#that man is hanging on by a thread in canon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

psychedelic-ink · 5 months

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ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader

genre: angst, hurt comfort, minors dni

word count: 5k

summary: You, both a member of David's group and one of his former victims, are already contemplating escape when Ellie arrives at the resort. Seeking Ellie, you decide to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity to run. But before you can find Ellie, you cross paths with Joel instead.

warnings: age gap, virgin!reader, mentions of past grooming attempt, mentions of cannibalism, past rape attempt, PTSD, blood, canon typical violence, no smut for now, spoilers for s01 e08

a/n: this was previously named let me follow this is also new for me because I've never written virgin!reader before (mostly because i didn't have the best experience with that) but i felt like it was fitting with the story and where i wanna take it in the future.

Revelation 13:3-4 "One of the heads of the beast seemed to have had a fatal wound, but the fatal wound had been healed. The whole world was filled with wonder and followed the beast. People worshiped the dragon because he had given authority to the beast, and they also worshiped the beast and asked, 'Who is like the beast? Who can wage war against it?'"

The wind blows cold. You, a girl who has lost everything, sit on your knees on the ice. Your family has been long gone. Your hope dwindles, hanging only by a simple thread. You don't know how long you've been crying. Your hands, young yet covered in the warmth of blood. The scent of pine reaches your nose, and you sniff involuntarily, just like you did before you lost everything. Before the world ended. You hear the sound of men approaching you, and you wish they would just kill you. Sixteen and already you wish for the sweet mercy of death.

“Now what do we have here?” A man speaks, his tone is humorful. Melodic. Your mind and body already slipping and reaching towards the warmth of it. “You poor young thing. Where’s your family, girl?”

When you finally look up from your hands you see a man on a horse. Typical for this day and age. Near him hovers four others. All of them looking weathered and older than you. Your eyes move back to the one that seems in charge. He has strawberry blond hair and a thin beard of the same color. His eyes narrow slightly. They pop under the cold blue sky and the frozen lake. You don’t know what to say. How to answer this man who is an obvious threat.

He hops off the horse, and you attempt to move away but your legs are frozen in place, your heart beating loudly against your ribcage. He kneels next to you. Observing. You swallow, fear coating your tongue with the taste of bile. His eyes soften when he takes in the sight of you. Bruised and wounded. Your eyes squeeze shut as he reaches out and pushes a loose strand of hair only for the wind to bring it back.

“No need to be afraid, child. We’re a peaceful group and there are more like us if you want to join.”

“J–Join?” your teeth chatter, your lips hurting as you speak. There’s a bit of light filling the cracks of the iron cage of your heart. Hope. You realize it to be. Hope that you found someone to help you. To look after you in this infected world. He must’ve seen it in your expression because his soft smile grows, eyes glimmering with mirth.

“So afraid,” he hums. “But we’ll change that soon enough. You’ve been brought here for a reason. And I think I know what your purpose is in our small clan.”

He swiftly stands, leaving you dumbfounded and still upon the freezing ice. Your mouth gapes, your body buzzing with a newfound need to stay alive.

“What’s your name?” you ask. He throws an old coat over your shoulders. Not his own. But one he had extra on his horse. Probably taken from someone else who was more unfortunate than you.

“David,” he answers gently, as if he’s scared you’ll run away. Before you reach out, he grabs your hand and lifts you. You nearly fall, only prevented thanks to the strong arm that wraps around your waist. He’s warm. Much warmer than you expected. “Lovely to have you with us.”

The men near him don’t seem to share the same sentiment but you smile all the same.

You don’t want to think for a while. Maybe not even for a millennia. If possible.

10 YEARS LATER

Whispers of death surround you. The names of the fallen circling you and squeezing your heart tight. Suffocated. That’s how you feel. Helpless. Trapped. Consumed. Faint murmurs fill the hall room. The cold that seeps through the wood, the same wood that was intended for summer and not winter, worries everyone, including you. But at the same time, you think this is what you all deserve. An icy grave. Freezing to death and surrendering to the cold.

You were never meant to feel warmth. You know that better now.

The chair creaks next to you and when your eyes shift to the side. You see James taking a seat. A sudden rage fills you. An indescribable rage. It disappears as soon as it appears like it always does. He turns to you and gives you a curt nod. You don’t nod back. He might think he’s looking after you but he’s not. All he’s done is turn the other cheek to a faith that is spewed by a liar. A deceiver. A disgusting man that makes your stomach turn—

The aforementioned man finally stands and clears his throat. Loudly. But not loud enough to overpower Hannah’s cries. She sniffles. Rubs her eyes roughly. Her mother wraps an arm around her and starts whispering words of comfort. You have no idea what that comfort would be since it was her father that had died. You remember the day you lost your parents. You felt utterly defeated at the time. Hopeless. Swallowed by darkness. Your eyes rubbed raw and stinging from crying and crying and crying—

David opens the bible and reads. His glasses are perched innocently above his nose. His voice, despite the rasp of time, still carries that melodic lilt. You don’t listen. Refuse to.

“And I saw a new heaven and a new Earth. For the first heaven and the first Earth were passed away. . .”

You close your eyes with a stuttered breath. Your body is thrumming. Your legs shaking and heart pounding. These are the most painful times for you. The times where you have to listen to him and pretend to be moved by God’s will. You hate hearing his voice. The same voice that told you you were his. The same voice that commanded you to strip for him completely when it was only your arm that was wounded.

Your pulse quickens. Your cheeks grow warm.

You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe.

It happened years ago but it doesn’t matter. No matter the passage of time it still feels like it happened yesterday. His touch on your cheek. The way his blue eyes ate you up as he stalked around you, pretending to be worried while he was just taking in the sight of your body. A soft touch here and a soft touch there. Knuckles following the curve of your spine. Palms feeling the weight of your behind. The memory makes you sick. The way he was marinating you for something unspeakable.

He enjoyed when you flinched. Enjoyed the way you whimpered and curled away. He laughed and did nothing else. He wrapped a bandage around your arm while you remained stark naked. Then he left. Leaving it to James to come to the room, telling you to get dressed while averting his eyes.

You jerk, eyes going wide as a sharp cry echoes within the thin walls.

“. . . And I heard a great voice out of heaven say, ‘Behold… the tabernacle of God is with men. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes—’”

He’s trying hard to ignore it. You can tell by the way his lips twitch ever so slightly, his nostrils flaring with annoyance when another cry is heard.

He stops.

And your heart stops along with it.

You’re still afraid even when his anger isn’t directed at you. Cold beads of sweat make you feel clammy and gross. You want to hide. And even though you blame him, you want to move closer to James, hoping that whatever it is that’s going to happen, he can shield you from it.

David turns his gaze towards Hannah and Joyce, Hannah’s mother, and lets out a sigh as if it pains him to see someone so distraught.

“I’ve read this passage too many times,” He walks towards Hannah, his brows slightly furrowed and eyes full of rue. He places the book on the table and removes his glasses, placing it above it. You’re surprised when he kneels but your stomach twists as he places a hand above Hannah’s knee. She’s unaware, her bottom lip trembling. “Do you remember what comes next?”

She shakes her head.

“‘And God will wipe away all tears from their eyes… ‘that there will be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither will there be any more pain… for the former things are passed away.’”

Your eyes move to the crowd. Everyone holding on to one another, eyes red and wet. Hannah takes a sharp inhale, your gaze promptly landing back to the scene.

“Do you know what that means?” She nods and when she does, David grips her shoulder. “Good.”

He exchanges a glance with the mother and stands up, a groan dropping from his lips as he does so. You feel a momentary satisfaction at his discomfort.

“When can we bury him?”

The question surprises everyone, including David who doesn’t show it. The only oddity is him looking at James, a gaze so quick and short that if you hadn’t been sitting next to James you would’ve missed it. “The ground is too cold to dig. We’ll bury your father in the spring.”

Hannah seems content with the answer for now. The sermon is over when David opens the doors. His eyes linger on you as you get up, slow and groggy. Despite her recent loss, you find Hannah to be lucky. At least she had someone to protect her for a good while, her body free of being viewed as an object that belonged to someone else.

You don’t look at either James or David as you leave. Not that it mattered. They were too busy talking amongst each other.

You wipe the snow that catches over your eyelashes with the back of a gloved hand. Everyone had a job to do and yours today was to chop wood in the freezing weather. You hate the feeling of shivering and sweating at the same time. It’s a disgusting feeling. But you were the youngest of the group—and had fallen out of favor with David, which meant that he didn’t try to get into your good graces by giving you the stay-by-the-fire duties. Not that you missed it. You’d rather freeze to death than give any part of yourself to him.

Your feet drag over the snow. Your biceps ache with the added weight of the firewood within your arms. Breathing from your mouth, your eyes are drawn to one of the sheds. That place always gives you the creeps. It’s always locked. The windows dusty and blocked by cabinets from the inside so no one could see. You never thought of asking what the hell was in there, no one else did either. Everyone just wanted to survive. A herd of sheep following the blood-stained mouth of their leader. Not that they knew he had a blood-stained mouth. That information was only reserved for his victims and James.

A log slips from the top and you loudly groan towards the sky. You need to leave this hell hole. You don’t know when. But you have to.

Just as you lean down you sense someone coming towards you at full speed. Jumping, you move back only to see James huffing and puffing with a small package in his hand. You raise a brow. “Weren’t you supposed to be hunting?” you ask, picking up the log. “What the hell are you doing here running like a maniac? ‘Scared the shit out of me.”

“David is at gunpoint.” Good. “And the crazy girl demanded some medicine. Hopefully, I can sneak up on her.”

You scoff, “A girl? Since when does David follow any kind of demand?”

“It’s complicated.” He looks uncomfortable, you must’ve struck a nerve with that. “She’s with the man that killed Alec.”

“You’re taking medicine to her? Actual medicine.”

“David said. . .”

You raise a hand and shoo him away, “Just go. I don’t care.”

Watching him leave, your brows knit tightly together. This had to be a joke, they found the girl and by proxy, the man who killed Alec and. . . David is helping the girl? You don’t necessarily care for revenge— but the fact that he’s actively wanting to show just how kind he is to this girl is suspicion-worthy. He likes what he sees and pulls a curtain over his true colors to obtain it. You know word of this will come out soon. You’re positive that James told at least one person when he went in to get the medicine. It would spread like wildfire.

And most of the people here, starving and cold with no warmth left in their chests are hungry for the heat of revenge.

Just like you had predicted rumors were spiraling.

You’re sitting someplace unnoticeable and near the windows. Snow hits the glass like heavy rain. The clear panels freezing over, you visibly shudder. Your decades-old jacket isn’t enough anymore to keep you warm.

Your head turns with another whisper coming nearby. Something about a girl being with the man who killed Alec. Your eyes shift to Hannah and her mother sitting in the middle, the young girl seemed furious, her eyes hardened but still carried a juvenile chubbiness in her cheeks. The look doesn’t suit her. It looks like a drop of blood on top of snow. No one is touching their food. Steaming bowls of meat sitting on top of weathered tables. You’re not hungry so you push it away. You’re hoping with every fiber in your body that they haven’t found the girl. You wouldn't wish David on even your worst enemy.

The doors open with a loud, bone-chilling creak. You jump at the sound. Soft flakes of snow hurry inside, melting as soon as the light touches them. James holds the door open for David and the latter, with great effort, drags a large stag inside. The entire room stops breathing, their eyes glued to the scene, their minds full of questions.

The door closes. Suddenly you feel trapped and suffocated.

“Big one,” David says, looking towards the tables with a crooked smile. Not even one person is talking now. Just deafening silence. James moves away quickly, his eyes find yours, and takes a seat next to you. You’re not sure why he hovers around you. Maybe in some sick way, he thinks you’re friends?

David sighs loudly, bringing your attention back to him. “If you’ve heard a rumor… yes, we found a girl who was with the man who took Alec from us. When the sun rises, I’ll lead a group out to pick up her trail. Won’t be hard to find in the snow. We’ll follow it to wherever they’re hiding… and we’ll bring that man to justice.”

“You should kill him. You should kill both of them.”

David’s head snaps towards the vengeful voice. Your blood freezes, a tingle settling at the base of your neck, your skin grows taut over your muscles. You’re afraid. And your fear only grows when David stalks towards the girl, a faint smile on his lips, he removes his gloves. One by one. His movements slow, unrushed. He stands in front of Hannah, briefly stares down at her—

You flinch at the sound. The loudest smack and thud you’ve ever heard. Your eyes widen, heart beating in your throat as your eyes remain glued to Hannah who’s scrambling on the floor. David seems unbothered by it. Like he hadn’t just backhanded a young girl. The mom stands, murmurs getting louder, without thinking you attempt to get up too, thinking of all the ways you can kill the man.

But James—fucking James—he stops you with a hand on your knee. You give him a disgusted look and he quickly pulls his hand away. But the damage was done. You settle back, the chair groaning underneath you.

You watch as David halts the mother with a single hand, gently gesturing her to sit back down. She does—she does and it drives you insane. It’s surreal almost. There’s a loud hum in your ears as David kneels next to Hannah, her eyes looking anywhere but him. Scared, she takes David’s offered hand. You feel sick. Your stomach churns, bile rising to your throat. He helps her up and sits her down. He’s still on his knees, his eyes soft.

Disgusting.

“I know you think you don’t have a father anymore. But the truth is, Hannah, you will always have a father. And you will show him respect when he’s speaking.”

Tension rises with his words. You can tell from the brief glances that happen behind David’s back. However, it’s not enough. No one does anything. They just sit and wait as Hannah’s mother brings David a bowl of food. They begin to eat, the rest follows.

Spoons clink. Wind blows. Birds caw.

You look down at the meat, clutching the fork in your hand. You can’t. Something disturbs you. James also lingers before he takes the first bite. Something in his eyes makes you rather starve than taste.

You look back at Hannah. Her bottom lip is trembling, her cheek red.

She eats.

“Where is she?”

David’s eyes glimmer with amusement, his teeth showing as he smiles. You’re out in the open. Snow falling all around you. Your chest squeezes. You can barely breathe, yet your chest continues to rise and fall.

“Is my little lamb jealous?” Heat simmers under your skin. How fucking dare he? “Head back. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Like hell, it doesn’t,” you snap. His eyes narrow and for a brief moment, your mind flashes images of him tying you to the bed whenever you swore. A nasty shiver crawls up your spine. “Let her go.”

“And why would I do that?” he shakes his head. “Do you want to know why I never touched you again? I got bored. I knew I could have you whenever and wherever I wanted. The fire in your eyes died. You had no fight left in you.” he chuckles. You’re trembling now, your legs feeling weak underneath you. “And I enjoyed seeing the fear in your eyes whenever I entered the room. . . wondering. . . thinking about when I would finally make you my own.”

You don’t know what to say. The snowfall picks up in pace. Hurling, dancing around you both. A sign of a storm. The cold kisses your cheeks. David grins and extends his arms towards the sky, you take a step back.

“I finally found myself a pet that’s fun to play with. Someone that won’t be so easily broken.”

Broken. Broken. Broken.

That’s what you are, isn’t it? Broken. Alone. Unwanted.

You have to get to the girl and get the hell out of here.

You lift your chin, “You’re sick.”

Bad move. His nostrils flare with anger as he grips your chin and forcefully brings you closer to his face. As someone who went on and on about you being too submissive for his liking, he sure as hell seems to hate that you’re defying him.

“Don’t you dare talk back to me,” he spits, squeezing your jaw until your lips part with a whimper. “I'm the one who saved you and spared you. I’m a good man but never forget that you belong to me.” Without hesitation, he cups you between your legs. You stiffen at the touch, fear chills your skin, feeling little pins needling into your muscles. “You’re mine to break and when I do, you'll love it. And you'll finally be a woman.”

He doesn’t linger. Leaving you, he disappears between the cabins. You collapse to the snow, shaking, trembling and tears flooding your eyes. You fist at the snow, your fingers becoming numb as it melts between your fingers. You were a fool to think that you were safe. You genuinely thought that after so long he’d let you do your own thing within the community. But no. He still had his eyes on the “prize”.

You want to run into the forest but you can’t. Your eyes fall to the ground where his footsteps are perfectly visible. Now you know where the girl is.

The door that is always locked is open.

Your brows knit together as you observe the old wood swaying back and forth due to the wind. Your skin is icy cold. Coming closer you see that the lock had been broken, shattered. You see a spray of blood on the snow and that entices you to take a step forward into the dark cabin. You know you shouldn’t be taking any detours. Your backpack is secured tightly against your back filled with essentials and some sentimental items you gathered during the years. You should go. But you’re curious. You have to know what’s been in this shed for all these years.

You sigh. Curiosity killed the cat.

“But satisfaction brought it back,” you murmur.

You pull out your gun, your finger on the trigger as you explore. It seems pretty standard. Some items, lots of dust—

Two large hands shove you roughly against the wall. You choke, all the air leaving your lungs as your gun is knocked out of your hand. Momentarily you’re pulled away and slammed back against the wall again, this time the back of your head thudding against the wood. You groan in pain. Your body screaming at you to run and hide.

“Where is she?” you hear a man hiss through gritted teeth. “Where the fuck is she?”

You’re slammed once more, tears prick the corner of your eyes and you barely manage to raise your hands.

