#enough texture to kill a man

[zombiecicada]

@post-it-notes7

*attacks you with the brain rot blorbos*

Wolfbell AU Arthur and Falspar meet Mirror Madness Arthur and Falspar.

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[murderofravens]

DUSK TILL DAWN

pairing: hwang inho/young-il/frontman x fem reader.

part: 1/3 [finished]

warnings: age gap (reader is 20, inho is in his late 40s) slowburn. oral fixation. thigh riding. plot with porn. yearning. sexual tension. canon compliant. slight infantilization. no y/n used.

summary: he promised that you will make it out alive. he will make sure of it, no matter what it takes.

word count: 6.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST | KOFI

please ignore any mistakes.

as you wipe the blood from your face, the reality of your situation sets in. you never thought you'd get used to the smell of blood— much less the sight of it. or the texture. and now you're covered in it. the white of your uniform splattered with crimson, the metallic smell of it almost overwhelming. in a situation like the one you're in, you can only laugh. the mere sight of blood used to make you feel faint; make you want to throw up because you're squeamish. now you're covered in it from head to toe.

it's not yours. it's of the people they shot dead during the second game.

you barely remember how you made it out alive. the second one was all thanks to your team— thanos and nam-gyu were the closest to your age, and teaming up with them worked in your favour. your age and gender was a liability to the others, but they were kind enough to take you in. or perhaps they were thinking with their dicks. would it really matter either way?

but with the way they act, you're not sure if you want to continue being in a team with them. especially since thanos keeps trying to woo you with his poor rapping skills. they're way too loud and reckless for you, and you're scared they might get you killed. they're not willing to give up the game anytime soon, either.

then there's the first game— you're alive, because of 456. that crazy man who supposedly had played the games before. if it wasn't for him pulling you behind his back, you would've left the premises in a cardboard box. especially because you fucking sneezed as soon as the doll turned back.

since then, you've decided you don't want to play this game anymore. 456 has been desperately trying to change the other's mind— but they're greedy and insistent. you pressed the cross for his sake, and for the others, and for yourself. hell, you can live in debt, but what use is that money if you die trying? you're not that much of a hard worker. you value your life above anything else.

you walk over to their team— 456, and his two loud team members. another man is sitting there— player 001. the one who ruined your chance of going home on the first vote. he seems ordinary, but you know of him because you saw him beat the shit out of thanos. that was another reason you decided to abandon that team— you could not be seen with a bully, or a loser. as you approach him, you give him a slight nod of acknowledgement, which he returns. you turn your attention to 456, and thank him profusely for what he did for you. he's kind, you'll give him that. you like kind people.

"if you don't mind me asking—" a voice interrupts, and you look over your shoulder. it's player 001. he looks at you curiously. "how old are you?"

"old enough." you retort cheekily. he doesn't look amused as he cocks his head to the side.

"i'm curious as to why a little kid like you would compromise herself for money."

that shuts you up. you're offended, to say the least. who is he to call you a little kid? the entire team also looks on, seemingly baffled. the question makes sense. you're sure you're the youngest out of all players. and people can tell because you look it too. you don't really know how to respond, so you just look on with a frown, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"forgive me—" he lets out an awkward chuckle, "i didn't mean it the wrong way. i'm just worried."

you give him an uneasy smile, rubbing the back of your neck. the others go back to their conversations, and you shrug. he shoots a glance towards gi-hun before sitting back down and shifting slightly, as if making room for you. you take a seat beside him. there's silence before he glances at the symbol on your jacket— the cross.

"i'm sorry." he says with a small smile, looking straight ahead, "you wanted to go home but you had to continue because of me. i put a kid in danger."

"i'm not a kid," you huff softly, straightening up, "i'm twenty. but yeah, you should be sorry."

you give him a small smile to ensure he knows that the last line is lighthearted. he seems to understand and returns it.

"dont worry about it," you sigh, fiddling with the zip of your jacket, "im sure you had your reasons. just like i have mine for coming here."

"and your parents?" he asks. he's so polite, it warms your heart. polite and soft spoken. and visibly tough. probably some officer, you think, judging by his skills you previously saw.

"that's what i need the money for." you sigh, leaning back against the bunker. "i need enough money to establish myself. continue my studies. bring my mom and my sister to come live with me. settle off my father's debts because he's a coward who decided to pass down his sins onto his daughter."

he raises his eyebrows, and you take a sharp breath. there's a moment of silence between you two— you think for a moment, and feel your eyes get slightly glassy. you're not going to cry in front of a stranger. you put on a brave face. "if i die here, my mother—"

he stares at you silently, before putting a comforting hand on your shoulder, interrupting your cursed sentence. "you'll make it out alive."

the doors open, and the staff comes in again. they reveal the number of players left, showcase the money that each person would get, and then the voting starts again.

this time, player 001 doesn't disappoint you. he goes first, and clicks on the cross. the hope it gives you eventually shatters as more and more players begin to vote in favour of continuing the game. you see 456 get increasingly agitated as he begins to make his way towards the front of the crowd. before he can speak, he's interrupted.

001's voice rings out loud and authoritative, and worried. he reprimands the voters in favour, calls them out on their selfishness.

"we'll all die if we keep playing!" he chastises the crowd urgently. "you have to survive first, or there won't be a next step—"

"there's no next step for us!" he's interrupted by player 100. a stout old man who had been at odds against 456 since the start— you remember him having 10 billion won in debt. it makes you snicker. he eggs on the crowd. "with that money, we won't be able to pay our debts. we need to play one more game, then the money will increase to 240 million. with that we can pay atleast a little of our debts! isn't that right!?"

"you're going to die trying!" you snap, making your way to the front of the crowd. you glare at player 100, at all his little supporters cheering at the back. "your greed is going to get you killed. how can you be so confident to say that you'll survive the next game? what if you die?"

"you shut up, young lady!" he hisses, mouth scrunching bitterly. "is that how you speak to your elders? your brain is too small to comprehend real life problems. we can't continue with our lives with that little money!"

"continue your lives?" a laugh bubbles out of your throat. "look at that greying head of yours, you barely have a life ahead of you! why don't you let us live ours?!"

that seems to have ticked him off, because he quite literally turns red as he takes a threatening step towards you.

"what did you just say?"

"i said—" you step forward, shooting him a challenging glare, "you're too old to be playing children's games. vote wisely and let us go home."

he lets out a snarl before trying to lunge at you, but you're pulled back as player 001 steps between the two of you. like a wall. he looks at the old man, eyes cold, his voice low. "that's enough."

since the incident with thanos, nobody has really tried anything with 001. it's obvious enough they're intimidated by him, and they don't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. 100 doesn't either, with the way he collects himself and steps back, embarrassed. you look over 001's shoulder, make eye contact with the old man and shoot him a taunting smile. you know it's childish, but you've resented him from the start.

before the old man can say anything, player 001 drags you to the side where you can't argue with people anymore. and the voting continues.

"you can't talk to people like this," he says lowly, gaze focused on the crowd. staring at something that you can't figure out. "you never know what they might do."

you huff bitterly. you know what he means.

"i don't care. i fucking hate bullies."

"potty mouth." he chastises, but theres a smirk on his face. he's teasing. you chuckle.

"remember you need to get out of here alive." he repeats, looking at you with an intensity that is almost terrifying. "you can't do that if you keep this up."

"jeez, okay dad." you joke, rolling your eyes. your words make him smile lightly.

"thanks for having my back there." you tell him sincerely. he looks at you for a bit before nodding in acknowledgement.

the voting ends, and they announce that the games will continue tomorrow. it makes your heart drop.

that night, you feel uneasy when you try to sleep. your clothes stick to your skin, and the side of your face keeps itching. with an irritated grumble, you get off the bunker and walk over to your new friend's side. you squint your eyes before looking for 001— and when you find him, you gently shake him.

"are you sleeping?" you whisper.

he opens his eyes, wincing slightly before sitting up. his voice is hushed as he responds, "not anymore. what is it?"

you bite your lower lip nervously before reluctantly asking, "will you go to the restroom with me? i'm kinda scared to go alone."

he blinks at you, confused. you continue out of sheer desperation.

"those guards just stare weirdly with their weird little masks and it makes me nervous." you hope your voice doesn't shake as you speak. "last time one of them kept knocking on the door while i was in the washroom and it just— scared the shit out of me. and my face is itching and i really need to go. please?"

he listens patiently. for a moment you think he'd decline but he just sighs and nods, and you cheer just a little as he steps out and follows you to the door. you bang on it, loudly telling the guards that you need to go. one of them opens the sliding window, and then immediately opens the door. it makes you feel strange, because usually it takes a lot more effort to convince them. either way, you're grateful.

you know your better option would've been to take one of the girls with you, but the sad fact is you haven't had the chance to get friendly with any of the female players yet. and for some reason, player 001 makes you feel a sense of safety and security that is almost strange— you feel at ease around him.

"i'll be in the men's room," he tells you, and you nod. he shoots a glance to the guard standing outside the women's restroom before walking away. you quickly go inside, and the first thing you do is splash water on your face.

you quickly clean the blood off your skin, holding back the urge to cry. you scrub at your cheeks till you're sure you can scratch the itch away for good. your nails dig a little too deep, and a little blood oozes out of the scratches on the side of your face. you clean that too, and then try to scrub the splatters of blood off your t-shirt. it's white, and you have no soap— so the stains remain. a faint reminder. you take your time, and anticipate the knocking— but it never comes.

you look in the mirror, at your tired face and sunken eyes, before giving yourself a nod and stepping out. 001 is waiting for you outside, looking to the side. he gives you an odd look as you step out, before walking alongside you.

"are you alright?" he asks gently, concerned. kind as ever.

you look at him again, give him a nod. "thank you."

when you two reach the room, he returns the smile with one of his own.

as you make your way to the bunker, he grabs your shoulder, "why don't you start sleeping on our side?" he says quietly, "join the team. there's a bed near mine. you won't feel so scared that way."

you blink, trying to see his face in the darkness. the offer is enticing— and most of all, it warms your heart.

"really?" you ask hopefully.

"really." he says kindly.

you follow him to the bunker, and he covers the railing with his hand to avoid you getting hurt as you bend down to get into the bed. he looks at the slightly wet patches on your shirt— blinks before getting a bedsheet and putting it over you. "get some sleep. we got a game to play tomorrow."

you smile softly at him. as he turns to get into his own bed, you grab his hand. it's warm against yours— big and rough. you don't allow your mind to drift that way. it's not right. he looks at you, gaze questioning.

"thanks again," you say softly, "it means a lot to me."

he leans down a little to ruffle your hair before going back to his bed and laying down. you close your eyes and drift to sleep— unaware that he stays up, thinking.

breakfast is boring— bread and milk. you sit on the bed, scowling. player 456 is surprised as he sees you there, before you two share understanding smiles. you bow a little and he bows back before going along with his friend. 001 comes to sit by you then, munching on his own breakfast.

"i miss home," you mumble, "how am i supposed to survive on just this? it's not even chocolate milk."

001 laughs, "don't worry, you can have whatever you want once you get out of here."

"will i?"

he looks at you, raising his eyebrows. you take his silence as a cue to continue, "im scared i'll die in here."

he looks down, before shifting to be closer to you. "you made it this far, didn't you?"

you look at him, voice getting shaky. "and what if i dont make it till the end? what if i die here and my family thinks i abandoned them? i don't want to die. i haven't even lived my life yet."

his expression is hard to read. "you'll make it out of here alive," he tells you with conviction, "ill make sure of it."

your lips wobble as you stare at him, and he smiles before poking you in the nose. "finish your food. you need the energy for the next game. we'll make it out alive, then we'll try to get the voters on our side and go home. sound good?"

you snort, rolling your eyes before nodding. "sounds good."

he gives you his bread then, tells you to eat more. when you protest, he sends a warning glare your way— the one with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing gaze. you roll your eyes, and happily eat it.

you were hungry. perhaps he can tell things like that. you're just grateful.

today, you decided to be a little rebellious. when you first joined the games, you used to spend a long time in the bathrooms— analyzing, looking for a way out. during that time, you'd discovered that one of the screws in the ceiling vent was loose. you hadn't really bothered checking it before, but since it's daytime and you have some time before the next game, you decide to explore.

your hairclip works— the screws were not tightly fixed, so it unscrewed easily. you'd contemplated checking it out last night, but you didn't want to take any risks, especially since player 001 was with you. so now whatever you do, the responsibility will be yours.

when the bathroom gets empty and all the women leave, you pull it down and try climbing up. it's moments like these that you can pride yourself on your agility— work that usually required two people, you could do alone. with one leg on the flush and the other on the top of the cubicle, you climbed up, scratching the side of your arm slightly before finally getting in the vents. you groaned to yourself, and then started crawling inside. there were two ways to go— you chose the left one. you looked down, trying to understand the layout of the place where you were practically held hostage. you keep crawling, making sure not to make too much noise before finally seeing a place through the gaps that you hadn't seen before— you carefully remove the screws and pull it apart.

the place looks empty. the walls are all sorts of pink and green. you put your head down and look both ways, seeing a door at the end of the hallway. carefully, you climb down and lower yourself to the ground with a thump. your shoulder hurts a little. you stand up, and aim for the door. as soon as you begin walking, you hear footsteps. it's as if someone splashed cold water on you— you realize the grave mistake you just made. guards walk here with guns, and you made the impulsive decision to explore a dangerous place like this by yourself?

you look around, running towards the other end of the hallway. the footsteps get louder, and as you look over your shoulder, something grabs you. out of reflex, you go to scream, but a hand clamps down on your mouth, and your back collides with a hard chest.

"shh, it's me." the voice hisses. your wide eyes look up, scared, before realizing who it is.

player 001.

your chest heaves as you break out into a sweat, a tear rolling down your cheek. he keeps you in a tight hold, looking to the side, your breath dampening his hand. the footsteps suddenly become faint, as if walking away. your breaths sync together, and after a moment, he relaxes.

he takes his hand off your mouth before harshly twisting you to face him. his voice is hushed but angry, "what were you thinking?!"

"what are you doing here?" you whisper shakily at the same time.

"everyone was back in the room except you. i came to find you!" he chides, eyes hard. he shakes you slightly, "do you really plan to get killed like this? is this how you want to die? can you go one moment without being a reckless brat—"

his words make you want to cower in on yourself.

"i wanted to find a way out." you try to sound assertive, but your voice betrays you. your words come out panicked, "I wanted to help and— fuck— i got you in trouble too— you shouldn't have come looking for me! fuck— how are we gonna make it out of here?"

he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut before looking at you tiredly. "the game is about to start. we'll mix in with the crowd when they leave, i doubt they'll notice."

"are you sure it'll work?" you ask. you hear a faint announcement. the game is about to start.

he looks up at the speakers, alert. he grabs you tightly and drags you away with an air of confidence. "let's go."

you don't encounter any guards on the way back. it's strange, but you figure it's because they're all preparing for the next game. player 001's plan worked, because you two mixed in with the crowd, and the guards didn't notice. one of them turned back to look at you, and you panted, staring back at him. your heart raced, but you felt the presence of 001 next to you, and you felt at ease again. the guard looked away.

"i told you to stop being reckless." he says quietly, looking at 456 and 390, before looking back at you. your legs hurt from climbing so many stairs. "what would you have done if they found you?"

you swallow the lump in your throat, staring up at him intensely, eyes glassy. he saved your life. "i guess you stopped that from happening."

he clenches his jaw, his gaze flickering up and down your face before looking away. "i won't always be there to save you."

you look away, heart dropping. "thank you, 001."

"call me young-il."

you look up at him, blinking back tears, quirking an eyebrow as you two walk. "only if you allow me to add 'sir' at the end of it."

he chuckles, eyes crinkling. he has such a nice laugh. "why's that? respect?"

you nod, giving a little bow. "respect is very important in my culture as well. so thank you for saving my life, young-il sir."

he grins a little and pats your head. you thank him again, and decide you like him enough. so you tell him your name.

he tests it on his tongue, and you quite like the way he says it.

the next game had to be the most terrifying so far.

it was called mingle, and you had to run to the rooms in groups according to the number announced. things like these were where you got scared— where you had to group with people. in dangerous situations, you know people usually only look out for two types of people— themselves, and the ones dearest to them.

you were not dear to anyone here. you really should've interacted with more people.

the platform rotates, before the number is announced. six. your eyes widen and you frantically look around, but young-il is faster. he grabs you and drags you to the room with the rest of the team. you pant as the 30 seconds pass, and then look out the window in the door to see how many people were left— quite a few. your eyes widen as the red guards move forward with their guns raised.

young-il leaps forward and covers your eyes with his hand before pulling you into himself as the gunshots ring out— you flinch and shudder at every single one, breathing sharp and your entire frame trembling violently. when there is silence and the doors open, you look up. young-il gently lets go of you, looking around. he's panting too, and you look at him with the most crushed look on your face before he meets your gaze. he can tell what you want to know— why would you do that?

"you shouldn't have to see all this." he says quietly, adjusting his jacket and putting a little distance between you two. 456 pats your shoulder and makes sure people are okay before moving out. you just look at young-il for a while, but he simply looks around, seemingly lost in thought. as if fighting a war within himself. you wish you knew how to reassure him like he did with you, but you realize you barely know anything about him.

the entire floor is painted with blood. the sight makes you want to vomit. you walk carefully, but your foot slips in someone's blood and you begin to fall over. 456 catches you. "are you alright?"

instinctively, your gaze tries to find young-il but he's standing away. his head is lowered.

"yes, thank you." you give 456 a smile, before assuming your place on the platform again.

you play a few more rounds. you're lucky enough to have someone to team with each time— young-il and 456 don't let go of you even once. but then the voice runs out again, and they announce the number 3. this time, 456 is dragged along with the old woman and her son. you look around frantically, and meet young-il's panicked gaze with your own. you begin to run towards him, but two people grab you and drag you towards one of the rooms.

thanos and nam-gyu. you shriek at them, clawing at their arms and trying to run back out. what if young-il doesn't make it? what if something bad happens?

this time, you have no one to cover your eyes or ears. thanos and nam-gyu talk shit within themselves, and you look outside the little window, flinching with every gunshot ringing out, trying to pinpoint if it's young-il's body falling to the ground. you can't help the light sob erupting from your throat, and thanos chooses the wrong moment to come bother you.

"watcha looking for, señorita?" he laughs, poking your side, "is it your old man? did he finally—"

you turn to him and punch him in the face. he falls back and groans dramatically, rubbing the blood running down his nose. nam-gyu rushes to his rescue, giggling. they're both high as a kite. the doors open, and you rush out before they can bother you further.

you look around. 456 is with the rest of the team, but you can't find young-il. frantically, you look towards the dead bodies, heart pounding against your chest and head throbbing. suddenly, there's cheers from your team, and you look up to see young-il walking over with a bright grin on his face.

you don't know what compelled you to do it. you were acting on your emotions— overwhelmed by the relief you felt on the sight of his face. before you can even stop, you're dashing towards him and crashing into his body, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

he's shocked, that much is obvious by the way he tenses slightly. but then he returns the hug, wrapping his arms around you and placing one hand on your head, gently patting. "i told you we'd make it."

you choke on a soft sob, nodding, burying your head further into his chest, as if ready to climb inside him, "i thought you—"

he shushes you softly, voice gentle as he runs a hand through your hair. you can feel his heart racing against his chest too. you wonder if it's for the same reasons as you. "i'm okay."

you wish the game ended there. but there was one more round to go. as you rotated on the platform— the moment you were dreading finally happened as young-il predicted it. the number announced was two.

you were ready to die there. things seemed to happen in slow motion— 456 took his best friend 390, 149 was dragged by her son. you didn't get the chance to see who took who next, because young-il had grabbed your hand and was dragging you towards one of the rooms. there were only fifty rooms— the first one you two got to was taken. he dragged you to another with a mere ten seconds left.

you sighed in relief as you got in, before seeing another man was already there. he was shaking in fear, and you jumped at the harshness of young-il's voice when he ordered him to get out. when the other player refused, young-il lunged at him and put him in a headlock.

your eyes widened and you stepped forward, panic stricken but he looked right at you and called your name, "close your eyes!"

you flinched. you looked at the man, then at young-il, before squeezing your eyes shut. you slid to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest as soon as you heard a 'crack' before opening your eyes.

the player was dead. young-il cracked his neck.

the timer finished at that exact moment, and young-il crawled over to you before pulling you into his chest. the gunshots rang out, and you flinched, sobbing.

young-il killed someone.

