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fieldofdaisiies · 7 months

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Just A Little Bit of Your Heart

ship: Azriel x Reader type: angst word count: 2,4k warnings: curse words, mentions of a one night stand, unexpected pregnancy summary: It was just a one night stand, or that is what you thought... fic masterlist

"The baby will have wings!"

Your hands tremble. And they tremble so much the plate you are holding slips out them, and then shatters when it hits the floor. Splinters fly everywhere, but your best friend is quick to shove you away.

She is faster than you, gently shoving you away before you can lean down to collect the shards. "Not in your current state! Let me do this."

You huff. "I am pregnant, not fragile or ill," you say, still dried tears on your cheeks, and more burning behind your eyes.

"Yes, with a winged baby, because this fool did not pay attention." There is so much fury inside of your best friend, you have never seen this side of her before, her voice drips with venom.

"For making a baby it always needs two people. I am not innocent in this." You crouch down and help your best friend collect the shards of broken glass and—

"Fuck!" You lift your index finger to your mouth, licking the droplet of blood away.

"I told you to let me do this, you are hurting yourself and—" "And what? They baby will still have wings and I will still be pregnant. I just cut my finger, nothing dramatic."

You swallow thickly, slumping onto the ground. You immediately regret your tone and snapping at your best friend. She only wants to help and be there for you…

But it is so much to deal with and then the hormones just intensify everything you are feeling.

The fear, the apprehension about the baby having with wings and the prospect of having to raise the child by yourself, should you survive the birth, finally reach the surface. You tried hide these emotion for so long, but now you fail — they all bubble up, overwhelming you.

You lean against the kitchen counter behind you, pulling your knees up and fold your hands over your face.

Then the damn breaks, tears running out of your eyes, rolling down your cheeks as you sob into your hands.

"I am so scared," you bawl.

Your best friend has already scooted over, careful of the broken pieces of porcelain, and wraps her arm around your shoulders. She pulls you to her chest, letting you cry into her shirt. "I know that the babe has wings, the healer confirmed it. And I am just working in this little shop, I don't earn enough to take care of the child alone."

Your tears wet her shirt, and your best friend holds you tightly, her hand clasping your upper arm. She is becoming your anchor, the only thing you can hold onto in this moment.

"It was so foolish. He said he took the tonic. I also drank the tea the same morning, and neither of those things worked. Conceiving for fae is so difficult, why…"

Your voice breaks and you can't finish your sentence, your throat is dry, burns and the back of your mouth aches.

"It wasn't foolish. You were both careful, and it just happened." Your best friend's voice is softer now, although inside of her a burning fire of fury about the shadowsinger putting a baby that could harm you inside of you. It could cost you your life and she would never forgive him for that.

You exhale a long breath when you lift your head a little, still leaning onto your friend. You rest your head against her shoulder, staring at the window opposite you.

A veil of grey is being drawn over the sky, dark clouds passing by — rain is about to start. You keep staring at the window, sitting in silence as the first raindrops start to fall, landing gently on the window pane. You watch as the rain intensifies, and the sky darkens further until heavy rain pours down and wind whips agains the windows and the walls of the apartment building you are living in.

The atmosphere outside mirrors the whirlwind inside of you, the storm brewing there, the cold and gloomx atmosphere.

There are so many emotions. And these emotions, mostly fear and nervousness, mingle with the hormones that actually make you so very happy that your are growing a little babe inside of you, but at the dame time so sad that the child will have to grow up without a father.

The whole previous evening you spent staring at your round belly in the mirror, sobbing silently to yourself.

With the big wool sweaters you always wear the belly is barely visible, but when naked, one can obviously see the growing bump.

You best friend draws in a deep inhale and leans her head against the top of yours.

"You need to talk to him," she says in a soft voice. "And before you protest, I say so because first of all, he has a right to know. And secondly, and most importantly, he might be able to help you."

You sniff loudly. "How should he help me?"

"The High Lord, who he is close with, has a son with wings. And our High Lady is also only fae, so there must be a possibility."

"What if he wants nothing to do with me?"

"Then you at least tried."

"Don't you think I will only be hurt more?"

You lift your head to look at her. There is a small smile on her lips, one that conveys support and warmth, her eyes shining with empathy.

She shakes her head. "You still have me. I won't leave you alone with this. I never would. But you still have to tell him."

You don't want to do it, you don't want to face Azriel, don't want to tell him, but you know she is right. You have to do it. He has a right to know.

This was a one night stand.

You somehow caught the male's attention in a small bar in Velaris, and somehow he ended up in your bed. When you woke up, Azriel slipped into his trousers and out of your flat within a few moments. He was gone without a word, disappeared into the shadows, and you haven't heard from him since. You don't even know how to contact him.

You don't know where he lives? Does he live with the High Lord? Or in this huge house on the mountain? With the general of the Illyrian armies and his mate?

"I don't know what to say to him," you whisper.

The rain outside intensifies. Your friend uncurls her arm from around your shoulder, bringing it forward so she can clasp your hand in hers.

She places a soft kiss to the top of your head and in a calm voice she says, "Tell him what you told me. That you don't understand how it happened and that you are afraid and want nothing more than his help."

"What if I want more than that?" You bite back a sob and turn your head a little.

"What if I want a little part of his heart. For the baby. If it—if we survive this, I want my baby to have a father. I want my baby to know its father." A single tear slips our of your eye and your friend quickly wipes it away with her thumb.

"That is something to think about in the future. You need to think about yourself now, sweetie. You matter now, everything else is open for the future."

You nod, trying to agree with her, but the thoughts about the possibility of the baby never meeting its father are gnawing on you.

And they keep gnawing on you the whole night where you lie awake, shifting and turning, your back aching, and tears still wetting your cheeks and pillow.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Cold sweat coats your back, your palms. Your knees wobble, and your whole body trembles as you lift your hand, drawing in a deep inhale. Then another. And another. Your hand rests on the cool door handle, but you can't bring yourself to pull it down.

He really came.

You can hardly believe it. He got your letter, and he is truly here. Until a few moments ago, you doubted it. You did not think he would really follow your invite. You were very vague in your letter, only mentioned that if he remembers you you would have something important to discuss with him. It could have been a trap, but he must have recognised the urgency in your wording, must habe known he could trust you.

Drawing in another breath, you finally pull down the handle and your lips part as your eyes land on him.

He is…still the most beautiful male you have ever seen in your life, covered in darkness and shadows, expression stoic, eyes glowing with curiosity.

But he came!

"You came," you whisper, voice trembling.

Your heart beats in your throat, hammering so fast and hard you think it might burst right through your ribcage.

It was just a one-night stand, a fleeting moment of passion, but you still remember him so vividly. How he touched you, how he kissed you, how he held you. And how he left. You felt used and sad after it, but you shouldn't have. Both of you only wanted fun for a night, but still it somehow hurt when he left.

"You called." His voice is flat, no emotion in it as he speaks. His face is not necessarily cold, but nonchalant, emotionless.

Azriel is nothing but darkness as he stands there, shadows swirling around him, stretching out towards you.

He eyes you closely, jaw clenched slightly.

You barely know him, only know his body, but he is now connected to you in the most profound way possible. You carry a part of him inside of you. Your child. His child.

Azriel's face is a mask of unreadable emotions, some clouds darken his eyes and you can’t tear your eyes away from his.

"I wasn't sure you if you—" "I do remember you."

Something, some unreadable emotion passes over his face, and a muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands, those scarred hands you felt all over your body, are folded behind his back, and he stands in a stance, almost like he is ready to fight whatever is about to come. A stern warrior, and not the passionate male you lay with.

"Come in?" you say, your voice trembling slightly as you step aside to let him enter. Azriel hesitates, but eventually he walks in, gaze wary as it sweeps through the inside of your room. He is looking for possible danger, making sure the place is safe and you can't blame him for it. Your invite must have sound cryptic, he is careful and that is alright.

"Why did you invite me?" Azriel asks, finally speaking up and taking the weight from your shoulder to open the conversation.

You are wringing for the right words to explain it all as you lead him over to the kitchen counter. You lean against it, your gaze moving to his eyes.

You drop your glamour, and try to hold his gaze, but suddenly Azriel starts to sniff the air, his brows furrowing as he looks around him. It almost looks like understanding dawns on him, whirlwinds of emotions glowing in his eyes. He must sense it in this moment.

"I am with child!" you blurt out.

The words are so loud in the room, they bounce off the walls and hollow through the room. Through your mind, making you feel dizzy for a second.

You move your hand over your round belly, smoothing out the sweater, to show him the bump.

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your own ragged breaths.

Azriel says nothing, his face pales, his shoulders slump, and his whole expression and posture crumbles.

He blinks, as if trying to process what you have just revealed. Although his face is unreadable, you can see the storm of emotions swirling beneath the surface.

"Is it mine?" he asks and you want to face-palm him. You would do it, if it were under different circumstances.

"Of course, it is yours. The babe has wings!"

The tone you have chosen wasn't alright, he could not have known, you could have been with other males…but why would you invite him and tell him then?

This revelation shatters him truly. Azriel begins to vehemently shake his head, like he can feel the weight of what the baby having wings means.

"No," he whispers, and then repeats the word over and over again. He brings a hand up, brushes his hair back and shakes his head again. "No, that can't be. You took the tonic, I did too. How did that happen?"

"I also don't have an explanation, I only know that I am with child now. A baby with wings." Your chin quivers, lower lip starting to tremble. You feel how your body begins to shake, blood rushing in your ears.

"And I am afraid."

Once again the damn breaks, and a sob rips itself free.

Azriel says nothing, just stands there.

"I understand that it is a lot to take in, that this is difficult, but I needed to tell you."

You suck in a sharp breath, your tears tasting salty in your mouth. "I just thought you deserved to know. It was a one-night stand, and I never planned for any of this to happen, but it did, and I can't keep it a secret from you."

You feel so vulnerable in this moment, your heart cracking open, everything inside you convulsing.

It somehow angers you that he says nothing, but you had more time to deal with the newly learned information, he only found out now. Maybe he just needs more time to process.

"I don't know what to say," he admits, his voice softer, and for the first time he lets his own emotions show, vulnerability flashing brightly in his eyes. "This is... unexpected. Overwhelming."

You nod, biting down on your lower lip. With the back of your hand you wipe away some tears.

"I don't expect anything from you, I just…if the baby and I survive this, all I am asking for is a little bit of your heart. Not for me, for the babe."

Your voice is so terribly shaky, tears welling up in your eyes again as you try to hold his gaze. "I didn't expect it either," you whisper, wiping away a tear. "But I want the baby to know its father. If it ever comes to that."

Azriel is the one to suck in a breath now, the weight of his own childhood crashing down on him. Everything, every little pain when he was a child, bubbles up inside of him and his body starts to shake.

The room is filled with a heavy silence once more. It feels like the walls are moving in on you, the room growing smaller and smaller, almost suffocating you.

As you wait for his response, your heart still races, but now it's not just with fear. There's a glimmer of hope, a spark of possibility that maybe, just maybe, he will grant you this wish and be a father for the child if it comes to that.

"We are going to see my healer, the High Lord's healer. She knows about wings, she knows about babes with wings. You are not alone in this."

Azriel's steps are so fast, so unexpected, he hesitates for a moment, but suddenly his arms wrap around your shoulders and he embraces you tightly, his chin coming to a rest on top of your head.

"I am not leaving you alone in this. It comes as a shock and I am sorry about my reaction, but this child is as much mine as it is yours, and it will have a part of my heart." His arm wraps around you tighter. "It will have my whole heart."

