#That having to listen to someone be up THEIR own ass? TORTURE.

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 35

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"Andrew, wake up." Andrew felt a hand on his shoulder and he lashed out as he always did. He found himself rocketing towards consciousness as he heard Neil's pained grunt. Panic lances through him as he realizes what he had hit instead of the intruder and he's glad they compromised when he and Neil had started to sleep in the same bed.

Andrew pulls Neil in closer to protect him even as Neil groans at the sudden jolting movement.

He needs to get-

"I already moved your secret pillow knife Andrew." The intruder says as Andrew's hand grasps at nothing. He has a second one but the intruder is now armed and Neil-

"Erik and the Hans Moretti Sword Box are the only combination of me, another guy, and blades being stabbed at me that I will accept. Now, wake up." The familiar sounding intruder says.

Andrew blinks awake.

Nicky's frowning face is staring down at him.

"I need to borrow the Maserati, or you need to drive me to Abby's house. Right now." Nicky says without a hint of the fear.

Or, at least, not fear of Andrew.

"What's wrong with Smith?" he asks holding out his hand for his pilfered knife as he rubs Neil's side where he had lashed out instinctively.

Nicky looks at him for a long moment before handing the knife back to Andrew, "There's...I just feel like something isn't right. I want to be there with him, I shouldn't have left him there." Nicky says.

Andrew didn't disagree.

FF had been relaxed and at ease, drinking the disgusting smoothie that Kevin had forced on him, and Andrew had noticed a hint of a smile on his friend's face.

Then that fuckface showed up and FF had looked worse than when Andrew had stabbed him. He still remembered the garbage that piece of shit had spewed and Andrew hated knowing things about his friend that his friend hadn't told him.

Hated that his brain could piece moments that made a horrible amount of sense now. FF staring at his car the first time before climbing in, how he had requested that Andrew focus on the road, Nicky looking at all of them exasperated "Smithy was going to walk back", and-

“See, you’re still upset over what that guy did. Why are you clinging to the last name of the guy that did this to you?” Fuckface asks from behind them, “He almost killed mom and you. He did kill our two-“

"Stop."

Andrew makes himself stop thinking about it. It wasn't something FF wanted to talk about.

"The keys are where I always put them." he says because he thinks if he gets out of bed he might go hunt fuckface for sport. The thought of seeing fuckface's well fucking face as he hits him with the Maserati is not a bad one.

"Thank you Andrew. Sorry Neil." Nicky says and Neil waves it off having mostly drifted back to sleep as Andrew had rubbed his back mindlessly.

Nicky leaves without another word. Andrew settled back into bed hand still mindlessly rubbing Neil's back. He closes his eyes. He thinks about how FF had looked at those two kids a few weeks back.

He'd looked like a good older brother.

He holds Neil tight, focuses on the feeling of his even breathing on his neck, and listens to Kevin's snoring to think about a monster consuming Daniel whole.

******

Sometimes Matt feels like he misses out on things with his friends. It didn't happen that often and he doesn't regret the Thanksgiving he spent with his Mom and Dan. Not a single atom regrets making hand turkeys with Dan or holding Dan and his Mom's bags during their Black Friday spree.

He still felt ice in his stomach when he heard that some of Nathan's men had come for Neil and that FF had gotten hurt. FF hadn't seemed overly bothered by the injury and Matt was looking forward to having the freshman as a roommate once he was fully cleared by Abby.

FF was a good kid and Matt had a hard time disliking someone who so obviously looked up to and liked his best friend. He'd told Dan about the 'Captain Neil' title and the two of them had just about died talking about how sweet they both found it.

Which is why he feels a certain kind of way when he finds out his Skype date with Dan had him miss out on a face that, based on what he heard from an incensed Aaron, was in desperate need of a punch.

"Where's Nicky?" Matt asks.

"He couldn't stop worrying about Smiths, he doesn't have Friday classes so he mentioned something about sticking with Smiths." Aaron explains over his oatmeal and Matt turns his head towards the wall they shared with Neil, Andrew, and Kevin's room as he hears the blender going. Aaron shovels the remainder of his oatmeal into his mouth, "I gotta go. I'll see you later." he says.

Matt waves his roommate off and wonders what the sudden rush was but it was hardly three minutes later that Kevin Day was bursting into their room without knocking. "Aaron, I need your-" Kevin stops gaze settling on Matt. "Where's Aaron?" he asks.

Matt looks at him, "He just left." he says. Kevin looks to the ceiling in obvious frustration, "Anything I can help with?" Matt asks while at the same time cursing himself for asking.

"Have you had breakfast?" Kevin asks immediately.

"Uh...no?" Matt says.

"Perfect. Drink this." Kevin says shoving a smoothie into Matt's hand. Matt looked at the blue-ish smoothie in his hands and then back up to Kevin. "You asked if there was anything you could help with. Tell me how that tastes." he points at the beverage and Matt recognizes the distinct smell of one of Kevin's health shakes.

"I don't want to do this." Matt says setting the smoothie to the side.

"I'm trying to improve the flavor." Kevin says, "It was brought to my attention that it isn't very...good tasting." Kevin adds sounding like the admission costs him something.

"Just now? You just figured out they taste like butt, just now?" Matt asks incredulously.

Kevin flushes, "Smiths drank it without complaint!" he exclaims.

"Yeah, 'cuz Smithster is nice! Also I think his face is just stuck like that." Matt says.

"There was no way I could have known they were gross!" Kevin argues.

"Kevin, most people TASTE the things they're giving to others." Matt points out and Kevin only grows redder.

"Are you going to help me improve the taste or not?!" Kevin demands pointing at the smoothie, "that's phase one right there." he points at the beverage.

Matt considers it, "This is to make these god awful smoothies taste better for Smithster?" he asks finally feeling like there was something he could offer his friend.

"Yes." Kevin says.

"And you can't just taste them yourself....because?" Matt asks.

"I need multiple datapoints, it can't just be me." Kevin answers immediately.

Matt rolls his eyes but he was not one to deny the scientific process, "Fine." he agrees and grabs the smoothie, "You said this was phase one of improving the flavor?" he asks.

"Yes." Kevin says.

Matt nods and brings the smoothie to his lips.

Bitter. Slimey. Why is it spicy? So Bitter. It's liquid how is it chalky?

He immediately spits it out, "Why does it taste like that?!" Matt demands immediately. "You said it was phase one?!" he hisses.

"That's the control. I needed your opinion on where I was starting." Kevin jerks his head to the side towards the entrance of Matt's dorm, "C'mon, we've got work to do." he says leaving the room without taking his godforsaken smoothie with him.

Matt looks to the ceiling like Kevin had earlier. Honestly, the world had been a darker place since Kevin had to take the required science course last year.

****** There was no singular more 'freshman' thing that FF had done, in Nicky's opinion, than the fact that the kid had early Friday classes. Nicky had gotten to Abby's place late and hadn't slept before, too caught up in a conversation with Aaron.

FF had been awake when he'd gotten to Abby's, staring blankly into the fridge and based on how cold his friend's pajamas were he couldn't help but wonder how long FF had been there. So he herded FF back to bed and FF had pressed his face into Nicky's shoulder and hadn't let go. So Nicky had crawled into bed after FF had nodded his consent.

Nicky had slept terribly.

Still, he woke up with FF's alarm. FF's gaze was about a thousand miles away but he got ready for his two early Friday classes robotically. Nicky shot a text to Aaron and Andrew to let them know that he'd stick with FF for the day to make sure that if Daniel showed up he wouldn't bother FF.

FF walked into a wall as he was texting. "Aw, bud." he says and sets him on a new course.

Andrew texted to tell him that Neil was going to talk with Wymack about not giving Daniel a chance.

He heard another thud, "Oh, Smith don't run into that." he hears Abby say worriedly.

Nicky puts his phone away.

Focus.

He gets FF through breakfast and through the walk to campus. He takes a seat next to FF in his Math class and ignores the narrowed eyes of the person who's usual seat he has obviously taken. He turns in FF's homework, pays attention, takes some notes, answers the clicker questions for FF, and guides him out and over towards his next class.

He sees Daniel being shown around campus by Jack.

He texts Aaron for back-up. The two of them manhandle FF across campus just in time for his Japanese class and Nicky and Aaron swear up and down that they are just there to look in on the class. Nicky hands the clicker off to Aaron since the future doctor's handwriting left a lot to be desired.

Eventually it was done and Nicky and Aaron had to maneuver FF through a truly STARTLING amount of people who wanted to 'have a word' with FF. Nicky remembers that kid from months back. 'The Adonis of the Foreign Language Department'

Eventually through a combination of Nicky's polite declinations, Aaron glowering, and FF walking into another wall they managed to escape the Foreign Language department of Palmetto State University.

"I think we deserve a treat." Nicky says, "Everyone who agrees raise your hand." he adds and raises his own hand before lifting FF's hand up and looking to see Aaron lift his own hand up.

"Are we sure he's okay in there?" Aaron asks waving a hand in front of FF's face as they made their way to an ice cream shop that had excellent waffle cones and was the place that sold FF's favorite triple berry milkshake.

"Yeah, this happens sometimes." Nicky says even if it had never gone on this long with FF having to reboot his system. It feels like his friend may have blue-screened but Nicky's willing to wait it out.

"If you're sure." Aaron says expression giving away how unconvinced he is but he moves along, "Did you do what we talked about last night?" he asks.

"Yeup." Nicky says popping the 'p' at the end.

"Good." Aaron says as he opens the door to the ice cream shop.

****** Andrew is walking to Abby's with Neil, Kevin, and Matt to pick up his car. Nicky had texted Andrew that he and Aaron were hanging out at Abby's trying to get FF to snap out of whatever daze he had fallen into.

"We have to let him tryout and there will be someone from the university there making sure it's all fair." Neil spits the word out with obvious disgust. "Like any of this shit is fair!" Neil kicks a pebble on the sidewalk.

Andrew keeps his thoughts to himself that if Daniel just doesn't make it to the tryouts then there's no issue. This whole mess kicked off because he stabbed FF and Andrew wanted to make it right. FF may not blame Andrew and may still reflexively tell anyone who asks that Romero did it, but Andrew can't forget the moment he looked over and saw his knife in FF's stomach and realized that the blood on his hands was his friend's.

"He might be a good addition to the team." Kevin says.

"Kevin, if you say that one more time I'm going to dump phase 3 down your throat." Matt hisses.

Kevin recoils in visible disgust and notably keeps his mouth shut. Andrew will have to get the recipe off of Matt if it's that effective at shutting Kevin up.

They make the final turn onto Abby's street and Andrew's eyes narrow as he looks at Abby's driveway where there was only one car.

"Where the fuck is my car?" he asks.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

[orchidyoonkook]

The Devil Wears Valentino | MYG

Title: The Devil Wears Valentino  

Pairing: Devil!Min Yoongi x (F)!Reader

Rating//Genre: (M) | One Shot, Spooky AU, Supernatural Creatures AU, Not Quite Friends to Lovers, Age Gap, Technically Slice of Life, Angst, Smut and Fluff

Summary: Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

Actually, he’s almost…protective of you. In his own weird way.

And obnoxiously flirty.

Warnings: language, violence, tae is a menance, drinking and alcohol, Min Yoongi as the Devil -> Lucifer Morningstar? we dont know him, mentions of murder, mentions of torture, mentions of rape -> Sal's an ass and he deserved what he got, somewhat graphic gore/horror (yoon tries her best but she's not very good at spooky), slight POV switches, one (1) mention of reader having hair, fluffy in parts,

Explicit warnings under the cut.

Word Count: 10,488

Release Date: October 31, 2023, 12:00PM

A/N 1: Ahhhh! Welcome to my very first halloween special!!! I wanted to do something for my favourite holiday this year, and I've had this title written down without a plot for maybe just over a year? So I'm really excited to finally use it!!

A/N 1.5: Thank you to my absolute darling @katykatmeow for beta'ing this for me so late in the night. I adore you so much

A/N 2: The whiskey glass and whiskey are hand drawn vectors because I'm a glutton for punishment. Why do I keep doing this to myself.

Explicit Warnings: ahaha uhhh, unprotected sex (dont be stupid) kissing, breast play, fingering, oral (f rec), groping, pet names (sickening amount), dirty talk, praise, slight degredation, hair pulling (m rec), spitting, handjob, body worship, cowgirl, from the back, missionary, a lil bit of crying, spanking, size kink, voice kink, hand kink (look, he's a lot okay, don't blame reader), sl*t/wh*re mentions, multiple orgasms, creampie, I think thats it? Yoon went a little bananas with this one.....

Slow jazz floats through the air of the club, wading around the modestly-sized venue. You’d say it was almost cozy, but with the expensive feel of the place, cozy just didn’t seem like the right word. 

Intimate. That would be a better choice. 

From behind the bar where you stand, to the velvet couches in the back covered by decently dressed lesser demons, piano plays alongside gentle drums. Dark navy cushions soak in their conversation of effective torture methods, discussed like stock market trends, they dissect the best way to decapitate someone so you can instill the most pain and suffering. 

The answer is always with a dull knife and from the back, blindly. Never knowing when the next cut will be is half the agony. 

You try not to pay attention to that though, because the only thing you need to know is that they drink Vodka Tonics and lesser demon number four’s glass is looking to be on the emptier side.

He’ll be back for another soon.

While you wait for his arrival, the rhythmic notes continue on, gliding along shiny, black floor tiles. They pass the burgundy leather booths that face the stage, full of vampires trying to relive long lost youth in the old melodies played. They turn to stone just a little bit more with every passing minute they’re forced to live, keeping no company besides the pleasant burn down their throats and ever present melancholy. 

Banshees listen in from the mezzanine, only ever soft spoken when they’re here. Covered by velvet draped ceilings that dampen sounds to the outside world, the women of three distinct ages sit at tall tables. The young in heels and short dresses, proudly showing off their youth, while the elders choose more elegant wares, content as they can be in their skin, considering their blood soaked pasts. 

Banshees tend to discuss privately amongst themselves, ordering walk up service so as to never mingle with the men on the floor. You can’t blame them, especially knowing how they all got here in the first place, but they’re polite when they enter, greeting you kindly despite what you are to them. The trays you bring up for them never waver from their drink of choice, The Irish Sour.

And then there are the Djinn, who come in mostly just to pass the time. Sitting by themselves at the bar, or in no more than groups of two at a far table, they never interact with anyone other than the bartender or themselves. Djinn are increasingly solitary creatures of the night, with the fear of their kind lessening in mortals, you’re starting to see less and less of them as the days pass, and you’re almost sad to see them go. 

Djinn are your favourites. They come in, order, keep to themselves, and then leave. It’s a nice change from the usual light conversation you’re forced to keep with patrons. Plus their orders are always easiest, as they only drink virgin. It’s a bit of a blow to the bar aspect of the establishment, but they come for the atmosphere, grateful to have a place they can exist with like minded folk—even if they don’t interact. There’s a comfort in familiarity, you guess.

Occasionally some other creatures of the night mix into the masses; fae, chimera, leprechauns, goblins, et cetera. All dressed in their nicest clothes to accommodate your work's dress code, all here for peace from their day jobs, to drown their sorrows, or somewhere in between. 

Some come for an hour, others come for the night, but it’s mostly just your regulars who tend to remain, as do their drink orders. It’s a relatively easy job, and you don’t mind the company. 

Most of the time.

You’ve just finished serving the lesser demon from earlier when your coworker bugs you for the hundredth time tonight. 

“I don’t get why you're so hellbent on this, Y/N. If you’re closing, he’s coming. Because he always comes when you're closing. It’s simple math.”

“No he doesn't,” you dismiss Taehyung, a cocky but rather beautiful incubi, annoyedly. Taehyung is the type that knows he’s pretty and uses it to his every advantage, including being able to say whatever he wants and get away with it. And it would piss you off except it works on you too.

Fucking incubi demons…

You were one of only two mortal bartenders, the other being Lia, a cute blond who only works here for the tips. The boss likes to keep a couple humans on staff in case any wanderers stupid enough to come inside a den of nocturnal, evil creatures didn’t catch the vibe and immediately fuck off. 

You’d be surprised at how shitty some people's self preservation instincts are.

You asked your boss once—a very large, very well built, very well connected vampire—why he bothered having a layer of protection for them. His only response was: “Business is business.”

Plus he knows he can’t have a trail of bodies that lead directly to his club's front steps, so he keeps a couple of mortals around just in case. This way, with you two here, there was always someone who knew all the drinks the humans could have, and someone to keep all the greedy eyes around the venue in check, as you have banning and kicking out privileges. 

Because where you saw Kin, your regulars saw food, a hunt, or a job. They saw something to be taken advantage of or killed. They saw poor, weak, pathetic little mortals that should’ve been eradicated centuries ago had their ancestors been smarter. 

They are the superior beings in their eyes, your race is just a bug to be squashed under their proverbial boot. 

It makes you worry what they think of you. Is the only thing that stops them from devouring you whole the fact that you make their drinks just the way they like it, that you have a use in serving them? Or do they respect you enough now that you understand how to act around them and know what they’re like? What they are. 

You worry, but you’ll never know the truth because you aren’t stupid enough to ask and show weakness. They can smell that shit from a mile away, and all it does is paint a 30 foot wide target on your back. 

“Yes he does. I bet you tonight's tips he’ll be here in the next two hours,” Taehyung presses. 

And ooohh, a night’s worth of tips, bragging rights, and winning a bet against Tae all sound way too good damn to pass up. 

“You’re delusional,” you say, holding out a hand. Tae grabs and shakes, as you agree to his terms. “And you’re on, don’t come crying when you lose.” 

There’s no way he’ll show up. It’s Friday night, the night of sin, he’s going to be up to his eyeballs with work…stuff.

“Easiest money I’ve ever made,” Taehyung grins, and with the confidence in which he does, you begin to second guess your own.

It’s not that you did or didn’t want him to show up, it’s just that your relationship with him is…complicated at best. You never really knew how to navigate a conversation with him outside of surface level banter and jokes, but it’s always been like that with you two.

Having known him for years—from a small mistake on your behalf, and a favour on his—you’re one of the only people he seems to be able to put up with for company. Certainly the only one he’s half-way decent with. But what’s more surprising to you is that despite his name, reputation, and the fact he’s always joked he’d have killed anyone else by this point, is that he’s never once tried to cause you harm. 

Actually, he’s almost…protective of you. In his own weird way.

And obnoxiously flirty. 

But you could never. Not with who and what you are, and who and what he is. 

Regardless of how you fight the heat down in your cheeks every time you see him, and how your heart flutters against your will in multiple places in your body at even the thought of being near him.

Regardless of the fact that you shut him down every time he suggests anything more than an over the bar conversation, and the way your panties seem to always dampen in his presenc–fuck. 

It’s happening again. Stop thinking about it, stop, stop st–wait. You turn, seeing the violet ichor in Tae’s eyes and you know the bitch is using his power on you. You flip the asshole off and he chuckles.

He’s been trying to get you to change your mind ever since the first time he saw you deny yourself. 

“You know I can tell when you’re hot and bothered right? Incubus, remember? It’s literally part of who I am.” 

To which you think again, fucking incubi…

Your most infamous regular is, to quote your favourite tv show, ‘the bane of your existence and the object of all your desires,’ and you will never, ever entertain his annoying, disgustingly hot ass more than you already do. Not after everything you went through the first—and last—time with a creature of the night. 

You learned your lesson.

So instead, you try to think of him more like an old friend. The kind that’s actually really old already, but looks amazing for his age. The kind that makes shivers run up your spine when he talks to you in the deepest, most gravel turning voice you’ve ever heard, that you also ignore out of pure self preservation. He’s the kind that you shove out of your thoughts at night when your alone and in desperate need of relie—Fucking Taehyung! 

You whip your head around to search for the violet eyed incubus, only to see him across the bar helping some stocky vampire. And you’re about a hair's breadth away from ripping him a new one in front of said vampire when the idle hum of chatter in the bar ceases and the band’s calming music falters into missed notes and a cymbal crash that's too hard; awkward, painful silence remaining.

From behind you, you can hear the front door close, followed by light footsteps that grow louder and louder. Only once the seat directly behind you creaks with the sound of being occupied, does the chatter and music resume.

Which can only mean one fucking thing. 

You just lost all your tips for the night. 

Tae’s shit eating grin as he looks over your shoulder confirms it. 

Fuck. 

“Excuse me,” the bottom of the ocean floor speaks and you make a conscious effort not to react.

“Ardbeg Single Malt, neat?” You throw over your shoulder, not bothering to look just yet. 

You know precisely where he sits. And he knows you know. 

“Sounds perfect,” he responds, and you focus on ‘looking for the bottle.’ 

You know exactly where it is.

No one else will touch it. 

Taehyung busies himself with bringing an order of Bloody Mary’s down to a booth on the floor, knowing he’ll be burned alive if he so much as looks at a whiskey glass. 

No one serves him but you. 

But more importantly, nobody disrespects you in front of him. A lesson your ex–see: dead–coworker, Sal, learned the hard way. His burn mark is still seared onto the floor behind you. 

You’d almost felt bad that day, but he was a lust demon who touched you without your permission, hit on you every five minutes, and when you said no, treated you like shit.

You’d been close to dousing him with vodka and lighting him up yourself, but the man tapping his fingers on the bar behind you beat you to it 15 seconds after sitting down one night last year. 

After shoving Sal off you for the fourth time that night, he was pissed. Whispering obscenities to himself loud enough so you would hear,

“Fucking stupid mortal bitch, maybe next time I’ll just drag you into an alley do whatever the fuck I want. Nobody here’s going to stop me. And maybe then you’ll learn to shut up with this dick in your cunt and my fingers down your throat, huh? Leave you to rot with the garbage where you belong after you’re all used up.”

He didn’t take another breath. 

A single burst of blistering flame had Sal reduced to ashes in seconds. You’d felt the heat from it, but your skin remained burn free, safe from its dangerous blaze. The lust demon from then on only existed as a smudge on the ground to be walked over.  

“Thanks,” You’d said.

“It’s where he belongs,”  he responded. 

Grateful for his kindness, you entertained him more than usual that night. Engaged in an actual conversation, about your birthday of all things. You had no idea why he wanted to know, but you considered the information his reward for helping you, and he seemed pleased with it.

But he was more than pleased. 

After years, you’d revealed something to him. Something personal.

He took it as a sign that he might be able to get you to change your mind one day, if he did everything just right. Having played the long game before, this was no different. The only thing different this time, was you. 

Maybe it was the way you walked with such confidence, or the way you never cowered in fear around him. Not the day you met nor any day after. Or maybe you were sent by his father just to mess with his head. He didn’t care. All he knew was what he wanted, and that he was more than willing to wait as long as was needed to get it. 

A nursery rhyme from your childhood plays in your head every time you see him. It never wavers, just like the eyes you can feel on the back of your neck, watching your experienced hands make his drink. 

Quietly, you recite it to yourself while you grab the bottle;

‘One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy,

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told.’

You pour, steady hand making it last as long as you possibly can to gain a few more seconds to compose yourself. 

‘Eight for a wish,

Nine for a kiss,

Ten a surprise you should be careful not to miss,

Eleven for health,

Twelve for wealth,’

You put the bottle down and cork it before returning it to its place on the shelf. Taking a deep breath, you turn to finally face him, and change the wording of the last line to fit your situation better.

“One Ardbeg Single Malt neat, for the Devil himself.” 

He snickers, “I always liked that nursery rhyme. It’s cute. Like you, Angel.” 

You roll your eyes. To anyone else that would sound like a compliment. But coming from the Devil it’s more of an insult. One you know is meant in a playful way after all these years, crass in his humour, just like you. And you know he can take a little heat back.

“Wow, that’s a classic,” you grab a glass to polish, keeping your hands busy so they don’t do something stupid while you’re distracted. “Got one of those for you too, ‘Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?’” 

He chokes on a laugh before straightening on the barstool and putting on a face. “I don’t think that joke’s appropriate.” 

“Oh come on Yoongi, you come at me with ‘It’s cute, like you, Angel’ and I can’t poke back?” You ask, knowing full well his uncomfortable look is all an act. “I thought you didn’t have any feelings besides rage, lust and currently; insufferable flirting.”

You know the entire club listens in to your conversation. 

No one calls the Devil by his first name. 

Nobody speaks to the Devil unless spoken to. 

And no one makes jokes at the Devil’s expense and lives. 

No one except you. 

What a funny little exception you are.

Yoongi drops the act, a sly smirk that sends bubbles to your brain, replacing it. “So you admit my flirting isn’t always bad. Must be doing something right then.”

You force yourself not to slam a palm into your forehead. Of course that’s what he got out of your sentence.

You aren’t going to make his ego any bigger than it already is. 

“It isn’t working,”—fuck, yes it is—“if that’s what you’re asking. Can’t say I’m surprised though, I hear you’ve been out of the game for a couple millenia,” he quirks a brow at that. 

Ooo, that means you’re nearing thin ice, haven't been there in a while…Let’s see if you can slide around a bit more without falling in. 

“I mean, I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. If you stay consistent at your current rate of progress you could hit me up in,” you suck air in through your teeth and look at the ceiling, before checking a watch you don’t wear, pretending to think, “a thousand years?” You tease, a lilt in your tone. Because if Yoongi was going to make your shift this fucking difficult just by breathing near you, then you sure as Hell can do the same for his night. 

He chuckles like the coals of a fire and you cross your legs behind the bar. Motherfucker… 

“Someones got a mouth on them tonight,” he says, looking directly into your eyes as he takes his first sip, savouring the taste before swallowing. His tongue dips to his bottom lip for any remnants and you gulp, vision dropping for a millisecond—oh for the love of—and you finally notice what he’s wearing.

Much to your dismay and dwindling willpower, he looks fucking good. With only a white scarf to accent, the all black Valentino suit fits in perfectly with the bar’s dress code, as well as the long slicked back hair he’s only recently started to grow out. Just seeing it like this makes you want to run your hands through and mess it up. 

You’ve always had a thing for men with long hair, ever since you were young.

Jack Sparrow, Madmartigan, even The Winter Soldier. And come to think of it, none of them were exactly the good guys in their respective universes either…

Nope! No. You can’t. You can’t.

You can’t for so many reasons, so many good and bad and everything in between reasons. You’re nothing more than a flimsy human while he’s the Great Immortal Evil. The person people whisper the name of for fear of incurring his wrath. 

The King of Hell. 

He’s the person that walks into a room and everyone balks under his gaze, terrified of what he may do. He’s killed millions with no mercy. Doesn’t so much as think twice to horrifically burn someone where they stand to ash in hellfire for breathing the wrong way near him. He lavishes in the screams of sinners, punished in their own blood and bones, beaten into a shell of who they were in the nine circles of Hell. Left gaping, broken and sobbing in agony for their suffering to end. 

Yoongi is walking nightmares and visceral terror. He is merciless violence and brutality abandon. 

Yoongi is living, breathing, unyielding death wrapped up in deceivingly beautiful packaging. 

He is the epitome of someone you should not like, should not go near, and definitely should not want in the way the thrumming in your bones is telling you, you want him.

You have to stay away from him. 

But that doesn’t mean you can’t flirt back a little.

As salaciously as you can muster, you whisper low, “But it’s nothing you can’t handle,” and you swear you see a hint of surprise in Yoongi’s eyes, followed by something so much deeper that you have to look away under the guise of checking for any newcomers. 

It’s a dangerous game you’re playing. One you need to move the pieces of very, very carefully. 

There’s a handful of people waiting to be served, but none disturb Yoongi’s service. So you’re forced and relieved to cut the interaction short. For both the waiting patrons, and your sanity. 

“Enjoy the whiskey, Yoongi.”

Yoongi doesn’t bother you for the rest of the night, instead he watches you help the other patrons and make drinks. No one dares sit within three seats of him on either side, so the booths and tables fill more than the bar does, forcing you to do more tray work than you like. And you think you can feel those eyes on the back of your neck travel elsewhere.

Soon after he takes his last sip, Yoongi leaves far too much cash on the table to cover a single drink, and you know Tae won’t include it in tonight's bet. He rather enjoys being alive. 

The first time he did this you tried to give it back, insisting it was too much. But one threat to Tae’s life had you accepting the outrageous amount he left you every time. Despite how much he gets on your nerves, you rather enjoy Taehyung's company on your shifts. And you didn’t want to risk having a new coworker like Sal again. 

Thank you, Yoongi. You silently think to yourself every time he does. His tips are one of the only reasons you’re able to take care of yourself so well. 

You live in an apartment you should not be able to afford on a bartender's wage. Eat well, buy all the brand name products for the skin care routine you could only dream of having as a teenager, and you’re able to get yourself a little treat every once in a while. 

All thanks to the one man the world claimed was the purest entity of evil there was. 

And maybe he is. 

But not to you. 

The rest of your night, and closing go smoothly. The journey home passes by in a flash and soon you’re flopping into your bed, asleep before you hit the pillow. 

You dream of Yoongi and Hellfire and things only your subconscious will let you. The thoughts that you force away every time you see him. 

The burn of his hands on your skin and his lips on your neck. The warmth that spreads over your entire body at the mere mention of your name from his lips. His tongue in places you wouldn’t dare allow him to even think about in the waking world. 

And you wake from an orgasm he wasn't in the waking world to give you. 

It’s the last Saturday in October, which means it’s also your birthday.

You found it rather funny that the one person the Devil could stand to conversate with was born on his night. Maybe that’s coincidence or maybe that’s fate, either way you didn’t care, because you had it booked off work and you were going to a bar and dancing with your friends, dressed up in the sluttiest costumes you could find. 

Your recent visit with your birthday's namesake inspired your costume this year. Wearing the shortest, blood red leather dress you could find, the slits up the sides ran almost to your hips, and a corseted waist that made you feel sexy and fierce. You’d paired it with some velvet horns, a tail, pitchfork, crimson lace stockings and your most recent edition; red bottomed strappy stilettos. 

They’d been your birthday present to yourself, courtesy of Yoongi’s most recent tip. And needless to say, you felt hot as shit. No one could tear you down tonight.

All your friends met at your house before ridesharing down to a club. It’s loud, hazy, and filled with other Devil’s Night party goers as you arrive, smoke lingering in the air and you can feel the wave of dancing coming from further inside. 

Someone buys you your first round within a minute of being let in, lemon drop filling your taste buds as you knock back the shot. Another is ordered immediately after the first, it runs smoother and tastes like chocolate as you make your way to the dance floor. 

Aside from you, your friends are dressed up as a wild mix of characters. Rey is dressed as Daphne from Scooby Doo, Yaejin is Nezuko from Demon Slayer, Bryce is a gender bent Legolas from Lord of the Rings, Declan is Donatello from the Ninja Turtles, Cam is a ghost, and Trin is a character from a book you’ve never read. Something about dragons and magic and vermin—or was it venin? Whatever. But they were in all black and had used silver hair spray on the tips of their hair.

You let the alcohol make its way through your veins as you dance, loosening up. The DJ mixes songs together in a way that never has the crowd thinning out and you laugh as you move with your friends, swaying and rocking and grinding. 

You needed this.

A night out just to let go, have fun, forget everything and hopefully get lucky by the end of it. It’s been a while since you’ve taken anyone to bed, and birthday sex sounds amazing the more the lemon drop, and what you finally learned was a tootsie roll shot, settle into your system. 

You aren’t drunk by any means, but you are buzzed and having a blast. An orgasm sounds like the only thing that could possibly make this night any better. So you make your way around the dance floor, keeping one eye open for any potentials, but mostly just dancing with Rey and Cam. The others either grabbing another drink back at the bar or resting their legs in a booth. 

“Babe,” Rey says, hands around your neck with Cam behind you, hands on your hips. You all sway to the beat of the admittedly sensual song playing. 

“Yeah?” You ask, opening your eyes to meet hers and she leans in closer. 

You can hear the smile on her lips, “Major tall, dark and handsome at 9 o'clock has been eyeing you for at least a half hour. I say you ditch me and Cam and go enthrall the man with your company for a little while. We’ll be fine on our own.” 

Heating at her words you’re excited to see who’s gone and done half your job for you tonight when your eyes stop dead on target. 

In a private booth in the VIP section, blending in far too well with the mortals around him, he wears a button down black satin top and dress pants. Thick silver links adorn his neck, complimenting the hoops in his lobes as well as the mouth watering rings on his fingers and you’re quite sure the bottoms of his black leather shoes match the red of your own. 

Yoongi. 

God he looks good. Unfairly so. And he carries that knowledge with him in his movement. His confidence never wavering like a mortal’s would.

Aside from two twisting black horns you’ve never seen before protruding from his deliciously tousled hair—hair you still want to pull on until he’s making sounds no ones ever heard come out of his mouth before, now moreso than ever—Yoongi is a darker version of yourself. 

Except for him, it isn’t a costume, it’s real, real, real. 

And he looks like sin incarnate. 

Fitting. 

Fuck, you’re so screwed. What were all those reasons it could never work again? The ones that explain why you shouldn’t take the Devil home and let him fuck you into next Sunday?

Suddenly, you can’t remember any of them. Not when Yoongi’s eyes never leave your red-clad form as he sips on what you know to be subpar whiskey. Your core melts into lava at the way he looks up and down, taking all of you in like you’re the one thing on this planet he needs to survive, and he’ll stop at nothing and spare absolutely no one until he gets you. 

Rey gives Cam a look and their hands drop, allowing you to almost float over to where Yoongi lounges, maneuvering between bodies undulating to music that’s being deafened by the heartbeat in your ears.

When you reach him, you leave a somewhat respectable distance between you two, a step down from the dias the booth sits on. 

Seeing him so much clearer now, you almost whine. How does he look even better up close? You want to sit on his lap, his face, have him bend you over the table then flip you over and feast like a man starved. 

Fuck! No, you can’t. And you also can’t blame Tae for those thoughts either, he isn’t here.

They were all you. 

Maybe his plan was working after all…

“What are you doing here?” You manage, grateful that you hadn’t had more to drink, but even more grateful for the ones you did. You needed a little liquid courage right now, even if it turned your thoughts into gutter sewage.

What he doesn’t know can’t hurt you…right? You just have to keep a lid on it. The one that’s loosening the more you look at him.

“It’s your birthday,” he says, producing a small black box wrapped with a bow. “I have a gift.”

He…he got you a present? He’s never done that before. But then again, before last year, he never knew when it was.

“You remem—I—you didn’t have to get me anything,” you stutter ungracefully, mouth trying to keep up with your racing thoughts. “I already got these shoes with the tip you left me last time,” you say, extending your leg to show off your newest purchase. The action reveals more leg than you meant it too and he catches the garter you have pulled around your thigh.

A fire ignites in his eyes at the sight, and you can feel their sparks everywhere he looks. Starting at your toes and moving all the way up back to your pretty irises. 

“I’m flattered by the way,” he says. “In your costume choice.”

Huh? You look down and heat rises to your cheeks in a way it never has before. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Here you stand, before the actual Devil—horns out in all their glory—dressed as him on his namesake night. 

Of course this would happen to you, of course it would. This is what you get for fucking around. You found out. And you don’t know whether to be mortified, beg for forgiveness, or laugh yourself hoarse. 

