#Lost in the fog: Visage | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sunkendreams · 1 year

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TO THE WOLVES.

𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁. | one-shot — not requested.

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴. | bo sinclair / fem!reader / vincent sinclair.

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁. | 5.8K.

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀. | threesome (m/f/m), mild degradation, spitting, vaginal fingering, dry humping, vaginal sex, breast play, tiddy sucking, dirty talk, descriptions of cum, breeding kink if you squint, begging, choking, biting, etc. this was extremely horny and I’m not apologizing.

𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿’𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲. | wow I’m back ?? this was my first big writing project of the year and I think I’ll probably do more with it, honestly. thanks for being so patient. I said I’d have this done a month ago (lmao I lied) but here it is. extremely proud of this one. thanks for your support, I love you all so much!

TAGLIST: @dootys ; @reveluving ; @sat10 ; @milland ; @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better ; @iamcautiouslyoptimistic ; @darklylucid ; @sirstompely ; @chaotichellscape ; @callsigncrash ; @peachygothgirl ; @manicpixiimurderdoll ; @sandeepics ; @rainbowcreepie ; @kiki-dohedo

August hung like a noxious cloud, oozing with sticky humidity and a brutal heat like no other. Crawdads sang in the dead of night, a cacophony that rose above the thick, Louisiana marshlands. Any heat was enough to drive you away indoors, to the cooler gloom of the Sinclair household — windows down, curtains billowing in the night.

Hikers and sightseers became increasingly prevalent, roaming the woods with a giddiness that would soon be snuffed out forever. It was best if you kept away from the onslaught that was to come, but you were never very far — screams echoed from the basement, silenced by a wax tomb.

A passive accomplice, that was what you were. Present for it all, never dissuading the twins from persuing their town of terror. Perhaps a sliver of you, a depraved splinter enjoyed it all, unconsciously reveling in the suffering, but you didn’t know yourself anymore.

Faces came and went, faces forever sealed inside wax, inside of the museum. Each with eyes that screamed fear, begging for a quick demise — eyes that lost such a lively sheen as time passed.

Sometimes you wondered what it was like to inhabit Bo’s brain, or perhaps Vincent’s — those fractured, mystifying minds that were capable of such immeasurable destruction. You would never exude chaos like they could, never be molded into their protégé, but you were their anchor.

Bo liked to pet your hair, whisper strings of vulgar words into your ear, tell you how much he wanted you. He was the thunder — tumultuous, rancorous and boisterous, yet clouded with a gloom that you couldn’t quite place, nor penetrate. Many people feared thunder, as it meant a storm was approaching, but thunder often paled in comparison to lightning.

That was Vincent — the lightning. Quick, unpredictable, unyielding — beautiful in the most terrifying of ways. He was some coiled predator, his rage subdued, agony subtle. It was hidden beneath the pale visage of a mask and beneath the many wax statues he’d poured countless hours into. Vincent’s hands were delicate, yet forged to kill, perhaps more than Bo’s ever were.

As you laid in bed, layered in a sheen of perspiration and trapped within a snare of sheets, you were only half-awake. Floorboards creaked underneath the quick, haughty steps of Bo, whose calloused fingers dragged against your cheek, his gentle way of rousing you.

“Hey,” A hoarse utterance emerged from his chapped lips, temples glittering with sweat from the fog of Louisiana heat. “Need your help.” Bo felt a pang of irritation for waking you, but it was urgent.

Stirring to consciousness, your vision swam with the bleariness of sleep, brows furrowing together. It wasn’t common for Bo to wake you in the dead of night like this, but you pushed yourself upright anyway, reaching for your robe. “What’s wrong?” You asked, attempting to swallow the growing lump within your throat.

Bo’s resolve was steadily fracturing, like the cracking of a stone foundation. He maintained a tempered glower for now, jaw set with an uncomfortable tension. “Vincent.” It only took a singular word for you to understand the gravity of the situation.

Haste drove you as you skittered out of bed, following Bo down the stairs and into the kitchen. You could make out the back of Vincent’s head — raven-coloured tresses somewhat disheveled, lithe form slumped-over within one of the wooden chairs. He was never out like this — you knew how much Bo’s twin preferred the sanctuary of the basement, his slice of seclusion.

Part of Vincent’s sweater had been torn apart, frayed fabric seeped in barely-dried crimson. The basement door was agape, and so was the front door. A shape of a body was laying just outside on the front steps, and you wondered if one of the victims had attempted an escape.

“He asked for you,” Bo’s voice did not retain the usual venom. The elder Sinclair was possessive over you, but the grievous injuries his brother had sustained far outweighed his own volatility. “M’askin’ you t’do what you can for him.”

Something pulled at your heartstrings, then and there — Vincent rarely requested your company. It was enough to warrant a look of surprise, but you couldn’t afford to stew within your own feelings.

“Of course.” Your gaze shifted, meeting Bo’s own fiery hues as he edged toward the doorway. A new pressure arose, taking care of his wounded twin, but you had stitched Bo up countless times before. This wouldn’t be any different.

It was the first time you had witnessed such vulnerability from Vincent, though unwilling, it still struck you as foreign. You fumbled around the kitchen for everything you’d need, returning to his side without an utterance.

Bo took care of the corpse outside — a likely distraction from the present. It was always him in Vincent’s position, bloodied and beaten, being torn apart and sewn up by you more times than he could count. His helplessness in the matter would be his own undoing if he didn’t keep himself occupied.

From the shadow of the front steps, Bo watched as you cleaned his brother’s wounds, gentle as to not startle him. It wasn’t your actions that made him grit his teeth, but the haunting manner in which Vincent ogled you, head canted downwards. Bo knew that look — intimately understood how his twin must’ve been staring, raking you in over and over — because it was the very same way he looked at you, too.

For the longest time, Bo deprived his twin of you, afraid that he’d come to blows over his own ugly, possessive desire, but his mind began to change. His own thoughts began to blossom into something insidious, fueled by a multitude of things — lust, frenzy, you, and perhaps an understanding of his own flesh and blood.

An understanding of what it was like to want — to fester with desire, bleeding want and endlessly yearning for something that you couldn’t have. In a moment of vulnerability, Bo felt a pang of sympathy for his twin.

As he hauled the body toward his truck, it left the both of you out of-sight, for now.

Vincent’s cerulean hue fluttered toward the door — Bo no longer stood vigil, lost to the dusk, prompting him to focus on you. He could detect his searing glare from the beyond, as if he possessed some sixth sense for his brother’s disdainful jealousy. He valued his twin’s feelings, but a sliver of it evaporated when it came to you.

You — uncomfortably seated on dirtied floorboards, knees digging into decades-old wood as your hands scurried to tend to him. Vincent wholly understood why Bo was enamored with you. It was difficult not to be, in truth — what man wouldn’t be?

Nimble fingers curled into the dirtied, rib-knit fabric, keeping his sweater aloft, allowing you to work unhindered. It was a deeper gash than he thought, but never enough to incapacitate him. He was stronger than that, pushing himself to the very edge over and over again.

His torso resembled a battlefield, scars etched deep into his pale flesh, livid and seething. Each mark told a story — a victim, an incident, or perhaps something more. Vincent kept a thinly-veiled investment into your movements, gaze fluttering across the delicate bend of your digits. Warm water cleansed the blood from his skin, towel and pressure soon to follow.

Feeling the residual effects from Bo’s tempestuous stare and aloof demeanor, you kept quiet, dutifully working on Vincent’s wounds. The silence was deafening — perhaps too loud, filling the gap with an unusual tension. He was eerily still, glittering eye glued to you, fluttering back and forth as he followed you.

Vincent often experienced something close to jealousy whenever he saw you and Bo together — some concealed sliver of his being yearned for that closeness, too. Envy became an understatement, and his fantasies were often locked away within wax statues. He wouldn’t dare intrude on what he presumed to be Bo’s, yet a string of intrusive thoughts began to take root, salacious seeds soon to blossom into something darker.

Both were callous in their own way — Bo was verbally obtuse, whereas Vincent was physically indifferent. Yet, both were violently possessive in similar ways, more than you were aware of. It would be a volatile clash if they were both involved at an intimate level. Vincent knew that Bo would never relinquish you without malice and hostility involved somehow.

Even now, with his twin nowhere in sight, he maintained a great deal of self-control, digits tensing against the tabletop. A sanguine glow enveloped you, cast in blood-orange and the dismal, pale kitchen light — the prettiest creature he’d ever seen.

It would’ve been so swift — brushing the top of your hair, ghosting his fingertips across the contour of your jawline, or perhaps leaning closer to inhale your scent. Yet, it all felt wrong, as if he were attempting to take something that didn’t belong to him. Vincent exhaled, slow and melancholy, before leaning back within the chair.

Curiosity and concern brought about your voice, words bubbling to the surface at last. “What happened?” The wound could’ve been a product of a great many things, and you decided to not voice your list of assumptions.

“Glass.” Vincent’s digits moved sluggishly, his signing seemingly exhausted. His hawkish gaze drifted toward the glittering shards that were partially scattered across the living room floor. It must’ve been a sizable shard of glass — he’d taken a gruesome hit.

Your brow furrowed, expression twitching with concern. “I’m sorry.” The apology slipped from your lips, laced with an underlying apprehension.

“No,” You apologized for things beyond your control, and your understanding — Vincent was to blame for the carnage, and he was willing to accept accountability. “Happened more times than I can count.” He signed, a soft grunt escaping him as you began to stitch flesh together again.

Sorrow sank into your bones — Vincent always had Bo present to pick him up, stitch him back together again. You wondered what would happen if he wasn’t around to do so. You weren’t a constant in their lives until recently, but you envisioned Vincent mending himself with those dexterous hands, hands that breathed life into wax, and snuffed it out all the same.

“Tell me if it’s too much, it isn’t a shallow wound.” Your mumble emerged from between frowning lips and a voice that commanded concentration. It was easy to immerse yourself in Vincent — he was noticeably different from his brother. Vincent was wiry and musculed, but wore it like a sleek jungle cat.

Bo held muscle in his arms — the taut, working hands of a skilled mechanic, rugged and calloused. The rest of him was stout and not nearly as lithe as his twin, who stood above him in stature. You enjoyed mulling over the comparisons, the intricate details that caught your eye, be it a scar or otherwise.

Hawkish eyes carefully roved over you, drinking you in as if he’d never seen you before — again, and again, and again. Vincent could watch you like this for an eternity from behind the curtain of midnight hair and the wax-laden visage.

He tensed and bit at his sleeve as you gained ground with the stitching, over halfway through. You could detect his pain — it was palpable, rolling off of him in red-hot waves that you wanted to quell so very terribly. “Almost done,” You breathed, noticing his white knuckles grappling at the tabletop. “Sorry.” The apology emerged, rushed as ever.

Vincent’s hands were terrifying and beautiful altogether — and in the midst of mending flesh, your mind descended into a flurry of depravity. What would it feel like for him to touch you, mold you in the way he did with wax? It was sudden, took you by surprise — so much so, that heat consumed your body, a purging fire.

Only his twin had touched you — it was often rough, twined with spurts of need and carnal lust and affection all twisted into some unruly knot. Bo was good to you, better when he wanted to be, but your thoughts began to dwell on Vincent.

How would he make you feel?

As you completed the last stitch, your throat grew tight, as if this foreign swarm of newfound sensations had stolen the breath from your lungs. Part of you felt guilty, as if this was the start of a horrible betrayal against Bo — none of it was intentional.

Sluggishly, Vincent began to uncoil his body, as if the tension washed away all at once. Despite the searing pain from his abdomen, the worst was over — medication could fix it.

“Vincent,” Your voice had dropped an octave, strenuous from tension and soft all the same, “You okay?” His lack of a reaction had prompted your concern, but maybe that was just it — he was accustomed to the pain.

“I’ll be fine.” Vincent signed, slumping backward into the rickety chair, despite the uncomfortable nature of the object itself. A soft, breathy sigh escaped him, barely audible through the waxy seal of the mask. He watched you stand, fingertips matted with his blood.

As you lingered at his side for a moment longer, goosebumps erupted like a plague across your flesh, feeling the sensation of his hand catch yours. Vincent’s touch was unusually gentle, perhaps an extension of gratitude, but it lasted much longer to be only that — your throat became tight, warmth soon to follow.

“Vincent,” A hapless gasp escaped you, likely worried of Bo’s impending return. “Is everything —“

The vice-like snare of his grasp began to tighten, as if commanding you to stay for only a moment, no recoiling. With his available hand, he signed, piercing gaze boring right through you like the bite of a knife. “Thank you.” The calloused pad of his thumb drifted across your knuckles, then.

“Y’finished with ‘im?” Bo’s tempered drawl filled the room — his hands were dirtied, in the process of being wiped clean by a stained rag. He pretended not to notice his twin clinging onto you, crossing the threshold from entryway to kitchen.

“Yeah.” Reluctantly, you slipped away from Vincent, nearly leaping sideways when Bo made himself known. An uncomfortable sensation began to flourish within the pit of your stomach, a gnawing that refused to cease.

It would’ve been dishonest of him to admit that he didn’t feel some seething streak of jealousy when Vincent grasped for your hand — Bo felt it fester, snap like the crack of a whip, before diminishing. He keenly studied the startled look you wore, picking it apart, dissecting you as you passed him into the kitchen.

Bo made the short stride toward his twin, crouching down in the very same spot you were in just moments beforehand. This was done intentionally, swiftly — while you were distracted with cleaning up, he spoke in hushed whispers to Vincent.

The brothers kept low, a conversation done in rugged utterances and the brief movement of curious fingers. Bo momentarily peered over his shoulder, hawkishly watching as you washed yourself free of his twin’s blood, tidied up the kitchen afterwards.

It was agreed upon, then — Vincent’s gaze held a vast amount of understanding, and perhaps a twinge of gratitude. Bo fought against a salacious grin, yet it forcefully tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. Both of them moved at once, as if their minds were one. Vincent lingered at the fringes of the table, movements unhindered by his injury.

You entered the fray, cleansed and dazed — your countenance reflected a semblance of confusion as Bo sauntered toward you. Something seemed off, as if the tension had suddenly flared to life, but a different tension — it lacked envy or malice, this one more familiar to you.

“She’s real pretty, ain’t she, Vince?” Bo drawled, clicking his tongue as he began to circle you like a predator flying overhead. He reveled in the way you shrank — a sheepish, bashful little thing. It was the instantaneous nature of it that left him feeling victorious, chest swelling with pride.

“Bo,” Your voice rose above a whisper, but only slightly. Instead, your stomach fluttered with butterflies, a nervousness gnawing its way into your very bones. “Stop.” Meek — your trembling tone reeked of it.

Bo finally stopped by your right side, swiping the pad of his thumb over your jaw. “Real sweet too, must be, puttin’ up with th’two of us,” As you opened your mouth to protest, he squeezed, forcing you to tense — your lips quivered. “Should hear her in bed. Mewlin’ like a little kitten.”

Vincent’s posture remained unnaturally rigid, though as Bo rambled on about the lascivious nature of your relationship, he slacked. Instead, he inched forward, tall and lithe as he leered in your direction — the electricity felt from his ogling alone was enough to make your knees shake. Dark tresses framed his visage, no obstructions this time.

“Yeah, you’ll see,” Bo purred into your ear, calloused digits stroking along your flesh, evoking a wave of gooseflesh that prickled across your skin. “Bet y’think ‘bout her, don’t you?” His inquiry was sharp, fringed with a faint venom, directed right at his brother.

You froze, a shudder rolling down your spine, skin feeling like an open furnace, as if fire had devoured you whole. The tension had reached an uncomfortable high, able to be sliced with the dullest of knives. “Bo,” You urged, unsure of where he was going with this. “What are you doing?”

He was hungry — a leering wolf, with sharp teeth and a ravenous stare. “M’brother likes lookin’ at y’too,” Bo husked, bleeding heat from behind you now. It was enough to evoke a shudder, your flesh creeping with an insatiable warmth. “You want him?”

There were little indications of humour — Bo’s voice remained steely, impervious to your bewilderment. Roughened digits slipped underneath your chin, directing your stare toward Vincent. It almost felt akin to some fever dream, a mirage that teased you in the dead of night.

No — this was reality.

“I—I…” Your stammer turned uncertain. If Bo expected honesty, he surely knew the answer already, didn’t he? Concern ate away at your gut — you were terrified of hurting Bo if you admitted your growing desires. What were you supposed to say?

“Be honest, sweetheart. M’bein’ real generous right now, he knows it.” Bo uttered along the cartilage of your ear, teeth gently scraping enough to make you shiver. He liked that — he drowned himself in making you so wound-up. “I ain’t a fuckin’ fool.” He murmured, nipping at the skin just underneath your earlobe.

A flame burned within your belly — a fire that demanded to be extinguished. You felt feverish, feeling the heat creep along your skin like a virus, or some haze. You were staring at Vincent now, who was closer than he was moments prior. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation began to feel heavy.

“Yes,” There was a relief you felt, in confessing. “I want the both of you,” Your voice nearly trailed off into some pathetic whine. “I want you both so bad.” You felt so desperate, in the best way possible. You knew that you were in for it, but the exhilaration replaced the nervousness.

“Mm,” Bo smirked, pressing a chaste kiss against the side of your head, nose briefly nestled atop your crown. “Hear that, Vince? She wants us both.” Leading the charge, he shamelessly reached around, groping at your breast in front of his twin who stood mere inches away, within arm’s reach.

Two layers of thin fabric was all that separated you from them — your baggy nightshirt and panties, concealed by the hem of the shirt itself. Bo was itching, chomping at the bit to see how much of a mess you’d become, a listless lust dancing beneath his mischievous stare.

Vincent finally closed in, peering toward his brother for approval. His dexterous hand closed around the hilt of his ivory knife, which sat soundly against his hip, begging to be utilized.

“No kissin’,” Bo uttered, his command directed toward Vincent — not you. “If y’fuck her, pull out, or this’ll never happen again.” The regulations were set — Vincent was willing to adhere to them. Kissing wasn’t something he sought from you, anyway. “Everythin’ else is fair game.”

Bo liked your mouth — that was his. He was being benevolent enough by sharing you, and Vincent knew this. As both twins shared an unspoken acknowledgment of boundaries, the fun was set to begin, and it was off to a jarring start as razor-sharp silver sliced down through your shirt.

A hapless gasp escaped you, emerging from the back of your throat. Vincent watched, endlessly hungry, desire flickering to life within his singular eye. He tugged the torn garment away, and your flesh prickled with goosebumps, due to some sick thrill coupled with the cool air.