"i had to do it," he whispered against your hair, holding your head against his chest, "we both have to make it out alive. i had to do it. you know that right?"

you wanted to believe him, you really did. but in that moment, you felt scared of him for the first time.

the doors opened, and the game finished.

while you wanted to revel in your victory, the incident during mingle had rattled you to your core. the others checked up on you, especially 388 and 456. young-il maintained some distance. you could feel like he thought it's what you wanted. but you could really use his comfort. you just don't know how to talk to him again without being nervous. you force yourself to relive your previous interactions with him— he's still the same young-il who has saved you and comforted you countless times.

he did what he had to do to ensure your survival. that wasn't something you could hold against him. not when both of your lives were on the line.

the voting this time was just as challenging. you made your way to the front of the crowd, praying that they'd choose wisely this time. you need to go home.

one of the players in the old man's team showed you the finger before clicking the 'o' button. the action made your eye twitch, and you grit your teeth before straightening up to attack that guy and scratch his face off, but a hand to your chest held you back.

if looks could kill, young-il's glare could've sent that guy home in a body bag. as the votes in favour of continuing the game increased, you pushed his hand off you and addressed the crowd, "have you all lost your fucking minds?!"

their chitter chatter stopped and they looked at you. you clench your jaw, "after losing so many people out there you still want to play? what the fuck is wrong with you people? are human lives that invaluable to you?"

player 100 steps forward, insufferable as always. "don't you see how much money we're getting for each person? it could settle our debt! we can't give up after how far we've come."

"you're gonna die!" you snap, pointing at him, "you could take this money and go home and be happy instead of risking your life for something that is not assured to you! why won't you listen?! i want to go home!"

the others in favour of terminating the game start chanting with you, a string of 'i want to go home' echoing across the room.

player 100 glares, urging his own team to chant against you. he looks towards young-il, yells something along the lines of, "look after your fucking kid!" before the barell of a gun presses against the back of your head. the whole room freezes, and so do you.

"disruptions against a democratic vote will not be excused." the robotic voice calls out. for a second you think this is it. you look at young-il. if you die here, you'd prefer the man who saved your life to be the last person you see. he glares at the guard, his jaw clenching. the guard lowers the gun and steps back and you let out a breath of relief.

you immediately saunter over to him, gritting your teeth. the vote is a tie— and they announce the next voting to be held tomorrow.

456 says there's about to be a fight. the rest of the team got busy setting up a barricade— and you didn't get the chance to talk to your player. you knew his concern though, when he made sure to especially hide your side of the bed with two mattresses.

you play with the hem of your shirt as you sit in your bed by your lonesome. your food sits by you, untouched. you dont feel like eating. the weight on the bed shifts, and young-il appears into view.

"you're not eating."

you swallow the lump in your throat. "i don't feel like it."

he contemplates, eyes lowered before he looks at you again. "im sorry you had to witness that. I don't want you to be scared of me."

you want to cry. "im not." you whisper, "you.. you had to do what you had to do. to save us."

he blinks, nodding.

"back there, i thought that was it. it's over." you chuckle bitterly. "but you saved me again. you acted on impulse. i could never resent you for it."

your eyes are bloodshot as you look at him again. fat tears roll down your cheeks, and he frowns. he sighs before leaning closer, brushing the tears away. "why are you crying?"

"i wouldn't have survived this far if it wasn't for you." you whisper, voice cracking. "promise me you wouldn't abandon me. promise me you won't die."

his gaze softens. he's silent for a bit, his hand coming to rest on your knee, "i promise."

you sniffle, wiping your tears away. a small smile appears on your face, "i punched thanos."

"thanos?" he frowns, confused before raising his eyebrows in recognition, "ah, the loud kid with the purple hair?"

you nod proudly. "he said something like 'did 001 finally die?' so i punched him."

he laughs heartily— face scrunching cutely, eyes crinkling. he shakes his head fondly before ruffling your hair again. "attagirl."

it makes you blush slightly and you smile, looking down at your lap. he grabs your dinner— the roll sitting next to you and unwraps it, taking out a piece before holding it out, "eat."

you snort before leaning forward and taking a bite. he looks at you for a while with that faraway look in his eyes, before wordlessly continuing to feed you the rest. the words go unsaid. 'what are we doing? why are we so comfortable with each other?'

some sauce sticks to the corner of your mouth. he raises his hand to hold your chin, his thumb gently wiping it off. your breath hitches.

neither of you protest when his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, gaze focused on it like he's hypnotized. he's thinking, mindlessly feeling the plush texture of it.

you've always been impulsive. especially in situations where you shouldn't be. it happens so naturally— how your lips part just slightly. and maybe he's impulsive too, because his thumb slips inside, and his breath hitches as soon as your lips wrap around his thumb.

his gaze raises to meet yours— and you blink almost dazedly. his thumb presses down on your tongue, and he calls out your name in the softest voice.

"i'm too old for you." he whispers, shaking his head in disapproval.

your eyes flutter, and you lean forward, grabbing hold of his wrist. he pulls his thumb out, and you almost whine in protest. to your utter delight, he replaces it with two of his fingers, and your eyes almost roll back as you crawl forward till you're situated on his lap, mouth stuffed with his index and middle finger. you suck on them enthusiastically. they're long and thick and perfect and you don't want them out of your mouth ever again. it elicits a soft moan out of him— and if you could put that sound on repeat for the rest of your life, you'd be happy.

he pulls his fingers out and grabs the back of your head, pulling you close till your foreheads press together. you try to lean forward, to capture his lips with your own. he chuckles slightly, eyes closed, playfully rubbing his nose against yours. you whine.

"so impatient." he whispers, and then his lips are colliding with yours. it would be embarrassing if someone were to catch you two like this— more so for him than for you. thankfully, the others are busy strategizing for the night, and are not looking for either of you.

you moan softly and he bites down on your bottom lip, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth. it's desperate and reckless and so full of spit— it makes you whimper into his mouth and he pulls you further into himself, as if telling you to shut up. his experience is obvious in the way he kisses, and you follow his lead. unknowingly, your hips start gently grinding against his thigh, and he lets out a soft hiss. he pulls away slightly, strings of saliva connecting your mouths. he licks it away.

"come on, sweetheart," he whispers, one hand coming down to help your hips grind against his thigh, "make yourself feel good— that's it, that's my good girl."

you moan softly, and his free hand clamps your mouth shut. he speeds his movement, clenching and unclenching the muscle of his thigh, guiding your hips to move faster against his lap. it's been so long since you've masturbated— and this is unarguably the hottest situation you've ever been in, with the hottest man you've ever seen. so you're already close. you cry out into his hand, your voice muffled. he understands what you mean and lets you move on your own speed then, pulling your head into the crook of his neck as he whispers soft words of praise into your ear.

the moment he calls you his good girl again, you cum. he muffles the sound with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut before he looks at you intensely. you collapse against him, slightly sweaty, your hands holding onto his shoulders as you cling to him. he runs his hand through your hair, breathing sharply. it's a small moment of bliss in the hell you've found yourself in.

soon, the lights go out, and dread settles in your stomach once you feel his body tensing. player 388 pulls one of the mattresses back slightly, hisses a quick "get under the bed!"

and the next game begins.

A/N: this was incredibly fun to write. i love writing him a little soft and fatherly, so deal with it. i might write a part 2 for this, if anyone wants that. this idea has been in my head for a while. i love him so, so much. this fic is my baby and i truly hope you guys like reading it as much as i liked writing it.

tags! @carolinevoight @lovers-roq @wildtigerlili @menabuser16 @deadlyobsessivfennec @watasinekoru @hanakokunzz @cowuies

[yeagersss]

Sukuna x Blind!Reader (Part 3)

<- Previous

"My lord?"

"Hm."

It was a quiet night like any other night at your little house. Both of you sitting on the tatami mat, cups of tea in hand and you were leaning against him. Sukuna was going through your mother's poems quietly, occasionally reading one out loud to which you would smile.

You shifted slightly, taking a sip of your tea.

"Is it true that you have four arms and eyes?"

Sukuna's face twisted into a deep frown at that. What the hell kind of a question is that?

"I've been coming here for months, woman. How the hell have you not known what I look like? Especially since you have hard about me from others before." He said.

You pouted. "Well, those are just rumors! I... I wanted to ask you yourself so I know how to perceive you." You asked.

"Perceive me?"

You nodded and sat up straight, smiling in his direction. "I mean—how I should visualise you. In my mind, that is."

His frown didn't leave his face. In fact, it was more out of disbelief than frustration. The fact that he's been here, visiting you for months and you still didn't know what he looks like was astonishing.

Then he wondered... If he told you, will you be afraid of him? Will you back away the moment he confirms that the rumors of his appearance are true?

Will you curse his existence?

"What if I told you that the rumors you've heard about me are true?" Sukuna said, all four eyes focused on your face.

You hummed in thought. "Then I'd say... that it's so interesting that a man like you is a part of this world."

Part of this world.

"You don't belong here."

"Get away from me!"

"Demon! May the gods curse you for eternity!"

"Kill it now!"

"My lord?"

He snapped out of his thoughts. You were looking at his direction in worry. He was breathing heavily and you could tell.

He gritted his teeth in frustration. "You foolish woman."

You tilted your head in confusion but didn't comment any further.

Your little home was surrounded by silence again. The only sound coming from the cicadas outside. You don't know how long it lasted until—

"I have four arms and four eyes."

Your breath hitched as he spoke again. "Oh!"

"And two mouths. The other one is on my stomach."

"Oh." You smiled excitedly, eagerly listening to his description of himself.

"My body is covered in tattooes."

"The right side of my face is deformed."

"I have short hair and I prefer to keep it that way."

"Yes, I can speak with my second mouth." Sukuna said from the stomach on his mouth which completely threw you off as the direction of his voice just changed out of nowhere.

He kept all his eyes on you as he kept telling you about his appearance. But what he was looking for wasn't there. No fear, no disgust, no judgement.

Just never-ending curiosity and excitement.

And then somewhere along the way, you got brave enough to lift your hands towards him. A pink tint brushing your cheeks and a shy smile on your face.

"May I?"

You were getting nervous because he was quiet. Too quiet. You couldn't tell his reaction at all to your request.

But then you gasped when a very large hand circled around your wrist and brought your own hand up until your fingertips brushed against a rough, bone-like texture.

Your breath hitched as you delicately brushed your fingers across it. You felt it slowly, taking in this part of his face.

And then you brought your other hand up and placed it on the other side of his face.

You felt his breath hitch ever so slightly as your hands explored each and every feature of his. His nose, his jaw, his chin, his eyebrow and cheekbone. Your thumb delicately brushed against his lower eye lid.

Then he grabbed your wrists again.

"My tattooes." His voice was strained a bit, you noticed.

You bit your lip and nodded gently, letting him guide your fingertips. They started from his cheekbone, moving across his jaw and settling on his chin.

You kept the pattern in your memory. When he let you go, you brought your hands back up to his face and traced his tattooes. The way he had just showed you.

"My lord..." You whispered softly, resting your hand against his bone-like deformity again.

You smiled again, sweet and innocent with your cheeks flushed red. "You have a very handsome face, my lord."

And he was quiet just like before but you could feel the intensity of his gaze on you.

"And what makes you say that?"

He was closer than you realized. Your cheeks flushed even more.

"My mother once told me a story about a warrior..." You trailed off, getting distracted when you felt an arm snake around your waist.

Suddenly you were sitting on his lap and your heart went wild.

"Continue."

"She... She told me he was quite handsome because he had a sharp nose and a strong jawline."

"And you're saying I fit that description?"

"... Yes." You admitted shyly and felt his hand squeeze your waist.

"Tell me more."

You shuddered at his deep and rough voice, he was close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek.

"She also told me that he had thin and soft lips. That... When he kissed a woman, he would make her swoon until her legs gave... out..." You bit your lip when you felt his lips against your cheek. They were curled up in an amused smirk.

"And you believe my lips would do that to a woman?"

"I... I don't know, my lord. I didn't get to explore that part of you."

And then, in less than a heartbeat, his lips were on you.

One arm possessive on your waist, the other on your back and a third one coming up to hold your jaw firmly.

And you kissed him back, eager and warm as you cradled his face in your hands.

You were sure that if you were standing at this very moment, your legs would have given out by now.

[hatethysinner]

ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ ᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ!ꜰᴇᴍ!ʜᴇʀʙᴀʟɪꜱᴛ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You've found comfort in your solitary life. No one comes to visit the humble herbalist living on the town's edge who talks to her own plants. That all changed in the early morning hours of today, when your kindness betrayed you to help a suffering man on your doorstep. You let the wrong one in.

ᴡᴄ: 8.5k

ᴀ/ɴ: Haven't felt like dipping my toes into writing fanfics again since my Avatar era, which was TWO YEARS AGO!!! There are not enough fluffy Remmick fics, so I will be the first to change that. This is my official admittance into the mental hospital we call the Sinners fandom. White girls I promise you can still have your fun with this too, enjoy!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SLOWburn, fluff with a side of smut, a little angst i guess, dark!remmick is on vacation, you're getting overly grateful remmick instead, excessive use of the word perfect, reader is a little special, a little domesticity never hurts, yearning, vampirism, blood, biting, begging, absolutely pathetic man overload at the start, praise kink, dirty talk, fingering, cunnilingus, offscreen parental death, detailed wound care, nursing back to health, religious undertones if you squint, general affection and eroticism, amateur knowledge of herbalism pls don't kill me, excessive divider usage, i think y'all know what to expect i'm not writing out everything

There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: ��Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

For the first time in a long time, neither of you felt alone.

[sakuravalenp]

Don't eat anything else - Part 2 - DP X DC

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Masterpost

This is the only chapter where I'll tag people. Please, if you want to follow the story from this point on, follow the master post :).

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

"You both should stop eating the food." Came Babs voice through the comms. "Danny asked Tim to not eat anything else. We suspect the food may content poison."

Bruce subtly shared a look with Cass before returning to nodding at Masters' proud rambling about his latest contract. They had both stopped eating long ago. The soup was good; Masters’ words about Danny being a good cook weren’t a lie. However, Bruce couldn’t identify the chunks of meat in the soup.

He initially thought it was pork, though the texture seemed somewhat similar to veal. By the fourth piece of meat he ate, he could confidently say he didn't recognize it. When he looked at Cass, he saw her using her spoon to play with one of the pieces of meat on the edge of the plate, a frown hidden behind her polite smile. He was sure then that the meat couldn't be one they had tasted before.

Bruce has tasted every kind of meat that should be available to Masters. He has even tasted exotic meats that Masters would probably never encounter, having represented humanity in intergalactic meetings as Batman. Not being able to identify the meat discouraged Bruce from eating more, and it seemed to have had the same effect on Cass. They had kept their food mostly untouched, using the excuse of waiting for Tim and Danny to return before eating. It was a good call; the meat being poisoned could be the reason it was unrecognizable.

"If any of you feel any symptoms, turn off your comm." None of them made a move to do so, and after a couple of minutes Babs continued, "I'll call Bruce in 10 minutes to create an excuse for you guys to leave."

Bruce would have liked to think that they had not yet consumed enough poison for it to affect them, but there's always the possibility of it being a delayed-effect poison. If Masters' plan with the poison was to kill them, then a delayed-effect poison would allow Masters to avoid being immediately connected to their deaths.

However, Masters shouldn’t have a reason to kill Bruce Wayne and his wards. Unless the man had discovered that they were investigating his contracts, which Bruce doubted. It was more likely that the poison was some sort of chemical restraint or chemical submissive, which would explain why Masters' contracts always seemed to end ridiculously in his favor. It would be easy to make such deals with someone who was drugged to be more agreeable with you.

Not that Bruce would be willing to take the risk to find out, especially with Cass having also ingested the tainted meat. He was glad he had brought the poison antidote kit with him. Despite this, Bruce wasn't sure about cutting the visit short, at least not for all of them. Tim had been gone with Danny for a while now, and if Danny had informed Tim about the food, they were probably exchanging information at the moment. Maybe Tim was in the process of offering Danny help, and Bruce didn't want to interrupt that.

"Renovations will be starting next week, and I'm sure the place will end up being quite popular," Masters finally finished his rambling.

"It sure sounds like it will. You certainly got yourself a great deal with Kensington, Mr. Masters. I'm curious, what is your negotiation method?" Bruce asked, hoping to gather more information.

Masters had been surprisingly adept at avoiding any conversation about the negotiations themselves, always sidetracking the discussion or giving half-answers. Drugs in the food was a good hypothesis and would be the best outcome for them, as such substances usually shouldn’t take too long to get out of their system.

Yet, it didn't explain how Masters' business partners seemed to stay committed to their contracts long after they were made. The furthest they had gotten from them was confusion about how they had reached the point where they accepted the contract's conditions. However, they all seemed convinced they had gotten the best outcome possible, despite obviously getting the short end of the stick.

It pointed to something besides drug usage. Maybe Masters got blackmail material from them while they were drugged? It would be easier to draw conclusions if Masters had even the smallest slip about it.

Masters smiled, taking a sip from his wine. "Ah, it takes years of practice, Wayne. It isn't something one can learn in a day, and only those with the capacity can master it," he said. Then, before Bruce could ask any follow-up questions, he continued, "Now, Daniel and young Mr. Drake sure seem to be taking their time."

"Oh, that doesn't surprise me," Bruce said, shaking his head with a fond smile, playing farther into his "Brucie" persona while lamenting the lost opportunities to get more leads on what Masters was doing. "They're around the same age. Surely they got distracted talking about whatever is of interest to kids their age these days."

"I would be glad if my godson got along so well with your son, Mr. Wayne," Masters said with a practiced smile, though a hint of calculation flickered in his eyes. He gestured vaguely with his wine glass, his tone deceptively sympathetic. "The loss of his family hasn't been easy for him, and building a connection with someone like Mr. Drake could be beneficial. However, it is quite rude to leave the guests waiting. As his guardian, I must address this. I’ll go search for them." Masters stated, standing up from his seat.

Luckily, Bruce didn't need to interject to stop Masters from interrupting his son's conversation with Danny, since the two boys appeared by the door as if summoned by Masters' comment. Danny visibly tensed the moment he spotted Masters standing in his place.

"Daniel, it's good you're finally back. I was about to go search for you," Masters said, throwing Danny a stern look.

Danny opened his mouth, probably about to apologize for the wait, but Tim beat him to it.

"So sorry, Mr. Masters. I had to take a shower before changing clothes."

"Oh, don't worry about it, Mr. Drake," Masters said as he looked Tim up and down, evaluating if what Tim was saying was true. His eyes lingered on Tim's wet hair for a moment, and the tension in his eyes relaxed a bit. "It is Daniel's fault for throwing the soup on you. Now, shall we continue with the dinner?" Masters sat once more on his chair.

"Should—" Danny started, slightly stuttering when Masters' eyes returned to him. "Should I serve new portions? Since the ones on the table are probably cold by now?" the intensity of Masters gaze increased with every word Danny said. In response, Danny lowered his gaze to the floor, and shifted nervously.

Danny's voice was way too small by the end of his sentence, but Bruce could sense some hidden urgency in his tone. Remembering that Danny was the one who had warned them about the food, Bruce could infer that he was trying to further prevent them from eating it. It gave Bruce the impression that Masters had also caught onto that fact, given how tense the man was.