When you finally manage to open your eyes, panting heavily, you see a disheveled man. At first glance, he doesn’t make you feel that you’re in danger—which is an ironic feeling considering the throbbing at the back of your head is his doing. Lines run across his face, his eyes full of worry and anger. You immediately know who he is. There was only one girl after all.

“You’re—” you swallow. “You’re him.”

His hand tightens around your throat and a gun is hastily pressed against your forehead, “Tell me where she is or I’m shootin’ you.”

“I’m actually trying to find her myself,” you answer, which by the looks of it was the wrong this to say. “I—I wanted to help her. Free her. David. . . the man that took her—he’s a monster.”

His eyes narrow, “You from this community?”

“He took me in when I was sixteen,” you explain. “I had no choice but to join.”

“And why should I trust you?”

“Because I know exactly where she is,” you bite the inside of your cheek. “And I know that you’re hurt. I can help.”

“Then what?”

You shake your head, not understanding. He clarifies. “You help me and then what? What’s the catch?”

Your eyes blur with tears. You’re just so fucking tired.

“I just want to leave.”

Something about the way you whisper must’ve wake something in him because he lets you go. He lights the flashlight. “I ain’t in the business of takin’ in strays.”

What? “What?”

“Just leave. I don’t need your help.”

“You—You don’t understand!” Just as he turns you jump towards him, fisting the back of his jacket, the fabric isn’t soft enough for you to get a good grip on him so you grab his shoulder instead. “He’s a monster! Everyone fucking underestimates him—he’ll—he’ll—!”

He stills. Rushed steps coming to a halt. You think he’s going to shove you off, push you away but he’s glued. With the fear of silence, you pull back and step to the side. He’s still not acknowledging you. His hard gaze glued to where the flashlight is illuminating. You follow the light speckled with dust. Horror curling in your stomach like a hook.

There are three of them. Three bodies hanging like animals being prepared to cut into pieces.

“Oh god—”

You bring your hands to your head, your heart ramming into your chest, you shake your head. “No, no, no, no—” You take a step back. The man rips his gaze away from the bodies, away from what it implies. You take another step back and another. You’re shaking, your eyes glued to the floor. He—David—he fed you people.

Fucking people. People that you knew.

Finally, the scent hits you. The smell of flesh and blood.

You scream.

The man is on you in an instant, you tumble to the ground and he goes down with you willingly. “Shit—no no no. Shut the hell up— shut the hell up.”

The knot that forms in your throat is large and uncomfortable. You bawl your eyes out, hiccuping against his chest. He takes you into his arms and you can’t be bothered to think of the why of his actions. His biceps tighten around you. You’re still shouting, still thrashing around, crying—he presses you further into his chest, muffling your sounds. You vaguely hear him shushing you, telling you it’s gonna be alright. Lies. He’s telling you lies.

You start to quiet down and only then do you begin to make sense of his words. He’s murmuring bits of his life. Of what he’s seen. You finally learn the name of the girl: Ellie. The thick baritone of his voice is like a melody. It soothes you. Maybe not fully. But it helps calm your raging heart. You breathe. He smells like wood and snow.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, pulling away. “Please let me help you.”

“Yeah—Yeah, you can help.” He guides you to your feet in a way that your back is turned to the bodies. Just the thought of what's behind you makes your lungs cave in.

“What’s your name?” you ask, desperate for any kind of distraction.

“Joel.”

“Alright, Joel,” you head towards the door. “Let’s go.”

She escaped.

You can’t help but be impressed at the sight of an empty cell. But the pride for a girl you haven’t officially met dies in your throat when you see who’s against the wall, covered in blood.

“You knew him?” Joel asks, his tone lacking any kind of grief. A question asked more so as a courtesy than actual worry.

You stare at him. His blue eyes now lifeless, lips parted. It almost looks like he’s sitting, just taking a rest on the cold floor. It would be easy to make you believe that if it wasn’t for the cleaver sticking out of his neck.

“No,” you answer dryly. Yet, you still walk to the dead man and gently close his eyes. You warned him this would happen. Joel doesn’t ask any more questions. He doesn’t have to. “We need to find her before David gets to her.”

Joel immediately rushes out, you following him close by. You feel utterly useless. You have no idea where Ellie might’ve run off to. It doesn’t help that some part of your brain is still occupied with James. You hated him in a way but still, he was there. You’ve known him nearly your entire life. It felt off to be the one to close his eyes.

The storm had stopped. The sun reflecting from the snow irritating your eyes. Joel seems to be getting irritated with every step. Desperate.

He’s the one that sees her first.

Ellie staggers out the large building currently being engulfed in flames. Her walk is uncoordinated, her steps uneven as she breathes in the icy air. Before you can warn Joel not to startle her, he’s already running, grabbing her by the shoulders. Your heart shatters into a million tiny pieces when you hear her screams and shouts.

“It’s me,” Joel says, cradling her face with both hands. She hits his chest with sideway fists, he holds her more firmly. “It’s me.”

You see it in her face, the exact moment she realizes. You see blood splattered across her face, her expression hurts you. It’s the same expression you’ve seen on yourself for years.

“Hey… look. It’s me… It’s me. It’s okay.”

She mumbles, “He—” Before Ellie can complete the sentence she wraps her thin arms around Joel, the man hugs her tight. Your heart shatters then. The damns you were so adamant on keeping locked being teared down by people you barely know.

You cry. Salty tears just bursting out of your eyes. There’s no slow build, no single tear and then the rest. It just all comes down flooding. Your shoulders sag, your fingertips numb.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, baby girl. I got you.”

You sniff and look up to the sky. Fuck. It’s so hard to stop when it begins. You see grey smoke rising into the crisp air. He’s dead. You don’t need to see the body to know that he is.

Your eyes drop to the two survivors embracing infront of you. That girl saved your life while you were trying to save hers. You were too late. Both of you were. She looked the beast in the eye and slayed it. Freeing you.

They part and Joel quickly wraps his jacket around her tiny trembling shoulders. You’re empty. What now? That was his question. You don’t know. Do you go back? Do you explain to the people who David manipulated just how horrendous he really was? Would they believe you?

Your eyes are drawn to a flicker of movement. Joel is looking straight at you. Ellie still unaware of your presence and you can’t blame her.

You’re lost.

But then his eyes soften with something akin to understanding and he gestures you to follow.

Like a lamb to a stream, you do.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fanfic #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfic

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sp00kymulderr · 3 months

Text

inhale, exhale

Pairing: Joel Miller x afab!reader

Warnings: 18+. Fingering, mentions of sex, smoking (both reader and Joel), canon typical violence mentions, needy!Joel, fear of intimacy. Barely edited as usual.

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: This world is not made for intimacy and both of you know it.

Strong arms wrap around you as Joel dozes on the couch.

You wiggle in his grasp a little, body cooling rapidly after the fact. Your panties are still hanging off one of your ankles and the cooling feeling of his cum between your legs makes you shiver when a breeze falls through the open window beside you.

He always does this, holds on tight like you'll disappear into nothing after you've given him yourself. He has to hold you close to make sure you're real, you think. Sometimes his eyes shine with the fear of something horrifying, but it has remained unspoken and you wonder if this strong, stoic man you've found to become a part of your life is afraid to be alone. It feels that way with how he molds you to his body now, the soft swell of his stomach beneath you rising and falling with his deep breaths.

You'd never expected to feel comfort in this world, to feel wanted. It still shakes you, scares you, the knowing that you are flitting purple and piquant through his mind even now as he starts to dream. Once when this thing was at its beginning he had told you he never dreamt. You could hear the lie in his stilted words.

Still uneasy in the role of his piece of comfort, you wriggle your way out as soon as Joel falls under the spell of sleep completely and his grip turns lax. He tugs a protest at your retreating form but it’s weak and waning as he falls back in the deep of dreamland. Your heart swells a little as you watch him, you have to allay the feeling from yourself as you stand.

He is something more than you expected, something you didn't plan to find and don't know how to have. Joel has long been a man left wanting. There is a desire in him that runs deeper than he'd ever admit; the need to love, to share, to hold, to treasure. He acts sometimes like every moment together is the last.

Maybe he is right to do that.

Turning from his sleeping form, you plant bare feet on the cold floor. A silvery shivering thread pulls through your spine and it makes you want to wrap back up in him, just for a moment. Instead you shake yourself and pull up your panties. The warmth of his spend is slowly seeping from you, when it meets the fabric of your underwear you shiver for another reason.

Everything feels syrupy slow after a moment with him, the twilight tinged with sweetness. You smooth down your wrinkled shirt before gently padding to the stained table where a few hand rolled cigarettes lay in wait. They aren't there for you, but it's hard to resist the only vice you have other than the man who lies asleep behind you.

You take one cigarette and the lighter you know he keeps in a kitchen drawer, then move back towards that open window. Pushing the makeshift curtain aside, you peer out the window in to the night as you make the flame to light the smoke that you've been craving since before he fucked you.

The little fire flickers, the old metal lighter sparking a last breath in a bloom of orange flame; a temptation, a thrill when your fingers catch the heat of it and it brings you back to a memory of the afternoon. The feeling when Joel had pressed a kiss to each of your fingertips one by one. Tenderly warm, turned to scorching ache soon after. He is good at that. Tenderness, care. He has a habit of showing you reverence in small, familiar ways, even before he begins pulling you apart to drink of your desire.

Intimacy.

It fills you with something dreadful, finds you and twists your stomach into knots.

A sigh of contentment fills you after your first slow inhale, exhale. Warmed, your body relaxes the way it does when he… the way it does when you feel safe and secure. Rare in this life.

Outside this apartment earth spins on its axis in a never ending cycle. It’s after curfew but as usual people scutter the streets, hide away from searching eyes. The patrol trucks pass, blinding brightness causing the rule-breakers to scurry back into the dark like rats. That’ll be you later, when you leave him. But for now you inhale, exhale and watch it all turn like clockwork, again and again until you’re stuck in a trance.

“Gonna have to start chargin’ you for those” Joel's deep voice grunts behind you, pulling you from the tangled reverie.

You smile, a slow and slacken thing, but don’t say a word just yet. His breath is hot on your cooled skin, as he crowds you slowly, intention in every moment with him. Large, tempting hands rest on the sill on either side of you, and he rests his chin on your shoulder for a moment. His own treacly inhale rattles you as he brings his lips to your neck.

Your stomach ties itself up again, tugs at you with fear and more. A fever bustles to life in your core. A pathetic sound between a moan and a sob leaves you, as Joel presses himself against you. You push back.

“Don’t be greedy” He whispers in your ear, drips the words like honey.

You hum as you raise your hand and he kisses your neck once more, too brief, before taking the burning cigarette from your fingers.

You have spent your years resisting, resisting, resisting. He’s the first to make your resolve begin its slow crumble. A motion is set through you as he stays crowding you, the strong rise and fall of his chest moving you with him. Eyes closed, part of you gives in.

Joel needs more. He always has. He burns and beckons, it has yet to ebb. He palls like the smoke that blows from his exhale. Your disquiet sets in with the moment of silence. This world is not made for intimacy and both of you know it.

The open window sends a bloom of cold to your front, made worse by how warm he is behind you. In the streets below you two men stumble drunkenly, their too loud conversation turning to a blur of sound as it reaches up towards you. Joel moves to place the cigarette back between your lips, at the same time his other hand reaches down to cup your mound.

“Joel” You sigh around it as he nuzzles against your jaw. His fingers massage slow between your legs, panties sticky with the mixture of releases soaking through.

“Stay” he whispers against your skin. He presses more insistently, the heel of his hand grinding.

“Not tonight” You take another drag. Your fingers shake.

Your words aren’t convincing. He hears it too.

“Can smoke as much as you want” He smirks as he pulls his head back to watch you react to the slip of his fingers inside your underwear. The slide of them through your heat, soaked the minute they touch you. You cough on the smoke as your breath hitches.

A blast of light on the street below makes your eyes snap open, at the same time his fingers press against your opening. Two push in easily. Thumb to your clit, lips right at your pulse point. You cry out softly.

The men on the cobbled street beneath the window try to make a run for it. Joel's teeth scrape your skin. He needs you in ways he hasn’t even begun to express. Your head dizzies with the saccharine swell in your core as he fucks you with his fingers, rubs circles on your sensitive nub.

“Stay” Joel repeats. Still a question.

He’s drawing you open, making you spill. Another finger joins, thick and finding what you need. You have to stub the cigarette on the window sill before you drop it, and then you’re reaching back a tug on his hair, a grip on his shoulder that makes him grunt.

He needs you.

There’s a shout outside. Another and another. You can’t find the will to concentrate. He’s pushing against you, pressing digits inside of you, stroking your aching clit. He tugs your earlobe with his teeth as he grinds the hard length of himself against your ass.

Tight, tight knot in you. It’s unravelling. He’s become the only one who can unravel it. Your legs shake, he holds you together even as he pulls you apart.

Blood spills on the streets. Your body jerks taut as Joel mouths at your neck again. He wants you, he needs you. He needs this feeling even more than you do. Your cries drown out the outside world, as he needily gasps your name against your too-hot skin. The sudden gush from you soaks his hand, your underwear, drips down.

“Tonight” You go slack, fall against him as he soothes you with gentle words you can barely hear.

The world outside is not made for intimacy.

Here in his world you allow yourself to breathe it in for a moment.

#Joel Miller x reader #Joel Miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #pedrostories

387 notes · View notes

dottores · 9 months

Text

HELIOTROPES

pairing: dottore x fem!reader & segments

summary: the gods were sick and twisted. for five hundred years, he believed he was fated to be alone. he had long accepted it—embraced it, even. that is, until a midwinter night when that elusive red thread finally appeared on his finger. but as much as he wants to ignore it, the pull of a soulmate simply cannot be ignored.

genre: soulmate au, canon compliant for the most part.

warnings: fem!reader, worldbuilding for snezhnaya & fatui & fontaine, dottore.

notes: this wasn't as long as i wanted for it to be but im just happy i got it out on time aufhdasuidfh i didn't think i'd be able to. i’m v sorry i haven’t answered asks yet! i promise i’ll get to it this weekend, i just got home

DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE

“Hand the boy over.”

You recognized the men standing at the end of the hall now that they had come a bit closer—two nobles who had been down in the ballroom for the event. You didn’t know their first names but Artem had pointed them out as being part of the Skliar Family of western Snezhnaya, a family that was particularly anti-Fatui and loud about it… when the Fatui weren’t around, of course. They were the two younger sons of the family, a few years older than you.

Artem had been surprised that the family even showed up and you figured that they probably had ulterior motives…

… but this?

Your arms tightened a bit around the sleepy boy resting in them and he shifted a bit, stirring at the movement. He was observant, unfortunately, and seemed to realize very quickly from the tenseness in your shoulders that something was wrong. You wanted to tell him to go back to sleep but you couldn’t push out the words from your lips before he was shifting around.

When he glanced behind him to see what was happening, his whole body started trembling, red eyes widening at the sight of the two men. He didn’t cry or let out any fearful noises, it was a sort of petrified fear that made you wish you could hide him away until you figured out what to do and how to handle this.

You looked down briefly, past his face to where his legs were hanging on either side of your body, remembering how they were all cut up and bleeding to the point it was clearly painful for him to walk on them. You figured that maybe he was just clumsy and tripped running up or down a set of stairs but then you remembered how he had been hiding when you saw him, pressed into the shadows of an alcove.

They’d been chasing him.

“Oi, girl, did you hear me? Hand the boy over,” the shorter of the two demanded harshly, taking another step forward.

You could see now from the shorter distance the anxiety that riddled his body. His fingers were trembling and his eyes were darting around as if monsters were going to sprout from the shadows and tear him to pieces.

They were bold for attacking the Fatui while in their most protected stronghold, if not a bit foolish—a part of you questioned whether or not they might be drunk, you had noticed some of the younger aristocrats guzzling down alcohol to try to make the night bearable enough to get through. You wondered if they knew that the Ninth Harbinger was naught but a few feet away from them behind the wall on their left. You might’ve commended them for their bravery were they not targeting a child.

You smiled thinly. “No.”

“No?” The taller man asked, voice low.

He moved toward you—you wondered if he meant to be threatening but you didn’t see a vision on him, and even if there was one hidden somewhere, it was hard to feel threatened when you knew that the Regrator was lurking behind a door right to your side. He had to know what was happening, you could see a shadow right beneath the crack at the bottom of the door, signaling he was standing there listening to the confrontation and ready to step in, but you figured he wasn’t making himself known because he wanted to see how you handled this.

A test. You hated tests.

You figured you’d be able to handle it if it came down to a fight. Your father and grandfather had been quick to teach you how to immobilize grown men considering you’d be taking over your family’s position in a few years and would have to be able to drag them to the cells without them overpowering you. You would rather it not come to a fight though, your family’s hydro art was dangerous and very easy to butcher with.

“That is what I said,” you replied after a moment and then added: “If you are hard of hearing I can suggest you to a doctor, I’m sure he would be willing to take a look for you. Although, I do warn you, I’ve heard his methods are rather… unsavory.”

