whispers back. 

You stand there for a moment, he can feel your eyes on his face. He always has been able to tell when you were looking at him, it’s a little, secret superpower. 

From foot to foot, your weight shifts. 

You only do that when you’re confused. Why are you confused? Y/N, are you confused?

“I’m sorry…” you start, sounding so unsure. “You remind me of someone…”

It feels like a defibrillator was hooked up to his chest. Chan’s eyes widen and he finally looks up at you. 

You’re looking at him so carefully. He can see the gears turning in your head. Your tongue pokes out of your lips and wets them. 

Y/N, please. 

“I just… I can’t figure out who. Do I… do I know you? I was—” You stop yourself. 

Fuck. Fuck! What was he supposed to say? Fuck! 

Chan wants to scream. He wants to grab you by the shoulders and cry that he’s your soulmate, that he’s the person that knows you better than anyone else in this world. 

Yes, you do, you do know him. And he knows you. He knows how you take your coffee, what movies make you cry, what color jell-o is your favorite. 

He knows that you never wear matching socks and you always lift your feet when driving over railroad tracks. 

He knows that when you were 6 you ran into the corner of a cabinet and that’s how you got that scar next to your eyebrow. 

Chan knows that your entire life you wanted to be an author but you’re so scared of failure that you decided not to chase after it. 

He knows everything. 

“I just have one of those faces, I guess.” It comes out of his mouth so strained. 

You stare back at him so carefully. Do you see right through him?

“Maybe,” you say slowly. You don’t believe him. He knows that tone. You absolutely do not believe a word he’s saying. “Are you sure?”

Chan swallows, he grips the book in his hand tighter. The lump in his throat almost doesn’t go down, more tears prick at his eyes. 

“I would never forget a face like yours,” he chokes out. 

Your eyes widen and you blush, looking to the side with a smile. You always were a sucker for cheesy compliments. 

After thinking for a second, you reach into your pocket and take out a little slip of paper. 

“Here,” you say after scribbling something down. Holding it out, Chan sees it’s your phone number. He has it memorized. “If you ever need more books to read… or find… call me.”

Chan takes the paper with a racing heart. He gives you a smile, his dimples showing. “I think I will,” he whispers to you. 

Another few moments pass of you just staring at him before you nod and giggle nervously. “Well, I gotta get back to work, so..”

Chan nods and moves to the side. You walk past him. 

Your perfume curls around him like a blanket and he craves that sweet serenity he finds when he holds you close and breathes you in. 

Three steps after you pass him, you turn around. “Oh, I didn’t catch your name.”.

“Chan,” he answers softly. 

“Chan,” you repeat. It goes right through him. 

Your voice. Your sweet, beautiful, melodic voice. Finally, he heard you say his name again.

“I’m Y/N,” you whisper to him with a friendly smile. 

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Chan has to physically force the word ‘meet’ out of his mouth. 

“You too, Chan.”

And with that, you were gone, retreating back into your fortress of papyrus. 

—————————————————————

A bad idea was going into the library that day. 

An even worse idea was texting you the day after to ask how your day is going. 

And then an absolutely fucking idiotic move was asking if you wanted to go to dinner with him. 

And the worst part? You said yes. 

So, now here Chan was, standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom getting ready for what you thought was a first date, but to him was just a dinner date. 

How is he supposed to do this? He’s not, that’s how. 

Chan fiddles with his bracelet right before his phone rings. 

His heart drops when he sees the caller ID, your mother. 

“Ah, fuck…” he whispers before grabbing his phone. Of course you were going to tell your mom, you tell your mom everything. 

“Hello?” he asks warily into the phone. 

“Hi, Chan,” she says slowly, she sounds nervous, why does she sound nervous. 

“How are you? Is everything okay?”

“It’s Y/N…” Her voice lowers. Chan’s heart drops. “Before you panic, she’s okay! It’s um.. she’s getting ready right now… for a date…”

Chan isn’t moving. Yes, he knows you are. He knows it. But words won’t form in his mouth. 

“Channie.. I’m starting to wonder if that doctor isn’t right.. I can’t stand the thought of her finding someone else when you’re waiting for her… I tried to talk her out of it but she just seems so floaty and happy. God, I feel sick to my stomach.”

His jaw clenches. Now or never. 

“It’s with me,” he blurts. 

Your mom goes silent. Then a huge sigh comes out of her mouth. 

“I wish I could say I’m angry,” a little laugh follows it. “I think I’m only angry that you didn’t say something.”

He tells her everything, down to the way he pretended not to know you. 

“Well, you’re going to have to tell her eventually.” Your mom sounds unsure, herself. 

“Or maybe she’ll remember me.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

Chan sits down on the edge of his bed. His eyes are staring at the wall, unfocused. 

She’s right. What if you don’t? 

“Then, I’ll just … do it all again.”

Silence greets him on the other side of the line. Another tiny laugh comes from your mom. “I always knew you two were perfect together. Just like two magnets, you always come towards one another.”

—————————————————————

“I’ve never eaten here before,” you say with a chipper smile on your face from across the table. 

Yes, you have. 

“Really?” Chan asks, taking a sip of his water. 

“I pass it all the time and always wondered how the food was.”

He looks back down at the old menu. 

This restaurant was more than special to him. It’s where he took you on your first date. It’s an old fashioned burger joint with the greasiest, most delicious French fries in town. 

The first time you guys came here, you talked and talked until the place closed. And even after that, you drove around and talked until it was late. 

“I’ve been here a few times, it’s really good. The milkshakes are some of the best I’ve ever had.” Chan’s sweaty hands fiddle with the menu. 

He’s more nervous now than on the first date. 

“What’s the best one?” you ask with a smile. 

A small laugh comes out of his nose. “The peanut butter one.”

It was your favorite. 

“Yeah but then you can’t have any,” you say so nonchalantly, looking down at the menu. 

His eyebrows knit together. “What?”

“‘Cause of your allergy.”

He stops. 

You stop. 

He has a peanut allergy. Chan has a peanut allergy. 

His lips purse like he’s going to say something but you beat him to the punch. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I… I don’t know why I thought that.” Your hands grip the menu a little tighter. “Maybe I’m thinking of someone else?”

Chan shakes his head. “No, no, it’s okay. I… I do have a peanut allergy. Maybe I said something before?”

You stare at him for a long second before looking back down at the menu once more. “Yeah… um. Maybe.”

He definitely did not say something. 

Dinner continues on. Chan listens to you talk and pretends he’s never heard your stories before and he tells you ones he knows he’s said before. 

The entire time, you were beaming at him, just like you used to before the accident. Your face never loses its constant happy glow. He’s not sure that the muscles in your face know how to frown.  

You’re the last two people in the restaurant. The staff doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe they recognize you both. Maybe. 

A lull dips into your conversation. Both of you know you should leave. Neither wants to. Especially the broken man sitting across from you. 

Chan takes the last sip of his drink. The bill has been paid for about an hour at this point. You’re looking down at your lap with a pink flush on your cheeks. 

You bite your lip and look up at Chan carefully. 

“Are you… are you sure I don’t know you, Chan?”

He stares at you. Did you know that you always bite your lip like that when you’re confused? 

“I just… I really feel like I know you. There’s just…” you pause, trying to find your words. He knows you want to tell him about the accident. He knows you want to say it but you don’t want to weird him out. 

What the fuck is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to tell you? 

“Something happened to me a little while ago, my brain’s been… fuzzy since then,” you explain shyly. “I know you said you don’t know me but I just… I can’t help feel like that’s not true.”

Chan’s jaw clenches, his knee bounces anxiously underneath the table. His head turns to the side in his typical nervous tick. 

Your mother’s words echo in his mind, his tongue suddenly feels like it’s swelling to the size of his mouth— making him unable to speak. Should he tell you? Is it now or never?

“I don’t mean to make it weird, Chan.”

He licks his lips and opens his mouth. 

Your phone rings. 

A sigh of relief comes from deep within Chan’s chest. 

Reluctantly, you pick up the phone and hold it to your ear. “Hello? …. No, I didn’t know…. Yeah, of course…. Sure… Yeah, see you tomorrow.”

Just as quickly as you answered the phone, you hang up. 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Someone called out of work for tomorrow, they need me to come in.”

“Do you need to get going?” Chan asks, looking down at the time. It’s well past 10 o’clock. 

A sad smile crosses your face. “I mean… probably.” The time on your watch flashes back at you. He can tell you don’t want to go home yet. 

“Come on, Y/N, I’ll walk you home.”

Chan’s already standing up from the table, picking his jacket up off the back of his chair. You watch his movements and slowly get up, your movements screaming reluctance. 

—————————————————————

It’s three dates later when the two of you are walking down the street towards your house. It’s only a few blocks from here, but you both decide to take a tiny detour through the local park. 

“I have to say I’m a little excited to meet your friends,” you giggle. “I hope that’s not weird.”

You already have. 

“It’s not weird at all. I’m sure they’d like you.” Chan nudges your arm with his elbow, his hands staying in his pocket. 

“Changbin sounds like a blast.”

He was your favorite before.

“The two of you…” Chan thinks over his words carefully. “The two of you would definitely cause some mischief.”

And you have. 

A tiny lull of comfortable silence falls over the conversation. 

Both of you meander towards the swings. A cold wind blows through the air but neither of you react to it. 

With a tiny giggle, you sit down on one of the swings and hold onto the chains on the side. 

You are just so… you. You’re just your authentic self. Amnesia or not, you haven’t changed a bit. It’s so charming.

“I can’t remember the last time I went on the swings.” You start to move your body back and forth, not too much but enough to get the tiny thrill the toy brings. 

Chan walks up and stands next to you, his hand coming out and grabbing at the chain of the swing next to yours. 

The brightest smile stretches over your face. 

God, it really doesn’t take a lot to make you smile, does it? He guesses that means it doesn’t take a lot for him either since he smiles when you do.

He can’t help it.

He watches you move back and forth, the cold breeze kicking up a bit more and blowing dead leaves across the sidewalk. 

“What’s wrong, Chan? Allergic to swings?” you tease. 

He rolls his eyes with a smirk. “No, I just far more enjoy watching you have fun.”

Your cheeks flush. If he didn’t know you, maybe he would’ve chocked it up to the cold. But he knows the difference between your blush and the elements now. 

“You’re a smooth talker, Bang Chan.”

“It comes easy with you, Y/N L/N.”

Another laugh from you. 

“Shameless flirt.”

He puts his hand on his chest in mock hurt. “Ouch! I just speak the truth, that’s all. Not my fault I like seeing you blush.”

Every word that comes out of his mouth feels so natural. If he really thinks about it, he’s in a weirdly unique situation. Not many couples get to start over, to feel those butterflies again. But here he is, his palms starting to get sweaty as he imagines kissing you. 

Would you call it a first kiss? Maybe. 

It has been four dates. It wouldn’t be.. inappropriate to kiss you, would it? The two of you kissed on your third date a few years ago. 

He wants to kiss you so bad. 

Should he? Shouldn’t he? God, why is this so hard?

Chan reaches out and grabs the chain of your swing, pulling it to a very gentle stop. 

“Uh oh, fun police,” you tease and look up at him with a grin. 

Looking down at you, Chan allows his eyes to look over every detail of your face that he already had memorized. You haven’t changed at all except the new scar on the side of your forehead from the accident. 

It’s the same eyes, same nose, same chin that he fell in love with so long ago. 

The same asymmetrical eyes that you’re so self conscious of but he loves. Your hair is wind blown and splayed every which way. It adds a childish charm to your features. 

Very carefully, Chan moves his free hand down to cup your cheek. His warm palm soothes your ice cold face. He hears your breath catch in your throat at his touch. 

His thumb swipes over your cheek, fingertips run down the soft lines of your jawline. Eventually his thumb ends up under your chin which he tilts up. 

Your eyes sparkle. They somehow capture the light of the lamps around the playground. But they’ve always done that. 

You’re always so enchanting.

Is this a good idea? 

Is kissing you the best option? 

But does he even have the strength to stop himself now?

Almost three months without feeling your lips on his has been torture, and here he is, with you in his hands and there’s still this nagging feeling that he should stop. 

One look into your eyes quells that anxiety. 

Your eyes keep flickering down to his own lips, the shaky breath you let out is hot against his fingers. Everything feels warmer compared to the air outside. 

He can’t take it anymore. 

Chan leans down and presses his lips to yours. They’re warm and slightly chapped.

But, my god, he’s never felt anything this heavenly before. It’s like his entire body unwinds. Like a fire was lit inside his stomach. 

He moves his hand to the back of your head and keeps your lips pressed against his. Your head tilts to the side slightly. It’s just like he remembers. 

It’s just the first kiss, he can’t let himself get carried away. He can’t. 

He can’t let his fingers wind through your hair. He can’t melt into your touch on his cheek. He can’t let himself drown in your lips. 

But he is. 

He’s letting you consume his very soul in one kiss. 

How can something feel so healing yet hurt so badly at the same time? It’s like you’re ripping open a wound and bandaging it at the same time. 

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t bring his lips away from yours. Your hand slides down to caress his jawline with those soft, manicured fingers. 

Your lips open and close over his like mirror images. The feeling shoots straight down into Chan’s gut. It’s like the first time for him all over again. 

Those butterflies are going insane in his stomach. Your scent kicks up in the wind and he can’t help but take a large breath through his nose. 

God, he can’t stop himself. It feels too good. 

His hand moves from the back of your hair to cup your cheek and bring you closer. 

He immediately stops. 

Why is your face wet?

Chan pulls away from the kiss and looks down at you with concern written all over his expression. 

You’re crying. Why … why are you crying?

Your eyes open and you look at him confused. 

“Chan?” you whisper. You’re confused too. What?

“Why are you crying, Y/N?” he asks with a thick voice.

Your eyes widen and your own hand comes up to swipe at your cheeks. Sure enough, you’re met with tears. 

“I… I don’t know,” you say so quietly. “I-I’m not sure.”

Chan starts backing away, your eyes snap to focus on his. Your hand shoots up to grab at his to keep him there. You’re still so confused. 

Emotions are flying through your eyes. It almost looks like someone is clicking a light switch on and off in the back of your mind. A lightbulb is flickering in your soul like a dying neon sign in an old shop window. 

Every muscle in your face is twitching.

What’s happening?

“Channie—“ your own voice cuts off by a sob. 

Chan’s heart jumpstarts. You haven’t called him that… not in two months… that’s what you and your mother called him before the accident. 

Are you…? Are you remembering? What’s happening?

Please. 

Slowly, your hand falls from his. 

Chan stays there, unmoving like a statue. What’s happening inside your mind right now? It looks like you’re reaching and reaching for something that you can’t quite put your finger on. 

He's watching you struggle. It’s like when you can’t remember a word. It’s right there. It’s on the tip of your tongue.

You gulp, your eyes leave his and you look down at your lap. The dirt crunches under your feet as you shuffle your shoes around.

Chan swipes his thumb over your cheek, brushing away the tears. He’s biting back his own. 

“It’s okay—“ “I’m sorry—“ are both said at the exact same time. 

He knew it was coming. He knows you. But you don’t know him. Not anymore. 

But you do.

“It wasn’t the kiss. I—“ 

“It’s okay, Y/N.”

You know him. 

“Chan, I really loved the kiss.”

Chan. Not Channie. 

He brushes his thumb over your lips. “It’s okay,” he repeats gently. “You don’t have to explain.”

His other hand comes up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your eyes slide shut at the sensation. 

Your bottom lip quivers and you pull it into your mouth and bite it. With a tight swallow, your throat bobs. 

“It happens sometimes,” you whisper. “It’s from the accident I had.”

Chan continues to soothingly rub your skin with his thumb. Slowly, he kneels down to be in front of you rather than leaning over. 

The dirt is cold on his knee. It seeps through the fabric of his pants. He couldn’t care less. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he whispers back to you. 

You shake your head gently, your hands folding in your lap. “No, no. I… I want to tell you. I need to tell you. It’s been happening more and more whenever I’m around you. It’s like every touch, every word you say bounces around my brain and makes me feel the worst case of deja vu.

“Every time I’m with you I feel like I’m trying to recall a dream I had last night but I just can’t remember what it was.”

You’re rambling. You only ramble when you’re overwhelmed and scared. 

“Chan, every time I’m with you it feels like some part of me is screaming to be let out.”

Your eyes open and you stare right through him. Chan feels his heart squeeze and almost stop completely. Despite your best efforts, the tears keep coming. 

“I was in a car accident a few months ago. I had such a severe concussion that I lost the last five years of my memory.” 

How is your voice so even?

Chan’s jaw clenches. Fuck fuck fuck. 

He knows. Yes, Y/N. He knows. Fuck, does he know! If anyone fucking knows, it’s him. 

“I—“ he starts but you cut him off. 

“Please,” you choke out and take a deep breath. “And since then I’ve been getting bits and pieces of my memory back. Sometimes they’re in large chunks, other times they just … come back.

“When I try to think about my life before the accident. There’s this… person there. Someone important. Someone so, so important that it physically hurts me to think about how I don’t know who it is. They’re a constant. And I love that they’re a constant.”

Your hand comes up to clutch at your jacket right over your chest. 

More tears come out of your eyes. The whites get more pink the more they flow. 

“But I know them. I do! I know them like I know the back of my hand. I-I know they love music. I know they take milk and sugar in their morning coffee. I know they don’t get enough sleep at night.”

Louder and louder your voice gets as you grow sadder and sadder. The sobs between thoughts wrack your chest. 

Him. You’re talking about him. 

Chan’s hands hold your face gently. His thumbs can’t keep up with how much you’re crying. 

Nothing has ever hurt this bad. 

You know him. You just don’t know it’s him. 

Nevertheless, you continue. “I remember that they have the most obnoxious phone alarm in the morning. I remember the passcode to their phone is 032518. I know that they have this one black sweatshirt that I love to steal even though it’s their favorite.”

Chan’s own eyes begin watering, he can’t stop it. You know him. You know him. You’ve remembered him this whole time and you didn’t even know it. 

You reach up and grab one of his hands and place it on your heart. Underneath your jacket, he can feel your heartbeat thudding violently against your chest. 

That same heartbeat he’s been dying to listen to while you play with his hair and tell him about your day. The heartbeat he would give anything to hear as he falls asleep. His throat gets tighter and tighter. 

“I’ve been surrounded by bits and pieces of a ghost and no one wants to help me. No one will tell me anything, and I’m so confused, Chan. I can tell that there’s something that everyone is avoiding telling me.”

A gust of wind picks up through the playground. It nips at his cheeks. It’s now he realizes how many tears are falling. 

A sob tears from his throat. 

You grip his hand tighter. 

“Tell me It’s you, Chan.” You’re begging. You’re actually begging while keeping his hand pressed against your heartbeat. 

“Tell me that you’re the person that I see in my dreams. Tell me you’re the one that loves when I draw hearts on the bathroom mirror after I shower. Please tell me that you’re the one that loves the smell of lemon cookies but can’t stand the taste.”

Oh, god, Y/N.

“Tell me that you’re the one that wanted to pick me up from the party that night but I said no.”

He breaks. 

He breaks right down in front of you. Every single ounce of self control leaves his body and he grabs you out of the swing, yanking you towards his body and holding you against his chest. The emotions that were being kept at bay come out like a raging storm. 

He falls backwards into the dirt, you come crashing into him. Your arms wrap around him at the same time he wraps around you. 

Chan buries his face in your neck, one hand on the back of your head and the other firmly around your waist. 

Wails leave his mouth as he holds you to him. They’re deep and come from the very depths of his soul. The wound that’s been open for months is bleeding.  

Every lonely night. Every dinner where he cooked for two instead of one by accident. Every long day he came back to an empty apartment. It’s all coming out. 

You’re crying just as hard as he is, both of your hands gripping the back of his hoodie like a lifeline. 

Your body in his arms is like a piece of a puzzle. Like he’s the dusty one sitting on his dining room table and you finally came in and finished it. 

Weeks and weeks of grief come crashing down on him. He can’t lie anymore. Not to you. Never to you. 

“It is me,” he cries into your neck, his hand running over the back of your head, feeling your hair slip through his fingers. It’s just like he remembers. “It’s all me, Y/N, It’s me.”

Your cries get louder, your body starts shaking in his arms. 

“I’ve missed you, Y/N,” he cries harder. “Fuck, I’ve missed you so much. I missed my girl. Oh my god, I’ve missed you.”

Chan can’t pull you close enough, he can’t get you close enough to his body. You shift around and press yourself into him. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I’m so sorry I didn’t pick you up that night. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m so sorry you got hurt.” 

Every ounce of grief is surfacing and clawing its way out of his throat. 

“I’m sorry I had to lie to you these last two weeks. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I was so broken without you. I broke the doctor’s orders. I needed to see you, Y/N.”

Despite how hard he has you gripped against him, you manage to pull away slightly. You sit up in his lap and look down at his red, tear soaked face. His eyes are puffy and his chest is sputtering with sobs. 

Both of your hands cup his cheeks and swipe away the tears the same way he did for you only a small bit ago. There’s a sad smile on your face. 

“Please don’t apologize, Channie, it’s okay. I forgive you.”

Channie. You called him Channie.

He cries harder and buries his face into your chest. Your arms immediately come around him and keep him there, fingers threading into his hair. 

You’re still crying. Both of you are. 

“I know you were just doing what you were told to,” you whisper into his hair. He can hear your voice reverberate in your chest. 

All he can do is cry. 

Months of build up led to this moment. Endless days of going through the motions just for the next to be as dull and tedious led to him falling into you in the middle of a playground at night. 

The only thing you do after that is hold him. You press kisses to the top of his head and whisper that you forgive him over and over. 

Each one adds a stitch to the wound, shutting it.

You’re finally in his arms. You’re finally back where you belong. 

“I missed you,” he says again, his cries dying down. He doesn't know what else to say. There's so much he wants to tell you, but everything dies on the tip of his tongue.

“I missed you too, Channie. My heart missed you so much.”

He sniffles and looks up at you. You pull your sweatshirt sleeve up and wipe away his stray tears gently. 

“Every day it just felt like something was missing. It was you. You were missing.”

Chan can’t find any words to say. He just stares at you. 

