#Corpse Part: Blood Drive | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nsharks · 4 months ago

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-three —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

Alexandre is not as susceptible to pain.

The guard outside his home didn’t register his death, not with Ghost as a shadow at his back. One wrench to his neck, and Kyle plucked the key off his corpse, gently opening the planked door. As the three of them swept the inside, you and Ari hoisted the body in. A sudden crash of breaking glass and the sounds of a struggle made it clear—they got Alexandre. He must have woken up.

But restrained to a dining chair by chains from the slaughterhouse, all he offers up is a bloody tooth on the floor—nothing about Blue or the weapons.

"Brûlez en enfer, pécheurs!"

Ghost snarls and tears a fistful of hair from his scalp. Alexandre only spits more blood, teeth clenched.

"He's wasting our time," you mutter, dread curling in your chest. A glance at the window—the sky could turn deep purple any second. You touch Ghost's elbow. "We should just look for—"

"He'll talk."

Ghost draws the knife. He drives his knuckles into Alexandre’s mouth, smothering the scream as the blade severs his pinky. Blood spills over raw bone. Finally, he writhes—eyes rolling back, knees violently shaking.

"Tell us where everything is, or these go next," Ghost snaps, holding up his middle and ring fingers.

He pulls his fist from his mouth. Alexandre sputters, lips twitching from the pain. Under his breath, he groans, "Sal... Mon enfant."

"What is he saying?" Kyle presses.

Ghost positions the knife at the next digit. "Speak up. English."

Alexandre's eyes threaten to close. He whispers something quieter—

"Salome?" you speak up.

His eyes snap open at the name.

You lower beside Ghost, leaning closer, your eyes darting over his swollen face. "Salome. Your 'enfant.' The child is yours, isn’t it?" A flicker of rage flares in his nostrils, and you quietly press on, "You must be worried about her. She was tending to us, you know. Don’t you want to know if she lives? It'd be a shame if she doesn’t. She was so excited for the baby, especially after losing the first one in the winter. I’m guessing that one was yours, too." You let the words hang, then wet your lips, feigning consideration. "The thing is, it’s been a long night. My memory’s hazy. Can’t recall if I slit her throat or not, but I do remember her begging me to spare her—for the child’s sake."

At this, he jolts. "Tu fais chier—"

Ghost covers his mouth.

You keep your voice smooth. "Maybe if you tell us where the girl and the weapons are, I’ll remember. Otherwise, he’ll kill you, and you’ll die not knowing."

The silence breaks as Ghost drives the knife into the base of his finger. Alexandre grits out, "The girl... I don’t know where my mother kept her. But if sunrise is near... She could be at the chapel now, to prepare."

The one you saw? "How many chapels are there here?" you ask.

"Only one for... offerings."

You glance at Ghost and whisper, "If we can find the road, I could get us back to it."

He nods, not looking away from Alexandre. "The guns," he says. "Where are they?"

"I can... show you."

"You're not showing us shit. Tell us exactly where to find them."

Alexandre holds his gaze. "I could tell you wrong, yes? Waste your time. Or I can show you, and you can kill me if they’re not there."

"Don’t let him play games, Simon," Price calls from behind.

Ghost exhales roughly.

Alexandre looks at you. "But you must tell me of Salome first."

"She's alive," you tell him. "But if you don’t show us where the guns are, it’s not just you who will die."

The chains bite into his wrists as Ghost yanks him up by his soiled lapel. A pistol pressed to his temple, Alexandre stumbles forward, his feet dragging over the corpse at the door before leading you outside. The moonlight feels sharper, casting shadows over the pitted ground as you step carefully beside him, scanning the area. No more alarms yet. But when the guards change shifts, that won’t last.

No one speaks as he leads you around the pasture and barn, toward the back, where the silhouette of a small shed takes shape in the darkness. As you near, a three-tuned call cuts through the air, beckoning Alexandre's gaze to the sky, a soft murmur escaping his lips: "La tourterelle chante pour toi."

"Shut up."

Ghost strikes the back of his head with the gun to silence him.

You stop in front of the shed. It is only just bigger than the one you used to sleep in.

"Is this it?"

"Yes," Alexandre nods. "Inside."

Kyle is the one to kick open the door. As expected, the smell of rusty metal hits your nose as you take in the clutter of rakes, shovels, and scythes. There is a wheelbarrow against the wall with nothing inside but residual soil. No weapons in sight.

Ghost cocks the pistol. "You're fucking around with your kid's life—"

"Under the floor," Alexandre flinches, then juts his chin at the planks of wood, "The extra guns, ammo. It is under there."

Ghost shoves the gun into Kyle’s hand. Without hesitation, Kyle takes over, keeping it steady as Ghost drops to his knees, running his fingers over the floorboards. A sharp knock—hollow. He drives his knife between the slats and pries them open.

The unmistakable glint of metal catches your eye. Rifles. Green and gold cartridges, too. Ghost inhales sharply, tearing up more of the floor. Price moves in, yanking out boxes, sorting through the ammo they need to load up. You linger by the door, glancing back over your shoulder. The guns are yours. Now, you'll need to find the chapel. Maybe Blue isn’t there yet. Maybe you can get there first.

Lost in thought, you almost miss it—that softly cooing dove, the kind you used to wake up to in England. Again, Alexandre mutters in French beside you where Kyle quiets him with a shove at his shoulder. Then you detect a shift in the air—no, you squint and realize it is movement in the grass by the barn.

Alexandre suddenly shouts, "La tourterelle chante pour toi!"

The echo of his words is followed by the crack of a pistol. Kyle’s shot strikes his head, and his body crumples at your feet.

You whip around, panic flaring in your chest as you look at Ghost. "Someone was there. He said something to warn them. They're going to wake up the others!"

Ghost's glare snaps towards Kyle. "The gunshot probably already did."

Kyle releases a growl. "Fuck, I didn't think—"

"Take this," Price interrupts, throwing a loaded rifle at Kyle.

For you, Nereida, and Ari, a small handgun.

But by the time your finger seeks out the trigger, you hear a myriad of voices shout from the barn.

Blue sits at a small table. Across from her is that old woman, eating silently. Only the sound of metal on ceramic, and gentle chewing, fills the dining room. Blue's teeth mechanically grind a tart, red berry into pulp, then let it slide down her throat, her eyes never leaving the white plate. On the faintly reflective surface, a years-old memory blurs into focus.

She sits in the back of her dad’s truck, her small hands folded in her lap. The air is thick with the smell of cigarette smoke. Her eyes are fixed on the passing buildings and people, the streets beginning to feel unfamiliar. Then, her dad mutters something low under his breath, the tires screeching as he sharply veers into a petrol station.

He unbuckles and slams the front door, moving quickly around the truck to help her out. "Come on, kid," he says quietly, lifting her up gently before setting her on the ground. Her hand slips instinctively into his.

"Don’t look at anyone," he mutters as he tugs her toward the small food mart.

"Why, daddy?" she whispers up at him.

"Because I said so."

"Why are we here?"

"I need to get something."

"What for?"

The silence stretches between them, and a cold knot of fear tightens in her stomach. He doesn’t answer, and she can’t remember how they got here. She had been in her bedroom, where her mother had told her to stay. There was shouting through the door before it flung open, then her father grabbed her, and suddenly, her mom’s voice faded behind them.

Her father guides her through the aisles, pulling items off shelves. She tries not to look at the old man nearby, her eyes fixed on the hem of his jacket, her fingers nervously tugging at it.

"Why isn’t my mum coming with us?" she asks.

He doesn't answer. They move to the cash register, and after he pays, they head back to the truck. Her eyes sting. She rips her hand from his and shakes her head, her voice breaking.

"I want to go back, daddy."

"You're not going back."

"I want to!"

He kneels in front of her, gripping her chin as her tears spill. A woman filling her car glances over, and he lowers his voice so only she can hear. "I know you're scared, but listen to me, Amelia. Remember that game we play? The one where the bad guys are after us, and we have to get away from them?"

She nods weakly, tears streaking down her face.

"What do we call each other when we play that game, baby?"

"Blue and Ghost," she answers, her voice small.

"Right. We’re playing it again, okay? But this time, it’s not a game. Right now, you’re Blue, and I’m Ghost. You listen to everything I say so I can keep you safe. Do you understand, Blue?"

She struggles to breathe.

"Tell me, do you understand?"

"Daddy, I—"

"No. Not daddy. Ghost."

"Ghost... please, I want to go home."

His voice repeats her new name, over and over, as he shakes her chin, and she cries harder. She looks over at the woman filling her car as she fades into something strange—milky eyes and grey skin—and when Blue looks back to her father, he’s gone. All that remains is the white plate, stained with red raspberry juice.

"Blue."

Blue lifts her gaze, her eyes locking on the old woman across from her. The woman's leathery skin shifts to grey in the pale moonlight streaming through the window. She chews a berry slowly, takes a sip of milk, then speaks. "Tell me. Why do you call yourself this?"

She struggles to pull her voice to the present, looking back at the plate and quietly answering after a moment, "It is... it is the name I've used to survive."

"You are a strong girl, that much is clear," Maman compliments idly. "But sometimes, God does not want us to fight. There is strength in acceptance."

When breakfast is finished, Eloise brushes her hair until it’s buttery soft down her back. Then, they leave. Blue smells the dew on the grass, her toes curling in her shoes to endure the pain of keeping up with them. No matter how lightly she spreads her weight, the wounds split wider, blood silently squishing beneath her soles. Any blood she left behind would be invisible in the dark, but Ghost always noticed things she never could. She picks at her fingernails as they reach a road, which reminds her of when they were walking through, seeing a few abandoned cars left at the sides.

They walk for some time until she smells the Greys. The rot is pungent in the brisk air. Then, she hears the low hum of hymns coming from a small building—a church. She only knows this because of a deep memory with the old woman she called grandmother who used to take her to one. The stained glass glows faintly with dim golden light inside. They approach the large door, and Blue stands outside it, her knees trembling, but her shoulders managing to stay upright.

Maman glances down at her, hand resting on the door. "In God's presence, Amelia, there is no need to survive anymore. You will accept his punishment—and his forgiveness. Tell me, do you understand?"

Blue grits her teeth.

The voice edges softer. "Do you understand, Amelia?"

"I understand."

Behind her, Eloise takes hold of her wrists and ties them together with what feels like prickly twine.

The door creaks open under Maman’s push, revealing rows of pews and cold stone walls. Blue swallows hard, tasting her own heartbeat in her throat as she takes in everything she can before stepping inside. The narrow aisle spills out into an altar, where the same two Greys they muzzled the other day are chained to the floor, their snarls and moans adding a discordant layer to the throaty hymns echoing from the right side of the church. There, the veiled women sit, their heads bowed. On the left, the men. A bony hand presses at her back, urging her forward. Through the fog of fear, she counts them: just three men, plus Pierre—the one from before—standing beside the leashed Greys.

The lingering scent of old blood mixes with the fresh, sharp tang of melting candlewax. Her footsteps are small, barely making a sound against the stone, and the pain seems to fade into nothingness, until she misteps around a scurrying rat. A sharp pang burns through her foot, forcing her teeth to grind. Tears well in her eyes, but she doesn’t let a single one fall, her focus locked on her surroundings. The flickering candles on the altar, the glint of Maman's knife as she unsheathes it, the flicker of hunger in the endless moans—each step draws her closer to the Greys.

When she finally stops, she stands between them, the chains and muzzles the only thing keeping their mouths from finding her flesh.

As Maman begins to murmur in French, a fleeting thought crosses her mind: Can her mother see her now, dressed in a beautiful gown, having grown into her features, even though the shape of her face still carries the strength of her father's? Can she see the fear she can no longer contain, spilling into violent breaths that tear through her chest?

"Venez vous nourrir de sa chair pure, et en retour, bénissez-nous avec plus de nourriture pour l'hiver et des bébés en bonne santé pour vos nouveaux peuples."

Beneath Maman's words, Blue hears something. A distant, piercing sound that reminds her of a gunshot.

Dad?

She glances at the door, then at the faces around her, but no one else seems to have heard it.

A cold hand snatches her arm, the unwounded one, and Blue whimpers. Then she is turned around to face the pews.

"Une coupure pour les faire festoyer!"

The knife draws a matching cut, the release of blood making the Greys jerk within their restraints.

A man stands and unlocks one Grey's chains, while Pierre handles the other. The screech of metal cuts through the air, and with a shout, the creatures are freed. Blue’s heart slams in her chest. Maman's low, cruel laugh reaches Blue's ears just as she drops to the ground and scrambles backward, bumping into the altar and making it rattle. She screams when rotten hands clamp around her ankles—instinct taking over. She wriggles free of her blood-soaked shoes and kicks them as far as possible toward the people in front of her.

The shoes hit the ground with a quiet squelch, and the Greys snap toward them, momentarily confused by their scent of blood. A veiled woman screams, her dress now stained with a red footprint, and the other women scramble for the door as the Greys hurl through the aisle. In that fleeting moment of distraction, Blue pushes herself up, hands shaking as she clutches the twine binding her wrists. She holds it over the candle, praying the small flame will burn through it.

"Come on, come on."

Just before the twine can snap, a hand yanks at her shoulder to spin her around.

"Stupid girl!"

Blue growls like a cornered animal and spits into Maman’s eyes. Sneering, Maman slashes the knife across Blue’s cheek, sending fresh blood down to her lips. The Greys, no longer distracted, screech as they again zero in on the scent of her bleeding wounds.

Through the pain, Blue strains with all her strength, forcing her wrists apart until the charred twine snaps, freeing her hands. Maman grabs her by the dress, but Blue blindly reaches for the only thing within reach—the candle—and jams the burning wick into the old woman's face.

"Fuck you!"

It is enough to make her writhe in pain, giving Blue the opening to snatch the knife from her hand. With a wrecked cry, she stabs the old woman’s throat, then kicks her in the stomach just as the Greys reach them. Maman’s mouth lets out a final gurgling, blood-soaked cry, and Blue watches, panting hard, as the Greys grab her and tear their teeth into her torn neck.

"Maman!"

Pierre shouts, rushing over.

Blue bolts away from them, her soaked feet nearly slipping. She shoves a screaming woman out of her way near the door and bursts outside into the breaking dawn. That's when she hears more gunshots, clearer in the open air, and spots a distant plume of smoke. Without hesitation, she runs in that direction.

The first round of gunfire kicks up dirt at your heels before you can even react. Ghost yanks you into a sprint, pulling you away from the shed. Men pour through the barn’s back door, giving chase. Somewhere in the chaos, you hear Price’s voice barking orders, his gunfire answering theirs—but there’s no time to look over your shoulder. Ghost grips your elbow and drags you behind an old tractor, shoving you into cover as bullets whizz through the air.

The others tumble beside you, Price forcing Nereida's head low behind the large tire.

"There’s nowhere else to take cover," Kyle curses. He and Ghost peek over the tractor, firing off shots, but the sound of pounding boots grows closer. There are too many of them, and not enough time to stop their advance.

You swallow hard, heart pounding, and risk a quick glance around the tractor’s hood. The haystacks are right there, and you remember how dry they felt around your ankles when you covered the corpses. You grab Ghost by the wrist and pull your mouth to his ear so he can hear you.

"The hay is flammable—can you light it somehow?"

His jaw sets in understanding when your words register. He closes an eye and redirects his aim, instead firing rapidly at the base of one of the stacks. Stray sparks leap into the air, and for a moment, your stomach sinks when nothing happens. Then, the straw catches—one spark, then another, and the flames grow fast, swallowing vegetation along the ground. Thick, black smoke whips into the air.

"Il y a putain de feu!"

"Let's move!" Ghost shouts.

You're running again, using the distraction to your advantage, the veiled hood flying off your hair. The sudden silence in the gunfire gives you a moment to look around, and with a rush of terror, you realize that a sliver of sunlight has crept over the horizon. The sky above is no longer the pure black of night.

"Simon, we have to get to her!"

"Where's the chapel?"

"I don't know! I-I need to see the road to find it."

The farm stretches out in every direction, the lack of light making it hard to see anything far off. You stop for a moment, trying to orient yourself. Maybe if you could just—

Another shot hits the ground, close enough to feel the heat on your toes. You barely catch a glimpse of the men still chasing you before a cloud of smoke bursts from the ground. It’s not from the fire he started—it’s a smoke bomb, just like the one they used to disorient you the first time.

The smoke stings your eyes and lungs. You clamp your mouth shut to avoid breathing it in.

"Drop to the ground!" Ghost growls in your ear, loud enough to hear over the gunfire you can only hope is coming from Kyle and Price.

You obey, hitting the ground hard with his arm firm around your waist. He grips your dress, guiding you as you crawl through the smoke’s underbelly, where the air is clearer. Down here, you can see just enough to navigate forward, the blind gunfire whizzing harmlessly overhead. But as Ghost hauls you to your feet, a new panic grips you—you can no longer see the others.

"Where are they?"

Through the tears in your eyes, you can't make out anything past the smoke at your backs.

"Price can handle it. Come on."

For a brief second, you hesitate, torn between ensuring they’re alright and following him—but the encroaching sunrise makes the decision for you. There is nothing else you can do but keep running, hoping something will look familiar as you weave between nothing but stalks of wheat and the small homes. You’ve gained enough distance to escape their line of fire, and when you look back, the flames by the barn seem to have stopped swelling, but that is all you make out before something rams into your side.

"Femme pécheresse, regarde ce que tu as fait!"

The stray guard wrestles your body to the grass, a blade at your throat slicing a shallow welt into the skin, but he is ripped off you within seconds. Ghost breaks the man's neck, steals the pistol from his belt, then tosses it to you. He takes your free hand to help you up, and only as your finger smoothes over the trigger do you realize your other gun is gone.

He turns to keep moving, and part of you wants to sob in rage that you still don't know if you're even headed the right way. Then you see it—something in the grass. You grab his hand. "Look there. What is that?"

His gaze follows yours to the distinctive red stain embedded into the ground. Faint, but there. He leans down to touch it. "It's fresh."

"It could be hers, Simon," you urge.

He stalks forward, fingers hovering before pressing into a faint footprint. "It's her size. This way."

Blood smears lead you to the main road, and your chest tightens at the sight of the cars. This was the route through Fleurbaix. You recognize it. You scan both directions, spotting a white BMW in the distance—a flash of memory.

"I peed by that car. The chapel’s over there," you say, pointing to the stone roof barely visible ahead.

The sudden pierce of a scream confirms it.

Blue barely manages to get far before the sound of booted steps echoes behind her. She flits her head around in panic, ducking beneath the first car she sees and holding her breath. The distinct rustle of chains, accompanied by a snarl, unfurls her eyes. She glances up into the warped side mirror of another vehicle, catching sight of a cloaked figure. That man who'd helped Maman—Pierre—is looking around, one of the Greys in tow, its muzzle back on.

"Come out, petite fille. You cannot hide from a démon. Not when your smell is so strong."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she uses the sleeve of her dress to soundlessly wipe her bloody cheek as if that might help but pitifully realizes her feet and arm are even worse. The movement causes her bare foot to dig into a sharp rock, and she bites her tongue hard to keep from crying out. The footsteps halt, then switch directions.

When the Grey lunges toward the car, Blue leaps out and runs blindly, adrenaline pushing past the dizziness. Pierre shouts and follows, the Grey leading him, its draw to flesh tracking her even as she tries to weave behind the rose bushes. Spotting a tree, she glances over her shoulder one last time before hugging the narrow trunk and using all her strength to climb. What’s usually easy becomes a struggle as pain shoots up her legs when her feet try to find purchase on the bark. Her grip slips, and she falls hard onto her back.

Before she can lift to her elbows, a frothy mouth leaps in front of her face. She screams, writhing beneath the muzzled Grey, as Pierre hovers over her. "You could have earned God's grace, but instead, you killed her." Bitterness laces his voice. "Maman would want you dead, no matter what form the offering takes."

Blue tries scrambling backward, but a boot steps on her freshly cut wrist, twisting around and effectively pinning her. She chokes on a sob, fingers trembling in the dirt below her. The man reaches down to unscrew the muzzle, and in this moment she prays to whatever stupid god there might be, that Ari was right, that being eaten fully is better than the infection from a mere bite.

She screws her eyes shut, bracing for the pain, but instead, her ears ring from a sharp sound. A weight crashes down on top of her, and when she opens her eyes, she wonders if she’s been drugged again. There, in her vision, is her father—his bare torso covered in blood and grime, his face contorted with rage as he shoves Pierre into the tree.

"Blue!"

It’s Twix. She shoves the Grey’s corpse off of Blue and scoops her into her arms. Blue freezes, unable to return the hug, her gaze fixed on her father as he rips a knife from his belt and stabs it into Pierre's hands, pinning them above his head to the bark.

When Pierre tries to kick him, Ghost shoots both his knees.

"Seigneur, s'il vous plaît, épargne-moi dans l'au-delà!"

The plea is choked off as Ghost rips the lower mandible free, the jagged bone tearing through flesh, leaving the tongue to flop uselessly, twitching and gasping for air. Twix's arms tighten around her, urging her to hide her eyes within her neck, but Blue keeps watching as Ghost snarls rabidly, finishing the kill by slamming the butt of his rifle into Pierre's skull, caving it in with a loud crack.

Only when he turns around, shoulders heaving, does she realize it’s truly him—and not a dream. He kneels on the ground, and Twix releases her into his chest, the solid feel of it absorbing the tremors that wrack through her limbs as she cries. Ghost cups the back of her hair, and despite the pained breath in his chest, he lifts her up, clutching her close. Her nose presses into his neck, struggling to breathe as she inhales the scent of him.

"D-daddy," she croaks.

"It's me, it's me."

"I-I'm alive."

Something raw pushes through his teeth. "Fuck—you're okay, baby girl. I'm here. I've got you. I've got you." His fingers tighten against her scalp. "Hold tight to me. I won't let you go this time."

"Sal... My child." "You're a pain in the ass—" "The turtle dove sings for you." "The turtle dove sings for you!" "Come feed on her pure flesh, and in return, bless us with more food for the winter and healthy babies for your new people." "A cut to make them feast!" "There's a fucking fire!" "Sinful woman, look what you've done!" "Come out, little girl. You cannot hide from a demon. Not when your smell is so strong." "Lord, please spare me in the afterlife!"

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod #zombie apocolypse au

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noctiva · 3 months ago

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hi cuteness!! I cannot wait for pt 2 of your toby fic to arrive.. I am literally refreshing every chance grahhhhh >-<

any thoughts on toby x fem reader and kind of like ur recent one of reader giving head after a long day but just the other way around??? dying and begging for soft anything with toby, penetrative or not!!! I hope you're doing well and I feel awful for requesting bc you seem so busy!

-🦇

hello my love!! thank you so so much i know this is long overdue but don’t everrrrrr feel bad for requesting! your girl is booked and busy but that’s the way I like it! constant stream of toby thirst fuel? yes puhleasee

Nectar

Toby Rogers x F!Reader [NSFW!]

WC: 7.1k

Summary: Toby works so hard just to make it home to you. He wants to make sure you know that.

CW: mentions of death and injury, semi-detailed descriptions of murder, blood, explicit sexual content, oral sex (female receiving), dirty talk, praise and sweet talk, little bit of overstimulation, hair pulling, biting, scent kink?? I guess, unsafe sex, established relationship, they’re so in love it’s sickening.

NSFW under the cut! Minors do not interact!

He did this all for you.

The blood on his hands, the heaviness of his muscles, how his eyelids drooped with fatigue even though his mission was hours from being over. Toby did it all for you. All just to keep you safe, comfortable, and happy.

Ever since he had met you, you had been his driving force. Knowing that being close to you was dangerous, but being too selfish to stay away anyways. Because of that, he forced himself to work overtime - picking up more missions, harder missions, proving his worth and dissuading any suspicion that might be building up around him. It was tiring work, but it was worth it, because in return he got rewarded with the warmth of your body against his.

Your soft skin, pressed against his calloused and scar ridden body. Your hair, always smelling so sweet because of that strawberry shampoo you loved so dearly. Your eyes, always warm and brimming with love as you looked up at him like he was the only man in the world. The gentle melody that was your voice, speaking his name like it was holy scripture.

It was hard to think about anything other than you, even when he was knee deep in carnage and sinew - blood caking onto his skin with each brutal swing of his hatchets. It was more like working on autopilot, barely even mentally present as his blade cracked open the skull of some unfortunate soul who had made their way onto his hit list.

He just had to get it done. Because once it was all over, he could skip right on home to you - and promptly bury himself in your warmth if you’d allow it.

He just wanted to pull you in close, nuzzle into your hair and breathe your scent in deep. Wash away the sickly smell of copper with the sweetness that clung to you daily. Wanted to sink his fingers into your soft, yielding flesh - dig into your hips and leave indentations behind. Slip down lower to rake his nails against the fat of your ass.

Part his lips and taste you. Licking across your neck to gather the taste of your perfume mixed with sweat, travel down to your cleavage and nuzzle into the valley of your breasts, feeling your heartbeat thump against his cheek.