He swallows, his chest heaving with a deep inhale and your curl your own arms around him, loud sobs ripping themselves free, muffled in the fabric of his shirt. "And so will you."

~~~~~~~~~~ tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii@nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22 @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @callmeblaire

#azriel x reader #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #acotar #acosf

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keravnous · 1 month

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diet mountain dew; john wick/fem!reader (smut, 18+)

dating john wick - the playlist

The Boogeyman is out to get you. Little does he know, that you too are willing to do quite a bunch of things just to stay alive.

warnings: blood, guns, knives, injuries, physical violence/fighting, assassination attempt; dub-con, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (female receiving), choking, dirty talk, spanking, a lot of manhandling bc for the love of god he doesn't know how to be soft anymore, gun kink, knife kink, size kink, strength kink, squirting, body worship if you blink, is this hate-fucking? idk; john has a horse cock change my mind; john is in his 50s, the reader is in her 20s; set somewhere after the series i guess? (I refuse to accept he's dead); problematic family relationship as a plot device; let's all collectively ignore the fact that he would actually never touch another woman or even dare to catch the smallest of feelings again; john gets off on the violence

word count: 10,6 k

thank you mel for a) listening to my ramblings and b) reading a good chunk of the first third of this dumpster fire and still going nuts about it, kissies and thank you v for listening to my keanu ramblings without losing faith in me

You wonder, if praying will help you. Probably not.

The sound of carnage, screams and gunshots in the hallway abruptly stops. You hear the assailant's heavy footsteps echoing off the floorboards outside of your hotel room mere seconds before the door bursts open, flies out of its hinges and rattles to the ground, wood creaking and breaking, splinters flying everywhere.

There had been a hit out on you for two days and every single soldier in your father's militia was ready to defend your life with their own.

Literally. You can tell by the man entering your suite.

You can tell by just how much he is covered in blood. You can tell by the way it drips down his forehead and how it soaks his white shirt - even the soles of his shoes creak with it. You can tell by the way he is totally and utterly drenched in red red red, and because you are certain it is not his.

They literally gave their life for you. The thought hits you like a blow to the head. People have died because of you. Fathers, brothers, sons. You recall your last conversation with your own father. They want us dead, they put out a contract on us - you had never seen him so nervous, so disheveled. What does that mean - his anxiety had been washing over you in seeping hot waves, sending cold shivers down your spine. It means, I need you out of the house - now.

Nausea bubbles in your stomach as the man now approaches you, casually strolls into the suite with his finger on the trigger of the gun dangling from his hand and you stare back at him - a deer in the headlights, frozen by fear in the eyes of its deadly predator. One of your father's men jumps from his cover, fires a shot and gets hit back with one straight between his eyes. It happens so quickly, that you can't turn your head away. You see the bullet piercing his forehead, blood splattering as soon as it exits the skull on the other side. His head flies back a little, and then his body goes limp, slack, as he falls to the ground with a heavy thud.

You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to run. But there is nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from him.

There's only one soldier left with you in the suite now and he is hiding around the corner, near the bathroom. The stranger - the assassin, the killer - does not lower the gun again, and does not let his eyes stray from you as he carefully enters the room. You feel terribly exposed, dressed only in your negligée, not daring to move.

Now, that the dim light of the suite's living room strikes his face, you can finally see him, see the man who has come to end you. He is older than you, maybe nearly twice your age, with dark hair and even darker eyes, matching his black suit. Lean and athletic, chest heaving slightly with physical exhaustion. The Boogeyman.

You do not know who or what you had expected, what cruel and dreadful images your brain had conjured up in the past 48 hours - 48 frightful hours of being moved around from hideout to hideout by your father's men, not staying in one place longer than necessary - but it certainly was not that. Not him. He is a lot more handsome than his reputation has led on. Seeing him on the subway around rush hour you would have never suspected him to be in this business. He looks nice. And that is exactly what makes him dangerous.

You have heard his name before. Echoing from the walls. Baba Yaga. Whispered with both: fear and respect. The Boogeyman. Blurted out: like a curse or like a blessing. Mister Wick: like redemption, like damnation. Jonathan, the king's son walking the earth as the devil.

John. The sound of his name is oddly human - disturbingly human - for someone looking as calm and collected, focused and concentrated as he does right now, while being drenched in blood and pointing a gun at you.

You must have said his name out loud, because his eyebrows twitch irritatedly, a movement so quick you barely missed it - must've sound desperate too, then.

Vision zeroing in on the barrel of his gun, your hands clutch the sofa's edge. There is so much adrenaline pumping through your veins right now that it freezes your limbs, has your ears ringing. The only thing responding to your brain fully are your eyes, and they snap away from the gun and over to the remaining soldier. It's a quick look, not even a second, but the hitman seems to recognize it and - with near inhumane speed - flicks his gun, and fires two shots. Blood splatters against the white door as the shots pin the soldier's body against it, and is it finally drops to the ground heavily it leaves a nasty trail, all wet and sticky and red.

Could be you.

You want to scream, but your body does not belong to you anymore, does not respond to your commands. It is a desperate, cruel sound that leaves your throat instead as you flinch with the sound of the gun being fired.

"Let's make this quick" his voice is gravelly and rough, like he has seen a thousand grim things and the pain of it has etched its way into his throat, left a nasty mark on every tone that ever dared to cross after.

That is when your fight or flight suddenly kicks in. Well, more specifically, it kicks in while he is speaking, as he starts to swap the empty clip of his gun.

He underestimates you. Everyone does. Your father, your brother. The countless men lying dead littered across the hotel's 25th floor. It will be his mistake.

You latch forward, grabbing the vase from the coffee table in front of you. The weight of it in your hand drags you down.

With all the strength you can muster, which is quite a lot considering the massive amounts of adrenaline that are currently amping up your body - you throw it at him. It connects with his forehead sharply; a deep, irritated noise bursting from his throat as it crashes, splinters and falls to the floor.

You are braver, braver than you should be as your assault does not end there, your body pushing you forward, leaping over the table and crashing into his broad shoulders.

I will not die today

Body ramming into his, he stumbles, as your fist connects with his chin. You have only been partially trained in hand-to-hand combat, after pleading your brother for months until he eventually gave in. Sadly, he wasn't nearly as thorough and honest with it as he was training his drug dealer and gun runners. But now, it is the only thing you can rely on.

There is nothing else; no one else left alive in that building who might be able to help you. It is up to you. So, you might as well try.

And Oh, does desperation fire up your blood.

I will not die today

The diversion does not last long and he - John John John only human only human only human - grabs you by you waist hard, fingers digging into your flesh and into the expensive silk, before he slams your body into the ground. All air leaves your lungs with a dull sound erupting from your chest, just as pain blooms around your ribs.

You cough and he looks down at you, confusion making his brows twitch, before cold-hearted determination takes over once more. John aims his gun at you once more, pulls back the hammer and you do not even think about it, your leg rising as you kick against his hand. The shot misses, buries itself deep into the expensive carpet a few inches next to your skull. You have no time to do either: panic or sigh in relief; instead, you deliver him a kick to his stomach, fighting yourself back onto your feet, punching him straight in the face.

John grunts and grabs your wrist, but you see it coming and throw yourself into his wide frame, wrapping your other arm around his back and thus hooking it underneath his right shoulder, dislocating his arm and preventing him from aiming his gun at you. You claw onto him as he twists your arm close to his stomach, while you wrap your legs around him, making it harder for John to shake you off.

I will not die today

You kick and dig the heel of your foot into his thighs and the back of his knees and he grunts and buckles a little, but turns wild and relentless quicker than you can blink, throws the two of you into the next wall. You gasp sharply as your back connects with the large mirror, splinters digging into your back - not deep enough to actually cut skin, but it stings nonetheless, the impact making you dizzy.

Sharp pain shoots through your back and your neck, but you are not willing to give up yet, as raw energy and rage and desperation surges through your body - one of your legs coming loose and your knee hitting his stomach repeatedly, making John grunt in pain and you use your momentum to dig your hand deep into his back, holding onto him and then swirling out of the deadlock he has got you in, jumping his back like a monkey.

His gun clatters to the ground and for a split second, the room falls silent. Then, roaring like an animal gone wild, he grabs your calves and slams his back into the nearest wall, has you screaming with the impact. You can feel blood pouring from your nose, feel it trickling down your lips.

I will not die today

John is stronger than you are, so so much stronger - the apex predator: all muscle, unbreakable focus and the sheer will to kill. But you are not only a little quicker; you also really want to stay alive. It is a force he rarely encounters. And quite frankly, it irritates him.

He may be older than you, taller than you and stronger than you but you have something he does not have: you actually still got something to lose.

And you fight like it, too. All scratches and sharp yells, as you punch and scrabble at his shoulders and tear at his tie, trying to strangle him with it. John is struggling against it, gasping for air and winding beneath your assault and then his grip around your claves grows hard like iron, seconds before he pulls - throws you over his head like you weigh nothing. You land on the expensive carpet with a heavy thud - groaning as you crash onto your side with sharp pain shooting through your shoulder, down your ribcage.

I will not die today

John sputters and stumbles forward, looking for his gun but you are quicker, kicking it away with your foot. It clatters back onto and slides over the wooden floorboards.

For a second you consider your choices, fighting yourself back onto your feet but John - a practiced and seasoned fighter - beats you to it and lands a blow to your upper back, sends you back down with him - a mess of sputtering saliva and painful groans. His body topples onto yours and he quickly rolls the two of you over the floor.

John is heavy and warm on top of you, as he keeps you in a tight headlock, your chest pressed to the floor and neck bend in a painful angle. He presses his strong forearm down onto your windpipe and you choke and cough, feet kicking, hands dragging across the wood, clawing at it feebly.

You can feel his breath on your cheek, hot and damp. You can feel his torso pressing against your back as he kneels behind you.

I will not die today

Mustering all your remaining strength, you trash against him, ramming your backside into his stomach. He grunts and for a split second, his grip loosens. It is all you need. Throwing your elbow back, you hit him in the chest and he caves in.

You cough, crawling forward and then scrambling back onto your feet, one of your negligée’s straps falling down your shoulder in the process. You hastily pull it back up, seconds before John launches a cascade of punches onto you.

A few of them hit you as you try to block them; dull pain igniting in your body, blooming in your face and arms. Your breath goes heavy as you stumble backwards. You cannot do this. There is no way. You just physically can't.

He is stronger. Taller. Heavier. Deadlier. Your body and every single muscle, bone, nerve in it aches and you wheeze but he is already onto you again, half-tackles you and grabs your waist, ready to smash you back onto the ground.

You cling onto him with all your remaining strength, struggling against his huge frame, wrapping your hands around his neck in an attempt to get him to stumble.

His hair tingles on your naked arms. Oh wait --

Tearing at his hair - which has him grunting in both, pain, and irritation at the unusual attempt - you clumsily pull yourself up onto his shoulders, cutting his face right above his eyebrow with your nails in the process until you finally wrap one leg around his throat and close it around there tightly, choking him. John tries to pull you off him and succeeds after quite the tussle, only to find your frame clinging to him, legs and arms wrapping around his body, hands scratching and feet kicking.

I will not fucking die today

In an attempt to either get rid of each other or submit the last blow, to finally kill the other, you two swirl through the room - a deadly dance of torn skin, smashed glass panes and mirrors, bruises and cuts. Somewhere in between kicks and punches, he managed to pick up his gun - and right now, you are mustering all of your exhausted strength to prevent the barrel from pressing against your skull.

Eventually, John crashes your bodies through a large wooden door, and is not quick enough - unable to stop his own oxe-like strength - to stop himself from stumbling into the room. The two of you only come a halt as his knees hit something soft and ironically that is what finally topples both of you over, landing onto the mattress of your bedroom with a soft thud and deep, exhausted grunts.

Your ears ring, and you are ready to lash out at him again despite the physical exhaustion, to strike him square across the face, as --

There is something hard pressing against your crotch.

The world falls silent.

No. No, there's no fucking way. It's got to bea hidden weapon. Must be.

But clearly, it is not. There, between your spread legs, his hard cock presses snugly against your panty-clad pussy.

And he just feels so huge - mouth-watering huge - that your body responds in its own way, hips snapping up, stuttering against the hard bulge. John lets go off a shaky, ragged breath, hand still clutching his gun. And you know, that this is your window.

Feeling the warmth that his body and his hard dick are radiating through his expensive suit, you roll your hips once - a languid, slow motion, rubbing your pussy over his bulge.

And he groans. A deep, primal sound that sounds a little coarse. John is looking at you, starring you down, but there is a shadow dancing over his eyes, turning his brown eyes into deep and dark, black pits that gives him away.

He is horny. The Boogeyman is fucking horny. You would laugh, if the realization wasn't knocking all air straight from your lungs. Because it just another reminder, proof of what he actually is: human.

And what a sight he is to see - eyes turning darker every second, his chest heaving with every breath and making it seem like his shirt is going to pop a button or two any second now, his cock prodding against its restraints and your clothed cunt.

It makes you want him. The thought leaves you dizzy, makes you gasp.

Apparently, that is all he needs to roll his hips back into yours. And that - that is just unfair. It's playing dirty. It's, it's -- His dick feels huge as it trails along your folds, has the muscles in your abdomen clenching.

"Fuck", you breathe, a little overwhelmed with and helpless at the sudden surge of lust that ignites your body, the wetness pooling between your legs.

John is not saying anything, just stares you down while he continues to slooowly roll his hips into yours, grinds his cock against your cunt. Your pelvis twitches upward as you start to meet his movements, and then you can hear it. He let's go of a deep breath, and it sounds like the faintest moan.

You need to hear more of that. You need more of him, your cunt aching and hole clenching around nothing already.

"John", and this time you say his name - consciously - it sounds a different way of desperate: your voice reduced to a small whisper, torn at the edges by a wanton whimper ripping from your throat.

If it throws him off-guard he does not show it, does not let you see it. Instead, he grabs your chin hard, gaze locking with yours. Dark pupils blown wide, swallowing the honey-brown of his eyes, and your breath hitches.

"Yeah?", he rasps, and it does not take more than one long look from you for him to lean in, to press his lips onto yours.

The kiss tastes of blood and adrenaline and doom, and you relish in it. Relishing the way his lips move against yours and his beard tickles a little, relishing how his tongue presses into your mouth. It feels like he is eating you whole, licking into your mouth, one hand dancing over your waist - featherlight, like he doesn't know how to touch a body without hurting someone, destroying someone.

I will not die today, motherfucker

Your whole body now sings with it, the security of an impending victory, as you roll your hips into his once more, your tongue now licking back into his mouth. For a second you think about how to strike again, now that he is seemingly distracted, but all will to fight leaves your body as one of his hands brushes over your knee, wanders further and eventually rests on your thigh.

The touch is electrifying and then his hand grows braver, his movements more certain, as he grabs your thigh, feels you up. It happens so suddenly, that you gasp into the kiss.

John parts from you, his lips a little plush already. "Oh God", you whisper as you stare Death Turned Human straight in the face, not a single thought remaining in your skull despite your lust.

He doesn't speak, as he gently let’s go off your leg and straightens back up and for a second you think he is going to hurt you, with the way his brows are furrowed - but he doesn't.

Instead, he moves in, right over your comparably tiny frame - a mountain of a man. John kneels above you, his weight pinning you down while he straddles your thighs and Jesus fucking Christ - what a sight he is to see.

Dark locks falling into his forehead, a little sticky with sweat and the bits of blood from the cut your nails gave him moments ago - right above his left eyebrow, still lazily trickling down into his lashes. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, as he hastily gets rid of his jacket, carelessly drops it to the ground. His black button-down clings to his muscular body underneath his waistcoat and his equally as muscular thighs pin you down to the bed, black fabric nearly tearing at the seams. And then there is his hard cock.

It looks as huge as it felt, with the way it bulges his pants, the outline of it clearly visible as it buckles proudly against its restraints. You are certain, you will not be able to close your hand around it fully - not a chance.

One of his hands - the one lacking a finger, which you only now notice and what sends shivers down your spine - wanders over your body, pulling your negligée down in the process, right tit spilling out of the soft silk. He immediately grabs it, cups it with his large hand and squeezes. You mewl, marveling at just how big his hand is, just as his whole body is in comparison to you. His fucked-up finger digs into the flesh, sending shivers down your spine.

John's hand gropes your tit, before he impatiently pulls the neckline down roughly. You sigh, arousal shooting down your spine and tingling in your lower belly, as two of his fingers nudge your nipple, pinch it.

He watches your face intently, as he continues to grope you, rolls your nipple between his fingers. You mewl, breath accelerating a little but it is just not enough and you buck your hips upwards. John grunts in, what you assume is an approving manner, and let's go off your tit, reaches to his belt at his loins.

Quickly pulling a knife from God-knows-where exactly, a sharp blade enters your vision.

You blink, panic seeping through your lust and your legs twitch a little with fear. If John notices it, he neither shows it nor does he say anything, just moves the knife closer to your body.

The blade shines in the dim light as it dances over your exposed thighs carefully, the metal cooly pressing against your skin, before he flicks it and cuts your negligée open. The thin, soft fabric cleanly cut in half it now lazily slides from your aching body, falls to its sides. Your chest heaves, shivers running down your arms and back.

It happens so quickly that you can only blink. As your brain finally catches up with your eyes, you come to realize that he is holding a real fucking tactical knife. You have thrown one once - they are sharp as hell and deadlier than a bullet. The sound of fabric tearing easily, like paper, proves your point.

And John's movements with the blade are so fast that your breath hitches, a little afraid he might cut you. But he does not, instead, he quickly pulls the torn silk off you and away from under you, carelessly tosses it into the dark of the room.

The edge of the blade dances over your skin and you do not dare to breathe, as he trails it up and down your curves, gently nudges your nipples. "I could kill you", he says calmly and then, in lightning speed, presses the blade into the crook of your neck. Your head sinks back into the mattress, in an instinct to flee the sharp edge.

All it does is to expose your neck further and something gleams in John's eyes, as he presses the sharp tip down slowly, carefully nudging your skin with it. The metal is cold and hard and sharp and your breath hitches. Just a little bit more and it might burst your skin, draw blood.

But, to your own confusion, you do not feel threatened anymore. Oddly enough, your nerves tingle with excitement. You blame it on the already high levels of adrenaline that still pump through your veins, rushing back and forth from your brain and your lungs, but a small voice inside of your head whisper gently, deviously, that you know That's not it. And he knows it, too.

It's in his eyes as well, the sheer excitement of it all, the fucked-up pleasure it evokes in the both of you lays heavy in the air.

It turns you fucking on. It turns you on, that the man who - minutes ago - tried you kill you and did hurt you very fucking badly in the process of it, now decides to let you live.

It turns you on, that you are at his mercy.

It turns you on, that he decided to spare you - just for now.

It turns you on, that these large and strong hands holding the knife have that sort of power over you. And thus, as the blade nudges your head back further, you moan.

"I could cut your throat", John's voice is heavy and thick with arousal and you can feel your heartbeat picking up, breath accelerating. His gaze drops down, watches the rapid rising and falling of your breasts hungrily, while another soft moan escapes from your lips.

"Don't", you breathe softly.

The knife practically burns on your skin, and you can feel arousal flooding your clothed pussy, rubbing your thighs together for any sort of friction. John can feel your squirming underneath him, but he can also see your eyes turning watery and dark with lust, pupils blown and a pretty pink spreading on your cheeks, your breath growing shallow. And he just really needs to fucking taste you right now.

As quickly as it appeared, the blade vanishes from your throat before he twirls the knife like the ruthless, reckless professional that he is, and buries it deep to the hilt in the mattress next to you. The sharp sound as it pierces the thick fabric has the hairs on your body standing up, goosebumps rolling over your skin.

"I'll do it later", he rumbles - casually, like he is talking about doing chores or picking up groceries - before hunching over you, grabbing your chin with his fucked-up hand, and kissing you again. His tongue immediately pushes into your mouth, like he is starving to taste you.

