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halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Note

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment.

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze.

König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others.

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!”

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect.

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up.

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child.

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru.

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes.

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest.

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!”

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away.

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!” König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture.

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you, König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you.

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt.

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny.

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone.

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge.

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.”

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction.

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl.

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance.

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.”

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!”

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience.

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done.

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling.

Evolve, or die.

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later.

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.”

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants.

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA.

The Lieutenant is one of them.

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead.

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t.

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact.

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself.

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins.

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was.

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding.

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed.

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes.

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide.

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady.

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire.

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock.

Your finger slams into the trigger.

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself.

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König.

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary.

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt.

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch.

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later.

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure.

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König.

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone.

Anyone but you, that is.

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter.

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced.

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down.

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm.

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?”

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment.

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour.

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you.

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence.

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up.

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh.

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest.

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.”

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given.

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly.

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.”

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?”

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?”

He freezes, muscles going taunt.

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?”

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away.

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate.

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit.

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over.

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side.

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air.

König kneeled to you and bared himself.

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this.

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood.

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug.

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning.

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he.

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame.

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears.

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him.

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat.

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English.

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril.

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust.

You find none.

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening.

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words.

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize.

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized.

For you to come back to him. His partner.

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths.

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

NEW TAGLIST SIGN-UP: Here

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n

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lovelytsunoda · 1 year

Text

the day you kissed a writer in the dark // han lue (tokyo drift)

summary: she's stood by his side for years. his loyal mechanic, the brains behind his brawn. but she'd be lying if she said that it didn't hurt to watch him flirt with those other women in his club, when he came home to her every night in secret.

bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark, now she's gonna play and sing and lock you in her heart. i am my mother's child, i'll love you 'till my breathing stops.

pairing: han lue x mechanic! reader

warnings: smut, inappropriate use of a drifting car, insecurity and self-doubt, secret relationships, unplanned pregnancy.

author's note: here's something a little different today, lovelies! it's a departure from the usual realm of f1 content i usually bless you all with, but i felt like i needed to do something different to avoid burning myself out, and rewatching tokyo drift gave me the inspiration that i needed :)

she hated the club.

in the back end of her mind, she always resented the mere existence of that secret room leading to han's garage. the fact that he chose to surround himself with women in tight dresses with long legs and perky boobs like he was some kind of yakuza punk.

well, this wasn't crows fucking zero. this was real life.

she couldn't help but draw comparisons between these beautiful girls and herself. as she curled in on herself to duck through the crowd, she frowned at her reflection in the window: her torn up jeans, the grease stain on the cuff of her army-green sweater, the zip barely done up enough to cover up her double-d's, a small nut from her very first car hanging limply from a chain around her neck.

some days, she wondered why han had chosen her of all people.

"sean?" she asked quietly, poking the young american boy in the arm, practically shouting to be heard. "have you seen han?"

sean shook his head. "no, sorry. have you checked the garage?"

"i'm heading back there now. thanks, sean." she sighed, backing out the way that she came, trying not to think about all of the places that her boyfriend could be right now.

the anxiety ate away at her. was he with one of the other girls? one of the prettier, taller, thinner ones? was that why he wanted to keep the relationship under wraps?

was han ashamed of her?

she hurried down the rickety metal staircase, dropping her purse on the workbench as she went, subconsciously placing a hand over her stomach as she thought about the white plastic stick inside the fake leather bag.

they'd been sneaking around for a year, but they'd known each other far longer. she had come to tokyo when she was twenty-one, with a pocketful of cash and a monkey wrench. she had a high school diploma, but that didn't mean much to the rally teams she had applied to work on the pit crews for.

and that's when han swooped her up. when she became the bonnie to his clyde, the mechanic for his little street racing gambit.

that was three years ago. now she was almost twenty-five, he was twenty-seven, and he was in far too deep for them to keep going like this.

she knew why he had to keep it a secret. telling the world that she was his lover would put a target on her back. because that's what happens when you get in deep with someone like dk.

she pulled her hair back with the green rubber band on her wrist, pushing up her sleeves as she reached for a ratchet and approached han's car, the hood already open and ready for her.

working on the cars had always been her safe haven. her distraction from the outside world. fixing something that was broken gave her a satisfaction like no other.

"babe?" han's voice echoed through the garage, and she hated herself for the way that she froze up, fingers tightening around the ratchet. "sean said you were asking around for me? is everything okay?"

she withdrew from the car, slamming the hood down. "you're pushing the car too far. the engine is wearing down, you have to get something stronger. the serpentine belt is at it's brink."

"and that's why you're the brains of this operation and i'm just the pretty boy who drifts." han said playfully, wrapping his arms around her midsection as resting his chin on her shoulder.

"be more careful out there, seoul-oh." she said softly, placing a cold hand on top of his warm one before turning her head and kissing him softly. "i don't know what i'd do if anything ever happened to you."

han spun her body around gently, his hands on her waist as she jumped to perch her body on the edge of the hood, her fingers tangling in his dark, silky hair.

"you don't need to worry about me, sweetheart. i'm going to be okay."

she sighed, lacing her fingers together behind his neck. "where were you, han? wandering around your club with a girl on each arm? a girl that's three times prettier than i am, maybe one who's clothes are a little more revealing-"

"y/n, stop." han said firmly. "baby, you're the only one. my only one." he kissed her on the forehead softly. "i love you. i love you so much that it hurts. i wish i could shout it from the rooftops, but i can't put you in danger like that. i don't want dk to know, because that's a target on your back that i don't want there."

he pulled her as close as he could, arms wrapped securely around her as he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. "i couldn't live with myself if anything ever happened to you."

the sincerity in the older man's voice was reassuring. but some days, it wasn't enough. she loved him more than words could say, but she was getting tired of being his little secret.

but at the end of the day, it was her bed that he always came home to. his arms she woke up in. his terrible singing in the kitchen while he made coffee with breakfast.

han lue was hers.

she kissed him again, still sitting on the edge of the toyota's hood. this kiss was stronger, harder. with more feeling as she bunched han's sweater up in her fingers, trying to wrestle it off his broad shoulders, his hands gripping her thighs tight enough to make her moan against his lips.

"seoul-oh." she mumbled as han broke away from her, pulling his sweater off the rest of the way before tugging his everlast t-shirt over his head.

they fit together like well-worn puzzle pieces, his lips finding that place on her neck that made her crumble, turned her legs to jelly as he slipped a hand up the front of her sweater, thumb tracing comforting shapes against her stomach as he nipped at her neck, biting down gently. there would be a hickey there in a mere matter of hours.

trailing kisses back up her neck, he gently bit her earlobe before placing one hand on the side of her face to guide her lips back to his, the other hand braced against the hood of the car to hold himself up. she bit down on his bottom lip, wrenching a growl from the back of han's throat.

he pulled away, dropping to his knees in front of the car as his large hands dipped under the waistband of her jeans. after reaching down to untie and kick off her beat up vans, she reached above her to grab the exposed beam in the garage ceiling, pulling her body up and allowing han to pull her jeans and panties down her legs in one fell swoop.

"oh, not on the car, baby. you'll stain the bodywork."

"don't care." han hummed, kissing the soft skin of her thigh. "i can't think of anything prettier than you. on the hood of my car, legs spread wide for me." he mumbled in between kisses, inching ever closer to where y/n needed him most, her arousal dripping onto the cool metal hood of the drift car.

and when his lips touched her throbbing clit, she could have sworn she turned electric, using one hand to brace herself against the car and burying the other in han's hair as she threw her head back in a throaty moan.

"han." she panted, grinding against his face as his tongue licked and sucked at her core. "oh, baby, yes."

han smiled to himself, kissing her clit gently as he held her thighs open with his hands. "still think that i don't find you attractive any more?"

"shut up, please. i need you so bad." she'd barely finished speaking when another low, seductive moan left her mouth. the arm that was holding her body up threatened to buckle underneath her as she tugged on han's hair, urging him to keep going.

han chuckled, the vibrations sending shockwaves through her body as her arm buckled, and she found herself lying against the hood, her head on the windscreen as she bucked her hips, searching for more as her lover tongue-fucked her, her legs thrown over his shoulders with reckless abandon.

"seoul-oh." she whined, clenching her thighs around han's head

"i know, baby." he mumbled softly, kissing her thigh. "you're doing so well darling. come for me."

and that's exactly what she did. with a moan so loud that she was shocked that the patrons of the club couldn't hear it echoing through the garage, she let go, her juices coating the lower half of han's face as he licked her clean before wiping off the bottom half of his face with the back of his hand.

"fuck." he mumbled, standing between her legs and leaning over the car to kiss her. "i can't get enough of you, baby. i think i'm gonna need more."

"oh yeah?" she smiled sitting up slightly, resting her weight on her elbows and raising an eyebrow when she saw the obvious hard-on struggling to break free from the confines of han lue's jeans. "and what do you think we should do about it?"

"back. room. now." he said, softly but firmly, kissing her in between each word as she wrapped her bare legs around his body, allowing han to pick her up and carry her over to the back room, where a double bed was piled high with blankets for the nights where they worked late, or drift races lasted until the mere hours of the morning.

or, nights where neither of them wanted to go home. han was sure that they had fucked on almost every available surface of the garage.

she undid her sweater slowly, revealing the lacy white bra underneath, the makeshift pendant on her necklace hanging delicately just above the hollow of her breasts as she cast the fabric aside, reaching up to snap the elastic band in her hair, letting it cascade in waves down her shoulders.

"you're beautiful, you know that?" he said softly, kneeling on the mattress as he rested one hand gently against her cheek.

she leaned into his touch, reaching up to wrap her slender fingers around his wrist, pressing a soft kiss to the heel of his hand.

she knew she should tell him. han needed to know.

but now was definitely not the time.

not that she could find the words while he kissed her neck, her chest, her stomach, his fingers dancing across her back as he fumbled with the clasp of her bra, erection straining against his jeans.

"han, babe." she mumbled, reaching behind her. "it's been a year now, you should know how to undo a bra, mr. womanizer." she joked, pushing his hands away as she pulled the bra off by herself.

"why would i need to know how to do it when you just take it off by yourself most of the time?" he grinned, standing up to unbuckle his belt.

he started to undo his jeans, pausing halfway as if he had forgotten something before he darted over to the rolling toolbox in the back of the room, pulling a small foil packet out of the top drawer.

fat lot of good a condom would do them now.

not when she was already carrying his baby inside of her.

her body trembled with anticipation as she watched han rid himself of his jeans, the echo of his belt buckle hitting the floor echoing around the room before he rolled the latex sheath onto his thick, hard cock.

god, she was a fool in love. han seoul-oh made her feel every range of emotions all at once.

"seoul-oh." she mumbled, lips against his as he clambered onto the bed, covering her body with his broad one.

"hm?" han mumbled, pressing kisses all over her face.

"i love you, han lue." she said firmly, gently pushing his face away so she could look him in the eyes. "i mean it, babe. you've ruined me for anybody else. you're it for me."

"good, because i don't think i could love anybody else if i tried." han breathed out, kissing her again, the tip of his cock teasing her entrance.

she squirmed under him, a small gasp escaping her lips before she bit down on her bottom lip.

she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her beg. that wasn't what tonight was for.

han knew this as well, gently pushing himself inside her. tonight was about more than just chasing a high. for both of them. it was about love, and reassurance, and intimacy.

she threaded her fingers through his hair, whining as han moved ever so slightly, the sensations they both felt sending shockwaves through their bodies.

"seoul-oh." she moaned softly. "please. god, you feel incredible."

"yeah?" han crooned, thrusting softly and barely holding back a moan of his own. "you look so pretty with my cock inside you, my sweet sweet girl."

"just like that." she whined as he thrusted again, bucking her hips into him, trying to take his length deeper. "keep doing that, fuck."

when han's nimble fingers came up grip and massage her right breast, she knew she was a goner, arching her back to drive her body into him with a moan as he kissed her chest.

"you like that, baby? yeah, you love having my hands all over you. and i love touching your beautiful body." han murmured, sucking a hickey onto her collarbone. he could feel himself unravelling, knew that the end was nigh as he moaned against her skin, blindly reaching for her hand.

there were no more slow thrusts as the driver began to pick up the pace, his lover's legs wrapped tightly around him as she moaned his name.

"oh god, han, baby. fuck, keep going." she panted, one hand trailing down her body to play with her clit. anything to get her closer to that release she craved as she whined and squirmed under han's touch.

she'd seen this film before, and she already knew the ending. and the start if the sequel.

"come for me, baby. i know you can take it, just give me one more, okay?"

"han, han, holy shit." she moaned, feeling the coil in her stomach finally snap, her high crashing over her like a wave.

her lover groaned above her, a guttural sound ripped straight from his throat before han gently pulled out of her sensitive body, the evidence of his own peak contained within the clear latex that he slid off his member, tying the condom off in a knot before punting it into the trash can next to his desk.

she pulled the blankets up as han settled in the bed next to her, his warm fingers dancing in gentle circles against her sweaty skin as they laid together in the afterglow, a content look on his face as he kissed her on the forehead.

"seoul-oh." she said quietly, twirling his long, dark locks of hair around her fingertip. "i have to tell you something."

"what's on your mind, pretty girl?" worry creased han seoul-oh's face, a pit forming in his stomach.

he hated seeing her like this.

"i'm pregnant."

han's eyes widened. "what? babe, why didn't you tell me?"

"i've been trying all day. but you've had your hands full with dk and sean and drifting." she said sadly. "but i can't raise this baby with dk breathing down our necks. you need to get out of this life, seoul-oh."

han frowned thoughtfully, one hand resting against the side of her face. "i'm going to be a father. fucking hell, babe this is incredible. i promise you, i'm going to make a plan, and i'm going to get us out of tokyo."

"you know we can't keep this a secret any longer, right? i'm already eight weeks along, once the first trimester ends, i won't be able to hide it."

"you're right, you're right. we'll test the waters. i'll tell sean and twinkie in the morning, see how the news of our relationship goes over with them. i want to keep it from dk until i can find a way to get us out of here."

y/n nodded, lacing her fingers with han's and placing his hand on her stomach. "okay. let's do this thing." she broke out into a smile. "we're going to be parents, han. can't you picture it? sitting behind the wheel of your toyota, with our little gremlin on your lap, teaching them how to drive before they can even walk."

han laughed. "they'll be born with a monkey wrench in one hand and a bag of lays in the other."

"i love you, seoul-oh." she said softly, kissing him gently. "i'm so glad i found you three years ago.

"i love you more, y/n. and i can't wait to raise this kid with you."

Tags (though im not sure if any of you are interested loll):

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @sidcrosbyspuck @scuderiamh

#han lue x reader #fast and the furious #tokyo drift #fast and the furious x reader #han lue #han lue smut #fast and the furious smut #tokyo drift imagine

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dwntwn-strnlo · 2 months

Text

HAND MAKING matt sturniolo

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎, dwntwn-strnlo.

↳ 𝐀/𝐍. im back :) . . . is this me trauma dumping? idk yeah probably

↳ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. matthew sturniolo x harvard student!reader

↳ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. to relax ones mind

↳ 𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃? no!