His methods—another subject that you had yet to broach with yourself even though you knew very well that you had to think about it. You had to force yourself to keep your chin raised as you stared at the two of them for their reactions; you had heard terrible, terrible things about the Doctor while you had traveled northward through Snezhnaya. Brutal experiments, missing children, twisted creatures and monsters that he lets free from his labs when he decides them to be a failure or drained of use.

How was a man like that your soulmate?

You used to wonder, as a kid, what having a soulmate like your stepfather said about your mother. Now, you know that their bond wasn’t even real but yours was, and you were tied to one of the most dangerous and wicked and cold-hearted men in all of Teyvat.

What did that say about you?

Were you a bad person? Maybe not yet, you didn’t think so at least, but maybe you had the potential of being one, if the gods thought you fit to be with him.

The taller man was livid at your implied threat of Dottore, livid and scared, reaching for something at his side—a dagger?—and you remembered then how Artem had made a comment about how many of the antagonistic families had lost people to the Fatui, particularly to the Doctor, the Friar and the Marionette. You tensed, ready to use your vision at a moment’s notice, feeling the energy seep through you as you summoned it to your defense but the man never came toward you.

Instead, he was stopped by the shorter one.

“Hold on,” he said quietly. “That girl, she was with the Melnyks at the ball. Their heir introduced her as his fiancée.”

The taller man scoffed. “The Melnyks are so in bed with the Fatui that they’re willing to share their women now,” he spat, shooting you a look that was nothing short of derisive.

You inhaled sharply at the blatant insult. You had never been so directly disrespected like that before—in the courts of Fontaine, the nobles liked to keep their insults as passive and well-mannered as possible so that they could not be called out for making disparaging remarks about another noble family, which could cause severe financial or political trouble depending on what family had been slighted.

You were a frequent victim to those veiled insults, dealing with underhanded comments about who the Black Cells would be passed to should your grandfather pass, implying that you were unfit to be the Warden. And then, even worse, the ones where people would make offhand observations about how maybe you would be the perfect fit for Warden considering you don’t have a soulmate, because in Fontaine, it is known that only the cursed and the heartless are not given their fated partner by Celestia. You thought that if they knew who your soulmate was, they would double down on their beliefs.

“I am not something to be shared,” you said, the thin smile on your lips now void of emotion, “and I am a lot more than just a girl who is someone’s fiancée. You will find that out soon enough if you continue to test me.”

Finally, the shorter man seemed to notice the vision laying against your chest, fashioned as a pendant on a necklace and he hesitated, glancing between you and the taller man once as if debating on warning him against acting rashly.

Well, that at least confirmed that they did not have visions.

You felt significantly more confident at the realization, letting your tense shoulders relax and your arms loosen around the little boy—feeling your change in demeanor, he also seemed to relax, his tight grip on your hair releasing as he laid his head back down against your shoulder.

Did he really have that much trust in you?

But then, before the taller man could explode on you or the shorter man could warn him not to, their expressions shifted from anger and concern to downright fear—except they were not looking at you, they were looking directly behind you.

Before you could even turn to look, long and thin fingers wrapped around your shoulders, nails digging harshly into your skin—distantly, you thought for sure it would be bruised tomorrow but you were more anxious at the sudden new arrival and whether or not they were an ally or enemy.

They leaned over your shoulder a bit and as you glanced to the side with wide eyes, you caught sight of another head of silvery-blue hair, cropped short like the boy in your arms. Red eyes gleamed cruelly from within the two holes of the black and white mask he wore, a hint of something unstable simmering right beneath the surface.

“What a treat,” the man behind you said, voice lifting into a giggle that made your hair stand on end. “I had just run out of bodies to run my tests on.”

The storm was nigh.

Dottore grimaced as the winds whipped around him wildly. Above him, the tall trees of the forest creaked and groaned, threatening to topple over beneath the harsh gusts. The sun had long set but his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, sweeping across the forest floor as he followed the path from Zapolyanry Palace to the estate he owned in the area, making his way to the ruins that were just off the path.

They had yet to find the Iota segment. Dottore knew that he was still in the area of the ruins he was exploring, he could sense that much from the inherent tracking system he had for each of the segments but they hadn’t reached the ruins yet. He wondered how Epsilon hadn’t been able to find him if he was in the ruins, unless he had wandered off and then made his way back when he realized that the sun had set and a storm was coming but something didn’t sit right with him about that.

Either way, it was making Dottore antsy. He didn’t like it. The last time he had lost a segment, it had been a situation just like this a little over four hundred years ago. He felt unsettled.

“You found her.”

Epsilon’s voice didn’t even edge on accusing as he watched Dottore carefully.

He had his answer, he just wanted a confirmation.

Dottore did not intend on giving him one.

“I did not.”

Epsilon let out a small puff of amusement, nothing short of a gibe, eyeing Dottore from the corner of his eye—he was the only one of the older segments that didn’t wear a mask, the few times he did was when he was posing as Dottore in Harbinger meetings or on missions that he didn’t want to handle. He could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe a word Dottore said, if anything he thought entertaining that Dottore was trying to deny it and that only made him even more irritated.

“We all felt it,” Epsilon murmured. “The others might not have figured out exactly what it was but I did. I’m sure Lambda did too. I advise you to choose wisely as to whether or not you would prefer him or I at your side when dealing with her. We both know his desired course of action and he will do whatever’s necessary to ensure that our research is not impeded.”

“As he was created for,” Dottore said coolly, “and thus is expected of him.”

“Even at the cost of the life of your soulmate?” Epsilon questioned, studying him intensely for a reaction.

Your. That was an intentional choice of words. All of the other segments referred to you as their soulmate as well. It was never Dottore’s soulmate, it was our soulmate. Even Epsilon had appealed to him in the past by stressing that it was not just his decision as your existence affected all of them.

This was an attempt at manipulation—a carefully picked choice of word that would ignite all of the possessive and selfish tendencies that had been ingrained in Dottore ever since he was living on his own after his village case him out, hoarding anything and everything he could get his hands on, and then again, after he had enrolled in the Akademiya, dealing with people leeching onto his research to try to get credit.

What’s his was his and you, unfortunately, fell under that category as much as he might loathe to admit it.

“I can handle Lambda.” Was all Dottore said in response to Epsilon’s comment, dismissing his warning.

Epsilon made a noise as if he didn’t quite believe Dottore. Dottore didn’t acknowledge it. They continued on in silence for a few moments, the wind howling around them as they crossed the path into the old ruins of a temple of the previous Cryo Archon—crumbling towers reached high into the sky, disappearing into the clouds, and a massive derelict statue that was teetering dangerously in the wind. The snow had started to fall, they were running out of time to find the Iota segment but Epsilon didn’t look the slightest bit worried and Dottore frowned a bit, suspicion itching at the back of his mind.

“You should at least allow the younger segments to meet her,” Epsilon finally continued, completely unperturbed by the threat the storm posed to one of the younger segments. “They will be dysfunctional when they realize they never got the chance to meet her and then you will have three useless segments to figure out what to do with.”

“None of the segments will know that she is here, much less meet her,” Dottore said sharply. “I have information that needs to be obtained from her and then she is going back to Fontaine where she will stay, are we clear?”

“So you admit that she is here,” Epsilon smiled thinly, as if that was exactly what he wanted to hear, and Dottore gave him a cold look.

“Enough of your games, Epsilon. What is it that you are trying to achieve with this conversation?”

Epsilon didn’t respond. Instead, his red gaze trailed from him to somewhere behind Dottore. A sinking feeling in his stomach, Dottore turned around to see what he was looking at. Instantly, his eyes fell upon a familiar young boy standing right behind a pillar, watching them with wide eyes and a hopeful expression.

Iota.

“She’s here?” he whispered as if Dottore had just proclaimed the coming of the Celestial gods unto Teyvat, and then, more excited, he lit up: “She’s here?!”

Dottore realized, very quickly, that he might’ve just been played for a fool by his own segments. Without responding to the Iota segment, Dottore looked to the right where Epsilon was still standing. Epsilon barely acknowledged Dottore as he stepped forward with a small smile and upturned eyes.

“There you are,” he said. “We’ve been looking for you.”

He did not sound particularly relieved or frustrated—if anything, he sounded pleased. Dottore watched as he patted Iota on the head once and then turned to look at Dottore, with an expression that edged at nothing short of triumphant.

He remembered how Gamma had looked so nervous, unable to meet his eyes—he had thought it was because he was anxious over losing two of the younger segments but he realized, quickly, that it might’ve been because he was anxious about having to lie to Dottore.

Iota had been waiting for them at the ruins and Dottore knew the young segment well enough to know that unless given direct orders (sometimes even when given direct orders), the boy would panic and wander trying to find his way back until he got himself so lost that Dottore would have to shut him down until they could figure out where he was and bring him back. Someone must have told him not to move from the ruins until they arrived, and that someone…

Dottore stared at Epsilon, catching the sly look in his eyes as he turned his gaze back to Dottore. Had he planned this? Had he schemed out a situation to get Dottore alone long enough to force him to admit that you were in the palace in front of the Iota segment? Would he really go so far as to put one of the younger segments at risk to do so?

Yes, Dottore realized, watching the unmoved expression on Epsilon’s face as he watched Dottore realize what had just happened—he absolutely would because he knew that it was the only thing that Dottore would take seriously enough to handle himself, otherwise he would have just sent Epsilon alone to handle whatever it was.

More than that, Epsilon knew that with the incoming storm and a missing young segment that the situation would remind him of the one that happened all of those years ago with the Beta Segment and Dottore would be in an uncomfortable and agitated state of mind, more susceptible to snapping and admitting what Epsilon wanted him to say.

Conniving little-

Dottore’s tongue scraped against his teeth as he bit back a slew of curses, rage sweeping over him like the white water torrents of a rushing river.

Gods be damned about the war and needing as many spare hands as possible for his research, Dottore had half a mind to deactivate all of the segments and start anew once you were gone so he didn’t have to deal with any more insubordination and disrespect from himself.

Though he found that the thought of you being gone in any way sat poorly in his chest. Livid, he realized that you might’ve already managed to strengthen the bond just through the two conversations he had with you.

Teeth grinding together, he forced himself to turn on his heel and make his way back to the palace before anything else could go wrong with your unexpected arrival in Snezhnaya. He would get his segments out of Zapolyarny Palace and drag them back to the estate, leaving you at the mercy of the Regrator until he could finish his briefings with the segments and send them all far, far from Snezhnaya.

You distinctly felt like a mouse cornered by a cat, except instead of being the one hunted by the predator, you were watching another mouse about to get devoured, knowing that you would be next. It was with a sickening type of engrossment that had you unable to draw your eyes from the scene in front of you, fear crawled up your spine, seeping into your blood, but your feet were rooted to the ground below you.

The man—who you noticed also looked particularly like Dottore, except he was closer to your age—had slunk past you to approach the two men at the opposite end of the hall. A part of you wanted to put the boy down and run back to your room, locking the door to hide from the shitshow about to go down but he was clutching at you like some sort of lifeline, little fingers gripping the cloth on the back of your dress as he hid his face from view. And even if he wasn’t, you had a feeling that your feet wouldn’t cooperate if you tried.

“Kappa,” an unfamiliar voice whispered from somewhere behind you, urgent and worried.

Your gaze snapped to the side, eyes falling upon another kid with silver blue curls and red eyes, a terrible burn scar covering the whole left side of his face. He was young, no older than fifteen or sixteen, and there was an anxious expression on his face, brows furrowed and lips pressed together as his eyes darted around.

Another child of Dottore’s? It didn’t make any sense, did he have three children? Or was the older one his brother? Or were they experiments? Your head hurt and you were suddenly very, very tired—you needed to lay down. The night’s events were finally catching up to you and your body was beginning to lag, crying in protest as you continued to stand rooted in the middle of the hall. Your room was so close but it was not close enough, you would have to get past the masked man to reach the door and you had a feeling he would not take kindly to your attempted escape.

And what had the other boy called the little one? Kappa? Why was that so familiar?

You let out a shaky breath, trying to think.

Kappa, that was so familiar… one of the words from the old tongue? The ones that Dottore used to accidentally pass over to you?

But was that even possible? You would have to check your notebook but you were pretty sure that the first time you received the word Kappa was right around the time you had received your first word from him and that was what? Eight years ago?

There was no way this child was older than five.

What was going on?

“You-” the taller man choked out as the new arrival drew closer. “You’re-”

“You’re bold for attacking little Kappa right under our noses,” he mused, a lilt to his tone that had you on edge. He reached forward, snatching the man’s chin between two fingers as he forcibly craned his head to the left—examining him like some sort of test subject. “I’ve been trying to get Hearsays up and running again but I just don’t have enough contenders after the last incident… I suppose you’ll do well. Hehe, you’ll at least make for good entertainment, one way or another.”

You watched as he dragged his nails down his cheeks, leaning a line of blood in his wake before he turned his attention to the shorter man with a look in his eyes that was nothing short of gleeful.

“You simply won't do.” He clicked his tongue a few times in disappointment, shaking his head in a sharp and jerky motion that looked borderline painful. “I’ll just pass you off to one of the others for them to run some tests on. I think Rho is starting a new batch of experiments soon, yeah? Isn’t he, Gamma? Gamma?”

He was suddenly agitated as he glanced backward, waiting for a response. The other new arrival—the younger one with anxious eyes and twitching fingers—looked caught off guard at being pulled into the conversation.

Finally, he nodded, throat spasming as he swallowed. “With the residue, yes. The last batch failed.”

“Perfect,” he smiled sharply, and though you could only see half of his smile, even beneath the dim lighting you could see the rows of sharp teeth lining his mouth. “He can get the scraps.”

“Kappa, are you okay?” Gamma returned his attention to the boy in your arms, trying to grab his arm to look at him but every time he tried, Kappa shifted away, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Kappa, c’mon, he’s going to be so mad, just talk to me.”

“He’s okay, for the most part,” you said quietly.

At the sound of your voice, Gamma drew back, red eyes guarded and nervous. He looked at you as if you were a possible enemy, shoulders tense and body language closed off. He looked to be reaching for something at his side—you wondered if he was armed but his fingers were trembling. Even so, you decided to try to calm him down, not wanting another agitated person to deal with.

“What does that mean?” he asked, glancing between you and Kappa as if you had been the one to hurt the boy.

“His knees are cut up and bleeding, I was going to bring him to my room to clean them up. He was having trouble walking on them,” you explained, keeping your voice steady as you watched him carefully, trying to figure out how you would defend yourself while holding a kid in your arm.

But it was for no need, Gamma looked a bit at ease at your words but he frowned as he reached to hold Kappa’s leg to check out the wound but Kappa whimpered and snapped his leg away, accidentally jamming his knee into your side. You bit back a grunt, wincing at the small bony knee digging into your side but only rubbed his back, trying to soothe him.

Maybe his legs were worse than you thought. Concerned, you glanced down and briefly wondered why he wasn’t voicing his pain if that was the case.

“One to ten?” Gamma suddenly asked, holding up his hands to show Kappa. The boy pressed his cheek against your shoulder, watching Gamma as he lifted two fingers, then three, then four, then five. At eight, Kappa pointed and Gamma looked severely distressed.

“He’s going to be so mad.” Gamma looked like he was on the verge of tears. “Kappa, how many times have we told you that you have to say something when you’re hurt?”

He turned his face away again, pressing it into the crook of your neck and Gamma looked around nervously. “Well… he seems to like you. Kappa doesn’t really like anyone so I mean…”

Gamma suddenly floundered for words as you raised your hand to pat Kappa’s back again, red eyes focusing righting on your pinky finger.

For a moment, he just stood there, gaping and wide eyed but then his expression shifted as he glanced over to where the masked man was still mocking and terrorizing the two aristocrats from the Skliar family.

In an instant, Gamma looked like he was going to throw up, face pale and ghastly and you could only stare at him, trying to figure out what had caused the abrupt change in demeanor.

You had a distinct feeling that it had to do with the presence of the masked man and that made your stomach churn with nerves, eyes darting over to him.

“Oh gods, you’re-” he began, voice catching over his words as he stared at you, taking a step back as if he was on the verge of fleeing. Then, his gaze darted up to the masked man he had arrived with, who you could feel staring at you from halfway down the hall, and then back to you with an expression nothing short of horrified. “Oh gods, oh no, Theta is-I have to-I have to get the Doctor. I have to-I’ll be back.”

And then he was gone, turning on his heel and sprinting down the hall, leaving you alone with the little boy called Kappa and the masked man who you could hear drawing closer to you from behind.

You felt like a frozen deer, body tense and cold as you felt the front of his body brush against the back of yours. He reached over your shoulder, long fingers wrapping around your wrist as he lifted your hand up.

You glanced back, eyes catching his for just a moment, and your throat dried at the look in his eyes—wild and unpredictable with a sort of untamable glee that reminded you of the Hydro Archon when she finally took interest in one of the court’s trials.

And when she took interest in a trial, only one sentence would be exacted onto the defendant: execution.

His face twisted into an unsettling and chilling smile, teeth glittering like knives beneath the candles that lit up the hall.

“You’re her.”

“Is he mad at me?”