John eats you whole, with the way his lips move against yours. His hand cups your face, tongue licking into your mouth, toying with yours. His kiss steals your breath and you start to get dizzy with it, hips bucking. You can feel his lips curling up and then he parts from you, leaving you a gasping mess, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

"Let me touch you, John", you whisper, voice a little small because you do not know why you feel that way, and if he will even allow it. But you just need to feel him.

For a long moment his gaze dances over your face and something shifts behind his eyes, like a shadow gets lifted and then very quickly returns. Ultimately, he gives a court nod, so small you nearly miss it and gives you a little more room while straightening back up.

Carefully, as if not to spook him, you dart one hand out, place it on his chest. The muscle is firm underneath his suit and you run your hand along the lapel of his jacket, down and then back up, before it slips beneath it.

John's body radiates warmth under the black fabric of his shirt and your other hand comes up, before you shove the jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor next to the bed.

Your breath hitches.

He is wearing a holster, a reminder of his deadliness, of the gun laying somewhere next to you. Maybe, he sees the fear returning in your eyes, but he is quick to shrug the holster off, throws it into the dark where it clatters onto the wooden floor boards. What is left in front of you are broad shoulders and a muscular chest, the fabric nearly tearing at his movements.

As you run your hands over it, you cannot help yourself - you need to fucking feel him for real.

Quickly making work of his waistcoat and tie you toss both to the side carelessly, before your hands roam his broad chest. His button-down clings snugly against his upper body and you can feel the muscles work beneath the black fabric as your hands brush over them. You tug at the shirt, pulling its tails from his pants before hastily opening the first few buttons. The skin underneath is pale, littered by blue - red - black bruises, birthmarks scattered in between like stars. You pop open the rest of the buttons, greedy to touch him. And as the shirt falls to the sides your hands are already onto his chest, roaming over and admiring the muscular, defined canvas of strength, that violence has painted a pretty picture on.

John is watching you intently as you undress him and then explore his body, your pupils blown wide and dark, mouth agape a little. He is a little taken aback by it - by someone not seeing his body as the ultimate tool of death that it is, but as something else, that he cannot really pinpoint because he can't even look in the mirror without seeing destruction and decay. But the way your gaze wanders over his body, the way you touch him, is different from that and he has not felt anything like it in years.

And John wants. Carnal desire tugs at his brain, shoots arousal between his legs, makes his cock twitch and a low growl escaping his throat.

The sound gets you going: pushing yourself up with one hand, the other wrapping around his strong neck for leverage as you sit up, mouth immediately clutching to his throat. He tastes of sweat and after-shave - sharp and musky - and you run your tongue over his skin greedily, licking and sucking at the skin while your naked body presses against his.

It disarms him. The gentle touch that you put his body up to, while everything still aches from plowing through the better half of your father's militia and beating the hell out of you, confuses him. Your touch, your lips on his skin are soft and not aiming to hurt - instead, they grow more and more needy, wanton and hasty, as you lick over his bruised skin, tasting his sweat. Your hands over his abdomen caress his defined muscles, in awe of his utter strength, thumbs brushing through the soft and dark trail of hair leading beneath the waistband of his trousers. And all John can do, is watch, his gaze locking with yours as goosebumps erupt on his skin.

And you - oh you; your head swims with the way you turn this animal into a human again, unlock a different set of animalistic needs within him and hearing John's breath growing heavy really fucking does it for you, feeling his scarred and beaten-up skin underneath your hands, wrapping them around the deadly machine that is his body. It makes you want more.

Shedding his blood-stained shirt off of his shoulders, your hands roam over his upper back - feeling the scars there: of knives, larger and small ones and round ones of bullets that once pierced his skin. There is something else, a burn scar, in the shape of a cross and he hisses as your fingers brush over it, nails digging into the stunted skin.

It pulls John out of his stasis, reminds him of who he is and you can feel the air swinging with it seconds before he moves. His large hands wrap around your shoulders and then he pulls you off him, throws you back onto the mattress. You yelp, eyes growing wide as you watch his face as it turns from lightly dazed back to stern, wild, with his brows furrowed.

"That's enough", he says, voice coarse and it still feels like a small victory, even though he spreads your legs roughly, hands digging deep into your thighs - hard enough to bruise - before he kneels between them. He yanks your body forward at the back of your knees, watches your tits bounce and then leans in, his lips immediately attacking your throat, your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft against your skin, his beard tickling a little as it brushes over your tits, your stomach, your thighs while his tongue licks fat stripes over your nipples and down down down your upper body, right to your navel. One of his hands creeps up your body once more and roughly cups your tit, squeezes, and gropes it, rolls your hardened nipple between his index and middle finger. His stunted ring-finger digs deep into your tit and you gasp, hips bucking. John's lips suck and nibble at your skin, before eventually ghosting over your pubic bone, teasing you before assaulting your thighs again, teeth biting down gently into the soft flesh. You gasp and moan while he gropes your body, inhales your scent - as you watch how his lips, tongue, and teeth dance over your thighs, moving closer to your cunt.

John finally, finally, puts his mouth onto your pussy, peppers open-mouthed kisses around your clit, before clothing his lips around it and sucking on it hard through your panties. Your hips buck as a high-pitched moan erupts from your throat, hands flying into his greying locks.

"Fuck", you whine, feeling fresh wetness flooding your folds, dampening the thin fabric further. John can see the outlines of your wet pussy pressing against your panties and parts from your clit momentarily, only to lick a fat stripe over your clothed cunt, watching it twitch.

"That's fucking pretty", he rasps, gaze locking with yours and you feel all air leaving your lungs. His eyes are so fucking dark, like gleaming black pits swallowing you whole, his breath a little flat with arousal.

You want him to fuck you. Really fuck you. To plow you open, rail you until you cannot sit nor walk. He is already so so close to you, but too far away at the same time. "Please", is all you manage to utter out. And it seems to be sufficient enough for him; seems to get across what you want, what you need.

John's fingers wrap around the front of your lace slip, tugging at the fabric - that rubs along your cunt at the sudden motion and has you gasping quietly - and then he pulls. The lace tears easily as he rips it apart, and cool air hits your wet and hot pussy, as he practically peels you out of your underwear, throws it to the side. The look on his face is wild and you can hear him taking a deep breath, smelling your arousal, before he spreads your folds apart with his thumbs, gaze wandering over your plump and flushed cunt.

Teasingly brushing over your clit with his thumb, John watches your reaction intently. And fuck, you do not disappoint. Throwing your head back, you moan, drawing in a deep breath through your opened mouth that heaves your chest, your eyelids fluttering.

You are dying for him to touch you and as he does, it feels like your body catches fire - lust washing away the dull pain in your limbs and near your ribs.

"Oh God", you breathe out as his thumb draws another wide and slow circle over your clit, your hands darting out and grabbing the sheets "Please."

And John complies, his thumb rubbing over your clit in a slow but steady rhythm.

Gasping, your hands clutch the sheets, knees darting away from each other, giving him more space. John accepts the invitation, grabs one thigh hard, fucked up ring-finger digging deep into your skin. His fingers move further, abandons your clit and dance over your folds, down to your hole. It flutters as two of his digits tease it, gently circling around it.

"Please", you whine once more, lifting your hips a little, a desperate noise leaving your throat. John smirks to himself, before pushing two of his fingers into you.

The stretch is sudden and bigger than expected and you moan coarsely, as he pushes his digits along your walls deeply and nestles them into your seeping hot cunt up to his knuckles. And Jesus, you feel so full already; your head swimming as you consider how big his cock must feel, then.

Your breath goes quick and shallowly as he starts to move them, and then he leans in. Nudges your clit with the tip of his tongue, licks over it.

You feel like combusting on the spot: your nerves tingling with arousal, your whole body still aching from the beating you gave each other earlier - the pain in your back blooming as you stretch it with your hips desperately shoving themselves near his touch - your pussy squeezing his fingers.

John pumps his thick fingers in and out of you, his tongue rubbing and circling your clit and soft, needy moans fall from your lips. Obscene, wet sounds fill the air, mingle with your moans and heavy breathing. His lips close in around your clit, sucking at it while his fingers rub along your spongy walls and your cunt squeezes them hard as fresh wetness floods your folds, your squirt wetting his beard and dripping down on the sheets below.

You can hear - feel - John humming against your pussy, peppering the wet skin with open mouthed kisses, licking over it, and tasting your slick.

You feel so fucking good - lust pulsating through your veins, loins on fire - and your head falls to the side, body rocking with sharp gasps and your mouth agape, eyelids fluttering as --

There's the gun. And the knife.

You could easily grab either one or the other next to you, pull the blade out of the matress or the hammer back; put a bullet right between his eyes or plow the blade deep deep into his skull. Killing the Boogeyman. Killing Baba Yaga.

That would do wonders to your family's business. It would emancipate you from it, you would be free. Free to rule.

"Thinking 'bout killing me?", John rumbles, tongue licking a fat stripe over your cunt, nudging your clit. Your gaze flickers back to him: hair a mess, eyes gleaming darkly, hands on your thighs to keep your legs spread. He does not look surprised. Neither does he look worried.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head: he is toying with you. Has been the whole fucking time. The wolf hunting the deer, running a few rounds through the woods to weaken it; its breath whistling with exhaustion, long legs buckling before it collapses - an easy kill. An easy kill for an old wolf, one, that can't quite handle a real hunt anymore.

But maybe, just maybe - judging from the look in his eyes - he got lost in his own game. Its reins slipped from his bloody hands, the wolf tumbling to the ground.

Looking back at him, your lips curl into a sweet smile. "Not anymore", your hand darts out, brushing the loose strands of dark hair from his face - the soft gesture leaving him visibly confused -, "John."

Two can play this game. And maybe, just maybe, the deer can tire the wolf out first.

Something gleams in John's eyes, dances over them like a shadow and he seems to accept the challenge - readying to tire you out - tongue licking over your clit once more, making you shiver and mewl, as he pulls his fingers out of your dripping hole. You feel empty and --

"Do you really think, you could kill me?", he rumbles, voice deep and rough around the edges, "Stupid slut."

And then, quicker than your brain can process it, his hand comes down on your dripping wet pussy.

Your breath hitches, topples over and leaves your throat as a raw, needy moan. Softly stinging pain blooms between your folds and sets your nerves on fire. Blame it on the bruises, blame it on the pain you both inflicted on each other moments ago, but: it riles you up. Mingles with your aching bones and aching cunt, has you arching your back.

"Y'really think you could kill me", he doesn't sound offended, not even amused - voice plain, like he is inquiring if you really believed the earth to be flat. Like you really are stupid.

And you start to feel stupid, too. There was never a chance. You never had a chance. Your death was sealed, determined the second John stepped into the hotel.

You were stupid to believe you could outrun or beat him. You are stupid. And John has every right to show you, teach you, punish you for it.

Giving your cunt another firm slap, John watches your hips twitch, hears your pussy squelching and soft moans falling from your lips. "Shit", you sigh and he slaps your wet pussy once more, feels your slick folds wetting the palm of his hand.

"D'you like that, girl?", and as your only response are wanton gasps falling from your mouth John chuckles deeply, gives your pulsating cunt another two firm slaps. Seeing how he is pulling you apart, how good he makes you feel really seems to do it for him, gets him quite talkative.

"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, quite illiterate, watching him stroking your flushed, hot cunt with two of his fingers. Shivers run down your spine.

And then he leans back in, licks a fat stripe over your sensitive, flushed cunt, from the hole up to the clit.

You squirm, mewl as his beard brushes over your overstimulated skin, leaving a slight burn that mingles deliciously with a fresh wave of arousal that floods your body scalp to toes.

The muscles in your abdomen clench as two of his fingers circle your fluttering hole and then push in, rubbing along your plush walls agonizingly slowly and you can feel yourself tightening around it. Your juices squelch from your cunt as you squirt against his tongue and your slick runs down your folds, wets his fingers and palm while his tongue laps at your pussy, tasting your sweetness.

John pushes is fingers deeper as you moan and sigh, hands fisting his hair and hips moving against his tongue, his digits thrusting into you.

"Oh god", you huff as his lips close in around your clit, sucking on it and the tip of his tongue flicking against it occasionally.

Another wave of fresh wetness floods your cunt as you squirt once more, wetting the sheets below, your slick running down John's wrist.

John parts from your clit, nudges it with his tongue, his beard glistening with your juices.

"Yeah, that's fucking it", another one of his thick fingers pumps itself into your tight little hole and his other hand - also slick with your juices - grabs your thigh, "That's a good girl."

You feel so full, your spine feels like it's on fire and your brain tingles with it, sends wave of pleasure down down down your body; muscles in your loins clenching, chest heaving. It becomes all too much as he leans back in, rubs his tongue over your clit, lips sucking and teasing your folds.

The slight burn of John's beard tickling your plush, hot cunt. His fingers working your open and stretching your tight little hole open far and wide, obscene squelching sounds filling the air as he works you open, brushing against your g-spot occasionally and making you see stars.

But it's too little. It's just not enough.

"Fuck", you whine as John's thick fingers brush over your g-spot with quite some force, tongue lapping at your seeping cunt, "Shit, please. Please, just fuck me, please!"

You can feel him grinning against your wet cunt, beard a little sticky with your juices, letting go of your pussy with an obscene pop. "Yeah", he licks his lips, tastes you on his tongue, "D'you want my cock?"

And that - that might be what makes you lose your mind. Because yes. Yes, you do.

You have been craving to touch it, to feel it since it had pressed against your clothed pussy earlier. Thus, all dignity leaves your body with one, clean whine that breaks free from your throat.

"Yes, fuck - oh god, John", you brabble, legs falling apart further, inviting him in, his digits sinking deeper into your soaking wet hole, "Shit, please fuck me, John - please, please, please --"

Pleas are still falling from your lips like a chant, as a surprising noise breaks the silence, so strangely beautiful that it has you nearly shuddering: John is laughing. It's a nice baritone sound, and the fine lines around his eyes crinkle with it - it's so beautiful, that it drowns the world out. You watch him in awe, as he shakes his head, avoids your gaze.

"Jesus. Look at you", he huffs, voice dripping thickly with amusement, "If you need it that badly--"

Straightening back up and kneeling between your legs, John slips his fingers from your cunt and makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers. The second he frees is cock, you start to drool like a fucking pavlovian-dog.

His dick is so fucking huge. It is nicely curved and cut, the bulbous pink head glistening with pre-cum and a thick, pumping vein at the bottom that rakes from the base to the tip, as it rests between trimmed, dark pubic hair. His cock bobs against his abdomen as it bounces free, smears the pre-cum along the pale skin, twitches at the sudden contact. And Jesus fucking Christ, you just want to fucking touch it, feel its velvety skin in your palm. But you just know that you won't even be able to wrap your hand around its base fully, it's impossible, it--

"I-it won't fit", you whisper, a little taken aback by his sheer size.

"Oh, I'll make it fit, baby."

John takes his cock in one hand, thumb right beneath its head, and rubs it against your slit. And Jesus fucking Christ. Your hips snap up, meet his movements, and he grunts while he spreads his pre-cum along your cunt, gathers your slick. The thick head of his dick prods against your entrance and you take a deep breath, looking down between your legs. You watch how he slooowly pushes in and you gasp at the sudden intrusion, the delicious stretch making you moan.

His cock feels so fucking big, hot, and heavy, as he nestles the tip in, your hole clenching around it. John's brows furrow, and he doesn't wait long until he pushes his cock in further.

The thick base starts to stretch your slim rings of muscles, a sharp pain shooting through it. He can feel your hole protesting, can see you wincing. "Breathe, baby", he hums, "Let me do the rest."

His coarse voice mingles with his words and the waves of pleasure shooting through your body despite the dull pain, conjures up a pretty pretty image that floods your brain - there's sunlight everywhere, orange rays of it hitting a bed covered in white sheets, sweaty bodies on top of it; limbs entangled, hands intertwined with their golden rings shining brightly in the warm light, heavy breathing and sloppy kisses, and lazy thrusts as his cock fucks you awake. The thought makes you dizzy, your legs falling apart and hole fluttering open, inviting him in.

The slight burn leaves you a gasping, whimpering mess as he pushes himself in deep, nestles his huge cock in between your aching, hot, and tight walls.

And John feels like he is going to pass out. No blow to the head, no bullet to the chest, no knife to the stomach could ever make him feel as dizzy as the feeling of your hot cunt squeezing him does right now. His whole body is vibrating with want and lust and he just really hopes that you don't notice that he has gotten a little rusty. The thought quickly gets drowned-out as he looks down, where his thick cock practically splits you open, vanishes in your hole.

"Shit", he huffs out, places one large hand on your stomach and thrusts. Feeling himself moving inside of you has him moaning, gaze shooting up to you, meeting your eyes, as his hand presses down. "You feel me right here, baby?", he rasps and you nod, mouth agape by the sheer force of his thrust, tip of his cock prodding your cervix.

John can see his cock moving inside of you, the way your stomach bulges a little. He gets a little dizzy with, and then his eyes make the mistake of moving up to your face. And it takes a whole lot of fucking will-power of him to not just thrust and thrust and thrust and fuck you until you cry, bleed.

You are so fucking pretty. Mouth agape you watch how his cock vanishes between your legs, splits your cunt open, with his eyes heavy-lidded and cheeks flushed. Your lips are plush and red from his assault.

Your hands grip the sheets and your breasts heave with your deep breaths, that grow a little more flaccid. Next to you lays his gun, knife still buried into the mattress. His eyes drop to the weapons and his breath hitches. And for a split second, like a flash of light, he wonders what in God's name he's doing here. He is a professional. The Ballerina works like that. He doesn't.

A sweet, sweet noise rips him out of his thoughts. "J-john", you mewl, eyes still trained on his massive dick splitting you open, "I-it, it's --"

"Yeah?", he breathes, the sound all soft and careful around the edges.

"Heavy", you breathe.

"Does it hurt?", he kind of wants it to. Make you pay for what you did to him. He kind of doesn't want it to. Make you enjoy what he's got to give.

John realizes he is fucked.

You nod, head flying back into the cushions, while your brows dart together.

John's free hand flies to your clit, nudges it gently, before slowly rubbing wide circles over it. You gasp, as you feel fresh wetness flooding your cunt and dripping down your folds to where his cock splits your hole open, pools around it. He carefully pulls out a little and then pushes back in, assisted by your slick. The way you moan spurs him on and the circles on your clit grow faster and smaller.

Aching your back, you lean into the touch. "That's a good girl", he whispers, voice raw and coarse, dripping with lust and the exhaustion of holding back. John bottoms out, while continuing to rub your clit and he can feel your walls growing plush, your hole fluttering around his dick, relaxing with your hot, seeping cunt inviting him in. "Feels good?"

"Yeah, fuck", you feel like you are being split open, with his thick cock filling you to the brim and rubbing along your walls with every little movement, the thick head prodding gently against your cervix, "Shit, John."

It feels so fucking good, all thoughts being washed away from your brain as he starts to move carefully, thrusts into you once, twice. You moan, lips slightly parted, before your gaze flies to him.

And Fuck. John's chest is flushed a little, muscles of his abdomen flexing with every thrust while his gaze is trained down to where his cock fucks into you, brows darted together a little and his breathing audible.

"John?", you whisper, and his gaze immediately shoots up to you as your comparably tiny hand wraps around the wrist of his hand that is still rubbing your clit.

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me."

For a long moment, he just looks at you and you think - no, you are convinced - that you can see a glimpse of the human being he once was. Caring, sweet and gentle; as he seems to really take it into consideration if you are ready yet, if you know what you are begging for.

Apparently, he does deem you prepared enough, and the soft gaze gets replaced by a dark gleam as all gentleness vanishes from his face once more. Without a warning, John rolls his hips back only to thrust into you again, deep, and hard, immediately picking up a quick rhythm.

It comes as a genuine surprise to you and you gasp, mewling but it quickly feels just so fucking good, practically lights your body up and leaves every nerve-ending on fire, each thrust has you moaning loudly.

It spurs him on, makes him grunt and for a while, you both just watch him gliding in and out of your tight hole, with him feeling your muscles squeezing him and you feeling his cock stretching your open further and further. Your lips as slightly parted and his brows are furrowed as he rolls his hips into yours and you feel time getting lost on you, the only thing of importance remaining is the feeling of him filling you up. John's hands roam your body, wandering over your thighs and your stomach, your hips before angling your leg, pushing the heel of your foot on his shoulder, and grabbing your ankle with one hand, his dick slips into you even further, balls slapping against your ass heavily with each thrust.

You can tell that John has not fucked in a long, long time. It's not the way he does it - all fluid, languid thrust of his hips, muscles dancing under the soft skin. It's mostly the way he pants and grunts - sounds just as desperate as you feel. And still, he has the stamina of a racehorse.