Going with none of the above, you choose to play it off instead, the way you always do when he manages to fluster you. “Consider me inspired by how recently I last saw you,” you say, taking the single step up the dias and twirling for him. 

You show every angle of your costume you can, letting the booze in your system do its job of making you more confident than you currently are.

“What do you think?”  

Yoongi stands, taking the two strides needed to be face to face with you, his voice is quiet and even, so only you can hear.

“May I touch?”

You don’t hesitate. 

“Yes.” 

Yoongi reaches behind you and pulls the fake tail from the back of your dress, then the pitchfork from your grasp and throws them into the booth, not caring where they land.

“Mmm,” he hums, placing his hands on your hips and spinning you once more. Lightning strikes every single nerve ending where his fingertips meet your body. 

This time when he speaks, his voice is touched with the bit of demon that’s inside of him, dragging its claws along the floor of the 9th circle of Hell as he growls, “You’re perfect.” 

Your heart does backflips and cartwheels and nose dives all at once. You’ve never heard him sound like that before, and if your panties weren’t wet before, they definitely are now. 

Tugging gently, he guides you to the booth, sitting first before dragging you over his lap, knees meeting his hips. One of his hands rests on your thigh while the other reaches for something you can’t be bothered to figure out because oh my god, oh my god, you’re straddling him. Your straddling the Devil, dressed as the devil and probably already looking semi-fucked out while you do. This is probably a bad idea—no. This is definitely a bad idea. But you also have absolutely zero plans to stop literally anything that’s happening. 

The gift box makes a reappearance, and he hands it over to you. 

“Thank you,” you say automatically, trying and failing to ignore the fact that both of his hands now rest on your thighs. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck…..

Undoing the little black bow, you open it, revealing a delicately simple necklace. Its light weight chain holding a small pink stone pendant. 

Beautiful. 

“Pink Tourmaline,” Yoongi says. 

“My birthstone,” you reply.

“Your birthstone.”

You stare at the little crystal, cut and polished to perfection. Not a single flaw.

“Yoongi I—I don’t know what to say. It’s incredible…Thank you,” you take it out of the box, profoundly grateful you decided not to wear a necklace tonight. “Could you help me put it on?”

“Of course, Angel,” he agrees. But this time when he says your nickname, it’s different. Like an unholy vow made only to you. 

Makes you wonder what he promised.

Regretfully removing yourself from his lap, you turn around, only to be dragged back down by strong fingers. 

Your ass is now flush against his dick, and it’s taking everything in you not to tease. Whether you’d be teasing him or yourself, you don't know, nor do you care. All you know is that friction can be a good thing if you want it to be. And you're starting to want it to be.

Lifting your hair for him, Yoongi fastens the necklace around your column, and to your complete and utter doom, places a gentle kiss at your nape. The simple contact makes you quietly moan, and you feel a twitch under you. 

Ohhh, this is bad, this is so bad. But you can’t bring yourself to stop him. Not when his hands roam up and down your back, your sides, your hips. Exploring, feeling, learning. You dissolve into the touch, welcoming every whisper of pleasure they bring. 

What is he doing to you?

“Angel,” Yoongi purrs in your ear. 

“Mmm?”

“Would you like to dance?”

Fuck would you ever, but wait— 

“Are you asking me if I’d like to Dance with the Devil?” you muse. 

Yoongi chuckles lowly, understanding the meaning behind your ask.

“Is that something you’d be interested in?” 

“Yes.”

You feel more than hear the dark rumble coming from his chest before he gently taps on your thigh. And you get up quickly. 

“That’s a good girl,” he says, and fuck could you ever get used to him saying that to you.

Fingers laced in his, he lets you guide him to the dance floor.

Both of you ignore what the DJ plays, instead moving to the rhythm you feel like. Slow, sensual, a hand on his neck while you grind into him. Fast and heated, bodies touching any and every place you can get contact. You’re putting on quite the show for anyone brave enough to watch. And you know at least a handful of the eyes you feel on you are your friends’. 

They don’t know about Yoongi.

They don’t know about the nature of the clientele at your job either, like every other human. They don’t know you're dancing with the most dangerous and volatile man in the room. And it’s better that way, because if they did, your ass would’ve been hauled out of the club and in a rideshare the second anyone saw him. 

You’ve never been more thankful for the figurative wall between worlds. And the fact that you stand on both sides. 

You brush up against his hardening dick and fuck, that’s it. 

You’ve decided. 

To hell with your reasons. To hell with the constant flirting and overuse of will power. 

To hell with letting your anxieties and your moral compass and your conscience get in the way of the one thing you’ve been denying yourself for years. 

You spin in Yoongi’s hold, looking straight into the darkened eyes of the most forbidden man you could ever want for yourself, only to see pure desire staring right back. It’s all you need before you’re crashing your lips to his, taking anything and everything you can get before one of you comes to your senses and pulls back. 

But his grip on you tightens like a vice, pulling you closer, bodies flush amidst the dancing crowd. He’s magnetic in his want, lifting a hand to the back of your neck and tracing the seam of your lips with his tongue.

You let him in without hesitation and he nearly swallows you whole with how he invades your mouth, claiming it for himself. It makes you moan and he lets up, if only to let you breathe for a moment, and you take this reprieve to whisper in his ear, finally giving in to what you crave more than anything.

“Let’s go to yours.”

“We should go to yours, Angel, mine’s a bit harder to get to.”

Because his is on another plane of existence. Not exactly a taxi ride away. At least not one you can get at the curb of the club. 

“Riiight.” A small dose of water washes over the fire in your core, and it’s like he can sense it because immediately, he’s pulling you back in. Nothing but teeth and lips and tongue, animalistic in the passion you’re displaying for everyone to see, the flames increasing tenfold.

Fuck, you don’t want to wait. 

And apparently neither does Yoongi. 

“Do you trust me?” He asks.

“Yes, but what does tha–”

“Close your eyes for me, Love.”

Any and all arguments fade on your tongue at the new pet name. So much warmer than Angel, so much more affectionate. 

So you close your eyes for him, no questions asked. Because you trust him. You trust the Devil. 

You trust Yoongi. 

“That's a good girl.” 

One hand goes to the back of your neck, the other your lower back as he kisses you gently. So gently you think it means something more, but the sounds of the club are fading away, and he’s leaning you down like he’s going to dip you before your back meets something soft. 

Are you closer to a booth than you thought? Is he really going to take you here in front of all those people? 

But when you open your eyes and your bedroom at your apartment fills your vision, you stiffen immediately.

What?

“I—but we were just—and now we’re he—and you—,” you stutter, amazed and unable to get the thoughts out fast enough before another takes its place. You manage a, “How?” and he catches on. 

Not halting his actions, “Consider it a job perk,” he explains, nipping at your neck. You let out a groan as he continues his way down your column towards your chest and you relax into his touch.

“Teleportation, in simple terms, but it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Despite his mouth on your skin, you somehow find the clearness of mind to ask, “Did anyone see?” Thinking about your friends and the potential hundreds of onlookers.

Yoongi’s hands rest at top of the zipper that goes the entire length of your dress, allowing for both easy putting on and quick removal. Fingers tug gently on the slider, eyes meeting yours for consent. You nod, and he answers your question as he drags it down your body torturously slow, savouring every moment he’s worked so hard to get. 

He’s going to earn this privilege you’ve given him, if it's the last thing he does.

“No. And your friends won’t worry either.”

You don’t care how he knows that, not when he’s pulling off hot leather and devouring your curves with coal burning pupils. The cool air of your room causes goosebumps to rise everywhere, and your arms fly to your head, covering your eyes as you’re reminded you’d forgone a bra tonight. 

There was no room for one without it squishing your tits too much and ruining the look. So with your dress gone, Yoongi has a front row seat to your nearly nude form, a blood red lace thong the only thing keeping you semi-decent. 

Years of pining and denial have led up to this moment and Yoongi almost doesn’t know where to start now that he finally has you exactly where he wants you. That feeling doesn’t last long though.

Wasting no more time, he takes a breast into his palm, squeezing and massaging while he lowers himself to the other, lapping the nipple of the one neglected. His tongue swirls over the pert bud, sucking it into his mouth fully and you arch into his touch, reveling in the warmth he spreads across your chest. Hands reaching for the sheets above your head for something to ground you.

“Shit,” you can already feel your pulse in your ears, thundering behind your sternum, and booming lower. He’s barely touched you and you’re already so gone.

He switches his hand and mouth, soothing the other breast with the sinful muscle he’s teased you with after all these years drinking whiskey. And by god if you don’t immediately think what it could do in other places. He’s had thousands of years to practice and the gush you feel in your panties lets you know exactly how you feel about the idea. 

Using his free hand, Yoongi traces down your back, rounding your ass and squeezing hard enough to make you hiss in pleasure before settling on the back of your thigh. 

You can barely stand having his hands so close to your molten heat without having any contact, and it leaves you begging, “Please…Please…”

You feel the curve of his lip quirk as teeth gently scrape the sensitive bud, gasping when he pulls off. 

“Please what, Love?”

“More,” you pant. “Please. Anything. Everything. Please just touch me.”

“Mmm,” he’s back at your neck, inhaling your scent, one hand still on your thigh while the other holds him up by your ear. “Pretty Girl has manners after all, huh?” 

“Oh fuck you.” you bristle, but it seems to be the reaction he’s looking for. A deeper, sluttier part of you awakening at the words you want to prove both wrong and right.

“There she is.”

Diving back into your neck, Yoongi trails wet, open mouthed kisses down, down, down. And even though you’ve never been so wet, so in the moment, and so unbelievably turned on before, the human part of you wins for a second, as you try to close your legs. 

They’re pulled back open in an instant, his eyes never wavering from yours as he says, “Don’t you dare get shy on me now,” a kiss to your inner thigh. And then the other as he kneels before you. 

Yoongi places each foot on either of his shoulders and you’re surprised he’s kept on your garter, stockings and red bottoms, their heels digging into his flesh. You wonder if that hurts at all, but by the way his eyes flutter and almost roll into the back of his head at the pressure they place on his frame, you think he actually likes their sting.

“You’re the most exquisite creature I have ever seen. Absolutely no part of you could ever be undesirable to me.” 

His earnest tone makes you believe him, convinces you, and you’re once again pliant in his hold, opening up for him.

“Look at me,” he says, and you do. You stare directly at the Devil between your thighs. The King knelt before your lowly mortal form. “You are the most powerful person in this room, understand?”

You nod, but that’s not good enough for him. 

“I need to hear it.”

“I understand.”

“Understand what?” He pushes.

“I’m the most powerful person in this room,” and it feels bold to say in front of him. But watching the way Yoongi’s expression fills with pride makes it also feel good. He wants you to feel like you’re the one in charge. 

“Remember that,” he says, before ripping your underwear off and throwing them on the floor, feasting his now wholly black eyes on the sight of your dripping pussy.

The more he loses himself in you, the more of his true form reveals itself.

“Fuuuckk,” he whispers more to himself than anything. “So wet…”

Your core is tormented and throbbing at the back and forth between the cold night air and Yoongi’s hot breath and you whine, “I just bought those!”

He spares you one completely unsympathetic look. 

“Don’t care. I’ll buy you more,” a deliciously ringed finger slides along your drenched folds and you’re gasping. “I’ll buy you the entire fucking store if it means I get to see you like this.”

Your voice is airy as you give in, any and all outrage gone. “Oka—ohhh!”

His mouth is on your cunt before you can breathe in the oxygen you so desperately need. He’s not holding back and your movements are not your own as you squirm. An arm rounds your pelvis holds you down, keeping you there as he devours you whole and shows you no mercy.

“Fuck, fuck, oh my god Yoongi,” you cry out, having never felt anything like this before. His tongue circles your clit as he sucks, then glides down, penetrating your opening with thrusts that make you lightheaded. 

Your hands fly to his locks, pulling and pushing him down further until you're pretty sure you’re drowning him in you. Your fingertips graze his horns and it’s just a reminder that this man is definitely not human. Definitely not someone you should be letting suck your soul out through your pussy. And that makes this whole situation that much hotter. 

If he minds where you touch, he doesn’t say anything about it, only groaning as he repeats his motions to get you near your peak, again and again and again until you're quaking against your will and your body is vibrating with every throb from your core.

Every single nerve ending you have is awake and being put to good use, he’s making sure of it. The dam that holds your release is starting to crumble and you don’t know how much longer you can last like this before you’re screaming bloody murder under his grip. 

“Yoon…Yoongi—fuck,” you stutter, staggered breaths from your trembling chest loose as you try to verbalize, “C-close. S-so close.”

He hums, and teases a finger around your entrance, circling a few times before pressing in and up to your g-spot. The simple action undoes you and you're coming with a force you can’t even begin to describe. The waves crash down, over and over and you're moaning and cursing his name at the same time, knowing it’s going to be the only one you’ll think of in this situation from now until forever.

He guides you through the last shockwaves as you come down, and when you’re too sensitive for him to continue, you drag him up to your lips, tasting his efforts on your tongue. 

“Need you now,” you rush out between kisses.

“Not yet, Love,” he says, pulling back just enough to reach a hand between the two of you.

He slips two fingers inside and swallows the resulting moan from your lips as he goes so deep enough you can feel his rings proding your opening.

“Gotta stretch you out for me first.” 

Your hands are back in his hair, nails scratching the nape of his neck as he begins to scissor you open expertly. He growls into your neck at the sensation and that confirms your suspicions of him liking a little pain with his pleasure. So you scratch further down his neck, onto his shoulders and back and you dig a heel into his thigh.

“Fuck, Angel,” fingers stuttering for a second. “Don’t do that unless you want me to come right now.”

“And if I do?” 

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because the first time I come, it’ll be with you around my cock, soaking the sheets with your own.”

Head rolling back, his words going straight to your clit. “Fuck, okay.”

“Now give me another one, Pretty Girl,” he says, picking up speed with his digits. “I know you can, pretty little slut takes my fingers so well.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

You can feel it coming this time, building and building. He uses his thumb to rub over your sensitive nub and it has you unraveling under him, screaming out and almost sobbing at the convulsions your body makes. He takes your mouth with his again, consuming your pleasure in every form he can get. 

And once you come down, you’ve had it. If you don’t have him inside you within the next 2 minutes you’re going to lose it. 

Ripping at his shirt, you're fumbling with the buttons. “Fuck, take this off, and those,” you say, abandoning his shirt for his belt. 

Yoongi chuckles, low and sinful, “Bossy,” but gets up, and begins removing the outfit that got you into this situation in the first place. You take off the remnants of your costume as he spares you no peace of mind, the way you did him, taking off his pants and boxers in one go, freeing his mouth watering bulge from its earthy confines. 

“Oh fuck me,” you say at his size. He’s big, girthy and you’ve never wanted someone inside you so badly before. 

Yoongi smirks as he crawls over you, but you stop him with a hand. “Wait,” you throw a leg over his hip, and flip the two of you so you’re on top. “Let me do this.”

“Whatever you want, Angel.”

Picking up his cock, it sits heavy in your hand as you give him a couple strokes. He hisses at the contact and it only spurs you on, gathering as much saliva as you can, you open your mouth to spit, rubbing it all over his shaft and head, mixing it with the precum dribbling out of the tip. 

“Fuck—”

Your 2 minutes are up. Lifting your ass, you guide yourself onto him. 

“Oh my fuck, oh fuck,” you say as you slide down slowly, the stretch still very much there as he bottoms out. “Big—ohh, shit—so big.”

Yoongi’s not faring much better, eyebrows pressed together, but eyes devouring the spot where your bodies meet. His breathing is so laboured you’d think he just ran a marathon.

“So tight, Love...Fuck, look at you.”

The delicious sting subsides and you start to move, slow but purposeful thrusts that have him kissing your cervix every time. Fuck he’s so deep, deeper than anyone else has ever been. And once you get a rhythm going there’s no stopping you. You become a force of nature as you bounce on his cock without abandon, taking this for yourself. You don’t know why, but you feel like you have a point to prove and by god you’re going to make it. 

Because if the Devil chose you, you’re going to make damn sure he doesn’t regret it. 

“Fuck, fuck you’re doing so good,” he rasps, throwing his head back into the pillows, eyes shut in pure bliss, murmuring. “Feels so good.” 

His praise pushes you farther, riding harder, grinding your clit against his pelvis, owning both your pleasures. 

You’re the most powerful person here. 

You are the one in control despite being on top of arguably the most powerful man on the planet. It makes you feel safe and strong and invincible. 

And you want to continue, you really do, but your legs are starting to give, so you let him know. 

“Ass up for me then,” he says, and you listen, climbing off of him and wincing at the feeling of him slipping out. He gets behind you, lining himself up again and this time it’s much easier as he sinks in, both of you groaning at the contact. 

Yoongi hands go to your hips, gripping and squeezing and molding the globes of your ass as you anchor your cheek to the bedsheets. 

“That’s it, Pretty Girl, all the way down for me.”

His first thrust has you seeing stars. You're nothing and everything as he continues, but you need more. You need to not be able to speak. To walk. You need to have every thought fucked out of your head. You need him so deep you’ll feel it for a week afterwards.

“Faster,” you beg. “Harder, please.”

“There are those manners I was looking for,” he says and picks up his pace. 

You’re incoherent, saying things you’ve never dared to utter out loud before, making admissions you swore to take to your grave and Yoongi is eating up every single last one of them. 

Because this is about you. This is about proving years of your denial’s fruitless. This is about him and how you make him lose every ounce of self control he has when he’s around you and how badly he’s wanted you since the day you met. This is about ruining every other man for you, making sure you know what true pleasure feels like, know how you deserve to be treated, and hearing his name on your lips when you come. When your cunt clenches so hard he has to fight tooth and nail to milk every ounce of bliss from it.

This is about him wanting to hear him make you feel good. Needing to hear him make you feel good.

This is about you. 

And he can feel you starting to clamp up again, can feel you getting close. So he wraps an arm around your waist, fingers going straight for your pussy.

You shriek, body consumed by the even strokes he delivers as well as the smooth circles around your most sensitive spot, and he revels in it. This is what he’s been dreaming of, what he’s desired over everything else. 

You, underneath him in so much pleasure you’re almost non-verbal. 

Perfect in every single way. 

“Taking me so well, dirty girl. Love the feeling of my cock splitting you open?” he hears a muffled cry and you nod your head. “Knew you would, knew you could take me.”

He delivers a smack to your ass and he feels you clench, so he soothes the battered area before handing out another, soothing that one out too. 

“You’re so good for me, pretty little whore so greedy, sucking me in. Why’d you make me think you didn’t want me all these years, hmm? Was I not good enough for you?”

You bury your face in your sheets. Well that certainly won’t do. So he slows his fingers as he reiterates. “Was I not good enough for you then, Angel? Am I good enough for you now?”

“Yes,” you mutter, barely loud enough to hear.

“What was that?” he slows again to a near burningly slow pace, soaking in the feel of you around his fingers and dick. It feels like a place he once called home.

“Yes!” you bellow. “So good…so good to me…more than enough.”

The praise fuels him, and he picks up the speed of everything, cock pounding you into the mattress, fingers rubbing an achingly mind-blowing pattern on your clit. It pushes you over the edge for the third time tonight, your fluttering cunt around his dick almost has him losing it. Almost has him coming undone with you, but he manages to hold it back. 

Not yet. 

You're silent in your screams this time, overwhelmed with the feelings, fingers nearly ripping your sheets in half at how hard it hit you. How hard you contract around him.

Oh he’s never going to get sick of this feeling. 

Ever.  

And instead of guiding you down this time, he removes himself quickly, flips you over on your back and inserts himself once more. 

He needs that feeling again. Needs you again. You claimed him for yourself whether you knew it or not all those years ago, he was simply following orders. He was yours the second your eyes met for the first time and he’s never looked back since. No one was ever good enough from that moment on, not a single creature on any plane of existence. 

There was only you. 

Yoongi’s never felt anything so pure and so sinful and so right as you pulsing around him does. He exists only for this feeling. Only for you. It took a couple thousand years, but at least now he knows. 

And so he doesn’t slow down, pushing you through your oversensitivity.

It’s time for him to finally claim you back.

“I can’t,” you beg, “it hurts.”

“Not for long, Pretty Girl” he says in his lowest registar. “You can take it, I know you can. Give me one more, I know you have it in you.”

Yoongi’s noticed his words have almost the same effect on you as his motions, so he uses them to their full potential. And as he can sense your fourth orgasm about to land, you surprise him by whispering directly into his ear and raking your nails down his back as hard as you can.

“Only for you, Yoongi.”

His thrusts stutter.

“Fuck!”

He’s coming. 

He’s coming hard. With you, with your name on his lips. It's violent and visceral and vicious and vibrant. It’s beautiful. You’re combined divine deliverance. 

It’s the first time he’s said your name.

And it’s something he’s going to keep locked away in his memory for millenia to come as he covers your inner walls in the most sickeningly sweet shade of white. 

You’re relentless, milking him over and over and over for all he’s worth, not letting up until your body is ready too, ruthless in your quest for ultimate euphoria and he takes it.

Whatever you want. Whatever you need. 

It’s yours. 

He’ll make it so.

At whatever cost to him, you'll get it. There isn't a doubt in his mind as you finally come down, body lighter, eyes glazed over, devastating smile on your lips.

He’s the first to move, going to the bathroom and grabbing a warm, wet cloth to clean you up. You’re blissfully spent, unable to get up even if you wanted to, limbs like jelly, still in a brain fogged haze. 

You got exactly what you wanted.

He cleans his release from your form, naked save for the pink stone he gave you around your neck. Then tosses the cloth in your hamper and lies back down, covering you both with sheets. You cuddle up to him, tossing a leg around his torso, and lying your head on his chest. Contented. 

And he’s silent until he can’t stand it any longer. He has to know.

“What changed?” 

“Hmm?”

“What about tonight made you change your mind?”

You take a deep breath through your nose. “I…stopped fighting it. The feeling like we would never work, the feeling that I would never be good enough, that we were too different,” he listens intently as your fingers trace patterns on his chest, explaining. “And I was sick of denying myself. It’s my birthday. Shouldn't I get whatever I want on my birthday?” 

That seductive smirk makes an appearance.

“Yes.”

“Plus you looked to damn fine in that outfit. A girl only has so much willpower, you know? It’s easier at work when there’s a bar and my job between us, but there was none of that tonight. Just the shots in my system and my unwavering desire to ride your face.”

Yoongi laughs, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen something as beautiful as his smile before. 

“Next time,” he says. A promise.

You fall back into a comfortable silence that has you thinking. 

“What about you?” you ask.

“What about me?”

“Why am I the only one you like? The only one you put up with.”

He ponders for a moment, thinking about how to phrase what he wants to say. 

“I think about the time we met often. There was something about you that was different that day, and I’ve never been able to pinpoint exactly what, but when I saw you I knew I would never think of you the same way I do everyone else. There was something special about your gaze in mine, your company, your soul.” 

“My soul?”

“Mhm.”

“You’ve never asked for mine before.”

“Never needed it.”

At that, you joke, “Is there something you’d sell your soul for?”

“You.” 

Before you can say all the nothing in your head at his answer, he takes a deep breath that has you rising and falling with it. Something about what he’s going to say next is going to have heavy importance to him. 

You just know it. 

“You… made me—make me…want to be better. Do better.”

You’re speechless. Not the kind you were moments before. No, you’re truly and genuinely speechless. 

You never expected anything like that. 

You knew your presence in his life carried a different weight than others, a different air. It’s why you could speak so casually, insult him, and exist near him without fearing for your life. It was something no one had seen from him in thousands of years. 

Kindness. Patience.

The man who’s job it is to run the universes torture capital, punishing those who deserve it without an ounce of mercy for eternity and killing those who looked at him the wrong way. The physical entity of the word evil, wanted to be better. 

Because of you.  

“I don't know what to say.”

“You don't need to say anything,” he kisses the top of your head, tender. “Having you with me is more than enough.”

You can do that. 

“Okay,” you say, craning your neck to kiss him. It’s long, languid, and full of emotions you don't want to acknowledge right now, there’s too many of them to sort through in your post four orgasms brain to be able to process properly. 

Tomorrow you can start. Right now you just want to bask in the afterglow of the most amazing birthday you've ever had.

“So this wasn’t a one time thing?” Yoongi clarifies.

“It definitely wasn't a one time thing,” not a chance in Hell. 

He was yours now. 

The Devil was yours.

King of the Underworld, god among men, catastrophe breathing evil was yours. And it brings the biggest smile to your face.  

“Oh thank fuck.”

“Not thank God?” you tease.

Yoongi groans. “Do not bring my father into this.”

A/N 3: As always, thanks for reading, loves. Xoxo, - Yoon <3

[xxsabitoxx]

My Personal Upper Moon 🍆 Ranking

Warnings: if it isn’t obvious already, this post is taking about the Upper Moon’s and my personal HC on their dick sizes. If that makes you uncomfortable in any way, just keep scrolling

A/N: I was actually very surprised by the amount of comments on my Hashira version of this HC post. So I feel a little more comfortable with giving the Upper Moons a go, especially since someone asked if I would do it eheheh. That being said, these men are demons, therefore you may find my size rankings to be a bit unrealistic. But I’m not gonna go crazy and say Muzan has a dick that’s 2 miles long.

This post includes: Muzan, Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza, Hantengu’s clones (Karaku, Urogi, Sekido and Aizetsu), Gyutaro and Kaigaku. And no Gyokko cause that man doesn’t have a dick, period.

In a category of his own: Muzan Kibutsuji

Muzan clearly deserves a category of his own for one particular reason: he’s able to alter his appearance.

Therefore, he’s able to change the size of his dick whenever the fuck he feels like it.

And don’t try and say that stupid cause he can literally change gender and age so changing his dick size isn’t out of the question

On average, Muzan prefers to have a larger dick, mostly because he’s a pussy ass bitch man that needs that kind of confidence down there, if you get what I mean.

Typically soft: 10.5

Typically hard: 11.7

But he can make it as big, small, curved, wide, as he wants

When he wants to torture your ass, he’ll make himself as girthy as he sees fit just to watch you cry and squirm and beg for something a little smaller.

Anytime you get “comfortable” he just increases his girth until you’re crying again. Your pleasure is never his first priority, it’s always his.

1. Kokushibo

Among the demons, it should be no shock that Upper Moon One has always been packing. This man is petrifying so it’s only right that his dick is equally as intimidating as him

Even as a human, this man’s dick was deadly. You can’t change my mind either.

Just in case you’re wondering, Yoriichi is bigger

That’s beside the point, Kokushibo has a lot to work with down there. Whether it’s hard or soft ngl

When soft: 9.5

When hard: 10.7

He’s long, girthy and curves slightly upwards. He’s heavy too, your jaw will certainly hurt by the time you’re done with him.

He’s the type to put a pillow or blanket of some sort under your lower back as he fucks you. Mostly because he’s not clueless to the fact that his dick is big

Kokushibo is the type to ease you into it though, he’s stern but he has a teeny bit of empathy when it comes to fucking you. Unless you’ve pissed him off ofc.

2. Akaza

I know this one is gonna be controversial, especially since I’m putting him above Douma but hear me out.

This man has audacity, which means he got a big dick. No demon is acting like Akaza and having a small dick to go with it. Nuh uh, no sir.

Akaza is sitting pretty knowing damn well his cock is bigger than Douma’s and it actually something Douma taunts him with… which you think the roles would be reversed but hey…

When soft: 8.5

When hard: 9.7

He’s straight, no real curve to him and he has a single blue line going up the underside of his shaft and one that wraps around just before the head of his dick. Like as in the lines that cover his body lol

Akaza is probably the “gentlest” of all the upper moons because of the respect he has for women

That’s not to say he isn’t rough with you, but he definitely cares about your pleasure and feelings more than Douma or Muzan would for example

He’s pretty confident in himself though, at least that’s how it seems to you. He knows what he’s doing to say the least

3. Douma

Alright listen, this man is still packing down there so don’t get mad at me for putting him at third.

His dick is smaller than Akaza’s but not by a ton. Let’s be honest Douma is probably the straightest and gayest demon to ever exist. The embodiment of bisexual LMAO

How does Douma know Akaza’s dick is bigger? The world may never know

When soft: 8

When hard: 9.2

It’s pale like the rest of him, a pretty noticeable curve to it as well. He has some prominent veins because of how pale he is. His tip is like a pinkish gray (idk why I felt the need to include this)

He’s pretty girthy too, so he definitely will make your walls stretch uncomfortably if he doesn’t offer you foreplay

Douma is rough, selfish and truly only cares about his own pleasure but he likes watching you whine and squirm while being impaled on his cock

Douma also has a thing for “belly bulges” so he will fuck you in some odd positions if he means he can see his dick from the outside… if ya know what I mean

4. Gyutaro

Listen, plz just listen cause I promise you I’m going somewhere with this. Cause I can already hear y’all being like ???Scrawny ass Gyutaro is in 4th??? Yes. He is.

Gyutaro got himself a bit of an upgrade when becoming a demon. He for sure does not look like he did a a human. By that I mean he’s taller than he was (even tho he’s hunched)

What I’m tryna get at is demon transformation made his dick bigger and Imma live in my little fantasy world

When soft: 6.5

When hard: 7.2

Gyutaro’s dick is as curved as his spine and as thick as his tiny ass waist. He’s got length but not crazy girth.

Even if he’s rough, it feels good. Like there isn’t a ton of discomfort if he goes in raw with no prep cause he wants to punish you, he’s like the perfect amount of stretch

He’s mean, verbally and physically but at the same time he’s a fucking sucker for your body so he can’t really say much without whining and groaning

He’s got some confidence in his cock but he’s also a bit envious of the other upper moons

5. The Hantengu Clones (Sekido, Karaku, Aizetsu, Urogi)

I’ve talked about my dick HCs for these four in my A-Z NSFW alphabet and I was tryna be realistic. However, when it comes to this post, fuck being realistic.

Sekido when soft 6.2 | when hard 7.1

Karaku when soft 6 | when hard 6.9

Urogi when soft 5.9 | when hard 6.7

Aizetsu when soft 5.7 | when hard 6.5

There is so much to say here but honestly my brain is malfunctioning so I can’t even delve into it

Regardless, the four of these demons fuck very differently and use their dicks very differently

Sekido and Urogi have no curve, Karaku has a slight curve and Aizetsu’s curves upwards

Hantengu himself had a 3 inch dick and you can’t tell me otherwise. Pussy ass bitch

6. Kaigaku

I hate this little bitch but I’m including him so I can rag on his fugly ass. Kaigaku simps I’m sorry but I can’t stand him

This douche has the smallest dick among the upper moons. This is full Kaigaku slander.

When soft: 5.2

When hard: 6

I’ll give him a decent dick tho cause boy does he have the fucking audacity

That’s all I’m gonna give y’all cause I ain’t wasting my time on him GOOD BYE I didn’t even tag is ass

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

DAY TEN: Pegging w/ Spencer Reid

a/n: DON'T LOOK AT ME. Do not. Look at. Me. LISTEN, someone had to do it even if it had to be me. I must admit I had fun writing this but ohmygod the shame I feel rn LMAOOO. I hope you all enjoy this cause I'm hiding myself under a rock forever.

masterlist | kinktober masterlist | AO3

TAGLIST: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon @zippertwat @hallecarey1 @zippertwat @alixwriter @dixonzzgirl

"There you go, Spence. Just relax for me." You cooed, your hands gripping at the lithe man's hips. Your thumbs dug into the dimples of his lowerback as you entered him, splitting him open slowly on your strap.

"Mhm!" His whimper was muffles by the bedsheets below, his burning red face hidden in bashfulness. "Who would have thought the big genius could fucked dumb?" You hummed condecendingly. "That's okay though, because you're my good boy, aren't you Spencie baby?" You asked. 

Your slowly moving hips froze when he didn't answer. You bent over his arched form, a hand decending from his hip to weave through the strands of his hair. You tugged on it. Hard. Hard enough to elicit a surprise yelp and lift his head off the bed.

His flushed face was now visible to you, his dark red cheeks being kissed by the cooling air from your ac.

"I asked you a question." Your breath hit the shell of his ear, your strap burying even deeper inside of him. He shivered at the mixture of pleasure and pain prickling deliciously at his nerves. "Don't make me take it back." You said sternly.

"Your good boy! I'm your good boy!" He rushed out, fingers clawing at the duvet under him. "I promise." He said breathlessly. You hummed, pressing more of your full, naked torso onto his back, your breasts resting on his back. The straps of the toy dug into your plush thighs, the rough material burning at your skin satisfyingly.

The close proximity had Spencer reeling, his subconscious falling deeper into a submissive headspace with every act of dominance.

"There you go," You said with a smirk. "I knew you could do it." You placed a hard kiss onto the underside of his jaw where his pulse point was before straightening your body.

Biting your lip in excitement, you pulled your hips back, allowing the toy to catch the man's rim before slamming into him, his ass jiggling a bit at the impact. The rough motion sent Spencer up the bed with a loud, embarrassing moan. 

"That feel good, babyboy? Hm?" You teased, thrusting again. This time, you barely exited him before fucking into him once more, the smack from where your hips met his resounding lewdly throughout the room. 

You knew you'd hit his prostate when a feral mewl rushed from between his lips. His body convulsed, but he still tried to answer you, forever trying to please you.

"S— so… so good." He managed to heave out. "That's it my good boy. C'mon I know you can take it." You praised, coaxing him back down onto your strap.

You kept a steady, fast pace that would occasionally fall out of rhythm with the desperate wiggle of Spencer trying to meet your thrusts on his own. 

An idea struck you, and you stopped moving, which elicited a mewl from the older. 

Settling back on your knees, the toy almost completely slipped out of him. "Sit up, sweetheart." And he did — albeit shakily — fully seating himself down on your lap.

"There," You breathed. "Am I deeper now honey?" Your hands stroked up his chest from behind, your fingers stopping to play with his sensitive nipple, squeezing and tugging them torturously.

"So deep, angel." He moaned, hips jutting out on their own accord. His cock stood tall, amassed to it's full hardness, red, and leaking precum. Your right hand remained on his chest while the other dipped below his waist to stroke his cock.

"Ah!" He cried, his own hand reaching for wrist as he held it on him.

"God, I'm gonna fuck you stupid, pretty boy." You whispered sensually in his near. You nibbled on his earlobe before gyrating your hips into him. Leaving his nipple and his dick, you grabbed both his hands and held them behind you, leaving him unable to squirm out of your grip.

He whined in displeasure at the the loss of friction.

"I wanna see you cum untouched baby, you think you can do that for me?" He nodded his head fastly. "I can." 

Rolling your hips, your cock kissed his prostate and sent him trembling and whining. You didn't relent with your strokes, milking him for all he's worth as you pushed him toward overstimulation.

"Fuck, _____." He moaned. You wished you had a camera to capture the genius of his FBI unit being dwindled down to a begging, brainless mess. Anyone listening in would have thought that you were watching porn.

It was getting harder to enter him, and you knew that meant he was about to cum.

"Cum, my sweet boy." 

You peppered sweet kisses onto the skin of his neck as he exploded, cum shooting out of him, getting some on the bed and painting the flat planes of his stomach.

