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1800titz · 2 days

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COME TOUCH ME TOO | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 11.2K on patreon

second part to LIQUID SMOOTH

You’d catch him over the sink sometimes. Or the stove. At the dinette, shirtless. Big bear, you thought, still only half-awake (starving), staring at his skin, swathed in ink that traversed limb, to torso, to limb. You’d catch the smattering of dark hair pooling over his sternum, and the hair beneath his navel, darker, more wiry, seeping into the band of his pajama pants. And later, you’d wonder if it was the substructure— torn out from you— that you were chasing (the surfeited rift between your ages, the sage wisdom you lacked), or if it was just the shape of him, the way he fit into your life, the subtle domesticity of a morning. The pantomime of a distant daydream. (Pretending this was your life you were living, and not taking a page from someone else’s.)

preview

The bar you’re at feels congested. Sticky, shoulders brushing shoulders, feet bumping feet, and the music is loud enough that you feel it droning along the skin of your bones. Past max-capacity; something you anticipated. Accepted on a Friday night— no sort of discomfort that couldn’t be waterlogged into an unconcerned bliss with enough alcohol.

And that’s what it started as.

One shot to ease the restless hypervigilance (when you shuffled in, sliding between clusters of bodies), that burned at the back of your throat, heat flaring across your crinkling sinuses. Then, a second, that radiated warmth along your chest, under your skin, that settled as a weightless feeling beneath the soles of your feet. Loosened the arc of your shoulders.

(You never buy your own drinks.)

A third, cupped from a stranger’s fingers, with bright, powder blue eyes that lingered on your throat, the line of your jaw when you tipped your head back. Inkpools stuck to your tongue when you smeared it out across your lips, the bridge of your nose rucking. He gave you a wolfish, glimmering grin and told you what a pretty thing you are.

(And you think, staring up at him through the misting crest of intoxicant smog, he’s too young. Feels like a boy— one you can’t re-mold even in the haze of alcohol— in the absence of crows’ feet and shallow smile lines, the glinting, tawdry rhinestone stuck to his incisor. Skin speckled with ink that resembles zealous impulse rather than an aged, carefully-crafted tapestry. You doubt there’s any worthwhile story behind the dice in the nook of his elbow; RICH across the front, C and H tipped perfectly on their southern edges to show the S and K that could fill the word out, instead.)

(You can’t even pretend.)

You seldom find regret in the sea of a familiar gyre (the world spinning, and you, finally, spinning with it), but the spindrift crashes across in a misty fog of discomfort. The riptide lures you out to swallow you whole. You’re not sure when the euphoria mutates into anxiety— maybe somewhere along the fourth and the fifth— but it coagulates in your esophagus, in your stomach. Cakes in the warm, soft spot under your ribcage, until your bones feel like they’re wobbling with the pulse of your heart. Vibrating.

You showed up with a coworker. Admittedly, one you didn’t know too well, to a bar you haven’t been to before. But going out is going out, and a bar is a bar. You don’t need a babysitter, you don’t need to know her well, and you don’t need to scope the the pub, but—

Last you saw her, she was propped against the corner of the bar, and now, as you sweep your bleary gaze over the mass, she’s nowhere in sight. You’re alone. You’re alone, and the world is spinning, screaming, chattering over the pulsing base, and you feel like you can’t keep up.

When you swallow, it lodges in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe, nearly tripping over your own feet, brushing between tangled musculature, limbs like gnarled, warm roots for you stumble over. And you feel like you’re trying to part the sea to make room for your clumsy steps. Like you’re trying to move mountains.

By the time you make it outside, your lungs are aching, and your shoulders are quaking. You don’t know where it’s coming from— what it is— but it feels like a flame licking its way up under your dermis, and you want to shed your skin off the bone. The gulp of air you take is welcome. Cold. Wet.

It’s raining.

Pouring. The gust drenches your bare legs in spittle off the sky, even under the awning. Helplessly, you pat around for your phone.

And you don’t know what possesses you. You don’t know if it’s a clumsy swipe of your thumb across the glowing screen, or a cruel form of divine intervention, when you scroll and stutter along his contact. It’s a number you should’ve deleted. Haven’t pressed in months.

You flung yourself out of orbit, and seeing his name feels like you’re a piece of star-shed that’s slipped too close— a hair from homecoming. It feels like the inevitable, crushing weight of gravity snagging you into the miserable ouroboros you’ve spent every evening running from. A tidal wave, reborn, swallowing you whole.

And you know the repercussions— the potential there. The consequences of sticking wet fingers into electrical sockets, but you tell yourself, he won’t pick up. It’s too late. You’re too late. Too—

Your finger lingers.

You don’t know what would be worse. Abandonment in another shape, or hearing his voice on the other end of the line.

You call him.

You regret it a split-second too late, staring down at the screen dialing. When you press the phone to your ear, with the rain spitting, the thrum of the bass behind the door— your heart rattling in your ears, your head spinning—

You barely hear the three rings before the line clicks. It’s quiet.

And then—

“Hello?”

You suck in a gust of air. You expected his voice to hurt. To ache— you anticipated, maybe, a lot of things, with variegated hypotheticals spelled out in misty shapes through hours spent staring at your ceiling.

But every chimera crumbles when the words stick to the back of your throat. Part of it is the slurry in your veins, the hard liquor, the way it’s all kicked in, all at once. And part of it is the realization that, despite the biramous conjectures you’ve crafted— the what if’s— it’s the heavy thought that all roads lead to this.

He sounds hoarse. Mean with sleep.

“Um. Hi.” The words sound garbled, like you’re underwater. Tinny, wet, strained.

Eager in the shape of unrequited pining; a mangled fruition of all the nights you’d spent, thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he’d pick up on the other end of the line, stockpiling the heap of broken wishes. The ones you cradled in your hands like jagged fractures of your rib bones, cracked from how hard your heart was pounding.

(If only he could see the lovelorn tar in your marrow, leaking out in a rotting treacle and pooling in the crevice of your love-line; tragic, broken down a long gap right under the wedge between your pinky and ring finger.)