"I don't care how long it takes to remember, or even if I never do. I need you by my side for it, Chan."

His eyes sparkle at you for a moment but he leans up and captures your lips with his once more. It feels even better than the previous one.

The two of you relish in the contact, holding each other close and clinging to the closeness of it all.

It's taking everything within Chan not to start crying again. He's worried than any moment now, he'll wake up and this will all be some cruel dream.

But when you pull away from his lips, and he opens his eyes-- you're still there. You're still in his arms and smiling at him like you always did.

The burn is soothed.

“If you think about it,” you start with a tiny smile. “We’re lucky— in a way.”

His entire face screws up, even more confused. “Lucky?”

“How many people get to say they fell in love with the same person twice?”

Chan blinks twice before it feels like his entire body thaws. 

You and your glass half full attitude. He’ll never fucking get enough of it. 

His arms wrap around you again, bringing you down into his chest. You let out a breathy giggle 

“You’re never leaving my sight,” he breathes out. “Never again, baby, never.”

“I don’t ever want to, Channie. I never will.”

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #chan x reader #bang chan x y/n #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic #skz x y/n #bang chan #bang chan fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #bangchan fanfic #bangchan x reader

[satosugusandwich]

His Angel and His Brat

Part 1!!! Part 2

Hard!Dom!Geto x Brat!Gojo x obedient!afab!reader

(I also try to write my fics to be racially ambiguous! No mention of skin tone or hair type!)

Summary: Gojo is a mega-brat to y/n and Suguru and likes to push buttons cuz he can so Suguru decides to overstimulate Gojo until he thinks he’s broken. (Key word: thinks.) To add to Gojo’s humiliation, he ensures that the reader is getting princess treatment while watching Gojo suffer endlessly. But, of course, things don’t always go as planned with Satoru Gojo.

CW and whatnots: Overstimulation, vibrators, cuffs, finger sucking, condescending!geto, usage of the word “cock”, gojo’s boundless stamina and cocky attitude, anal play, cum licking (off the floor and gojos pp) praise, cocksucking, angel ass reader that ends up in trouble cuz gojo can’t shut his mouth, geto is actually so mean to gojo but so soft cuz he’s actually a teddy bear dw. Use of “brat, princess, angel.” There will be aftercare in future parts cuz imagine leaving pathetic satoru a cum drenched mess. Poor baby. :(((

There will be additional tags in future parts. This is how I cope with ch 236.

Suguru runs his thumb along your bottom lip, licking his own lips while you whimper. Your pretty eyes fixated on his blushing face and half-lidded eyes. He looks at you with so much lust and is so gentle with you, just so in love with how much you please him and how willing you are to do what he wants. You eagerly await him and his orders, always ready to obey.

But.

“Suguru!”

Satoru’s cry makes his face go from pure admiration to utterly sadistic. “Satoru.” He says, looking at the man to the right of you, the same man that’s panting and whining as the vibrator in his tight hole runs relentlessly. “Jealously doesn’t look very good on you.” He grins and hits a button on the small remote he holds in his hand that isn’t occupied with your mouth.

“Fuck—FUCK!” Satoru’s eyes clench shut, the whirring sound coming from his bottom getting faster and bit more high pitched. You’re grateful you aren’t in his position, you don’t know if you could handle Suguru having full control of how much pleasure you get to feel. Especially if that pleasure is ongoing… and nonstop.

Satoru looked unusually pathetic and… weak. It’s insane to think that the so called strongest sorcerer, the cocky, the arrogant, the man on top, bends to the will of his pretty best friend. Suguru’s change in character comes as a shock too. The sweet, soft-spoken, gentle, and empathetic sorcerer is now grinning down at his partner, showing no mercy, no kindness, and is only sending Satoru into deeper throes of overwhelming pleasure. You almost didn’t want to look at Satoru, what if Suguru surmised you wanted the same treatment. Would he show you mercy?

“Now, now,” Suguru muses, “if you can beg me properly, I’ll stop your torment. And of course you’ll need to apologize to Y/n and I for being such an impatient little shit.” He chuckles softly and withdraws his thumb from your mouth. “She’s being so well-behaved while you whine and whine and cry and cry about how much it is.” He mocks him, furrowing his eyebrows together in a false pity. “I suppose I should expect it, after all, you’ve cum how many times? That pressure against—“ Suguru crouches as he speaks “—your prostate—“ he runs the tip of his fingers up Satoru’s base “—it’s been nonstop for 30 minutes now.”

You can’t help but watch as Suguru’s hand starts to stroke Satoru now, giving expert attention to his neglected yet tortured cock. Suguru notices how you eyeball his actions and can’t help but smile wider.

“Ah, do you feel left out?” His false pity changes back to his gentle expression. “It’s alright, princess, why don’t you show Satoru how impressed you are with his stamina. Give him a little reward?”

Suguru is evil.

“I don’t think he could take it, Sugu.” You answer honestly.

He looks a bit disappointed but he relents his ministrations. “I suppose you’re right. But he still owes us an apology before his punishment ends.”

You nod and meet Satoru’s eyes. He can barely speak as his next orgasm approaches. “I-I’m so—“ his body is shaking. “I’m so sorry! I’ve been so—Suguru—so impatient! Please, I’m so so soo!!! So sorry!” He’s almost in tears now, you can tell Suguru is even beginning to feel pity for his best friend and his brat.

“Ahh… cum one more time and I’ll take it out. Show me you deserve mercy by pleading. Plead for mercy.” Suguru’s fingers tug at your nipples now, clearly losing interest in Satoru’s torment. You know that you aren’t being punished, but seeing Suguru like this… makes you a little weary.

“Please please!” Satoru repeats the word over and over. “I’m so sorry! Please, mercy!” He keeps prattling on, thrusting into the air as he struggles to keep together.

“Y/n.” Suguru looks to you. “Clean up his next mess for me. Lick his cock clean and then it’ll be your turn.”

Satoru starts to mumble and moan out different variations of thank yous and Suguru’s name as he reaches his final high. And when he cums, It’s a mess. Semen spills from his cock and your immediately there to catch it. Suguru’s eyes widen, absolutely loving your eagerness to take his cum down your throat.

“Good boy, good girl.” He pets your head and clicks the toy off, causing Satoru’s to collapse completely, his body weight bearing into the now standing legs of Suguru. He catches his breath, still whimpering as Suguru pets his head. Satoru looks you in the eyes, his beauty keeping your gaze fixated on his body. His six eyes are a little red, probably from the tears that he held back, and his body is flushed beautifully, his pretty cock slowly going soft as he does his best to calm down.

Satoru relaxes back on his knees while Suguru goes behind him to remove the toy from his ass and undo Satoru’s hand cuffs. You breathe a sigh of relief for him, always impressed by Satoru’s unwavering stamina and attitude. You wondered how Satoru enjoyed pissing Geto off so much, does he really enjoy these punishments that much? Suguru seemingly loves the after effects of a good punishment, his adoration of Satoru is evident in the way he kisses his head and gently rubs his back while Satoru regains his strength.

As much as you love watching, you are wondering why Suguru invited you to observe Satoru’s punishment. You’re not really complaining and it definitely isn’t the first time you’ve seen it, but, all you’ve had is a thumb in your mouth and a little bit of cocksucking. After all, Suguru can’t ever stay entirely focused on Satoru, he needs some pleasure himself.

Satoru seems to be wondering the same thing. “So, baby, why did you bring her in to watch?” He asks, rising from his knees to give them a break.

Suguru looks down at you. “Just on a whim.” He strokes your face before looking back toward his brat. “And I’ve noticed you get more worked up with an arousing audience.”

“Well, wouldn’t you if she was licking your cum from the floor?” Satoru grumbled, sitting on the bed.

Suguru turns his attention back toward you. “She does love cum in her mouth.” He strokes himself slowly, catching your attention.

“I want yours next.” You tell him, shifting your weight and sending him a smile.

Satoru watches as you lean forward to lick Suguru’s cock, taking his precum on your tongue. He doubt he could handle anymore cumming, but he certainly loves to see you take cock down your throat. If he had more energy, he’d love to stuff his down as well. “Like it that much, y/n?” He chuckles.

Suguru’s eyes shoot to Satoru. “Jealous again, Satoru?? Well, the question is are you jealous cuz my cock is down her throat or are you jealous cuz it’s not down your throat?”

Satoru sucks his teeth. “I want to watch her take me balls deep.”

Uh oh.

Suguru removes his cock from your mouth. “Satoru,” you start, “I don’t think you have enough energy to keep that attitude up.” Indeed, his stamina is incredible.

Suguru waits to see his reaction.

And of course, the other man grins and only adds fuel to the fire. “Think she’d look better with my cock in her mouth. She’s been paying more attention to me than you anyways.”

“Satoru…” you sigh and in seconds Suguru has him pressed back into the bed and is beckoning for you to get on with him.

Satoru laughs. “Aw, did I bruise your ego, baby? What are you gonna do about it?”

Suguru points to his mouth. “Sit on him to shut him up and I’ll give him a nice view of my cock in your mouth.”

Fuck, that sounds hot. Satoru just grins and motions for you to ride his face, pointing at his eager tongue that’s already out and waiting.

“Y/n, make sure he stays quiet I don’t want to hear him make a single peep. And since he likes being punished so much, I’ll punish you instead if he speaks.”

What?

You blink. Undeniably aroused but a bit scared of his now very evident sadism. “You know he’s going to try to speak now on purpose?” Mercy isn’t exactly his thing right now but you’ll pry at it for sure.

Suguru gives you an evil grin as you lower your weeping pussy onto Satoru’s face. “Then keep his mouth shut.”

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo smut #jjk #jjk smut #satoru gojo #cockygojocockygojocockygojocockygojo #jjk gojo #jjk suguru #jjk geto #satosugu smut #geto x reader #geto smut #suguru smut #satosugu x reader #satosugu

[bluebeary-jay]

clouded judgment / clear mind

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Summary: it was a long time since Joel had felt a maddening rage like this, but he weren't about to let anyone who dares to hurt you get away with it (based on this ask)

Tags: Joel goes apeshit, angst, a bit of comfort at the end, established relationship, protective Joel (REALLY protective lmao), basically he goes feral

Warnings: uh. VERY graphic descriptions of violence (I'm not good at writing action sequences but it is graphic), swearing, kinda torturing 😬

Word count: 4.5K

A/N: this one was really challenging, but i hope yall will like what i came up with :) i really didn't expect it to be so difficult to write buuut i tried to focus on the "giving-his-brother-nightmares" side of Joel and i think i succeeded. anyway !!! happy reading ❤️

He should have never left you alone.

Which was a ridiculous thought, of course, because how are you supposed to patrol efficiently if the other person refuses to leave your side even for a moment? Besides, he didn’t want you to think he didn’t trust you – he saw multiple times what you were capable of first-hand and he knew you were able to take care of yourself.

He put it forward once – to not split up and patrol the same area within the eyeshot of each other. You sent him a crooked smile at that, saying something about him being a little too overprotective before you gave him a kiss and went on your merry way, leaving him alone and slightly annoyed (but with a faint, stupid grin on his face).

So he tried to rein in this ‘overprotectiveness’ you mentioned. He never brought it up again, even though a cold shiver ran up his spine every time he lost sight of you beyond the safe walls of Jackson. Each time you two went on a patrol, he had to take a second to calm down and remind himself this is not one of his dreams when he loses you.

That’s why at first, when he heard your voice screaming his name from a distance, he wasn’t sure if it was really happening.

The instinct, however, kicked in the next second and he rushed back to where he saw you last, to the interior of a resort around which he was scouting. This was supposed to be one of the safest options for patrolling – no one ever saw any signs of life here besides occasional infected, and Joel was never that worried when you went inside alone to check the place.

He had a feeling his cautious (he really didn’t want to call it ‘overprotective’) nature was gonna become a nuisance again after this incident.

The goddamn downpour outside made listening for any noises aggravatingly difficult. Joel yelled for you, but he didn’t hear any answer and the driving rain beating against the windows of the resort absorbed all the sounds.

He made his way inside the building and up the stairs when he noticed your hat lying discarded against the wall. A wave of ice-cold dread washed over him. The stairway was dark but even with the little light he had he could see a couple of wet, almost black droplets on the dirty floor.

What he felt next reminded him of falling asleep – his shoulders relaxed and from head to toe a cool, silent equilibrium crept over him. Joel gripped his rifle firmly and pushed on soundlessly. It didn’t seem like you were stabbed or shot – there would be much more blood present – but you were hurt. Someone must’ve laid in wait to ambush you, and now…

It didn’t matter. Whoever it was, they made a grave mistake.

Joel reached the second floor, listening intently for any clues as to where you might be or how many people are in the building with him, but he didn’t even have to check the rooms one by one. A faint light, which couldn't have been left by the previous patrol, was spilling out from underneath the doors at the far end of the corridor . He did consider the possibility that it was a decoy and your attacker was hiding in one of the other rooms, but the closer he got to the sliver of light on the dusty floor, and the more doors he passed, it became clear that whoever got you, they weren’t that cunning.

And then he heard it. A sound of a blow from the other side of the door, and then a strangled cry.

It was you. Your voice.

Joel took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and kicked the door open, bursting into the room with his rifle held high – only to find himself surrounded by six men, five of whom were holding him at gunpoint.

The sixth one, a ragged-looking blond, stood over you and the second he saw Joel, he grabbed you by the hair and pressed a knife against your neck, making both you and Joel freeze.

“You’re from this town nearby, right?” asked the man with a heavy accent Joel couldn’t place. “The one that fucking shoots off any newcomers.”

Joel didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at this man. All he could see was your bruised and battered face and the blood running freely from your – probably broken – nose and down your chin. You had a black eye and a split brow, but your gaze was sharp and alert when you looked back at him.

He felt like his insides were boiling.

“Hey, dickhead!” the leader of the group yelled, gripping your hair tighter and making you hiss in pain. “You deaf or something?”

Joel finally managed to take his eyes off you – your blood and your bruises, and the concealed fear on your face – and glared at the man standing over you. His jaw was clenched and nostrils flaring, but he quickly collected himself. He couldn’t let his emotions get the better of him when you were in danger.

He lifted his hands slowly, showing that he was no threat to them. The thug tilted his head at one of his friends.

“Put down your gun and slide it over.”

Joel watched you following his movements with your eyes as he carefully put his rifle down and kicked it in the direction of one of the men. The blond holding the knife nodded twice.

“Now. You two are from the town, aren’tcha?”

“Let her go,” said Joel, trying to remain calm and not use – quoting Ellie – his ‘asshole voice’. “Then we’ll talk.”

The man shook his head and chuckled.

“Oh, no, no.” He pressed the blade harder against your throat. “We have the upper hand here. You understand?”

The man was looking at him expectantly but Joel’s eyes were nailed on the trickle of blood now running down the column of your neck. He remembered kissing that same neck this morning and tickling it with his nose, and the thought of this fucking bastard cutting your soft skin and leaving such a mark on it made him feel like he was about to burst.

“Fine,” he ground out with his jaw set. He looked over at the leader of the group. “What do you want?”

Had any of them been smarter, they would have picked up a dangerous note in his voice. But just like he suspected, they weren’t that bright.

“You go back to your town and bring five more horses here,” said the blond.  “And ammo. My buddy here,” he used his chin to point at another guy, standing behind Joel, “will tell you what kind. You try anything or come back with someone else, and I’ll slit her throat right open.”

“She will go get that shit for you and I will stay,” Joel negotiated strongly, but the leader of the group shook his head again.

“No. No way. You go and bring back everything we ask for, and I’ll let your little friend go.”

Joel’s eyes once again shifted to your form and something inside his chest twitched. You noticed it – of course you did, you were always able to read him like no one else – and tried to offer him a half smile.

“I’ll be fine, Joel,” you reassured him. “Nothing I haven’t–”

“Shut your trap!” The shorter man standing to your right yelled and raised his hand, making you flinch.

Joel could almost feel fire burning in his veins and through his skin, peeling it off his bones.

“Hey! There’s no need for that!” he said louder, taking a step forward, but the gang lifted their guns higher. He stopped and spread his arms wider. “I’ll get you the stuff you want. Just leave her alone.”

“You better hurry, then,” said the blond with a nasty smile, and Joel nodded while trying not to look too desperate. He looked at his friend. “Tell him what we need.”

Joel didn’t give a shit what they were saying – it was him who needed to think of something, and fast. He had a suspicion as to who these men were – he heard from Tommy about a larger group trying to gain entry to Jackson several times. Apparently they threatened the patrol which found them when they were denied permission to join their community. It was before Joel came to the small town for the first time with you and Ellie, but the word around was that any rogue group around this terrains wasn’t to be trusted.

And everything from the description Tommy gave him fit: ragged looks, traveling on foot, low on ammunition.

While one of the men listed what kind of guns they had and how much supplies they wanted, a motion in Joel’s field of vision caught his attention and his eyes darted to you – or more specifically, to your left hand.

You stared right back at him, moving your fingers slightly so the others didn’t notice.

N… O… A… M…

No ammo.

None? That’s probably why the one standing next to you wasn’t holding you at gunpoint but with a knife to the throat. The rest of them must’ve had their pistols drawn just for show. Joel had no idea how you figured it out, but a thought struck him and he surveyed the members of the group. He remembered which one held onto his rifle, but you were armed, too…

As if reading his mind, your fingers started to twitch again the second he looked back at you.

U... Left… B, E, H, I…

Suddenly the man to your right bowed over you again and punched you square in the stomach, knocking the wind out of you.

“Fucking bitch,” he snarled with contempt and glared back at Joel. “No funny games, you hear me? You come back with a gun or anyone else, and I won’t hesitate to fucking kill her, man.”

Joel’s heart was pounding in his chest. All he could see was your face contorted in pain, all he could hear were your coughs and grunts.

Two of the men came forward – the one on his left had a loaded gun from what you managed to convey to him in sign language – and pushed him towards the exit. Joel shifted his icy stare at the man standing next to him, and then at the two situated near you.

They were all going to die.

When he gets back, he’s going to kill every one last of them, and he’s going to enjoy it immensely.

Joel sent you one last look before turning around and slowly walking out of the room with both men close behind, pointing their guns (and only one of them loaded) at him.

It was going to be alright. He had a stirring of a plan and when he comes back, maybe with Tommy or someone else…

You gasped and coughed again behind his back after the sound of another punch.

Joel came to a dead stop, not registering the gun barrel digging into his back, and he felt like his jaw was going to snap if he kept clenching it like that.

You murmured something he didn’t quite catch and Joel turned his head slightly just in time to see the short man kicking you in the ribs and your form lying on the wooden floor, spitting out blood…

“You think you’re so clever, huh? I swear to fucking god, if you pull something like that again…”

Joel didn’t even let the man finish.

In a split second he elbowed the man behind him, grabbing his hand holding the gun – the one they took from you – and shooting the blond standing over you. He fell backwards and the knife fell out of his grip. Taking out the guy Joel grappled with was embarrassingly easy, and once he had a good grip on the pistol belonging to you, he spun around to face the other thug with his gun, standing on the opposite side of the room.

The ragged man fired at him, but Joel didn’t even need to duck, for the bullet missed him by half a meter at least. The man was lying dead soon after, shot twice in the head, and the remaining three took out their weapons, ready for a fight.

None of them reached for Joel’s rifle, lying under their friend’s corpse.

“That’s even better,” he murmured to himself, unloading the gun and throwing it against the far wall.

If looks could kill, they’d already be lying on the ground and writhing in agony. But Joel was more than happy to do it himself. And with his bare hands.

He strode with confidence to the nearest man who swung a machete at him. Joel avoided the attack and pushed him back, quickly darting to the side and decking the other man coming at him.

A sharp pain ripped through his body from the back of his arm when the third thug cut through his clothes. Joel blocked the second strike and twisted the opponent's arm, applying so much pressure that the bone in the forearm snapped and the man’s scream pierced the air.

He lurched back to dodge the machete aimed at his neck and picked up a knife dropped by the previous guy. He surged forward, driving the blade into the thigh of his current attacker, which made the other man lose his balance. Their friend, the last one still unharmed, managed to punch Joel’s jaw, making something crack and reverberate inside his skull, but he only wiped the blood from his face.

When the last thug came closer, Joel used his own momentum and grabbed the back of his skull, bringing the guy's face down onto his own knee. After that his movements were practically automatic when he grabbed the dazed man from behind and broke his neck in a swift motion.

Breathing heavily, he made his way to the first man he knocked out and took your gun from, picking up the machete en route. That son of a bitch wasn’t even conscious, but it didn’t stop Joel from bringing the weapon down and through his head.

The next one was the bastard with the broken arm, but his screams quickly died away when he, too, received a deep and lethal wound from Joel – this time aimed at his chest, almost cutting it open.

Your yelp ripped through the roar of blood in his ears and Joel turned around just in time to see the blond he shot in the shoulder sitting on top of you, trying to stab you with his knife. You managed to dodge it and before that idiot could try again, Joel came up to you both, grabbed the man’s hair and all but threw him off of you and onto the floor.

The blond was still holding the weapon in his hand, but didn’t get another chance to use it – with all his strength Joel brought the heel of his heavy boot down on the injured man's fingers. The man screamed when the satisfying crunch of the bones in his hand breaking echoed throughout the room and Joel couldn't hide a smirk.

He deserved it. All of them deserved it.

He again saw before his eyes the way this motherfucker kicked you and how his friend threatened to cut your throat. Again he saw red.

“You piece of shit,” Joel whispered, still blinded by rage, and gave the man a taste of his own medicine by kicking him in the stomach as hard as he could. The bastard coughed and yelled in pain but it wasn’t enough.

Joel’s focus was sharp and clear when he stood over the battered and bleeding man, staring down at him with hatred. He thought the blond tried to say something – his lips were certainly moving – but he didn’t concern himself with any begging or threats the thug had to offer. Instead he gripped the front of his sweater and punched him in the jaw, letting the limp body fall to the floor and relishing in the sounds of his curses, his grunts of pain, his blood dripping onto the floor…

Not enough.