[blueicequeen19]

Rafe’s Slut: Killer Tendencies

Warnings: d3ath/murd3r, attempted assault, loss of V, mentions of blood 🩸🫣

You watch as Rafe disappears in the pool house despite a pool party being in full swing. Unease fills your stomach. Was he meeting someone else? After everything? Had he grown tired of the games? Did you no longer mean anything to him?

While insecure thoughts plague your mind, you don't realize how you've crossed the yard and stopped in front of the pool house. The door appears to be shut but there's a tiny gap where the latch didn't catch so you gently push it open, afraid of what you might find.

There's silence. Agonizing silence as you slip inside and shut the door completely, noting that he'd attempted to lock it but failed to get it shut all the way.

Rafe didn't want anyone coming in behind him.

The realization has your breath coming in pants, nearly hyperventilating. You weren't above begging. You could be what Rafe wanted. What he needed. You'd played this torturous game for months now. Surely the promise of the prize was enough to keep him interested. It's not that you hadn't been willing. It's that he kept resisting. Like a predator playing with it's food before consuming it whole.

You gasp when you hear a pained groan followed by a grunt at the back of the hallway. You creep closer, hearing Rafe's voice just as you reach the closed door at the end of the hallway.

"You thought you could look at what's mine? Try to take what's mine?" There's a loud thump, followed by a groan. Your eyes widen when you realize Rafe is.. hitting someone. There's a pained cry after another blow is delivered to the person.

"You tried to drug her drink. I saw you." Rafe's snarl has you shuddering in place, your heart hammering in your chest. Anyone else might be mortified that Rafe was beating someone and run to call the police. Not you. It sent shots of pure fire straight to your core.

You felt honored.

Treasured.

Rafe was defending you.

"P-p-please, I-I-I--," Your spine stiffens from hearing that familiar voice. It was your ex. He'd tried to drug you at Rafe's own party and Rafe had caught him.

"Shut your fucking mouth. If you're going to beg, then beg me to make it quick." You lean against the door, listening as Rafe hits him over and over again until it starts to sound like pounded meat. Flesh against flesh until the sounds are almost sickening. Alarm bells ring in your head. Rafe was going to kill him! You don't realize the sounds have stopped until the door suddenly opens and you fall into Rafe's arms.

"Y/N, what are you--." Rafe's cut off when you pull back to smash your lips against his. He groans against your lips, hauling you up his body while covered in the blood of your ex.

“Did you kill him?” You pant against his lips, tasting the blood of another man where it’s splattered all over Rafe’s face.

“Yes.” Rafe snarls, his eyes darkening as he tightens his hold around you.

“Good.” Something inside Rafe snaps at your words and he’s suddenly got your back against the hallway wall, grinding his erection against your bare pussy as he devours your mouth.

There’s not a second’s hesitation before he’s thrusting inside you, tearing away your virginity with one brutal thrust. You scream against his lips, your arms tight around his neck as he starts to bounce you on his dick.

“Oh god, Rafe. It hurts.” You whimper, burying your face in his neck. Rafe growls, pressing your body harder against the wall as he hammers into you.

“You can take it. Take me, baby.” You blink back tears, not wanting to disappoint him as you start to move in sync with him. One hand firmly grips your ass with one hand as the other finds your clit.

“That’s it. Cum for me. Cream all over me. Your little pussy is so wet and tight. All for me.” You cry out against Rafe’s lips, your body exploding in a way you’d never felt before. Your pussy clenched around him so tightly, threatening to push him out even as he hammers inside you. You feel the sudden wetness between your legs before your body goes limp against his, a wave of emotion suddenly hitting you.

“You’re mine and I’m going to cum inside you. I’m going to pump you so full that you’ll feel me running down your legs then you’ll beg me for more.” Rafe growls as you peer over his shoulder at the body on the floor in the other room, your back roughly meeting the wall over and over again. Rafe must sense your tension because he fists your hair, bringing your head back so you’re forced to look into his eyes.

“Focus on me.”

“W-we have to get rid of the body.” You sob, your body tightening again as you approach another climax. Rafe growls before lowering you to your feet and spinning you so your front is against the wall. You open your mouth in surprise until he pulls your hips back, quickly filling you again.

“Rafe—.” You moan, his hand finding your throat and holding you tightly to his chest as his hips slam against your ass.

“You let me worry about him. Right now, I just want you to focus on how good my cock feels inside this tight little body and how you’re going to let me do whatever I want with you from now on.” Rafe growls in your ear, his hand cutting off your air supply as your eyes roll back and you cum harder than before, an obscene amount of fluid gushing between your legs. Rafe curses in your ear just as everything starts to go black until he releases his hold and you slump against the wall, trying to catch your breath.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your legs threatening to give out as as his movements grow quick and sloppy until he finally stills, his massive cock pulsing inside you as he releases thick ropes of semen as his body pins you to the wall. His heavy breathing fans across your neck as he leaves feather like kisses, his cock still buried so deep it hurts.

“Rafe.” You whisper, feeling his hand slide up your body to grasp your throat again.

“Go upstairs and wait for me. Don’t clean up. I want to see the mess I’ve made then I’m going to fuck you again. I bet I’ve got your sweet virgin blood all over my dick.” Rafe kisses your cheek before using his hold on your throat to turn your head, capturing your mouth in a toe curling kiss. Your head was spinning. You couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’m going to take care of you.”

[thechaoticdruid]

[Firsts 2/2]

Pairing: Astarion x Named! F!Tav

Plot: Winnie and the party have infiltrated the Goblin Camp and are on their way to rescue the Archdruid Halsin. Astarion's flirtations are just as persistent as ever, leading to a spicy proposition later at the tiefling party.

Content/Warnings: MDNI SMUT THERE IS SMUT!Fantasy bigotry towards goblins, violence with light gore, goblin death, sexual humor, heavy sexual content post tiefling party, virginity loss, PiV sex, fingering, ass grabbing, finger licking, blood drinking, errors may be possible, ooc moments probably. This part is LONG as fuck, 7, 570 words. Also no smut till the end btw, but plenty of horny teasing. Oh right forgot to add a warning for brief descriptions of torture (goblin camp shenanigans) and allusions to Astarion's trauma. I was tired last night while writing this .

First part: [1/2]

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Great, goblins. It just had to be goblins.

Winnie let out an internal sigh as her and the rest of the party entered the heart of the goblin camp. 

The sounds of drums filled her ears as she looked over the chaos before her. She recognized someone up on a stage, a bard she'd previously met in the druid’s grove. Looks like he didn't heed her warning about goblins. 

Typical. No one ever listens. 

Winnie turned back as she noticed her companions making observations. Shadowheart was inspecting the merchant goblin’s wares while Lae’zel sneered at the little green humanoids. Astarion on the other hand looked positively thrilled at all the chaos.  

“Ah, drink it in. That sweet sweet chaos!” Astarion grinned from ear to ear. “Not that I approve of goblins of course, filthy little beasts, but I absolutely love all this delicious debauchery!” 

“Keep your guard up, Star. I wouldn't trust the goblins with a pair of scissors.” Winnie muttered quietly. 

“Do I detect a hint of bigotry from our righteous little heroine, hm?” Astarion smirked at Winnie, an eyebrow raised and a glint of mischief in his eyes. 

“I don't have a problem with goblins, as long as they don't plan on murdering innocents, which this horde obviously is.” Winnie murmured, crossing her arms and looking off to the side. While Winnie was correct, the horde seemed very intent on slaughtering the druid’s grove; it didn't excuse the fact that Winnie had indeed lied about not having a problem with goblins. Ever since they'd reached the blighted village a few days back she'd constantly kept a sharp eye on the little green humanoids, preferring to stay as far from them as she could. It was an aversion that Astarion was quick to prod at since the human female had previously been quite adamant at calling out his prejudice towards gnomes and gur. (Winnie honestly had gotten rather offended considering some of her closest friends had been gnomes!)  But similar to Astarion, Winnie had a history with goblins so to speak. Just the sight of them was enough to make her uncomfortable.

The past wasn't important now. Winnie had to remind herself of that. What was important is finding the druid Halsin and hopefully a cure for their parasites.  Winnie looked around the camp, checking to see if there had been any sign of a cage or anything they could keep the druid captive in, but as she continued to find no luck it was clear that their search would need to go deeper within the goblins domain.

The camp itself surrounded an old Selunite temple that the goblins had appeared to have taken up residence in.  As Winnie began to head towards the entrance she ended up bumping into one of the goblins who'd been telling a story to his friends.

“HEY WATCH WHERE-” The goblin glanced up and quickly looked over Winnie, getting a good look at her. “Another human! You lot think you're so high and mighty! Coming in here like you own the place!” The goblin snarled,”well you ain't nothing!” 

Winnie just looked at the little green man with a blank stare. She rolled her eyes before turning to walk away, not about the goblin bate her into a fight.  As she began to walk off the goblin blinked in confusion. “HEY I WAS TALKING TO YOU HUMAN!” The goblin quickly went after Winnie, kicking her feet out from under her. Winnie fell to the ground with a grunt, just barely able to stop herself from landing flat on her face. Her hands were skint slightly, stinging from the empact. A small cut formed on one of her index fingers, drawing blood. Astarion quickly whipped his head over from where he'd been. The human’s sweet intoxicating ichor immediately delights his senses. 

The goblin moved in front of Winnie, eyes narrowed at her. “Someone outta teach you respect.” The goblin suddenly kicked her chin, “kiss my foot!” 

Winnie flinched from the kick, her chin throbbed as she let out a pained whimper. Her fuschia colored eyes glanced back at the goblins' feet.

“Kiss it!” He said again.

“Chk! Don't you dare!” Lae'zel hissed from the side while Astarion and Shadowheart watched in amusement. Winnie leaned her head over towards the goblin’s foot, her mouth was inches away from it. She actually looked as if she was about to press her lips to it before suddenly she jerked her head forward and sank her teeth down into the goblin’s ankle with enough force to break through the skin and draw blood.

“Ahhhhhhh!!!!” The goblin suddenly screamed, “get the hells off me!” 

Winnie pulled back and sat up, spitting goblin blood out of her mouth and wiping off her chin. She had left a deep bloody bite mark around the goblins ankle. Astarion let out a laugh at Winnie’s antics. 

“Usually biting is my specialty, but I must admit it does rather suit you, darling.” 

“You'll pay for that you human bitch!” The goblin suddenly unsheathed his scimitar and took a stab at Winnie. Quickly she dodged out of the way before taking the opportunity to land a swift kick on the goblin’s bleeding ankle. 

“Godsdamnit!!!” He clutched his ankle before then losing his balance and falling to the ground. 

The druid then proceeded to kick him in the face, knocking out a tooth.

“This is getting fun! Let's gut him!” Astarion said, voice full of bloodlust.

“No please! Mercy!” The goblin cried.

“Kiss my feet.” Winnie crossed her arms and glanced down at the goblin with a glare. “Now.”

“Y-Yes m-ma'm.” The goblin crawled over and planted his lips over the druid’s boots, making the vampire snicker from behind Winnie. 

“Now get out of my face.” She said, the goblin quickly ran off, tail between his legs.

“Aww…..I was hoping you'd splatter his innards all over the dirt.” Astarion pouted, voice sounding like a sad child. 

“I'm not about to have the entire horde on my ass just because of one little shit. We're not killing anyone unless we have to.” Winnie sighed before feeling a familiar sting on her hand. Blood was still dripping down her finger. 

“May I?” Astarion gently grasped Winnie’s hand. The druid’s cheeks reddened as she looked at her hand and then back at him. The pale elf had a lustful longing gaze in his eyes.

Winnie looked off to the side, face flushed. 

“I….guess…” 

Astarion slowly leaned in, running his tongue over the trail of blood that had dripped down to her wrist. He practically sucked her finger into his mouth to finish off the rest, his eyes staring up at her seductively as he cleaned off her digit before leaving a small kiss on the cut.

“Still a pity you decided to let the little rodent live. You would have looked absolutely ravishing drenched in his blood.~” Astarion purred. 

“You two aren't going to start coupling out in the open are you? We still have a job to do or have you forgotten?” Shadowheart crossed her arms. 

“As delicious as that idea is, Shadowheart is right. Best get back to the worms.” Astarion hummed, still looking rather smug about what had just occurred. Winnie was a bit dumbfounded at the moment. Legs feeling like jelly as heat rushed to her face and to her thighs. It had been days since Winnie had received her first kiss from the pale elf. Days since they'd come so close to having sex before being caught by literally everyone one of their companions! Gods, Winnie was still trying to recover from the embarrassment. 

Their uninvited audience had ended up ruining the mood so Winnie was able to keep her virginity that night. Astarion hadn't made any more attempts to bed her since then, but his flirtations were still going strong.  Winnie took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure before continuing on with her companions. 

They didn't spend too much time on the outside of the camp.  Winnie had peacefully convinced one of the goblin ladies to release an owlbear cub who was being tormented at the camp. Peacefully convinced meaning threatened to kill them if they did not release the poor beast.

Afterwards the young druid gave the cub a pat on the head before allowing him to get a whiff of her scent so he could find their camp later.

Once the baby owlbear was out of harm's way they continued on with their quest and entered the 

temple. The guards were less than welcoming, but Astarion was quick to exclaim that their little group were all loyal followers of the absolute, true souls in fact. He laced every word with some dramatic flair.  The goblins looked at one another for a moment before sighing and allowing them to pass. Winnie took note of Shadowheart becoming increasingly on edge the further they entered the temple, but she refrained from pressing the matter. She assumed if it was important the half-elf would tell her.  

The four adventurers stepped deeper into the darkness. The loud wail of a man could be heard coming from off in the distance. His blood curdling screams echoing throughout the chambers of the temple. Winnie poked her head out from behind a corner and immediately spotted a human man strapped to a torture rack. Two goblin males stood next to him winding a little lever to stretch his limbs to their limit as the other goblin questioned him. 

Winnie cringed hearing another scream from the human man. A look of pity flashed across her face momentarily before she quickly assumed a stoic facade.

“Well isn't this intriguing?” Astarion mused, popping his head out from behind the corner.

Shadowheart and Lae'zel joined him shortly afterwards.  Winnie walked over towards the rack, eyes looking over the pained and terrified man. 

The goblins were cackling their heads off at the poor man’s misery. From what happened goblins were saying this man was a part of the group the druid Halsin had gone with. One of the goblins suddenly turned back to see Winnie. 

“Come to join your friend, have you human?” He asked in a mocking tone. Winnie looked over at the man. He started right at her, his face battered and bruised, tears had been streaming down his face. 

“Friend? I've never seen the idiot before in my life.” Winnie said, keeping a calm and composed face. She stared at him before looking back at the goblins as an idea sparked in her mind. 

“Let me put him through the paces.” She said.

“A human, torturing another human!? Ha! Why not!” The torturer goblin laughed before gesturing for the druid to come forward. Winnie looked over at the tools laid out before her. She kept her expression stoic and unreadable as she suddenly picked up a hot iron poker.

“What are you- NO! NO PLEASE!” The man cried out before feeling the hot melt press against his thigh. He let out another wail of a scream. Astarion smirked, tongue flicking across his lips sadistically as he and the others simply watched.

Winnie then tossed the poker to the side, glancing back over the tools before grabbing a pair of pliers and ripped the man’s big toenail right out. 

“There's a hidden village across the bridge! The entrance is covered with moss!” The man suddenly shouted. 

“Well look at that, you got him to speak! You're not half bad for a human! And we got what we needed. Come on, let's go tell the drow!” The torturer said to the other goblin before the two ran off.  Once they were gone Winnie glanced back at the man, battered and bruised. He appeared to have gone unconscious from the pain. Poor man.

She dropped her facade finally and took a deep breath. Winnie reached into her pack before taking out a healing potion.  She unscrewed the top before pressing the bottle to his lips and making him drink.  After downing the bottle the human began to come too, coughing as color returned to his face and his wounds slowly began to heal.  His eyes widened at the sight of the druid female and a look of fear washed over him.

“G-Get away! N-No more please!” He begged.

“Shh…Calm yourself. You're safe now.” Winnie said.

“Safe!? You nearly bloody killed me!” He raised his voice. Astarion and Shadowheart quickly looked around in case anyone was attracted by the noise.

“Silence him before he attracts the entire horde!” Lae'zel said between gritted teeth.

Winnie put a hand over his mouth.

“The goblins would have definitely killed you had I not shown up. Look, I don't have time for chatting, we're looking for a druid named Halsin. Tell us where he is and we'll free you.” She said before slowly removing her hand from his mouth.

“I-I don't know. He turned into a bear and we got separated. The goblins might have locked him in one of the cells, but I'm not sure.” 

“Well that's something to go on at least.” Winnie sighed before taking a lockpick from her pack and slowly beginning to pick the lock. 

“If you must free him. Do it quickly.” Shadowheart said as she looked over her shoulder. Winnie continued to fiddle with the lock, biting down on her lip, but even it broke.

“Shit.” The druid cursed.

“Gods, have you never picked a bloody lock before?” Astarion asked in annoyance before gently pushing Winnie to the side.

“Usually I just wild-shape and squeeze my way where I need to go.” Winnie admitted as she watched the high elf take out a pick before skillfully undoing the lock in a matter of seconds.

“Damn, you're good.” The human female exclaimed with an impressed grin.

“Obviously.” Astarion said smugly.  The human man dropped to the ground once free.

“Thank you…I should be able to make it to the grove on my own. Someone has to warn them.” He said.

“Best of luck to you.” Winnie nodded, before the man took off. 

The four adventurers went in the opposite direction of the human male, continuing their search for Halsin. Winnie took a long whiff of the air, but was unable to catch any hint of a bear’s scent. 

Nope, nothing but goblin stink. And maybe human entrails…

The party ventured further down the halls, eventually coming across a floor stained in blood with rats patrolling the grounds. Winnie noticed a strangely erotic dressed man cleaning a blood mace. His outfit somewhat reminded her of something she'd seen a courtesan wear at Sharess's Caress while she was there ‘borrowing’ literature. As her group wandered closer, the man took note of them. 

“Welcome child. Have you come to assist with the prisoner?” He asked. 

“Oh him? Nah they killed him before I got here.” Winnie bluffed. 

“Amateurs. Pain should be savored, cherished.” The man said.

“Uhh…..Okay….” Winnie said, a little creeped out.

“Forgive me. I am a priest of Loviatar, goddess of pain. We worship our lady through pain and it's intricacies.” 

“Can't say I've ever heard of her. Not really the religious type myself, but that does sound fascinating in a macabre way I suppose…” Winnie stated.

“If you're curious, I could show you first hand how we please our mistress.” He said. Winnie didn't really care for how he was staring at her.

“Oh, I must see this.~” Astarion said, almost sounding like he was about to moan. “Don't you dare say no.~” He looked at Winnie seductively.

“Yeah…..Not happening. I kinda try to avoid getting the shit beaten out of me. Thanks.” Winnie replied before turning to walk off.  Astarion pouted and followed after her. The two of them going ahead of Lae’zel and Shadowheart.

“Your loss, young one!” The strange man called.

“You really are no fun, you know darling?” Astarion sighed in disappointment.

“Astarion darling'' Winnie mocked, “if you want so badly for the creepy sadistic man to spank someone you are more than welcome to offer your own hind.” 

“I don't believe he ever said anything about spanking. Is that something you'd like to see?~” 

“You know what I meant!” Winnie snapped, face turning bright red with embarrassment. 

“Don't be so vicious. I was only teasing.” Astarion smirked, “although you do look absolutely delicious with your cheeks all flushed. Makes me rather hungry…” The vampire moved closer to Winnie, breath hitting the back of her neck.

“You're going to make a pass at me now?”

“Not exactly.” He clicked his tongue, “I merely wanted to remind you that I haven't forgotten how we were so rudely interrupted the other night.” Astarion moved some stray hairs behind Winnie’s ear. “And how wonderful your lips felt against mine.” He purred softly.  Winnie could feel her heart speed up.

“Maybe…Maybe it would be better if we forgot it…” She looked off to the side. 

“Oh come on, you can't mean that.” Astarion crossed his arms. “After all, you might never get a chance like this again.” He moved in front of Winnie, getting closer to her.

“Excuse me?” Winnie looked back at him with a raised eyebrow.

“You and I both know our days are numbered as long as we have these worms in our heads. Wait too long and you may never know what it's like to feel the touch of a lover. To feel my touch.” Astarion took Winnie’s hand and placed it on his chest.

Winnie shivered in arousal, and swallowed nervously, face feeling like it was on fire as her hand trembled against his muscles.

Oh gods. Man titties….I..er…FUCK!!!

Winnie pulled her hand back before her brain had the chance to turn off. Heat was rushing between her thighs, threatening to turn her mind to mush. She had to get it together! There were far more important things than sex right now!

“Would you quit with the flirting! This really isn't the time!” Winnie hissed before turning to continue walking through the temple. She did her best to ignore him from there on out.  As much as his honeyed words made heart skip a beat there was no time for it right now. 

~~~~~

The party made their way deep into the bowels of the goblin’s sanctum until eventually they came across the worg pens. Winnie’s nose almost instinctively sniffed as they entered the room. The unmistakable scent of a bear cut right through the foul stench of goblins. The bear looked like he was in one of the pens with two goblin children throwing rocks at him from outside the cage.

“Amicus Animalus.” Winnie quietly whispered the speak with animals incantation before they approached. She needed to make sure that this bear was actually the druid they were looking for and not some random animal. 

“Get back!” He seemed to growl at the goblins as one of them aimed a rock right at his head. 

“What the hells is going on down here?” Winnie demanded, eyes narrowed at the little brats. 

“We're throwing stones at this stupid bear!” 

“Makes funny noises when we hit em! Hahaha!” 

Winnie rolled her eyes before looking back at the bear. 

“Get rid of them!” He growled, voice rough and gravely “free me!” 

“Okay, that's enough.” Winnie glared down at the goblin children before knocking their heads together and knocking them out. The adult goblin who had currently been standing by turned towards the human.

“Oi! The hells are you doing!?” She shouted before drawing her bow. Winnie swiftly kicked her weapon from her hands before stabbing through her with her scimitar, the goblins blood spilling all over the floor.

“We're under attack!” One of the other goblins shouted.  

“I'll sound the alarm- '' Before another goblin could run for help Astarion shot an arrow right into his throat, making him drop dead.  

Winnie quickly shoved the body of the dead she-goblin out of the way before pulling a lever to release the bear from his pen. 

The bear quickly charged through the room before smacking a goblin clear into one of the walls. 

“Quick! Release the worgs!” Another goblin shouted before the second pen was opened and two huge wolf-like beasts emerged. 

“Fresh meat.” Winnie heard one of the worgs snarl darkly. It went charging towards her teeth barred.  Winnie quickly assumed her direwolf form and slammed into it head on. Both canines being about the same size gave them around the same estimate of power. 

The bear slammed into the other worg while Astarion, Lae'zel and Shadowheart fought off the remaining goblins in the room. 

After all of their adversaries had been dealt  and the strange bear both took a more humanoid form as Shadowheart tied up the unconscious goblin children to assure they wouldn't cause any trouble. 

The bear shifted into an oddly tall muscular wood elf which towered over Winnie. Her eyes widened as she looked him over, not expecting him to be so intimidatingly large.

He's big……

“Pardon the viscera. Nature's bounty should be cherished.” The elf exclaimed, wiping some stray goblin blood off his face. 

“You’re Halsin, I presume?” Winnie tilted her head curiously.  

“Yes. Did someone send you for me?” He asked.

“We heard you're a renowned healer and we definitely could use some healing.” Winnie said.

“The fact that you fought your way through goblins to find must mean it's urgent.” 

“It is. Very.” 

“Alright then. Let me have a look.”  Halsin leaned in closer, examining Winnie’s face.  Behind her right eye something was squirming, hiding. 

“Oak father preserve us. You're infected.” 

“Unfortunately.” The younger druid sighed.

“I must apologize, but I cannot cure this.” Halsin said sadly.

“What!? Oh, you must be joking! We did all this for nothing!” Astarion scoffed and crossed his arms.

“Skva! I told you we should have continued looking for the creché! Now we've wasted time!” Lae'zel hissed.

“If it would help I may know where you can find answers about your infection. The true souls, others who are infected like you have been taken to moonrise towers. You're more likely to find the cure you seek there.” Halsin explained.

“Perhaps you'd be willing to lend us a hand on getting there then? We did just save your life after all.” 

“I would, but these goblins are a threat to the emerald grove. I cannot go anywhere while their leaders still live.” 

Winnie thought for a moment. “Alright then. I'll help you kill all the goblin bosses and then you help my friends and I safely get to Moonrise Towers. Sound like a plan?” 

“What? Now we have to fight more of them?” Astarion whined.

“Quiet Star.” Winnie said before looking back at Halsin. 

“It won't be easy. We may have to slaughter the entire place just to kill the leaders.” 

“Ah don't worry. I had a few ideas while looking around the place.” Winnie assured him with a smirk.

Winnie transformed into a rat to stealthily sneak around the area and crawl down  into the pit where two giant spiders were held. She immediately had a nice friendly chat with them about how she'd free them and let them eat their fill of their goblin masters if they agreed to fight by her side. 

All the while Astarion and Shadowheart snuck back towards the front of the temple, using the high up wooden rafters to sneak around the temple unseen until coming across a secret room full of explosive barrels. 

Winnie had noticed some goblins rolling them off to another room when the party had first entered the temple earlier and made a mental note to remember them if need be. 

Astarion and Shadowheart rolled them over the rafters, taking as many as they could with them at a time.  Winnie quickly undid the locked door, allowing the spiders to escape out and begin attacking the goblins near the entrance.

She quickly climbed up to the rafters to meet up with Astarion and Shadowheart before turning human once again. The three then proceeded to light the barrels and drop them one the majority of the goblins past the spider pit all the while Lae'zel and Halsin fought their way through goblins and attacked one of the leaders, Minthara. 

Lae'zel was able to push her down into a chasm after narrowly avoiding some heavy blows. 

Once they reached the room where the hobgoblin leader was, Winnie quickly took her direwolf shape and charged down into the fray along with Shadowheart. Astarion stayed up in the rafters and sniped a few of their enemies from afar. 

It was a quick and bloody battle, but thanks to the spiders and explosives they ended up on the winning side.  

“You did it! You actually did it!” Halsin cheered as the last of the leaders laid dead. Winnie was still in wolf form panting.

“Yes, yes we saved your pitiful grove. Now agree to help us damnit!” Astarion crossed his arms with a sneer.

“I will honor our agreement, but we needn't leave immediately. I'll meet you at your camp tonight and we can set out come dawn.” Halsin agreed, making Astarion let out an annoyed sigh. 

~~~~~~~~

The four adventurers eventually regrouped with the other members of their merry band of weirdos and eventually headed back to the emerald grove to gather supplies and make camp for the night.

The tieflings ended up being so grateful for the defeat of the goblins that they actually joined the camp to celebrate.  Winnie wasn't exactly sure what to make of it honestly.

She'd hadn't been to any social gatherings since she was a kid. When she moved to Baldur's Gate as a teen there were never any opportunities for her to attend a party since she was basically a street rat whose only companions were a group of adventurers that had gotten in trouble with the Flaming Fists on one too many occasions. 

Needless to say she felt very out of place and just sat by the river, drawing in the dirt for the beginning of the party.  At least until Karlach spotted her. 

“Hey soldier!” She waved at the human female with a big toothy grin. “What are you doing over here?”

“Oh hey Karls. I'm just you know, getting some air.  All the people honestly make me feel a bit claustrophobic I guess.” Winnie shrugged.

“Oh come on! I think Gale was looking for you and Fangs is sitting alone pouting because you didn't come to see him.” 

“Oh Karlach you know darn well Astarion pouting could mean anything!” Winnie replied, giggling, “I think he started sulking the other when Shadow said his hair looked uneven on one side.” 

“You should still go see him. Maybe he'll give ya another kiss hm?” Karlach winked, tail wagging with excitement. 

Winnie’s face turned bright red. 

“I'm not sure. He was rather um…blunt about wanting more than that earlier…” 

“Isn't that a good thing? You should go for it! Go get some action for the both of us!” Karlach exclaimed.

“But I've never gotten action before! I don't know what I'm doing and I look like a fucking potato under these clothes!” Winnie huffed and looked down at the ground. 

“Mate, potatoes are fucking delicious! You can do this I know it and I can't get laid so I want you to go ride him for him for me! Now up!” Karlach said, grabbing a large broken branch and nudging Winnie along with it so she wouldn't burn her. 

“But I don't wanna top…” Winnie muttered under her breath. Eventually she caved in and walked off to join the others at the party so Karlach wouldn't push her all the way to Astarion herself.

She took a deep breath and glanced about.  

The camp was full of tieflings, some were chatting over the fire and Winnie took notice of one lovely looking one who appeared to be trying to make conversation with Astarion. Winnie rolled her eyes. 

Pouting because I didn't come to see him, my ass.

The young druid walked off in the direction towards Gale's tent, taking note that Wyll who's tent was right beside the wizard’s appeared to be missing from the party. 

“There you are. I was looking for you.” Gale suddenly piped up. 

“Oh hey Gale…What's up?” Winnie gave a small smile.

“I wanted to congratulate you. You did a great thing, saving the refugees.” 

“I just did what was necessary. But I'm very glad they're alright. Goblins attacking a druid’s grove honestly it's too…” Winnie trailed off, unpleasant memories flooding her mind. “Um….Why was it  you were looking for me again?” 

“Ah right! I was wondering if you'd like to join me later this evening. I was hoping I could show you something rather….magical…”

“Hm…Magic does sound fun….But I don't know I haven't really decided if I want to really do anything later. I'm kinda tired from all the fighting ya know?” Winnie scratched the back of her head.

“I completely understand! Take all the rest you need! You've earned it.” Gale said.

“Thanks, maybe next time okay?” Winnie gave him a sweet smile before turning to walk off.

“Of course!” Gale called. 

The human druid let out a sigh before suddenly one of the tiefling girls ran over towards her.

“For the hero of the hour!” She cheered and patted Winnie's back before handing her a cup of wine. The brunette haired female mouthed a shy thanks before taking the cup and drinking from it. 

Her pink eyes looked over to still see the vampire sitting there. A look of discomfort was clear on his face. Winnie finally caved in and began to approach him. “Hey Star…. How's it going?” Winnie asked.

“Ugh it's so dull. I do all this hard work and how am I repaid? This cheap sewer water.” He scoffed and glanced down at the wine bottle he held in his hand. Winnie took the bottle of wine from it and gave it a sniff. It smelled normal enough. She gave it a taste. A bit bitter. Winnie herself much preferred sweet wines, but she didn't see anything abnormally bad tasting about it. She considered going to get a jar of blood she'd found in the goblin camp earlier that day, but Astarion spoke before she could offer.

“Honestly I don't know how you find any joy in playing the hero. It's awful.” Astarion huffed and took the bottle back.

“Awe come on, it's not THAT bad. You got to kill plenty of goblins! And you looked so badass when you hit that hobgoblin in the eye with an arrow!”  Winnie exclaimed.

“Perhaps. Slaughtering all the little vermin was rather enjoyable, but it still doesn't make up for this piss poor excuse for a party.” Astarion sighed, “I’m just looking for a little more excitement. A little more fun.” Astarion gave Winnie a seductive look for a moment before it vanished.

“I was hoping you'd join me this evening, but it looks like Gale has already caught your attention.” Astarion rolled his eyes. The way he said the wizard’s name almost sounded a little disgusted.

“We just talked. He wanted to hang out later and show me a magic trick.” Winnie insisted.

“Oh yes I'm sure a night with him would be very magical.” 

“What do you mean?” Winnie asked.

“Oh you're so adorably innocent. Obviously he wanted to show you his staff, darling.” Astarion said in a teasing tone.

It took Winnie a moment before she turned bright red. “I-I…Didn't think he'd meant that! I'm.. I'm really not interested in him in that way…” 

“Good. Then you still have a chance to make the most of your evening. Wait until things quiet down and come find me out in the forest.” Astarion looked off to the side, red eyes looking directly at the woodland area past the river. “There we can spend some quality time together and pick up where we left off before the others so rudely interrupted us the other night.” Astarion purred out.  

“Gods, you're persistent…Alright. I guess I'll meet you there.” Winnie gave in. She couldn't help but think back to what he said in the goblin temple. They really could die any day now, so why not just get it over with and have her first time be with a vampire. It would at least be something to brag about when this was all over and they went their separate ways.  But there was still the gnawing anxiety of her insecurities. The worry that once he saw her, all of her, he'd be disgusted and back out.  