The awning does a poor job of covering your toes, and they soak in the torrent that spumes from the midnight aether, shimmering against the wet asphalt. Silly, little girl— woman, nowadays— one ear corked with your forefinger to stifle the downpour spitting from the same sky you’d crane your neck and spill orisons at, the other fisting at your phone like a lifeline. Dangling onto the thread off this unspooled hope.

You sound ditzy. Soporific. Lost. You wonder if he picks up on it on the other end of the line. “Are you, um. Are you busy?”

The speaker crackles.

Finally, he rasps from the other end of the line— a thunderclap, like a gunshot, “You’re not callin’ me at one in the morning to ask me if I’m busy.”

“I—“ the words stick to the back of your throat.

Something seals up in your lungs with the breath you try to take.

Bitter recrudesce, a reminder when it wakes back up in the slotted teeth of your heart— an ache, alleviated in his absence after time, that throbs at the sound of his voice. Your jaw quakes on what you want to confess, snarled in your throat. I love you— Please— I’ve loved you since—

Your lip wobbles. Teeth clack, staring at the wet asphalt. “Uh. Sorry.”

You settle for a middle ground— some compromise in the clouded welter of your docket— something you’ve been meaning to say for months.

(Sorry for being a silly, little girl that fell in love with you.)

You’re met with a beat of silence that eats into your marrow. Has your guts twisting, chest tight. Then, (solace) a sigh— surly— oozes across the crackling speaker.

“Where are you?”

The question reminds you why you called in the first place. That you’re sopping up dirty rainwater with your boots on the outskirts of town, outside some seedy bar you came to, to drown your demons (him) in burnt amber. A thunderbolt ripples across the pitch aether, zagging electric chalky across the swollen plumes. All at once, you…

Crumble.

“I’m, um. Ah…” your chin quivers. You nod, “I’m here. At a, um. At a bar. Outside a bar.”

“Which bar? Who are you with?”

The slew of questions nearly makes you laugh.

The concern, there, throttles you and the tension in your shoulders like you expected anything less. You did. And you would laugh if hearing his voice, for the first time in months, wasn’t a sobering maelstrom on your psyche. Despite the way your tongue feels sticky, and useless, like it's caught on the roof of your mouth, you clear your throat.

“Um. It’s called, ah— Southbound,” your eyes slip shut. The wobble at your feet clicks in your knees. “I came with a— with a coworker. But I can’t find her. And I just— sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I got, um. I’m… sorry.”

You set your teeth and stare down at the rainwater speckling the toes of your boots. Gusting against your bare legs, and you don’t realize you’ve been hanging onto the phone with both hands cupped, like a lifeline, until his voice comes through.

“Y’alright?”

He sounds a little more awake. No doubt at the quiver in your tone. The way you can’t cohesively suture the words together. You roll forward on your toes. It’s a miscalculated motion on your part, because you nearly topple forward.

“No. Yeah. M’really— um. I’m a little, um. Drunk. I think. So—“ you slur. Take a breath. “No. I don’t—“

The words come out small. Tired. There’s a crack in your voice, like you’re on the edge of keeling over the precipice. You feel it in the burn at the back of your eyes, raw in your sinuses, when you admit, softly, “…I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take another breath, and feel it against the enamel of your teeth. Expect the sear of ice. Your fingers feel strained on your phone. Crushing. Taut. You think about his next words before he says them. Before the surly crackle from the other end of the line hits you, imagine it— call an uber.

I’ll call you an uber, at best. At worst…

You swallow. The line crackles again.

“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

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hobisfavoritespritecan · 3 months

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Tourniquet

DUNCAN VIZLA X READER

⚠️ Warnings: Uhhh kinda extreme gore, I mean I definitely go into intense detail about some of the way these people die so probably don't read this if you're squeamish, blood, death, murder, language, mentions of drugs and alcohol, I think that's it but yeah ⚠️

Duncan comes to save you and risks his life in the process.

Duncan had originally wanted nothing more than to retire from this god-forsaken line of work he'd been in for over thirty years. To succumb fully to the relaxation that was unemployed bliss, somewhere far off in the lost woods with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Maybe he'd try for another dog again, although he wasn't too lucky with his PTSD responses around Rusty. Wherever in the world he may be or whomever he'd be with, he just wanted some goddamn peace and quiet, thankyouverymuch.

Today, he was not so lucky. Of course, he had to take the one job offer to end his career with a bang and to coagulate all of the money he'd originally been promised to begin with. One job after another, one shot fired towards a man's head and a stapler gun to his ankles, all led him here. At the front of this house. On a rescue mission. Which would then lead to a hitman mission. Obviously. Unfortunately.

Duncan sighed and took in the landscape with his one good eye, courtesy of the copious amount of torture he'd pushed through over the past month. Although his wounds were still healing and he felt their burn underneath the folds of his fabric coat, he had to act fast as there was no time to waste. He needed to put his life on the line once again; as he had for so many years working as a hitman. But now, there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A reward to his revenge. Nothing that was false promises of money or strippers or nights out at the bar that would only situate him for a week before he grew bored. No, at the end of this mission was the promise of your safety and the potential of the two of you living this retired life he'd dreamt of for so long.

He only had to kill 30+ men and his former "mission mates" before getting to you and fleeing this Damocles shit for good.

Easy, in theory. In actuality, he was probably going to end up dead. Unless he could control himself through his rage and use it as an adrenalin boost rather than a distraction to his plan.

The mansion was huge and lavish in comparison to the wood houses Duncan had come to love in Montana. It was almost entirely frivolous; the magnitude of Blut's weath, all gained from those who did his dirty work and never out of his own aspirations.

Seeing the coast was fairly clear, he crafted a plan in his head as to how he was going to make it in and out of the place unscathed. Two guards to his left on the rooftop, facing outwards. Meaning that there must be at least another two on the other side, not knowing from which direction he'd come. Another one in the upper right window that could easily be taken out with a sniper. A few fifteen or so on the ground in hidden positions, all of which he knew considering he used to work for the damn place. Assuming Blut's usual stupidity would mean that the plans for an attack on Damocles would be unchanged, minus those who were inside of the place itself.