Using the sofa as a crutch, Bo was comfortable enough to keep you pinned against him, his chest pressed snugly into your back. “Don’t be shy, Vince.” He growled, kneading your breasts between calloused fingers, planting a string of hot kisses along your neck.

You moaned, sheepishly ogling Vincent through half-lidded lashes. His breathing hitched — your eyes connected for a moment, enough for him to smooth his palm across your stomach, teasing the waistband of your panties.

It was brief — he lifted his hand toward his mask, slipping it aside enough to place two fingers into his mouth, coating his digits in spit. The realization of his intentions was what hit you the most, a pang of arousal that gathered between your legs.

Vincent’s hand lowered, quick to journey toward the juncture between your thighs. One hand tangled into a fist around your panties, tugging them down enough to barge in between, parting your legs with his sinewy frame.

His touch was incendiary — hot like the lick of an open flame, raking embers across your aching cunt. Vincent’s wet fingers found their way to your clit, causing you to sputter, whimper his name in as he stroked along your slit. He kept a steady rhythm, though it almost felt exploratory, as if he were dissecting you.

“Vincent,” You moaned, hips jolting into his hand, body beginning to rattle. Bo’s hands kept busy, nipples tugged and tortured through his thumb and forefinger, teeth grazing along the dip between your neck and shoulder. “Vince.”

The stark contrast between the brothers became glaringly apparent as time passed — you could find favor in both methods of intimacy. Vincent’s touch was borderline obsessive, yet he reveled in the compliance, the surrender. His digits continued to rub against your slit, until he began to work his way inside of you.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering erratically as his fingers sluggishly invaded your cunt. Swallowed by your tight heat, Vincent easily fell into some sort of pattern, moving his digits forward and back, just enough to make you squirm.

Bo’s digits wove their way into your hair, tugging you back at an angle, enough for his mouth to collide with yours — teeth, tongue, and lust. His jeans chafed against your backside, met with friction and the tangible protrusion of his erection. “Y’like that, don’t you?” He mumbled.

In between a flurry of feverish kisses, you could barely catch your breath, trapped between Vincent’s dexterous fingers and Bo’s greedy maw. He bit your lower lip, sharp enough to draw blood, coppery twang spattering against your tongue. Another simpering moan escaped you as Vincent curled his digits inside of you, thumb pressing to your clit.

“Yeah,” Bo exhaled, tongue catching crimson as he lapped at your mouth. “Lemme hear you.” He slurred, one hand wrestling with his belt in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure mounting within his cock.

You moaned again, cunt clenching around Vincent, legs beginning to quiver. “M’close.” A whimper tore past your lips, haplessly wedged between them. The taller twin let his fingers increase in speed, slipping in and out of your wet slit with a newfound haste. His free hand fell to your hip, as if guiding you toward an orgasm.

There wasn’t any room for recuperation — you came on Vincent’s fingers, nearly seeing stars, a white-hot haze blurring your senses. Bo spun you around, at his mercy as you faced him. Vincent was right behind you, chest nudging against your back, dark tresses brushing against the exposed skin of your shoulder.

“Open that pretty mouth, baby.” His voice was an alluring husk. Bo’s countenance was glazed with lust, hues dark and fiery — it was intense, more than you’d ever seen before. His thumb pried your mouth apart, caressing your lower lip as a show of affection.

Bo was shameless as he spit into your mouth, palm clasped tightly against the side of your jaw, digits unnaturally tense. It was more than enough to send another surge of heat between your legs, cunt still oozing with wetness and warmth.

“Fuckin’ slut, aren’t ‘cha?” Grit and desire struck you right to your core, his tone dropping an octave as he watched you swallow his saliva without an ounce of protest. Bo kissed the corner of your mouth, his hand now replacing Vincent’s. “Wet from that, look at you.” He crooned.

“Please Bo,” As pathetic as it seemed, you were desperate to have him inside of you — it didn’t matter for how long, or how much. You wanted to scratch the itch, to have the brothers fill the void within you. “Bo, fuck,” Your voice ran ragged, high-pitched and needy. “Please, Vince.”

Vincent purred — a sound akin to the low rolling of thunder. His fingers deftly swept across your shoulder, sweeping tresses aside as one hand loosened his belt. It made your heart skip a beat, stomach sloshing with anticipation.

“What d’you think, Vince? Should we let her have it?” Bo smirked — wolfish, a true mastermind as he toyed with you, as if you were nothing more than fodder for hungry predators. “She’s real needy.” He uttered, digits caressing along your cheek.

The jingling of an unclasped belt caught your attention, followed by the feeling of Vincent’s cock nestled against your rump. Gooseflesh tore across your skin like a tidal wave, and you swallowed the growing lump within your throat — he wasn’t shrewd by any means.

Bo let out a derisive snort, lip curling in a sneer. “Guess yer goin’ first,” He wasn’t thrilled, but at least he could take his time with you afterwards — torture you a little. Instead, his mouth lowered to the column of your throat, teeth playfully nicking sensitive flesh. “Mm.”

Vincent was less practiced, and twice as vigorous as his twin — his cock found its way to your cunt, and without warning, he thrust himself into you. A strangled whimper left you, devoured by Bo’s hungry kiss. Wax-laden palms clasped the curve of your hips, fingers gripping hard enough to leave bruises as he began to fuck you.

It was rough — you half expected Vincent to be sluggish, but his excitement and adrenaline had contorted him into nothing more than an avatar of lust. His cock smacked into your cunt with a plethora of lewd noises, stretching and filling you in a way that Bo couldn’t.

“Fuck,” You groaned, body glued to Bo’s. He was keeping busy, lips lowering from neck to collarbone, and then to your breasts. He was bent at an awkward angle, but as soon as his mouth wrapped around one of your nipples, it was pure bliss. “Bo, Vincent.” A whine left you.

Vincent’s grunts resonated just beside your ear, then. Every inch of him was consumed by your cunt, tight around him as he continued to fuck you. It was hot and messy, his pace sometimes scattered and erratic, as if he didn’t know what rhythm to adopt.

You would’ve given anything to stay static within the moment — within them. The voracious way in which Vincent clawed at your flesh, fucked you as if it would be his very last, kept your head spinning around in circles. Bo handled you as if you were molded from obsidian — unbreakable and precious, lips greedily sucking at your breast. The sensations you experienced were prodigious — you felt worshipped, no — coveted.

Wax had shuffled aside, spurred by Vincent’s yearning to just taste you — even if it was brief. Goosebumps prickled across your shoulder as roughened, misshapen lips graced your flesh, unusually gentle. It was a stark contrast to his animalistic thrusts, cock buried deep inside of you whilst his mouth treated you like a princess.

Ragged breathing fanned out across your skin, staggeringly warm, coming in erratic spurts to match Vincent’s sporadic thrusts. It was where he’d always wanted to be — next to you, tangled within you, and now, his opportunity had become reality. His hips snapped forward again, swiftly recoiling to spill himself on you.

Ropes of sticky cum lay glistening against your rump and back. He obeyed Bo’s wishes, despite every fiber in his being urging him otherwise. Vincent watched with silent glee as your legs trembled, rattling like leaves. You hadn’t come again, but Bo was about to leave you unable to walk.

“How’s about another,” Bo crooned, teeth gently nibbling along your earlobe. You scrambled for the correct words, to beg again, but it all died within your throat when you felt Bo’s cock slide against your slick heat. “There we go.”

Vincent’s warmth had left you, his figure retreating away, far enough for him to watch. He had been deprived of watching your countenance when he’d fucked you — his own obsessive tendencies kicked in, a dark and twisted thing. Now, he wanted to see — wanted to hear you, let the memory linger.

Bo was being beyond generous, a sentiment that waxed and waned. If his brother was content with being an observer, he was going to put on a little show. His lips curled into a devious grin, swiveling around to push you up against the sofa, placing high enough to wrap your legs around his hips.

“Want you t’beg for it,” Bo snarled, playfully nipping at your lower lip. “Let m’brother hear whose cock you want.” It was lewd — filthy expletives leaving his mouth in ragged strings. You felt a twinge of guilt, prepared to give Bo exactly what he wanted, but your relationship was, admittedly, much closer.

“Yours, Bo,” Instantaneously, your voice climbed in octave, reaching a pitch of desperation as you haplessly clawed at Bo’s arms. You clung to him, grappling for his shoulders. “I want you, Bo, please!” You whined. “Fuck me!” You weren’t very shy about the volume, either.

Satisfied, Bo thrust himself into your tight cunt, gritting his teeth at the familiar sensation. One hand kept you steady, poised against the curve of your waist, the other finding purchase around your throat. Calloused digits sat snug just underneath your jaw, occasionally applying spurts of pressure.

Your lips fell slack, head lazily lolled backwards as Bo began to fuck you, his pace steady and somewhat sloppy. He’d been waiting, he’d been patient — he wanted what was his. For a moment, your gaze flickered toward Vincent, who hadn’t moved, hadn’t taken his eyes off of you whatsoever.

It made your body burn, flesh crawling with an incendiary heat. Vincent wasn’t focused on the act itself — he was fixated on you. The fluctuations within your visage, the hooded glaze of desire that danced within your eyes, and the supple curves of your form — that was what Vincent reveled in. He cared little for his brother’s antics, but you made it all worthwhile.

Bo’s mouth tangled with yours, effectively tearing your attention away from Vincent altogether. It brought you back to now, to the scent of sex, the growling, bodies all wrapped up within one another. His fingers pressed against your neck, lips all-consuming and ravenous, teeth and tongue and boastfulness.

His cock battered away at your cunt, thighs quivering from the amount of stimulation you’d already been subjected to, enough to make your stomach tighten. “Bo!” You squeaked, nails digging into the jean fabric of his button-down, holding onto him for dear life. “Bo, I — m’close.”

“Gettin’ shy?” He teased, pressing a kiss against the side of your face. Bo was borderline ruthless, picking up his pace from steady to needy, staking his claim, festering with a desire to cum inside of you. “Jus’ a little more, sweetface.” Bo murmured.

Every fiber of your being was set ablaze, and to the brothers, you looked so beautiful like this — succumbing, all ensnared within your own lust, just laid bare.

You felt euphoric, legs trembling as he fucked you senseless, about as rough as he could be without really hurting you. Precum slathered his groin, tendrils of it shooting into your cunt, his cock pulsating and throbbing with warmth. He pounded into you like a man possessed, letting his hand fall away from your jugular, slithering in between your thighs instead.

As soon as his thumb circled your clit against, you cried out, and it was over for you, then. Your body jolted and jerked, reduced to putty within his grasp, cumming on his cock without any warning. Vincent savored the blissful look you bore — eyes nearly closed, lips agape, head rolled back.

Bo grunted, snapping forward once more for good measure, cumming in-tandem with you. Virile ropes of cum flooded your cunt, all inside of you, just as he wanted. It was the rapturous aftermath that allowed the both of you to settle, chests heaving with exhilaration. Perspiration had built up upon Bo’s brow and along the valley between your breasts.

Once he pulled out of you, messy and sluggish, your feet wobbled as you landed upon solid ground. Vincent had stood up somewhere in between, lingering around, as if awaiting commands.

“Fuck,” Bo sighed, unable to wipe the affectionate smirk away from his features. You appeared pleasantly disheveled, but the unusual tension had soon settled in. “Y’should clean up.” He stated, as if he played no part in your current state.

“Asshole.” You grumbled, tone jocular as Bo planted a kiss against your mouth. You squeezed Vincent’s hand in-passing, the gesture enough to catch Bo’s attention. His heart clenched within his chest — the realization that you loved them both was beginning to settle in.

Both of the brothers watched you awkwardly clamor up the stairs — disrobed and flustered. Bo almost felt a sliver of pity, seeing as you could barely walk, but it was partial amusement, too.

Vincent stood at his side, casting a sidelong glance toward his sweaty twin, who was busy basking in all of his post-fucking glory. “We could share.” He signed, a proposition that Bo knew was inevitable. Of course, it was your choice — a choice that he’d have to live with.

“Yeah,” Bo pondered aloud, but his thoughts soon drifted into perverse territory. The way you looked, wedged in between the two of them, was too tantalizing to pass up. “We could.”

#slasher x reader #slasher fanfiction #slasher x you #slasher fandom #house of wax #house of wax smut #bo sinclair x reader #vincent sinclair x reader #bo x reader x vincent #house of wax fanfic #bo sinclair x you #vincent sinclair x you

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cryptidwritings · 2 months

Text

There was something about magic that made Caretaker sick. It lingered in the air like an odorous spray, assaulting their nose and making their eyes sting.

They had asked Whumpee to refrain from using magic inside their house, choosing to take them at their word while removing the warding sigils from above the door and windows. So when they approached and the smell hit their nostrils, they realized that something must have been wrong. Very wrong.

Caretaker clamored through the front door. An invasive fog took over, with speckles of Whumpee's magic that looked like the rippling of a snakes skin, mixed with something else. One that Caretaker had never seen before; the visage of feathers dipped in blood.

They continued, checking each room carefully until they got to the last one. Their own.

The door was slightly open. A light stuttered through the crack. Caretaker took careful steps, reaching into their pouch, touching along the surface of the stones inside it for a particular pattern.

It was too quiet, or maybe their panic had cut out unnecessary information as their eyes dilated in the dimming darkness of the magic mixture.

They touched the door. Heat hit their arm and crawled up their neck, freeing their ears to small whimpers behind it; ones they recognized.

Whumpee.

Caretaker shoved the door open and ran inside. Whumpee was sitting at the foot of the bed, their knees up to their chest. Their tear-filled eyes stared straight ahead.

Caretaker followed their gaze and gasped. Whumper sat opposite them, staring at Whumpee, red-faced, as a large boa constricted around their torso and neck.

"H-lp!" They croaked.

Caretaker looked down at Whumpee. Their feathery scars protruded from the back of their shirt. They felt the rune in their pouch, one they had to use once before, but that was when Whumpee had lost control.

Despite their crying, they looked completely in control now.

And that bastard wasn't worth the effort, anyway.

#magic whumper #magic whump #magic whumpee #non magic caretaker #whumpee kills whumper #whumper turned whumpee #whump #whump community #whump writing #whumpblr #whump drabble #whump scenario

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milesluna · 4 months

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My Favorite Games of 2023.

Hi. Hello. Thanks ever so much for clicking on this page. Happy to have you.

First thing's first: I'm a little freak when it comes to video games. I don't feel the need to beat most games I play. From Software is one of my favorite studios in the industry and I've never finished a single one of their games. This means, fortunately, that I get to play a LOT more games than the average bear.

I've written up some blurbs about my top ten favorite games from 2023, but before that here's the list of every game I remember playing this year that left any sort of lasting impact on me (in no particular order):

Dead Space Remake Resident Evil 4 Remake F-Zero 99 Humanity Dredge Metroid Prime Remastered Anemoiaplois Alan Wake 2 Baldur’s Gate 3 LoZ Tears of the Kingdom Counter Strike 2 Hunt Showdown El Paso Elsewhere Jusant Slay the Princess| Remnant II The Finals Street FIghter 6 Lethal Company BattleBit Remastered Don’t Scream Homebody The Murder of Sonic the Hedgehog Pizza Tower World of Horror Super Mario Wonder Mr. Sun’s Hatbox Fifa 23 Sea of Stars (Demo) Half-Life (25th Anniversary Update)

And the games I played that were NOT released in 2023:

Unpacking Persona 4 Golden Picross 7 The Order 1886 Shovel Knight Dig Lost Planet: Extreme Condition Spider-Man: Miles Morales Pac-Man Championship Edition DX Project Zomboid Quake LoZ The Minish Cap Drill Dozer Wario Land 4 Pokemon Pinball Resident Evil Revelations Summer of ‘58 Trackmania TwinCop We Were Here Visage Cursed Halo CE Half-Life 2 (I probably play this once per year) Witch Hunt Red Dead Redemption 2 Cyberpunk 2077 Borderlands 3 Brutal Legend Cultic Slay the Spire PUBG Rez Infinite Batman Arkham City Alan Wake Alan Wake: American Nightmare Max Payne LoZ: Majora’s Mask 3DS Metroid Prime Metroid Prime 2 Tunic Everhood Final Fantasy VII Final Fantasy VII Remake GOODBYE WORLD Yakuza: Like a Dragon Critters for Sale Dome Keeper Phasmophobia Hades Nintendo Switch Sports

Now that you understand the kind of freak you're dealing with…

Let's dive into my top ten favorite games from this objectively fucked up year.

10. El Paso Elsewhere Developed by Texas indie studio Strange Scaffold, El Paso Elsewhere is a Max Payne-clone with vampires, an opinionated narrator, and lots and lots of bullet time. As a small studio punching well above their weight class, Strange Scaffold leans into abstract, PlayStation 1 minimalism when it comes to visuals and pairs them with a soundtrack that will make your hands sweat. The vibes are here and they're ready for the end of the world. I'm personally also a big fan of everything this studio stands for.

9. Mr. Sun's Hatbox I want you to imagine Metal Gear Solid V. Now I want you to imagine that game as a 2D, level-based, slapstick platformer you can play with up to three friends. If you think that sounds stupid, you'd be right. And it's beautiful. As you build up a secret army of soldiers with various skills (and disorders), you'll start to develop *favorites*. This game constantly asks if you're willing to send those favorites on a harrowing mission and risk losing them forever… or if you'd rather send an idiot you recently captured who blinks constantly and can't kill anyone without fainting.

8. Dredge Every year I feel like I find one game that falls into the “just one more round” category, and baby… Dredge was it for 2023. As a weary fisherman in strange waters, you'll make the most out of your 12 measly hours of sunlight only for your daily voyages to inevitably pull you into the darkness of night, and night is when things get weird. Rocks emerge from the fog that you swear weren't there before, your equipment malfunctions, and you're pretty sure you just saw something in the water… something big. Despite only containing a small collection of islands, the world of Dredge manages to feel vast - perhaps vast enough to swallow you whole.

7. Resident Evil 4 Remake I was curious to see what sort of changes would be made to the timeless classic and father of modern 3rd person shooters, Resident Evil 4. I wasn't let down. RE4 Remake takes all the things that didn't age well about the original, tossed them out, and replaced them with only good things. And MORE things! It's campy, fun, and better than a game of bingo.

6. Jusant I really feel like this one didn't get the recognition it deserves. Jusant is a rock climbing game that combines the quiet contemplation of Journey with the mechanical specificity of Death Stranding. Unlike Death Standing, though, there is very little story to interrupt your flow. There are plenty of collectible bits to find for those curious to learn more about what happened before the events of the game, but the environmental storytelling does most of the heavy lifting. For me, the joy of the game comes from how it feels. Right trigger controls your right hand grip, and left trigger controls left hand grip. Plan your route, manage your stamina, and climb high above the clouds in search of answers.