↳ 𝐂𝐖! slight panic attack but not really, crying, failing school? happy ending, pet names ig idfk, profanity

"what are you doing?"

"im making your hands, darling!"

you felt like a crumbling mess. school has been pushing you to your brim, and you just left the building with the knowledge that you just failed two of your finals. you wanted to fall to the floor in front of your professors, and just cry. hoping that your desperate pleas for a stable future would be enough to let you retake the mind numbing tests over again.

how in the world could one study at the most prestigious university if they can't even ace a final? you worked your whole life for this school, practically threw away your childhood and lived with the gilmore mindset to get here. just to fail. just. to. fail.

stepping off the campus and reaching the city bus, it slowly started to set in. you felt nauseous. like you were being held upside down, feet in the air and your arms on the floor. but no. you were sitting in a bucket seat that matched some torn down 80's arcade floor. so, you held your bookbag close to you, closing your eyes. overcompensated with the feeling of dizziness and fatigue.

as much as you tried to tune it out, you couldn't get rid of the lingering smell of weed and coffee that permanently stained the crisp air that is of cambridge and boston.

---

nearing the inner city, you opened your eyes and picked up your phone. pressing it to your ear after hitting call.

the phone rang once before it was picked up on the other end and a gentle "hey," comes through. you could hear the smile in matt's voice; the one simple, sweet word rang in your brain. bouncing off the tissue walls before settling back to silence.

"im almost home," you mumbled. your voice was lower and raspy then you intended. the last thing you needed was for your boyfriend to grow worried. but that's exactly what you knew would happen.

you could hear him suck in a breath on the other end of the phone, "is something wrong? why are you coming home early, baby?"

"i uh- i finished my final early." your voice was still tiny in comparison to the chatter that danced over the bus.

he hums, not wanting to necessarily drop the conversation, but he knew that you would be more open about it face to face. and not on a public transport bus that has heard and spilled countless secrets.

"i'm almost home," you uttered. hanging up the phone call before matt could ask more questions.

you sat silent the rest of the ride, bouncing your leg until it grew numb.

---

walking in the door, tears brisked at your eyes. you could finally let your walls down now that you were in a safe environment. you called out your boyfriends name as you walked up the stairs. the sound of ruffling and a door opening echoes through the house.

"hey, baby," he gently smiled, his attempt to comfort you immediately works. just his presence makes you giddy, your heart starting to race.

you didn't want to load your troubles onto him, but you could no longer fight the stray tears that glide down your cheeks.

dropping your bag on the floor, you close your eyes. attempting to stop your tears from flowing, but it doesn't work.

it doesnt take long for you to be embraced by matt. his arms snaking around your waist as you held yourself against his chest. sobbing quietly into his grey cotton shirt. "i fucked it all up, matt..." you cried. holding onto him tighter then you thought possible.

matt soothingly rubs his hands up and down your back, pressing a soft kiss atop your head. "c'mon," he whispers softly, "come talk to me." he carefully pulls you over to the couch, and you open your eyes but sit down without glancing at his face.

"i failed my finals," you sobbed, squeezing your eyes tight. tears streamed down your face, you felt like a total mess.

"aww baby..." he cooed. the frown in his voice ultimately made you feel worse. he took your hands in his, gently rubbing his thumb across the back of your palms. "i'm sorry."

you couldn't help but stay silent. even if you tried you didn't think you could speak again.

matt started massaging at your hands, and you perked up. he played at each knuckle and each indent, each scar and each freckle.

"what are you doing..?" you whispered, looking up to meet his swirling eyes.

he smiled softly, "i'm making your hands darling!" he giggled, trying to cheer you up.

you felt like clay under his touch, like he was molding you perfectly to fit with him. he held your hand close to him as he soothingly caressed your skin.

you felt like his sculpture in the back of an art studio, the lights blinding as it's a late night and school ended hours ago. your artistic sculpture was due days previous, but matt wouldn't settle for anything else other than perfection. taking his time to make you a work of art.

you felt like sand at the beach, matt's hands as the water as they came with the tide, and gently washed at the tiny beaded rocks that were your knuckles and scars.

you felt like-

"are you alright?" he asked sweetly, bringing your knuckles up to his lips as he pressed a kiss onto your skin.

until he spoke you didn't even realize that your tears had dried, and you were more focused on his touch than anything. school pushed to the back of your head, becoming the least of your worries in this very moment.

you slowly nodded, a small smile peaking over to meet his.

TAGLIST

@thetriplets3 @stxrniqlo @ifilwtmfc @iha8you @oneirophobic @20nugs @gracietaylorsversions @fenoy7 @mlimmm @prettysturniolo @ssturniolo @gabbylovesreading @oh-toseewithoutmy-eyes @matthewmurdockswife @jellybeanbby @slaysturniolo @iheartshifting @mxqdii @luvsturniolo @lvrsparadise @partoftoofuckinmanyfandoms @sstvrnioloo

#matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x you #matt sturniolo fluff #matthew sturniolo x you #matthew sturniolo x reader

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buryustogether · 1 year

Text

-> THE SHADOWS OF STARS

johnny silverhand x reader (not v)

word count: 8.5k

summary: despite being the newest groupie for samurai, you work hard to pull more than your weight and ensure gigs run smoothly. after a run in with a crazed fan goes awry, johnny silverhand offers you a bit of comfort.

warnings/tags: pre-relic johnny, reader is not v, violence, blood, age gap romance, non-penetrative sex, first kiss, first time, virgin!reader, mention of arranged marriage and running away, smut, swearing, alcohol consumption

author’s note: he may be a bit ooc but he’s my dreamboat so

If you’d have known how the night would have ended, you would have done things differently. You would have said more, said less, perhaps. Stepped further left, taken two more paces back. Anything and everything, you would have done differently.

Anything and everything would have been for nought - because the end of the night transported you to the stars invisible above your head, and beyond the crescent moon hanging from a weathered thread. You hadn’t known you could go that high - and you owed the jump to none other than Johnny fucking Silverhand.

It started with a woman - of course, that’s what all the old-world love stories say. But this woman wasn’t a princess waiting for a king to come down from his tower and save her and make her his; she was a plastered drunk with ugly-as-all-hell bangs on her forehead and a tank top so thin and skimpy her tits would have hung out even if she tried to keep them covered.

You had been watching her from the corner of your eye the entire show from your little perch beside the stage, headphones clasped over your ears and a tablet with the set list in hand. From the shadows, because that’s all you were, really in comparison to them, you had tracked her as she downed drink after drink and got closer and closer to the edge of the stage. Of course she was decked out in their merch - hell, everyone here was, but there were hearts inked onto the Samurai logo across her chest. Just what this gig needed - a crazy-ass fan hammered out of her mind.

It was when she’d disappeared to get herself another shot when you’d allowed yourself a glance up to the stage on your right. Christ above, they were so fucking cool. You didn’t care if that made you sound like an awestruck teenager; they were the only words you could conjure up at the moment. You’d never been one for poetics.

A band of rough and rowdy outcasts, torn at the edges in all the right places and ragged at the ends, they stuck out in a city like this. Especially the guitarist; god, you’d had a massive schoolgirl crush on Johnny Silverhand since you were sixteen and had first discovered their music. He was everything you found enticing; attractive, but without the superficial glamour Night City was held under; charismatic, charming, confident; maybe a bit full of himself, which you had discovered after being pulled into their crew as the newest groupie, but it didn’t phase you as much as you thought it would.

Your younger self would have fainted if she knew you were a groupie for Samurai these days. You were new - the youngest by far they’d ever taken on, but god above knew you pulled more weight than the older assistants who’d gotten used to the feeling of trailing in the shadows of stars. You stayed late into the night and early into the morning to clean up and pack after gigs, set up arrangements for desirable venues, arrived early to prepare so they only had to get up there and sing. Hell, you even cleaned their instruments when you had the time; you’d restrung Silverhand’s prized guitar enough times to have the same calluses on your fingers as his.

Of course, it had taken a snapped string, a sweat-inducing dash to the nearest music store, and an approaching meeting with a business partner for him to give it up to be repaired by someone else than him. Eurodyne had certainly had a hand in convincing him to part with the damned thing; he’d given you an appreciative nod and a charming wink when Silverhand had left his case at your little station.

Back in the present, you found your gaze pulled from your set list to watch as Silverhand kicked up a foot on a speaker to twist out a solo that left goosebumps trailing along your skin. Below him, fans hollered and screamed their approval; his lips quirked up in that Cheshire grin of his, the crinkle of his eyes hidden behind his aviators. You swallowed thick. Despite working for Samurai for nearly a month now, you’d never spoken to Silverhand once. He’d never even glanced in your direction, too caught up in his own business or too distracted by fans to pay you much mind.

You wondered what his voice would have sounded like feet from you, soft and gentle, instead of strained with his cries as he appeased his crowds.

Your spine straightening, your eyes at once flicked back to the woman you’d been watching as she reappeared at the front of the crowd. She was barely able to keep herself on her platform heels, eyelids drooped and movements sluggish. Your lips twisted themselves into a frown; some hangover she was going to have in the morning. You glanced back down at your tablet for a moment, then back to the chick. At once, your chest thundered.

She was leaning against the wall of the stage, hand outstretched in an attempt to touch Silverhand’s pant leg. He kept his cool - surprisingly - and continued the song as he took a step back so that he stood just out of her reach.

You cast a quick glance around the dim venue. Where the hell was security? The bodyguards you’d hired to keep a perimeter at the stage? You found them; they were both slumped at the bar. Perfect; this night was throwing in all kinds of elements that made for a perfect bomb. The question was - when was it all going to blow?

The rest of the gig, you kept your eye on the rowdy fan, never letting her stray too far from your vision. She paced back and forth about the stage, trying to touch even the boot or pants hem of one of the players. It raised the hair on your neck at end as a hot, lava-like sensation filled your stomach.

Were you… jealous?

God, no, you told yourself as the last song of the set came to a close. You didn’t get jealous of blackout drunks practically sobbing over a couple of rockstars who probably didn’t even know your name. And yet… every time she cried out Silverhand’s name, every time she blew him a kiss, that sensation worsened. It coiled like a serpent in your belly, forcing your jaw to clench and your blood to boil.

Shit. You needed to get a serious grip.

Slowly, as the bar began to clear out and final tabs were paid at the bar, you found yourself in conversation with the owner of the place. You sat at a table and watched as she did the math for the band’s share of the profits of the night, cradling an iced concoction you’d been dying for since you got here. Up on the stage, Silverhand and Eurodyne were speaking in hushed tones, motioning back and forth.

“You know,” said the owner as she tallied up her data, “you seem pretty young to be a manager for those fellas.”

You forced yourself to smile and chuckle softly. “Oh,” you said, “I’m not their manager. I’m actually a groupie. I just, you know, move their things back and forth and hook up their systems for them.”

“You seem to do a lot more than that.” With a flick of her hand, she deposited the eddies into your account; a moment later, they showed up on your vision screen. When you got the chance later tonight, you would divide up the earnings between the band, the hired muscle, and yourself. You didn’t think those meatheads had done anything to earn the scrap, but you were terrified to be the one to tell them so.

“I guess someone has to,” you murmured quietly.

“I mean it,” she said. She gave you a gentle, motherly smile, one that made your heart and ache and pang for home. “You’re playing practically every role in this little game of theirs. Movement, tech, cash flow. And I’d bet they don’t even know your name, do they?”

You felt yourself blanch a little. Casting a glance over toward the rockers, your stomach flipped slightly as Silverhand threw his head back and barked out an echoed laugh. “They do,” you lied.

“Sure, kid.” The woman patted your arm before hopping off her stool and taking your empty glass. “If you’re going to survive a life like that, at least make sure to claim the respect you deserve. You’re not a doormat, girl. Don’t act like one.”

With that she left you to your own clouded thoughts, mind a hell scape of troubles and conflicting wants and needs and desires. You pursed your lips and stared down at your lap. Maybe she was right; maybe you should talk to them. Ask for better pay. Throw in a couple set ideas you’d been saving for the past weeks. Yet as much as you wanted to, the queasy feeling in your belly kept you from advancing too far.

You’d always been an anxious kid; too scared to voice your opinions. Your parents said you were well-behaved. You thought ball of nerves was a better way to phrase it.

You had just begun to kick off your stool and begin the tedious task of packing up the equipment when a flash of movement caught your eye. That woman - the one who had tried to touch the band on the stage - was jittering across the floor toward Silverhand and Eurodyne as they made their way to the backstage entrance. Her tits swayed as she bounced in their direction, feet dragging in her drunken state.

Fuck - some people just didn’t know when to quit, did they?

Feeling that simmering boil arise in your chest again, you quickly stride across the floor to intercept her aim toward the men. She was just behind them when you reached her, her arm outstretched and palm open to grab a handful of Silverhand’s ass. The serpent in your belly flared.

“Hey.” You grabbed the woman’s wrist in an iron-fisted grip, stopping her fingers just inches from their prize. Her head drunkenly lolled over to glare daggers at you. “No touching, you got it?”

“Get the fuck off me, you fucking kid.” She ripped her hand from your grip, and the numerous rings slid along her fingers scratched along your skin. You refused to flinch at the pain, instead pulling yourself to your full height and clenching your fists. “What the hell’s your problem?”

Your eyes flickered to the door backstage. The men had disappeared, and you felt a short little something burst inside of you. Disappointment? Surely you weren’t thinking they would come to your aid? That Silverhand would tell this bitch to scram and then say, ‘Damn, kid, thanks a lot. Want to come backstage and sign to become our mascot?’ God, you were a fucking idiot.

“Go home before someone knocks you on your ass,” you said, trying to mimic some of things you’d heard street kids say in back alleys. “I’d hate for your lipgloss to smear any further.”

“And who the fuck do you think you are?” Now she was angry. Getting up in your face. And you were alone - the venue owner had vanished, and the band was backstage. You suddenly wished you knew how to mind your own business. “You know where you are? This is fucking Heywood. Lose an eye for saying something like that.” She sniffed and looked you up and down. God, those bangs were ugly as all hell. “What are you, sixteen? You better run home to mommy before you get smacked.”

To your dismay, and fury, and horrified embarrassment, you felt tears beginning to pool in your eyes. You could count on your fingers the number of times someone had yelled at you like this, and each and every one still made your heart thunder like a drum. You weren’t cut out for this kind of shit; you should have taken her advice and run home, begged your parents’ forgiveness.

But suddenly the owner’s words were resurfacing in your mind.

You’re not a doormat, girl. Don’t act like one.

Gathering what little courage hadn’t dwindled away, you squared your jaw and said, “Get out and don’t come back, or I’ll call the pol-“

You weren’t able to get anything else out before suddenly a fierce, solid fist connected with the side of your face. You went sprawling, sending a table a a stool clattering into their sides, your hands clutching at your nose. Hot, tangy copper flooded down from your nostril, dripping onto your shirt and staining your palms. Holy fuck - she’d just punched you. You’d never been struck before - is this what it actually felt like? Your nose throbbing, your eye aching in its socket, your lips open as you gasped for breath?

Vaguely, through the blood pumping in your ears, you felt the woman kick your foot and scoff before the door swung shut behind her. You were left in silence, still in place where you lay propped on your elbow on the floor, with nothing but the scarlet falling from your nose and a painful watering eye.