Time for action. He took off his heavy coat and draped it on the tree nearest to him so as not to be weighed down by the material. His thick wool sweater would be more than enough to keep him warm, alongside his steel-toed boots. Underneath his coat and concealed by his initial wardrobe was a now visible belt with two loaded guns on either side. His hand was clad with brass knuckles and he had a knife in his boot, only for an extreme situation. Worse comes to worse, he still had that piece of shrapnel under the second layer of his skin from one of his older missions he could cut out if he really had to. Eyepatch in place and hair tied in an up-do, he was ready to start shooting people.

Hey, maybe if they were all dead he'd finally get his $8 million he'd been promised.

It happened as quickly as the next snowflake hit the ground; Blut's mansion was under attack. They'd been expecting him, but as he was called The Black Kaiser, he was the best of the best. He knew their ins and outs and was now thankful he kept a friendly but protective distance from everyone while he was in the org so that they wouldn't know the specificities for his own attack. One skillful shot to the top left roof was enough to pierce through the necks of both the men standing atop it, one falling off after the other and landing on the ground with a thick thud. Blasted through arteries and a fuckton of blood pooled out the edges from where they'd fallen, creating intricate patterns on the wintery terrain and leaving giant stains on the sides of the building.

Now understanding their mission was a go, the man from the window received the hint and withdrew himself from the window, racing back inside most likely to tell Blut about the outside commotion. No matter. He'd take his time to paint the entirety of the green estate red with the fallen victims of Damocles.

He'd been right about the guards from the top of the building being on the other side, except there were three instead of two. They rushed around looking for the potential places Duncan could be hiding, so as to scope him out first and be the ones to receive the praise from their fat ass nepo-baby boss. They must all be younger and have no idea the amount of years and experience he'd had in this industry because Duncan was in plain fucking sight with his guns readied in both hands.

"Bye." He said, and shot them at the same time, making two of the guards meet the same tragic fate as their friends. One, two, they hit the ground with more thuds and guts, spreading their entrails further out than most people would think the human body could reach. One of their intestines had wrapped around the edges of the window panes, a man still alive wishing he wasn't. He was screaming from the upper floor awaiting his fall as he was held up by the gaping wound in his stomach where Duncan had shot him once more. The last guard at the top of the roof looked down in horror and jumped himself, taking his own life and going limp once his neck made a loud snap against the pavement under the soft snow.

PTSD flashbacks edged the corners of Duncan's one-eyed vision, trying their best to stop him as he witnessed the horror of human death via his hands. He was used to this feeling, of wanting to curl up and revert into himself, to never see anyone or anything again and be tortured as payment for his crimes. He was just a man, not a deity. Why should he choose- or rather- listen to who chooses who should meet an untimely death? What makes him above the others within his species?

Because of their frequent visits, he shut his visions down and went soulless. That was the only way to truly do his job and to continue to do it well within the moment and not fight with the side that was desperate to live in peace and an understanding of humanity. He was a pacifist at heart, truly. And even though it went against his psychological beliefs of the world, he had to pretend that intentions outweighed his actions in the sense of his killing and this mission; that getting to you was worth the rampant murderous spree of all these people, paid by their boss just as he was to do the same tasks he's doing.

Burrowing into himself, he rolls to the nearest icicle filled tree, grabbing the man who was hidden here with the gun and twisting his neck until he heard the sounds of life escaping his throat. He discarded his now empty gun for the one in the holster of the other man, making sure it was fully loaded before proceeding to also extract the menthols from the upper part of the stranger's jacket.

"Mange Tak." He said, Danish for thank you. He could have a little class while he was at it.

Noticing the tree he was under and the man whom he'd just killed, Blut was either following their Five-Ten plan or the Outskirts plan, both of which were effective in combat. The Five-Ten plan was created by Vivian herself meaning that there would be five on the perimeter of the compound, five on the rooftop, and ten within the building before whomever was entering made it inside. Then, after getting through the frontlines of security (if they made it that far), whomever was infiltrating would meet the guards who allowed their cohorts to be killed as preparation time for the main show.

The Outskirts plan, however, would mean that every man who wasn't directly appointed as an assassin to Blut's side would be out in the fields which were now covered in snow, using the trapdoors hidden in the earth to prepare their weapons for combat and kill the intruder as he (or she) approached the compound.

He was going to take his bets with the Five-Ten.

Heart barely going over an easy 65bpm, he calmly readied his guns for the next part of the infiltration where a few other guards would pop up and flock to his sides, hoping that they might catch him off-guard. Which they wouldn't. Another few shots took care of those and as he wiped the blood off his face from the splatter of one of them, he lit a cigarette and started walking towards the front of the compound, taking his chances that he knew which plan they had chosen considering he'd killed most of the other ones when he'd killed Vivian during their surprise attack not even hours before he got here.

Stepping over the walkway and opening the doors to the inside, he'd been proven correct in his intuition and flanked to the wall, keeping himself out of sight to those in the building. There were three open entryways leading from the main hall to the upstairs where the pig himself resided. Which meant around six of those corners could be another guard and he'd have to take his shots carefully, unless he wanted to engage in hand-to-hand combat which didn't always end well when your opponent had a firearm. He checked his inventory quickly.

Six bullets left. He'd have to be stingy about it.

Holding the trigger and aiming the barrel towards his right, he took a shot through the ornate pillars holding up the entryway's corbel arch, a bullet forcing itself through the small opening in which the wall met the pillar. He heard an "oomph!" which he gathered triumphantly signified his tactic of approach was also correct.

Can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Rolling to the floor into the room from whence the sound came, he staggered over to the next wall and shot through the entryway, shooting the man in the room in the leg. Fuck. Slight misstep on his account (or the other guy's considering he no longer had the bottom half of his leg). He dodged the man's bullets and lifted one of the cylindrical vases decorating the hallway and bashed it into the man's skull, once, twice, and then dropping it as he watched blood ooze from his nose. A sound from behind him meant another and he was met with hands wrapping around his throat and a gun being pressed to his temple.