5. F-Zero 99 This. Shit. Slaps. I've never been a big F-Zero guy, but this MADE me one. The “battle royale”, 99 player format is the perfect fit for the ruthless, high octane world of the game. Races last about three minutes, and friend, they are the most intense, white-knuckled three minutes of your life. The decision to make your boost meter the same as your health meter started in F-Zero 64 (I believe), and it is so much more HARROWING in this game when another player could side-swipe you mere meters from the finish line and blow you to bits. Sadly it's only playable via Switch Online, but it made me cheer, laugh, and scream enough this year to earn a spot in my top 5.

4. Alan Wake 2 Remedy makes weird games that also manage to exist in the AAA space and for that I will forever love them. Although Alan Wake 2 resembles a 3rd person shooter survival horror, I'd honestly say it's more of a narrative game than anything else. There's sidequests, there's puzzles, there's upgradeable skills, but at the end of the day the characters, world, and story are what kept me playing. If you haven't checked them out recently, you should definitely watch a story recap of the original games before diving into this sequel, but the wild swings for the fences this game takes are well worth that small price of admission. There's a god damn musical number, for Christ's sake.

3. The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom I've really got nothing to say about this game that most people don't already know. It's incredible. The fact that Nintendo made a game that redefined an entire genre and then made a SEQUEL to it that ups the ante is remarkable. To be honest, I've only cleared the Rito, Zora, and Goron cities. I got a bit tired of exploring the depths and guiding Koroks to their friends, but I can't deny the sheer level of complexity and polish on display here. I saw someone on TikTok build a functioning Mecha Godzilla in this game. Good God. I've heard that the ending of this game is one of the best in the franchise, and if I'd seen it this year then it may have wound up higher on my list, but for the time being I'll continue picking up this masterpiece from time to time, chipping away at it until the day comes that I can finally smack the tits off thicc Ganondorf.

2. Half-Life (25th Anniversary Update) I know I'm gonna get shit for this, but I don't care. This year was the 25th anniversary of Half-Life and Valve released an update that made playing it (and it's online Death Match) much more accessible. I threw it on my Steam Deck out of curiosity, expecting to play for 20 minutes. I could not put it down. It is unbelievable how modern this game still feels. I simply had so much fun sprinting through the corridors of Black Mesa with a dozen weapons strapped to my back, blasting aliens and military Spec-Op chumps as a 24(?!) year old theoretical physicist.

1. Baldur's Gate III This game is fucked up, man. The sheer amount of writing in this game scares me. We can all talk about how BIG this game is, it deserves it, but the thing BG3 does better than any other role playing game I have ever experienced is actually encourage roleplaying. I've played through Act I four times now, with four different groups of friends, and it has felt fresh every time. I have seen the same events play out in so many different ways that it boggles the mind, but in every one of those play sessions I see players asking themselves “What would my lil guy do here?” rather than "what is the best thing to do here?" The game rewards players constantly for just trying shit and the D&D 5e rule set means playing like the character you said you were from the start leads to frequent Points of Inspiration. Maybe one day I'll see the end of this story (probably not), but I don't have to in order to feel a connection with BG3's world, characters, and most impressively, the characters I made myself.

Honorable Mentions for 2023

5. Dave the Diver 4. Homebody 3. Sea of Stars 2. Humanity 1. Super Mario Wonder

Top 5 Favorites NOT from 2023

5. Metroid Prime 4. Final Fantasy VII Remake 3. Cursed Halo (Halo CE Mod) 2. Red Dead Redemption 2 1. Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask (3DS)

Games I didn't have a chance to play from 2023 but still want to when I find more time...

Viewfinder Venba Chants of Sennaar Thirsty Suitors Hi-Fi Rush Moonring Armored Core VI Laika Aged Through Blood Bomb Rush Cyberfunk

OKAY THANKS BYE!

#video games #2023 #GOTY

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aernx · 9 months

Text

⌕ CUPID’S REFLECTION ✶ 종성

[ 09 ]﹒₊﹒almost as if we're meant to be

m.list % prev | next

Jay stopped on his tracks as he saw your figure against the door. You were yet to notice him, your eyes linger on the cellphone you held, seemingly typing something on your phone, focus fully averted.

Jay took a second to admire his said enemy. With your eyebrows forming a small crouch and the way your finger settled on your lips made it look like you were thinking.

A light breeze was like a soft blow to your hair, displaying your cheeks to the sunlight as he noticed the peachy colour of the blush you wore.

Maybe Jay would never admit it but, he always seem to notice every little thing about you. You wear a different liptint? He notices. You use a pinker shade of blush? He sees the way it compliments your visage.

Sure you were his enemy and vice versa. But that doesn’t mean he can’t admire your beauty right?

But still your beauty seemed to irk him. Gosh, why were you so pretty? Hating you would be easier if you were at least a bit ugly.

Jay considered himself as a smart student, sure not smarter than Jake but he could solve complex mathematical equations with no issue. But why was it when it comes to you, the answer always remain blurry, as if covered by a thick fog.

Maybe Jake was right. Maybe he was secretly falling deeper. Nah he wasn’t. It’s just that he’s weirdly attracted to you that’s all. You’re just pretty, yeah that’s it.

But for a second, Jay let himself get lost in your view before snapping out of his daze, clearing his throat, making his presence known.

Your head snapped towards the vibration that rung on your eardrums, a sight of Jay ahead of you opt you to lock your phone down before putting it inside your shoulder bag.

“So why’d you call me here?”

“Are you dumb or dummer? If you haven’t notice, Jjongsaengie. Our two friends are awfully head over heels for each other.” You paused before continuing, your hand pointing between you and him.

“So it’s our job to leave the two alone.”

Jay wasn’t dumb, of course he wasn’t. In fact he was one of the top students. The present scowl gracing his lips only made you let out a little chuckle. “You’re not very good at this aren’t you?”

Your words triggered Jay to roll his eyes. “You know you ruin that pretty face of yours with your foul mouth. You should try this thing called shutting up.”

“Really, you think so?” You tilted your head, feigning a little pout. “Other guys seem to really like my mouth, though.”

A bush of roses bloom on the apple of Jay’s cheeks, his eyes shot up, clearly not expecting those words of yours.

A small smile crawled to the end of your lips, curving it upwards. Cute.

“Uh-uhm so.” Flustered, he cleared his throat, attempting to change the topic. “When did you realize that I was getting them together too?”

“Ah that.” You squinted your eyes, thinking of a response.

“At first i didn’t know why you wanted to talk to Karina, but then i see the way Heeseung is literally all heart eyes around her and I see the way your always there pushing him to do something about it.”

Jay hummed at your response before saying, “Ah, always the observant Jeon Yn. So I’m guessing that’s also the reason why you wanted to talk to Hee?”

You nodded your head slightly, letting go a little ‘mhm’

“Well, I’m sorry I broke one of your cupid arrows.” A small apologetic smile kissed the tip of his lips.

“Nah it’s don’t worry about it.” You waved your hand in a dismissive way before continuing, “I’m just getting started, baby.”

Hell yeah you were. You were determined to get Heeseung and Karina together no matter what. It was clear that they both held infatuation towards the other and she did not want to let go of such a golden opportunity.

“Oh and I’m not sorry I slapped you by the way.”

A laugh erupted from his throat. “Ah typical lotus.”

Lotus? It has been years since Jay had referred you with that. A flower you’ve always dreaded. You hate lotuses and Jay knew that very well.

But right now at this moment, why does that nickname triggered the smile instead of a frown on your lips. Maybe you missed the way he called you that. Sure you said you hated it, you really do. But you can’t help but notice that it had grew on you just a little bit.

“Same for you right? Seems like I’ve been a hindrance for you to get a chance too.” You joked a little.

“Since when are you not a hindrance? Last time I checked you’ve always been a hindrance to me.” Jay raised one of his eyebrows, his expression telling you that he was just playing.

It’s been a long time since the two of you got to talk like this. Just talk, no war between words. It would be embarrassing to admit it but maybe, you did kinda liked it.

“Anyways we need a plan.” Jay started causing you to tilt your head, motioning for him to continue.

“We need a plan to get Heeseung and Karina together.” As you can tell they are so dense.” He said, emphasizing on the ‘so’.

You placed your finger on your chin, wondering. “Aren’t you famous for failing at cupid, Jongseong?”

But that doesn’t bring him down. “Aren’t you famous for getting people together by accident? Isn’t that perfect, Yn? It’s almost as if we’re made for each other.”

You knew he was joking in the last part he said. It worked, you were now giggling at his words. “Wow if I didn’t hate you so much I would’ve swooned on your last sentence.”

“Who knows maybe you might soon enough, after all I’m just getting started, baby.” Now you didn’t know who this was or what happened to your Jongseong. Was he seriously flirting with you right now?

“What’s with this 180 degrees shift of personality? You’ve always been an ass around me.” You squinted your eyes, suspicion looming behind those ireses.

And with that Jay was back to serious mode. “It’s true, I still don’t like you. But I love Heeseung more than I hate you, you know? I want him to be happy. And if being with Karina makes him happy, then I’m willing to do anything to get them together.”

You relate with what he said and actually put his words in your thoughts. It’s true, you and Jay were never in good terms. But for now, for Karina, you would do it.

“So, what do you say?” He offered once more.

You look up into his dilated pupils, looking through them for a few seconds before saying. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

m.list % prev | next

AERINOTES ⟡ we’re finally on to the main plot 😗 also jay n yn’s rivalry aren’t that deep. It’s actually kinda funny now that I think about it. Well this smau isn’t that srs so i hope u guys aren’t dissatisfied hehe (bc it’s js all 4 giggles am i rite)

TAGLIST + open ! send ask/comment to be added in

@kazmura @reivrze @hanniluvi @luvkpopp @lunavixia @iadorethemskz @yswon @luvistqrzzz @writingmeraki @143lele @thea-herondale @chaewon-slays @voguewonye @viagumi @linyki @flwrshee @miercerise @star4rin @ashy1um @arwn-yng @143won @yizhoutv @en-dream @mikaymee @sieuneo @moonmoongi @wonqr @sunnyglower @jayujus @donghyckl @teddywonss @haechansbbg @beomsbeanie @youmenotyummy @misoxhappy @chaerybae

nets ! @k-labels @hyfenet @kflixnet @enhanet

#⌕ cupid’s reflection ˖ ♡̷̸⁩#k labels #enhanet #enhypen x reader #enhypen smau #jay x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen x you #enhypen fanfiction #park jay x reader #park jay x you #jongseong x reader #enhypen jay x reader #enhypen ff #jay imagines #park jongseong x reader #jongseong imagines

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imaginesbymk · 11 months

Text

❝ I WISH I WERE HEATHER. ❞

Stranger Things One Shot

SYNOPSIS // It’s been a year since you and Eddie broke up. Even though it’s hinted that he could have eyes for the Queen of Hawkins High, you open up to him about your past trauma and fears that led to the downfall of your relationship. Unfortunately, it might be too late.

PAIRING — EDDIE MUNSON x READER.

TAGS: S4 spoilers, angst, swearing, drugs, mentions about trauma, psychological torture and violence + death

TAGLIST: @fangirlsarah16 @moonlit-imagines @captainshazamerica @always-imagine-a-dream @randomfandomimagine @locke-writes

WORD COUNT: 2,895

A/N: this was in my drafts since august and i lost all courage to write this until now. it’s been a while since i’ve written something long and since then my writing has become rusty and rushed, therefore this writing was heavily proofread by another writer. song inspo is heather by conan gray!!!!

btw i met joseph and and grace at fanexpo back in august :P it was uploaded on tiktok and it went viral :0

this is only an original WIP, meaning i do NOT take long imagines/oneshot requests, only gif imagines, headcanons and preferences. tip me on ko-fi or if you do want a long imagine/one shot, feel free to commission me !

"AH!” you winced in pain, rubbing the sore spot on your head. Not only did it worsen the headache that had been lingering for days, but you had also accidentally slammed into a locker, causing it to shut. Of course, you hadn't been paying attention to where you were going, and it certainly wasn't your intention to close someone's locker for them out of the goodness of your heart. Your cheeks flushed bright red when you heard the owner of the locker laugh.

"Appreciate it, y/n!" a classmate of yours flashed you a bright smile, struggling to hold a heavy stack of overdue library books in their hands. Fortunately, you were there to help by closing the locker for them.

The hallway erupted with laughter, and some students stared and pointed at you, making you feel like a spotlight was suddenly shining on you for everyone to see. Today wasn't your day. Well, to be honest, most days weren't really your day. You either had your fair share of bad days or those days when you felt like the universe had placed you here solely to suffer. And since last week, you had been experiencing the latter.

Did you have any idea why? No. Because you couldn't quite pinpoint what exactly was triggering it. But it made you feel paranoid and disconnected from the world. You couldn't determine if your surroundings were real or if they would distort into something nightmarish, if the people you interacted with were truly there or if their faces would morph into demonic visages while that voice taunted you. And what about that grandfather clock? Would it continue to chime and assault your eardrums?

You even questioned if slamming your head into the locker and embarrassing yourself in front of everyone had actually happened or if it was all a horrifying illusion. Would the laughter transform into the howls of demons, causing you to wake up in your bed, grateful that it was just a nightmare, reminding yourself to cut back on late-night horror films and junk food?

Just when you wished everyone's attention would shift elsewhere, Chrissy Cunningham strolled down the corridors toward the counselor's office, attracting the gazes of students who either despised her, yearned to date her, or simply wished to be her.

Hawkins High felt like a nightmare in itself. Thankfully, it was your final year. Time flew by. It almost seemed like yesterday when you thought your world was crumbling after receiving a C on that math test you believed you had aced. In hindsight, it wasn't even a significant issue. Right now, the real concern lay in the relentless headaches and the mental fog that left you unsteady. There was one major event from just last year that truly mattered: your breakup with Eddie Munson.

Eddie was older than you by a few months. He towered over you and had tattoos unprofessionally done in his trailer. He smiled more and goofed off more. He was still doing and being all those things, just without you, of course. You liked him when no one else did. You loved him and he loved you, but things never worked out like you both thought they would. It sucked that you’d be graduating and moving on without seeing him walk past you in the halls, he would intentionally raise his voice in the cafeteria just to be loud and obnoxious to all the social groups because he didn’t have a care in the world. You would miss all of that about him, even though he never acknowledged you ever since.

Had you wished it ended on good terms, maybe the nightmares and the nosebleeds would go away and you would have go on about your senior year. Though it wasn’t like the breakup ended bad, either. But of course, time flew, and that meant people will evolve. It was certain to you then that Eddie had completely forgotten about you.

“It’s very surprising to see you come to me for pot services again,” Eddie pointed out. “I thought you quit.”

"I got caught with it during spring break last year. I haven't touched a flower since," you confessed, hoping it would provide an opportunity to at least exchange a few words with him. You had waited an entire year for this chance, even though you didn't indulge in smoking weed as much anymore.

Yet, with the constant headaches, why the hell not?

Eddie shrugged, his arms crossed, causing a crease in his Hellfire Club jersey beneath his jacket. "Alright. What do you need?"

"Do you have it with you?"

"Not on me. It figures that on the one day I don't bring it, a customer reaches out to me. But, uh, come to the trailer tonight."

Returning to the trailer for the first time since the breakup would be a bittersweet mix of nostalgia and painful memories slowly burning within you. Eddie's trailer had once been your second home, and he would carry you inside so playfully, either over his shoulder or like newlyweds.

As you pedaled down the road, the forty dollars tucked safely in your pocket, you couldn't help but reminisce about how things used to be. When you were still together, Eddie's uncle had accepted you. You brought out the best in him. However, after the breakup, you hadn't seen him since. You wondered if he knew about Chrissy Cunningham and whether he viewed her as someone better than you.

The sounds of your bike tires grew louder, mirroring the rapid beat of your heart, while the night breezes intensified the anxiety churning in your stomach. Stepping into the trailer meant being greeted by its distinct scent—a mix of dirty laundry, cigarettes, and beer. You contemplated turning back, fearing that you might walk in and find her sitting on the couch. It would be a waste of time, leaving you with a sick feeling in your stomach, as aggravating and miserable as your constant headaches.

Yet, how could you hate her? You had heard great things about Chrissy Cunningham. It was normal at your age to feel jealous and have hurtful thoughts that overwhelmed the positive ones. Jealousy had clouded your judgment too much. You were certain that if you waved at a popular kid at Hawkins, they would give you strange looks. But Chrissy would never.

As you raced along the path, a putrid stench filled the air, surpassing anything imaginable—a scent resembling that of a rotting cadaver, but even worse. Suddenly, another sense kicked in—the sound.

It resembled that of a grandfather clock, its sharp chimes transitioning into a car honk.

A blinding light engulfed you, reminiscent of stage lights illuminating you as the star of a theater production or a security guard's flashlight catching two teenagers making out on a hill. Like a deer caught in headlights, you reacted instinctively.

Losing control of the handlebars, you desperately pulled on the brakes, but it was already too late. Your bike veered off the trail road, jolting up and down over the grass before crashing into a large tree.

You swore that you were a competent, average biker. You hadn't consumed anything impairing your ability to ride. Yet, unexpectedly, an indoor object—a grandfather clock—echoed outdoors like a deafening foghorn, assaulting your eardrums. The noise was unbearable.

You whimpered in pain.

“Shit!” You hear the sounds of a car door slamming and loud footsteps crunching the leaves. A loud exclaim came from the trees, and a tall figure emerged.

“Eddie?” you limped off the ground.

“No freakin’ way. Y/N?” His eyes widen. “JESUS H. CHRIST, are you crazy?! I could have killed you! Why weren’t your bike lights on?! Why were you riding your bike on the wrong side of the road?! Why-”

As he spewed questions at you all at once, it got you thinking. That grandfather clock had you in a trance that you didn’t notice incoming traffic? You needed to see a doctor, without mentioning that you almost got struck by a vehicle. “They were...” You glanced at your bike. The tires were rolling, and everything that made up of it was dented and broken. It was far too gone to even pedal a feet away. “I was on the path and something...”

You trail off. It was something. Would Eddie believe you and that something?

Eddie chuckles. “Man, imagine if you were driving.”

“Look, let’s walk back to the trailer.” You sighed, rubbing the aching spots on your head.

Eddie’s heel turns a bit, making it seem like he wanted to make this drug deal quick and easy. “Fine by me. You okay to walk?”

No. “Yes.”