With a coarse gasp, you sat up. Your head pounded like someone had delivered a bullet to your temple and it had come out through your jaw. Now that they weren’t being held back, tears cascaded down your cheeks freely and fell from your chin. You touched your nose, the skin around your eye, and let out a small sob as the pain flared through your skull.

Your attention was pulled from your attack to the backstage door, where a peel of laughter reached your ears. The band - you could ask them for help. Explain what happened. They could clean you up, take you to a ripper doc to make sure everything was still intact.

“Fuck, no,” you whispered to yourself. You’d eat lead before you let them see you like this; before they realized that, shit, you may have had your nineteenth birthday a few months ago, but goddamit, you still were just a snotty-nosed kid who needed her hand held when things got rough on the playground. They couldn’t know that. No one could.

You felt yourself rising, using the bottom of your shirt to gingerly wipe off the excess blood on your face. You needed to pack up. Load the equipment into the truck. Call the venue for tomorrow’s gig and make sure the show was still on.

Then you would wander, see if any rippers were still open. And if there wasn’t, well… you’d just have to deal with it.

Your mother’s words rang in your ears, still as sharp as a razor as they were when you left home. “No one’s going to take care of you out there,” she had said. “No one will help you. No one will care about you. No one will love you. You’re going to be all by yourself.”

Fuck it - you didn’t need any help. You didn’t need anyone to take care of you, to love you. You’d do it all yourself.

The pain was too much to acknowledge that was a lie.

It wasn’t but a half hour later that you were winding up speaker cords and wrapping them in their protective cases, gritting your teeth against the panging ache blossoming from your face. You were nearly done with the front half of the stage, a small tower of equipment stacked behind you and waiting to be dragged to the truck out back. You were already sweating your ass off, not to mention that the scab in your nose kept breaking and bleeding. You were sure you weren’t looking like much of a model.

You exhaled a long, exhausted breath and took a seat on the edge of the stage. Your toes barely touched the ground. Head bowed, you fisted the material of your blood-stained shirt and bit your lip to keep a fresh wave of tears at bay. You failed; they escaped, trailing down your cheeks like twin rivers.

What the hell were you doing? You were miles from home, miles from anything you knew. You’d had a life, a future planned out for you. Money. Comfort. Everything you didn’t have now. And you’d run away from it all.

“Hey, kid,” said a voice from further down the stage. “You seen my pick around here? Dropped the fucker after the show.”

Oh, holy fuck. Johnny Silverhand was speaking to you - and you were sitting here crying about being smacked around once or twice.

You cleared your throat once, twice, that the same time turning away quickly and pawing away the tears clinging to your cheeks. “Uhm, yeah.” Keeping your face turned from him, because frankly, you couldn’t take one more thing going wrong tonight, you fished out the obsidian-colored guitar pick you’d found on the stage while packing up. You had planned on leaving it beside his case when he and the others went out for a drink like they always did; it had been burning a hole in your pocket since you’d stuck it there, knowing it was the very pick he often stuck between his teeth after songs.

You held it out in his direction, refusing to let him see your tear-streaked face. He took it from your outstretched palm with his cybernetic hand, the metal fingers clicking together as he accepted it. You began to pull your hand back before suddenly those metal fingers were wrapped around your wrist, keeping your palm turned upward.

“You cut yourself or something?” he asked. He was looking at the blood you’d wiped off with your hand; fuck. Couldn’t you do anything?

Sniffling again, you pulled your hand away a little more forcefully than you meant to and cradled it in your stomach. “Yeah,” you murmured quietly, but you knew he heard you. Your voice echoed here in the empty building. “I’m fine. Sorry for worrying you, Mister Silverhand.”

To your surprise, he released a mumble from the back of his throat as he came closer and settled himself on the edge of the stage beside you. You immediately stiffened, your wide eyes trained like a magnet to an empty spot in the corner. “Christ, kid, I’m not that old. Johnny’s fine, as long as my hair’s not grey and I can still piss on my own.”

You listened as he lit up a cigarette, the lip of his lighter clasping shut before he tucked it back into his pocket. Was this actually happening? Was Johnny fucking Silverhand actually sitting down with you? Maybe that chick had knocked you clean out after all.

“You’re the new one, aren’t you?” Johnny asked as he took a drag of his smoke. He said your name, and your heart sprang like a bird screaming to be free of its cage. He did know your name. “What do you think of this shitshow? Not exactly what you expected, right?”

You reached up to wipe your nose - and quickly hid your hand when you brushed off a fresh swatch of blood. “I don’t think it’s a shitshow,” you admitted in a shy voice. You sniffed. “I think it’s great. I think you all are.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his wrist - he was offering you a drag of his smoke. You stared at it for a moment before gingerly taking it and holding it like a joint; you felt his gaze on you, you could see the edge of his faint smirk. Obviously you weren’t holding it right. Nevertheless, you hesitantly brought it to your lips. How bad could one drag be?

As soon as the smoke tumbled down your throat and into your lungs, you pitched forward and hacked out a number of dry coughs. It felt like ash was steamrolling down your spine, tasted like a bad dream you couldn’t wake from. You felt like you were going to be sick.

Beside you, his feet crossed at the ankles, Johnny gave that deep, drawling laugh you’d heard time and time again - and had practically fallen for - and took back his cigarette. “First smoke, kid?” You heard the smile in his voice as he placed it back between his lips. “When you throw up, just don’t do it here.”

You raised your hand to cover your mouth, your bleeding nose, but you were too late. You bent your head and coughed into your lap - with enough force to send a spattering few droplets across the tops of your thighs. Your hands scrabbled to wipe them away, but the man beside you was quicker.

“Jesus,” he said, all traces of amusement wiped like a slate from his voice. “Didn’t think it’d kill you.”

“Sorry,” you gasped.

There came a short, yet stifling moment of stillness, of silence. It felt as if the world had gone still, had come to a stop on its axel or the spinner or whatever the hell it rotated on. If it even did anymore.

But then it all came back full force, like a slap to the face, like a bullet to the chest. Johnny reached his hand out and grabbed your chin - gently, but commanding; forcefully, but gingerly - and forced you to turn your head and look at him. It was the first time you’d met his eyes since he’d walked into the stage - his aviators were pushed up on his head, his smoke dangling from his lips, his oak-colored eyes hard and steely and rough to disguise the shock lying beneath them.

“Fuck me.” He tilted your head slightly, his gaze traveling over your face. “Someone do this to you, kid?”

You felt as though you couldn’t speak. Even if you wanted to, you just couldn’t. His artificial fingers were cool against your flushed skin, his grip harsh but forgiving all at once. Fireworks were exploding across your face where he touched you, rendering you speechless. Did he… actually care? Give a shit you’d taken a clock to the skull?

When you didn’t answer, his fingers tightened slightly on your jaw. Your eyes found his again, lips parted and heart skipping beats. “Hey,” he said more firmly, then pulled his cigarette from his lips with his free hand. “Who did this shit to you, huh?”

Ignoring the thrumming and singing and screaming of your heart, you swallowed thick and averted your gaze. “No one,” you replied. When his grip didn’t let up, you finally caved. “Just… just a fan, a little bit ago. She was, uh…” You hesitated. “She was trying to catch a grope of you, so I stopped her. Guess I caught it instead.”

Your small, forceful chuckle wasn’t met with the kind of response you were hoping for; maybe a laugh, or at least a tug at the corner of the lips. But it did not happen. Instead, you were met with a stony glare. A hard gaze. A deeply-set frown that bordered on a scowl.

You became suddenly and deeply intimated of Johnny Silverhand, aware now of the tight grip he had on your jaw and how close he was to your face. You bowed your head to the side, and he at last let you go. “Sorry to ruin the after party,” you murmured, then swallowed thick and hopped off the stage. “I’m fine, really. I just need to finish packing up and I’ll get out of here.”

Attempting to hide the flush in your cheeks and the hammering of your heart in your chest, you bent over to gather up a speaker in your arms. When you stood straight again, you found Johnny standing just feet before you, his aviators clutched tight in his grip at his side.

“I’m not fuckin’ with you here, kid,” he said, bringing his face close again. You felt your knuckles paling around the speaker, clutching it tight to your chest. His hair framed his face in a darkened curtain, the stubble on his cheek pronounced in the dim lightning. “Nobody fucks with my band without feeling it later. You know what this bitch looks like?”

“There really isn’t a need for more violence.” Eyes down, head bowed, you shifted the speaker’s weight in your arms. You tried not to dwell on the sensation that arose in the pit of your belly over being included in his band. “I just want it to be over with.”

Johnny watched as you set down your load, reaching up to wipe at your bloody nostril. As he crossed his arms, his foot began to tap gently - a sign of agitation you’d come to recognize. “Fuck all, kid,” he rumbled, then pulled the bandanna from his back pocket and tossed it to you. Raising the cloth to you nose, you tried not to inhale deeply as his scent overpowered you. “If you’re not going down that road, you at least got liquor at your place to soften the blow that shiner’s going to give you tomorrow?”

You clenched your jaw, wrapped your free tightly over your chest. The blood from your nose was stained into the fabric of the bandana; your grip tightened around it. You murmured a soft reply.

Johnny cocked his head, hands planted on his hips. “Speak up, kid. Use that voice of yours like it’s meant to be used.”

“I live in my car,” you said again, louder, then immediately cleared your throat and began to drag a box toward the door. “Listen, uhm… Johnny, I appreciate it, but I really need to finish packing -“

“Fuck packing.” Johnny crossed the small distance you’d put between the pair of you, stopping so close you felt his breath fanning across your face. “Let those other dickwipes pull their weight for once.”

Your gaze tried to avert itself again, but something within the hallows of your chest forced your eyes to stay trained on his. Were those flecks of hazel in the brown of his irises? You blinked a few times; you’d never been this close to him before. Hell - you’d never been this close to a man before at all.

“I…” You hesitated, gripping the bandana so tightly you were sure you were about to tear it in two. “I didn’t think you cared so much.”

“I told you, kid,” he said, then reached up to grab your shoulder. Explosions; fireworks; detonations where he touched you. “I take care of my band.”

And that was how you found yourself holding an ice pack to your face in Johnny Silverhand’s apartment in Pacifica, with the night sky and the stars taking up the space between peering in on you from the windows across the room.

You brought a small glass of liquor to your lips as you took in the living space; it was quaint, but not a shitty little hole in the wall either. You knew he didn’t care for aesthetics or shows; he was a man of practicality. Whatever served him well - pretty or not - he kept around.

Maybe that was why you’d lasted this long so far tailing the band as their little runt groupie.

You shifted slightly in your seat on the couch, pulling the pack slowly from your face. A television was set against the far wall, where the news station spewed some commercial for the latest body mod people were just ‘dying for!’ Clothes lay discarded around the bed set in the alcove in the corner, and a trio of electric guitars stood by dutifully in the corner amongst a mountain of expensive speakers and stereoes. Mounted on the wall were half a dozen framed magazine covers that featured Samurai - and a few were only his face occupied the page. Photoshoots, interviews, covers… he had it all done and displayed.

The star himself stood at the miniature bar pouring himself a few fingers of vodka, hair tied up in a half knot at the crown of his head. He set the bottle down and crossed the room to take a seat on the opposite side of the couch, then kicked up his feet on the coffee table and crossed them at the ankle.

“So tell me,” said Johnny and sipped at his liquor. He extended an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers just a few inches from your head. “How’s a kid like you end up in this shit city? You certainly aren’t built to be a street kid, so you didn’t grow up here.”

Consciously, you reached up to touch the area around your eye. You’d used the bathroom when you first arrived here to clean the blood off your face, but the black eye steadily blossoming across your skin wasn’t going to wash away as easily. As if you didn’t already feel bad enough; you were sitting on fucking Johnny Silverhand’s couch in a bloodstained shirt and the confession off your lips that you lived in your damn car.

When he tilted his head to look at you expectantly, you felt your throat run dry. You knew how he - hell, how most of the street kids in Night City - felt about where you came from. Surely you didn’t have to tell him the entire truth. Besides - even if you lied, you were expecting him to come to his senses any time now and tell you, his month-new groupie, to get out of his house and scram.

“Well,” you said and gingerly placed the ice pack on the side table, “I guess you’re sort of right. My family was pretty… well-to-do. I grew up on the top floors of the snottiest buildings -“

“You used to be a corpo kid.”

Your blood ran cold in your veins. Fuck; this was it. Your run with Samurai was over. With any band, really. Surely word would spread you were a corpo brat trying to slum it as a street kid.

Johnny shrugged a shoulder and brought up his glass to take another sip. “You don’t hide it well, kid,” he told you bluntly. “The way you talk, walk, hold yourself. You reek of that high-brow lifestyle, no offense.” The corner of his lips quirked slightly. “But surely mom and dad didn’t drop their precious little darling on the street, now, did they?”

You couldn’t stop the zipping, electric sensation that pinged off the walls of your chest. “Not exactly.” You finished off your drink and set it aside, eyes focused on the corner of the television. You had no idea what the anchor was talking about; you didn’t really want to know. “My parents are oil investors. Old money types - they both came from countryside mansions and absent fathers - heh.” You smiled slightly to yourself. “They always told me I was a, as they called it, ‘soft soul.’ In their native tongue, that means weak. Not able to make those cutthroat decisions, you know? I don’t think they ever planned on including the stocks and the oil fields in their inheritance, so they went off and found the son of another tycoon who they could give it to.”

“Holy fuck,” said Johnny and lifted a stunned brow. “You’re telling me they arranged a marriage for you and this asshole?”

“They tried, I guess.” You hesitated, hand fidgeting with a stray loose end on your shirt. “I told them I’d rather splatter my brains on the wall - and they told me I could either do it their way, or leave and not come back at all.” You turned your head and gave him a wry, tight-lipped smile. “So I haven’t gone back.”

Johnny hissed out a breath through his teeth and tossed back the rest of his vodka. “You’ve got balls, kid, I’ll give you that,” he said and set aside his glass. “NC’s sure one hell of a place to hit the ground running.”

“Mm.” Maybe it was the liquor in your systems talking; or maybe it was the fact that slowly, as the evening went on, you were becoming more and more comfortable around him. “When I was younger, I heard your music for the first time and I just couldn’t get enough of it. My parents fucking hated it - tried to take away my vinyls, block the streaming websites, but I always found a way to keep listening. I guess… it was the only way I felt I could rebel.

“I got dragged to parties to be seen and not heard; I was given piano lessons at five, and when those didn’t stick, they put me in sports. They always wanted me to be some, I don’t know, incredible prodigy. Like I needed to be amazing to call myself their daughter. And I guess when they realized I wasn’t anything to be proud of, they just gave up.”

As soon as you shut your mouth, you regretted what you had said. When you’d left home, you had vowed to leave your past in the past. What the hell were you doing?

But then Johnny was barking out one of those laughs of his as he rolled his head back against the couch cushion. “Oh, come on,” he said and eyed you incredulously. “Nothing? You can handle your way around eddie negotiations - you sure they didn’t try to shape you into a corpo biz manager?”

“Believe me,” you said, finding yourself snickering along with him. “They tried everything. Nothing I ever did was good enough for them.” A loosened giggle escaped your lips as you gestured vaguely around the apartment. “Hell, I think they’d keel over and kick it if they knew I was at Johnny Silverhand’s place - the most infamous rockstar in Night City.”