You can feel that he wants to prove it, too, as his free hand grabs your thigh and hoists your other leg over his hip bone, practically pulling your lower half off the bed in the process. Your pelvis now clings to his, obscene sounds of his cock fucking into your wet pussy filling the air while he huffs with his thrusts, yet does not slow down.

The grip on both, your ankle and your thigh are hard, and you are certain his hands will leave a bruise but you just cannot bring yourself to care. Deep down you know, that someone will see them: your maids, your friends, your family.

But all thoughts, all worries get swapped from your brain as your gaze wanders up from where John's dick hammers into you steadily, rakes over his defined stomach and chest and finally, finally lands on his face.

He looks downright, utterly, and breathtakingly -- pornographic.

John's dark pupils blown wide gleaming with arousal, his cheeks are slightly blushed and a thin layer of sweat makes him glow in the dim light of the living room falling onto the bed. It surrounds him like a halo, a Saint of Death and Decay, with his dark hair falling into his forehead and onto his shoulders. He brushes it out of the way with his stunted hand, a ragged breath making his chest heave. There is still some of your slick wetting his beard.

You can't help your mind from going there, from wondering how different things could have been. What it would be like if you had met me in a bar instead of him entering your suite, leaving the hallway behind him looking like a slaughterhouse. Maybe he would have laughed at your jokes, in the dim light of your favorite bar in the city. Maybe he would have liked the same music as you do. Maybe, just maybe, he would have brought you home only to stay the night and fuck you until you would have lost your goddamn mind.

Your hand wanders down your body, strokes your waist and hip in the process, before it languidly drops between your spread legs, two fingers darting out and rubbing circles over your sensitive clit.

John moves quickly, his usual deadly precision shattering your peaceful fantasy, his hand ditching your thigh and closing in around your waist. "Don't you fuckin' touch yourself", he growls, and it's the first time you hear real, actual emotion dwelling in his throat - not his toneless, cold and mechanical rumble. He sounds pissed. Offended.

And the best part is: it seems to get him fucking going.

John leans in, your calf still resting on his shoulder and the slight pain of the stretch is delicious as he nearly folds your body in half. You can feel his dick sliding in even deeper into your hole and you gasp and whine, one hand coming up to dig into his biceps to just hold on. Hold on, while he pounds into you with perfectly angled, deep and strong thrusts, hitting your g-spot with every single one of them.

You know that the suite's door is in shambles, that anyone could walk in here and see you having your brains fucked out by the man who is here to kill you - but you don't care. Part of it is, because the gun is still resting next to your head on the sheets. You could just grab it and shoot anyone dead in heartbeat, whoever is trying to disturb the pleasure that shoots through your body.

But it is also him.

It's the way John is towering over you, back hunched, looking all wide and powerful and deadly, with the way he shields your body from view and harm as he thrusts into you. As he pushes all his rage, adrenaline, and strength into your tight hole, groans, and pants into your ear.

There is nothing you can do, despite holding onto him, nails digging into his back, clutching his broad shoulders, fingers running over his tattoos desperately. He is fucking the living daylight out of you, your body moving like a ragdoll underneath the mountain of muscles and strength. Your cunt is being split open by his cock, as you feel him hammering into you and you feel like you are going to lose your mind, panting and moaning with each of his thrusts.

"John, fuck", you moan sweetly, eyes rolling into your skull as he pounds into you, "You feel so fucking good, shit --"

"Yeah", he huffs, his forehead slowly sinking onto yours, "You too, baby."

You can see his eyelids fluttering, feel his upper body heaving beneath your hands, smell the blood on his skin, mingling with his musky scent. Blaming it on the sickening cocktail of hormones that is flooding both - your brain and your body - you lean in, your lips desperately smacking against his.

And Jesus Fucking Christ. Does John kiss you.

Kisses you like he is starving for it, licking back into your mouth - his body pressing yours into the mattress with his whole weight and muscle, while still thrusting into you.

Your hands tangle into his hair, tugging at it. John moans against your lips and your stomach flutters at the sound, and you want more. One hand moves to lay at the crook of his neck and your tongue presses against his, licking back into his mouth. Adding some force to his neck you invite John deeper into the kiss, and he follows suite, steals you the last bit of air your lungs were holding. Panting you part from him, thumb brushing over the crook of his neck.

Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself. You feel so alive and you want him to wreck you, to leave something behind that you will remember for every day your heart continues to beat. Greedily breathing against his lips, you can't help yourself but to whisper: "Harder."

John blinks, hips stuttering. And then, he grunts. His hand digs into your waist as he grabs you there, hold you in place will his hips rut into you. Picking up a near brutal rhythm, obscene sounds of your slick being pushed in and out and in out of your hole as he jackhammers into your g-spot, the bedframe rattling as John's thrusts pound it into the wall - leaving you a gasping and moaning mess. His belt clinks with his thrusts and you cling onto him, sharp whines escaping your throat.

"John John John", his name leaves your mouth like a mantra, sharp and high-pitched. His head falls forward, dark locks brushing over your cheek as his temple rests against yours and then you hear it.

John moans.

It's a deep, carnal sound. Your stomach flutters and lust shoots through your body at the noise, your tight cunt squeezing his thick cock as you squirt around his cock like a broken fucking hose, wetting his pubic hair. You can feel it rubbing along your wet folds, the sensation making you mewl, leaves your hips shuddering.

"Shit", you breathe, hands cradling his muscular back and then you can feel his dick twitching inside of you, accompanied by yet another one of his sweet, sweet moans, "Fuck, John--"

He raises his head and your gazes connect, before he leans in, presses his lips onto yours once more. The kiss is surprisingly soft and in stark contrast to the way he ruts and pounds into you and then he hits the spot once more and -

Everything goes white as your muscles clench and unclench suddenly, as you nearly scream against his lips; your hole practically milking his cock as you cum, pussy gushing and squirting around him like a broken hose.

John continues to fuck you through your orgasm and his heavy breathing reaches your ears through the cotton candy, that slowly wraps you in as everything turns light and bright. He moans deeply against your cheek as he comes, too - shoots hot ropes of cum into you and paints your walls with it.

His movements still as he buries himself deep into you, cock twitching with each thick rope of his cum and you can feel him fill you up, as his massive frame slowly sinks down onto you.

Your legs grow heavy and the stretch of your left leg is turning painful and you - a little clumsily - pull it away from his shoulder, stretch it out. Your limbs start to shake and you close your eyes, drawing in deep breaths through your nose.

The room is silent, the air heavy with the musky scent of sex.

Your chest still heaves with the remains of your orgasm, bliss still spreading in your brain and your veins, making you feel like you are flying. Your heart is still racing, as you feel him moving again.

Blinking up at him, you can see him grabbing the gun.

"Don't", you say softly, voice coarse from screaming your lungs out in pleasure just moments ago, "Please, don't." You are not ready to scream yet again. Not ready to scream in pain, instead of pleasure.

John does not reply. He pulls the hammer back, checks the chamber - all with one hand.

"Kill him instead, please."

He freezes, eyes locking with yours. "Who?", he sounds just as exhausted as you. The wolf, tired out. The deer, bleeding, limping.

Call it Post Nut Clarity, call it Finally Taking Your Future In Your Own Hands, call it Emancipating Yourself. Call it Having Wrapped A Deadly Assassin Around Your Pinky.

You were not safer here. You never were. Just more isolated. Easier to locate.

Easier to kill.

Realization hits you like a blow to the head, your vision swimming.

See? I will not die today.

"My father. Kill him."

#i'm back girlies #john wick smut #john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick imagine #smut #my writing #keanu reeves #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves smut

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aliaology · 6 months

Text

NOW THAT WE DONT TALK

summary: jack realizes yns music is quite literally a call out, directed towards him, and his brothers egg it on. pt.3

series masterlist

“i called my mom, she said ‘that it was for the best!’ remind myself the more i gave, you’d want me less”

jack could’ve hit his head against the counter ten more times and the song would still be ringing through his ears like a splinter that wouldn’t come out of his hand.

quinns hand made contact with the back of jacks head. “knock it off, jack.”

jack groaned, shoving his head into his arms. he groaned again, this time the noise being muffled due to the his arm. “she wrote a song about me, quinn.”

quinn rolled his eyes. “you don’t know its about you” he told.

jack scoffed, head shooting up. “she literally called me out. the parties, that stupid red sea reference, even the chorus. its so obviously me. and then her newer single that dropped thirty minutes ago?’

quinn shrugged, “could be about trevor”

jack rolled his eyes, “no way in hell, quinn. they never hooked up and her newer one is about some guy hooking up with her later on—“

“you sound obsessed, jack.” quinn told. jack looked down, embarrassed.

“whats jack obsessed with?” trevor asked, walking inside the kitchen. he stole a grape from jack and popped it into his mouth.

“y/n’s song” quinn spoke.

trevor scoffed, “why are you so hung up on it? its just music.” trevor shrugged.

“hes upset because hes getting called out.”

jack groaned again, head hitting the counter.

quinn rolled his eyes again. “you’ve gotta stop doing that dude. listen— she probably made these ages ago and just now got to releasing them.”

trevor popped another grape in his mouth. “not too sure about that, but i know she started writing them when you two broke up.”

luke slowly walks in. “seriously? you guys are torturing the man talking about his ex.”

jack nods, signifying lukes words to be true.. luke goes into the cupboard to grab a plate. “just ignore it.” he shrugged.

trevor snorted. jack sent the boy a glare, causing his laughter to abruptly stop. “how can i just ignore it? shes getting big and her music is everywhere already.” he asked.

quinn gave him a look. “then face it, jack. you can’t keep putting yourself in denial for something you caused.”

jack let out an exasperated groan for the 100th time. “gee, thanks quinn. way to make me feel better.”

“dont start giving him shit, jack.” luke spoke.

jack rolled his eyes. “whatever, im going to my room.” he got up and went for the stairs.

all three boys looked around at each other. silence fell through the room. suddenly, the sliding door opens. “whats going on?” cole asked.

“quinn picked his side of the argument.” trevor spoke, slightly glaring at quinn.

quinn gave one back, “dont act innocent, trevor. you screwed her over too. you and jack need to own up to it and stop cowering like little kids. you are both in your twenties for fucks sake. grow up.”

quinn went off to his room, leaving a wide eyed group of boys behind.

jacks brows furrowed as he listened to the song in his earbuds. his girlfriend napped next to him as he sat up on the bed. he hates to admit it, but he kinda deserved this.

“lets fast forward to three hundred awkward blind dates later. if shes got blue eyes, i will surmise that you’ll probably date her. you dream of my mouth before it called you a lying traitor, you search in every model—“

he stopped the song, taking his earbuds out and tossing them to the floor. he cheated, and now was dating the girl he cheated with. it was sad, really.

fiona, she was a woman who loved money. jack, was a man who loved attention. maybe that’s why they were together. but she wasn’t horrible like people said, right?

quietly, he went to tik tok and made a fake account, that way she knew he didn’t stalk her profile. i mean— she has no idea he even uses it still.

jack searched fionas name up, ultimately clicking on her profile. she had one video up. he clicked on it.

ick ick ick ick

she was lip syncing that really terrible audio that went ‘he chose me, he dont want you. he chose me’ and honestly, jack was appalled.

but before he could open the comments, she started to wake up. he swiped out of the app and deleted it, tossing his phone to the side afterwards.

“hey baby.” he smiled.

now that we dont talk!

tags! @honethatty12 (if u want tags, just ask <3)

#hockey #jack hughes #nhl imagine #new jersey #new jersey devils #nhl #nhl hockey #quinn hughes #jack hughes x reader #luke hughes #trevor zegras #cole caufield #mitch marner

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foreficfandom · 3 months

Text

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (2/2)

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader)

(FIRST)

Like a VCR, the scene rewound to another memory. A slightly younger Alastor splattered in tomato juice, breathing hard as he sat crossed-legged upon the ground, tearing off small pieces of liver and forcing himself to swallow.

It rewound again. Alastor's first partaking after gaining his powers. Absolutely drenched in gore and on his knees in a puddle of blood. A torn up lump of indecipherable flesh clutched in half-mutated claws. He remembered he had sunk his hand into the man's opened abdomen and pulled out something. His pancreas, or just a bundle of muscle fiber. As sloppy a killing as his first one. It had taken several attempts before he would refine his work.

The room darkened and static was building. "What. Do you know," he growled.

You didn't answer, just took the pairing knife and, in a blink of an eye, flicked the blade underneath one of the glowing green threads pinning his mouth shut. Alastor's magic reacted violently to the intrusion, like the two of you were standing in a maelstrom. Shattered porcelain and wood splinters flew everywhere.

Just as you suspected, the thread did not yield to the knife's edge. No tool could cut Alastor's bonds, not even under your hands. His shackles were bound by his word, and only his word could break them.

Too bad they also held his tongue tightly so that he couldn't ever try.

You looked deep into his burning, blood-red eyes. "Oh, Alastor," you sighed, "what have you done?"

He didn't reply. Didn't move. He told himself he was overcome with indignation, but you knew he was terrified.

After all, what was a mere demon compared to a god? A lesson already learned thanks to the gash of holy magic still festering on his chest.

Using nothing but a soft breath, you forcibly calmed his magic whirlwind like light pressure upon a crying puppy's head. For the first time in nearly a century, Alastor felt … he felt.

With his weaponized despair slightly pushed aside, something of the original, weak man was revealed to still be curled up deep within.

The small saucepan of broth was beginning to bubble over, so you quickly released him to remove it from the heat. Alastor stood frozen to the spot.

Mortal men had predictable reactions to true power. The Radio Demon is no different.

Before he could think to dissolve away, or lash out desperately, or come to any other useless conclusion, you turned back and hovered a steady hand above his trembling, outstretched fingers. Slowly you touched him and allowed your warmth to penetrate his hollow flesh.

Several agonizing seconds passed. He finally turned his gaze at a snail's pace to stare at the point of contact.

The clammy slide of a corpse's arm as he dragged it through the bayou. The hot gush of arterial blood. The barely tolerated passing grip of polite handshakes. The loving touch of a long dead mother.

His smile pried itself open to take a shaking inhale. But still, no words came out.

He needn't speak, though. A wordless promise was clear. Bloodied demon he may be, but you were someone who will always grope and crawl blindly towards love even if the world fought against you. It was what powered your magic. True power couldn’t be fueled by flesh, or blood, or minerals or elements or words or fear or anger.

A cursed man bore his terrified gaze into your shining ones, asking one very important question. You relayed a yes through the squeezing of his fingers.

Now this, you thought warmly, is true entertainment.

#alastor #alastor the radio demon #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader

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ktsumu · 5 months

Text

THE CUT THAT ALWAYS BLEEDS

pairing: childe / tartaglia x f!reader wc: 4.4k

choosing to love him is choosing endless bloodshed; all of it is yours.

(alternatively — the metamorphosis of a god through the eyes of his keeper.)

warnings: suggestive / mentions of sex, nudity, profanity, angst, mentions of murder / death, ambiguous ending i think, almost canon compliant

note: 4.4k words and i don't think even this has a plot. WHO CARES dedicated to @shoyostar bc i never stop talking and @crysugu :3 here he is!

Before he was ever Tartaglia, eleventh of the Harbingers, he was a timid child.

He feared the simple things — speaking to neighbours, strangers, the mailman. He never went to the market alone, not without his parents, not without his older brother to hold his hand. Neighbourhood boys called him names and you called him sweeter things, bringing him in for hot chocolate because of his red eyes, holding his frozen hands in a lukewarm basin.

Your town was on the coast but he rarely saw the water; he was afraid of drowning and even more afraid of sinking, even though you could see the ice was six inches thick through the sides of the fishing holes scattered everywhere. Not even the men would crack it, fathers that ate at the head of the table, yet he thought he’d be the one. Nor did he trust anyone to save him.

Childe was Ajax before he was anything for anyone else, his name from myth. Eagle. He was born a Greek tragedy; hero, for most.

He was fourteen when he disappeared. Your mother said he’d come back home, kids get mad. Your father said a bear got to him, a weak thing like that — your whole neighbourhood looked for him after he vanished.

He was gone three days in the woods but he told you he’d been gone for months. He was underground; you asked if it was Hell but he said it was much more. When he crawled back up to Morepesok, he was a different person.

He looked you in the eye and told you he was finally ready to fight.

You didn’t believe he was lost for three months until you watched him hold a sword.

By the barrels on the fishing dock, boys fought with wooden blades. Girls would watch and sit on box crates, swaddled up to their ears, cheering on whichever one they liked that week. They’d watch as they hit each other, splinters snagging on coats, knuckles gone white from the cold and how tight they held their handles.

When Childe stepped up for the first time, they snickered at him. The boy who ran away from home, coming to join the sword fights. It was a joke and they laughed.

(You saw something in his eyes that day and it scared you. There is nothing more terrifying than a child with bloodlust.)

He beat the kid so badly that they put thirty stitches in his forehead, and you were left to do patchwork on the bomb.

Cutting coloured wires, you dabbed Childe’s red cheek with a warm cloth, wringing it out in the bowl of water that separates the two of you. He was calmer then, in front of you. Not that he wasn’t before; it was less of not being calm and more of craving victory, more of a test of his newfound gift.

“I told you to stop,” you mumbled, “hitting him, I mean.”

“I stop, he starts. I won.”

“What did you win? Where's your prize?”

Childe looked at you dumb, with his dumb childish eyes that no longer held hate. Maybe it was somewhere, hidden, beneath the water you drown in, but instead the surface held a glare of wonder. He was Ajax again, always hopeful.

He hissed when you dabbed his skin with something other than water, something that stung. “I—”

“No one wins in war, Ajax,” you scolded. “You’ll see someday.”

“I won’t be in a war.”

You scoffed, your hand gripping his jaw when he tried to run away. “We’ll see.”

You’re seventeen when he stumbles inside your house, the wooden door cracking against the wall as he slumps to the floor.

Your feet are cold when you step away from the wood stove in your living room, dropping to your knees, holding his face in your hands that are always so much warmer than his. They cradle his flushed cheeks, sweat beading on his forehead; he’s gripping at a pulse in his ribs.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, before you start to cry, “just tired. I’m just tired.”

He eases the door shut, his head tilting back against the wall. His hand rests on your knee, squeezing it like he’s grounding himself, counting on the fabric of your pants to do it for him. You touch the icy veins that run over his knuckles and he comes back to life.

“What happened to you?” you rush, your family asleep down the hallway. You turn the dial on the oil lamp beside you, watching the fire reflecting off of his dirty cheeks.

He laughs, pulling your wrist off when you smack your hand over his mouth with a lousy ‘alright, alright’ and a glance towards your parents’ bedroom. “Me?” he coughs out.

“You should see the other two.”

(You don’t know what told you first, but you remember going cold.)

“What do you mean?” you whisper. You can’t stop whispering, you can’t stop shaking. “Ajax, what did you do?”

Childe’s smile tilts itself crooked. “I killed them,” he says.

His voice is so quiet it cracks under the pressure to not be heard.

(He’s smiling, but he’s crying. It doesn’t look like he means to. He doesn’t know he is.)

You want to run. You notice the smear of blood on his jaw again—is that even his? His hand still clutches your knee but you only now notice the red his palm stains it with, the red on the side of his torso. You want to run.

(You should run.)

You don’t run. Because it’s Ajax, and he’s tired of running tonight. Why would you?

“It’s okay,” you say with a nod and a shiver, like shutters in a hurricane. You’re both crying, and he’s against your chest, and he’s still so fucking cold that it’s migrating to you. “Stand up. Ajax, stand up—”

“I can’t,” “You can, you need to get in the bath.”

“I’ll wake your—“

“If you were ever worried about that, you wouldn’t have come here, so Ajax would you please—“

He breathes out, muffling his groans as he staggers to his feet. You’re not of much help but at least your hands, your shaking hands, are telling him you’re there. And that’s enough.

“I love it when you say that,” he grimaces, shuffling towards the hallway. “My name.”

Childe misses your eighteenth birthday by ten minutes.

You ate dinner with your family at your favourite pub, his siblings wrote you cards and pulled your ears, you tied your hair loose and flirted with the pretty guy who fed the boat lines. You don’t like him all that much, but he looks nothing like your neighbour and for you, that is a fine enough reason to talk.

Stones hit your window at ten past midnight, and Childe stands in the snowy alley outside of your bedroom. He wields another pebble and tilts his head.

Your window’s too old for you to ignore me.

You pull on your coat and boots, scarf too because he talks too much, and head outside into the night, creeping out the back door. You cross your arms, walking over to where he stands just outside of the lamplight.

“Hiding?” you ask, stopping in front of him.

Childe laughs like nothing’s wrong, digging through his back pocket with his gloved hand, handing you a box. “Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday."

“Belated.”

You glance between his rosy cheeks and the box before you take it, looking towards the end of the alley to avoid his stare. Because guys like Childe don’t look away — you know better than to look back.

“Thank you,” you murmur, tucking your hands back into the warmth of your pockets.

Childe nods; you don’t open gifts in front of him, you know better than to do that, too. He knows better than to think you would.