“Wonderful. I'll meet you there once the others have turned in. See you there, lover.~” 

~~~~~

As Winnie waited for her other companions to head to bed she carefully and quietly made some preparations, watching as the tieflings left one by one back to their own camp for the night. The sound of music and laughter that had previously filled the air had died down. Winnie grabbed hold of her pack as she knelt underneath the shady tree she kept her bedroll under. She held a jar of (maybe human?) blood and a bottle of sweet dessert wine she ‘borrowed’ from someone at the grove. She packed the refreshments along with two glass chalices, some blankets and her bedroll into her pack. Once the druid noticed Astarion had left and the others had entered their tents she slung her pack over her shoulder and made her way towards the river.  Winnie carefully hopped across a long and some stones before reaching the other side and wandering off into the forest. 

She sniffed, attempting to pinpoint Astarion's scent so she'd be able to find him quickly. The smell of bergamot, rosemary, brandy and just the faintest hint of death lead her deeper and deeper into the woods.  

Eventually once she got further enough away from camp Astarion stepped out into the open. 

His perfect pale skin was exposed as he appeared to have discarded his shirt before Winnie had even got there. 

“There you are. I've been waiting….Waiting since the moment I first-” 

Winnie let out a loud sigh before dropping her comically large backpack she'd filled to the brim with junk. She panted a little before looking up at Astarion.

“Sorry, that was just kinda heavy.” She rubbed her back before bending over to open up her pack.

“Uh….Why the hells did you bring that?” Astarion asked, crossing his arms. He was slightly annoyed Winnie had interrupted his dramatic seductive line! 

“I wanted to make sure we'd be comfortable.” Winnie said honestly before taking out a large rolled up bear pelt blanket. She took out her bedroll and placed it over the pelt before adding two other blankets over it. Then the druid sat her pack down on the pelt before sitting.  The assortment she'd laid out had made a nice cushy bedding. Winnie sat down on her bedroll before looking up at Astarion, patting the space besides her shyly.  

“Come on I uh…I got you something…” She said, Astarion hesitated almost as if he pondered the possibility of this being some kind of trap before taking a seat beside the human female.  

Winnie took out the chalices along with the blood and wine. “I found this at the goblin camp and I couldn't help but think about you…You know cause I can't always give you blood and it would be nice to have some lying around for you to drink…” Winnie said, voice speeding up nervously as her face reddened. 

“How…romantic.~” Astarion’s seductive demeanor returned as he scooted close to Winnie, trailing a clawed finger over her thigh. 

“I-I suppose it is…..I…I…Is it hot in here!?” Winnie felt her face a bit before quickly pouring a glass of wine and drinking it. Astarion looked at her wide eyes as she suddenly realized something….

That was not wine. 

Winnie immediately spat out blood onto the grass, holding back the urge to gag. Astarion covered his mouth, his lips curling up into a shit eating grin from behind his hand. It took everything he had not to burst into laughter at the druid’s stupidity. She wiped her mouth and huffed. 

“AH! Why is this so hard!?” She covered her face in embarrassment. “I'm sorry Astarion. I really don't know what I'm doing…I want this, but I don't have any idea what to do or say…” 

“Darling, relax, let me take care of you…” The elven vampire suddenly leaned in and slowly licked a bit of blood off the side of Winnie’s mouth. He then took the chalice from her hand and tossed it off to the side. Winnie took a deep breath. 

“Okay…I'm just nervous…” She looked off to the side.

“I'll be gentle, my pet.” Astarion cupped her cheek, tilting her head back to face him. His red eyes stared fondly into her own before she eventually closed them and leaned in. Astarion wasted no time pressing his soft cool lips against Winnie’s warmer ones, receiving a soft moan as his lips moved against hers. The vampire sucked slightly on them before he teasingly nipped her bottom lip with a fang. 

“Mmm!” She moaned, allowing him to slide his tongue into her mouth and deepen the kiss. 

Winnie could feel herself melting under his touch, sucking on his tongue as it nearly slid down her throat. She tried to keep her moans from getting too loud, but it only became harder as one of his hands cupped her right breast. It felt so plump, so soft. He was about ready to tear her shirt open. The elf squeezed it gently, his thumb sliding over the top of her breast, feeling over the smoothness of her exposed skin. 

Winnie eventually pulled back for air, his tongue quickly flicking over her own as they parted. Despite the fact that it had been revolting for her, the leftover taste of blood in her mouth was actually quite the treat for a vampire. 

Winnie flinched as his hands moved towards the buttons of her shirt, causing Astarion to come to an immediate halt and back up.“What is it, pet? Is something the matter?” He asked as a frown formed upon his lips.

“I’m afraid you won't like what you see….” The druid muttered, voice full of shame.  This was it. This was when he would change his mind and call it all off. 

“Oh sweetie, I've bedded far worse, trust me. And you don't even come anywhere close to any of them.” He gave her a wink before standing up. Winnie was a bit confused as he held out his hand for her. She took it and stood up.

“Look at me, lover.” He purred, planting a kiss on her lips before moving her hands towards his belt. Winnie took a deep breath, trying to ease her nervousness before she undid his belt, slowly pulling his pants down. There was an evidently large bulge growing in his underwear which immediately made Winnie’s face burn brightly. She kept her eyes locked with his before continuing to strip him bare. His underwear dropped to the ground, letting his erection spring free. Astarion took her smaller hands into his own, placing one on his chest and and the other on his ass. “I'm not going anywhere. Not until I've nibbled on every inch of this,” Astarion pulled her against him, his hands gripped her ass, making her squeak “lovely body.” 

She gasped, she could feel his hard cock poking her through her pants. Her hand reactively squeezed his ass, resulting in the vampiric letting outa soft husky moan. Winnie furrowed her brows with a huff.

Fuck it.

She quickly moved to pull her shirt off over her head, tossing it over to the side before unhooking her bra. Astarion grinned, tongue flicking over his fangs before he immediately attached his mouth to one of her tits, sucking and licking around her nipple. 

“A-Ahh…” Winnie moaned feeling his fangs gently graze her breasts, hands roaming her form before pulling her down her pants.

“O-Oh gods!” Her legs shook, feeling him rub her through her underwear. Winnie tried to grip onto him for balance, but her legs buckled, sending them both tumbling back onto the cushion of the blankets with Astarion on top. He breathed out with a smirk, an almost feral look was on his eyes as his mouth moved up to Winnie’s immediately capturing her lips in another kiss.  His hand remained between her legs, now eagerly working to pull her underwear off before he slid a single finger into her cunt. 

“Mmm!” She moaned loudly into his mouth, feeling his digit begin pumping in and out of her, slowly speeding up with each thrust. He was gentle, but made sure push up against all the right spots in order to drive her nuts. Her hands gripped his back, nails digging into his skin as he added another finger, pushing them both in deep while his thumb rubbed back and forth over her clit. “A-Astarion!” The druid whimpered, pulling her head back. 

“Shhh..Pet they'll hear you from all the way back at camp.” He teased, scissoring his fingers as he pumped them back and forth inside her. His digits were soaked from how wet she was getting. She whined, burying her face into the side of his neck as she moaned his name again his skin.  

“Star please!” The female whimpered into his neck, her lips pressed against it almost as if it were a kiss.

“Oh alright because asked so nicely.” Astarion pulled his finger from inside her, resulting in another whimper as he stared her right in the eyes and slowly sucked his fingers clean, pulling each of them out slowly with pop sound. 

He then reached back down and grabbed hold of his cock, rubbing it slowly with a moan as his eyes stayed locked on Winnie. She bit her lip in frustration. He seemed to be going awfully slow on purpose. 

Fucking tease.

Once he deemed himself prepared, he lined himself up with her entrance. 

“Now, if it hurts too much, be a good girl and let me know.” Astarion said, keeping his tip at her entrance as he waited for her to respond.

“Okay…I'm ready.” Winnie nodded before feeling his slowly push in.  She gritted her teeth and grunted feeling a sharp stinging pain as he stretched her out. 

“A-Ahh….” Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she bit down hard on her lip until it bled. Astarion groaned feeling her tight walls clench around him almost painfully tight as he pushed his full length inside. 

“Fuck…” He breathed out, cock twitching inside her.

“Star…” Winnie looked up at him, her hips bucking upwards with need. Astarion’s lips twitched upwards and he immediately began to move inside her. Winnie wrapped her arms around his torso almost as if hugging him against her as the slick wet sounds of him pumping in and out filled hear ears. 

“Y-Yes…Please….Keep going…” She said, as he sped up, hips slapping against her now. Winnie bit down on the biteless side of his neck in an attempt to quiet her moans.  

Eventually however as he slammed harder and harder into her she unable to keep quiet any longer eventually giving up all together as she reached her climax. 

“Astarion! Bite me! Please!” Winnie cried out. 

“Huh? What?” Astarion asked as if suddenly pulled out of a trance. Winnie turned her head and exposed her neck.

“I want you to bite me, now.” She said. 

“Gods yes…” He practically moaned before quickly sinking his fangs into her flesh. Winnie cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. She could feel his thrusts slam even harder now that he had a taste of her blood. 

One of her hands roughly gripped his ass, her eyes rolled back into her head as she felt herself come undone. Her vampiric lover eventually following after her, his cock throbbing as he emptied himself completely inside her.  

Soon after the two found themselves resting upon the nest of blankets Winnie had been so generous to bring along. Astarion laid on his back, arms resting behind his head and one of his legs crossed over the other as his plump druid lover laid her head on his chest. She kept a blanket wrapped around her, still not quite comfortable leaving her bodice fully exposed. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Winnie asked in an almost mouse like voice.

“Hm? Yes, of course.” Astarion replied, staring up at the night sky.

“You sure? You just seemed a bit distant half of the time.” Winnie shifted a little. 

“Winnie, you were fine. We'll have plenty of time to practice later.” Astarion hummed. He seemed rather eager to dismiss the subject.

“You mean….You're interested in doing this again?” Winnie asked in confusion.

“With a delicious little plaything like you? Why not!” He chuckled a bit.

Oh…He thinks of me as a plaything….

Winnie frowned. She knew this was just supposed to be about sex, but for some reason it still hurt to be reminded of it. She let out a sigh before rolling over and facing away from him.  Astarion glanced over as soon as he felt her move away. He felt a slight disappointment at her retreat, but couldn't for the life of him understand why. 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~••~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Note from The ChaoticDruid: This took so long to finish! I'm glad it's done and I hope my attempt at writing detailed smut wasn't too shitty. I'm honestly thinking of writing more fics with Astarion and Winnie that are set during the game's campaign! If anyone wants to request a romance scene from the game for me to recreate with Winnie just send me an ask I guess. I'm up for that. Might take a while though. I'm tired now. BYEEEEE.

[straighttohellbuddy]

what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

Summary: As someone who is chronically honest and the self-appointed court jester of this world, your place in any conflict or situation had always been whichever place to be amused you the most; being on the side of the grown-ass man who put time and effort into waging war against smartass kids over discs? Of course. Immediately switching sides to join the child as he and someone you've never met before start a drug empire? Of course. Except said newcomer seems to know exactly how to keep you entertained; your place becomes by his side, and you quickly come to realise that no-one else will ever compare.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: She/They Reader. Villain!Reader. Past, toxic c!Quackity/Reader, established platonic c!Dream & Reader. Set during the DSMP timeline. 

A/N: 25,323 words. this has been about 2 years in the making, which is why i haven't tagged the few people on the taglist but anyways, i finally came back and reread what i had and was like.... this actually holds up pretty well as is. so yeah, i've added and subtracted a few things here and there in the last few hours to make it all make sense overall, but holy shit im so happy to have it out there. is it possibly the wankiest/dramatic thing ive posted in a while? yes. but its also 25k so eat up. and if you wanna talk to me about it! PLEASE DO!!

Warnings: VILLAIN!READER, discussions/implied suicidal ideation, violence & blood, implied and joked about smut, heavy psychological/emotional manipulation, romantic obsession, betrayal, murder, implied torture. it gets pretty dark at times, just take care.

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

"You've created capitalism, good job," sarcasm dripped from your words as you leaned against the side of the Camarvan while Sapnap attempted to arrest Tommy and the most recent newcomer, a brunette with a way with words that you found yourself admiring.

"I didn't create capitalism," Wilbur automatically defends himself, turning on you like he had the words on the tip of his tongue, simply waiting for someone to bring it up. Though he was playing at being innocent, you could see he was holding back a smile.

"What do you mean?" Tommy, behind him, frowned, before spluttering, "you know what, who cares- Wilbur, buddy don't listen to her, she'll say anything to get a rise out of people," he grumbled, but you just talked over him, addressing the newcomer.

"I'm not implying that you, new boy -"

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

"- you, Wilbur, were the theological creator of capitalism," you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help your own smile at the situation, "I'm saying that you're trying to have a monopoly on potions and the ability to brew them, so you can inflate the price to whatever you want with no competition that people would be able to buy from, all that artificial supply and demand bullshit."

"Don't know what you're on about," but Wilbur's back was to the others as he said it, lips twisting into a grin, "this is but a humble hotdog van."

"A humble hotdog van!" Tommy added resolutely for emphasis, which you yourself repeated, much quieter, turning the words over in your mind as you narrowed your eyes and looked over all of them, "oh get lost, go run back to Dream," Tommy huffed, before turning on Wilbur, "why are you even giving her the time of day? She's in his guard, she's probably here helping Sapnap."

And that's when your gaze finally flicked to the man himself in full diamond armour, who was glowering at you, bow half raised. He stays quiet.

"He doesn't seem too keen on her," Wilbur points out, looking over his shoulder, giving the faintest smile to the kitted-out guard.

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

"I'm simply a court jester -" you tried, hands raised defensively, but Tommy cuts you off.

"You shot me!"

"What's a humble court jester doing at our humble hotdog van?" Wilbur asks, turning back to you. At this prompt, however, your whole face lit up and you stood up straight, frantically digging around your pockets, searching, until you offer a small stack of blaze rods, like it's an offering.

"Playing along," you tell him, eyes alight with mirth and mischief.

"Why?" But he takes the blaze rods and you give a shrug, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"It's the funniest option."

---

"It's not capitalism, it's a drug empire," Tommy grumbled under his breath the moment they bring you into the Camarvan and shut the door behind you, before he added, "and I still don't like that you're here."

"It's not my fault that the concept of a grown-ass man going to war with literal children over two discs is deeply funny," you raised your hands in mock surrender as you sat on the counter in the hotdog van.

"Then why were you on his side?" He demanded, and you schooled your grin into something seriously.

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

"Do not call me Thomas," Tommy told you flatly, and for a moment you couldn't help your sharp smile.

"Listen, Tommy, my boy, I was on the side of the grown-ass man who was waging war over discs; you're a kid, dude, being on your side would make too much sense and would be far less funny."

"One, you're a terrible person," Tommy says flatly, and you can't help but laugh not exactly inclined to disagree with him, "two, I'm not your boy, and three, if it suddenly becomes fucking funny for you to turn on us, I will kill you a lot, okay?"

"Okay," you nod, conceding, and though he's still frowning at you, mistrustful, you can't help but follow it with, "but I think you underestimate how much I appreciate our new friend, whose first thought, after finding his way to us, was 'I'm going to build a drug empire and recruit Tommy-goddamn-Innit as my first ally'; very few things can top that, honestly."

Wilbur, who was kneeling by a chest a few feet away and had been quiet this whole time, snorts a laugh. Good.

"Does Dream trust you?" However, when he spoke, your bright mood evaporated. Then he stands, turns, and leans his hip against the chest he was just rifling through, cocking his head to one side as he regards you, "it's not bait, I'm not asking you if you're a double agent, I trust you -" though there was something behind his eyes that contradicted his words, "- just, does Dream trust you?"

"Dream and I have... an understanding," you said carefully, "I understand that he is incredibly powerful -" Tommy made a derisive noise in the back of his throat at that, "- and he understands that I am simply a court jester."

"I don't remember many jesters with enchanted netherite axes," Tommy mutters under his breath. For the barest moment, when he looks at you he sees you looking right back, something dangerous, something like a warning in your eyes that vanishes so fast he’s half concerned he imagined it. No-one else seemed to have seen it, judging by how Wilbur’s continuing on. You’ve already looked away.

"So he may expect you to turn on him?"

"Eventually," you agree, "but he also knows I'd turn back to his side with the right incentive," you knew no good could come of trying to hide your nature, especially since it could lead to others actively attempting to win your loyalty, which you couldn't deny was pretty nice. Tommy was actively glaring at you after this particular admission, however Wilbur hums thoughtfully, regarding you with an expression you can't quite read, one that makes you feel like he's evaluating you; you sit a little straighter.

"Would you steal his potion supplies for us if he had any?" And suddenly, Wilbur's tone was light, as if he were asking for you to run an errand rather than commit treason. While Tommy was flabbergasted at his bluntness, you nodded emphatically.

"Oh, absolutely."

----

"Could you be more subtle while robbing me?" Dream frowned the moment he saw you up to your elbows in a chest in what he considered to be his base of operations.

"Not my fault you're bad at hiding your stuff and good at finding me," you huffed in return, not even bothering to look up, even as Dream peered over your shoulder to see what he'd left behind that you were currently looting. Tortoise shells and empty bottles, not much, but it's something.

"I don't appreciate you stealing my shit for Tommy," Dream pointed out, and you snorted a laugh, beginning to pocket your findings. He sat beside the chest, watching you, "I'm going to stop him."

"You're going to try."

"I thought you were on my side," but even as he said it, he wore a grin that was all teeth; you both knew he was joking, "you'd tell me where the discs were if you knew, wouldn't you?"

"In a heartbeat," you agree without hesitation, sitting back on your heels and finally looking at your sort-of ally, "but we both know Tommy doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me."

"He's a smart kid," Dream's smile gets tight at the edges for just a moment, and when you look to him, he’s looking back at you with a shallow gaze - you ever take something from me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you; you hear your own voice in your head, and wonder if Dream’s thinking of that same moment, of your violent, possessiveness rearing it’s head, your axe pressed to his chest in the dead of night. Back in the present, his gaze clears and he looks at the chest you’re currently elbow deep in, pointedly, "you are robbing me." The memory passes from your mind.

"You weren't here and I'm not using actual force; this is looting at best," at your indignance, he rolls his eyes, looking away, and you open the chest again, taking the remaining items, despite their meagre value. "I'm not doing this for Tommy; Wilbur's the one who suggested it."

"The new guy?"

"The new guy," you confirmed with a nod, "the first thing he does after getting here is commit crimes; I think I'm in love," you tell Dream flatly, mostly joking.

"Sounds like a man after your own heart," Dream points out, not even trying to hide the teasing edge to his words; how deeply bizarre this interaction would be if anyone else were to walk in.

With all of the chest's contents safely in your pockets and satchel, you sit back, eyes narrowing as you give Dream and his mischievous smile a look as you finally try and figure out what this whole interaction means. However the teasing does well to hide the faint notes of apprehension in his voice.

"'s the reason I sided with you in the first place;" you said slowly, "you know how chaos gets me going," your tone was flat, clearly conveying that you hadn't deciphered the nature of this interaction, but your actual words were enough to have Dream himself laughing despite this, the air clearing. "You here to stop me?"

"Does anyone else know where my base is, and are you going to steal anything else from me?"

"No and yes," you answer bluntly; if you were anyone else that answer would be two death sentences, one right after the other, "blaze rods," you quickly elaborate, wilfully digging yourself deeper as Dream opens his mouth.

"You can't have my blaze rods," he says, though he's smiling faintly at your well-worn antics.

"Agree to disagree," you stood swiftly, trying to step over his legs to get to the next chest. Dream grabs your shin with one hand, stopping you in your track as he's sighing deeply.

"Go away, Y/N," he says firmly, letting go of you to get to his feet, beginning to push you to the entrance of the bunker, even as you whined; the fact that he let you take as much as you already had was not lost on you however, and you let yourself be nudged to the door, only putting on a show of protesting.

The timer that had started ticking the moment he'd found you in his bunker had finally run out.

"Get better security," you told him, and he gave you a wide, toothy smile.

"Love you too," he responded, "and keep me updated if you ever find those discs." At that, you give him a quick salute and head back in the general direction of the Camarvan.

----

"L'Manberg?" You said, not even trying to hide your scepticism.

"L'Manberg," both Tommy and Wilbur reiterated, sounding completely sincere in their dedication to the ridiculous name.

"L'-Man-Berg?" You said, slower, squinting at them, waiting for their sincerity to crack.

"But don't worry, Tommy himself said that 'even women can work here'," Wilbur said, corners of his mouth twitching at Tommy's various irritated exclamations, "like... in the hotdog van... with us; we're not implying that women have to work to be here, this isn't- this isn't communism -"

"You've made that abundantly clear," your scepticism broke in the face of his floundering, "I remember you brought capitalism to the Greater Dream SMP, Mr Soot," you were desperately trying not to laugh, though Tommy was fairing much worse than you at that.

"I mean- I mean- I mean-" Tommy spluttered through his laughter as it died down, trying to get himself back to being something resembling serious, "you also- you can't be on Dream's side if you're with us."

"I'm not," you answer honestly and easily.

"So you're on our side?" He clarified, though you had to hum at that.

"No..." you said carefully, before finally looking him in his eyes, "I'm on my side, I just happen to like," without breaking eye contact with Tommy or your serious facade, you pointed directly at Wilbur, to his left, "him." Tommy's outrage at your answer was predictably hilarious, hence the main reason as to why you gave it, and Wilbur's delighted 'that's good enough for me' and accompanying smile was enough to solidify your loyalty with them, at least for the time being.

----

"I knew it would be you," they've taken no chances with you when they started taking people prisoner; Tommy was the first to go, and you happened to show up right as Fundy was being lead away. Wilbur and Tommy had both sent you messages, letting you know people were being arrested, and while they probably meant for you to stay away, you had other ideas.

So now, here you were, with Sapnap's crossbow bolt between your shoulder blades as you were being unceremoniously shoved to the courthouse.

"Stop talking," he muttered, poking you probably harder than necessary, but it did little to dim your smile.

"I've barely said anything," you shrugged, the nonchalant movement only serving to remind you, as if you could forget, about the weapon at your back, "but I'm flattered, really; I knew it would be you."

"Stop. Talking."

"They've got several people escorting Tommy, and even Fundy has Eret and Tubbo," you kept chattering away, despite your guard's grumbling, "but we've fought together, you know what I'm like, and so does he," you gave a faint laugh, "they knew I'd listen to you; you're the only one besides Dream himself who could get me to go peacefully."

"Why then? If you're going to keep talking, can you explain why? Why are you going peacefully, why with me? Are you actually saying you would have put up a fight if I were anyone else?"

"Would you trust anyone else to bring me to jail on their own?" You asked simply.

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

"So that's a yes, you'd trust... Tubbo to lead me to the courthouse alone?" Your tone was sly and heavy with implications, "or Ponk? Or what about Eret? I don't know him but he seems nice. I'd like to get to know him, if you're saying you'd like to swap -"

"I don't trust you," he cuts you off, words forced out through gritted teeth.

"But you trust you," you hum thoughtfully, "because you know you're the only one up for it. They're sweet kids, but they're still kids, aren't they? If the right person talked for long enough they'd believe anything. This is why I knew it'd be you taking me to court; you're better than that," you're better than them hangs in the air, unspoken but still so loud, and you're glad he can't see the way you're grinning.

Then, you give a self deprecating chuckle, shrugging again.

"Honestly I'm probably giving myself too much credit here, I'm unarmed and unarmoured, you're easily overkill as my escort, but again, I'm flattered," the pressure between your shoulder blades lessens until the sharp bolt is gone, and you hear Sapnap's footsteps fall silent. Intrigued, you turn, and you see him scowling.

"Don't do that, don't be cute, don't be coy;" he frowned at you, at how your expression had been schooled into something tamer than the delight you were feeling, "you won't trick me; I remember Dream in that warroom, you remember, we were all planning and he assured us that you were your most dangerous unarmed and unarmoured -"

"I can't believe you remember that," you huff a disbelieving laugh, hoping the delight in your eyes didn't give you away.

"Yeah, well I do; don't coy, don't be shitty, okay? I was sent here for you for a reason, me, alright Y/N? I'm the one with the crossbow," already your words were working their way into his psyche, the bestowing of compliments, building him up, only to undermine it all. Whether he realised it or not, the praise you hid amongst your teasing and self-aggrandizing felt good to hear; you're just glad he believed it.

And so you walked with a crossbow bolt nestled between your shoulders, in silence for the rest of the way, being shoved into a cell beside Tommy, who'd been sitting on the bed provided, chattering away loudly to the other guards.

"What took you so long?"

----

The jacket you're given doesn't fit quite right; it's close, but maybe the arms are a little too long, and it sits strangely when you button the front with more than one button, but you wear it with pride, grip tight on the lapels as you spin on your heel, waiting for an approval from the others.

"Looks good on you," Wilbur's voice is carefully neutral, though he nods, his slight smile betraying him.

"Now will you finally admit you're on our side?" Tommy asked, brow pinched as he looked you over.

"What do you mean? She's with us, of course she is," Tubbo voices his confusion, and you finally, finally relinquish.

"Yes, Tommy, I'm fighting for L'manburg," you inclined your head towards him, smiling faintly.

"Say it, say you're on my side," Tommy demanded, "because I wanna remember this moment when you inevitably double cross us."

"Tommy," you said carefully, trying not to show how amused you actually were.

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

"Tommy," you shifted your tone to something a touch more respectful, but the boy's mouth remained set in a firm line, "I'm on your side as long as you're on Wilbur's side."

"Of course," Tubbo pipes up brightly, "we're all on the same side, for L'manburg," and he so cheerfully misses the subtle nuance in your words that it seems to convince Tommy. Wilbur's smiling to himself, genuine, whole face scrunched up and pleased.

"Seems like an overreaction," Eret, who you were yet to get a proper read on, looked over the four of you with interest; he hadn't been here long either, "they robbed Dream for us, they got arrested too -"

"Y/N is a trickster spirit at the best of times," Tommy tells him, "you can never be too careful, trust me."

"I'm just a jester," you raised your hands in a placating gesture, gaze dipping if only to hide the spark of mischief that found its way to your eye every time you found yourself underplaying your abilities.

"A revolutionary jester," Wilbur corrects, and your gaze snaps to him, your smile growing a touch wider, a shade sharper.

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

"You should have a home here," you hear Wilbur musing as he's chopping wood with a distracted energy, "do you have a home?" He quickly follows it with, and you snort loudly.

"Christ dude, of course I have a house," though you take a moment to reconsider, "well I have a bed in the savannah," you paused, "near... near Dream's Mountain." You admitted. There's a hum, and when you look to Wilbur he's regarding you curiously.

"Still?"

"Dream doesn't operate out of there anymore," you told him candidly, "but I like it; lots of sand," you added, and Wilbur actually paused.

"Can I ask you something very frank?" He asked, leaning against the handle of his axe where it was pressing into the dirt. You nodded, "what incentive would it take for you to turn on us, and on L'manburg? If Dream offered any number of weapons or diamonds or armour, would you take it?"

"I have everything I need," you told him honestly, "and I don't think Dream could offer me enough incentive to turn against L'manburg the way it stands right now," you shrugged, but he tipped his head to the side, frowning.

"So what would it take you to turn on us individually?"

Your mouth fell open, unused to being properly listened to, properly understood.

"You listen too much," you muttered, unused to being caught out in the way you would twist words. Wilbur, seemingly surprised at your reaction, grins from ear to ear.

"You know, while you were all being arrested, I heard something; I heard someone say that you're at your most dangerous when you're unarmed and unassuming, and I think I'm starting to get it-"

"If I find Tommy's discs, I have an obligation to give them to Dream," you let the words fall from your lips in an effort to derail that train of thought, gaze on your hands as you pluck blades of grass from the ground, twisting them in your fingers. Wilbur carefully lowers himself to the ground, to your level.

"From what I understand, that seems perfectly reasonable, in your mind at least," he says with a half smile, looking to you, expression somewhat unreadable, his pause harbouring something quietly hungry; "and what about me?"

Mouth opening and closing at a sudden loss for words, you find yourself unable to look him in the eyes.

"I have no pre-existing reason to turn against you," your voice is quiet, is flat, but your forgetting fingers betray how antsy this particular shred of honesty made you.

"So, Tommy's the only one you'd throw under the bus?"

"Its up to you," you shrugged, "and I'd only steal Tommy's disc and hand them over, I wouldn't hurt him."

"Are you lying?"

"I don't lie;" your tone was harsh, looking to him with a fire in your eyes, "I will not betray them, or Tommy in any other way, so long as they are all... aligning... with... you." There's no pretty way to twist your words around it, and you can't help your faint, flustered embarrasent, "my word is my bond." Then, softer, heart in your throat, "stop looking at me, Wilbur."

"That's a lot of power you've given me there," he said with a faint laugh, "so if it's no longer in my best interest to align with them-"

"It depends on if you mean that they're no longer allies, or if they're actively hostile," you point out, "because the ways in which I would betray them if they are not my allies are... varied. If they're my active enemy, then that's more of a straightforward fight, you know?"

"And if I decided it's no longer beneficial to be allies with you?"

"You'd be smart," you tell him, knee-jerk reaction, which startles a laugh from him; you give a faint, self-conscious apology, "honestly I'd respect it, it'd be an incredibly funny move after the things I've said, you know?"

"But, no, if I betrayed you, what would you do?"

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

"Not currently," he shrugged easily, and you blinked slowly at him.

"I don't know what I'd do, not yet, but I can get planning," you said with an almost teasing air, while he splutters in protest, "yeah I know you just said you weren't planning on it, but I'm pretty sure you've lied to every single question I've asked since getting here," you paused, smile growing wider, and strangely fond, "actually I think you've lied more than you've told the truth in general since you arrived."

A second passes, then another, then finally he breaks out into laughter.

"And you accuse me of listening too much!" His expression was frankly delighted.

----

You follow them into the dark, down the stairs, listening to the way they were joking about Eret managing to come up with a nuke. The night is unassuming. Spirits are high. 

But they bring you all to a small room full of  chests. Something is wrong. You stay with Eret by the door, and he's got a hand on your shoulder - you can't run. 

"The chests are empty-" you hear Wilbur's confusion, right before Tommy asks what the button in the middle of the room does, and before he can even press it, his fingertips barely contacting the wood, you step forward -

"Easy now," Eret's voice is a gentle murmur, only for you, grip tight on your pauldron. When you look at her, a moment of silence amongst the others' confusion, his expression is… unreadable. Ice cold now, there's a sword through your chest, you can feel it where you shouldn't, followed by the searing heat of blood filling your lungs and windpipe -

"Y/N?!" Wilbur's eyes land on you as Tommy presses the button, you fall to your knees, choking on a mouthful of blood, and when your gaze locks with his, the reality of the betrayal sets in. There's horror in his eyes, and you see Tommy and Tubbo turning before you're suddenly gasping awake in your bed in L'manburg, shaking, eyes wide and goosebumps rising along your skin as you hear your comrades screaming and shouting for help, horrified at Eret's betrayal, all coming in tinny through the communicator still on your hip. You don't properly know what happened after the button was pushed, and you think that was a conscious decision.

Your first life is taken quietly, not with a bang but with a whimper.

There's something inevitable about it for you, at least in your mind, but the others didn't deserve this, didn't deserve that betrayal. You can still feel the sticky heat of the blood in your lungs, your throat, ice cold sword where it had pierced through your back, slipped between your ribs, and come out the other side. 

"It was never meant to be," Eret sounds like they’re smiling as they say it, as the others are yelling, and you realise that they're probably reviving in their own homes. You want to ask, want to demand answers, but your hands shake, and when you find your voice, all that comes out is a furious growl, low and full of venomous malice the likes of which the others had never heard from you, judging by how your voice cut through the chaotic mess of shouting.

"What the fuck did you do?" 

Eret leaves the communication channel. The silence rings in your ears.

"He betrayed us," Wilbur said, tone flat, thinly veiling his own fury at the situation, "she had us killed by Dream and his men," and then, "he killed you." Like it means something, like he's worried your apathy, or even your connection to Dream, could sway you from your anger. Like he knows betrayal of your nation means little; like he knows you well. Something about this catches in your mind; you knew it was only a matter of time before you were betrayed, but the rest of them cared - Wilbur cared enough about you to know you, and Eret had him killed too. 

Your communicator vibrates for a moment, and you look down to see a message from Wilbur himself; Where are you?

Your life was of little consequence, the same could not be said for your comrades.

"They killed me," you said softly, before you swallowed hard; home. Dig the ground by the corner of the walls near the river, you send back. "You died too; you all died. Who was there?"

"Who do you think?" Tommy cut in, loud and brimming with rage.

"It was all so fast, but I saw George, and Sap, and Dream," Tubbo cut in, voice a little shaky, bring Tommy's fury down somewhat.

"Punz was there too," Wilbur said carefully, "they have our things." And you stay quiet as they rage, as you sit in your bed, unable to get up, mind moving a thousand miles a minute as you try and figure out how to process all of this, what it all means. It doesn't take too long before there's sunlight streaming into your little, cosy hovel, followed by Wilbur climbing down the ladder provided, packing dirt into the hole he'd made to keep your location secret. 

When he gets to the bottom of the ladder, he takes a deep breath - Tommy and Tubbo are chattering away, audible over both your communicators. Making eye contact, finally, he doesn't quiet seem to know what to do, or where to go. You turn off your communicator. Everything tastes like iron. You don't move. He leans against the wall by the ladder, closing his eyes tightly for few moments, and slowly sliding down, sinking to the ground. 

"Wilb- mate are you alright? Where are you?" Tommy's voice rings out from the communicator still on Wilbur's hip, and he sighs deeply.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just need a few moments, I'll be with you soon," and he turns off the communicator before getting a response. 

Silence. Deafening silence.

"I'm sorry," your voice is a whisper, but it's clearly audible in this little room. 

"What?" Tone immediately defensive and sharp, Wilbur's eyes snap open and he looks to you with a glare.

"No, I- I've had betrayal coming for a long time, but you- you all didn't deserve that," you clarified, hand on your chest, feeling the raised, tender scar tissue where the sword had come out - it had slid through your sternum like fucking butter, it had been so cold, even as the points where it had touched your clothes caught fire, even as it melted through the metal of your armour - your hand starts to shake. Everything tastes like iron. 

"What happened?"

"What did Eret say to you?" His question surprised you, and when you look to him, his gaze is hard and cold.

"Easy now," you remember, "held me back when I went to step forwards, and ran their sword through me before the button had even properly been pressed -"

"I saw," Wilbur's voice was softer.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you -" your lip was trembling, shake in your words as you drew your knees up to your chest. 

"You didn't know, you couldn't have-"

"I could have done more, I could have done something -" the tears start to fall.

"Dream's guard were laying in wait, and the button was their cue to ambush us," Wilbur explained carefully, "but you…" he swallowed hard, "I watched you die." He sounded furious and disgusted, looking at his own hands, twisted into claw-like shapes, ruminating on his own helplessness at the situation.

"You're the only one who noticed," you said, barely audible, "I don't think you were meant to notice."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I wasn't meant to see what happened, and it was meant to be assumed that I died in the skirmish," you said, tone flat and bitter, before your tone grows malicious, "because Dream is a coward."

"I wasn't meant to notice?" He asks, voice weak.

"No-one was; dying in the skirmish is less targeted, but if I had glimpsed any of their team killing -" You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze, "any," you push the word to hide that it's not exactly the truth, "of you… Dream knows I am more than capable of exacting revenge." There was a dark truth to your words that Wilbur couldn’t even begin to fathom, a history he was unaware of.

"I do notice you," Wilbur says, and you're brought from your bitterness momentarily, surprised by the earnestness of his words. He stands, "and I've never heard you speak like this before." 

"There are rules," you tell him, watching him cross the room to your bed, to sit by your side, "and I don't expect the same level of honesty that I give, but I expect- I expect- I-" but you can't find the words for what you're trying to say, sitting forward scowling at your hands.