He smirked coyly. “What?” he said and scratched at his throat. His eyes stayed trained on yours as you watched his tattoos move with his ministrations. “Your old man doesn’t like bad boys and tech fuckers?”

“Especially.”

There was another one of those still, silent moments between the pair of you, like the string attached to your fingers had pulled taunt. The television played quietly across the room. Car horns blared and wailed outside. Your gazes were locked together, unable to pull apart even if you wanted to.

Then he was moving. Pulling his feet off the table, standing to his full height. Stepping closer - resting a silver hand on the couch arm beside you and the other on the back near your head. Your breath hitched in your throat as he leaned over you, enveloping you against him and his ow shadow.

“Listen, kid,” he said, and you realized his voice had dropped a baritone. In the pit of your belly there came a fluttering, one that traveled further, lower, straight to your core. “I might be getting some off vibes here, but I’m not going to be a pussy and say I wouldn’t be disappointed if I was.” You felt your breath slam from your lungs as he leaned closer, closer, and dragged his tongue along the short expanse of your cheekbone; you swore your heart stopped. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I think there’s a thanks in order for saving my ass earlier.”

Ice - your blood had frozen and turned to ice beneath your skin. Did he know you were holding your breath? Did he know you’d never been this close to anyone like this? Did he know you’d never kissed before, never fucked or gotten fucked or known what real, true devotion felt like?

After what seemed an eternity - a forever of him staring at you from inches away, awaiting your green light to advance - you at last found your voice. “I didn’t do it in exchange for this.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but let me spoil you, sweetheart.”

Then his lips were melded to yours, and your mind, your senses, your body - they all burst red and green and purple and every color across the spectrum you didn’t even know existed. His knees came to rest on either side of your legs and he bent down, so that he hovered over you and you stretched up in order to keep your mouths connected. His kiss was rough and demanding, the reins held tight in his hands, and he took up every last gasp of breath you had left in your lungs.

He pulled back for a quick inhale, leaving you shell shocked, but only for a moment before he was pushing his lips back against yours. “Fuck, honey,” he slurred between deep, passionate kisses, “you taste even fucking better than I thought.”

When his mouth moved down to the column of your throat, his touch anchoring your hips down beneath him, you realized this wasn’t supposed to be a one-man show. Your movements felt foreign, unknown, as you brought one hand to thread through his hair and the other to cradle the back of his neck. His tresses slipped through your fingers like feathers or silk or some other poetic shit - you didn’t care enough to think of the right metaphor.

Johnny found a spot on your skin where your neck met your shoulder, his hand moving your shirt collar out of the way, and attached his mouth to that area. He sucked and pulled at your vulnerable throat, using his sharp teeth to gently bite at the skin. You gasped aloud, your grip in his hair tightening, as he licked at the place he’d bitten, almost like apologizing or making up for the pleasurable pain.

And fuck, was it pleasurable. With every moment that ticked by with his mouth lavishing your neck, with his touch roaming across the planes of your body, you felt yourself growing wetter. Your belly was flip-flopping with nerves and excitement, your core suddenly aching from the attention you were receiving. And, if you shifted your hips just right, you felt the growing erection in his pants pressing against your thigh. You gave a hesitant, experimental buck of your hips against his - and your heart leaped when he pulled off your throat to groan low and gravelly into your collarbone.

“Oh, fuck, sweetheart,” Johnny growled as he sat up. He peered down at you with blown pupils and an almost animalistic gaze, his hands working the clasps and buckles of his bulletproof vest. “Keep playing games like that and you might get your prize sooner than you expect it.” At last, he lifted the vest over his head - and you didn’t stop yourself from staring. His stomach was a flat plane of muscle, riddled near the hip and the pec with a few puckered scars. His dog tags clinked against his chest, hanging like ornaments over the line of hair that began at his belly button and became thicker as it disappeared beneath his waistband.

“Impressed?” he crooned, drawing your eyes back up to his.

You felt yourself smiling, albeit a bit nervously, and slowly reaching out to touch his abdomen. “Maybe,” you murmured. Your fingers trailed over his chest, his nipples, his belly. His muscles flexed under your touch, and every few moments he let his head fall back and released a low-throated moans. They sent shivers up your spine and an ache down to your core, clenching around nothing.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Johnny said, coming to his senses and hooking his fingers beneath the hem of your shirt. “I can’t exactly do this the right way if I’m the only one playing skins.”

Your nerves jumped wildly as he began to pull up your shirt; you partially lifted yourself to aid him, but as the fabric began to clear your breasts, you felt your blood spiking. “Wait!” You grabbed his wrist, halting him in place. “Wait, Johnny, wait.”

Obediently, he paused where he was. He peered down at you questioningly, searching for a sign of whatever he’d done wrong. “Don’t get cold feet on me now, kid,” he drawled gently.

“No,” you said quickly, and you panicked because he looked like he was going to pull away, so you surged forward and kissed him hungrily. He gave a muffled grunt of surprise, but returned it nonetheless. When you finally leaned back again, you knew your face was flushed; how attractive you must have looked, with a violent blush and a black eye coming in. “I want to, Johnny, I really do. More than…” You shook your head slightly. “More than I think I’ve ever wanted anything?”

“More than you want to tell those fucking parents of yours where to shove it?”

A nervous, wobbly smile wound over your lips. “Yeah,” you replied. “More than that. But…” You swallowed thick and averted your gaze, letting your eyes fixate instead on his dog tags. “I, uhm… I haven’t exactly… done this before. At all.”

“Hmm.” It was all he said for a long, quiet moment. You could tell he was staring at you, but you didn’t want to know if his gaze was full of reproach or unease - or the wild, suddenly feral look some men got around virgins. He shifted his weight atop you slightly. He spoke again. “You’ve at least cum before, haven’t you? Used one of those toys you women like so much?”

For a fraction of a second, you realized the gravity of it all - you were lying beneath Johnny Silverhand, talking about your previous use of sex toys. But before you could begin to register the situation, you said, “I mean, I’ve used vibrators before. I didn’t ever… didn’t ever orgasm on those. It just wasn’t enough. And my mom always said I didn’t want to lose my virginity to a piece of silicone. So…” You gently tightened the grip you had on his wrist. “No. I haven’t. I didn’t… I hadn’t even kissed anyone before this.”

“Fuck me, kid.”

You waited for him to roll off you, to tell you that you were a nice kid, but he suddenly wasn’t feeling well. It seemed forever. Then, that feeling - that sensation that was growing familiar - of his metal fingers on your chin drew your attention back up to his face. He was gazing down at you with a look so understanding, yet so teasing and coy it seemed as though the painter who had sculpted his features changed his mind half way through.

“If I’d known that was your first,” he rumbled to you, “I’d have made sure to bite.”

With that he dipped down to recapture your lips, his artificial hand coming up to cradle your cheek affectionately. A tidal wave of relief flooded through your systems as you reached up to tangle your hands in his hair again, your body beginning to act on its own accord. Your leg twisted around his to pull his hips closer to yours, and you felt his erection bump against the apex of your thighs. You both groaned into one another’s mouths, sharing breaths and panting into throats.

“Hang on,” he ordered you, and once you had locked your legs around his waist, he braced you against him and hauled you up into his arms as if you weighed nothing. He continued to bite at your lips and shove his tongue into your mouth as he carried you toward the bed.

When your back hit the mattress, he pulled you further up toward the pillows and crawled over your form. “I’ve got an idea,” he drawled, nipping at your throat. When you made a noise of acknowledgement, he slowly began to undo the button of your trousers. “We’ll save the fucking for the next time. Tonight we’ll stick with basics - swear it’ll feel just as fucking good.”

You felt your heart rate pick up like a methodical tick. Your grip on his shoulders tightened, nails digging into his bare skin. “The next time?” you murmured, dammit, hopefully. You knew Johnny Silverhand was a womanizer, that a different girl fell into his arms every other night. A part of you felt stupid for hoping this would be different; now you weren’t feeling quite as foolish.

Johnny smirked down at you, his hair curtaining you both. “What?” he said. “Thinking this was going to be a one-time thing?”

“Well…”

“Let me tell you something, sweetheart.” He pressed his forehead to yours, his human hand trailing down to the space between your thighs. A small squeak escaped your lips, one that melted into a moan, when he pressed his thumb down on your trousers right above your clit. “I’d be fucking stupid to find a little thing like you and let you go.”

You hitched out a gasp. “Let me go?”

“Oh, yeah, baby.” He inched down until he was level with your exposed belly, then licked a stripe up to where your shirt was bunched just below your breasts. “You’re all mine now.”

Your world was flipped on its head, like you were watching the scene play out from above instead of from your own eyes. Johnny helped you pull off your shirt, and then your bra, and you finally let yourself moan unabashedly when he pulled the peaks of each breast into his mouth. Then he removed your pants, and your panties, and then he had practically picked you up and pulled you into a position that had your core aching like never before.

Johnny sat his back to the headboard with you seated between his legs so that your shoulder blades laid flat against his bare chest. He’d hooked his ankles around yours when your legs spread, keeping them apart and open for his touch that was slowly, torturously making its way down your body.

“Johnny,” you moaned as his metal hand cupped your breast, alternating between kneading and pinching the nipple. His warm, human hand was dragging his fingers over the tops of your naked thighs, occasionally dipping between them, but never where you needed him the most. “Johnny, please…”

“Ooh, my poor thing sounds so good when she cries for me,” he chuckled in your ear from behind. His voice was low and came from deep in his chest, sending goosebumps over your flesh. “I bet she’d sound even prettier singing.”

Without warning, his hand dipped toward your center and dragged a finger through your wet folds. In reply, as if obeying his command, you released a garbled cry and leaned your head back against his shoulder. Fuck, this was so goddamn good. You’d never known letting someone else touch you like this could feel so fucking amazing.

“That’s right,” growled Johnny, then found your clit and began to rub circles around it. “Cry for me, sweetheart.”

You squeezed your eyes shut in pleasure as he played with the bundle of nerves, your hands gripping onto his thighs for support. Your legs instinctively tried to snap closed, alleviate the heightened need for friction, but his ankles locked around yours kept you from doing so. Feeling your pull against his legs, he quickened the speed of his circles, increased the pressure ever so slightly.

“Oh, fuck!” you whimpered. Your pussy was clenching around nothing, your slick smearing across your thighs. “Oh, shit, Johnny. Oh, my god, please don’t stop.” Quickly becoming overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure and sensation, your body began to react on its own. You squirmed in his grasp, hips attempting to buck and feet kicking. There was a sort of coiling feeling building in your abdomen, like a pressure from within, and your body was chasing after it like it was the sun it had never seen.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” With every buck of your hips, his own chased yours, practically humping up into you from behind.

You couldn’t reply, only whimpered and whined and buried your face into the musky-smelling crook of his neck.

Johnny applied just the smallest bit of more pressure, his free arm wrapped securely around your middle to keep you anchored to him. “Come on, kid,” he whispered against the shell of your ear. “Give it to me. Give me this first one.”

Whatever kind of effect his words had on your systems, it was immediate. That coil in your belly snapped, wound too tight, and your vision tore white as you threw your head back against him. “Oh, god, Johnny! Johnny, fuck!” Your words melted into hoarse cries and moans and gasps. You felt a warmth pooling from your entrance and his fingers gingerly gathering it up; if you had been able to open your eyes, you would have seen him suck your release off his own fingers and smirk to himself in satisfaction.

For a long, quiet few minutes, you simply sat there between his legs, feeling your chest rise and cave as you tried to regain your breath. Behind you, Johnny craned his neck to press open-mouthed kisses to the back of your neck, your shoulders, the jut of your spine. He unhooked his legs from yours, allowing you to draw them together and to your chest as you gripped his thigh with a grip that refused to let go.

“You with me still, kid?” Johnny shifted his weight a bit, then wrangled you until you were sat sideways in his lap and he cradled you against his front.

Your head rested against his bare pec, fingers unconsciously gripping onto the dog tags around his neck. “Mm,” you hummed, because you felt as though you couldn’t form words anymore even if you wanted to. A sudden and powerful tide of exhaustion had washed over you, leaving you feeling hollow and full all at the same time.

“Use that pretty voice of yours,” he insisted and flicked a piece of stray hair from your sweaty forehead. “Tell me you’re alight. That I didn’t go too hard.”

So - because you would do anything for him, after he just did everything for you - you scraped together what was left of your vocal cords and said, “I’m alright.” You skimmed your fingers along his chest, and again, his muscles flexed beneath your touch. “Johnny.”

“Yeah, kid.”

“You won’t…” The next words caught in your throat. You thought of your parents, who had tried to sell you off because they believed you were nothing. You thought of that woman who had clicked you like it was a second nature to her. You thought of your own doubts and fears that taunted you like bad dreams that wouldn’t go away even after you woke up. “You won’t leave me… will you?”

Johnny’s grip around you tightened, and he pet your hair soothingly. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he said, and there was something about his tone that made you believe this wasn’t just a promise to you, but to himself, as well. As if he’d loved and lost before; as if he refused to let this crash and burn, even if it killed him in the end. “I’m never letting you go.”

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk x reader #cyberpunk 2077 smut #cyberpunk2077 #cyberpunk johnny #cyberpunk johnny x Reader #johnny silverhand #johnny silverhand x reader #silverhand x Reader #johnny silverhand smut

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the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐕𝐈𝐈.]

summary: "Matters of this realm are not for you to consider."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 7.5k+

warnings: brief violence/blood, Corinthian is his own warning, we're hitting the big time rush angst, Dream is still Dream (insult) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: i'm just... hahahaaaaaaa. enjoy.

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART SEVEN: YEAR 619-850

“Do you imagine stopping one shipment will change anything?”

Gliding your tongue over your bloodied teeth, you shrug half-heartedly. In part because you could care less what this pompous man concludes about you. Another part—a brazen, reckless side that’s been steadily honing to life with experience and age—craves to see this man squirm. Your fellow humans are no longer so indifferent to your presence. They’re becoming more knowledgeable. Nowadays, they welcome you with distrustful, knowing stares. Those with old family names whose ancestors you might have encountered previously. But there’s also apprehension. Fear. That one’s new.

That particular emotion is cherished when faced with such men.

“Sure it will,” you drawl, licking your bloodied mouth again. “They’re free people now. You don’t have any right to them or anyone else.”

Subdued wrath laces every syllable, and each word rips from your mouth with pointed accusation. Your people have come to this. Carting off other human beings like merchandise. Things to be sold. To be treated as lessers. For wealth. As if they won’t all decay and die in a few decades. It makes you sick with fury. You had such faith in them, such hope—that they would grow and improve, achieve wonders and help one another. So fiercely you’ve defended them to the other Endless.

And this is your reward.

“My father warned me about you,” the man continues, regarding you through narrowed eyes. His fine coat, stitched with golden threads, rustles when he lumbers over. The guards holding you jerk your body, keeping you upright. “The Conjurer. The Trickster. The Many Faces Witch.”

“Yes, your father was a piece of shite, too.” A yawn pulls at your mouth. The man’s lined face tightens at your dismissiveness, deepening the grooves etching into his pallid, leathery skin. “You people need to work on something better than a witch. It’s outdated.”