You look at his hands, eyebrows furrowing. “Leather gloves?”

“So you noticed?”

“How? You couldn’t afford long johns last year.”

Childe grins. “I got a job.”

“At the tank house,” you say, crossing your arms. “Which, you had last year.”

The look in his eyes tells you he’s in deep — he doesn’t seem to care about it as much as you do. “I’m a Harbinger, now.”

“You—”

“I’m the youngest—” “You’re the dumbest,” you grit, sticking a finger in between his ribs. “You're eighteen — what kind of achievement is that?”

He takes a deep breath, his lungs pushing your finger back until it falls defeated. “I didn’t expect you to be happy, believe me.”

“Why,” you whisper, “would I ever be happy to watch you sell yourself to killers?”

“You know I’m no better,”

“Oh, Ajax, if you think that’s what I know then you’re more stupid than I thought.”

There’s no real reason to excuse the blood on his hands other than the fact that they’re so gentle when they hold yours.

There’s a voice down the alley and two drunk men in hats and coats wave your way. You grimace, but Childe waves back.

“This is why you’re outside. You don’t want them to know where you live.”

“Or where you live.”

You grit your teeth. “Yes, because it’s great that your allies are a threat your family.”

“You’re not my family,” he says, “that’d make things weird.”

Your eyes well and you swallow, looking back at the men who stare at both of you. They murmur amongst themselves and you try to ignore them, but it’s hard when Childe won’t look away.

A breeze of snow from the rooftops drifts over you, and you look at him one more time. The last, you try to pledge to yourself. “Don’t leave with them.”

“It’s too late now and you know it.”

“How the fuck would I know it?”

“Don’t cry,” he tells you, much softer now that he knows you didn’t realize it yet, “I’ll come home, I’m not gone forever. If anything, I’ll come back richer. No one will sleep cold.”

“You’ll come back to spoil your family with blood money?”

“I’d spoil you, too,” he adds, “but I know better than to try that.”

There is a heavy silence between the two of you. It isn’t the weight of his gold or the weight of him not coming home; it is the weight of lead, of gunpowder. The weight of the bullets that his two new friends that wait in the street have loaded.

Childe takes your arms, tugging your hands from your pockets, frowning at your white fingertips and cracking knuckles.

“Take these—”

“I don’t want your dirty paws,”

“Well, I don’t want your dry hands. And when I come home, I’ll need them.”

Childe drives the knife deeper, twists it through your chest, and slips off his gloves. He places them in your hands and just snickers when you pocket them. “No worries, I’ll just get a new pair.”

“Great.”

He nods, starting down the alley. He knows you well enough to understand that you don’t want to say goodbye, not when you know you’re saying goodbye to how things were before. Instead, he just calls over his shoulder.

“See you at Christmas?”

“Why even come back?”

“Right,” he chuckles. “I wanna see your gift next time, though.”

Then he leaves, and he doesn’t look at you again. You suppose he’s been trained to do that, but then again, you can’t remember a time where he has looked back at you, anyway. He’s never looked back at anyone before the end.

He comes home every Christmas, just like he promised.

Each time he does, he drags you out to a cabin outside of town, one so hidden in the woods that you almost thought he built it, and he fucks you like he missed you before he was gone. Not enough to leave the Fatui, but enough to come home once in a while. And once in a while is all you're gonna get, so you don't let it go.

He comes home, tells his family all about his life as a businessman, a toy salesman you once heard, and then sneaks you out so you can love him as loud as you want. Then, you eat the fish you bring, he tells you how much he missed the sturgeon in Morepesok, and he's gone before the sun comes up.

Childe lets you go with a tired breath, watching the fire beat against your glistening skin as you sit on the edge of the bed. The warmth of him courses through you like a river current and you fix your hair with weak hands, biting the tie that was around your wrist. “I feel your eyes, you’re not subtle.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he says simply. “You’re beautiful. More beautiful now.”

“You said that last year.”

“Next year, too.”

You roll your eyes, back straightening when he looms behind you, his naked body against yours. His hand sneaks around your waist and his lips press against your shoulder blade, kissing until he gets to the juncture of your neck and collarbone.

“Ajax,”

“I know,” he says against your skin, “gotta eat.”

“You’d think they would feed you in the castle.”

“Hardly a castle, sweetheart."

“That belt says otherwise,” you mumble, standing, making him let go. You pick up your underwear from the floor, too hot to wear anything else. “It’s custom.”

He snorts, flopping back down on the bed. “Birthday gift.”

“From who?”

“Ooh, jealous?”

“Of someone who doesn’t know who you are? No.”

Childe hums a laugh, giving a look in agreement to the ceiling that you catch out of the corner of your eye. He rests a hand on his chest, watching you sweat in the heat of the fireplace, smiling at the life he has for the next four hours.

He clears his raspy throat. “You finally wore it. The gift.” He snickers, “I only waited two years.”

You look over your shoulder at him, pulling your cami over your head. “I wasn’t gonna let money rot.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“What?”

“The stone. Do you know what it is?”

You stare, face hot. You’re partially embarrassed to not know, never having left Snezhnaya and let alone your town, but you’re curious enough to shake your head. Childe smiles like he knows that you wish you knew enough to say yes.

(You hate that he’s travelled the world you used to tell him you dreamt about. The one you made him dream about, too.)

He scoots up to lean against the headboard, and you take the invitation to come back to the bed. You crawl onto the mattress again, sitting beside him as he moves the clasp of the necklace to the back of your neck, and the stone to the front.

“They call it Cor Lapis,” he says, “it’s in Liyue.”

“Oh.”

He lets go. “It’s not rare, but I like it.”

“You spend a lot of time in Liyue, it makes sense.”

“So you do read my letters,” he says with a grin, cocking his head and holding your hand. “What else do I say?”

“What about the necklace?”

“Huh?”

“If it’s not rare, why get a custom-made necklace?” you ask. “Expensive for such a simple stone.”

Childe’s eyes drop back down to the necklace, holding it out from your neck and in line with the light of the bedside table lamp. It glitters in his eyes and you’re sure it does in yours.

“Cor Lapis is dull,” he tells you. “It doesn’t actually glow until it’s cracked open.”

You look at the cut edges of the stone, framed in gold. It’s small, but it’s something that looks like Childe gave it to you. When your mother saw it, she said it was beautiful and asked when he was home last.

You focus on the fingers that hold it.

“I found it a lot like you,” he says, his voice lower, his eyes finally looking up to face you head-on. “Heart of gold.”

“I don’t need to be cracked open."

“You have been,” he corrects, “you are right now.”

He’s right. He’s so fucking right that it hurts your head to think about and hurts your chest to acknowledge.

Childe’s hand runs up and under your shirt, showing your skin. “And you’re glowing.”

You sit in the silence inside your open ribs and give him a small smile, standing up to shake his hand off of you.

“I’ll let you tell me that next winter, too.”

Next Christmas, you stay in bed. Childe cradles your necklace again but doesn’t tell you about Liyue because you don’t ask, too proud to ask twice.

Instead, you lay against his chest, littered with brand new scars you didn’t see last time. Some you watch, others you look away from because they run too deep for you to need to know how he got them. Year by year, you get more quiet.

Childe does, too. He hasn’t lost his boyish charm but it shares his body with something else now.

“Why don’t you come home before Christmas?” you ask. “Once, even. Teucer’s birthday?”

“It’s not that easy. If it was, I’d be there for every birthday. Yours, theirs.”

You purse your lips, rolling onto your back to stare aimlessly at the ceiling. “Right,” you whisper.

“Don’t do that,”

“Why do you say that like I’m fishing for empathy?” you ask casually, scoffing a laugh. “You used to have some, you know. Before you were a fucking hitman.”

“You have no problem fucking said hitman, so please, if you now raise any sudden changes of heart, I should probably know.”

You look at him coldly and he shakes his head. “It’s not like I want to hurt you.”

His arm gets heavier around you, weighing you down against his side. You fight it off when you sit up, turning to look down at him. Déjà vu washes over you both.

“Do you honestly think that I’m talking about me?” you say through laughs. “I’ve gotten used to your wounds, Ajax, it’s not about me.”

“I—”

“How about your family?” you say. It shakes the cabin walls, even though you weren’t loud at all. “You have younger siblings who idolize you and older ones who know better than what you tell them. Do you think they’re dumb?”

He stares at you. You ask, “You remember them, don’t you?”

“I remember my siblings, yes, thank you for aski—”

“Did you know Teucer made a sword?”

Childe’s next sentence fades into a sigh, and his lips purse as he shakes his head.

You cross your arms. “It looks just like yours.”

“Brotherly love, toys are harmless.”

“Who do you think will stitch his eyebrow? Or sneak him into the bathroom after he comes down from his first kill—”

“I never asked you to be my keeper,” Childe says, the grip on your hand tighter than it was before.

“And look how it turned out, anyway.”

Childe leans back against the bed frame and thin pillows he’s stacked up, looking anywhere but at you.

He’s older now and hardened into someone you can’t recognize, but he resembles a lot of the boy he was born as. He still doesn’t look you in the eye when he apologizes, not when he means it.

“Do you want me to leave?”

You stand, finding your clothes on the floor. You’re too hot, so you put on your underwear and shirt and leave it at that. “I brought fish. Rest while you can.”

It’s July, and Childe comes back to Morepesok in the middle of a blizzard.

Glasses rattle in behind the bar and you dry the ones from the sink, since the hot water ran out an hour ago. The pub’s empty but your shift still stands, even though no one dares to go outside when the storms are this bad, and it’s only you and a few stragglers left to pray the windows don’t shatter when the breeze hits you from the coast.

Every time you catch yourself in the counter’s reflection, you see your necklace, and you wonder what the beaches in Liyue are like. You can’t swim here without freezing to death and you can’t dream in relentless snow, so you let yourself think of him sometimes.

(Warm, swimming in streams. You wonder if he ever got over his fear of drowning when he realized he wouldn’t sink.)

Air whistles through old panels and teases the fire that burns in the seating area, and there’s a quiet hum of voices that dim the crackle of the logs you throw in every half-hour. A glass slides off the counter and breaks in the wind.

You gasp and jump, stepping back, stepping forward when you hit something — someone. You turn around and Childe stares back, snow on his eyelashes and his hair damp from hail and the sweat beneath his hat.

“Why are you here?”

“Oh, you’re so welcoming. Need help?”

You scoff, kneeling with a brush and pan, guiding the glass back into a pile. You don’t answer his question. “They don’t really mean it when they say 'Christmas in July,' you know.”

“You were the one who told me to visit more, right?”

You nod, standing again, dumping the glass into a bin. “Outside the bar, staff only."

Childe slowly raises his hands in surrender, stepping quietly out from the back and rounding to face you again. He leans on the freezing counters, looking around the room. “You work here?”

“A normal person job, yes.”

“So boring.”

“Why’d you come back?” you ask, going back to washing glasses. “When do you leave?”

Please, stay. Just for once, stay.

“Tomorrow.”

“Do they ever let you off your leash for more than a day? Or do you just hate snowstorms that much now?”

“They have gotten worse since I’ve been gone,”

“Or you’ve just been gone long enough to forget where you come from,” you suggest, glancing up at him again. “The Fatui do still operate here, right?”

“Lower your voice, eh?”

“Sorry. Forgot.”

Childe purses his lips, looking around again. He lowers his head. “The cabin’s open.”

“There’s no way we can make it through the trees blind.”

“I can get us there.”

“Do you remember you got lost in those woods once?”

He grins when you look up. “Well, you know you don’t learn without getting lost. I know them now.”

You crack a tiny smile back, one that probably gives him way too much hope. He watches you put glasses away, he relaxes when he sees the necklace you still wear; even if you started wearing it two years late.

You shake your head. “I’m not coming to the cabin.”

“Why’s that?”

“You should spend the day you have with your family.”

“You—”

“Don’t make things weird.”

The moment is bittersweet and Childe isn’t stupid enough to challenge it, so he just laughs. You try to but it comes out funny.

“So that’s it?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “It’s always been your decision, not mine.”

And nothing you have ever done has been anything I’ve wanted.

Childe nods, biting his cheek. He knows that people who live in the woods often die there, too. He never really made it out. “Show me out, then?”

You give in, walking him the short distance to the door. He rests with his hand on the knob, gently moving you away from the door so the breeze doesn’t freeze you in place. He tugs his hat on and notices the gloves he gave you years ago hang by your coat on the standing rack.

“When should I come back?”

He watches you breathe in, he watches you breathe out. “Come back when you’re coming home.”

Childe doesn’t try to reason or to ask what you mean, because he knows what you mean.

Don’t.

With a nod, he smiles. It shows with a weakness that no Harbinger should still have with them; you think this might be the death of it.

“I’ll see you around, then.” He opens the door.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Bye, Childe.”

The door shuts. You don’t hear the snow crunching beneath his feet until a few seconds later, and you keep your ear against the door until you don’t hear them anymore.

Before he was ever Tartaglia, Childe, eleventh of the Harbingers, his home was in the woods he got lost in. Not underground, but in a cabin, with strong windows and shutters the colour of your eyes.

It’s the second Christmas you haven’t seen Childe or the woods. You haven’t checked if he’s stayed there and the stories Teucer tells you are old, but there’s a chance he’s still burning a fire and laying in bed, glowing with heat.

Either Childe hasn’t come back, or he just hasn’t told you he has. Either way, you don't make an effort to know.

Somewhere in Liyue, there’s an ore mine with your name carved above the entrance. The men talk about you when they wheel out carts of jade and ore, wondering how you reached so far up to tell them you were there.

In Mondstadt, an outpost sings a folk tune about a girl who heals wounded soldiers.

In Inazuma, a village calls a seashell by your name. It started with the kids, who said a man from a different place told them all about it. An expert on it, they said. They haven’t called it anything else since.

In Sumeru, your laugh runs through the river.

In Natlan, a painting hangs in a bar of a woman dressed in fire, a ribbon on her wrist and her hair everywhere else. When asked, the artist says he was inspired by a man who spoke of a girl with a heart of gold.

In Fontaine, they serve grilled sturgeon, only cooked by wooden stove.

Childe sits down in a town in Snezhnaya, far away from Morepesok, and he sits in front of five kids who look just like the ones back home. Freezing, and curious.

He lets them fawn over his attire, bug him for all he’s worth while they’re tucked inside of a barn to avoid the cold. He answers every question about his job selling toys with enthusiasm and without guilt, promising to someday come back with some for them. Then, they ask him to tell them a story — one they haven’t heard before.

Somewhere in Snezhnaya, far away from Morepesok, a tale is told about a girl who travelled the world.

#this was so random #childe x reader #tartaglia x reader #genshin impact x reader #childe angst #childe x reader angst #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #genshin angst #genshin impact angst #kit writes

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dancingtotuyo · 9 months

Text

Build You the World

Joel Miller X Reader

Rating: PG-13 (Language)

Warnings: fluffiness, just fluff

Summary: Joel was stupid. Saying sorry the only way he knows how, Joel built you something.

Pre- Outbreak/ No outbreak because I want them to live a happy undisturbed life together.

Notes: We take a break from our regularly scheduled Narcos/Javier Peña content to give you this teeth rotting fluff piece about Joel Miller. Cross posted on AO3

Words: 1286

Series Master List | Author Master list

Joel sucked in a breath. Supplies scattered on the floor around him. The industrial fan blew the hot Texas air into his hotter garage. Sarah rode her bike around the driveway, purple fairy wings strapped to her back. She chatted on and on, no doubt caught up in a make believe land. He needed to take the training wheels off her bike. Maybe tomorrow he would have time.

Joel’s gaze drifted back over the supplies he’d bought at the hardware store this morning. Sarah had asked what he was making as her little legs struggled to keep up with his long strides. She’d noticed the unusual components he gathered. These weren’t for a job or the back porch he’d been working on all summer.

“Secret project” he’d winked at her and thankfully, she’d accepted it.

He hadn’t been able to sleep last night. He’d handled the whole situation badly. It was 2 am before Joel gave up the tireless pursuit of sleep and drawn up the plans. He currently wondered if he’d bitten off more than he could chew. He was a contractor. He did big projects like framing houses and decks. His fine carpentry skills left a lot to be desired.

Joel pushed those thoughts from his head. He could do this. He wanted to do this.

One lunch break, two first aid breaks, (a splinter in his thumb and a skinned knee for Sarah) and a nap (Sarah’s) later, Joel had all the pieces shaped and sanded. He couldn’t help but admire his handy work. Sure it was a simple design and yeah, it wasn’t assembled yet, but he’d made this. He just prayed it all fit.

Sarah colored at his workbench. She’d woken up not long ago and was still quiet from her nap. “Daddy, what are you making?”

“Top secret, baby girl.” He winked at her, pulling the wood glue and clamps from the cabinet.

She sighed in exasperation turning back to her coloring book. Joel hummed along to the classic rock station. His tshirt clung to his body wet with sweat. At 5:30, the temperature was just beginning its slow descent. He started to assemble to the first side, praying he’d made all the slots the correct size. That had been the most tedious part, ensuring it would all lock together properly.

“Daddy, I’m hungry. Are we going to have dinner soon?”

“Soon, I want to get this first side put together first.”

Sarah sighed, her hair floating up and then falling back over her eyes. Joel chuckled, kissing her forehead. “Why don’t you go grab a cheese stick to tide you over?”

“Okay.” She slid off the stool, running inside.

It slid together with relative ease. Only a few profanities dropped from his mouth when he dropped something or spilled the glue everywhere.

He was jerryrigging the clamps when Sarah squealed, darting out of the garage. He glanced up, just able to make out the blue sedan that pulled in behind his pickup. Your blue sedan.

Nerves coursed through him. He reached for his beer. It was warm and flat now, barely touched. Sharp power tools and alcohol don’t mix well. He ignored the taste, taking another gulp. After last night, fear and shame filled him.

Sarah held your hand, talking a mile a minute as if you didn’t kiss her Goodnight last night. You laughed at something she said, but he heard the way it doesn’t quite reach. The first thing he noticed were the dark bags under your eyes and the red rings around them. Guilt flooded him. You need sleep more than ever right now. He felt the exhaustion radiating off of you.

You attempted to make yourself more presentable before gathering the courage to come over. The shower helped, your hair still damp and curling. The mascara kept running so you left it.

You round the corner with Sarah. Joel can hardly look at you. To be fair, you don’t really want to look at him either. You don’t want a repeat of last night but you can’t ignore the situation at hand either.

You finally call up the courage to look at him. You’d grown proud of yourself for learning the ins and outs of Joel Miller in the two years you’d known him. You could read him like the bedtime stories you read to Sarah, silly voices and all, but right now the pages of him blurred. Maybe that was just the tears you fought back.

“Sarah, do you want to grab your fairy wings to show-“

“Yes!” Sarah didn’t allow her father to finish. She was gone through the door in a flash of dark curls.

“She’s been excited to show you. Can’t believe she wasn’t wearin’ ‘em.” His Texas drawl popped out sending shivers down your spine. He forced a smile.

You wanted to return it, but other things pressed your mind. You weren’t good at diversion.

“Joel.” Your lip quivered and you hated yourself for it. You felt out of control right now.

He sighed. “Come here.” He cocked his head back stepping further into the garage.

The fan pushed air through your hair and skirt granting mellow relief to the heat.

“I’ve been working on this.” He swallowed presenting his scattered workspace. He read all nerves but there was the briefest sense of pride too.

Pieces of carefully shaped and sanded wood laid about in piles. You caught sight of what he’d put together. “Porch railing?”

You failed to see the connection. Not to mention it looked too tall and narrow to be for the back deck. And what was with the arch? Was he trying to build a trellis? He’d been talking about putting in some raised beds for you and Sarah.

Was this some kind of joke? An “I’m sorry?” It hardly accounted for one.

“No, it’s a-“ he sighed, running a hand through his curls. He needed a haircut. You had planned to take the clippers to it last night until things went awry.

He picked his notebook up off the work bench. The leather bound one you got him for Christmas. You were convinced he didn’t use it. It sat on his nightstand and you were sure if you’d picked it up, you would see a dust outline. He handed it to you.

You could tell he hadn’t used it much but that didn’t really matter. Your breath caught, all else forgotten the moment your eyes landed on the page. It was rough, dotted with measurements and notes, but it was clear as day all the same.

Tears built up for a whole new reason.

“I stayed up all night working through the design. It's nothing extravagant, but it’ll be sturdy… and safe.” He stuttered.

You traced the design with your finger. All the doubts from the past 24 hours, gone just like that. “You designed a crib?”

“It’s cherry wood. I know that’s your favorite.”

“You designed a crib for our baby?” You stepped into his bubble. You couldn’t believe it. Of everything you anticipated tonight, this was not on the list.

“Baby, I’m so sorry for last night. I was a jackass-“

“Joel Miller, Shut up! You’re building this?”

You looked at him like he hung the fucking galaxy, and his heart settled. He knew the two of you would be okay.

“Yes.”

You kissed him, arms thrown over his shoulders, tears streaming down your face as the nightmare turned into a dream.

You would hear his apology out in full later, lord knows you deserved it after last night, but right now, you just wanted to celebrate. Celebrate him, your love, and the little bundle of joy to join the three of you in 7 short months.

#joel miller #the last of us #fanfiction #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x reader #fluff

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2kmps · 3 months

Text

SMITTEN

dammon x reader | 2.5k

story summary; all it took was an argument with your party leader and an incident of misfortune for dammon to realize he was smitten with you.

story warnings; huge spoilers for act 1 & 2 of baldur's gate 3, mentions of burns and cuts, implication of dammon and mc drinking before a smooch, mc is not tav, no pronouns or descriptions used. very briefly proofread.

if you'd like a part two, please interact & reblog! ❤️