He wouldn’t normally call himself desperate, but you brought it out in him. You were the perfect woman, in his eyes. Not a single flaw - like god had sculpted you to be someone pulled straight from his dreams. He constantly wondered how he managed to get you, constantly worried that someday he may lose you, and so therefore - constantly wanted to be as close as possible.

On days like today, when he was five hours deep into a mission two hours away from you - it was truly a taxing endeavour to not think about you every second you were apart.

“Rogers! I think he’s dead.” Tim’s voice snapped Toby out of his daydream quickly, tugging him back into the brutal present that he was unfortunately a part of. Kneeled above a mangled corpse, fingers still curled around the handles of his two hatchets, staring down at a face that was more mush than discernible features.

“H-Huh?” Toby faltered, eyes blinking slow as he took in the gruesome scene beneath him - such a stark contrast to the cushy daydream he had just been swimming through. “Oh.” He lowered his weapons and dropped them to the ground beside him, then looking up to Tim, who was staring down at him with a pretty unimpressed expression. “Y-Yeah, I guess you’re ruh-right.”

“Made such a fuckin’ mess.” Tim huffed softly as he examined the sight before him - the smashed head of Toby’s victim practically melting into the ground below it, and the perpetrator completely soaked from the chest up with blood and gore. It was no secret that Toby was the most… Eccentric, out of their little rag tag group of killers, and his victims really got the short straw, but the cleanup for this would probably tack an extra hour onto their time here. “Did you really have to turn him into minced meat?”

If Toby was being honest, he barely remembered the kill at all. Had been too preoccupied living in the fantasy world in his mind, where he was already home and nestled between your thighs. A place he would much rather be than here, and his heart ached knowing you were sat at home waiting for his return.

Were you snuggled up in one of his sweaters while having a little nap to pass the time? Maybe cozied up by the fireplace, working through that book he had bought you a few weeks ago? Whatever you were doing, he wished he was there to watch you do it. Be with you, while you did it. You always slept best curled up against his chest anyway.

“I d-dunno. Wasn’t- chirp! -wasn’t thinking.” He muttered back, slowing pulling himself up onto his feet, leaving two indents in the ground below him where his knees had once dug in.

“Clearly.” Tim snorted and rolled his eyes, before digging into his jacket pocket and pulling out a carton of smokes. He tapped two out of the pack and promptly slotted one between his lips, before lazily tossing the other one at Toby - who fumbled to catch it. “Clean this up. Me and Brian are almost ready to go.”

And so he did, grumbling in annoyance to himself as he cleared away and disposed of what was left of his victim. The longer it took, the more antsy he got, the soft buzz of nicotine not even doing anything to dissuade the impatience flowing through his veins. He just wanted to be home. Just wanted to be home with you, where everything was tenfold better. Where all the blood and grime was just a distant memory, where he could just live as a human being - not as a tool.

By the time he was done, he was aching for you.

Images of you flashing behind his eyelids the whole drive home, fingers itching and twitching with the craving to smooth against your skin. He knew it was desperate, and downright pathetic how he could barely stomach half a day away from his girlfriend - but he didn’t care. If he had it his way, you’d be at an arms reach at all times.

But maybe, time away from you just made seeing you again that much better.

Though he was tired, he made it to the door of your shared cabin in record time - fishing his keys out of his pocket to unlock it. Then, he was pushing it open, and immediately scanning the area. You weren’t in the living room, and he couldn’t hear you milling about in the kitchen. Kicking off his boots and setting his hatchets down on the bench in the entryway, he wandered through his home - peeking into the kitchen just to be sure you weren’t just being quiet.

When he didn’t find you, he padded off to your shared bedroom, absentmindedly tugging his goggles off of his head and wiping blood from the lenses with the bottom hem of his hoodie.

The door was cracked, and so he slowly pushed it open with his shoulder, before being greeted with a sight that nearly made him melt into a puddle against the hardwood flooring.

You were curled up in the sheets, lips parted and eyes fluttered shut as soft slow breaths slipped from your mouth. Your hair was fanned out against the pillow below your head, the fingers of your right hand still curled around the pages of the book you had been reading. You were wearing one of his t-shirts, the material hanging loose and flowy over your peaceful body - swaddled in his scent, which had presumably lulled you to sleep.

So beautiful. It nearly knocked the wind out of him every time he gazed upon you, but especially right now. It was as if an angel had dropped straight from heaven, and landed in his bed.

Once he broke free of the lovestruck stupor that had frozen him in place, he was moving immediately. Gravitating towards you like one magnet to another, tugging off his bloodstained sweater to leave him in just a (arguably) clean black t-shirt. His hands were still bloody, as was his face, but he couldn’t stand another moment without touching you - especially when you looked so lovely. And so, he slid into bed next to you, knowing that you’d probably chastise him for staining the sheets but not caring in the slightest.

His arms snaked around your torso, wrapping you in an embrace as he pulled you in close to his chest. Smiling softly to himself at the soft, sweet little sleepy grumble you let out from being disturbed. Next, his legs intertwined with yours, and his face found a home in the crook of your neck - wrapping you up so completely in his warmth, it seemed as if he was trying to meld into you completely.

“P-Pretty girl.” Toby murmured softly next to your ear, before planting a soft fleeting kiss against the lobe. “Missed you.”

You shift, clearly being tugged from your slumber by his presence, and so he presses further - nuzzling into your neck with a content hum, fingers drawing lazy patterns on your stomach through the fabric of your t-shirt. Then again, he kisses your skin. Again, when you start to stretch your limbs and let out a yawn. Again, when your eyes are slowly fluttering open. Peppering the length of your neck with soft pecks, so that you’d wake up while being showered in his love.

Maybe, the nicest thing to do would just be to let you sleep, but he had been restless all day. He needed to hear your voice, and see your smile, or he knew he’d barely catch a wink of sleep.

“Toby?” Is the first word you mumble when you come to, your voice raspy and thick with sleep - laced with a combination of confusion and hope.

“Who e-else?” Toby chuckles softly in reply, as his slid his hands downwards until they were resting against your hipbones - giving a gentle squeeze before tugging you in closer. Slotting you against him completely, like he’d die if he wasn’t pressed against you in every way possible. “Missed you.” He repeats again, knowing now that you’d actually hear him, before punctuating his words with yet another gentle kiss. This one, on the slope of your shoulder.

“Missed you too.” You hum back to him, eyes fluttering at the feeling of his lips dancing across your skin. Leaving a patch of tingles wherever he made contact, sweet gentle kisses that lit you up completely. Body still heavy with sleep, muscles and limbs stiff and achy, but slowly unfurling as his gentle touches coaxed out a comfortable relaxation. “Missed you more.”

A soft chuckle rumbles from Toby’s chest, and you can feel the vibrations of it against your back. He drags his nose up the side of your neck, before nuzzling into your hair and taking a deep breath in - relishing in the warmth that flooded his veins as the sweet scent of you swirled around his head.

“Y-Yeah?” He murmurs back to you. “So much th-that you fell asleep?”

“Hey!” You grumble back to him, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to crane your neck back to look at him. It’s practically an impossible venture though, with the way he’s curled up into you. “You were gone for a while. Have you checked the time?”

“I know, I-I know.” Finally, Toby peels himself from your body, but not to move away, only to shift. Rolling onto you gently, pressing you back into the soft sheets so that he could actually get a good look at that pretty face of yours. Eyes still hazy and sleepy, the cutest little pout on those plush lips. Laid beneath him all soft and sweet, like a gift to be unwrapped. All of the misfortune and gore that seemed to follow him around didn’t hold an ounce of weight during times like these, as far as Toby was convinced - he was the luckiest man in the world. “I’m just k-kiddin’, baby. I’m sorry I got home s-so late.”

He reaches up to cup your face with his stained hands, smoothing the pads of his thumbs against your cheeks. It’s the most beautiful sight, when you melt into the touch, leaning into him though the evidence of his crimes was still streaked across his skin. You never minded though, you were always so forgiving of him, even if you knew deep down how wretched he was.

“Could’ve at least showered before you woke me up.” You hum back to him softly, eyes scanning across his face - lingering on every speckle of blood that stood out so starkly against his pale skin. The thought of how it got there, what he had done before coming home to you, it should make you nauseous - but it didn’t. It never did. For reasons you couldn’t begin to try and explain, more easily just chalking it up to be because you loved him. “You’re gonna stain the sheets.”

“I’ll wash ‘em.” Toby laughs softly, eyes crinkling at the corners before he was dipping his head down to nudge into the crook of your neck once more. His breath warm against your skin, fingers rough as they trailed down your jaw to rest under the swell of your breast.

“You won’t.” You huff back to him, the annoyance in your voice a complete facade that proved obvious when your lips twitched upwards at the corners. Your hand comes up, lazily threading into the messy hair atop his head as he goes back to leaving sloppy kisses against your skin - his teeth grazing against you every now and then, causing your arms to pebble with goosebumps.

“I will.” Shifting to fully straddle you, Toby’s thighs rest on either side of your hips, caging you in. His hand wanders not enough to cross the line, but enough to make his intentions clear as he gently cups your breast with his palm - feeling the weight of it, braless in his hold. Fingers twitching and jerking as he tried his best to be as gentle as possible. It was hard to be, when you were so soft it was if your body was begging for him to sink in deep - but he didn’t want to be rough with you.

Though you did always look so lovely, marked with the evidence of his claim, he wanted to leave your skin spotless tonight. Treat you with the carefulness of someone handling fine china. Because that’s what you deserved, really, for putting up with all that you did. For putting up with him. Caring for him. Looking past all of his misdeeds like they were nothing.

You were a goddess. A saint. And so it would only be fair, to worship you like one. “I j-just really missed you.” He gently palms your breast, as his other hand trails down to cup your waist, all while his kisses slowly turned more and more insistent. Lips parting, tongue darting out to lave at your neck, savouring the flavour of your skin on his tastebuds. Breathing you in, caressing the skin his hands had ached to touch all day, unable to get enough now that you were beneath his fingertips. “Left you a-alone for way too long.”

“I passed the time.” You murmur to him, letting out a little sigh as a shudder goes down your spine, unable to help the way your body responded when Toby was showering you in such tender affection. Not being hasty, or greedy, paying ample attention to every spot before he moved onto the next.

“Yeah?” His thumb rolls over your nipple through the thin fabric of your shirt, a small rumble of appreciation vibrating from his chest at the feeling of it perking up under his touch. His teeth nip your earlobe lightly, and his other hand squeezes your waist gently, before he’s asking; “W-What did you do?”

It’s a little hard to answer, when you have your boyfriend on top of you, seemingly hellbent on slowly but surely riling you up to a maddening degree. Giving you just enough to leave you wanting more, generating a heat that was trickling down your body - lower and lower until you were squeezing your thighs together. Trying to stay put together, but failing, because every touch was pulling you undone more and more - evident by the flush that had started to creep onto your cheeks.

Still though, you try anyway.

“Went on a walk.” Toby squeezes your breast gently, kneading the supple flesh in his palm as he lets out a barely audible groan against your skin. “F-Finished that scarf I was trying to make.” Your thighs were twitching, breathing growing shakier as Toby lips trailed from your neck to your collarbone - nudging the collar of your shirt out of the way to gain access to more skin.

“B-Busy girl.” He mumbles against you, making your hips jolt when his fingers teasingly dipped under the hem of your shirt - pleased to find that you were only wearing panties beneath it. “What else?” He doesn’t touch you fully, not yet, settling instead on just grazing his fingers against the lace, giving you the ghost of his touch and nothing more. He wanted you melting before he even got you bare. Wanting to savour this, not wanting to rush it after spending all day salivating over the thought of it.

This wasn’t about him though, when you peeled back all the layers of his desperation, this was all about you. Treating your body with the tenderness it deserved, working you up in an almost delicate manner, leaving you shaky and breathless before he even touched you proper. Absolutely dripping for him, by the time he got a taste.

And well, he was succeeding. You were sure that the warmth you were bathed in was radiating off of you, your impatience clear when your hips jumped at the slightest touch. Searching, begging for friction to placate the ache between your thighs. You could feel your panties growing damp, slickness pooling between your folds as Toby played your body like a damn fiddle. Always knowing just how to touch you to make you squirm, how to make your breathing go shallow in just a matter of moments.

“Practiced- ah!” A surge of pleasure ricocheted through your body the moment his fingers dipped down lower, doing nothing more than just pressing against your cunt lightly - but having you so worked up by now that it’s enough to make your entire body buzz. “Practiced piano, a- a little bit.”

“Mm, y-you’ll have to play f-for me sometime.” Slowly, he rubs gentle circles against you through your panties, his own breathing hitching as your slick wets his fingers through the fabric. “Bet you’re g-getting real good.”

He finds your clit with ease, pressing down against it and rolling it under the pad of his thumb. And you just get wetter, he can feel it, see it when he pulls his head back to look at you properly. The sheen of your arousal dampening the insides of your thighs, pussy pulsing and twitching under his touch. Crying for it, your body begging him for more so earnestly.

“T-Toby-“ You whimper softly, eyebrows furrowed in pleasure as you gaze up at him. His messy hair is falling over his eyes, the freckles on his cheeks drowning in the pink flush that had begun coating his skin. His eyes are dark, hungry, yet brimming with awe as they stay locked on your barely clothed cunt. The muscles in his forearm flexing every time his fingers moved against you. The sight of him above you, just proves to take you higher, and you can’t help it when a downright pitiful little whine slips from your lips. “I need you to touch me, please.”

“I am t-touching you, baby.” His voice is low and rough as he rubs tight circles against your clit, sparking up a pleasure that rolled through your body and made your limbs feel gooey. “You n-need more?”

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, irises clouded in desire so potent he may as well have had hearts in his eyes. Then, his hand stills, leaving you yearning for more, and hopeful that you’ll get it when his fingers hook under the waistband of your panties instead. “P-Pretty pussy’s begging f-for it, hm?” He tugs, slowly tugging your underwear down your hips, pausing to let you lift a bit before he’s pulling them the rest of the way off. Fingers grazing the outsides of your thighs, leaving a trail of tingles against your skin. “Can’t-Can’t leave you hanging. E-Especially since I’ve been wanting it just as bad.”

Toby shifts his body, sliding down the bed until he finds himself at eye level with your glistening cunt, hands gripping the backs of your thighs as drool pooled in the corners of his lips. He can feel it when it seeps out of his mouth gash and drips down his jaw, but it’s the least of his worries - despite how desperate he knows it must make him look. That was alright. Desperate was exactly what he was, and you deserved to know that you had him wrapped about your finger. “Spent all day th-thinkin’ about you.”

He leans in, pressing his cheek against your thigh before he’s turning his head to plant a kiss against the sensitive skin. Parting his lips to really taste you, letting his teeth peek out just to make you jolt. “Thinkin’ about h-how beautiful you are. How badly I j-just wanted to forget it all and come home to you as soon as p-possible.”

You can feel his stubble tickle your skin as he slowly works his way down your thigh, closer and closer to your aching core - lapping up the sweat and slick smeared across you. Your head feels hazy, heart thudding in your ears, the heat within you just burning hotter and hotter each time his mouth connected with your skin. “Thought about h-how lucky I am. How much I hope I m-make that clear to you.”

“You do.” You gasp out, bringing a trembling hand down to tangle in his hair once more - curling into the fluffy brown strands and gently tugging him in closer. Impatience getting the better of you, which is rewarded by Toby giving you a sly little smile with eyes glinting under hooded lids.

Was it too much to say that Toby looked best between your thighs? Maybe, but it was simply the truth. Skin flushed and eyes dark, looking at you like you were a feast and he was nothing but a starving dog. Long lashes fanning against his cheeks, lips glistening with drool that had begun accumulating in his mouth.

And the best part? You never had to ask. He just loved being there. Loved putting all of his effort into making you feel good. He’d spend hours there, if you let him - lapping at your heat until his jaw locked up. Ignoring the ache in his own pants in favour of drinking in release after release he managed to pull from you.

And he said he was the lucky one.

“D-Do I?” He asks, before pressing a soft kiss to your already swollen clit. His grin only widens when he feels the grip on his hair tighten. “I’m glad. Sh-Should I make it even more clear?”

“Please.” You couldn’t be bothered to try and act coy right now, your mind clouded and your body reaching a fever pitch. You feel like you’re melting in his hands, slipping through his fingers as he reduces you to a pool of mush. You could barely comprehend it, having gone to sleep alone, then waking up to the whirlwind of affection Toby had swept you up in. You weren’t complaining though, far from it. You were pleading for more.

And who was Toby, to deny his girl?

“I-I’ve got you.” Toby’s voice, thick with desire, rings in your ears as his hands push against your hips - pinning them to the bed to stop them from bucking up impatiently. Keeping you locked firm in his grasp, all his for the taking. “Ju-Just lie back and r-relax, alright? You know I’ll take care of you.”

That, you did know, and he just proves it more when his tongue meets your cunt mere moments later. He licks a long, flat stripe from your hole to your clit - drinking up every drop of your essence like it was the sweetest nectar. To him, it was, so much so that it pulls a moan from his lungs as well as yours. The taste making his brain go fuzzy the moment it met his tastebuds, already getting dizzy just from the feeling of you pulsing under his tongue.

You were divine. Absolutely divine. And he would swear you just got better every time you parted your legs for him. It was no wonder he spent every second away thinking about you, when being with you made him feel as if he was ascending to a higher plane. “Taste so g-good.” He’s slurring against you, eyes fluttering shut as he wholehearted buried his face in your cunt - nose bumping against your clit as his tongue swiped through your folds. His grip on your thighs, though tight, was tender. Thumbs rubbing soft circles against you in an almost soothing motion - though all it was really doing was bringing another source of stimulation. He was gentle, so gentle as he held your legs open. Gentle, as he sucked on your clit before slipping his tongue inside you.

You, were left just a gasping mess on the sheets before him. Legs twitching and hips bucking as he licked into you with languid thrusts, burying his tongue as deep as he could with each swipe. Like he was trying to lick you clean, suck you dry of everything you had to offer. You’d give it to him, easily conceding as melting into him as he drank you in.

He was attentive. Already knowing and keeping track of every little thing that you liked the best. How your walls would tense up around him when he flicked his tongue inside of you, the way you’d cry out when he nuzzled up against your clit while doing it. He knew how to make you feel good, because that was his favourite thing in the world to do after all.

“Ah, Toby-“ That was why. Because you sounded the most beautiful when you were falling apart. Moaning out his name in a tone so sweet, that it stuck to his ears like molasses. He couldn’t get enough of it, and he quite honestly didn’t think that it was possible to. His need for you being an ache that ever persisted, a part of him that would never disappear. And that’s just the way he liked it. Being wrapped around your finger, falling at the feet of the angel he had the honour of calling his lover. “Don’t- Don’t stop-“

He wouldn’t dream of it. Toby could feel your pleasure cresting - the walls of your pussy twitching around his tongue as he licked into you. So wet, it was dripping down his chin. He couldn’t help but moan into you, absentmindedly rutting his hips down against the bed as he doubled his efforts. Barely any friction at all, but the absolute ecstasy he felt just from making you fall apart before him was enough to satiate him.

With fingers curling into the flesh of your thighs, and nails leaving shallow indentations there - you come undone. Gushing right onto Toby’s tongue, for your boyfriend to eagerly lap up. Your body arches off the bed, shoulders bowing as your thighs shake - a chorus of gasped out moans and cries slipping past your lips, red from being bitten raw.

Toby coaxes you through it, low groans rumbling from his throat as his tongue drags against your sensitive folds - flicking at your clit every so often to draw out your pleasure for as long as possible. In all honesty, it’s quite hard for him to relent, even when you start weakly pushing him away because the oversensitivity became too much for you to handle. He just wanted to keep his face buried between your legs, drawing out orgasm after orgasm until your cheeks were slick with tears.

But, he had decided already that he’d be gentle with you, and so he pulls away. Face slick with your release and hair mussed, eyes hazy with a self-satisfied little smile tugging at his lips. “F-Felt good?” He asks softly, smoothing his palms against the backs of your thighs - rubbing the sweat slick skin lovingly.

“Y-Yeah.” You manage to gasp out, your head still reeling from the intensity of your release. Basking in your post orgasm glow with your body near limp beneath him. “That even a question?” Through your blurry vision, you observe Toby, watching the way his expression crinkles when he lets out a low chuckle. How his sweat slick hair sticks up at odd angles when he pushes it off of his forehead. The sheen of your release on his chin, which he wipes away with the back of his forearm. And then, then obvious tent in his jeans that your gaze catches on when it drifts lower.

And well now, that’s just not fair is it?

So, despite how shaky they are, you part your thighs once more as you look up to meet his gaze. A silent offer that you know he wasn’t ignorant to, but you make it clear with words anyway. Just because you knew it would make that blush of his darken even more. “C’mon baby, I can’t be the only one who feels good.”

You let your legs fall open like a flower blossoming in spring, your still twitching pussy on full display for him to feast on. And he does of course, eyes widening minutely at the shameless display below him, his cock jumping to life once more. You really were a goddess. You had to be.

“You’re t-too perfect for your own g-good, you know that?” He asks you as he moves in closer once more, before reaching down to grasp the hem of his shirt and tug it over his head. After shaking his hair out, he does the same to you, stripping off your last piece of clothing and leaving you completely bare. Bare, and beautiful. Flushed all the way down to your tits, chest heaving and skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. “What did I do t-to deserve you, hm?”

You watch with bated breath as his fingers travel down to work on his belt buckle, tugging it free, too impatient to bother tugging it from the loops before he’s popping the button of his jeans.

“I think the same thing about you.” You hum back to him, unmasked desire clouding your eyes as you track the sight of him pulling down his zipper.

“You sh-shouldn’t.” He laughs dryly in response, but his tone is nothing but fond. The zipper comes down, and now you can really see how worked up he is - straining against his black boxer briefs, so hard you think it’s a miracle that he didn’t cream his pants. “I, am not a good p-person by any means.” He barely slips the rest of his clothing off, far too antsy now to be bothered with stripping completely. He needed to be inside of you ages ago, and so he just settles on tugging his underwear down enough to let his cock spring free. “You-“ He nestles himself snug between your thighs, the weight of his length resting heavy against your cunt. “You are just a s-sweet little lamb. Never done anything wrong.” He ruts against you, coating his length in your slickness as he slides between your folds. Making your breath catch every time he nudged your clit with the head.

His eyes flit up to meet yours, finally tearing away from where they had been hard focused on the sight of his cock slipping against your heat. “Except maybe g-getting involved with me.”

“I don’t regret it for a second.” You beam up at him, eyes brimming with nothing short of adoration - because you really did mean it. You knew, that the side Toby didn’t show to you was that of someone ruthless. Someone who butchered people without a second thought, or an ounce of remorse. Someone who, if you were smart, you’d stay far away from.

But you couldn’t. You knew you wouldn’t be able to, from the first day you met him.

And with you, Toby was simply a doting, devoted partner. So could he truly be so bad?

And was it selfish of you to look past it all, even if he was?

Maybe. But a little bit of selfishness is needed, if happiness is what you seek.

“G-God, I love you.” Toby breaths out, voice shaky and strained. You try to respond, but he barely gives you a second to before the head of his cock is pressing into you.

Your jaw falls slack, body going pliant as he sinks in inch after inch, bringing with it that delicious fullness he always made you feel. Stretching you open so wonderfully, your cunt yielding to him like you were simply made to take him in. Even when he sunk in so deep it made your toes curl and your brows pinch together. Even when the pressure of him inside you left you breathless.

“I- I love you.” You choke out, the words coming out strained and muddled with ecstasy. More so moaned out, than actually spoken, but that just makes it sound that much more beautiful to Toby’s ears.

“Th-That’s right.” Toby murmurs back to you hoarsely, as he slowly draws his hips back - his grip on your waist never faltering as his cock drags against your walls, just to press back in again. “Say it a-again, pretty girl.” He rocks into you gently, really letting you feel it every time your cunt stretches open to welcome him - the emptiness before he fills you right back up again. “Love hearing you s-say it.”

“I-“ You gasp when he hits your gspot, still so sensitive from your previous orgasm that it’s enough to make your head swim. Your words choke off into a moan, and it’s hard to recover when the feeling of him pressing into you again leaves you near brainless. “I love you, T-Toby.”

Toby can’t help but smile down at you, a heady mix of lust and adoration swimming through his veins at the sound of your whimpered out declarations of love. You were so beautiful that it made his chest hurt normally, but right now especially - crying out how much you loved him, looking so pretty with tears in your eyes while he stuffed you with his cock.

If any of the other proxies could see you like this, he’d bet they’d very quickly understand why his head was always in the clouds while on missions. But then again, he’d also kill them if they ever did.

You were his. His girl. His life. His reason to keep going. And though he wasn’t quite sure if he really truly deserved you, those facts were infallible. He much rather die, than ever let you go. Would willingly come close to death every single day, if it meant he’d be coming home to you.