The Iota segment had been on the verge of a meltdown the entire walk back to the palace. They had finally made it out of the forest and were crossing the snowy span of land to the bridge that led to the wide gates of Zapolyanry Palace. The weather was even worse now that there were no trees to buffer—the wind whipped around him violently, howling and shrieking, snow pelting his face like little icicles yet it was not enough to drown out the sniffles and cries of Iota as he wrapped his fingers around the back of Dottore’s shirt, clinging to him desperately as he tried to keep up with the man’s long strides.

“Of course not,” Epsilon soothed, ever the conciliator as he tried to calm Iota down so the boy didn’t delay them anymore than he already had.

“He won’t even look at me,” Iota cried. At once, Dottore turned to look over his shoulder, eyes landing sharply on Iota from beneath his mask, lips twisted down into a deep frown. Iota let out a cry akin to a wounded animal. “That’s even worse, I mess everything up, I’m sorry.”

Dottore’s head hurt. He grimaced as the wind nearly dragged his hood right down, tightening the drawstrings of his cloak. Distantly, he noticed that Epsilon was picking up Iota and letting the boy latch onto him as he cried but he tried to ignore it. Iota would get over it in a few hours, he always did—he was sensitive and broke down easily but bounced back before the day was up, burying his attention in some book or paper until he totally forgot about whatever set him off.

As soon as they got back to the palace, he’d have Epsilon bring the boy down to the basement so he could nestle away in the library down there and then he’d be good as new, bustling to Dottore’s lab to bother him trying to tell him about all that he had learned in his readings.

Besides the destructive tendencies, Iota was easy to handle for the most part. He was quickly upset but that was a product of the mentality he was created in and the reason for his creation, which he wasn’t supposed to know but the Zeta segment decided to open his mouth about it in an attempt to drive Iota into a meltdown to disrupt Delta’s research so he could pull ahead on it.

The Iota segment was created so that Dottore could do research into the Aranara of Sumeru—unfortunately, Dottore did not realize that the events of the night he was cast out of the village made him unable to see the Aranara anymore, thus making the Iota segment a useless creation. Dottore had debated on just destroying the segment and using the spare parts to create a new one but Delta had convinced him against it, claiming that he would use the failed segment as a means to help with his research instead. Ever since Iota found out about that a few decades ago, he’d been even more unstable than he already was from the mindset he was created in.

“Enough, Iota,” Dottore said icily. “Have your meltdown on your own time.”

Epsilon clicked his tongue as Iota caught himself over a sob, pressing his face into the man’s skin as if to hide his tears from Dottore. Epsilon gave Dottore an accusing look, Dottore raised his chin—this is on you.

Epsilon smiled to himself and then looked away, proud.

Again, he reconsidered deactivation, this time far more intensely, and again, Dottore cursed you because all of the misfortune he had faced the past two decades was solely because of your existence.

You, with your irritating attitude and despicable personality, playing the soft-spoken angel to everybody but him.

You, with your exhausting persistence, meeting him toe-to-toe and word-for-word in every confrontation and conversation he had with you.

You, with that infuriatingly striking purple dress—low-cut and thin strapped—that he hadn’t been able to draw his eyes off of the whole night no matter how hard he tried. He couldn’t help but wonder just how shameless Fontaine fashion was if that was what you wore to a formal event.

Purple. Nearly ten years and you were still obsessed with the same color. How were you so predictable and unpredictable at the same time? He couldn’t stand the thought of you, he hated unexpected, extraneous variables—the only course of action for dealing with them was removal or isolation and he was beginning to realize that neither of those solutions might be an option for him.

But it was just another hurdle for him to get over. If neither removal nor isolation were viable options, he would need to find a different solution.

Holding it constant…

No. That was not an option either—though the more he thought about it, the more tempting the option became. He had enjoyed that irritating attitude of yours and those biting comments that made his brain search for retaliation. He even more so enjoyed that taste of instability, which went against all of his ideals. Dottore was a man of careful calculations and obtaining expected results and yet somehow, when he found himself unable to predict your next words and actions, it left him excited.

How could one hate the unexpected and yet enjoy it in the same hand? Unless it was not the unexpected, it was you bringing it to him. Dottore’s head throbbed, he felt like a pendulum, swinging back and forth and back and forth and back and forth as he tried to figure out how he felt in relation to you so he could decide upon the best course of action for dealing with you.

How bothersome. Already, he could feel things shifting—something he had sworn he wouldn’t let happen.

Not for the first time, he felt absurdly jealous of his own segment; Epsilon, who could understand emotions far better than the rest of them ever would be able to and used it against them very often. He wondered if the man already knew what Dottore was feeling—if the smirk on his lips had anything to say about it, Dottore thought he probably did.

What do you have planned? Dottore wanted to ask Epsilon because he knew that there was some underlying game going on that Dottore couldn’t place yet but he didn’t want to dive into that conversation while Iota was still on the brink of self-destruction, crying and sniffling and choking over his own sobs.

Dottore thought he might trust Epsilon the least out of all of the segments. Unlike Lambda, whose goals and ambitions were as clear as crystal, Epsilon was an enigma, driven by emotions that the rest of them couldn’t understand. He liked to play games with them, push buttons that they didn’t even know that they had, and your presence in Zapolyanry Palace was a large, bright red one that Dottore just couldn’t seem to destroy.

So long as you were around, Dottore would be at the mercy of Epsilon’s unwelcome schemes and he had a distinct feeling that Epsilon would be playing at trying to make the bond between the two of you stronger. He would have to work to counter it without even knowing the game.

Bothersome. This was all bothersome. Dottore hated games. He hated dealing with his segments. He hated being vulnerable. He hated all of this.

All of it? Dottore pushed away the treacherous thought furiously.

“Is that-” Epsilon began but abruptly cut himself off as he moved forward to walk at Dottore’s side, peering ahead carefully through the wicked storm.

Following his gaze, Dottore looked out across the bridge leading to the palace to see a small figure sprinting in their direction—no cloak or covering, only wearing a thin outfit to shield against the sheer cold of the bitter winter storm.

“Gamma,” Dottore murmured in agreement.

He could feel the anxiety rippling from the boy in waves—anxiety and fear. It didn’t take much to push Gamma into a panic attack but this was different. Dottore could feel it. It wasn’t like the usual ones he experienced. Brows furrowing, he watched as Gamma approached them, eyes wild and cheeks bright red.

Instantly, Dottore felt uncomfortable, realizing something was very, very wrong.

“Theta is with her,” Gamma wheezed, doubling over as he tried to catch his breath. He seemed as if he had been crying—a cold feeling, unrelated to the wind and snow around them, settled over him, sinking into his stomach. “You have to get him, he’ll hurt her, he’s in one of his moods. You know what he’s like when he’s in one of them. He’s dangerous and violent. You have to do something.”

“Who is he with?” Dottore asked slowly.

He stared down at Gamma as he waited for a response but deep down, he very much already knew who Theta was with and an old and unwelcome emotion spread throughout him, freezing his bones and blood, weighing on his chest like stones. An emotion that he had long learned to suppress, one that he hadn’t experienced since his days at the Akademiya when they had him placed on trial—he could barely recognize it, it was hard for him to put a name to it until Gamma opened his mouth again.

“Her,” Gamma gasped. “Our soulmate.”

Fear. The emotion was fear.

rbs appreciated!!

#dottore x reader #dottore smut #dottore x you #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact smut

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strawberrystepmom · 4 months

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senku x f!reader. reader has a background in agriculture. reader is referred to as princess in jest and the unpacking of the reason it upsets reader follows. reader and senku are both 25. post canon au where he and the other ishigami village settlers find a small settlement in california. robert is an oc created specifically for the au. wc 1.7k

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune as always

“You and Gen have a lot in common.”

Snorting at Senku’s words, you dab at the droplets of sweat on your hairline with the back of your gloved hand. He hasn’t been superbly helpful weeding the carrot patch but at least he has been decent company, the two of you working in parallel worlds and occasionally exchanging remarks about what you’re doing. This is generally how things just go when you’re together.

You won’t go so far as to say that you enjoy him, you barely know the man who stepped foot on shores not far from where you are now a little over a month ago, but it’s pleasant to have someone around who will listen to you ramble about whatever has been on your mind. You don’t judge him and he has never judged you, a silent mutual understanding that people will be people, the thread that ties the two of you together.

It doesn’t mean he isn’t observant, though, and he’s all too apt to share said observations with you.

“Why do you say that? Is it because we are both charming, hilarious, and beautiful?”

Senku chuckles while you wipe your free hand on your pants. Very glamorous, you think and laugh to yourself quietly. The sun hangs high enough in the sky you know it’s midday and you offer small waves to everyone who passes by you, smiling big enough people can see it even from a few feet away. You don’t have to do this but you go out of your way to do it, something that always strikes Senku as funny.

“Humble, too.” The scientist remarks and you look up at him, noticing he’s jotting notes away in a leatherbound notebook he swiped from the medical barn.

He has a makeshift ink pen, an invention of his own making, and he’s jotting down thoughts of how to improve the settlement. Watch towers, another well, perhaps mechanized farming equipment to keep you from having to do as much heavy lifting as you do.

“So you agree?” He chuckles again at your words and keeps scribbling, raising his brows. “You know I don’t point out the obvious, princess.”

The recent nickname makes you scoff but your cheeks warm. He heard the village doctor and navigator, two of your closest friends, call you the name in jest and he couldn’t possibly let it go considering what an apt descriptor it is.

“Don’t call me that, it’s bad enough that they do.” Sighing, you reposition your sunhat before leaning down to dig up another weed. “There’s nothing princess-y about me.”

Tossing a carrot down, you decide to rest a moment and sit down next to him in the yellowing grass. The weather is still moderate and pleasant but six weeks from now, it’s likely a small blanket of snow and frost will cover the world and your plants in the process so time is of the essence with the less hearty members of the settlement garden. You feel Senku looking at you but don’t entertain him by glancing back, situating yourself and stretching your legs out in front of you.

“No?” Senku shoots back and you groan, laying back in the grass and closing your eyes. He looks over you and shakes his head, placing the notebook on his thighs where his legs are crossed. “Let’s be honest with ourselves here. If this were thousands of years ago, you’d be in a big tower in a pretty dress waiting for some muscle-brained knight to come and slay a dragon for you.”

You want to be offended but you’re instead curious about what exactly makes him feel that way and how it relates to you and Gen at all.

“What do you mean? I can take care of myself and have managed to do it pretty well so far.”

Senku shakes his head. He can tell you aren’t offended thanks to the lightness in your tone and he appreciates that you don’t read between the lines considering there are none when he comes to him. He says what he means and you listen to it appreciatively.

“I’m not saying you can’t, I’m saying you inspire that kind of action in people.” He shrugs. “Think about the stories I know you used to read. A princess never has to ask for devotion, she simply gets it.”

Raising a brow, he meets your eyes and glances further out in the distance where one of the villagers he brought with him, Ginro, slumps in the fields while pulling weeds. The blonde man keeps glancing in your direction and waving before tilting his face downward to make sure you notice that he’s doing what you asked him to.

“I’ve never seen Ginro work so hard,” the scientist sniffs and you laugh louder than intended, bringing your hand to cover your mouth to stifle the noise.

“Not very fair of you to start with the easy target, Ishigami.”

He snickers and looks across the settlement, seeing if he can spot any of the others he has brought with him that have been more than happy to assist with anything you ask them to. You flash a smile, flutter your lashes if you have to, and shit seems to get done. It’s how you did things before you were petrified too.

“I overheard Hyoga arguing with Robert about being the one to escort you on the next foraging expedition.”

Thinking about the white haired man you feel a little uncertain of yourself and you look away. You find him extremely handsome despite his evasive nature and the two of you have only had a handful of conversations but he’s surprisingly helpful when necessary, you simply go out of your way trying to avoid asking for his help because he makes you nervous. Robert, on the other hand, is an issue that has followed you even thousands of years into the future (pro tip: don’t get petrified and then depetrified near a man harassing you in a club) but he insists on being your personal security whenever he can.

You make a note to genuinely contemplate trying your luck by asking Hyoga personally to accompany you but for now, you turn your attention back to your spiky haired companion.

“No you didn’t. Besides, we haven’t even planned a trip before winter even though we need to make one.”

Senku purses his lips and continues to look around the lands surrounding him.

“When have I ever lied to you?”

Considering his question for a moment, you hum and tilt your head. He hasn’t lied to you but this specific instance feels like a stretch.

“So you heard Big Mouth Bobby mention me and now I’m a princess? Seems like that criteria is a little unfair.”

Senku shifts where he sits and stretches his legs out in front of him to match your position. You shade your eyes from the sun with your palm and look up at him to find he’s glancing over his shoulder at you, shaking his head.

“You seem to think I’m telling you that it’s a bad thing people like and want to be liked by you.”

Shrugging, you settle back against the grass and kick your feet gently. He watches your every move and you feel observed and viewed rather than enjoyed, something about him that always makes you squirm despite yourself.

“Maybe you’re right.”

Senku smiles.

“I’m always right.”

You laugh and shake your head, shutting your eyes to keep from being further intimidated by his weighted glance. If he has any other assessments he’s clearly going to keep them to himself so you press forward, sun warming your face while you speak.

“I don’t get how that relates to me and Gen being similar though. Is he a princess too?”

A chuckle from your companion. At least you can always make him laugh even if you know your other charms won’t work on him. Looks have no effect on Senku nor do fluttering lashes or cute, coy smiles - he judges people off of their character only and you admire the depth it takes for him to do so.

“Oh yeah, that.” He picks his notebook back up and begins scribbling again. “You’re both very persuasive and understand people better than they think.”

Giggling, you sigh contentedly and even Senku finds himself a little bit drawn to the sound. You are charming and sweet and funny and perhaps a bit too honest beneath the slightly self deprecating humor you use to keep people from knowing who you really are. Even Senku can acknowledge all of these things - they’re true, after all. Proven and quantifiable.

“Well, thank you. The power of people skills can never be underestimated in a world where half of the people you meet want to kill you and the other half probably want to kill themselves because we don’t have social media to numb their brains.”

Again with that too honest humor. The scientist shakes his head and scribbles down a doodle for the vision he has for the tower he’s going to build in the coming weeks, halfway between your fields and the little cabin you call home. It’s the perfect position to see the entire settlement and he assumes the only reason you don’t have one yet is that you’ve lacked the people to assist with making it.

He may not be a muscle-brained knight, saving you while you sit forlornly in a tower, but he can be the genius that builds the tower you’ll help create the future society all of you will someday live in from. It’s a far more noble cause if you ask him.

“Keep it up.” He adds simply and you shield your eyes from the sun again, opening them to meet his. You offer a thumbs up and a grin and he shakes his head.

“I am going to tell Gen you called him a princess, though.”

Senku scoffs and leans back, still glancing down at you.

“Well then you’d be lying and it isn’t good to lie, now is it?”

You sit up, ready to argue back and forth but you’re interrupted by Ginro calling your name from a distance and approaching you, three carrots in his fist. Senku rises to standing and reassuringly pats your shoulder with the hand not holding his notebook.

“Looks like your savior is on his way, princess.”

You sigh, shaking your head and waving the scientist goodbye when he parts, watching him leave before plastering on your best persuasive smile and greeting Ginro exuberantly.

#senku x reader #ishigami senku x reader #senku ishigami x reader #kendall writes

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months

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Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings: canon-typical swearing, chasing through the woods, strong suggestive themes, dirty talk, showering together

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Part Nine of Dangerous Pursuit (for @glitterypirateduck)

Making one last effort to run, you utterly fail, only for Price to drag you back and seek punishment.

Chapter Eight // Chapter Ten

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

Open land. Distant tree line.

Out here, where the lights of the city are so far they’re invisible, you stew in sticky silence. Nature is loud but it’s also soft, and the thoughts in your head are the only distraction.

It is a maddening sort of tune. A rushing waterfall of information you cannot seem to switch off. It eats away at you, making you question everything again as if you haven’t done this countless times. Like you didn’t think about escaping the entire time you were in the car.

The new safehouse feels just like the one from three years ago. It too is isolated. A decrepit barn in the middle of nowhere with an interior that is at odds with its exterior appearance. But unlike the safehouse from three years ago, there is no underground bunker. There is no room for Price to lock you up in.

You should be grateful, but it only makes you feel vulnerable. There is nowhere in this barn for you to hide. Price is breathing the same air as you, standing in the same large room, and so near that all you need to do is turn in his direction.

On the lefthand side of the barn is paved ground where the black SUV is parked. Price is currently shutting the barn doors while you stand next to the car. It is still warm as you lean against it, taking in your surroundings.

To the right of the paved section, the floor rises slightly, a step up into an open space. This room is sectioned off by partitions and half-walls. Directly in front of you is a small cooking area with a square folding table and two chairs. Next to that is a worn couch and coffee table that is covered in scratches. As you peer closer at it, you notice a hunting knife embedded in the top.

“Not as nice as the other one,” says Price, startling you out of your observation.

“Not as nice as what?” you ask, unsure of what he means.

“As the previous place.” He means the house you were in just a few hours ago.

You glance around at the interior of the barn. “It could be worse.”

When you turn toward Price, he is right there, shoulders nearly brushing as he gazes down at you. His brow is soft and full of concentration. His gaze keeps dropping to your lips to observe your mouth. The memory of him kissing you on the elevator flares hot in your mind. The brand of his touch renewing to invisibly sear your skin.