He was grateful for the kid doing their best to protect them, but lamented putting them in a position where they had to risk confronting their abuser. Bruce really hoped Tim had convinced Danny to leave with them. It shouldn't be difficult to create a reasonable invitation for Danny after Masters' comment about how he was isolating himself.

"Good idea," Cass said with a gentle smile directed at Danny before Masters could make any move.

Masters' eyes narrowed slightly, but then he nodded. "Very well. Daniel, go ahead."

As Danny hurried to the kitchen, Bruce shared a subtle glance with Tim, who was retaking his seat beside Cass. Unfortunately, instead of the nod indicating that they could get Danny to leave with them if they created the opportunity, Tim just shrugged. It wasn't the sign for Danny refusing help, but the one for things being more complicated than they seemed. Bruce sighed, and before Danny returned from the kitchen, his phone rang. He excused himself to answer Babs' call, lamenting not being able to take Danny with them.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Bruce came back from his brief call with Babs with a worried face that Cass knew wasn't the one he made when actual "family emergencies" happened. It was exagerated and dramatic, it screamed "something terrible had happened," and was perfect for this kind of situations. Bruce quickly ushered Cass and Tim out, apologizing to Masters for the hasty departure. They barely had time to say goodbye to Danny, who had hurried back from the kitchen after Masters had shouted about seeing off the guests.

Cass noticed a subtle shift in Danny’s demeanor as they prepared to leave. His shoulders dropped slightly, and there was a fleeting look of relief in his eyes. However, that relief was overshadowed by the palpable fear that clung to him; his tense posture betrayed the anxiety he was trying to hide. It was hard to leave him behind, and Cass almost ran back when she caught sight of Vlad’s possessive hand on Danny’s shoulder and his venomous, angry eyes as she was walking out the door.

As soon as they were in the car, Tim immediately began checking the vehicle and himself for hidden microphones, with Bruce and Cass following his lead with little more than a raised eyebrow. Tim’s decision to search for bugs made sense once he explained that Danny’s room had been bugged,

"Honestly, Danny's so careful with his actions and words everywhere, I wouldn't be surprised if the whole property is bugged."

The drive back to the house they had rented was tense, the atmosphere in the car thick with unspoken concerns. Tim decided to use the ride home to update them on what he had seen. In turn, Bruce spoke about the dinner with Masters, detailing their regrettable failure to extract any additional information from the man. The evening ultimately boiled down to the suspicion that the food had been poisoned. Cass remained silent, not feeling up to talking.

She had her doubts about the food being poisoned; even if the poison hadn't shown any symptoms, her past training should have allowed her to identify it if she had consumed it. It seemed unlikely that Masters possessed a poison so sophisticated that she couldn’t detect it, and the thought only deepened her unease. She though back to how their hosts acted at the start of the dinner.

Danny looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His eyes darted nervously between them and Masters, his hands trembling slightly as he served the food. The guilt and fear radiating from him were almost palpable, as if he believed he was committing an unforgivable sin by offering them the meal.

Masters, however, didn’t seem like he was planning to poison them. He behaved more like Damian’s classmates had when they once tried to trick him into eating non-vegan food at a gala. His smile was too easy, his gestures too casual, like someone who thought they were pulling off a harmless but cruel prank. It felt like he was purposely feeding them something he knew was outside their comfort zone and ethical beliefs, testing their reactions with a detached amusement.

From the very beginning, Cass had felt a deep discomfort about the food. The way Masters and Danny acted around it had set off her internal alarms. When she took the first bite of the meat, something immediately felt off. The texture was unfamiliar, and the taste was oddly unsettling—not in a way that clearly indicated poison, but in a manner that was subtly disturbing, she didn't know what she was eating. It made her skin crawl, and she couldn’t bring herself to take another bite.

The car coming to a stop in the house’s garage jolted Cass out of her thoughts. They all exited the vehicle, and Jason’s motorcycle was parked beside them as he opened the door. tightly clenched jaw. Like the rest of them, he was frustrated by their inability to take Danny with them, but he wasn’t vocalizing it because he was also worried about what they had eaten.

Once the door was opened, Bruce was ready to rush into his bedroom to get the poison antidote kit, but Jason stopped him,

"Hold on old man, I want to know what the note the kid gave Tim says. It may even say what poison was used; save us time."

"Mnn" Bruce said with a slight nod, and Tim started unfolding the paper in response.

The folded paper was as small as a pinky, but once unfolded, it revealed a full letter-sized sheet, and the text filled at least half of it. Tim skimmed the text as he usually did before reading aloud, but his face quickly drained of color. His eyes widened in horror and disgust. Instead of reading aloud, he kept running his eyes over the first line repeatedly, his gaze darting between Bruce and Cass. His jaw was clenched tightly, and he struggled to keep his composure, fighting against the bile rising in his throat. Cass couldn’t help but frown deeply, a growing sense of dread settling in as she wondered what the paper could possibly contain.

"Forgot how to read, replacement?" Jason said, his tone lacking its usual edge. He stood beside Tim, his expression a mix of uncertainty and concern, unsure whether to reach for the paper or not.

Tim takes a shudering breath, and Cass herself can't help but shift in her place, her anxiety growing, as they all wait for Tim to gain back his voice and finally read what Danny's note says.

"The meat on the food is human meat." Tim finally says with a strained voice.

There's a moment of silence in the room. Cass keeps her eyes on Tim, hoping, pleading, to find any signs that what she heard is wrong, but Tim only repeats the sentence. Her stomach churns violently as bile rises in her throat. Without effort, she sinks to the ground, her legs giving out as she begins to vomit. The pounding of her heart fills her ears, as black dots fill her sight and her hands tremble uncontrollably. She is dimly aware of Bruce doubling over beside her, and the sound of Jason hitting the wall.

She ate human meat. It may have just been a bite, but she ate human meat. The dinner had been made from human meat. Her mind recoiled at the abhorrent thought. The thought of the soup they were served makes her vomit once more. She gasps for air, her body shaking as she fights against the rising tide of revulsion, desperately trying to rid herself of the lingering taste and the horrifying realization of what they ingested. She feels Tims hand doing smalls circles in her back and realizes that tears had been falling from her face.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Danny's hands trembled as he injected himself with another dose of ectoplasm. The shaking made the syringe jab painfully as he withdrew it, causing drops of blood and ectoplasm to fall to the floor while the injury quickly healed. Ten minutes of continuous electrical shocks wasn’t the worst punishment he had received from Vlad, but it had the most severe drawbacks. His body had a harder time recovering from electrical damage than from any other kind of harm, and Vlad often exploited this weakness.

He took a deep breath as the last of the Lichenberg marks disappeared from his legs and arms, leaving only the ones he’d gotten from his death. He sat on the bathroom floor, staring at the ceiling, his legs and arms still trembling. He wasn’t sure if the tremors were from the electrical aftershocks or his own anxiety. Vlad had been furious about his little stunt with the soup and had once again reminded him that they weren't eating Danny’s friends because he was such a "compassionate guardian."

The reminder had thrown Danny into a couple of panic attacks once he was allowed to return to his room. He thanks he's advanced dissociative abilities for not having those panics attacks in front of Vlad. He doesn't wan't to know how the man would try to exploit that.

But even as his whole body trembles and aches, he doesn’t regret his decisions. This is his only chance for things to change. The Waynes are a powerful family with connections to the Justice League. While the League has not interfered with what has happened in Amity Park up till now, they might get involved if the Waynes reach out to them. It’s wishful thinking, and he’s risking a lot, but this gut-wrenching dinner has become the first glimmer of hope he’s had since his family’s death, and he’ll hold onto it with his half-life.

Once he's body stops trembling and he's head feels a bit clearer, he needs to text Sam and Tucker. He'll depend on them for this to not backfire on all denizens.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

Next part

[yaut-jaknowit]

Hello. If possible, then my application: what will a male Yautja do if a reader gets pregnant?

Adventures of the Outdoors

Pairings: Woftik (Male Yautja) x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3250

Summary: Up in the north pole of Yautja Prime, sits a small tribe. Woftik is the chief. The two of you learn that you've become pregnant. With such a hard area to even survive in for a Yautja, Woftik worries about your safety and begs for you to stay home. You do... at first.

Author Note: Poor mans had to chase you all around to keep you safe.

Masterlist

Ao3

Taunted muscles pressed against the soft curve of your back. Warmth flooded over you skin, pushing away the cold that nipped at your fingers and toes. The top of your nose frozen with snot after bearing the freezing weather of the northern pole of Yautja Prime. You couldn’t help but sink back against his welcoming embrace.

“That hunt rewarded us and the tribe well,” you hold him before pulling off your gloves. He had already shed off his gear and came to help you. “I can start to turn the Mieks meat into jerky after you skin them.” Today had blessed the tribe with plenty of food. The tribe would be able to use the animals caught today for the next week at least.

Up in the pole, near the very tip of the planet laid harsh lands not designed for even the strong. It was a miracle that you were able to survive up here. Though, with the aid of Woftik’s tribe to ensure you don’t starve or freeze in the bitter weather.

These months were the worst out of the year. Where the sun rarely rose high enough to make an appearance. The land grows even colder. To hunt was next to impossible. Trapping and fishing were the only way to get your next meal. Even then, it was difficult to find a meal. If you would, the best bet was to halve it and store the rest. Who knows when the next Mike or fish will fall into your trap.

At your back, Woftik grunted then helped you shrug off the heavy, thick fur jacket off of your shoulders. The broad Yautja bent at the waist and shoved his face into the crook of your exposed neck. His large lungs filled to the brim with your scent. It had changed over the last month, to a smell he greatly enjoyed. His eyes closed. “Are you wanting the Mike or Tunk-oy for dinner? You must be starving after the haul today,” he murmured against your skin. You softly grabbed at one of his tresses that had fallen over your shoulders.

“You choose. I’m not picky tonight.” After teaching the white Yautja how to cook, Woftik took it to another level. During the warmer months, he had traveled to the nearest city and picked up some spices. There were still plenty left. You were excited for tonight because his food was to die for.

A lazy grumbled tumbled from his throat. Your thumbs gently caressed the rough texture of his prey tress. “Fish it is then,” he announced. One final deep breath of your intoxicating scent, he straightened up. “I shall skin our share then.” His hands lingered on your hips then he reluctantly pulled away towards the three Mike and two Tunk-oy that had been left at the door.

Woftik took the kills towards the kitchen. You, on the other hand, began to pick up the discarded gear. From fur jackets to weapons, you stored each item in their proper spot. The jackets went to the coat rack by the front door. The hunting gear like weapons or supplies to fix traps were returned to the trophy room where all of his gear was.

Skulls lined the walls in a particular order, even some being human. A thought that sat in the back of your head, not something you could get rid of. You wouldn’t ask him to take them down. There were trophies he was proud to display. He had earned them and had a right to display them. You shouldn’t ask him to take them down.

Once everything had been stowed away, you returned to the main area of the hut. Woftik had just finished up with the fillets and skinning once you came back. Perfect timing. You hover at his side and took a deep breath in. The good ol’ smell of fresh, raw meat. Not that you can eat any of it. It still smelled delicious.

Two piles of evenly divided meat had been spilt up. You took one pile for the jerky you would start today. “What’s the plan for tonight?” you asked as you began to prepare the special mixture used for the process.

“I have some leftover Lenat and some spices from my latest trip.” Your eyes sparkled. That wounded delicious… and a bit special. As if he was trying to butter you up.

Suspicion flickered to life in your eyes, narrowing on his white figure standing next to you. “Such a special meal,” you said to him, a hint of suspicion in your voice. “Makes me wonder, what’s the occasion?” You watched as his muscles tense, his hands still their actions. Caught him. Years of being around him have taught you plenty about the old chief.

Your name is said barely about a whisper. His shoulders sagged as his palms laid flat on the wooden counter. “You’re not going to like what I’m about to say.” For a powerful species known to take what they wanted, he looked so soft and concerned in the moment. Like he was afraid to speak his mind. That worried you. What could he propose to you that could make him act this way?

Woftik released a sigh before turning to you with a gentle look. “With your pregnancy…” Instantly, the dots connected. “I worry about you going out there, even with me. Your scent is strong. Would bring predators looking for an easy meal. I don’t… I don’t want to lose you or the suckling. I couldn’t bear it.”

As a permeant mate, you are the most important thing on his list. Losing you would be like taking his heart straight out of his chest. He crowded into your space and cupped your face with both hands. Your face was tilted up to meet his dark eyes. The vulnerability in his strong eyes cracked at the slight hurt in yours.

Females would still hunt up to birth. They don’t show much nor does their scent change as drastically as humans. Woftik would tell almost immediately a month ago. A scan showed you to be nearly two months along. Just a tiny blob that was a hybrid. Crazy to think about. And after so many years with him, it had finally taken root. A miracle as the heal called it.

Your arms wrapped around his midsection in a tight embrace. His own slipped around you in return, feeling his strength. “I understand. I don’t want to lose you either if I have any say in it.” Though, internally you were sadden by the notion of no longer hunting or going out with Woftik until after the birth.

You listened to his wishes. For the first month.

The hut was small, meant to conserve all the heat in the space. It was made of large animal bones and pelts. Like the rest of everyone’s own home. The fact was it was small. He had his trophy room, the bedroom, and then the main part of the home. It was at most seven hundred square feet. All for two people to squeeze themselves into.

That drove you mad before learning to hunt. It was driving you insane to figure out how to entertain yourself with only a tablet and limited power. You craved for the outdoors, to be with Woftik as he hunted for the two of you, soon to be three now.

On the third month of your pregnancy, it grew to be too much. There wasn’t even paint to watch dry! Your belly hadn’t even bulged in the slightest to show that you were pregnant. There was nothing hindering you from hunting out there with Woftik.

That was it. Today’s gathering of snares and traps had started, but you couldn’t keep sitting at home any longer. You marched towards the front door and bundled yourself up tight. The colder months are beginning to wane, but it was still freezing out there. You pulled on your gloves before opening the flap to the front door.

Calm and beautifully icy lands stretched out further than the eye could see. You trekked out into the snow and glanced around. Only to find a few tribe members were outside, meandering around. Doing small jobs that the tribe needed done. Perfect. Maybe they had something you could do for them. Of course, you were more than happy to help.

A familiar face greeted you. Shantail was working on a pelt that would be added to her collection. The soft crunch of snow alerted her to your presence. She glanced at you for a second only to do a double take. The items in her hand were dropped. Your name was said in hate. “What are you doing out here? Is everything alright?” Shantail crowded into your space and scanned over you bundled up form.

A small laugh erupted from your throat. You shake your head to dismiss her worry. “Yeah, I’m all good. I’m not hurt or anything. I just wanted to see if you needed any help. Woftik’s got me on lockdown, but I can’t stay in there anymore.” There was nothing to do. With Woftik gone for most of the day, you needed company or even busy work.

Her worry toned down, hands dropping to her sides. Shantail shook her head. “You shouldn’t even be out here. Chief Woftik has you locked down for your safety. You need to go back home,” she urged you and nodded her head towards your home. Your face turned sour at her words. The hope dying in your chest.

“Don’t tell me he told everyone to keep me locked up.” You wouldn’t put it past Woftik as chief of the tribe, protector of his mate, and father to the child in your belly. “I can’t go out there to hunt with him. He won’t let me! Shantail, I need to be doing something. I’m so bored!” Woftik may be the chief, but you were his mate. That meant you also had some pull here. Human or not.

“I need something to do, please.” You pulled every trick in the book to get her to let you help. Or at the very least, stay out here for company.

The usual softness in her eyes faded away. Shantail shook her head. “As ordered by the chief, you must return home.” You looked at her for a few more seconds; in hopes she may change her mind. But the female Yautja stayed firm. You sighed, shoulders dropping in defeat.

This was stupid. You turned on your heel and trekked back through the snow.

Warmth from the hut washed over you. Each layer was stripped off and put back where you had originally taken them from. But the fight in you was far from over. Stubborn as a mule.

Two can play it that way.

A week later, Woftik leaves again to cheek the traps along three section. As for you, you knew the pathing like the back of your hands. Your winter gear was adorned completely since there was a lgith breeze. It brought the temperature down by at least seven degrees. You bundled right up and waited five minutes before slinking off.

Other hunters may be hunting as well to check other traps or even to keep an eye out on any nearby herbs. To ensure the herds numbers stayed high to repopulate, trackers were sent out to, well, track the herds path, grazing grounds, and numbers. All essential in keeping the food chain in equilibrium. Especially out here where its harder to live then it is to die.

You peered through the front flaps out the entrance and scanned around. The area was free of any life forms, including Woftik. Perfect. You popped out of the hut and started to make your way to the end of section three. There would be a time where Woftik and yourself would meet up. At that point, it won’t matter since the days’ work would be over already. Woftik won’t have anything to complain about then.

Section three covered an area where Mike liked to use for travel. It’s where the snow has grown too thick for Mieks to go under it. The area has wielded great results for ensnared Mieks. Plenty for the tribe to stock up on by either freezing it or turning it into jerky. They knew how to make some good jerky as well.

With your shorter legs, it was more difficult to push through the deep snow further away from camp. After years of traveling in the same situation over and over, you’s grown muscles to fight through the icy, frigid land.

Ten steps is all it took to hear your name being called out. Immediately, you stopped in your tracks and turned your head enough to see Cubnor stomping through the snow behind you. A curse left your lips at the sight his white scales. Spotted. You pouted while glaring at the approaching Yautja. Cubnor stops in front of you.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked and cross his arms firmly. Plenty of excuses filled your mind to slip passed him and keep going.

“Woftik got a head start. I’m meeting him in the middle so we have more time tonight to work on the stash of jerky we’ve got.” Not solid, but hopefully it was enough. “I’ve finally got him to loosen up a bit.” Le that be the tip of the iceberg to seal the deal.

Cubnor’s dark eyes narrowed on your smaller form. Shit. “I have yet to hear otherwise from the chief. His orders were firm. It is about keeping you safe.” The hope you had building immediately disappeared at his refusal. God, if only you could smack Woftik for the situation he put you in. Why did you have to agree in the first place?! Without remember the first few months here. Those days, weeks with nothing to do. Terrible.

“You wouldn’t have known. We talked about it this morning before he went out for his hunt.” There!

One of his blue brows quirked up. “That’s funny. I caught him before he left a little ago. Never said a thing about that change.” Well, that didn’t work. “But don’t fret, I can still call him up and just double check with him.” A grumble fell from your lips. It doesn’t matter if he called now or told Woftik later. At one point, Woftik would know at some time today. Your plan failed… again.

Damn Yautjas and actually listening to orders.

Your head shook side to side. “No, no that’s alright.” Cubnor smirked as you steered around him, head bowed and shoulders sagged. At least, you were able to see the outdoors more than last time. You had made it about fifteen feet from the hut before getting caught. Maybe next time, you could make it further. All you had to do was learn.

The next time you snuck out in hopes of being helpful four days later, you had actual hope. The snow had lessened. Your snow shoes were of great help as you march forward. All bundled up, nice and toasty in your pelts. A small pack on your back, full of supplies incase a trap breaks. You were ready for the trip to section four. Same as before, you were going to try and meet Woftik in the middle so it would be too late for him to send you home.

Except- “Where do you think you’re going?” a deep voice demanded. You froze in the middle of a step then slowly turned your head to find Hyk, the tribe’s healer. She had her arms firmly crossed whiled gazing down at you from the bridge of her mouth. Her dark green eyes were filled with disappointment as you stood there. You hadn’t even made it five feet from the entrance!

“We have an appointment, little human.” Your eyes widened. Had you forgotten? It couldn’t possibly be today? But Hyk was here… and had caught you. Oh, how both you and Woftik were going to hear about it plenty enough. You sighed and trudged back into the hut, mumbling under your breath. Hyk didn’t entertain the words and followed you in.