Joel did that several more times – grabbing the idiot’s clothes, hair, whatever – to pull him up and hit him in the jaw, temple, nose and wherever else his fist landed. The face of the man was bloodied and he was barely conscious at this point and still all Joel could see was the look of sadistic glee on this man's face after finding an excuse to hurt you.

Joel didn’t have much strength anymore, but he ignored the biting pain from the cut on his arm and the raw wounds on his bloody knuckles, and straddled the lying man. The survival instinct must've kicked in and the blond started to tussle, reaching with his not-broken fingers to Joel’s face, scratching his brow and cheek.

And just like the glee he saw in the thug’s eyes earlier, Joel was more than happy that he gave him an excuse – and an idea – how to hurt him more.

“I saw how you looked at her,” he said in a low tone to the unlucky man, holding his left arm in place with his knee and pressing his own thumb to that fucker's swollen eye. “You like hearin’ people screamin’ in pain? Because I just know this is going to bring me great joy.”

Blood was flowing from under Joel’s finger and down his hand when he gouged the blond’s eye out and the man was shrieking. He was writhing and struggling under Joel's weight, and his voice became guttural and hoarse soon after when the dark blood started to flood his mouth. Joel pulled his hand away, panting heavily, and soaked in the suffering of that bastard whose face now resembled a smashed, bloody goo.

Not enough.

It was unfortunate that the blond was the only one left Joel could take it out on, but he couldn’t find any compassion in himself at the moment. So he punched him again, staining the floor with the scumbug's blood.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Joel.”

Joel turned around sharply, grasping the thug’s knife. He could still feel rage churning inside of him and he was breathing heavily, trying to contain the fury filling him without screaming out loud. His hands were covered in blood – not his – and he subconsciously knew that the man lying motionlessly under him was long since dead, his face completely destroyed, but he wished that son of a bitch was still alive so that he could feel the suffering Joel longed to inflict upon him.

Everything because he hurt you.

You…

The ringing in his ears stopped suddenly and the knife fell out of his hand when he ran up to where you were still lying on the floor. You were curled up on your side with your arms wrapped protectively around your stomach and your face twisted in pain.

Joel’s breathing got quicker, now for an entirely different reason, when he noticed that the cut on your neck was bigger than he originally thought, and still bleeding. Your face was bruised and he knew your whole torso will probably turn green and purple soon, too.

“Oh, babygirl,” he whispered tenderly, his trembling hands hovering above your body, but not touching it. “It’s…” It’s alright, he wanted to say. Or maybe, where does it hurt the most?

He had trouble finding his voice, though. In his fury he completely forgot that you were still here and in need of his help.

You took a deep breath and turned your head ever so slightly to look at him in the corner of your eye. A sad smile appeared on your face.

“Hi, Joel.”

Joel breathed in. Out. In again.

For fuck’s sake, what was he thinking?

He quickly wiped the blood of the people he killed on his pants and cursed at himself mentally.

“Hi, darlin’,” he murmured in response, focusing back on you. “You’re gonna be alright. How are you feeling?”

“I think I might have a broken rib or two,” you breathed while Joel pulled out a clean piece of cloth he carried in his jacket for cases like this one and pressed it against the cut on the side of your neck. You winced and he felt a pang of pain in his own chest.

“Can I check?”

You let go of your stomach with a strangled gasp. Joel started to gently feel your torso, trying to discern if he could feel any broken bones or signs of internal bleeding. He kept his touch as delicate as he could, not wanting to hurt you even more, or worse – scare you.

He couldn’t stop his hands from shaking, though, no matter how much he tried to calm his breathing. He wished he could hold you as securely as he held his gun, with a quiet heart and sharp focus, but the fear of accidentally hurting you made his fingertips recoil at times.

Although you two knew each other for years now, you were never a witness to this cruel side of him. You knew about it, of course, of horrible things he’s done before he got to Boston and met you. A couple of times you even saw with your own eyes snippets of these primary emotions of fear or anger overtaking Joel’s mind and body.

But never like that. Never with such ferocity, hatred and satisfaction from hurting those who did the same to you.

He just really didn’t want you to be afraid of him. You were so precious to him and often he thought those brutal hands of his, which he knew were guilty of inflicting unimaginable pain and suffering, weren't worthy of touching someone who in his eyes was so delicate and pure.

But it never stopped you from seeking his touch, and although Joel could be stubborn and tough at times, he didn’t have it in himself to ever refuse you anything – even when he knew better.

That was always the case. His judgment and mind were clouded when it came to you.

“I don’t think anythin’ is broken,” he finally said in a quiet voice, cupping your cheek gingerly and turning your head to look at it better. “But the nose probably is. How did it happen?”

“They jumped out on me in the hallway,” you answered, not meeting his eyes while he gently touched the base of your nose. Then you looked to the window against which the still pouring rain was beating. “One of them punched me when I shouted for you. I thought you might have not heard me.”

“I heard you,” he murmured and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. You came for me pretty quickly, so–”

“Not that. M’sorry you had to see… this.”

To that, you didn't say anything. Joel felt his heart clenching on itself and almost stopping from the wave of terror that washed over him.

His treacherous mind was rushing him to defend his actions or make excuses – because if he doesn’t, if it turns out you’re scared of him and the things he’s capable of…

You might leave him. And if you leave, Joel won’t survive that.

But he didn’t give in to those cruel thoughts and silenced the voice in his head.

“I’d do it again,” he said quietly, making you lift your head. “In a heartbeat. I’m really sorry you had to see that, darlin’, but I… just know I’d never hurt you. And if I can help it, no one else will either.”

“Hey.” Your knuckles brushed his cheek and you looked at him with sad eyes. “You don’t need to explain yourself. I know you did it to protect me.”

“I wanted them to suffer,” he continued as if you didn’t say anything, but at the same time he soaked in the feeling of your soft touch on his face. “I don’t know how much you saw–”

“Joel.” You sat up with a wince after interrupting him, and your gaze turned sharp. “Why are you telling me this?”

Even though the bloody, battered mess that he made of the blond man seemed to push itself into Joel’s field of vision, he refused to look away from you.

“‘Cause you need to know. I feel like I’d be lyin’ to you if I didn’t explain that it wasn’t an accident or a one-time thing,” he answered, his eyes flickering from your neck to your face, and down to his own stained hands. “Couldn’t think of anythin’ else after I saw you like that, on the ground and…”

“Listen to me.” You took his head firmly in your hands and your gaze was unwavering – like you wanted to make sure that your every word will reach the depths of his soul. “I’ll say it again: you don’t need to explain. I get why you did that. And don’t even think you’re gonna drive me away because of that.”

You knew him too well. Sometimes it was slightly annoying, sometimes even scary.

This time, however, it felt reassuring.

You looked to the side where the body of his last victim lay, and Joel grimaced, gently touching the edge of your jaw and tilting it back to him. “Don’t look,” he whispered, realizing with surprise, as well as a horrible lump in his throat, that he felt almost ashamed.

Your bright eyes met his again and he briefly wondered if your gaze always was so scrutinizing.

“I’m not scared of you,” you said sternly, like always knowing what was going on in his head. “I'm not, so stop thinking that.” You shook him by the arm a little and when he didn’t answer, the corner of your lips tugged upwards in a teasing manner. “I’ve seen you multiple times in the morning. I know you’re secretly a big softie.”

Joel really didn’t deserve this kind of kindness and understanding from you. That didn’t stop him from craving it, though.

He didn't say anything – just leaned in and kissed your cheek tenderly, lingering there for a moment but paying attention not to brush your nose. You exhaled and closed your eyes, your eyelashes tickling his skin, and he decided not to drag this conversation on any longer.

“Come ‘ere, sweetheart. I’ll help you up.”

He stood up and held out his hand. It was rough and covered in blood, but even after you saw what he did to those men and heard their screams, you didn’t hesitate to take it.

“Joel,” you said gravely after standing up. There was no trace of your previous smile on your face. “If you were the one in danger, I’d do the same thing.”

You were looking at him expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer, and after a couple of seconds he nodded slightly. Apparently it was good enough for you, because you just squeezed his hand and tugged him after you and out of the room.

Joel didn’t know if he believed you.

But your words made him feel calmer and cleared his clouded mind nonetheless.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller x you #joel tlou #pedro pascal #joel miller #tlou hbo #the last of us fanfiction

[bby-deerling]

sunshine of your love (law x reader nsfw)

law overhears you talking with ikkaku and takes notes ;^)

18+, mdni, nsfw, wc: 3.4k masterlist

cw: afab!reader, virgin law, masturbation, oral sex (reader receiving), voyeurism kinda, teasing, law's kinda weird but he means well, friends to lovers, ikkaku is your girliepop, virginity loss, law is cocky, law is also a dork, alcohol consumption, hangovers

tagging: @willowbelle @sanjisjuul @eelnoise @kaizokuniichan @risenwrites @ragethebunny @mirillua @sanjisprincesswifey @atanukileaf

This was all a cruel joke—a way for Ikkaku to silently torture him as punishment for finally giving her a roommate on the submarine after all these years—at least that’s what Law tells himself as he listens to the conversation bleeding through too-thin walls into his bedroom.

The two of you had been drinking fairly heavily judging by the volume of your giggles and the way your words slur as you swap stories of escapades, some good, some bad, but mostly mediocre.  Truthfully, he couldn’t care less about what Ikkaku gets up to in that respect, but when you speak, he hangs onto every word; the conversation is filthy, beyond explicit, and he now has a tantalizingly crisp image in his mind of exactly what gets you off and what doesn’t, and as drags his hand down his cock, he convinces himself that despite his lack of experience, he can give you what you crave.  Part of him felt terrible for touching himself to something as innocent as you talking with your friend, but when you were describing what you like and don’t like in bed in so much detail, what else was he supposed to do with himself?

A lull in the conversation leads to Ikkaku coming up with some silly hypotheticals.  “Alright, here’s one for you—fuck, marry kill: Shachi, Law, and…” she says, pausing for a moment while she thinks of a third option, “Me!”  A pair of giggles echo through the wall when you immediately respond with a kill Shachi; if Law weren’t busy picturing you splayed out beneath him, he probably would have let out a snort of amusement too.

“Fuck you, marry Law.” you say decisively.  Law lets out a hiss as he wills away the inadvertent image that pops into his head of Ikkaku on top of you, pleasuring you in the way he wishes he could—in the position that he should be in.  Marry Law.  The words bounce around his brain, driving him wild with the prospect of you not just wanting him once out of passing curiosity, but wanting him all the time.  He’s wanted you so much, for so long, in every conceivable way, contriving excuses at every turn to spend more time alone with you, and lo and behold, here you were fantasizing about a life with him in your free time.

“Marry Law?” she balks incredulously, “You’re still on about that?  I thought you got over that little crush you had—” Law’s hand stops stroking momentarily as Ikkaku’s words send him reeling.  Feelings.  You had feelings for him; he had wormed his way into your heart just like you had burrowed into his, and all of a sudden, he’s fisting himself with renewed vigor, propelled by the notion that if he plays his cards right, he’ll have the real thing sooner than he could have ever imagined.  Images of you float through his mind as electricity courses through his skin—you by his side, you curled up in his lap while you flip through a novel, you laying face down as he fucks you into the mattress—each one carried the same weight of eroticism as he pictures the near future with you.

“I can’t help it!” you exclaim, far too loudly, but you were much too tipsy to be cognizant of the fact that Law’s bedroom was right next door, and despite his night owl tendencies, it was far too late to be lurking elsewhere on the submarine.  “We’ve been spending so much time together and he just turns me into a flustered mess!  He looks at me and has this look on his face, and I just—ugh, I need him!” you lament, causing Ikkaku to laugh at your plight and tease you further.

Rambling on, you say much more, about how much you cherish your time together, and wax poetic about how you feel a quiet kinship like him, as if he knows the contents of your soul without having to disclose them, but Law was still focused on the frustrated whimper you had let out when you said you needed him, replaying the words in the back of his mind like a broken record until he spills warm seed all over his hand.  Guilt washes over him for disregarding your words of gushing adoration in the moment while his mind was preoccupied elsewhere, but he atones for his disrespect by ruminating on your tipsy ramblings as he drifts off to sleep.

The other half of my soul, you had said with a dreamy sigh—they were the exact same words that roll around his head whenever he thinks of you.  Though half asleep, he concocts a half-baked plan to execute in the morning, sleepily setting his alarm to ensure he doesn’t miss his window of opportunity.

Law slips into your bedroom with a glass of water, a couple pieces of toast, and four-hundred milligrams of ibuprofen the moment Ikkaku leaves in the morning.  Though he had only gotten a couple hours of sleep, the excitement flowing through his veins as he makes his way towards your room intent on subtly making his feelings known with a small gesture overpowers any exhaustion. Completely covered in your blankets from head to toe, the click of Law’s heeled boots against the floor prompts you to pop your head out from underneath, a dusting of red coating your face.

“For the hangover.” he says plainly as he sets the plate and glass on your nightstand.  As you sip on the water, he takes in your lips and messy hair and weighs his options and contemplates taking an additional risk with you beyond simply hanging at your bedside for a bit of light conversation; despite how tipsy you had been last night, you’re now more parts pleasant than irritable and dizzy, and cute as a button as you thank him for going to the trouble of bringing you the light breakfast and medicine.

“It’s no trouble.” he insists, staring at you for a moment before committing to the urge in his core that keeps telling him to sling a teasing remark your way.  “Besides since you want to get married so badly, I figured I should start taking better care of you.” he says with a smirk as he sits at the foot of your bed, masking his nerves with an aura of feigned confidence, behaving as if he’s made himself comfortable like this dozens of times.

He observes your reaction carefully, searching for any sign of disgust at him for eavesdropping as you turn red from head to toe; instead, he only finds mortification plaguing your face as your gaze turns downward towards your blankets.  “I’m so sorry, Captain—” you squeak out, though before you can apologize further, he stops you, and you become acutely aware of the way he’s leaning in a bit closer to you, his hand nearly grazing the side of your leg.

“Why? Are you taking it back?” he asks; his expression is unintentionally blank as he focuses on analyzing the emotions on your own face.  In turn, you find yourself unsure of whether he shared your feelings or was simply teasing you for being so brazen and loose-lipped while drunk.

“Only if you’re uncomfortable—” you start, but your voice falters and halts when his hand rests on your thigh and a devilish smirk graces his face.

“Do I look uncomfortable?” he teases, inching closer as he watches a flood of relief crash over your features, releasing your nerves with a shaky exhale.

You shake your head.  “No, Captain.” you reply softly, inwardly cringing at the way you’d used his title out of habit.  He lets out an exhale of amusement and gets unbearably close, hovering over you as the tension hangs thick in the small space between you.

“You need to relax.”he whispers softly, “Let me help you with that.” He hesitates for a moment before cautiously pressing his lips to yours.  Law freezes for a moment before pulling away, admiring the half-lidded look in your eyes; playfully flirting with you while packaging his words in a coating of plausible deniability came naturally to him—the game of slowly pushing the envelope was fun for him—but kissing you, feeling you, and being on top of you were all novel and exhilarating new sensations that send him into a whirlpool of swirling nerves.

After listening to you complain about past experiences, he doesn’t want to disappoint you—he doesn’t want to fade into the back of your memory as another lousy story to tell.

As he gently coaxes your lips back to his, he runs through the laundry list of bad kissing habits you and Ikkaku had agreed upon last night: don’t clash your teeth against hers, don’t slobber in her mouth, don’t go crazy with the tongue.  It seemed simple enough, and to an extent it was, as each muffled noise you make against his lips helps him learn, improve, and plan his next step, but everything from the press of your lips to the swirl of your tongue was so foreign and alien to him that he nearly forgets to take notes on what he likes in the process.

His hand creeps upward to cradle the side of your face—it was something you had said you adore, and the sweet, content noises you let out indicate that you were underselling your affection for the motion, if anything; however, what he doesn’t expect is to feel the flush of warmth that covers his face when you mewl against his mouth.  He likes making you vocal, he decides, greedily soaking in each little bit of affection and praise you offer him as he slowly picks you apart.

I love getting my neck kissed so much—bites, licks, all of it.  Words from last night echo in his head as he presses his lips in a trail down towards the sensitive column of your neck.  The simple touches of his mouth along your skin are enough to make you squirm and whimper softly underneath him, giving him the confidence he secretly needs to sink his teeth into your flesh with an intent to mark you.

“You like that?” he purrs in your ear between nips of his teeth and swirls of his tongue against your neck.  “Mhm…” you whine out, causing him to let out a small growl as he sucks at your skin.  Satisfied with the bright red mark that would no doubt turn purple later, he lets his hovering hips fall, reattaching his lips to yours as he grinds his clothed cock into where he was approximately sure your core was underneath your sheets, and is gratified when he feels your legs spread slightly so he can feel a bit more of you.  Succumbing to a haze of lust, Law is nervous but hungry for more—so much so that he becomes afraid of pushing things too far and pulls himself away so he can get a read on your pulse.

Your gazes lock together as you ask each other a silent question—how far do you want to go?  A slight tremble courses though his hands; everything was seemingly happening all at once, but the tension between you had been building for months, and he can’t help but want to let everything spill over in this moment.  He’s afraid to ask for too much and scare you off, but he’s filled with so much need that it makes him shake as he stares down at you, your lips still moist and kiss bitten.

“I want you, Law.”  you whisper, the words traveling like tiny wisps that linger in the air.  With a small sigh of relief, he’s resolved to give himself to you, give everything to you and lays the foundation in his head for a coarse path to reach that goal.

And then he moves your sheets, with the intention of being able to press himself closer to your body, and is thrown for a loop.

“Do you normally sleep without—” he stutters, unable to get the rest of his sentence out as he becomes transfixed on your bare lower half.  He can’t resist letting one of his inked hands travel downward and rest along the curve of your hips as he takes in the expanse of bare skin, the tufts of wayward hair above your sex, and the hints of slick arousal that have began to creep along your inner thighs.

“No.” you say with a shake of your head, blushing furiously.  Averting your eyes from his, you swallow hard before continuing.  “I was… y’know…” you mumble, trailing into nothingness out of embarrassment from your admission, hoping it wouldn’t scare him off.  Peeking at his reaction reveals quite the opposite as he gives you a feral grin, gears clicking together as he realized why you were hiding under your blanket when he entered the room.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about me, hm?” he hums teasingly, lips nearly grazing your earlobe.  The ghost of a sensation makes you twitch, and he purrs with satisfaction at being able to make you squirm without even touching you.  “Do you always think about me when you touch yourself?” he asks, letting his hand wander before resting his thumb on your needy bud, tracing light circles onto it, your words about hating when someone is too rough with it sitting clearly in the front of his mind.

“All the time…” you whisper as your back arches up off the mattress; the soft patterns he traces along your sensitive clit make you whimper for him, and the tone of your needy sounds nearly make Law cum on the spot.

“So do I.” he mumbles, the words distant on account of him being consumed by his task of working you up with his fingers.  He contemplates going down on you, haphazardly pushing your shirt aside and kissing his way down your body, paying your tits some extra attention along the way, but he has absolutely no clue what to do beyond the theory of it all.  Asking for assistance was out of the question—not when he was trying so hard to impress you enough to convince you to tether yourself to him permanently, not when he is so dead set on making sure you don’t realize that this is his first everything; looking incompetent in front of you was not an option, in any sense of the word.

And so, he takes a deep breath and decides to learn through doing.

Now, face settled between your legs, he was truly out of his element.  More overheard guidance from the previous night floods his head.  Keep your tongue flat and lick from side to side.  Don’t fake a ton of obnoxious noises while you do it.  It’s okay to roam a little, but keep your attention on the clit.  He cyclically runs through each one of your preferences in his mind as he drags his tongue across your bud, instinctively picking up on the right pressure, the right patterns based on your reactions—it’s like a puzzle for him, though instead of clicking pieces into place or filling out a crossword, he’s slowly turning you into a squirming mess with his mouth.  If he were any less drunk on the sensation of making you fervently writhe against him, he’d be thrown off by the way you snap your hips harshly along his tongue, doing more work than he feels you should be doing, but he’s simply awestruck by how pretty you look when you’re so intently focused on getting off.  You seem so close, and, desperate to do something to push you over the edge, he grips your thighs tightly, making his best attempt at replicating your description of how much you said you enjoy it.

To his pleasant surprise, it works.

And when you come crashing over the edge, with white-hot intensity, he can’t help but slip his tongue inside you, wanting to feel every bit of your arousal on his tongue and experience the way your walls spasm—he wants to feel you coming apart and study it for future reference.  You’re gorgeous, with your knuckles twisting and clutching at your bottom sheet, and your face blooming with heat.

He's been so singularly focused on pleasing you, on proving himself and protecting his ego, that he had put his own needs on the backburner, but seeing you glowing, needy, and all for him makes him unable to wait any longer to have you.

Unbuckling his pants, freeing his cock, and lining himself up with your entrance, he's about to slide his length inside of you, but something makes him instinctively pause; he’s not quite sure what’s making him hesitate, until he remembers.

You like to be teased.

He presses the smallest bit into you before withdrawing, making you let out a sigh of frustration.  “You want it?” he coos playfully, smirking down at you when you grind your hips towards him in vain.

“Please, Law…  I need it…” you whine, slightly pouting your lips out at him.

Please.

“Then take it.” he whispers lowly as he bottoms out inside of you, hiding his burning face in the crook of your shoulder as he’s flooded with another wave of novel sensations.  Pride swells in his chest upon hearing you beg for him, plead for him to take you; the feeling is intoxicating, so much so that he nearly forgets that he doesn’t quite know what to do once he’s fully sheathed inside of you.  Flailing for only the briefest of moments, he does the only thing he can think of—stop thinking so much, for once.

He acts on instinct, capturing your lips with his and swiping his tongue along your bottom lip clumsily as he rocks his hips into yours, trying to keep his strokes slow and even to prevent himself from getting too overwhelmed before he even truly starts.  Soon enough, he regains his head and gets bolder, using your sounds and reactions as cues to make sure he’s barking up the right tree; the more decisive he is with his movements, the more you respond, and the better he can get a read on you.