"You would have let him betray us all still if you'd know, wouldn't you? You would have even let her kill you," Wilbur's tone is alight with realisation, and your mouth drops open with surprise; yes, yes of course you would, how did he put it into words like that? He doesn't even sound particularly hurt by that realisation, more fascinated.

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

"But you had no idea," its not accusatory in the slightest, his tone matching yours, alright with bright interest, "which is why- why- why you're so- why you're reacting like this," its like he's trying to piece together how he sees you out loud, "you need to know where all the chess pieces are, what moves are being made, you're not playing as much as you are a spectator delighting in the chaos of it all, with a front row seat." But he's grinning from ear to ear. Your whole body is alight with the instinct to reach out and touch him, to prove he's real and not something you're imagining, because no one else has even cared to figure you out like this, and no one would even come close to reacting so brightly about it. 

"I'm sorry I'm like this," you say with a momentary huff of disbelieving laughter, but he reaches out and puts a hand on your knee. The contact burns. You look down at his hand like you can't quite believe it, head swimming, trying to process this all. 

"Don't be; knowledge is power and you never lie," he pointed out, "you're a good ally to have." Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wilbur Soot I'd die for you; the words press against your teeth until it's almost painful, and his hand is still on your knee. You grab it - he's real, he's here, the things he's said are real too!

"I won't betray you," is what you say instead, and Wilbur's expression turns to surprise in the face of your earnestness, your seriousness. You never lie; the thing he's said is playing on both of your minds at this moment, of this you're sure.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he says very carefully.

"Then you understand the full extent of what I'm saying, don't you?" You take his hand now in a handshake, palm to palm, "Wilbur Soot, I will never betray you."

"You have never lied to me," he said, voice low and serious, demanding an answer. You meet his gaze.

"I have never lied to you," you affirm, before adding, "you know me." And you're fairly certain he doesn't quite understand the importance of that, that his understanding of you is the reason for your loyalty. "You don't have to extend the same sentiment, don't worry, like I said I don't expect the same lev of honesty -"

"I will not willingly betray you, Y/N," Wilbur says, matching your earnest seriousness, "and I will attempt to only be honest with you." 

----

“What is it about you?” There was a strange quality to Dream’s voice as he voices a question that had seemingly been weighing on him for a long while. Wilbur, where he was trying to fit all of his friends’ equipment on his person to carry back to them, snaps his attention to Dream, brow furrowed. 

"What?" 

"Loyalty is the one thing Y/N covets above all else, and yet for some reason they’ve given it freely to you -” Dream’s voice was smooth and thoughtful, like he’s not quite aware he’s speaking out loud. 

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

“I respected them, but still...” he trailed off; again the idea of a darker shared history between you and Dream makes itself known. Wilbur's scowl deepened, "I don’t think they genuinely respected me... or anyone, before you. They get possessive, like dangerously possessive, but you’re different." 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know the thing they do, the way they can talk around people and topics without even lying, and make it look, you know, like it’s easy?” And the minute the words leave Dream's mouth, Wilbur's gaze drops; of course he'd noticed.

"They’ve got a way with words," Wilbur's agrees, slowly, eyes narrowed. At the defensive notes in Wilbur’s voice, the smile dropped from Dream’s face. He’s seen this loyalty before, but never before in someone you yourself were loyal to in turn. This is uncharted territory. This suddenly feels like a dangerous conversation to be having. 

“Everything they’ve done is to amuse themselves, so you make no sense to me; what about you is so compelling that they find entertainment in playing revolution?”

“Maybe,” Wilbur says, tone light but clearly well thought out, “someone who is used to listening to everyone else finds a certain novel charm in being heard.” His gaze is icy, but he’s not looking at Dream; he’s standing at the end of the room, gaze hard as he looks at the door, as if focusing intently on something in his mind as he spoke; “I think you assume everyone believes in the ideals that their side stands for, and I also think,” he narrows his eyes, still staring into space. Despite not being the target of his glare, Dream, for the first time in the conversation, feels a strangely familiar powerlessness, “that you underestimate an individual’s loyalty to another individual, rather than to a cause,” he paused, “or a nation.” 

“I’ll fight for you, of course, but I can’t kill any of those kids -” in Dream’s mind, he’s taken back to the moment he’d recruited you to his side after he’d stolen Tommy’s discs. You’re looking up at him from where you’re leaning over a grindstone, sharpening your axe. When he’d asked why, you blinked slowly at him, “I’ve barely spoken to them; I can’t discern if they deserve it.” There’s something cold in your eyes as you look at him, and he hears it clear as day without you needing to say it out loud; I don’t kill people I don’t know.

Something about Wilbur in this moment reminds Dream of you. He feels the faded scar on his collar bone ache faintly; the part of him that had wanted to somehow warn Wilbur of your true nature was quickly growing quiet in the back of his mind.

Then, Wilbur looks at his own hands for a moment, before digging through his bag, through the various belongings he was now carrying. He pulls out your axe, and looks back up at the space by the door. Then, to the button, before finally looking at Dream, your axe still in hand, but it rested by his side, nonthreatening. Dream can’t look away from the weapon.

“You were laying in wait for us in the name of your nation,” Wilbur says, tone strangely neutral; he looks back at the door; “you complain about a lack of respect but won’t warn them when they’re about to die.” This is where he’d watched you die; that, atop the various other insights Wilbur has shared here have Dream’s blood running cold. Dream wants to argue that you would have tipped them off, but his words die on his tongue; he at least knew you better than to interfere in a good plan, an entertaining plan, where you would be able to watch the effects of a major plot twist play out in real time, even if it meant you too had to be sacrified... And Wilbur knew this about you too.

“I see,” Dream muses, trying to hide how shaken he was by the moment that had just passed, “you’re starting to make more sense now.”

“And you know what,” Wilbur said, unsettling tension breaking as he grinned, “I think you’re making more sense too; Y/N’s willingness to still bring up their loyalty to you does at least.”

“Their loyalty to me?”

“They still look out for Tommy’s discs on your behalf,” he said candidly, “we all know, but they’re yet to find them so Tommy’s yet to have a proper go at them.”

“It’s always sunny in L’Manberg then,” Dream says, dryly. 

“It’s... amusing, to try and see the world the way you see it,” Wilbur’s chipper, but there’s something almost malicious in his bright tone, and Dream’s hair stands on end. His own words haunt him, your loyalty called into question; did you simply help him because you found him trivial and amusing? While it doesn’t exactly surprise him, it stings in a way he didn’t expect. Looking back at Wilbur, it’s clear that at least some of Dream’s feelings about this particular revelation showed on his face, despite his best efforts. Wilbur’s grin was cheshire-esque. Even his smugness somehow had an echo of yours. 

He leaves. Dream feels sick, alone in the final control room.

----

"Can I ask you something?" Wilbur asks tentatively, and you look away from the furnace you'd patiently been waiting to smelt your iron ore.

"Of course."

Another long pause; you approached him where he was sitting at the table, watching you with reservation. 

"What happened between you and Dream?"

Surprisingly, your expression dropped to something blank in an instant, gaze going glassy. 

“He’s my friend,” you say flatly, turning back to the furnace, but not before Wilbur caught a glimpse of your grimace.

“I think he was trying to warn me against you,” Wilbur huffs a faint laugh, but it’s more to test your reaction; when you turn back, your expression is wide and innocent, almost pleading.

“What did he say?”

“That I’m the first person you’ve shown actual respect to,” Wilbur says, tone light but words blunt; it surprises you, which he can read on your face, and you hesitate for a moment, not wanting to confirm or deny as much. His smile grows wider, grows endeared, “and he did say you tend to get possessive.” Your gentle, flustered nature turns into something colder at that, and you look to your hands.

“He says a lot of things,” you mutter, with an air of bitterness. It’s interesting interacting with you; half the time you still seem to try and put on an act around him, though the other half you seem to let yourself be as honest as you’re able, “he says a lot of things to the people I like, then they like me less.” Then, suddenly, you look to him, defiance in your eyes, “I don’t care what he said, I’m not using you, Wilb-”

“Hold on, he never said anything like that,” he holds up his hands, defensive, placating. Your eyes go wide and your mouth snaps shut; you can’t look at him, sitting down, hunching in on yourself. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, sighing deeply enough that your shoulders sag, “Dream is my friend, I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I thought... he’s taken things from me like this before, things I, well...” you can’t quite put it into words, but Wilbur sits back, watching you, when something in his mind clicks.

“Covet.” His voice was soft with understanding, gentle as he asks “who was it?”

You blink slowly; there was something visceral and feral burning through your veins. You’d spent so long intricately designing the way the world would see you, this single moment feels like you’re on the knife’s edge trying to figure out if having him understanding you is endearing and heartwarming, or cloying and dangerous. He promised he wouldn’t betray you, but he’s not as honest as you’ve trained yourself to be. 

But you promised not to betray him, and you’ve become someone defined by your word. All you can do is leave, if that’s what you want. You can’t lash out, you must let him live with the way he knows you, with no promise to keep it to himself. Self preservation is the way your fingers flex, aching for your axe.

“I’ve given you too much power over me,” you swallow hard, hands in fists. 

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

“We both know I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“And you do want to,” he says it like it’s a fact, all light and neutral. You keep your mouth shut; you can’t lie if you don’t speak, no matter how sweet you know it would taste to lie. “I have never felt fear or anger like I felt when I watched you die,” he breaks the silence. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter through clenched teeth, staring intently at the floor.

“You’re not to blame,” he says easily, “none of us deserved that; you didn’t deserve that.” 

“You didn’t deserve to see that,” you corrected automatically. 

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he says, tone still light. You glance a look at him, only to see him resting his chin in his hand, regarding you with a gentle smile. The distinction stings in your mind, the way he clearly understands your internal conflict, it sets your teeth on edge, “you knew what you were getting into when you offered your loyalty; Dream was confused, you know, about why you’d given it so freely when you covet it -” that word again, your expression twists into something frustrated as you drop your gaze back to your hands, “- but he doesn’t really get you, does he?”

“He likes to think he’s like me,” you mutter, “but then he acts like he’s better, like he’s building a family from this war, but he’s going to be left with people filled with resentments. I was aquiring resources, but he didn’t like my methods...”

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

After a very, very long time, you look to him, gaze shallow.

“I thought Quackity was like you, I thought he’d understand.”

“Understand you?”

“Understand the world, the truth,” you wet your lips for a moment, “but he clung to pretty words without question; I could see he had potential, so I kept him around, and it was easy - it was so fuckin’ easy -” You recount how you’d set your sights on loud-mouthed, brash, desperate for recognition Quackity, and how you’d made him your whole world, bombing him with affection and attention, making him feel understood, like the place he belonged was by your side. Quackity had always looked for somewhere to belong, that hadn’t changed, though you muse that you may have made it harder for him to trust it when he finally found a place where he felt like he belonged. 

“Everything I fed him was a lie I’d laced with something that sounded close enough to love and sincerity that he’d believed it,” you looked down at where you were tracing shapes on the back of Wilbur’s hand as he listened intently, “I gave him nothing, but made him believe he had everything, until... until I wanted to see how far I could go. I wanted to see if he’d die for me... and he would have, until Dream decided to grow some morals.” You stood, sudden fury burning through your veins at the memory, “he had to sew the fuckin’ seeds of doubt in Q’s mind, had to pick holes in my lies -”

“You lied that much?” This seemed to genuinely shock Wilbur, and you stopped your pacing to look to him.

“It’s why I don’t lie; it’s harder to pick holes in the truth, harder to undermine me,” your lip curled, “Q lost faith in me, stopped trusting me, and there was fucking nothing I could do about it; it was my fault, honestly, so I don’t lie anymore. I’m upfront about who I am. I only keep people around if they’re useful, or they’re entertaining, because that’s the other fucking thing I learned; nothing fucking matters more than keeping me happy, because everyone gets too serious for their own good in the end. Dream was fun before he- he- he-”

“So am I useful or entertaining?” Wilbur asks, and you freeze. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath.

“It was novel to feel understood.”

“And now it’s bloody terrifying you,” he says gently, “because as much as you want to, you can’t trust anyone as much as you trust yourself.”

“I understand people, Wilbur, and no-one I’ve ever met has understood the inherent benefit to honesty the way I have.”

“But you still promised me your loyalty.” He says. You swallowed hard, nodding once. You meet his gaze, refusing to break it, refusing to back down, waiting for him to elaborate. “And I promised you mine, as best I could,” he pauses gives you an evaluative look over, “I can’t trust people, obviously, but I know I can trust you.”

“People don’t like me when they realise I can pick them apart, that I can rewire and reprogram them like I’m an engineer,” and Wilbur regards you curiously as you say this, like he’s going to try and counter it, but you square your shoulders, “even you, Wilbur; do you think, when we met, you’d still trust me if I was upfront about this?” And he closes his mouth, thoughtful, “I wanted so desperately to keep around the first person to halfway understand me, you’re impressed rather than fucking terrified like you should be. Because you know it’s true.”

“Are you trying to push me away?”

“We both know you won’t go,” you say with the faintest, self-deprecating smile, “a stalemate of respect, of our own design.” Then, your expression turned serious, “I have never felt fear or anger like I did when I realised you watched me die.”

Then, very slowly, his gaze meets yours, hard-edged and dark.

“Do you trust me as much as I trust you?” It’s a loaded question; he’s never been given any reason to doubt you, mostly thanks to your honesty and loyalty, but you’d never been afforded that same assurance. But in this instance, it didn’t matter, you knew your answer without a shred of doubt.

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

Its said a shark can smell blood in the water from a mile away, and you, you know there's a traitor living a peaceful life up in the castle. It irritates you, sets your teeth on edge; it's not that they killed you that bothers you, it's that they were careless about it, they let the one person you never wanted to hurt watch you die. The event had shaken Wilbur; the taking of your life was not the matter you cared about. 

"You okay?" Others had noticed how distracted you were; in your mind, all you could see was the shocked horror in Wilbur's eyes, and the feeling of the blade in your back. Blinking quickly, back to the present, you smiled brightly at Tubbo, or as brightly as you could manage.

"Of course." 

You watch the others sparring and training together and your hands ball into fists, as if aching for a fight. But you've got an image to keep up; you're not the brawn here, you're a jester, you're meant to keep those who you care about smiling. 

"You ever wanna hold a sword to my neck like that..." you tone is suggestive as you trail off, grinning at Wilbur, who's got his sword poised beneath a training dummy's chin, glaring at it with ferocity. The moment you call out, however, his focus break, and you see him fighting back a smile as a flush works its way up his cheeks.

"Come test your luck then," he calls back, and you blinked quickly.

"I don't want to fight you, Wilbur," you tell him, quieter, hoping it comes off as soft, as something endeared.

"You should know how to fight," he points out, lowering his sword, digging the tip into the dirt as he leans on the pommel a little.

"I know how to fight," you counter, and a long moment of silence follows as he considers that.

"How have I never seen you with a weapon then?"

"You have, you just haven’t seen me use it as a weapon." You tell him rather pointedly, voice low, and though you’re still smiling, there’s something sharp at the edge of your voice that’s unfamiliar to him. It takes him aback, and for a long moment he’s silent as he regards you with a newfound seriousness, “I’m just a jester; what’s a jester want with a sword anyways?” You half laugh, a little louder now, gaze flicking to the others milling around nearby. Nobody outwardly acknowledges you, nobody apart from Wilbur, who just frowns. His gaze is trained on a spot just past your head, where you know the hilt of your axe sits. 

You know you need to act soon, the idea of Eret living in the lap of luxury after everything that happened has your blood boiling. It's getting out of hand. It's getting distracting. 

"You're very observant," you note, tone fond as you come back to the moment. Wilbur surfaces from his memories too, his own smile turning all kinds of fond.

"Out of necessity," he points out, making his way over to you. There's something about his tone that is fond, is knowing, and it melts your heart a little, those hints of understanding that no-one else had bothered to afford you. The person who'd betrayed the only person to understand you had been crowned king; soon, your retribution would come soon. 

"What's bothering you?" Quiet enough that no-one else could hear, Wilbur reaches out, fingertips gentle on your cheek as he tips your face, has you look him in the eyes. You wonder what he sees when he looks in them, because for a brief second, for a flash, again you see the memory of silent horror as he'd watched you lose your first life. You swallow hard, and close your eyes, leaning into his touch for the briefest moment. 

"I keep thinking about what Eret did," your voice is barely more than a whisper, giving only the truth, no attempt made to obfuscate it, like you usually would. Wilbur was quiet. You didn't want to open your eyes, didn't want to witness his reaction, but he's quiet. 

You don’t tell him what you’re going to do, what you’re planning; there’s no need for him to worry unnecessarily. If you survive, you survive, and if you don’t, well you have another life to fall back on. If you wake up in bed with a new scar and one less life, that was your decision to make. No-one should worry on your behalf, but Eret needed to know that their actions would have consequences. 

So you choose a night where the moon is overshadowed by clouds, and take your axe with you. 

You’ve always been one to make an entrance, and even now you don’t disappoint, laying in wait for as long as it takes, hours spent dead silent and idle, simply waiting.

"You should be very careful if things don't go exactly to plan," finally your voice rings out through the throne room, and Eret, all dark hair and pale eyes, stops dead where they'd been passing through. Slowly, so slow its almost painful, they turn to look at you. You, draped in the throne like you own the place, axe leaning carefully against the arm of the seat. Your name escapes her mouth like a curse.

"It did go to plan," she hisses, tone guarded. 

"If it had gone to plan, I wouldn't be here," you say, shifting a little, sitting a little lower, "if your timing had been better," you paused with a shark-like smile, "I may have been the only person in L'manburg to have no issue with your betrayal," and finally you look at him, watching his face as he tries to piece together what you mean, why you're here, "on paper I admire you." You tell them callously. Their lip curls in derision.

"Dream said you'd see my side," they say carefully.

"Dream says a lot of things to a lot of people," for a moment, your expression darkens, "I'm sure he told you to kill me first."

"To avoid…" she trails off, frown deepening. Your smile returns, wide and dangerous.

"You broke something of mine, Eret," you tell him seriously, a mad glint in your eyes, "and part of your plan worked like a charm; I won't go after anyone else because I've got plausible deniability, I didn't see who killed who in that skirmish." 

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

"Because you killed me, and Wilbur watched; it's all he could do. It was a cruel thing that you did, making someone feel helpless like that."

"You're not here because I killed you?"

"Why would I be? I'm a court jester," you huffed a little laugh, smile turning cruel, "but you used me to make Wilbur sad, and someone's got to take the blame for upsetting the thing I like."

"If that's true, why spend all this time talking? Why not just kill me?"

"Because I like to make sure you get my message; Dream's heard my message, he tried to tell you," this is where you stand, finally, rising, gaze shallow, picking up your axe as you go. Slowly, you descend the steps of the throne, and Eret draws his sword. There's uncertainty in his eyes; he's close to where you want him.

"You're stalling."

"The more I talk, the more you try and remember what people have said about me, don't you? But they don't talk about how I fight, it's never been the most impressive thing about me," you give a low, guttural laugh, axe low in your tight grip, "I'm most dangerous when I'm unarmed and unarmoured, right? That's what they say, right? What do you think that means, really think about it?" 

Eret swallows hard.

"It means that you're all talk," he's trying to put up a confident front, but you watch him tighten his grip on his sword. You raise your axe.

"Not quite." 

There's nothing elegant about the way you attack, movement uncharacteristically blunt with speed that surprised the King before you. Teeth bared, you slash and duck and weave, playing dirty, tripping them up. You take hits and lash out, snarling and spitting with anger until there's no mirth, only malice, and you bring your boot down on their hand, knee pressed to their throat. There's fear behind their glasses. There's a cut above your brow, blood trickling down your face, slashes along your arms, certainly a few on your chest, but Eret's on her back on the cold floor of the throne room.

"You have no fucking idea of what I'm fully capable of," you snarl, leaning in close to their face, applying pressure until they drop their sword, hissing in pain, "this is your only warning; if you hurt- if you fucking touch my things again, I'll make it stick-" and leaning back, you use your axe to separate their head from their shoulders, taking their first life. 

And you're alone, breath coming out shakily, gasping as the adrenaline courses through you. Somewhere in the castle, Eret is waking up with your words echoing in their head. You should leave. Standing slowly, you cast a derisive look to the blood stain on the floor, the only proof of the altercation. Someone else's problem. 

You leave through the front doors, still carrying your bloodstained axe. Really, he should have better security. 

At the doors to the castle, you pause, casting a derisive look over your shoulder; this all could have been avoided. You pull out your communicator, flicking through your contacts.

[keep your things on a shorter leash] you send to Dream. He should have chosen more carefully, or been more insistent. But that was his problem; if he kept up like this, you may have to start questioning your friendship with him. 

But there's something cathartic that comes as the adrenaline is depleting. It's said that revenge doesn't provide the cathartic relief that one hopes for, but you weren't looking for revenge as much as you were looking to send a message. And you're fairly certain that message was thoroughly received. Eret had been afraid, deeply and truly afraid; you'd seen it in her eyes. It made up for the fear you had seen in Wilbur's. 

You breathe a deep sigh, letting your shoulders relax for a moment; you head home.

There's static in your ears as you travel back to L'manburg, and you don't quite register that you're back on your nation's soil until you hear shouts. Tommy, Tubbo; the children, they spot you covered in blood that's both yours and not, and they're full of concern. You smile. The wound on your head starts to ache a little, the adrenaline wearing off fully.

"Don't worry about me -" you try, unable to keep the fondness from your voice.

"Wilbur!" Tommy hollers, because he knows. Everyone knows. You've staked your claim enough that even your allies know where to turn when you're acting out of character. It has you laughing, quietly at first - Dream had tried to warn Eret, how stupid must they be to ignore that, to not follow his instructions to the letter? - but your laughter only gets louder as Tubbo takes off, also calling for Wilbur ad Tommy, genuinely concerned, asks what the fuck happened to you.

"I'm a jester," you laugh, eyes a little wild as you look to the child, "I'm just a fucking jester! A messenger! Can't kill the messenger," there's something wild, something feral about you, covered in blood with a grin that's all teeth, bloody and bruised and covering a bloodstained axe. Tommy takes a step back, wary and quiet. His eyes are wide as he looks to your axe. 

"I thought you used a bow," he says quietly. Your smile grows wider.

"I'm a bad shot with a bow," you tell him seriously. He blinks slowly, processes your words.

"You shot me," there's apprehension in his voice. He's getting it. Perhaps you should take more caution here; you don't want to break the illusion of you he sees.

"I didn't know you then," is what you say, and see the confusion and vague horror as he tries to figure out what you mean by that. But he's interrupted.

"What did you do?" Wilbur doesn't see the humour in your appearance, he seems like he's barely containing rage. When all you do is grin, giving a slight shrug, he turns to Tommy, tells him he'll take care of you, that the boy should join Tubbo. Tommy looks between the two of you; he tells Wilbur to be careful. You laugh again, bright and loud, and Tommy and Wilbur both frown at you, but at least Tommy follows Wilbur's directions.

With the kid gone, Wilbur turns on his heel, making a beeline for where he knows you've hidden your living area, and you follow him without question.

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

"Who did this to you?" Oh. Your heart catches in your throat, and the surprise must read on your face; despite his furious expression he's gentle when he takes hold of your wrist, leading you to your basin.

"You don't need to worry about me," you tell him softly, though you obligingly sit on the edge of the basin. You lean your axe up behind you.

"You're covered in blood," he points out, gaze flicking for a moment to meet yours as the water runs, filling the basin up. 

"Only some of its mine," you try, endeared by the care he was showing, "I just had to deliver a message, that's all."

"You look like you had to go through hell for it," he muses.

"You don't need to worry about me, Wilbur," and you reach out to take his hand where he's dousing a washcloth in the water. He goes still. 

"What message?" He asks, finally conceding, tone finally soft. He flips your hand, carefully wiping the blood from it. 

"People need to be more careful who they use me against," you say idly, and Wilbur is quiet as he works diligently away, cleaning the blood from your hands, from your arms when you offer them. 

"I kept seeing the moment you saw me die," you tell him softly, voice barely more than a whisper as he's rinsing the blood from the cloth. He gives pause; you continue, "I expect betrayal, but I can't imagine how it must feel to have to watch that and be unable to do anything; I suppose that's why Dream told them to kill me first. If their timing wasn't perfect, I'd see one of you slaughtered - I could have seen you slaughtered," you muse, looking down at your hands, at the blood beneath your nails. Carefully, Wilbur finally lifts your chin so he can gently dab at the wound on your forehead, looking as though he was holding back a fond smile. "But I think what happened was worse; I never want to be the source of your unhappiness, on purpose or not," then finally, you look to his eyes, to how he's focusing, and your heart beats hard against your ribs, "I don't want you to worry about me." It's barely more than a whisper, far more honest than the candid way you'd said as much earlier. 

"What did you do?" It's fond now, much lighter than the situation at hand called for, and for a moment he meets your gaze, smiling ever so slightly, your face still in his hands.

His eyes are so dark, you never want him to stop looking at you like this; these feelings are already becoming dangerous, on the verge of swallowing you whole. You need him closer. It had been a blood sacrifice to atone for that look in his eyes.

You will never have the words to tell him all you’re willing to do for him. 

"The king is dead," you tell him, "long live the king." 

----

"Surprised you weren't optioned as their VP," Quackity's smile was all teeth as he slid into the booth, across from you. 

"Surprised you were," you fired back, glad for his company; the two of you don't talk like you once did, but you'd always held a fondness for him.

"POG2020 here to drown their sorrows at losing?" He asked, tone edging on something almost mean, but stopping just short.

"Those of them that can drink," you'd grinned, gaze turning to the bar where Wilbur was glaring into a half drunk pint, "he promised me a drink half an hour ago," but you're tone was fond. Quackity makes a noise of sudden understanding.

"That's why you weren't his VP," he says, sitting a little lower in his seat, expression smug, but eyes alight like a tiger with his interest piqued. You make a noise like you have no idea what he's talking about, "poor form, really, looks bad if he's sleeping with his VP."

"You dirty fuckin pervert," but your grin gets wider as your tone gets flustered, "we're not fucking!"

"But you want to," his grin gets wider, "late nights at the office, just the two of you, all alone, its stressful, it's a tough job you know-" his tone is low, teasing in a way that means you can't meet his eyes, but his tone shifts as he seems to hear what he's saying, "hey do you wanna come work with me?" It's mostly a joke, smile turning to something genuine with the way it crinkles by his eyes, and the tension from mere moments ago disappears, and you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand with a sly smile.

"Depends on the benefits," you match his earlier tone, teasing and low, and he mirrors your positioning, face now close to yours, close to the middle of the table.

"I'm sure I could talk Schlatt into something reasonable for the other benefits," he's still smiling, still mostly joking, as were you, though you couldn't deny the thought of being Quackity's assistant and part of the Jschlatt Administration was deeply amusing given your recent history.

"You really in the market for an assistant?" Your tone was brighter, far less joking, and for an instant, Quackity flushed an amusing shade of pink.

"I could be- this was meant to be a bit-" 

"You here to rub my nose in it, Quackity?" Wilbur's voice, when it joined the pair of you, was accusatory, and though you don't move from your surprisingly intimate moment, Quackity's eyes slide to the side, to watch Wilbur side effortlessly into the seat beside you. 

"Former President Soot," Quackity grinned, but instead of watching Wilbur's reaction, he looked back at you, raising a single, almost challenging eyebrow. Wilbur, at the very least, ignores the comment.

"You conspiring against me?" He asks, mostly directed at you, and while Quackity tries to snort and play it off, you can feel Wilbur's hand slide down the length of your back coming to rest at your hip, arm now around you, and you lean out of your moment with Quackity and into his touch.

Something in Quackity’s gaze turns cold, like he’s awash with memories long past, like he’s quietly mad at himself for losing himself in the moment with you, for forgetting any part of what you’d put him through. 

"Not in a technical sense, but I also hadn't agreed to anything," you tell him, finally looking at him. As you settle into the space beside him, his arm moves to wrap around your shoulders, fingers resting gently on your upper arm; it's a clearly possessive gesture. Something in your heart bursts with warmth.

Looking to him, you see he's looking back at you, expression burning, question in his eyes; was I interrupting? Your grin turns sharper. If he had been interrupting, you're more than capable of telling him to fuck off, but just having him around reminds you that this is better than any alternative. 

"Oh," Quackity's voice was alight with realisation, breaking the moment, and you turn to him as Wilbur leans into you a little more, "you would have made the worst VP," he practically crows, tone more mocking than it was light, "you wouldn't have made it a week."

"Don't be a prick," Wilbur scowled, "if they'd wanted the job they of course would have been more than welcome to it -"

"Good old fashioned nepotism," Quackity, sounding especially smug, did little to brighten Wilbur's mood, who was set to mumble something else snide before Quackity's eyes fixed on you, "wait, you didn't want to be VP? I was actually right, wasn't I? You knew exactly what would happen, yet somehow he doesn't?! Have you even seen yourselves? How does he not - Ow!" You kick him in the shins under the table. Hard. 

"What the fuck are you on about?" Wilbur asks, as Quackity brings his leg up to rub at his sore shin. He's still fucking grinning. Asshole.

"Keep your dirty little mouth closed, Q," you warned. 

"Don't worry, I know its not my dirty little mouth you're interested in- fucking ow, Y/N!"

"Good," Wilbur's voice in your ear is warm and pleased and he's leaning on you now, solid and tipsy with his forehead against the side of your head, "he's being a dick, you have terrible friends you know."

"You'd be the worst," you murmur back, voice syrupy and full of affection as Wilbur actually giggles, not even bothering to try and contradict you. Quackity, across from you and still rubbing his shins, mimes gagging. 

"Go be Vice President, Quackity," Wilbur sneers.

"Don't be a salty bitch, Mister Former President," Quackity's lip curls. 

"Kick him in the shins again, my love," the nickname alone, Wilbur in your ear, it has your heart in a vice-like grip, and Quackity must see it in your eyes how eager you are to follow through because he draws his knees up to his chest with gusto, flipping you both off. You laugh.

"Love you, Q," you tell him with sincerity, out of habit. When he tells you to shut up, there’s nothing joking in his tone in that moment, gaze avoiding yours as he’s shimmying from the booth.

"You're so generous with your words," Wilbur's voice is a gentle sigh, something wanting, something almost forlorn. For a moment your breath catches in your throat, but before you can respond, before you can even think of a response, he's already talking again, "what was he on about anyways? Talking shit about you like he has any right to, you would have made a great VP, I asked, you know I asked -" he sits up, as if worried that you think he thinks less of you, but his arm is still around you.

"Will your the only one who wanted me to be VP," which isn't a lie, but in your trademark fashion, it also wasn't the whole truth. 

"They don't trust you with a nation," he sounded so bitter, and for a moment your heart stutters in your chest. 

"They shouldn't," you tell him softly. 

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

"I think I probably like him more than you like him, yes."

"That wasn't what I was asking and you knew that," then his voice drops, something in his eyes as serious as you've ever seen, "do you like Dream more than me?"

"Wilbur…"

"I know- I know you're close, I know, I just… I need to know, you know?"

"Will…" and as you say his name, voice a hesitant murmur, he cups your face.

"You don't have to- to be worried if you do, I just need to know, for me, it's selfish but I need to know for me; I'd understand, of course of course I'd understand, you two have history-" and his gaze is boring into you, eyes wide and dark and you can't find the words for how much you want him to hold you close, hold you tight and never let go. 

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

"You do," he sounds heartbroken, his grip on you grows slack.

"I have never lied to you, Wilbur," your tone is nervous and hesitant, "but I'm afraid of answering, I'm afraid of what it means."

"You'd… you'd betray me for him?" Drunk and emotional, he sits back, but your hands are shaking. 

"Wilbur, I'm afraid of answering because… you're wrong. It's you. Over Big Q, over Dream, over everyone… Wilbur I-" your voice caught in your throat, words too honest by half, so you swallow them, choose safer ones, "will choose you," you let out a shaky sigh, "you have my loyalty." 

His eyes were wide as saucers, shiny and overwhelmed and emotional and then he's holding you so tight it's like a vice, face pressed into the crook of your neck.

"You've always had my vote," you tell him faintly, and he holds you tighter still. 

"You," he whispers incredulously, not even your name, just, "its you." And your mind hears them said like a mirror, like he himself can't quite believe your honestly. 

----

“They’re exiling you,” you hear Quackity before you see him; they’ve got you locked away, and probably for good reason, but also probably at his insistence.

“It’s better than the death penalty,” you say, huffing a laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” his tone is gentle but reserved, and when you finally look up from your hands, elbows braced on your knees, you see him leaning on the bars of your cage. It’s too dark to read his expression, but you can tell from his voice, “just play nice with Schlatt and you can stay a citizen.”

“Play nice?” You asked with the faintest of smirks, “what does that entail exactly?”

This is where he grows quiet, crouching down and looking at the floor, mouth in a thin line.

“You’re good at playing nice, it shouldn’t be hard,” you can’t mistake the bitterness in his voice, and you give pause, “just say it was an act, your loyalty to that dictator, Wilbur.”

“Lie, so I can swap out one perceived dictator for another?” You asked softly.

“Helping run a campaign for the former president only to admit that you don’t actually give a shit, and stay loyal to the man who won by forming a coalition with the two losing parties, that sounds exactly like something you’d do,” he pointed out, and there’s something in his voice you can’t identify, something akin to faint desperation, though you can’t quite understand why. But still, something catches in your throat. 

“Isn’t it funnier to stay loyal to the former president who lost after the two losing parties formed a secret coalition? To the point of exile?”

“Can’t you just play nice? Can’t you just lie?”

“You wanna keep me around that bad?” You asked, faintly teasing edge to your words, but as soon as he stands, as soon as he speaks, you can hear him growing defensive.

“I’m the Vice President trying to offer an olive branch to a potentially skilled ally,” he sniped, “don’t get it twisted.”

“I’m not going to lie to try and play nice with the dictator who stole the nation from the person I’m loyal to,” you tell him, blunt. Quackity is quiet for a very long moment. 

“Dream ‘ll be heartbroken,” his voice is suddenly strangely rough, “someone’s knocked him out as top fuckin’ dog in your little, black heart -”

“Q,” it’s finally clicked, and you don’t know what else to say. 

----

“I want you to know what I’m capable of,” you say softly, looking up at the stars. Then, slowly, you look at Wilbur, who’s regarding you with interest, “everyone ends up afraid of me,” you tell him, “and it might be self sabotage, but I want you to fear me too. I’m not used to love, I’m not used to understanding.” 

“More honest than usual tonight,” he muses with a gentle smile.

“If I’m not feared I feel like I’m being underestimated.”

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

“I feel violent today,” then, looking up at the stars you take a deep breath, “I love you. I don’t think I’ve said that before; I love you, Wilbur.”

“You love me and you want me to fear you,” he says slowly. His gaze follows the tense set of your shoulders, “not used to loving someone?” You shake your head. 

“I want to cut off your head, just so you know I could,” you tell him, hands behind your back, gaze skyward, “I think I want to fuck you, but I’m not sure, I’m really not used to loving someone, not genuinely. I don’t think I know how to love you in a way that makes sense.” 

Finally, you turn to him, expression neutral, while inside you were alight with nerves. He’s watching you, dark eyes thoughtful. You swallow hard.

“I’m trying to push you away,” you tell him without hesitation, “because I’ve given you too much power over me, and I-” you voice catches, your façade cracking, and finally you drop your gaze, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

Even your honesty was it’s own kind of dishonest mask, and there was nothing more fear inducing than genuinely letting it slip. Your image is a house of cards and you keep handing Wilbur fucking fans. 