For the third attempt into the wilderness, it wasn’t luck or ‘the charm’. These damn Yautjas were good! It made you mad with each failure after waiting patiently for a whole week this time.

All of your gear was slipped on. A beanie, thick fur jacket, fur leggings, and comfortable, warm boots. The pack of trap supplies hung off your back, ready for the adventure. You ensured the jacket was tied tightly around your waist before stepping out into the calm and cool day. It was gorgeous.

Thick arms wrapped around your waist and hoisted you off of the ground. Fear gripped your heart instantly in a vice grip. Your mouth dropped to let out a terrified scream as you tried to kick or elbow your kidnapper. None of your strikes made it. A large palm covered your mouth, muting the sound.

“Little one,” an all too familiar voice rumbled into your ear. A shutter wracked your body, freezing up a moment later. It’s one thing to be caught by Shantail or Cubnor, but this was Woftik. In the flesh. His arms tightened by a hair around you, somehow pressing you closer to him. “Why do you keep trying to leave?” It was the disappointment in his voice that made guilt rise inside of you.

You go slack in his arms, head hung in shame. “Woftik,” you whined his name. “I…I’m getting so bored. I’m missing you. I need company. I need something to do. I’m going insane!” Honestly. Just sitting around a very small apartment like hut with only a tablet to entertain yourself. He saw the way you acted when you first arrived here. That first month was terrible. That was a life you wanted to leave, to go back to the main city. Where it was warm, where there were things to do, where were more than fifty people here. He knows that you had suffered.

Woftik let you stand on your own two feet. You turned around to face, a solemn, guilty look on your face. His nearly black eyes found yours and softened. “Little mate…” he trailed off to find the right words. Confliction warred in his orbs until he released a deep sigh. “I understand. I remember how you suffered before learning the hunt. I should’ve taken your needs into consideration before ewe came to this agreement.” He reached out and brushed his knuckles against your cheek.

“Since you’re already geared up, would you like to join in on the hunt? You’ll be very well protected,” Woftik offered and saw the light brightened in your eyes.

“Really?!” you gasped and put your hands together.

His upper mandibles quirked up into a soft smirk. “Yes. I am sure. I should’ve thought about the decision. Let this be a way to make it up to you. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry. Thank you for listening to me in the end. I will let you know when I can’t or won’t hunt anymore until the birth and some time after that.” Woftik leaned towards your face. You instantly knew what he wanted and gave him a peck on the cheek to seal the deal.

The two of you began the journey to section six together.

[panic-in-the-multiverse]

His Spider

Pairings: Frank Castle & Spider!teen!reader, (breif moment with Karen Page and brief mention of Matt Murdock)

Imagine: You show up at Franks doorstep covered in blood from head to toe

Contains/Warnings: blood, mention of death, panic attacks, angst??? Slight comfort at the end, mention of torture, mention of things included in said torture, reader is not tortured…physically at least, parental death… idk what else, reader is described to have a mom and dad

A/N Frank might be a bit ooc since it was a while I wrote for him, but tried my best, also decided to make this into a series, we’ll see if it’s gonna be an actual story or just random parts for the pairings, might do both

Kinda don’t like this one but thought fuck it and we’ll post it anyway

Around 2600 words, so not that long???

Also special thanks to @irisesforyoureyes for giving me this idea 🫶🏻🌟

Hot white blinding waves crashed into your brain tearing at the walls you had so carefully built up. You didn’t even notice the shaking of your hand, or the blood that covered your body — now dark and dried as it stuck to your skin and clothes. Eyes wide open as you stared ahead. You didn’t know how you’d gotten to Frank’s place. Frankly your memory was hazy. Eyes blurry with unshed tears. Mind racing trying to pick up the pieces that were scattered across your brain.

Frank had just glanced out the window when he froze. Stuck in place at the familiar yet unfamiliar way you stood by his door. He was used to blood. He knew how to clean blood out of clothes, knew how it stuck to your skin in an unpleasant way as it dried up — especially when it wasn’t even your own blood. But he didn’t know who’s blood it was that made him feel sick as he watched you. Didn’t know if it was your or someone else’s blood that stuck to your skin, didn’t know if you were seriously hurt or not.

You didn’t even have to knock before the door flew up and one pair of hands grabbed onto your shoulders. In your blurred vision you missed the panicked look on his face. The worry in his eyes. Scanning every part of you for an injury, for a fatal wound. His words fell on deaf ears, not even registering in your brain. And that didn’t exactly ease his worries as he tried to figure out what had happened.

Seeing as you weren’t about to fall into his arms out of exhaustion he deemed you good enough to not be driven to a hospital. Not that it eased his worries for even a second.

His hand moved up to your cheek touching the dried up blood that was splattered on your face in a sickening red color. He took in your scared eyes that were frozen in panic. Frank didn’t think you’d blinked for the entire duration that you’d been there. You were just frozen, your body at times shaking though he didn’t know if it was cause of the cold wind blowing outside or if it was tremors of panic.

“Kid? You hurt?” His thumb caressed your cheek in a soothing motion. The ministrations went unnoticed. “Kid? Hey, hey Kid? Kid? I need you to listen, you hurt? Is it your blood? Kid?” He repeated the words over and over hoping you’d finally hear him.

In the end he moved you into the warmth of his home — or at the very least it was warmer than outside. Your body still shook occasionally with tremors of shock. Body still stiff and frozen as you moved on autopilot as he guided you into the living room. He only left you for a second to shut the door. Frank stared at you for a moment, he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help. He’d dealt with you and your panic attacks before, he’d dealt with you when you thought you’d killed a man, but this, he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know if you were hurt or not, couldn’t even read your expression on what had happened.

It took him a moment before he wrapped a soft texture friendly blanket around you. Due to your sensitivity now with your spider-powers he’d realized you were far more sensitive to things you touched. Frank might not admit he cares or likes you verbally, but it spoke volumes that he kept your favourite snack around and had bought a blanket for specifically you — well Karen had helped him with it but it was his idea and his money used.

“Kid? Please just…” his voice, tinted with an unfamiliar worrines reached your ears this time. His hand going to the back of your head to keep your eyes on him, despite the fact you looked more through him then at him. “Help me out here, can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong”

“Someone’s out for you? You killed someone? Someone hurt you? Just tell me alright” he licked his lips, head tilting down before he looked up at your face once more. “At least tell me your alright… physically”

Both his hands cupped your face, forcing you to look at him, forcing you back to the present in his living room. Relief filled him as he watched you blink. Eyes darting around the room before they zeroed in on him.

“Yeah? You back? You here? What happened kid?”

It’s quite for several minutes. Your lips parting but no sound coming out as you tried to speak. Tried once more to make sense of what had happened in the last 24 hours.

“I-it’s not my b-blood” your voice was unusually quiet. An uncomfortable, sick feeling slithered its way into your stomach. Eyes zoning out once more as you replayed the events in your head.

“I-it‘s n-not my blood” you whispered once more. Eyes forcing its way up to Frank’s. “N-not my b-blood”

“Shh kid, shhh it’s okay” he moves your face into his chest. Sometimes he was glad to have had the experience to calm down a child, sure you were older than his two children had been but it was essentially the same thing. Frank’s eyes closed. At least he now knew you weren’t hurt physically. You weren’t about to drop dead in his arms in just a few seconds. He wasn’t about to lose another child.

Frank's arms wrapped around you as he kept you buried in his chest. The blanket still wrapped cozily around you. If tears escaped you he didn’t comment on it. Nor did he comment about how he could feel your body shaking. Feel how you trembled with each breath you took in as the panic that had frozen you was let out.

The big bad punisher didn’t know what to do. Arms wrapped around the teenager he’d gotten so fond of. Blood staining their clothes. Waiting for an answer that would never come. Waiting for a finger to point him in the direction of those who broke you. Those who tore you down into a trembling mess. The ones who’d caused tears to fall from your innocent eyes. The ones that caused blood to be splattered over your face.

The punisher needed to know, so he could go after them, kill every last one of them. But Frank couldn’t, not right now. Not when you were clinging to him so desperately. Not when your fingers curled around his shirt so tightly he thought you’d tear it off.

Frank didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t like comforting his children, back then when everything was different. His children never came to him crying with torn clothes and covered in blood.

Frank didn’t do heartfelt moments, he just didn’t. But despite everything he couldn’t help but to comfort you. You were a kid, not him, you weren’t Frank, you weren’t the punisher or Matt Murdock. You were just a kid. And despite being a vigilante you weren’t used to blood covering you from head to toe. You weren’t used to the brutality that your opponents actually possessed. The way they’d come for those close to you. Come at you with everything they’d got. Not caring that you weren’t even in college yet. Not caring of the casualties or consequences. Their ugly big horns had steered your way, twisting themselves into your life. They’d taken their chance and left a big gaping hole in your heart.

His hands carefully went over your body, checking for any fatal injuries, but when he found none he knew, Frank knew someone you cared about had died. If you weren’t hurt physically then it was something mentally. And with the lack of injuries that would of come from torture it only left him with one guess. Something he was far too familiar with.

“Little Red…” He pushed your face away. Staring into your eyes. Hoping for an answer. Maybe Matt would do a better job at this.

Frank's thumb went to your cheek trying to wipe away the blood that marked your skin, if only so you wouldn’t see it in the mirror later on.

“What happened?” he held your head still. Forcing you to look at him once more. Forcing you to give an answer.

“T-they” your words wear weak, stuttering as you tried to recollect what had happened. Your hand subconsciously trying to wipe off the dried blood that stained your hands. Eyes watering up once more as you zoned out, getting stuck in the memory of your parents demise. “T-they k-killed my, my-“ your hands grasped at your shirts collar, tugging it away from your skin. It felt as if your throat closed up, an ugly lump forming itself in your stomach. Breath becoming faster. You tried your best to breath properly, the way Matt told you too when your senses got to overwhelming. But the blood felt like it was stuck on you, itching, everything felt wrong. Everything felt close but too far away. Your hands started to shake again. Was it hot? It felt hot. Where you dying? Maybe? Probably?

You hadn’t even noticed Frank leaving the living room before he returned and pressed an ice pack into your hands as soon as he got you to release your shirt.

It wasn’t the first time Frank had been with you when your spider-senses took over. Or when panic filled you to the brim and poured over. Last time the switch of temperature had helped, so he’d guess it’d help this time too. Last time it had grounded you back to your surroundings and he only hoped it’d do the same the second time.

He needed you calm, needed you to tell him who they killed, and who they were. Frank needed to know so that he could help you the only way he knew how. Stop them permanently from going after you.

It’d taken him some time but eventually he got you to utter out the words he wanted to know.

“My parents” you’d said, staring at him with dead eyes. A fire had started to burn in them. A fire he knew all too well. But if there ever was one thing he agreed with Matt on it was that he didn’t want you to kill anyone, at least not while you were still a kid. Matt and him might have their differences and opinions on killing but both agreed that you weren’t to kill. You didn’t need that on your conscience.

He asked you how, though he knew it was probably too soon to ask. Either way you still told him. Eyes going distant once more.

You told him how they had snuck into your apartment. How you’d woken up tied to a chair. Blurry eyes squinting in the dark as you made out the shape of your crying parents on two chairs opposite from you. Two guns pointed to your head. The one you’d guessed to be the leader had held your head still forcing your eyes open as you watched them hurt your parents. Their ugly dark and twisted minds marking your your mom and dad, torturing them, as if they had information to give. As if they knew who you were at night. Who you snuck out to be after school hours.

How your dad’s sobs broke your heart with each muffled sound that left him. How watching your mom’s scared eyes telling you to run had burned themselves into your mind. How their fingers had twitched in pain. How blood seeped out to cover their white torn clothes. Pools of red forming by their feets. The sickening crack of their bones breaking. Their last breath.

Their last breath. You’d hated how their eyes died. The spark in them leaving. Staring empty back at you as you were cut free. Their bodies discarded on the living room carpet as if they were trash that needed to be taken out. The coffee table was gone, somewhere else to make place for the cruel scenes. Their blood stained the carpet. The carpet you’d spilt hot chocolate on a few days ago and your dad had helped you clean it up knowing your mom would be mad if she saw the stain.

Your hands had moved over their bodies as if to stop the blood that was still slightly seeping out of their wounds. Desperately trying to keep them alive. But they were already dead, there was no saving them. You could save a random woman on the street from getting mugged but not your own parents from being tortured to death.

Bloodstained hands rubbing your eyes to try and stop the tears. Wiping your mouth from the way the salty water stung your busted lip from the week prior (not yet healed to a hundred percent).

You must have sat for hours with your parents lifeless bodies. Eyes blurry and body shaking with sobs. You still didn’t know how you ended up with Frank. It was all a blur before you had raised your arm to knock at his door.

You didn’t know who they’d been, who had attacked you, just that they knew about your nightly activities. They’d wanted information. How you got your powers, where daredevil and punisher were. And even if you’d told them there wouldn’t have been any way to save your parents.

They’d left you there in the living room. A kid, broken and crying. Not seeing you as a threat, without the mask you were just a kid to them, and kids couldn’t do any harm. But a spider could with their venomous fangs.

… Or if said spider was friends with someone everyone was scared off.

Frank had called Karen over after your talk. He’d brought you to his bathroom while Karen made you hot chocolate. He’d done his best to wipe the blood off your hands and face with a wet towel. That was afterward thrown away in case seeing the blood would trigger you in any way. He’d given you spare clothes, that were way too baggy on you since you were still a kid, well teenager but a kid all the same to Frank.

When all was said and done you’d sat on his bed. Hands curled around the big cup of hot chocolate Karen had made you. You sat in her warm embrace until the hot chocolate was cold, tears falling and mixing with the sweet liquid. And when your eyes started to drop and your mind growing more hazy and tired you nuzzled into the comfort of Frank’s blankets. Eyes closing as Karen left to bring the still full cup of hot now cold chocolate in the kitchen.

Frank hadn’t left you until you were fast asleep. Despite his promise to stay with you during the entire night, he had Karen keep you company while you slept instead. His mind on one thing. No one hurt his spider. No one hurts his kids and gets away with it.

Clad in his vest. White painted skeleton skull bright in contrast to his dark coat. Guns held high. He’d be gone all night and the (next) day if he had to, as long as he got a lead and pointed in the right direction no one would stand down to his wrath. No one would be left unpunished when he was done with those who caused you so much pain.

He wasn’t even surprised when Matt joined him. Lately New York had gotten to realize that where one Spider went the Devil wasn’t far behind and the Punisher closer than anyone ever realized.

The Punisher was coming to send them to hell and the Devil wasn’t far behind to greet them.

TAG LIST: @verybadatwriting

[kismetlotts]

Kinktober 🎃 day seven: Jealousy!

cw: jealous Simon Riley, sex at a party, dub con, hair pulling, rough sex, use of being owned, mentions of male masturbation, mentions of cumming untouched, reader gets fucked stupid, use of instagram and people messaging the reader, filming a video/ pornography?, creampie

Simon Riley who isn't a jealous boyfriend. So what you're absolutely drop dead fucking gorgeous and gain every males attention in the room, he didn’t care. He wasn't going to let their gazes get to him, how low do you think of him? You weren’t theirs, they didn’t own you- he did.

One strong, muscular, arm draped over your shoulder as his eyes locked on a man across the room, lips puckered with irritation as he sipped from his beer at your friend’s Halloween party. They knew better than to look at you, they knew better than to even think about competing against him. He’d kill them- he’d enjoy it too.

Simon Riley who isn't a jealous boyfriend but has to blink away his emotions when you walk over to him. Hips swaying and tits bouncing in your revealing little Halloween outfit- the outfit he couldn't get enough of. You had posted a photo on your story once you'd arrived; Simon, of course, being behind the camera, making sure your body look divine and your pretty little face impeccable.

His sexy little girl had to look her best on camera. Your red lipsticked lip quivering in fear as you held out your phone to him, his eyes scanning the messages some sorry excuse of a man had sent you.

'My dick would look so good inside you.' Was written, followed by a 'I'm fucking my fist to your photos.' It was perverted, pathetic and overall just sad. Simon could almost see why they’d sent that, he would’ve done the same have you had not been dating.

Who wouldn't think thoughts like that? Who wouldn't stroke their cock to the sight of you, so innocent and lovely. Simons dick hardened as he remembered the first time you’d met. Your eyes alluring him, having him cumming in his jeans just from one look, he had to keep you for himself after that.

His hand grabbed your small one, the roughness of his scared palm contrasting between your moisturised hands. Smooth soft skin against his textured one. He lead you upstairs in this guys home, walking into an empty bedroom before circling around the edge of the bed, signalling for you to join him there.

Upon entering the unoccupied room, your shifted in the air, high heels clacking against the floor as you stood hesitantly, unsure. Swallowing down the caution in your voice, your eyes locked on to Simon.

"What are we doing?" But he just continued to instruct you over, grinning playfully. You sat on the bed beside him and before you could process anything he pushed you down against the duvet, grabbing you by the hair and laying you on your front. Hand guiding downwards to rip your thong off before grabbing your phone and pressing record.

His cock slammed into your pussy hard, hips thrusting faster than ever as you choked out a sob, tears pouring from your eyes as Simon used you, fucked and fucked you before he spoke up.

Voice dark and husked, slightly strained from how good he was feeling as he brought your pussy into shot, filming the way his cock slid inside and fit perfectly. Capturing your skimpy Halloween costume practically falling off of your body too.

"O’s cunt is this?" He growled. Words sprawled uselessly from your lips: too lost in the pleasure. The only thing you could mutter being a 'you' before returning back to your whimpering and drooling mess. Simon couldn’t contain his laugh, slowing the pace down just a little. The slap of his balls hitting you as his thrusts calmed. The fist buried deep in your hair clutched as he yanked you back, face facing the ceiling as you breathed heavily.

"Say it. Tell him who owns this cunt, baby." And you cried, managing to say Simon through the ecstasy you were feeling, so lost and drowning in pleasure to care anymore. You didn't care why he was fucking you, how he was fucking you or what he was going on your phone- you just wanted him to keep going and not to slow down until you finish all over his cock.

Simon flipped the camera around, capturing himself a redden cheeked, lidded eyed mess with sweat droplets falling from his forehead, panning the camera down once more to show his muscular body thrusting in and out one last time.

"That's right, it’s mine. My tight pussy- my wet hole to fuck. Oh it’s all mine- you’re mine baby. She’s fucking mine." Before ending the video, spilling deep into you, coating your insides white before sending it off. Brown eyes flickering up to watch as your body melts, the warmth and comfort of what just happened casting a fast sleep over you.

His hand rubbed soothing circles over your back, watching as you shifted to get comfortable, smiling down at you protectively. He quickly opened the messages one last time, not feeling fully satisfied, typing something quickly before shutting the phone off and throwing it somewhere on the bed.

Oh and mate, feel free to go fuck yourself as much as you want to this video. Because you will never ever be in my position. Never.

[foreid]

◜﹢﹒ ・ — ❝ 𝑼𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐋 ! ❞

⊹． summary: you were his weakness. any time you said his name or clung onto him, it tugged at his heart strings. with time, temptation only grew stronger.

what lies ahead: obsessed!namgyu x clueless!reader, mentions of drugs, death, blood, dry-humping, fingering, softdom!namgyu, little plot, fem!reader, pet names, teasing

wrds: 2.3k

a/n: hi guys! hehehe !!!! was i missed? i surely missed you all so much TvT i’m backkk! well not rlly but i am. this took me so long to get into but it’s finished :3 i love this man so much hes actually the love of my life. enjoy!! >_< — of course!! not proofread

you weren’t quite sure who to confide in. definitely not in a situation like this— thanos had basically forced you into his posse, something along the lines of:

“we will protect you, miss.”

only to earn a grimace from you.

he didn’t do much to protect you, nam-gyu seemed to appreciate your presence more than he did. actually seeing you as human.

when thanos’ death had been announced, you shuffled around the quarters looking for him. feeling puzzled and queasy.

finding nam-gyu sitting on thanos’ bed, back glued to the wall as if he’d been there all night. staring at that stupid cross necklace.

you crawled onto the mattress, deciding to keep a short distance as you sat.