"Silence your wretched tongue," he hisses, stalking closer. Oh, he's getting braver. The merchant's gloved hands ball into fists at his sides. He's taller and stronger. Your body, in comparison, is all but battered, but there is no fear in you. For one such as he, that is a far greater insult. "I will discover where you hid them and who helped you. Do not think I will not."

Your lip throbs when you dig your tongue into the fleshy, torn skin. Copper on your tongue tastes like nothing and everything.

“You’re most welcome to try, Mr… hm, I honestly don’t remember your name. Neither will history.”

Merchant’s face turns purple, nostrils flaring. Blinking innocently, you await the strike. Usually, it’s a backhand. Deliberate and savoured. Humiliation is vital in breaking spirit. But it stopped working on you a long time ago. You’ve been stripped naked, paraded around, and degraded so many times you’ve stopped counting. Or caring.

He can hit you. He can mock you and abuse you all he wants, for however long he wants. You will get back up and continue helping people because they deserve it. It is not for some pampered, greedy man to deem otherwise. Decades from now, you’ll still be here when he’s no more than an ailing husk of a man.

He wants to hit you. It’s written in the harsh, shuddering way he swallows down his breaths. The holding cell is utterly silent aside from his occasional spluttering huffs.

“I will cut out your tongue, you insolent—”

The cell door swings open with a metal creak behind him.

“You called for me?”

The new man is younger, clad in finely-stitched royal blue, augmented coat. Folds and ruffles locomote around his lithe body when he strides forward, hands resting folded behind his back.

“Constantine, yes.” The merchant straightens, impatiently waving his hand for the newcomer to join you. His ring-clad finger digs in your direction. He won’t see you cower. You’ve experienced many such condemnations. “This creature. I want this one dealt with.”

The younger, blonde man raises a ponderous, curious brow, a crafty sheen reflecting through his irises.

“Your meaning, sire?” he prods innocently.

"She is not… normal, Edward. Not human." The merchant's expensive shoes slide through the grimy cell floor when he veers in Edward Constantine's direction. "Your family deals with these matters, do they not?"

"My mother, Lady Johnna, would not take kindly to your implication, sire." Edward smiles pleasantly as he speaks. He's unfairly handsome; in a pale, nonpareil way that flustered most souls he encounters. Cupid's bow mouth; wheat-coloured hair like that of his mother; gentle, narrow features and lulling voice. But all Constantines you've encountered have something wicked pulsing beneath their skin. It's what makes them so powerful, so excellent at their craft. "And I assure you, if you were dealing with a demon, you would know by now."

“How?”

The man’s snarling question sends spittle flying.

Edward puckers his lips in mock thought. He then grins brightly. “You would be rather dead, sire.”

Old, powerful Latin spills from Edward’s mouth, the mischievous grin sliding clean from his face. His focus narrows, well versed in his craft.

One of the guards holding you chokes abruptly. Heaving, sobbing retches leave him, his hold on you loosening. Shoving away, you bury your elbow in the other guard’s ribcage, grabbing his pistol while he’s too winded to react. You promptly knock the weighted weapon across the guard’s temple. The dazed man goes down like a falling tree, his mouth agape while he sprawls across the cell floor unconscious.

The merchant holding you prisoner stumbles back at the commotion, sweat beading his brow at the power shift. He looks on the verge of throwing up. “What—what is going on—stop!”

Pale, twitching hands rip from the guard’s gaping mouth, something crawling from inside his body. The man squirms pathetically, plunging to his knees. Faint, smug smile curls Edward’s mouth, all but victorious, while the Latin continues reverberating against the dank stone.

“I order you to stop!”

The guard explodes. A wet, squelching sound hits your eardrums. Then only a pale, gnarly-looking creature rests curled on the gore-covered floor.

“You’re late, Constantine.”

The ire in your voice causes Edward to bow his head apologetically.

“My apologies, fair Wanderer.” His grin is downright roguish. “Perhaps if you offered me a kiss as a reward next time, I shall hurry.”

The merchant chooses that precise moment to empty his stomach, fainting a second later. While you do not intend to shoot him, it does comfort you to level your newly acquired firearm on him. His judgement will not be in your hands. You have no right to it. His sentence will be at the hands of those he tried to trade for personal riches.

Sighing, you stare down at the convulsing demon. “Wrong host.”

Edward clicks his tongue. “Yes, quite. It turns out the old coot is just a regular cunt.”

You step forward, hesitating. The demon snarls loudly at your proximity. Hissing and spitting, it springs back up, leaping forward instantly. Its slimy, boney form crushes you to the ground, pinning you there.

“Wanderer—”

“No! Finish it.” The order rings piercingly through the saturated, cold air. It’s a testament to how much Edward relies on you because just as the demon’s jaws part to sink into your flesh, guttural, commanding Latin resumes. The demon’s half-humanoid body cracks under sheer power, light opening up in swelling circles around you. The wind howls through the tiny cell. Portal straight to Hell. “I’ll be fine! Do it! Help them, Edward!”

The wind wails deafeningly, light burns through your vision, tears blurring everything in sight.

Invisible power closes around you in an unyielding fist, sucking you down, down, down—

The demon wails above you, its claws sinking into your arm and stomach for support, flailing as you both plummet. You choke down a yelp of pain when blood starts gushing, the demon’s claws dug in too deep. Portals, dimensions, blurring hues, cold, hot, hot, hot—

In its rawest form, the universe rushes and slides around your body. Every knock and snag nearly breaks bones. Edward’s enchantment is sending you speeding down straight to Hell, but you’re using the curse as an anchor. An excruciating, ill-fitting buffer that slows your descent into an agonising shredding.

Your nails hook deliberately in the slimy, cold skin of the demon. Snarl forming, you jerk.

The knock sends you whistling through the universe's raw matter, but in a different direction. You plummet to the ground with cracking bones. A rare cry tears from your throat when your body flops to a resting position, jolting at the sudden impact.

You’re in a cemetery. Black clouds roll overhead, faraway thunder vibrating through the air. You manage a bloody, victorious smile.

“Human ssscum. Come here.”

The rattling, hissing voice gets accompanies by eager claws at your skin. Your pistol is long gone, lost in universal transit. Your hands are all you have left.

“No pleasss for help?” it coos and caws gleefully.

Words form, but it’s the pleasant voice behind you that responds: “You talk too much.”

Metal blade sticks clean through the demon’s gut. It screeches—a piercing, haunting sound—for it’s no ordinary blade that guts it. Black liquid gushes from the demon’s belly; its greyish skin marred as it crawls backwards, slobbering and snarling in a frenzied symphony.

The nightmare crafted by the King of Dreams himself stands above you, a black halo assembled from shadows and lightning crowning his pale head.

“Corinthian.”

Your chuckle sounds a tinge manic, relief slumping your limbs into the supple dirt beneath.

Corinthian’s head tilts marginally in your direction, but his focus stays entirely on the demon sitting erect on its hunches. Its tongue lolls to the side—a disturbing sight paired with its humanoid features.

“Puny nightmare,” it gloats, black liquid coating its bent, rotting teeth. “You dare to challenge me? I am Bifrons, Earl of Hell. You think you can prevail against one sssuch as I?”

A slight, cruel grin edges Corinthian’s face. His dual blades flip through the air, adjusted and firm in his relaxed hold, an extension of him.

“Let’s find out.”

It’s a blur. The demon is sly, its long limbs and small but robust wings serving it well, but Corinthian is liquid metal. More fluid than water and more vicious than any serpent. If the blade doesn’t sink in, it cuts and cuts and cuts. In seconds, the demon is covered in its own deformed version of blood, dripping heavily onto its hooked feet.

One blade punches clean through the demon’s wing, pinning the creature to a burnt tree behind it. The demon flails, bucking.

“You’re in the Dreaming.” Corinthian shapes each word with calm, pleasant malice. “The Nightmare Realms are my domain, and you’re a long way from home, my friend.”

The wind, the lightning, even the demon’s pained bleats—every sound and sensation hush to an abrupt suspension.

You sense his arrival in the clearing before he so much as utters a word. “Corinthian, enough.”

Dream’s deep, unwavering command glides through the charged, unnaturally still air.

Corinthian glares at the demon’s beady eyes, his teeth bared and face crinkled with enraged disbelief. “This thing—”

“Enough.” You cringe at the frigid bite in Dream’s timbre, struggling to sit up. “I will deal with the demon.”

If they continue at this, it’ll devolve into a disaster.

Your mouth wobbles, pain lapping at your senses. “Cori.”

The blade poised in Corinthian’s graceful hand quivers at the subdued plea, keen for the killing blow. His mouth contorts, shaping a hollow, wide grin. A tense moment crawls by. Then his arm drops to his side.

“As you command.”

He doesn’t bow. A strange sensation prickles your skin at the observation, but you brush it aside.

Black blocks Corinthian from your sight. Power sizzles across your skin. Achingly familiar, absolute. It’s everywhere, embracing you in blankets of everlasting comfort. Cold, bitter night and sun-dripping sleepy daydream simultaneously.

Cold fingers skim over your swollen cheek. The air around you cools by several degrees the longer Dream King drinks in your torn appearance. “Wanderer.”

Sorrow traces the whispered moniker. Why is it that when you’re alone, these tragedies slide clean off you, but when Dream peers at you with such unspoken despair, it hurts so bad? Is it because his comfort is so vastly different from others? Or perhaps because with him, there is no escaping anything. Because Dream’s hands touch and linger with a gentleness that wrenches something hurt and bleeding deep inside you and lays it bare.

“Hey, Dream.”

Dream Lord imparts no words, decrees no commands. He simply sweeps his midnight, flame-edged coat across you, and you’re both gone.

“I’m fine. I told you, typical trouble.” A more pressing question springs to mind. “Where is Corinthian?”

Dream of the Endless sweeps a searching look over your healing body, mutely unsatisfied. Even though you’ve slowed down, he resumes his steady trek through the sweeping castle corridors.

“I will speak with Corinthian later,” he responds. “He acted outside his function.”

Something in your chest ices over at the carefully light way Dream articulates those words. Springing on your tiptoes, you hurry after him, wincing at the everpresent discomfort.

“Outside his—” Swallowing your frustration, you reach for the Dream King, folding your fingers gently around the crook of his arm. His black coat warms your hand when you touch it, sending a pleasant shiver up your arm. Dream halts at the light contact, pinning you with a stormy stare. “He tried to protect me. He did this to protect me from a demon.”

But Dream Lord has retreated, leaving the ruler of the Nightmare realms behind. Stony, stubborn, uncompromising.

“As monarch of this realm, it is my duty to handle these transgressions,” Dream clarifies. “Corinthian acted on his own accord. You do not slaughter the Earl of Hell without invoking wrath from Lightbringer.”

“Then why give them free will in the first place?” Your fingers tighten around his arm. “Don’t give me that look. You heard me.”

Dream exhales softly, his head bowing closer. “I was coming for you.”

You’re unsure why that sentence pulls a pained laugh from your chest. Feeble and scratchy. Your hand slips away from him, and with it, the more benign light with which Dream was regarding you does so as well.

“Yeah, before or after that thing killed me?” Damage is so blatant in your strangled question that you’re almost embarrassed by it—that you would be so apparent in your emotions after centuries together. “You haven’t been there in the past, Dream. Corinthian was. I can’t stand by while you punish him for keeping me safe.”

Dream’s pale, handsome features stutter at the not-so-subtle reminder. Does it trouble him? The knowledge that once you didn’t call for him because you didn’t believe he would come, but now you never do because being alone, relying on yourself, has become the norm. Calling for his aid no longer crosses your mind.

“Do you suppose Corinthian did this from the goodness of his heart, Wanderer? Or because it was a prime opportunity to indulge in his savagery?”

Dream’s soft conjecture lances clean through you, balling your heart in a merciless fist.

“You mean savagery you instilled in him?” Your shoulders hunch, defensive. It’s challenging standing against him when he’s like this: looming, all-powerful, ancient dust and brimstone. But the poor, naive soul who once found themselves in his gardens, at the foot of his mercy, has long since grown up. “You made him this way. You make them all for humanity. To serve them. Corinthian just did.”

Dream’s stare darkens, sliding away dismissively. “I do not expect you to understand the intricacies that come with Hell’s wrath—”

“You don’t expect me to understand.”

The gallery you’ve halted is quiet enough to hear a feather drop.

For years, you were trapped in Hell. You’ve tasted their cruelty and bloodlust; experienced firsthand the unending list of methods they use for torture and how they delight in it.

Dream’s soft mouth parts. “I did not mean to imply—”

“No, you implied enough, Morpheus.”

He leans back at the hard bite of his true name. It’s so rare for you to use it, and rarer still, for it to be spoken with such… disappointment. You’re too blind to his faults. Perhaps Desire was right in saying so. Or maybe you’ve always seen them but never cared because you care for him. Your fondness for the lonesome Dream Lord outweighs the logical, critical part that’s all survivor now.

Or does it?

You brush past him. “Excuse me.”

He doesn’t stop you.

“I’m an idiot.”

Your groan is met with a contemplative hum from your nightmare companion. Wanderer Island is blanketed by flimsy cloud cover today; the sun blazes hot and bright onto the sand, trees and flowers encircling you. You chew absently on the sour apple grass, your fingers knotted in the undying pasture beneath.

Corinthian deliberately bobs his leg, jolting you where your head rests on his thigh, your arms wrapped tight around yourself.

“You challenge him.” The nightmare pauses in his whittling, his attention straying over the water towards the rest of the Dreaming. “Dream doesn’t like hearing the truth. The only truth he cares about is his own. He’s selfish like that.”

You say nothing. Just as you’ve never pointed out that Corinthian has all but migrated to the Wanderer Island. It’s the one place you are guaranteed to find him no matter how much time has passed. Shelter for those lost and seeking. It applies to him as much as you.

You examine his profile. Each line, pore, and curve of his proud visage. “He won’t punish you for this. I won’t let him.”

Corinthian lightly scratches the tip of his blade into the half-finished wooden piece snug in his palm. “He already talked with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

He reaches out and flicks you on the forehead. Hard. “Nothing to concern your pretty little head with.”

Slapping your hand over your stinging forehead, you propel yourself upwards, shooting him a glare. His tells are as apparent to you as yours are to him after centuries together.

“Corinthian.” His name, spoken with intent, drags the nightmare’s attention your way. “What did he tell you?”

A light breeze ripples the tree branches you’re resting under—molten spots of sunlight smear and dance across Corinthian’s cheek through cracks in the leaf cover. For too long, he’s altogether quiet. Dread coils around you in a suffocating grip.

“That if I stray again, he will unmake me.”

Of course. You knew you. Even before he spoke aloud, you knew.

“I don’t believe him,” you hiss, dragging your hand over your face.

The tiny stabs caused by the still healing flesh hardly register.

Corinthian peers up at the sky, relaxing in his spot. “Ah, tough business.”

You cast a suspicious glance his way. “You’re not even a little bit concerned? If you keep pushing Dream’s boundaries, it will implode in your face eventually.”

The nightmare rubs his thumb over his newest piece. “Nah, not even slightly concerned. He won’t dare to unmake me.”

This once, you take the bait.

“Do you know something I don’t… or?”