This man was much bigger in stature than Duncan, but it was no matter. He swiftly acted as though he were aiming for his opponent's side as they would have practiced for upon initiation training. Seeing the man respond confidently to where he'd presumed Duncan would strike meant he'd left his nuts unguarded to which Duncan kicked in with precision. The man screamed, letting go of his counterpart and went to hold himself in anguish. Duncan mercilessly grabbed the weapon from his hands and shot through the one holding his injured manhood, shooting off his limb and probably the area underneath.

A few more men appeared from the entryways, and, after killing them all with a few more bullets than needed considering he had two guns now and maybe a hit to the face with his brass knuckles; he made his way to the top of the stairs, ready for whatever else would come. He could take on twenty more of them before expressing any ounce of fatigue as he'd trained his whole life for missions like this.

However, it was just you in the room.

Almost entirely taken aback by the slumped position you were in bound to that chair in the middle of the room, Duncan froze in his advances. He didn't let his guard down, no, but he took careful detail to the contortions of your face and the state of your being from which he could make out from this distance. Your long hair fell from the roots of your head which seemed to still be intact (thank god), but your skin was an ashy grey and blood had littered your hands and chest area. It was deep and dark and so red, redder than he'd felt he'd ever seen before and the PTSD was back, clawing at his chest and vision through his one good eye, all of his labors seemingly returning to dust. If you were dead, it would be the death of all deaths despite having only known you for a short period of time.

It had been the way you'd entered his house for the first time that caught him winded, hands tucked into the pockets of your long coat that kept you warm and smelling like the vanilla candles that littered your house. Your flushed cheeks from being out in the cold. Your smile as he'd offered you a sip of his hot chocolate, only to find out it had an added hint of whiskey. Your face when he'd kissed you for the first time. The hug you'd given him after.

It took fifty years of his life to finally admit it to himself and to anyone else who'd listen to the raspy notches in his throat as he exclaimed that he was, indeed, in love. And it was, indeed, with you.

"Something caught your eye, Kaiser?" Blut's agonizing and cruel voice caught the echos of the marble flooring and flooded the room, signaling his emergence from the darkness. He was wearing his stupid, douchebaggy jacket with a shit eating grin nearly reaching the corners of his eyes. This was the man whom he'd worked for all these years, pledged his loyalty to despite having no ounce of previous companionship with him. The one who owed him $8 million and the one who'd sent out his own personal hitman army to kill Duncan and get away with it so he would no longer be a liability to the company.

"She'd better be alive, or I'll skewer your head on that fucking Damocles sword you have above the mantle." He nearly spat out, taking his time to enunciate the weight of every word that escaped his lips, forcing them out in such an anger that anyone would feel in the depths of their bones. Blut, however, could care less.

"Oh she's alive." Made sure to keep her that way for you." He said, sauntering towards her seemingly lifeless body and tilting her chin upwards to finally reveal her face. "Thought she could use some plastic surgery though, don't you think Duncan?"

It was as if a knife had pierced his chest then and there. Your face, which had been absolutely perfect upon anyone's first glance, now was missing an eye on the opposite side of his own. Flesh had been carved out around it, which meant it would leave a scar possibly even nastier than his. He wanted to throw up at the idea someone could've taken something so important to you and destroy a piece of your life forever. He then thought maybe that was how his victims' families felt, learning that their fathers or brothers had passed due to the brutality of murder.

But you were still beautiful. And he had to save you still.

"Duncan... you're not responding?" Blut taunted with his awful voice, ringing the question in his ears and twisting the metaphorical knife even further into his chest. Duncan knew he'd need to snap out of the hold of his traumas and force himself to swallow anything else other than the situation at hand in order to save you...and himself.

"You're fucking dead. Don't you fucking touch her." Duncan said, grabbing the hefty sword of the supposed Damocles mansion from the mantle near him, letting the blade drag on the floor before discarding his gun entirely and picking up the sword. It had to have been at least four feet long with a shiny hilt and an even shinier blade which would be stained with the blood of the man before him in the time it'd take to say the sword's name. He would avenge this piece of your life that had been wrongfully taken from you.

A little less smug now, Blut reached into his pocket and withdrew a gun. "Y-y-you fucking stay back Kaiser! I won't hesitate to blow your head off!!"

"Where are your other men? Or are you truly so out of options that you're here alone?" Duncan growled, his discarded gun going into the fireplace, and, with a loud boom, caught the floor and curtains surrounding it on fire. The flames twisted and danced against in the reflection of his newfound weapon, a proper visual to the fire that licked his veins with the rage he felt. He continued his progression to your chair, sparing you a softer glance, before focusing everything onto the man before him who was now cowering by the window on the wall.

It was as if he were a child who'd been told hiding under a blanket would save him from the monsters under his bed and in his closet. He shrunk into the glass and tried his best to aim his gun with a shaking hand at Duncan's head. Duncan was now eye-to-eye with the man whom he'd fucking rip to shreds faster than any job he'd done as a hitman in his life.

"Blut...you're not responding?" He sneered, dodging the bullet that flew from his opponent's barrel. He lifted the sword and thrust it from the nape of his neck to the back of his skull, brains flying out against the widow he was in front of. Blood spurt from the open wound like a the lake outside of Duncan's house in Montana, where he'd resided before all this madness. Eyes bulged out of his skull with the optic nerves sliding down the forefront of his face and falling just above his mouth. Duncan dismantled the head from his torso still attached to the blade and spear tossed the sword of Damocles out the window and onto the grounds below, the sharp end getting stuck in the ground and displaying Blut's upside down head like a totem pole.

"'Suck my fucking dick."

Duncan freed you from the chair, taking you outside and down the winding trail, mansion burning to the ground in the distance. Back to Montana where now, at last, he would fucking retire.

#fanfiction #hobisfavoritespritecan #mads mikkleson #mads mikkelsen x reader #mads mikkelsen #duncan vizla #duncan vizla x reader

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years

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Title: Holy Light.

Pairing: Biblically Accurate!Yandere!Angel x Reader.

Word Count: 1.1k.

TW: Spiratial Non/Con (?), Religious Imagery, Body Transformation, and Slight Blasphemy.