But right now, he can’t see your face, opting instead to bury his own into the crook of your neck, scattering any patch of skin he can reach with kisses and love bites as he gives you surer, more intense strokes; just when he thinks he’s ascended to the truest form of a higher plane, completely dissolved into something intangible and forever mixed with you, he feels you do something that drives him even more wild.  It’s paradoxical, how much he loves it when you wrap your legs around him; he so badly wants to be caged in by you, an eternal mess of tangled limbs, but the action is so intimate, so comfortable that it sends him spiraling unbearably close to the edge.

“Where do you want me to—” he rasps, unable to spit the rest of his words out as the way he buries himself deep inside you makes him gasp sharply.

“Anywhere.” you reply, the word dipped in layers of lust.  He laments his inability to last longer, but the way you fit around his cock like a tight glove combined with the pretty, fucked out look on your face makes him unable to keep his composure.

A slew of whispered curses fall from his lips as he pulls out and spurts ropes of hot cum onto your lower stomach.  Mesmerized by the look of his seed spread over your skin as he catches his breath, he takes a few moments to fall back down from space before planting a kiss on your lips.

“Thank you…that was… wow.” you say quietly with a smile, mind still scrambled as he haphazardly wipes you clean with the tissues that sit on your nightstand.

“Thank yourself.” he replies teasingly, pressing kisses along your collarbone as he settles in bed behind you, “You’re the one who gave me the detailed instructions.”  His words make your cheeks flush as you nuzzle into his touch, his hands lacking their usual chill as they trace patterns into your skin. 

“My other half.” he murmurs gently into your ear, in a hushed tone so quiet that you nearly think you’ve dreamt it.

A soft, lazy smile drifts onto your face. “My other half.” you echo, lacing your fingers with his and pressing a kiss to his knuckles before nodding off back to sleep together.

#one piece x reader #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law smut #law smut #law x reader #trafalgar law x you #law x you #trafalgar law x y/n #law x y/n #one piece fanfiction #one piece smut #one piece scenario #trafalgar law #x reader

[azsazz]

Off Grid

Azriel x Reader [Formula One AU]

Summary: Ferrari has signed on rookie driver Dorian Havilliard. Azriel must learn to navigate the 2024 season with a new teammate and his secret relationship, with you, who just so happens to be the team’s media trainer.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2,109

Notes: This one goes out to @moosemahboi for the ask this morning 😏 enjoy 😉 (idk why I can’t tag u but hopefully you see this)

Also, sorry if the formatting looks like shit I’m posting this from my phone. I busted this out so fast tho whoops

_________________________________________

“Azriel, how are you feeling knowing that Ferrari has signed young Dorian Havilliard for the 2024 season?” The reporter asks, sitting eagerly on the edge of his seat. He has his phone out, recording Azriel’s responses. The man has been hanging onto every word Azriel has said; him and the other thirty journalists eager to pester him, all cramped within the small room.

Beside him, Cassian snickers under his breath, all too obviously happy that he’s not the one who must suffer this torturous questioning. Azriel refrains from rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it all. Well, it’s not absurd but it feels like it because it’s been the only question anyone seems to care about right now, they no longer care to ask how the new chassis feels, what his thoughts are about the new Las Vegas race added to the schedule, how he’s projected to be one of the top drivers this season. Was supposed to be one of the top performing drivers of the season. Ever since Ferrari leaked that Dorian Havilliard is making his debut with the team for the first race, it’s been a feeding frenzy for the media, trying to be the first to glean insider information about the fresh meat.

“I think he’ll make a great addition to the team,” is all Azriel offers in response.

He’s hot and sweaty from practice and being blinded by flashes of cameras that don’t seem to be stopping anytime soon isn’t helping his mood in the slightest. It’s the part of his job that he despises the most. All Azriel wants to do is drive, because nothing feels as good as the adrenaline when he’s behind the wheel, but right now all he wants is to go home, not respond to million questions he’s already answered too many times before. And to be honest, he’s kind of pissed about Ferrari signing Dorian Havilliard and nixing Rowan Whitethorn, who has signed on to be McLaren’s first seat after Aedion Ashryver’s accident at the final race of the 2023 season that sent him into early retirement.

There’s a beat of silence, and when it’s clear he has nothing else to say about the matter, someone else pops up from their seat and another question is hurled his way. “And what about your former teammate, Rowan Whitethorn? How is he taking the news of losing his seat to Havilliard?”

The urge to roll his eyes into his fucking skull is so great he almost doesn’t stop it, but the last thing he needs is the team’s media trainer on his case about the appropriate ways to conduct himself during media panels, no matter how pretty she is.

They should be asking this question to Rowan or even Dorian, whenever he begins press for the upcoming season.

“Rowan understands,” he tries to hide the sour tone in his voice. Azriel and Rowan have been driving together for the past three seasons and it’s been one of the best experiences he’s had with a teammate in Formula 1. He knows the constructors are too worried about placing him on the same team as Rhysand or Cassian, who he grew up with at karting school. They’re like brothers and they act like it too, but if they were on the same team the rivalries would feel even more drastic than they already are. “He’s a good driver and talent like his isn’t going away anytime soon.”

Rowan’s new teammate, Hunt Athalar, nods from Azriel’s other side. He and Cassian seem to be enjoying not being pestered with surface-level questions, and Azriel wishes that he was feeling the same.

With a few more unnecessary queries about Dorian, press finally ends. He, Hunt, and Cassian are escorted from the room, the trail of flashes and conversation starting up clinging to his back as he walks.

“Fucking hell,” Azriel mutters to Cassian, who jabs him in the side with a snigger once they’re cleared the room, the door shutting with a loud click behind them. “I hate these interviews.”

“Don’t need to tell me that, mate,” he laughs wholeheartedly, and Azriel glares. “I’m pretty sure everyone can tell. Might want to learn to act like you like it, though. Ferrari won’t keep you if your attitude sucks. But I’m sure that media trainer of yours is about to hunt you down and tell you the same thing.”

Azriel frowns. He thought he’d done a pretty good job at deflecting the questions about his new teammate.

“People like me for me,” Azriel shrugs, defending himself. He’s never been a bullshitter, no matter how badly his team has wanted him to be. This is what the people get, 100% Azriel, take it or leave it. And Ferrari has decided to take it, for the last three seasons. The second half of his sentence is drowned out as Cassian’s snickering becomes full-bodied laughter. “And my trophies speak for themselves.” He doesn’t mean to come off as cocky, but he’d rather be authentically himself than a puppet to the media.

Cassian shakes his head, wiping the nonexistent tears from the corners of his eyes. “No, people like me for me,” he winks at Azriel’s glare. “They like you because you’re a decent driver.”

Azriel’s nose crinkles. “Decent? My car is projected to perform even better than Rhys’ this year!”

They three drivers turn down a hall, nodding to the two Haas drivers they pass: Bron and Hart.

“We’ll see, won’t we, Athalar?” Cassian cranes his neck around Azriel, directing the question to the silent driver on his other side. Hunt and Azriel have never been close, but the angel of McLaren offers a genuine smile in response.

“Should be a good season, boys.” Azriel and Cassian share a look. A perfect media-trained answer, Hunt gave. The other driver turns off down another hall, “See you later.”

“What a weirdo,” Cassian mutters once Hunt has disappeared from sight. “Good luck to Ro, having to deal with that.”

Azriel finally rolls his eyes like he’s been wanting to do since he left the press room. “Yeah, and I’m the asshole.”

Cassian huffs and the pair of drivers stop at the end of the hall where it splits to go to their respective driver rooms.

“I’ll see you later, man.”

“Hopefully in a better mood, Azzy,” Cassian chuckles and dips down the hall before Azriel can toss another glare or remark at him.

Shaking his head, Azriel returns to his driver room. He’s going to grab his things and get the fuck out of here, because relaxing at his hotel sounds much better than waiting around here any longer.

A knock on the door interrupts his actions, and Azriel wonders why the Mother fails to grace him with one sliver of luck today.

“Come in,” he grunts, snagging his water from where he left it on top of the desk.

You enter the room with your phone and clipboard in your hands. You’re typing on your phone, fingers flying across the screen as you reply to another email. The water does nothing to quench Azriel’s suddenly dry throat.

He can’t help the way his eyes drag down your body with your attention on your phone, drinking in the sight of you in your pressed pants and professional button up shirt. There’s a lanyard around your neck with your Ferrari employee access printed on it and he wants to wrap his fist around the strap and—

Wherever his mind was drifting off to is completely shattered by your piercing eyes. He hasn’t had enough time to prepare for your apparent annoyance at his attitude during the press conference. You don’t look happy, and neither is his name as it rolls from your lips in a disappointed manner. “Azriel.” You step further into the room. “What the hell was that out there? You know you can’t—”

Your rant is cut off as Azriel consumes the space between you in two long strides, leaning in to slant his lips over yours, eating up your words. You can’t help but to melt into it a little, a lot when his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you part for him, brushing up against your tongue in a sensual move.

When he straightens, you’re panting and a bit flushed. Arousal burns through your body like petrol on the track, but you steel yourself against that fire in his eyes, all ready to light you up.

“Not even going to say hello before you start in on me?” Azriel asks, licking his lips. Your eyes follow the motion, and he smirks. The way his body is pressed up against yours and the firm grip of his hands on your hips threatens to distract you further, especially when his red racing suit is slung around his waist, leaving him in that tight, black long sleeve that contours around his lithe body perfectly.

“No,” you agree, and he frowns. “I’m upset with you.”

“Was it something I said?” He cringes at his own lame attempt at a joke, ducking from your serious gaze. “‘M sorry, I’m just sick of all the Dorian questions. They’re not asking anything about the season or the car, only how I feel about a rookie taking Rowan’s seat.”

You ache for him, you really do, but things like this happen in the sport and he’s been in it long enough now that Azriel should know better than to act like this. You can admit, Rowan had been an asset to Ferrari and to Azriel, wriggling his way under the stoic driver’s skin like a worm, burrowing deep into his heart.

“Az, you need to stop playing it like Dorian took his seat on purpose,” you console gently, “We both know that it was Rowan’s time, and he couldn’t resist what McLaren might’ve proposed.”

“I know, I know,” Azriel replies unhappily, retreating to perch on the arm of the small couch. He can accept it, but he doesn’t like it, preferring to blame the new driver instead. “I don’t want to deal with that little punk,” he groans, because the thought of putting up with a cocksure rookie tires him. “Coming in here thinking he owns the damn place.”

“Azriel,” you tut, rolling your eyes. You put a hand on your hip. “That was literally you four years ago.”

“It’s different,” he mutters, but you both know that it’s not.

You abandon your phone and clipboard on the desk in the room before standing between his parted thighs and wrapping your arms around his neck. His damp hair is slicked back but a strand falls across his forehead and he looks really good like this, head tilted upwards, gold eyes painted with false innocence.

“Why don’t you, instead of being Dorian’s enemy, you become his ally?” You ask softly, fingering the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“Because that’s not how the team works, baby,” Azriel sighs, enjoying the way you’re scratching his skin. He wants to lean forward and rest his head in the crook of your neck, maybe take a cat nap or nip at the skin there. “We might drive for the same team, but I’m not looking to be the supporting driver.”

Fuck that. There’s no way he’s letting a rookie take his seat when he’s worked his ass off since he received it. He’s been driving for Ferrari since he first got an in the sport, four years ago. He fought tooth and nail to work up from second seat to first, and Azriel will be damned if Dorian rips it from under him in one season.

“Your jealousy is showing,” you tease your boyfriend a little, poking him on the nose. You know you shouldn’t be doing this, hanging all over each other when anyone could walk into the room, but you can’t resist your draw to Azriel. “It’s not as endearing as it is when you’re jealous that I’m talking to one of the engineers.”

“Don’t remind me,” Azriel grunts, eyes hardening a little. “You’re mine and I don’t like to share.”

You snort, “That much is clear, babe,” you step out of his arms and miss the heat of his body already. You collect your things from the desk and return to him for a quick kiss. You shoot him a final knowing look, dodging his attempts at capturing you against his chest again. “Work on it, Azriel. I mean it.”

He salutes you as you open the door to slip out. “Yes ma’am.”

It shuts quietly behind you and Azriel slumps back onto the couch, sighing.

It’s going to be a long season.

_________________________________________

@iambored24601 @secretlyhers @kylaisra @daily-dose-of-sass wasn’t sure but figured u might want to see this one 😅

#acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azriel #azriel x reader #azriel/reader #f1driver!azriel #formula 1 au #acotar x f1

[del-thetiredwriter]

Mafia Au / Good luck while running away from mafia part 3

Intro , part 0.5 , part 1 , part 2 , part 4

Tags: @morokumi , @hrhqueenfox , @hasty-desert , @oceanside-pixie , @lianreine , @h3apm3ch4n151m , @cecilebutcher , @ayachansan , @reveihehe , @sfxtiebee , @roseapov , @twst-eeps , @loivre , @randomlyappearingartist , @serenity-loves-red, @wonderlandcrown

Note: Haha it’s been a long time… ((￣∇￣) how are you guys? I didn’t liked this post maybe edit it later

Warnings: bad English and writing , gn reader, kidnapping, yandere, curse, blood, character injury…

2 years ago

“Agh! At this rate, I will die from overwork!”

You whined.

You were indebted to Azul because you forgot the day you were supposed to meet Azul last week and wasted his precious time.

He wanted you to check all the financial records of the mafia to pay off his debt, but according to you, he just wanted to torture you.

You had been examining all the financial records of the mafia in Monstro Lounge for the last three days, even checking till the time when Crewel Sensei was the executive.

“I want to cry, why am I looking at financial records from 10 years ago?”

You whined, hit your head on the table and sighed deeply.

You glanced at the records out of the corner of your eye… Saw the same word: “Ramshackle” . That name again. This name kept coming up since you started reviewing the records 7 years ago. The money transfer to “Ramshackle” was quite large. Almost as much as a division.

You've been in the mafia for about 4 years, but you've never heard of this name. Strange.

“I see you are working hard.”

You were startled by the voice you heard. You saw the silver haired executive leaning against to the side of the door staring at you with a satisfied smirk.

“Azul-san, you are back sir.”

You straightened up. You didn’t wanted to look like you’re slacking. Last time because you slacked he made you work till death for a week that felt like years in Monstro Lounge.

He looked at the paperworks that you were dealing with.

“I see you have worked hard, you deserve a short break right?”

-

“I swear I will never forget you again.”

You sweared while drinking the tea prepared by Jade. The ice tea made you forget the war you had with paperworks.

“Looks like Y/N-san had a hard time, hmm?”

Jade said as he placed the snacks in front of you.

“Shrimpy, you looked so funny among those piles of papers. Maybe you should forget Azul more~”

said Floyd while eating one of the biscuits on the plate.

You gulped. This was definitely something you would never do again. You didn’t wanted to return to that room.

While chatting with them your mind went to that name again: Ramshackle.

“Azul-san, I want to ask you something.”

You hoped that he knew something about it.

Azul nodded in agreement. “Go on.”

“I wonder what Ramshackle is? So is it someone or an organization? This name was mentioned frequently in financial records. “

Man with glasses took a sip from the tea before answering.

“I don't know. That name was on the records before I became a executive. And from the moment I was in charge of finance I never heard that name . So I don’t know .”

-

Current time

A full week. This chase had been going on for exactly a week. You were officially a fugitive.

You opened the glove compartment. Your food could last you another day at most, but your water was already finished. You sighed, you had to go to the grocery store. You took some cash and your gun. Wore your mask and got of from the car. Praying to not get caught.

…

You were in line at the register with two bottles of water and two sandwiches. The line was very slow for some reason, barely moving at all.

Then you felt someone's eyes on you. No, they couldn't have found you. Then a hand touched your shoulder. You suddenly turned around and turned away the hand that touched you. However, you looked at the owner of the hand in surprise.

“Alex?”

You looked at your former co-worker from the cafe in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

You said as you released his hand. Meanwhile you got some peoples attention because of your action.

“Nice to see you too, Yuu. Where have you been? I haven't heard from you since that commotion at the cafe. You made me very worried.” said the young man while rubbing his hand that you caught a moment ago.

"Nevermind." You didn't want to waste time on unnecessary conversations. You just wanted to get out of here.

“You really are annoying as always. Even though I was so worried about you. You owe me "

Alex said.

You didn't reply. You thought about not getting carried away just because you were talking to Alex. You were lost in thoughts but you came to your senses with Alex’s shout.

“Hey! Let's go to the cafe.”

Alex said while fiddling with his phone.

"I'm busy."

You didn’t had time to waste and didn’t wanted to be in public. But Alex insisted.

“Come on, look just 15 minutes okay or I'll throw a Tantrum in this crowd.”

You stared at him with disappointment . If You knew Alex, he would do this. He was the type of person who would do anything to get what he wanted. Because of this behavior of his he would always argue with other co-workers only you could deal with him. Because he was just not dangerous version of your ex bosses

You agreed with a sigh.

-

“Hey, do you have a lover or something? You're constantly on the phone." You said while stared at Alex with those judgmental eyes.

He brought you to a local cafe which is quite crowded for you. Now you two were waiting for your orders.

“You insisted me to came here yet always on the phone.”

“Uh, no… I'm just waiting for an important call.”

replied the young man.

You looked at Alex suspiciously. He was uneasy. Something didn't feel right. You shaked your head. He was just a civilian. You were just nervous because of recent events.

You started watch outside of the window. A cat purring on it’s owner lap and the owner reading a book while stroking the cat. The owner of the cat was talking to another man. Quite muscular man was sitting in front of the cats owner talking about something excitedly.

Then you saw a black car parking. With Seeing the person in the backseat you panicked. You were found out.

“No way,” you whispered. You straightened up.

"Uh, what's the problem?" Alex said. Caught your hand.

"I have to go. We'll meet another time." You said, trying to pull your hand away but Alex tightened his grip.

"No. Remain. You should remain.” He said with a guilty yet insistent voice.

Your eyes grew with realization.

“It was you…You were the one who exposed me. You knowingly changed your working days on the night of the attack. You purposely came to work with me that day…"

Alex looked at you with a guilty expression. You pulled your hand away and quickly ran for the exit, but you were blocked by a familiar person. Those here heterochromic eyes… Those eyes that you were scared of eyes. Eyes of a hunters.

“It's been a long time Shrimpy~”

He grabbed your wrists before you could respond. It was impossible to escape Floyd's grip. You struggled but it didn’t help.

“Don’t use your energy on it. No use.”

You heard that mocking familiar voice.Then you saw the second brother. The carbon copy of Floyd. Jade just grinned when he saw your situation. Then he turned to someone else .

“Thank you for your service Mr. Alex. As we talked about, the fee will be delivered to you within the day tomorrow.” said Jade in a gentlemanly manner.

Then he turned to you.

“Now, Azul is waiting for us in the car. Let's not keep him waiting too long, hmm. But first-“

He took the gun you hid behind your back.

“Toys are prohibited”

-

You were put into the backseat of the black vehicle you just saw. Seated between Jade and Azul. You felt so numb so drowning. Is this how you were ending up…

Azul looked at you, pleased with the situation.

"You were going to get caught eventually, was it worth the effort?" he mocked you.

You didn't reply. You just watched out the window with lost in thoughts.

…

They brought you to a place that looked like Monstro Lounge in the city. It was probably newly opened. You were brought to one of the back rooms, the kind where Azul would hold his private conversations. They made you sit on a chair.Your hands and feet were tied to a comfortable chair. You didn’t strike back.

“Hey , it’s not like I can do something .”

You said calmly while getting tied.

“I'm sorry Y/N but you know ,safety precautions.”

Jade said in a not at all sad tone as he tied you up.

“You're hungry, aren't you? You probably didn't eat properly while you were running away. Jade, can you please bring our angelfish something to eat and Floyd, can you please bring some clean clothes? I can’t believe you wear this stuff as clothes." Azul nagged.

“Why, I want to spend time with shirmpy too.” Floyd whined, but eventually he left with Jade.

After Floyd and Jade left, only you and Azul were left in the room.

There was silence in the room. A tense silence.The silver haired man happily walked towards you.

“You acted really stupid, my angelfish. I don't even understand why you ran away in the first place. After all, everything was perfect wasn’t it. We were at peace. Why did you do?"

He leaned towards you. There were only inches between you.

You stared at him with empty eyes for a minute with silence.

“You all know the answer, but you all act like you don’t .”

You spoke.

Azul grinned.

“İdia said you ran away because you learned everything, but even if you did, we are not guilty. It's you." He said, leaning towards your face.

You gritted your teeth. Turned your head around. He was too close. You looked away. Luckily, Jade walked in just in time with a tray of food.

“Oh right on time Jade.”

Jade came to the room with a silver tray of dinner.

“Today’s menu is Cold poached salmon. As for beverage water. Sorry couldn’t get anything else you see… Then Bon Appetite.”

Then he bent over.

Azul cut a piece and turned to you. He held the fork to your mouth. You looked at him sternly.

"You eat first. Who knows what you put in it.”

Azul grinned at your answer.

"Okey." He put the morsel into his mouth.

You watched as he slowly chewed the morsel and then swallowed it. And he cut another piece.

“Say aaaah”

And you ate the second piece he cut off.

-

Azul and Jade left for an emergency meeting, and you were left in Floyd's custody, but he had just gone to the bathroom.

You sighed deeply. They would probably take you to main place tomorrow.

Suddenly strange sounds started coming from outside.

Then the voices stopped and the door opened.

“Sam-san?!”

You said in surprise.

“Your prince charming has come to take you out of here.” grinned Sam.

"But how?"

"You talk too much. We don't have much time. “ Sam said as he untied you.

“Here, take this gun. By the way, there are only three bullets inside, just so you know. And some cash.”

He put the gun in your hand.

"Why?” you asked again. Why was Sam helping you?

He just smiled. “Hurry up or you won't be able to escape. Now our paths part again. Don't get caught again. I don't think I can save you again."

You looked at him for a second. Then you ran, you ran with all your might.

“Stay where you are!”

You turned around when you heard the familiar voice. Floyd was looking at you with his gun drawn. It was obvious that he was angry.

“Why are you running away, Shrimpy? I just found you...I don't want to play chase with you anymore!”

He pointed his gun at you threateningly.

You didn't reply.

You saw Sam behind Floyd. It's okay... You had nothing to lose anymore. You turned around and ran towards the exit.