“all of this is mine now.” he murmured, running his thumb against the textured patterns on the cross.

you squinted, almost confused but you chose not to question it. you expected a much more distraught reaction or at least any hint of discomfort on his face.

nothing. he seemed almost relieved?

since then, he’s been almost dependent on you. not like he means to, you were just the next best thing.

it seemed toxic. unhealthy, even.

the one person he was beckoned by all the time was gone and now another weight was forced onto you.

you didn’t mind it though— it was nice company.

thanos had told you that nam-gyu seemed sweet about you. not that you took it seriously though, that tweaker was always on something.

 ╴⊹ꮺ˚

you stumbled up to the giant gumball machine, twisting the notch, earning a blue ball.

whatever the hell that meant.

you stood alongside the other people who had reached the same fate as you.

and when it was nam-gyu’s turn, his fate was opposite from yours.

a red ball fell into his palm and he boasted his way towards the other team, but your eyes never left him.

you were alone. utterly alone. surrounded by people who had already formed their own niche’s. leaving you to be a sore thumb.

the game had been explained to you all and you were beyond panicked.

one thing you were absolutely terrible at was hiding. despite always being able to fit into small places, you could never really think quick enough under that kind of pressure.

and you hated being chased.

every one was put into what seemed like a lobby area, you watched as people scrambled to switch vests.

“aw c’mon, get that look off your face, smart girl.” the familiar, teasing voice slurred from beside you and you jerked up, managing to hear just him outside of all the commotion.

before you could turn, he sauntered to stand in front of you, meeting your eyes with a grin.

you pursed your lips and clutched the blue vest tight in your hands. trying not to look absolutely terrified.

nam-gyu already had his vest on, the ‘gift’ box placed on the floor beside him.

“i can’t do this. if someone doesn’t kill me, i’ll die from the fear.” you whined, it wasn’t really possible, you knew that. but it felt right to say. and he looked very entertained.

he hummed, staring down at you while sliding his infamous cross necklace from underneath his shirt.

“i know a thing that could help ease your nerves.”

“absolutely not.” you immediately retorted.

earning a chuckle from him as he shook his head, popping a small, blue flat into his mouth.

“relax. you’re my smart girl. you’ll be fine.” he laughed again, bringing a hand up to pat your head.

your eyes were big, full of fear but somehow, his words managed to leave some faith in you.

the relationship between the two of you wasn’t much to question. you spoke about life once you guys were out of the games.

how he would fix himself up if you asked.

“just hide. wait. we’ll win this shit and once we’re out, ‘m going to take you on such a nice date,” he hummed, his hand grabbed the back of your head, bringing it in so he could kiss your head.

it was out of character, surprising, and you knew it was those fucking drugs.

half of those conversations, he was under all the influence of them.

but this felt different.

he left you there for a second, as if he was thinking of saying something else, but then an announcement for the blue team to enter the arena was made.

you stepped back, looked up at him through your lashes eyes as huge as ever and lips formed permanently into a frown.

he cocked his head to the side, smiling down at you— in a way that you couldn’t tell was menacing or promising.

you hugged yourself as you followed behind the others, hearing a cheer come from him as you walked.

something along the lines of ‘just wait for me’ and your name.

 ╴⊹ꮺ˚

sweat was beading down your forehead, hair sticking to your face as you ran.

the adrenaline was the only thing keeping you alive.

you stopped when you heard feet shuffling around the corner, the first red vest you’d encounter.

somewhere along the way you managed to grab all three keys from the dead bodies along the arena, despite almost throwing up in your mouth each time.

your hands trembled against the wall, chest heaving and breath coming out in patterned gasps.

until, you heard a familiar voice bickering with what seemed to see somebody else. or maybe just himself.

you swallowed dryly, blinking away a few tears before peeking past the corner.

the sight blew the wind out of your lungs.

nam-gyu was straddling a corpse, the blade of his dagger stained with blood to the base.

your eyes widened and you felt even dizzier than before, backing up against the wall as you stared.

myung-gi noticed you first. letting the idiot on the ground know you were watching. or that you were there.

it was almost as myung-gi knew to leave the two of you alone. because when you tried looking past namg-gyu, he was already walking away. shaking his head.

nam-gyu peered up from the ground as if he’d just seen an angel, dropping the blade onto the ground and bolting to you. making an excited noise as he grinned.

you couldn’t help your reflexes, forcing you to shift back as if there was an escape behind you. but there wasn’t.

“oohh, my beautiful, smart, smart girl. i told you you’d be okay.” he cooed, cupping your face with his bloody hands. the evidence of his murders splattered all over him.

you whimpered from beneath him, trying to move away but something kept you anchored to the moment.

something about the way he was staring at you; as if you were his most prized possession, holding your head up lazily as if taking in every aspect of your face.

“i’ve been … so scared. waiting for you.” you submitted, putting your hands on his wrists while looking up at him.

it wasn’t half true. bolting around this hell hole was like running in circles, and nam-gyu was nowhere near the first thing on your mind.

but now that he was in front of you, you felt protected.

safe, even.

he pushed his bottom lip out, mocking the expression on your face but ultimately smiling once he began to speak up.

“aw. such a sweet girl.” he was mocking you, no doubt about it. but you couldn’t help feeling as though there was something sweet about it.

despite how you felt, the entire time, nam-gyu could just think about you.

how playing over-kill would leave you all with less people, meaning more money. just the perfect amount to end this all.

end this all and take you wherever the hell he wanted. do whatever he wants to you.

since you’ve gotten here, your relationship had been weird.

every lights out, he was there, holding you beneath thin covers to make sure you were safe.

just so he could enjoy the feeling of being that close to you.

his hands were cold, only warm aspects being the fresh blood that stained them.

but somehow, you didn’t seem as uncomfortable as you thought you would be. someone else's blood was smeared against your cheeks and all you could think about was how pretty he was.

nam-gyu moved one hand to grab at the nape of your neck, bringing your face ultimately closer.

you weren’t expecting a kiss.

which was exactly what he gave.

it was a sloppy but desperate one, as if he’d been waiting up until this moment.

it was good, so good. but for some reason, your mind kept darting back to the dead body just a few feet away.

at first, you wanted to pull away, wanted to tell him to stop. that this wasn’t the place.

but you were all kinds of dizzy and heat was pooling between your legs just from kissing him.

nam-gyu, on the other hand, was on a mission. he was kissing you with fervor, cold hands now sliding underneath your jacket before he slid it off of your body, along with the vest.

when left in just a shirt, slim fingers were grasping beneath the material, grabbing your hips while absolutely demolishing your mouth.

you’d never been kissed like this before. as if you were the most delicious thing on the planet.

your hands moved to grab fulls of his hair, owning a sweet whine from his lips.

“don’t worry, sweet thing. i’ll make sure our first time is special, not somewhere like this.” nam-gyu whispered to you, as if he could read your mind.

his knee parted your legs, holding his thigh between them. knee nestled against your core.

his voice was low and in you ear, subtle words of praise. expressing how bad he’s wanted to have you like this.

it’d always been long stares, not knowing what the other person wanted. or just exactly what the two of you were to one another in somewhere like this.

thanos seemed to be an obstacle. but now that he is gone, all of his attention was for you.

when his lips began to latch onto your neck, he was grabbing your hips, forcing you to rut your center against him.

the friction made your back arch, chest flush with his as he bit against your neck. simultaneously moving his hips at a swift pattern with you.

nam-gyu whined against your neck, fingers digging into your skin and he grinded against practically nothing.

but hearing your noises and feeling you up was enough to drive him crazy.

he wouldn’t consider himself a womanizer, but having you like this; his name rolling off your tongue, eyes shut in bliss, he had no other way to feel. other than pure lust, wanting to do nothing but disrespectful things to you.

one of his hands made their way past the waistband of your pants, sliding past your underwear.

you gasped when he began to slowly circle around your clit, the pad of his finger fidgeting with the bud.

a croaky moan left your mouth but you quickly cut it off, biting against his clothed shoulder to silence yourself.

nam-gyu turned his head to bite the shell of your ear, murmuring into it while a finger slowly stretched inside of you.

“there you go, sweet girl. such a slutty pussy. g’nna make it feel so good.”

his words rung against your skull like a bell, making any thoughts of reason melt into a puddle.

your eyes shut tight, grasping at his back as you moaned against the cotton.

spit formed around the cloth in your mouth as you moaned, hips consciously riding his palm.

he tutted, running his tongue along your ear, earning a squeal from you.

“relax, baby. someone might hear you.” nam-gyu whispered, not meeting you halfway, since he was also sliding another digit within you while speaking.

the stretch made your eyes grow wide, your body betraying you as you arched your back.

the feeling was poisonous; he was knuckles deep, pumping in and out of you as if he was on a mission.

the pad of his thumb was slowly teasing your clit, making your vision blur into patches.

“n— feels t— too good..!” you tried to whisper it, but it came out a bit too loud, practically echoing through the hallway.

nam-gyu let out a breathless laugh from beside you, never betraying the pattern of his rhythm.

the more you moaned against his shirt, the quicker he became; abusing your cunt.

his fingers scissored inside of you, eventually plunging into a sweet spot.

the arch of your back and the moan, muffled by clothing, told him all he needed to know.

he didn’t stop, working to your release.

the harder he became, the better it felt. he was working you expertly, allowing you to grind against his palm again.

your head was spinning, eyes rolling into your skull as the pleasure hit every spot of your body.

you grew hot, grabbing at his vest for stability as his fingers fucked you.

it felt as if sparks were bubbling all around your skin, your knees bucking and stomach turning.

the pool of arousal within you was bound to burst and you started to rut your hips quicker.

he didn’t take this with a grain of salt.

he started to annihilate your clit, pressing harder against it and rubbing it at a rougher amount.

it punched a moan right out from your throat, making your hips stutter as you felt your orgasm creep up.

when it came. it hit you hard.

you grabbed at whatever you could, squeezing his back and biting against his shoulder as you practically screamed.

“there you go, that’s my good girl. so good. so so good.” he hummed as his fingers slowed down, slowly slipping from inside.

you whined at the emptiness, knees giving up on you as you slipped.

he caught onto you though, holding onto you for dear life.

“i told you you’d be fine. my smart, smart girl.”

[buckybarnesluvr]

✝️ Sanctified

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

A Matt Murdock smut series where his only salvation is you

//Pairing// Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

//Summary// After a brutal night on the streets, Matt comes home bleeding—but not to rest.

//Word Count// ~1.5k

//Warnings// rough sex, religious guilt, mask kink, possessive behavior, praise + degradation, dirty talk, overstimulation, masked oral (giving), religious imagery, light blood/bruising mention, guilt-ridden but feral Matt Murdock

The door creaked. You didn’t flinch. You knew it was him.

He always came here after a bad night. Slipping into the side entrance of the church, bleeding and breathing hard, limping toward the basement where no one but you ever saw him fall apart.

You stood quietly at the end of the hallway, watching him descend the stairs—suit ripped, mask still on, knuckles scraped raw. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths. Not just from pain. From something deeper. Hotter.

“Rough night?” you asked softly.

His head tilted toward you, his voice gravel. “They tried to kill a kid. Wrong place, wrong time. I didn’t let them.”

Your heart clenched. “And now what, Matt?”

He didn’t answer.

He walked toward you—slow, deliberate—until your back hit the wall. His hands braced beside your head, caging you in. The red lenses of his mask burned into yours.

“Now I need something to remind me I’m still a man,” he rasped. “Not just the Devil.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “Take me.”

And he did.

His mouth slammed into yours—mask still on. He didn’t bother taking it off, and you didn’t ask. The rough texture of the suit scraped your palms as you tugged him closer, his body pressing yours into cold stone.

“You come here like this,” he growled, dragging his gloved hand up under your shirt, “wearing that little fucking look on your face like you’re waiting for me to ruin you.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m trying not to.”

But he was lying. He wasn’t trying at all.

He pulled your pants down just enough to shove his hand between your thighs—two fingers sliding through your slick folds with filthy precision.

“You’re already soaked,” he hissed. “Fuck, you want this. Want me to use you like I used my fists tonight.”

You whimpered. “Yes—please, Matt—”

“No,” he snapped. “Not Matt right now.”

You swallowed hard. “Daredevil.”

He groaned like the word physically affected him.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The suit creaked as he lowered himself between your legs, strong hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open like a prayer. His mask tilted up slightly, just enough for you to feel the hot breath from his mouth over your core.

“I’m not going to be gentle,” he warned. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t be.”

He growled—and then his mouth was on you.

Even with the mask on, he ate you like a man possessed. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, hands holding your hips down as you bucked against his face. You were already close, already trembling, the whole thing filthy and sacred in the same breath.

You came with a strangled cry, hand flying to the crown of his head, gripping the hard material of his mask as he groaned against your pussy, licking you through it.

But he didn’t stop.

He stood, pulled himself free from his suit, and hoisted you up into his arms, pressing you back into the stone wall. His cock—thick, flushed, and already leaking—rubbed against your entrance, hot and heavy.

“You ready to take me?” he whispered, voice shaking. “Ready to let me bury everything in you?”

You nodded, dazed. “Yes—God, yes—”

“Don’t say His name,” he growled, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Not when I’m doing this to you.”

He fucked you like he was trying to exorcise the violence from his soul—fast, rough, unforgiving. Every thrust bruised. Every moan from your mouth only made him go harder.

“You feel that?” he hissed, his hand slipping around your throat—not choking, just holding. “Feel how deep I am? That’s how you’ll remember me.”

You were babbling, lost in it—his name, his title, the way he hit that spot with perfect, punishing accuracy. Your second orgasm built like fire in your spine, your body shaking around him.

“I’m gonna come again—fuck, Daredevil—”

He gritted his teeth, hips jerking.

“Good. I want you to,” he groaned. “Wanna watch you fall apart, take every drop of me like it’s the only thing that’ll save you.”

You shattered—loud, sobbing, soaked—clenching around him so tight he cursed through clenched teeth. He wasn’t far behind.

“You want me to come inside you?” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Want me to fill you up, make sure you’re mine?”

“Yes—please—inside—”

He slammed into you, coming with a guttural moan, his body collapsing into yours as his cock twitched deep inside, spilling every ounce into you.

You held each other there, bodies trembling, breath tangled, masked forehead pressed to yours like confession.

“I shouldn’t do this to you,” he whispered. “Not here. Not like this.”

You brushed your fingers across his cheek, where the mask met skin.

“But you need to. And I need you to.”

A pause. Then:

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “For what I’ll do to you next time, too.”

[charlietheepicwriter7]

@anotheroceanid

Between Calypso’s island and his home, on a rocky shole surrounded by mile-high waves under a black sky, Odysseus became a monster. And like all monsters, he eventually watched all his loved ones die without him. 

At first, he didn’t notice. In his relief to be home and his joy to get to know his wife and son again, Odysseus didn’t realize how strong he was until he reached out to hold his wife’s hand and accidentally snapped her wrist. After that, he couldn’t stop noticing how different he was. Everything felt fragile, like spun glass under his fingertips. His form flickered like the wind, one moment strong and steady with the face of a man, the next moment shadowed and looming and clawed and every inch reeking of danger. He could see farther than his son, hear further, and one day Odysseus looked Telemachus in his face and realized they could be mistaken as equals rather than father and son. 

His family grew old while Odysseus stayed the same.

Well, not the same. Odysseus changed in far more horrifying ways. 

Eventually, his family died. First came Penelope, weak and frail and beautiful as always, passing away gently in her sleep, in his arms. Then his Telemachus, decades later in a sickness that swept across the island. Then his son’s son, then that son’s daughter, and her son, and on and on until his last descendant drowned in a flood that buried the whole island for a day. 

When he finally left Ithaca, the first time he’d left since he came home, the world had changed. And Poseidon’s children were everywhere.

Every single one of his son’s children were dead. Yet Poseidon just… kept popping out more and more bastards, like there wasn’t a target on each and every one of their backs. So Odysseus became the arrow.

Odysseus usually avoided eating demigods. There had been one son of Ares on Ithica who harassed his great granddaughter that Odysseus dealt with, but for the most part, he kept his human morals. But he always made an exception for the children of Poseidon.

They weren’t his favorite demigods to eat, by far–too fishy, and Ocean demigod meat always had a weird texture, like eel but tougher. But the joy Odysseus got from Poseidon’s screams of agony, screams Odysseus could hear every time one died, screams Odysseus could hear from anywhere on the globe, gave greater satisfaction than pleasure ever could. 

Many demigods had been sent to kill him. At first it was only Poseidon’s children, seeking him out in revenge for their lost siblings; a noble cause, so Odysseus killed them quickly and properly buried them with payment in their mouths. Then it became quests, demigods sent for the “glory” of killing the Monstrous King of Ithaca. Those, Odysseus killed slowly, ripping out their stomachs with siren’s talons and leaving them to die in pools of their own blood. He didn’t even spare his old friend’s children, nor his relatives. 

Then, the Prophecy. 

Odysseus had lost track of time since the reveal of the Great Prophecy. At first, he’d kept busy by killing Poseidon’s children still; a few had survived the second moral world war and were already older than 16, so Odysseus could hunt them to his heart’s content. But as the well of available revenge dried up, so too did the demigods chasing after him become… younger. Children baby-faced and desperate to survive Odysseus in battle and Odysseus… he couldn’t kill them. Not children, so small and shaking and unable to hold their knife correctly as a child barely old enough to fight stared up at him with watery gray eyes. 

Men, he could kill. Women, he could kill. But children?

Not again. Please don’t make him do it again.

So he disappeared. It wasn’t the first time he’d lay low out of the Gods’ gaze, so Odysseus let the decades wash over him until, finally, he heard rumors of Poseidon making landfall in New York. 

He’d known his old foe would slip up eventually; it wasn’t in Poseidon’s nature to keep himself from ruining young women’s lives. 

Slipping through the streets and alleys of modern New York, it took Odysseus weeks to catch the faintest trace of Poseidon’s scent. Demigods had a weak scent as long as they relied on their parents. It was meant to protect them. But the Kronide’s children always had strong scents, even as babes. 

Odysseus couldn’t figure out how old Poseidon’s newest bastard was, but no matter how young they were, the child was strong. He could smell it in the back of his throat. 

Triangulating the scent, Odysseus approached the rundown apartment building and scowled. Gone were the days where a lover of Poseidon was draped in fineries and set up in a golden palace. He took a moment to pity the poor mortal woman. She had to suffer the indignity of having that thing as a lover, without any of the perks her predecessors enjoyed; not only that, but soon she’d have to confront the reality of being a parent that has outlived their child. Odysseus pitied her, truly. 

He didn’t want to do it. But he would. It would be better for the babe if it never grew up into a pawn of its father, and better for the mother that she wouldn’t need to die at the hands of a less considerate monster. 

The sky rumbled overhead as the first fat drops of rain fell on his head. He looked up. Natural occurrence or divine attention? Either way, few gods would interfere with his task, if they noticed at all.

The lock crumbled under his grip and Odysseus crept into the building like a thief. Each floor stunk with humanity, of beer and tobacco and sweat, but the salt of the sea grew stronger with each floor until he finally found himself at a corner studio apartment a few floors off the ground.

This lock, he picked with ease. The sanctity of the home did not protect them as he snuck inside. The apartment was shockingly full, stuffed with oversized furniture that cluttered the already cramped apartment. A thin pathway carved between the back of one of three sofas and the wall led Odysseus to the back of the apartment. A bed had been pushed against the apartment’s sole window–lightning flashed outside–and against that bed, a crib. 

He inspected the mother first. Young. Not as young as he and Penelope had been when they met, but younger than Telemachus had been when he returned home. She was thin too, lean but the baby fat still clung to her face. Poor girl. 