At some point, it’d gotten into your head that this may be what euphoria is supposed to feel like.

It would have to be a cruel type of euphoria, if that were true – if anything could be true in a place like this. The colors were too harsh, made stark and oversaturated by a light not quite any you’d ever seen before. You couldn’t tell what you were resting on, if you were elevated or suspended or simply floating on solid air, but it was too soft, too stiff, a bed carved from glass and bone and all things joyful. Your skin seemed to pulse, to burn in the space between muscle and tissue, the source of your pain as unidentifiable as the one inflicting it onto you, as the color of the sky above your head and the depth of the fire-laden pits that plummeted below your feet, home to a world’s worth of abominations that seemed to slip into your mind and rot with so much as a glance towards their chasms. Those, at least, were grounding in their hideousness. Ugliness could be believed. Beauty to such a violent extent was not meant so comprehensible.

Beauty. Was this really beauty? It felt beautiful. You wanted it to be beautiful, as the way the open sea could be beautiful when there was no land to interrupt the endless waves. You hated it. You thought you hated it, at least, hated the way your eyes throbbed in your skull, loathed those little gaps of bliss that seemed to fester between your conscious thoughts. You couldn’t even call it righteous suffering, because you weren’t suffering, because this could never be suffering. It was ecstasy. It was perfection, sharp and terrible and agonizing.

“Divine creature. Lovely little one. Sweetest miracle of the flesh.” It wasn’t a voice, because the being speaking had no mouth, no body you could see nor any that you wanted to. It reverberated in your mind like chapel bells, piercing your consciousness like cleansing fire and burning all else away. Every word was another golden braid draped over your heart, wrapped around your lungs, strung through veins with all the delicacy of a needle penetrating cloth. You may’ve choked on it, if you’d still been able to feel your throat. You could’ve, if it would only let you. “What does my drop of sunlight desire?”

Something shifted underneath you – feathers, you realized, each vane its own perfect, snow-white arc. When you glanced down, you found that they stretched as far as your eye could see, blotting out anything beneath you into a dense coagulation of pin-straight barbs and silver shafts. They seemed to go on forever, interlocked and overlapping, no wings to keep them bound together or a body to make use of such an excessive collection. Except… Except there were wings, outstretched and arched upward, and there was a body too, only it wasn’t a body, only it was, only it couldn’t—

“Bliss? Pleasure beyond the mortal realm?” There was no body, because that voice could never belong to anything with flesh and blood. Pure, rolling heat washed over you, leaving a scorching sort of warmth searing into your body, your skin, your soul. Something deep in your chest clenched, tightening to a painful degree, and in a childish attempt to escape it, you rolled onto your side, pulling your knees into your chest and curling into yourself. Feathers danced against your bare skin, but you couldn’t begin to imagine how you would start to get away from them. “Would you like to join us, precious one?” It went on, oblivious or simply neglectful to your pleas for it to stop. “Would you like to rise into the celestial? Would you like to be of paradise?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your mouth wouldn’t open, unwilling to give the light another place to infest, and you weren’t sure you had the strength to move your tongue. In place of anything coherent, a cracked sob bubbled up from the core of your stomach, muffled behind sealed lips and grit teeth. Your vision blurred, but you didn’t realize tears were rolling down your cheeks until two wings ascended from the flurry, forming a makeshift shell around you. It was supposed to be comforting. You knew that intrinsically, as a songbird knew when it was about to be caught and left in a cage. You knew that it was meant to be soothing, and you knew it wasn’t. “Why does my precious one anguish so?”

Why wouldn’t you? Were you not supposed to be in pain? Did the mothers left in the valleys not cry out in agony as their sons were taken to the mountaintops? Were sinners turned to salt and stone not meant as warnings most to those who once loved them? Did the virgin not shed tears when He came to her with a request she had no choice but to fulfill? Would He have loved her, if she hadn’t?

You shut your eyes, but that didn’t help. Light played behind your eyelids like an ever-blossoming kaleidoscope, patterns of watchers and rings and blazing swords fighting past the darkness. Blindly, you clawed at your face, attempting to stave off the burning ache settling between the fibers of your creation, to take what was slowly twisting and coiling in your mind and get it away from you. There was only a hum, deep enough to leave you screaming in pain, and then, the being spoke, its wings closing tighter around you. “Of course. You aren't as one of us should be.” And then, as you began to taste blood on the back of your throat. “I will correct you, if that is what you wish.”

It was immediate, instant. Bone tearing through the skin of your hips and shoulder blades, flesh hardening and smoothing over where it was meant to be soft and textured, teeth sharpening behind lips and limbs cracking into new formations and claws sprouting from nailbeds. You coughed up blood, then viscera in writhing clumps, then when you had no more to give, something bright and golden that tasted like ash as it fell past your lips. White feathers were soon painted in shades of scarlet and ichor, but the creature didn’t seem to care, to feel remorse. How would it? What sympathy could a falcon ever feel for the insect thrown off-course by the movement of its wings?

“Drop of sunlight,” Low, deafening, as terrible as knives on glass and as lovely as wind through cattails. It was all you could do to tremble, ready to crumble under the weight of yourself, of what could not be you, anymore.

It was all you could do to smile, as you finally found to strength to open your eyes.

“Is it not beautiful?”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere angel #yandere oc #yanderecore #yancore #yandere monster

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alexanderlightweight · 1 year

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I don’t suppose you could do anything more in the mob wife/ sugar baby realms? I had so much fun reading those

oh anon, how could i resist the siren call of mob!wife alec when i adore it. i hope you enjoy and have more fun! thank you for the prompt

“My lovely, Alexander!” Magnus croons, his voice a delight to Alec’s ears after the evening he’s had and no sooner does Magnus reach him than Alec happily slumps against him. Magnus huffs out a laugh, used to Alec falling into him when he’s overwhelmed and tired.

“Oh, was it really that bad?” Magnus asks, a soft smile on his face that Alec can’t help but kiss and then he’s being rewarded for his suffering.

Magnus’ snaps away Alec’s shirt and jacket and shoes and he groans in relief at the feeling of magical hands tracing his back.