The sudden silence and awkwardness hung in the air, leaving you with an overwhelming urge to break it, to fill the void with words. Yet, you found yourself waiting for Eddie to speak first, each time hoping he would initiate the conversation. The small talk had faded into complete silence, the only audible sounds being the rustling of footsteps on fallen leaves and twigs. As you both emerged from the woods, a cringe washed over you. In that fleeting moment, your hands came close to brushing against Eddie's, and you couldn't help but notice the coldness, likely due to the chilly night.

Just bite the bullet and tell him how you have been really feeling.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” you confess to Eddie.

"Funny," his lips curled into a grin, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Chrissy said the same thing earlier today."

Your heart sank at his response. The connection you had hoped for, the understanding and empathy you longed for, seemed to slip further away. It stung to realize that he could relate more to Chrissy than to you.

"How have you been doing?" you asked. "And how's your uncle?"

"Ah, the old man," Eddie replied. "He's doing great, I guess. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's been a long time since I've seen him. I hope he hasn't forgotten about me." You wondered if it would even matter if he did.

Eddie's expression softened, and he reassured you, "I'm sure he doesn't. But, you know, after we broke up, he stopped asking about you."

Your voice trembled slightly as you spoke the words you had been holding back, the fear of the answer lingering in the air. "Same with you. I hope you haven't... forgotten about me. You haven't forgotten about me, have you?"

Eddie hesitated, his gaze searching yours. After a long moment, he finally responded, his voice filled with uncertainty, "No, I haven't forgotten about you. I could never forget you, Y/N.” He stammered. “I mean, I did try to, y’know? I tried burying the pain and all that. It wasn’t easy for me. And I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you, either.”

"I'm so sorry," you murmured, your gaze fixed on the ground. You couldn't help but fidget, absentmindedly massaging your head where it had hit the grass.

"Why?" Eddie's voice was filled with confusion. "We both knew we weren't going to work out."

The two of you stopped and stood in front of each other now. You took a deep breath, gathering your thoughts before responding. "Eddie, in a few months, I'll be wearing a grad gown. I don't know what's going to happen to you, but for me, I have to face the future and pave my own path once I receive my diploma. But I can't leave Hawkins High without saying my piece, without telling you how awful I've felt since we broke up."

You looked up at him, your eyes pleading for understanding. The weight of your unspoken emotions hung in the air, waiting for his response.

Eddie gave you a soft smile. “Oh, me? I’m fine.” He chuckles. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I knew you’d get through senior year without breaking a sweat. You’re a smart kid, Y/N.”

“I wasn’t smart enough to make things right.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t wait up for me by then.”

“I wish I could turn back time and make things right, whether I was more to blame or you. Is it too late to do that?”

Eddie shook his head in confusion. “What are...What are you trying to say? That you want to get back together?”

Yes, you thought. You’d rather repeat another year at a hellhole of a high school than leave him.

“Eddie, I need you.” you exclaim, almost feeling your bare knees giving in to the ground. “I just need you to stay with me, please. I’ll do the same.”

His eyes softened. You missed him. You admitted that you missed him. You were vulnerable and all you needed was him.

“I’m sorry, okay? I-”

"Y/N..." Eddie's hands tightened around your shoulders, and in that moment, you yearned for the comforting embrace that could chase away all the pain. But as you looked into his eyes, you sensed that something was amiss. He held your gaze, his words filled with conviction, "I'm never going to leave you."

Closure? Reconcile? Whatever it was, it felt right. You nodded, hoping that his words would bring the solace you so desperately craved. However, as the seconds ticked by, it became clear that he wasn't going to envelop you in a tight hug. The realization hit you like a wave, leaving a bittersweet ache in your heart. You couldn't help but wonder if someone like Chrissy would soon find herself in his arms instead.

"I won't leave you," he repeated, his voice steady. But something in his demeanor made you question his words. What was he doing? Why did he suddenly become so stiff? You glanced behind him and realized that his uncle's van, the one he had driven to school and that had nearly killed you moments ago, was no longer there...

A chilling wind swept through the air, and in that moment, Eddie Munson's demeanor shifted. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly intensity, and his once familiar face contorted into a twisted visage.

He wasn’t Eddie anymore. It never was.

It became clear that everything you had experienced, from the accident to the drug deal, had been nothing but a carefully constructed illusion. The realization sent shivers down your spine, as the true nature of your encounter with Eddie Munson revealed itself to be far more sinister than you could have ever imagined.

“No...” you whimper at the grotesque figure. “No...”

As you gaze upon it, your trembling voice barely escapes your lips. The sight before you is utterly horrifying. It stood tall, much taller than Eddie. It was towering over you with an imposing presence. Its form is distorted and mangled, as if it were once human but now twisted into something far more sinister. Its body is covered in decaying flesh, rotting and putrid, giving off a stench that made you sick.

Its face is a macabre display of decay and malevolence. Its eyes, once filled with life and passion for heavy metal and electric guitars, now gleam with a soulless darkness, void of any humanity. The skin around its eyes is sunken and sagging, giving it an eerie skull-like appearance. It had deep scarring on its face, marking the remnants of a gruesome past.

As your gaze travels down, you see its limbs, twisted and contorted, ending in long, bony fingers that resemble claws. You could imagine what this creature was capable of doing to you, and if it has done harm to others, if Eddie was it’s next victim.

You can't help but cry about the realization that this was the being responsible for the illusion, for the headaches, the nosebleeds, the voices, the clock.

"Y/N, there's no going back," it hissed, its voice a blend of Eddie's and something far more evil. Its elongated, demonic claw extended towards your face. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Your last dying breath, or perhaps last dying choke, went out...

Just a year after the tragic death of Billy Hargrove, the news of your demise shook the town of Hawkins once again. Your untimely passing was declared a heartbreaking tragedy, leaving a somber cloud hanging over the community. If only you had made a right turn instead of veering off course, you might have biked down to the trailer park, seeking aid from the nearest resident. Your body was found on the grass, with no trace of blood pooling around you except for your eyes that were burst out of the sockets. The police and examiner described your limbs as snapped twigs, and that’s what disturbed them the most upon discovery. They’d never seen anything like it - something unnatural and out of this world, like that thing that killed you like a bug.

As terror gripped your heart, the true agony came from a devastating truth that shattered your soul. Your desperate attempt to reconnect with Eddie, to mend what was broken, had been nothing but an illusion. He had never been there, waiting for you, as you had hoped.

The realization tore through you like a jagged blade, inflicting a pain far deeper than the monstrous creature standing before you. In that moment, as darkness closed in, you understood the bitter truth: your chance at redemption, at reclaiming the love you had lost, had never truly existed.

And with that crushing knowledge, everything faded to darkness.

END.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson one shot #stranger things x reader #stranger things one shot #stranger things imagines #stranger things imagine #reader insert #one shot #imagine #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things s4 #stranger things gif

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pink-strawberry-kissess · 11 months

Text

Another order: Everyday with you (Ada Wong X Leon S Kennedy)

Excerpts of my memories of you

(crossposted on my ao3) (read on ao3 for better formatting + full warnings)

Summary: Ada Wong had always had her walls up, shielding her heart from the rest of the world. Until a certain bright eyed young man stumbled his way into her heart. And he held her heart as tenderly as she allowed him to. And that was enough for a while, until it wasn't.

Ada reminisces on memories she'd shared with him, remembering the good times and the bad times. Wondering if this was enough for either of them.

(A bit of a character study of Ada, and an excuse for me to write shorter stories about her.)

Notes: (To be read within the universe of my "Everyday with you," series. You can read this alone, but it will tie back to several chapters within that series and would be more fulfilling if you had the background of that universe)

An Ada centric character study within my written universe in "every day with you."

I wanted to add in more stories I couldn’t add into the main series, and it was an excuse for me to write stories that are smaller and Ada centric.

this got way longer than i thought it would be sorry lol BUT they are separated into tiny little chapters hopefully so it doesn't seem to daunting

angst, fluff, smut (past tense), mentions of ptsd, perspective changes, illness, Ada dissociates, ada’s trauma, night terrors, ada’s ptsd, different time jumps, memories and past retellings, to be read with everyday with you to add in more stories i couldn’t add into the main series, an excuse for me to write stories that are smaller and Ada centric

Act 1: The Façade of Ada Wong

In the quiet of night, she stares in the ghostly wet reflection of the mirror. The mists obscuring her visage until she unceremoniously wipes it with her hand. She appears like an apparition, lost in the fog.

Her skin is hot, nearly burning with the boiling waters poured onto her naked body. The burning sensation was a gentle reminder; that she was still here.

The aftermath of her daily ritual clouds the rest of the room in a humid air. The smallest breaths of the cool night air slips in as the fiery heat escapes out a tiny cracked open window.

She sees herself and yet she doesn’t. The image of the woman in front of her... isn’t her. The elusive Ada Wong. She’s not really Ada Wong, but she is. It’s her face, her eyes, her lips. She reacts to the name, but she can’t see herself anymore. Her birth name was lost, forgotten so long ago. Her new name imprinted on her and rings in her ears in the sound of his voice.

Water droplets drips from her wet tresses, her dark black hair sticking to her forehead and the sides of her face. She wasn’t naive to her own vanity, using her beauty to her advantage as she saw fit. And yet every little imperfection she saw was a weakness she had to cover, to shield away from the world.

The counter was littered with expensive products. Creams and lotions, toners and acids, all meant to turn back the wheel of time. Detailed filigree on gold covered tubes held reds and pinks; reddish hues that she coated on her lips with gentle dabs of her ring finger. Long tubes filled with a dark midnight black coated her lashes. An eyelash curler was used to bend and open her lashes. The memory of him as he fixated on her almost appeared in the misty mirror. The way he watched with adoration as she painted her lips her favourite red. The way his brow raised in intrigue at each new tool she used. They way he said the curler looked like a “torture device for your lashes.” The ‘intricacies of a woman’s beauty routine,’ he'd never fully understand.

As the rest of her shower fades away and the mirror growing clearer, the facade of Ada Wong appears again. Her sharp sleek black hair combed into a straight cut bob. Flicked out eyeliner that frames her eyes and pierces into anyone’s soul who dared to meet her gaze. Glossy red lips that pout innocently, but smirk into a viciously sly grin.

She swallows, lifting her head up high. Face framing strands of her hair fall against her cheek. Her shoulders drop, her chest falling with a slow exhale.

Ada Wong, the mercenary appears.

Act 2: “Home, or whatever home was meant to be.”

Being on the run had a few benefits. Various safe houses that Ada found refuge in were few and far between and were often tended to by unknowing caretakers that simply assumed she travelled for work. They were mostly correct.

“Caroline,” “Vanessa,” “Jessica,” “Jade,” “Violet,” “Katherine.” All aliases to only be used for those locations. Never anywhere else. She was never “home,” but when she was; her visits were short. Seemingly only a few weeks before she was gone again. She often left her “homes,” in a rush, leaving very little trace of her behind.

The occasional foreclosed home in a small but rich towns was a fun outing for her. The pools were almost always out of order and empty; but the idea of being being in a mansion was always enticing enough. On a rare occasion she’d still find one fully furnished; thankfully with a functional pool as well. They were mansions to the rich that lost their fortunes; and now they were a luxurious escape house for ‘Ada Wong’ the mercenary to take refuge in. They were a breeze to break in, it was almost intuitive for her on where the easiest points of entry were. No one ever suspects you'd be able to slip in from a cracked open bedroom window.

The rich were always excessive. She knew that. Individually picked marble slabs that travelled from across the world were used for bathroom tiles. Heated floors and luxurious spa rooms were common. Large TV screens were in every room but hidden in the walls. The rich weren’t so keen having such gaudy modern devices so easily viewable, but still wanted them to be accessible. Theatres, bar rooms and pool rooms were built into them, bringing all of the entertainment to home. Making it so that the owners rarely had to leave. Which made it all the more of a perfect escape for her.

She’d always pick her favourite window in her favourite room. Which was typically the one that let in the most light. She'd lay there, sprawling out in the warm sun as it touched her skin while she lost herself in one of her favourite books she’d carry around with her during her travels.

Hotels were a close favourite, never needing to clean up her own messes. And easy as they were furnished with everything she needed for a night's rest. The luxury ones often had a spa she’d take pleasure in. The only downside was the constant hotel switching would get tiresome. Going from one to another, occasionally needing to switch names and hair colour with a simple wig. It felt more like work than an escape.

This was the longest she had ever stayed at a single place. A quiet little house shielded by wisteria trees. The soft lilac petals coating the home in a gentle blanket. The shades of foliage changed in the light; a warm inviting pink in the orange of the mornings, and a cool mystical shade of periwinkle in the evenings.

The insides were bare at times, the odd piece of furniture she picked up from some tiny store or estate sale. Occasionally it was filled with all of her favourite little things, knick knacks she had picked up from her travels. Despite constantly losing things and leaving things behind while on the run, she found pleasure in finding treasures and giving them a home. Finding a perfect place for something that didn’t belong, and cherishing forgotten things that were left behind. Over time she found herself returning here. Gathering more treasures and trinkets and creating a home for herself.

It was the most she could make of a home. And that was ‘enough for now,’ she told herself.

The next closest thing to a home.

Was him.

A fantasy began to manifest in her dreams, becoming more intense each night she dreamt it. Each time she saw him they only grew more visceral, so close she could almost touch him and feel him against her fingers. Which made it all the more devastating each time they parted. The stinging pain of the departure and the numbness she felt afterwards when reality sank in again was a gentle reminder that she never wanted anyone to get close to her. That the reality was-

That she was alone. That the dreams she had was nothing more than that, a fantasy; and she so naively chased it only to throw it away the second it got too close. It's easier this way.

Each time she pushed him away it would only twist at her heart, tying it up in knots and strangling her. She saw the gut wrenching look Leon always had each time she leaves. He’d weakly smile, and hold back the, “when will I see you again?” between tightly closed lips.

Those times were rare; leaving him while he was able to say goodbye. "It was getting easier each time." That's what she told herself.

It was so much easier before. Peaceful. Taking the last minutes she'd have with him by watching him as he slept. His soft rhythmic breathing, his chest raising and falling. Lost in a dream; of what she wasn’t sure. But he always had a soft gentle expression on his face. The corner of his lips occasionally curling upward, his fingers grasping at nothing. Her fingertips traced into his locks, pushing aside that one stubborn strand of hair that always shielded his right eye. He was so handsome like this, so tranquil and serene. So reminiscent of that sweet face she fell in love with all those years ago.

His dark golden hair flecked with light yellows from the early rising sun. And she’d be gone hours before he’d even wake. Leaving him with her sweet lingering scent and the press of her red lips on a simple piece of parchment. Her insignia and some words that would be etched into his heart each time he’d read them. Scarring him with “what ifs” and “in another life.”

It was always easier this way. Not having to deal with goodbyes or his sweet puppy dog eyes. She caved in each time to her own selfish desire not to get hurt. Not wanting to get too close to the fire, never wanting to get burned.

But she was drawn to him, even in moments of weakness. When the lines of reality and fantasy crossed over. The white picket fence in between them that they’d reluctantly jump across over and over again. Never deciding on which side to stand on. She never wanted to need anyone and yet, his face was burned into her brain. His touch, the only comfort she’d felt in years. His smile carved deeply into her heart. The only man she’d known so intimately for so long had forever tied his thread around her and her heart.

Act 3: “Ada Wong would not be defeated by the common cold.”

Moments of weakness.

She hated them more than anything, despised letting people discover her weak spots. Pain in life was unavoidable, but how you managed it defined you. The stinging sensation from a cut of a blade was short, the pain easily subsiding with a coursing rush of adrenaline. Pinching, and numbing soreness in her feet and blood in her heels from running were injuries she’d push away, forcing herself to drag her legs as far as she could carry herself. Aches in her muscles were just an obstacle, as the idea of a safe escape was always more important. Getting out alive, was always more important. But the pain of heartbreak was more terrifying to her than any physical pain that she could ever endure.

But time and time again, her main weakness would make itself known to herself.

It was him.

Despite her chaotic work schedule, she’d make the effort to see him. Half of the time planning it, and the other a surprise. For the past while she’d leave him a letter with a code that only he knew how to read, letting him know possible dates for their schedules to align.

They had a ‘date,’ planned, and she still hadn't shown up.

The ‘common,' cold had taken over her. Causing more mayhem on her body than any possible outbreak. A simple cold that was worse than anything else she had endured. Her body ached in ways she didn’t remember, her head throbbing and fuzzy. Her chest tight and uncomfortable with each deep breath. Her nose stuffy, with each inhale causing more labouring breaths.

She refused to see Leon like this.

But a lingering afterthought was in her head, an oversight she didn’t plan for. She had already gifted him a spare key, one that she forbid him from using unless absolutely necessary.

Ada had been late by a few days. The spare key to her ‘home’, was normally housed in his night stand drawer, along with a little bear with a frayed pastel blue ribbon tied around its neck. It wasn’t uncommon for her to arrive late or early, their lifestyles were much less accommodating than most. Occasionally she’d message him that she wouldn’t be able to make it this time. All of Leon's messages to her were left unread. Phone calls that directly lead to voicemail. It had been too many days without some sort of notice from her, and Leon could sense something was wrong.

The heavy wood of the drawer pulls out, the keys grabbed quickly and held in the palm of his hand. The cold metal ring held the key and dangled from it, a small turtle charm. The little green shell covered its body, the head of it with sewn with an obscenely cute face. It was a gentle reminder of their impromptu trip they had shared together. Even though he had cleaned it, it felt like the tiny grains of sand were never going to disappear from the little crevices of it. A tiny zipper along the shell held a thin strand of paper. That strand of paper tightly rolled up and covered in a tin foiling. Decoding it held coordinates to a house, ones that were not too far from his apartment. With the numbers in hand he headed to his motorcycle, turning the key in the ignition and headed there with the fastest possible route.

Arriving at the coordinates, he double checked the numbers to ensure it was the right place. Having never been there before he couldn’t be sure that this was the house.

The home was tucked into a little cluster of houses and was far away from the city. It was a quiet neighbourhood, sparsely filled with family homes. His motorcycle made a bit of a ruckus as he arrived, and his face responded with a grimace as he quickly turned off the engine. As he reached the fence and opened the little doorway, he let his guard down. Pacing towards the entryway, his fingers grazed along one of the branches that shielded the walkway. His fingertips feeling the softness of the purple petals. Each strand of the flowers hid away another part of the home. The petals of lilac and lavender shades littered the pavement with speckles of the creamy colour. The front door was painted a shade of black that contrasted the faded red brick inlays in the exterior of the building.