“You’ll be safe here. Obolensky won’t find you.” Price’s voice dips to a softness that threads through your chest like a long ribbon. It squeezes tight and you find yourself leaning into him even as a small voice in your head tells you to resist.

Half of you says to trust him, and the other half tells you to run. It’s such an odd sensation, this tug-of-war that won’t cease. Every memory you have of John is laced with uncertainty, and even after all this time, part of you remembers how he made you feel. This closeness is only a reminder of how much you still ache for him, and how desperately you desire to flee.

Three years. Three years and still you cannot rid yourself of him.

“Alex might consider my disappearance a blessing,” you murmur.

“Maybe,” shrugs Price.

“You said he likes to take care of things himself. But he sent others to do it.”

“I did,” affirms Price, his mouth turning downwards into a slight frown. “Why are you bringing this up?”

“He sent others. I disappeared. No one has to know he failed except him.” Your gaze falls away from Price’s face. You stare at your feet. “And I don’t ever want to see him again.”

It’s the truth. The man you were growing to love only wants you dead, to string you up for his client like a hanged man. And yet, Alex couldn’t execute the act himself, something he always goes out of his way to do.

Price lightly brushes your chin, pushing your head upward, returning your gaze to his face. “I’ll make sure you don’t.”

The promise is meant to reassure, but you question whether Price means he’ll keep you safe by preventing you from crossing paths with Alex again or that Alex will no longer be alive to seek you out.

Because he might try if he still draws breath. There is no reason to find sympathy in your heart for the man. Not after everything.

Price’s thumb brushes just below the curve of your bottom lip before his grip there draws you close. You know what he’s doing. It’s like the elevator all over again. Your body tingles with the way he guides you to his lips. Price’s head dips, and your head tips to the side, welcoming him.

This distance between you shortens. Shortens some more. Panic swells suddenly and you turn your face at the last second. Price’s lips brush against the corner of your mouth. But he doesn’t draw away in defeat. Price’s hand unfurls, grabbing the bottom of your face. It’s not a harsh hold, but it is dominating, and curls something hot and needy between your legs.

“We can’t,” you reply, already knowing the question forming on Price’s lips. “John. We can’t.”

“Who says?” he asks, some raspiness leaking into his tone, the hunger there thick and palpable.

You were completely wrong. This place is much more isolating. There is all this space—both inside and out—and yet it’s suffocating. The need to bolt—the desire to run—revives within you, creating a miasma of anxiety that won’t leave you alone.

Giving in to John will only make things worse.

“Let me go.”

Price drops his hand immediately, but the separation is only a brief respite. He stands so near that you can pick up the slightly woodsy scent of him. You haven’t seen him smoke a cigar but you can smell that too. It is faint. Distant. Clinging.

Price brushes past you, the contact much too close and yet not close enough. He steps up onto the raised floor, heading for the kitchen area, opening the minifridge and peering inside. It’s empty minus a few items. Price pulls them out one by one, examining each.

“Expired,” he mutters, putting them all back.

“No food?” you ask, following him.

He glances over his shoulder. “There’s food. It’s all in cans or boxes. Dried stuff. Things that will keep. Does that bother you?”

“No,” you reply, shaking your head.

From here, you have a better view of the space beyond. There is a half-wall that separates the kitchen and communal space from the back area. There are beds. One is large, likely a queen, shoved into the corner. Next to it is a wooden table with various equipment on it. One looks like a massive two-way radio. The rest of it you don’t recognize. Beside that are two more beds, bunks that are bolted into the wall. As you step around Price to peer beyond, it reveals an open shower and a sink. The toilet is in its own space but separated by a curtain.

Everything in here is out in the open. There is literally nowhere for you to hide.

Price leaves you alone after that, as if he’s sensing your unease, but he’s also working. The laptop he has out in front of him is sturdy like you could smash it repeatedly against the ground and it would still hold its integrity. When he isn’t on the computer he’s talking on the phone, speaking softly. You can’t hear him, and while that stokes your curiosity, it also doesn’t help your anxiety.

It festers, and while you try to distract yourself with a book, it hardly keeps your interest. You’re stuck here, completely at Price’s protection and mercy. It is a comfort, and yet it isn’t enough. The silence and the book only give your mind time to process and stew and think about all your options.

Which makes the next part easy.

Slipping away this time is easy.

When night comes knocking, Price offers you the large bed, which you happily take. He picks the lower bunk, kicking off his boots and sliding in without another word. Maybe he is too tired—too exhausted—and has sunk into a deep sleep because you crawl out of the bed, dress yourself, and make it to the barn doors without incident.

The locking mechanism is simple but old. There is rust and it’s large. Clearly, Price doesn’t expect anyone to come out this far in search of you, which is a blessing, but makes the whole thing far too easy.

A trap, your brain spits, flaring hot. It’s a test.

You shove the thoughts down until they’re completely in shadow. You’ve already made the decision. You’ll see this through, even if you fail. You have to try.

The barn door creaks when you open it, and you flinch at the noise. You immediately pause, listening in the dark, waiting for Price to emerge like a predator after prey.

Nothing.

No hand appears from the shadows to latch on to you. No voice calls out, commanding you to stop, to turn around and come inside.

There is only silence, and the soft droll of insects.

Price did say he’d chase you anywhere. Do you truly believe him? Would he run after you? If you make it to the road and then back to the city, would Price be right on your heels, hunting you down to bring you back?

As you push the door open a bit wider, you slip through the space you’ve created, wiggling as you make it out into open air. The ground is wet. It rained and you didn’t even realize it. You don’t have a coat, but that hardly matters at the moment. There may be a slight chill in the air, but there is no wind, and a coat might overheat you once you start walking.

Getting back to the main road is the priority.

You can follow it back to the city.

You can—

“What are you doing?”

You whirl around. “John,” you gasp, as if his appearance is a surprise.

“You’re running,” he states, because it’s the truth and you both know it.

You stand there in the dark, watching Price as he crosses his arms over his chest. He lingers just outside the open door wearing nothing but a white shirt, cargo pants, and boots. His dark hair is messy, clearly tussled from sleep.

The worst part about it is that Price doesn’t even appear to be annoyed or angry. His face is entirely neutral, as if he knew you’d try this and was only waiting for it to happen. Of course he would. You tried to run from him yesterday. Even then, you only made it to the door.

Denial is silly. So, you don’t try. You don’t say anything.

“Are you going to make me chase you?” When your reply doesn’t come, Price sighs loudly. “Am I that bad?”

“I want to make my own choices,” you finally snap, because it’s the only thing you want in all of this. Every choice is being decided for you. All you want is a voice.

Price unlaces his arms and extends them outward. “You’re making a choice now.”

“But you’ll just drag me back!” you shout, throwing your hands up to the sky in exasperation.

“Exactly,” shrugs Price. “You’re making a choice to run. And I’m making a choice to track you down when you do.”

He steps forward, and an old, primal instinct in you flares hot, burning in your muscles.

“If you care about me at all, John. You will let me go.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not how this works, love.”

“Then tell me how it works.” You move away from him. Just one step, but Price notices, his gaze dropping to your foot before returning to your face.

“You’ll run anyway.” Price’s response has the hint of a growl on the end. The neutral expression is gone. Price’s gaze is intense. Heated. He wants you to run. He wants to chase you down.

The idea of the chase, of Price stalking you through the woods only to drag you back to the barn is like the first bite of real food after a long sickness. The thoughts that swirl in your head, the images of what he’ll do once he captures you repeats and shifts in your mind. They are drenched in red, but not in the vibrancy of violence. They are dipped with wanton lust, of skin against skin, of mouths moving against each other and across bare flesh. You think of yourself trapped beneath him. Writhing. Moaning. Begging for him.

Yet Price is correct. You will run regardless of what he says. It has been building in your blood like bricks. It was always going to come to this. It is what you do after all. Run and run and run because running is easy. Running has always been easy.

The tension in your limbs snap. Releasing, you turn on your heel, taking off toward the tree line. The air is crisp and cold as it enters your lungs. It stings your bare skin, an icy bite against the heat of your flesh. The ground is wet. Slick. Your shoes slip in the mud, but you manage to stay upright, pumping your legs as best as you can, breaking the tree line and entering the wood.

Price is sprinting after you. You can hear his boots hitting the ground, the rapid inhale and exhalation of his breath. Twigs snap beneath your own shoes and his. Even with your labored breathing that is slowly becoming rapid, you do not lose Price’s pounding footfalls. You hear them clearly.

You do what you know you’re supposed to do. To weave and duck, to not run in a straight line. With the trees, that’s easy, but there are still obstacles for you, and they’re slowing you down. A wrong move might send you tumbling. A wrong move might throw you right into Price’s path.

Chancing a glance over your shoulder, you spy him just a few feet behind. He is gaining, tearing through the path you’ve made like it’s nothing to him. You are no match for a man who chases people down for a living.

Why did you even think you had the possibility of success?

And where would you have gone once you made it out of the trees and to the main road? That is deserted too, especially at this time. You would have slowed down anyway, and Price would be on you in seconds.

The moment you turn your gaze back to the path in front of you, you nearly hurtle into a tree. Stumbling, you go to move around it, but you are too slow, and you’ve lost precious time. Every second counts, and you were too distracted to keep yourself on the path ahead.

Price is on you, wrapping his arms around your waist. Natural weight carries you both down to the ground. The trees block the moonlight, and the little that floods in obscures the ground that is quickly heading toward your face.

But you don’t land like you think you will—with a blow to your skull. Price shifts his body, turning toward the ground, moving you out of the way completely.

It is Price that lands in the mud.

You inhale. He exhales. Back and forth in shuttering silence, chests heaving as the exhaustion from sprinting starts to set in.

Price is on his back and you are draped over him, cheek pressed against his hard chest, hands holding on to him like an anchor. His arms are still wrapped around your waist, pinning you against him. The two of stay like this for a few breaths as if the situation is unfathomable. That the very idea of the two of you splayed out in the mud is part of the plan.

But it is you that finally breaks. It is you that finally moves.

Your hands press against his chest, palms flat. Shoving yourself away, you intend on returning to your feet, to stumble off and make another pass at freedom. But Price is larger. Stronger. His arms tighten, and then he’s rolling over, pressing you down into the sludgy mud.

You are pinned. Trapped beneath him. But not in the way you imagined.

Trying to beat your fists against his chest is useless. Price is a fucking wall. Solid. When you buck your hips to try and throw him off, it only rubs your pelvis against him, and the hardness that replies back ceases all further movement.

“Filthy girl,” he purrs. “Said I’d chase you.” He smirks and you want to slap it right off his face.

“Get off me, John,” you growl. The mud is already seeping into and beneath your clothes, cooling your skin, making the chill worse.

“Where were you running to?” he asks, breathing still slightly labored. “Where?”

“Away from here,” you reply sharply, smacking his chest. It is in vain. Price doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he’s amused, and that only drives your frustration higher.

“Running from me or this place?”

You want to wound him, to tell Price that it’s both. That you’re running from him as much as you’re running from the safehouse. But it’s a lie. You don’t want to run from him. Even though you’re frustrated with him and at the situation, freedom is the one thing you crave. Choices are important, and Price is giving you none. Yet it is not freedom from him. Price is not your master, and you are not a bird in a gilded cage.

He's trying to protect you and keep you safe the only way he knows how.

“Get. Off. Me,” you mutter, the mud now fully covering your backside and rapidly seeping elsewhere.

He inclines his head. “As you wish.”

Price abruptly pulls away, bringing you with him. He effortlessly tosses you over his shoulder. He turns, heading back to the barn. When you try to knock your fists and feet against him, Price’s rebuttal is a sharp slap to your ass.

“What the fuck!” you yelp, momentarily stunned.

“Stop moving. I might drop you.”

“Maybe that’s what I want,” you grumble, only to be rewarded with another slap to your right cheek.

Every step sends his shoulder into your stomach. You cling, hanging, just trying to stay aloft. Breaking the tree line, Price eases you off his shoulder and to your feet. The moment your feet hit the ground, you try to bolt, but Price holds tight. Using your natural weight, you attempt to destabilize him. To send him stumbling.

But Price is strong, and easily retains his grip.

Price drags you along, but you complain the whole time, muttering obscenities under your breath as he pushes you through the open barn door, slamming it behind him.

The two of you stand there, staring at each other in the silence of the barn. Price is splattered with mud which means you cannot be much better. You feel it in your hair and between your skin and shirt. It’s on the both of you. It’s fucking everywhere.

You make one more pitiful attempt to run. Price just rolls his eyes, hauling you into his arms again. He starts walking, stepping up onto the raised flooring, walking right past the kitchen area and beds to plop you onto your feet in front of the open shower.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you splutter. “You can’t toss me around like that.”

Price briefly glances at you before reaching past your shoulder to turn the dial on the shower. There is a rattling sound of old pipes jumping, and then clear water bursts from the shower head. The system might be ancient, but the water falls from the shower head like rainfall. It looks lovely, like something you’d have in your own home.

“John,” you prompt, leaning into his line of sight, but he isn’t listening. He’s completely ignoring you.

You try again. “John—”

Price grabs your upper arm and drags you under the falling water. It’s still ice cold.

“Fuck!” you shriek like a stabbed banshee.

In moments, you’re soaked through, shivering. Beneath your shoes, brown water pools before slowly creeping toward the drain. Leaning down, Price unties the laces of his boots, kicking them off to the side, away from the shower. They’re covered in mud, leaving brown splotches behind.

Then, Price steps under the spray beside you—joining you. The water finally starts to warm, as if it knew the exact moment Price would enter in.

“Shoes off,” says Price as his hands slide under the white shirt, guiding it up and over his head. That is also tossed aside—just like his boots—and you’re momentarily stunned by Price’s broad, bare chest.

You want to touch him—to run your fingers through the soft hair there that slowly trails below his pants. Just yesterday you saw him without a shirt. That too startled you, but right now you’re blazing. He is nearly on top of you, and all you’d need to do is raise your hand a few inches. That’s it. That’s all.

“Shoes,” he repeats, eyebrows rising slightly.

You bend to comply, the warm water rolling off your body as you take off your shoes and hastily kick them to the side. The mud is gone, but they’ll take forever to dry. When you return to standing, Price’s hands are on you. With one sharp tug, he rips your top open from neckline to hem, exposing your breasts to him, the room, and the water.

Your nipples pebble instantly.

“Jesus Christ, John,” you gasp, covering yourself up.

Price’s gaze isn’t even on your chest. He ripped your top without looking there at all, keeping his attention on your face. From there, Price continues, removing his belt and pants with ease. Then it’s just the two of you standing under the cascading water, steam rising to the rafters.

There is Price in his gray boxer briefs and you in a pair of sweatpants that are just a smidge too big. They are quickly starting to slip over your hips from the sheer weight of the water as it soaks into the fabric.

You reach for the waistband, only to miss, finding empty air and wet skin. It’s already gone. The sweatpants are at your feet. Price’s gaze briefly darts downward before returning to your face, that fierce hunger you saw there earlier returning in full force.

“Eyes up here,” you snap, pointing toward your face with two fingers while still covering your bare chest.

Price’s mouth twitches, the corner twisting into a hint of a knowing smile. There is a brief pause between that smirk and his next movement. Price’s thumbs slide beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, and then those too are gone, putting the two of you on equal footing.

Bare. Standing close. Wet. Warm.

You don’t dare look down. Even though you want to. Even though your body heats from the mere idea of just how intimate this is. Price’s gaze stays on your face, and that is somehow more intense than if his gaze roamed over your body.

Reaching over your shoulder again, Price grabs a bottle off one of the shelves. He pops open the lid, turns it over, squeezes clear liquid into his palm.

“Wash,” he says. “Or I’ll do it for you.” He offers you the bottle of body soap.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, staring him in the eye.

Price clicks the lid shut. Puts it right back on the shelf. “You offering?” he purrs, stepping closer into your space. You take a step back, only to bump into the shower wall. “Just turn around, love. Spread those gorgeous legs. I’ll do the rest.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you retort, grabbing the soap bottle and opening it up much too aggressively. The plastic lid is no match for your strength. It goes flying across the makeshift bathroom.

Price places his hand next to your head, anchoring himself there, trapping you against the wall. “I would,” he answers. “But so would you. Don’t deny it.”

Squirting some of the liquid into your hand, you return the bottle to the shelf and begin lathering the soap between your palms. Sighing, Price drops his hand from the wall and brings it to his other palm, lathering his soap up as well.

Price does not step back, and you do not push forward. The water falls between your bodies, the two of you staring each other down as both of you run the soap over your arms, chest, and stomach.

You won’t back down.

You won’t break first.

When you scrub your hair, lifting your arms up above your head, exposing your breasts, that is when Price’s gaze drops, focusing in on the way they lightly shake and bounce from your movements. You don’t hide. Instead, you give into the movement, taking extra care to exaggerate their gently sway. His lips part slightly like he wants to put his mouth against them. To taste and know them. The sudden thought brings a heat between your legs, and you find yourself squeezing your thighs together as a way to hide the fact you want him.

“Like what you see?” you tease, feeling bold in that moment.