“You know at some point I am just going to leave; I don’t want to, but if you keep pushing -” he pauses, as if expecting a rebuttal, but your mouth remains firmly closed, which causes him to frown, “- I’m going to end up leaving. Do you want me to go? I’m just going to ask, because you keep pushing, you keep doing this, I’d rather you were just honest with me.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t want you to stay around me out of some sort of moral obligation,�� you tell him.

“That’s not an answer.” 

“And I can’t answer because you can’t guarantee you won’t end up fucking fearing me like everyone else! I can’t answer because I am not going to be responsible for someone else’s feelings; if you stop caring about me I don’t want you to feel like you should still be around me, and just go on to resent me!”

Squeezing your eyes closed, face scrunched up, you force the words through your lips, “I would give you the fucking world, Wilbur, but I don’t expect- I don’t want to expect anything in return,” your jaw clenches for a moment, but you relax your face, eyes still closed, “obsession,” you sigh gently, “is safer if I am sure it is not reciprocated. Especially obsession like this...”

“Like this?”

“The things I obsess over... they’re just that; things. And I want to keep them safe, but I don’t... I don’t actually love them like I love you,” your lip curls, and you look at the ground, slowly sinking into a squat as you contemplate, “it’s fucking obscene,” you spit, as if disgusted at yourself. “Love makes me feel fucking filthy; it’s always funnier when I’m the object of desire.”

“You’re still trying to push me away!”

“And yet you’re still here, so who’s the real idiot!?” You snapped, lip curled in a sneer as you shot him a venomous look; the shock of it all was plain as day on his face, but you don’t let the faint guilt you feel show on your face as you look at your hands.

“I love you,” he says faintly, still sounding surprised, like he can’t quite realise what he’s saying, “and I’m just tired to trying to fight you on that, I don’t know how to prove that what I say to you is the truth; you don’t have a patent on honesty, and I just don’t know what to do to get you to believe me.” And then, coming back to himself, anger returning, “it’s not filthy to be in love!”

“It is when it’s obsession,” your answer comes out more like a growl.

“Y/N, my drug empire turned into a nation, I think more people should be obsessed with me,” he says with surprising levity. Something protective, something jealous flares up at that suggestion, but you keep your reaction to yourself, looking up at him as something close to hope flares bright in your chest. “You act like you’re the only one here, like you’re the only one allowed to worry about me, like you’re the only one willing to- to die. You killed the King for me, you have Dream’s respect, if I was going to be afraid of you it would have settled in by now,” then, “the only reason I haven’t killed Eret for what he did to you is because you got there first yourself. Do you believe me when I tell you that I love you?”

The question hangs in the air between you both; you think you can almost see it there, catching starlight. You look at your hands instead.

“I believe there’s something wrong with the type of people who fall in love with me,” you admit, barely louder than a whisper, “and part of me believes you’re better than that.” 

“Listen to yourself,” he gives an exasperated chuckle, “there’s something wrong with you.”

“I know that,” you say almost immediately. Silence lapses out between you, and finally Wilbur sighs, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around you.

“I think it might be why I love you.” 

There’s never been a more dangerous feeling in your chest than in this moment, in his arms. You want to tell him you’d kill for him, you’d die for him, but it’s more than that, more than you could explain or do justice with words alone, so you hug him back, and never want this moment to end.

“There’s something wrong with you, too.”

----

He is silent; cold and unmoving and your hands start to shake. 

"You did what you had to," your tone is flat, no distress, nothing, just flat. Phil is quiet. Neither of you move. You can hear your heart beat in your ears. "We should move his body."

"Yeah…" and then, softer, "actually, no, it won't be around for long… but we can set up a gravestone."

"What do you mean?"

"Bodies here don't stay, they move on-" and as Phil speaks, as you step towards the body on the ground, hand outstretched, it begins to fade to ash, to dust. Only his things were left behind. Your fingers curl into a fist and you lower your hand, "are you okay?" His voice has the barest shake, like he still can't believe what just happened.

"It was never meant to be," you tell him instead of answering truthfully, forcing yourself to smile as you finally look up to the father of your best friend, your- "are you okay, Phil? I'm sorry you had to do that, I'm sorry-"

"You're okay." He sounded deeply concerned by what he'd perceived to be your response. Looking out from the room to the crater, you see Withers flying overhead, and hear shouting and confusion.

"I should go," you say softly, "I'm the only one left who could take the fall for that," you muse, jaw tightening for a moment, though noone can see your expression. When you move past Phil, you pause, and tell him quietly, reassuringly, that he did what had to be done, and that you were sorry. 

"Was he just a means to an end for you, just another joke? You'd gotten better, you'd gotten kinder-" his voice finally betrayed his distress; his son was dead by his own hand and you'd just watched, "what happened?"

It takes you a long time to formulate your response, terrified of letting yourself be vulnerable; you'd been the villain too many times to not expect an opportunist to use your vulnerability against you. Phil may not be that opportunist, but you know better than anyone what dangers may lurk behind a kind face and sincere veneer.

"Whatever I may have felt is no longer relevant, to you, me, or anyone; he's gone, as is L'manburg."

"Did you even care about him?" Phil asks gently, "don't talk your way around me, please, Y/N." Your breath catches for a moment; he's giving you an imploring look, holding your wrist carefully; outside, someone, possibly Tommy, is hollering both yours and Wilbur's names with fury. 

"Care is a very weak word for how I may have felt," you tell him softly, holding his gaze. Your tone is flat, but you see it in his eyes when he catches your meaning, how you can't bring yourself to admit out loud that you loved Wilbur, "not that it matters now… not that anyone would believe you if you told them." You said, tone dismissive. Phil lets you go.

----

"Oh hello, Quackity!" You hear Ghostbur cheerfully greeting someone as he peers out the window, leaning far enough out on the sill, pushed up on his toes, that you're half worried he'll fall. You hear violently loud shushing outside your house and your blood runs cold. Why was he trying to sneak up on your house?

You’re intrigued by it all, and don’t try and put up a fight.

"I suppose the kangaroo court is now in session," you mused, peering up at the precarious contraption above you, "can you at least tell me why you're dropping an anvil on my head?"

"Because you're a threat to society," Quackity grumbles, though he can't bring himself to look at you.

"Because you drove my father to madness, helped him blow up half the land, then you killed him once he'd outlived his purpose," Fundy was unflinching as he levelled a glare at you.

“They didn’t kill me,” it’s Ghostbur’s voice that joins the foray, amid the shouting, while you’re hopping from one foot to the other, looking up at the anvil, the gentle reverb that accompanies his soft speech cuts through the din.

And suddenly the madness stops; all eyes on the Ghost.

“Don’t kill her over me, if that’s your reasoning;” he paused, nervous, “or just don’t kill them…” he trailed off.

“Don’t you get that they’ve already made up their mind?” Quackity’s rolling his eyes, standing by the lever that decides your fate, “if they wanted someone to release them, they could have convinced one of us by now-” and he looks to you, eyes dark and cold, and the moment you’d shared back at Wilbur’s grave surfaces in your mind ‘you’re getting better at hearing the truth’.

"Quackity-" you breathed, alight with intrigue at this development, unable to help yourself. There's an old, familiar flicker of misguided desire, for lack of a better word.

"Keep my fucking name out of your mouth," he muttered, only loud enough for you to hear, "and quit it with that tone." He can't look at you; you delicately wrap press your hands to the glass of your cage.

"Q, what tone, I don't-" but even you could hear the giddy notes that bleed through in your words.

"You're about to die; I'm about to kill you, but you're hear acting- talking like you did when you pretended to care about me-"

"I have cared about you from the moment I met you," you fired back defensively, "I have always cared about you, Quackity."

“God I really fuckin’ preferred it when you lied, then I didn’t have to try and figure out what the fuck you mean when you talk like that,” he snapped, before making his way from the podium, “I’m sick of them, someone else pull the lever.” He called out; he’s taking a stand, trying to block you out, keep your words out of his head. This was the Quackity you’d been so captivated by when you’d met him, the man who intrigued you, who you thought could challenge you, whose very nature excited you. Heart beating in your ears, you press your hands to the glass of the cage, looking out past him, to the others.

“I was not responsible for what happened to Wilbur,” you called, looking to Fundy, who you’re pleased to see looked conflicted, “what happened to L’Manberg wasn’t my fault- I fought with you. I fought with you all,” there’s the faintest notes of desperation in your voice. You had already made peace with your fate, now you were simply intrigued as to whose hands your blood would be on.

“Fine, Fundy if you’re conflicted because they didn’t kill your dad, you can stay out of it,” Quackity’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, but you can see the hard, tense line of his shoulders.

“It feels like our actual execution reasons... aren’t there anymore,” Tubbo points out, “and as a leader, I feel bad killing someone for being a nuisance, and not even a nuisance to me or anyone else.”

“This feels kinda personal,” Ranboo adds, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “which is fine, but they don’t seem like a threat to the country.”

“Did you fucking forget she became Wilbur Soot’s right hand?!” Quackity demanded from them, stepping forward again, “ she may not have been responsible for pressing the button, but she had ample opportunity to stop him; hell, she had ample opportunity to not be a dick. How can we even believe what she says?!”

“People do some fucked up things for love,” Ranboo gives a simple shrug.

“And Y/N doesn’t lie,” Tubbo pointed out, looking to you. In this moment, time freezes; his words buzz in the back of your mind as you look to Quackity, trying to decipher how he’s reacting when you can’t see his face. Because he can’t give it away, can’t bring himself to admit the power you once had over him, the sliver of power you still have, can’t make himself look weak, and it’s killing him.

They’ve only known you to be honest, and for that you’re glad... but Quackity knew you before.

Perhaps your begging, your desperation, had worked too well.

----

“You gonna give the people a show?” Your heart is beating in your throat as you find yourself waiting in your cell, hands restrained behind your back as Dream himself paces in irate silence outside your cell.

“I gave you the option to come back, to join me to not go down this road,” he’s seething, hands balling into white-knuckled fists and unballing again and again, “I don’t understand you, I don’t fucking understand you, Y/N,” and he stops, pulls off his mask to run his hand through his hair in irritation. Then he looks to you, and you’re looking back, expression thoughtful, or at least, you hopes it comes across as thoughtful, rather than betraying the way you’re heart is hammering against your ribs.

“It’s not your fault it’s more amusing to be on the side of revolution,” you told him, lips quirking into the faintest smile, “they called it L’manberg,” your smile widens, unable to help your own laugh, and his distress becomes more evident. Then, smile slowly fading, you meet Dream’s gaze, giving a slight frown.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you tell him seriously, “you could have picked anyone else to do this, you didn’t have to volunteer.”

“If I had picked anyone else,” he swallows hard, looking at the ground and taking a deep breath, “you would have talked your way out, and it would have made them look weak, but there would be a target still on your head and you’d be hunted.”

“And you?”

“You’ve never done that thing you do with me, talk circles, trying to get me on your side -”

“You’re already on my side,” you say gently, but his expression turns pained.

“They know - everyone knows I’m the only person on the side of Pogtopia you haven’t attempted to talk your way around, but I’m also the only person who could convince you to go into exile, to not fucking let yourself be killed, and have the others not hunt you furiously when they find out.”

“Dream the Great and Powerful,” you smile, tone fond and frankly adoring, he winces again.

“You’re a pain,” he mutters, mostly to himself, before he lowers himself into a squat, as if to centre himself, gaze lifting to you finally, “you can go; join Tommy in exile, you don’t have to… to… you don’t have to die, dude.”

“If I die, in their eyes I’ve atoned for my crimes,” you try to sit back, settling in a little against the wall, “you and Tommy will never see eye to eye, but like you said, that thing I do, the way I talk my way around people, that has affected more than just you,” you took a deep breath, “the only person I really respected apart from you died, Dream, the only person who truly vouched for me apart from you is dead, Dream.” Your smile grows tight, and suddenly you can’t look him in the eyes; respect, it was so much more than that. Your heart grows warm at his memory, the mere thought of his smile, before growing cold and sad as he demanded that Phil kill him. It must show on your face.

“Wilbur protected you,” Dream said, tone knowing, but you couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that.

“Wilbur was my limiter,” you corrected, and Dream’s eyebrows rose, momentarily broken from his distress, “I respected him, I… anyways, so if he asked me not to fuck with one of our allies, I wouldn’t - except to give you Tommy’s discs,” you clarified, and for the barest moment, Dream’s lips twitched into something almost resembling a smile.

“You’re kind of awful,” he says gently, “you’d fuck with your allies? Just change sides, don’t mess with the people who trust you and expect them to keep trusting you as such.”

“My ally was Wilbur, the rest of them were on his side,” you explained, “I’m on my own side before anyone else's,” you reminded, and he nodded seriously, looking to the floor, bouncing on his toes.

----

"I- I mean I'm not sorry," Quackity muses. You don't look up, but you hear him sit on the other side of Wilbur's Tombstone. 

"I don't know why you would be; you're not responsible for what happened to me."

“Oh,” Quackity frowns, giving pause, “no, I meant about him,” and he slaps the side of the tombstone with one hand.

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

"He did it to himself," which is right, but not in the way Quackity means it. He thinks Wilbur blew up. He doesn't know what was asked of Phil. You're quiet, and finally Quackity speaks; "did you actually love him or was it another one of your stunts?"

"Love is a strong word," you respond, tone devoid of inflection. He can't hear how badly you want to confirm, you want to holler how fucking wide the sky has gotten in Wilbur's absence. 

"Can you just teach me how to not fucking care? Because how is it so easy for you? How do you wake up and decide you're going to ruin lives and stand by while the world goes up in flames?" 

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“It’s just a side effect of who you are as a person,” he says derisively. 

"You find what you love and let it kill you," you tell him, voice quiet. 

"You find who you love and let them kill you," he says, knowingly, "you followed Eret into the control room because of Wilbur," he said knowingly, "and we all saw who gave you that mark on your neck," he laughs humourlessly. "But you can't even entertain the idea that I could hurt you, can you?" He asks.

"Find who you love and let them kill you."

"What then?" 

"Hope your love for them dies too; severing attachments takes great personal sacrifice." 

"You sound like Dream."

"I've known him the longest, you know?"

"He's your best friend, I remember," he tells you derisively, "so did your love die?"

"My attachment to him is situational at best." 

“But does it die?” He asked quietly, “you severed the attachment, but does the love die?” His tone is hollow, and you swallowed hard. 

“You’re getting better at hearing the truth.” You give a humourless laugh, and he responds with a non-committal hum

“I liked you better when you lied," he says quietly.

"I almost got you killed," you tell him flatly, and he huffs a faint laugh.

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

"Intention," you can hear his faint smile, "find what you love and let it kill you, after all." Then, quieter, "you should finish the job."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Give me that kind of power over you," you tell him flatly. 

"You should finish what you started," he scoffs, the mood shifting more and more with each word, "you're the one who wanted me to die for you; if you're learning to be all honourable and noble and shit, you should learn to take accountability -" he huffed in frustration, "can I be perfectly fucking honest with you for a moment?"

"I'd appreciate it," you tell him. There's a few moments of silence that follow, and finally you shift, peering at him over your shoulder to where he's leaning against the headstone, legs kicked out in front of him. He looks at you, eyes dark and tired.

"I'm so tired of giving a shit about you."

You know there's something selfish in how you miss seeing his smile in this moment. But then again, did you miss his smile, or did you miss what it represented; his love and loyalty. 

----

"You're getting rained on," Ghostbur said quietly, looking at you with his wide, cloudy eyes as you held an umbrella open and aloft above him.

"I'll live," you said pointedly, and at Ghostbur's smile became faintly strained, but he accept the umbrella. You, however, didn't move, sitting beside him on the log that you'd found him on.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked, shuffling a little closer, if only to try and shield you too with the little umbrella. Instead of looking to him, you look at the grey, drizzling clouds looming overhead.

"I saw it was clouding over," you told him, "and no-one I spoke to had seen you for a while..." you trailed off, shrugging, as if that was enough.

"You've always been a lovely friend, I remember that, I remember..." but his own voice trails off, dies in his throat; you look at him with interest, and after a beat he looks back at you, "I remember the good times, the happy times, and you, in the beginning you were a wonderful friend, but I don't... they say I blew up a nation, you know, and I don't remember that, but I don't remember a lot leading up to that either. It -" he hesitates before backtracking, choosing his words carefully, "did something bad happen between us?"

Your understanding of the word, of the time you spent with Wilbur, it was all shattering in your mind at once. His eyes were wide and full of concern when you look back at him, and he reaches out gently, wiping away a tear you hadn't realised had fallen; you hear the hiss of the water against his thumb and move out of his touch.

"Sorry," he says softly, genuine apology in his voice, "was it because of what I did to L'Manberg?" He asks gently. Around you, the rain was getting heavier.

"I thought we were happy," it came out barely louder than a whisper, and you quickly wiped your eyes, despite the rain now coming down hard enough to hide your tears, "I should have... I know I should have said something, but I thought we both just knew, you know? I should have..." and you turn, bottom lip trembling, "I'm sorry, Ghostbur, I know you're not him, you keep saying that, but I never got to tell Alive-You that I... you know," you swallowed hard, "that I love him. You? Him? I never actually got to tell him properly, in a way that makes sense. But I did. I do. And I thought... Fuck," the word comes out in a harsh breath, and you find yourself scowling and looking away, "probably for the best that I didn't say anything if he - you, I guess - weren't - wasn't? - happy."

"I know he cared about you, as much as I can remember, he never stopped caring," Ghostbur's voice is quiet, and finally, you look at him. His face is scrunched up with concentration, but there's small trails of steam -

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry," you're genuinely apologetic, and he looks shocked when you look up, as if he hadn't even noticed.

"Just because I don't remember doesn't mean... well a lot of things were not good memories towards the end, but that's because of everything going on up here," he was wiping at his eyes quickly to dispel the tears before he taps his temple with two fingers, "and if what you're saying is true, he wasn't unhappy because of you, he was just unhappy, and it... there are months missing for me, and that's no-one's fault."

Oh... well you supposed you could understand that, still, it was difficult to process this whole conversation and all it's implications.

"How is this the most amusing option, if you don't mind me asking?" He suddenly speaks up, and you look up with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You're upset, I don't think I've ever seen you upset -"

"Well it probably wouldn't be a good memory if you had," you reminded, to which he conceded.

"But I remember clear as day when we met, and you told me and Tommy that you simply did whatever amused you the most, this... this doesn't seem particularly amusing."

"I don't operate like that anymore," you told him frankly, staring at your hands.

"Oh," he muttered softly, before asking, voice tentatively, "why did you think to come find me?"

You take a moment to deliberate, to consider your own reasoning and motivations, still looking at your hands, fingers twisting and curling and locking into inconsistent shapes.

"You used to do this near the end," you said softly, "used to run off and sit near the button and think and think and think but never do anything," you paused, "and I never cared about the land like I cared about you, so I was all for blowing it all up, but it... I could see it was doing something to you. The election, everything that was happening, it did something to you; you were spiralling, and I knew if I didn't know where you were, you were by the button. Awful and fucking beautiful, and dude, I'm- I'm so sorry I didn't tell you but, Christ, I was so in love with you, Wilb-" looking sharply at him, your voice died in your throat, and you corrected yourself, "him. Not... you're different. Right. Ghostbur." He blinked at you, a little taken aback by the sudden passion of your outburst, of your explanation. You cleared your throat. "No-one else had the balls to acknowledge that the land no longer functioned by the ideals it was built for, and I loved your passion; I could listen to you talk down there for hours. Sometimes I did. It was like a prison and a safe space all at once, and I don't know if it made things better or worse, but when he couldn't stand to see what the world had become, we'd sit in that room with the button and talk."

Finally, you looked at him, seeing him and not the man he used to be.

"And today I couldn't find you, and I knew it was going to rain, and... I know rain hurts you. There's no button, but you don't spend time in town anymore, so I looked for Friend." You looked at the little, blue sheep who'd been happily munching on some grass during your conversation. Then a faint, cold pressure in your hands, and you look down to see Ghostbur pressing a vial of a thick, blue liquid into your hands.

"Have some blue," he said softly, "it'll make you feel better." And then, much softer, he thanks you for finding him, he takes your free hand and laces your fingers with his, "thank you for talking to me."

"Thank you for talking to me." You mumble, giving his hand a squeeze, feeling a touch guilty for unloading all of this on him. No-one else would listen, or if they would, they didn't care; people had gone from not trusting you because you refused to be completely loyal to any thing but yourself, now they hated you for staying loyal to what they deemed to be the wrong thing. Allies were few and far between, and Ghostbur may see himself as separate to Wilbur, but you weren't going to stop yourself from caring about him too.

----

"You're in here," Tommy's voice is quiet where he's thumbing through a notebook you half recognise. Making a noise of interest, you look a little closer at the notebook - What I Remember. Ghostbur's notes, you feel yourself growing tongue tied.

"I don't- you shouldn't be reading that."

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

"Shut up," your lip curled, "and I'm not in it."

"Who else would be the Favourite Jester?" He asked, turning the book around, but you covered your eyes. 

"Don't be a sook," he sneered.

"Does Ghostbur know you have it?" You asked, and he grew a little antsy at that, to which you simply growled at him to give it back. But still, you catch a glimpse of it;

“Its you.” - in the notebook, in Ghostbur's neat scrawl - you chose me when no-one else did.

----

"I think Tommy trusts me," you told Dream, frowning at your brewing stand. Dream, for his part, finds the humour in your statement where he's sitting at your table, leaning back, his feet on the table.

"Tommy, I've changed!" Your tone shifts to a mocking imitation of your earlier conversation with the boy, "death has changed me!" And you dropped the act with a snort, "getting a scar doesn't make me a different person," you rolled your eyes. Dream clears his throat.

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

"No hard feelings, dude, obviously," you grinned over your shoulder.

"So you- you're okay with my plan; the two of you fought side by side for your nation -"

"I'll be by your side until -"

"Until something better comes along," Dream nods in resignation.

----

“I’m sorr- Ghostbur I’m so sorry,” you sniffled, angrily rubbing at your eyes, frustrated that he had even seen you get so emotional, “I’m not- you shouldn’t have seen that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, crying’s normal,” he said, voice a gentle echo of the one you loved, “do you want to talk about it?”

“Not with you, Ghostbur,” though you’re shooting for light, it doesn’t land, and instead, he looks to the floor, apologising. You wipe the tears that refuse to stop spilling from your eyes.

“You still miss him so much it moves you to tears?”

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of those,” he says with a faint laugh, and you look at him, see his quietly fond smile, and for a moment you see the memory of Wilbur himself, and your expression crumples. Immediately as you bury your face in your hands, you feel him by your side, apologising, trying to lay a comforting hand on your arm. The touch is cold but familiar, and you reach out instinctively and grab his hand.

“Ghostbur, my life is a fucking joke and I’m not laughing anym-” he kisses you quick when he gets the chance, his mouth on yours so close to being familiar, but not quite. It knocks the wind from you, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, grabbing his sweater and pulling him closer. 

“Does that help?” He asks a little breathless when you part, and you can’t look him in the eyes, only at your shaking hands balled up in his perfect, yellow sweater. 

“You’re not him,” your voice is a shaky whisper.

“I...” his words get caught in his throat, “I think right now I’m close enough. Does this,” and he holds your face with one hand like it’s porcelain, like he’s afraid you’re about to shatter, “does this help?”

“Why?” You can feel how weak you are in this moment, unable to let him go, knowing the truth of the whole situation. 

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“It’s not your job to make me happy, give me time and I’ll be alright,” but you don’t let him go, then, “tell me you don’t love me, please.”

“It seems dangerous to even entertain the idea; I’m not Wilbur,” he says gently, and finally you look at him, meeting his gaze, leaning into his touch. 

“Do you even want any of this?” Your voice is barely a whisper, “me, or anything like this moment?” Ghostbur visibly hesitated.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” he said with a surprising firmness, “I want to do whatever makes you happy,” then, his voice goes quiet, “even now, I forget sad things, people tell me sad things and the conversation ends, and I just... lose whatever they said,” he gives a faint smile, “but even in time that aren’t... aren’t the happiest, I haven’t forgotten you; something about being around you makes me happy, happy enough to remember you. All I want is for you to be happy too.”

“Did you lie to me?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, and you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch his lips twist into something thin and unhappy, before stumbling over his words, trying to deny, “did you lie about not remembering me? About not remembering... not remembering how close we were?”

“I thought...” his expression reads apology, his hands coming to cover yours where you can’t bring yourself to let him go, still holding him close by his sweater, “it would be easier for you to let go, to move on, if you didn’t know.” 

“But you don’t care about me like he did.”

“I care about you,” his eyes go wide and concerned, “but I’m not him. You understood him better than anyone and- and- and- he needed you- uh, your company,” he correct, faint blush rising on his cheeks at his own implicit wording, “more than anything else. You’re the one who stayed.” 

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

“This feels...” you look to your hands still holding him close, then to his mouth, then his eyes, taking a shakey breath, “self destructive, for us both,” and his expression reads shock, reads apology, but in that instance you cave to your need for contact, leaning into him, to find what comfort you could in him. A shiver runs down your spine as you make a snap decision, “I know you’re not him, but I still love you,” you lie; he’s not the one you promised to always be honest with, but for now he’s as close as you’ve got, and you can’t let him go, “please don’t go.” 

----

It’s been a long time, relatively since you’d seen Q when you run into him. You’re not looking for him, you’re merely roaming on an overcast day, but he looks like he’s on a mission. He seems surprised to see you, right before his expression turns dark.

“Figures I’d run into you out here sooner or later,” his words genuinely confuse you, which he seems to pick up on, because at least for a moment, he seems confused himself, before clarifying, “Dream’s in prison.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me.” His audible irritation makes your own smile grow just a touch wider, “you know you should be there too.”

“Cruel, Q, they’ve already killed me for my crimes once,” you practically sing, amused smile stretched from ear to ear, “haven’t I suffered enough?” His smile was thin and mean.

“Not even close.”

“You make me miss being a bad person,” you say with a hint of self deprecation.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Quackity snorted, “you’re still terrible.”

“I like you standing up for yourself; self confidence is a good look on you.”

“You like anyone who actually challenges you,” he rolled his eyes, “which makes me feel fucking stupid for ever caring about you like I did. You don’t give a shit about simps, I get it now.”

“You’re better than that,” you tell him, which is a metaphorical slippery-slope, a half truth, since you only half-believe it, but your tone is low, is sincere, and he blinks quickly, surprised. 

“I- yeah, I know,” he scowls, but turns away. 

“Good, it’s good you know your worth,” you tell him seriously, “you have...” and you huff a faint laugh, tone awed and gentle, “so much potential, Q.” And for the barest moment, his expression softens. Carefully, he steps up to you.

“This is how it started last time,” his tone is low as you feel the feather-light way his fingertips ghost up your arm. He’s in your space, gaze locked with yours, searching for something in you that you can’t begin to guess at, right before he grabs your chin hard enough that it hurts, “you try and  build me up so you can tear me down - I’m not doing this again.” 

God damn it, you can feel your heart beat against your ribs at the sight of the fury in his eyes. 

“Q-” you try, soft and a little helpless. For a moment, both his grip and his gaze softens, and you know that look, that faint gentleness, from a time long passed, “I never spoke poorly of you, you just lost faith in me.” 

The look in his eyes before he storms off gives him away; he hates that in a twisted way, it’s still the truth.

----

“I’ve always appreciated your honesty,” Ghostbur muses; night is falling over the snowy biome you’d decided to call home, the house Dream had built for himself that sat abandoned since he was taken prisoner. Ghostbur is sitting on a bench, looking around, ankles crossed wearing a sunny smile.

“It’s the only thing I’m consistent about,” gave a wry smile, not looking up from where you were crouched in front of you brewing stand; everything started because of these brewing stands, just look how far you’ve come. You try not to dwell on that.

“Consistently inconsistent,” his tone was bright and fond, but then he hums, “you’re consistent in a lot of ways; you’re loyal -” he points out, but you’re so quick to respond it doesn’t even register at first. 

“Only because I love you,” then, silence, and you scrunch up your whole face with regret, “him, Wilbur,” you sigh deeply, “don’t get me wrong, Ghostbur, I care about you, probably too much by my standards, but...” and you trail off, a touch apologetic.

“Everyone keeps telling me that I did, or well, he did, all these terrible things; I just... I just want to know why.”

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

“Why you still loved him when he did all those things,” Ghostbur clarified. You freeze.

“You want me to be honest?” Your voice is soft, and when you look over, you see he’s drawn his legs up to sit cross-legged on the counter, tearing apart a loaf of bread for something to do with his hands. 

“You’re always honest,” his tone is earnest, but he can’t look at you, before you can speak, however, he goes on, tone softer, “I remember bits and pieces, more and more as time goes on. More of you is always coming back; more of us, and I thought not remembering would be the most painful part about being around you, making you sad because I can’t remember what happened to make you feel so close to me before... before I died, but I think remembering’s worse,” he looked up, “because I’m not him. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s memories even though they’re mine, because I don’t think like he did; I don’t think I understood you the way he does. I don’t...”

“Everyone’s so quick to tell me what terrible things I’ve done - my son, Fundy, I spoke to him, he’s- he’s- he’s not happy with me, you know? Nor is Tommy, I mean most people just need me to know how awful I was, but you... you speak his name with love and honey on your lips and I don’t know how or why, you make all the terrible things sound like miracles and I don’t know why.” 

Slowly, you get to your feet, stretching a little, as your words begin to fall from you and you make your way over to Ghostbur, his pale form golden in the candlelight.

“I don’t know how to put it, but I don’t... I never feel quite real, not - for lack of a better word, given the nature of everyone here - human enough, and I look around and I see Tommy and Tubbo and George and Puffy and -” you rest your hands on his knees, gently, as you watch his hands tearing apart the loaf of bread, “and they’re all effortlessly people, they’re good, they’ve got dirt beneath their nails and a sparkle in their eyes, and I tried being good and noble and honest, and the only part I liked was being honest but being too honest somehow made me the villain; no-one understood. Dream came the closest, he felt like another amalgamation of interactions pretending to be human, but he knew his power and his place and his role, and he didn’t understand that I had no interest in playing the same part over and over again; consistently inconsistent, apart from my honesty and my loyalty. He liked my honesty and loyalty, so he did his best to accept the rest of me that came with it.”

Looking him in the eyes, finally, you could see it dawning on Ghostbur. Your fingers tapped a gentle, inconsistent rhythm on his knees. 

“But Wilbur... you - he - he... he...”

“He loved you,” Ghostbur’s voice was gentle, but after all this time, the confirmation from his returning memories, it was enough for your voice to catch in your throat. Then, he nodded again like it was a confirmation, “he loved you.”

“He loved me,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper, “not despite who I was, but because of it, loved all of me, at least, that’s what it felt like... I’d never felt that before, and I... I never wanted to let it go,” he’s putting the bread to the side, slowly sliding off of the counter and into your space, “he was staying true to himself, and they hated him for it, but I never could, and I never will.” You murmur, as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly in the dimly lit room. 

“It’s you,” you whispered against the fabric of his sweater, echoing your words from what feels like a lifetime ago, “above everyone else, I choose you. You have my loyalty.”

A moment of silence; he swallows hard, presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“It’s you,” he whispers back, just as Wilbur had those months ago; at the time you though they were an incredulous echo of your own thoughts, but now you know it’s an admission, a return of affection, a declaration; you have my loyalty, he’d been trying to tell you. 

You can’t tell Ghostbur you love him, you can’t tell him you love him, you cannot tell him you love him, no matter how much you want to. He’s not Wilbur. He’s not the Wilbur you fell in love with. 

You tell him anyways. Whisper it like it’s a secret. 

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

His answer comes whispered with a kiss at your temple, a small token of comfort.

“I know.”

----

The world had fallen still in a way you had only felt before natural disasters. There was quiet. There was peace. Something was wrong. Your conversation with Dream played on repeat in your mind, over and over and over.

"You will owe me a life." You can't forget the gravitas with which he'd said it, eyes dark and eerie as he sat cross-legged on the floor of his prison; you will owe me a life.

The phrasing had caught you off guard, because what in the hell did that even mean? It could mean anything, hell he could claim your first child if he wanted to, but you'd been desperate enough to not question, to just accept.

"You really do love him, don't you?" He'd said softly as you'd sat opposite him, when he'd jokingly asked if you'd take his place in the prison in exchange for Wilbur back.

"Of course," had been your serious answer to both questions. Dream had laughed, equal parts fond and weary, his gaze drifting up to the impossibly high ceiling.

"Its a nice thought, though I doubt Sam would simply let you switch with me," he mused, adding, "you know Ghostbur won't be around anymore."

"But Wilbur will be alive," you insisted, and finally he looks at you.

"You trust me," its not a question.

"I've always trusted you," its not a lie. Dream blinks at you, surprised by your honesty. He should be, somehow everyone overlooks your defining trait being brutal honestly. Moments like this remind you why you need Wilbur back so desperately; he understood you in a way no-one else did, not even Dream.

"I killed you," he says, almost to himself, like he's just remembered that fact.

"I know," you nodded, "and I trusted you then, and I trust you now. Everything happens-"

"Don't say for a reason," Dream gritted his teeth with irritation at the phrase, but you gave a faint smile.

"No, I was just going to say that everything happens. We live, we die," you shrugged.

"Then why are you asking me to bring him back?"

"I didn't realise your book of necromancy was purely for decoration," there's a slight edge to your words, lip curling in knee-jerk defensiveness. Dream looked back at you suddenly, eyebrows rising at your tone.

"Is that why you trust me?" There's something betrayed in his voice, and he sits back, away from you, something dangerous in his eyes.

"That's..." you tried to find a way to talk your way out of the situation, but your inability to lie was more of a hindrance now than anything else, "so reductive," you settle on. But you're fidgeting.

"Then complicate it for me," he's practically ordering, and if he weren't the only way to bring back Wilbur, you wouldn't be complying so easily. Then, like a bolt of lighting it hits you; you look up, gaze unwaivering as you meet his.

"Kill me."

"What?"

"Kill me. Don't bring me back," you yourself are almost ordering, tone leaving little room for argument.

"What the fuck; why?" He hissed in confusion, and you knew, in that instance, that your point would be clear.

"Why not?" Something amused and sinister curled at the edge of your lips as you regained the upper hand in the conversation, "if you'd prefer, I could kill myself; walk straight into the lava until my lives run out," and with that, you carefully get to your feet as he frowns at you. Sauntering over to the flowing, molten walls, you stick your hands in your pockets, looking pensively at the liquid rock.

"Wouldn't it kill two birds with one stone? If I'm dead, maybe I'll find my way back to Will, and you won't have to revive him. That's what the kids call a win-win, right? I won't ask you for anything, but, you know, I won't owe you anything either."

When you look to him, you get to watch in real time as it dawns on him. The way his face contorts with bitter anger makes your own, imposing, gloating stance soften, even as he looks away, refusing to look at you.

"I don't..." you sighed deeply, "I don't trust you because I know you can revive me, I trust you because you're a pragmatist, Dream, and as long as I'm useful to you, well..." you trail off, coming back to him.

"I don't understand you," he said, finally, voice terse, "you've fucking commodified your existence and sold your allegiance to the highest bidder; how do you stand it? I get it, you think I'm controlling, fucking news flash, so was Wilbur, so was fucking Techno, so is everyone. We're a bunch of cruel, self-canalising, power-hungry assholes masquerading as heroes and villains trying to make ourselves feel better for the atrocities we commit."

"And what currency am I selling myself for?" You snort, despite his serious tone; when he looks at you, as if he can't believe you're laughing at his rant, you tip your head and regard him thoughtfully, "while I appreciate that that seemed to have been weighing on you for a while, I'd advise you to not project your shit onto me; have I ever cared about having power for myself?"