The key laid in his pocket, then carefully unlocked the front door. The heavy locking mechanism unlatching. The dark coloured door swings open with a heavy gust of wind, his hand reflexly grabbing the edge before it swings too far to make a noise.

He closes and locks the heavy door behind him. The amount of locks on her door aren’t a surprise. Some of them quite rudimentary, some of them complex. He found it odd that none of them are locked though. A security system beeps, one that alerts him that the front door was opened but nothing else happens. The slim white piece of plastic juts out from the wall. Telling him the time and date and that the system is unarmed. He takes a few steps in, calling out her name once as he looks around. His head sharply turns as he hears her voice calling to him.

“Leon?”

Act 4: “I can do it myself.”

She was not going to be defeated by the common cold. Ada Wong doesn’t get snuffed out like that so easily, and yet she’s tied to her bed. Hanging on by a thread on as she gathers her blankets to warm her up only to throw them off moments later in a fit of exhaustion. Her nose is clogged, her eyes puffy, tired and red. She can barely stay awake but she can’t fall asleep either. Whatever she caught had taken over her body in a matter of hours and her meeting with Leon was quickly turned into an afterthought. A day turned to two, and three to four. How many days had passed she wasn’t even sure. At this point she hadn’t even considered sending him a simple text, her brain too scattered to focus.

The quiet of her home was broken with the sound of a motorcycle revving. The engine of it turning off and the rumbling silenced. Steps on the pavement grew louder as the sound came in from the cracked open window of her bedroom. An oversight she thought was ironic.

With what strength she has, she stumbles onto her feet. Pattering towards the window as quickly as she can, but she misses the figure as it makes it towards her front door. Struggling out of her bedroom and reaching the railing of second floor and leaning over it, she hears the front door being unlocked.

Only one person ever has had a spare key to her home.

She’s barely holding herself up, using the wood railing on the stairs to hold her entire weight as she leans against it. The stair beneath her feet creaks as she takes another step, her footing loose on the wooden panel.

Leon steps forwards into the foyer, seeing Ada’s messy head of hair as she makes it down the flight of stairs.

“Ada!” His feet swiftly carries him in a few steps towards her as she reaches the bottom of the stairs.

He’s so warm.

He had never seen her like this. Maybe with sniffles or stifled with a monthly visit. But never so- deathly ill. Her warm face was flushed all along her forehead, her cheeks slightly gaunt. Her body weak, cold and clammy. The way she held onto him was fragile and loose, like her fingers could barely grasp onto him.

He repeats her name, more urgently this time as she burrows her head into the crook of his arm.

“God damn it,” he grunts, lowering to grab underneath her knees and cradling her in his chest. Completely unaware of the layout of her home, his head swivels around. The stairs makes the most sense, returning her to where she came. With heavy steps he gathers her at the top of the stairs again, staring down a hallway and towards the one door that was left ajar.

A sigh of relief leaves his chest as he discovers it to be a bedroom. It was clean and devoid of much furniture. A vanity with a large mirror sat in the corner. Two night tables surround the top of the bed, the surfaces of them decorated with matching lamps and a clutter of medicines and a half empty box of tissues.

The bed is dressed with creamy satin sheets, the pillows encased in the same material. They were much softer than any of the sheets that he had ever slept on. The bed dips with her weight as he lays her back down. His hand reaches for one of the bottles on the nightstand to read the description. Then another and another. They’re all cough and flu related. Pain relievers, fever, headaches, congestion…

He grabs at the blankets, covering her up and feeling her forehead with the back of his hand, then her cheeks.

“Is this why you stood me up?” He asks in a whisper as he brushes her dark hair aside, a sad expression on his face as he tries to gauge how sick she is.

“Ada, why didn’t you tell me?” He continually brushes the stray strands of hair from her face, pressing his knees onto the flooring next to the bed as he leaned in closer.

“You just couldn’t stay out of trouble, could you Leon?” She asks before stifling a cough, her eyes tightly closing as she turns her head away from him.

“Did you really come here to catch whatever I have?” She asks after her coughing fit ends.

His shoulders drop with a sigh, “well, if you told me you were sick, I would’ve brought over soup or something instead of coming over empty handed,” his knee pressed up from the flooring as he took a seat on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not staying,” she shook her head.

“I don’t think you can stop me,” he smirks.

“You’re using my illness against me? How cruel, Mr. Kennedy,” she stifled another cough and sniffled her nose, her nose twitching like a tiny bunny nose.

“Wait here,” he smiles, pressing a kiss onto her forehead.

“Like I have a choice,” she mutters, rolling her eyes and turning away from him.

Leon shakes his head with a exhale and sits up from the bed.

The rest of her home is a mystery to him. Having never spent any time here, he takes a few minutes to explore. Some rooms are more tended to than others. Common areas that are more frequented and cared for and had a gentle touch from her hands. A delicately arranged floral is housed in a glass vase and sits on the dining table. A small metal frame holds a photo of him and Ada and sits on the edge of the antique piano in the study room.

Pencils and paintbrushes are scattered in a wooden tray, a delicate watercolour painting of a vase of flowers sits in an easel on the desk. The painting mirrors a similar vase holding tiny lilies and puffy pink peonies and sits a few feet away from the table. It holds the same flowers although they are wilted and dried. Dulled with the loss of colour with the edges of the petals aging and grazed with the colour of burnt tea.

A tall dark wooden bookshelf is overfilled with books. Some of them spilling out and stacked on top of each other in piles on an antique side table. The spines of the books are shades of muted colours, as if all of them were old and aged. Different styles of writings and names are scrawled inside, as if they were loved by other owners. Some with stamps embossed on the first or last pages, indicating it was from a someone’s personal collection. Leon was quick to notice she had multiple copies of the same books. First editions and rare editions of them. His lips upturned, impressed by Ada’s collection.

Leon’s eyes fall on the book that lays on top of the pile. Several corners of pages had been folded over. While some of them are bookmarked with thin cards in between the pages. His curiosity gets the better of him as his hands pick up the top most book and opens it to a random page. Her delicate lettering was written along some of the verses of the pages, her innermost thoughts and responses to the prose. He smiles briefly, laying the book back down as neatly as he found it.

The more pressing issue came back to the forefront of his head as he looked for the kitchen. His eyes catch what could only be a fruit bowl on a counter, the counter looking only like a kitchen counter. Pacing towards it, he finds the ivory coloured ceramic bowl housing bright pops of a orange citrus.

Discovering that he indeed found the kitchen, he quickly found the fridge. Opening it, he was greeted with a few fruits and vegetables. Some leftovers in glass containers and not much else that was easily accessible. His shoulders fall and reluctantly closes the fridge door. Next to the fridge, he’s greeted by a delicately set up tea station. One that looked like it was lovingly used almost every day. One of the glass jars is set closer to the front, and filled with a loose leaf tea. The brown leaves and stems filled the glass, while a few pale yellow floral blossoms were scattered throughout it.

Luckily a tea kettle is still on the stove. Grabbing it, he fills it to the top with water and closes the lid. Turning on the element and setting it down onto the heat. Leon scans the cupboards, eyeing for the one that made the most sense and opened it. Relief drops his shoulders again as he’s greeted with a selection of glasses and mugs. Not a lot of them match, maybe there was a single set in there. But most of them varied in design. Milky sea glass shades sat in the top shelf. Sturdy white mugs were housed in the middle shelf. And a variety of more delicate tea cups and ornate mugs sat on the bottom shelf. The closest one to the edge is propped up, as if it were a regular mug she had used often. Without thinking much more of it, he grabs it and spoons in a healthy spoonful of the jasmine tea. As it seeps the aroma of the jasmine fills his nose, a familiar scent that reminds him of her. Soft, floral and warm.

His steps aren’t quiet in the home, his walk back towards her bedroom alerting her of his presence. He finds her still tucked into bed, her arms wrapped around one of the pillows as she cradles herself to sleep.

“Come on, up we go,” he ironically says as he sets the cup of tea down first before reaching over to wrap his arms around her. The bed dips with his weight, his arms dragging her into his chest. The warm scent of his leather jacket would have comforted her; if she could smell anything. She frowns, her head pressing into the soft leather.

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t want you to have to take care of me,” she stifles a cough, her throat growing more itchy and scratchy with each exhale she suppressed.

“Don’t you know by now? You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” Leon smiles, his hand raised to brush aside her tangled tresses.

“You know I want to take care of you right?” He whispers, the back of his hand gently pressed on her forehead again to check her temperature. It’s still quite warm, maybe a degree less so than from before. She must have over exerted herself by simply seeing him at the door.

“I know,” she mutters and groans, her body aching too much to react to him as he fawned over her.

The cup of tea is drank graciously. It’s one of her favourites. The fact Leon had choose this one over the obvious choice of chamomile and honey wasn’t lost on her. She would’ve preferred this first. Her fingers comfortable hold it; one of her favourite cups. A thin cream mug with a simple design of red lilies stamped in the centre. Some of the flowers underneath her fingertips had rubbed off with time and use. She drinks all of the tea, along with a tall glass of water Leon rushed to grab afterwards. A simple can of soup is reheated on the stove, and Ada eats it up in a few bites. Her stomach finally feeling better after not been able to do much else than sleep and struggle to sleep for the past few days.

“Feeling any better?” Leon reluctantly asks, knowing that it seemed like her condition wasn't alleviated by much.

“A bit,” she groans, her eyes fluttered closed, her entire body curled up into a ball and tucked into him; very cat like as she drew from his body heat. She felt his warmth as he enveloped her and warmed her from the inside out.

“You shouldn’t stay, you don’t want to get whatever I have,” she manages to get out without getting into a coughing fit. Her words conflicting with her body as she held onto him tightly.

“I’m staying,” Leon chuckles, his hand rests on the back of her head, carding through her hair. His head falling towards hers on the pillow.

“Get some sleep, I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know.”

Act 5: “You up for this?”

That was the first night he had spent in her home. The one safe space that she had kept locked away from everyone else, and he had been in it. With time, Ada started to feel better. The aches growing more tolerable, and her head hurting less and less. And as luck would have it; Leon never caught what she had either. He was always lucky, Ada knew that. But she hadn’t expected him to luck out on not catching whatever ailment she had though. She was grateful though, the idea of having to take care of Leon while she was also sick wasn’t a sight she wanted to imagine. Especially considering Leon was, “much more of baby,” than she was when it came to illnesses.

They slept together every night in her bed. Ada sometimes waking up, startled by Leon in her bed. She was familiar with this bed. Familiar with the silk sheets and how she’d wake up alone every night here. And now she had Leon next to her.

Sleeping next to Leon wasn’t an unusual occurrence anymore. Even her early mornings where she’d leave were less and less common.

But here?

It was her safe place. A place that was free from everyone, and yet he was there. His arm still tightly wrapped around her as he slept. His sweet face lost in some sort of dream and a light snore from him with each exhale of his chest.

Leon headed back to his apartment on the second day to grab more of his clothing and returned with a large duffle bag. Packed within it, more medicines along with cough drops for Ada.

A few days had passed, and Leon took an hour or so each day while she was napping to explore the house. Familiarizing himself with the kitchen as he spent a few hours there as well. Cooking what he could for them while ordering take out for the rest. Ada had always had taste when it came to- mostly everything, and her kitchen wasn’t lacking in that department either. Despite not cooking much (from what Leon could tell), she had a large array of spices and seasonings. Even ones that Leon had never seen or even heard of.

Her favourite teas and coffee were always on display and she had a much more sophisticated coffee machine than he did. It was easier to work with as well. Almost instinctively he was able to brew up her favourite latte.

She had grown accustomed to the sounds of Leon in the kitchen in his home. His soft humming and the taps of his feet whenever he had a tune stuck in his head.

Her home was a different story. The random curse he’d let out at a cupboard door slamming randomly was now a daily occurrence. The rolling of the wheels in the drawers were too loud for his liking, and he’d pull on them gently each morning to not wake Ada. But she heard him anyways. She noticed him doing so, hearing him being relieved that he was able to open a drawer so quietly, but would let out a hushed praise for himself. She always smiled, finding it endearing; hearing him as he made his way through the kitchen to make all of her meals for the day while she focused on recovering.

By the fourth or fifth day, he had finally figured out that the door next to the fridge was sticky and almost always needed and extra push for it to close properly. Focused on closing the door, he couldn’t hear Ada’s soft steps as she tiptoed into the kitchen.

“Need a hand?”

Leon turned at the sound of her voice, beaming at the sight of her out of bed in the morning again.

“Morning, beautiful.”

He couldn’t help but smile, he meant it.

He loved her like this. Her skin touched by the glow of the early morning sun, with her dark hair just a bit messy. Her warm pink cheeks and a lazy smile on her face. Her complexion was warmer, and although he was sure she was still a bit tired, she had certainly recovered a lot.

Ada wore one of Leon’s shirts she had stolen from his apartment, and he had a moment of realization as he noticed it and remembered that it had been gone for a few months now.

“I was wondering where that went,” he shook his head with a grin and turned back around and pushed the door again and held it until it snapped closed. The counter was littered with ingredients and extra bowls, the sink filling up as well with used dishes and utensils. The mandarins that were in the bowl were shared between them over the course of a few days, with only one lonely round little citrus fruit remaining. The cast iron skillet sizzled with bacon and eggs, all of it contained with the lid he left it on top to allow it to finish cooking.

“Where ‘what’ went,” she murmured with a coy smile and took a seat on a chair near the island, plucking the last mandarin out from the fruit bowl and began to peel it in between her fingers.

“Should’ve guessed that’s where it went,” he exhaled a laugh through his nose and began putting some of the items away from the counter and back into their respective homes.

“I guess, you’re feeling hungry?” He asked as he watched her finishing up peeling the mandarin and leaned in over the counter to press one of the orange slices against his lips. He takes it, bursting the sweet citrus fruit between his teeth and watches her plop another wedge between her lips as she bit down and relished in the sweet taste with a little smile.

Her favourite latte is being brewed up in the machine. Hissing with the milk and dripping with the espresso. Topped with the frothy milk just like how she liked it. Holding the latte in her favourite mug in between his hands, he gently settles it in front of her on the island. Leon’s smile mirrors hers as soon as he sees the corners of her mouth upturning. Her head nodding with the cup as she presses it against her lips, taking her first sip.

“And you’re feeling better?”

She nods again.

“Do you think you’re up for a walk outside after?”

With Leon’s full breakfast sustaining the both of them, they make their way out of Ada’s home. It’s Ada for the first time out in a few days. Leon’s leather jacket is around her shoulders, shielding her from the cool air. It’s late summer, with bits of red and orange grazing the tips of the trees. The hot sun can no longer fight against the soft cool winds. The purples of the wisteria petals scatter the pathway from her home and towards the street. The quiet homes that surround hers are family homes. Some with children that have already grown and left the nest.

The lawns are mostly perfectly manicured and flower bushes are mostly pruned and trimmed to frame each of the houses. The houses are lived in, with a few windows cracked open and letting in the cool breeze. Each house has its own personality to it. One with a colourful fence. One littered with so many trees you can barely see the front of the house. One with beautiful pale white hydrangea bushes that Ada secretly coveted. One with deep green leafy vines that have overtaken the bricks and shields the windows from the bright sun.

They walk in tandem together. Ada’s steps a bit slower as usual but she keeps up. While Leon slows his pace, trying to match hers. Leon’s hands are tucked into his pockets, his eyes counting on the breaks and cracks on the sidewalk as they pass each one.

“Where are you Leon?” she perks up, noticing how lost looking he was. They turn down another street and pass by more homes, one of them littered with brightly coloured plastic toys on the lawn. Pastel drawings of characters and shapes and letters exploded onto the concrete. A simple children’s game was drawn on one of the driveways. Pastel lines drawn into squares with numbers inside of them. The numbers faded with the childrens repeated steps, while tiny chalk pieces scattered on the edges of the pavement in an array of rainbows.

“I’m not anywhere,” he smiled softly.

“We both know, I know you better than that,” she muttered in the same cadence, reaching over to place her hands in the crook of his arm. His arms hooks into her hands, helping her along as they walked. His stride pauses so briefly, but it’s enough to stall their pace.

His arm unwinds from her, and he takes a moment to orient himself as he reaches for her hand. Splaying his fingers out towards hers and waiting for her to wrap her fingers around his.

Holding her hand as they walked.

It was a simple act, one that most couples enjoy on their first dates. But it was a privilege they took for granted. The innocent act of affection of simple hand holding was one they weren’t given, but one they would grow comfortable with time.

“Do you ever think about us?” He asks to the wind, not turning to ask her for her response.

“What do you mean?” She in return responds to the breeze, her head turning as her hair is brushed against her cheek.

It’s a standoffish response, much like he’s been used to. It’s a wall that he’d been chipping away at for years.

“You know what I mean,” he exhales, his hand retracting a bit as he spoke. His hand splayed into hers, his finger pressing into the palm of hers before wrapping his fingers into hers. A calming gesture that he did that Ada had grown used to. The way he held her hand like this was more intimate, he was present with her; and he needed her to know that.

Passing by another house she finally responds.

“You mean, married, house, picket fence, two kids?” She asks, reading his mind like it were the back of her hand. She really didn’t need all the visual reminders as they explored. Each new house they passed had so many signs of life and family. A used car that they imagined the teenage son used. A “driver in training” placard placed in the back window. Another house with a family van with children bikes left unceremoniously on the lawn. No locks, no chains. This was a safe neighbourhood that was filled with families.

And Ada was living there.

Alone in that little house in the corner, covered in the wisteria trees.

Leon’s head remained still, keeping his eyes on the pavement, watching for cracks and leading her away from those steps.

“I think it’s a fantasy normal people dream about, and some of them get to see it become a reality,” she murmured, her hand more tightly gripping his than normal.

“And what do you think we have?” He turns to ask, needing to see her face for her answer. She lowers her head, her gaze lazily on each new house as they continue walking by. Her head finally dips down, her dark lashes covering her warm brown eyes as she looks at the leaves scattered on the grey sidewalk.

She doesn’t reply.

Act 6: “If I could just forget that night.”

They walk together for the rest of the street. Silence between them and hand in hand until they reach back towards Ada’s home. It’s colder, the weather had not been in their favour. Even Leon feels a chill as he shivers, “maybe this was too long of a walk,” he grimaces as he helps Ada back into her home. His hands grip along the leather of his jacket and shucks it off of her and hangs it onto the empty coat rack nearby.

Her home was one of the more intimate places that they had shared. A secret she held for so long. One she had always at some point wanted to share with him, but the time never came. It was always easier for her to show up in his life. She’d never think he would show up like this over a simple cold. She never wanted to rely on him. But he was still there. She’d taken for granted so many things between them, so many firsts that were under less than desirable circumstances.