“Why is he like that?” Alec asks, because he can’t help it. “Half the time he acts like prey who knows when to hide and who to hide behind. But then the other half, he acts like he either has no self-preservation or like he thinks he’s an actual threat.”

“Did he threaten you?” Magnus teases and Alec holds back a grimace, because if he has to tell Magnus about the incident, it’s going to end in tears.

Simon’s probably.

Which makes Alec even less inclined to share because he’s seen Simon cry before and it’s a mess. A soggy, bloody mess and Alec didn’t know snot could form from coagulated blood for vampires, but it does and it's gross and he wishes he still didn’t know.

So therefore, Alec is going to bury the incident as far down as possible.

And break Simon's fingers if they ever get within six inches of him again.

“With exhaustion, maybe.” Is all Alec will admit and he kisses Magnus’ jaw, just because it’s in reach.

“Did you learn what you needed to?”

“I think so, we’ll find out soon enough.” They take a moment, swaying together and then Alec nudges Magnus’ with his chin. “Bed?”

“Carry me?” Magnus asks, batting his lashes, his hand squeezing Alec’s bicep teasingly and Alec laughs, thrilled by the request like he always is. He sweeps Magnus up into his arms, smelling sandalwood and char.

“Busy day?” Alec asks as Magnus uses his magic to open their bedroom door.

“Oh darling, a deliciously busy one. Should I tell you? Or are you too exhausted to tend to me tonight?”

Alec stops and stares at Magnus who smirks at him, arm looped around Alec’s neck and Alec drops him on the bed.

—

Magnus chuckles as Alexander continues to ignore him, stripping off his clothes and then he stands, naked and unimpressed with his arms crossed. He’s still sulking and Magnus loves to see it.

“You’re making me feel lonely, Alexander.” Magnus calls from the bed, reaching out a hand and beckoning as he slides off his robe. “Am I going to have to sleep all alone?”

The ridiculousness earns him an eye roll and the tiny upturn of Alexander’s lips before he moves closer and flops next to him.

“I’m never too tired for you.” Alexander promises him, and Magnus politely refrains from mentioning all the times Alexander has said that same thing and then fallen trustingly asleep, overstimulated and blissed out as Magnus fucks him.

“Of course you aren’t, sayang.” Magnus purrs, and he pulls Alexander closer, hooking a leg around his and nipping at his jaw. “So let me wear you out.”

—

Magnus keeps his smile sharp and cold and Alexander close to his side as he enters the dining hall. It’s a long table with many seats and Magnus will take a seat of honor. Not the head of the table, he has no wish for it, but his seat is at the right placed and expensive and a little stiff looking.

Alexander elbows him, hard knob to his ribs with a muttered, “Magnus, really?”

And Magnus sniffs because Alexander doesn’t understand the tortures of mundane furniture. For a moment, he’s tempted to let Alec suffer and find out, but he’s rather Alexander’s ass be sore for a reason different than poor carpentry.

“Oh hush, darling.” Magnus murmurs, “our comfort is hardly a waste of magic.” Alexander sighs but nods, keeping close and his gaze watchful but not worried as he looks around. “Ah, there, I’ll introduce you.”

“Mr. Bane.” Magnus is greeted and Alec watches as many people straighten, some nervously fondling their weapons as Magnus approaches and some scowl, getting a tighter arm around their partners.

Alec rolls his eyes, like Magnus would ever allow himself to be used or abused by one of these clearly taken mundane women. Magnus has strict rules about infidelity and monogamy and while Magnus doesn’t mind having more than one partner, or a partner with others partners, it’s only when everyone is in agreement.

“You’ve brought a bodyguard.” The man says, surprised and nervous, eyes going between them nervously and Alec scoffs, disgust in his tone. He did not listen to Simon for three hours to be mistaken as a bodyguard.

“Babe, really.” Alec gives the man an unimpressed look, “I thought you said you were having a meeting with intelligent people?”

Magnus laughs, deep and low and loud and everyone turns to stare. Alec understands because Magnus' delight is like a flame and everyone else is a moth, helpless but to be entranced.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Leo.” Magnus says with a sharp, dangerous grin and his hand goes from the small of Alec’s back to around his waist. “However I’ve always enjoyed mixing pleasure with business.”

Alec presses a kiss to Magnus’ brow because it’s true and it’s the single most aggravating thing about his husband that Alec will admit struggling with. Because there are only so many times Alec can get away with making out on a battlefield before his shadowhunters will think it’s a legitimate course of action and try it amongst themselves.

—

Alec sits with a group of mundane women and wonders how exactly he gets himself into these situations.

Magnus.

Magnus is always the answer and the reason why, and it’s simply because Alec loves him.

So it’s worth it, even if it does make Alec wish a demon would show up.

“You’re with Mr. Bane?” Someone asks him and Alec thinks her name might have had a syllable. Maybe three, but they all allude him and also he finds it intensely weird to hear someone call Magnus, Mr. Bane, when it’s not Alec flirting with him.

“Yes.” Alec says because that’s fairly obvious. He came in with Magnus and Magnus escorted him over to the group before joining the meeting.

There’s a lull of delightful silence and then Alec is forcing himself to bite back a sigh when someone asks him.

“Where did he pick you up?”

Alec wonders why the woman asking him looks so smug, like she’s asking him something that will embarrass him and he thinks about the safest answer.

“His club.” Alec says with a shrug, “I was taking care of a small problem and we met then.” He and Magnus talked about this and then Alec forgets their plan because he still remembers Magnus, “later when we met officially. He made an awful pun after I killed for him, it was nice.”

There’s silence and wide eyes staring at him in shock which Alec doesn’t get. He’s pretty sure both Simon and Magnus assured him that he’d fit right in and that this place was full of crime. Killing someone is his job, hardly— oh right, mundanes.

It is for them.

“Metaphorically.” Alec adds, because that will make this better. It does, sort of. Except the conversation opener is definitely gone.

Simon told him that many mundane women were interested in plants and flowers and while Alec was surprised that they had such good taste, he also is a little out of his depth.