“Th-That’s my girl.” He murmurs gently, before dipping down low to lick and nip at your jawline - hips never faltering as they rolled into you over and over again. Belt clinking every time his skin met yours. “B-But I love you more. You make me f-feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

God, you were perfect. Sucking him in so eagerly every time he pulled out. Walls wrapping around his cock like a glove, pulsing to the tune of your heartbeat, tightening up in a way that made his mind go blank each time he nudged against that sweet spot within you. Your pussy had him under a spell. Whether he was simply tasting it, or buried six inches deep into it, it brought forth an ecstasy he had never once found elsewhere.

‘Pussywhipped’, Brian had called him once, and he knew it was true. Wore that title with pride, because how the hell couldn’t he be, when he had a cunt this glorious all to himself? It felt like you were moulded to the shape of him, milking him so good that he knew he was already close.

He couldn’t help it. You just felt too good. Always did. But especially, when he had really been missing you. “Y-You feel so good, baby.” He’s groaning into your ear, breathing out hot huffs of breath against your neck that have goosebumps rising on your skin. “S-So good, fuck. This pussy was m-made for me, wasn’t it?”

“Uh huh-“ You’re gasping back to him mindlessly, head stuffed with cotton as your hands lift to grasp at his broad shoulders. Nails raking against his skin before sinking in deep as a means to ground you, but you know he doesn’t mind. He can’t feel the pain. Just the pressure. The desperation in your grip as you cling to him like a lifeline, curling your whole body around him when your legs come up to lock around his waist. “S’all yours.”

“Damn right it is.” He groans against your skin, voice cracking under the weight of the pleasure consuming him. He’s panting against you, sweat rolling off the strands of his hair and dripping onto your skin. Muscles flexing under your grip from exertion as he snaps his hips into you over and over and over again. Chasing your release, more than his, because he can feel it coming. Can feel how your walls start to convulse around him, sucking him in tighter every time he buried himself to the hilt. And if there was only one thing better than you cumming on his tongue, it was you cumming on his cock. “Y-You gonna give me one m-more?” He mumbles huskily as his lips drag against your jaw, angling his hips to hit your gspot on every thrust, relishing in the way your body jolts and your eyes roll back because of it. “Cum on my dick, sh-show me how much you missed me.”

It was like he had you under a spell, with the way the coil snapped at the sound of his voice. Burying your head in his shoulder as you cried out in ecstasy, clawing at his back as wave after wave of pleasure rippled through your entire body.

And with how beautiful you sounded, and how your pussy was squeezing him like a vice, hellbent on milking him dry - it was no surprise that he was tumbling over the edge right along side you.

Toby comes in a flurry of gasps and expletives, pulling out just in time to jerk his cock once, twice, before he’s spilling onto your stomach and chest. Rope after rope of sticky warmth coating your skin and leaving you breathless. You can feel it as it pools in your bellybutton and drips down your sides, staining the sheets below you - but well, they had to be washed anyway, so did it really matter?

“L-Love you.” Is the first thing you hear Toby murmur out when his brain starts to boot back up, face buried in your neck as his cock softens against your thigh. “F-Fucking hell, I love you so much it’s crazy.”

You let out a soft little giggle, chest feeling warm as you pull him in as close as possible without smearing the mess on your skin onto him as well, before pressing a kiss to his jawline. Nuzzling against the stubble there, you murmur;

“Love me enough to clean me up?”

Toby snorts out a laughs and lifts his head just so that you can see it when he rolls his eyes at you, and just like that you’re breaking into a little fit of laughter.

“Wh-Who do you take me for?” He scoffs. “C-Course I will.” Then, he’s sitting up, tucking himself back into his boxers before sitting back on his calves - eyes raking across your naked body as he takes in the damage he caused. “Hm, g-guess I did make a mess, huh?” He doesn’t look the least bit sorry about it. “You look good l-like this, though.”

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes.

“You would think that.” You laugh, lifting your leg to nudge him softly with your foot. “Go get a towel.”

“Alright, alright.” Toby raises his hands in surrender, before slipping off the bed and retreating towards the bathroom. Not before looking back to take in the sight of you once more though. Okay, twice more. Soon though, he returns with a wet cloth, and making true on his promise - wipes you spotless.

Leaving your stomach and chest clean, dipping between your thighs to gently clean up the mess there too. Not stopping until he was sure that you were before he came and sullied you.

Then, he’s finally kicking off his jeans, and crawling into bed with you once more. Tugging you in close to his chest, just like he had when he first got home.

“You still need to shower.” You murmur to him sleepily, though make no effort to stop him as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. Easily conceding when he reached down to tug the blankets over both of you.

“Mm, t-too tired now.” He murmurs against your skin, and you can feel the way his lips curl up into a sly smile. “I’ll d-do it in the morning.”

You, also too tired to argue about it, simply let out a soft sigh before snuggling into him further - finding comfort in the feeling of his bare chest against your back.

“And you’ll wash the sheets?”

“A-And I’ll wash the sh-sheets.”

—————————————————————————☆

hi everyone!! my first post since I died and disappeared for over a week!

very happy to be back I missed u guys so much <3

thank you for readinggggg!

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nadvs · 7 months ago

Text

the act of unravelling (part two)

pairing rafe cameron x pogue! female reader

rating mature 18+

summary you never expected you’d get tangled up with a kook, least of all, rafe cameron. one night, you make a life-altering decision to get revenge on someone you both despise. after you vow to keep what happened a secret, your relationship begins to twist into something more.

tags very dark! violence, homicide, drug and alcohol use, parental neglect, mental illness, s/a, trauma. no smut.

< prev

Rafe stands and looks down at the body, his fists clenched tightly. Reality is setting in now. He could go to prison. His future could be ruined.

He’s perpetually at the mercy of his impulsivity, thinking only of the minute he’s living in, burdened with the consequences later. But still, even with his head a little clearer, he doesn’t regret this.

Ripping away the life of a man who wronged him was a thrill. He spends every day feeling like he’s losing and the power he had in his hands tonight felt so fucking good. He won for once.

You feel heavy as you push yourself up off the floor. You wish you could curl up in your bathtub under hot, gushing water, washing away everything that happened tonight.

The corpse is harder to look at with every second that passes. You glance up at Rafe, blood splattered on his face as he stares down at what he’d done, at what you’d done, chillingly unfazed.

“We can’t leave anything that’ll point back to me,” he mumbles, his voice low over the fireworks still crackling outside.

“Or me,” you have to remind him tensely.

His eyes land on yours. He’s always only looking out for himself. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have to worry about someone else.

“I’m serious,” you urge. Your survival instinct rushes through you for the second time tonight. You refuse to let Rafe throw you to the wolves. “I saved your life. You owe me. I won’t take the fall for this.”

“Well, neither will I,” he snaps.

“You shot him.”

“I could say you did,” Rafe replies. “And it’d be your word against mine. What then?”

You scoff, in disbelief of his selfishness.

“I saved your life,” you repeat. “Does that mean nothing to you?”

Rafe swallows hard. He’s not sure many people would do what you did for him tonight. They’d watch. They’d let him die. The possibility that you might feel something for him makes his chest twist with an unfamiliar warmth.

“We’ll look out for each other, alright?” he relents, letting his guard down for a moment. “Let’s just clean this up.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket again. You pull it out, seeing Pope’s name. Twelve missed calls.

You hope your friends don’t get so worried that they come up here, ignoring the Off Limits sign Porter had put up across the stairs. But they don’t know where you went. You’re almost certain.

“My friends keep calling me,” you whisper.

Rafe’s jaw tightens. His friends aren’t worrying about him.

“You can’t answer them,” he snaps.

“I know.” You let out a shaky sigh, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “We have to be fast. What do we do? Do we bury him?”

Rafe takes a beat to think.

“We dump him in the ocean,” he finally says. “We go to the marina and drive my boat out far enough where nobody will find him.”

“How do we move him so nobody sees? We can’t go through the house. We might run into someone.”

Rafe looks to the glass door on the other end of the room, the balcony offering a view of the inky night sky.

“There,” he says. “We’ll push him off and put him in the back of my truck.”

You consider it. Of the limited options you have, it seems like the only one worth trying.

“Okay. We have to clean the blood off the floor,” you say. “And everything we touch needs to be wiped. Maybe there’s something with bleach in it around here?”

For the first time since you entered this room, you feel hope. There’s a chance, a real chance, you could get away with this. You look back at the desk Rafe ransacked.

“Pick that stuff up,” you say. Frustration rolls through him. He never liked being bossed around. “I’ll try to find something to clean with.”

“Don’t let anyone see you,” Rafe mutters.

“How stupid do you think I am?” you huff before you turn towards the door.

You tiptoe through the second story, peeking into a bathroom cupboard. When you find a spray bottle that reads Cleaner and Bleach on the packaging, you grab it and head back to the room.

You and Rafe move quickly and quietly, using clothes you found in the closet to wipe everything with bleach. After a loud, consonant cracking of fireworks that you assume is the grand finale, the show ends. And you know people are on their way back to the house.

The neighbor’s private beach can’t be that far away. You have a minute. Maybe two.

You’re glad Rafe thinks to find the shell of the bullet. He puts it in his pocket. You spray the bleach over the floor again, cleaning every drop of blood you can see.

“Tuck this stuff under his shirt,” you say breathlessly, handing Rafe the bottle and the blood-soaked clothes.

You can’t do it. You know you’ll need to touch him when you move him, but you’d rather limit the contact you have with his body. Even dead, when he can’t hurt you, touching him is terrifying.

You pick the gun up off the floor, then open the balcony, relieved you can’t hear any voices yet. You peer over the edge to see the sandy ground. The balcony overlooks the side of the house, dark and secluded.

Rafe grunts as he drags the corpse out onto the balcony. You have to muster up every bit of strength you have as you help heave Porter’s body over the railing. He falls with a hard thud, facedown in the sand.

You have to jump the balcony. You can’t risk going downstairs. Rafe is wide-eyed as you hitch your leg over the railing, looking down with shaky breaths.

“Wait,” he whispers. “Let me go first. If you break something, we’re fucked.”

He shifts down as low as he can before letting his feet hang over the edge. He lets go, dropping hard, his ankles pinching with pain from the impact.

“Okay,” he says. “Go.”

You feel a splinter dig into your palm as you clutch onto the wooden railing with one hand while the other holds the gun. You make the split-second decision to keep the balcony door open to air out the smell of bleach.

You hope you cleaned away every drop of blood in the room. There’s no going back to it now.

You sink, hanging as low as you can, looking over your shoulder before you drop. Rafe’s arms wrap around you as your feet hit the ground, his chest hard against your back, breaking your fall.

“If someone comes,” he whispers in your ear, “run.”

Waiting for him to get his truck is torture. The humid night air presses against your face and you can’t bear to look down at the body on the ground.

Rafe returns and you move quickly, straining as you carry the body over the uneven terrain, the soles of your shoes slipping on the sand.

Once the body is in the trunk and Rafe unfolds the cover, blanketing the cab and concealing the evidence, you feel a shred less frightened.

You glance back into the darkness just in case. A glow of a phone screen is in the sand. Rafe is already behind the wheel, demanding that you get in, his voice carrying through the open rear window.

You feel for your phone. It’s still in your pocket.

“Do you have your phone?” you whisper.

He responds after a moment, “Yes. Get in.”

“I think his phone fell on the ground when we were carrying him,” you say. “We should–”

Faint laughs in the distance interrupt you. There’s no time to run back and get the phone without being seen.

“Get the hell in,” Rafe mutters angrily.

You obey, swinging open the door, barely closing it in time as Rafe peels away. Your muscles prick from the weight you’d just carried as you drive past the partygoers coming back from watching fireworks.

“Holy shit,” Rafe chuckles, near elated. “We did it.”

You stare ahead, your head foggy.

This will haunt you for the rest of your life. The thought forces a torrent of dread through you worse than you’ve ever felt before.

What if you’d run out of the room when Rafe and Porter came in? What if you’d left Rafe to deal with the body on his own?

What if you’d never gone upstairs?

You’re destined to agonize over the what if’s of tonight forever.

You gaze down at the gun in your lap and hold your hands out in front of you, skin stinging from the bleach. You’d wiped away the blood, but you think you’ll always see it on your hands.

You figure out that it’s a good thing you left Porter’s phone. If he was sharing his location, you’re sure the police could track where it was last before you threw it into the sea with him. They’d know exactly where to look for his body.

“We should shut off our phones,” you realize. “I think they can track GPS history from cell towers.”

Rafe digs into his pocket, glancing down to watch the screen go black.

“How’d you think of that?” he mumbles with a laugh. “Is this not your first time doing this, Pogue?”

“Nothing about this is funny,” you reply.

“Relax,” he says. “We got away with it.”

“You can’t be so sure,” you say. “One fingerprint in that room and…”

You can’t think about it.

In the paroxysm of emotions you’re already feeling, guilt digs a hole into your stomach when you see Pope’s most recent text before you power off your phone.

Answer the phone. We’re worried.

·········

The clock on Rafe’s dashboard reads 10:44 when you reach the marina. He parks right by the main dock. The place seems quiet, the water crowded with seemingly unoccupied boats.

“I’ll take a walk around to make sure we’re alone,” he says, pulling his key out of the ignition.

The car door slams shut and you’re left with a gun in your lap, a body in the trunk, and your tormenting thoughts.

Maybe you missed something back in that room.

You picture Porter’s phone lighting up in the sand. His last text to you said to come upstairs. When the cops inevitably start searching for answers, you’ll be questioned.

A minute later, Rafe swings open your door, pulling you out of your daze. You meet his glare, his hair tousled and sweaty.

“We’re good,” he says. “Move.”

Having to haul the body over the dock past darkened, quiet boats is unnerving. Ater you leave it at the back of Rafe’s boat, you stand behind him at the helm.

Your arms are crossed and the gun is tucked by your elbow, because if you learned anything tonight, it’s that you can’t trust anyone.

Rafe’s still a man. A man who takes what he wants when he wants it. A man who killed someone because he didn’t obey him. He could hurt you if he wanted to. It’s best not to be alone with him.

“I should wait in the car,” you mumble. Rafe shakes his head in frustration, driving the boat forward. The boat’s motor hums as you rock with its movements.

“No,” he mutters condescendingly. It reminds you of why underneath the stubborn pull you’ve always felt towards him, you’ve also harbored a quiet fear. Rafe is violent. Possibly enough to hurt you the same way Porter did.

You feel for the gun again. If two men have to die tonight, so be it. The fact that your mind went there chills you.

Rafe looks over at you, lips twisting in annoyance.

“Don’t feel bad for that asshole,” he mutters. “He asked for it.”

It’s the worst possible thing he could’ve said. Your throat is raw with the threat of tears. Asked for it. Would he say the same about what happened to you?

“I don’t regret it,” you tell him, sure that he’s assuming that that’s why you’re so tense. “I’m just worried we missed something.”

“If we did, nothin’ we can do about it now,” he says. You look ahead at the dark sea, moonlight shining over the water’s ripples.

“We need to figure our story out,” you say. “How’d you end up upstairs? Did anyone see you?”

“I stopped him while everyone was going outside to watch the show,” he recalls. “Told him to show me where he was keeping his coke because I heard he was selling again. It was loud. I don’t think anyone heard, but maybe someone saw. I don’t know.”

“Why do you sell?” you ask, face pinched in confusion. “Why did you even care that he was selling, too? You don't have enough money already?”

“I gotta keep your tips coming, don’t I?” he says smugly. You scoff, jarred by his blasé attitude, despising his cold arrogance.

He notices the angry scowl on your face. He’s convinced he’ll never break through the hatred you have for him.

“I want to make my own money. That’s why,” he admits. It’s half the truth, but it’s good enough.

It’s surprising to hear that Rafe, a man you thought coasted on the wealth he was born into, possesses a work ethic. Even though he uses it to deal drugs.

“Did anyone see you go upstairs?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” you say.

“Why were you there?”

You chew on your lip, the truth sitting on your chest like a ton of bricks. There’s no point in telling him. He thinks your motive was the same as his. Money. And you’ll let him believe it.

Besides, talking about it now, merely an hour afterwards, will only make you cry again and your head is pounding from how much you’ve already wept tonight. How could you possibly say it out loud?

“To buy pot. Then I smoked too much and passed out.” You keep talking before he can ask anything else. “Are we far out enough?”

Rafe looks back to make sure the marina is out of sight before he kills the engine.

Pushing Porter’s body over the guardrail is harder than the other times you’d carried him tonight. The water is rocking the boat so much now that you’re far into the ocean. Your breath is strained as you heave him over the metal, his body hitting the water with a loud splash under the bright moon.

Rafe pulls out the bullet shell in his pocket and tosses it in the water. You know you have to throw the gun in, too. It’s hard to. But you do it.

Rafe looks over the edge now that everything is sinking to the bottom, his forearm brushing against yours. He notices how quickly you jerk away, refusing to let him touch you. The pull he feels towards you is obviously one-sided. Your eyes flit away when you look at him.

“You have blood on your face,” you tell him soberly. His temper flares, feeling stupid for thinking a girl could feel anything but afraid of him after he shot someone right in front of her. Even though she was the one who told him to do it.

You might have a deadly thirst for revenge in common, but that’s where the similarities end. He stalks past you to wash himself off in the bathroom below the deck.

You let out a shaky breath. The unexpected contact with Rafe startled you. After tonight, you’re sure you’ll always be scared to be around men you don’t know all that well. Even the ones that seem decent are just lions in sheep’s clothing. The monster that proved that to you is below the ocean’s surface now.

You look into the murky water, and despite the fear and the anxiety and dread weighing on your heart, you’re glad that this is how it ended. Porter paid the ultimate price for what he did to you. He doesn’t deserve to live, to smile, to feel anything ever again.

·········

You and Rafe sit behind the hull, the boat swaying with the tide. You start to piece together an alibi and decide to admit you were upstairs together. If even one person says they saw either one of you go up there, you won’t be caught in a lie.

As you talk, Rafe can’t take his eyes off of you. You’re clearly scared, but trying to stay level-headed. He doesn’t get how you do it. He’s always been bad at keeping his mind steady. He never had a reason to even try.

“So, I went up first after he texted me to come buy from him,” you say, hoping your voice doesn’t shake. “I got high and passed out. Then you came up with him to find his stash. We’re obviously going to have to come clean about the drugs.”

“What do you mean obviously?”

“You’re going to be a suspect the second the police start talking to people,” you tell him. “Everyone knows you had an issue with him. And why. You can’t lie about the coke. And they’ll have evidence that I was buying weed from him. We have to be honest about it. They’ll find out anyway.”

Rafe sighs, knowing you’re right.

You hug yourself as a cool breeze carries over the water. The weakness in your gaze reminds Rafe of the way you’d cried on the floor earlier tonight. Before all this, he only ever saw you as strong-willed and sharp-tongued.

Even though calming a man like Rafe down when he’s angry sounds like it’d be impossible, you figure it’s the only direction your alibi can go.

“We’ll say I talked you down and…” You shake your head. “It doesn’t make sense that we’d stay up there. I think we say we left him in his room and sat on the beach alone in front of the house to watch the fireworks from there.”

You worry it’s not enough. You’re certain that no one who knows either one of you would buy that you voluntarily spent time together.

“Maybe the cops would believe we hung out,” you mumble, “but nobody else would.”

Rafe stills. His friends like to give him crap about how much time he spends talking to you when he supposedly hates Pogues. If he told them he was with you all night, they’d say they saw it coming.

“They could,” he says after a few seconds of silence.

“My friends would never believe it,” you scoff. He purses his lips, pissed off at your tone, at the clear implication that you talk shit about him with your friends.

“It’s our only option,” he mutters sharply.

“You’re right,” you give in. “Then what? We went home before people got back? I guess that way if anyone saw us leave together, we have it covered.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “That’s the story.”

“Okay. It’s not great, but it’s the best we can do.” You check your phone for the time, only to remember it’s turned off. “Can you drive me home now? I’ll say my phone died. You should do the same when people ask where you’ve been.”

Rafe doesn’t admit to you that nobody was checking up on him, that nobody ever does. He only stands up to drive back to the dock.

·········

Your first priority when you get home is to text your friends, guilt consuming you now that it’s been over two hours since you last saw them and they have no idea what happened to you.

You turn on your phone to see a string of missed calls and texts from the guys. You open the group-chat and type: I’m so sorry. I’m okay. Got too high and lost track of time. Home now.

They video call you to be sure that you really made it home safe, drunkenly rambling on about how they assumed you went to see the fireworks early, leaving them to search the neighbor’s beach for you.

As you listen to them talk over each other on the phone, it’s the first time you see your reflection since you left the house, when you were oblivious to the fact that the impending hours would change you forever.

You can see it in your eyes that you’re not the same. You can only hope that they don’t catch on.

·········

It’s been three days. You haven’t been sleeping. You’ve hardly been eating. And no matter how many times you tell yourself there’s no use in thinking about how different the night could have turned out, it doesn’t stop your head from spinning into hypotheticals.

All you told your friends was that you were with a boy and that they didn’t need to know any more. Because they all see you as a sister, they were happy to be spared the details.

If only they knew. A few nights ago, you promised them you wouldn’t talk about Rafe ever again. You never would’ve thought the reason would be because you’d committed a crime together.

You’re back at work. Smiling and chatting and serving drinks and acting like everything is fine is harder than you expected.

The thought of seeing Rafe again is oddly comforting. No matter how twisted it is, you have a bond now, held together by secrecy and shared trauma. He’s the closest to knowing what you’re going through.

Even though you were afraid of him on the boat, when he dropped you off, he waited until you got into the house before he drove off. Maybe he sees you as someone he needs to protect, even if it is for his own selfish reasons.

No matter how unhinged he is, having someone like him in your corner is comforting after what you’d suffered through.

You spot Rafe sitting alone at the near empty club bar on your way out and your heart settles, but when you catch a glimpse of the flatscreen mounted on the wall a moment later, it drops. You knew it was inevitable, but it doesn’t make it any better.

Rafe swallows bitter whiskey, gazing up at the tv. Under a photo of Porter reads MISSING as his parents speak to the press. What if he went missing? Who’d care? What would his dad say – at least it wasn’t Sarah?

He looks down at the bartop. The thrill of what he did has faded. It’s not a surprise. His life is nothing but a cycle of short-lived highs.

When he sees the look on Porter’s parents’ faces on the tv, jealousy and loneliness screw a hole into his heart. He knows it’s fucked up to envy the man he killed. He doesn’t care.

His eyes drift over the bar to see you standing on the other end. You’re in shock as you stare up at the broadcast, looking guilty as hell. He glares at you until you finally meet his eyes.

Rafe curtly gestures to you to sit next to him. Even though he looks mad, you’re relieved to close the distance between you.

“You’re being obvious,” he says quietly once you sit next to him, an edge to his tone.

You look back to see only a few other people sitting in the restaurant area behind you, far from earshot. You won’t be heard, but you both know you have to speak vaguely just in case.

“Someone I know is missing,” you reply. “It’s normal to be worried about that.”

“What do you know about normal?” he scoffs.

You lock eyes, sure that you’re both replaying the night in your minds, sure that you’re both far from sane after what you did. His gaze is cold, a reflection of how angry he is that you’re not handling what happened as well as he is.

“Great talking to you,” you snip sarcastically, shifting to stand up.

“Wait,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looks at you again, this time with a bit of the hardness in his eyes gone. “We need to talk.”

next >

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animeyanderelover · 1 year ago

Note

Yay, your recs are open! Hope you're doing great and your health is good :)

This one is pretty dark, so ignore this if smth!

If you know about Tomie, could you do some jjk characters of your choice with a darling with similar powers? Like, she can't die fully, always returns no matter how cruel was her death, and for some reason all non-sorcerers are going crazy after being in contact with her for a some time – and, maybe, at some point even a yandere starts feeling a strange need to cause harm to her. Bonus points if she gives femme fatale vibes, but actually is much sweeter and kinder person than she may look.

Thanks, and have a great day!

I hope you don't mind that I made the darling in here the curse of obsession because this would fit the theme very nicely and would crank the Yandere scale to an incredibly creepy level. I know a bit about her since my best friend is a huge fan of Junji Ito works and she especially adores Tomie and Uzumaki.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, toxic relationship, possessive behavior, obsession, delusional behavior, manipulation, isolation, abduction, death of s/o, murder, mentions of cannibalism, nudity, mentions of dub-con, sexual themes, starvation

The curse of eternal obsession

Okkotsu Yuta

💍Walking through the streets of Tokyo, no human would suspect you to be the cursed being that you are. Instead there is an aura of allure and mystery around you, something that seems to draw them to you like a moth to a flame. Bound to be consumed by the fire. Yet Yuta seems to bring a quick end to your life when he senses your eerie cursed energy. There are no words spared as he attacks you, your calm and beautiful face chilling as he exorcises you as if you have lived through death already multiple times before. Your face is something that seems to be stuck in his mind as it is the thing he sees as soon as he closes his eyes. It agitates him, disturbs him but he tries to calm himself by reminding himself that he has already killed you. Until he meets you again in the middle of the fight as you sit on the ground, surrounded by the blood of two men who have stabbed each other to death. When your eyes meet his own, there is the same serene look on your face as Rika brutally assaults you and Yuta watches how she tears you apart, a lump in his throat.