Price’s gaze darts upward, and darkens. The hunger there is thick like rich butter. You could easily cut it with a knife, spread it around on fresh bread, savor the salty bite.

“Answer me honestly,” he rasps, and your hands immediately drop from your hair, the sudsy shampoo running down your back to greet the drain. “Do you miss him?”

Do you miss him.

Him.

Meaning, Alex.

“No. I don’t,” you whisper, because it’s true. After everything that transpired, your heart might ache, but you don’t miss him. If anything, you’re fucking angry.

Price licks his lips, and then his hand is coming up to wrap around your throat, creating a necklace of possession. He doesn’t squeeze, just lightly presses you harder into the shower wall, his own body leaning in until the two of you are nearly touching.

“Answer me. Honestly. Did Obolensky ever fuck you like I did?”

Your lips and mouth and tongue begin to form the shapes of words—the shapes of sounds—but you’re too stunned to speak, unable to comprehend why Price is bringing this up now.

Price leans in a bit closer. “Did he kiss you better? Taste you better?”

He is so close. With noses brushing, your head tilts upward, seeking his mouth—seeking him.

Price’s lips make the faintest contact with your own before drawing away again. “Answer me,” and these words are a growl.

“No,” you answer. “Never like you.”

Alex was always kind, always gentle, but never quite did it for you. He always made sure you finished, always made sure that you were satisfied, but you were never completely there. Something was missing, and that something is passion. Alex was comfortable and safe—which are all good things to have in a relationship. But he never wanted to explore anything further, and now you know why. It was all fake. A ruse. A fucking joke. At least, to some extent.

Price is all protective passion. He is safe but in a completely different way.

The sigh that leaves him is audible. It’s an exhalation of relief. Price’s eyelids flutter, then close as he inhales. On the second exhale, he opens his eyes, and you instantly melt, silently swearing that you’ll give this man anything.

“What should your punishment be for making me chase you? Hm?” Price’s hand tightens a bit, not enough to constrict your breathing but enough to show dominance. “Or should I decide for you.”

“John,” you whimper, one hand wrapping around his wrist while the other comes up to land on his broad chest.

Price rests his forehead against your temple, the line of his nose pressing softly against the side of your face, just to the edge of the cheekbone. “Could fuck your hand. Give you just the head. Bend you over so I can watch my cum drip out.”

His lips brush over your skin, and his other hand not holding your throat falls to your waist, squeezing, pulling you flush against him. Price is hard, and that is very clear by the way his need insistently pokes at your stomach.

“What do you think, love?” he asks, continuing. “Keep you spread wide. Do it again. Maybe even a third time.” With his hold on your throat, Price lightly turns you head in his direction. Your lips are just a second from meeting. “Then I’d fuck all of it into you. Make you mine.”

Price’s lips meet yours. Finally. Finally—and yet it’s fleeting. It’s a chaste kiss, and completely at odds with how he’s speaking to you.

“You remember the feel of me inside you, love? Because I remember you. You were bloody perfect around me.” Price closes the distance, and this time the kiss is deeper. Fiercer. “Made for me,” he growls into your mouth.

“John,” you moan, only wanting him to follow through. To fill you, then fuck you ceaselessly.

You know that’s how he’d do it. Draw it out. Make you hunger for him. Then take you in whatever position he desires. You’d take it all. You’d accept all of it. There is nothing that has ever compared to those moments in the safehouse and at Thirst. There is nothing that compares to those moments between, when he was gentle and soft and full of concern for you. Even the overbearing protectiveness is somehow sweet.

Price’s reply is to seal the two of you together, pinning you against the wall of the shower, claiming your mouth in repetitive desire that seeps into your muscles and bones, leaking into the marrow until the two of you are utterly fused.

The water isn’t nearly as hot as it was, but it’s still warm, and it only adds to the heat building between you. Price might have one hand at your throat, but the other explores, running up and down the sides of your body. Seeking. Searching. Touching.

Those thick, calloused fingers of his press between your legs and you readily open for him. Enough for Price to slide the rest of his hand between your thighs. He finds your clit, then your entrance, and there is no hiding just how needful you are.

“Fuck, love. Fuck.” Price adjusts his legs, spreading them slightly to anchor himself on the wet floor. One finger presses and slips inside easily. “I will fuck you,” he groans, emphasizing his words with a light thrust of his finger inside you.

He licks his lips. Exhales. “But there’s a punishment to be dealt.”

The chase. The mud. Time to pay up.

“Give me your hand.”

taglist:

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katy-l1988 · 2 months

Text

Head canon/Theory Part 10:

The rise of the Vee's

We all know that Vee's are, in short, cowards and hypocrites, who, as you would expect from a demon...do things by trickery.

They aren't the type to get their hands dirty and risk their necks. They wanted war so that those Overlods with greater resources, like Carmilla and Rosie, would lose their "capital" in battle.

Why? Again, the Vee's don't have many "assets":

Vox has his technology but it doesn't work in battle.

Velvette has social media and, if, Harley Quinn-type guns.

Valentino has...porn actors? Oh yeah, and some guns.

Now, what does the song say about this? (I only put the most important fragments)

[Vox] After the battle, masterless cattle

By "cattle" he refers to the sinners of course, who in the absence of Extermination no longer fear, and know that they can defend themselves from any heavenly threat.

With proper guidance, they could do what the Vee's originally wanted, declare war on Heaven itself.

[Vox & Valentino] Overlords hanging by a thread

By Overlords here it refers to: Carmilla, Rosie and Alastor, since they are the ones who were involved in the defense of Hazbin Hotel.

Rosie gave Charlie free rein to convince her people to fight, risking their lives and therefore her power.

Carmilla armed the cannibals to the teeth, and that means a lot of weapons that won't be recovered. Furthermore, in the absence of the Extermination, Carmilla won't be able to get her greatest raw material…Celestial steel.

Alastor, needless to say, ended up seriously injured by a celestial weapon and I doubt he'll be 100% after that.

[Vox] Alastor's missing

[Vox & Valentino] Fled with his tail between his legs Nature abhors a power vacuum

That leaves room for you and me The future of Hell belongs to the Vees

Now, if they want to rise to the top, they'll have to do something similar to what Mimzy claims Alastor did. Eliminate the most powerful Overlords...

But how if Alastor defeated Vox just by talking to him?

We all have weaknesses, humans, demons, angels. And what's more interesting than the weaknesses of these Overlords, be other Overlords (pardon the redundancy). And in Carmilla's case, her daughters.

Alastor/Rosie

I feel that Alastor, despite his mysteries and how defeated he was in battle, would do anything for someone he loved. Rosie is certainly someone he would go crazy for… I mean, if he blew Sir Pentious away for a piece of cloth, what would he do to someone who hurt Rosie?

Zestial/Carmilla

We don't know anything about Zestial so far, but he is certainly a character that strikes fear into the masses. What did he do in the past? After all, he is the oldest in hell.

Now, can you imagine the chaos he would cause if they threatened Carmilla or the girls? God, he would burn everything to protect them.

Carmilla/Odette & Clara

We've already seen much of Carmilla's abilities, and while she defends herself well, her daughters make her an easy target. It is enough for them to capture her daughters, for her to hand over everything she has worked for, even…her life.

Vee's enemies

Furthermore, we already saw that each Vee's has a "counterpart", an Overlord enemy...one they consider outdated.

Now, I know that many will say that Valentino's enemy is Angel, because he wants to kill him as soon as he "betrays" him. But following the rule of three, there should be an Overlord to unhinge him.

Zestial is a strong possibility, given that just as Valentino is a "Bug Demon", so to speak. Valentino is a moth and Zestial is a spider.

Now, the biggest conflict would be regarding their vision of people:

Zestial: He is an intelligent man who knows how to control his feelings. He is kind, understanding, and concerned with his loved ones. He doesn't like impulsivity or childishness. He's a gentleman, and he wouldn't tolerate Valentino's treatment of people at all. I mean…if he did to Carmilla what he did to Charlie, or Angel, he'd be dead.

Valentino: He is impulsive, machiavellian, cruel, carefree, interested…I can go on. He is the complete opposite of Zestial.

Rosie could be an option too, being elegant, refined, and quite helpful compared to Valentino. She has good manners and would correct Valentino all the time...Plus, she's friends with his boyfriend's enemy, what more does he want to hate her?

If the Vee's want power, they will attack here…

#hazbin hotel zestial #carmilla hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel carmilla #carmilla carmine #alastor the radio demon #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel alastor #radio demon #alastor altruist #alastor #rosie hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel rosie #rosie #hello rosie #hazbin hotel velvette #hazbin hotel vox #the vees #valentino hazbin hotel

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kastlequill · 11 months

Text

i. beggin' for thread

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader word count: 3.9k synopsis: your first run-in with the not-so-friendly neighborhood spider-man as the black cat of earth-928 tags: whump/angst, first meetings, strangers to enemies, restraints (and not in a sexy way), unresolved tension, size difference, hurt no comfort, black cat!reader warnings: reference of past canonical sexual assault, dealing with trauma ao3: read here next →

Your head was pounding something fierce—this was the first and only thought that entered your mind, still a bit dazed upon only just regaining consciousness.

Despite the fact that you could hear your own heartbeat pulsating loudly in the space between your two ears, it didn’t seem likely that the dull, rhythmic thud had roused you from sleep. As you gradually became more lucid, your awareness of the other parts of your body also improved. Then, the sudden sensation of blood rushing towards your head threatened to pull you under once again.

That’ll do it, you thought, a small groan escaping your lips.

You were upside down. Hanging by your ankles, which were tied to the neck of a streetlamp with the thickest, stickiest, weirdest rope you’d ever fucking seen.

The force of gravity on your entire blood supply had probably signaled your nervous system to implement its fight-or-flight response, causing you to jerk awake. You didn’t know how long you’d been hanging here, but you did know that the pressure was quickly becoming unbearable.

A wave of dizziness hit, and you clenched your teeth to keep another pained hiss from slipping out of you.

It’d be easier to come up with an escape plan if your brain wasn’t currently being compressed into mush.

Think, think, think.

What had your father always said? All you’ll ever need to get yourself out of a nasty situation is one free hand, sweetheart.

Wiggling your hands around in your restraints allowed some blood to return to them, and with the feeling in your fingers back, you used the sharpened edge of your index claw to saw away at the ties around your wrists. This material was thinner in comparison to that of the other rope that bound you to the lamppost, but at the rate you were going, you’d nonetheless be stuck for at least the next hour.

Several minutes of silent work passed until you couldn’t contain your frustration anymore. Although it would only waste your precious energy, you thrashed about in your confines, too angry to care much for logic. After a few more seconds of struggling, you felt your body go lax, truly spent. However, while you were physically exhausted, you’d only become increasingly riled up as time had gone by, and you were ready to verbally spar whoever had decided to play this dirty trick on you.

“Ever heard it’s impolite to leave a lady high and dry?”

You spoke the question into the dead of night, your intonation steady and unaffected. Something gave you the impression that whoever had tied you up would be able to hear your words even if you whispered them, so you didn’t want to debase yourself by yelling or appearing as though you had lost your cool.

But oh, were you furious.

“Little criminals like you are exempt from that rule, or haven’t you heard?” a male voice traveled with the wind, reverberating everywhere around you. “It’s a shame that you gave in so soon, I was quite enjoying those last ten minutes. Is that all the stamina you’ve got? Que decepcionante.”

He emerged from above and landed smoothly in front of you, feet planted, knees bent, ground trembling. When he uncoiled himself and rose to his full height, you had to swallow a gasp.

This man was a fucking tank.

The form-fitting navy blue and red suit he wore did nothing to hide the definition of his infinite many muscles or the planes and curves of his body. So though he technically showed no skin, only his masked face truly left something to the imagination; unlike yours, which covered just the areas that bordered your eyes, he had complete anonymity. His broad shoulders blocked light from the other lampposts across the street, outlining his silhouette in a way that should have terrified you.

It didn’t. It really, really didn’t.

Rather preoccupied with appraising his physique, you didn’t notice him stepping closer and closer until he was now but two feet away. This was the moment you discovered that, in addition to being built like a tank, he was a giant.

His shadow loomed over you, painting you in darkness. Hanging from a streetlamp ten-feet tall, you resigned yourself to awkwardly staring at the navel of his stomach, while he was level with your upper thighs.

The unfair reality of being at a height disadvantage.

“Before we continue sizing each other up,” you started to say, releasing a puff of air that sounded more like a wheeze than an exhale. “I should warn you: if I’m down here any longer, my brain will explode. Maybe it’s just me, but I sure wouldn’t want to spend my evening cleaning that up.”

In response, the man knelt on the pavement so that you both were finally able to at least somewhat look at one another for the remainder of this hopefully-short conversation. Even kneeling, he was still tall enough to look down his nose at you, probably scrutinizing your sweat-drenched face.

Had his mother fed him horses as a kid? Why was he so fucking huge?

You heard his tongue click and watched him tilt his head to the side, as if he was seeing you for the first time. “Bit dramatic, aren’t we?”

“Easy for someone rightside up to say,” you grumbled, squinting at where the red details of his mask indicated his eyes. “Is this how you flirt, big guy? Bit old to be picking on girls we find pretty, aren’t we?”

The growl that tore itself from deep within his chest warned you to tread carefully, but you were never one to turn tail and run when things were just getting interesting.

If he wanted to be sassy, well, you’d show him sassy.

“How about this: you free me, then we can play fair and square. No restraints necessary.” You accompanied the suggestion with a subtle pout for good measure. Sure, curiosity killed the cat, but your desire to know the limits to which you could push this man temporarily surpassed your self-preservative instincts. To contrast how your eyes widened in mock-innocence, you adopted a low, sultry tone of voice. “Unless, of course, you’re into that.”

Faster than you could fathom, the man stood, unsheathed his talons, and cut a seamless line through your restraints, sending you straight into his awaiting arms. What might’ve initially seemed sweet quickly turned sour as he immediately pushed you against the pole of the streetlamp. Heedless of your protests, he rewrapped you in more of that strange rope. Except, the ‘rope’ projected out from his wrists.

Who the hell—?

In your state of confusion, you failed to anticipate him clasping a hand across the lower half of your face, preventing you from saying another word.

“Enough games. I have questions,” he spoke directly into your ear, the sarcastic humor he had previously addressed you with now completely absent, replaced by an eerily calm inflection. The hand over your mouth moved to grab your chin, tilting it towards his own face. “And you’re going to answer them. Nod if you understand.”

You briefly considered biting his fingers just to teach the ass a lesson, but you held back. He had tensed each and every muscle in sight, his reflexes newly primed for a possible attack, which meant that the fun stuff was over, and all that remained of this interaction was the not-so-fun stuff.

Reluctantly, you nodded.

At your acceptance, his hand left you altogether and relocated to grab onto the bit of pole above your head to support the weight of his body as he leaned forward. The textbook intimidation tactic to accentuate a preexisting size difference between foes, evoking the feelings of prey, like fear and defeat.

You were feeling something alright. Intimidated wasn’t exactly how you would describe it.

“What’s your name?”

A standard first question, and yet you hadn’t expected it in the slightest. Naturally, he wasn’t asking for your civilian name, but rather for your alias; the name that corresponded with the suit.

Compared to his fancy, high-tech, synthetic suit, your all-black spandex accented with white fur was a joke. You couldn’t be too harsh on yourself, though. This—vigilantism, petty theft, getting superglued to a lamppost by some guy—was a new world to you. It was a given that you would have an adjustment period.

Soon, you’d have your shit figured out; a name, a better suit, a concrete idea of what you were even intending to accomplish in the long run.

“My name,” you echoed. “Would you believe me if I told you I still haven’t decided?”

A few seconds went by of him presumably staring into your eyes, which were actually unclouded and unguarded for once. Perhaps he was searching for something particular, and perhaps he found whatever it was, because he continued on.

“Did someone hire you?”

“Slow down there, mister. Don’t I get to ask you a question too? I scratch your back, you scratch mine, that type of thing?”

He mumbled a string of words to himself that you couldn’t understand, but the annoyance he injected into whatever he’d said transcended language barriers. “You’re in no position to be making demands. Besides, I don’t negotiate with criminals.”

“Not a criminal,” you huffed, tearing your eyes away from his invisible yet penetrating gaze. Or at least, you weren’t a criminal yet. “What’s your name?”

Through the conforming material of his mask, you could tell that the question had also surprised him. The material stretched upward as his eyebrows raised then lowered again, settling into a straight line, furrowing at the middle. “I’m Spider-Man.”

The name rang a bell. You had read a number of morning newspapers that featured him as the headline, Spider-Man typed in bold lettering to entice prospective buyers. They usually contained editorials about his impressive résumé against an array of villains and interviews with people he had saved, but the only photos of him were always blurry shots taken mid-swing.

“Spider-Man? That explains the whole hanging me upside down thing. Is this how you court all your women? For future reference, you don’t need to knock me out just to lure me into your little web. I’m not usually a booty call type of gal, but you can be my special boy.”

“Stop that,” he—Spider-Man—snapped.

It was your turn to raise your brows at him. “Stop what?”

“You know what.” The red markings of Spider-Man’s eyes narrowed into a glare, and his voice dripped with disapproval. “Stop trying to flirt with me.”

Oh, you’d been terribly wrong earlier; there was still much fun to be had here.