No one knew the time of day as black, tense air splintered those in fitful slumber into wakefulness that made their hearts hammer and bodies cold. There were shouts coming from outside the Last Light Inn, an unwelcome disturbance in these awful, glum days encompassed by death, shadow, and cries of beasts beyond Isobel’s barrier.

Dammon had been one of the first inquisitive souls on scene, already hammering away in his makeshift forge at some hour, surrounded by glowing iron, hot coals, and the smell of ox shit lingering over his workspace like a smoky cloud embedding its malodor into any pororous surface. As long as he stayed busy, deafened himself to all but the sting of metal, vibrations from his hammer memorized deep into his marrow, gave himself to the roar of the furnace—he didn't mind anything else, didn't think about his exhaustion, nor the fear that coiled his spine at every uncertainty around him.

But, he recognized your voice above the fierceness of his fire—knew the one retaliating your indignance just the same. He was drawn to it, leaving his tools by the anvil to step out towards the dilapidated stonework at the center of this improvised settlement, an old water fountain that once was beautiful artistry before the Shadow-Curse.

“I will not be cast aside! I will not be abandoned here to die, Dreston!” you were borderline hysterical, arms strewn about you wildly as you shouted. It was clear no one in your company wanted to feel the venom spitting from your throat. “I survived the crèche—I was integral to us all making it out alive! My abilities to heal are unparalleled, how can you just—”

“They need someone here,” said the tall drow at the core of your ire, leader of your motley crew. “Isobel needs to focus on the barrier. Someone needs to be able to heal the wounded.”

“They have a druid! They don't need me!” you tried again, rage weakening as your voice cracked and eyes gained a watery luster that you blinked back. “I've already done so much for the group. Do you think I'm useless on the battlefield? Is it because I'm not a druid like Halsin? A cleric like Shadowheart? Karlach, speak for me!”

You could've looked through Dreston at that moment and Karlach would've felt the desperation of your stare. She looked towards the ground, pushing stones with her boots. It was so drastically different from how she had been helping you with adjustments to your new armor just hours ago, laying hands everywhere now that she could thanks to Dammon

None of the others spoke for you, either. It was admission of guilt, silent consensus that you were to stay behind here and die if the barrier fell. You couldn't believe it.

“We’ll seek your aid again once we're en route to Baldur’s Gate,” Dreston said, his finality and firmness making words stick in your throat, jaws so tight your teeth could shatter. “Not a moment before. If you leave the barrier, what befalls you is of your own consequence. Protect these people here and wait for us.”

You spat at his feet, wiped your mouth, and then your tears before stalking off until you were far out of sight and alone.

Dammon stayed for the exchange and watched you go, a heart wrenching sight in his mind to be robbed of the love and passion you lived for. Adventuring and healing for you; the smithy and embers for him. Still, he never remembered you with such a temper, at least not one so outward, but these cursed lands had a way of bringing out the worst in everyone.

He had seen it many times over already—in others, in himself as well. Emerald Grove had been a perilous time just as this, but with the light of sunrise and sunset swathing him in some sort of feign comfort. This was not the same, there was no ease except what he knew with flame and steel and heavy hammer.

Still, back then, when he had met you the first time when acquiesced to eradicate the goblin hoards, you were different—brighter, skin aglow beautifully, eyes so radiant and divine. He remembered finding his gaze shifting to you more times than not, catching a jagged end of Dreston’s annoyance when he needed to repeat himself once or twice.

Dammon found it hard to focus in those days until your departure for the goblin camp, and that relief once you were gone had followed until now with your reappearance here at the Last Light Inn.

Now, he had to ask himself why he was standing before Dreston with an approachable smile, hoping he didn't fall on the receiving end of his bad spirits, and spoke his fate aloud:

“Don't worry, I'll keep a watchful eye out.”

He had assigned himself as your custodian like it was nothing, like you actually needed one in the first place. Dreston never mentioned it to you, probably for the best because your foul mood sat on your heels for many days thereafter. It took nearly a week to rouse you out of that state well enough to even visit him at his forge again.

“How are you holding up, Dammon?” you had asked with surprising calm, a similar sort of placidity you had when you'd first met. “It can't be easy being in this place. I keep looking at the barrier, expecting something to happen.”

“I can tell, you look tense”—he dunked red, searing iron into a vat of water and walked away as steam rose and hissed while it cooled—”Given the circumstances, I can't say I'm any worse than anyone else. If I worry, I hammer; if I can't sleep, I hammer. That's enough for me.”

You shared a smile with him, eyes wavering from his piercing blue to the arsenal of newly forged weapons he had managed to craft in a single night. He hadn't slept at all, but hadn't felt it until this moment.

“Don't forget to rest or you'll be one of the unfortunates lying unconscious on a bed that I have to take care of.” You said with a certain playfulness, a certain amount of snide and seriousness that he wasn't sure how to respond to. However, you gave a large logbook in your arm a pat. “I keep a record of everyone I've ever cared for—methods and medicine administered. Everything. I'd like to not add you to it.”

Dammon was a new entry in your logs a few weeks later, as it turned out. Misfortune seemed to torture everyone here beneath Isobel’s barrier, and he was not immune despite believing, foolishly, that losing himself to his projects would save him forever.

“Tell me what happened,” you already had an inked quill readied, a crisp, empty page dedicated to him. “The sooner you do, the sooner I can patch you up.”

For once, the makeshift infirmary sat barren besides the pair of you. It had originally been the bedchambers for weary travelers once upon a time, modified into a strategy room for Counsellor Florrick, and then finally commandeered as an infirmary by you and Isobel to bring some temporary sense of normalcy.

Jaheira let you have that small victory.

“Well,” Dammon wasn't sure what all to tell you that was necessary. It had all been an accident—a ridiculous oversight on his part, a disrespect to his craft and the fires of his forge. “You see—I, well, it's been a few days since I've slept. It's been difficult with those ravens constantly taking blows to the barrier. So, I've spent my time hammering away. Gets my mind off of things, off of everything.”

All went silent but the scrawl of your quill upon yellow parchment, faithfully recording his words verbatim. He waited for the feather to fall flat against your hands and eyes to rise to his before continuing:

“Honestly, it was just a freakish thing—a raven struck the barrier, startled that strange ox they have in the stable and I… my hammer missed and the sword I was working on came back on me. I had just taken out of the fire. Infernal blood I may have, I'm not immune to burns and cuts from my own craft it seems.”

Dammon tried to lighten the severity of his embarrassment with a laugh, hoping it would make that harsh crease between your brows smooth out. Seeing you worry over him did not fill him with a buzz of delight, but feeling your cold hands rest over his injured one did.

“Luckily it isn't too bad. Tiefling reflexes are impossibly good.” You sounded impressed, careful as you drew his hand closer, turning it whatever which way you pleased and he allowed it. He wasn't fond of the cold, but found himself reveling the magic that gushed out from your palms and soothed the burnt flesh on the back of his hand. “It'll be an easy enough fix, but, Dammon, you'll have to stay here and rest. You're not to return to your forge until you do. Understood?”

Perhaps, at a different time, such a demand would be reprimanded. To take a blacksmith from his forge is to take a healer from their potions and herbs—it would've at least aroused some frustration, but now, as he there on the edge of a worn mattress with your frigid hands caressing his scorched skin, wrapped in soft white light that reminded him of the long lost sun, he didn't refuse you and didn't think he ever could.

“Amazing,” he breathed out once he was awash in relief from his agony. The blistered, lacerated flesh from his own creation had closed and disappeared. Only the memory remained now, and the sensation of one of your hands hovering over his open palm. “You're no cleric or druid yet you can utilize magic like that. I've never seen the like.”

“Hopefully you never will again,” came your response, this time with much lightness and satisfaction. “How does it feel? Is there any pain remaining? I treat certain wounds traditionally with herbs and potions, but I know burns are in a league all their own.”

Dammon met the space of your palm facing his, fingers closing around you until the ridges of his well-earned calluses pressed warmth into your skin. Yours had a roughness about them as well without the same sinew and narrow bones and nails as him. There was a new sensation that struck him at that moment, like a jogged memory, a renewal of something once forgotten.

This simple touch reminded him of how much he had forced it away since Elturel was swallowed into Avernus—how much of his being now belonged to survival, and whatever was left was spent flattening iron with a hammer so his mind didn't escape him.

“I feel right, thanks to you.” Dammon said in soft, vulnerable tones that made flounder for words and withdraw your hand in a single, sharp motion.

You cleared your throat once and then twice more, closing your sizable book of records and rose from your chair. “Good! Good! I'll—I’m glad to hear it. I'll just step out so you can rest. Sleep well, Dammon.”

He did not rest for a long time because his thoughts were full of you, and that's where they stayed everyday afterward while he worked in the heat of his forge. It became easier to bear the ominous darkness that swirled around the barrier, a mere splinter in concentration away from consuming him and everyone else within.

Your company was a beacon of light to him in these terrible days, something he looked forward to after however many indeterminate hours clanging away on his anvil. He occupied a space next to you at the bar most times, some old beer in a mug that had lost its froth, listening to the dwarves among the settlement drunkenly, vivaciously explain their grand exploits while Alfira made up new lyrics to the strum of her lute.

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked this a few times a day, a midday, an evening, a night, because there wasn't much else to do or to ask. But, right now, he was feeling bored and courageous with a pint in him, “Would you like to take a walk? I don't think the dwarves are telling stories we haven't already heard once every night the last tenday.”

You didn't disagree and went with him to make laps along the barrier. There was nothing new about this, either. You could walk the perimeter of the settlement with a blindfold on at this point and never snag a stone, stumble, or catch a briar on your sleeve. Dammon always stayed in stride with you despite his height, always kept himself at a decent distance from you despite how much he wished otherwise.

“What will you do once we get to Baldur’s Gate, Dammon? Hm?” It was a familiar question, one usually forgotten after a glass or two of wine in you. “I’m thinking of telling Dreston to piss off and working as an apothecary. Get some stability in my life, y'know?”

“It’d be good work for you.” He understood that desire for something solid, a safe life. “I’ve realized through all of this that I'm not the adventuring sort. I like my hammer. I like my forge; I like a bed at the end of a long day. I like—”

Dammon was quick with a glance down at you while walking, arms close and brushing. His heart was a growing drumbeat in his ears. “I like the idea of coming home to someone, to share my bed with. After all this, that sounds like a luxury—a dream.”

“Oh~” you put a hand near your lips, pretending to hide a scandalous smile. “So you are the marrying type. A couple of us were talking about that the other day, gossiping about who’d end up married or die alone in a bottle.”

Dammon let a smile grow, fingers edging nearer to your own until he could curl one or two with his. “I’d say the latter is quite extreme.”

Your voice trailed but you didn't pull away, not even as you were led away from the prying eyes of patrolling Harpers into dark foliage behind low hanging trees. It was sufficiently hot behind your ears, beneath your layers of thin clothes, and your throat tightened in your effort to look up at him.

His ribs were a prison for his heart, a good thing in this case as he tucked a hand against your neck and kissed you. He kissed you until the uncertainty fell away, until he felt your hands climb the length of his arms and every touch grew with assurance, fostering the beginning of a new dream.

a/n: possibly a part two if y'all let me know you like this??? so, pls interact and reblog to let me know!

this is also based off of my headcanons for tieflings that they're very loyal once they trust you—but they also fall h a r d.

it won't turn into anything big since I have my major projects going on in the background, but I'm just obsessed with dammon atm and figured the best way to get him out of my system was to write about him 💀. a second part would probs be smut.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 dammon #bg3 dammon x reader #bg3 dammon x you #dammon x reader #dammon x you #dammon x tav #bg3 dammon x tav #baldur's gate iii #baldurs gate dammon #2k writes

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monpalace · 10 months

Note

OH MY GOD

NEW IDEA DROPPED (Back on my pining Time shizzz)

Imagine, reader minding their own business and talking with a bartender, they weren’t doing much really— just buying a few drinks (alcoholic and non) for a few of the boys. Speaking of the boys, mosy sat at a table while others mingled in and out of the bar. The chatter was idle between the heroes, some light banter thrown across the table, but all falls on deaf ears as Time watches you from afar.

He’s not sure why but ever since that late night talk about “types” and “past lovers” he hasn’t been too keen on letting you out of his sights. Its not like he’s forcing you by his side, or following you everywhere— goddess forbid! You’re a grown adult and are well able to take care of yourself, but damn it this ball in his gut just wont go away.

Apparently his quick glances were as subtle as he had hoped because the next thing he knows a unfamiliar hand rests on his shoulder. The table goes quiet and the old man is quick to look to the source of the hand, his own hand hovering over the dagger at his side.

To his left was a older man— older than Time himself —grey hairs and wrinkled face turned into a snarky grin. His unbalanced stance, dilated pupil and awful stench where all the Time needed to know the man was overly drunk.

“Pretty aren’t they?” The drunk slurred his words and clumsy nodding his head you your direction. That ball in his gut only grew.

From the cover of his eye, Time noticed a handful of the boys at the table shift in their seats uncomfortably. Lovely. The hero of Time turned to the drunk, cold eyes meeting unfocused ones.

“Are you in need of something? Or just looking for someone to bother” His words are sharp but voice did not raise. Was that last bit necessary? No. Did he care at the moment? Not at all.

The drunk laughed, mouth hung open as his belly bounced with every forced breath. Some of the boys from across the bar watched, yet you were still unaware it seemed. “Simply wondering if ya knew if they were single~” His eyes fixated on you, racking his disgusting eyes up and down your form. “Can resist a chance with a beauty like that.”

Wind, one of the boys who sat beside Time, was quick to sit up and slam his hands onto the wooden table, loudly proclaiming. “Their my parent!”

The drunk seems shocked for a moment, cause Wind to smirk and Time’s shoulders to relax. How foolish he was to think such a vile man would give up that easily.

A gurgling laugh bubbles up from the mans throat, spray spittle across the table. (Twilight and Hyrule are quick cover their food)

“Do you need a daddy?”

How DARE he—

Wind’s mouth hangs in shock, Twilight nearly cracks his mug with his grip, Hyrule cant help the gag that comes from his gut. And Time? Oh he’s furious

The loud screeching of wood on wood silences the bar. Time looms over this hunched, pathetic excuse of a man, both eyes open wide to star down at this…pig. Time wished to bust this pig’s skull open, slam him into the table until his face was full of splinters. He’d pluck his eyes and carve out his tongue. Let the body get eaten by his brethren.

Not one of his thoughts is shown on his face. His anger is calm and collected, he refused to put so much effort to a worthless low life. Time’s voice rolls like thunder, it pierces like daggers and stings like venom.

“No need for such an imbecilic question, he has no need for one,” the drunk stares up at Time, a slow realization builds behind his eyes. “For he, is mine. And They are mine.”

He doesn’t mean for the last bit to sound like a possessive growl, but the ball in his gut has risen to his chest, rolling around in his chest with every breath he takes. He needs to get it out.

The sound the man lets out might as well be a squeal as he backs away from the frightening hero. Slurred apologies falls from his mouth like a rushing water fall as he stumbles his way out of the quiet bar.

One in, two out. One in, two out. Time repeats, fixing his breathing and calming the violent wishes. Boths eyes now shut as he takes one last big breath before turning and looking back to the three boys. One word to describe their expressions? Utterly and entirely gobsmacked.

Oh, their not going to let him live this down for a while, arent they? His lips formed a tight line, his eyesbrows knitted together. But a quiet cough chases his attention.

Turning —half expecting an employee or boss of the bar telling them they have to leave— he sees you. Eyes wide, mouth silently agape but a twitch of a smile lingers at the corner of your mouth.

“I’m yours?” You spoke, eyes twinkling with something Time cant place.

Oh.

Oh no..

I SKIMMED THROUGH THIS AND ALL I SAW FOR A FEW SECONDS WERE "do you need a daddy" AND IVE NEVER HAD TO PAUSE FOR AS LONG AS I DID?? I DIDNT EVEN LOOK BACK TO SEE THE CONTEXT I JUST SAT THERE AND LOOKED DUMB???

completely unrelated why did this lowkey remind me of a unspoken rule or something where it's like "if someone puts something of theirs (glasses, hat, etc) on someone, it's an unspoken rule that they're claimed" or smth. idk time just looks like the type of person to do that

ANYWAYS TIME'S LITTLE POSSESSIVE GROWL, VIOLENT (valid) THOUGHTS, AND WHATNOT? he fr let out a few years worth of repressed emotions i refuse to accept otherwise

time just needs to get the papers, legally adopt wind, and put the reader down as the other parent beCAUSE BROTHER 😵‍💫😵‍💫

and reader's response to hearing all that?? why can all i hear/see is them doing druski's little "whadda you mean by that"

trippy im abt to write a drabble stop playin with me 😭🗿

#the palace answers #stargazing in the palace #NO BC TWI AND HYRULE COVERING THEIR FOOD LITERALLY KILLED ME??#bigger ppl than me bc as soon as i saw that spit i woulda stopped eatin fr #link x reader #loz link x reader #linked universe x reader #lu x reader

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xtreklx · 9 months

Text

Summer Heat ~ Michelangelo x reader

One shot: bayverse Michelangelo x reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: SFW, fluff, slightly mature themes (rated 17+, see my masterlist for disclaimer)

A/N: thank you all for the love on my latest works! it's so motivating and it has been helping me access my creativity in so many new ways! anyways, with the summer months here, this is just a fun little summer-themed one-shot that I thought up for our favorite jokester. enjoy!

__________

It was mid-July, the boiling point of summer, and in New York City, this meant humidity. Everywhere. While you were able to hang out in the sewers with your mutant turtle friends for a slight escape from the temperature, it was still hotter than you would have liked, and you were trying desperately to keep cool.

Hence why you and the turtles were sprawled throughout the lair, barely able to move because of the suffocating heat. Normally, you were all able to push through the summer days and go about your usual routines, but today was supposed to be the hottest day of the year (Donnie didn't trust the weather channel, however, and ran his own predictions to confirm that this was going to be the case). Thus, routine was abandoned and any attempts at relaxation were welcomed.

You could hear Donnie fumbling around in the lab from your horizontal spot on the living room couch. The three other brothers were in the living room with you: Raph in the arm chair ("there ain't no way I'm workin' out in heat like this"), Leo meditating in the corner ("I think this might be the only way to make the situation more bearable"), and Mikey sprawled out in the middle of the floor, periodically exclaiming "I don't know how much longer I can take the torture! The agony!" Although his brothers rolled their eyes at his overly-dramatic outbursts, none of them had the energy to protest, and it made you giggle every time.

Mikey loved the sound of your laugh. Like music to his ears, angels chorusing from the heavens. He had decided that it had to be his favorite sound in the universe. He looked up at you now from his spot on the floor, admiring how you looked as you lounged on the couch, practically nodding off into a summer nap. How could he help having feelings for you when you were out here looking like that?!

You had no idea that there was a double meaning behind Mikey's outbursts. While he was primarily referring to the torture of the paralyzing heat, he was also referring to the torture that you were causing him today. The hot weather had you wearing the tiniest little outfit: daisy duke jean shorts and a tight white tank top. He could see so much of your skin, a thin layer of sweat glistening in the overhead lights and making you look like you were glowing. He called you an angel all the time to your face, but he was serious; you looked like a straight-up angel. And with the way you were laying on the couch on your back, he was able to let his eyes roam all the way up your long legs, up to your waist, up to your chest...

Mikey had to shake himself out of his current thoughts before they went off the deep end. He was a gentleman-ly, respectable dude, he thought to himself. And even though he had feelings for you, the two of you were just friends. He couldn't let his mind go too far; it wasn't right. It made Mikey think about all the lectures that Master Splinter had given in the past about temptation and desire, and how giving in to them too frequently could result in an "unquenchable greed". But he was determined to not give in. Splinter would be proud of him for the restraint he was exhibiting!

As this was all running through his mind, Mikey unconsciously sent another glance your way. You had flipped over to lay on your stomach, your perfect ass in those tiny jean shorts taking over his line of sight. He quickly re-averted his gaze, trying to focus on anything but you.

God, this was going to be harder than he thought.

Suddenly, Donnie rushed out of his lab and into the living room with something in his arms. "Guys! I think I've crafted something that could help us get through the summer heat!" He exclaimed. Everyone turned their heads at the sound of that, even Leo breaking out of his meditative state.

Donatello set whatever was in his arms onto the side table next to the couch and plugged it into an extension cord by the wall. "I was messing with the settings of one of our old mini-fridges, and with the addition of a few new pieces of machinery, I was able to turn it into a flash freezer! We can put any liquid into these popsicle trays here," he gestured to the inside of the mini-fridge, "and it will freeze instantly! Pretty cool, right?"

Everyone present stared at the contraption, an awkward moment of silence falling over the group.

"I'm going to go meditate in my room," Leo deadpanned, standing from his spot in the corner, while Raph groaned. "Really, Donnie? You wanna solve the heat wave with... popsicles? Why don't ya put a giant band-aid on the melting ice caps while yer at it?"

But you and Mikey had eagerly sat up to attention as the two grumps left the living room. "Don't listen to them, Donnie! I think this is the perfect idea," You beamed up at him. Mikey had to avoid looking at your dazzling smile too closely in order to form coherent sentences. "Yeah, dude! Don't listen to those buzzkills, this is so sick!" He looked closer at the machine. "So, it'll really freeze anything instantly? Like... anything?"