💍You should be dead. He watched how Rika murdered you. He even murdered you one time himself. Yet only a few days later you stand in front of him again, greeting him politely before you walk away, your hair swaying in the wind. Yuta can only watch you with a racing heart whilst you disappear in the crowd. A few days later he receives word that a group of friends were found all dead. The police suspects that all of them strangled and beat each other to death in violent ways that are rare to find and his mind immediately suspects you to be the culprit. Whenever you appear it only takes a few days before news about violent deaths and gruesome suicides appear on the news as your mere presence seems to drive non-sorcerers to madness yet he has seen with his own eyes that you seem to possess an immortality unlike anything he has ever seen. To protect the public from your cursed energy, he captures you the next time he finds you.

💍Yet when he tracks you down he is witness to a violent crime that would have made the average person empty their stomach. Even Yuta can't help the creeping feeling of horror as he watches a woman dismembering you with a saw before she cuts her own neck with the saw until she dies of blood loss. There is a strange sense of fury flowing through his veins as he collects every part of you, his heart clenching when he picks up your head with dull and lifeless eyes yet to his great disturbance even dismembered and dead, you still possess an attractiveness that he shouldn't feel about a violated corpse. He locks all of the parts away from you instantly and stays away from the room you are in to clear his mind and get away from the cursed energy you still seem to produce even in your temporary death. He can't get a wink of sleep that night as his heart never stops pounding nor does he seem to get your face out of his mind. When he gathers the courage the next morning to peek inside the room, his heart tumbles when he sees that you have regenerated and sit there completely naked, the sight of your body sending sparks of arousal through his body before he hurries up to give you something to wear.

💍He keeps you there, locked inside the basement and stays as far away from you as possible. He has never encountered a curse such as you that has affected him as greatly as you do and he has to fight constantly against the temptation to see you as he finds himself standing in front of the door separating you from him multiple times a day, his nails digging into his palms as he bites his lips until he can taste blood. Even when he is not seeing you, Yuta can still sense the cursed energy of yours that is wrapping itself around his body like a snake and as weeks pass by, he finds himself falling asleep to horrifying fantasies about you that have him waking up drenched in sweat and with a raging boner that only throws him down into a spiral of disgust, shame and insanity. Until one day after roughly three weeks your cursed energy disappears. He should feel relieved about it yet his heart drops with such intense anxiety that has him nearly ripping out the door leading to your room. As soon as he sees your thin and dead body laying on the ground, he feels something shattering as he suddenly bursts out in tears. He starved you to death.

💍He carries your light and thin body to his own bed and lays you down before he waits. He sits there and waits for hours in agony until your cursed energy picks up strength again and your body regains its healthy and otherwordly beauty. As soon as your eyes flutter open, Yuta's face is the first thing you sees. His heart starts beating with excitement as he tells you that he will prepare something to eat for you before he rushes to the kitchen. It is only after he has prepared the food and serves it to you that he realises what he is doing and for a short moment he feels a spark of hot wrath that you have reduced him to this yet when you open your mouth and he hears your voice for the first time, his anger melts away. It is a soft and sweet sound that echoes in his mind long after you have told him your gratitude for the food. An infatuated smile appears on his face as he watches you eat the food before he asks you if you would like to take a bath. The following days you suddenly get a lot more freedom, although you are still kept within the house but that isn't solely because you are a threat to non-sorcerers anymore. It is also because Yuta feels a possessive yearning to see you whenever he wants.

💍You are unlike any curse he has ever seen. Not only are you beautiful and gorgeous but you are also soft-spoken, kind and even somewhat shy. You help him with the household as you insist on showing your gratitude by preparing him meals and washing his clothes to the point where Yuta feels like you are his housewife and that image has his heart racing and his body reacting. You insist on sleeping on the couch when Yuta offers you to share a bed with him as you don't want to breach his private space and you reject it until he snaps at you with a frightening look on his face and a tight grip on your arms that could break bones. He instantly withdraws his hands when he regains his sanity and apologises hastily to you with tears in his eyes. He clings to your warm body at night, taking deep whiffs of your scent. Everything about you drives him crazy, the feeling of your skin against his electrical. There is a constant arousal keeping him half-hard at night as temptation grows stronger until he starts dry-humping against your thigh or ass, praying that you are asleep. Until you one night run your fingers soothingly through his hair whilst he is humping, causing him to let out a choked moan as he cums.

💍Yuta spends weeks on cloud nine as he fully indulges in everything. He treats you like his precious wife as he buys you cute dresses and even gifts you a ring which he insists for you to wear. You never deny him anything as you allow his touchy behavior as he holds your hands, kisses you and eventually even has sex with you and this fuels Yuta's delusion that you feel the same as he does. It is almost sickening how sweet he acts with you. All until one day he crosses paths with an acquaintance who knew someone who came in contact with you and when Yuta finds out that they know about your existance, he suddenly feels a feeling of paranoia about your safety as he suddenly sees this non-sorcerer as a threat to you. He feels the urge to call out Rika but decides to pry for information for now. They open up to him, perhaps because they just want to tell someone who shows interest as no one has believed them so far and the story that they tell him shatters his pretty delusion. They tell him how their dead ex-lover left them for you, abducted you and apparently even had sex with you and how they called them moments before they jumped from a building to tell them in tears that they ended up killing you.

💍Yuta lets Rika kill that person within the same day as a wrath has suddenly festered inside of him. At first he believes that they are lying because you only love him and you would never allow another person to touch you the same way he touches you. You love him. But when he sees their corpse, a realisation slowly settles in. You are a curse. A curse that has always driven people mad and Yuta is no exception. He's just killed an innocent non-sorcerer. And it's your fault. Disgust, pain and wrath cause him to spiral down violently as he all but storms back to his house to murder you and take revenge on you for deceiving and using him. When he arrives home, he finds you asleep on the couch and for a moment his eyes just take in your beauty as you lay there so innocently before his gaze zooms in on your neck. In the next moment he is choking you, his body on top of yours. Your eyes fly open as you start whining and choking whilst he is watching you with a dark glint in his eyes, taking in with joy your suffering form. Then your eyes meet his own though. No shock, ne fear, no guilt. Instead all he sees inside those orbs is acceptance and pity. You are pitying him.

💍It is this look in your eyes that throws him off as he lets go and stumbles away from you, staring at you with shock and agitation. Why are you giving him this look?! You don't say anything as you instead just give him a sweet smile that tears his heart open. What kind of monster are you to deceive him even now? You know how much he adores that smile of yours. He's on the verge of crying as he pulls out his katana to dismember you but then he suddenly freezes. His wrath dies down as he stares at the katana in his hands and his eyes widen as he drops it and sinks down on his knees as he suddenly becomes aware of his own horrifying thoughts he just had. He just looks at you for a few minutes before he suddenly bursts out in tears when he seems to realise something. That you never had any choice but allow people to do what they want to do with you. Your own curse brings you as much misery as everyone around you and your immortality forces you to endure it over and over again. You are a victim. He crawls back on top of you and apologises to you whilst his hot tears fall on your face, promises you in between sweet kisses on your neck that he will never harm you again.

Gojo Satoru

🩵There you are, walking through the streets together with a man following you with infatuated eagerness as he constantly points at stores and offers to blow all of his money on you yet you only shake your head politely. Your cursed energy isn't oppressing nor is it filling the entire area but Satoru can sense how potent it is as he happens to be in the same area as you. He's currently there to buy something for his students when he senses you and blue eyes instantly race over the crowd to detect the source of it. An exceptionally beautiful man himself, even he can't deny your sheer beauty as he finally finds you. He watches as you point to a store selling candy and the man who is accompanying you eagerly nods his head before he rushes to buy you something. You seem to observe him for a while before you turn your head in an inhuman way and your own glowing eyes meet Satoru's as you have recognised his presence as well and want to let him know about it. Your cursed energy spikes and Satoru wonders if he will have to use his Domain Expansion if you decide to attack but you don't seem to plan on doing so as you crack your head back and wait with folded hands for the man to return.

🩵Something about you is off though, majorly off, so Gojo decides to follow you. You have clearly seduced the man who seems to be on all four for you and Satoru doesn't blame him. You are beautiful and gorgeous as even your cursed energy is tempting but that won't stop Gojo from exorcising you. He is even bold enough to approach you when your victim leaves you alone for a moment to murmur in your ear that you appear quite calm despite the fact that you know that he is following you. You only glance at him briefly and Satoru almost drowns in those enchanting eyes of yours before a loud yelling interrupts him. So lost was he in your gaze that he didn't even notice the man returning. If looks could kill, Gojo would have died thrice now as he can quite literally see the man shaking with rage and for a few seconds Gojo is convinced that he will come for his throat before the man just grabs your hand violently and drags you away. Blue eyes narrow as Satoru waits for a while before he decides to trail after you again. He suddenly has a bad feeling about this and eventually he finds out the apartment where the man apparently lives. He's already standing in front of the door when the commotion suddenly starts.

🩵Loud screams and wails belonging to the man are heard, crying out your name before they are followed by screams of pain and the shattering of a window. That's when Gojo breaks the door open and the scene he sees inside is not pretty. Shards of a broken vase are stuck in your neck and even your now deformed face and the shattered window is painted with red blood from the now dead man who must have hit his head against it until it broke and he died. Yet Gojo can still sense the cursed energy from you, can almost feel it crawling towards his own body. He watches your bloody form alarmed, something warning him that something truly isn't right with even though he can't figure out what it is. When he notices your fingers twitching and your body twisting, he acts quicker than he can even react as he kills you and senses your cursed energy vanishing completely. A few days later he decides to visit the graveyard of the man as he has for some reason not been able to forget about you. When he senses a familiar cursed energy though, he feels his muscles tensing as this shouldn't be possible. Yet there you are, kneeling in front of the graveyard.

🩵He is instantly behind you, throwing a shadow over you as his hands linger over your head as if considering to rip it off yet he doesn't as his eyes narrow in confusion and wariness. You are supposed to be dead. Why are you still alive? You lean your head back to look at him and only greet him politely before you arrange the flowers you have brought with you on the man's grave before standing up again and leaving. The white-haired man stops you though as he grabs your arm so tightly that your bone might break as he asks you how you are still alive. You cascade your gaze very shortly down to the ground, seemingly reminiscing about something, before you meet his intense gaze. He could swear that you almost look a bit sad as you merely tell him that you are eternal. You hold his gaze for too long until he feels threatened to get lost in those eyes again which causes him to let go of you. Blue eyes are glued to your form as you walk gracefully away, his eyes roaming over the shape of your body until he can't sense you anymore. Only then does he feel the urge to follow you die down a bit.

🩵He is almost ashamed of his own lack of self-control when he senses your energy a few weeks later again and the urge to see you again just takes over him. Truth is, he has been thinking about you a lot ever since. Your mysterious words have stuck with him as he has been trying to figure out what you meant and your hypnotising gaze has been following him in his sleep. He is shocked to find you though. Half-naked and with deep cuts littering your skin as you are held down by the neck as the man above you traces a long knife down the curves of your body. Briefly he is reminded of your deformed face and bloody body when he met you for the first time and suddenly rage starts to cloud his vision. A hot wave of jealousy falls over him for the way the man touches you so closely and ire takes hold of him for it looks like he is about ro rape you. Gojo knocks him instantly out, perhaps a bit too strong as blood starts seeping from his head. He quickly offers you the jacket he is wearing to cover your bare upper body with before he grabs your wrist and tells you that you'll come with him. You beg him to call an ambulance for the man before you come with him and Satoru is surprised to hear those words.

🩵He almost doesn't want the man to receive help but then he snaps out of it and gives you his phone to call the ambulance. It is strange that a curse wants to help a human, especially since that human looked like he was about to sexually force himself on you and kill you at the same time. You are indeed very strange and he finds himself looking at you the entire time out of curiosity and since your beauty is very outstanding. He should kill you but he has already tried this and somehow you just appeared again so he has a feeling that it wouldn't work even if he would try again. He doesn't want to kill you for some reason though. Instead he brings you to his home and tells you that he wants to keep you in here until he has figured out what you are and what to do to you. You give him a silent nod before you ask him if there is anything you can do whilst he keeps you here and this is not what Gojo expected to hear. You really are a peculiar curse. He monitors you very closely the following days as you walk around the house to memorise the interior and every room and whe he realises that you seem to have a love for books, he ends up buying you entire shelves worth of them. The giddy grin you give him has his heart pounding.

🩵You are well-read and seem to have existed for quite a long time already as far as Satoru can tell from the knowledge you share with him. As much joy as it gives him to see you happy, he starts feeling jealous that you spend so much time reading books. He wants attention, more attention than you already give him. It just isn't enough. It escalates very quickly when you one day ask him to wait until you have finished this book. Only a few pages are left yet somehow those words make Satoru snap as he snatches the book out of your hands and rips it apart. Blue eyes ablaze with agitation yet also a familiar look to you as he bends down so that he is on eye height with you. Hands grab your own harshly, squeezing them as he tells you in a low voice that he despises if you ignore him. You look into his gorgeous eyes, seemingly unfaced from the way he glowers at you before you carefully free one of your hands and reach tentavively out to touch his face. His Infinity is already deactivated, allowing you to touch his face. He lets out a satisfied hum as one of his hands grabs your one touching his cheeks, blue eyes gleaming as he looks at you.

🩵His Infinity around you is mostly deactivated as he encourages you to touch him as much as he is already touching you. Your touches are warm and addictive and he seemingly can't get enough of them. Often you find yourself trapped beneath him, his arms wrapped around your waist and his head on your chest. You sometimes asks him what he plans to do with you as he is a sorcerer and you are a curse yet he always shuts you up, mostly by kissing you to silence all of your sounds. He does know that technically he should find a way to exorcise you or to at least seal you away yet his whole body is filled with rage when he considers it. He has to keep you a secret from other sorcerers under all means necessary. Not only because of their demands but also because he fears that they would desire you too for your beauty and gentle nature. He notices that you never seem to protest or stop him whenever he becomes very touchy and as sick as that is, Satoru finds himself abusing this. Within a short time he is able to fully indulge in his desires as your nude body is pressed against his own, teasing you here and there as he claims you for himself. He has never seen someone more beautiful than you.

🩵Satoru is almost drunk on you and every word and gesture you do as he is convinced that he would kill anyone who would try to take you away from him. Yet the willingness of yours to let him do whatever he wants with you soon turns into a festering jealousy as he starts wondering if you allowed all the people before him to do everything to you as well. He shouldn't care considering that your curse seems to make people naturally obsessed with you and that he isn't the first and most likely not the last one yet he has already fallen under your spell. His heart threatens to burst as he realises that he will fade whilst you will continue. He won't let anyone else have you after him! You are assaulted by him whilst you are changing clothes, a desperate look in those blue eyes as he begs you to tell him how he can murder you as he tells you about his wish to kill you when his time comes so that no one else will be able to have you after him. When you confess to him that you don't know how you can die, you see the anger and madness flaring up in his eyes as if he is about to attempt to murder you again then and there before he manages to regain his self-control and tells you in a sweet tone that he'll find a way.

#yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere jjk #yandere yuta #yandere okkotsu yuta #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #yandere x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader

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horny-marbles · 2 months ago

Text

𝚂𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚃𝚊𝚕𝚔 (𝚃𝚒𝚖 𝚆𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝/𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

CW: dubcon, gun play (not really play lol), oral giving, outside sex (cause its not really public), creampie, some corpse mentions NOT NECRO just a witness XD

word count 3.1k

this is a request from @erenasia <33

summary: tim drives by some fields after a mission, finds you trying to bury a body real amateur style (guys i went to the countryside and passed by some cornfields on the road and i felt inspired)

The headlights of the Mercury Milan sliced through the dark like a boxcutter through soft meat. They bounced off dew-damp corn stalks, high and looming like teeth, catching in the dust kicked up by worn tires on a narrow dirt road. The engine hummed low, tense like a held breath.

Tim's mask lay on the passenger seat, its mouth smiling back at him like a mockery of what it's seen, crusted with blood. Someone else’s. Not a clean kill, but not messy either—efficient, brutal, mindless. His hands still trembled from it, even if his brain didn’t. That kind of guilt didn’t sink into him anymore. Not deep.

He just needed to drive. To think. To not think. Something.

The radio was off. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the scent of dead grass, distant manure, cold dirt, and something more metallic—maybe his imagination, maybe the speckles of blood still drying on the sleeve of his jacket. His fingers tightened around the wheel as the road curved.

And then... The hell?

He blinked. Slowed.

A shape out there in the dark, just past the line of corn. Still. Humanoid. Like a scarecrow had lost its pole.

Then it moved. Arm lifting. Metal glinting in the moonlight.

Shovel.

The blade came down with a crunch into the earth. Again. And again.

Who the fuck digs a hole in a cornfield at 2 a.m.?

His foot eased onto the brake. The Milan huddled to a stop on the uneven dirt. The engine idled while he watched, eyes narrowed. After a moment, he cut the headlights and killed the ignition, dropping the world into shadow.

Tim grabbed his mask from the seat, but didn’t put it on, not yet. Just held it by the side, fingers tapping blood-dried plastic. He slipped the gun from the glovebox and tucked it under his jacket.

He moved quiet through the stalks. Soft steps. Careful breath. Eyes sharp.

You didn’t hear him at all.

Whoever you were, you weren’t good at being sneaky. Too busy digging, too busy breathing hard, each slam of the shovel into the earth screaming louder than any instinct in your head. The dirt was wet beneath, the kind that clung to the blade like it knew what you were doing. You didn’t hear the crunch of his boots behind you. Didn’t hear the husks sway as he slipped between them.

He stood close. Watched. Your arms shook a little with each lift. Not from weakness, but from adrenaline, probably. There was a body at your feet, awkwardly twisted, half wrapped in a dirty tarp. Tim took in the blood on your sleeves, mirroring the splatters painting his forearms.

The click of a gun's safety going off was the first thing you heard.

You screamed.

The shovel clanged against the dirt as you spun, one hand diving into your pocket fast and smooth like you’d done this part before. Tim didn’t flinch. He was already aiming, finger near the trigger, gun leveled at your forehead.

And then his voice came, rough; muffled, but calm.

“That’s not how you get rid of a body.”

You froze, facing the figure in the dark, edges softened by shadow, mask catching faint light. White with eyeholes black as sin, blood spattered like something had clawed at it. Dried red. Sharp lines. A face that wasn’t a face at all.

Your fingers wrapped around the pocketknife tighter, heart punching your ribs, panic flipping instantly into fight, but you didn’t pull it. Yet.

He didn’t move, didn’t twitch. His stance was relaxed, gun casual in his grip like it lived there.

“Try it,” he said after a beat. Same tone. Like he was daring you. Like he wanted you to.

Adrenaline surged, white-hot and bitter. Your fingers itched. You weren’t sure if it was rage or terror or both. The dead guy at your feet felt a thousand miles away now.

“What the fuck do you want?” you spat, voice tighter than you meant it to be.

He tilted his head—slow, considering.

“Just watching,” he said. “Curious.”

“Curious?” Your laugh came out shaky and sharp. “You got blood on your... face.”

He didn’t deny it.

The tension jumped, fast and mean. Like both of you realized, at the same moment, that you weren’t so different. That you could both be killers.

Or something close enough.

The wind shifted. Corn rustled. His boots stepped once toward you, crunching dry stalks underfoot. Deliberate. You didn’t move, but your heart pounded so loud it made you dizzy.

His mask tilted again, slower this time, like he was studying you. The way your chest heaved. The grip you had on that knife. The heat rising between fear and something stranger.

He didn’t lower the gun. You didn’t lower your guard.

But your mouth opened anyway.

“…You gonna shoot me or stare at me all night?”

The pause that followed felt like thunder trapped in your chest.

His response was low, muffled by the mask. Like gravel and smoke, like a threat veiled in a challenge.

“…Depends what you do next.”

You stared him down, throat dry, body hot with a strange cocktail of nerves and defiance. The gun didn’t waver. Neither did his voice. He had you at a disadvantage, and you both fucking knew it.

But that didn’t stop you from snapping, “Then shoot me. Or get out of my way.”

He took another step closer. The barrel followed you like a magnet. You could see his chest rise and fall beneath the yellow jacket, steady but heavy—like he was thinking too much. Watching too hard.

Then, slowly, his free hand raised.

“You’re gonna zip that mouth,” he said, tone dipped in something darker, “if you know what’s good for you.”

Your lip curled. “I could say the same to you. What are you even doing out here?”

Another beat.

“Cleaning up a mess,” he said flatly. “Like you.”

The mask never moved, but something in the air twitched—a beat of shared understanding. Ugly and human. You’d both taken a life, for whatever fucked-up reasons.

You stepped back. Slight. Defiant.

His gun didn’t move.

“So,” you said coolly, “we both go our separate ways and pretend this never happened?”

“No,” he said. Simple. Sharp.

You blinked. “Why not?”

“’Cause you saw me,” he muttered. “And I saw you. Can’t let you walk.”

Something flipped in your gut, something fast and furious. Your fingers curled tighter around the knife. “You don’t have to kill me.”

"...No. I don’t.”

A pause.

“But you’re gonna do something for me.”

You didn’t like the way he said it. Slow. Heavy. Full of grit and promise. Your eyes narrowed in silent question, but he didn’t answer with words.

He just reached down, popped the button of his jeans. One hand still on the gun, still pointed at you, the other slipped his zipper down slow and smooth, like he wasn’t in any kind of rush. Like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

Your pulse pounded in your ears.

“Get on your knees,” he said. Not a request. Not even a threat. Just a fact.

You scoffed. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind—”

But his gun snapped forward.

Now it was right against your forehead. Cold steel, his breath steady.

“You want me to keep your little cornfield secret? Wanna leave without a hole in your head?” he said low, voice dropping like a weight. “Then get to work.”

Your breath hitched.

You could feel your own heartbeat pounding against the muzzle. It would’ve been terrifying if you weren’t so high on the adrenaline. On the sick, wrong heat crawling up your spine.

You dropped to your knees, slow, never breaking eye contact with that blank mask. Your knife stayed sheathed. For now.

His cock was already half-hard when you pulled it out—thick, heavy, veiny. You didn’t even get to say something smart before he shoved the gun harder against your forehead like he was warning you not to try it.

But you did. Just a little.

Your fingers wrapped around the base—tight. Your other hand reached down, not-so-gently cupping his balls. Squeezing.

His hips jerked once, and then—click.

The safety on the gun flicked off again. You froze.

That steel was really pressed to your head now, the bore leaving a perfect circle indented into your skin. His cock twitched in your grip.

“…Try that shit again,” he said low. Almost growled. “See how fast I paint this field red.”

You didn’t smile. But god, you wanted to.

Instead, you loosened your grip, just enough. Let your tongue drag slow over the head, tasting salt and sweat and copper. His breathing stuttered. The tension spiked.

Your lips wrapped around the head, dry at first—on purpose. Petty, even now. You didn’t give him spit. You didn’t give him tongue. Just warm pressure and narrowed eyes, daring him to push you, as if he hadn't given you enough proof that he would.

The gun ground harder into your forehead, cold metal biting skin, nudging your head back slightly, but not enough to push you off his cock.

“You think I’m playing with you?” he muttered. His voice was rough now, strained. “Open the fuck up.”

You breathed deep through your nose and let your tongue drag slow along the underside. Fine. You could play nice.

You spit thick over the shaft, let your lips get wet, your chin slick. He hissed above you. Not satisfaction—more like tension. Like every second of this was testing the line between control and carnage.

You sank lower. Your throat tightened around him, and he groaned—deep and raw behind the mask.

The barrel of the gun wobbled slightly, pressure easing just enough to let your head bob. The hand holding it was trembling now, fingers tightening around the grip. You could see the way his thighs flexed, how hard his breath came through the plastic of that mask.

You went deeper. Let your jaw relax. Sloppy now. Filthy. Drool smeared your chin, and the wet sounds of your mouth echoed between the corn stalks like something ungodly. His cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged, loud and rough.

“Fuck—” he bit out, voice shaking. “Keep choking, come on."

You didn’t stop, even as you felt that red-hot defiance rush back in. You couldn’t. He was still holding the fucking gun. Still pressing it to your head like a warning, like he didn’t trust you not to bite.

Fair.

You moaned around him, let the vibrations hum down his shaft. His legs buckled slightly and his free hand shot out, fisting a chunk of your hair. He pulled you down harder, buried himself deep. Your nose smashed into his pelvis, the smell of sweat and blood in your lungs.

You gagged again—wet, raw, and he held you there.

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” he muttered, breath hitching. “You wanna walk away from this, you better show me you’re worth the secret.”

Tears burned your eyes, spit bubbling around your lips, dripping down your neck in thick strands. But your hands stayed firm—one stroking the base, the other braced on his thigh. You let him fuck your mouth, let him use you like he owned you, even though every bone in your body screamed rebellion.