“I’m not trying to flirt with you, silly.” You made a great show of batting your lashes, stepping into the role of a lovesick fan infatuated with the superhero in front of you. “I either am, or I’m not.”

He inhaled sharply, and his breathing quickened. The back that had captivated your attention from the get-go hunched further into you, caving in, as if he wanted nothing more than to encase you in the breadth of him. His movements were so incremental and inadvertent that you didn’t think he was even aware of how he’d closed the gap between the two of you.

Absolutely fascinating.

“If it’s working, then I am,” you teased, donning a sly smile, nudging your lips higher to brush against his neck, gaze lifting to where a slight dip in the mask revealed the curve of his mouth. “If it’s not, well. . .”

The sound of metal crunching startled you, and an upward glance confirmed the presence of a sizable dent in the part of the pole he had been holding onto; it now resembled a crushed soda can. When you redirected your focus from the lamppost to him, you were greeted by the image of him running a hand over his masked face in frustration. Whether he was upset at you or at himself, you weren’t sure.

It sent a shiver down your spine regardless.

Sooner than you had predicted, Spider-Man recollected his composure and resumed towering over you. He’d assumed a more reserved stance, both hands on his hips, nowhere near you. The placement drew you to the slimness of his waist, the large expanse of his upper body tapering to a defined V-shape—

“Be a good kitty and answer the question,” he interrupted your train of thought, punctuating the command with a condescending pat on the top of your head.

As shameful as it was to admit, the combination of the pet name and the casual contact did you in. And judging by the arrogant uptilt of his chin, he’d known just the right buttons to push.

“Alone,” you relented. “I’m alone.”

Spider-Man gave a noncommittal hum and started to slowly circle the pole, and therefore you, like a shark honing in on its prey after scenting blood from a distance. Within the span of a few short minutes, your sarcastic remark about being ensnared in his web had manifested your current reality: you were the poor, unfortunate fly who had strayed into the territory of an apex predator, and he was the ravenous spider who was going to capitalize on your carelessness.

Once satisfied that you were telling the truth, he ceased pacing and finally asked the question he’d been building up to all night.

“Why did you attempt to murder an innocent civilian tonight?”

Time itself came to a resounding hault. This inquiry was unlike the previous two in that hearing it felt akin to having a bucket of freezing cold water dumped onto your head. You were yanked from the false sense of security into which he had lulled you through his reciprocity of your banter.

Blindsided by the enemy. A rookie mistake.

Never again.

Your brain, slow to recover from the disillusionment, had to pick apart the sentence so as to even begin processing its implications.

Attempt. Murder. Innocent. Civilian.

Innocent.

“Innocent?” The laugh that ripped from your throat was dark and bitter. “You think that son of a bitch is innocent?”

Spider-Man recoiled, clearly not expecting such a vehement reaction.

“Let me tell you this, Spider-Man,” you said his name like a curse. The direction he had decided to lead this conversation extinguished whatever fascination he’d initially sparked. “That trash deserves a fate worse than death, but seeing as he’s managed to avoid every punishment the universe has thrown at him thus far, death will have to do.”

“Who is he?”

“A fucking rapist, that’s who he is. Another man who can’t take no for an answer, who thinks he’s entitled to a woman’s body. He—”

The reflexive constriction of your airways forced you to pause and compose yourself before persevering.

“There was a girl a few years ago. She trusted him to never hurt her, and he—” You couldn’t even say it. “The legal system failed that girl, has failed so many girls just like her. But I can get them their justice, I can bring them a bit of peace in knowing that the men who hurt them are no longer on this godforsaken earth. That those scum can walk among us freely, can go about the rest of their lives without consequence—it makes me sick.”

Acid coated your tongue, and the taste of your own venom inflicted further pain upon you. That was the thing about hate: it gradually poisoned its cultivator in addition to its target. Nevertheless, you would gladly sacrifice your health if it meant you could wield this double-edged sword and find comfort in its damage until the very end.

“So no, me killing that maggot piece of shit isn’t murder. It’s what I’m owed,” you spat. The effects of adrenaline had faded, and an awful ache was spreading throughout your fatigued leg muscles as a result of the night’s physically-intensive events. Its searing throb reminded you of the fact that you were still tied up, at the mercy of this so-called superhero. “Though I suspect you don’t understand, and you probably never will. You men are all the same.”

Spider-Man had ignited within you the familiar burn of betrayal; you had lowered your guard, and then he had aimed for where you were most vulnerable. Of course, he hadn’t been aware of your history with the target, but he had chosen words that would hurt you just the same.

A sudden realization threatened to incapacitate you entirely:

Attempt.

Spider-Man had said attempt.

“My turn.” Your voice was hoarse from the strain of choking back tears. “Did I get him?”

The most important question yet; you were at a fork in the road, and his response would determine which path you walked. Should it be the case that you had succeeded in your objective, then there was a glimmer of hope for you to have a normal, law-abiding life. On the other hand, if you failed to exterminate that vermin, this personal quest for revenge would morph into something much bigger and badder.

The latter scenario would allow you plenty of chances to show Spider-Man why he shouldn't interfere with a kill that was rightfully yours.

At some point, he had opted to give you your space by distancing himself from the lamppost that bound you. Not once had he spoken since asking you who and why; no reactions or comments, only intent, quiet listening. And though you had now posed him a question of your own, his masked features offered no hints as to what his thoughts contained.

That just wouldn’t do. You needed an answer.

“Spider-Man, did I get him? Tell me I got him. Please, tell me I killed him.”

If there was anything you despised more than feeling helpless, it was groveling. However, despite the humiliation that blanketed you and brought heat to your cheeks, you were not above begging when necessary.

This specific scrap of information was well worth the bruised ego.

He inhaled deeply, held the air inside his lungs for longer than was normal, then exhaled. This process was repeated several times as evidenced by the rise and fall of his chest. Therapy had taught you that the intentional regulation of breathing helped clear the mind, so you speculated this was a method of meditation for him too as he mulled over whether or not to answer your pleas.

“You got him. Already dead when I arrived.”

The confirmation triggered your shoulders to slump forward and collapse in relief now that they were relieved of carrying the weight of the world upon them.

I got him. I got him.

The sobs building in your core could no longer be silenced, and years of repressed emotions finally poured out of you, wave after wave. First was anger, then came sadness, then relief, and ultimately emptiness. Incrementally, each wave subsided, giving way to its successor; this final wave, however, mounted into a tsunami of insurmountable height, seeking to drown you in its depths.

For the past many years, you had funneled the sum of your waking hours into the sole task of securing this kill. So who were you supposed to be now that the work was done? Where were you to go, what were you to do?

Hollow of life, drained of energy, devoid of meaning.

This was who you had become.

Through vision blurred by tears, you noticed something sharp glinting in the moonlight—talons. They were all you could focus on as he stalked closer to the streetlamp and extended them towards you.

You stiffened, readying yourself for the possibility of a fight, but Spider-Man continued to surprise you.

He trailed the back of his hand along the side of your face, one talon wiping away a lone tear from your cheek, another catching on the skin at the edge of your jaw, nicking it. The cut stung, and Spider-Man pressed down on it with his thumb, either because he was a sadist who wished to witness you wince in discomfort, or because he found the sight of your blood troubling. Ironic, considering he’d been the one to spill it.

Or maybe that was exactly why it troubled him.

After ensuring the injury was superficial, his taloned fingers continued their exploration of you, traveling south to skim the base of your neck. There was nothing you could do to stop him from delivering your death then and there, and yet he didn’t seize the opportunity. Still, you couldn’t be certain that he had no plans to at last put an end to this dangerous game, of which you both had undeniably been active, willing participants.

Except, rather than striking a killing blow, he sliced through your bondages with a solitary swipe then retracted his talons.

“Go home,” Spider-Man ordered softly as he walked a few paces backward, his masked stare never straying from you. “Next time, I won’t let you off so easy.”

Without another glance, he slung away into the night, leaving you to your own devices. But although Spider-Man was gone, the ghost of his touch lingered.

You hated that you didn’t want your skin to forget his hands, wishing instead that he’d stay. You hated that you were glad to have met him, circumstances be damned. You hated that he had more of an effect on you than you on him. You hated that you wondered how things would be different between you if he weren’t Spider-Man, if you weren’t you.

Most of all, you loathed that Spider-Man had witnessed you come undone.

Everything culminated into a single, guttural scream, the kind that made you double over at the sheer force of it and dig your nails into your chest. It echoed, bouncing off the sides of nearby buildings and returning to you, its source.

Unable to support the heft of your own body anymore, your shaky legs gave out from beneath you. Unlike earlier, no Spider was around to catch you in his arms, so your knees hit the ground, hard and unforgiving. Your already-sore joints protested upon impact, but that didn’t matter.

I got him. I killed him. Years of training and preparing have led me to this moment; I can finally rest.

Yet the emptiness and the hatred remained, latching onto you like a wound that had festered for too long and was now forever etched into your flesh. A scar that hurt when prodded despite having ceased to bleed ages ago.

The pain refused to be erased.

There on the concrete pavement of a random alley, you knew that your crusade was far from over. As soon as you recovered from the ramifications of tonight, to the streets you would return, prepared to take on the worst this city had to offer. And maybe you’d also make some money on the side by putting to good use the feline art of burglarizing, like your father had always hoped you would.

Crossing paths with the Spider-Man again was inevitable. He’d warned you to stay clear of crime, but he had disappeared before you could warn him that, the next time he got in your way, you’d claw his heart out.

tbc.

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman x reader #my fic #marvel #spiderman #fic: beggin' for thread #series: cursed from the start

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veryace-ficrecs · 5 months

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Saw your marineford fix it rec list. Loved the fics so much. Do you have any fic recs where corazon lives? I love that dead man so much

Hi! I'm so glad you liked the list, of course I can do that for you!

Here are some

Corazon Lives Fic Recs

I've separated it out in two ways. One where the fix happens through someone going back in time or across dimensions, so they come from a world where he did die. and I separated out the shippy content, as a lot of these works are LawLu. Hope you enjoy!

Time/Dimension Travel:

No Ship:

Stirring Up a Storm by Syluk - Rated T

The last thing Law remembered was dying. Yet now he found himself staring at a familiar face. A face that belonged to a person long dead, but very much alive again. Cora-san. If this was a second chance, Law would do anything to save him, to protect his smile and his kindness, or die trying.

Lionheart by cyan96 - Rated T

The light overhead isn't from Minion island's overcast sky but instead a steel plated ceiling shining down fluorescence, glass and plastic bottles rattling on shelves against the walls. Everywhere there's monitors and familiar machinery and the distinct tang of antiseptic, sharp beyond the memory sense of blood and snow. For half a second Law looks at it all very blankly and thinks, What The Hell. Is he dreaming. Is he hallucinating. Is he just plain dead. His sight-line completes the rotation of this impossibility to fall upon speckled jeans and a long sweeping coat. And the man standing in front of Law has the blankest expression Law's ever seen. And the man standing in front of Law has Law's father's face. Underneath Law's blood-slicked fingers, Cora-san's pulse shudders. (This is a story where the past and the present collide. Wherein thirteen year old Trafalgar Law and twenty-six year old Rocinante tumble sideways through time-space via the blue desperation of a newly eaten devil fruit, from Minion island to a future distant. Right, unwittingly, onto the submarine deck of a another Law shortly after Doflamingo’s fall.)

A World So Quiet by scarlet_thunder - Rated T

Snowflakes float gently in the air. Law has no idea when it started snowing. There is frost forming around the railing, almost reaching his fingers. Everything seems too calm. An odd sense of dread fills Law as they approach the island. He should finally feel at peace. It all just feels too familiar. Another winter island over a decade ago, it was snowing back then as well. After defeating Kaido and Big Mom, the Heart pirates momentarily part ways with the Strawhats. They find themselves sailing towards a small winter island in the New World. The island is coated in a heavy blanket of snow, making everything eerily quiet. In the forest, Corazon feels like the last thread of life he is hanging onto is slowly slipping away. Or, Corazon lives.

blame it on the grand line by jsjsjs - Rated G

No matter how many times he tried to push them away, images of Flevance resurfaced. (in which 13-year-old law gets time zapped to a post-wano polar tang and chaos ensues, resulting in two thoroughly angsty trafalgars, twenty highly confused heart pirates, and later on, one wholesome dad rosinante).

Stasis by petiteneko - Rated G

Unbeknownst to Law, Corazon did not actually die that day. Twelve years later, he learns the truth of what really happened.

Testimonial by owl_beans - Rated G

It's too good to be true. Cora-san couldn't be alive. Shouldn't be alive. Law isn't going to believe this perfect impostor until he proves beyond a doubt that he really is Cora-san. And even if he is, what does it mean for Law?

LawLu:

Rainbow Mist by vindobonensis - Rated M

On the way to Zou, the Barto-Club and the members of the Strawhats they have on board come across an odd Grand Line phenomenon - a Rainbow Mist. But when Luffy ventures into it, chasing adventure, he returns with something - or rather someone - entirely unexpected. Set after Dressrosa. Not canon-compliant after that. Eventual Law x Luffy.

seesaw by Lolistar92 - Rated G

Rayleigh nods. “Roger explained it after. It’s a trial for those that carry the Will of the D. A chance to face your greatest life’s regret. Change destiny.” Law’s brows scrunch together. “This isn’t my -” he pauses, something clicking. “We switched.” Or, the Pirate King cannot have regrets.

No Time/Dimension Travel:

No Ship:

Small Changes by SweetScentences - Rated T

Doflamingo and his crew don't touch the treasure chest Law is hidden in. A few other things change too.

Little White Lies by PitViperOfDoom - Rated T

It's not quite an idea, only a piece of one. Barely a notion. But it's something, in the same way that the Ope-Ope fruit is not quite a cure but the first step toward being cured. Cora has given him that much, and the least Law can do is give back.

Red Hair Law by Eraman - Rated T

When Akagami no Shanks hears about a tall blonde man blowing up hospitals he wants to figure out what this is all about. One thing leads to another and now the Red Hair Pirates have two new members and a little kid they all kind of adopt. Especiall Benn and Shanks. Things doesn't start out too smoothly though… who knew being a parent could be so difficult?

To Live Free by KivaEmber - Rated G

Corazon wakes up. Considering he's supposed to be dead, this is pretty confusing.

Spring Storms and Paperwork (and how Sengoku feels about that) by Kasmusser - Rated G

A spring storm rolls in over Marineford leaving Sengoku little to do but paperwork. He mostly just rubberstamps the work of others. He gets a bit of surprise and changes an opinion. Otherwise known as Sengoku thought his son was dead and learns the truth through a bounty

LawLu:

Supportive Granddads United by LannisPuff - Rated T

Garp the Fist, hero of the marines and doting grandfather. One of those two was less known to the world, but certainly a defining trait for those who knew him. So when his precious grandson is suffering from his soulmates unknown illness, Garp is not going to sit idle.

it'll work out fine by stainedXglassXmasquerade - Rated G

Everyone knows strange things happen on the Grand Line. Dreams from an unknown future aren't as common, but, well, Luffy's a D and all the information checks out. In which Garp and Sengoku interfere and collect people as they go, Luffy gets a best friend and two brothers for his birthday, Drake is brought along for the ride, Shanks isn't arrested on sight and Makino is happy that everyone's becoming good friends.

Take out as in on a date, right? by chenziee - Rated G

When Admiral Trafalgar Law was ordered to "take Straw Hat Luffy out," he thought it was strange. But who was he to defy his superiors?