Poor, poor girl. 

His attention turned to the Sea Spawn. It wasn’t big, smaller than Telemachus when he left for Troy, and his scent was just a wispy hint of ocean. If he hadn’t been following Poseidon’s scent, he would have had no idea this child was more than mortal. 

Odysseus loomed over the crib, studying the creature inside. With siren’s talons, he traced the pudgy babyfat of its cheeks. It huffed softly, struggling against the tight hold of its swaddle in their sleep, and Odysseus unconsciously smoothed out the wrinkle on their forehead with the soft flat of his finger. 

They did not look very much like Poseidon. Maybe with their skin color, but little else. Though perhaps Odysseus wasn’t the best judge; he’d sworn on his life that Telemachus looked just like his Penelope, but she’d claimed their son to be his copy in every way. Odysseus didn’t see it then, and didn’t see his enemy now in this babe’s face. 

Odysseus stood over the crib, his massive frame casting a shadow over the small, sleeping form. His claws hovered mere inches from the baby’s chest, but his hand trembled. This was Poseidon’s child. He could smell it clear as day, better than any other monster before him. Odysseus was practically made to murder Poseidon’s children, his very being honed to track them down and kill them, so why was he hesitating–? 

Lightning flashed, the light reflecting off shiny words on the crib’s backboard. Painted above the baby’s head in streaky gold paint was the name Penelope.

His breath hitched. He blinked, his monstrous form stilling as though time itself had paused. Reaching out a hand, he touched his wife’s name. “Penelope?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, rough from disuse. He said it again, this time louder, as though speaking the name would summon a ghost from his past. “Penelope.”

The child stirred in sleep, her tiny face scrunching as if disturbed by the sound.

He could barely think over the ocean of blood rushing in his ears. Poseidon’s child was named after his wife. Had he…? Was this a deliberate offense or mockery? Had Poseidon named the child after her to taunt him, to twist the knife of his losses deeper? Or… his crimson gaze turned to the mother. Was this her doing?

Did she think naming her child after his wife would stay his hand?

Worse of all, was it working? 

Odysseus knelt, his monstrous form folding into itself, making him seem smaller, almost human. He stared at the child who bore his wife’s name, his mind warring with itself. The rage that had sustained him for decades demanded he finish the task. But… Penelope. 

[ilium-ilia]

a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (2/3): rooftops

tw: torture, gore, non-con

Slowly, things begin to change. 

It comes leisurely like the rising sun dawning on rimy land, or the change of a leaf from green to gold. First, it appears in the tips of your fingers. Baby pink gel polish lengthens and grows as your nail bed widens. Like the triumph of mother nature, your real nail attempts to drown out the synthetic lacquer that coats them as if purging some blight on your body. Riley—no, Simon now—catches you chewing on them one day and comes back home from work one night with a fresh pair of nail clippers and files. You spend an hour hunched over on the couch spreading dust everywhere as you grind off the polish on your hands and the glitter on your feet. 

When you’re finished, your nails are torn to shreds. Uneven and jagged, they catch on fabric and cling awkwardly to your skin, but the incessant color is gone. Purged from your body, you are left with nothing but your natural nails in all their weak, dull glory. Simon asks you if you want him to buy you any polish, and your denial leaves your lips before your brain has the time to fully process it. No—nail polish will never taint your body ever again. 

The next change you note is your body hair. While under Marco’s thumb, he ensured you were waxed regularly at scheduled esthetician appointments that he would always drag you to every other week or so. Everything would go. Your legs, your arms—especially your pubic hair. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that hadn’t been ripped apart by wax, leaving you as smooth as a baby and feeling naked even with your clothes on. Now, you don’t have those appointments, and though you were provided with a razor when you were first brought here to Simon’s home, you’ve yet to use it. 

So it grows. And grows. It comes in thick and wild. You run your hand over your legs and the hair tickles your fingertips. It’s a texture you’re not used to, yet one you can’t seem to get enough of. You’ll often catch yourself mindlessly tracing the changes of your body, and Simon doesn’t speak a word about it. He does not call you gross or disgusting. He does not claim that it’s unattractive, like Marco would. In fact, he seems to pay no mind to it at all. 

There is very little that you do that Simon comments on, really. Usually they are more questions rather than comments, anyway. He asks if you’ve eaten, what you’ve eaten, how much water you’ve drank, if you need anything—you are wary of his kindness. Of this alien hospitality. You fear he thinks of you as an animal; a pet. Something to feed and water and make sure that it doesn’t kill itself in the meantime.

The small scratches on your wrist heal within a week and don’t even bother to leave scars as the scabs crust and dry. On the other hand, his cat scratch lingers. The blade carved deep enough into his arm that he ended up needing stitches; something he had done overnight at work without telling you. Not that he needs to tell you what he does—being the one taking care of you and all—but you caught sight of the thread poking out of freshly formed skin. His tattoo is ruined because of you. Jagged skin refuses to line up properly, and the ink fades as scar tissue forms over what used to be well-done artwork. 

You often catch him rubbing at it as if the wound is fresh, and he often catches you staring at it as if you can still smell the blood. He’s told you time and time again not to worry about it, but the agita haunts your gut anyway. You are well aware of the irony that lies beneath you injuring the man who’s effectively saved your life. He’s given you a place to stay—his own bed and damn near the shirt off of his very back—but your sorrow does not absolve you from the sin of having committed that act. 

Not yet. 

As time drones on and the days gradually become shorter, you and Simon grow closer—as close as a stray cat is able to get to a big dog, anyway. Your bravery evolves as you venture out of your room—his room—and explore the expanse of his home. The kitchen and his always fully stocked fridge. The soft cushions of his couch as you flip through streaming services on his TV. The stairs in his garage and how they squeak as you sit amidst quiet music while he works on his motorcycle. 

Eventually, when your intrepidity grows, you find your voice. Words still come slow and fractured, and punctuated with uneasy hums and gasps, but it is something. You tell him what little stories you feel comfortable sharing, and your stomach drops when you fully realize how much of your life has been devoured by Marco. There are no mawkish tales of your crazy teen years for you to bond and laugh over, but Simon is good at filling the silence. 

He’s under the impression that you like hearing him talk. Your fingers stop tapping against each other when he speaks, anyway. So he fills every doldrum that passes with stories of him as a child and the trouble he would get into at school, or odd things he’s seen at work. His voice is nice. It crackles like a phonograph and hums deep like waves in the ocean, beckoning you home. Simon is a stark difference from the honeyed coos and cutting gazes you are so accustomed to with Marco. 

When Simon has run out of things to say, he puts on a movie. 

It’s never a big deal. There’s no fanfare of popcorn and candies—rather, it simply exists in the living room. He doesn’t invite you to watch the movie with him, but he leaves half the couch empty. Simon Riley shrinks himself until he’s cornered to one side when he could very well swallow the entire furniture set himself. When you eventually grow curious enough to sit yourself next to him, he glances at you for only a short moment before returning his attention back to the TV. His feral cat has decided to take company with him, and he refuses to scare her off too soon. 

Not sure what the movie is—and feeling too anxious to ask—you keep quiet as the action unfolds before you. There’s a plane crash, and death, and some man named John Ottoway is attempting to save the survivors from being eaten by a voracious pack of wolves. Some scenes are so gruesome with shredded bowels and choked cries that you tell yourself to look away, but you can’t. You are enraptured by it. It captures your attention the same way the glint of a knife does. 

There are softer moments, though, where the men sit around a crackling campfire in an attempt to stave off the Alaskian winter storm. They speak of home. Of their wives. 

Of their daughters. 

“I knew a girl named Mary.” Your voice cracks when you speak, but you quote the name of one of the character’s daughters anyway. 

Simon shifts next to you. “Yeah?” 

You nod as your eyes stay glued to the screen. “Yeah. She… she worked at Makarov’s club but… I don’t know if she was like me, o-or if…” 

Cacophonous howling interrupts your recollection, and you pause to watch the men engage in a fight with the wolves. Sparks fly, shotgun shells pop, and then there’s laughter. 

“She caught me crying one day,” you admit. You’re not sure why you’re talking, but now that you’ve started, you can’t get your mouth to cease. “I was seventeen and I… was scared. We didn’t… speak the same language. I only learned her name because I saw someone else call her that but she… found me crying in the hall after…”

You swallow down the memory of that night. Of the sting, of the laughter, of the hands that held you down while needles whirled away. Coughing, you rub at your neck. 

“I guess crying is universal though. She sat on the floor with me, and just… held me. She’d speak and I wouldn’t understand a single word b-but it was nice all the same.” A ghost of a smile flickers across your lips at the memory of her. This Mary. You remember the warmth of her, and how nice she smelled—sweet like vanilla. You bite it away. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened to her. She showed up at the club one day with-with these bruises on her face. I remember her falling while trying to dance on stage and… some men dragged her away and I never got to see her again.” 

A stillness settles between the two of you at your admission, and for a moment you think you might regret having opened yourself to him. Simon has given you his bed, and his home—he is not your therapist. He is not your friend; he simply is. Nothing more than a caregiver babysitting a woman too gauche for her own good. 

“I’m glad someone was there for you. Even for a little while,” he says after a beat. “I’m sorry you lost her.” 

Simon’s words are foreign to your ears, but they do enough to quell the throe that’s burrowed into your chest for too many years. Blinking, your vision drops to your hands. On screen, a man falls through skinny tree branches where ravished wolves wait for him in the snowbank below. As narrow snouts prod at his skin, and jaws unhinge to take his legs and arms into their mouths, he imagines his daughter—Mary—leaning over him. She tickles his face with her long, brown hair, and when he dies he’s dragged off by the wolves without a second thought. 

If Simon is glad someone was there for you in some strange, dark moment of your life, is he glad to be here with you now? Is he glad to be that person? 

You think the answer to this question might be yes when Simon invites you out of the house one night. 

“What?” you breathe. 

You’re sitting next to one another on the couch, hunched over plates like food motivated animals as you scarf down dinner. Your fork clinks against the china as you stare at him, heart raging like thunder in your chest. 

“You haven’t been outside in weeks. Might be a good idea to get you fresh air,” Simon explains nonchalantly. 

Pressing your lips together, you look at the floor. “Where would we go?” 

“Wherever you want,” he says. 

It would be a lie to say you have no appetency for this—this idea of fresh air and freedom. Though you are away from Marco, you’ve yet to experience it truly. You are still in a man’s house. You are still struck with fear that one day you’ll turn around a corner and be met with those aching, green eyes of his. You are still hiding in slivers of shadows; in the palm of another man’s hand. 

“I don’t… know of anywhere,” you admit. 

Simon finishes swallowing the food in his mouth before speaking. “John Price has a club. It’s loud and rowdy, but I’ve got access to the roof. No one would bother you. Except maybe me.” 

His flat attempt at humor is almost enough to draw a laugh from your lips. “Okay.” 

“Is that a yes?” he clarifies. 

You nod. “Yeah that… that sounds nice.” 

You tell yourself that you’re dressed up in a hoodie to stave off the algid weather that rushes autumn into winter, but that’s only half the truth. Anything to obscure your face is favorable when you’re taking the plunge into the big unknown. While Simon drives you to this club, you try not to think about the first night you met him. How you were put in the back seat of this car and forced to blindfold yourself—how everyone thought you were the enemy. So much has happened since then, and still it’s as if nothing has changed. 

Simon parks towards the back of a large, brick building adorned with neon lights. There’s not a single soul to be found and you still find yourself gritting your teeth as you step out of the passenger’s seat. You’re reminded of Makarov’s club—this building sports the same grimey brick and drumming music—but Simon’s hand on the small of your back is grounding. You’re quickly ushered inside the back entrance to the building where pulsing music washes over you in a garroting wave. 

As Simon leads you through dark hallways, you try to ignore the alcohol in the air. Sour beer and stinging liquor—you’re forced to remember your time with Marco. It always creeps. Slithers beneath your skin where you’re forced to feel it writhe. You recall tear-blurred vision and a glass pressed against your lips. Mead washes over your tongue and the fermented honey burns just as bad as Marco’s lips against the back of your neck. There are too many hands on your body for you to count. Too many fingers digging into raw flesh begging for reprieve. A simple scent sends you back in time—your senses always seem to make a prisoner of you.

After climbing several flights of stairs—many of which you swear you’ll fall through if you step incorrectly—Simon opens the roof access door. Wind pulls at your hair and clothes, but the air is fresher up here than it is inside. The music is quickly snuffed out the very moment the door shuts behind you, and you find that your ears are filled with the sound of speeding cars and dull chatter. There’s not much to see besides exterior ducts and vents, but when Simon motions you further along the rooftop you know that he’s brought you here for something else. 

Both of you approach the edge. There is no railing to prevent you from plummeting over the side and crashing onto the sidewalk below, and for some strange fleeting moment, you have the urge to jump. To spread your arms and see if you can fly. Simon sits with his legs dangling over the side, but you know better than to tempt your thoughts like that. Sniffling, you sit slightly behind him with your legs pulled up to your chest, arms acting like cuffs to keep you chained to the building. 

It’s beautiful up here. You look out at the world as if its exterior has cracked and you’re finally allowed to see what it looks like on the inside. It’s full of pedestrians in coats skipping through intersections and cars honking as soon as traffic lights turn green. Glittery street lights attempt to convince you they’re stars as they illuminate cracked streets and crumpled trash. Despite all the grime, it takes your breath away. It’s the first time you’re able to look up and see something that mesmerizes you rather than terrifies you. 

After a moment of soaking in the view, Simon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He taps it against the palm of his hand a few times before looking at you. 

“Mind if I light one?” he asks. 

Why is he asking you for permission? “Go ahead.” 

The two of you sit quietly as he takes drag after drag. Smoke rises and dissipates in the air and it travels far enough that you can smell the nicotine. It’s an intoxicating scent, one that somehow calms the quiver in your heart. Simon’s fingers twitch as he flicks ash onto the brick next to him. You notice the build up of soot—an old scar that’s been years in the making like the mound of a keloid against puckered skin. 

“Used to come up here all the time when I first started working here,” Simon admits softly. “It’s quiet. No one fucks with you. Good place to think.” 

Humming, you nod in agreement as you rest your chin on your knees. “What are you thinking about?” 

“My brother and mum, mostly.” 

The air shifts. There’s a change in the wind, and it’s enough to send a shiver throughout your body. “Are… they okay?” 

“My brother’s dead.” He says it simply—states it like a fact. Like it doesn’t sting his throat. But you can smell the blood that lingers in his mouth from the very wounds the words leave behind. “Has been for a while.” 

“I-I’m sorry,” you choke out, stunned. 

“Don’t be,” Simon says with a shake of his head. “Marco’s the one who should be sorry.” 

Your silence is deafening—concerning enough to get Simon to turn towards you. He soaks up your wide eyes and lips parted from the question that died in your throat. A deep breath expands his chest before he huffs in a sour laugh. 

“Yeah. Marco gets his dirty fuckin’ hands on everything,” he mumbles as he shoves his cigarette back in his mouth. 

You carefully scoot toward Simon, toes inching closer to the edge but you don’t notice the urge to fall this time. Swallowing, you stare at him. “What happened? If… if you’re okay with, like… talking about it.” 

At first, Simon shrugs as if it’s no big deal, but you can see the contempt roll off of him in waves. It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this since the night he found you; pretending to buy a session with you in order to steal you away from your captors. Is this why he was so bitter? Why his tone cut you so deeply? Was his vitriol not meant for you but for Marco? 

“His name was Thomas. Tommy,” Simon shares with a sigh. “He’d gotten really bad into drugs. Guess havin’ a shit life can lead you down that road sometimes. Used to buy from people off the streets but somehow got mixed up with Marco and those other cunts.” 

His cigarette burns nearly to the filter, so he shoves the tip along the brick next to him. Embers sizzle and flicker before they’re snuffed out, dying in the cold chill of the air. 

“I remember that a little,” you admit quietly. “Not your brother but… well, sometimes Marco would… like, use. At the club and stuff. Usually he smoked, like, weed and stuff but I think he’d steal… other stuff from buyers. Coke usually, I think?” 

“Shit’s bad news,” Simon mutters. With his hands now free, he rubs them together as he leans his elbows on his knees. He glances at you and how you curl inwards on yourself like a cracked egg attempting to hold itself together and his lips purse. “Dunno exactly what happened. Guess it doesn’t really matter. Tommy ended up owing them money somehow. A fuck load of it, too. When he couldn’t make the payments, well…” 

An unwelcome memory invades your thoughts as Simon explains the story, and you are violently tossed back in time several years. Suddenly, you are naked and shoved back inside your sixteen year old body. Skin puckering with goosebumps, you pitifully wrap a soiled blanket around your shoulders. Ichor dots the fabric, though not nearly as much as your tears do, and it’s so thin that it hardly keeps you warm inside this poorly insulated warehouse. 

Sitting in front of you on a rickety chair upon the concrete floor is a man. His greying beard collects the blood spewing from his nose, and there are several patches of hair missing from his scalp, leaving behind nothing but near perfect circles. He tries to open his eyes, but they’re swollen shut with fat, periwinkle bruises. Each punch he receives from the man in front of him only worsens the wounds until the skin on his cheeks splits and cracks easier than thumbs digging into the peel of an orange.

“See that?” Marco purrs into your ear. His hand snakes around your waist where it dips beneath the blanket you attempt to cover yourself with. Thin nails trace along your skin as he pulls you closer to him. “Not too fun, is it babe?” 

You watch in horror as a blade suddenly glints in the dim warehouse lighting. This abuser—an enforcer?—curls over his victim as he sets the knife alongside his ear. All it takes is a simple flick of his wrist for the cartilage to pop free from his skull with a scream. When you attempt to look away, Marco snatches your jaw with his other hand and yanks your head to the side, forcing you to witness the dismantlement of Makarov’s latest victim. 

“Shy thing, aren’t you?” he chuckles. The man is further torn apart before your eyes all while Marco makes you watch—skin gone from his nose, nails ripped from their beds. “No, I need you to watch. Good girl. Yeah, soak that all up. I need you to remember this, alright? Think of it as… a lesson. Don’t want you getting the wrong idea that I’d go easy on you if you tried leaving.” 

He interrupts himself with another laugh as his nose nuzzles against the back of your neck. Tight muscles winding in your body begin to tremble so terribly that it squeezes the tears free from your eyes. The old man’s other ear joins the first one on the floor, along with a few disembodied fingers. Pink bone glints through the numbra, and you find that you can’t look away. It’s too fresh—like you could pick it up and place it back against the man’s hand and it would screw right back on as if it had never left. 

“Alright, maybe I’d go a little easy on you, but I couldn’t have everyone thinking I’d let some sweet thing like you walk all over me,” Marco humors. Fingers letting go of your jaw, his hands begin to further wander as he paws over your bare body. Your lips tremble as you force yourself to keep watching the man while Marco pinches the crying flesh of your nipples. “I’d hate for you to end up like this, so just be smart babe. It’s not so bad here. I promise.” 

The memory fades just as quickly as it arrived, and you once again find yourself sitting on that rooftop next to Simon. Twitchy fingers paw at the nape of your neck as you wait for him to continue. 

“They came for me next,” Simon huffs. “Said that if I couldn’t pay, they’d kill me too then go after my mum. So I fought like hell. Got mixed up in some underground boxing ring in order to make enough money for the monthly payments. That’s how Price found me. Struggling down in that piss hole. When he offered me a job, I didn’t refuse to take it. He gave me enough money to pay off Tommy’s debt and to keep my mum safe. Price has been after the fucker for years ‘cause of shit like this.” 

“I hate him.” 

Those words leave your mouth without permission, and you nearly slap your hand over your lips in fear of reprimand. It’s the first time you’ve ever said it outloud—express your hatred for the man who’s kept you under tight lock and key for over a decade. It’s a thought that’s lurked in the back of your mind for ages, stuck dormant in some part of your brain. Smothered by Marco’s greedy teeth. 