That's actually a good point, he seems to realise, and finally, his expression softens, and he gets to his feet.

"Do you care about anyone other than yourself?" Surprisingly, it's not judgemental, it's intrigued, like he has a sudden understand of you that makes everything else make sense. Your smile is so soft and unguarded as you gently cup his cheek with one hand, fondly rubbing your thumb across his cheek.

"You know, you might be my best friend," you told him instead of answering, "and I trust you." He takes a deep breath, expression going serious as you can almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

"Despite... fucking everything, and who you are as a person," he said with the faintest smile, "I actually trust you too," but he hesitates, the slightest crease forming above his brow, "but I don't think I can still say that if Wilbur comes back -"

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin. 

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?” 

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it! 

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it. 

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.  

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.” 

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty. 

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?” He gives a mean, humourless smile. 

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!” 

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.  

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea. 

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive. 

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises. 

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet. 

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before. 

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently. 

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication. 

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn. 

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

[hotxcheeto]

I remember you having a Rachel Amber strap-on prompt in your brainrot list. I've come requesting it >:) How about a shy female reader with a hidden love for adult toys using them on Rachel? I love your work btw :)))

━ 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) - Rachel Amber x Fem!Reader

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - Smut, mentions of kissing, strap on use + v penetration ( rachel receiving ), best friends to something?, cursing

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ? - Yeah/Nope

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - thank you!!

There were garments riddled along the ground, Rachel standing half in your closet while tossing things that she deemed 'deplorable' to fashion behind her.

She was purging your closet and there was no way you were stopping her.

She'd gained a look in her hazel eyes that told you she was determined to get to the bottom of each pile of clothing you had. Taking things and tossing them into different piles that she had labeled in her mind all while you sat and watched her.

Laying on your stomach while resting your hand in your palm. All the while she was battling it out with ugly patterned shirts and the many pairs of sweatpants you owned.

"God, you have no clue about any trends these days. It's truly a pity."

It was Rachel, you had to expect the dramatics.

"A pity? Who do you think I am?" You joked, rolling onto your back and putting your arm over your eyes. "Someone with the worst fashion taste I've ever seen."

You snorted, listening to her continue to rummage and mutter to herself. The sounds of shirts and jeans being thrown are the only other sound besides your breaths. You were beginning to wonder what you'd be wearing for the rest of the week judging by how much she planned on donating and selling.

The rustling slowed and it seemed she'd found a target, a few grunts coming from her before she rattled the door and stepped back.

"What's this?" You tilted your head up at that, watching her shake a black shoebox that instantly made your stomach drop and your heart fall to your ass.

Fuck.

You had about three seconds to decide if you were going to absolutely snatch it away and throw it out your window for the squirrels to find and spend the rest of your life denying what was in it.

Or...

let her open it and see the horrors that awaited her on the other side of the cardboard lid that had looked like it'd seen better days.

Times up.

You got up faster than she'd ever seen you move, she wasn't even sure you'd ever walked that fast in your life. The box in your hands before another breath had come in or out of her lungs and it was slammed onto your desk and behind your back in an instant.

"It's personal." Your cheeks burned, blush invisible, but hot. Yours ears as well while you avoided looking her in the eyes and instead looked at the ground. "Personal?" "Yeah."

It was like a showdown, and you weren't letting her pass.

"C'mon, can't I get a peek? I'm your best friend after all."

"Nope. Can't guilt trip me into this one Rach."

Again, there was a tense silence that made you feel like you were doomed.

"What kind of freaky shit you got in there?" Her voice peaked with curiosity as she got closer, giggling while you backed up impossibly closer to the desk. "Seriously, it can't be that bad."

Oh it was.

"Just drop it Rachel." For a moment the girl hesitated, noticing how serious you actually were. Your voice quiet, even a bit timid. "Please?"

Her head tilted, arms crossing.

"Is it torture devices? Drugs? Sex toys? Whatever it is, I promise I won't make fun of you. I promise Y/n/n." You didn't move, you didn't even fucking blink and she began to get slightly worried that you had some ones chopped head in that thing.

"No." For a moment Rachel wondered if she should give it up and let you take this one. But she was never one to back down from a challenge, licking her bottom lip.

"Can you at least tell me what's inside? I won't see it, but can I at least know?" Your mind wasn't sure how bad it'd be if you actually told her about the shit you had hiding in the hole of your closet.

"It's just... bed stuff." Her eyebrow raised. "Bed stuff?" "Yeah."

She was very unimpressed, and even a bit more curious than where she'd begun when you'd first snatched the box in the first place.

"Is it your vibrator? I'm pretty sure everyone has one."

You looked away from her, giving away at least one of the items in the container that she was now even more curious to open. Stepping a bit closer as your guard fell in just the slightest at the mention.

Rachel then made her move, smacking the box to the side before you got the chance to stop her or the box from taking a slight tumble. The lid flew at you in hopes of distracting you and out came everything you'd been trying to hide, a slight yelp escaping your throat at the flying lid.

"Whoa." Was all you heard her say, the sudden need to hide and scream crashing over you like a ton of bricks.

Out came a vibrator which she'd been guessing had been in there the entire time. But there was a lot more that she hadn't guessed. Like the giant dick she pulled out that had a harness attached, the girl looking at you for answers while you'd practically collapsed against your wall in horror.

"No fucking way someone has used this on you."

"They haven't." You said, unable to choke the syllables back into your mouth. "No fucking way." She repeated, turning around and raising her eyebrows. "No fucking way, Y/n." You couldn't look at her, staring at the ground with wide eyes.

"You used this on someone!"

"Tell the neighbors, why don't ya."

Rachel continued looking through the box before it fell to the floor and your glittery strap-on was the only thing left in her hand.

"Is it clean?" You looked at her with an emotion that was nearly indescribable. "Yes it's fucking clean." Rachel nodded, looking it over.

"It's cute."

You wanted to implode, covering your face with your hands before moving to collapse on your bed. Not even caring what she did with the thing anymore, you were beginning to believe that breathing was overrated.

The bed dipped not a few seconds after, Rachel's head appearing right beside where yours was pressed into the mattress. Her finger lightly tapping your cheek.

"I didn't know you were into such... things." She giggled, rolling onto her stomach while still trying to peak at your face. "Is it popular with the ladies?"

"Rachel." You moved onto your back, still covering your face with your hands. "Just go home." There was no other choice, you were going to have to move to another country in order to avoid her for the rest of her life.

"But what if I wanted to see what all the fuss was about?" Your hands slammed onto the bed, your face showing clear shock. "I mean, it's huge... you must be popular with the ladies."

You wanted to be popular with the grim reaper.

"Rach?" She grinned at the sound of her nickname, sitting up to lean down towards your face. "You've used it before haven't you?" You paused, almost questioning if what she'd asked was rhetorical. But nothing else came from her lips,

Rachel wanted an answer.

"Yeah..." You responded. Her nail traced your cheekbone. "Like who?" You felt like you were on fire, swallowing hard and watching her focus on her hand. Finally giving you a break from her stare.

She actually wanted you to say it.

"I dunno... my ex?" You said, almost as a question while raising your eyebrow. "Hm.. what about that girl you liked from that art seminar we went to?" You felt your gut swallow up at the mention of her. "Or, that other one from that psych class we took together?"

She paid a lot more attention to your fun times then you realized.

"How good were they?" Rachel's nail continued to trace down your neck, then towards your ear while moving up and around, all while speaking. You were practically hyper focused on the touch, unaware of your lost in headlights appearance.

"Hm?" Then your attention was back on her.

"Okay.. I guess." Your mouth finally parted to answer, tongue then moving over your lips in a nervous reaction to her receiving that news. "Did you like it?" "I mean... at the time."

Rachel moved to sit up once more, pushing her hair off her shoulders and kneeling in front of your pillows. All the while feeling you get up and turn to look at her.

"What-"

"I want you to fuck me with it."

You almost dropped dead and you swore you felt the presence of something supernatural in the room that was coming to take your soul. Your tongue suddenly blocking your throat from making more than a gargled gurgle for speech. This was your best friend.

"Why-"

"Because I wanna know if I'm your best. That and... I wanna see how good you are with that. Y'know, like I've heard from your exes."

You wondered how much else they'd told her, and if she could see you nervously shifting your weight from foot to foot. Or the fact that your throat was so dry you could cough up a cactus.

"You're a little too dressed for that." You were surprised at your own response, standing at the end of the bed with a keen eye resting on her. You wanted to look away though, but it was nearly impossible to not stare right at Rachel Amber.

"Look at you." She slowly smiled, pulling her top up from the bottom, quickly revealing her black bra to you while throwing the item in her hand. "All bossy now." Her hands moved down to her jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping them all the while you only respected the art.

"Feeling slightly lonely here, Y/n/n." She sang, squirming from her bottoms as you began to undress down into your underwear. Hand wrapping around the harness of the strap-on while she finally moved to unclip her garment, moving it aside.

And God did she look amazing, her golden skin tone reached down past her neck. Her breasts on display for you, and you only to see as you move on your bed towards her. Her nipples slowly rising as the cooler air circled her, her body leaning backwards as you crept closer.

"You're really pretty." You whispered, sounding a bit like a love-sick fool, though Rachel didn't really seem to mind. "I could say that about both of us." She agreed, deciding she liked both herself and you with less clothes on.

"Are you sure about this?" You interrupted her thoughts, looking down at the bare space between her thighs, you didn't know when she'd stripped from her undergarments, but they were in fact gone.

"I've never been more sure about anything." Was her reply, spreading her legs, opening her glistening cunt to you while you tried not to choke on your own saliva and make it less obvious you couldn't tear away your gaze from her entire existence.

"But won't it be weird after?" She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't every girl have sex with her best friend at least once?" You adjusted yourself as the question poured from her lips, the tip of the fake dick accidentally brushing and pushing against her clit making her let out a warm noise.

"Besides," She continued, reaching down to align yourself with her. "you feel really good and I really want you." Ignoring your burning face and body, you nodded your head and took a deep breath while allowing her to lubricate the cock with herself. Her pupils never tore away from yours while she did so.

"Now just please fuck me, Y/n/n." The sound of your nickname in her sweet voice made you comply so quick it was slightly embarrassing.

The strap slipped in, your eyes locked to the way it disappeared inside of her, moving your hips back and forth in awe. All the while she was trying not to claw at your body, admiring your face and almost wishing she could take a photo of your pussy whipped face.

"More, fuck, more." Your confidence was gaining at your pace, your hands moving down to grip at her hips and thighs while spreading her further. Soft moans slipping out one after another while she reached towards you to grab any part of you that she could.

Settling on your forearms, Rachel watched the way you disappeared inside her again and again, slipping a bit deeper each time. Her juices lathering the silicone and making it easier and easier to fuck her into your pile of pillows.

"Oh shit-" No girl sounded like Rachel, or looked like her for that matter. At least not to you. Rachel Amber was one of a kind, your best friend in the entire world, and now she was the pretty girl getting dicked down in your bedroom by you.

"I k-know w-what you're thin-thinki-ing-" She whimpered, whining when you pulled her closer. "I'm sure you do, Rach." You giggled, acting as if this was just another sleepover with you both.

She wiggled and squirmed in her spot, head falling back as you continued to slam your hips into hers. Skin on skin echoing against your walls and surely tumbling out the window at the same time.

Her nails dug into you, much different from her earlier light, feather touches. Not that you minded, looking at her painted fingertips create little half moons on your flesh.

"Fuck, Rach." She nearly came at the sound of your voice, focusing on your face with everything she could. She wanted to memorize how pretty you looked while deep inside her.

"Any of your exes as good as your best friend?" She asked out of breath as you wiped your forehead, her hand moving down to play with herself. "Huh?"

When she met your eyes they were darker, more focused and a much amount of boldness had infected them.

"Fuck no." You said swiftly, pushing her legs back and pressing them against her causing her to cry out. "Never."

"Don't stop- fuck- m'gonna-" You nodded down to her, allowing Rachel to pull you down and press her forehead against yours. And you began wondering, as she did this, if you were still going to be best friends after you got done making her come on your fake cock.

"Go ahead Rachel... I wanna see you." She herself blushed at your comment, but nothing but blabbered noises followed in response.

Then came her moans that suddenly got much louder, turning into high-pitched noises that sounded pornographic as you listened to her. Smiling to yourself, lips ghosting over hers but you didn't actually kiss her.

That might be too far.

And as you thrusted back and forth, slowing your pace to calm her and yourself down, you thought she was so gorgeous with her half lidded eyes and messy hair.

"Was it what you thought it'd be?" You asked her, backing up and resting your hand against her knee. The other moving to massage her lower belly while she tried to calm her pounding heart.

"You have hella hip game." You tried not to laugh while pulling out of her, rubbing her thigh to make the exit easier on her. Though, she still made a noise at the sensitive emptiness.

"I try." The overbearing suddenness of the empty room mixed with the bareness of you both was nearly breathtaking.

"You just had sex with me and you're still being awkward?" She said, teasing more as you groaned, unclipping the toy and dropping it aside to clean later.

"Well what if you don't wanna be friends with me cause my dick game sucks then I have a reason to be awkward." She playfully slapped your arm as you said this, pushing her golden hair backwards.

"I think your dick game is pretty good, but I need to make sure you don't kiss like a fish." The impending doom feeling suddenly came back at full force, after all of this, you still wanted to faint.

"I mean..." She leaned upwards, her breath warming your mouth. "I don't think I kiss like a fish." You finished in a whisper.

"I'll be the judge of that."

Rachel Amber would be the death of you.

[lxclerc]

𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐞 | 𝐦𝐯𝟑𝟑

SUMMARY: max is your lavender haze WARNING: fluff PAIRING: max verstappen x singer!reader WORD COUNT: 842

NOTE: a drabble to ease me back into writing. also yes, i spend most of my time praying for max's downfall but still.

MASTERLIST

Max’s head is right by yours as the two of you lay on your backs, hands intertwined as you stare up at the ceiling. The hotel room is nearly completely silent apart from the ticking of the clock that is becoming more and more apparent as the seconds come by. 

You’re both needed to be somewhere in a few minutes and yet as everything becomes overwhelming, you find yourselves laying on the bed. Max has never been one for the press. He says the wrong things, being far more truthful than he ever needs to be which ends up with him unknowingly causing problems. They want him to fail and that was completely fine. Everyone has biases and he’s here to race, not make friends. He doesn’t need people to like him. He just needs them to respect him.

And there’s you anyway. There’s always you. There’s you with your reassuring smile and you who refuses to listen to anything they say about him. There’s you with your tight hold on his hand and you with your loudest cheer. There’s always you and there’s always him and so neither of you need anyone else. 

You turn to face him, squeezing his hand. “You’re going to be late.”

Max makes a show of groaning as his hand lets go of yours in order to wrap his arm around you, pulling you closer to his chest. “I want to stay here.”

You wanted to stay in your bubble of lavender haze too but you had your own commitments you needed to get to. You have your own interview for your latest album in a few hours, one you need to start getting ready for. In your head, you’re already gagging at the questions that will have absolutely nothing to do with your music and more to do with getting clickbaits about your love life. You’re already preparing yourself for the mental torture of having to go through an interviewer going around in the same question till you relent and give the answer he wants.

It’s all mind games really. 

Still tho, you’re the one to sit up and pull Max with you. He needs to be at the paddock and you’d rather not have your manager come barging at your door because you’re going to be late for the radio interview. 

“It’s media day,” Max says with a groan as his head falls against your shoulder. No driver really actually enjoys media day but perhaps Max hates it the most. 

You push his hair out of his face, placing a soft kiss against the bridge of his nose. “I have a radio interview.”

He groans again, for you this time. Perhaps you share the same feelings for media day. 

The two of you would have stayed like that longer if it weren’t for the matching knocks on the door, ones you’re sure belongs to your manager and someone from red bull getting ready to drag him out of his ass. Your suspicions were confirmed as Alex, your forty something year old manager that sometimes feels more like a big sister, comes in without waiting for a confirmation. Behind him, a poor red bull intern had been tasked with getting Max along. She looks almost terrified and a little bit too excited as she saw you in the room with Max. 

“Get it moving, the two of you,” Alex says, holding a clipboard that contains your schedule for the day. “Let go of my kid, Verstappen.”

You laugh at the childish pout that overtake Max’s face. 

You hold his face against your hands as you kiss him. “I’ll see you later, my love.”

“Save me,” he whines against your lips. “Later can’t come around faster.”

You laugh again, both from his whining and the sound of Alex making gagging noises as he watched the display of very clear affection before him. Unfortunately for everyone around you, you and Max are that couple – far too ridiculously in love for everyone else. 

Still, you can’t be blamed. This is all new to you. Your history with dating has not only been messy but also unfortunately a global gossip. Men have not only broken your heart but rather also stomped on it in the worst, most public ways possible. Men who want to love you in public but can’t seem to stand you in private. And to have Max who loves every part and version of you, who complains about being away from you because he simply enjoys your company that much is new to you.

And it’s glorious and beautiful and wonderful and gods be damned if you’d let anyone shame you for it.

“Alright, alright, you love each other. We need to go,” Alex interrupts, practically grabbing your arm to pull you away. Still, there’s an affectionate smile curving his lips. He likes to pretend to be annoyed but you know he’s happy for you. He knows you deserve this and he knows Max does too. 

You’d stay in this lavender haze forever if you could. 

---

taglist: @ricsaigaslec @dragon-of-winterfell @coffeehurricanes @rdtbattinson @privcherry7 @miniminescapist @sebsdaniel @strelcka @writing-about-current-obsessions @amsofftrack @lostinketterdam @bisexual-desi @cialovessirlewis @multilovebot @lovelynikol16 @troybolton-14 @ohthemissery @dr3lover @myescapefromthislife @sunf1owerrq @the6ccnsp6cyy @t-nd-rfoot

[freedomfireflies]

PART TWO OF THIS PLS?? LITERALLY SO SO GOOD

JACK SHIT pt. 2

“Fuck…please. Please, Angel, just—”

Jack’s plea is cut short by the sound of your insatiable whine, your head dropping back as you slip a second finger in and curl upward. You let the pleasure settle, mind fuzzy and eyes squeezed closed as you hear the familiar clink of the handcuffs tugging against the headboard.

“Angel,” comes his voice once more. Rougher. Angier. “Get the fucking key, or I swear to God—”

“What?” you find the strength to ask. “Or what, Jack? What are you gonna do? Tied to the bed and begging for me?”

His teeth grit but you’re not finished. You won’t be finished for hours after the way he treated you at that party.

You thrust your chin toward his cock, smirking to yourself as he refuses to look down. “So fucking pathetic, baby. Just dripping for me. Needing me. S’a shame, really. I would have loved to take care of it for you.”

And he knows you would. Knows there’s nothing Victory could offer you that’s sweeter than Jack’s cock.

He pulls again, strong muscles contracting as his veins press against his skin. To be honest, you’re quite shocked he hasn’t ripped the headboard apart yet, but you suppose deep down, he likes being helpless. In fact, you don’t doubt it at all.

And this torture has been going on for at least an hour. You laid him down all pretty on the bed. Lured him into a false sense of security. Tied his hands to the bed the moment he’d become distracted by your tits and proceeded to get your revenge.

You started by fucking yourself with his cock. Because of course you did. And he was so miserable. So desperate to touch you, have you, take you. Make you his own personal plaything and you adored the fact that he couldn’t.

When you came around him, you swear he cursed every god in existence at the feel. Then, he nearly pulled a muscle in protest when you climbed off of him just before he had the chance to find his own release.

You figured this is exactly what he deserved. To sit there and behave the same way he’d made you just earlier this evening.

So, you indulged in his punishment. Crawled to his side and began to fuck yourself with your own hand, desperate for more. And my gosh, you were gonna kill him. You could see it. Written all over his face. The way he’d never felt so inferior to you. The way he’d never needed someone more than he needed you. The way he needs you. In this moment and all the others.

“Angel,” he murmurs, coarse and deep from the back of his throat. As if his own body is protesting the force it takes just to speak. “You don’t wanna play this game with me, I promise.”

You hum, lazy smile slipping free as you hit that spot, the hand that was holding you up now slipping away as your back finds the mattress. “Think I do.”

“You don’t,” he corrects but you can tell there’s nothing behind his threat. You own his ass and he knows it. “Unless you’re just desperate to get punished and I think I know my angelic little whore well enough to know you are.”

“How do you know this doesn’t hurt me, too?” you ask in an airy whisper, so caught up in your own pleasure you can hardly think straight. Your head rolls to the side so you can catch a glimpse of his face. That beautiful, outrageously pissed-off face. “Hurts me not to have you touch me, baby.”

He yanks his wrists forward, only to scowl when they catch on the chain still trapped behind the headboard. “So, let me go…and I’ll make it better.”

You pull your lip between your teeth, head shaking gently. “Then how will you learn?”

With that, you thrust to the knuckle, palm pressing into your clit as you come for a second time, jaw dropping as you whimper a curse and his name, back arching off the mattress as you vaguely hear him call out for you.

You still for a moment or two, just listening to your own pants for air and the thumping of your heart in your chest.

He’s quiet now. Waiting. He thinks this is it. Thinks this is where you give up and unlock him.

Jack Chambers is many things.

But bright is not one of them.

You sit up, scooting closer for just a moment as you watch the hope find its way to his eyes. You take your soaked hand and reach out to him, swiping your finger along his bottom lip.

He has the nerve to glare at you but he takes your thumb into his mouth and sucks, biting gently as your lashes flutter and your stomach flips. 

And he watches you. The entire time. Keeps his eyes on yours and never deviates for even a moment. Desperate to make sure you know that he’s enamored by you. Even now. And always.

Once he’s through, you let out a soft chuckle and lean back, swinging your legs off the bed before straightening up and moving for the door.

You hear him lean forward, confused and furious. “The fuck are you doing?”

You don’t turn back until you’ve reached the hallway, glancing over your shoulder to call, “Don’t go anywhere.”

And the flat, unamused look he gives you in response just about makes your day, and you suppress a louder laugh as you stroll to the kitchen to grab some water and rehydrate.

You spend about five minutes smirking between each sip of water as you hear him call out his threats, demanding to be released, or demanding you finish what you started, or demanding that you get your ass back in there so he can ruin it.

When you return, now feeling much better, you make a show of it. Hips swaying as you stride toward the bed, hands pulling your hair down your back and out of your face, and fingers reaching for his thighs.

He tenses as if so wound up, even a brush of your skin against his will send him over the edge. And you imagine it just might. Which, of course, had been the goal.

You make your way closer, knees and palms deep into the mattress as you hover over his body, lips ghosting near his pathetically ignored cock, and he thrusts his head back against the wall in anticipation.

He doesn’t speak. He’s learned. Knows that if he wants you, he’ll be quiet. He’ll be good.

You reward this realization with a smile, head dipping until you swipe your tongue along the underside of him, watching the way his fingers curl into his hand to brace himself.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and you think to yourself how fucking beautiful he still is to you. Even after everything. He’s so beautiful.

Another lick before you move to the top, ready to take him down your throat when you hear the clang off the cuffs and his voice, murmuring a desperate, “No…wait.”

You hesitate, brow wrenching up as you meet his eye.

He swallows, hips shifting slightly. “I’m sorry.”

Your heart warms and your expression softens, your touch caressing his thighs to comfort him. “I know, baby.”

He huffs, but he’s not through. “You know I wanna fucking ruin that throat but not right now. Not…can’t do it that way.”

“What do you mean?”

His teeth clench together tightly, head thumping back against the wall once more as he struggles to get the words out. “Shit, can’t…can’t be anywhere else but inside you, Angel. Need to feel you like that. Please…please.”

And you swear you’ve never heard him sound more sincere and desperate, and your heart and your cunt go out to him. 

A second or two passes between his admission and your agreement, filled with the sound of his gentle voice whispering, “Please,” once more as his earnest eyes find yours.

So, you reach for the lock on the nightstand, despite the warning in your head that you’re gonna be fucking in for it the second he’s free.

And the moment you bring it back to his wrists, he exhales a heavy breath, so relieved that he rolls his head to the side to kiss your arm gratefully. Mumbling all the while, “Shit, I love you. Love you, Angel. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

The moment his hand falls free by his side, he reaches out to loop his arm around you and toss you onto your back, settling himself between your thighs as your head spins.

You gasp when his fingers find your throat, but you can’t help grinning with him as he nudges his nose against yours. You don’t care if he never lets you forget tonight because my god…was it worth it.

And Jack can see it written all over your face, desperate to fulfill the promise he’s been making all night.

“Oh, my sweet Angel…you’re gonna fucking regret that.”

~ Other Harry Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

[eldritch-spouse]

I see a lot of insecure, shy and scared darlings which makes complete sense with the monsters here but I just need one crazy bitch to match with the crazy, they're human but not scared of dying or being tortured. So let me feed my delusions rq but someone who knees Vinnel in the balls but also try their hardest to beat Livius for pestering him. A person that will cut Morrell's fingers with babygirl but still eats and enjoys every meals he makes, physically force Fasma to become sober but coddles him nonetheless, regulates Santi's big back attitude and who bitchslap Patches back in order. I'm aware that this is crazy as hell and impossible but just imagine the surprise on their faces when they just comply with a mix of shock and adoration

It's hard to knee Vinnel in the gonads. Even if they were external, his body is so fucked up that they could be anywhere honestly... Nevertheless, someone who he's unable to scare and fights back tooth and nail will be met with the same treatment Jingles did. Varying methods of ritualistic torture and humiliation until either you break into his preferred state, or you truly do fall apart and he experiences waves of disappointment before bitterly moving on. In the off-chance things have gone well enough for you to retain that attitude yet only show it to others, Vinnel is still very adamant that your crazy ass doesn't mess with Livius. Because you won't just be making a demonlord irate, you'll incur the punishment of his employer.

You managed to cut off some of Morell's fingers? Congratulations, you're the first of your kind. But they do grow back, slowly, so it's not much of a loss compared to the payment following. Because he's going to take yours now. You can choose which ones, or even toes, the chef is fine with whichever. Except they won't be cut, Morell will bite them off and proceed to swallow the extremities right then and there. In the future, he'll look back on this moment and laugh very fondly. You're more of a wild boar than a piglet with that attitude.

Can you force Fasma to be sober? Ehhh, he's more clever than he looks, he'll find a few tricks. The coddling is always accepted. Fasma can take a lot of verbal and physical abuse before he does something that'll put you in your place.

Santi doesn't usually display a big bad attitude. Purely when he must. To disorient him, you need to play his own game, as violence and intimidation isn't likely to work on most demons, especially not high-rankers.

Listen. Bitchslapping Patches is not how you make him stop, that's a form of encouragement for him.

[angelofthenight]

What Doesn’t Kill Me Pt.1

(Yandere!Alex Delarge x Fem!Reader)

Summary: You were finally free from your abusive and obsessive “boyfriend” when he was arrested with a long sentence. But when he comes back to you on his knees in tears after the Ludovico's Technique, you can’t help but welcome him back into your arms once learning that he is literally incapable of harming you ever again. Yet you begin to question your own morals.

Warnings: Yandere, Dark themes, Ladstat, Swearing/Language, Unhealthy/Abusive relationship, Sexual context/themes, Non-Con (off screen rape), Gangs, Obsessiveness, Home invasion, Sexual sadism, Physical abuse/Violence, Knife threat, Blood, Spitting, Brief pussy slapping, Alex is his own warning, You are responsible for your own content consumption

Word Count: 4.2k

( Fun Fact: I fucking hate Alex so much but I wrote a very long essay about A Clockwork Orange’s moral of redemption for my senior year of film studies class and I got an interesting idea for a yandere fic. Like how would the darling react if the yandere was “cured into being a good person”? )

Table of Contents

~

You hated Alex Delarge. You hated him. You loathed him. You despised him. But most of all, you were terrified of him.

On the contrary, Alex was head over heels in love with you. He was absolutely smitten with you and you were the center of his world.

You were practically forced to be his girlfriend. He just one day walked up to you and declared that you were his girlfriend now. And every day since that day was hell for you, the torturous part of hell that you are chained to.

Your soon to be nightmare all started when you two were just standing next to each other at the record store flipping through rows of records that were next to each other. He pulled out a record that caught your eye, it was one of your favorites, you thought you were the only one in town who listened to that band. Your passion for that specific artist made you smile and say aloud, “I love that record.”

He looked up at you with surprise in his eyes. He didn’t think anyone in town knew the record.

His silence made you awkwardly rant. “I honestly thought I was the only one in town who liked them. No one knew who the hell I was talking about when I would bring it up.” You gave a lighthearted laugh. “I love how the order of the songs makes a story and how each melody can, like, control what you feel. It’s a work of art. Gives me chills every time I listen to it.” You said all of this with your grin growing bigger, so happy you could talk to someone with taste.

The corner of Alex’s lips lifted up and his eyes gleamed with genuine joy, thrilled to meet someone who understands the brilliance of his favorite record. The two of you had a very long conversation about the record which extended to talking about other kinds of music. You both would drag each other around the shop to show the other some of your other favorite records.

You two instantly clicked and got along. Alex felt so comfortable with you, his mind felt at ease, and he enjoyed just simply talking with you. He’s never felt that way about anyone before. He actually enjoyed listening to you. You were so understanding, so open minded, so fascinating.

You two met in the record shop about three more times after that and would hang out for the rest of the day. You liked being around Alex. He was very funny and always put you in a good mood with his positivity. He was a very easygoing and eccentric guy; a rarity in this town full of people with sticks up their asses.

You thought nothing but good things about Alex. You really enjoyed having him as a friend. That is, until he fell for you.

In his own defense, how could he possibly not?

You were so kind and gentle with him, treating him as if he were your priority. You could get so feisty, like a house cat. As much as he loved his women defenseless and frail, your straightforward approach and no-nonsense attitude in situations that called for it really riled him up. You made him laugh and always had knowledgeable opinions. You were so smart and had an ability to be unashamedly open. And you had some real horrorshow groodies.

It was as if you were specifically and meticulously and personally made for just him. You had the same music interests as him, your exact physique was his dream girl body, your jokes always landed perfectly with him, your eyes were coincidentally his favorite color, and your breasts were the perfect size for his hands.

Alex didn’t believe in love, nor believe in wasting time seeking it. But you… you had just infected him with a fever no ice pack could soothe. Your ivy vines laced and intertwined around the wrinkles of his brain making you his constant thought. And those leaves left behind a poison ivy rash he couldn’t scratch away.

You were everything he had ever wanted. Everything he would never be… but still wanted to own.

After a night of exhilarating ultraviolence, terrorization, and vandalism with the gang, he felt such a rush. And because of that rush it was that moment where he realized he had to tell you the truth. He must have you. So he left his pals a little early to make his way straight to your apartment. He knew where you hid your spare key so it was easy storming into your living room and finding you cleaning up after yourself of your dinner.

Alex was too caught up in his adrenaline to take notice that he only took off his mask and hadn’t changed out of his gang-related wardrobe, far too focused on getting to you. But you had noticed. It was the very first thing you noticed as he stood in front of you with a breathless grin. And it was all you could focus on even as Alex declared with a cane in his hand that the reason as to why he’s been acting so strange lately was because he was in love with you.

Your iris’ were shaking and your breath was heavy within your chest as you took in the clothing from his bowler hat down to the visible codpiece. What he was wearing looked exactly like what one specific violent gang wore in the papers next to the article explaining the increase in gang terrorism due to the reduction in policing effectiveness. Juvenile delinquent gangs populated the streets because of how understaffed the police force was, most people barely even went out these days. But, for a reason you now understood, you always felt safe yourself when you went out into public, especially with Alex. But now you understood why you were safe when seen with him.

“Alex… what are you wearing? Is this a joke?” You shakingly spoke out, not responding to his confession which appeared to irk him. He took a step toward you which prompted you to take one back. Alex glanced down at his clothes and in honesty… he didn’t really care if you knew. He was creative with ways he could keep you quiet. He honestly kind of liked it if you knew.

"These here are just my nochy on the town duds with my droogs.” He announced with a sharp grin, gesturing towards his white clothes. “You won't dob me in, won't you, devotchka?” He said with a joking tone despite the threatening look in his eyes.

Your frown sunk down, your lungs feeling as if they were closing in on your heart making it harder to breathe steadily. Your hands wrung together in a nervous fashion as you seemed to cower away from someone you considered a friend. “Alex, you’re scaring me. I… I think you should leave.” You said with the delusional hope that he would respect your wish and exit the way he came.

But Alex wasn’t having it. “Leave without your answer?” He exclaimed as he held out his cane then slammed it down against your floor with one hand on his hip, tilting his head up with a sense of pride. “I think not.”

He wasn’t going to leave until he got your answer to his confession. You felt sick to the pit of your stomach. Your lips parted but no words were released. You didn’t know what to say, too caught up in the chilling realization of Alex’s secret life.

You’d be lying if you said you never really thought of him in that way, because you have once in a blue moon. How could you not with your handsome and funny male friend who always made time for you? You always teased the idea of dating him in your mind, experimented with the thought of being in a relationship with him. But it was never more than that though. More of curiosity and craving a partner rather than a crush.

You struggled to find the right words. “I… I… I feel… I-” You were torn between not wanting to encourage or provoke him yet also fearing your safety. “Spit it out, devotchka. Koshka got your tongue?” He giggled with a devilish smirk.

“I just…” You swallowed the growing lump in your throat, as if trying to swallow your fear, before it got too big that it would render you mute. “I really like you as a friend.” You fully expected him to lash out, scream at you, anything of the sort. But he simply cackled like a child.

“Nonsense, dearie!” He said in between the chuckles. “You’re just taken by surprise, is all! You’ll surely change your mind after some lubbilubbing.”

Your eyes widened in shock and horror and offense. You thrashed your arm up to point at your front door with a face full of upset anger. “Get out, Alex! I mean it!” You demanded, not believing this was all coming from someone you used to respect and think kindly of.

He, however, wasn’t phased by your raised voice and demand as he began to take swinging steps toward you, his cane lifting up to rest over his shoulder. “You’re not just gonna send me off without any sweet treat, are ya, love?” He said with a sick smile, his eyes going hooded with a predatorial shadow over his blue orbs that began to travel your body.

Your blood went cold, stinging your bones like frostbite, as you took notice of your nighttime wear. You didn’t plan for company and due to living alone you had the habit of dressing a little more indecently, as well as because you planned to go to bed right after finishing cleaning your dinner dishes. Your goosebumped skin hardly had the safety of coverage from your silk one-piece pajamas that consisted of thin tank top straps and shorts.

Your bottom lip grew so unbearably heavy that it began to shake, you taking a slow step back despite how close he’s gotten already. Your frighteningly alarmed eyes kept themselves trained on Alex’s as he stalked forward like a lion cornering an antelope, that shit-eating grin still intact.