#veryace asks #one piece #donquixote corazon #corazon #trafalgar law #fix it fic #time travel #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3 #heart pirates #lawlu

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wangxianficrecs · 5 months

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Threads of Love by OnlyMeAndMyBones

Threads of Love

by OnlyMeAndMyBones (@galexibrain)

M, WIP, 61k, Wangxian

Summary: Thirteen years ago, Lan Zhan came to Germany to study classical music and found his first true friend. Ten years ago he returned to Shanghai, heartbroken after a horrifying accident left Wei Ying with life-changing injuries and destroyed their friendship and budding romance. Today, he comes back to Germany - to teach, not to study. But when he and Wei Ying meet again by sheer chance, he realizes he has much to learn after all. (The main story is complete with chapter eight - additional oneshots may be added in the future) Kay's comments: This story is such a delight, because I love modern AUs but I'm so tired of modern AUs set in America. Instead, this story is set in Germany! It's also just a very lovely story that I really enjoyed a lot. There's many parallels to canon and Lexi wrote that the Golden Core transfer inspired this story, since the loss of a Golden Core can be seen as a disability. Wangxian here meet again after ten years apart, both struggling with different things and I really liked how they reconnected and Lan Wangji's POV was just a huge treat. Also a story for fans of Yunmeng Siblings love. Main story is complete, but marked as incomplete. Excerpt: The door opens. “Sorry for the delay I hope you didn’t wait too-” They stare at each other in shock, Lan Zhan and the man at the door. He has long hair, tied back with a crimson red scrunchie. He is wearing dark blue pants and a matching shirt with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Lan Zhan still knows this face like his own. It has lost something of its adolescent softness over the past ten years but it retained a youthful glow, making the man look more like in his twenties than his early thirties. Doctor Vay is the first one to regain his speech. “Hello, Lan Zhan,” he whispers in Mandarin, looking down at the file lying in his lap and humming with distracted amusement. “Heh. Shawn Lan. I should have known.” Then, he comes in and closes the door behind him. Lan Zhan’s voice has left him. Suddenly he seems to have forgotten each of the languages he knows. His tongue is glued to his teeth and he knows he looks like a fool, standing there with his lips parted.

pov lan wangji, modern setting, modern no powers, disability, disabled character, disabled wei wuxian, angst with a happy ending, flashbacks, ableism, racism, medical procedures, lan wangji/wei wuxian get a happy ending, sharing a bed, doctor wei wuxian, musician lan wangji, teacher lan wangji, yunmeng siblings feels, good sibling jiang cheng, minor or backgroudn relationships, qin su/lan xichen, blood and injury

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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han-jislay · 10 months

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underrated bokuaka fics #2

these are only some fics i have read, they're all underrated!! they make me feel giddy and they feed my bokuaka addiction.

ex revenge hot line | Lxnn word count: 63, 388

akaashi's side job is to get hired from someone who got hurt to date their ex and break their heart

↳ a little angsty at the end, but happy ending never the less. "you're not evil, just heartbroken."

say yes | kazzydolyn word count: 7, 721

5 times bokuto asks akaashi a question and 1 time akaashi has a life changing question for bokuto

↳ very cute and makes me feel single in 100 ways. 5+1 trend!!

call me koutarou | kazzydolyn word count: 2, 888

akaashi tries to break the enduring habit of calling bokuto "bokuto-san"

↳ i see this as very canon, this story is so well depicted! not ooc at all.

soft blue | groaninlynch word count: 6, 031

akaashi is unaware he lost his sketchbook and bokuto takes a sneak peek

↳ literally the reason why i wanted to make this list. 100% underrated!!! i love this so much

the great mystery of a hickey | sunnybluesky word count: 25, 479

hinata, atsumu and sakusa go on a mission to find the mystery lover that gave bokuto a hickey

↳ a bit long, and the trio is a bit stupid but it's bokuaka so no complaints

i pretend you're mine, all the damn time | glitterati word count: 4, 326

bokuto asks akaashi for kissing practice because of a girl

↳ oh how the turns have tabled. this story got me hanging by a thread.

cat and kid | norio word count: 2, 817

kenma gets a misunderstanding about akaashi and his cat, bokuto-san

↳ norio's works are so good yet underrated!!! this story was a rollercoaster and i swear i had no idea what was happening. poor kenma must've felt 2x worse.

the impaled | norio word count: 2, 184

bokuto is a vampire hunter and akaashi owns an antique store

↳ you know when you want a part two so bad?? yeah. this one is the one.

cookies and cream | norio word count: 5, 840

akaashi has a habit of stress baking

↳ i think this is one of my favourites, i love baking and bokuaka, what a perfect combination.

nine hundred lies | norio word count: 8, 454

akaashi is a big fat liar. happy ending

↳ it's a happy ending, but akaashi lies through his teeth. do you think there's a confession?

one in a hundred | norio word count: 4, 080

though he has no proof, bokuto thinks dating akaashi would be easier if he didn't try to break up with him all the time

↳ akaashi second guesses himself so much, it projects onto his relationship. damn

4am | talonyth word count: 13, 448

akaashi doesn't call often, let alone at an ungodly hour

↳ i was quite conflicted about this story but it's actually quite good, especially at the end! almost like a slow burn. but medium. so medium burn.

wing man | CheekyBrunette word count: 8, 366

kuroo doesn't let anyone date bokuto that doesn't meet his standards. fortunately, akaashi does

↳ bokuroo is like peak comedy and friendship goals! oh to have a friend like kuroo. this story was quite nice and it's more of kuroo's pov than anything.

hanging by a moment | gabstar word count: 1, 169

finding the perfect moment isn't always easy

↳ my descriptions are so bad oml, i can't really remember what this was about, but i do remember that akaashi and bokuto has their own pace, and a lot of people like to interfere.

#bokuaka #angst #fluff #fics #fanfic #haikyuu #haikyu #anime #manga #spoilers #bokuto #bokuto koutarou #akaashi keiji #akaashi #ao3 #archive of our own #recomendations #suggestions

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psychedelic-ink · 6 months

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ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader

summary: You, both a member of David's group and one of his former victims, are already contemplating escape when Ellie arrives at the resort. Seeking Ellie, you decide to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity to run off with her. But before you can find Ellie, you cross paths with Joel instead.

word count: 0.5k

full fic warnings (not within the preview): age gap, virgin!reader, mentions of past grooming attempt, mentions of cannibalism, past rape attempt, PTSD, blood, canon typical violence, no smut for now

a/n: alright so i'm a bit too excited for this one so i decided to post a lil preview so i can calm down dfvbfd this story is going to be a heavy one, as you can tell by the warnings, but I'm excited nonthless. I've been thinking about it day and night and been really enjoying writing it so I hope you guys enjoy the little sneak peak. (this is unedited so sorry for any mistakes)

The wind blew cold. You, a girl who had lost everything, knelt on the ice. Your family had been long gone. Your hope dwindling, hanging only by a simple thread. You didn't know how long you'd been crying. Your hands, young yet covered in the warmth of blood. The scent of pine reached your nose, and you sniffed involuntarily, just like you had done before you lost everything. Before the world ended. You heard the sound of men approaching you, and you wished they would just kill you. Sixteen and already you wished for the sweet mercy of death.

“Now what do we have here?” A man spoke, his tone humorful. Melodic. Your mind and body already slipping and reaching towards the warmth of it. “You poor young thing. Where’s your family, girl?”

When you finally looked up from your hands you saw a man on a horse. Typical for this day and age. Four others hovered near him. All of them looked weathered and older than you. Your eyes moved back to the one that seemed in charge. He had strawberry blond hair and a thin beard of the same color. His eyes narrowed slightly, popping under the blue cold sky and the frozen lake. You didn’t know what to say. How to answer this man who was an obvious threat.

He hopped off the horse, you attempted to move away but your legs were frozen in place, your heart beating loudly against your ribcage. He knelt next to you. Observing. You swallowed, fear coating your tongue with the taste of bile. His eyes softened when he took in the sight of you. Bruised and wounded. Your eyes squeezed shut as he reached out and pushed a loose strand of hair back only for the wind to bring it back.

“No need to be afraid, child. We’re a peaceful group and there are more like us, if you want to join.”

“J–Join?” your teeth chattered, your lips hurting as you spoke. There was a bit of light filling the cracks of the iron cage of your heart. Hope. You realized it to be. Hope to find someone to help you. To look after you in this infected world. He must’ve seen it in your expression because his soft smile grew, eyes glimmering with mirth.

“So afraid,” he hummed. “But we’ll change that. You’ve been brought here for a reason. And I think I know what your purpose is in our small group.”

He swiftly stood, leaving you dumbfounded and still upon the freezing ice. Your mouth gaped, your body buzzing with a newfound need to stay alive.

“What’s your name?” you asked. He threw an old coat over your shoulders. Not his own. But one he had extra on his horse. Probably taken from someone else who was more unfortunate than you.

“David,” he answered gently, as if he were scared you’d run away. Before you could reach out, he grabbed your hand and lifted you. You nearly fell, only prevented thanks to the strong arm that wrapped around your waist. He was warm. Much warmer than you expected. “Lovely to have you with us.”

The men near him didn’t seem to share the same sentiment but you smiled all the same.

You didn't want to think for a while. Maybe not even think for a millennia. If possible.

10 YEARS LATER

Whispers of death surround you. The words of the names that have fallen circling you and squeezing your heart tight. Suffocated. That’s how you feel. Helpless. Trapped. Consumed. Faint murmurs fill the hall room. The cold that seeps through the wood, the same wood that was intended for summer and not winter, worries everyone. Including you. But at the same time, you think this is what you all deserve. An icy grave. Freezing to death and surrendering to the cold.

You were never meant to feel warmth. You know that better now.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x f!reader #fic preview

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orderforbrian · 2 years

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have finally unearthed the web!martin au content, my god........this is the page of not-memes, some of them are very old and some are new lmao - i do have a semi-serious au in my head -- details of au under the cut after ID (it's a little long lol)

[Start ID: Multiple comics of Jon and Martin from the Magnus Archives where Martin is an avatar of the Web. Jon is a thin Persian man with dark curly hair and a beard. Martin is a fat mixed Polish/Korean man with glasses and a beauty mark under his lip, he has shoulder length dark hair with a streak of white in his bangs.

1st comic: Martin is looking down at a pack of cigarettes in his hand and has a cigarette hanging in his mouth. He is wearing a cardigan with a simple shirt underneath. Jon looks at him with a captured expression, a light blush on his cheeks, and holds his spider web detailed lighter out. He asks, "E-er, do you n-need a light?" Jon's hair is slicked back and he is wearing a business shirt. Martin has the now smoking cigarette pointed down to Jon's lighter and is looking up with a coy expression, saying "Hehe, do you like spiders or something?"

2nd comic: Martin is looking to the side with a blush across his face, saying "U-um". A spiderweb behind him is shaped in a heart and there are multiple hearts floating around him. He is wearing a simple sweater with a jacket that has pockets in the front. Next, it shows a spiderweb with "Jon" spelt out in it with a huge heart below the name. Next, Martin is blushing intensely with wide eyes, eight of them on his face, and his mouth is hanging open with two fangs. He is holding his hands stretched out, each end pointed into a claw. Blink is written next to him. Next, a simplified Martin is swatting at the spiderweb, screaming "Aaaargh!". A couple spiders are flying off.

3rd comic: Jon is crawling on the floor through a doorway, a rug with a spiderweb pattern outside the doorway. He is shouting, "I'm going to the Institute even if I have to crawl my way there, Martin!!". His hair is short and he's does not have a beard, he is wearing a business shirt and green tie. Next, a pair of claws grip Jon's waist and he grabs onto the rug for leverage. A simplified angry web!Martin shouts back, "Oh no, you are not going back to that hellscape prison calling itself an academic institute!". Jon grits his teeth and yells, "No, no! You can't stop me-". Next, several spider legs hover over Jon in the doorway. Martin says, "Oh? Is that what you think?". Jon gulps. Next, Jon is being pulled back by the spider legs and screams, taking the rug with him.

4th comic: Jon and Martin are kissing, there are multiple hearts around their heads. Martin says, "Have a nice day, love" and Jon responds, "You as well". Next, Jon and Martin part with surprised expressions and there is a black widow spider hanging on a thread between their lips. Martin says, "Oh!". Next, Jon is trembling with a wobbly grimace, his eye is stylized black with tear shines in it, and a stream of tears is coming from his eye. He is gripping Martin's sweater ferociously. Martin has eight eyes now and looks at him flustered, his mouth has fangs. He yells, "AH!! J-Jon I'm so sorry!!". The spider hanging between them begins to spin down a web thread.

End ID.]

basically, the Web wants to bind all 14 Fears to the tapes in order to place them under its control, without anyone's knowledge such a thing is occurring. they could pit the Fears against each other when necessary, control their actions from the shadows, etc. However, the Web understands that a successful ritual would mean the demise of all the Fears through the End. Jonah Magnus understands that a successful ritual would mean the same, but does not care about the ramifications. this, the Web cannot allow to happen. So once all the Fears are bound, the Magnus Institute will burn in order to ensure no one else can gain control of the Fears. Except for the Archive itself -- the Archivist.

like in canon, jon is marked when he's young so that it will keep his interest in the paranormal enough to get a job at the Magnus Institute. he becomes the Web's 'person on the inside' but jon of course has no idea that's what's happening. the Web wants an avatar to become marked by the Beholding enough to be useful but not so much that they become corrupted or Jonah Magnus can use them as a tool for his own plan. the end goal is for him to become the walking, marked Archive that will abide by the Web's will.

but as jon continues at the Institute, the Web finds that he's becoming embroiled and marked faster than they would like and not in the way that would preserve their 29 year old 'secret weapon', both in his mortality and his corruption.

in comes martin. he became a web avatar after his mother died, the Web having taken interest in the way he could subtly manipulate and lie to others in order to make ends meet. he's genuinely nice and is good at manipulation, but does so as a means to help others do what he thinks is best for them rather than to hurt them. it's important to me that a web!martin does not enjoy hurting others. his most powerful weapons are gentle hands and a patient, nurturing voice. things that guide others into doing what he wants them to, under the impression that it was their own idea in the first place. (but also it's martin. he could body someone if need be. most of the time though, he's passive like in canon. the Web loves a sneaky bitch)

he's perfect for jon. in his paranoid state, what jon needs is someone unassuming, someone who'll slow him down, gives him a sweet smile, a friendly face to rely on -- and later, someone who, unfortunately, can relate very well to the 'i didn't want to become an avatar, i hate being a monster' situation

so martin comes to jon to give a statement. he gives the same statement to jon about jane prentiss as he did in canon, except this time he's lying. jon, having already suffered the jane prentiss attack, feels intense sympathy for him (played like how he acted with Helen after the Distortion statement). they get to talking and slowly become friends. the plan is for martin to crawl his way into jon's heart, get him to care about him, value his opinion, place his utmost trust in him -- until he'll do anything martin says.

and by anything he says, it means: don't fucking die by shoving tape recorders in powerful avatars faces. and also maybe pretty please burn down the Magnus Institute.

martin masquerades the Web's plan as genuine care for jon's wellbeing. "you work too hard, why don't you take a break? christ, the Magnus Institute really creeps me out, why don't we go to a nice cafe instead? if youre feeling bad, call in sick to work and lets go have a nice day out!"

martin starts to find his 'fake' feelings for jon aren't so fake anymore. was it necessary to the plan that him and jon eventually start dating? no. but he didn't exactly deter it from happening because oh my god surprise! jon is super cute and charming and harbors a mutual endearment for him, and its making him forget himself at times (and a certain annabelle cane is noticing). he finds himself falling for him, and the act he was putting on is soon becoming the real, instinctive way he wants to care and to love jon.

then jon finds out he's a web avatar. and all hell breaks loose.

martin feels like an idiot, thinking he could forever be a sense of normalcy for jon -- but the fact remains that he is the monster of jon's nightmares, and jon is already on his path to becoming a monster as well. he still has a mission though: protect jon from harm, make sure he doesn't get corrupted. the only problem now is that jon wants to kill him dead with a shoe and spray him with Raid if he so much as gets within a mile radius of him.

complicated hilarity ensues.

martin tries to sort of distance his lingering feelings by acting coy and aloof. he begins only speaking to jon by calling him on the phone and referring to him as "the archivist". but the act is.....well, jon tells him point blank it's not very convincing. martin will slip up and call him jon whenever he does something cute. they both still have each other's numbers. they both know these little personal facts about each other. jon remembers to tell martin happy birthday over the phone one day and martin nearly cries right then and there. martin can't help but remember the times he felt so safe in jon's arms, and jon the same. they both are too stubborn to say they miss each other, but god do they.

as jon learns more and more about the Fears and his descent into the Beholding becomes impossible to undo, he finds the only person he trusts to turn to is martin. martin who, despite initially lying to him, has protected him from certain death, always lent his shoulder to either lean or cry on, and has been the one person he feels truly understands him. jon finds that, as much as he hates to admit it, the feelings he held for martin may not be as fabricated as the man himself. and the martin who's a web avatar isn't very different from the martin he fell for. in that, he also feels a sense of pity, realizing that martin is just as human and helpless to the Fears as he is, stuck in the web right next to him (think Oliver Banks level solidarity). martin didn't choose to be a part of the Web, the Web robbed him of choice entirely.

eventually they bond over their shared tragedy, reconcile their differences and work in tandem, steadily repairing the repertoire they had prior. it's an unlikely pair for sure. the Web, who deals in secrets and subtlety, and the Eye, hungry to see and know all. martin does not want to be known, but when jon looks into his eyes, a smaller part of him wants to bare his soul for him and only him to see. jon does not like secrets, but loves a mystery, and finds unraveling the threads of martin blackwood to be quite compelling.

the au ends bittersweetly. my idea of a big ending scene is when martin and jon go to burn down the Institute, jonah magnus makes a last ditch attempt to perform the ritual, compelling jon to begin the incantation. martin and jon manage to kill Magnus before the ritual is completed, and they stand outside on the dark night street, hand in hand, watching the Institute burn.

jon is still the Archive, though he and the tapes are under the control of the Web now. he's free from the Magnus Institute, but certainly not the Beholding. Monsters will still come, him and Martin will still need to feed their gods, they will never have their original lives back. eventually the Web will grow bored of gorging itself on the bound Entities, and will consider other threads, woven long before this current one. it may not be for a while, there is still a chance the Fears may leave this plane. jon and martin will take any time they can get, so long as they're together.

anyway, blah blah, i probably didn't write this very well but i wanted to at least summarize. i just want to manifest a web!martin au where he's helping to protect jon from the Fears by being the most caring boyfriend ever and then realizes too late that falling in love was not part of the plan (even though it totally was)

#tma #the magnus archives #web!martin #web martin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jmart #jonmartin #websight 🕸️👁️#order up! art tag #lmao websight is my ship name for them #cw spiders

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