“I… hate Marco,” you say, louder this time. 

Simon’s titter is warm but jagged in his throat. He looks back out at the city for a moment to bask in the pale glow that bleeds into the sky, and you find yourself staring at the silvery scar that bisects the side of his lip. “Yeah, proper piece of shit, that one.” 

You nod in agreement. “I’m sorry that you… had to go through all that.” 

Simon’s mouth opens to shoot you a quip, but it dies on his tongue the moment he looks at you. Curled over, eyes focused on the pale brick at your feet, you’re pawing at your neck again. An odd habit he’s noticed you can’t seem to drop. Something lurks on your skin—something he’s only seen small glimpses of. A mark. Words he can’t read. Shifting, he turns his body so that he’s able to get a better look at you. 

“That thing on your neck. What is it?” he asks. 

Hesitation interferes with your mindless rubbing for only a split second before you’re back to tracing. Your fingertips track the raised skin—old scars that refuse to properly heal. You can almost make out the cyrillic script letter by letter. М… A… P… К… O…

“It’s a tattoo,” you answer truthfully. 

Curiosity piqued, Simon rubs at the old wound on his arm. “What of?” 

“Words.” Your voice feels stale. Flat. Your hand drops from your neck as you rest your chin on your knees. “It says… Marco’s Girl.” 

Once again, Marco has rendered you nothing but a prisoner within your own body. You still feel the plush rug tearing at your cheek when he held you down to brand you. Needle digging into your neck, he whispered to you saying that it was for your own good. That everyone needed to know who you belonged to. So many eyes witnessed you as they knocked back drinks as if watching their favorite movie. Legs squirming, feet kicking, you sobbed the entire time. You continued to sob as he raped you afterwards, thumb brushing over his artwork like it was his magnum opus—as if he was sealing the bond. 

For years, you’ve tried clawing at it. You thought that if you could dig your nails in deep enough you could shovel the ink out of your skin, but it persists. Inflamed tissue, it now sits on your skin like a brand. Nothing but cattle. Nothing but Marco’s good little girl who belongs to him and only him. 

When you finally gather the courage to look back at Simon, you notice how rosy the tips of his ears are. Bright pink and deepening, you don’t mention it as he retrieves another cigarette. He doesn’t light it. Instead, he keeps it tucked between his lips where his teeth bite at the filter. Thick fingers toy with his lighter, igniting a flame just to watch the wind blow it out. There’s an urge to speak more, to tell him that you’re fine and that he doesn’t need to worry, but he cuts you off before you even get the chance. 

“I’m settling your debt tomorrow,” he says. 

It’s nonchalant. Inconsequential. He says it like he doesn’t realize the way it makes your heart twist against your sternum. Finally, he lights his cigarette and begins to inhale. There’s an odd twitch in his fingers as he pulls it out of his mouth, like he wishes he had something else in his hand. 

“What… like… I don’t understand,” you stutter. 

“I did my homework,” he admits with a sour chuckle. “You owe Marco money. A debt that was passed to you after he killed your parents, yeah? It’s why he toyed with you the way he did. I’m settling it tomorrow.” 

Mouth suddenly arid, you shake your head as you scoot closer on stiff limbs. “Simon that's- my debt it’s- like, I’m talking hundreds of thousands of- of-” 

“I did my homework,” Simon reiterates. He looks at you with a lopsided smile as he huffs a drag of smoke from his nose. “I know what’s at stake here, sweetheart.”

Lips trembling, you bite into the side of your cheek. “So you’ll… give him the money and… and that’s it?” 

He snorts. “Probably not.” 

“What else will you have to do?” you ask. 

“Nothin’ good.” Simon flicks ash from the cigarette. You watch the wind take it away until the embers burn out. “I’m tellin’ you this because I might be gone for a while.”

“How long?”

He shrugs. “Dunno.” 

Acid broils in your stomach and begins to chew away at your esophagus. Every building in London seems to sway as you try to keep yourself grounded. Your leash has gone slack. You’re not sure what you should do with the collar. 

“You… shouldn’t have to do this for me,” you mutter, voice hardly audible. “I don’t… I don’t want you getting hurt because of me.” 

Simon puts out the remnants of his cigarette on the brick next to him. “Alright. I’ll do it for myself then.” His words feel like they should be spoken with a tone of humor, yet each syllable is just as cold as the last. “I hate the fucker. Would be good to finally get rid of him.” 

Once the wind begins to pick up, and neither of you can handle the algid autumn air, Simon takes you back to his house. The ride is just as quiet returning as it was arriving, but the weight is different. It’s crushing. Insidiously constricting around your rib cage until the breath is all but gone from your lungs. As Simon drives, you can’t help but to look at him. If he catches you staring, he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing but silence to pair with the way your eyes trace every feature of his face or the curve of his fingers as he grips the wheel.

Why does this feel like goodbye? 

It’s well after midnight by the time you both step through the threshold of Simon’s home. Dinner still wafts through the air—fresh chicken and baked brussel sprouts, probably one of the fanciest meals you’ve ever eaten—but not even the change of scenery can quell the raging solicitude that thrashes in your skull. 

You watch with a tense jaw as Simon preps the couch for the night. A fat pillow that bends awkwardly at the armrest, and a blanket that looks a few inches too short to cover him completely—your stomach twists. The cushions dip from the memory of his weight. He’s spent every night for the better part of the last couple months shoved onto this furniture.

“You should sleep in… the bed tonight,” you interrupt. 

Stiff, Simon turns to face you with narrowed eyebrows. “What do you mean?” 

“I just… it feels wrong. Having you sleep out here. Especially if… tomorrow…” You can’t finish your thought. Fear captures your tongue and turns it to stone within your mouth, and you’re stuck trying to swallow the lingering cement. 

“I’m not lettin’ you sleep on the couch,” he interjects as he continues to make his bed. 

“Why not?” you challenge. 

Simon shrugs. “Feels wrong,” he echoes. 

“It’s big enough for two.” 

Stunned, Simon turns back around to face you. He takes in your wide eyes and how they refuse to flicker away from him despite his gaze. 

“You want me to sleep in bed with you?” he confirms. 

You nod. “Yes.” 

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” he asks further. 

“Yes.” You swallow. “Please, Simon.” 

Despite your history, it’s a strange feeling to lie next to someone else. Marco never exactly lingered around when he was finished with you, and neither did any of his friends. There’s enough space on Simon’s cyclopean bed that neither of you have to touch, leaving a gap that’s almost large enough to hold the depths of your grief. Faced away from him, you curl on your side as he lays sprawled on his back next to you, breathing slow and even as he sleeps. 

You’re surprised his slumber took him so quickly. There’s not a single bit of tension to be found in his body when you roll over to face him. Street lights bleed through the bedroom curtains, illuminating the curve of his nose and the slight part of his lips. It’s strange to think that a few weeks—or, has it been months—ago you regarded him as nothing more than another man for you to fear. 

Now, here you are. Lying next to him in bed as you try not to shiver like a wet cat. 

“Hard to sleep when you’re tossin’ and turnin’ like that,” Simon breathes. 

His voice makes you flinch, though you’re not sure why. It’s quieter and softer than you ever would have expected out of him. Perhaps it’s your shame that gets the best of you. 

“Sorry, I… can’t sleep,” you admit meekly. 

The mattress dips and shakes as Simon twists to his side. He’s close enough to you now that you can smell the tobacco on his breath. “What’s on your mind?” 

“I’m worried about you,” you whisper. 

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

His chuckle is soft, and you can feel it travel through the bed as it grumbles through the cotton. “It’s nothin’ I can’t handle, sweetheart.” 

“I know, it’s just…” You taste the words on your tongue. Feel the way the tart syllables dig into the wet muscle. “He terrifies me. I don’t know what to think about any of this. I’ve been living under his thumb for so long but it’s all I’ve ever known. I just- I don’t want you to get hurt over this j-just for me to not even make something of myself afterwards.” 

“I’m not doing this for you, remember?” he says, harking back to your conversation on the rooftop. His tone tells you otherwise. “You don’t need to make anythin’ of yourself. Not for me. Not for anyone else. You always hear ‘bout those stories of… people like you. In your situation. They save themselves or they’re rescued and they go off and… get degrees or discover some bullshit that gets them on the news or somethin’ but… no one expects that outta you. Not me. You shouldn’t expect it out of yourself, either. Sometimes it’s just enough to be alive, sweetheart.”

Alive. Living. Is that what this is? Are you living while laying in bed next to a man who stole you away from your abuser? Or is this just existence? How would anyone have ever expected you to stop and smell the roses when your entire life has been devoid of flowers—full to the brim with thorns that rip into flesh like nails into the fuzz of a peach? 

Can you only enjoy the fragrance when the collar around your neck is gone? 

You think of your leash snapping—this terrible leash that’s bound you to Marco for eons—and—

“C’mere,” Simon whispers. 

—then you break. 

Simon pulls you into his gravity; sucks you in like a black hole, and you’re too far past the Event Horizon to argue. Arms tight around your torso, he holds you close to his chest as you begin to crumble. A swell of emotion drowns you like a tidal wave, and he makes no mention about the wetness soaking into his shirt. 

He’s warm like fire. You think that’s why you’re not scared of him anymore. Despite the dark hue of his eyes and the rigid lines along his body, Simon’s been the first and only person to light your way. To provide you warmth where you would otherwise freeze to death. 

But he is more than just some incandescent heat—he is also a metronome. A raging war drum lurks in his chest where you can feel it beat against your cheek. His lungs expand, and yours follows. It sings you to sleep, steady and loving, where each pulse is a kiss against your skin. 

Come morning, when Simon peels himself away from you to make breakfast, you fear you may never hear it again. 

It’s all you can think about as he whips up something grand. His heart. The sound of it—of him. Fork poking your eggs, you want to tell him to let it go. To let you go. That you’d rather live the rest of your life cowering in fear like you always have than attempt to bear the thought of him returning home in pieces. 

Of not returning home at all. 

(When did you start thinking of this place as home?) 

“You alright?” Simon’s shouldering on his coat. It seems to broaden his shoulders, makes him look like the fighter that he is, and still you stare at him as if he’ll crumble before you. “Lookin’ a little queasy.” 

Your eggs have gone cold. 

“How… how long will you be gone?” you ask as you try to keep the tremor in your voice at bay. It’s the same question you asked last night; one you already know the answer to.

“I dunno,” he repeats. 

Tears begin to swell in your eyes again, and at this point you’re not sure that they ever stopped. Praying that they stay at bay, you stare at the counter with your fork still grasped in your hand. “I just… would feel a lot better if I had a timeframe. Knowing that… you’ll be back, I…” 

“Hey,” he softly interjects. He reaches over the counter and gently prods at your face with his knuckle, urging you to look at him. A wiry smile graces his lips as you blink at him. “Chin up, sweetheart. I’ll be back by dinnertime, yeah?” 

You realize Simon Riley is a liar when the clock strikes nine and he’s yet to return. 

Nervous eyes peek out through thick curtains, hoping to see a flicker of headlights along the street or broad shoulders marching up the walkway. You are only met with the same darkness that’s blanketed the neighborhood for the last few hours. A tremor shakes throughout your fingers as you step away from the window and look at the empty living room. 

Everything stares at you. The couch he’s slept on for the last few months. Sparkling dishes drying off in the rack next to the sink. You stare back, but not in the same way in which they look at you. You cannot pick these items apart with your eyes and dig until the pain bears fruit. You just have to stand there and take it. 

At half past nine, you toss yourself into the shower. Really, you’re not sure why you’ve ended up here in the very place you tried to kill yourself in a few months ago. Some days you enter the room and swear you can still see the blood soiling the cracks in the grout on the floor, but for now you ignore it as warm water blankets over your skin. 

For a long while, you stare at the lineup of body washes that decorate the edge of the tub. When you had first been brought here, Simon had bought you some off brand shower gel that smells like pomegranate and gardenia, but you find your fingers reaching for his body wash instead. It’s warm. Spiced. Clean and mild—not strong and overpowering like the cologne Marco always bathes himself in. 

The very moment you flick the cap open and squeeze a coin sized dollop onto your fingers, you begin to cry. Cracks form in the brittle dam that had been keeping you feelings at bay, and now they overwhelm you insouciantly. Knees buckling, you find yourself sitting in the tub. Hand clutching to your chest, you wail like a broken alarm. It echoes off of the walls and rattles your ear drums, but your throat isn’t strong enough to choke back the agony. 

You see Simon. You see him sitting in that chair, and there is Marco with a knife that sports a cruel blade. There has never been a moment when he’s yelled, but your brain orchestrates the sound of him screaming with concerning ease as Marco carves him like a butcher chisels away at swine. You are tormented with a nightmare of your own creation as you envision Simon’s body slumped forward, motionless and cold. His fingers are on the ground, plucked free from his palms like the seeds from an apple, and the features of his face are all wrong as it’s sliced free from his body. 

There are no lips to cover his teeth. No cartilage for his nose or ears. No lids to cover the eyes that scream at you that this is all your fault. 

But nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will.

Blissful silence shrouds your mind as your tears finally cease. Overwhelmed with a lack of emotion, you find it difficult to feel anything at all as you sit with your legs crossed and your hands palm down on the tub. Eventually the water grows cold enough to chase you out of the shower, and you push yourself to your feet with a grunt as you turn the water off. You take your time drying yourself off as if you can rub away the ache with the fabric of your towel, and then dress yourself in pajamas before exiting the master bathroom. 

The television is on, and you don’t remember leaving it sitting idle. The vibrations of the speakers bleed through the door, beckoning you out. 

Sanguinity pulls at the strings of your heart until you’re rushing out of the bedroom and bursting into the living room. Simon sits on the couch with his legs spread wide as he slouches on the cushions. He’s kicked his boots off next to the coffee table, which homes a couple of boxes of Chinese takeout. 

Your hand clasps over your mouth as you soak up the state of him. Plum bruises haunt his cheekbone and seeps all the way into the bridge of his nose, which sports a new, crooked bump. His eyebrow is split almost in the same exact place where his scar lies, and there’s at least two visible stitches on a laceration along his jaw. His right hand is bound in a splint and he keeps it held against his chest. Though his lips pull into a smile when he sees you, his neck moves stiffly as if every gear and joint in his body is clogged with rust and debris. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” he greets. “Sorry ‘bout dinner. Bought some takeout to make up for it.” 

“O-Oh my god, Simon, you…” 

Words failing you, you instead stumble across the room before collapsing onto the couch next to him. Your hands hover over his body, but you’re too afraid to touch him. Instead, you evaluate him with your gaze. He still has all ten fingers, though they’re all cracked and sporting bloodied knuckles. His ears sit just as large as ever on the sides of his long face. Though he is beaten and bruised, Simon is still in one piece, even if he is marred with cracks. 

“Oh my god,” you repeat. Though you were certain you had cried for all your worth earlier, more tears begin to well in your eyes. “Look at you. W-What happened?” 

“Don’t worry ‘bout it. I’ve had worse than this,” he assures you. His words are faintly slurred as if his tongue is too big in his mouth. Squinting at him, you notice how half of his lip balloons with swelling. “Have you eaten anythin’ today besides breakfast? You should eat up.” 

“No! I’m not eating anything until you tell me what happened!” 

Surprised at your outburst, Simon’s eyebrows raise before his lips quirk with a chuckle. Adjusting himself on the couch, he winces as he attempts to get comfortable despite the aches that ail him. 

“Just had a little scrap with Marco, that’s all,” he says flippantly. “Broke a few bones in my hand and got a couple of stitches in my face, but that’s ‘bout it. Besides maybe a bit of a concussion. Nothin’ serious.” 

Your teeth grind against one another as he explains his half of the story. “No. No, no, no, t-this isn’t good.” 

“What’re you fussin’ for, sweetheart?” Simon asks with furrowed brows. 

“He’s not gonna stand for that. For what you did,” you begin to blubber. “Fighting with him? I-If you’re hurt this bad, then he’s probably pretty hurt too, and Marco, h-he gets really angry about stuff like that, and-” 

“Baby, I killed him.” 

Shock overwhelms you into silence at Simon’s interjection. It fizzles and vibrates through every neuron in your body as your brain works in overtime to make sense of the words he’s thrown at you. There’s a discrepancy in what you know is possible, and what reality is. Marco can’t be dead. You never thought it was possible to kill a beast like him. Yet, here Simon is, triumphantly home, sitting on his couch still drawing breath all while claiming the man who toyed with you for eons is now nothing more than a rotting corpse. 

“What?” you breathe. 

“He’s dead,” Simon reiterates. “You don’t owe him anymore, and Makarov and his fuckers won’t be comin’ after you either. He’s dead, baby. I killed him for you.” 

Consternation quickly swells into something else as your lips morph into a pained smile. Your attempt at keeping back over a decades worth of grief is quickly cracking. “I thought you said you weren’t doing this for me.” 

He smirks as best as he can with his swollen lips. “I might’ve lied a little.” 

Your laughter strangles into a sob, and your teeth begin to bite at the still growing remains of your fingernails. “You mean it? H-He’s really gone? That’s it? Am I… am I really…?” 

Simon’s arms swaddle you just as you begin to crumble. Even with his injured hand, he cradles you against his chest as a culmination of emotion seeps out of every wounded pore in your body. It’s thicker than molasses. Thicker than blood. You’ve held onto this shame for so long that it doesn’t know where else to go besides out. Into the air to find some other poor host—it sublimates before your very eyes. Vanishes until it’s nothing more than a bad dream. 

He’s averruncated the one thing that’s haunted you for your entire life, then came back home with food and a smile. 

Eventually you cry out every emotion that you can—shame, grief, relief—and when you’re finished, Simon urges you to eat. It’s the first time in ages that you’ve been able to eat food and truly taste it. The sesame seeds and how they pop on your tongue. The seasoning of the chicken and how it sticks to the roof of your mouth. When you’re finished, you attempt to urge him to go to sleep in the bedroom with you, but he declines and says he doesn’t think he can sleep through the pain.

So you stay with him in the living room. Curled up against his side, your cheek presses against his chest as the TV drones on with some late night programme. Your eyes can scarcely make sense of the images that flash before you as the weight of sleep begins to pull on your body without discrimination, and you find yourself slipping under its demanding wave without incident. 

You never thought that you’d ever get the luxury of feeling content, but you think this must be the closest you’ve ever gotten to it. You revel in its warmth—in the safety of it—all while the heart that you feared you would never heart beat again lulls you to sleep.

this chapter is dedicated to the woman who fed me when i was a child, going on day two of no food.

we didn't speak the same language, and i never learned your name, but i think of your kindness all the time. i like to think you got out of there. that you went to live a good life. i hope i'm right.

[sultrydxrling]

PLANT PEOPLE/FREE USE SOCIETY/X/AFAB! READER <3

(FORCED-INTOX/TENTICAL-VINE/FREEUSE/BDSM/APHRODISIAC/SEX-SLAVE/MANIPULATION/(VIEWS HUMANS AS A LOWER SPECIESE)

(full version)

You regained consciousness, dangling mid-air. You were suspended by what looked like green rope that squeezed you uncomfortably.

The green creature in front of you stopped as he felt you love and drop you, though keeping a hold of your wrists.

You fell to your knees amongst the dirt and leaves, struggling to get to your feet.

It studdied you and pulled you youghly behind itself. The creature made you walk through the forest barefoot and naked; your limbs tightly bound together by green, vine-like tentacles.

The leaves and twigs around and beneath you bore small cuts and scrapes across your sensitive skin. The creature didn't seem to care for the first hour or so, but he must've grown sick of your whimpers because when he extended his hand to the path's sides, the plants around you moved away from the two of you.

It stopped in a clearing and stepped through the vein carefully, then used its vines to carry you in behind him. You were placed back on the ground, but a small vine slipped around your neck and squeezed tightly.

It let go of every other limb and led you through a small archway of trees.