The sound of the trigger rang in your ears. A strange pain in your shoulder. Ah Floyd shot you in the shoulder. But that wasn't enough to stop you, you continued running.

This is the first time you've acted foolishly. But you were saved.

-

"What do you think you're doing?" asked the former Pormefiore manager to the masked man.

“I don't know what you mean, I just wanted to drink wine.” The masked man said playfully, pouring his blood red wine into the glass.

“You sent Sam!” Crewel slammed his hand on the table.

“Hmm maybe,” Dire Crowley grinned.

“What are you planning?”

“Oh Crewel, my old friend, let's just say I want to win the bet we made. You know, I don't like to lose."

#yandere twst #yandere imagines #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere azul ashengrotto #yandere azul x reader #yandere jade x reader #yandere jade leech #yandere floyd x reader #yandere floyd leech #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst #azul ashengrotto #jade leech #yandere octavinelle #floyd leech #good luck while running away from the mafia #twisted wonderland mafia au #twst azul #twst floyd #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst jade

[dcxdpdabbles]

Respawn and Relive

@thenightwolf51 who tagged me in this months ago, but I didn't know enough about Respawn to write something. I didn't forget! I just still haven't found much on him, so sorry if I get his character wrong.

They don't give him a name.

It's one of the first things he notices they do to dehumanize him. It's not like they see clones as humans- he's just a science experiment meant to keep the legacy of the League of Assassins alive, even at the cost of his life.

He is just there to be trained to follow commands, and if needed, he is spare parts for the Real Son. He is made from part of the same DNA as the Real Son, but that hardly matters to what should be his mother, as she does not feel anything for his biological father and thus feels nothing for the being created from the two DNAs.

He is the clone created by Slade Wilson- alias Deathstroke- and Talia al Ghul. She may not had a hand in his creation, as that was done by her father, but she had no issues using him.

Torment him. Rip him apart and put it back together just to see what happens.

She looks at him with the same gaze she would a sword. Valuating his worth by how well he can do in training, how healthy his organs are, and how he should be nothing but a loyal dog.

But he isn't. Not really.

If this was all he knew, maybe he would be the weapon they wanted, but he knows more. Remembers more. Yes, he doesn't have all his memories, but he has flashes- glimpses- of the life he had before the Leauge.

They would disapprove of the memories, which makes them all the more precious.

He can still clearly remember his mother- his real mother- a brilliant mind, his father's warm, solid hugs, and his sister's gentle eyes. He can recall his home's layout even if he can not remember the street or how far it was from his school. He can identify his two best friends' faces even if their names slip through his fingers like falling sand.

He also remembers his first name and the initials of his last.

Danny F.

He thinks he died before, waking up as the clone. He remembers standing inside a metallic cave- or a large hole in a machine?- and being electrocuted. He remembers the screams, the flashes of light, the pain, and even a glimpse of his best friends' horrified faces but not much else.

The next clear memory is looking in a mirror to see white hair and green eyes. The same combination he now sports as the Leguage's weapon and spare organ farm.

The memories after that are filled with harsh training, even more, brutal torture, and the reintegration that should his half-brother ever need them, he would give up his organs for the Real Son.

He is, after all, Damian Wayne's gift. He was created to harvest his super healing for the boy's body parts. Danny thinks he hates him, but he's not sure he can remember what hate is supposed to feel like.

He does remember what love is supposed to feel like.

Sometimes, when all he can do is lay in his cell, body aching as they test his healing factor beyond its limits- they cut off his left arm once, just to watch the tissue slowly regrow- he lets himself drown in his old memories, in the few dream-like sequences.

Some make sense, others don't. For some, he's a black-haired blue-eyed boy, and for others, he has white hair and green eyes.

Danny is sitting in class, eagerly taking notes on a topic he has been having trouble with-

-He's playing fetch with a small green dog, throwing snowballs into the air, flying after the excited creature-

-Danny is playing video games with a goth girl and a nerdy boy, laughing so hard he can't see the buttons on the control correctly-

-He's flaying alongside his sister, aiming his outstretched arm at a figure in the sky, shooting a green ray at the same time she does down below in her mechanical armor-

-Danny is helping his mother mix the dough for the cookies. He is swaying his hips to the song she has on the speaker. She's in her teal jumpsuit, having come up from the lab to do mother/son cookies as they do every Thanksgiving-

-He's testing the latest blaster with his father. They wanted to see if the auto-aiming feature was interfering with his flying. He flickers the white bangs out of his eyes as his father cheers from the roof while he takes aim-

Yes, Danny knows what love is supposed to feel like, even if he can't remember all the details, even if his full name evades him. He will escape the Leauage of Assiagins and find that feeling again.

Maybe he'll track down his biological father. Deathstroke does not know a clone was created by him, so maybe he will be willing to take him in.

It takes months, but eventually, they tell him Damian Wayne needs a kidney. Why? They don't say, but Talia knows her Beloved will donate his own, and she won't stand for it. She orders him to fulfill his duty as guards drag him to the operation table.

He grits his teeth as they strap him down and prep for surgery. Thankfully, they don't apply any anesthetics- they don't deem him worthy of a painless operation- so he has a clear head for escape.

The surgery has a thirty-window opening with no guards around. He waits until they are about to begin when he taps into the powers his memories tell him. He makes his limbs intangible, slipping through the restraints with great effort.

The medics only have a few seconds to be shocked before he is upon them. They lay in a pool of blood- not dead. His chest flares up in pain if he kills, so he tries to avoid it as much as his environment allows- as he flies through the walls. He has been planning here, so he knows what to do. Turning invisible, he passes under a helicopter scheduled for a month supply run.

By doing so, he does not appear on any radars using the large cargo as camouflage. Danny drops into the ocean as the alarms go off on that wrenched island, allowing his whole body to turn tangible. This way, the water does not slow him down as he flies deeper and deeper down, praying that they won't be able to track him the further he goes. When he gets to the part where everything is too dark to see- he picks a direction from where he came and hits top speed.

Traveling three hundred miles an hour, Danny escapes the League of Assians with all his organs intact, so take that Damian Wayne.

He has no real destination in mind but maybe, he can find the little town of his memories or maybe he'll find Deathstroke.

Maybe he will discover what the F. in his name stands for.

For now, he'll work under the name Respawn because that's a name he picked out for himself, and he'll do what he wants. He's no one's tool any longer.

(Miles away Tim Drake squints at the small dot darting from Nanda Parbat on his spying map. He's not sure what kind of misle Ra's just shot, but it's traveling fast, and he feels like he needs to phone this in.

"Hey B, we may have an issue." )

#dcxdpdabbles #dc x dp crossover #Respawn and Relive #Danny wakes as Respawn #He's out in the world #Sort of resents Damian but it's not like his half brother knows about him #Yes he escape earlier because of his somewhat memories #Partial amnesia #TW: Mentions of torture

[gremlingottoosilly]

The Horror and The Wild [Emperor!Konig x fem!Reader] Medieval Fantasy AU (ch.3)

You had a nice, simple life. Serve the princess, obey the princess, protect the princess with your life. You never thought that this nice, simple life would bring you to be kidnapped by the infamous Northern Emperor. Konig never thought that kidnapping a wife would be much easier than courting one.

CHAPTER 1 CHAPTER 2| Chapter 3| you're here! AO3 Word count: 3349 Tags/Warnings: Medieval fantasy/Alternative European history AU, Age gap, Enemies(one-sided)to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Forced marriage, Size difference(Konig is absolutely huge), Somewhat one-sided slow burn, Yandere Konig

The empire has met you with nothing but silence. 

You don’t know what you were expecting – a quiet servant, sheltered just as much as your princess was, you had no idea of what to expect from a place that was supposed to destroy any ounce of drema you still had in your tired, weak body. For all you know, all the people from the empire had beast heads instead of human ones and ran around the cattle like barbarians they are. For all you know, the Empire could have flying carriages and the methods of transporting a message from one person to another immediately – and hoarding that knowledge to themselves, like the egoistic maniacs they are. 

But, the empire is quiet. If anything, it is as normal as your country should be – if only you stepped outside of the castle walls even once to check if that’s true or not. If only you were independent enough to take the Princess by her hand and run away to the wind, searching for adventures. If only you weren’t covered in König’s cloak, sitting heavily on your shaking shoulders, if only your legs weren’t helpless from all the long days of traveling by horse. 

— Not impressed, little princess? The emperor is wild, the emperor is rude, and terrifying. He forced you to sit beside him, pressing you closely against his chest, and you never felt weak in your life. His strong, muscular form is keeping you pinned to him, stopping you from ever attempting to leave. After your last little stunt with jumping from his horse, he held you tighter than ever – by your hand, by your neck, sometimes simply grubbing you by your shoulders and hauling you like a sack of potatoes. He isn’t soft with you, isn't fragile at all – sometimes you wonder if he really thinks that he could treat a princess this way. Makes you think that he already blew off your cover, revealing nothing but endless possibilities of torture. 

— I’m not impressed by architecture that was stolen from other countries, my lord. 

— We didn’t steal anything. They agreed to join the Empire. 

— Like I agreed to marry you, sir? 

— Ja. Something like that. 

He laughs, and you force yourself to look nowhere but forward. He is smiling, and you force yourself to not imagine how his face must look right now – you try to convince yourself that he is ugly, a freaking beast, someone who shall never be called by his name – if he was normal or somewhat handsome, he wouldn’t kidnap you, right? He would just find some other princess and ask for her hand normally. 

 The empire is big, you read about it in books – but the bordering city isn’t as impressive ad you thought it would be. If anything, people here look normal. If anything, the dissonance makes you want to scream. 

König laughs when you frown at his words and pushes you from the horse. This is a small ritual now – constantly having you in his arms, your hands are finding his shoulders in a feeble attempt at steadying yourself. He might be a beast, but you refuse to die a slow and agonizing death from a broken hipbone – you’d much rather find a good knife and…

As a servant, your most important mission is to serve – to help Princess with whatever she may need. And if her illustrious Highness could not make it to the safety of various relatives of the royal family, the only thing you could do for he is to die – so you could proceed to serve her. It would be an honorable death. Much better than screaming in agony under the Emperor. 

Alas, you were here now. The first serious stop on the way to the capital. Your personal road of shame – with your face displayed openly for everyone to see and with your broken, torn dress that was only accented by tear streaks that weren’t drying on your cheeks, you were nothing close to a wife – you were a trophy. Another conquest, another fancy name to the title, and riches that can be extracted from your country. 

Your only mercy is that the Princess isn’t here to witness your shame. Unfortunately, König is. 

— Why are you so nervous, little Princess? You should get used to the sight of your husband’s body. 

The steam filling the room wasn’t nearly enough to cover his naked glory or your broken embarrassment. You would wish for the steam to fill the whole place, to cover every last inch of his scarred, somewhat tan skin. You can see the bronze of his sun lines the way he had so much scarring on his chest and stomach that it’s almost fully white. You find yourself wanting to trace the little scarring – you find yourself stopping and nearly hurting yourself over having such silly thoughts on the matter. 

To your surprise – utter, complete shock as you could not believe what you were seeing – he was still wearing a mask. The wet sack on his face was, indeed, uncomfortable – but you couldn’t even concentrate on the sight as you were too charmed while looking at his…

The water was clear, only filled with some transparent aromatic essence that smelled like metal and some healing elixirs, but it wasn’t enough to cover what was happening down his sculpted chest, perfect waist, and large, thick legs. He is built like a tree trunk, larger than any man you knew – which only made you oh so aware that you will not survive the wedding night. There is no way anything that is close to whatever was peeking from his spread legs would fit into you. Not that you know too much about reproduction anyway. 

— It’s… perverted. To see you like this. 

— Ach, meine Liebe. It’s natural for husband and wife.

— We’re not married yet, Your Highness. 

— Might as well be. I’m not letting you go anywhere. 

Despite his antics and confident demeanor, Emperor was…nervous. A little bit, yes, anxiety creeping to his form while he was too distracted by looking at your scared face and trembling hands – he knows that you’re a princess, a being with a fragile mind and weak stature. You can think that he is ugly – that his body, maimed on the battlefield and belonging to the war, not the bedroom, resembles more of a monster than the one of a husband. 

You can faint right now – he can see the trembling of your hands, the way your lips are quivering and shaking. You were crying almost the whole ride, only stopping to eat or argue with him, and while he adores your pouty face and miserable expression, it only made him understand more just how dangerously fragile you are. 

All the battles he fought, and now he is scared of what his bride will think of him. 

— I’d advise against looking at old soldier like this, Liebe. I might get…ideas. 

He laughs, but there is underlying anxiety behind this laugh. You look at him, blink a few times, heat spreading across your cheeks. You used to bathe the princess, so various toiletries and elixirs are nothing new to your sight. Of course, König doesn’t use rose water and fragile colored salts – his bath smells like pinewood, like blood and metal, nothing you were used to. 

You aren’t sure what traditions the empire has, but you never heard that the wife is supposed to bathe her husband – especially if said wife is a princess. Your hands are used to work, you can almost imagine a princess playing in her marble bath as you go around with cleaning cloth and make sure she doesn’t have to even lift a finger – but you suspect that acting like a loyal servant would only break your cover of a spoiled, treasured creature. 

— Ideas? What are those, your royal…

— Call me König. 

— I won’t call the name of the conqueror. 

— But you’re fine with calling me Your Highness. Full of contradiction, princess. 

You call him like that because it helps you to pretend that everything is fine. That princess is here with you, that you are going to bathe her for the evening, then take on her precious jewels to warm them up before they would go on her body – that you could do everything for her, whatever she needs. That your life still has a purpose other than lying and hoping for a quick death. 

But, König is perfect in the bath – you can’t pry your eyes from his muscles. Not a statue worthy, exactly, because they would spend too much marble on a statue of his size – but you beg to allow yourself to trace his scars, blue veins, little tan lines that were going all the way down his…

— I won’t force you to bathe me yet. 

— I appreciate your modesty. May I leave? 

He laughs, turning away from you. Showing you his back – predators would use it as a sign of assigned weakness, but you are mesmerized by even more scars covering him. Just how can a man survive this many stabs in the back? Almost made you want to put a few new ones, just as a little treat. 

König turns away from you and, with a swift motion of his hand, removes the wet hood from his face. You look away immediately, not wanting to look in the face of a monster – putting human features into your nightmares would break you fully. He chuckles softly, tracing his hand to yours – not allowing you to leave, no matter how much you wanted to simply ran away. 

— Wash my hair first, little princess. This is empire tradition, ja? 

— It’s a work for…

You bite your tongue before you can say “servants”. You tried to play the role of a spoiled brat, and not having to work felt nice – but you can only see the long, wavy red hair running from under the hood, free of containment. You want to touch the fiery locks, play with them and put some flowers inside – the urge to care for someone, to do your job as a royal dog, is rooted deeply in your body. 

— A wife must serve her husband, no? Come on, put your royal hands to work. — I believe you have servants for this. 

— I do. And I want you to wash my hair. — It’s really…

— I’d love you to wash some other things, in that case. My hair isn’t the only thing that is long. 

You gulp, trying desperately not to slap him. König is crude, like an old soldier – because he is one, as you are reminded constantly. Not a fragile and attentive prince from your dreams, but a horrible monster who’d love to simply use you like a freaking…a freaking something. His wife, you’d say before, but the princess and royal consort won’t be used like a lowly servant. Nothing in your soul stirs again, washing him whole – and this is why you’re nervous. The desire to serve is going to break your cover. Break you.

God, his hair is beautiful. 

Long and thick, ginger with hints of early silver – you could touch it the whole day, trace every lock, and play with loose strands. Maybe putting them in braids, just about a billion of them – he’d look perfect with touches of gold and bronze, with something to accent the beauty of his hair, something for…

God, you almost started to like him. Or, more naturally, his hair. Same thing – and terrifying at it. 

You gently flush his locks with warm water, feeling the softness under your fingertips. This is a job you’re familiar with – you braid his hair with surprising ease, playing with the softness as much as your heart desires. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend that you’re with your princess, cheering her up with some silly stories and fairytales you both were reading like a holy book. If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend that the world will end when you open it. 

But, the emperor – your emperor, if nothing would happen to prevent it – wants you to look at him. But, he is securing his face with a second, thinner mask that doesn’t intrude into the process of washing his hair. You don’t ever try to peek at his expression, too terrified of him actually having scales and furr – even though you can see his skin fully, and it doesn’t resemble the one of a monster. 

— Don’t close your eyes, little princess. 

— How could you…

— Good soldier always pays attention to his surroundings. Water is a perfect mirror, meine Dummes Mädchen. 

You don’t know what he just called you – and, quite frankly, you couldn’t care less about the opinion of a person who kidnapped you, who endangered your princess and tried to force her into marrying him, an old bastard of an emperor, the worst person imaginable, the…ah, but he does have great hair. And you are just a sheltered lady in waiting, frail maiden with no prospects of romantic love – even as much as stealing a glance at the stable boys when you were of their age would make Princess incredibly jealous. 

Now you have the full attention of the one whose hand in marriage was the most feared and the most desirable – and you don’t know whether you truly want to dismiss it, or to give it a…ah, no, you’re daydreaming again. Perhaps all this work on his hair made you delirious, made you think he may actually be a decent human being. To hell with him and to hell with his gorgeous, fiery hair. 

Hair that you…already made into a thick braid. You were thinking too much, dwelling on the past like an old lady of the castle – and now, the nostalgia for having to braid princesses’s hair is almost unbearable. You took the aromatic oil – even more pine with a rich, expressive scent that made you wince. 

Emperor laughs, a little rumble coming from his chest. He touches his hair, thick fingers going into even thicker locks. You were expecting to be killed for such frivolity – then you remember that, oh god, you are not a servant anymore. Husbands have their ways of disciplining disobedient wives, as you think from rare romantic books you were able to get from the library, and you don’t even want to imagine what those ways could be. 

— You’re good with your hands. I wonder what else you could play with. 

— I can play lyre and piano. 

— Ach, what about flutes? 

The implication makes your cheeks burn. You can’t tug his hair in fear of the punishment, so you simply huff in frustration and start dropping oil beads into his hair. It’s a surprise for such a manly and strong soldier to have scented oil in collection for his bath – if anything, you thought he would be a murderous beast who never takes a bath and prefers to wash his hair in the blood of his enemies. Alas, he smells of pinewood and clean water – you force yourself not to push his hair up to your nose, inhaling his essence. So different from the rose oils and flower extracts you were using for the Princess, but…perhaps you miss your old life too much. 

König stirs nervously in the bath. He knows that having a scented oil for his hair and body isn’t something that he usually does – his manliness is coming up with little cries of frustration every time he smells the essence on his skin. It’s not something a soldier should not – maintaining his hair in empire fashion, long and wavy, is hard enough, taking too much time to prepare in the morning, and comes as a horrible challenge in battles – but he sees the way your face lit up when you took his hair into your hands and, well…god, he is getting sappy over a little princess. It might just be his downfall. 

He is anxious about your opinion of him – not because he thinks you really have a choice in marrying him, but because he doesn’t want you to hate this marriage. He got quite a few concubines who loved his rank and even more enemies who hated his guts yet were still available for pleasure – but you, his dearest bride, shouldn’t hate him. Not too much, at least. 

— What do you think? 

— About what, Your Highness? 

You speak those words so quickly, it’s a surprise for him. Is the king, your father, so strict that his beloved daughter had to always address him by his title? Do you hate König so much that you force that abyss between you and him with ease at the click of your tongue? 

Your hands are good with washing his hair, your manners are excellent for someone who grew up spoiled and pampered – he thought that he’d have to spank the brattiness out of you and buy your affection with expensive gifts, but so far, you were just a sassy mouth and smart tongue. 

You are…weird, for a princess. Really, really weird. 

— About the essential oil. Not so soldier-like, ja? 

There is nervousness in his voice. It’s absurd – he had fought countless of battles, but he is scared of what this spoiled girl can think of him. He is the ruler of the largest empire on the continent – yet he is as scared as a little boy just stepping into knighthood. You’re making him soft, and he almost wants to drown in your touches, eat from your hand and force you on your knees so he can bury his head between your legs and show you what a real treat feels like. 

— I don’t think there is anything wrong with smelling good, Your Highness. Unless you appoint your fighting abilities with smelling like a wet dog. 

— You like it. 

— I am fine with it. As far as I’m aware, I should not touch your naked body before the wedding. 

— You’re lucky I adore your pouty face too much to whip you. 

— I’m glad that I’m lucky then. 

He can’t take it – not with your adorable expression and shaky hands, not with how tender you were with his hair, like he was made of glass. He is the strongest fighter in his country, the one who managed to capture dozens of terrible supernatural beasts – yet he never had anyone touch him so…softly. Your fingers are delicate, your touches are gentle, and he feels almost fragile. None of the rare concubines ever came as sincerely in their desire to please him – even when mixed with hatred. 

He grabs your hand and pushes you to the bath with him – the expensive nightgown he had gifted you when you came to the bordering Empire city is now heavy with water. You whimper immediately, all the sass escaping your body when he first touches your collarbones, your wrists, traces your burning face, and forces you to look at him. König almost rips his mask from his face, only stopping because he wanted to show himself at the wedding – as to not ruin the surprise. 

You try to run from his hold, wet clothes clinging to your body, revealing way more than you wanted to – every curve and trace of your figure is now open for him to devour. His burning desire is evident in the water – so you don’t look in between his legs, deciding to simply turn away even as he pushes you closer to him. Like a little kid, and you feel…

This is so like the old times, with Princess and her little pranks – and you can’t help but sob into his chest, the overwhelming recognition that nothing will ever feel quite the same as before. He soothes you with a hand on your back, making you hide your face in his chest and cry to all your heart’s content – the smell of pine wood filling your nostrils, further speaking on how utterly alone you are. 

You sob in his chest, allowing your emperor to touch you as he pleases. For some reason, you find comfort in this. 

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #call of duty #cod x you #yandere cod

[macabr3-barbi3]

DoubleTrouble No 1 🖤❤️

Myself and the delightful and talented @fraugwinska have been working on something tasty and present to you: a DoubleTrouble fic!