“Y’know,” he started while he slowly began to close in on you as you walked backwards, “I think, deep down, you’re a bit of a bad girl.” He said, a tone a tad darker than before which only made your heartbeat pump painfully in your pulse. Your terror was slowly swallowing you whole like a drain.

“I think you might get a kick of it if I come on strong, just a bit rough.” He said, and before you could react in fearful panic to what he was implying, he held both ends of his cane in his hands and swung it over your head to land on your lower back. He used the position of his horizontal cane to roughly pull you closer to close the gap, sending you straight into his chest.

You gasped at the action and instantly began to struggle, throwing your hands up in an attempt to push him away by his shoulders or to at least grant some distance between the two of you. But he kept you tightly against him. “Excited now are we, eh?” He chuckled down at you, your resistance getting him all hot and bothered.

Before he confessed how he felt about you, Alex had already assumed that you felt the same way. He had an intense belief in his own perception of reality and didn’t really consider the possibility that you may not share the same feelings. His view of love was distorted and interpreted any signs of kindness or attention as your reciprocation.

But Alex was a self-aware guy. He wasn’t blind and deaf to how you clearly did not want him by how you panicked and struggled within his hold. But now that he thought about it… he didn’t really care about how you felt. Your rejection surprisingly affected him a lot less than he would’ve guessed, it actually didn’t really hurt that much.

He was naturally driven by his own twisted desires and impulses. He just wanted to exert control and power over you, rather than to seek your genuine love and affection, even though he had to admit that those would be nice to have. It was like he was in his own world, detached from the reality of reciprocal love.

He loved you. And that was all that mattered. He could still do whatever he wanted to you. And with the right tactics, he could make you do whatever he wanted. So what exact difference would your feelings make?

Alex’s cane dug into your lumbar spine, springing a pained wince past your teeth. Your attention was so focused on the pain on your skin that you gasped in unpleasant surprise at one specific tug on your body that made your pelvis grind right into the bulge of the codpiece. You stifled your whimper behind your teeth, the hard pad rubbing a sensitive part of your clit as Alex continued this action with a malicious grin.

When he got you distracted enough he took the opportunity to quickly pivot around you, rotating his cane around your body from your lower back to against your neck. The sudden harsh pressure on your throat instantly made you wheeze, your hands flying up to grasp onto the stick to try to grant you some air but to no avail due to the imbalance of strength between you and Alex.

You felt his chin rest in the crook of your neck and shoulder, his cheek also pressed against the side of your neck. You felt his smile and heard his pleasurable inhale through his nose. He was enjoying your struggle. He lifted his head so that his lips touched the shell of your ear, prompting you to make an effort to squirm away from his touch. But the grip he had on the cane across your frail throat made it easy to keep you as close as possible.

“Very well tomorrow’s your laundry day,” he practically purred into your eardrum which only created nausea that spread throughout your gut, “because those sheets of yours are about to get very merzky.”

If his innuendo hadn’t paralyzed you to absolute terror, you would’ve paid more fearful mind to the question on how he knew when you did your laundry.

You whimpered in powerless fear when he jerked you with the cane to force you to walk backwards. Well it was mostly him walking and your feet practically being dragged; your hands still remained on the cane to try to loosen its pressure on your cartilage. He led the two of you into your bedroom, jabbing his foot back to kick your door open in a wider frame. Once you were in he had tossed you onto the mattress with little care.

Tears began to prickle your eyes once you had collided into your bed, coughs following from the stinging pain on your throat as you gently touched where it hurt. You weren’t allowed much relief of personal space when Alex threw his hat to the side before crawling onto the mattress to reach you. He tightly grasped your biceps to flip you onto your back, him taking a comfortable seat on your waist.

He angled his torso above you and rocked his hips, grinding his clothed erection against your pelvis just once before he placed one hand next to your head. His other hand slowly wrapped itself around your face to force your shaking, watering eyes onto his carnivorous ones. He stared at you for a moment, a moment too long for your comfort. He stared at you and you could practically see the feverish twisted and covetous thoughts stream behind those bright blue eyes. And then a Cheshire Cat grin spread his lips after realizations awoke in his mind.

“Thou art such a beauty when you platch.” He said. The feeling of sadistic fervor and his far-too-long repressed lustful temptations were morphed together into bedroom eyes.

You went owl-eyed around your petrified pupils. Finally, you couldn’t hold the weight any longer as the situation became much too real to you and the heavy tears spilled out of your eyes. Alex’s smile widened before he pushed himself back up to straight posture, both of his hands reaching behind his back to unsheathe a dagger from his cane.

The sight of the long and sharp blade made your deep frowning lips part, a faint yelp weak in your throat. It was as if your horror stole all the words from you and left you far too terrified and weak to say anything. And your ears felt nearly deaf from the violent beating of your heart that rang in your eardrums. The only sounds you could hear were your scared sobbing wails and the sound of your pajamas ripping as he dragged the dagger down the clothing like a zipper.

Once sliced open enough, Alex placed the knife in his mouth to hold it with his teeth as he used his hands to tear it open the rest of the way. You were left in nothing but your panties, no bra due to the fact you had planned for independent slumber. But now you wished your sleeping customs were different as you laid exposed and helplessly vulnerable underneath the wicked monster you once felt joyful to call your dear friend.

And that monster’s eyes took in your vulnerability with a deranged infatuation; eyes that ravished the sight so hungrily. With the dagger still clenched between his white teeth, Alex’s hands were free to reach down and grope your breasts like dough. You whimpered with a feeble tremble, your leaking eyes squeezed shut in severe discomfort as you tightly gripped the sheets with white knuckles.

He grasped the side cups of your chest to push your bust together, giving him a better view of both of them at the same time. The action made you sharply inhale from the sensitivity, but it was as if that woke you up because you then felt the protective courage to snatch his wrists in an attempt to claw his unwanted touch off you; furious and disgusted by his animalistic audacity.

Your attempt of defense was rendered as nothing but a detriment to yourself as it was simple for Alex to free himself from your hold. One hand slammed onto your elbow to cage it to the mattress and his other hand retracted the dagger from his mouth to push it horizontally against your still hurt throat. Not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to make you cower away from him and attempt to push yourself deeper into the mattress to escape the touch of the blade.

“Now, now, now, my dear darling.” He spoke with a sharp smile and pupils dilated in insanity. “Don’t do anything you will regret. Best to just lay back, relax, and enjoy the show. Maybe a couple of tears here and there for sweetness. But be the noble girl you always are and behave while I ravage your cunt.”

He turned the dagger diagonally to rest the tip atop the center of your collarbone. His grip on the handle was tight and you knew one wrong move on either of your ends would end with your blood gushing down your naked body. “I’d hate to carve up such elegant plott. It’d be a sin!” He tapped and glided the blade against your neck teasingly.

He leaned down to position his lips next to your ear. “But it’s a good thing I’m not a gloopy malenky dobby church boy.” He breathed out, causing your limbs to shiver in sickened fear. “I’m not afraid to get a little sinful.” He husked before he opened his mouth to drag his wet, warm tongue from your jawline up to your ear. Your joyless frown involuntary trembled.

Alex angled his face above yours, taking in your visibly terrified features and your salty rivers of tears and nearly salivating at the sight. “Now… Do you promise to behave?” He asked you with a cruel, mocking tone. The breathy, agonized sob you were holding occupied your throat so all you could do was reply with a twitchy yet compliant nod.

His smile practically lit up. “That’s my devotchka!” He exclaimed proudly before parting the dagger from your chest and instead moving it to rest against your jawline, allowing his thumb to caress your tearfully wet cheekbone. He dipped his head down to capture your lips within his for a sweet and simple kiss. He separated himself after he was satisfied with the taste to look up into your immensely glossy eyes with unfiltered fondness.

Your intoxicating lips tempted him to return for another, but quicker, deep kiss before his hands slid down your waist to hook his long fingers around the hem of your panties. He kept them there as he moved himself to come face to face with your sheltered cunt. Your frowning lips quivered as you bit them to ease your pounding heart. But not even your mind that tried to make you recite an entire work day in your head to distance yourself from your reality could distract you from Alex lifting your hips high up into the air so that he could straighten his back.

He smiled devilishly down at your forbidden flower with unhinged admiration laced within his features and eyes, your legs dangling over his shoulders. And without a hint he had shoved his nose straight into your clothed clit and took a deep, dirty inhale. You whined at the contact. He removed his nose to look down at you. “My, oh my. Your sladky von of strack is quite to die for, my dear.” He chuckled sardonically in his throat to himself before jokingly pecking a kiss to your clothed folds, creating a ‘mwah’ sound, and chuckling again at your second whine. He truly found your meek fear amusing.

He released the hold he had on your hips, letting your lower body plop back onto the bed with a bounce. Then he jumped the gun, his hands back onto the band of your panties and tugging them off down your shivering legs. Clasping his hands tightly onto your inner thighs, he pushed them apart to spread your legs wide open to put your cunt on full display for his ravishing eyes.

Breathy sobs began to invade your voice despite your desperate resistance to such. You just couldn’t believe this was happening. Your body shook as if you were freezing yet you felt your humid sweat as if you were boiling, it was a sickening feeling as your once sanguine world crumbled around you.

Alex retched inward to spit onto your clitoris, gave it a second to let his thick saliva ooze down your folds before using his fingers to rub in the slimy substance. He used an up and down then circular motion before giving it a slap, creating a wet, lewd sound.

You barely even registered Alex removing his codpiece then pants and boxers until he positioned his erection near your now wet hole and climbed on top of you, leaning his face awfully close to yours with his hands pinning your wrists. He relished the sight of your bloodshot eyes coated with hot tears and the sound of your distressed sobbing begs. A sense of sick euphoria swelled up within him.

Oh god how he adored you; his severe psychopathic obsession. Truthfully, Alex would’ve done whatever it took to have you.

He held a predatory gaze. “You’re my world, darling.” He purred to you before thrusting himself into you with a possessive claim and lustful selfishness fueling him.

Alex was right about your sheets. After a very long night of the old in-out-in-out, multiple rounds and positions and orgasms later, he finally left you on your bed and made his exit. Not without promising that he'd be back and proclaiming that you were now his and his alone though. And threatening you as well about tattling.

He was right, your sheets became filthy. They were vandalized with both of your climax’s and your blood, as well as your tears and a few rips that had been made with your gripping nails and his dagger. Your body was as vandalized as your sheets. The elegant skin of yours he seemed so fond of was now littered with bruises, hickey’s, bite marks, nail scratches, and small blade wounds (you just couldn’t stop yourself from resisting and fighting back so many times). But it seemed like he loved the sight and color of your blood as he had lapped it up every time his dagger and his teeth punctured into you.

You laid in the mess and weeped. Your mind was vandalized worse than both your sheets and body. Vandalized with betrayal, trauma, violation, dread, and a mortified horror. All of what Alex was deep down this entire time.

That was when your life became the torturous hell you had to live with.

[simpin4juicyfruitsnacks]

Ghost Boy pt.1

Bf Juicy x Fem Boys member

(listen I know the Pennhurst asylum is a haunted house/Halloween attraction now but for the sake of the story its abandoned and privately owned)

Following the boys to the rental van, you sigh, “I can't believe I let you guys talk me into this.” Gaege slips his hand into yours, “Come on babe we do haunted videos all the time we’ll be fine.” You roll your eyes and walk to the back where Kevin and Dose are loading up the camera equipment and setting up the mic packs, “Listen I'm just saying I've heard spooky shit about this place and I know the Aussies are out to get me after I pranked them with mouse traps the other night at the last haunted place.” You turn to Kevin so he can help you with your mic and he smiles, “I don't see how they could hold a grudge that was hilarious.” Josh walks up to get his mic followed by Mully, “Yeah it's hilarious now but it wasn't when I jumped out of bed at 3 am because someone played siren sounds on a megaphone and landed in hundreds of mouse traps.” You shrug and help your boyfriend with his mic, “Im surprised you two slept through the setup for that.” Mully pulls his hoodie on, “Yeah I will agree that was pretty impressive but I did break my toe trying to get out of there.” You put your backpack into the trunk then climb into the back row of seats with Gaege and Kevin. Narrator hops into the driver's seat, “Listen with Gabby tagging along we are short one seat so we need to figure out who's gonna sit on the floor, yes it's unsafe but it's our only option.” You decide to take one for the team. As you sit on the floor at Gaege's feet Josh takes the empty seat between Gaege and Kevin. Kev turns on his camera to get some footage on the ride to the filming location and points it at you, “So we're on our way to an abandoned hospital for the night and the fan favorite is stuck sitting on the floor for the next hour. Y/N how are you feeling?” You look up from your phone and laugh, “Honestly I'm pretty comfortable sitting here, but I am really nervous about being stuck with you idiots all night in a haunted ass building." Kevin pans the camera around to Josh, “She's scared me and Mully are going to get revenge for the mousetrap incident.” Gaege looks around Josh at the camera, “Another incident to add to the Boys’ list guys, the mousetrap incident of 2024.” Dose films the ride and everyone talks about how they think the night is gonna go for the rest of the ride. You start to doze off a bit but the car comes to a stop and Narrator yells, “Alright guys we're here.” You stretch in your spot on the floor and sigh as Kev points the camera at you again, “Yay I'm so excited.” He laughs behind the camera, “We love the enthusiasm Y/N.” You crack up a bit and flash the camera a smile before Kevin climbs out of the van. Once everyone climbs out of the van filming starts. The camera turns to Narrator who gives a brief summary of the hospital's history, “Welcome back to the Boys! Today we are here in Pennsylvania at Pennhurst Asylum which is said to be one of the most haunted hospitals in the United States. Rumors of neglect, abuse and torture, tales of patients being chained to the walls, children kept for years in cribs and even murders. This place has some pretty dark history starting from 1908 when it opened, well into the 80s when they finally got shut down. People who've investigated here documented spooky audio recordings, and some pretty unexplainable movement of objects throughout the grounds, other reports include various objects being thrown across the room, visitors being physically pushed and multiple EVPs. So let's see what they've got in store for us.” You shiver adjusting your backpack then grab Gaege’s hand and walk with the group inside the building which has clearly been abandoned for decades. Inside the main corridor Eddie looks at the camera and says, “I wanna clarify that we have permission to be here don't just break into random abandoned buildings its dangerous and we don't want you to get in any trouble for trying to do what we do.” On cue the owner comes out of an office and meets the group, after talking to everyone for a bit he decides to leave for the night.

Pt 2 in the works.

[crimeronan]

there are literally incalculable meta posts i could make about the silt verses (it’s one of those stories where i have thoughts about Every Damn Line) but tonight i’m thinking about how..... DELICIOUSLY it sets up and then subverts your worldbuilding expectations.

if you haven’t listened yet. consider this mini essay my pitch. (or rather one of many pitches.)

because you start with this narrative episode about two members of an outlawed religion seeking other members of their faith, and they’re both compelling and sympathetic and layered narrators, but also. one is describing a childhood built on drowning and torturing people to death and the other is delighted by sacrificial corpses and horrific apparitions of eldritch nonsense and you’re like, “okay, yeah, this is a horror podcast. i can pretty damn well see why your religion is outlawed jesus FUCK you guys how is there THIS MUCH MURDER involved in your religious rites-”

and one of the narrators tells you that society is hypocritical because the legal religions Also cause harm. and if you’re anything like me, you go okay, girl, whatever you need to tell yourself to justify your current crusade. your god is a special kind of fucked up but it’s all good

then of course there are hints of social worldbuilding that challenge this assumption, but it’s not until paige’s introduction ep that you’re smacked Full In The Face with like. All Of It. 

because paige is a law-abiding citizen high up on the corporate food chain, and she works a mundane job at a branding company. 

and the company’s margins are bad. 

and the company’s industry is shrinking. 

and the company needs to cut costs and reinvigorate its own brand. 

and of course this is a difficult time for everyone but flexibility is necessary to stay competitive in a cutthroat world.

and now the company is torturing its low-performing employees to death in front of everyone as a corporate ritual. viscerally described. 

and paige, who JUST watched her closest work friend die in the most horrific way imaginable, is playing her part as someone high up on the corporate food chain.

she is being upbeat and being cheerful and encouraging her surviving coworkers to “look lively” and pretending that nothing happened. 

and not a single person protests. and no one shrieks in horror and everyone shifts back into their worksona and the day passes without any particular note because this is a social norm and layoff-sacrifices are too commonplace to report and it is legal and it is accepted and it is a good way to boost the flagging numbers for the giant capitalist machine.

and you have this realization that. 

this Really Is how the world is. 

there really ISN’T anything separating the outlaw narrators’ rituals from those of the corporate and city-based gods.

and then the follow-up question becomes, “wait, then why is THEIR god banned?? if it’s not the murder and the horror then why is their god banned???? what’s the fucking difference????”

and the answer is that their outlawed god draws people away from the cities and the factories and the oil rigs and the pollution and the mineshafts. and their outlawed god does not contribute anything to the state. 

and it’s not about what people worship or what the gods want or what the rituals require or what the hallowed bodies look like.

it’s just about how The State (TM) and Capitalism (TM) are both systems that have weaponized the law to kill every god that doesn’t contribute to their money and power and exploitation and culture and control.

and then it’s.... it’s not about the horror anymore.

it’s not a story of two deeply flawed protagonists from a sick and twisted cult who are reasonably forced into the shadows of a largely normal world because They Are In A Horror Story, And Are Doing What Horror Protagonists Do (Being Fucking Crazy).

it’s a story about our world. the one we live in. we the listener. here in our modern-ass non-supernatural late-stage-capitalism world. it’s about all the structures we’ve built and burned and all the destruction at the center of that goddamn world.

the eldritch gods and terrors are just set dressing.

[whumpsday]

Petrichor #1

Writing Masterlist

content: vampire whumpee, buried alive, begging, rescue, asphyxiation, religious whump, death wish, starvation, claustrophobia, sensory deprivation, touch starvation, comfort, harming self for vampire feeding purposes, possible historical inaccuracies

Whumpmas in July Day 15: Buried Two Weeks of Whump Day 14: Coffin

this is vampire whump, but it does NOT take place in the K&J universe! i wanted to play around with some vampire mythology that i chose not to incorporate into K&J lore.

thank you to @lost-in-labradorite-halls for beta-reading and helping my clueless jewish ass with the christian bits and generally inspiring this piece via the wonderful vampire torture you regularly concoct!!

also have a song:

-

Petrichor's endless, airless torment was punctuated once again by the sound of a shovel entering the earth.

It was worth noting strictly because anything was worth noting down here. The digging wasn't out of the ordinary: it was a cemetery, of course.

This time, it sounded close. Every time it sounded near, Petrichor dared let himself hope it might reach him, though he knew such a thing was absolutely ridiculous. People dug graves to bury bodies, not exhume them.

It was utterly maddening. Someone was so close, another soul- a soul, rather, given he did not possess one any longer- and he was unable to make even the slightest peep to alert them to his distress, all oxygen having vacated his tiny box what must have been decades ago, if not centuries. At least he didn't require air anymore.

A tear rolled down his cheek at the thought, his body unable to conjure up more than that. He could not even raise an arm to tap on the wood of the coffin, the weakness having deprived him so effectively. Petrichor listened to the digging longingly, laid still and silent in his grave, the corpse he was.

I'm here. I'm still here, after all this time. Please, it can't be like this forever. I care not whether I'm rescued or slain, but please, someone put an end to it. Dear Lord, I know I'm not one of Your creatures any longer, but please help me.

As if answering his prayer, the digging slowly grew closer as the hours passed. It was odd: usually there would be a bustle of people around, and only one grave would be dug. But he could hear nothing but the digging, and it almost sounded like multiple graves. Perhaps some tragedy had befallen the family owning the plot next to his.

It was disappointing, in a way. The voices, though he could hardly make them out from under the earth, were the only human connection he had left in his horrible fate. Sometimes, he could even make out bits and pieces of the priest's sermon, which never failed to make him cry. He could not even utter a prayer aloud in his wretched state, if the Lord would even have him as he now was. And clearly, He wouldn't.

Petrichor's melancholy thoughts were swiftly interrupted when the sound of digging grew yet closer. Much closer.

As if it were right above him.

Oh dear Lord, please. This could finally be it, couldn't it? If his grave were to be exhumed, for some odd reason?

The shovel knocked against wood. Petrichor could feel it reverberate through the coffin, the first physical sensation interrupting the suffocating stillness in longer than he could know.

He wanted to weep for joy. It was finally happening, it was over. His prayers had finally been answered!

Someone opened the coffin, trading the wooden finish he'd stared at for so long for a starry sky.

Petrichor gasped for breath, his first in what may as well have been lifetimes, smelling of freshly-turned earth. It was nearly impossible to move, his muscles stiff and dry, but he was able to breathe through his nose, and open his mouth just a small amount. It was more than enough: he had air, his lungs no longer drowning.

"Holy fucking shit!" His rescuer tried to jump back, but they were inside his grave with him, and space was sparse.

It was difficult to move his eyes, but he managed it, fixing them on the first person he'd seen since his funeral. They looked young, around his age when he'd been buried or perhaps younger, dressed in an androgynous black cloak. Their clothes and face all ranged from speckled with dirt to absolutely caked in it.

Petrichor stared at them with wild, desperate eyes, and with fresh air in his lungs, made what little sound he could manage: a strangled, pleading cry.

"Oh my god. Oh my fucking god." His rescuer continued to take the Lord's name in vain and spew profanities, but Petrichor couldn't bring himself much to care. All that mattered was getting out of his coffin, the end of his suffering. But he was unable to move.

His rescuer seemed to recognize this as well, their string of expletives tapering off as they tilted their head, staring back.

They glanced up at his gravestone. "Here lies Petrichor Adams," they read out. "1797 to 1820."

They looked back down at him, squinting. "What the hell are you?"

Petrichor whined again, a tear making its way down his face once more.

His rescuer leaned in, their initial shock having given way to a surprising lack of fear. They knelt beside him, peering at his face. "You sure got some chompers in there, huh? What, like...?" They looked out over the edge of the hole, like someone would come out and announce it was all a trick, but no one did.

Petrichor could do nothing but stare pleadingly.

His rescuer tapped him on the cheek. The first touch he'd felt in forever, it almost tingled. They tilted his head to the side, exposing the scars he supposed must still mark his neck: the fangs that had condemned him to this fate.

"You supposed to be a vampire or something?" they asked, incredulous. Having picked up that he could not reply, they continued on. "Well, fuck. What, you need blood or something, is that it? Oh, no no no. I've seen the movies, I've played the video games, alright? I am not fucking with this." They produced a small rectangular object from their pocket, angling it at him in various positions and tapping it oddly before replacing it in their cloak.

The soaring hope in Petrichor's long-dead heart crashed against the rocks. He could not understand some of what the digger said, but the sentiment was clear: he would receive no help.

He would remain locked in his prison.

Petrichor's chest quaked with dry sobs. He trained his eyes upward, thankful that his wretched body could not produce tears very quickly, as his vision remained unblurred when he took in the stars. The sight of something beautiful, one last time.

The digger sighed, glancing at his headstone once more.

"Well. It does say you were beloved," they remarked. "Beloved son. They wouldn't've put that there if you were some bloodsuckin' serial killer, huh?"

Petrichor made no further attempt to look away from the stars, but allowed himself to hope again. Perhaps he would be allowed out, if the digger would take pity on him.

His rescuer shook their head. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

They produced a small blade, rolled up their sleeve, and sliced themself across the back of the arm. They positioned the wound just above his mouth, allowing their blood to drain across his tongue.

Petrichor had never tasted blood before- not posthumously, that was. He had been buried shortly after his death, without time to fall prey to his new, monstrous nature. It was nothing like blood had been as a human: the coppery taste when he'd split his lip roughhousing as a child. This, this was everything. It was the sweetest honey, it was the finest glass of red wine, it was the flavorful broth of his mother's pot roast, it was life itself flowing into his veins.

Slowly, the muscles in his body lost their stiffness, and he could move once more. He raised his head up toward the source of the lifeblood, but his savior placed their boot firmly on his chest, keeping him pinned to the floor of his coffin.

"Think that's enough for now. Don't wanna get woozy." They tore a piece of cloth from their cloak, wrapping the wound. "Cat still got your tongue, buddy?"

"P-please," Petrichor rasped, his voice weak from disuse, "Kind... sir? I cannot go on like this. Whatever fate you'd bestow upon me, I care not, so long as I'm not forced to remain inside this box. I am a vampire, it's true, but I had never consumed even a drop of blood before tonight. I mean no harm. Please allow me to leave this coffin." His voice broke, his words coming out squeaky. "I was human once, too."

Desperate begging. He'd never thought his life would come to this, but he supposed it never had. His life had ended long ago.

The boot was removed from his chest.

"Alright, Petrichor Adams, take it easy," his rescuer said. "I'm not gonna leave you down here no matter what you are. That'd be crazy fucked up." They extended a hand. "Robin."

Petrichor took their hand, his own shaking. "Thank you so very, very much. You've saved me from an unbearable fate."

Robin pulled him up to standing, his bones creaking with the unfamiliarity of movement. "Huh. It's almost like you time traveled or something. Says you died when you were 23, that's like, practically my age. Guess the 200 years in between don't really count."

Petrichor wasn't sure what came over him, but he burst into tears instantly. His body had no trouble with it now, two centuries' worth of crying flowing forth all at once as he bawled.

"They count!" he wept. "I was down there, I- I was down there the entire time! I did not sleep!"

"Alright!" Robin agreed with haste. "Okay, grandpa, you're 226 then, whatever's good. Jeez, c'mon, you don't gotta cry. It's gonna be okay."

They rubbed their thumb over his hand, and he gasped from the sensation. After so long, every touch felt one thousand times stronger than it was.

Petrichor attempted to pull himself together. "Yes, yes of- of course."

"And listen, you gotta be quieter. We're reeeeally not supposed to be out here right now." Robin hopped up, pulling Petrichor up with them.

A knapsack laid at the foot of his grave, varied pieces of jewelry and a few golden teeth visible from the top.

His rescuer was a graverobber and a thief. But Petrichor knew his situation was desperate, and chose to say nothing. He was no better, given what he was now.

Robin noticed the direction of his gaze nonetheless, offering him a mischievous smirk. "Yeah, Graverobbin' Robin, that's what they call me. And by they I mean me, 'cause no one knows I do this." They began shoveling dirt back into his grave. "Good thing I do, though. Never thought I'd save a vampire on my side hustle, but life throws you curveballs, I guess. You know baseball?"

"I do not, I'm afraid," Petrichor replied, watching mesmerized as his coffin became entombed once more.

"Bro, how are you gonna die in Boston and not know baseball? I gotta take you to a game sometime. Literally first order of business, now that I've got money for tix!"

None of it felt real. He was finally out, but two hundred years had passed. Everyone he'd ever known and loved was long-dead.

He turned, looking to his family plot, but his eyes instantly caught a horrible burning sensation. A headstone in the shape of a cross.

Petrichor averted his gaze. Of course: he'd almost forgotten. He was no longer one of The Lord's creatures.

Robin finished, slung their pack over their shoulder, and motioned him to follow. "You can crash at my apartment while you figure your shit out. I'll grab you some more blood from the butcher's once the T starts running. That's like the subway. Uh, I mean- never mind, not important. Hope pig's blood's enough for you, 'cause I can't do that every day."

At the very least, he had Robin.

"That sounds lovely."

-

this was originally gonna be a one-shot but i think i might write more? oh god, am i really starting another vampire series? THIS ONE WILL BE SHORTER. A MINISERIES.

if you liked this but want something a more hurt/no-comfort flavored i recommend Our Man Flint by @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night!!

tune in on tuesday for some kane & jim!

everything taglist:

@lilac-and-lemon-whumps

@t0rture-me

@whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

@whumpshaped

@pigeonwhumps

@the-scrapegoat

one-shots taglist (this is only gonna have 3-4 chapters max so im lumping it in with the one-shots):

@icyheart-and-friends

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast

@whuarri

@whumpycries

@reborrowing

event: @whumpmasinjuly @promptsforyourwhumpfic

[anonymous-fartist]

ok hear me out but have u ever thought of torture w it? Like ofc consensual but like chaining someone up and continuously ripping mad ass in their lap ((they can't get away))

or someone doing THAT to YOU🧁🌺🎀

My boyfriend sent me this fucking amazing scenario and it's all I've been able to think about

So I've written this piece for it

Enjoy, I know I fucking did ^-^

CONTENT WARNINGS: Gas (of course), restraints, dubious consent/mild torture (with the gas), mild knifeplay, read at your own risk fellas ~~~

You’d known this would happen, really. When he’d taken you out to eat — to that lovely pasta place you two loved to visit — he’d ordered way more than you knew he could handle. All that free bread, too. You’d watched him. It didn’t take long for his stomach to start its familiar protest, gurgling and grumbling under his shirt while he drove. Each time it did, he’d wince, and pull a pained little face. You could tell he was trying to ignore it, to keep it out of the conversation, but you just couldn’t let that happen.

You were poking fun. Literally, and figuratively. Teasing, taunting, reaching out to prod at his gut. He couldn’t exactly push you away — you were in the passenger seat, right next to him — and with every jab, you could feel how full he was. Poor guy. He grit his teeth, and tried to endure it. “I’m fine.” He’d insisted. “Just… lay off it, ok?” Like hell you’d listen to that. More teasing, poking, bratty little retorts. Almost like you were having a conversation with his bubbling belly.

You could tell it pissed him off. He furrowed his dark brows, cheeks burning and shoulders hunched. He kept hissing little demands, pleading, asking you to stop. Softly at first, but more forcefully, the more you teased and sassed. You ignored him, like a brat. By the time you’d gotten home, he practically slammed the door of the car shut, storming inside stiffly. Fuming.

You followed close behind. “What’s the matter??” You giggled, hovering over his shoulder. “Too embarrassed to admit you have gas??”

You saw his jaw clenched the second you uttered those words. His sharp eyes darting, staring daggers at you. You’d never seen him look so stern. It sent a chill down your spine, and you faltered a little. Clearly not enough to deter him, though. He shot an arm out, grabbing at your wrist with surprising strength. His grip was so tight it hurt. You couldn’t have pulled away even if you wanted to — much to his amusement — and with a firm yank, he pulled you closer to him, lowering his mouth to your ear. His voice was husky.

“I warned you to watch your fucking mouth.” He seethed. Oh dear god…

He practically pulled you off your feet, dragging you halfway across the house, towards your shared bedroom. He was rough, and the corners of his lips twitched up into a sadistic-looking grin. His stomach continued to growl, softly, under his hand.

Grrrmmm…

He winced. If he was in pain, it didn’t last long, though, when he threw you carelessly onto the bedspread. His usual tenderness had all but entirely seeped from him, replaced with frustration and… well, a killer stomachache, you supposed. You barely had time to retain your composure before he grabbed you again. Your eyes went wide.

In your daze, he’d gone digging through the drawers by the bed. In his hands, he held a thick length of chain. By this point, his smirk had spread into a full grin, and he regarded you with wide, dark eyes. “Teach you a fuckin’ lesson, huh?” He muttered, almost to himself, as he yanked your arms up. You yelped — which he paid no attention to — and felt the cold restraint rubbing against your wrists.

Good lord. He was tying you to the bedframe.

“What the fuck-?” You managed to stammer, before a low growl cut you off. You couldn’t tell whether it came from his throat of his belly. He ignored your confusion. The restraint was tight, and held your poor arms up high, behind your head. No matter how hard you squirmed, the damn thing wouldn’t budge. Shit. You instantly regretted letting him practice so much on you.

He sat before you on the bed, taking a second to admire you. He chuckled deeply to himself, his voice rumbling in his chest. That laugh. It frightened you. “Not so cocky now, huh??” It was his turn to tease. His tone caused your cheeks to burn, and you lowered your eyes, squirming. Trying to tug on the chains. No luck.

He shuffled closer, putting a firm hand on your knee. He was warm. There was no way he was gonna… not now, right?? All because you teased him a little?? … He shuffled a little, from his place in front of you, sitting himself back down. Right in your lap. His weight pressed against your thighs, and the gesture took you by surprise, your eyes going wide.

His poor, overstuffed belly gave a low gurgle. It was a more desperate sound, and he huffed, placing his other hand on his side. Giving it a quick rub. “I can’t say you were wrong, though.” He chuckled. “I’ve been, ahem… holding back. For your sake.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean??You cocked your head, shooting him a confused look. All he did was laugh. And give a soft grunt. The unmistakable sound echoed through the room, and you felt it ripple against your lap, heating the area where he sat. You went stiff. No way he just…

But then the smell hit. God, it was awful. Fucking putrid, really, a disgusting concoction of whatever bullshit he’d eaten throughout the day. He sighed, in relief no doubt, while you thrashed about, turning your head, trying pathetically to escape the damn stench. Your arms were bound. Your couldn’t plug your nose, no matter how bad you tried. It burned.

His sadistic grin never once left his face, eyes scouring your writhing form. He was clearly amused. You could tell by the smug lilt in his voice. “I saved that just for you.” He seethed, grinding himself further against your leg. “Smells lovely, hmm?” You practically gagged. He clicked his tongue.

“Tsk, tsk, so unappreciative. Such a brat.”

You felt ashamed to be blushing at his words.

“God, that’s foul…” You managed to mutter. He scoffed, narrowing his eyes. That look, the one that made your blood run cold, returned to his face.

… He leaned over your pitiful form, reaching into a drawer behind you. He pulled out something metallic, that glinted under the dim light seeping through the closed blinds. A blade. Why the fuck did he have a knife on hand??

Never-mind that, though, because you had no time to think. Within a few seconds, he’d twirled it in his trained hand, and pressed the cold metal right against your collarbone. Your breath hitched. It was so close. You really had to watch that temper of his. “Watch yourself.” He demanded, shifting around in his seat. Still firmly pressed into your lap.

Grrrgggllmm…

He let out a shaky breath, biting his lip, and forced out another fetid, rippling burst. He strained to push it out, and you were worried he’d let the knife at your throat slip in the struggle. But he held it still.

Jesus Christ, the smell. Somehow worse the second time. You let out a sharp cough, and forced yourself to hold your breath. Blinking back the tears from your watery eyes. He didn’t seem to take too kindly to this, and with his only free hand, reached up towards your face, clamping it over your mouth. You couldn’t breathe.

You had no choice. You could usually hold it for a while, but god, it had taken you by surprise. Air was running thin, and it wasn’t long before you were forced to inhale sharply, through your nose.

Goddamn repulsive. He seemed overjoyed by your whines.

“You love it.” He hissed, pressing the cold metal further against your nape. One wrong move, and it’d slice straight from shoulder to jaw. “Go on, tell me. You love it.” You had no choice but to comply.

“I-… I love it.” Your words were muffled into his hands. His grin twitched cruelly.

“It smells good, huh??” “It… fuck-… it smells so good…”

So fucking degrading. You could tell it excited him. His rhythmic grinding against your thigh told you more than enough.

“You want more. Go on. Beg for me.” … You considered resisting, but a flick of his wrist reminded you who was in charge. You let out a strangled whimper. “I said beg.”

“Shit-… Please. Please, I want more.”

He tittered in mock disgust. “You’re fucking filthy.”

But he did as you’d asked. He lowered the hand clasping at your face, and pressed the heel of his palm into his stomach, causing it to growl and churn. He was coaxing more out, you could hear it. You have a last-ditch effort to tug at your wrists, trying one last time to free yourself. Hah. No luck.

The next one sounded awful. Loud, long, and almost sickly, damn near surprising him as well. It was a miracle that he could handle his own damn brand. Was this the kind of shit he was holding daily?? It almost made you regret picking on him so frequently.

“Go on.” He urged you. You were too light-headed to protest. You just hoped to god he’d spare you soon.

“It smells lovely-…” You stammered, swallowing back a gag as you spoke. “Th-… Thank you.”

“Good.”

For your good behaviour, he loosened the grip on his knife, giving you a little more room to breathe. Not that it’d help. Every single sniffle was tainted. And there you were, drinking it in, begging like some sort of animal. If he’d wanted to teach you a lesson, he’d made his point clear as fucking day.

But he wasn’t done with you yet. There was plenty more where that came from, you could tell. Might as well make the most of it. You could be there for a while.