He was panting now. The gun twitched, no longer pointed steady—half-forgotten in the storm of sensation.

You felt it, the shift when his voice cracked.

“Shit—fuck—keep going, don’t fucking stop—”

You didn’t. You went harder, sloppier. Every stroke louder than the last, your throat abused and sore, spit coating your chest. You were a fucking mess for him. A threat with tears on your cheeks and a gun at your temple.

The taste of him still clung to your tongue when he yanked you up by the hair, rough and quick and with no warning, dragging you into the shadows of the corn.

You stumbled, knees hitting the ground hard, dirt caking your palms as they smacked the earth. The shovel lay discarded. The covered corpse you were planting sat inches away—still fresh, still leaking. You barely noticed.

Tim did.

He shoved you forward, your stomach hitting the ground, hands catching on the black plastic tarp draped over the body. You gripped it without thinking, just to stay steady. Just to brace yourself.

He dropped to his knees behind you. The cold barrel of the gun slid along your spine before settling at your ribs. Just a reminder.

“Don’t fucking move,” he growled, voice low, ragged.

He was already unbuckling his belt, already shoving jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself properly this time. His cock hung mean and heavy—still wet with your spit, tip and veins glistening under the sliver of moonlight peeking through the corn.

You didn’t look back. Couldn’t. Every nerve in your body was screaming, vibrating with adrenaline, fear, lust.

The blunt head of him pressed to your hole—no prep, no softness. Just raw intent.

“Wait—” you started, but the gun jabbed harder into your ribs.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “You want it gentle, don’t bury bodies in the middle of my goddamn path.”

He lined up fast. No warning, no mercy, no real prep beyond the spit he roughly smoothed over his cock in one swipe like an afterthought. He pushed in, slow, but not kind.

The stretch burned. Dirt clung to your knees and forearms, your fingers clawing into the tarp in front of you, knuckles brushing the dead man’s shoulder through the plastic. You grit your teeth, gasped out a choked curse.

Behind the mask, Tim’s jaw clenched.

He hated this.

Not you. Not the act. This.

The constant pressure. The guilt. The fucking fog in his brain that never let up. Slender’s influence gnawed at the edge of his mind like static. Kill after kill, command after command. He hadn’t felt human in months, fuck, maybe even years. He couldn't keep up anymore.

But this?

The tight heat of you clenching around his cock, the way you whimpered when he pushed in to the hilt, this was real.

He rammed into you, pace brutal from the start. His fingers dug into your hip with bruising force, the other hand still holding the gun flush against your side. Every thrust shoved you forward, your hands scrabbling at the corpse tarp in a grotesque search for purchase.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, half into the ground. “You’re—”

“I said fucking quiet,” he growled, breath hot and ragged behind the mask. “You fucked up. You're lucky I'm not a cop. I'm giving you dick instead of 30 to life. So shut up and take it.”

You did.

You took it like the air in your lungs depended on it. Let the filth smear your skin, let the pain and pressure drown out the reality of what was happening. You didn’t know his name. Didn’t know his face.

All you knew was the heat of him inside you, the gun pressed to your ribs, and the sick thrill in your chest that came from being fucked to shreds in the dirt next to the motherfucker you’d killed.

Tim pounded into you harder, teeth gritted behind the mask. His thoughts flickered—blood on his hands, commands in his head, corpses he didn’t want to leave behind. You were just another mistake. Another bad decision to add to the pile.

But fuck, you felt good.

Better than the pills.

Better than the guilt.

He pulled the gun away from your ribs, just for a second—and slapped it across your ass with a sharp crack. Not playful. Just to hear you yelp.

Then he shoved it right back into place, making you squirm and arch away from it.

"Better hold the fuck still,” he muttered, voice strained but barely shaking, “unless you wanna find out what a hollow point feels like from the inside."

Your whole body shook—maybe from fear, maybe from the slow spiral of ecstasy building deep in your gut. The world narrowed to the punishing rhythm of his hips slamming into your ass, the cold of the weapon, the wet slick sounds of bodies colliding in a graveyard of your own making.

It was fucking depraved, but it got you babbling.

Every nerve ending had turned electric, your limbs trembling, body barely hanging together. His cock slammed into you harder, rougher, like he was trying to force his guilt out through your skin. Like you were the confessional booth, and he was absolving his sins one brutal thrust at a time.

Then, his hand curled into the back of your hair. The cold barrel of the gun shifted from your ribs to your neck, and he shoved your face into the dirt.

Not enough to suffocate, but enough to taste earth, feel it scrape your tongue, mud worming past your lips as you gasped for breath.

“Take it,” he snarled above you. “Fucking take it.”

You screamed into the soil when he came, hips stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you as he filled you up—hot and heavy, pulse after pulse of filthy, broken release. You could feel it leaking already, mixing with sweat and spit and dirt between your thighs.

His grip didn’t let up until the tremors in his body faded. He panted hard above you, fingers tightening once more in your hair—then letting go. You collapsed fully, face still half-buried in the ground, lungs burning.

Tim stood, zipping up, adjusting the mask. The weight of the moment hung between you like smoke.

You didn’t dare move, didn't dare lower your hips back to the ground. Not yet. Not with the gun still in his hand.

He stared down at you for a long moment, chest rising and falling.

And then, his voice came as if nothing had happened, calm even as he caught his breath.

“Next time—dig the hole first.”

You blinked, dazed. “…What?”

“Amateur shit,” he muttered, wiping dirt off the side of the gun with the hem of his shirt, stuffing it back into the pocket of his jeans. “Always dig the hole first. Then kill ‘em. Saves time. Keeps the scent down.”

You rolled onto your side with a groan, dirt smearing your cheek, thighs slick with cum and shame and something that felt dangerously close to satisfaction.

He was already walking away.

Just—back through the corn, calm like a fucking ghost. His silhouette swallowed by the stalks, vanishing without a sound, only leaving the acrid whiff of tobacco smoke behind him as he lit a cigarette.

You didn’t even catch his name.

Didn’t know if you'd ever see him again, didn't know if you'd want to, actually.

But the breeze carried the faint slam of a car door, the low rumble of an engine firing up, and then radio silence.

You were alone again.

Except for the body.

And the ache between your legs.

And the way your heart wouldn’t stop racing, not even as the moon hung high and judgmental above your half-finished grave.

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skmhlml · 2 months ago

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Note: got bored and thought about getting railed by this fart

Warnings: slow burn into rough to softeness, breaking, kidnapping, killing, claiming, etc.

𝑾𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒐 𝒙 𝑭𝒆𝒎!𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

it’s a gnawing, parasitic obsession. He is drawn to your warmth, your scent, the pulse of life under your skin. He follows you unseen for days, weeks, studying you like prey before revealing himself.

You don’t meet the Wendigo. he corners you. Maybe it’s in the woods, maybe late at night when you hear knocking on your window. He doesn’t speak in words, only in primal noises…growls, whimpers, snarls.

Other dangers avoid you because they smell him on you. Stray too far, and he might just hunt you back down. The same sharp teeth that rip apart threats also graze your skin when he’s “affectionate.”

He brings you “gifts” — the clawed foot of a fox, the bloodied pelt of a deer, strange antlers left at your doorstep. They’re offerings, tokens of a terrible courtship. corpses of animals or even people.

You are his territory now. Anyone who talks too long to you, anyone who touches you. he remembers. And he’s not forgiving.

You’re small, warm, alive — everything it hates and craves at the same time. It doesn’t understand human love, but it knows it needs you like a junky needs a fix. Violent affection. Destructive adoration.

It watches you sleep, practically drooling. sharp teeth glistening in the dark, huffing your scent like a goddamn feral beast. It likes the way you flinch when you hear it scratching at the walls. It likes the terror. Fear makes you smell sweeter.

Sometimes it just sits there, mouth open, ragged breathing, staring at you with glassy, dead eyes. It whispers in your dreams. Filthy things. Hungry things. Things about your bones snapping, your flesh tearing, but spoken almost like sweet nothings.

The Wendigo doesn’t fuck like a human. It ravages. Teeth always grazing too close to skin — nipping hard enough to bleed. leaving you battered, bruised, marked like a ragdoll it doesn’t want to break too soon.

It’s brutal. He’s huge, and you’re just this pathetic, soft little thing underneath him. He has no concept of “easy” or “gentle”, if he’s not careful, he’ll tear you apart.

He wants to fill you. Over and over. Like stuffing prey full so it rots slower. He doesn’t even care if it’s possible. The idea of you bloated with him, ruined by him, drives him into a frenzy.

Sometimes he gets so rough that he draws blood and licks it off you with a long, disgusting tongue, humming deep in his throat like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.

If you call watching you shiver in a pool of his fluids while he licks his claws “aftercare,” sure. You hate him. You fear him. You should be running but your body betrays you. Sometimes you catch yourself whimpering for him, aching for the way he splits you open and makes you feel filthy and alive.

He’s physically incapable of patience. Any clothes you have left? Shredded by claws in seconds. Half the time you’re naked and covered in mud, blood, and god-knows-what-else.

He pins you down so hard you can’t breathe. One clawed hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to see you struggle, feel you thrash.

There’s no innocence left. If there’s any part of you that resists, he snuffs it out ruthlessly. He wants you filthy. Sometimes after he fucks you half to death, he just lays there, dead silent, watching you twitch like a broken thing. You wonder if this is what it feels like to already be a corpse.

He builds a “nest”. a pile of torn clothes, bones, furs, rotting wood — and drags you there at night like you’re something precious he needs to keep safe.He’ll curl his massive, freezing body around you, breathing slow and rattling against your skin.

He used to kill anything near you because he was territorial. Now he kills anything that might upset you. You cry over a broken bone? He destroys the fucking landscape trying to “fix” it.

He rips chunks of meat like usual, but now he presses them to your lips with shocking tenderness, like he’s feeding a wounded animal. If you cry or turn away, he whines a broken awful sound.

He buries his face into your hair, your clothes, your skin. Breathing you in so hard it feels like he’s trying to suck your soul out.

He still wrecks you — but now he tries to slow down. Tries to nudge into you slowly. Tries not to split you apart immediately. He groans deep and feral when you gasp and arch under him — and you swear you catch something like worship in those ruined, dead eyes.

It’s not just rutting anymore. It’s grinding, pressing, kissing your bruised thighs, lapping between your legs like he’s starving for you, not just your body.

When you touch his face, brush your tiny, trembling fingers along the twisted bone structure, the wet snarling mouth — he lets out a keening, desperate sound like he doesn’t know whether to purr or sob.

fluids, he cleans you — grotesquely licking every inch of your destroyed, shivering body. Then he curls around you, massive arms caging you in, growling lowly anytime you move like “stay. safe. stay.”

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cupidsworstcrime · 3 months ago

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Johnny's little sis!Reader x Simon that supports her wrongs

You sounded so scared on the phone "John, shu up an' get 'ere please?" Oh anything for his little sister, one problem, he's shitfaced at the pub so he recruits Ghost to drive him to your flat.

You're freshly showered when you open the door for them, you're shaking!

Two steps inside and Johnny faints in a drunken fright. Leaving you, a masked man you dont know, and the bloody corpse on your living room floor.

Ghost stares at the body, then to you. You're covered in bruises. He doesn't ask, no sir, sweet looking thing like you didn't do this to be evil. You were just scared.

He silently takes care of it, while you stare and watch. Both of you ignored Johnny out cold on the floor (rude)

He puts the man in the trunk of Johnny's car, takes the clothes you were wearing before your shower and leaves, when he comes he doesn't say what he did with it, and you don't ask. (definitely doesn't have your underwear shoved in his pocket! no maam!)

He informs you that bleach lights up luminol just like blood, so wash your rug with it Dove! cause if you dont, the stains will still show under a black light if you clean it with something else! Also poor bleach down your drain!

Ghost making sure you get to bed. Ghost going through your phone as you sleep, putting his number in the contacts. Then he takes Johnny home, poor boy will probably forget this happened he was so smashed.

Ghost being the one you call 2 weeks later, when it happens again. Dutifully, he shows to your flat and it repeats. He doesn't see any bruises on you this time, but he cant see you doing this for fun. Isn't that right, Dove?

Eventually it happens more often, and you seem less and less ashamed about it. Almost ecstatic when you open the door to him, showing him how your skill has improved. And he coos over you of course. Good job, princess.

One day, you call him and ask if he can come over even though you have nothing for him to 'fix.'

You can hear his smirk through the phone, "You really did all tha' just to see me?"

When he gets there, he lets himself in. (Of course he printed a copy, dont be silly.) He stalks to your room, boots open the door and you're already working on yourself. Needy bitch.

Doesn't take him long to bully his thick cock into your cunt, held in a chokehold as you drooled and babbled the stupidest, sluttiest shit he's ever heard.

He's almost proud at how absolutely cock drunk he gets you. And that ring of blood on his cock? Badge of honor, but he wishes you'd told him you were a virgin. He could have ate your cunt more before fucking you.

He cums inside, of course, you're his now. If you get pregnant, he'll take care of you. You'd be so pretty riding him pregnant... God he fucks his fist to the thought of it after you fall asleep.

He orders you a darry ring that night. You're all he'd ever need again.

The next morning he informs you he's moving in. And you just kiss his cheek, "Wha' took you so long, da?"

Of course, he fucks you again.

PART 2

#ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley call of duty #simon riley fanfic #cod ghost #ghost x you #ghost drabble #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #send asks #simon ghost riley fanfiction

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calebsdog · 3 months ago

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Caleb holds a lot of hate for the world. You wouldn't know it upon first glance. You wouldn't know it if you've been hanging around him for years. And it was unlikely he would tell someone if they asked.

But one thing Caleb hates in particular are hunters. No, not the association hunters. The old-fashioned kind of hunter. Who splatter the blood of animals onto forest floors. Who dig into furry flesh with jagged knives.

He doesn't hate those who kill to survive. He holds a secret appreciation for those strong enough to tear into the skin of wild animals. By the time they are done the meat looks nothing like the once living and breathing creature that had been slaughtered.

Those people make it easier for Caleb to fill your belly with nutrients. He gets to see the eager smile on your face as you dig into the delicious meals he made for you. No, Caleb could never hate someone that played a part in bringing you such simple joys. They did the dirty work for him and Caleb got to take the credit.

Caleb hates hunters who kill for the thrill of it. Those who pose with wicked smiles on their face in front of cameras. Holding the carcasses of animals in their bloody arms to display their prize.

Killing something innocent for your own gain.

Caleb sees you in every creature that dies at the hand of man. Is reminded of your lifeless body, the stench of you when your corpse began to rot, the haunted, ghostly look in your soft eyes.

You were so little. How could anyone hurt you?

So, please, for Caleb's sake... Don't look at the remnants of a deer on the side of the road. Don't look at the once yellow ducklings, now a gorey red, getting squashed under rubber tires because nobody cared enough to stop driving. Turn your gaze away from the stuffed heads mounted onto walls.

Don't remember what this cruel world does to sweet things like you. Let him protect you a little while longer.

Just a little while longer...

#love and deepspace #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x mc #lads caleb #lnds #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb #lnds x mc #lnds x you #caleb x you #lnds caleb x reader #caleb xia #caleb x y/n #caleb thoughts

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calmcoldevening · 8 months ago

Note

could we get some dick & masturbation hc for Art? Describe what it looks like, how big, how often he does it, etc. stuff like that

Art the clown NSFW ALPHABET

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He is as caring as possible for him. Art understands that you are a really important person in his life, for whom his "heart" is beating. So he certainly won't leave you alone after a hot night. But don't expect any super affection either. No. He'll just lie next to you and admire you. He really likes to see you so disheveled and wet, the thought that he made you like this makes him tough.

You're breathing heavily under Art, your hands are slowly sliding off his shoulders, because you're feeling damn tired, but happy. Art lies down on the bed next to you, putting one hand under your head, and stretches the other up, imitating the camera with his fingers and pressing the "snapshot button". Art giggles soundlessly, as if he really took such a photo, and now this piece of paper with you two will remain with him for many years. Then he turns to face you, watching your tired, relaxed expression. He briefly kisses your damp forehead, leaving a trace of his black lipstick on your face. Leaning back, he admires you with his trademark crazy smile.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Most of the time, he likes his fingers about himself. With their help, he makes various instruments of torture, "talks" with you, and also gives you pleasure. Art fucking likes to hear your sounds when he works with his fingers, he even takes off his gloves for this. But after the two of you have discovered your intimate life, Art can say with confidence that he likes his cock. Every time he sees you, especially if you bend down to pick something up from the floor, his buddy gets damn hard and hot.

Art likes a lot about you, perhaps. But most of all, he likes your voice. Art likes to rip out all those cute whining sounds and requests from your chest to speed up or touch you somewhere. He likes the sound of his name coming out of your mouth. It both excites him and seems sweet to him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

A lot. Dirty. He really likes to leave marks on you. It doesn't matter, inside, on the stomach, on the face. He can cum on your back or stomach and then drive for a long time over this white mass, drawing his name or hearts on you. He doesn't like using condoms, so you'd better use birth control (although he's a demon, it's not a fact that he can have children. And if he can, it's not a fact that the pills will help you)

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Art would like to fuck you in front of other people. So that they can see how he can give you pleasure, make you scream because of the buzz. He likes the idea that you know about his murders. He wouldn't mind first slaughtering a bunch of people in front of you, and then fucking you among a mountain of corpses and blood.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

There is absolutely no experience. The whole "experience" is that before killing teenagers or adults, he often saw them fucking. But it's completely different from what he's experiencing with you. After your first time, Art really wishes you had tried it before.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Cowgirl. He probably likes it when he's lying on the bed and you're on top of him. Art likes to look up at you when your face is so open to his observation. All your sounds, moans and cute facial expressions only make him pick up the pace. Art squeezes your thighs until they are clearly bruised and presses you harder against him. Anyway, it makes him feel superior, because only he can make you feel so good.

He also doesn't mind doggy style This is an opportunity to dominate you more. He will forcefully squeeze your hair to a slight exciting pain, kissing your neck, or caressing your breasts, which he also really likes.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

As your bodies entwine in passion, Art's usually playful demeanor shifts, his expression growing more intense and focused. The painted-on smile fades, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated concentration. His black eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, narrow to slits, fixed intently on your face and body. Art's movements are deliberate and forceful, a far cry from his usual goofy, comedic antics. He is completely absorbed in the act of making love, every thrust and roll of his hips calculated to drive you wild with pleasure. This seriousness, this total immersion in the act of sex, stems from Art's deep-seated need for connection and intimacy. In the heat of the moment, he is not the feared killer clown, but a man, vulnerable and exposed, your man. Yet, even in this moment of unguarded seriousness, a hint of the clown remains.

But after such a passionate moment, once you both manage to catch your breath a little, his usual playful personality will return.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He is quite careless in this matter. Although Art cleans himself of blood and other entrails after murders, he is not overly clean. He doesn't care about his hair, either on himself or on his partner. But they are quite soft, so it shouldn't be such a big problem.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

It depends on the events before your intimate relationship. If you just spent time together, then during sex Art will be quite relaxed and even gentle in its own way, but at the same time dominant. It is important for him to let the people around him know that you are his. He will bite you, leave you with small bruises from his strong grip and pull your hair. If Art killed before your sex, then the love session will be quite hot and animal. After the murders, Art gets damn possessive and hard, and the sight of blood on you only increases his arousal. You should probably hide his trash bag away if you want to stay whole after sex.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Alone in his dimly lit lair, Art's long, slender fingers wrap around his rigid member, pumping it in a slow, deliberate rhythm. His black-painted lips part in a silent moan as he imagines the sounds of his victim's terror and agony mingling with his own pleasure.

He jerks a lot after his murders if he hasn't you around him. Sometimes he imagines your face and your sweet sounds during your previous love session, but mostly he concentrates only on blood, guts and cries of pain and fear.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Sadomasochism. Blood play. Orgasm control.

Art has an insatiable appetite for sadomasochism. The more pain and suffering he inflicts, the greater his arousal. He delights in defiling his prey, often leaving them mangled and broken in his wake. After that, he returns to you, filled with wild desires. The more blood he managed to get out of the poor victim, the more passionate he will be. He also doesn't mind hurting you too, but this case is already limited to simple cuts and bruises, nothing serious. Although he may well carve his name on your back in large letters. The sight of blood excites him like a real vampire, so it's better not to keep a lot of sharp objects in the house (and his bag too).

The fact that Art can control your pleasure excites him like nothing else. Being able to show dominance in this way caresses his ego. It's going to be a long time.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Art doesn't really care where to do it. But still, he would prefer either your house or some kind of elongated gateway or something like that. If there are a lot of people around, it means that before sex he will have to get his hands dirty in blood again, and this will take a little time. Besides, Art is not against forests or abandoned places with a grotesque scary atmosphere. It adds some kind of thrill and animality to your intimacy.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The answer is obvious: blood, violence, you, murder.

He doesn't have any specific preferences, so it's impossible to say for sure. But seeing you in a Halloween clown costume would definitely turn him on. Or there's blood on you. But not everything is clear here. For example, other people's sex doesn't turn him on (it will only turn him on if he imagines you and him in their place), pain caused to you by someone else (if it's your period, then he will try to take care of you as much as possible, and if it's another person, Art will kill them)

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Other people. He doesn't like them. He doesn't like to share. You're his and his only. Other people are just meat for his fun and aggression.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He doesn't mind at all. Although he has never done anything like this himself, he won't mind trying it. It will probably be a bit messy and clumsy at first, but if you give him time and show him how you really feel good, he will certainly learn. With his long fingers and flexible tongue, it will be very good.

He likes it when you show him your love in this way or just want to please him. He likes to look down on you, this is another time for him to prove his dominance in your relationship.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

It depends on his mood, but most of the time he chooses to be slower. Art likes to torture people and you are no exception. It's just that it's expressed differently with you. He will quickly bring you to the edge, and then immediately use slow caresses to tease you. He likes all those whining sounds he can get out of you, those moans and whimpers. He's even willing to give up killing if it gives him the opportunity to see you as such a cute and squirming needy thing.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Again, he's a lover of slow long-term pleasure, so no. But if you still ask him to do it quickly, because you really want to, he, of course, will not refuse you, although he will hardly restrain his sadistic hunger.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

There are no restrictions for Art in anything (except to let other people into your love games). He is always open to new things and experiments. Usually he is the initiator of something new in your life in the bedroom, but if you suddenly have some interesting dirty fantasies, do not hesitate to tell him, Art is always for it. The only thing is, he wouldn't risk your life too much. Severe injuries can attract the attention of other people, and losing you will be a significant loss for him. You are his personal toy, which he protects and loves in his own way.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Art is ready for any number of rounds, but his human body also has its limits. Therefore, 4-5 rounds, with rare exceptions, a little more. Also let's not forget that you are a human being, and Art would not want to put you out of action.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Art doesn't rely on external aids, preferring to use his skilled hands, agile tongue, and sheer force of will to bring pleasure and pain to you. He may, on occasion, incorporate items from his gruesome arsenal as props for role-play or sensory exploration (damn garbage bag..)

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Art is quite a teaser. He likes it when you whine because Art won't let you come, or vice versa, goes too fast. First, he quickly leads you to the finish line, then delays the orgasm as much as possible with the caresses of his long tongue, and then his skillful fingers continue to quickly stimulate you after orgasm until you break your voice.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's mute, babe.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Art has an unusual fascination with the sensation of his victim's or partner's heartbeat against his bare skin. During intense moments of passion, he'll often pause to press his lips or nose against the racing pulse point, inhaling the primal, intoxicating rhythm as it syncs with his own lustful tempo. This quirk adds a darkly romantic and intimate layer to his depraved lovemaking rituals, blurring the lines between pleasure and pain, life and death.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Long and slender, it measures around 7-8 inches in length and 3.5-4 inches in girth, with a slightly curved shape that seems almost predestined for delivering deep, merciless thrusts. The shaft is covered in a thin layer of soft, velvety skin that's slightly darker than his natural complexion. When fully erect, Art's cock stands proudly from his body, the swollen purple head gleaming with a thin bead of pre-cum. Despite its imposing size, the organ is surprisingly agile and responsive, able to reach incredible speeds and depths during passionate encounters.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Art is always in favor. He often gets aroused during his bloody adventures, so he's more than ready whenever you want. Not to say that ln is a fan of sex, but he definitely likes this part of the human body.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He doesn't need much sleep, but Art can stay with you until you fall asleep.

#slashers x reader #slashers fandom #slashers x you #slasher x reader #slashers #art the clown x you #art the clown x reader #art the clown x y/n #art the clown #art the clown headcanons #art the clown alphabet

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 8 months ago

Text

Death Wish 6

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

You sense movement, you hear scuffing, and feel the air shift. Yet all you can focus on is each breath. Your chest throbs with the effort it takes to just keep going. To just keep living.

The smell of gunpowder clogs your nose and the taste of bile stains your tongue. The adrenaline seeps from you, leaving you weak and wilting. Your arms tremble as you barely keep yourself from crumpling into a heap.

Your legs are bent to one side and your head hangs under an invisible veil. He’s dead. Your father is dead. You killed him. But why aren’t you sad?