Ada retired to her bedroom quickly after their walk. Simply giving him a twist of her head upward and towards the bedroom. She was chilled by the walk and headed to the primary bathroom to fill the porcelain tub. Letting it slowly rise with steamy hot water as she sprinkled in a few oils and soaps to create a more luxurious bath.

Leon stood still in the foyer, lost with his thoughts. Her words alway lingered in his mind, always had since Raccoon City. But her silence somehow echoed louder.

His head turned towards the front door, somehow feeling rejected by her lack of a response. But his eyes caught the shades of metal on each of the doors that kept the world locked out of her little sanctuary. Her little home that she had created. A home that she only had ever given him the keys for. His fingertips graze along the metals, feeling how they were antiqued and brushed with age. Like she had purposely found these locks in these conditions and installed them herself.

The water runs in the home, the pipes making the loud announcement by the rushing sounds. Splashes of water grow louder as he makes his steps towards the hallway to the bedroom and the bathroom. He finds Ada as she sits along the edge, her fingers tracing shapes in the hot water as it rises to nearly the tops of the tub before she turns it off. The faucet drips, the water echoing as it spills the last drops.

Ada sees him, standing in the threshold of the door.

The sides of his lips curl upward, “Need a hand?”

Ada had years to grow comfortable with the way Leon’s hands touched her. Always gently, and always carefully. Tentatively watching for her reactions. She knew this, knew that he didn’t want to repeat what happened last time.

Night terrors.

A thousand times worse than your typical nightmare. Darkness always creeped into the edges of her peripheral. Her body paralyzed in fear. But it wasn’t death she feared. She feared the pain of suffocating. Countless times had she been drowning in a sea of bodies and thick gooey dark liquid. Her lifeless body sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss. Ghastly faces met her gaze in the dark waters, almost touching her with their disgusting limbs. Her arms and legs were unable to move, unable to propel her back up towards the surface. Each gasp of air was stolen from her as water leaked into her mouth and filled her lungs. All the memories of when she was child were dredged up in her night terrors. Being abandoned, being lost and tossed away like she was nothing. Fiery cities burning and lost to the chaos of the world she lived in. All of her horrors of her life culminating until-

She’d wake in a panic. Sitting up with tears streaming down her face and still shaking with fear. Her chest in pain and filling with air so quickly but she can’t feel it. Suffocating on nothing as she tightly pressed her hand to her heart. Feeling her rapidly speeding heartbeat and her heaving labouring breaths. Her eyes snapping shut, forcing herself to slow her breathing and begin counting down,

"10,

“Ada?”

Her head violently twisted towards the sound. Leon sat next to her in his bed. It was his soft linen sheets. His window that let in the moonlight every night. This was his bed. His bedroom. Leon’s hands tightly pressed into fists. Eager to grasp her in his embrace, but she had just woken from her nightmare. Her breath doesn’t stabilize, still rapid, her body still twitching from the fear. All of it not real. All of it in her head. But it felt real. Like her lungs were burning, choking her of air.

“You have them too,” he frowned. Naively hoping that she didn’t suffer from the same horrors he did. Ada had seen his nightmares, they were frequent but had slowed in recent years. He was surprised in all the years he spent sharing a bed with her, he hadn’t seen one of hers.

“Night terrors,” she mumbled, her hand in her chest raising to wipe her tears with the back of her hand.

Leon finally reached over for her. His hand raised to rest on her back, something comforting that he’d known she was used to. But her reaction draws his hand back immediately.

She flinches.

Like a terrified animal, she violently crawls away from him, desperately trying to get away from him. Not from him. New hot tears brim at her lashes. Her chest heaving with her cries.

“I’m sorry,” he panics, his breath short. His brows furrowed together tightly, already angry at himself for not realizing it.

“No, I’m sorry,” she cries, unable to stop herself from shedding new tears.

He’d never want to see her like that ever again.

Moments pass. Neither of them sure of how long until her breathing settles. The tears on her cheeks dried. She doesn’t need to explain her night terrors to him, he already knew. His hand laid next to her on the bed, waiting for her to react to him. Waiting for her to meet him in the middle. Leon perks up at the feeling of her hand on his. Gently prying his fingers away from the sheets and pressed into the palm of his hand. Mirroring the same comforting gesture. Waiting to slowly envelope each other fingers. He waits for her, his other hand ghosting along her arm to bring her closer to him. She nods, slowly moving closer until she’s finally settled against his chest.

He can feel her tensing and relaxing. Her body running on fear and adrenaline and slowly crashing. Losing the fight as she finds refuge in his embrace. Her eyes slowly growing tired, her frame getting more and more relaxed in his hold. Waiting until she finally slips back to sleep. He holds her, repeating the same comforting gesture as she sleeps.

Leon doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night. The moonlight fading away until the sun peeks along the horizon.

Act 7: "The more things change, the more they stay the same."

He helped her strip down to nothing, his warm hands ghosting along her body as he helped pull over his shirt she wore. His knees pressed into the cold tile, taking time to press a kiss on each of her thighs as he dragged her panties down her hips. He watches her from where he kneels, waiting for her as he dragged her panties off from her ankles. Her fingers expertly unclasped the metal of his buckle and unthreads the leather of his belt. The tiny buttons of his dress shirt are pierced out of their holes, his chest exposed inch by inch. He’s groans noticing his jeans were getting soaked with the water that spilled out, and then whines at the realization that he had little clothing at her home.

“I think I only brought one pair of pants,” he pouted.

“I guess you’ll just have to walk around in your birthday suit, Mr. Kennedy,” she teases, her attitude returning as she shucks off the rest of his clothing and sets them on a nearby stool.

The water almost overflows as they sink into the tub. The almost too hot water hugging the both of them. Light bubbles skim the surface, the scent of lavender and roses filling the air.

Ada reminisces on memories, his touch. How he’d always be so careful since that night. Never pushing her too far with what they were doing. They held hands under the water, wrapping his arms around hers as she sat in between his legs. With her pressing her back into his chest, letting her feel his steady heart beat and his relaxing breath. His lips pressed lightly on her neck, waiting for her reaction. The gentle tilt of her head exposes more of her skin, encouraging him as he lays another. He’s always been waiting, reacting only when she did. His thumb rubs her hand in a simple circle before slowly releasing, his fingertips grazing under the water and surfacing towards her shoulder and bushing the short black tendrils of her hair out of the way. Her vision blurs as she closes her eyes, her body reacting to his touch.

Each kiss is carefully placed, never unexpected. Always where she knew it was going to be. Trailing up her neck and caressing her jawline and finishing with a press of his lips on hers. Their kisses were often sensual, slow and reactive to each other.

It was whenever they were intimate. Whenever she let him take control. His touches transcended into more than just that. It became second nature to him. He would wait for her. He instinctively knew how to touch her, but he still waited. Waited for any cue from her. A gentle press of his thumb against her bottom lip, watching her eyes dilate into a deep dark black as she silently urged him for more.

She felt his fingers spread her legs, waiting for his hands to touch along her inner thighs, parting her folds with a tentative touch. One that awaited for her to leak onto his fingertips. Waiting for her to grasp onto him, begging him for more before he’d react. His touch on the palm of her hand, readying her as he splayed out her fingers, his thighs pressing her flush against the bed before entering her warm heat.

His lips chased hers. His eyes fixated on her every expression. Her brows knitting together in pleasure, her fluttering lashes as she struggled to keep her eyes on him, her pink lips falling open as he stretched her open. Waiting for her to move him along as she hugged every inch of him. His forehead pressed against hers, his eyes snapping shut, his body electrified with pleasure as held himself back. His cock throbbing inside of her, feeling every twitching hug of her walls. Her calls for him were heavenly, opening the doorway for him as he’d draw his hips back before easing back in. His hands remained in hers, keeping her close to him. Holding her as she fell apart around him, thrashing and curling into him. Losing herself to him.

“Where are you in your beautiful head?” His voice is warm against her ear. Soft and sweet. The ends of his hair are wet, dragging lines of water on the top of her shoulders.

“Is this enough for you?” She whispers, her lips barely moving with her words.

Unsure of her own question, unsure of Leon’s answer; she eyes the water droplets as they sink down the ivory of the tub, watching them fall into the abyss. She doesn’t want to hear his answer, interrupting any chance for words with her hands cupping the water to spill onto their shoulders.

He doesn’t answer, pressing his chin into her shoulder, sinking into the bath. He doesn’t know the answer. He never has. Never asked if what they had could be more. Time was slipping away from them. It had been ever since Raccoon City. Time was a privilege he wasn’t granted. Time taken away. Taken away from him, taken away from her.

“You’re enough for me,” he smiles.

“You always have had a way with words, haven’t you?”

“Learned from the best,” his smile reaches his eyes.

Even if it wasn’t what their fantasy could be, reality was what they had. And they couldn’t ask for more even if they wanted to. It was enough for her also. Knowing she’d let in the one person that deserved it all.

Act 8: The ties that bind."

The following few days she had finally recovered and was back to normal. Much more perky and alert and ready to go back to work. But when she received the call, she held off on taking the mission. Her fingers wrapped around the burner phone that highlighted the new task along with the compensation for it. Ada Wong, the mercenary wouldn’t take hold of her today. The cold, calculated character she needed to portray to get her work down. Today was just for her. Her and the man that so easily made his way into her heart.

They fell back into their routine, tangled in her sheets. Waking up in the early morning sun with gentle caresses against each other’s faces. A press of the lips to be shared as their first acts of affection for the day. Mingled with the countless caresses and lazy grazing of fingers on warmed naked skin. Her fingers traced the dots and lines on his arms, pressing kisses against the tense muscle and laid a lingering one on his scar. He would do the same, holding her tenderly against his naked chest. His larger hands held hers, pressing them in between their chests as he leaned in close. Peppering fields of kisses on her decollete and against her right shoulder. His kisses are loud, his lips chasing hers, wanting more with a simple nudge of his nose against hers. A smile growing on his face and a mirroring one on hers. The bed falls, redistributing their weight as he lay above her, taking his time with her. Loving her in ways he deserved to give her. It was enough for now. His silent pleas were answered in the form of desperate kisses and the simple call of his name.

Her fingers held a pastel lilac book. The edges of it frayed, the pages yellowed. It was one of her favourites, a simple poetry book filled with lovers poems to each other and lines of longing and desire.

Her life was mimicked in the very pages. His sweet smile that she chased. The ocean blues she found escape and lost in was his. The laughter she heard of was his. Her name she only heard in his voice. The prose typed in the pages were meant to hold your heart tenderly, and also squeezed too tightly with simple lines of separate ways. She’d find herself rereading a particular poem. Reciting the words to relive it. A red string of fate that binds two lovers. Her voice was softly singing the words, having the lines almost memorized. Her quiet tone lulling Leon as he laid with his head in her lap. Her free hand threaded through his locks to tease if he were still listening. His quiet, “still listening,” response is his hand reaching for hers, splaying out her fingers and wrapping hers into his. She held him carefully, carrying him with her always.

Even when they part, as they always did. She’d remember the words in the poem, reciting the lines and remembering him as he laid in her lap. His hand in hers, sitting on her couch in the little home she made. Surrounded by the books she’s collected over the years, with the trinkets she’d save. With all of of the flowers she’d picked and displayed. With a small white shell from that trip they shared that Leon had plucked from the sand and given her. With a framed photo of them in which they shared a tender private kiss.

A safe haven made only for her. And he had done the one thing she never thought she’d see a reality. That she’d let him into her life and had her wrapped around his finger.

That no matter what parts them, he’s tied to her.

And in return, she’d be tied to him forever.

#my writing #ada wong #leon kennedy #Leon Kennedy x ada Wong #leon s kennedy #Leon x ada #ada x leon #leonxada #aeon #adaxleon #leon ada #ada wong x leon kennedy #aeon fic #leon kennedy smut

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francesminos-tt · 1 year

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Lucemond civil aviation au where Luke works as a controller at Driftmark International Airport. His family is famous for its aviation legacy. Jace got promoted to captain of a regional airline recently. Joff is a new Air Force recruit. Rhaenyra was the first female pilot in westeros Air Force.

Everyone wonders why Luke didn’t want to fly like everybody else in his family. Truth is he was once a talented pilot-to-be in the academy, but an accident happened during one of the test flights. Luke managed to walk unharmed but his uncle Aemond wasn’t so lucky. Aemond lost an eye and had to retire from Dragonstone fleet. Luke hasn’t seen him since. He heard Aemond now works as an engineer in the operation center.

There is a heavy fog and storm looming. Luke is near the end of his overnight shift when an airplane approaches. Its left engine is down and the crew can not even tell if the gear is down. Visage is so poor so it depends on Luke to guide them down. Under tremendous stress, he finally manages to lead the aircraft to safety. Only then does he learn that Aemond is also on that plane.

- You saved my life nephew, of which I am grateful.

- You should thank the crew. And I didn’t even know you were on that plane. I am glad nobody is hurt. Not too bad at least . Now why don’t you let go of my wrist so I can get some much needed rest.

- hmmm. Be a coward all you want Lucy, but we are not done.

And with that last sentence, Aemond is gone. Luke is incredibly tired and numb, much like the day he lost all things he holds dear. The sky and his favorite uncle.

#aemond x lucerys #lucemond #headcanon

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tawneybel · 8 months

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Note: Ten favorite monsters, part eight. Previous part. The Point is a seriously underrated movie. Catch it if you’re into stuff like The Phantom Tollbooth or Yellow Submarine.

1. Oblina from Aaahh!!! Real Monsters

Tbh, I didn’t really watch this show. Rugrats was and is my fave Nicktoon, so my first exposure to ARM was crossover episode “Ghost Story.” (That, “The Last Babysitter,” and Rugrats in general has great juvenile horror.) But I have a soft spot for female monsters that have “girly” features while still giving grotesque.

2-4. Anglerfish-esque monsters

Dark spider spirit from Avatar: The Legend of Korra: Some kind of arachnid, anyway. Don’t let her teethies fool you. This lady will just yeet anyone spirited away into the Fog of Lost Souls, she hates people so much.

Grand Fisher from Bleach: The Bleach Wiki describes him as “resembl[ing] a giant hamster.” Which is great. Didn’t even think of that. Rats aren’t the only rodents that can scary. But he’s included here because I love monsters that mimic victims’ loved ones.

Frogfish from The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie: SpongeBob has other anglers, like two cute ones from “Rock Bottom,” one of my fave episodes. As with Grand Fisher, I love how the Frogfish uses a biological dummy of sorts as a lure. In this case, its tongue. Bringing to mind the Alaskan Bull Worm.

5. Old Dark Frog from Days with Frog and Toad

This and Bony-Legs were seasonal delights for teeny Tawney. The illustration where he's looming, nay, towering over a chilled Frog was so hair-raising.

6. Brain Eating Meteor from The Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy

Pretty much exactly what it sounds like. Has one of the best villain songs ever. Thank you, Voltaire.

7. the Demons of Ignorance from The Phantom Tollbooth

It’s like with the Blue Meanies where I can’t pick just one! There’s the Terrible Trivium, of course. But also the barely-there-but-will-bring-you-fear Threadbare Excuse, draconic Two-Faced Hypocrite, etc.

8. the Pointed Man from The Point

Trickster who sounds like a shaken clock. Tumblr sexyman candidate right there.

9. Sadako Yamamura from Ringu

Screenshot’s from Ringu 2. The visage creeping after Mai as she climbs with Yoichi out of the well is based on the forensic reconstruction of Sadako’s corpse.

Localizations are hit or miss for me, but I’ll admit The Ring 2002 was more entertaining. However, I think Sadako’s generally a more interesting villain than Samara.

While Ringu notability took inspiration from Videodrome, it’s its own unique spin combined with Japanese ghost lore.

10. the Tingler from The Tingler

A literal spine-tingler, living on people’s vertebrae. Emits a cardiac, pulsating sound when free roaming and swells after gorging itself on fear.

Note: Eventually, I will try reading the Ring series. I read more murder mysteries than straight-up horror. Might add other Aaah!!! Real monsters to future lists if I ever watch the show proper.

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beholdingthedead · 1 year

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Sulk — d / rogier oneshot

tw / cw: rotting, death, mental illness, body horror

Perhaps the thorns had become enchanted with him long before he stood, aloof, mesmerized by the visage of the crass, sickly mockery of the spore princeling. He can still recant it, the memory as fresh as the sores upon his withering, corroding skin; the memory, the terror of his graceless eyes laying siege to the inflated corpse. The brewing stench of death, the scent of pure decay, feverish and captivating, alluring in its neutral, abject horror. He remembers, so dearly, pulling his gloves off, perhaps in a state of enlightened delusion, and caressing the leather-bound surface of the beast. Oh, how his flesh crooned at the feel of the canvas, lethargic skin, flies buzzing within him in anticipation. His eyes had been filled with a beautiful omen, horror blooming into a graphic adoration as he had witnessed his own body (how could it be?) be impaled by branches, a garden of blood brooding upon his bosom, dripping down, past his quivering feet, which, dangled cryptically beneath him. He hadn’t the time to scream. Perhaps, he would’ve if the thorns had not nestled themselves so deeply, becoming woven into his very being, finding themselves home in him, from his diaphragm to his liver, all of it became a shelter for the scared, little branches in his body. Oh, how wonderful it had been. Yes, he was no stranger to death; as it always went, all Tarnished had and will die. It was an overarching destiny; comforting in its cyclical malice— something about dying, enveloped in a warm death was so much more, however. In those special moments, he had felt superimposed, thrust through his expansive mind into a static state of staunch hysteria. For once, perhaps, he had felt a harrowing ecstasy. Important. Beloved. Dead. What an intoxicating dizzy it had been. If one were to peer into his mind to grasp at such heretical thoughts perhaps they might’ve been afraid; but he was not entranced by such a feeling (fear was a notion for those who are alive. He could not stand the grim association). When had the thorns nestled within him, he wonders, idly. He used to fear. Used to scream and cry and rally against this world. Death, he recants, was once a blasphemous horror to not dance with. What was it that arrogant, brooding boy had said? He could not recall past the fog of beloved nothing that has descended upon his crescendoing, frivolous mind. Likely, he, that arrogant, brooding boy, had warned him, trying to harrow him away from the luscious state of abyss— of true death. It makes him smile, wistful and a bit cruel, at the thought of that boy shepherding him from his perfect end. He probably thought he was strong, he found himself thinking, stronger than anyone (stronger than us, stronger than me). Strong, was he? He finds himself chuckling boyishly at such a whimsical, arrogant thought. Strength was determined by bravery. That arrogant, brooding boy was anything but brave. Hiding behind the Order, behind his armour, behind him, turning away from death, disgusted. How piteous, indeed. Death shall bloom, regardless of the beauty of life and there is little reason to fear it. To fear death is to cower and cowards are weak. Isn’t that right, he whispered, conspiringly, to his legs, covered in darkened brambles of decay. Long since has he lost feeling in such strong, brave legs; now, they sat, paling from disuse and dimming from death. He was rotting, good and well. The thought makes him shudder with a brewing, daft nausea. How deep that inquisitive curse scoured his body, infecting his graceless form with pure, heavy death. He lets out a caustic, rumbling breath, a maelstrom of dreary rot intermingling salaciously with the oxygen amidst his lungs. He imagined another tooth would likely fall out tonight if that wretched scent pooling from beneath his own nose was any indication. The state of himself, the wizened spellblade he was, brought no placid joy to his tearing mind. His delicate face shifts into an offended sneer at the thought. “Was this what you wanted? Would this satisfy you?” (You coward).