A single prompt from my Ao3, shared between two writers, one POV each ❤️

I tackled the reader's perspective, and you can find one from Alastor's POV right here! So many thanks for FrauGwinska for being an absolute superstar and working with me through this new and exciting experience <3

We hope you enjoy!

Tags: period sex, cunnilingus, mentions of blood (obviously), rough sex <3

Minors DNI🔞

The Blood is Rare 🩸

The fact that you still had a period in Hell was bullshit, but you suppose they needed to give people something to be miserable about. That was probably why people ended up in the situation you were in now, seated across from Alastor with a deal on the tip of your tongue; sheer desperation, because somehow the cramps were even worse than they had been on Earth and the only thing that helped was a good old fashioned orgasm. If it were anyone else you wouldn’t even consider asking- a lot of demons, except the really-weird-even-for-Hell ones, were still squeamish about blood being involved with any kind of orgasm.

If you were right though. Alastor would relish the opportunity you were about to present to him.

Fresh to the hotel just a few days after your last Hellish period, Alastor had startled you in the kitchen with a knife in your hand. The resulting jump had caused the blade to slip, gash in your thumb bleeding steadily over the apples that you had planned to fry up. Rather than allowing you to fetch a bandage, Alastor had chuckled, said “no need, dear,” and popped your thumb into his mouth. It was probably some ploy of his- strike fear into the hearts of new residents, give them a reminder that he was a cannibal and that he wouldn’t hesitate to eat them if they stepped out of line or caused any issues.

It backfired on him. At the taste of your blood his eyes grew black, staggering away from you with the shock of it, antlers extending so quickly they smashed the glass front of a nearby cabinet and he ended up trapped between the wooden dividers.

“More,” he had snarled, but his antlers stuck in the cabinet had been enough of a delay for you to make an escape. 

He apologized, of course, a couple days later, explained his nature as a cannibal, a predator, had reacted before his mind, and that such a thing would not happen again. He had ended the awkward conversation with a statement of, “should you feel the desire to spare some of that tasty treat in your veins, do be a dear and let me know!”

And, well. Here you were. Letting him know. Ready to make a deal with one of the most powerful Overlords in Hell to get a little relief from the torture chamber that was your body in ovulation, even when there was nothing to fucking ovulate.

Alastor was tense when he phased into the hotel conference room to meet you as you had asked. His spine is stiff when he settles into the chair across from you, not having been alone in a space since that time in the kitchen. “What is it that I can help you with, my dear?”

“I want to clarify something- do you want to like, eat me?”

“Oh!” Alastor’s eyes widen with his smile. “I wouldn’t have been so blunt about it, darling, but if you’re asking- yes. That little taste that I had a few weeks ago was… inadequate, to say the least. But naturally staying here at the Hotel, Charlie would have been terribly upset had I consumed you.” He flicks his gaze over your form. “Why do you ask? Surely you don’t mean to let me indulge.”

A deep breath as you brace yourself. “Hah, not exactly. But uh, I do have a proposition of sorts for you. In regards to that. Kind of.”

He fades out of sight, rematerializing a couple seats closer to you. “Color me intrigued! What do you have in mind?”

You almost call the whole thing off- then a monster bolt of pain rips through your abdomen, nearly forcing you to double over the table with the ache of it. Any thought of embarrassment or hesitation flies from your head. Alastor is the only one that would be willing to help you in this way, you’re sure of it.

The groan of pain escapes you before you can stop it, and his eyebrows raise. “I have a deal to offer you that would allow you to- um. Sample my blood, if you’re amenable. Once a month.”

His head cocks to the side before his expression clears and he understands what you’re implying. “You’re referring to menstruation?” You nod, face red. “I see. Please provide me with more details of what this proposal would entail on my end then.” His claws are digging into the table, wood splintering beneath them and betraying his interest before even hearing what he would have to do.

“Right. I don’t know if you’re aware or not but periods can be crazy painful. Just on Earth too, but down here they’re basically unbearable when the cramps get bad. One thing that can help is having an orgasm.” You’re trying to resist the urge to hide in some way. You know this is what needs to be done. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, of course- just, you know. Uh, collecting on your benefit would probably do the trick.”

His eyes narrow. “I see. That is the… service I’m to provide, then?” A nod, flushed face dropped into your hands. “Well, I suppose I will simply have to endeavor to do my best! I’m never one to turn down a challenge- certainly not when the payoff is so enticing.” His eyes go dark, not quite black yet but the air between you changes, antlers going long and jagged. “I’m open to your proposal.”

“I need terms,” you breathe out, pleased that he’s still willing to help with the sexual nature of your request. “I need- just, something confirming that you won’t actually eat me for real. The blood is all that I’m willing to part with- no flesh.”

He sighs, eyes rolling. “Less exciting,” he says with a wave of his hand, “but not a dealbreaker. Anything else?”

“Only once a month- during this time. You can’t just be making me bleed whenever you want.”

“Done.” He’s in the chair next to you then, eyes black, grin so wide it threatens to split his face open, clawed hand held in your direction. “Do we have a deal?”

You take his hand in yours, green light filling the space between you and a screeching feedback sound assaulting your ears. When it fades Alastor is watching with hooded eyes. “Would you like to begin now?”

“Oh God. Uh, if now is a good time for you I guess. If you want to do it now.”

He laughs low and dangerous, his tall frame rising from the chair to tower over you. “Darling, I’ve wanted some semblance of what you’ve proposed for weeks. I’m not a man that makes a habit of denying himself a treat when it’s offered to him so sweetly.”

Your hand is still in his, and there’s a strange pull behind your navel as Alastor yanks you into the shadows with him, rematerializing in his bedroom. “Feel free to sit on the bed,” he offers, gesturing to the mattress and manifesting a large dark towel. “Or lie back- however will be more comfortable for you.” 

He releases your hand once you’ve sat, and you stay upright as Alastor sinks to his knees in front of you, fingers coming to the top of your skirt and pulling everything down in one fell swoop, his expression darkening at the scent of you exposed before him before ducking his head. You can’t see what he sees with how close he has already come to your skin, his enlarged antlers blocking your vision, the muscles of his back flexing with the force of his inhale as he breathes you in. A jolt of pain hits you again, deep in your core, and your whimper at the feeling has him bringing his eyes back to your face.

His eyes are hooded and dangerous, feral smile on his face while your fingers dig into the bedsheets. “Feel free to hold on, dear,” he says with a gesture to his antlers, before dipping his head to your bare cunt and slicking his tongue between your folds, angling his head just so to slip into your heat.

You can almost forget that Alastor is only doing this to satisfy some carnal desire of his with the fervent way that he pushes his mouth against you, slick muscle delving deep into you and brushing his nose against the firm nub of your clit. There’s a reverberating rumble as he moans at the taste, clawed fingers coming up to grip at your thighs, spreading them wider so he can get even closer to the source of his obsession. You can feel where he flicks his tongue inside you, brushing against that sweet bundle of nerves with every strong push and pull. The pleasure curls in your gut, keeping the worst of the cramps at bay while your body tenses and releases in rhythm with the demon’s ministrations. Every so often he pulls out, brings what he’s collected back into the haven of his mouth and savors it, eyes closed and his throat rumbling with a satisfied groan.

“You’ve no idea,” he growls, “how I’ve thought of tasting you. Consuming you.” The sharp points of his teeth brush against your clit and your body jolts, hands finally flying up from the bed to clutch at his antlers, grip tight on the tines of them as he looks up at you. 

The look on his face is nearly your undoing- more animal than man, and his claws dig into your flesh, tiny pinpricks of pain dragging you forcibly back to the moment. Your orgasm is just out of reach, not enough focus where you need him but you don’t want him to feel uncomfortable if you ask him for more.

“Fucking divine,” he whispers against you, and when his tongue brushes your sensitive clit with the words you shudder, the motion drawing his gaze to your face, flushed and hot. He smiles wide, expression smug as he leans in and does it purposely this time, licking up your folds and finally focusing where you need him to be. He circles it with purpose, pressure so sweet and sadistic, a light suck making you cry out his name and fist your hands on his antlers.

“Fuck! Alastor, yes, there- oh god, please, more…” He tenses under your hands and you worry for a moment that you’ve done something wrong. Then he’d sliding his hands under your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, draping your legs over his shoulders.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, the vibrations of his voice sending heat flooding through you, overriding the painful ache of a cramp that tries to make itself known.

“Alastor,” you moan, and his tongue resumes its residence in the tight grip of your cunt, a hand coming up to brush a clawed finger over your clit. He works you quickly, his efforts paying off as your body tenses, invisible string inside you drawing tight and snapping with a force you’ve never felt before. “Alastor- A-” You try to say his name again, hear it come out as as a choked off whimper and a near scream as you reach orgasm, legs tightening on his shoulders and pulling him as closer, your walls clenching down on the length of his tongue before be pulls back and licks you through the remainder of it.

You release your grip on his antlers and fall back against the mattress, eyes closed while Alastor removes his face from between your legs, licking along the tiny pinpricks of blood from his claws before you shoot him a halfhearted glare. 

Your abdomen is blissfully absent of any clenching of your internal organs seeking revenge. Sated, you sit up from the mattress to see Alastor still knelt before you, faint lines of dried blood- your dried blood, your brain supplies- around his mouth. He looks like a predator fresh from his kill of the night, antlers jagged and long, eyes still dark and frantic as he looks at you.

“Was that sufficient, darling?”

“God, yes, it was perfect. I- I really appreciate your help.”

“Hmm. Of course. Though I must admit, only part of my… appetite for you has been appeased.” He rises from the floor, knees perched on either side of your thighs now and leaning in. You can smell something metallic on him as he approaches, know that it's your own blood as he stares down into your eyes hovered over you.

“Oh?” You become aware of a hard length pressing into your thigh. “Oh! I didn’t think that was something you would be interested in.”

He shrugs, rolling his hips and hissing at the friction. “Nor did I, dear. That does seem to be a theme with you, though- having a taste and finding that I crave more against my better judgment, against all reason.” He places a hand on your hip and runs his claws along the bare skin. “Would you allow me to help ease your pain once more?”

“God, yes,” you breathe out, “please, Alastor.” He takes a moment to undress, trousers removed along with his boxers before he climbs back over you and presses against the still slick folds of your cunt. He pushes in, hot and hard length opening you up and settling deep inside of you with a harsh exhale of breath against your neck. “Fuck, it’s so good.”

Alastor growls, the sound reverberating through his chest as he thrusts into you. A pulse of arousal shoots through you, the thought of bringing such a well spoken man to his baser instincts, so thoroughly invested in you that he can do little more than snarl like an animal into your skin, pushing you ever closer to the edge again. You’re already soft and sensitive from your first release, the cresting wave of a second hustling towards you. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, sharp teeth nipping at the tendon he finds there and moaning. “I could devour you,” he whispers, and you feel yourself clench down on him at the broken crack in his voice.  He drags his tongue up the length of your neck, hesitates like he’s trying to savor it. “I could feast on you for centuries and never tire of the taste of your flesh, whether coated in blood or sweat.”

A whimper escapes you as he sucks on the skin of your shoulder, leaving a trail of harsh bruises along the path he takes. A hand comes up to twist into his hair, something to ground yourself, to draw this out as long as possible. Your other hand digs into the flesh of his arm pinning you to the mattress. “Fuck, more, please,” you beg him, and he pulls back from your neck to watch your face twist and contort in pleasure while he slams against the sweet spot inside of you.

“Say my name,” he demands, fingers on your hip digging bruises into the soft skin, his other hand tangled in the bedsheets, tearing them to shreds to avoid sinking his claws into you. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

“Oh God, Alastor-” You angle your hips, the movement bringing him even deeper into your body, the length of him so sweet and sinfully delicious that a whine escapes your throat before you can think to stop it. “I need- I don’t know, Al, I can’t-”

“You must,” he commands, and he lets go of your hip to slip his hand between your bodies, fingers pressing against the taut skin of your opening where your bodies are joined. The stimulation is foreign and new and has your walls tensing and releasing rhythmically around him, release so close now that you were seeing stars behind your clenched eyes.

“Look at me.” Your lids fly open to meet the sight of Alastor above you, his face contorted in something like pain. “You must,” he says again, fucking into you with vigor now, sweat beading on his forehead. “I need it around me, I have to feel it. Please, darling, give it to me-”

Fuck. How could you deny him when he asked so sweetly? Not that you had any control over it- your body breaks beneath him, cunt wrapped around him like the softest of silk and tightening its grip. Your limbs seem to go numb for a moment, pleasure warping your reality for a few blissful moments, your vision focusing in a tunnel on Alastor’s face before it vanishes, burying once again in the space between your shoulder and neck.

With a final cry of his name he sinks his teeth into you, not tearing back as one might expect but content to simply let them rest there as he spills into you with a broken moan, hips bucking hard and fierce and then easing into something softer as your walls pull and push, wringing every drop from him.

A breath of silence as you both catch your breath, interrupted by a hiss of faint pain as Alastor pulls his teeth from you and licks at the wound he’s created like a satisfied cat. “You promised you wouldn’t try to eat me for real,” you mutter, voice soft from the strength of your cries.

Alastor hums against you, tongue still moving against you. “Hardly my fault.” He’s mouthing greedily at your skin, claws traipsing on the flesh of your hips and roaming wherever he can reach. “You’re delicious,” he groans, taking one final taste of your blood before pulling back and collapsing next to you, “a delicacy. How am I meant to live without this at every moment of the day? I think I shall starve.”

You huff out a laugh, stretching your muscles as well as you can without really moving. “Don’t be dramatic. You get it once a month, at least.” You roll onto your side, ignore the feeling of something slick and wet between your thighs and focus on the fact that your body is limp and pliant and not seeking revenge on you. 

“You raise a valid point, my dear.” He throws you a sideways look, his antlers now having returned to their normal size and his ears relaxed against his skull. “Though I’m not at all opposed to repeating this aspect of the experience outside of your… monthly allowance to me. Deals always have room for negotiation, do they not?”

“Let’s get through this one first and then we’ll talk.” You yawn and try to rise from the bed, but an arm from the demon beside you is thrown haphazardly over your waist, pinning you in place.

“Stay,” he says, his eyes lidded and peeking at you. “There’s more to come yet, right? May as well stay where we can easily access one another for the duration.” His crimson eyes close the rest of the way and you settle back into the mattress, allowing your body to relax and slip into a peaceful sleep beside him.

#hazbin hotel #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor the radio demon #x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor smut #hazbin hotel x reader #bloodlust <3 #title by Hozier

[heich0e]

lucky strike - eren yeager/f!reader (3.2k) tags: baseball player!eren, college!au, modern!au, somewhat toxic relationship dynamic, childhood friends to good luck charm/fwb, reader is blatantly trying to get in zeke's pants and also she kind of sucks, heavy petting, making out, slightly rough/manhandling, eren picks reader up, mentions of eren being a big boy, tw reader is on a diet (/makes a questionable comment about bread), eren takes out his aggression on a sandwich. NSFW MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT (18+)

“Hey, want one?” Eren asks, the words vaguely garbled through a mouthful of food.

You scroll down on your Instagram feed, thumb hovering over a selfie of friend, before glancing up at him.

Eren is on the other side of his family’s kitchen, half a sandwich hanging from his mouth, and a peanut butter coated knife poised mid-air as he looks at you.

“Ew,” you say, returning your gaze to the phone in your hands, “no.”

“What do you mean ‘ew’?” Eren asks, swallowing his bite of sandwich. “You love peanut butter.”

“Peanut butter is so bad for you,” you remark, scrolling again. “And I’m not eating bread right now.”

“What the hell is wrong with peanut butter?” Eren mutters, setting the dirty knife on the edge of the sink. He shoves a hand up underneath his baggy t-shirt to scratch idly at his tummy. “And mom just got this bread this morning from that bakery in town you like. It’s so good.”

“It’s also a simple carbohydrate which means—“

The Yeager family’s back door swings closed, and your head swivels towards the sound. In the entryway, you spot a head of blonde hair as the figure ducks down to pull off their shoes. 

“Zeke!” your voice is a full octave higher—and notably more enthusiastic—when you see Eren’s older brother.

Zeke tilts his face up as he unlaces his boots.

“Hey, kid,” he laughs when he sees you draped across the kitchen counter where you sit upon your barstool, beaming at him with a wide smile, “you here again?” 

You nod happily, and Eren makes a noise of disdain from the other side of the kitchen. You shoot him a pointed look to shut him up as Zeke finishes removing his shoes. 

“Don’t you ever get sick of hanging out with this guy?” Zeke drawls, shuffling in and slinging an arm around Eren’s shoulders, tugging his little brother into his side.

Eren takes a large, resentful bite of his peanut butter sandwich (nearly finishing it off), while simultaneously elbowing Zeke roughly in the ribs.

“It’s torture,” you sigh dramatically. “Better now that you’re here, though.”

Zeke snorts, quirking a brow. “My occasional appearance can’t be the only reason you’ve stuck around this long—”

Eren slips out from underneath his brother’s arm, slinking towards the loaf of fresh bread on the other side of the kitchen. 

“—and twenty years is an awfully long time to put up with someone like him.”

“You’re right,”—you nod solemnly in agreement—“Eren, I think we should end it here.”

Zeke barks out a loud laugh, leaning towards you on the counter with his weight resting on his elbows. He props his scruffy chin up in his palm, smiling as he tilts his head to the side.

“C’mon kid, don’t break his heart like that! He’s been following you around like a puppy since you two were in diapers.”

Eren remains silent on the other side of the kitchen, sullenly preparing another peanut butter sandwich. 

“But if I keep spending all my time with him, how am I supposed to find a boyfriend?” you pout, peeking up at Zeke through your eyelashes. 

“Oh, I’m sure you have no trouble in that department,” Zeke says, a blonde brow quirking in mirth and his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Much to my dear little brother’s dismay.”

Eren sets the jar of peanut butter down on the counter with a little too much gusto to be casual, snapping out a curt: “did you come over just to be annoying? Or is there actually a good reason you’re here?”

“Aww, baby brother,” Zeke coos, feigning hurt as he turns towards his brother and away from you. “I came to see you!”

Zeke reaches out for Eren, and the younger (but taller) Yeager son bats the elder’s hands away. 

“Fuck off,” Eren grunts. 

“How’d your game go on Friday?” Zeke asks, dropping the act and instead addressing his brother with his usual warmth. The eldest Yeager loves to tease, but he loves his younger brother even more. “Dad said you got a couple really solid knocks in.”

“Obviously,” Eren snorts as he rips a bite out of his second sandwich not dissimilarly to how a predator might devour their prey, his tone making it sound like it should be obvious that he played well.

There’s a reason he’s the star player on the Shiganshina U baseball team, after all. 

“What are you batting these days?” 

“Coach says it’s a .314 after last week's game,” Eren replies, wiping a bit of peanut butter off the corner of his mouth with his thumb before licking it clean. “More than good enough for the National U22 team scouts.”

Eren and Zeke continue to talk baseball for a while longer, and you quickly lose interest—opting instead to watch Zeke’s profile as he chats with his brother. The sharp lines of his stubbled jaw. The delicate slope of his nose. The way the afternoon sunshine soaking in through the kitchen window over the sink makes his blonde hair burn gold.

He really is just unfairly handsome.

“-right, kid?” Zeke is smiling at you as he waits for your response to a question you didn’t hear, snapping you back out of your own thoughts.

“Hm?” you hum, blinking through your confusion. “Sorry, I missed that.”

Zeke chuckles, stepping towards you and dropping a large hand atop your head to ruffle your hair. 

“I said,” he draws out the word pointedly, coming to stand behind you with his hands resting on your shoulders, “as long as you’re there, Eren’s sure to impress the scouts. You’re his good luck charm, after all.”

“Long suffering good luck charm,” you make sure to tack on, tipping your head back to look up at him, the crown of your head landing against his chest. He grins down at you.

“It’s a hard job, but if anyone can do it it’s you,” Zeke says, hands squeezing your shoulders affectionately.

You suppress a shiver at the feeling of his grip. The strength of his hands.

Pitcher’s hands, once upon a time.

“If only it wasn’t so thankless,” you sigh, feigning sorrow. You risk a peek at Eren on the other side of the kitchen from the corner of your eye, and see he’s glowering at you and Zeke’s friendly exchange. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Zeke laughs, dipping down and pressing a quick, prickly kiss to your cheek. The feeling of his stubble brushing against your smooth skin makes blood rush to your head. “You know you’re this family’s favourite child. Eren would probably be in prison by now if it weren’t for your positive influence.”

Judging by the positively murderous look in Eren’s eyes as Zeke pulls away, incarceration still isn’t entirely off the table. 

“Speaking of children and families,”—Zeke stands up straight and steps away from you, much to your dismay—"where are Mister and Misses Yeager?”

“Dad has that conference in Trost this week,” Eren says, his arms crossed over his chest in a way that makes their toned musculature much more evident than his baggy t-shirt betrays. “Left this morning.” 

He’s talking to his brother, but his eyes are on you.

“Ah, Carla went with him?” Zeke asks curiously. 

“Yep.”

“Home alone for the week, huh?” Zeke sidles up towards his brother again, poking him in the side. “You sure you don’t need me to come babysit you?”

“There’s nothing I’d hate more,” Eren says, his nose scrunching in disgust. 

“Aw, little brother,” Zeke clasps a hand to his chest in mock-hurt. He sighs, glancing back at you over his shoulder. “At least I know you’ll make sure he doesn’t burn the place down, right kid?” 

He winks at you.

“I’ll try my very best,” you smile cheekily. “My babysitting fees are pretty steep though.”

“Oh yeah?” Zeke quirks a brow, turning towards you on the opposite side of the counter, leaning forward on his elbows once more. “What’s the going rate these days?”

“Hmmm…”—you tap a finger to your chin in mock contemplation—“Eren’s got a game on Wednesday night. Come keep me company in the stands.”

Zeke laughs, pushing himself up onto his hands. 

“You think that’s a steep price?” Zeke teases. “I know a hundred guys who’d pay for the chance to sit next to you at a game.”

“And lucky you, you get to do it for free,” you say chipperly. 

“Lucky me indeed,” Zeke agrees with a nod, chuckling. “You don’t drive a very hard bargain, you know.”