You’re afraid. Anxious. Addled. But you’re not sad. You have no remorse for the life lost. That is what hurts. Your own callousness stabs you in the heart.

You shudder and heave again. Barnes’ shadow looms over you and slowly, he bends his knees to come to level with you. He has his gun in his hand. He holds it without intent.

“You got what you asked for. My end is done,” he says.

You raise your head slowly and look at him. You blink. His end... what about yours?

“It’s late. You’re tired,” he reaches to slide the gun into his holster. “You’re gonna go home and you’re going to sleep. And in the morning, when my man comes to hand you that black envelope, you’re going to cry and act shocked.”

You push your lip out and shake your head. You search his expression. He is stoic and unbothered.

“That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it, doll?” He prompts.

You swallow, “what do you want--”

“I just told you what I want you to do,” he interjects. “Don’t you worry, I always collect my debts.”

He stands and tugs on his cuffs. He faces the chair and you slowly follow his gaze to the corpse. Your father’s face is slack and lifeless. You’re horrified at the sight of death, that it’s his, doesn’t affect you as much.

You sit and stare and try to feel. That’s your father. That’s the man who is responsible for your very being. You share blood. He has been there every moment of your life. His is a constant.

Not anymore and that just doesn’t matter to you. It should. Shouldn’t it?

Well, what is there to miss about him?

“Stand up and walk out of here. There’s a light pole by the gate. Wait there.” Barnes instructs without looking back.

He pushes his arms back and slides off his jacket. He folds it and places it on the bare metal table by the wall. He turns back and unbuttons his sleeves. He rolls them as he nears your father’s body.

“I’m being patient because I know you’re in shock, so I’ll tell you one my time to go,” he says, focus on the dead man. “You and your sisters are under my protection. Go and be with them.”

You take a breath and steady yourself as best you can. You stand and hug yourself. You look at your father one last time and turn away. You walk out stiffly. Now that you’re on your feet, you don’t ever want to stop.

You pass through the door and trod across the tarmac. You come into the yellow cone of light cast beneath the tall pole and stop. You wait. Not long before Rogers appears in his black cadillac.

That woman is gone. You don’t wonder who she is. If she’s with him, she must be one of them. You are too. You were born into that life, but now, you really do belong.

Neither of you say a word as he drives you home. You don’t look back as you get out of the car and go inside. Your sisters aren’t home yet. You don’t expect them to be. You can never go to The Reel without stopping at the milkshake place after and they stay open late for the movie goers.

Those little details are so meaningless now. Nothing really makes a difference. Life is a fraying thread and it will snap. You just don’t know which tug will be the one that breaks it.

You go upstairs and undress. You pull on a pajama set and take your clothes downstairs to the bin. You lay down on the couch and wait for your sisters.

When they get home, you quietly listen to them jabber. They talk about the movie. Kitty loves how good it looked. It must have been remastered and Adrienne got the last bag of caramel corn. You force a smile but it doesn’t feel believable. It must be. They give you your box of chocolate-covered raisins and wish you a good night.

You follow them upstairs. As you get to your door, Adrienne says your name. Both you and Kitty stop and look at her.

“I wish every day could be like this,” she says.

Kitty nods, “yeah, I hope he never comes home.”

Your heart feels like it’s stopped. You don’t know how you’re doing it. You don’t know how you’re not shrieking and pulling your hair out. Any sane person would be a puddle. He's not coming back. Your father is dead and you killed him.

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” You say at last. “Good night.”

“Night,” Adrienne chimes back and Kitty echoes her.

You all go into your rooms and shut the doors. You put the raisins on the dresser and ignore your bed. You go to the closet where you used to hide and listen to your father yell. You sit on the floor and lean into the wall. You hug your legs and stare into the static darkness.

The night is long and sleepless. Your head dips now and again but you start as the echo of a gunshot brings you back before you can succumb to the depths. The morning light peers in from the other side of the slatted door.

You climb out of the closet and listen to the house. You stay in your room. You hear Kitty’s door first, then Adrienne’s a few minutes later. You stand by your door and argue with yourself. Just go. Go out and act like everything is normal. Go and enjoy your new life free of that tyrant.

It’s only the doorbell that makes you go out. You hear footsteps below and you open your door. You come to the top of the stairs as Kitty stands at the door. Adrienne appears just behind her.

“Courtesy of the boss,” Rogers deep voice is crisp in the early hours.

Kitty thanks him in a whisper. She shuts the door as he goes. She doesn’t move until you hear his car engine.

“What is it?” Adrienne asks.

Kitty turns. You sit on the top stair as she holds the black envelope. Her eyes are stuck to it. Adrienne stumbles and catches herself on the wall. You languish in the silence. All three of you.

Kitty looks up at you and you look between her and Adrienne. Your eyes search each other, taking turns, frozen, frightened. Now that your father is gone, what happens to you?

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #drabble #au #mob au #death wish #mcu #marvel #captain america #avengers #winter soldier

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oliversrarebooks · 1 month ago

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The Rare Bookseller Part 97: The Maestro's Plans

Previous > Masterlist > Next

tw: mind control, body control, ableism, forcing Oliver to stand on his injured knee, burning, abuse

December 1925

The fine wooden wheelchair was abandoned on the sidewalk as the Maestro effortlessly picked Oliver up and placed him in a waiting black carriage, driven by a tired looking horse and a thrall who resembled a corpse. The interior of the carriage was dark and cold, and Oliver looked longingly out the window at the manor, illuminated under the moonlight.

He would be seeing it again in several nights, he reminded himself.

But then…

What would become of him now? Alexander hadn't been planning to carry out his task until after the gala. No doubt, he would try to accelerate that timeline now that the Maestro had placed a countdown on his head, but could he? What if his theories on the witch's rune didn't pan out, and there was no way for Alexander to protect himself from his sire's control? What if it wasn't enough?

Oliver saw that tentative future he had imagined dissolve into mist and slip through his hands. Instead of the warmth of Alexander's bed and the comfort of his library, he would instead be plunged into a nightmare of loneliness and torture. His master's mind would be erased, and no doubt Oliver's mind would follow, and he would not even have his memories to sustain him. There would be no bookshop and no library, no past and no future, nothing but an unending, unchanging present.

"You're trembling, child."

Oliver nearly jumped out of his skin at the musical voice. How could he sound so gentle, nearly as gentle as his master, and be so terrifying?

"Please, sir," he said, hoping he didn't upset the Maestro further. "I will be obedient and honest, sir, to the best of my ability, so please have mercy."

The Maestro scoffed. "This is merciful, child. I haven't even harmed you. As I informed you before, I have seen potential in you."

"Potential for what, sir?" He dreaded the answer.

"Potential to be what Alexander should have been, but was not."

He was correct to dread. "You're -- you're not going to turn me, sir?"

"I will, once you've been appropriately trained, subdued, and prepared. I will not waste another valuable batch of raw materials," he said as casually as if he were discussing cookery. "So far, it seems as though you've done little to warrant such a reward or such a punishment, but nonetheless, you shall have it."

Oliver tried to respond, to plead more, but his mouth was dry and words failed him. He would be turned. He would be turned, and be in the same position as his master, cold and lonely. With his mind under the Maestro's control, he might not even remember ever being human. He would hunger for blood as his master did, his cravings driving him to drink from innocent people. And the misery would be eternal.

This must have been how his master felt, when he was a human, helpless and waiting to have his warmth and humanity forever stripped from him.

"Before you are turned, of course, you will need to walk once more. The process preserves your body just how it is in life, and I do not have any use for a permanently crippled spawn."

"Please, sir," he whispered hoarsely. "Please, all I want to do is live in peace with my master."

"You will live in peace. You'll both be free from the burden of choice, of doubt, of insubordination. You will be obedient and perfect, and you will experience the deep peace of the void."

Oliver could remember how it felt when the Maestro had enthralled him, the dark and frigid expanse that rose to swallow him whole. Is that where he would dwell for the rest of his life, a place where nothing was ever permitted to happen?

The carriage came to a stop in front of a sprawling manor surrounded by a stone wall and an imposing wrought iron gate. A husk of a servant opened the gate and allowed the carriage through, and they came to a stop at the entrance. The Maestro grasped him and carried him through the front door, which closed behind them with a resounding echo, plunging them into darkness.

The air was thick with dust and decay, and the windows were all shuttered. The only light came from an occasional weak, guttering gas lamp, each one only strong enough to illuminate its immediate surroundings. Oliver could see glimpses of thralls scurrying by, hear their footsteps creak on the floorboards.

Would this dark purgatory be where he spent the rest of his life, the rest of his eternity?

The Maestro set him down on his feet, and even though his master had hypnotized away his ability to feel the pain, there was still a sharp, uncomfortable twinge in his knee. It only took a moment before his injured knee buckled and dumped him on the floor, the Maestro impassively watching as he collapsed into a heap.

"You will walk."

"I'm sorry, sir," said Oliver, practically groveling at his feet. "I want to obey you, but my leg is weak from its injury and I can't fully stand on it. If I could have a cane or a crutch, sir…"

"I'm not interested in your excuses. You will walk."

Oliver's body stood without him. His knee shook and wobbled as he was made to stand on it, and Oliver knew that if he weren't still enthralled, he would be in enormous pain. He was puppeted over to a stairwell, and if he had any control over his body, he would have flinched at what he was being made to do.

"Sir, please, I want to obey, but if my knee is injured any more, I might never walk again," he said desperately. "You -- you wanted me to be able to walk before you…" He couldn't bring himself to say it, fearing that if he acknowledged the Maestro's plans, it would make them more real.

Without warning, the hold on his body gave out, and he collapsed onto the cold wooden stairs. "I do not require a thrall's opinion on my plans," he said. "You are to be quiet and do as you're told."

Quiet. That trigger that Miss Lily had installed was still lying in wait in his mind, and he felt himself sink into a stupor. "Yes, sir," he murmured, prepared to do as he was told. He put up no further resistance as he was made to walk up the stairs and down the hallway, pushing open one of the wooden doors.

The room he entered was pitch black, and Oliver couldn't help but imagine the possible horrors. Perhaps this was a torture room full of medieval devices, and he was being brought here for his insubordination. Even the fog of hypnosis couldn't fully shield him from his anxiety.

But when the Maestro struck a match and lit a candle, what he found instead was a relatively ordinary bedroom. It was stark, containing little more than a bed with a woolen blanket, a bedside table, and a chest of drawers, but there was, at least, no torture device in sight. As exhausted as he was from stress and fear, the bed even looked inviting.

"Your room," said the Maestro. "This is where you will retire during the day, when I have no use of you."

"Thank you, sir," said Oliver, allowing himself some small relief at not being thrown into a dungeon, not yet.

"Follow."

Oliver was forced back down the stairs on his weakened leg. He kept expecting it to give out, but the vampire's powers were holding it rigid enough for him to walk on. He tried not to think too hard about the damage being caused.

The horrible thought came to him that if he were never able to walk on his own, perhaps the Maestro would not turn him, and he would be glad of it.

He was brought next into an old-fashioned kitchen, and the flickering candle revealed antique fixtures, including a stove so old that Oliver had no idea how to work it. There was a rough wooden table with several chairs, and a large wooden pantry.

"You will prepare your own meals as time allows. The victuals are to be shared among all of the thralls, so you must only take your share and no more."

Oliver almost opened his mouth to ask how much his share was -- he didn't even know how many other thralls were in the manor -- but then he thought better of asking. No doubt, the Maestro had kept this rule vague on purpose so that he could be punished for the crime of taking too much food whenever the vampire pleased. He would just have to sustain himself on as little as possible to avoid stoking the vampire's wrath.

Finally, Oliver was ushered into one more cavernous room. He was left to stand in the middle as the Maestro, surprisingly, lit several lamps. As he did, Oliver could see the stately piano in the center of the room. It was flanked by stringed instruments and shining horns, set perfectly into stands or hanging from the walls. Neat piles of yellowed sheet music sat on low tables, and there were several upholstered couches. It was very clear that the vampire put more care into this room than any other place in the manor Oliver had seen.

But Oliver, unlike his master Alexander, didn't have a gorgeous voice and was not a piano prodigy. He didn't play any instruments at all, and he certainly didn't sing or dance. That meant either grueling training from scratch, or the Maestro writing him off as useless and expendable, and Oliver wasn't sure which would be worse.

"You have no musical talents," he said, as though reading Oliver's thoughts. It wasn't a question.

"No, sir."

The bony hands gripped Oliver's shoulders painfully. "You are not worth training for music. You will suffice as a servant in other ways."

He walked over to one of the couches, where a tidy pile of folded clothes sat. Oliver was beckoned forward, his legs moving without him, and the Maestro grasped the hem of his dress, pulling it off him. Oliver's heart pounded as he stood in the music room, gooseflesh rising on his arms and legs, utterly vulnerable. It was a relief when the scratchy black dress was tugged over his head, topped with a drab gray apron. The Maestro tossed aside the blue dress that Alexander had picked out for Oliver upon waking, and Oliver wondered if he'd ever wear clothes picked by his true master again.

The Maestro sat down on the couch, and Oliver was forced to kneel in front of him. His chin was tipped up to look into those cold, unfeeling eyes -- they were almost like the dead eyes of a doll or marionette, but far more sinister, swallowing up all light and heat and binding up his thoughts. Panic surged in Oliver's chest as the sound of a ticking clock grew louder. He was being enthralled, once more pulled into a nightmare, and this time he might not wake from it. His master wasn't coming to save him, nor was any hunter.

He thought of Vivian and how she could resist hypnotic thrall. If only he could…

Oliver was on the floor, his cheek smarting, his feeble attempt at thought and resistance put to an end. The Maestro loomed above him, and it was only his stance that made Oliver realize that he had been backhanded to the ground.

"You are, unfortunately, a particularly fragile human, and I must be careful lest I mar you," he said. "However, that doesn't mean I won't supply you with the required punishments." He sat back down, grasping Oliver's chin and pulling him back up to stare into his eyes. "You will not resist, is that clear?"

Oliver couldn't bring himself to say it. He didn't want to lose his mind, not like this, not for good. He longed for Alexander's soothing presence, for his master to sing to him and promise him safety and comfort. In his desperate imagination, he would wake up next to his master, reassured that this was all a terrible dream.

The grip on his chin tightened, and Oliver let out a pathetic mewl. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," he said miserably, because what else could he do? He was losing himself once more, his thoughts slipping away like water down a drain. The darkness was not like Alexander's enchanted slumber, a darkness like a warm bath, surrounded by his master's blissful lullaby. This was the darkness of the crypt, cold and devoid of life, a nothingness from which there could be no return.

"You are mine," the Maestro intoned.

"I am yours, sir." Oliver's own voice sounded dull and colorless.

"You no longer belong to Alexander."

"I -- no --" He didn't mean to resist. There was a wall in his mind, a barrier of loyalty that prevented him from saying those words.

And then, all he knew was searing pain and the sound of his own voice shrieking. The Maestro was pressing a lit candle to his arm, stopping him from flinching away as his skin burned. The agony was unbearable, and Oliver was passing out, his body prevented from collapse even as his vision darkened around the edges and his senses left him.

"Wake."

Oliver's eyes opened. He was obediently kneeling in front of the Maestro once more, as though that hadn't happened. The place where he was burned was no longer painful, feeling instead more like an insistent itch, but he couldn't glance down to look at it. Had that all been a terrible illusion?

"You will not resist me again," said the Maestro, as the sound of ticking clocks grew louder.

Oliver wanted to explain that he didn't mean to, that it was Alexander's enthrallment, but he wasn't capable of words. He was sinking again.

"You no longer belong to Alexander. You belong to me."

It was like being torn from a warm bath and tossed into a desert of ice and snow and whipping wind. "I -- I belong to you, sir."

"All of it."

"I no longer belong to Alexander, sir." It was an ice pick to the heart. "I belong to you, sir."

His body was kneeling placidly in front of his new master, but his mind was curling up in despair, trying to hold on to crumbs of hope. He'd be returned to Alexander after this. Alexander and Lily could fix what the Maestro had damaged, just as they had before. And perhaps… he hardly dared hope, but perhaps Alexander would manage to…

"You belong to me."

"I belong to you, sir." It was true. There would be no escape. He was frozen, crystallized in place in front of his new master.

"Fall. Fall deep into my control," he intoned. "There will be no resistance, no rebellion. Your mind will open to me."

Oliver's head nodded slowly, as the conscious part of his mind retreated to a far corner, trying to hold on to one bare sliver of thought.

"Your mind is weak. Malleable. Easily influenced." The melodic voice matched up perfectly with the tick-tock-tick in Oliver's mind. "Your personality, your thoughts, your memories, they're all mine to control, just as I effortlessly control your body."

He was slipping away. He didn't want his mind to be overtaken by misery for the rest of his days, but he wasn't strong enough to hold on, at the precipice of an abyss.

"Each night you stay here, your mind will weaken, and my hold over you will strengthen. Your memories of what happens in this manor may be removed, but your subconscious will recall every scrap of my deep influence over you."

Oliver's eyebrows furrowed, as he mentally thrashed to allow his thoughts to surface. "You'd remove my memories, sir?" he managed.

"As I see fit, yes. I must make certain adjustments to you. Even a creature as old as me may sometimes learn, and I have learned much from the inadequacy of my first spawn. I will take no chances with you, child. I will mold your mind to be perfect before I bestow upon you my terrible gift."

"Please," Oliver pled softly. "Please, sir. I will be obedient. I will not defy you. I will do anything you say without hesitation. Just please allow me my mind."

A freezing hand touched his cheek in a gesture that might almost seem comforting in wildly differing circumstances. "No," the Maestro said simply.

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Thank you for reading. Next week, Fitz comes home.

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#whump #whump writing #vampires #mind control #vampire whump #rare bookseller #oliver #maestro

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athenamikaelson · 1 year ago

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Klaus Mikaelson x Reader!Soulmate x Elijah Mikaelson PART 3

Word Count- 2.7

Warnings- swearing, canon violence, spoilers obvi, puking

“I really think this is a bad idea,” I tell Elena and Rose from the backseat of Elena’s SUV. Earlier this morning Elena called me and asked if I would go with her to one of Rose’s friends to learn more about Klaus. I had originally going to tell her no, but then remembered Theo had been trying to get me to take him to some football game upstate and I needed a reason to say no. I may hate the supernatural, but not as much as I hate packed arenas filled with drunk older men.

“Everything will be fine, Y/N. We’re just going to ask Slater some questions and we’ll be on our way back to Mystic Falls before dinner,” Elena sends me a reassuring smile from the front seat, “Besides, Slater can be trusted. Right, Rose?” She questions the pixie-haired vampire who sits silently in the driver’s seat.

Rose nods along to Elena’s question, “I’ve known Slater for a long time he’s the only person I have fully trusted other than…” Her face falls into a solemn look and I presume she’s thinking about Trevor, her now headless friend. Elena sends her a sad look while I try to find interest in my hands. Dealing with other people’s emotions has never been my strong suit.

“The bottom line is, we can trust him. If anyone is going to know anything about Klaus and ritual it’ll be him.”

I sigh and lean back into my seat, staring out the window. I watch as we drive by countless people going throughout their days. Normal-average-looking people doing mundane things, walking strollers, going to work, and school. Now that I know about the supernatural though questions swarm my mind if the people I’m watching are actual people. I mean I’m going to guess that baby in the stroller wasn’t a vampire…well.

“Do vampire babies exist,” I ask aloud. Elena turns to look over her shoulder at me and Rose just lets out a deep sigh as she flips the blinker on.

“Vampires can’t reproduce, so no,” She responds solemnly to which I shake my head, “No I mean like can babies be vampires?”

This question gains Rose’s attention as she turns over her shoulder and looks at me with an “Are you serious” look. Elena just looks from me to Rose, then back to me before shaking her head.

“No,” She pauses in thought, “At least I don’t think they can be. I mean technically maybe they could be but I don’t think an infant would be able to hunt for blood.”

Elena and I nod together as we come to the final conclusion that babies can in fact be vampires.

“Baby vampires don’t exist,” Rose states annoyed.

“Why not,” Elena turns to Rose who looks like she’s close to turning this car around or driving it off a cliff.

Rose is quiet for a moment as if she is actually going to give the question an answer before she shakes her head and sighs.

“They just can’t,” She turns the wheel into a parking spot in front of an industrial building, “We’re here.”

—

“Well, looks like he’s not home. Better come another day,” I’ll tell them as Rose’s knocks are met with no response. I twirl around on my heel and climb down a step but halt when Elena’s hand grabs the sleeve of my jacket.

“Mmn, no. We didn’t come all the way out here for nothing,” She says as she motions at the door to Rose. Rose just rolls her eyes as she breaks open the latch on the door. Impressive. Rose motions for us to walk in and I begrudgingly follow behind Elena.

Slater’s apartment is large with brick walls. My gaze catches odd-looking artifacts that line the bricked walls, along with artwork that appears to be mid-century.

“I don’t think he’s going to be much help,” Rose’s voice comes from the living room. Elena is already walking towards her when she lets out a gasp making my spine lock up. I slowly peek my head past the door and choke down bile as I see the veiny corpse of who I’m assuming was Slater.

“Shit.”

—-

I’m sitting on the couch of the dead guys' apartment as Rose and Elena look through Slater’s stuff. I wrap my sweater around my tighter as I watch them get stumped by the password-locked computers. I listen to Rose tell Elena we should just leave since we don’t have the password when a rustling comes from the room behind us.

“Is the dead guy alive,” I whisper as I kneel on the couch and barely raise my eyes over the top of it to try to look at the door? Rose walks to the door and clutches my sweater tighter to me as she opens it up and stares out.

“Alice,” Rose’s voice questioned.

“I thought the dead guy's name was Slater,” I whisper-yell to Elena as she just shakes her head. We both whip our heads to Rose as a dark-haired girl runs into her arms crying. So not Slater. I slightly cringe at her high-pitched cries and lower myself back onto the couch as Rose tries to soothe her.

—

Ten minutes later Rose, Elena, and I are in Slater’s kitchen making Slater’s “widow” tea. I had felt a moment of sympathy for the black-haired woman about losing her boyfriend until Rose enlightened Elena and me on her real reason for being with Slater. She had wanted to become a vampire aswell.

Rose and I watch from the kitchen as Elena tries to get the passcode out of Alice. It doesn’t seem to be going well until Elena promises Alice that she’ll get Rose to turn her if she helps us. Unsurprisingly that changes Alice’s dark mood and she skips over to the table of monitors. She puts in his password as Elena and Rose watch from over her shoulder. I haven’t changed from my seat in the kitchen though, just silently sipping the spare apple juice box I found in the fridge.

My ears perk up as Alice tells us his password was Kristen Stewart and how predictable Slater was. I pull myself off my bar stool and walk into the living room sipping my juice.

“What about that one? “Cody Webber, THey exchanged dozens of e-mails about Elijah,” Rose asks Alice pointing out some emails.

“I could call him,” Alice tells her.

Elena hands her her phone, “Tell him that we’re trying to send a message to Klaus. The doppelganger’s alive, and she is ready to surrender.”

Elena’s admission shocks me so much I drop my juice box onto the floor, “What the hell?”

Elena doesn’t look at either Rose or me as she tells Alice to get the message to him and she walks out of the room. Rose and I just stare at each other for a moment in shock before we rush after Elena.

“What are you doing,” Rose presses Elena.

“I’m getting Klaus’s attention.” Is all Elena says as if it’s not signing her own death certificate. Last night after I’d gotten home from picking Theo up Elena called me and filled me in on everything about this ritualistic sacrifice with this old guy Klaus. That’s the reason we had been taken. So why she wants to get this old guy’s attention now is beyond me.

“Well, no shit Elena! We got that part. What we want to know is why would you want to,” I throw my hands up at her in exasperation.

“If Klaus finds you he will kill you,” Rose looks at Elena as if she’s grown a second head and then comes to a realization, “which is what you wanted all along.”

Elena shakes her head, “It’s either me or my family.”

“So this whole charade was some suicide mission so you could sacrifice yourself and save everyone else.” Rose shakes her head at Elena’s actions as the sound of heals and the smell of Victoria’s Secret perfume enter the room.

“Cody is on his way,” I side-eye Alice, “And he really wants to meet you.”

—

Rose and I watch silently as Elena walks back into the living room, to wait for the Grimp Reaper named Cody.

“Ok listen to me,” Rose calls my attention as she pulls out her phone from her jeans, “You’re going to use my phone to call Damon and get him here no matter what. Do you understand me? I’ll go distract the suicidal one.” Rose shoves the phone into my hand and speeds off into the living room. I open her phone to find Damon’s contact and hope he picks up.

“What,” Damon’s annoyed voice comes from the other end.

“Um, hi. This is Y/N.”

Damon’s side goes quiet for a moment, “Who?”

I roll my eyes at his annoyed tone, “Y’know the girl that got kidnapped with Elena?”

“Elena gets kidnapped a lot you’re going to have to be more specific.”

I sigh deeply, “The one that smelled like vomit.”