His heart flutters with a bitter grief, the invasive feeling batting itself against his ribcage like a horde of drunken, pale moths. His thoughts sink into a familiar image of that sullen, blank mask and he imagines, detestably, the smear of arrogant triumph that would’ve been upon those lying, lacklustre lips. Oh, how blankly the (his, once) golden knight would’ve gloried amidst such a worthless victory. How dead his eyes would’ve been, if he could only see him now. Dead as the legs that lay beneath his singed waist, emboldened by a burning, dismal empty. He closes his eyes and breathes (breathes all those lonely thorns deep into the enclosure of his wizened body, to let them bloom amidst his strange, carnivorous hatred), slow, attempting to angle his mind with thoughts of the world he could barely see, eyes hardly (cowardly) filling his skull. Such a waste it would be, he mused, bothering his contemptuous mind with harrowing thoughts of that belittling, brooding boy. His closed eyes turn restful, eventually, and he allows himself the idle mercy of nothing, gleaming into a slumber that would, one day, come to pass. Beautiful. (So lonely).

He does not know I (we) watch him. It has been (and will be) a long eternity since we have been united, he and I (the sun and the parasites that feed from it) and I intend, valiantly (cowardly), to keep it as such. It is a piteous state he is in, I observe, quietly, with little malice; his slumber is laboured, gentle brows furrowed in a shrill horror, mouth rumbling with words I shan’t hear, eyes darting beneath their heavy, darkened lids, as if gleaming something corrupted I shall never dream upon. He is deep within a nightmare, I’ve gathered (and I shall do nothing to stop it. This is what you’ve done, to yourself. Didn’t I tell you? Would you have listened had I begged? Is it my fault?); I reach out a parenthetical palm of glimmering gold, radiant in its hue but muted in nature, in my nature, I suppose. I find my covered hand upon his cheek and the cold metal does little to soothe the fallowing litany of repentance (suffering) that befalls the spellblade. The thumb (our thumb) rubs into the disgruntled flesh and I observe, quietly, how strands of skin begin to sliver off, sloughing off with little resistance, as if flowing with little viscosity off his beatific frame. I dig my thumb in a bit harder, drawing darkened, gothic blood from the poor sod. I shush his murmurs with little avail, my revering words of shunned remembrance doing little to comfort the dark he had forced himself into. I attempt to deter the acute misery piling up within my stomach, like funeral stones, with a lullaby of regurgitated, aggravating prayer. Deliver his spirit, I whisper, conspiringly, to a ruler that shan’t hear my selfish words. For he, the poor sod before me, is undeserving of such little, effortless mercy. (I wish we were worthy, all of us. I wish, so quietly, as not to disturb anyone, particularly myself with such a thought, that we had been worthy. That the erdtree had accepted one, if not many. Perhaps then I would not be delighted to watch my slouching, former lover die before me). I pull my hand from his face. The reviled, ghastly dripping of somber red pours, slow, out of his body and I watch, idly mesmerized, by the destruction before me. He is, as beautiful as the day he left me, I note, to myself (not to us). I pull my hand toward my own face. I peel my golden skin from my head, revealing an omen to the world dressed in human skin, shaped to a haunting, abyssal expression, eyes blended to no colour. I tuck my helm beneath one of my arms and with the other I cradle the wound I made, lamenting it, traitorously. For little time do I exercise my gateway right to blasphemy; instead, I lean closer, the stench of death tickling at my cleanly (disheveled) chin, and I deliver a weary kiss above the small wound I have marred his sun-kissed face with. I back away. I linger. I watch him. (We, once). He sits, curse-ridden body wedged between the gears of empty unconscious and I can do nothing but watch. I cannot steel my heart, or perhaps melt it, to speak with him; so instead, I shall watch and I shall linger and I shall lament. As before me sits Rogier, my deepest failure. The one whom I have killed with my thankless, unconvincing, overpowering faith. I step on one of the many staunch, barbed branches that have sprouted from Rogier’s legs, the accursed nature beginning to bloom far past what was correct. I feel a decisive disgust drag along the pits of my stomach. Had I been more convincing. Had I been more humane. Had I been more like him, perhaps, Rogier would not be sat before me, a mockery of the wise, glamoured sorcerer he once was. What a cruel joke, this all was. I have worked so tirelessly to corrupt the spread of death, only to have it sprout from him, who is, yet, me. I shake my head, the thoughts beginning to dizzy my mind lasciviously. Oh, my once friend, rotting amidst your own accursed blood. Would it be a mercy to you, I wonder, if I had killed you? All those years ago? When we met… the memory gives way to a convicted, convoluted fondness that I shan’t emote upon my inhumane flesh.

My face remains as it always has: blank. For I am no mortal man. My mortality is measured by my capacity to be amidst the living; my patient breaths indicate no soul to be present. (Perhaps he, who makes us, took all the scornful feelings I had once felt, long before I reunited with the Clergyman. For what else could it be but I reuniting? I knew him, my destiny, long before I had been born, perhaps. Such a delusion, to comfort us, perhaps.) I had long since sloughed sensitivity from my senseless form and have embraced my will as a blade for the utilization of the derangement, estranged, beautiful Order; I am it and it was always I and I shall not (cannot) think past my own fixation with it, for that is what love had been, for us. Yes, we loved so deeply, didn’t we? He and I and I again. The Order had been our eclipse and we could do nothing but curl like infants beneath its blackened radiance. Destined, it was. A comfort, it would always be. (A shield, it would have to be. I could not face him; never properly. Rogier, whom I had loved. Was my love true? Was I alive? My sentience was a yearning curse and with its belated awakening had I loved Rogier. With an everlasting passion that would scour my mind and braid it with flowers of heresy. When I look at Rogier, I guilt and agonize over my fetid ignorance. For my love, surely, had cursed him too.) I am his; his persecution and surely I must… I place my Midas-touched, severed head onto the floor (I note with apathy how the thorns dance towards it) and I unsheathe my blade, the twins, inseparable. My blade, refracting against my being, shines with something wretched and I cannot bare the stench of the fickle kills that are marred into its united metals. I point my blade to his neck (I wish it was mine) and I stare, blankly, as I always will. Stoicism has been lured into my careening halfling-soul and I shan’t abandon it for it is I and I am me. It is too late for him. (Why can’t I do it? Why is my body frozen, as thorns have begun to wither amidst my iron-clad shoes? I stare, deeply, imposingly, at utter failure, my repentance and my mistake and I sting, the pain fresh along the lining of my stomach. Why can’t I move? Why do I shake? This is my possessive destiny. To slew that which has been corrupted by a stasis beyond our understanding; this is Destined and I am, at that moment, his galactic destiny. Move, I implore my body, shivering. I cannot shift my face to sorrow, even, the sinews of my flesh-ridden iron skull locking in place, cogs of muscles rusted and disused. I cannot feel anything. I cannot feel anything.) I, innocuously, stare at his face; he almost appears peaceful, face no longer scrunched in a gritty state of delirium. Now, his face is smooth and he is breathing softly, incredulously docile in spite of the blade pointed at him, as if my will was a mockery to him, as if I was no threat to someone as gallant as him. My face quivers, lip jutting slightly. The tip of my blade kisses his skin, it’s sharp valour caressing his warm flesh with a viscous silence. A sliver of blood. A small hole in his neck. His skin, so fragile, half rotted, already. He is dead (why can’t I do it?). In an empty of breath of his, I could almost make out the sound of my name (Darian, not D) and in my head, I scream.

In the end, I was weak. I gingerly wipe the sweat that trailed like streaks of rain down his furrowed brow, thanklessly, a sacrilegious smile burrowing into my expression, like a cluster of festering worms, my lips straining despite the barren visibility of my odd expression. Such a scene was nostalgic for me; I was the eldest of two, thunderous twins; bitter as dirt after a flood; and I was conditioned to nurture and I was conditioned to protect (I was conditioned to kill). Many times had he (I) fallen ill and I (he) would be the stark glimmer amidst a sandstorm of gaunt fog; I would take gentle care of him, D, and he, the twins, would cry, quietly, hushed words dying behind his stitched lips. I had decided to take him, my wilting old friend, to be bathed. His slumber was a reckoning I could not consult with; for no matter what I did, he would not wake (I was grateful, if only slightly. He would not have to look at me, in overabundant disgust, pondering why I had bothered with him). I washed his clothes, hung them up to dry, and I wondered, silently, where his sword had gone. I did not dare press too roughly against him, for fear he would shatter in my ironclad grip and scatter amidst the Liurnian winds. It is cold and it is an early morning and I’ve warmed the naturalistic water using an idle spell, my hands alight with a fledgling fire; my prowling faith diluting, enough for my spell to be a plausible temperature catalyst in the water. I had a bit of soap and little courage to divulge and enough guilt to compel me (to attempt to rid him of the filth that marred him and his radiant skin). My face quivers, distorted as the water my hands waded through (he still smells of it). I do not cry. I do not cry. I could not stomach a single tear, I believe, steadfast. The consecrated spell dies in my grip and I find my hands weaving into threads of lacklustre hair, idle clumps of a heady brown knitting themselves in my grip and pouring into the water. My stomach churns. I stare at him. He does not stare back. After a few more tense moments, I fish him from the water and do not submerge him into such a subversive luxury; instead, I pull my harmonious armour off my body and I separate my distended cape from the metal. I begin to dry him off, gently, conscientious of the disturbance I was both to him and to his life. I did not want him to see him; I feared him leering at my skin. I feared the possibility of him hooking me with a milky glint, eyes rotted in his skull, melting between his cantankerous cartilage. When he is dry, I clothe him, thanklessly, filled with a roasting, festering guilt; one that creates fingerprints of venerable sorrow in my skin, along my spine. I cradle him in my grip and he, subconsciously, curls closer to me. I do not cry. I… I do not cry.

He does not comprehend much when he reawakens, eyes blurry and still saturated with a grotesque sleep, deathly, daft slumber crumbling between his eyelashes. His head is exceedingly empty and he cannot justify the heat that radiates from his mind, the center of his forehead boiling with a sickly warmth, diluting his thoughts and bleeding the emotions right from his head. His mouth feels dry but he does not cry; not in alarm nor in agony. It feels like his eyes were attempting to crawl out of his spiralling head.

#elden ring #elden ring rogier #sorcerer rogier #rogier #spellbladerogier #d elden ring #darian elden ring #darian #elden ring fanfic #oneshot #darian / rogier #d / rogier #d x rogier #darian x rogier #wip #current wip

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siremasterlawrence · 1 year

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Hypno Sessions - Chris

Chris is waiting outside of my office after I take Andrews chin in my palm lifting him up as he kisses me slowly his feet give in and he is mine.

He submits willingly to me asking me to let him serve me for all time and be only mine for the rest of all eternity he kisses me once more.

I raise him up to face me leading him to the back of the room I instruct him to sit down on the couch and fall in to a deep slumber till I awake him up.

Sighing I check him out brush my hair with my hand and straighten my clothes them head out to my next client who I the one I really want.

Chris is completely lost staring at Andrew in wonder before he can ask a question his life take a turn feeling his body given in walking to the couch.

He drops to the couch with his mind begins to fog up his brain fading in to the darkness of the abyss flowing freely through his mind forever.

My fingers rise in to the air snapping both of my fingers his head falls down to his chin instantly the thoughts fade completely his eyes drop.

His body hitting the couch every inch of it

is sinking in till he stuck, unable to move except if I command him too I feel a sense of pride.

I let him stir in his own hypnotic juices so I can set it up moving my chair in to the fray of the light and promptly sitting down the light cascading over my visage.

“Ok Chris! We are returning back to the blank space, your body is giving in to my voice.”

“That’s it ! Let go back up a bit more your feet are slipping.”

“Jump! JUMP!”

“Keep falling in to the distance have ending clock appears.”

“Transforming in to a hypnotic black and white spiral.”

“You dive through a clock ticks louder and louder.”

“You can’t fight it, your resist it and you must obey.”

“Obey…I must obey”

“Yyyyeeesssssss!”

“You are in bottomless pit of descent “

“The outside world still exist apart from you “

“You are no longer in that world”

“You are in mine”

“You are blissfully at peace”

“I am your Lord, Master and God”

“I am your everything “

“The love of your life”

“Take a dive in to the deep, make me your all and center.”

“Take a dive….dive …dive”

“Aaaahhhhhhh!”

“Forget it all, erase your ego”

“Oh Master ! Master Lawrence “

“Wake up “

“Master!”

“Please don’t leave me”

“I need you “

“I love you sire “

The end

#Chris Evans #hypnosis #mind control #therapy #in session

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dcwnthercbbithcle · 4 months

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[ EASE ] — sender encourages receiver's legs open ~ @who-is-muses [ Phiwip for Evan- something something training a stray dog <3 ]

Gestures That Get Me Going Meme | ACCEPTING

For @who-is-muses

Something something Evan is in a submissive position embraces his inner good boy featuring his more than mild humiliation kink, and lust for Phil

I would kill and die for these pathetic little men any day of the week, I love whatever the fuck they have going on and I hope this is okay! I tried my hardest, even if it came out a little clunky in the end!

NSFT BELOW THE CUT, ALL WRITTEN NO GRAPHICS

Pushing each other through the scrap and metal of the wrecking yard, Evan & Philip again found themselves at the crescendo of some argument. A lovers quarrel, some would quip, much to their resentment. But oh, wasn't it always how it fell apart? Some pointless strife, perhaps Evan had taken too much scrap, or Evan had caught Phil sabotaging his traps. It was an excuse to fight, a reason to fuck, nothing more. They needed the strife to justify themselves and the release as little more than a boilover.

These circumstances saw the pair bulldozing their way into the long-vacant space of Azarov's Resting place. Teeth snarled at each other's throats. Philip's balled fists gripped at his overall straps, a mercy to the shrapnel in his shoulder, but not by much.

Evan thoroughly prepared himself for his mask to be torn asunder in a smooth movement from his face and to feel the harsh sting of horrifically pointed teeth against his lips, a ritual of pain and lust and hatred he'd craved in their time apart. Yet, this quick rip of violence for violence never came to fruit. The moment stagnated. Then, in a fluid moment, far too fast for Evan to take heed, Evan felt himself drawn in, footing stumbling to catch himself on the uneven flooring as he braced himself against Phil's chest, hands knotting in his cowl as their bodies pressed together. He could feel his heart in that moment, his breath too, ragged. It was alien, fantastic, but alien.

Evan couldn't seem to pay mind to focus on the sensation, though, not while Philip pushed away the pesky bone visage, only so far as to allow for a kiss against Evan's chapped lips beneath. It was awkward, all knocking and jagged edges, but Evan was captured. Even as the bite of Philips's teeth drew a hiss of pain that ultimately served to separate them. There was a flash of fear then, something too quick and fleeting to put to mind, was Phil drawing away. But worries were put to rest with newfound vigour, pushing, no, urging Evan deeper into the poorly lit space, reeking of dust and aged wood. Yet despite himself, Evan followed Philip, an odd waltz of growing tension as they'd seemed to circulate each other, uncertain, unwilling to put the confusion to words. Who was leading who? Until Evan found himself pushed back into a long-forgotten desk, it seemed the decision had been made for them both. Jostling the boxy computer monitor, he dropped to sit against the chair.

The chair creaked beneath Evan's weight as he settled into its worn and cracked leather, giving a deep, groaning sound that generally would have arisen caution in Evan's mind, but deep in the fog of lust, he couldn't care less, no, not care less. Evan couldn't even notice; Evan had lost his mind in the fog of Philip, the taste of him on his tongue, heady and thick and distinctively earthy in a manner paired perfectly with the copper blood dripping down his lip.

It was all-consuming, and no matter what, he couldn't seem to shake it; why? He didn't want to admit, but there was an element in how Philip pushed, not with aggression but with lead. Evan felt a hound, and despite himself, something deep in his mind urged him to follow, heed, and obey. However, giving voice to such a treacherous thought stung something deeper than any of the wounds that littered across his broken body.

If only any of the coalmen could see it now, the hard-assed, no-nonsense, cruel scion of the great MacMillan, reduced to a mewling gutless heap at the gentle touch of the Wraith in all the right places. He would have been the laughing stock, and he'd deserve it. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. The voice of men long dead and jeers echo in his mind like a chorus, mocking a reality he can't ignore, yet, despite himself, Evan feels no shame, not beneath the hand of his lover.

No, this submission feels good, too good, wrong-good; he craves it like the burn of scotch at the back of his throat and an itch scratched raw. Blood of his pride travels downward into his cock, painfully constricted by his position and the rubber overalls. It hurts; he's aware of that much, teeth-gritting beneath his mask, but the feeling is humbling, exhilarating & each hiss of his muted conscious only serves to stoke the fires in his veins brighter, hotter, closer to the fever pitch.

Distantly, though muted by the deep and consuming thrum of his heart in his chest, like the furnace at the heart of the ironworks. Evan wonders if his hunger is evident. If Philip can see it, pupils blown wide behind the eye holes of his mask, his need for him, the fire growing, consuming him, for him, all for him. Part of him wonders and hopes he does, but another sighs in relief, hoping the ever-stoic expression of his lover is evidence to the contrary.