He’s better with magical plants than mundane and most of what he does know are herbs. So, with Simon’s warning that crime is rampant, Alec figures he’ll stick to the safest topics.

“The almond cookies are good.” There a compliment, Alec is terrible at complimenting anyone other than Magnus or children but he’s trying. “It would be perfect for hiding arsenic. Do any of you dabble?”

There’s blank looks all around and Alec sighs because really, Simon made it sound much easier than it is to start a conversation.

Alec’s ignored for a little bit after that. Sometimes someone tries to talk to him and he’ll smile encouragingly at them only for them to stop and turn away, white-knuckled grip on their phones or dessert.

“You really have quite the way with people.” Someone says, finally talking to him. Alec never thought he’d be grateful to be approached but if he has at least one, casual conversation, then he’ll feel this entire thing went well.

“Magnus says it’s my charm.” Alec tells her, letting his eyes crinkle at the thought of his husband and he grins, thinking of the time Magnus found Alec being attacked by a hoard of pixies because they’d tried to take Alec’s hair for something.

Alec had reacted naturally. Swatting the pixies away and skewering them on his arrows until Magnus arrived and casually incinerated them all. And then he’d told Alec it was Alec’s irresistible charm that started the whole thing.

Alec is pretty sure that’s victim blaming, which Magnus has been teaching him about, and Magnus had stared at him in surprise when he said so. And then he was laughing and kissing Alec in reward before explaining that just because it was Alec’s charm, didn’t mean it was his fault.

Alec hadn’t really been worried either way but Magnus’ kisses of reassurance had been worth the entire experience.

“It's certainly something like that.” The woman says with a wry smile that Alec can appreciate, she holds out a hand with nails that remind Alec of Camille, long and pointed and painted a bright, cheery red. Alec prefers the sanguine of life’s blood red that Magnus uses, but he says nothing.

He’s being polite.

“I’m Alec.” He offers and when she holds out her hand, he takes it, her smaller fingers hold tightly, as if worried she won’t be able to hold on to shake and Alec just cups her hand delicately. He has no idea what kind of pressure a mundane can handle.

She looks disgruntled and Alec wonders why, skin pinched from her nails digging in and Alec rolls his eyes internally. Why people get nails like that if they’re not going to learn how to accommodate for their length and sharpness is beyond him. It’s a proper weapon if done right, but Alec’s doubtful mundanes know how to do it right.

“Natalia.” She says, hair almost as obnoxiously red as Clary’s and Alec tries not to let that influence his opinion of her. This is going to be a very long night if Alec has to deal with a bunch of differently sized Clary’s.

He appreciates the one he has to deal with permanently is as small as she is. It makes it easier for Alec to throw her over her his shoulder when he needs to drag her out of the situations she creates.

“Magnus is such a delight. We were surprised he came with anyone,” she says, her voice lingering on his husband’s name. Which is understandable, Magnus’ very name is beautiful and an ecstasy to say. “It was nice to meet you, even if I’m sure it will only be this once.”

“Natalia!” Someone gasps but Alec doesn’t bother figuring out which woman it is.

Natalia doesn’t look abashed but she does look cowed, backing down and Alec chuckles, deep and dark because the very thought that someone thinks he’s only coming once is hilarious.

“Oh, I’ll be around.” He says and he tilts his head and smiles, not noticing how Natalia pales under her makeup. It’s not an unusual sight when he smiles around Simon and he figures it’s just mundane nature, “Magnus is my husband, it’s my duty and honor to be by his side. Always.”

There’s a stunned silence after that and then a blonde shoos Natalia away which, rude. Alec had finally found someone to make the dreaded small talk with and she wasn’t the worst he’s had to talk to.

Imogen, Lorenzo and Clary still rank first, second and third.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” The blonde asks and Alec remembers her name is Mari, the main leader’s wife. Which makes sense, it would be better for Alec to talk to her than the redhead anyway.

She’s a beautiful woman, probably, and while Alec’s pretty sure she’s not a natural blonde, he’s learned that mundanes dye their hair. He wonders if it’s to try and distract predators, or to be a distraction.

“I’m where Magnus is,” Alec says with a shrug, “I don’t really care about the rest of it.” Which he realizes a little too late might be insulting but it’s also the truth, because Magnus and he agreed it would be better to lie as little as possible so as not to get caught in one later.

Alec hates when Magnus has to use his memory magic, it always remind him of that first time he held Magnus’ hand and was too freaked out to appreciate it.

He mentally calls his past self an idiot.

“Oh, I see.” Mari says and smiles like she does. “What do you do?”

“I’m Magnus’.” Alec says, because there is no equivalent to his job in the mundane world that he’s willing to get into. Simon talked about seals and marines and Alec doesn’t know why pretending to be an animal or someone who studies marine life would be helpful.

“That's all?”

“Does there need to be anything else?” He asks and his answer seems to stun many of them.

“But, couldn’t you branch out yourself, if you wanted to?” One of them asks, she’s wearing quite a few gems but Alec notes that half of them are fake or low quality and he’s pretty sure she has a weapon in her clutch. “You’re uh, well you seem like you’d do well.”

“That would be exhausting.” He tells her dryly, because Alec has more than enough responsibility and duties and he quite enjoys coming home to Magnus fussing over him and letting Alec fuss in return. “Why would I bother when Magnus gets me whatever I want without even bothering to ask if I need it?”

That seems to shock them.

“Wait, does he let you have his card?”

“No.” Alec rolls his eyes, “he offered to get me one but what am I supposed to do. Go shopping by myself?” And Alec finds he’s actually enjoying the conversation, which makes sense. He loves talking about Magnus. “That would be ridiculous, half the fun is Magnus picking everything out and drinking champagne while he decides. He knows what I like and he’s better at it.”

“You mean, he picks everything out himself and just takes time off?”

Alec rolls his eyes and reaches out to pluck a passing tray of champagne from a water and sets the whole thing on his lap. He ignores the even wider eyes and drains the first in a sip. He barely manages to refrain from throwing it behind him — Magnus’ habits are very adaptable — and sets it down instead.