“What can I say?” you shrug, utterly indifferent to the fact. Pleased by it even. “I’m not much of a businesswoman.” 

Zeke opens his mouth to reply when Eren interrupts. 

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

You and Zeke both look at him in surprise. 

His eyes are on his brother, his expression flat. 

Zeke hides a laugh behind his closed fist. 

“I do actually,” he replies, “I’m coaching little league tonight.”

Zeke peeks over at the clock hanging on the other side of the kitchen. 

“I better head over to the field, now that you mention it.”

You watch sadly as Zeke makes his way over to the back door and prepares to leave. You and Eren both follow.

“Call if you need anything while Dad and Carla are outta town, alright?” Zeke says to his brother once he’s pulled his boots on once more. 

Eren makes some sort of noncommittal grunt, shrugging as he leans against the archway into the back entryway. 

“Have fun at practice, Coach,” you chirp, sneaking up behind Eren and poking your head out from behind his broad shoulders. “Go warriors!"

Zeke smiles, shaking his head.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday,” Zeke says, eyes sliding from you to his little brother. He reaches out and knocks his fist against Eren’s chest affectionately. “Both of you.”

You wiggle your fingers in a wave as Zeke disappears through the door, slipping out of sight. 

You and Eren stand there until you hear the door of Zeke’s truck slam shut and the telltale rumble as the old engine roars to life. 

You’re pinned flat against the wall before the old truck even makes it out of the Yeager’s driveway, with Eren’s mouth pressed—hot and messy and greedy—to yours.

You can still taste the lingering sweetness of peanut butter on his tongue. 

“I hate it when you do that,” Eren whines, his teeth biting into your bottom lip. Biting, not nipping. Pinching down hard enough to hurt.

You make a little noise of complaint, squirming beneath the pressure of his broad, toned body and the equally firm surface of the wall. 

Eren pulls back after a few more moments of kissing you like he’s taking it from you, his chest heaving and a viscid string of spit joining his swollen lips to yours. 

“That hurt,” you complain, scrubbing at your mouth with the back of your hand. “You bit me.”

“You deserve more than a bite after that performance,” Eren counters, his eyes narrowed resentfully. “You might as well have hopped up on the counter and spread your legs for him right there. Might’ve been a little more subtle.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. You duck out from underneath Eren’s arm as it’s pressed against the wall beside your head, stepping back towards the kitchen. 

“Me?” Eren guffaws. “You just spent the past twenty minutes drooling over my brother and I’m the idiot?”

“Your brother’s hot,” you say with a shrug, tossing an indifferent glance at him over your shoulder. “Can you blame me?”

Eren’s jaw sets, a rigid line as this teeth clench tight. His green eyes swim with spite.

“You’re kinda being a brat, y’know that?”

“Don’t be so jealous, Eren,” you say, your nose scrunching up in distaste. “It’s not a good look on you.”

You turn around again, a smug little smirk curling up at the corner of your lips that he can’t see with your back turned to him. 

Eren’s arms are around your waist in an instant, and you’re flat on your back on the kitchen counter in the next. Eren’s hand behind the crown of your head makes sure your skull doesn’t crack painfully into the marble countertop, but it’s still cold and hard underneath you as you’re sprawled across it like a rag doll. Eren’s mouth finds yours again in another hungry, domineering kiss. 

“God, how do you know exactly how to piss me off?” Eren rasps against your mouth, dragging you down the counter by the belt loops so he can grind his hips into yours. 

He’s as hard as the counter underneath you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, a moan caught just behind the air. 

You could answer his question. You could tell him that you've had two decades to practice and perfect the skill. You could tell him you got so good at it because you know how much he likes it. But you're too distracted as Eren’s hands slip up underneath your t-shirt, pawing at whatever skin has the misfortune of falling into his grip. His hips roll against yours again, and he grabs you by the waist to pull you down into the motion, and this time you really do moan as the tip of his cock ruts against the seam of your jeans—the pressure just enough to stimulate your aching clit.

“What would my big brother would think if he knew why you really spend all your time over here?” Eren mutters, dragging his lips along your jaw, his panting breaths tickle your neck as he mouths at the impossibly sensitive patch of skin just below your ear. The one he knows drives you crazy, in just the way he knows you like so much. “What would he think if he heard the way you beg me to fuck you?”

You gasp as Eren’s teeth bite down into your neck, fleeting but firm, your hands tangling in his half-tied hair and tugging at the soft brown strands. You pull him off your neck, and he meets your gaze with half-lidded, lust-filled eyes. His neck strains at the angle you’re tilting his head back, his prominent adams apple bobbing as he swallows thickly.

“I don’t beg,” you whisper breathily, but you're not sure how much truth there is to the words if history is anything to go by.

Eren smiles, the softness juxtaposed to the ragged breaths you’re both wracked by. The tenderness contrasted by the harsh pang of arousal in your gut. 

“We’ll see about that.”

Eren tosses you over his shoulder and carries you up to his bedroom on the second floor like you weigh nothing. Eren’s build doesn’t betray how strong he really is—years of training and conditioning befitting of a varsity athlete hiding under the baggy hoodies and joggers he lives in everyday. It’s not the first time he’s done this to you, in fact he seems to enjoy making a show of his own strength, but it is perhaps the roughest he’s ever been as he tosses you down atop his unmade bed, crawling promptly onto the mattress atop you. 

He pins your wrists down to the mattress, his hips straddling yours to confine your lower half in a similar way.

He’s so much bigger than you are; no matter how much you wiggle underneath him, there’s no chance of you slipping free.

Not that you particularly want to.

“Did you like teasing me like that?” Eren groans, grinding himself down into you and leaving you with no choice but to take it. 

“I wasn’t t-teasing you,” you stutter over the words you both know string together and form a lie, your head spinning from how good it feels to have his whole weight pressed against you like this. 

“You were,” Eren counters. “You flirt with Zeke just to get under my skin. To try and rile me up.”

You pant up at him, your heartbeat hammering in your chest.

“Did it work?” you ask breathlessly.

Eren’s lashes flutter, a little huff of air that’s not quite a laugh nor a sigh slipping from his swollen lips. He takes your hand in his—much larger, and rougher than your own—and guides it down to the swell in his sweatpants. Beneath the soft cotton you can feel his cock, hard and throbbing under your touch.

Eren’s hips jump slightly when you palm a little firmer against the shape of him of your own volition. His breathing is ragged when he fixes you in his stare, his green eyes burning with want that’s catching, like a fire consuming anything in its path.

“It always does, doesn’t it?”

You smile a little to yourself, and Eren leans down and kisses you again—it’s sweeter this time, a little needier than before. He’s kissing you like he’s asking for something rather than taking it at will.

“Strip,” he grunts, pulling back slightly and tugging hastily at the material of your top.

You look up at him through heavy lidded eyes, the boy you’ve known all your life flushed down to his neck as he watches you just as carefully as you do him. You brush a little piece of hair that hangs down over his eyes back, fingertips ghosting against the shell of his ear as you tuck the tendril behind it.

“Do it yourself,” you chirp, your lips quirking at the corner.

The fire in Eren’s eyes burns brighter, and the cycle, as ever, starts anew.

You fight, you fuck, and then you go back to being whatever the hell the two of you are—and have been all your lives—until the same wheel spins again and brings you back around to the beginning. 

And come Wednesday you find yourself in the stands at Eren’s game, as usual; his long-suffering good luck charm with his jersey on your frame, and his teethmarks pressed into your skin underneath it. 

Zeke sits beside you, glancing at you occasionally from the corner of his eye. He spies some evidence of just what the two of you have been up to in the days since he saw you last, but says nothing, laughing to himself at the strange dynamic the two of you have. He’s long stopped questioning it—or the role he occasionally plays as a pawn in your unusual game.

You watch Eren step up to the plate, bat in hand, and you can’t help but appreciate how nicely his tailored uniform fits his body. Can’t help but think about what you know he looks like underneath it. Can’t help but think about the promise he made to you just that morning, fucking you over the bathroom counter at his house, his lips pressed to your ear.

“The only thing you’re gonna be able to think about tonight when you’re sitting next to my brother at my game is how hard I made you cum on my cock.”

You can't help but think he's made good on it.

The pitcher at the mound in the centre of the field winds up, and you feel the palpable anticipation crackling through the stands. It’s eager and visceral, like a collectively held breath.

At home base, Eren lifts his bat. He wiggles his fingers, a ritual he always does, before his hands tighten around the grip. 

You swallow thickly, your heartbeat thumping in your throat.

The bat cracks against the ball in a clean hit that sends the spectators into a roar, and Eren takes off running to first base, then to second. As he rounds his way to third, you spot the almost feral grin on his face because he knows he’s going to make it home. His eyes, though you can’t quite make out the green from such a distance, find yours in the stands.

You clench your thighs together in your seat.

Beside you, Zeke laughs, slumping back into his seat almost incredulously. 

Like he just can’t believe his little brother’s luck.

#eren x reader #eren x you #eren yeager x you #eren yeager x reader #eren yeager #aot fic #aot drabble #aot writing #writing

[siriusleee]

shot through with gold

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

tags: coming back home, implied torture, capture, smut, riding, reader is afab, mentions of medical procedures, mentions of blood word count: 7.7k author's note: This was a commission by the best and brightest @gazs-blue-hat. If you'd like to commission a fic, visit my ko-fi for more information. Also, I refuse to disgrace the good country of Scotland by attempting to do the full Scottish accent. Readers call sign is Sparrow, but it's only used once.

The room is heavy with dust; small puffs cloud around Johnny’s boots as he pads across the plush carpet. The summer’s oppressive heat makes the walls sweat - you’d be worrying about the mold forming in the drywall if you could see it. But Johnny doesn’t think of the way his handprints smudge on the paint you spent weeks agonizing over or the way your perfume lingers in the still air even after all this time. 

His singular mission - to grab a few shirts he needs and leave - is the only thought he allows himself to think about, hands combing through the dressers and eyes trained downward, away from all the pictures hanging on the wall. He avoids your side of the dresser, avoids the lace that still peaks out from your top drawer. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, Johnny ignores it as he pulls the shirts he came to look for out of the dresser drawer, tucking them beneath his arm. He follows his tracks in the dust back out, eyes cast down at the carpet. The whole trip takes less than 10 minutes; he doesn’t let himself look up until he’s slamming the passenger door of Simon’s truck shut behind him. 

“Got everything?” Simon asks, shifting the truck into drive. 

Johnny sits ramrod straight in the seat, eyes avoiding Simon’s as he buckles in. 

“Yeah, got everything.”

Your fingers trace over the marks you’d carved into the soft stone wall. You’d tried to keep a tally mark of days, but time slipped by in odd increments within your cell. Some days you’d watch the sunrise from the cracks in the ceiling and after just a blink, the inky blackness of night would be seeping in. Sometimes the sun hung in the sky for months before finally falling to the full moon. No matter how hard you tried to decode the pattern,  the moment you had it everything would reset. 

The guards were in on it; they had to be. They’d bring your meals at odd times - sometimes you’d still be full from the moldy slop they shoved in between the cell bars, spilling it out onto the floor like you’re an animal in a cage, and sometimes you’d be so hungry that you could barely crawl to eat. 

It was supposed to be someone else - you were pulled for guard duty after another soldier slogged off and broke his foot doing something stupid while training. You’d finally been pulled to work with Johnny, three days away from being a full transfer to the 141 when your C.O. had appeared at the door of your bunk, new orders in hand.

A simple guard duty: get the guy to where he was supposed to be going, hand him off, and fly home. Your transfer could wait an extra forty-eight hours. But your plane was shot down somewhere over the middle of nowhere - you had told your C.O. that flying that low was a risk, but the desert was empty and the plane was old. They’d been making the flight for weeks, ferrying men back and forth with no hiccups. Your flight should have been no different. 

It should have been someone else. 

You couldn’t remember what had hit your small passenger plane: but the ground was David, and you were Goliath. You’d hit the ground beside the pilot’s head, his mouth formed in a soundless scream, and after a quick flash of black, had woken up to a bucket of water being poured across your face.

Whatever language your captives screamed at you, you didn’t know it. And if they knew any of the ones you screamed back at them: Spanish, Arabic, German, they didn’t let you in on it. You couldn’t figure out what they wanted until they’d ripped the Union Flag from the breast of your vest, a quick picture on a Polaroid camera snapped above you before you realized what they wanted.

Blood dribbled down your chin when you laughed at them: the government didn’t even pay for soldiers who got captured at war. What would they pay for your half-broken body to get shipped back in a wooden box? A simple mistake that could be written off as a plane malfunction. 

The anger had come first, feet and fists slamming into the men when they appeared at the cell doors. Nails ripped from their beds when you tried to claw at the seams in the walls.  It had cost you a few teeth and a pound of flesh. And then, when you were tired of the endless beatings and anger that went nowhere, you begged them to kill you, to do something to end the torment. By the marks on the wall, it took months before you first asked to be killed, and only weeks later for that to end, each request met with silence and a sneer. Now you lay in the corner, waiting for the few moments when they’d let you out to see the sun glinting off of the mountain ranges, the clouds threatening to storm in the distance.

Those quick trips seemed to come with less frequency as time slipped by.

You trace the tattoo on your thigh; they’d cut through it once after you kicked one of them in the chest, his ribs caving beneath your feet, but even beneath the dried viscera and matted dirt that covered your skin, you could still see Johnny’s name there.

You wonder if he’s picked a gravestone for you yet.

The two of you had talked about it, once. It was the nature of your jobs - to be prepared for everything that could come your way. Your wills were done: 75% to Johnny, 15% to your sister’s kids, and the rest to a local charity. Johnny wrote in that you were to get 100% of everything he owned, and you had chided him about it. 

“What about your mom? Your sisters?” You had asked across the steam from your cup of coffee. Johnny had shrugged, dropping the black pen onto the table with finality.

“Already taken care of, birdie.”

After that had come the talk of headstones and burial plots. Of missing bodies and cremation. You had told Johnny that whatever he thought you’d like, to pick out. You weren’t picky about it.

You wonder if the military let him put his last name on the stone.

A decidedly male voice shouts from around the corner, and you pull back into the stone wall. Seconds later, fetid food falls through the bars. The man shouts at you, pointing at the food on the ground. Lazily, you turn your head towards him, watching the way he sneers at you through the bars.

They must be getting angry then. No ransom came through after all these months. 

You bare your teeth at him.

You’d rip his throat out if you had the strength to do so anymore.

Johnny’s fingers don’t shake like they used to when he buckles the strap of his helmet, the night vision goggles weighing him down. He’s tired - exhausted. The entire convey smells of cigarettes and sweat. Heavy men in heavy gear press around him; across from him Gaz’s eyes shine terribly bright in the darkness. They press in on Johnny, forcing him back into his seat heavily. 

Price’s voice is loud in his comms, intermingling with the sounds of the Marines and the whir of the mechanics beneath his feet. Johnny can’t make out the details over the sound of the truck rumbling beneath him.

“Steady Soap?”

Gaz knows - Johnny doesn’t know how Gaz can do this kind of job with the way he fucking oozes empathy. Or sympathy. Johnny could never remember which one was which, he always had to ask you which one to use.  Gaz had been the only one who’d asked him if he was alright; Simon had lingered at the edges of rooms Johnny was in to keep an eye on him, and Price tried to give him an extended leave. Johnny had refused. 

But Gaz had been waiting until Johnny was sitting outside of some bar a group of Seals had taken them to - a celebration for a job well done months after you were gone, after Johnny's failed attempt to find you. 

“You good?” Gaz had asked, fingers twirling a cigarette he would never light.

“O’course.”

It had made Johnny feel like shit to lie to Gaz, and the same feeling washes over him as Gaz’s eyes linger on Johnny.

The warm summer air washes over them; sweat is starting to coat his lower back, his fatigues keeping him too warm. The smell of the desert, of warmed sand keeps him grounded, reminds him of where he is - what he’s doing here. 

In the glint of the moonlight, the mountaintops shine at him.

The first few missions had been difficult: he’d fought like hell to try to search for you, fuck the regulations. He’d resign if it meant finding you. The rest of the fucking government didn’t care: no one on the plane was as important as anyone else, not to the officials anyway. Johnny had done just that, his resignation had landed heavily on Price’s desk, only to land in the trashcan a moment later.

Gaz volunteered to follow Johnny, but Price had cut that off quickly. It was to be Johnny and Simon only. They had five days, a week at most before they had to be back home.

The farthest they got was the plane wreckage, a little burnt-out village miles away, and sheep that stared at them from the sides of the mountains. But he couldn’t find a trace of you or a singular person who even recognized the photo of you he kept tucked inside his gear. Even after Simon had disobeyed Price’s orders to return home now after weeks had passed. They didn’t find anything.

Johnny knew that’s why Price had volunteered the 141 for this mission - a small-time terrorist cell hiding out in a country they didn’t belong to, a small promise of the bodies of missing soldiers hidden somewhere.

It was something.

The guards are panicking; the dirt walls shake around you. You can’t guess what it could be: American pilots doing a blind bombing, Russians pretending to send help only to rain down hell on the perceived innocent. Maybe God’s here to level the land and flood it. Try again. Do something different this time.

He could start with your cell, you think, scraping at the dirt on your leg. Underneath the sun-starved skin is paler than it should be. If you ever leave, you think, the first thing you’re going to do is eat a fucking steak in the sunshine. The bones that refused to set correctly ache beneath your bruised flesh.

The sound of gunfire pierces the inescapable silence. Your captors yell, screams punctuating between the bursts of firepower. Good, maybe they’ll tear each other apart and leave you here to die in peace. 

Maybe it was a poker game gone extremely wrong. Someone asked to strip when they should have been ponying up the cash.

Smoke pops in the hallway outside, you don’t run from the white creeping in on you, just pull the rags that were your shirt over your mouth to try and keep breathing. It overtakes your cell; you watch as the smoke creeps through the cracks in the ceiling.

The sounds of war flood the small cell - the taste of blood and gunpowder in the air around you. You can taste the iron when you breathe in. It coats your tongue. You run your teeth across the chipped and broken enamel, mixing the taste of other’s blood with your own.

Someone shouts so close this time you can almost make out the words - American accent thick and heavy in your ears - and it stirs something inside of you. You try to navigate the cell through the smoke, rolling painfully off of the pallets your captors had so kindly turned into a bed for you. Crawling across the excreta and mud you try to make a sound, but you haven’t spoken in months.

Your throat is raw, and the sounds that come from you are barely human. You’ll be surprised the men even hear you, let alone notice you there on the ground. You try to pull yourself up at the bars, but the fracture in your ankle that healed up wrong weeks ago keeps you on your knees.

“Hey-” you finally croak out loud enough for one of the men to cast his eyes down at you. “Please.”

He’s so familiar, the softness in his eyes tugging at something familiar inside of you, the sharpness of his shoulders calling to you. You pull yourself up, leaning heavily on the bars and the one ankle that doesn’t scream at you, hands slipping through the bars to try to reach towards him.

His gun drops, swinging loosely on its strap as he steps towards you. His fatigues are filthy, and his nose wrinkles beneath the cloth mask covering his face. You know you smell terrible, and you want to apologize for it, but you can’t make the words come. He looks so tired as he steps towards you, hands reaching out to grip the bars between the two of you. 

“Sparrow?”

“Johnny?”

It takes days for you to make it home: IVs from field medics who barely know what they’re doing, anti-viral meds, shots, stitches. They don’t even let you take a real shower until you’ve landed at a base you barely recognize. It’s a painful process, a female nurse wiping at you gently, but still peeling away layers of skin with each pass of the washcloth, your sobs muffled by the shower. 

Johnny waits for you on the fringes of all the people that press around you, poking you, prodding you painfully until finally, you find yourself slammed into a British hospital bed.

Johnny comes in the moment they let him, hands held behind his back in a mock parade rest. You barely recognize him, his mohawk almost completely grown out and bags under his eyes. You know you don’t look much better; you’d caught sight of yourself in a mirror before they’d forced you into bed. Ruined was the only word to describe what you saw. Too thin, too broken. Too torn apart to be stitched back together. At least not without all the types of therapy a military doctor listed out to you: hydro, occupational, physical, mental.

Neither of you know what to say, so you start with the last thing the doctor told you. 

“They’re going to rebreak my ankle tomorrow,” your voice is still thin, full of isolation. You’d tested it out on everyone who’d been in to work on you, but it didn’t sound right at all. Johnny shuffles nervously where he stands, and then rushes forward to sit in the chair beside your bed. He’s moving wrong, you think, like a wind-up doll. Too slow and then all at once, too fast.

“Why?”

“I healed up wrong.”

Johnny’s hands play with the edge of the blanket that dangles off of the bed, eyes trained on the fabric. He’s not going to look at you. At the ruin you’ve become. You press yourself down harder into the thin mattress, hands tucked beneath your thighs to keep them still.

“Is it going to hurt?” 

You can’t help but smile at his question, your toes twitching beneath the blanket that feels so out of place across you. How many months had they had you? A year? No one had told you yet.

“They said I’d be fucked up on medicine. But probably, yeah."

Johnny’s hands aren’t still against the blanket, instead reaching out towards you. The movement startles you, and you jerk to the opposite side, nearly pulling your IVs out. Johnny pulls his hands back, crossing them across his chest.

“When you -” his voice breaks, just a moment before he put it back together, eyes finally meeting yours, “when you come home I’ll bring the bedroom downstairs so that you don’t have to walk far.”

You have the nagging suspicion that he changed what he was going to say at the last moment. 

"Are you going to sleep on the couch with me?" You try to tease, but your voice falls flat, unpracticed. But it still makes Johnny smile, sharp incisors digging into his chapped lips. 

"I'll sleep wherever you tell me."

The two of you are surrounded by the sounds of the hospital: the beeps of the heart rate monitors, the sounds of the nurses' quiet conversation outside of your room. You trace your hands across the blanket, grasping Johnny’s whenever your fingers collide with each other. 

For a moment, neither of you move, just languish in the feeling of each other’s skin; you’re too busy tracing Johnny’s palm to notice him pushing himself closer to you until he kisses you, softly but with a tight undercurrent of desperation, his hand tightening almost painfully on yours.