“Ah, that one. What do you want Pukey, and why do you have Rose’s phone?” His tone has a sense of suspicion in it that makes me unnerved.

“Well long story short Elena made Rose and I take her to this dead guy's apartment,” I stop for a moment, “Well technically we didn’t know he was dead but..”

“Pukey spit it out I don’t have all day.”

“OK fine, sorry. Anyways, long story short Elena’s planned some suicide mission to give herself to Klaus and we need you to come to the dead guy's apartment to help us get her out of here.”

Damon lets out an annoyed growl from the other line, “Send me the address.”

“Ok, great I’ll send that-,” The dial tone cuts me off, “Ok then, rude.” I send Damon the address and pocket Rose’s phone hoping that he’ll get here in time.

—-

I try to focus on the coolness of the new apple juice in my hand as I watch the door from my spot on the couch. Elena’s pacing can be heard from behind me which is almost as noticeable as the scowl on Rose’s face. Elena’s pacing stops, gaining my attention as I move my gaze from the door to her.

“I’m just going to get a drink,” She tells me as she walks towards the kitchen. Rose and I share a look of discomfort as she exits. Elena’s gasps catch our attention though and my stomach drops expecting the worst as I rush to the kitchen. My guard drops slightly though as the familiar blue-eyed vampire, who I’m 89% sure is in love Elena stands in front of her.

“What are you doing here,” Damon questions Elena.

“What are you doing here,” Elena’s voice comes out breathy and she turns around to look at Rose and me.

“You called him,” She exclaims earning a small shrug and pursed lips from me, and a frown from Rose.

“We’re sorry, Elena,” Rose apologizes for us both.

“You said that you understood,” I go to chime in that I never said that but Damon speaks first.

“She lied.” Elena turns and I can only guess glares at him, which seems to be something she does a lot when it comes to Damon. I groan deeply as I get another whiff of that fucking perfume.

“Damon Salvatore,” Alice exclaims as she enters the room acting like she and Damon are old friends.

Damon tells Rose to get rid of her without breaking eye contact with Elena. As Rose leaves the room with Alice and my nostrils are free from the assault I stand awkwardly behind Elena and Damon as they argue back and forth. Elena tells him that she’s not going anywhere and Damon tells her the exact opposite. I try to sneak backward to escape this awkward situation but my back hits a shelf behind me knocking a vase of it and I watch with a scrunched-up face as it shatters against the floor.

“Whoops.”

Damon shoves Elena into a chair, “You sit down, and you,” Damon’s attention turns to me, “just don’t touch anything else.” I raise my hands in surrender as I keep my hold on my juice.

Everything’s going fine until the front door slams open causing me to spill some juice onto the top of my shirt in surprise. I can’t bother to clean it up though as I watch in fear as three bulky men enter the room. Where Rose, Damon, and Elena stand up to face them I slink further into my armchair with my comfort juice. I would help but I don’t think I can hold a candle to three vampires.

“We’re here for the doppelganger,” the blond one in the middle says.

“Thank you for coming,” Elena attempts to step forward but is grabbed by Damon. He tells her something but I’m too far away to hear it.

Damon turns back to face the men, “There’s nothing here for you.”

I jump in my seat when the man in the back falls to the ground. That turning feeling in my stomach from days ago returns as I see the man who is supposed to be very dead standing VERY much alive. Elijah. His brown hair is parted down the middle and a deep scowl is plastered on his face. Just like the other day, he’s dressed in a fancy button-up and slacks with shoes that probably cost more than my car.

Elijah speeds forward to the other two men, and I find myself involuntarily inching forward in my seat. I freeze though once I realize this movement has captured Elijah’s attention and the dark look from before has lessened into something that makes something deep in my chest flutter around. What the fuck Y/N? I’m frozen in place as Elijah’s eyes move across my face and down to the apple juice I’m now constricting in my hands. I watch as for a moment the corners of Elijah’s lips perk up.

“I ki

“I killed you, you were dead” Damon accusingly says to Elijah. Elijah's gaze slowly slides from mine and towards Damon.

“For centuries now,” Elijah’s nonchalant voice has me swallowing down a snort as I cover my mouth. Elijah’s eyes slide to mine for a moment making me realize he must’ve heard.

The burly man from before is the next to speak, “Who are you?”

“I’m Elijah.”

This revelation has the two men instantly dropping their alpha male acts, “We were going to bring her to you…for Klaus. She’s the doppelganger. I don’t know how she exists, but she does. Klaus would want to see her.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes at his words. It’s kind of obvious she’s the doppelganger buddy. Elijah doesn’t glance at the man once.

“Does anyone else know that you’re here,” As Elijah says this I get a sickening feeling in my gut just like before when I watched him decapitate a grown man. Elijah’s eyes pan to mine and then he glances at the window next to me. I look away from him and focus on the outside world beyond the glance since I feel what’s coming.

“Well,” Elijah continues, “then you have been incredibly helpful.” Gasps are the next audible thing as I clench my eyes shut and listen to two bodies drop to the floor.

—--

Elena’s hands are holding my hair back as I puke up my guts in the apartment parking lot. Damon who is already in the car is sighing so loudly I can hear him over my gags. Asshole.

“Just let it out,” Elena brushes back my hair soothingly, “Everything’s ok now.”

I whip my head back to throw her a, “are you serious” look. To which she responds with a shrug. I lift off my hands and knees and wipe my lips. Elena guides me to Damon’s car as I slide into the back seat. Elena’s door isn’t even fully shut before Damon hightails us out of the parking lot.

“I thought Elijah was dead! You guys told me he was dead! Why isn’t he not dead,” I exclaim from the backseat.

Damon’s fists tighten on the leather steering wheel, “Great question Pukey. It’s almost like no one else was wondering it.” His sarcastic remark and the unflattering nickname have me glaring at him.

“Damon enough,” Elena backs me up, “Y/N is right. Why is Elijah alive and why did he just leave us there alive?”

We sit in silence for a moment pondering the truth of Elena’s question.

“I’m not sure,” Damon glances at the side of Elena’s face, “But I’m going to find out.”

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belovedivies · 8 months ago

Note

Heyyy I love the killer Peter writing that you do it’s amazing🤩

Could I request relationship head canons for Peter like you did for Raphael but this time reader is an assassin like him

peter relationship headcanons

a/n: i'll be taking requests again now that i'm done with midterms (spoiler alert i got my ass beaten :3). this came out a little too long and specific for a hc but i plan to flesh this out on another oneshot- anw, enjoy anon!!! cw: minor spoiler, pre-canon, brief canon-typical cruelty wc: 1.26k m.list

IDEA

You met on neutral ground, mainly because his friend just wouldn’t shut up about this cute girl a few rooms down the hallway. You were three years older than Simon then, with a stature shorter than Peter himself.

Glory Club’s foundation is three things: violence, money, and ego. Assassins were pitched against each other on a daily basis, risking their lives to climb to the top where the Apostles rightfully resided. Where jealousy burnt red hot and became a driving force for success, the flame in you had long died out. Peter stared sometimes, and in your eyes, an ocean of arctic iciness stared right back.

He didn’t think much of it. He couldn’t begrudge anyone for it either. The paycheck was nice, and so was the control, the chokehold over others. Peter had and would play the part of an obedient puppet on strings to this organization as long as he drew breath, and as long it benefited them. Wouldn’t you do the same too? Downed a pill, cracked a skull, tossed and turned in a dusty corner later on because the dried blood felt so uncomfortably sticky on your nape, the scream of agony fresh on your mind. It wasn’t the nicest job out there, but it was for survival. A better cause. And Peter had thought about it rationally; he just owed that much to Father Gabriel.

It did get a little more complicated when you got roped in with them. Peter’s apathy had been evident while you stayed painfully austere, and Simon… was just trying his best to get both of you to talk. Five minutes in and a few hours after that afternoon, he couldn’t fathom why his comrade had thought it was a good idea for them to spar with not just a B-rank killer, but one whom neither of them had ever talked to.

OUTLINE

You really hated your job. Anyone would, at some point in their life.

Solo missions were a norm for Peter—things always worked out smoother and faster for the guy when he was on his own. On the rare occasion, he did get paired up with another person. Sometimes his fellow Apostles, the others a far too prideful assassin who chewed more than they could bite. But today there was you. And there wasn’t anything to go about besides a few surface-level exchanges and the silence in between. He couldn’t begrudge you. It’s only for survival.

A hit to the jugular and the job was done. Once out cold on the ground, the body wasn’t his responsibility anymore. Still, the boy watched with some amount of interest when you picked up the knife and poked around their insides. He left to light up a cigarette, took three brief puffs, and went back to the bedsheets covered in blood with the corpse nailed against the wall.

Sadism wasn’t intentional, but it was a running theme among the ranked Glory Club killers. The only collar made of metal and swine that bound them together by the neck. That you were so deep into the pit of insanity, you either shut off your emotions completely or learned to love the carnage.

Death reeked in every corner of the room, yet it was in you that Peter could tell the scent the clearest. You were there, so strangely out of the place, knees pulled tight against your chest. The look on your face was downright miserable.

When Peter made his way closer to inspect the scene, you tilted your head up to meet his face. The knife slipped, the moon shone, the rain tapered. Then you blinked, which was already so rare in itself. And Peter had blinked too, eyes widened, lips parted open just a fraction in surprise as tears welled up in your eyes. You sobbed and wept your dying heart out all the way until the cleanup crew showed up at the motel. One old lady, grey hair and croaked voice, held you in her arms. Months later when Peter finally asked again, he learned that it had hardly been the first.

FIRST DRAFT

Just down the road, past the cut of dense trees leading to a lonely seashore, there was an orphanage tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Seoul. The kids always waved whenever Peter passed by during his morning run, a gesture that he had returned with equal warmth. Twice a week, the courtyard was lit up with colorful string lights and music, the mouth-watering scent of food wafting through the night air.

He had seen you outside of the Cathedral before, but not like this. The gentle fluorescents accentuated your features with a certain softness, like marshmallow, like the sea breeze carding through his hair. And you had talked, had smiled, had laughed along with them, had stared at Peter with eyes wide as saucers when one of the caregivers invited him in. You were in an apron with the children clung to your waist, vying for an ounce of your attention. It was a week after the mission and you two had rarely crossed paths.

Peter wondered if you resented him for it; serving him a rather generous portion of seafood barbecue while dodging teasing comments from the kids through grinding teeth and knife-point smiles. But when your shoulders bumped against him on the bench, the tip of your right ear was burning red.

Simon ended up joining the week that followed, bringing more laughter to the shared space with his horrible singing and playfully flexing his swordsmanship. The edge of your smile grew softer and your shoulders more relaxed as you stuffed everyone’s plates with more food. Peter watched you through the rim of his cup with a tightness in his throat; you had only wanted to be normal.

EDIT

“The kids are my rock.” You confessed a few months later when the ice wall between you and him finally melted. This late into the night, there wasn’t a wisp of cloud in the sky. The waves hit the shore every second, washing away the footsteps as Peter took a stroll with you along the beach.

You asked him about his dream. He didn’t know how to answer it. Taking away the cruelty and violence that made him the way he is today, what was left of the Apostle Peter? A caring brother to Simon and a good son to Father Gabriel. He might as well have been a husk before and a pretty face after, but there rarely had been anything in between for Peter to define himself. A label. A purpose.

Before he could say it, you gave his shoulder a gentle pat and chuckle, eyes glinting with mirth. “You’ll probably be a bookstore typa guy when you grow older.” And against all odds, the statement drew a chuckle from him too.

Maybe he would. Maybe if there was ever a disbandment order from the Cathedral and Peter had lived long enough to have a hunched back and a head full of grey hair, he would run a small bookstore on his own. Maybe the future Simon would drop by sometimes and tease him for his old-man look despite being older than Peter was.

Maybe the future you, still alive and kicking then, would also visit him, and the future Peter, older and wiser than he is right now, might have had the courage to ask you to stay.

But tonight, there was just the two of you. The moon hung high above the sky, the sea glistened with stars and mysticality. Peter watched as the white moonlight lined up the bridge of your nose and the curves of your cupid bow. The artificial heart inside your chest might not have a pulse, but his own did.

And it was very much beating for you.

#killer peter #killer peter manhwa #manhwa x reader #killer peter x reader #manhwa #reader insert #x reader #killer pietro #x female reader #x female y/n

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toxicrelief · 27 days ago

Text

Crawling Back to You

Chapter fourteen

Synopsis: Your mind is running faster than you can control. To avoid spiraling you are determined to do anything but sit around at your apartment.

Pairing: Rex x F!Reader

Word Count: 6k

Chapter: 14/?

Masterlist of all Chapters

TW: Extremely Mild Depictions of Injuries

Note: Two-ish more chapters until one I have been waiting to write for months 😛😼

Taking time off had previously seemed to you like an escape. You fantasized about it a few times after difficult fights, being able to lie in your bed in your apartment and do absolutely nothing. Now that you were being ordered to do it, everything about it felt like a chore. The books on your shelves didn’t pique your interest, you had no one to invite over being that Rae was in a coma, and you did not have much reason to drive around town and run errands. God, were you just a loser?

You could slam your head into the wall a few times, see if that did anything for you. After your visit to the museum, you had rushed home, panicking over the implications of the differences in tales between what Cecil told you and the story the worker had relayed to you. A truth you didn’t want to accept. But it wasn’t a truth yet, right? You couldn’t be sure of your potential fault in the security guard’s death, in John’s death. You needed to confront Cecil and ask him what was true, and what wasn’t. You needed…

What did you need? You had slid to the floor against your front door, soft sobs sounding out in your quiet apartment. Between the discrepancies with your first mission, and whatever happened to Rex and Rae, you were beginning to feel like you were being eaten alive. Guilt, shame, regret, all of it washing over you time and time again like ocean waves pulling at embedded driftwood. It hurt to breathe, to think-

And then you woke up. Hours later, lying on the entry rug in front of your door.

It was the early hours of the next day, over twenty-four hours since you had been woken up to assist with the emergency operations. Your solution to all of these new conflicting feelings about the events of the previous day was simply thinking about something else when it started to surface. The lump in your throat reappeared as you looked at the empty carousel picture frame Rae had given you. You needed to do something. Something other than wallowing in this godforsaken apartment.

“What part of take a break wasn’t clear to you?”

“Fuck!” You were working up a sweat, your dominant hand held up, fingers outstretched towards the ReAnimen on the ever-familiar gurney. You had decided you would practice. If the Guardians wanted to raise a fuss about you passing out, having episodes, whatever, you would have to get better. You needed to be better. You needed to be able to go far longer without even getting a headache, or even a twinge. The only way you could accomplish this was practice. Even though working with ReAnimen had proven to be a lot worse at producing results than actual field in experience, you weren’t exactly able to produce some villain out of thin air for you to fight. “Fuck- fuck- fuck!”

You had been trying to make the corpse do anything. Shift, stand up, scratch its ass, ANYTHING. But you were met with nothing, just the sound of your own labored breathing. It didn’t budge, didn’t even tremble. You realized quickly that you couldn’t even feel the blood that resided within it.

“Did you hear me?”

You turned to look at Cecil who had entered moments ago. You knew it wouldn’t take him long to find out where you were and that you were trying to train. But, it had taken surprisingly long. You had run through scenarios in your head. How you would immediately confront him about the security guard, demand an explanation. How he would tell you to go home, and you would refuse, continue working. But now that he was standing here, and after at least an hour of trying to make any kind of connection you were feeling nothing but more fragile. It was stupid. Humiliating even. You had grown so much, completely competent on missions on your own or with others. You could bring people to their knees, literally. And now you couldn’t even get this thing to lift a finger, let alone anything useful.

Cecil’s expression softened slightly before he let out a gentle sigh. “What are you doing, Killdeer?”

You shook your head, running your hands through your hair. “I can’t-” How could you have killed that guard? It wasn’t possible, you couldn’t even get this damn ReAnimen to move. It wasn’t possible. “There’s still blood in there, right? No one removed it because I wasn’t here?”

“There is.” He affirms after a pause, and then he says your name, probably in hopes of getting you to focus on his earlier question. “Why are you here?”

“I have to be better.” You said quickly, extending your hand out to it again, drawing your eyebrows together in concentration.

“Quit it kid, you’re just gonna hurt yourself.” You ignored him, still tensing your entire hand as your eyes watched for any sign of movement. Still nothing. You felt like a little kid trying to test if you secretly had powers after watching a movie. Which wasn’t helping with the humiliation problem.

With a groan you lowered your hand, panting out a few breaths from the strain. “God fucking dammit.” You muttered.

There was a loaded silence as you looked down at your hands, delayed panic starting to settle in. You couldn’t make it move. What did this mean? Were you done? Destined to be powerless for the rest of your life after getting a taste? Could you just be normal again? Maybe you would work some kind of office job, watching as a building across the street gets demolished in a nearby tussle between some new super-villain, attempting to take over the world, and some well-meaning superhero. You would be a powerless bystander.

“You should go to the hospital.” Cecil’s voice cut through the silence.

“Do you think they’ll fix this?” Your voice had more snark to it than you meant it to. Luckily Cecil seemed to be more sympathetic than you thought he would be. In fact, he almost looked… content?

“Stop being difficult. I think it would be good for you to practice some healing rather than this, don’t you?” You glanced at the unmoving form on the gurney and then back to Cecil. “If you can lengthen your stamina in that regard, I’ll consider letting you work on Rex and Rae, help them get back in the field faster.”

“Is this supposed to make me feel better?” You responded quietly.

“It’s not my job to worry about how you feel.” He says matter-of-factly, but after a pause, he sighs again. “Hopefully it will make you feel better, kid.”

The hospital didn’t bustle with panic today. The halls were mostly empty, except for the occasional nurse progressing through their rounds. You could hear the persistent rhythmic beeping from every room you passed. The sound eventually fades into the background as the day goes on. It had been a while since you were on hospital duty. Cecil had taken you off after a patient had screamed at you, throwing everything at you they could find in their vicinity. You had experienced many unpleasant interactions during this part of your training, but that one stuck with you more than the rest. Each time you stood next to the doctor who explained some patient’s options to them, you watched the different reaction spread across their face before they even spoke. In less than five seconds after you were mentioned you could tell if your help was going to be welcome or scorned. You could tell if they thought you were a miracle, or unnatural. A freak. Which is exactly what the person who had been throwing ChapSticks and various utensils at you had called you.

Today had been better. There were a surprising number of children in the hospital, all of them sporting similar injuries, scrapes, and gashes. A doctor later told you that there had been some sort of incident at a nearby park, a building collapse, or something similar. You had been given such an expansive number of stories for each individual and how they got there that it was hard to keep track.

You now stood in the hall, leaning against the wall after a few hours of work, holding your fingers to your temple. On the happier side, you still had your powers. It must have been a fluke earlier with the ReAnimen, stress clouding your abilities. On the far less happy side, you could feel your brain pulsing within the confines of your skull. In fifteen minutes when the pain subsided you would go back to it, you needed to be better. But as for right now, you could throw up.

“You doing okay?” A familiar voice spoke from right next to you.

“’s fine, thank you, Donald.” You didn’t open your eyes, squeezing them shut to the point you started to see shapes and colors behind your eyelids.

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.” You responded softly. After a few minutes of silence, you started to feel the pain ebb slightly. Your body regenerating. Time to return to work.

“Oh god!” You exclaimed, jerking to the side quickly as you blinked your eyes open to see that Donald was still standing there. “Have you been there this whole time?”

“Yes.” He said with a subtle frown.

You stood for a moment eyeing him. Was that all he was going to say? “Are you okay, Donald?” You finally asked.

He hesitated for a brief second, his brows creasing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just stood here watching me for ages…in silence.” You raised a brow at him. “You worried I’m gonna have an episode, or are you needing to talk about something?”

“Can’t I stand with my friend?”

“Are we, Donald?” You laughed in a soft exhale. “Friends that is. Is that what this is?” You gesture between the two of you. On one hand, you were being honest, maybe a little less subtle about it than usual. You and Donald were on good terms, but friends? Maybe a week ago you would have quickly agreed. Smiled to yourself later that someone confirmed they thought well of you. Now you have bigger problems. Cecil had been the one to tell you that the security guard had been shot by one of the thieves. If this was not true and Cecil had lied, Donald had not told you otherwise. Hell of a friend.

“You’re upset.”

You sigh, straightening your back out in a stretch that has you immediately slouching forward again as it sends a cramp through your spine-adjacent muscles. “I’m tired is all, Donald. It’s good to see you.”

Donald is silent, still frowning. For once you wished he didn’t have those damn glasses. You couldn’t even tell if he was still looking at you. “If you have something to say or ask, just say it.”

“Donald, lets not-”

“You are obviously stewing on something. Tell me.”

You grimace, cursing yourself for your readability. You have to start being more subtle. “Donald-” You’re about to deny it, tell him he’s reading too far into it, you’ve just had a bad few days- bad week- bad life? But his head tilts slightly and you purse your lips closed, biting the inside of your lip. “What happened in the museum? My first mission, Donald. The one where the security guard died-”

“I know which one.” He interjected; his expression didn’t change at all from what you could tell. He just stood there staring at you for a moment. His pointer finger tapped lightly against his thigh.

Just as you were about to continue, he looked off to the left of him, into an open room next to you. It was vacant, you had chosen to stand here specifically because of that. If your headache had worsened, you had planned on lying down. “Follow me.” He said softly, stepping into the room and closing the door after you trailed in behind him. “The security guard-”

“John Spencer.” You blurted. You weren’t sure why. Even you referred to him as the security guard in your head. But at this moment you felt the need to humanize him. Carry the full weight of what his death meant.

“Mr. Spencer,” Donald continued, “Shot you.”

“I know, Donald-” You started with a groan, before he interrupted you, holding one of his hands up.

“That’s it, you know now and you knew then that he shot you.” You cocked your head almost imperceptibly.

“Okay?”

“Think back. You sat on the ground, having been shot for the first time in your life-”

“Hopefully the last.”

“You sat down, with him still pointing the gun at you. You didn’t knock him out like the others or disarm him in any way. And then you started to lose consciousness.”

“Why would I knock out a random civilian?” You questioned.

“To you, how you are now, it makes sense. He shot you. You can heal it back up with relative ease. To your subconscious, you just got shot, and didn’t do anything about it.”

You nodded, trying to follow what he was saying.

“We’ve been monitoring your brain activity during your episodes for a while now. Right before an occurrence there is a lull in your neurons. A moment, and you pass out to recuperate, you have a massive spike in cognitive functioning. Usually, this gets put back into the regeneration process, giving you a little more juice to stay awake longer.” He explained, gesturing with his hands. “It seems, or our hypothesis is, that you have a built-in defense mechanism. If your subconscious believes you are in danger it will… well it will save you.”

“Save me…” You trailed off, folding your arms over your chest. “Save me as in, kill whoever was threatening me.” It wasn’t a question. You had put it together now. It was all related to your subconscious, that was why you kept dreaming about John’s death. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a memory.

The blood speckling the wall up past the painting. His mouth hanging open as blood begins to shower from his throat. How you could feel that his legs were completely lacking in blood, not just low, squeezed dry. It had all happened.

“None of our agents were teleported in because once it started, we weren’t sure how long you could keep it up. How many bodies you could drain before you fully passed out. We had to wait until you collapsed, and by then, he was dead.”

You blinked a few times, your eyes strung slightly as you furrowed your brow somehow even harder. “Why…Why didn’t Cecil tell me the truth? Why didn’t you?” You turned your gaze to him, trying not to let the hurt reflect off your tone.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Donald looked sympathetic. “And we did not know enough about it. We needed to conduct more research.”

“You don’t get to decide what information I am allowed to have when it relates to me. I killed someone! I can’t just continue on like nothing happened! I am meant to protect people for- Jesus!” You ran both hands through your hair, pacing back and forth.

“Would it have helped?”

You slowed to a stop, slowly returning your attention back onto him. “What?” A soft crack taking over your tone.

“Would it have helped for you to know that you killed him? Would you have fought the same way on missions?”

“I- I don’t know Donald, maybe I would have quit.” You jumble out your words with an almost exasperated sigh.

“How many lives would have been lost if you had quit?”

“There’s no way to know for sure any of them would have been lost, Donald-”

“More than one. We know that. Rex and Rae, you saved their lives yesterday.”

“If I hadn’t quit the team, they might have avoided that completely!”

“All I am hearing is that you shouldn’t quit.”

“Goddamn it, Donald!” You ran a hand over your face. “It’s not the same. I could have…” You paused, biting the inside of your lip against the urge to start tearing up. “I could have saved them, Donald.” The conversation easily shifts to your guilt over Rex and Rae.

“You did save them.” He reaffirms gently.

“I didn’t save them from any of the pain. Rex was shot in the fucking head for Christ’s sake. Rae looked like she’d been crushed by a semi. And I was sleeping soundly in bed.”

Donald pauses, his gaze seems sympathetic but you can’t quite tell because of the glasses. Not that you want his sympathy. You want someone to hold you accountable, tell you how much of a shit bag you are. “The truth is,” He says your name, “You have done a lot of good, and you could beat yourself up over what has gone poorly. Or you can get up and do better.”