Any deeper consideration into the matter finds itself lost from his mind as Evan is pulled from his thoughts by the hand of Philip, moving from the shrapnel piercing above his pectoral, over marred flesh, down, deliciously igniting his body under its path. Evan growls lowly at that, eyes squeezing shut beneath the mask as he feels himself pulse and his mind and body focused on the sensation, crawling lower, down the curve of his abdomen, inching ever nearer to where Evan craved him. He felt himself pulse again then, painfully, a low noise escaping his throat as he bucked as if to meet Philip halfway, knuckles almost touching that dull green rubber, and yet not, making Evan's hips drop back onto the chair, with a curse and what could almost be mistaken as a whimper. Still, Evan stilled, waiting, anticipating, green eyes focused intently, desperately on the movement of his partner.

Philip said nothing then; nothing needed to be said as his hand placed itself at Evan's thigh, urging them open to make space; much to Evan's relief was palpable in the shaking sigh that reverberated from the inside of his mask, as was the message. Good Boy.

#trapper tbt #tw nsft #cw nsft #// nsft

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astrxlfinale · 2 months

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🧋 - to offer your muse a drink . (aventurine trying to get him to make bad life choices)

Penacony has been nothing but an exercise in bad choices.

So how should he perceive the cup that holds a bitter taste and a lively kick? Amidst the wild array of showlights that danced upon other sections of this club, to the natural, hypnotic sway and jig of many bodies indulging themselves in connection upon the throne of superficial, here's this bastard once again. More good times were made for his good ol' pal Caelus, that hypnotic gaze reflecting an invitation as a lorded source above that very glass.

It must be pretty damn bad if this guy of all people was taking pity on him. He has to look like hell. (Hardly getting any sleep while dead asleep, the irony.) It led to the brawler's face twisting into a visage of discontent and impulsivity as he snatches that very glass. "I swear this bullshit here is for people dead set on running away. Makes me sick." Which the natural conclusion was to become an utter hypocrite in that same notion.

A head tilted swig is taken of that very glass. Instead of glamor, he vies for the burn, rather than pristine wishes, what a gnawing side of him aches for is a form the thorn-like reality to be signified through his body. It felt as if his actual body above and this one received the potent height of being gluttonous with the alcohol. That too is fine, so is the fact his breath may reek of the stuff later on.

Oh well, come what may.

Allowing the fogged over glass to be tilted one way to another in his grip, it clicks, something about this whole situation simply wants to make him laugh. Where in the hell was this 'faith' in their bond coming from exactly? One big situation, a show, and here they were, seeing him be utterly fucked up as his feeling remained wired with constraint and flared all at once.

"........"

"Just can't stop moving one way or another, huh?" Motion at the least meant going somewhere. Whether a path ahead, circles of pointlessness, you name it. Seething within the depth of his being was an urge to let his body sing in exertion, to let his will be the proud caster and immutable flame that burned that desire strong. Maybe another thread of fate decides to join this pit of fancied indulgence. For upon the musical track lies a switch, a rhythm that sings to that very desire.

Being met with a temptation leveled in simplicity almost felt alien at this point. It's enough to bring their initial conversation to a pause, the approving holler of the crowd behind them sweeping his attention as the continuous thrum of that song echoes in his body. Unknowingly to the Trailblazer, he began to bop his head to it, a lost sense of vigor attempting to spark to life as he tacked his glass to the countertop.

He's led towards the sea of bodies that part as if charmed by a siren's song. An idea was brewing, not exactly a means to forget, but simply an act that must be performed for a heart such as his. Being Aventurine's valued guest was enough to warrant attention from some of the other partygoers. Despite those eyes, despite the hint of a growing show light beginning to bubble with life as it follows his direction, within moments he's letting his body express.

Caelus is both content and hates the fact that he very much wishes to learn about his new friend. So why not show him the results of this very gamble?

A firm pop of the hips!

A flawless roll of the head, enough to cause the spotlight to immediately brighten upon his figure.

Only then would a gloved hand ascend, bringing that very attention with a directed point towards one of Penacony's VIPs. Another searing show light situating over their figure (the technicians believed this was planned), leading to the warrior's whimsy to bring.. no, force this very situation upon the Stoneheart.

"How about we get to know each other a little better?" He mentions, offering up a challenging smile in tune with a cant of the head, allowing that silver hair to highlight the deviousness in his features, those golden eyes locked in.

"Let's show 'em how it's done, my friend."

@apocryphis

#apocryphis #| Shuttle Mail #| Meme #How about two bros take the spotlight #Abruptly and with no plans #Bad decisions sure have a broad meaning huh u__u

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cutieininferno · 11 months

Text

EMERALD CITY

Disclaimer: One Piece (and its characters) belongs to Eiichiro Oda-sensei.

Note: Set after Wano.

PROLOGUE

She found herself standing upon a grim shore, its ebony sands swallowing her footsteps. The moon, a mere sliver in the sky, cast feeble light upon the desolate landscape, creating an atmosphere of unease and uncertainty. As she wandered through the ghostly mist, Nami found herself lost within a twisted forest, its gnarled trees reaching out like skeletal arms, attempting to ensnare her in their grasping tendrils. She moved cautiously, her heart pounding in her chest, her senses on high alert as the forest whispered words of malevolence, taunting and goading her as she navigated through the labyrinth of shadow.

Amidst the dense fog, Nami stumbled upon a rusted gate, its jagged iron bars seemingly forged from the darkest recesses of her fears. With trembling hands, she pushed it open, revealing a forsaken city consumed by ruin and decay. Dilapidated structures loomed like menacing specters, their broken windows and crumbling facades serving as a testament to forgotten atrocities.

As her eyes mapped the city with anguish, they fell on the figure standing in the doorway of a house. The image was familiar in an unsettling way, and Nami felt like she was witnessing the onset of a plague. There, she beheld a woman who bore a striking resemblance to herself, yet with the wisdom and weathered grace of age etched upon her face. Her eyes, pools of knowledge and secrets, held an air of quiet intensity that mirrored Nami's own spirit. But it wasn't herself, she noted.

In a flick of the eyes, the woman was at Nami's side, her smell surrounding her. A mix of fresh fallen rain, blooming flowers and dried blood filled her nostrils and and sent a shiver through her spine.

In a haunting whisper that seemed to caress Nami's ear, the woman spoke, her voice carrying a chilling undercurrent of both familiarity and foreboding. "Child of the tempest, you stand upon the precipice of your destiny," she murmured, her words dripping with an eerie resonance. "Embrace the shadows that dance within your soul, for they shall guide you through the labyrinth of your true self."

As the woman's cryptic words echoed in the darkness, a sudden gust of wind whipped through the desolate city, carrying an ominous chill that seeped into Nami's bones. The atmosphere thickened with an unseen presence, and an overwhelming sense of impending doom washed over her.

In a second, the once-familiar woman transformed, her features contorting into a grotesque visage, her eyes hollow and filled with an unholy hunger. A blood-curdling scream tore through the air, piercing Nami's ears and shaking her to her core.

Startled, Nami jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. Her heart raced as she clutched the sheets, her breath ragged and uneven. The remnants of the dream still lingered, leaving her shaken and unsettled. It took a moment for her to gather herself, to separate the lingering dread from the reality of her surroundings. With a shaky exhale, she realized it had all been a nightmare, a chilling glimpse into a realm of darkness and uncertainty. Yet, deep within her, a flicker of curiosity burned. What meaning could there be behind such a sinister unconscious vision?

The room felt oppressive, the weight of the dream still lingering in the air. Intending to not wake Robin, she moved across the chamber with careful steps, her bare feet moving fast against the cool wooden floor. Pulling a flowing white robe around her, she cinched it tightly, as if seeking solace and protection within its soft embrace.

Leaving the confines of her quarters, Nami stepped onto the deck of the ship, her senses awakening to the world around her. The salty breeze caressed her face, carrying the faint scent of the ocean and the distant call of seagulls on its wings. The dawn-kissed horizon was slowly turning from deep blue to orange.

Her gaze shifted towards the crow's nest, where the rhythmic sounds of Zoro's exercise routine echoed through the night. Each clink of his huge weights against the metal floor resonated in her ears, a melodic symphony of determination and strength. She leaned against the railing, her eyes fixed on the vast expanse of the dark ocean.

Lost in her thoughts, Nami's mind wandered away from the residual tendrils of the nightmare. Her thoughts turned to Zoro, the enigmatic swordsman who had become an indelible part of her journey. Images of their conversations, the stolen glances and shared moments, swirled within her consciousness like the cresting waves.

A melancholic craving settled in her heart, the weight of unspoken emotions pressing against her chest. The tension between them had grown since their reunion, an undercurrent that danced beneath their interactions, both exhilarating and bittersweet. With each passing adventure, a magnetic pull seemed to draw her closer to him, stirring emotions that she had both welcomed and feared.

It was only in those moments of quiet solitude that Nami allowed herself to acknowledge the extense of emotions that Zoro made her feel.

Anger surged through her veins whenever his stubbornness clashed with her own. Their fiery exchanges, filled with sharp retorts and piercing gazes, ignited sparks that danced between them, fueling a fire that neither could fully extinguish.

Yet, beneath the fiery facade, an undeniable attraction smoldered, a magnetic force that tugged at her heartstrings with an almost gravitational pull. His unwavering loyalty, devotion to his dreams, and strength called to her, drawing her closer to him despite her best efforts to resist. There was an inexplicable allure in the way his muscles flexed with each precise strike of his swords, in the way his intense gaze met hers, seducing her without realising it.

Frustration knitted her brows together, born from Zoro's steady determination and single-minded pursuit of strength. His focus on his own path often left her feeling adrift, caught between admiration for his resolve and the longing for him to see the depths of her own struggles.

But even amid the frustration, a deep-rooted sense of trust had taken hold. Through countless battles and treacherous voyages, Zoro had proven himself to be a steadfast companion, a safe haven. His presence was a shield, a reassuring force that made her feel protected in the face of danger. The bond they shared, forged through the shared trials and triumphs of the Straw Hat crew, had woven threads of trust that Nami couldn't deny.

However, even with trust came vulnerability, and jealousy lurked in the shadows of Nami's heart. When Hiyori expressed her admiration and interest in Zoro, an unwelcome pang of envy twisted within her. It was a raw and undeniable emotion, born from the fear of losing a connection that she had barely begun to understand herself. The green-eyed monster whispered its venomous doubts, igniting a war within her as she grappled with her own desires and the perceived threat of a rival's affections.

With each passing day, Nami found it increasingly difficult to rein in her feelings. The jealousy had become a volatile force, tearing at the seams of her composure and undermining her once-confident facade. She wrestled with this newfound vulnerability. The jealousy had stripped away the veil of control she had so carefully maintained, exposing the depths of her yearning and the fragility of her heart. It was a disconcerting revelation, one that left her questioning her own strength and resolve.

"You're up early." The deep voice behind her made her jolt in surprise. She hadn't noticed the cease of the sounds in the Crow's Nest.

Nami turned to find Zoro standing there, shirtless, his muscular frame defined by the early morning light. Beads of sweat glistened on his skin, like liquid sunlight tracing the contours of his sculpted form. Her breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively responding to the sight before her.

A flush of warmth spread across Nami's cheeks, her pulse quickening as a familiar flutter of attraction stirred within her. She had seen Zoro shirtless countless times during the training sessions and battles, but there was something different about this moment. The golden hues of the rising sun cast a soft glow upon him, emphasizing the strength and grace etched into every sinew. It was a sight that both captivated and unnerved her, igniting a fire within her that danced between desire and trepidation.

Her eyes lingered on the subtle sheen of sweat that clung to his skin, her mind tracing the trails it left behind. The droplets seemed to magnify the allure of his physique, awakening a primal response deep within her core. The muscles of her stomach tightened, a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty swirling within her.

Nami's gaze flickered to the beads of sweat trickling down his neck, disappearing into the shadowed hollows. She found herself momentarily lost in the thought of trailing her fingers along those paths, exploring the terrain of his body with a forbidden curiosity. It was a dangerous desire, one that threatened to pull her further into the abyss of her own emotions.

Shaking herself from the intoxicating reverie, Nami forced her eyes to meet his gaze. There was the ever-present stoic look.

"You've been acting strange lately, Nami," he remarked, his voice tinged with both curiosity and concern. "Is there something bothering you?"

Nami blinked, momentarily taken aback by his perceptiveness. Her mind raced for a plausible explanation to dismiss his observation. But there was a part of her that wished to share her turmoil with him, to let him in on the tangled web of emotions that had entwined her thoughts.

Summoning a faint smile, she replied, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability amidst her attempt at nonchalance. "Just lost in my own thoughts, Zoro. It's nothing you need to worry about."

His eyebrow raised inquisitively, a silent invitation for her to reveal more. His perceptive gaze seemed to cut through her defenses, seeing more than she was willing to reveal. The moment hung in the air, the unspoken words lingering between them, as if the currents of the ocean itself held their secrets.

"Alright," Zoro finally replied, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment. It was a fleeting moment, quickly replaced by his usual stoicism, leaving Nami to wonder if she had made the right choice by keeping her emotions veiled.

Her attention was abruptly drawn away as a chilling gust of wind swept across the ship. She felt a shiver crawl up her spine, a sudden shift in the atmosphere that sent a shroud of unease washing over her. The air grew heavy with a foreboding presence, as if the very elements conspired to mirror the turbulence within her own heart.

Her gaze darted to the horizon, where dark storm clouds swirled ominously, their tendrils stretching across the vast expanse of the sky. The once calm and serene ocean now churned with an unsettling energy, waves crashing against the sides of the ship with a newfound ferocity. The sky, once tinged with the golden hues of dawn, now darkened, suffocating the ship in an eerie twilight.

A sense of urgency gripped Nami's chest, her thoughts momentarily consumed by the impending storm. Her heart raced, matching the rhythm of the crashing waves, as a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. Instinctively, she moved towards the helm, her steps hastened by a mix of concern for the safety of the crew and the need to escape the tempest within her own soul.

When she glanced back at Zoro, horror was plastered all over her face.

"Get everyone on the deck right now."

Nami's urgent command echoed through the ship, and the crew swiftly gathered on the deck, their faces etched with worry and anticipation. They braced themselves for the onslaught of a devastating storm, yet as moments turned into minutes, they realized something was amiss. The sky remained an oppressive darkness, the clouds swirling with an otherworldly energy, but the rain refused to fall.

The air crackled with tension, the atmosphere heavy with an unfulfilled promise of nature's fury. The waves continued their relentless assault against the ship, their force intensifying with each passing minute. The ship creaked and groaned under the strain, as if mirroring the mounting unease within Nami's own heart.

As the crew cast glances at one another, confusion painted across their faces, Nami couldn't shake the sinking feeling that the sun would never shine again. The absence of rain, of cleansing tears from the sky, left her feeling trapped in an eternal twilight. It was as if the elements themselves withheld their release, trapping her in a suspended state of despair.

The darkness pressed against her, suffocating and unrelenting. She searched the horizon desperately, yearning for a glimmer of hope, for a break in the impenetrable shroud that enveloped them. But all she found was a perpetual gloom, a void where sunlight should have pierced through.

Nami's chest tightened, the weight of her emotions mirroring the oppressive atmosphere surrounding them. She had faced storms and tempests before, but this was different. It was an lurid reminder that even the elements could play tricks on one's perception, turning what should have been a release into an eternal purgatory of uncertainty.

As Nami's eyes strained through the darkness, a flicker of relief washed over her when she spotted a rocky shore emerging from the horizon. The sight of land offered a glimmer of respite, a potential sanctuary from the oppressive gloom that had consumed them. However, her relief was quickly overshadowed by a stark realization—the log pose, the device that guided them through the unpredictable New World, didn't point to this island.

She frowned, her brows furrowing with concern. The log pose was their compass, their key to navigating the treacherous seas. Its unwavering needle always pointed towards the next destination, guiding them safely on their journey. But now, faced with an unknown land, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that something was amiss.

"Guys, I don't think we should dock here," Nami voiced her reservations, her tone laced with caution. "The log pose isn't pointing to this island. It could be dangerous."

Luffy, however, remained undeterred, his eyes sparkling with an adventurous gleam. "I don't care about the log pose. This place looks interesting! Let's check it out!"

Nami's frustration simmered beneath the surface, her brows knitting together as she struggled to contain her growing exasperation. She respected Luffy's boundless curiosity and his unyielding determination, but there were times when his impulsive nature left her infuriated.

"Luffy, this is serious!" Nami's voice rose, her tone edged with urgency. "The log pose is there for a reason. It guides us through the New World and ensures we reach our destinations without falling into dangerous traps. Ignoring it could lead us into unnecessary danger."

The rest of the crew watched the exchange, their expressions caught between their captain's obstinated enthusiasm and Nami's prudent caution. Sanji nodded in agreement, his eyes filled with understanding, while Franky shifted uncomfortably, torn between loyalty and the desire to avoid unnecessary risks. Chopper and Usopp were hidden behind him, afraid of the mere sight of the island.

Luffy scratched his head, a sheepish grin spreading across his face as he looked at Nami.

"You're right, Nami," he said, and Nami's mouth opened in surprise. She wasn't expecting him to agree with her. "But that's exactly why we should check it out! If it's not on the log pose, then it means it's something new, something cool! And you know how much I love cool stuff!"

Nami blinked in astonishment, her surprise giving way to to resignation and amusement. She couldn't help but be charmed by Luffy's vivacity, his ability to find excitement in even the most uncertain situations.

With a sigh and a hint of a smile, she decided to play along. "Alright, Luffy," Nami replied, her voice tinged with annoyance and fondness. "If you say it's cool, then I guess we'll have to find out."

Luffy's grin widened, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. He turned to the rest of the crew, excitement radiating from his every word. "Alright, everyone! We're docking on the island!" Luffy announced. "Get ready for an adventure like no other! I can feel it in my bones!"

The crew members exchanged glances, their initial reservations giving way to a shared sense of adventure.

As the ship inched closer to the shore, Nami's amusement waned, replaced by a growing sense of unease and physical strain. Her body seemed to respond to the abnormal weather, the weight of the darkened sky and the relentless waves taking a toll on her weary form.

A dull ache settled in her temples, throbbing with each passing moment. Beads of sweat dotted her brow, a testament to the physical strain she felt. Her muscles tensed, her shoulders weighed down by an invisible burden that seemed to grow heavier with each approaching wave.

Nami couldn't ignore the subtle warnings her body sent her. The unrelenting pressure of the atmosphere seemed to seep into her bones, sapping her energy and dampening her spirits. Each breath felt heavier, as if the air itself carried the weight of the impending unknown.

Despite her reservations, Nami clenched her fists, determined not to let her weariness cloud her judgment. She stole a glance at the crew, their excitement and anticipation mirroring Luffy's infectious enthusiasm. Yet, as they prepared to disembark onto the mysterious shore, she couldn't shake the nagging feeling that she was walking into a misadventure.

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