The feeling of someone touching you so gently after weeks of rage and anger nearly stops your heart. The monitor goes crazy; Johnny pulls back, just the hint of a smile on his lips.

It takes four weeks for Johnny to get the go ahead to bring you home. Each day you were in the hospital he would come for a quick chat before work,  bringing you breakfast he picked up. Every day after, he would collapse in the chair beside your bed, smelling of sweat and gunpowder. 

The smell made you recoil when he tried to kiss you, and he didn't try again after that, even after you tried to stutter out a why. But the day the doctor tells Johnny that you can go home, you awaken to Johnny outside of the hospital room, arms crossed as he speaks to the head doctor - Johnny looks more serious than you’ve ever seen him off the battlefield. 

Everyone rotates around you as if you’re not there, packing the room up, pulling your IVs out, fingers prodding and poking you until a nurse aide wheels a wheelchair into the room for you.

”Ready?” She asks, locking the brakes. She looks at you from across the room, and you know what she wants. Starting the day after they rebroke your bones, they made you get up and start walking, and you push yourself off of the bed, walkable cast heavy against the tile floor. 

Johnny’s in the room in a second, catching sight of you whenever he sees you stumbling over your cast across the room. The aide lets him push her out of the way, his hands gripping the wheelchair as you lower yourself down.

“I can walk out, you know.” You grumble at Johnny as he tosses a heavy folder into your lap.

“Hospital procedure, birdie.”

Simon’s truck is waiting for the two of you in the parking lot, Simon in the driver's seat. He throws a glance at you as Johnny helps you clamber into the backseat, crowded around by grocery bags. 

“Hello, Luv.”

“Hello, Simon. Thank you for the ride.”

Simon opens his mouth to speak, black hospital mask sliding up, but he’s cut off by Johnny clambering into the passenger seat. 

You watch Johnny from the backseat, foot propped up beside you. His hair has grown out too long, the Mohawk nearly disappeared and his beard has started to grow in. In all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him anything other than clean-shaven; even in the field, he'll butcher himself with a knife before he lets it grow in.

He’s thinner than he should be, too. You wonder if he’d been eating like he was supposed to.

The drive home is disorientating, Simon taking turns too sharply, too quick for your still queasy stomach. By the time Johnny helps you climb down from the truck, dropping your hands quickly when both of your feet are on the ground. 

The house is clean, too clean for Johnny to have been here alone. Like he can sense you'd skepticism, Johnny speaks from ahead of you.

“I’ve hired a cleaner,” Johnny says, holding the door open for you. “So don’t worry about anything.”

It’s odd to be back home; you trace your fingers across the knick-knacks you’d collected throughout the years, the furniture you’ve spent years picking out. You have memories of sitting here with Johnny, memories of Simon and Gaz laughing from the kitchen. But now all you feel is lost, a bottle floating in a foreign ocean.

You wander into the kitchen, fingers trailing against the wall - there are no dirty dishes in the sink, no food in the cabinets; Johnny wasn’t living here. 

The only dish you recognize is sitting on the counter, you pick it up, feeling the unfamiliar weight in your hand. 

“It’s called Kintsugi.”

The Japanese word rolls heavily off of Johnny’s tongue, your fingers pause tracing the golden lines that cut through the mug. It was your favorite, a gift from when you and Johnny had first met. The two of you met at a diner, out with mutual friends. You’d thought it was cute, the name of the diner printed across the front in vintage lettering. Johnny had swiped it for you, hiding it beneath his jacket until the two of you parted ways at your doorstep.

“What happened to it?”

“I broke it,” he admits, dropping the grocery bags onto the counter. Your fingernail can’t find any snag in the glaze, any sign that the mug has never had the golden lines cutting through it.

Johnny busies himself with unloading the bag, speaking without looking at you as he confesses.

“After you were taken, I spent weeks searching for you until Price forced me to come home. I was angry, and I smashed it.”

You can feel the frown sketched onto your face; you don’t look at Johnny as you set the mug down on the counter. 

“I smashed the whole house to bits,” Johnny keeps going, turning to put the milk in the refrigerator. “Had to get Simon over here to help me put it back together. It was his idea by the way. To get the mug fixed. He said you’d be mad if it was gone when you came home.”

You lean against the counter and watch Johnny busy himself with the groceries. 

“He was right,” you admit, feeling silly over the sadness that fills you over the broken cup, “but maybe that’s something Simon has a lot of experience with broken things ya’know.”

You and Johnny orbit each other for weeks: he’s there every day until you begin to question if he’s gotten himself fired to stay home with you. He drives you everywhere, and if he can’t, Simon waits for you just out past the front gate, no doubt on Johnny’s orders. 

“I had a lot of time off,” he says one day, elbow-deep in the laundry that he dumped between the two of you, eyes cast on the television. “Never had a reason to take it before.”

Your hands smooth the wrinkles out of one of Johnny’s shirts, fingers picking at the loose string. Today had been talk therapy, recommended by the SAS doctors. They were strict about all the requirements you had to meet if you ever wanted to go back, and laying on a shrink’s couch for two hours a week was one of them.

The graying doctor had asked you if you had spoken to Johnny about the anger that still wells up in you, the dreams you have of tearing your captives to pieces with your hands, the internal self-flagellation you went through every night when you thought about the career you’d worked so hard for, and have now lost. 

You had spent the rest of the day thinking about what he said, even when it meant not paying attention to the medical doctor’s order when they were cutting your cast off, but Johnny took in every word.

You almost say something then, tossing Johnny’s shirt onto his pile, but the wrong words come out.

“You need a haircut.”

“Yeah?” Johnny’s hands still around a pair of your shorts, you feel him watching you in his peripheral vision. “You want to cut it?”

Of course, you did; you spend more moments than not thinking about how his hair must feel like long if it’s still soft. But every time the two of you tried to touch each other, the other pulled away. 

So when Johnny takes your hand, and pulls you up the stairs, you let him - hand heavy and warm in your own.

Johnny lowers himself onto the closed toilet seat; you feel unsteady as you approach him, clippers in hand, and you’re not sure if it’s from the closeness or the weight of your cast being removed. 

“Are you sure you trust me to do this?” You ask again; since you’d come home your fingers had been a kind of clumsy they’d never been before. 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Johnny keeps his eyes trained on you, fingers tapping against the tight denim stretched across his jeans.

“I can scalp you bald,” you admit, switching the clippers on, “and then you’d look like a Q-Ball for eight weeks.”

“I’ll be the best damn Q-Ball anyone’s ever seen,” Johnny says, beard twitching as he smirks at you. If he notices the way your fingers tremble when you take his jaw in your hand, he doesn’t say anything. 

His eyes close at the feeling of the clippers cutting through his hair, no doubt the feeling of the weight being removed was comfortable for him.

“You didn’t do this while I was - while I was gone?”

Your therapist says you shouldn’t shy away from calling your kidnapping what it was, but you still can’t form the words in front of Johnny.

He hums at your words, never opening his eyes as he speaks.

“I don’t let anyone else touch my hair, birdie.”

“What about your beard?”

Johnny snorts, eyes meeting yours as you maneuver his head to the side. 

“You don’t like it?”

You like the way he feels against your skin, you want to tell him. But you can’t make the words form, can’t spit them out. Johnny watches you chew on them for a moment before he lets out a sigh. His hair is scattered on the floor around the two of you, more than you’d thought he’d had. 

You swap the guards to shorten his mohawk, pressing yourself in between Johnny’s knees so that you can reach the nape of his neck.

His hands wrap around your thighs, light and warm against the skin that peeks out beneath the shorts you hadn’t taken off since you’d left your cast removal this morning. 

Your skin is on fire at his touch, you try to ignore it as you clean up his neck; Johnny buries his face in your shirt, breath warm against your stomach. His fingers trace light patterns on your thigh and it takes every ounce of willpower to keep the clippers from straying.

His fingers trace the scar that covers his name, and you jump back like you’ve been shocked. Your back hits the wall, knocking the decorative towels you’d spent days choosing to the floor. Johnny’s hands linger in the air between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you pant out with a heavy swallow. 

Johnny pushes himself up, eyes watching you like you’re a wild animal ready to run. 

He reaches out and brushes some of his fallen hair from your shoulders, electrifying your skin again. His touch is hesitant as he traces up your shoulder, fingers cupping the back of your neck.

He’s fire as he presses himself against you, lips brushing over yours just quick enough to light something up inside of you before pulling away with an apology. He loosens the clippers from your hands and shoos you out with a promise he’ll clean the hair up himself.

A storm rages outside, threatening to cut the power at any moment. You watch it throw around tree limbs and leaves through the front window. Behind you, the television casts soft shadows on the walls.

“Still pouring out there?” Johnny asks from his spot on the couch. Your answer is the curtain falling back into place. You pad back to your spot beside Johnny; he holds the blanket up for you to slip underneath.

His bare leg rubs against yours, but his hands stay firmly in his lap. He hadn’t tried to touch you since that day in the bathroom - even when he dropped you off at therapy, you’d wait for him to stretch across and kiss you, but he’d just send you off with a wave. 

You knew it was partially your fault: you couldn’t get the words out to explain how much you wanted him to touch you, how sorry you were for every jerk away. Every time you tried to tell him how much you wanted him, the words curled into your throat and refused to budge. You had even asked earlier for him to take a shower with you, to no avail. 

The movie - some family flick Johnny picked because it didn’t have any violence, you know - cast shadows across Johnny’s face. His stubble is starting to come in again; you reach out and trace your finger across the five o’clock shadow creeping onto his jawline.

Johnny doesn’t take his eyes away from the television screen, but he leans his face into your touch. Your fingers trace upwards, lacing through the Mohawk you’d trimmed just two weeks ago. Johnny nearly purrs when you tug on his hair, pulling him down so that he’s lying across your lap.

You have to take it slow, you know or you and Johnny both might break apart. So you just settle beneath him, fingers tracing patterns onto his scalp, eyes trained on the television, but not really watching. 

“I don’t think I’m going to go back,” you whisper, voice nearly drowned out by the storm outside. Johnny rolls, doing his best not to dig painfully into your thigh to look up at you.

“To work?”

You nod, still refusing to look at him. 

“I talked about it with the therapist today; I just - I think it would be best if I just cashed in my retirement. I’ve got a lot saved up: hazard pay and all that. The corporal offered me a job as a trainer. So I could still be around."

Johnny’s hand reaches up to grab your wrist, forcing you to look at him. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you don’t like that. He’s always your open book. You try to keep your heart rate steady at the feeling of him tracing patterns on your wrist. 

“I’m sorry, birdie.”

And you know he’s not just apologizing for your ruined career, for the nearly year you’d spent locked away in some disgusting cell, for the still broken teeth in your mouth, or the screws that hold most of you together now. He’s still apologizing for not being able to find you earlier, to be there months earlier. 

“It’s not your fault Johnny - I should have told them no. I should have been smart enough to just tell my commanding that I couldn’t do it. I should have-“

Hot tears start to fall; Johnny pushes himself up, fingers brushing them away gently. When you don’t shy away from his touch, he pulls you into his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin, and pulling you so tight you think you might break beneath his touch. And you would let yourself shatter beneath him, if it meant he could put you back together, shot through with gold. 

Johnny lets you cry on his shoulder until the fabric of his shirt is soaking wet; after a while, the smell of him, the softness of the way he caresses your back,and the feeling of his jean-clad thigh between your own stirs something else inside of you. You need something else, something more desperate, something to push away the feelings of failure. Of the fear that still lingers in you of heights, and darkness, and men who smell of sweat and gunpowder. 

So when you kiss him, softly, Johnny doesn’t push you away like he can feel how much you need him to touch you. Even as he lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, you don’t break the kiss. It stays superficial, and soft, neither of you breaking apart or deepening it. You expect him to carry you to the spare bed he brought downstairs for you, but instead, he cradles you up the stairs, hands gripping your thighs so tight you know there will be a thumb-shaped bruise there tomorrow. 

Johnny doesn’t stumble as he carries you. 

In the bedroom the two of you shared before you were lost, Johnny collapses on the bed, his smell enveloping you, hands never leaving you. He buries his nose in the soft skin of your neck, breathing in the smell of you. 

“Are you here with me birdie?”

Johnny’s voice is muffled on your skin, his hands pausing at the hem of your shirt. 

“I’m here Johnny.”

You rest your hands on his biceps and feel the way his heart is in your own chest. His weight presses down around you, the mattress sinking down beneath the two of you. The wind rolls in through the window, gooseflesh erupting on your skin where Johnny isn’t touching.

Johnny’s hands don’t move from the hem of your shirt until you slide your own down to his wrists, a bravery you hadn’t felt in weeks taking over you.

“Please, Johnny.”

Johnny shifts, knees spreading your own apart, but he still doesn’t touch your bare skin until you tug on his wrists, trying to slide them underneath your shirt, instead, he traces your arms - the area you know he thinks is safe. 

The feeling of his calloused hands on your soft skin makes you shiver; Johnny presses a kiss to your pulse point. You know he can feel the way your heartbeat picks up quickly, and he bites down on the sensitive skin lightly. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way you buck your hips upward into his. 

“Birdie.” It’s a warning and a promise rolled into one, and it makes you press your knees together, trying to slow yourself down. 

You let your own hands start exploring Johnny. Once, you’d had his skin memorized - every scar and freckle committed to your own memory. But there are new scars there you’ve never seen before, new wrinkles at the corner of his eyes he didn’t have before. 

It’s like the first time again, both of you exploring each other slowly. Johnny pauses every time you make a noise, eyes searching your face to make sure you’re alright. You push him away just long enough to pull his shirt off of him, hands instantly reaching out to pull him back down. His own hands slide your shorts down until you can kick them across the room.

Johnny kisses you, full of the same desperation he’d had that day at the hospital. Your teeth click together as the two of you suddenly move frantically, hands grasping at each other. Johnny shakes as you run your nails down his back, pushing until he realizes what you want.

Johnny rolls, hands still wrapped around your waist until you’re on top of him. The thin material of your panties is already wet; you can feel it when you grind down on him. The rough material of his blue jeans has enough friction to send lighting bolts through you.

“Is that what you want birdie?” Johnny’s voice is low and rough in his throat; his hands rest lightly on your hips as you grind down. Your hands reach back to rest on his thighs, more leverage for you to move. 

You can’t answer him, already biting down on the moans that start to build in the back of your throat. Johnny’s grip tights as you speed up; you can feel his erection pressing tightly against his zipper as you grind faster. 

You feel yourself start to tremble, hands moving to brace yourself against Johnny’s chest. He wraps one hand around your wrist, the other still at your waist; you can’t look away from the hungry glint in his eye. 

Outside the storm lashes, the cool air rolling in across you and Johnny. 

“Let it out,” he whispers, voice ragged and panting. He’s bucking his own hips in time with your grinding; he’s holding back - you know he doesn’t want to scare you, so you loosen the knot inside of you, moaning loud enough that a blush starts to creep up your chest. At the sound, Johnny bucks up harder. 

You can’t help the way you come undone, nails digging into Johnny’s chest, leaving half moons on the sensitive skin. Johnny lets you ride him until the waves of your orgasm finish rolling over you, his hands not leaving you until you finally still, thighs shaking on each side of him. You can feel your drenched underwear, feel yourself soaking into his blue jeans. 

Johnny is so hard beneath you, a red flush across his chest. Outside the storm rages harder, and the lights flicker momentarily. Johnny pushes himself up onto one elbow, the hand that has refused to move up your shirt sliding up just an inch. His fingers play with the edge of your underwear, the lace snagging on his callouses.

“Why don’t you want to touch me?” You can barely hear yourself over the rain lashing against the window; Johnny’s eyebrows knit together, and he pushes himself up until he’s sitting up, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep from falling backward. 

“I want to touch you,” he tries to reassure you, hands tracing patterns across the back of your shirt. But you shrug his hands off, catching his wrists in your hands before he can fully withdraw away.

“You won’t touch me beneath my shirt,” you slide his hands down to the bare skin of your thighs, moving them until the hem of your shirt falls over his fingertips. “You wouldn’t take a shower with me.”

Johnny chews on his lips, they’re too chapped, you think. The silence stretches in the sound of the storm, and the flickering lights. Before Johnny can speak lightning and thunder crash outside, and the house goes dark - the sound of the electricity powering down cutting him off. Neither of you moves in the sudden blackness. 

“I’m not broken, Johnny.” You don’t want to sound so pathetic, but you do. 

“I know you’re not, hen.”

“Then why am I having to beg, Johnny?”

Johnny’s hand slips up so that he’s holding your hips beneath your shirt. 

“I’m not going to hurt you too.”

It’s a tough confession for him to make, you know. He’d done his best not to talk about the whole ordeal, he never asked what you went through. This was his way of keeping you away from it.

You roll your hips across his again, and his breath catches in his throat. 

“Please Johnny; you’re not going to hurt me.”

You don’t know if it’s the whine in your voice or the way you trace your fingers across the hard plane of his chest, or if Johnny is just as tired of holding back as you - but he rolls you over, gentle and quick until his chest his pressed against yours, his mouth finding the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. 

You’re horribly out of practice, fumbling with the buttons on his jeans, getting stuck when Johnny pulls your shirt over your head, but he doesn’t let his lips leave you; your teeth clip together as Johnny deepens the kiss he refuses to let end until your gasping for breath beneath him.

It’s electric in the best and worst ways - Johnny’s calloused fingers tracing patterns on your stomach, kneading the soft flesh of your breasts, fingers teasing the edge of your underwear, pushing them further down each time.

The current running through you makes it difficult to breathe; you can’t even warn Johnny, can’t beg him to slow down what you were just begging him to speed up. But there has never been anyone who’s known you the same way Johnny has, and when his hands slow you know he can feel that it’s too much. Just for a moment.

“Still with me?”

“Still here.”

Johnny’s hands don’t speed up, but he doesn’t slow either - pressing open-mouth kisses down your neck, between your breasts, across the planes of your stomach until he finally stops at the edge of your underwear. He darts his tongue out to lick the sensitive skin peeking out above the hem, and the feeling makes you gasp out, hips pressing harder into the mattress. His fingertips brush just over the wetness you’ve soaked through and you grind your teeth together, painfully. 

“Too much?”

Yes.

Too much for you at this moment; you’re not sure if your body will hold together if Johnny even tries to eat you out, tries to stretch you with his fingers, you can hardly keep together at the feeling of him touching you anywhere after so many months of nothing but dirt, and maggots, and feverish longing for-

You didn’t notice Johnny crawling back up your body until he presses a soft kiss on your temple, fingers wiping away your hair that’s plastered with sweat there. 

Johnny’s whispering in your ear: how much he missed you, how he had thought about you every day, how he’d tried to scorch the earth to look for you; he pulls you until you’re back on top of him. You can feel how hard he is, how wet you are as you grind down against the hard planes of his lower stomach, searching for him.

Johnny’s hands squeeze at your hips, shifting the both of you until you feel the tip of him catch against you; a shudder rolls through you both, but Johnny doesn’t move. Every muscle in his body is pulled taunt, pulled against fucking into you at a frenetic pace. You recognize the set of his jaw, the way his hands wrap around your forearms. He’s letting you set the pace, letting you control him.

You wait for just a heartbeat before pressing down onto him; your vision whites out from the almost uncomfortable stretch of him as you sink down slowly. You can’t remember the last time the two of you were here, the last time the two of you fucked. Johnny’s nails dig into the underside of your forearm, yours into his chest until you finally reach the hilt.

You hold there for a moment, feeling the way he fills you up - so much so that you don’t think there’s room for anything else besides Johnny - there never has been.  You can’t even think between the feeling of Johnny filling you up and the feeling of not trying to cum so fast. Finally, when your heartbeat slows incrementally, you rock yourself against him, slowly, using his chest as leverage.

Beneath you Johnny is coming undone; he’s biting his lip so hard you think he might draw blood, so you trace your fingertips across his bottom lip. His lips part beneath your touch, and he takes your pointer finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around it.

The feeling makes your hips move faster, stuttering against him. Johnny moans, muffled around your finger. The sound is horribly erotic in the darkness, and it spurs something inside of you to move your hips faster, rougher against Johnny. But he doesn’t move beneath you, still holding himself back. The sound of skin on skin, of how wet you are for him drown out the storm.

Johnny’s hands are everywhere: in your hair, cupping the supple flesh of your ass, pinching and rolling your nipples between his thick fingers; one hand sneaks across the flesh of your hip, dipping between the two of you to circle your clit. The feeling makes you crumple against him; Johnny takes the opportunity to roll you over, pressing you into the mattress.

Johnny presses one of your knees up, hooking it over his elbow so that he can fuck into you, still gentle even when he’s deeper than you think he’s ever been before, his other hand still circling your clit, slowly enough to keep you from falling apart, but fast enough to bring you to the edge. 

His pace grows rougher; you claw at him, drawing red welts across his skin, but Johnny doesn’t slow down. You keep your eyes closed tightly, back arched to try and get him in deeper, to get more.

“Look at me.”

Johnny’s voice is rough, a gentle command you have to follow. His eyes never leave yours, even when his pace increases, the finger on your clit still rubbing tight circles until-

Until you’re breaking apart, shattering beneath him. Your orgasm makes you arch, back nearly leaving the mattress. Johnny’s hands move to cup your face, pulling himself down until he can kiss you as you ride through your orgasm, gasping in his own mouth. Your nails draw thick red welts across his back, but Johnny doesn’t stop pounding into you, your moans drowned out by the way he kisses you.

Not long after, Johnny’s pace starts to stutter, his lips never leaving yours until he plunges in deeper than he had before, and you can feel his warm release spill out inside of you. 

Even when he’s completely spent, Johnny doesn’t pull out of you, instead fucking into you once, twice, three more times until you know you can’t take anymore, hands pressing on his chest to push him away.

Johnny’s fingers smooth your twitching thighs as he pulls away. In the darkness, you can just see his outline as he shifts between your legs, but he doesn’t move from there.

He caresses you until you are finally still and your panting finally slows. His fingers trace across the cracks you can still feel, stitching you back together, shot through with gold.

“Still here?”

“Still here.”

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