Don eyed Mikey warily for a moment. "... I don't think I want to know what you're thinking when you say anything like that but, in theory, yes. Let me demonstrate." He pulled a can of orange crush from a box on the floor and poured it into two popsicle holders, adding two straws as the sticks, before putting them into the mini-fridge and closing the door. He pressed a button on the outside, and then the machine beeped. When he opened the little door, a gust of cold air flew out, and from the holders he pulled out two orange soda popsicles.

You and Mikey awed and wowed in excitement, taking the popsicles from Donnie and thanking him. He smiled, and picked up the mini-fridge. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to make a large batch of grape soda popsicles. And I'm definitely not going to use them as ammo in my grenade launcher towards Raphael and Leonardo. That would be ridiculous." He stood there for a moment with a calculated look on his face before turning and heading back to his lab.

You and Mikey exchanged a pointed look before simultaneously cracking up at the thought of what Donnie was definitely going to be up to later that day. When your laughter had died down, you took your first lick of the orange soda popsicle and hummed with happiness. "Mmm, this is awesome! Orange crush is my favorite!" You exclaimed, putting it back in your mouth.

Mikey gulped as he watched you suck on the popsicle, your eyes drooping and another hum of approval sounding from your mouth. Come on bro, you can do this. Everything is fine, everything is fine, he thought to himself. He took a moment to try the popsicle, too, and couldn't help but agree with you. "Yeah, Leo and Raph are definitely missing out. Don't worry, angelcakes, luckily I'm not as much of a Debbie freaking downer as they are."

You couldn't help but laugh at his comment, the popsicle still in your mouth. You pulled it out with a pop, but with the hot weather, some of the orange soda had already begun to melt.

Mikey watched the moment pass as if it happened in slow motion: the orange liquid trailed off your bottom lip and down your chin before dripping onto your chest, running down the exposed, supple skin and meeting the white fabric of your tank top.

Oh, boy. Everything is not fine.

The poor turtle froze as his mind launched down the gutter. He couldn't help his staring at you, drinking in the vision that you had so accidentally just granted him. He couldn't help the want that spread like fire within his chest. He was definitely experiencing greed, and it was definitely the unquenchable kind.

While Mikey was lost in his thoughts, you looked down at your spill. "Ugh, I just washed this top!" You exclaimed, rubbing your chin and examining the bright orange stain for a moment before shrugging. "Oh, well. I guess the popsicles really will help us cool off!"

You turned to your friend, who had gone slightly pale and was standing up from his spot on the floor, his popsicle sticking halfway out of his mouth. "Mikey, are you okay? You don't look so good. Is the heat getting to you?" You asked him from the couch, sitting up straighter with concern.

"Ummmmm, yea-- I mean.. no! Actually, I just remembered, uhhhh... there's.. something I'm supposed to talk to Master Splinter about. I'll be right back!"

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theyhavetakenovermylife · 3 months

Note

Can you write about the Last Ronin where we were his girlfriend before everything went to shit and we meet him again but he also get to meet his child as well? Btw I frickin' love your fanfiction, I hope you keep expanding you work.🥹

16 Years: part 1 (Angst)

TLR!Michelangelo x reader

Part 2 (18+) Part 3 (18+)

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A/N: Thank you so much🖤 I feel like writing for TLR has opened whole new world of writing for me, and I will love to do more, even if I cry every time😭🖤 I had “Tout L'univers” by Gjon’s Tears playing on repeat as I was writing this, so when I tell you I was bawling my eyes out, I was BAWLING. For some reason I just had to make everything worse for poor Mikey😭

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Warnings: Spelling, The Last Ronin and The Lost Years spoilers, loss of loved ones, loss of child, mentioning of suicide, trauma, self hatred, crying (not just in writing, omg), and probably a lot more.

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For 16 years, Mikey had tried to live with the spirits of those he had lost. Trying to find peace with them, and let them be. But he just couldn’t. Mikey just couldn’t rest with all these faces he used to love surrounding him, knowing that he could not help them. Raphael, Leonardo, Casey, April, the Fugetoid, Master Splinter, Donatello, Gerel, Shaka. All of them haunted him, speaking to him, telling him what to do. His brothers even went so far as to belittle him for his actions and failures. Every. Single. Day.

But if there was one face that Mikey couldn’t handle around him, it was yours. He dared not to look at you, nor the child you carried on your hip. The pain from seeing the two of you, in complete silence, not speaking a single word, being the only ones that actually did as he asked - staying quiet and letting him think. He looked at you once, the pain of seeing you and the young child in your arms, was almost enough for him to end it all before he even made it to Korea.

But though Mikey never looked at you, he felt your presence with him everywhere he went. You always followed closely behind, carrying your little bundle of love, just like you did the day he lost you…

Mikey hated how clearly he remembered it. It had been absolute chaos. They never had a chance. Leo had told him to bring April and the Fugetoid, all making sure nothing happened to you. You, Mikey’s girlfriend, who had been in the second stage of your first pregnancy. You, the only woman that Mikey had ever loved. You, the only person who was willing to let him think of something, other than his horrible war of a family feud, and his so-called destiny. You, the love of his life, and the only reason Mikey has seen a reason to fight in the first place…

Mikey had lingered for too long. That’s at least what he told himself. He should just have done as Leo had said, and gotten you out of the building. He should never had hesitated. If he hadn’t, then maybe you wouldn’t have been caught in the explosion. Then maybe you, April… and the kid would still have been alive.

Mikey still remembered how strangely numb he had been when he woke up from the explosion. His body ached all over, but it was as if he felt nothing. You were all gone. There was no way any of you could have survived that explosion. Leo, the Fugetoid, Casey, April, you… and them. That was what Mikey referred to the long lost life as - them. Giving them a name would just slowly kill him over time, making everything harder than it needed to be. Almost as hard as it was so leave the ruins of your grave, without trying to look for your body. But as much as Mikey wanted to stay and look for you, he had to leave for the last family he had left, before they too were gone.

But like always, he was too late for that too. Donnie and Master Splinter was already far gone when he made it to Japan. That was Mikey’s breaking point, and the first time he wished to end his suffering. Everyone was gone. His friends, his brothers, his father, the love of his life and his unborn child. Mikey was angry. Not just at the world around him, but himself. He could just have stayed with the two of you. He could have found you and laid you to rest. Giving you, his brother, his friends and his child a proper burial. But he didn’t, and he hated himself for it.

Mikey hated himself everyday. He hated himself for not being able to protect you, and he hated himself for not taking care of you. And taking care of his own damn child. As he forced himself through the snow of the Japanese mountains, as he trained under Master Yip, when he momentarily went blind in Mongolia, and when he had to fight for his life in Ukraine, before finally defeating Death Worm in Italy, all Mikey could do was think about you and how hate himself. But soon he learned that there was only one way to make up for his mistakes. Revenge. Revenge for all that had been done to his family. Oroku Hiroto would have to feel the pain that Mikey had been feeling for the past 16 years. And that was what Mikey came to New York for. Revenging all of his family, especially the one that didn’t even have a name.

But as it has happened so many times, Mikey’s plans did not go as he intended. His first assault on Oroku Hiroto was a failure to put it frankly, leaving him wounded as he had to retreat to the sewers he once called his home. Here he intended to do what any honorable ninja would do - take his own life before the enemy could get him. But then, for the first time in 16 years, life had better plans for him, the universe deciding to keep him alive once more. Mikey’s wounds were so great, that he passed out of blood loss before any harm could be done to him. That was when Casey Marie found him, calling out for her mother, telling her to help.

Mikey woke up in a warm bed a few hours later. Confused, he scanned his surroundings, wondering if he was dead. It looked like the lair - his old home. But then he saw April, and for the first time the world shone a light upon him. April, his dearest friend, was alive. In all these years, she had been alive. He learned that she was not alone. Her daughter was there too.

“Is it just you and your daughter down here?”, Mikey asked as he slowly swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

“No”, April answered calmly, a smile spreading over her face. “We do live with two others. I really think you should meet them, Michelangelo. Right now they’re out in the sewers, looking for stuff to bargain with on the Black Market, but I think they could be home any time soon”.

And as if April’s words were magical, distant clatter of metal could be heard, alerting them to people entering the lair.

“Aunt April!”, the voice of a young man yelled, the volume of his voice getting stronger as he approached the room. Then he barged in, proudly holding up something in his hand. It looked like a little metal lump with wires sticking out all over the place. “See what I found! Can you believe it?! Someone just dropped this into the sewer! Don’t they know how much this is worth?! Idiots! Imagine the comic books I can get out of Tinker with this! I can finish father’s old collection!”

Mikey froze at the sight of the boy. It was not his impressive height he had for a teenager, nor the muscles on his arms that shocked Michelangelo, but it was the color of the boy's skin. It was green. Light green to be specific. Mikey’s eyes wandered over him, taking him in, ignoring the growing smile on April’s lips, or how the boy suddenly seemed to notice the large turtle’s presence in the room. Mikey’s mouth was dry as he saw the three slender fingers on his hands, his lack of hair, the outline of what looked like a plastron on his front, and the unmistakable shell-like shape on his back. And his eyes, strangely recognizable.

The boy’s hand fell to his side, the metallic object suddenly not seeming interesting anymore. His eyes wide as he took the stranger sitting on the bed. Mikey in turn just stared. The two of them looking with their mouths agasp.

“Yoshi”, a voice sounded out in the hallway, breaking the silence. Mikey’s heart almost stopped. He knew that voice. It was the voice he had longed for so long. The voice he had blamed himself for silencing. Yet there it was. Just outside the door. “Be nice to your aunt. She might be working…”

You froze in the doorway. Mikey almost broke down. It was the face he had forced himself to look away from for 16 years. The face of the silent woman that used to carry a baby around wherever he traveled. You looked older, but still as beautiful as the day he first met you. Your eyes sparkling with the same light he fell in love with, all those years ago.

“Mikey?” you whispered, holding back a sop as your eyes began to water. The mentioning of his name caused the boy’s eyes to flicker.

Mikey could only nod, feeling his heart pump his blood so fast that he was starting to get dizzy. You ran to him, hugging him tighter than you ever had before. His hands tightened around you, his throat knotting up, making him fight for air. He buried his face against the crock of your neck, feeling all of your muscles move as you sobbed against him. You cradled his head against you, holding him against you, tracing his head, shell, shoulders and arms.

“I’ve missed you so much, Mikey”, you sobbed, bringing his head up to look at you, before placing a quick kiss on his lips. That was what broke him. He returned your quick kiss with urgency before he broke down in tears, hiding his face against you once more. 16 years of fear and pain finally boiled over, Mikey could finally let it go. At least for a short while. He almost clawed at your clothes in order to get you closer to him. It was as if no physical connection was enough.

“I’ve missed you too, (Y/N)”, he choked out, letting the tears fall as your comforting hands made shapes on his skin.

“Mom?”

Still holding on to Mikey, you turned to look at the boy. The poor guy looked so confused, but Mikey had a feeling. The boy most likely also had. Both of them just waiting for her to confirm what they had already guessed.

“Yoshi, sweetheart”, you said, wiping a tear away, before reaching out a hand to him. “Come and say hello to your father”.

Neither Yoshi or Mikey said a word, staring at each other as he made his way over to you. April wiped one of her own tears away, before she left the room with a smile, closing the door behind her. It was time for the three of you to catch up.

You slowly moved out of the way, letting Yoshi stand in front of Mikey. None of them knew what to say. All they could do was look at each other, trying to calm their erratic breathing. Then suddenly, Yoshi launched forward, wrapping his arms around his father in a tight embrace, the tears rolling down his face. Mikey hugged back immediately, finally getting a chance to hug the kid he thought he had lost.

“I’m sorry, Yoshi”, Mikey choked out, trying his best to keep calm. “I’m sorry I couldn't take care of you and your mother”.

“It’s okay, dad”, Yoshi said, smiling even though his eyes were overflowing and his body was shaking. “I took care of her while you were gone”.

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beanghostprincess · 2 months

Note

Trans buggy is my lifeblood and I am SO HAPPY YOU LOVE HER TOO and I'm feral I'm shaking the bars of my cage FUCK I LOVE WOMEN

Like. Yes. Absolutely, Shanks and Buggy have little bits and pieces of ALL their parents, specifically Ray and Roger but No Adult Was Safe From Their Assimilated Found Family, Alright?

Shanks does this one movement when he's showing off and being SILLY about it that he picked up from Oden. Buggy uses chopsticks more easily than forks and spoons, which is mind boggling to those who know her and how clutzy she is.

Crocus was the KING of unexpected and frankly terrifying threats, something Buggy learned like a damned religion. Shanks got his penchant for Gay Uncle On Holiday clothes and patterns from him.

A lot of Shanks' attacks and swordplay was taught to him by Roger and Rayleigh, so his style is a mix of their own with a TWIST that's all him. Buggy wasn't as interested in swordsmanship, but she certainly isn't a novice at it. The forms and katas to her are meditative, and she can't really sit still for normal meditation ((AuDHD Buggy my beloved)) so THIS is her way of grounding. Her knife fighting is also derived from Ray's style, with quick, devasting blow that focus more on backlash damage, Haki and agility.

Buggy and Shanks both have Roger's grin, and when Rayleigh sees them, grown and side by side and beaming and greeting him so warmly, part of him breaks and heals and splinters and oozes love. He of course will not show weakness and instead teases them, as is his love language.

Also consider Cross Guild adopting the Seraphims. Stuff's normal at first until they give the kids some children's books. Cue "what is a dad? What is a mom?" questions. The adults answer them, and the kids simply nod before wandering off again.

Then, a few hours later, Buggy feels a tiny hand tug-tug at her pants. It's two little dark haired tykes, big saffron and violet eyes staring up at her. She blinks. "What's up, munchkins?"

"Mother, we want a snack and fathers are busy."

"Oh. Yeah, sure thing, sweeties, let me ju- WAITWHAT-?!"

Shanks is frothing, seething, crying in the window like a Victorian woman betrayed when he gets word that Buggy and the other two have "sons". He then proposes they have a baby too, to be fair.

Then the kids call him uncle or father twice removed and he is suddenly living his best life wdym he's gonna be the BEST uncle ever, hey kids wanna go harass people-?

Buggy is BEYOND flustered but she's also.... really flattered? Shanks wants a baby? With HER?? Like a real, whole ass baby. Wow. And she already has two sons! Maybe. Her little Birdie seems a tad unphased by the concept of gender anyway, so she won't push. She has two kids. And Shanks wants a third. Wow. Wow~ ♡

And then Crocodile has to go and ruin it by suggesting the kids stay with "auntie Al" for the weekend, while the guys see if they can get that baby idea rolling~

Buggy proceeds to blush so hard she's STEAMING and promptly faints.

I FUCKING LOVE WOMEN TOO!!!!!!!!!!! SCREAMING THIS EVERYWHERE I GO!!!!!!!!!

Both of them having traits of all their parents and role models and keeping them with them forever,, When Rayleigh sees them again he's so fond of their little gestures and :(( He loves them so so much.

Also, the whole thing about Cross Guild adopting the Seraphims is just so so cute. And them calling Buggy 'mom'??????? Crying and sobbing, idk. Cute family that is not dysfunctional but pretty much not normal my beloved.

Honestly, Buggy as a mom just feels so right. But especially as an adoptive mom, you know? She just keeps seeing outcasts and understanding them so well and wanting to take care of them. Tbh, Shanks and Buggy should just,, Find a kid in a treasure chest and keep the baby.

#your asks are always so good #sorry short answer this time i am exhausted today but i wanted to respond to this aefkjbejkf #BUT IT'S SO GOOD I SWEAR I LOVE IT #one piece #buggy the clown #cross guild #shuggy

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justlikemebutsixfootthree · 10 months

Text

iii. one time thing

this blog is 18+. minors, do not interact. this blog is a safe space. no hate or disrespect of any kind will be tolerated. all work is my own. do not reupload my work on any other site without my consent.

a/n: criticism and thoughts are welcomed and encouraged :) there is one use of y/n in the beginning!

part i. part ii.

1271 words

he catches up to you on the street, his chest heaving from sprinting down six flights of stairs. not the best look, when chasing after a woman, but at least in this he is honest.

“y/n, you – “ he tries to breathe in deep through his nose. out through his mouth. “i need to talk to you.”

you keep walking, arms crossed over your chest, ignoring the way he limps after you, holding the stitch in his side.

“would you wait just a moment?”

you stomp your way around the corner, foot sliding in a wayward puddle, and he steadies you with a hand at your elbow. it had rained last night. he had waited, eyes peering at the sky for lightning, hoping for once the rain might pass silently without slipping into a storm.

you twist yourself away from him, find your footing, and angrily swat at the jacket he holds out to you. “i don’t want to talk to you.”

“at least let me apologize.”

for some reason, that seems to deflate your anger and instead, you just look sad. you nod and look somewhere over his shoulder.

“for what you said,” you supply, a bitter twist to your words. “for making fun of me.”

“i wasn’t making fun of you,” he reaches out and grips your hand, holding tight when you try to pull away with a scoff. “i wasn’t! and i am not apologizing for what i said, but rather the way i said it.”

you peer up at him through the heavy fringe of your lashes and something within himself twists off, splinters, and settles back into place. “explain yourself.”

he sighs, low and slow, and releases your hand. curls his fingers over your shoulders. makes sure he is looking in your eyes when he says, “i hate the shirt you’re wearing.”

you roll your eyes and try to pull away, but he holds you steady. god help him, he can feel the heat of your skin even now, standing two feet away from one another on a London sidewalk.

you frown at him. “that's a shit apology. even for you, matty.”

“i’m just –“ his gaze trips over the swell of your breasts beneath your shirt, down to where your belly button peeks out from beneath the fabric. it causes a swell of frustration, a spike of heat, and a deep, deep pull low in his gut. “i’m trying to tell you.”

“you hate my shirt. yes, you’ve mentioned.”

“i hate it because i can see your skin. and everyone else can see your skin. you – “ his dark eyes search your face, looking frantically for a sliver of the same desperation he feels. “you drive me to distraction. always. everywhere."

large hands move to grasp your shoulders. "what i said at the party, i wasn’t making fun of you.”

you blink at him, mouth opening and closing. he'd enjoy the moment of pure shock if it didn’t feel like his heart was lodged firmly in his throat.

“you’re serious, then. about what you suggested.”

he nods, still breathless from his chase after you. “i was being serious, yes. i think – i think it would be good for us. get it out of our system, y’know?”

one delicate eyebrow arches high on your forehead, even as your eyes dart back and forth between his own; taking the measure of him. “you think this is something we need to get out of our system?”

it’s something he needs to get out of his system. just so he can stop thinking about you bent over his living room couch, his hands curled over your hips, the glow of your skin transcendent against the leather.

“yes,” he clears his throat. “i do.”

“and what you’re offering, is – “ you trail off, your cheeks back to that furious, delicious shade of pink. “what? no strings sex? and then we just pretend it never happened?”

you bite at your thumbnail. “i don’t know, matty. what if things get- what if things get strange between us?”

“it won’t. i won’t let it.”

your teeth move from your thumb to your bottom lip in consideration. he steps closer and curls cold fingers around your jaw, pulling your lip free with his thumb.

smooths over it once.

your whole body shivers in response, and he sways further into your space.

after so long of denying himself, it feels like an indulgence. euphoria.

“i know you feel what i feel,” he whispers, sure of it. there have been too many shared glances between the two of you. lingering looks across crowded rooms, dark eyes meeting yours.

the hand on your jaw shakes with desire. if he never gets to kiss you, he’ll cease to be. if he doesn’t feel your breath on his mouth, in the space below his ear, across his chest – he’ll collapse.

dramatic, yes. but matty's never been known for his pragmatism.

you blink at him, head tilting back. “like this is a monumentally stupid idea, but tempting all the same?”

“something like that,” he whispers, captivated by the teeth marks that indent the soft swell of your lip. he wants to leave his own marks there, feeling them beneath his tongue. “i’m going to kiss you now.”

“why,” you mutter, eyes serious and he knows without a doubt the way he answers this question is important.

“because i want to,” he says, "i need to."

you nod slowly like it's a good answer. the answer you wanted. “and you won’t let it be weird?”

matty's curls bounce when he shakes his head, his fingers slipping from your jaw to tangle in your hair. they thread just so, his thumb curling over the tip of your ear. he’s thought of your hair between his fingers more times than he can count; of grabbing hold and chasing your mouth with his.

you don't sigh or whimper when he presses his lips to yours. you merely hold onto him with your hands against his chest, two small fistfuls of the t-shirt he thought too much about before leaving the house. it's so perfectly you. he can taste the whisky you stole from him – smoky and sure and devastatingly tempting. he lingers there, in the sweetness of your lips pressed together for the first time before the hunger pulls low in his gut and he decides to be just a bit selfish.

he nudges your nose with his and presses his thumb to your chin, guiding your mouth open, tilting his head to the side until his nose is pressed into your flushed cheek, his mouth finding yours again. he can feel the indents on her bottom lip with his tongue, tiny little grooves that he traces once, twice, three times before you open for him and he curls his tongue around yours.