You don’t respond, chewing at the inside of your cheek. ‘what has gone poorly’, as if it is out of your control.

“I know firsthand the frustration of being lied to by the GDA. By the director.” The ridge of his lips rises slightly in what almost seems like a snarl. “We should have told you sooner. But sometimes this is just part of the job.” Even as he says it you can tell he does not necessarily agree with it. “Director Stedmen keeps a lot of secrets, he has a burden bigger than most. Especially after the incident in Chicago with Omniman.”

You sigh, but you feel your face soften slightly. “Does Cecil know you’re telling me this?”

“If he doesn’t, I am sure he will soon.”

You both stand there for a few moments, the silence enveloping you. You weren’t sure how to feel. Part of you had thought that knowing definitively would fix something, anything, everything. But now you knew, Donald had confirmed one of your worst fears, and you…didn’t feel any different. You could still hear the faint beeping of different machines in other rooms, and the shuffling of footsteps as they passed the closed door behind you.

“The world keeps spinning, huh?” You said with a tired smile, still trying to fully process everything.

“The world keeps spinning.” Donald repeated, his expression melancholy.

You and Donald decided to get lunch together at the hospital cafeteria. It was exactly what you expected, bland and forgettable. But it was nice to be able to sit and discuss with Donald. You weren’t sure if you could really be classified as friends. But you did truly believe he wanted what was best for you. He didn’t tell you what his issues with the GDA were, but you figured that it was for the best as well. After you had both finished and he eventually got called back in for one reason or another, you went back to it. People rejected you or accepted you. Over and over.

The amount of work you were doing would have felt more strenuous if you didn’t have so much to think about. The doctor you were shadowing around after shift change at one point snapped her fingers in front of your face because you had been zoned out to the point you had not heard her repeating your name.

“Do you need a break?” She asked, tilting her head at you, as she stood with her hands on the keyboard of the room’s computer. She had been updating the notes for a patient you had just mended back together.

“No!” You said quickly, startling the patient who was rubbing their arm, sitting on the bed. “Sorry, I mean, no.”

“How long have you been working for?”

“Well like a few months I suppose but I’ve done some volunteer-”

“Today.” She interrupted.

“Oh,” You thought for a second. “What time is it?”

“Why don’t you make this easy for me and just tell me what time you started.”

A little rude. You looked over at the patient before turning your attention back. “Six or so.”

“Go home. Come back tomorrow.”

“I’m not tired, I can keep going-” You stuttered, quickly faced with the reality of what it meant to go back home. The silence that awaited you.

“I will have you removed from the premises if I need to. Get off the clock, rookie.”

As far as you knew you were never on the clock to begin with. ‘Rookie’ my ass. But you didn’t argue back. Your temperament was too unpredictable recently, you didn’t want to say something you would regret. If you planned on continuing this work for the next few days, or weeks, or whatever Cecil wanted, it would be very awkward if you started making enemies.

You looked back at the patient and gave them a reassuring smile as they looked back and forth between you and the doctor. God this was a bit demeaning.

You didn’t want to go home yet. As you left the room your head swiveled left and right to take in the long, sterile hall. It was getting late, and the cafeteria was more than likely closed now, maybe you would just go to your old room.

Your room. Every now and again you recognized how odd your whole situation was. Granted you had not stayed there much recently…minus a short three-day stint, but it was still yours. You watched your shoes travel over the ground as you walked, not needing to look where you were going as the routine started to sink back in. You probably should have looked up though, people were still walking through the halls even if you weren’t looking for them. Which led to your shoulder slamming into someone who was walking past you.

“Shit!- I’m so sorry-” You started, rubbing your shoulder as you turned, whoever it was felt like walking into a brick wall.

“Oh no, I’m- wait don’t I know you?”

You straightened your posture out some as you felt the recognition dawn on you. “Yes, actually. Not formally though.” Shit.

“You were with Cecil when he came to my college,” Mark stated cautiously like the memory was unpleasant for him. It wouldn’t be surprising, honestly, Cecil pushed him pretty hard.

You nodded, feeling your brows draw together slightly at the already awkward tension falling over whatever this interaction was. “Yeah…” You stood there for a moment, before glancing around. You weren’t sure what or who you were looking for. Maybe anything to save you from this interaction. “I’m Killdeer, by the way.” You awkwardly told him your real name as well on top of that, explaining that you were a new Guardian member. Well, sort of a Guardian member.

“Oh. That’s you?” Mark eyebrows lifted in faint recognition.

“What’s me?” You were almost afraid to ask, crossing your arms loosely.

“Oh nothing, I just heard Rex talk about you.”

“What?” You were five seconds away from forming a permanent wrinkle between your eyebrows from the confused look you were giving him. “When?”

“Like, two minutes ago.”

“He’s awake?” Your arms dropped immediately. How long had he been awake? What had he been saying to Mark about you? And, even more importantly, with how much he hated you before all of this, how much did he hate you now? The thought of it almost made you wince. How high were the chances that you walked into whatever room he was in, and he immediately tried to explode you? Explode you? Detonate you? What even was the right word for this? Whatever, he’d do something to you around the lines of attempting to stop you from…continuing…anything.

Ever again.

Probably.

“Yeah, for a little while-”

“Which room?” You blurted.

“Uh?” Mark gave you a weird look, but a touch of a smile ghosted over his lips as he told you the room number.

“Thank you.” You jerked your head in a nod at him and almost immediately started heading that way, before doubling back to Mark. “It was nice to kind of formally meet you, you’re a big inspiration.” Good god. You were going to stay up at night thinking about this for a long time.

“It’s nice to meet you too?” He laughed, shaking your hand that was outstretched towards him.

The touch sent something through you. It wasn’t a jolt or some kind of electric current. It felt like a click. This was your first time making direct contact with him. The closest you had been to his life source. You could feel it. How it pumped in his veins, how a cluster of cells traveled to work on a bruise that must be hidden somewhere under his shirt.

This was a new development, an excellent development.

After the awful few days you were having, you could feel your mood lift slightly at the prospect of being able to tell Cecil something good. You had cracked Viltrumite DNA. You could feel it, but you couldn’t test it. You had no proof. For the first time in the months you had been in training, you wanted to go back to that cold training room. Test your abilities against that Viltrumite blood bag. You could feel even now that you would have complete control.

“Thank you!” You said again, hoping he wouldn’t be even further weirded out by your instant demeanor change, and the way you practically skipped away from him.

Crap, what number did he say again? Were you even in the correct building? After passing by a desk with nurses stationed at it three times, they finally waved you down and asked if you needed assistance. After the embarrassing ordeal of having to tell them you were “looking for Rex Splode” and them asking what his last name was, and you saying “…Splode?” you finally were able to get the correct number.

You watched as the numbers on the corresponding doors slowly ascended as you passed through the hall. You were only a few away now, and your pace was slowing.

Now that you were starting to process the excitement of your new development, and the shock of Rex already being awake, you were starting to realize how little you thought this through. What were you going to say? You should have made a plan, or a script, or something! You knew eventually he would wake up. You should have brought alcohol again, that worked pretty well last time.

And then you were at his door. It was cracked slightly open. A voice spoke from inside, feminine; one that was unfamiliar to you. You should go; he obviously has a visitor. Or maybe it was just a nurse? If someone else was there, was it less likely he would try to kill you? He wouldn’t actually kill you, right? You were just overthinking it.

Yeah…

You pushed the door open apprehensively, practically holding your breath. The curtain is pulled closed, and before you think better of it you trail your hand over the material, pulling it slightly ajar.

“Oh, hello.” An unfamiliar voice sounded from in front of you. A woman with bright ginger hair sat at the foot of the bed, blocking your view of the person who resided in it. You recognized her but you couldn’t quite place it.

“Hi, sorry, is this a bad time?” You’re already stepping back to exit the room, immediately taking the given opportunity to run. To be anywhere else.

“No, please!” She stands up, “I was just about to leave.” As she stands you make direct eye contact with the man she had been talking to in the bed. He’s tilting his head to the side, shifting himself so that he can see around her. You swallow dryly as you take him in, it feels as though your throat sticks closed at the sight of him.

He had on what almost looked like a metal helmet, light azure highlights shining off of it on the sides and front. It must be there to assist in his healing process, you doubt that it’s a new fashion statement. His right eye was slightly bloodied beneath the ocular lens. The section of his head the helmet did not cover revealed a choppy buzzcut they must have done after your assistance was no longer needed. Most surprising of all, he was smiling at you, not just smiling but practically beaming.

“Sorry.” You utter softly to the woman, giving her an apologetic smile.

“Really, don’t worry about it. I can only take him in small doses, you’re saving me.”

“Seriously? I almost died!” Rex whined, but his eyes quickly returned to you.

The woman gave you a polite nod before waving at Rex and exiting the room. Leaving you to the exact situation you were hoping to avoid by a guest being present.

You were now standing alone in Rex’s room. He maintained the most ridiculous grin you had ever seen, it almost unnerved you. Maybe it only felt ridiculous because you had hardly seen him smile before. Not in any genuine way.

“She seemed nice.” You said, not stepping any closer.

“Eve?” He responded, “Yeah, she is.”

Another beat of silence.

“You look like shit.” You could walk off a cliff. That’s the best you could come up with? Real conversation starter.

“You should see what the other guy looked like.” He quipped, his smile still not faltering.

Your eyes traveled down over him for a moment. His left arm which had been a bloody stump the last time you saw it was now sheathed in a metal covering. If he was telling the truth about looking better than whoever he had gone up against did, you almost couldn’t imagine the amount of damage done.

You opened your mouth again, to say- well really anything. Then your eyes landed on what looked like magazines being propped up by the metal appendage. “What’s that?”

“These?” He held one up, and after you nodded, he held the same one out for you. “Fucking brilliant is what they are!”

You stepped forward to take it out of his hand. “Ten biggest bedroom makeovers for your new dream home?” You read off the headline on the cover aloud. “A home improvement magazine?”

“Not just one.” He corrects, fanning out the other ones for you to look at.

Shit. You scrambled his brain when healing it. You knew that it was such a tender organ, and you botched it. Shit. You were never going to be able to heal anyone ever again. “Oh…That’s really…nice.” Should you tell someone? Get a doctor?

He looks up at you, his eyes squinting slightly. He pauses and you almost wonder if whatever he was thinking of fluttered out of his grasp. God, is that because of you too? You weren’t sure this kind of thing could even be fixed. Then he spoke. “I didn’t think you’d come.” It’s soft, hesitant.

“Do you want me to go?” You were already holding his magazine back out to him again, preparing to go. The last thing you wanted to do was agitate him; he’d already been through enough on your account.

“What?” His brows drew together slightly, and he made no move to take the booklet back.

“I’m sure you’re tired-”

“You should sit.” He said beckoning to the end of his bed where Eve had been sitting.

You hesitated. “How are you feeling, Rex?”

“Pretty good, considering I’m missing a hand, and have like fifty billion other things wrong with me.” He smiled. “Sit.” He gestured again, it wasn’t a command, but an invitation.

After a moment you decided to take him up on the offer. “You sure you’re feeling, okay? You’re being very… agreeable.” You squinted your eyes at him, if you kept saying stuff like that you were sure he’d snap out of it pretty quickly.

He seemingly ignored your question, opening one of the magazines. “See this?” He turned it towards you. “I think this would go really well in your entryway, right?”

Your eyes traveled over his face as he held it out to you. His expression was soft, he looked almost relaxed. After you didn’t say anything for a moment his eyes shifted from the page of the magazine up to you, which caused you to instantly look down. An unfamiliar feeling falling upon you. You chalked it up to the nauseua you had been feeling off and on all day.

“Rex, that’s like five hundred bucks.” You raise a brow at him.

“You’re a fucking superhero, you don’t think you can afford it?”

Rex had practically gone through the whole magazine with you, telling you what he thought was ugly, and what he thought worked well together. As well as assigning certain pieces of furniture to you personally. Saying “this looks like something you’d like.” And sometimes it was, other times it was the ugliest thing you’d ever seen in your life. He snickered each time before he pointed the ugly ones out, which made you wonder how mushy his brain truly was. That seemed very in character for him to you.

But overall, you didn’t discuss anything substantial. You didn’t ask him what happened to him and Rae, you didn’t mention his visit to your apartment, and you didn’t apologize. You figured you could do it all with time, as of right now he was alive. You’d have time to apologize later, but a secret part of you almost hoped he didn’t remember the interaction. Or any of your interactions, from how nice he was being to you.

When you got up to leave, he had frowned, sitting back in what felt a lot like disappointment.

“Will you come back tomorrow? Not that I’m desperate for company or anything, fuck, everyone is crowding to see me.” You looked around the empty room for a moment before returning your attention to him. “You just seem like you could pick out some good home magazines. That’s all.”

“Sure, Rex.” You had said, cocking an eyebrow up at him.

You pulled your phone out as you walked away, dialing Cecil.

Hello?

“Has anyone run any kind of brain scans on Rex yet?” You asked quickly, leaning against the wall a few rooms away.

Yes, why are you calling me this late to ask that?

“Sorry, I just visited him and he was acting strange. I’m worried I… healed something wrong. I mean you know how delicate the brain is-” You started speaking quickly, feeling the mild panic set in again that you had ignored during your entire visit.

Killdeer, his EEG results came back all clear. He’s completely fine. Go to bed.

“Oh…really? Because he seemed a little-” You heard a click and pulled your phone away from your ear. “-odd.” He hung up. Well, at least Cecil isn’t worried about it.

You looked up, the halls were more empty than usual. A quick glance at your phone told you that it was much later than you had thought it was. A steady rhythmic beeping brought you out of your daze, a dim light illuminated out of a dark room in front of you. After glancing up and down the hall you move towards it, exhaustion overshadowed by your curiosity.

A long tubelike structure with a glass cover glowed hazily in the center of the room. Cyan light showered over the walls and floor, licking away at the shadows. An unfamiliar-looking person rested inside, a blanket over her up to her midsection. Her hair spread around her head, sepia-colored locks almost mimicking a halo. An oxygen mask plastered over her mouth, her chest slowly rising and falling.

Looking around for a chair, your eyes locked on the recliner with wheels that resided in every room. Stepping forward, you pulled it up next to the contraption. Sitting down you ran your gaze over her again, her arms were both in bandages and her face was swollen almost beyond recognition.

“Hi, Rae.” You whisper, sitting down in front of the glass incubator, pushing your back against the seat. You rap your fingers against the armrest of the chair, your eyes slowly drooping more and more until you completely pass out.

Author's Note: Lowkey next chapter might have a bit of fluff don't tell anyone tho hehe

divider credit: @/ saradika

taglist: @kittymeowmrow @sketchlove @jewelwayne101 request to be tagged for new parts!

Chapter fifteen

#rex splode x reader #enemies to lovers #invincible #crawling back to you rexfic #invincible season 3 #no beta we die like rex splode apparently #rex sloan x reader #slow burn #rex splode #invincible rex splode #rex sloan #rex splode fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #writersoftumblr #writers on tumblr

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freelancelobotomy · 1 month ago

Note

GRAVITY PART 3 NOWWWWW

︻デ═一 CAVITY [S.R]

ೃ⁀➷ SUMMARY: Your ex-boyfriend’s murder plot is foiled by Spencer Reid. Now you’re trying to cover your tracks while figuring out if you can still trust the man who saved you (And wants you).

⋆·˚ ༘ *CW: Angst, guns, murder, kissing, death, slightly gorey details about death. ༊*·˚A/N: PART 3!!! Can be a standalone but if ur a little confused read part one and part two. If this gets 100 notes ill do part four lol also working on a part two for the other fic that I wrote like a week ago also gonna make a masterlist finally okay bye bye

Everyone thinks they know how they want to go. Peacefully, in their sleep, like the other 99% of the population. You’ve always accepted that death might come sooner—car crash, stroke, some genetic landmine waiting to go off especially because of your job—but none of that scared you.

If that’s how you went, then so be it.

But you refuse to die at the hands of your psychotic, moronic ex-boyfriend.

You slowly rise to your feet, hands raised behind your head, a defeated sigh escaping your lips.

“Alex—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Alexander, don’t do this.” You whisper it, your voice trembling now.

“Shut the fuck up and keep walking,” he hisses into your ear, the heat of his breath making your stomach churn.

You walk. Slowly. Toward the door. Your mind races. Do you let him take you to a second location? No. He said—promised—he’d kill you once he got out. So what is it? Die later? Or die trying to get away from him?

A faint click behind you. He’s cocked the gun. But its oddly quiet.

“Keep. Walking,” he growls, voice flat, cold, and final.

Your legs move. You hate that they do. Your body is in full self-preservation mode, choosing survival over pride, over logic, over resistance. He marches you behind the motel. The gravel crunches underfoot. A dingy white van looms ahead like a hearse in disguise.

Your carriage to the end.

Alexander groans behind you, something desperate in the sound.

“Shut up for a second! I can do this!” he snaps—at himself.

You catch his reflection in the van’s driver-side window. He’s hitting himself. Driving the heel of his palm into his own eye socket. Over and over.

What the hell is he doing? Is he hallucinating? Did he have a schizophrenic break from prison? Psychotic episode?

“I got her for you, isn’t that what you wante—”

You don’t let him finish. This might be your last chance. You swing your leg back hard, lodging your heel into his groin Hard.

He yelps, folding slightly. You spin to grab the gun—but he grabs your forearm, twisting it savagely. You scream, then retaliate with your free hand. One punch to the face. Two. A third—

He doesn’t drop.

He rams the gun into your chest and slams your body forward into the van’s door. The impact knocks the air from your lungs. Your cheek is pressed to the window. You brace for the shot.

And then you see it. In the reflection.

The tip of Alexander’s gun.

It’s orange.

And behind him is Spencer.

Real gun raised. Finger on the trigger.

BANG. A headshot.

His body drops to the ground and stiffens almost instantaneously. Not a sound from him, just silence and the thick heady scent of blood. Your feet are a pinkish-red. It’s probably his brain matter. Whatever it is... its warm. Bile rises to your throat.

You don’t scream. You don’t move. You’re frozen— Eyes locked on Alexander’s corpse.

“Y/N!” Spencer’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears. He’s running to you, panic in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

You sniff, a sob caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Your vision’s swimming. Nothing makes sense.

“What the actual fuck…”

“Hey. It’s okay. He can’t hurt you again. He’s gone.”

“Spencer…” you whisper. Your voice cracks. You glance at the body—then down.

Your foot nudges something beneath him.

The gun.

The fake one. Orange tip glinting under the motel floodlight.

Spencer follows your gaze. His eyes go wide. He kneels. Looks at the toy. Then back up at you.

Shit.

“Wait here,” he breathes, already turning.

He jogs off toward the motel. You don’t know what to think. Your pulse is still crashing in your ears.

Is he leaving? Is he going to frame you for this?

You want to believe he wouldn’t. You want to trust him. But why would you? He left you once. Years ago. Vanished without a word.

What’s stopping him from doing it again?

But then he returns.

Two guns in hand. One wrapped in a crinkled plastic bag from the motel’s ice bucket.

It’s your gun. From your drawer.

“He came into your room,” Spencer says, breath short. “Took your gun. Lured you out here to kidnap you. And I stopped him. Okay?”

You nod. Fast. Your whole body’s shaking now.

He grabs Alexander’s stiff hand, pries it open, and presses your gun into it. Wrapping his fingers around the grip. His index around the trigger. Forcing contact.

“Fingerprints,” he mutters. “That’s all they’ll need.”

Then Spencer tosses the toy gun into a metal trash can behind the van. It clangs, plastic echoing against metal. A hollow, ridiculous sound.

He plants your real gun in Alexander’s dead hand.

Police sirens wail in the distance—still faint, but getting closer.

You and Spencer walk to the motel lobby.

Your hands find each other’s without words. You sit in the plastic chairs by the vending machines. Sticky floor underfoot. Too much light.

You wait.

Together.

It took the police fifteen more minutes to arrive.

Spencer flashed his FBI credentials and delivered a clipped, practiced version of the story. He didn’t embellish, didn’t dramatize—just enough to sell the facts.

You were there. The gun was yours. The threat was real.

They take you both to the station for questioning.

You’re not stupid. You ask for your lawyer. Spencer does too.

The questions are basic. Run-of-the-mill. The detectives don’t press too hard, probably because Spencer is still technically one of them. Or maybe they see how shaken you are—how your hands won’t stop trembling. How your voice won’t come out when they ask if you need water. You did take them up on their offer to let you wash the gore off your feet though.

So you say nothing. You listen to your lawyer. You keep your eyes on the table.

They let you go.

That night, the police drive you back to the motel so you can collect your things. Everything feels distant. Fuzzy—like you’re watching a blurry movie. Dissocociatively going throught he motions.

You push open the door to your room.

Jiji is curled up on the bed, fast asleep.

He lifts his head when he hears you, purring like nothing ever happened.

“Mrow,” Jiji purrs.

“Jiji…” your voice breaks. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

You stumble to the bed and collapse onto your knees beside him, pulling him into your arms. He’s warm. And soft. Innocent.

You’d forgotten him.

Spencer was right. You are a bad cat mom.

No—worse than that. You’re a bad person.

You were an accomplice in a murder mill. You got your ex-boyfriend killed. You dragged your first love—your only real love—into a web of blood and lies. You can’t do it anymore.

It’s only a matter of time before someone connects the dots.

You clutch Jiji tighter.

You have to find Spencer. Give him Jiji—whatever his real name is. He should be returned to his rightful owner, at least.

You stand, turning around and there he is.

Spencer, standing silently in the doorway.

You jump.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, raising his hands. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I, uh… I came for my stuff.”

You gently put Jiji down.

Then you cross the room in two stumbling steps and collapse into Spencer’s arms, burying your face in his chest.

“‘M so sorry,” you sob, the words muffled by his shirt.

“Don’t apologize.” His voice is calm but firm. He lifts your face in his hands, his thum wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What happened isn’t your fault. At all. You’re hyperaroused right now—your brain is stuck in fight-or-flight. Seeing someone die… especially like that—someone trying to kill you—you’re traumatized. Your brain doesn’t know how to process the overload, so it’s trying to simplify it. By blaming yourself. Through guilt by means of control.”

“Yeah, but… I made you kill someone.” Again, you think, but don’t say.

Spencer’s jaw tenses. He looks down at the floor, his breath shallow.

“You didn’t make me do anything. He hit you. I saw red.”

His gaze finds yours again—slow, deliberate.

“I’d do anything for you, Y/N. I promise.”

You search his face. You want to believe him. God, you need to.

Your gaze flickers to his lips. One of his hands slides from your cheek to your hip, his thumb rubbing back and forth.

“I promise,” he echoes, softer now. He leans in and kisses you.

Slowly and Intentionally. No hesitation or fear, just…want.

You kiss him back. Your hands move instinctively, clutching his shoulders, pulling him flush against you. Your hands trembling, the adrenaline from earlier in the day still coursing through you.

You feel so guilty that you’re choking on it. Bile burns your throat. What have you done? You wanted this—so badly. Once. But that was a lifetime ago. Before the comitee. Before blood. Before tonight.

You still want him now. Of course you do. But this could go so wrong, so easily. You’re lying to him. You're lying with omission, with your hands, with your silence. But what other choice do you have? Prison?

You begin to laugh—soft at first, then shaky and sharp—right against his lips.

“What?” Spencer pulls back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed with concern.

You drop onto the motel bed, the laugh escaping again, jagged at the edges. He sits beside you.

“Today is the stupidest fucking day,” you say, wiping your face with the back of your hand. “I got held at gunpoint, abandoned my cat, and—” you gesture vaguely between you two, “—kissed the guy who took my virginity after he shot my ex.”

Spencer lets out a breathy chuckle. “Normal Sunday for me.”

You smack his chest with the back of your hand. He pretends to reel from the blow, dramatically collapsing backwards, right onto Jiji.

The kitten hisses, writhes out from beneath him, and bolts to the other bed, glaring murder.

“Oh my God,” you gasp through a snort.

Spencer raises both hands. “I’m sorry, Sergio.”

That does it. You laugh—really laugh—and it feels wrong and right at the same time. Like your body doesn't know if it should be crying or hysterical, so it’s doing both.

Spencer stands. His expression shifts, a sudden gravity returning to his features.

“I’m heading back to Vegas,” he says. “Ethan’s funeral is in three days.” A pause. “Let me take you home.”

You sit there a moment, staring at him. Letting the words sink in.

Home.

You think about the job. The suicides. The chandelier. The coworkers that aren’t alive anymore.

All loose ends—tied. Well. Except Spencer.

But he suffered a brain injury. He doesn’t remember what happened. Not all of it. And he literally killed for you.

So maybe he’s the safest loose end there is.

“I’ll get my stuff,” you say, standing.

This will be interesting.

Tags:

#spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #emily prentiss #aaron hotchner #jennifer jareau #david rossi #derek morgan #jordan todd #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader smut #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #dr reid #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader

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