Your reflection appears puzzled in the distorted, dark shine of his glasses.

“If Dream unmade me, it would break your heart.” Unequivocally self-assured. Your heart skips several beats. Corinthian swishes his blade from side to side playfully. “He knows as much. Why else do you think I’m still around? I get away with things others won’t dare to dream about. Told ya, truth bites.”

He taps the blunt edge of the blade against your nose. You don’t react to it. No, instead, you mull over his hypotheses, his conclusions, the weight in your pocket becoming unbearable.

“Funny timing,” you mutter absently. Your hand closes around the figurine in your pocket, now significantly more ragged than when Corinthian first gifted it to you. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for some time.”

Another item has been living with the figurine in your dark pocket. Pinching it carefully, you pull it out, proffering it to the nightmare wordlessly.

“A ring?” A slow, crooked smirk bites into Corinthian's cheeks. “Oh, now Dream will unmake me for sure.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Hilarious. It’s not for that. Put it on.”

Still smirking, Corinthian accepts the offered object, slipping it on his finger. With much pleasure, you watch that haughty, charming smirk slide from his face. The nightmare’s body goes incredibly still, a deep, nonplussed frown taking shape.

“What is this?”

This is the first time you’ve heard the nightmare sound so serious or carefully controlled. The silver band on his finger doesn’t stand out. But wearing it, specifically for him, you imagine, would be a rather peculiar experience.

“A small piece of humanity for you to hold,” you say with a small smile. “I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.”

“You prefer people. Not me.”

“I prefer their stories. Their worries and hopes. Give it time, Cori.” You drag your feet closer to your chest, hugging them to you. Corinthian is still staring down at the ring on his hand. “Sometimes I’m ashamed of them. But sometimes I love them so dearly I remember why I still walk amongst them. Now you have that in this. From me.”

A small segment is packaged from you—your very soul—into his ordinary ring. So he experiences what it’s like.

“Desire helped me make it,” you add when the silence becomes too profound and heavy.

Dragging his thumb over the ring, Corinthian snorts. “The flashy one.”

You match his grin. “You two should meet. And I never did give you a Dreamfall present, so.”

His brows lift, the strange bout from moments ago shaken and laid to rest. “Should have waited for the next one. You’re a tad late.”

You lean over, grabbing for his hand.

“Fine, give it back.”

The nightmare yanks his arm back, wiggling his fingers. “Don’t think so,” he concludes slyly.

“Wanderer.”

Wanderer Island warms with delight at Dream Lord’s impromptu arrival. Your grin withers, your tongue nervously dragging over your teeth.

“I hate it when he does that,” you mumble, standing to your feet. Corinthian eyes his creator with a neutral but nevertheless shadowed expression. “Have you noticed it? He always says your name with that tone when you’re in trouble. Talk to you later?”

The nightmare finally reacts. “Sure thing, trouble.”

His drawling, ponderous reply does not reassure you.

Flames kindle brighter around Dream’s coat, orange and red sparkling at his feet. His otherwise black apparel and unruly hair make for a fond, beloved memory. He’s unchanging in an equally frustrating and comforting manner.

“Dream.”

His jaw flexes, relaxing somewhat. It takes you several seconds to deduce why. When you parted ways last, you left with an impersonal farewell, calling him Morpheus. You haven’t done so in centuries.

Dream slopes his chin towards a blossom-covered path behind him. “I hoped we could conclude our earlier conversation.”

Never one to admit he’s in the wrong.

Without a word, you set out down the path he gestured towards, butterflies fluttering past your head. One lands directly on your shoulder, and you hold out your finger, delighted when the butterfly flutters over immediately.

“You misunderstood my meaning,” Dream begins, his footsteps near silent behind you.

Another butterfly lands on your outstretched hand, but no smile graces your face. “Did I? You don’t interfere with the curse. I’m perfectly aware. It’s my destiny. We’re all born into our roles. There is no escape. I get it.”

Dream cuts around you, his coat rustling behind him when he blocks your path. “It is not that I do not wish to help,” he insists, his words tight. There’s a beseeching edge in his low intonation, a plea for understanding perhaps. “It is that I cannot.”

Your smile is faint and sad but understanding because of course you understand him—your stubborn, lonely, weary Dream Lord.

“That’s fine, Dream. You have duties. You won’t risk the Dreaming. And you shouldn’t. Not for me. Are we done—”

You jump when he grasps your hand in his. Sand strokes your skin, your eyes widening at the gliding sensation. He holds your startled stare, burning through you. Dream’s grip loosens as swiftly as it formed, but your hand is no longer empty. Your fingers splay, stupidly missing his touch, sand trickling to the ground. A miniature, transparent stone sits in a teardrop shape in your palm. “What is this?”

Dream takes a while to respond.

“A pebble from the Fiddler’s Green. In it, I have deposited additional power beyond that of an unadorned creation. My power.” Your head jerks up, staring at him wide-eyed. Dream strides closer, so close you feel his breath on your mouth. “I cannot interfere in my siblings’ affairs, Wanderer. If anything should befall you in their realms, there is nothing I can do. But the waking world… is fickle. You do not dream; therefore, I cannot locate you, but with this, I can.”

You’re so speechless that no words come to mind, leaving you spluttering on a pathetic, “I… I shouldn’t…”

Twin stars rage in Dream’s eyes. He carefully folds your fingers back over the stone. “I need not stress how imperative it is you only use this in emergencies.”

“Why? Why now?”

Why make such a drastic gesture after over seven hundred years together? Was your suffering not enough before? Or did something change in how Dream views the curse? Views you?

“Because I made you a promise long ago, and I do not commit to such deeds lightly.”

A promise? Oh.

Would you come for me?

Yes.

Promise?

You never did hear his answer back then. You had assumed Dream never responded at all. Endless do not pledge themselves to such commitments.

Days of no food or water, near constant beatings, but it’s a tiny stone denting your skin that causes tears to well in your eyes. They don’t fall, but you’re sure Dream hears them when you choke out, “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.”

Dainty contact caresses your cheek, tingling and light. You raise your head, savouring his thumb sweeping over your skin. Your breath catches at the conflicted, intent way Dream peers at you. “Wanderer… I…”

“What’s wrong?” you breathe.

Tell me, be open with me, let me in.

Dream swallows, working a kink in his jaw. His piercing stare lowers, latching onto your mouth—

He forcefully turns away, muttering, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Flames flare brightly around his coat’s hem, and he’s gone in a breath.

Butterflies explode in a mad circle around you at the Dream Lord’s departure, their featherlight wings kissing your skin. Wanderer Island seems to shudder a breath, settling back into place.

You clench the stone in your hand so hard your skin turns numb.

“Morpheus. Dream King. Oneiromancer. I bid thee welcome.”

Mighty wings extend in either direction behind the powerful silhouette, showcasing the fallen angel’s full, terrible might. Even for one such as him, power emitting from Maker’s once most beloved angel is immense.

Morpheus inclines his head marginally, his helm tucked close to his side. Anything less than face-to-face with the netherworld ruler would be considered an insult. “Lucifer Morningstar. I thank thee, Lightbringer, for your welcome.”

Lucifer’s slight smile belies the malevolence festering beneath it. “Tell me, Morpheus, what brings you to my domain? Enlightenment, perhaps?”

Hell boils with cruelty unprecedented and hatred unmatched, sins unpaid and torment everlasting. In this, Morpheus finds these lands unchanged. Fluttering reminder flees through his mind that Wanderer had suffered here. For such long years.

He may be required to keep to the accords when dealing with infernal regions, but it does not mean he will be quick to forget such slights.

“I have come to return one of your adrift terrors.” His hand lifts, and the wretched demon falls out from the rushing sand. The wounds Corinthian has inflicted on the creature have not faded. Lucifer regards one of their demons with callous indifference. Its claws are still covered in what was once red blood. Dream’s voice slips into soft, cold caution. “Demons may pass through the Dreamworld, that is the agreement, but they do not attack my own. I request, Lightbringer, that you see to it we do not have a repeat of such incidents in the future.”

Lucifer circles them in their luxurious silken robe, their fingers steepled.

“Bifrons, are Dream Lord’s allegations true?”

Torchlight illuminates the demon’s broken shape.

“Yesss, your majesty.”

Lightbringer halts before him. Morpheus edges his chin higher to meet their cunning stare. “Describe this being you attacked.”

His self-possession prevails, giving up nothing, but Morpheus sees right through Lightbrnger’s objective.

The slow, satisfactory smile grows at the demon’s detailed description, curling beautifully across the former angel’s mouth.

“Ah, not just any old creature dwelling in your dream clouds, then.” Vindictive pleasure glimmers through Lightbringer’s deceptively composed countenance. “The Wanderer. Oh, Morpheus, you are becoming rather soft for that one.”

They circle again, their majestic black wings whisper over the floor as they add a contemplative, “Though I suppose you always were the sentimental one.”

“I did not come here for a social call.”

Soft. What presumption. As if Wanderer is a weakness. Instead of a soft spot, something tender and free, leaping through stars and into his awaiting home.

“No, you did not.” Lucifer glides a sudden, purposeful step forward. Their eerily angelic smile remains perfectly intact. “Fear not. Bifrons will be flayed for what he has done. Blood unjustly shed will be repaid as the old laws would demand.”

He no longer wishes to linger here. Even the dreams lapping at him insistently, reaching for him as starved branches would call for the sun, for life, taste of nothing but ash and rot.

“Then I bid thee farewell.”

He bends his head in another slight bow. Ceremony only, but it is a necessity. Beneath the calm mask, chafing irritation prickles his chest.

Placing his helm back over his head, Morpheus edges backwards, a handful of sand slipping from his pouch and into his awaiting palm.

“It never ends well, Morpheus.” Sand engulfs his knees, slowing with Lightbringer’s saccharine words. “Mortals falling in love with the Endless. The control that gives them spells ruin. And it especially won’t end well for that one. Cursed. Tormented. We will have your Wanderer one day, Dream Lord. You left one here quite willingly already. I’m sure we will find room for the Wanderer just fine.”

Love? It’s foolish to even contemplate it. You would not love one such as him. You are far too clever, and he…

No. He is done with love—and all it entails. Even if your soul is destined for Hell, Morpheus will see to it that Lightbringer awaits until the end of times for it.

“Eternity is a long time to wait, Lightbringer.” Sand slithers along his body, so Morpheus gently reminds, “But I suspect you know as much already.”

He’s gone just as Lightbringer’s features crack open with fury.

The news reaches you in between dimensions. One foot in and one foot out. Such a feat should not be possible, but such is the power this news carries, spreading through the universe. It’s as if a part had been broken from you and crushed.

Destruction of the Endless has abandoned his domain.

Your knees fold beneath you, hand over your mouth. You’re not entirely sure where you ended up.

A hand grasps your shoulder. “Wanderer? Heavens. Wanderer! Mother, come quick!”

Edward sounds frazzled, his eyes visibly bulging. At long last, the dreary walls of Fawney Rig come into focus. Your head rings so loudly, that you desperately drag your fingernails over your forehead.

It’s not until much later that Edward informs you that the reason for your sore throat is relatively uncomplicated.

You were screaming the entire time.

“Do you hate me for what I’ve done?”

“I don’t.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

The large, muscular arm tightens around your shoulders. You don’t miss the slight tremor there. “Forgive me, Wanderer. Others… do you they…”

Sunset paints the panoramic vista around you with gushing golds and reds.

But you cannot lie to him. “Yes, I think they resent you for it. Some more so than others. But give them time. One day they’ll understand why you did it.”

“Not Dream. He believes we cannot change our nature. Perhaps he is right.”

He says it so knowingly your heart cracks.

“Dream is wrong. And before you ask, no, I won’t tell them. It was your decision. I respect that.”

“You can’t tell anyone, my dear friend,” Destruction reminds kindly. “I beg you never attempt it.”

What is more powerful? An ancient curse or aspect of the Endless? You suppose one day you could try and find out. See what tears you apart first.

Gazing at him, you rest your cheek on Destruction’s broad shoulder. “I’m not telling them because you’re my friend. Idiot.”

Destruction’s warm, booming laughter compels a smile from you. “I have missed you, dear Wanderer.”

I missed you too.

“I told you, it won’t kill you.”

Having said that, even you can admit you’re painfully winded. Leave it to Dream to build a castle with the biggest staircase you’ve come across in any dimension in over eight hundred years.

Challenging an Endless to a physical wager is a sure indication of your hubris.

“You are certain?” Dream poses lightly.

“You’re so not funny.”

The accursed Dream Lord even manages to sound a shade smug about it. Or at least far more so than usual. Gatekeepers bow deeply to their Lord upon your entry to the castle side by side. You wave at them until they’re no longer visible.

Cracking your neck, you endeavour to relax and luxuriate in the knowledge you’re back at the Dreaming. The curse has been painful since the beginning, but lately, since Destruction’s departure, it’s as if your very bones feel ill-fitting. Your skin is a thin, worn cloak. Whatever disorder Destruction’s departure caused in this universe, even your curse is acclimating.

“Are you well, Wanderer? You have been more distracted as of late.”

You’re certain your surprise shows. That he noticed, even more so that he asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Curse stuff.”

You enter the throne room, where Dream purposely slows you both down.

“Has my sibling’s departure made it worse?”

It’s an effort to hold back from flinching. Every time Dream brings up his younger brother, an imperceptible noose finds its way around your neck. “No. I mean, Olethros is fine. It’s not his fault—”

Dream halts dead in his tracks. Too late, you realise your mistake. Your heart plummets to your stomach.

“Olethros…” Dream rasps. “My brother did not share that name with you before his departure. You have seen him recently. You know. You know where Destruction is.”

Dream draws closer, his scrutiny crushing. For the first time in your long existence, you stumble a step back from your Dream Lord.

“Don’t ask me about that,” you choke out, fear audible in your shaky voice. Hot, scalding destruction licks up your spine in warning, in reminder. “Please don’t ask me about that, Dream.”

You’re not sure what’s worse: how betrayed he looks or how determined he appears to dig deeper. “Why did you not tell me?”

Your head is shaking before he’s finished. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

Merv and Lucienne come into view, halting mid-chatter when they spot you, but you’re too choked up on dread to pay them any heed. Neither does Dream.

“His duty… he has to fulfil it.” Dream takes another step closer, and you stagger backwards again. “You must tell me.”

Your mouth is so dry you fear you’ll choke on your own tongue. “No.”

Distantly, you hear Merv mutter oh, boy, but it’s swallowed by the deafening silence that veils the throne room. Muted purple light pouring from stained glass windows blinks out, devoured by the steadily building cloud cover outside.

“No?” Dream repeats so softly you want to crawl from your own skin.

It hurts. It hurts not telling him, but you can’t. Even if you tried, Destruction assured no one would locate him again.

“You good, trouble?”

Not once have you dreaded Corinthian’s presence at your back until now. His arm brushes against yours, but you don’t remove your attention from Dream.

Dream Lord finds Corinthian’s presence less than palatable. “Leave.”

You can’t help but bristle at his authoritative tone. “Don’t take this out on him.”

“Where is my brother, Wanderer?” Dream’s features darken, shadows pooling in the crevices of his handsome face. “You will answer me.”

He sounds so soft, but that immemorial wrath trembles through each word. Your mouth remains clamped shut.