“No, he randomly cancels all his appointments and then whisks me away. Last week he was supposed to have a meeting but while I was getting dressed I found a hole in a new shirt. He was furious. Canceled his entire day, tore a new one into the shop who made the clothing a new one—” Magnus had been particularly displeased as the shirt in question was supposed to be abyssal silk and protective enough that ichor wouldn’t burn through it. “He took me to a little market he’s fond of in Tibet and then we dined in Ireland.” Mundanes have planes, Magnus told him they’re even fairly fast for non-magical transportation.

“Because your shirt had a hole?” Clary 2.0 asks, and she must have eaten something that didn’t agree with her because her face in pinched in dismay.

“Yeah.” Alec shrugs, “at least the hole made sense. I still don’t understand the time he threw out half of my new wardrobe because apparently, they’d used the wrong color of thread to bring out my eyes.”

“How, how long have you been married?”

“Oh, four months.” Alec says with a smile, “it was a small, family event. Just Magnus’ and my own and some politicians we couldn’t ignore inviting.”

Because they’d wanted to rub their union in the Consul and the Inquisitors face.

“You had politicians in your—” and slightly taller Clary cuts off for some reason.

Alec sighs, “my father brought some of his business partners. He works in LA. I think he’s trying to get me to move there instead. Something about Magnus and I being a breath of fresh air. But I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to get on Magnus’ good side. My father knows I only talk to him because Magnus mediates the discussions.”

Which is true, because Magnus’ magic is much less volatile than an Alexander Lightwood-Bane defending his husband against his father’s tactless remarks. Also the clave was probably involved, trying to gain a modicum of control over him and Magnus.

Alec settles into the conversation with a smirk, this is going perfectly.

“How did it go?” Magnus asks, kissing Alexander’s mouth and pulling him close. “Did you miss me? Or do you have dozens of new friends to fill your time? I’ll set up outings if you do.”

Magnus swears he hears a whimper from somewhere behind him, but it’s hard to tell when Alexander’s hands are firm on his hips, almost bruising and he’s being pulled back into a longer, hungrier kiss.

“Fine.” Alec says and to Magnus’ surprise and delight, he actually looks like he means it. “Can we go now? The portions are mundane here Magnus, I’m starving.”

Magnus is sliding an arm around Alexander’s waist, holding him close and kissing his cheek as he escorts him through the doors without a word or nod to anyone else.

“I’ll have a word with them about having better refreshments next time. There’s no sense in you being hungry for something as casual as this.”

Magnus ignores the scandalized look of the last security member they pass, because Alexander is a nephilim. Magnus should have remembered he’d need better sustenance that the dinner that was meant to be decadent but not necessarily filling.

They get to an alley and portal away and Magnus summons food and is quietly delighted when Alexander leaves on his corset.

It means Magnus will get to take it off.

“So it wasn’t horrible?”

Alexander shrugs and takes a large mouthful of halibut and couscous.

“Simon’s rambling wasn’t all useless though it was less hopeful than we’d hoped. The small talk wasn’t horrible, I don’t think I learned anything useful but I wasn’t really trying to. Their security is shit though. Terrible balance, one of them fell of the balcony at one point and impaled himself on the security gate.” And Magnus’ boy makes a disgusted face, “I hate how breakable mundanes are.”

Magnus blinks, trying to process exactly what happened and giving up when Alexander looks content, like there is nothing more to add.

“Well, I suppose talent is hard to come by.” Magnus is a little dubious about just how poorly trained Leo’s men are if this is what happens to them.

—

Leo shrugs off his coat as he comes in. Her nails are tapping nervously against a champagne glass and he knows it’s her first drink. She makes sure she’s served sparkling apple juice around the others and acting tipsy is a second nature to her.

“So?” He asks her

“Not a cop.” She says slowly, but her eyes are worried, “I think he might be the son of someone powerful. Out in LA, maybe. “He mentioned a few things but he avoided a lot. Apparently he doesn’t really care about anything but Bane and it wasn’t an act.” She shivers a little and Leo wraps an arm around her small frame. “He’s devoted to him, so as long as we don’t cross Bane, we don’t have to worry about him. Though he’d be the best bet as leverage but, honey. I think he’s dangerous.”

Leo takes a breathe and nods.

Truthfully, he’d been more surprised and shocked and a little taken aback that Magnus Bane, notorious for coming with no one and leaving by himself, had brought anyone with him. He’d been nervous when he’d seen them, it looked like Bane was bringing muscle.

Someone to have his back in a way he normally didn’t need which would mean he planned on bringing trouble.

Then Bane had thrown that thought out the window. Claiming the other man as his, as if it were normal to waltz in with a man instead of a gorgeous woman. Especially not a man who looked like he could lift Leo with one hand. Then Bane had escorted the guy around like he was a lady ready to swoon or be stolen away. When dinner happened, it had been a shock to watch Bane take of his partner’s jacket and reveal that the man Leo thought might be an undercover, was wearing a tailored, expensive equivalent of a vest with a corset, riddled with tattoos covered in what were clearly the bruises of a mouth and expensive, personally tailored jewelery on his wrists and neck.

It had been a shock, especial with how comfortable the guy had been. Acting like he was Bane’s boy through and through, eating from Bane’s fork and barely paying the rest of the table any attention. It had only been when his eyes had flickered to a bodyguard who had approached Leo from behind Bane, that Leo was sure the danger he sensed was real.

“So Bane likes to tame tigers.” He shook his head, “none of our business then. You okay?” Marianne sighs and shakes her head.

“He uh, he’s very blunt, honey. Doesn’t seem to care much if he implicates himself and Bane it’s kinda like.” Mari sucks on her bottom lip and fidgets. “It’s like he’s daring anyone to try. Cause he knows he’ll win and that’ll you’ll regret it. Like nothing can touch him, either of them.”

Leo shudders at that thought and wonders, as he rarely lets himself do, just who Bane is and what hell he crawled out of and which one he dragged his new sidepiece from.

#writing wednesday #writing wednesdays #lumine writes #shadowhunters #malec #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters au #mob wife alec au #my fics #my fanfics #my ficlets

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