you sigh then, and he smiles into your mouth, knowing he’s earned the soft sound.

his fingers tighten into a fist in your hair, tilting your head to the side and licking deeper – your mouths a wet, slide of heat against one another. he’s never had a kiss feel so consuming. never felt like if he didn’t – if he didn’t press his palms to your skin, feel the heat of you, drag his teeth along your collarbone.

your fists turned to flattened palms against him and you push gently, your mouth stubbornly pulling away at the last moment. as if you are two separate entities, one pushing him away while the other pulls him closer.

“okay,” you sway in front of him, eyes searching his distant ones. “your place or mine?”

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c-e-d-dreamer · 9 days

Text

Punish You With Pleasure (Pleasure You With Pain): Part Two

A/N: I know it's technically WIP Wednesday, but what if I just post a whole ass update instead? That's right! We're back for more Rhysta! Sometimes, bullying does work. As a very important note, I have updated the tags for this fic. I know you can't see them here on Tumblr, but please know they now include the Major Character Death tag. If that's not your jam or if Rhysta still isn't your cup of tea, not clicking the read more and scrolling past this is free. Massive shout-out to the Nessian besties who helped me plot where this fic is now going and an extra big shout-out to @witch-and-her-witcher for beta-ing another chapter of this mess! Anyways! Onward to the NSFW smut-fest!

Read on AO3

“And then, of course, the table breaks, pieces of splintered wood everywhere.”

“It was a problem with the table. It wasn’t structurally sound.”

“Oh, sure, Cass. Blame the table. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you being drunk off your ass or anything.”

Mor and Cassian continue to bicker and tease one another across the table, arguing over the true events at Rita’s last night, but Rhys is quick to tune them out. He tunes out Azriel’s quiet, cool remark. He tunes out Feyre’s light laughter. Everything in the dining room fades away until his focus is solely on the female sitting all the way at the other end of the table.

Nesta hasn’t said a single word to him since she walked through the front door, but at least, she’s here. Clearly, his visit earlier in the week to her apartment was as effective as he’d hoped. Clearly, she followed his demand for her attendance at family dinner. He has to hide his smug smile behind the rim of his wine glass, taking a small sip of the red liquid.

She keeps her head down, gaze pointedly focused on the plate of food in front of her, aimlessly pushing around the vegetables across the porcelain. But Rhys doesn’t miss the way her grip around her fork tightens slightly, the barest hint of her lips pinching. He knows she can feel his gaze pinning her in place.

He dares to reach out and into her mind. Tall, iron gates reaching high and twisting dark vines and brambles greet him, but Rhys doesn’t allow it to deter him. He scrapes a talon dark as night along those mental walls, digging in just enough until he finds a tear. It’s small, but it’s enough for him to thrust the images into her mind.

The sight of her on her knees before him, tears streaking down her cheeks, lips stretched wide, and breasts bouncing with every hard snap of his hips, every plunge of his cock down her throat. The sight of her slumped over the back of her sofa, skin tinged pink and glistening with sweat, his come dripping from her abused cunt and coating the inside of her thighs.

A pretty view, don’t you agree? Almost as pretty as you sitting quietly here at dinner. Who knew all you needed to behave was a good fucking?

Nesta snaps her attention toward him, eyes narrowed in a withering glare. She shoves him hard from her mind, but Rhys knows he’s had the desired effect, the start of a pink flush beginning to pool in the apples of Nesta’s cheeks. He chuckles softly, taking another sip of his wine and turning his attention away from the eldest Archeron.

But his mind continues to linger with her.

Even here, in this dining room, the scent of her arousal still seems to cling to the air around him, still clogs his senses with the sweetness of it. The sounds of her moans still echo in his ears, the sound of her begging for him. He can still feel the wet warmth of her cunt, the way it took his cock, the way her walls fluttered and squeezed around him.

Worse still is the way his magic has swelled since that evening spent at Nesta’s apartment. It writhes in his chest in a way he hasn’t experienced since he first took up the mantle of High Lord, eager for attention and desperate for release.

Like calls to like.

That’s what his father always said. But whatever magic Nesta stole from the Cauldron, whatever power licks and climbs through her veins, it calls Rhys’s magic to rise in a way that’s indescribable. In a way that has him feeling dangerous and wanting more, has him wanting to learn what happens when their magic truly meets and melds. A siren song all its own.

So much power, so much potential.

“Rhys.”

Drawn out of his thoughts, Rhys turns to find a pair of bright, blue eyes watching him curiously, a soft smile. Feyre’s hand rests on his knee, and Rhys reaches for it, bringing it to his mouth and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“Sorry, darling. Lost in my thoughts I suppose.”

“Thought for a thought?” Feyre offers, a tease of their old game.

Rhys hums, giving Feyre’s hand a squeeze where it’s still held in his. “Just reminiscing really. Thinking about how far our family has come, to all be sitting here like this.”

Feyre’s expression softens even as she rolls her eyes fondly at him. “You’re quite the sap sometimes, but come on. Everyone is moving into the sitting room.”

Feyre pushes up from the table, heading out of the dining room and toward the voices drifting in from the other room. Rhys watches her go before turning his attention back to the table and his now empty wine glass there. With a quick wave of his hand, he conjures up something stronger, the burn of the amber liquid a welcome reprieve when he tosses it back.

When he steps inside the sitting room, his whole family is lounging before the fire flickering and sparking in the large fireplace. Feyre is perched on the arm of the large armchair, the invitation and open space for him clear, but Rhys’s gaze dances toward the other end of the room. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to find Nesta near the window, as far away as everyone else in the room as possible.

With everyone else’s attention otherwise preoccupied, Rhys allows his eyes to shamelessly rake over Nesta. His gaze lingers where her legs are primly crossed. It’s been a few days since his visit, but he can’t help but wonder if the female has had any other callers to her apartment since then. How well she washed in that rusty tub of hers after he left. He wonders perhaps if his seed still clings to her after stuffing her full.

He has to swallow hard at that particular thought.

His eyes continue to trace up and up. There’s a pretty pink flush clinging to the swell of her breasts. He smirks. It’s clear she’s noticed his attention. But he keeps his attention firmly in place, watches the way her breasts rise and press over the bodice of her dress as she takes a deep breath in.

Finally, he flicks his gaze up to her face, a pair of stormy blue eyes already narrowed and glaring at him. He dares to reach out for her mind again, scraping claws sensually against those iron gates of hers. Her face hardens, and she shoves to her feet, not sparing anyone in the room a second glance as she strides out of the room.

Rhys allows a few seconds to pass before he turns on his heel, sauntering with ease through the winding halls until he reaches the front doors. Her back is half turned to him, but Rhys doesn’t miss the way Nesta’s body stiffens, her fingers pausing where she was securing the clasp of her cloak.

“What do you want?”

Rhys hums noncommittally, leaning casually against the wall. “Leaving so soon?”

“I came to your stupid dinner,” Nesta snaps, whirling on him. “Aren’t you happy?”

“Oh, Nesta. I’m ecstatic. But it’s quite late. Why don’t I walk you home.”

“I’m perfectly capable of walking home myself.”

“I simply want to make sure you’re safe, in my city,” Rhys offers, stepping closer until he can leer down at her. He drops his voice down into something cold, allows his power to rumble beneath the words. “It would be terrible if something were to happen. Don’t you think?”

From the way Nesta’s lips pinch, Rhys knows that his threat has landed, that it had the desired effect. He smiles down at her, all teeth and cool power. He doesn’t know what it is about the female that draws out this viciousness, that bids the line between mask and reality blur. Perhaps, like calls to like also applies to the matching venom twined like thorns around their hearts.

Another tense moment passes between them, but then Nesta is turning and yanking the door open, stepping out into the crisp, night air. Rhys follows behind her, pulling the door closed behind himself.

He allows Nesta to walk a few paces down the street, but as soon as they’re out of view of the windows, he grasps her bicep. Nesta has barely let out a gasp of surprise at his harsh grip before Rhys is winnowing them both. Right to the doorstep of her apartment. Nesta stumbles forward when he releases her, clearly not used to the sensation of winnowing.

“See?” Rhys drawls, straightening out the cuff of his sleeve. “Wasn’t that so much easier? And you didn’t even have to walk in the cold.”

Nesta straightens, glaring at him. “You’ve walked me home. Now, you can fuck off.”

Rhys tsks, shaking his head. “Now, Nesta, I thought we had fixed that smart mouth of yours. Do you need another lesson?”

“You wish.”

Nesta unlocks her apartment and steps inside, but Rhys is quick to slip in as well before she can slam the door in his face. He backs her up until she’s pressed against the wall, his body firmly caging her in. He grips her chin between his fingers, jerking her head up and forcing her gaze to meet his. His thumb drags across her bottom lip, tracing that line of pink that had been so prettily wrapped around his cock before.

He swears he sees a flash in her eyes when they meet his own. A recognition. A promise. As though she feels the same anticipation he does of what’s to come. Of what they could be. Of what they could create.

Already, the scent of Nesta’s arousal has begun to swirl around them. A scent that Rhys has been unable to stop thinking about, that’s haunted him and left him addicted in a way he’s never experienced. His cock twitches in response to that sweet scent, his power humming and flickering in his veins.

His hand slides down until his fingers can curl around her throat. Until he can feel the thundering flutter of her pulse pressed to his palm. Until he can feel each heaving breath she gasps in beneath his grip. He swears he can feel her own power beneath his fingertips, silver flaring beside his shadows, twining with the darkness. It’s a caress, a whisper, a lullaby to the beast within him to lure it forward. A key in the lock of the cage he’s always kept that beast in.

He swears he can hear her name on the breeze, the beast echoing the chant. The High Lord and Death herself. A pairing he’s sure even the Mother couldn’t have foreseen.

“Did you miss my cock, Nesta?” Rhys taunts, pressing his hips forward until she can feel his own growing arousal. “Miss it stretching you out and stuffing you full?”

Nesta whimpers, but defiance still burns in her blue eyes. “Your ego truly knows no bounds.”

“Lying to your High Lord? Need I remind you of the way you begged for me to fuck you last time?”

When he reaches into her mind this time, his power surges, talons tearing open those iron gates. In the expanse, it’s easy enough to share a vision again, the broken, breathy voice crying out. Please. It’s easy enough for him to root through her own memories, drawing forward the feel of his cock spearing deep within her, his balls slapping against her clit with each hard, rough thrust. The recollection of sensations is enough to have Nesta moaning softly, her heady scent growing thicker and stronger around them until Rhys can practically taste it on his tongue.

“Please…” Nesta echoes in the present. One simple word but it has that beast within him purring in delight. The prey within his grasp all but asking to be played with.

“Much better. Perhaps you learned something last time after all.” Rhys pulls his free hand back far enough that he can conjure a dagger, dragging the tip of the blade along the neckline of Nesta’s dress. “I know your sisters bought you new things, and yet you still wear this ratty old thing?”

One downward swipe of the dagger, and Rhys splits the dress in two. Hooking the metal into the fabric at her hip next, he tears the undergarments she’s wearing. He sends the dagger back into a pocket universe, finally releasing his hold on Nesta’s throat only so he can shove at the remnants of her dress, pushing it off her shoulders, down her arms, until it’s a puddle at their feet.

He watches the fabric as it flutters, taking his time as he raises his gaze back up. His eyes trace over her calves, up over her thighs. The inside of them are already sticky with her arousal, the dark curls covering her cunt starting to glisten. He continues upward over her stomach, to her chest and the flush painted across the skin there. Her nipples are already peaked and protruding, practically daring for his touch.

She’s indescribable, standing here naked and wanting and vulnerable for him. Whatever power she may hold over his thoughts, it’s him that’s in control here.

Rhys reaches forward, taking one breast in each of his hands. He squeezes and kneads at them, relishing in the heavy weight in his palms, in the shutter that overtakes Nesta’s body and the way she arches off the wall with a moan. He ghosts his thumbs over her pebbled nipples, the touch light and teasing.

“Please.”

Rhys tightens his grip, he pinches and tweaks at her nipples, tugging until Nesta lets out a broken sob of a moan, her hips thrusting forward desperately against nothing.

“Do you need something?” Rhys taunts, smirking at the dazed expression that’s overtaken Nesta’s face, cheeks pink, lips parted, and blue eyes out of focus. He shoves his thigh between her legs, Nesta’s eyes fluttering as she whimpers. “Go on, then. Get yourself drenched and ready to take your High Lord.”

Nesta doesn’t need to be told twice. She starts to rock and grind her cunt against his thigh, every swipe and circle of her hips smearing arousal across the fabric of his pants. He presses his thigh harder against her, practically forcing her up onto her toes, but it doesn’t deter her. She rides his thigh faster, chasing the friction against her clit.

Every moan and whimper that tumbles past her lips goes straight to Rhys’s cock, his length pressing almost painfully against the confines of his pants. He resists the urge to press his own palm against his erection, to relieve some of the ache. Instead, he returns his focus to Nesta’s breasts. He told himself he was going to fuck her tits the next time, but all he can really think about now is burying himself balls deep in her cunt again.

Nesta tosses her head back against the wall, her moans becoming higher in pitch. Her hips start to stutter against his thigh, and even through the fabric of his pants, Rhys can feel the way her cunt has started to flutter. It’s clear that she’s close.

He slides one his hands back up to her throat, squeezing tightly. “I don’t recall giving you permission to come.”

“Rhysand… Rhys… I need…”

“Don’t you want to be a good girl? You were so good, at dinner tonight. How about you be a good girl and sit on my cock.”

His words have Nesta moaning again, even as he pulls away from her completely. Her hips buck against nothing as he steps back from her, eyes glued to his tented pants, his cock twitching in response to her attention. This time, he magics away his clothes. It’s a relief to finally have his cock free, and he fists it lazily, giving into the heat rushing through his veins, the groan trapped in the back of his throat, as he watches Nesta lick her lips.

Rhys walks over to Nesta’s sofa, settling against the cushions with his arms stretched casually along the back, his thighs spread wide. He peers over his shoulder back toward Nesta, raising a pointed eyebrow. “I thought you had learned your place in this Court. Don’t keep me waiting now.”

Nodding her head, Nesta saunters around the sofa until she’s standing in front of him. She keeps her eyes on him as she slowly sinks to her knees, settling between his spread legs. Her hands slide up his thighs, nails biting against the skin, until she reaches his cock. She knocks away his hand so her own fingers can curl around him, slowly dragging up and back down, and then she’s leaning forward.

Her hot breath fanning across the head of his cock is Rhys’s only warning before Nesta swallows him all the way down. A long groan is torn from his chest at the wet heat of her mouth, at the feel of his cock hitting the back of her throat. And when she moans around him, the vibrations traveling all the way to his toes, there’s no stopping the way his hips buck against her, Nesta gagging around him only adding to the delicious sensations burning through his limbs.

“Fuck, look at you,” Rhys groans, threading his fingers through Nesta’s hair and holding her there. “I knew you missed my cock.”

Nesta moans around him again, looking up at him through tear stained lashes. She pulls back slowly, her tongue dragging along the underside of his cock, until he comes free from her mouth with a quiet pop. His length glistens from the ministrations of her mouth, and Nesta leans forward again, lapping up the milky liquid that dribbles from his cockhead.

Rhys watches her through dark eyes. Watches her eyelashes kiss her cheeks with each flutter of her eyes. Watches her hand slip down between her legs, her fingers toying with her clit. But that beast roars for more, demands he take what is his.

“As much as I’m enjoying the sight of you on your knees before your High Lord, I believe I told you to sit on my cock.”

Nesta swallows hard, but then she’s pushing up to her feet on shaking legs. She doesn’t even bother wiping her mouth, lips puffy pink and wet, her cheeks still mottled with tear stains. She hesitates for a moment before settling her hands on his shoulders, using him for balance while she clambers into his lap. Her hand reaches down, fisting his cock and lining him up with her entrance.

She circles her hips, dragging his cock through the wetness gathered there, so he can feel how absolutely drenched and aching she is, but he doesn’t have time for any more teasing. His own hands reach forward, gripping Nesta’s hips hard enough to bruise.

He pulls her down hard until she’s sitting fully on his cock.

The female lets out a sharp cry in surprise at the sudden movement. The walls of her cunt spasm and squeeze around him, the tight warmth exactly how Rhys remembers it.

“Gods, you just love to be stuffed full of my cock, don’t you? Look at how you take it.”

Rhys wastes no time in setting a brutal, punishing pace. Using his grip on her hips, he pulls her up and slams her back down, thrusting up his own hips to meet the movements. It’s indescribable, the drag of her walls against his cock, the way they flutter around him and seem to pull him deeper still with every inward thrust. He’s quickly growing drunk off her sweet cunt, off the litany of moans falling past her lips and mixing with the wet slap of skin on skin.

“You’re just so desperate, aren’t you?” Rhys growls, fucking up into her harder still. “Desperate for your High Lord. Desperate for his cock. Desperate to be filled to the brim.”

“Fuck…” Nesta moans, her hands reaching for her bouncing tits, palming them and pinching her nipples.

“Don’t try lying to me again. I can feel how soaked you are, feel what a mess you’re making of my thighs.”

“Rhysand, please.”

“We both know you can do better than that,” Rhys taunts, his voice dipping into the cool, authoritative tone of a High Lord. “Scream it.”

And scream it she does. Nesta screams his name until she’s hoarse, bouncing on his cock and kneading her breasts desperately. He knocks her hands away, instead enclosing his mouth over her nipple. He sinks his teeth against the skin, biting and tugging until Nesta lets out a high pitched shout. She arches fully against him, her cunt squeezing so tight that Rhys can’t hold on any longer. He pulls her down as far as he can against his lap, his cock pulsing and filling her deeply.

He thrusts shallowly a few more times, groaning and riding out the high of his release. When he lets go of her, Nesta slumps to the side, falling on her back on the sofa beside him. Rhys turns enough that he’s able to pry her legs back open, his gaze focused on her cunt. He watches the way it flutters with the aftershocks of her own orgasm, the way his seed drips out and pools on the fabric of the sofa.

He swipes two fingers through his come, gathering as much as he can, before he shoves his fingers back inside her cunt. Nesta whimpers at the sudden intrusion, but Rhys doesn’t let it deter him. He keeps his fingers pressed deep, leaning over her body and leering down at her.

“We don’t want to lose a drop, now do we? How else will it take?”

Nesta’s whimper shifts into a moan, her entire body shuddering in response. Her walls clench around his fingers, inviting them in deeper, holding his come exactly where it belongs.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Rhys asks, daring to curl his fingers, Nesta bucking up against his hand.

“Yes,” Nesta whispers, her voice little more than a broken moan.

“Not just stuffed with my cock, but full of my seed.”

“Yes!”

Rhys swears in that moment her power flares and rises along with her voice. Swears it calls on and draws out his own, mingling in the space between them like a swirling storm of glittering shadows. Swears he can feel it like a caress, hear it like a whisper. It ensnares him. It’s a finger hooking and tempting him to dive right into the darkness.

Rhys’s cock twitches in renewed interest, already hardening again, and he’s never been more happy for his fae body and its way to recover so quickly. The fingers of his free hand curl around himself, stroking his cock until it stands at full attention again. He shifts fully up onto his knees, pressing Nesta’s leg up and back until its hooked on the back of the sofa, until she’s fully opened up to him.

Rhys pulls his fingers free from her cunt just long enough to replace them with his cock, holding himself still with his hips pressed firmly to hers. “Well, since you begged so pretty, we can make sure you’re really filled and overflowing.”

Rhys pulls his hips back just to snap them back forward again. The beast is fully unleashed as he fucks into her with a ferity he didn’t know possible. Nesta’s moans and shouts ring in his ears, the wet sounds of sex as his cock glides through his own seed, as it slams into the warm cunt of the female beneath him.

He’s half aware of her nails biting into the skin of his back, but it’s the scent that really has his attention. Not just that heady, sweet scent of Nesta’s arousal, but his own scent all over her, in her, mixing together into something that promises power and possibility. It makes him dizzy, pulls a growl from deep within his chest.

Nesta is little more than a mess of pleasure. Her eyes are heavy lidded, whole body rocking with every hard thrust of Rhys’s hips, of his hard cock spearing into her again and again and again. A litany of half choked sounds and sobs falls from her lips like a chant, but he doesn’t miss his name, the please. Somehow, it makes him harder still.

The selfish, stubborn female, the female with the fire of Death in her veins, fully submissive beneath him. All his for the taking.

Rhys can already feel himself climbing dangerously higher, can feel the heat building and writhing for release. Normally, he might feel embarrassed at the speed, but not here, not now. A few more thrusts and he explodes, stars swimming in his vision. Nesta’s cunt squeezes tight around him, practically milking his cock as he spills deep.

He gives himself a moment to catch his breath then finally pulls his softening cock from the blissful refuge. His cock is a mess of her arousal and the result of two releases, but it’s nothing compared to her cunt, beautifully stuffed full and dripping just as he promised. Rhys lazily strokes his hand down and back up his length, his cock giving a final spurt as if in agreement.

He gathers up that final dribble and smears it across Nesta’s lips. “Wouldn’t want to waste a single drop.”

Nesta is pliant, doesn’t protest as he presses those fingers past the seam of her lips and into her mouth. When he pulls his fingers free again, he drags the wet pads of them down her chin, her neck, all the way down the valley of her breasts. He hums quietly to himself, feels what thrums beneath the surface sparking at his touch.

“Perhaps you’ll have some use to this Court after all.”

#rhysta #nesrhys #nesta archeron #Nesta x Rhysand #Nesta x Rhys #acotar #my fic

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