Corinthian chuckles sardonically at your side. “You can’t order this one around. Not yours to play with.”

Dream’s pale, lightning stare cuts to the nightmare at your side. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. “You forget yourself, Corinthian.”

“Stop it, both of you.” You shove your shoulder between them. Behind Dream, Merv hovers awkwardly on his heels, unsure if he should interfere. Even Lucienne appears bewildered as to what action she should take. Jessamy’s low crows echo like doom bells across the throne room. “I can’t tell you, Dream. Please, just trust the fact I can’t.”

Please, please, stop asking me—

But there are few traces of your Dream Lord to be found. No gentleness, no reluctant attempt to understand, or his exasperated patience. Only Nightmare King, one of the Endless, stands before you and your spine nearly bends under his suffocating presence.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Dream questions, each word a cutting caress.

Your tongue refuses to work because you both already know. Destruction is a beloved friend. So not even for Dream, not even for the one you trust most, would you betray that plea for acceptance. Because how can you judge someone who wishes to be free? Who wants to be something more outside his destiny? Who wants to create instead of destroying?

Cold realisation washes over Dream’s features. With it, the invisible tether binding you together snaps in two. Here, at the end of everything, you will choose your conviction, hope, and integrity over him. You can’t tell him, but you also won’t. And it snuffs out the unspoken affection you’ve glimpsed in him for centuries in a single wink.

“That is what I thought,” he concludes emptily.

“Well, for once, somebody doesn’t dance to your tune,” Corinthian bites out.

Dream doesn’t move. The Dreaming moves around him, gliding him closer. “Hold your tongue.” He halts when you shove in front of the nightmare. “Wanderer.”

Warning laces your title.

“You’re not touching him. I won’t let you.”

Words stumble from your mouth in a rush, but you stare directly at the Endless, your head unbowed.

Faint breath tickles your ear. Corinthian’s brief laugh vibrates against your back. “Oh, let him show us his true colours.”

But Dream is no longer paying attention to his creation. He’s staring down at you with the same distant nothingness when he first came upon you. Nothing.

You are nothing to him.

“Won’t let me? Matters of this realm are not for you to consider. You have also forgotten yourself. You are a guest here in the Dreaming, nothing more.” Those words strike you harder than any physical blow or kick ever has. You would take a thousand more kicks, a million more, just to have him take those words back. “But these privileges, too, can be revoked. So, I will ask you one last time: where is my brother, Wanderer?”

You recognise the olive branch. If you just tell him now, all will be forgiven and forgotten.

Once again, it’s about his damned pride.

“No.”

Dream’s unnatural stillness makes Corinthian tense behind you.

“No…” The single word sounds like a betrayal on his tongue. Nothing has ever hurt more than this. Your stomach roils, but still, you stand, staring him down with a glassy stare. You would rather he were screaming at you.

“You would forsake us, this realm and all it has offered you, in favour of secrets? Lies?”

Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you’re clenching your clothes. “I care for you.”

Supernovas flare and burn in his irises. “Do not speak to me of care.” It’s a lash on bare skin, salt in the wound, an agony you sense ripping you from inside out. “Desire has no place in the land of dreams. But have it your way.”

His coat sweeps over the pale marble, embers flaring as he ambles towards the stairwell leading to his throne. Merv physically slopes backwards when the Dream Lord brushes by him. Lucienne grips the ledger in her hand in stunned silence.

Dream climbs his stairs one at a time, deliberate in his actions, but when he pauses, that is when fear floods your body.

Your Dream Lord gazes at you over his shoulder—not angry, not bitter, he looks, then, simply devastated. Exhausted. Utterly betrayed. Perhaps hurt. Then, whispers of vulnerability, imagined or otherwise, disappear like smoke, leaving nothing but endless emptiness behind.

“Wanderer, you are henceforth banished from the Dreaming. Take your secrets and your curse, and begone.”

Lucienne marches forward. “My lord—”

A single, swift look from the Dream King cuts her speech short.

No. Surely he won’t. The Dreaming is all you have. It’s all you ever had—

“Dream.” His name, called a thousand times, loved just as many, cracks to splinters on your tongue. “Please, I can’t.”

He doesn’t pause, striding up the staircase with single-minded, dogged purpose.

Pained desperation unleashes a simple request, “Don’t make me leave. This… the Dreaming is my home.”

You’re my home.

Dream halts, almost at his throne, and you silently beg for him to choose you in your mind. But the foolish hope is not done forming before you know what will transpire next.

There is no changing the Lord of Dreams.

Dream sits down on his mighty throne. You’ve been in this position many times, but this is the first time he’s looking down at you, not at you. “Go, or I will have you removed.” The exact words as when you first met, but you’re not strangers this time. Or are you? “When you are ready to cease your artifice, you may return.”

So, never. Because you can’t justify yourself, and he never listens. He will never listen.

It’s over.

You have no idea where to put your hands, where to place your feet, how to walk or form a thought.

Wobbling, you spin around blindly, putting one leg in front of another.

“Kid—”

“Wanderer.”

“That is enough.”

A single command promptly silences Merv and Lucienne. Your steps echo deafeningly as you stagger from the throne room. Outside, the Dreaming has turned bleak and cold. Over the snowcapped mountains on the horizon, lightning splits the purple back skies.

No one is in sight. Trembling, you raise your head hopefully towards the Gatekeepers, but they avert their gazes. You think you read silent regret and sorrow in their powerful faces. Not that it matters.

It’s over. Where do I go?

Footsteps approach from behind. Somehow you already know who it is without having to check—the only one who is not afraid to disobey even at a time like this.

“You’re just going to let him do that?” Corinthian hisses.

Your feet move mechanically while you descend the staircase. You’d been so happy to return, to see Dream again just minutes ago. You had just laughed and joked with him. You…

“You heard him. He…”

—wants me gone.

“Fight back.” Corinthian grabs you by the shoulder, shaking you once. “Fight back.”

Your tiny smile is defeated, cracked and shattered. “He’s the Endless, Cori. He… he doesn’t want me… here.”

He doesn’t want me. Why would he? You don’t belong in his life. A stray, a curse, you’re nothing—

“Then take me with you,” Corinthian proposes abruptly. You blink, uncomprehending. His grip tightens around your bicep. “To the hell with them. You and me.”

“What?” you croak out.

Lightning strikes above head, thunder clapping seconds later—the Dreaming trembles from the frenetic energy. “Take me with you,” Corinthian says breathlessly, his fingers curling around your shoulder, holding you close. “To the waking world. You’ve brought other objects with you in the past. This time, we go together.”

You pull from his hold, staring at him blankly. “It doesn’t work like that. Outside the Dreaming… the journey alone. I rip through dimensions, Cori. It’s meant to harm me. What if it destroys you? No, I can’t risk that. Your place is here.”

A hissing, disbelieving sound slips from Corinthian's clenched teeth.

“Here. I’ve never belonged here. Not with them or him. Neither of us does.” But we did, you and I, together. A breathless laugh puffs from the nightmare’s mouth. He paces backwards, a sneer warping his expression. “Even now… still, you would rather obey his rules.”

The barely leashed disappointment, the sheer betrayal you hear, guts you.

“Wait, Cori—”

Your hand sails through empty air.

“... don’t go.”

Don’t leave me here alone.

But you’re alone on the stairs leading up to the castle you once believed to be your home.

Nothing, and no one, answers you back.

an:

y'all wrongfully assumed nothing bad can happen between these two before Dream's capture, and I'm saying bet. this is still pre-capture!Dream we're dealing with after all. he's truly dumb as bricks, and we love to hate him for it.

also, sorry if this was a lil clunky I wrote most of it in one sitting and will be doing a lot of travel over the next few days, so I wanted to get this out before I have to leave because I won't be able to update till Wednesday at the earliest, but we're truly in the trenches now.

#the sandman #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #dream x reader #sandman fic #morpheus x fem!reader #sandman x reader #dream x fem!reader #netflix sandman #sandman fanfiction #the sandman netflix #reader insert #fic: today i bury you in me

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missglaskin · 2 years

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What if reader got killed during the dance, and the blacks and greens are blaming one another about her death. Like I imagine Cregan Stark will want Aemond's head as he blames him for stealing his betrothed and saying how if he hadn't taken her, she would still be alive. And the blacks would probably help him. Aemond would be torturing people who might be involved in reader's death. Otto would demand an investigation be done. Rhaenyra would have a breakdown from hearing the news and would want revenge. Daemon might try to burn King's Landing for this. I have a feeling Halaena will silently blame her family for reader's death. Everyone in the future will probably have a different pov on how the war went down. Like people from king's landing will blame cregan for ruining a love story, the north will blame aemond for stealing someone's betrothed. I wonder how Dany would view this event.

Book spoilers

Cregan will blame the greens, mostly Aemond. If the reader had been given to him as his betrothed, none of this could have happened. There will be a personal motive in his desire to demand justice. While the blacks may not necessarily agree with him, all that matters is they work together to rid of the greens.

Aemond is certainly not taking this well either. What was done to Riverlands will be childsplay on what he’ll do next. The reader was his wife, the love of his life. She meant so much to him, that it felt as if half of him was ripped away. There’s so much emptiness that he fills with blood and fire.

Aegon takes it the worst as well. There is the torn in wanting to meet the blacks out in the sky right there and then or to drown himself in his cups of wine. While he blames the blacks for what they have done, there is some blame in Aemond. If only had the reader been given to him, made the queen. No one would have touched her.

Otto will also reveal such a ruthless side to not only the court and realm. The line of those he had tortured and hanged is a never-ending one. Alicent and Helaena are utterly devastated. They spend most of their days grieving. Helaena with the loss of her son and now the reader may be the final nail in the coffin. Daeron, like his brothers, goes on a path of vengeance. Nothing can really calm him until he has won every battle.

When Rhaenyra was met with the news, as she did with Luke. She collapsed and soon the tears turned into rage. Demanding revenge and Daemon will gladly fulfill it for her. The wrath that Daemon unleashes makes the others pale in comparison. He will be feared causing so many innocent deaths and collateral damages that he pays no mind to.

Corlys and Rhaenys are utterly furious as well as stricken with grief. Corlys is hellbent on getting revenge. It’s his way of coping with the death of the reader. It gives Rhaenys some of the bravery to stand in front of Aegon and Aemond, letting them know the realm knows it’s their fault for it. Daemon also let it be known when he faces off Aemond. The two shout their blames before Daemon lands the deadly blow. Not to mention, Baela taking her revenge against Aegon.

When Rhaenyra takes the throne, she enjoys the sight of Otto being beheaded. She announces to the court one of his many treasons was being the cause the reader suffered her fate. All for the sake of his ambition. And it is what Aegon announces, blaming Rhaenyra instead when he has sunfrye eat her alive.

When the throne goes to Aegon III. Alicent is spared, but she’s forced to live with all her children dead. Mourning them and mourning the reader even more.

Aegon III finds it painful to speak of the reader, and the court never makes mention of her in front of him. His children come to know nothing of her from their father, instead it comes from how everyone speaks of her. From all the paintings, monuments, the songs dedicated to her.

This all left a strained relationship with Winterfill and King’s landing. The king’s landing has all their conflicting views, while Winterfell is adamant on blaming the Targaryens. When Cregan and Aemon the dragonknight meet. Aemon finds all that he thought was a tragic love story between the one-eyed prince and the princess hid many dark aspects. But no one believes Aemon, telling him it’s a lie told by the North.

The Targaryens continue to uphold those supposed love story. They lie about how the reader came willingly to the family. There are all sorts of theories on which side she truly took, and it depends on the person telling those stories. For one, the starks have never forgotten the ‘true’ side of the story and when Rhaegar stole Lyanna, it felt like history repeating itself.

#yandere concept #yandere house of the dragon #yandere hotd

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whumpshaped · 7 months

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a thought : Something so awful happening to beck one evening it makes them almost welcome helle with open arms in comparison (bonus points if even they're worried)

masterlist

tw vampire carewhumper, emotional whump, mugging mention, knives mention, death threats mention, subtle mind control, conditioning, conditioned whumpee

Beck stumbled into his apartment still sobbing, clutching his bag like his life depended on it. What else? What else could go wrong in his stupid fucking life? He had one vampire constantly pestering him, he'd had another try to bite him, and now he got mugged? There had to be something wrong with him. This wasn't normal. He had to be cursed.

He leaned back against the locked door, taking panicked little breaths until he felt like he could move again. He should've gone to the police. He'd just been too scared to do so, the cold touch of a knife still lingering on his neck where it'd nicked him.

He instinctively tried to reach for his phone to call his mom — only to realise that had been taken from him, along with all the money from his wallet and his credit card. At least the guy was nice enough to let him keep his papers.

He wanted Helle.

The thought made him cry even more. He was so shaken, so utterly terrified, and he wanted the vampire? He was losing his mind. But really, who else was going to raise hell for someone wasting 'his precious blood'? Who else was going to visit him at night without having to be called? He had no one else. Nobody would even believe him at this point, there were simply too many bad things happening to him one after the other. People were getting tired of him, he could tell.

Helle wasn't. Helle came back every single night, let him ramble, sat in the kitchen while he cooked, joined in enthusiastically whenever he complained about Christie or work, held him after he woke up from the nightmares they'd caused... They were all he had right now, as sad as it was.

Yeah, because you stopped calling your family as often. You're getting tangled up in the magic they apparently 'never use on you'.

He pushed the thought aside. He didn't have the energy for it. His heart was still racing, he still felt lightheaded and detached, and if his pathetically frightened mind wanted nothing but to run into Helle's arms, well... tonight wasn't the night when he'd rationalise his way out of it.

It didn't take long. Barely ten minutes after he'd finally torn himself away from the door and set his bag on the dresser, Helle walked in, their usual cheery demeanour instantly clashing with the fearful atmosphere in the room. Their red eyes settled on his shaking figure, and Beck found he couldn't even explain anything; all that came out were choked little whimpers, making even the vampire reconsider their evening plans.

"Oh, dear." They slowly walked over to the sofa, concern evident on their face. "What happened?"

Without saying a word, Beck's hands shot out to grab onto Helle's shirt, and they sat down so he could properly cling to them. They wrapped both arms around his frail body, letting him cry it out for as long as he wanted.

"S-someone stole my stuff," he sniffled. "My– my phone, my money– he put a knife t-to, to my throat– said he'd kill me–"

"Poor thing," they murmured, and for once, it sounded genuine. It was all Beck wanted to hear. To know that they did care, and his stupid love that he'd tried to hard to sweep under the rug wasn't entirely misplaced. "Do you want me to go and get your things back, darling? Or do you want me to stay?"

"Stay," he said right away. "Please. 'm s-so scared, I d-don't wanna be alone, I–"

"Shh, alright." They began gently rocking him back and forth, whispering sweet nothings until he calmed down. Beck thought it'd take longer. He thought he'd be crying all night, driving Helle up the wall, yet here he was, quiet and exhausted in their arms after mere minutes.

Like magic, right? They have to be using something. This isn't normal. No vampire puts a human at ease naturally.

He was too tired to care. All he could focus on was the gentle way they'd asked for his preference, the way they were willing to stay with him instead of immediately going on a vengeful hunt through the city. The way they would've gone if he'd asked them to. They were all he had, and they were so much more than enough.