You could see sunlight up ahead and small, white buildings. They looked almost paper-mache-textured, so you assumed they were mud or clay buildings.

Many other plant creatures wandered through a townlike area. Small stone walkways between buildings were visible, and the closer you looked, you began to see naked humans, like yourself, walking alongside them.

the creature leading you seemed to hold you up, fixing your poor posture as it showed you off to the others. Soon, two other, what looked like males smiled smugly at the plant man.

"Look who finally got a pet - pathetic. The only good thing about it is they're cute -"

"Kill yourself."

It muttered under its breath to the other. They continued to harass the smaller creature, calling it names and making fun of it for being weak and a late bloomer.

They even pushed it around between themselves some before deciding he was no longer entertaining enough. The creature adjusted how it was carrying itself to what it felt was cool and collected.

It led you up and across various paths that laced hills and valleys to the outskirts of the village where he lived. Its hut was a little tattered, and the walls were too thin, almost letting the breeze sift through the cracks.

It carelessly tossed you onto the bed, and you were unable to move as adreniline pumped through your arms. You wanted to run and get away from that place.

But you weren't sure just how dangerous they were. The creature muttered things to itself.

"I'm not pathetic. Humans are."

It wheeled on you and slapped you, causing you to whimper and fall back on the soft moss cushion beneath you. Your eye and cheek stung with the ringing pain.

"Stupid- pathetic holes, that scream in ungreatful anguish even when kept fed and comfortable."

It's eyes darkened as memories likley apeared before them. Had It done this before? Or possibly seen it.

It took a deep breath and walked into what was supposed to be a kitchen area, a running water pipe with a bowl beneath. He picked up a fruit from a wooden bowl on the counter and washed it. then, It sliced the fruit in half and offered it to you.

You didn't know what it was, but it resembled a dragon fruit. You had seen the fruit cut it open, so you trusted it enough to soothe the aching in your stomach and thirst, quenching the walls of your throat.

You sank your teeth deeply into the meat of the fruit and sighed softly at the quick relief of your thirst. The creature watched you and raised an eyebrow.

"You're quite hungry, aren't you?"

You didn't answer. Of course you were - it'd dragged you through miles of forest.

"Nothing to say? Usually, the humans we collect scream and thrash. Why are you so calm?"

You hadn't figured that out yourself, and you wanted to say that it was because you felt frightened. Regardless of circumstances, this species was clean and lived in a very beautiful area.

It's green, velvety skin shone in the light. From where you were, looking closely, the skin was textured similarly to the stem of a weed or flower. The small, soft, white hairs standing out against the dark green.

"What are you looking at? Do you miss me pushing you around already?"

It practically spat these words and approached you slowly.

"I can change that.~"______

The creature laughed hysterically as he walked toward you, picking you up by your neck, and squeezed tightly.

"They call me pathetic, but look at you. Gasping and wriggling in my grip. Humans disgust me - the only thing you're good for is the occasional entertainment."

One of its strong, thick vines swiped through the air, connecting with your cheek. The sting jolted through your cheek and pulsed next to your eye. the strike caused you to let out a yelp as your eyes welled.

You couldn't understand where all of this anger was coming from, but this was far less puzzling than the slick between your thighs.

(Pronounced Klad-ack/ch)

"Cladach is too small -"

It muttered bitterly as you were thrown onto the bed with an iron grip face first. You scrambled to stand, but a velvety vine wrapped itself around your neck and another around your waste, forcing you down and holding you still.

"Who would even look at such a wretched Dryad like him!?-"

The creature grabbed a handful of your hair and plunged - his? length into you. You hadn't seen him undress or ready himself, though you were stuck on his name, letting it melt into the back of your mouth. So much so that it was almost impossible not to call out to him as he filled you.

You could feel the veins of his shaft massaging your tensed insides, groaning softly. you tried to pretend they were cries of anguish and discomfort, but you couldn't fool yourself- Not that Cladach was paying you much mind.

"Gods, they were right about one thing. You were a very good pick. Your holes are so tight.."

His voice was still gruff, but more mellow than the outwardly bitter words he was spitting just seconds ago. You tried to hide the arousal on your face in the fluffy moss pillow beneath your face. You cried out desperately, not having realized your body betrayed you.

The slick poured down your legs and against his length, as he trusted; and you pushed your hips back into him, aching to feel him slam into your cervix.

The vine around your neck clenched tighter, constricting the blood flow to your brain just enough to push pins and needles into your fingertips and your hand.

"If I didn't know any better..."

The creature grunted.

The vine pushed your head back, forcing you to look up and back at him. You tried to avert your eyes, embarrassed by the state this left you in.

"I'd say you were very thoroughly enjoying this, pet."

He pushed his hips into you rougher and faster, forcing you to look at him. You moaned loudly as his tip threatened to dig its way into your guts.

You tried to choke out protests, failing miserably as your eyes rolled back into your skull.

"You are.. Well, well. You were already broken in before I found you. You've been waiting for this, haven't you?"

You shook your head as much as you could with your movement restrained, and he laughed as he forced your face down into the pillow.

"No need to be embarrassed, my pet. Some humans are bred for this."

The thoughts spun in your mind. You couldn't be bred for this. Not this. But the deeper you thought, the more appealing this sounded. No job, no responsibilities, free food, and housing all compelled you to think better of trying to escape.

the harder he pumped, the more the small voice in the back of your head cooed to you,

"I should stay..."

"He feels so good"

"I could have this every day.."

You could feel Cladach's thick cock throbbing against your walls, he was getting close. You hated to let the motion cross your mind that you were close to orgasm as well, pushing the feeling away.

"If your pussy keeps squeezing me like that I might have to take you to get some fun toys..."

You didn't hear him over the sound of your heart beating in your ears as you tipped over the edge of pleasure, squirting harshly against his length and the moss beneath you.

As he finished, the creature groaned, and his vines gripped your hips as tightly as they could squeeze, causing you to gasp softly.

Thick, warm sap flooded your guts, spilling out over his length and down your thighs. Cladach pulled out of you and used his vines to rotate your body to face him, though releasing the highness of his grip slightly.

He presented himself to you and pushed his pointed tip to your lips.

A light ombre red at the flare, and the darker green lines of his veins could be seen beneath the skin.

"Come on. Clean me up, pet."

You looked up at him hesitantly and he grabbed the back if your head, then pushed himself harder against your lips.

"Now."

Your lips parted for Cladach, your tongue coming into contact with the flat of his tip first. The bitterness of the sap caught you off guard, but he didn't allow you to move back at all.

"You'll get used to the taste. Keep going."

A look of soft distance crossed your face as you took the head into your mouth, running your tongue begrudgingly over the hole. The deeper into your mouth he plunged however, the more texture you could feel on your tongue from his shaft.

The bumps and groves of his veins pushed against your tongue with a beating rythm that enslaved your senses.

He moaned softly as he gently fucked your mouth, holding the back of your head for support as he pumped his hips.

"Gods, that's so good.. keep going, pet."

He praised you, and it made you smile around him. You felt warmth behind your eyes, and a fog pushed over your mind.

You loved this and needed more, pushing your head forward excitedly to take as much of him as you could.

He laughed a little and ran hisnhingers through your hair.

"I forgot to mention.. my sap is an aphrodisiac.."

He but his lip softly and leaned his head back as you took him deeper into your throat.

His vines slipped around your neck and squeezed softly as he looked down at you; though you weren't paying much attention.

Your mind was fogged over by the aphrodisiac, your pussy by now was sopping wet and leaking over your thighs.

The vines pulled you against him, using them as leverage to thrust. His pleasured sounds drove your hand between your legs, gently rubbing over your clit with your fingers.

He looked down at you and smiled mockingly,

"Oh yeah? Here, let me help..."

He grew another vine and plunged it deeply into you, curling the end to make it a little more comfortable.

A thinner vine sprouted from that one and gently wrapped around and massaged your clit.

You moaned softly against his length, choking a little as he abused your esophagus.

"God, I'm close. Keep that up, pet."

His breath hitched softly as he throbbed in your mouth, then he pushed himself balls deep, riding out his orgasm against your tongue as his hit sap flooded thiur esophagus.

You coughed and sputtered, only lightly struggling through your Brian fog to no avail.

He pulled himself out of your throat and laid back on the mossy bed.

"That was so good.."

You were still trying to swallow and whipe the bitterness off of your lips, your vision slightly blurry.

"Wh- mm-"

You couldn't even speak. The words wouldn't form past the beginning of letters or soft sounds of protest. You were aching to be held and still dripping, not having been helped to finish.

Cladach sat up and smiled, holding your face in his fingers.

"You're so pretty all dayzed and tired out -"

You tried to fight away from his grasp, only slightly succeeding before his fingers sank into your cheeks.

"Ah- ah- ah," He tutted mockingly down at you.

"Don't worry about your little..."

He reached down with his free hand and pressed his fingers against your hole.

"Problem. We'll finish you up later."

You let out a soft whine of protest, and he laughed.

"Look at you. Already well trained and all I had to do was give you a taste of mindlessness. You don't want independence. You humans are given a false sense of independence from birth. This is your true mission -"

He smiled and kissed your forehead, his vines gently running over your body softly, almost as if they were nudging you like a friendly cat.

"- to serve a higher species. Well, behold. I am finally here to guide you down your proper path."

You crawled toward his lap, gently resting your head on his thigh, being sure to avoid the messy portion of his velvety, green skin.

Cladach stroked your hair and scratched gently at your scalp.

"Awe.. you're already so devoted, aren't you my pet?"

You tried to nod, managing to lift your head only for a moment before it fell back onto his thigh. You were thoroughly embarrassed, trying to convince yourself it was only the aphrodisiac.

You rested your head on the soft moss. The smell of greenery filled your nose as you were lulled into a comfortable sleep.

-

When you awoke, you had been cleaned up and covered with a thinner moss blanket. You were still unclothed, as you could still feel the moss against your hair skin. The softness was comforting comparatively to the events you were hoping you'd dreamed.

You sat up to look around, a loose thing was against your throat and dangling over your chest.

A wooden collar and a thickly woven vine chain was holding you against the wall, though with some slack for you t9 sleep more or less comfortably.

"I'm very glad to see you awake."

Cladach mentioned casually as he cut up more pieces of the strange fruit he'd fed you earlier. You sneered at it.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I know your hungry."

And as if on cue, your stomach clenched painfully.

"You don't have to eat it all at once. As long as you eat at least one Dhulon."

(D(h)oo-lun)

(soft H as when used in 'whip' )

"One what? Is that the name of that.. drug fruit?"

He laughed softly.

"The Dhulon is a relaxant. It's not meant to cause harm. Only meant to calm. If you and everyone stay calm, there are fewer issues amongst the species. You and I will be eating the same thing."

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

"If you wish to consume them in smaller amounts, as I've said. That is something you may do. But you must have one slice for every hour."

You scoffed. You do remember the sweetness of the fruit and decided eating smaller amounts would suffice in keeping you from being too vulnerable.

He handed you the open half of the fruit, cut into 8 slices for you to scoop, or press out from the bottom of the skin to enjoy.

You hesitantly folded the skin down and inside out enough to pop a slice into your mouth.

You carefully ate two, then set it to the side.

"Will that be all then?"

You stayed quiet.

"Very well then."

He took the other half and stored it in an empty space that was dug into the ground. You'd seen people back home do simpler things to keep things cold.

You remembered if your family had dug a wide enough hole, put a cooler in it, and covered it with dirt, that it would stay at least some semblance of cool.

"This is where I keep the fruit to.prevent it from rot- you see-"

"I know how it works." You cut him off.

He scoffed, and a familiar sting spread through your cheek and to the rest of your face. You were slapped by one over his vines and had fallen into the wall a little.

"Do not disrespect me so, pet. Be happy you're alive."

You scoffed and tried to play off the immidiate arousal.

Cladach rolled his eyes and walked out of the open, mud made home. He was clearly fuming as he mumbled quiet obscenities to himself.

You smirked to yourself as you wondered just HOW irritated you could make him untill he snapped.

I'm writing another one lmk if you want to be tagged. Im also taking segestions.(partial rewrite with better lore and better dianamics

_____________

Tag list

@hallowsden @blackbirdwitch22 @notavailibles-world @distinguishedprincesstrash @exodiam @realisticunrealistic @breededbunni

[luckyofthelawnvariety]

I've finished Etho's s7 hermitcraft so guess who's back with a slightly updated/slightly consolidated list of things about ethoslab I have noticed! or just enjoy!

(the previous list)

I have no idea when he learned to noteblock. I don't know if he knows. he knows how to noteblock tho. he's really good at it.

on that note, did you know that there is not a single piece of non-noteblock music in etho's s7 after the first episode? there might not even be any in the first episode. every single timelapse or montage is set to noteblock music

(he sang along to parts of his paper planes noteblock cover too. he was going shopping. I was entirely too delighted)

(also, there is some like...sitcom music theme that I don't know what show it's from. it's bothering me that I don't know. what you need to know is that throughout his s7 etho uses said sitcom theme as the transition before Shenanigans With Fellow Hermits clips play. his life is a sitcom. yes it is the noteblock version.)

I think that etho desperately needs minigames for enrichment. if he's not playing one he's working on one. he needs them and he will let them completely consume his life

the etho decked out 1 runs are hilarious, partially because it's funny to see him play it and realize how absolutely insane decked out 2 is, and how much of a madlad tango is. etho is still the same menace with great luck and skills. I had forgotten about the hole to the void in the middle out decked out 1 tho, that was a fun reminder

etho could make a career out of translating classic type games into minecraft. he kind of has, but it's a pattern.

he also keeps coming up with new games that are minecraft only and is good at figuring out how to balance them well.

again, king of minigames. he will in fact analyze them as much as possible. he caught on to the pattern of impulse's whack a mole game in like...2 rounds? maybe 3? he's good at pattern recognition and will put it to good use no matter the minigame

etho, I cannot stress this enough, is a little shit and enjoys being such. free glass is obviously an iconic moment, but I had forgotten about him scamming scar out of diamonds for "information" about the resistance, or about sneak-e-e's business model (you can't tax what you can't find!), or about how he kept being extremely ridiculous with beef in regards to record shop payments...the list goes on

etho is also very competitive. I mentioned this in the last list, but man...he joins like every single competition he can. he wants to win. he's not like, a sore loser, but he likes to win, and he'll get a little upset if he doesn't.

etho and beef have clearly known each other a long time and ngl I miss their interactions a bit. let them bother each other a bit more please. I want to see them trying to kill each other in ridiculous ways again please. or doing minigames together. they're so silly.

kind of similar, but etho loves getting a rise out of people and it is the best thing ever actually. it's fun watching him use dirty tricks to beat bdubs to sleeping for a prize. it's perfect actually.

that being said, I still really like when etho is just on his own working on stuff too. s7 has a lot of moments where etho will go "I'm gonna use this block palette!" and I will think "bro that's ugly" and then he will make an extremely cohesive build that I want to live in out of it. I think a good way to describe it is that for example bdubs is really good at detailed builds with texture and not much color, and a very realistic twist to them. etho is not afraid to use color at all, and embraces how the colors can work together or contrast. it's fascinating to watch and I love it.

he is also a redstone genius. I feel I am starting to understand how some things with redstone work. could I design something myself? absolutely not but I could work from a tutorial and not feel completely lost on why I have to use a dispenser and not a dropper now.

I think s7 etho is really experimenting a lot with style and how he wants to do things. he does a few more elaborate intros, for example, that are very planned out, but he also does a lot of the classic "hello everybody this is etho and welcome back to hermitcraft!" it's fun and it works, but I honestly feel he might be more confident in some ways now in s10, which is nice to see.

(side note—I think etho has some trouble with tone sometimes, where he really wants to make sure everyone's having a good time, but also he really wants to tease people. this works well with like Beef, who he's known a while, but especially in people he's known less he's quick to catch on if they take what he's saying too seriously, and clarify that he is teasing. it's nice to see tbh, just the clarity even with his audience)

speaking of llamas, I had not realized how recent some really big updates were. bamboo and pandas were new at the start of s7. the nether update came like halfway through?? I was more in the casual build side of mcyt at the time but man...I didn't realize how crazy that is to think about.

just...the way that etho visualizes builds is great. not just like, leaving space for farms, but filling in the spaces with a lot of details that make sense but also work with the space to cover anything it needs to AND to connect with the rest of the base. the sightlines thing is something I see a lot of other builders using but etho really uses them a lot in the Monstrosity in order to keep it from being Too Much as you walk through.

really just...he wants to have fun, and he wants to learn, and he wants to experiment and figure things out. if he can mess with some friends when he does it, that's a great bonus, yknow?

man. what a guy.

[comatosebunny09]

It’s a story that ends much like it began—the warmed, leather pistol grip printing its texture into your palm and the barrel aimed between familiar, dual flames of scarlet. 

A humorless chuckle. The narrowing of a condescending gaze as the world fades into the backdrop, fire and crumbling debris streaking the atmosphere a corrupted mixture of yellow, orange, and grey. The pungent scent of ash and iron curling around you. Sweat. A pulsing heartbeat. Your lips thinned with determination, glare unwavering yet resigned. 

He repositions himself on his makeshift throne, posture lax, as he watches you past the silver streak of the barrel. “You came back all this way just to kill me? An odd way of greeting an old friend. Civilian life must have robbed you of your manners.”

If nothing else, his quip makes your grip on the pistol tighten. You press it deeper into his forehead, earning a scoff and quirked lips that deny their usual amusement.

“You and I both know that won’t be enough to kill me. Or have you forgotten that in the time you’ve spent away?”

For the first time since the world came cascading down in veins of fire and ash, you smirk. Push a huff through your nostrils, the metal of the gun squeaking as you slowly draw the trigger back. 

“I’m counting on it,” you rasp through cracked lips. And the world slows as if spinning through syrup when you fully depress the trigger with an exhale. 

A cacophonic bang. A flash of color. The sound of something whizzing by and lodging itself into the leather where a shock of white once resided. 

You knew it wouldn’t connect. Knew the bullet would miss its target. He wouldn’t be the King of the Underworld if he allowed himself to be taken out so easily. And by you, no less. 

Where you once stood between his splayed legs as he sat upon his wing-backed chair, the rubble of his study sweeps from beneath your feet as you dangle some inches off the ground, pistol long forgotten amid the wreckage, clawing at the crushing pressure encircling your neck. 

In a warped swirl of red and ink, he materializes before you, a hand around your throat in place of the sickly swipe of his Evol.

You glare defiantly at him from down the bridge of your nose. Fingers wound about his wrist as the air slowly spills from your windpipe. 

In the chaos of his once glorious mansion rotting beneath the flames, plumes of smoke blotting out the spill of stars, he resembles something beastly. A primordial horror that’s roamed this planet since its formation. Yet, as he ducks through the shadows and smoke, so close, he breathes fire over your skin, he appears as a mere man. 

“Did you truly think that would work on me? Did you think you could win?” 

Where initially, you scraped at the hand around your throat and kicked and flailed your body about, desperate for freedom, for air, the fight in you sloughs off as your vision glazes with a hot film of tears, and a sardonic smile curves your lips. Your hands drop listlessly at your sides. Despite the world blackening around the edges like a vignette, you manage that cheeky expression he’s grown to adore all these years of working with you.

His brows furrow. Gaze intensifies. He holds you higher. So much higher, you’re not only dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Aside from the pathetic sound pinched from your throat, you don’t show any signs of struggling. It’s almost as if you’re resigned to your fate—like you wanted this. 

“Fight back,” he husks. Quiet at first. Disbelieving. His voice evolves into a growl, a barked order. Desperate, pleading. “Fight me back!”

Your vision escaping, breathing a distant memory, your smile wavers as you’re led to the doorstep of impenetrable darkness by scarlet eyes regretfully flashing over your features, and his fingers loosening their deathly grip around your neck.

Then, there is nothing.