"Feeling better?" Their voice felt like silk against his skin, soft and smooth and so light.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Thank you. S-sorry for... all of this." Despite saying that, he made no effort to push himself away from them. They didn't urge him either.

"No need. Just breathe."

He did. He could finally take deep breaths as opposed to the shallow gasping from before, and it felt nice, like a weight had been lifted. Even being reminded made him feel so warm inside, like he wasn't a bother, like... like he was allowed to just breathe. Like Helle truly expected nothing else from him.

"Thank you," he repeated, emphatic and reverent. It felt good to give into the gratitude instead of fighting it, to simply express his feelings instead of trying to hide them out of embarrassment. "Thank you for staying."

Helle kissed the top of his head. "How could I not, when a sweet thing like you begs me to?"

Sweet thing... It was probably just the sudden lack of adrenaline leaving him sleepy and stupid, but for a long moment, he thought he liked being Helle's sweet thing.

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries @morning-star-whump @d-cs @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @tauntedoctopuses @blueyellow8green @typewrittenfangs @whumpsoda @steh-lar-uh-nuhs

#at my beck and call #whump #whump writing #helle #beckett #vampire carewhumper #emotional whump #mugging mention #knives mention #death threats mention #mind control #conditioning #conditioned whumpee

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leviathans-body-pillow · 1 year

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My height and body headcanons for the brothers

(With my Mc to put their heights in perspective)

I wanted to practice some different body types and drawing different heights next to each other so I thought it would be fun to draw some head canons I have about the boys. (Ignore their lack of hands this already took so long lol)

I’m one of those people that headcanons demons and angels as being large on scar age than humans so Levi and Mams are right around average in height.

Going into detail from tallest ti shortest

Beelzebub

He took a lot of hits during the war shielding his brothers and Lilith so his body is pretty scarred up.

He had a hard time recovering but was never in fatal danger just lots of pain.

Very big boy! Only second to Diavolo in his demon form.

Being an insect type demon he doesn’t dark grow body hair but he does have so light peach fuzz in areas

Lucifer

Used to be toned like his brothers but after years of desk he’s lost a lot of it

Don’t be fooled by his lack of tone he’s still very powerful and muscular. He’s just got a little squish over top from inactivity.

He can feel down about it from time to time.

Only Beel and Mammon know this. Beel, because he’s asked for advice on staying in shape. And Mammon because he drunkenly confided in him about it.

He’s tried to work out multiple times but it seems like every time he picks it up he gets too busy to keep up with it.

A little bit of body hair on his chest and legs with a nice happy trail

He doesn’t have many scars on the front but his back is completely torn up. He almost dyed while healing from his injuries.

Satan

Has the exact same structure as Lucifer he’s just visibly younger and much thinner.

I’m a strong believer that he bleaches his hair

Not much body hair but he does have a bit of a happy trail.

Absolutely no scars as he’s never really seen a real battle.

He’s rather thin in his humanoid form but hulks out do to speak when he’s enraged in his demon form.

Leviathan

Swimmers body. Weaker legs but broad chest and shoulders. Unless he’s in water his muscles are useless since he’s built specifically for swimming.

A few scars but he got out without any major injuries.

No body hair as he’s a aquatic type demon.

Mammon

Very much has a model’s build.

A gold lip piercing, he also has cartilage piercing but their hidden by his hair. He wants more but they make it harder to get modeling gigs

He shaves his body hair except for his happy trail and crotch area. Claims it’s too much work he’s scared of cutting his balls

Doesn’t have any scars from the war. All of his injuries were either internal or too shallow.

Belphegor

The hairiest of the brothers. It grows pretty much everywhere and he doesn’t bother to maintain it.

He’s not very muscular at all, not super thin but not chubby. His body reflects his life style for sure.

Lip ring and a stretched septum piercing

Major eye bags

A few scars but Beel took most of his hits so he didn’t get injured too bad.

Has a few discolored patches on his leg that have always been there, they turn black in his demon form.

Asmodeous

He got fucked up in the war. Almost died after falling and had a very rough recovery. His face and neck got hit the hardest.

He uses a glamor charm to hide the damage to his face. It’s exhausting and uses that majority of his magic to maintain but anything for beauty! He hides his neck with turtle necks and scarves.

Super thin. He works really hard to maintain his toned yet slim appearance.

Tw: ed. We actually know from canon he skips meals, goes on fad diets, and avoids gaining muscle while still trying to work out.

Nipple and belly button piercings.

Goes for regular waxing so his skin his always smooth.

And lastly my Mc for a human comparison

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vintageshanny · 8 months

Text

Officer Presley and the Librarian - Part 10 - The Karate Kid

Content: BDE in fall of 1974, fluff, smut, talk of pregnancy, 18+

I’m quite sure this pales in comparison to @be-my-ally ‘s karate fic, but ever since spotting the torn pants photos, I felt compelled to write about it.

The dates don’t match up perfectly, but the karate part is based on the actual demonstration from September 1974.

As your eyes locked with Elvis’, he gently moved his hand down to your stomach and traced his fingers over your soft skin. He looked down, as if studying you, taking every detail in, and a slow smile began to spread across his lips. “We’re gonna have a baby. I-I-I’m gonna have a son,” he said, his eyes filled with a joy you hadn’t seen before. “Woah, Elvis, we don’t know that yet. And even if I am, you don’t know if it will be a boy,” you whispered, feeling stunned and unsure of every emotion coursing through you right now. “No, I know honey, I have a sense about this, and you’re gonna give me the son I’ve been waitin’ for. Ain’tcha happy, baby?” he asked, looking back into your eyes. His own were misty with emotion.

“I am, of course,” you said quickly, not wanting to dampen his spirits again, “I just think we should wait to know for sure. Plus, um, I mean, aren’t you worried about how it will look?” your voice dropped to a whisper at the end. “With us not being married, I mean?” Elvis frowned just a tiny bit as he considered, seemingly for the first time, the optics of the situation. “W-w-well, we’ll jus’ havta get married right away,” he said, perking right back up with this simple solution. You swallowed, trying to quell your feelings of disappointment at this very spur-of-the-moment, unromantic proposal. There was never any point in trying to hide your feelings from Elvis, though, because he could always see right through you.

“Baby,” he said, leaning in to kiss your forehead soothingly, “I was gonna marry ya anyway, ya know that. A-a-and i-it’s gonna be special, you’ll see.” He gazed down at you lovingly. “Ya still wanna be with me, right?” he said, a wave of shyness and nerves suddenly washing over him. “Elvis, the one thing I’m always sure of is that I want to be with you,” you said reassuringly, stroking his hand that was still pressed gently against your abdomen. “Why don’t we have a test done and then we can decide what to do next?” you asked, trying to get the conversation back on track. “‘S a good plan, baby, I’ll call the doctor right away. He can bring the testing stuff here so we don’t have to go out. There’s a test now where they can find out in just a couple hours.” You grinned a little bit at this information. “How do you know that?” you questioned teasingly. “I read it in my medical books,” Elvis shrugged with a little smirk.

Two hours later, the doctor had come and collected a sample from you with the promise that he would call as soon as the results were in. You sat on the couch in the living room trying to decide what you wanted the results to be. You loved Elvis so deeply and you had always wanted a family. Elvis made it so easy to be hopeful and believe that all your dreams were within reach. On the other hand, there would be no turning back after this. The mood swings, the fears about other women, the pressure of his strange schedule…all of it would be your life now.

Your train of thought was broken by Elvis approaching you with a little boy look on his face and something metal in his hand. “Sweetheart? Would you pwease cut my toenails?” he said in his baby voice. “My yittle sooties are hurting.” Despite your anxiety, you giggled and pulled him down on the couch next to you, patting your lap for him to put his feet on. He leaned back and rested his bare feet on your thighs. You took the nail clipper and set to work, being careful not to cut the skin. “Baby, this one looks ingrown. I think you need to have the doctor look at it,” you frowned as he winced in pain when you touched it. “Okay, mommy,” he said with a little smile. You finished the other toenails and lifted his foot to your mouth, giving it a soft kiss right as Charlie walked in the room and gave the two of you a look. You dropped the foot back to your lap, flushing with embarrassment as Elvis let out a loud laugh.

“Y’all two are somethin’ else,” Charlie muttered with disgust as Elvis kept laughing. “What? I can’t have my baby kiss my feet in my own livin’ room?” Elvis said with mock outrage. “We’re waitin’ for an important call,” he said, his tone changing to something more serious. “Oh? What’s up, boss?” Charlie asked, concerned. You looked over at Elvis, trying to silently signal him to stop talking, but it was no use. He never could keep a secret for longer than ten minutes. “We might be havin’ a baby,” he confided with glee, his eyes lighting up just from saying the words out loud. Charlie’s jaw dropped so far to the ground, he looked like a cartoon character. “Wow,” he finally managed to sputter out. “Congratulations? This is good, right?” he asked nervously. “Of course, man,” Elvis said excitedly. “My little Yisa will finally get that brother I promised her,” he smiled. You could see Charlie trying to suppress a grin at Elvis thinking he could control what sex the baby was.

The phone rang and Elvis nearly leapt off the couch, ignoring the pain in his toe. You sat nervously, your stomach in knots, waiting to hear the news. Elvis came back in the room, looking down, but you could see the energy radiating off of him. You knew what the news was before he looked up and showed you the huge crooked smile that spread across his whole face. “We’re havin’ a baby!” he yelled excitedly, quite literally sweeping you off the couch and into his arms. When you saw the genuine happiness rolling off of him as he pulled you in for a big old kiss, you couldn’t imagine ever wanting to be without him, no matter what complications it might bring into your life. For the first time in your life, you felt that you shared a love with someone that could get you through anything.

Red and Sonny came running up from the pool room when they heard the commotion, and Charlie filled them in while Elvis was still holding you tight. “Congrats, man, when’s the wedding?” Red asked. “As soon as possible,” Elvis said, finally loosening his grip on you. He reached his arms around you from the back and held your belly gently, nuzzling his chin down into your shoulder. You smiled blissfully at him, the two of you lost in your own little world for a moment until Red cleared his throat a little bit. “You have that karate demonstration that’s supposed to be filmed this week, boss.” “Well, maybe we can have the weddin’ here next weekend then,” Elvis said. “Yeah, that should work. Have someone start makin’ plans. We have to go celebrate,” he said with a wink as he led you upstairs, his hand carefully guiding the small of your back.

“So how did you want to celebrate?” you teased once the two of you were alone in the bedroom. “Ta be honest, baby, I jus’ wanna hold ya,” Elvis whispered as he helped you onto the bed and laid next to you. “I’m so happy, I jus’ don’ even have words for it,” he said as he stared into your eyes. You could feel your heart melting into a puddle as he gazed right into your soul. “I think God has given me a second chance at having the happy family I always dreamed of,” Elvis spoke in a soft tender tone as his fingers traced over your features, memorizing the feel of them. “I ain’t gonna waste it, baby, I’m gonna do right by you. Give ya everything ya deserve.” Tears filled your eyes at the sweet words you’d always longed to hear. The two of you fell asleep in a tender embrace, dreaming of the possibilities the future now held.

The next morning, well maybe early afternoon, you awoke to the sound of Elvis muttering right outside the bedroom door. “Goddammit, lemme carry it! I wanted it ta be somethin’ special from me!” you could hear him snapping at whoever was out there with him. “Baby?” you called out sleepily. “Are you okay?” Elvis came bursting into the room with a big cheesy grin, carrying a tray with french toast, orange juice, a single red rose in a vase, and a small black velvet box. Your face lit up when you saw what effort he’d put in, or at least had someone help him put in, to make a romantic gesture for you. “What’s all this?” you smiled as you sat up against the headboard, unable to contain your excitement. Elvis set the tray on your lap and sat at the edge of the bed next to you, his leg bouncing with nerves.

“W-w-well, baby, I w-w-wanted ta show ya how special ya are. Ya wrote me those sweet poems, so I wr-wr-wrote s-s-somethin’ for you,” he said, stuttering so badly he could hardly get all the words out. He pulled a little paper from his pajama shirt pocket and unfolded it, peering at it through his glasses. He cleared his throat nervously, and you could see his hand that was holding the paper shaking a little bit. You reached out and gave it a reassuring squeeze as he started to read.

“Baby, I never thought I would find someone who’d understand me completely and accept me for everything that I am. You never make me feel bad about my interests or my spiritual search, you only lift me up and encourage me. I want us to take care of each other forever. Wh-wh-what I’m tryin’ to say is, Roses are red, Violets are blue, I can’t imagine my life without you.” With that, Elvis turned and gave you a little lopsided smile and opened the black velvet box from the tray. Inside was a giant sparkling sapphire and diamond ring. “Honey, will ya marry me?” he whispered. Tears spilled out of your eyes and rolled down your cheeks as you responded. “Elvis, it would be a dream come true. Thank you for making this such a special moment.” “Of course,” he said, slipping the ring on your finger and brushing your tears away with his thumbs. “I gotta take care of my baby. Babies,” he added with a smile, patting your belly. “Now honey, you just enjoy your breakfast and rest. Charlie’s gonna take me to have my toe looked at so I’m ready for the karate demonstration tomorrah.” He kissed your forehead and went to get dressed.

You couldn’t stop staring at the ring as you leaned against Elvis in the car the next day. You were on your way to the karate demonstration, Elvis’ toe freshly bandaged after having the ingrown nail removed. “Are you sure you’re okay to do this demonstration?” you asked with concern. “Of course, baby, I ain’t gonna let a sore toe stop me from doin’ somethin’ this important.” “I am excited to see you do your karate,” you admitted with a sheepish grin. You could feel yourself blushing as Elvis looked down at you with a knowing smile. “Oh, yeah? How excited are ya?” he whispered in your ear as he leaned in close. “I’ll let you know after I see all your moves,” you teased.

Your excitement only grew once you saw Elvis in action. They were filming the demonstration for a karate documentary he was working on, and you could see how confident and passionate he was about it. He looked so handsome in his special white karate uniform trimmed with red satin. Unfortunately, the uniform could not quite hold up to his passion. Or his muscular thighs. A few minutes into a kicking demonstration, a loup rip could be heard, and Elvis quickly moved his legs together. He laughed nervously as the audience looked at him, confused, wondering what had happened. “Um, i-i-it seems I just split ma pants,” he announced to Kang Rhee and the entire room. “I’m not wearin’ underwear,” he continued, a slight flush rising in his face, “so we’re gonna have ta change the demonstration a little bit.”

The audience chuckled and Elvis seemed to take the whole situation in stride, but your heart started racing. Little Elvis was just hanging there under some ripped fabric, waiting for you to take care of him. He was hidden from view, but just knowing what easy access you’d have to him made your heartbeat throb in your chest and down below. Now you couldn’t wait until the demonstration was over.

Elvis showed some self-defense moves, including what to do when the attacker has a gun. In one situation, he got down on his knees and told the audience that their only recourse now would be to pray, which caused some more laughter. You were proud of what a great job he was doing, but you also couldn’t wait to get him alone. Elvis looked back at you and smiled, waiting for a look of approval on how he was doing. You looked him up and down and winked, which made his face turn almost the same color as the satin trim on his uniform. He shook his head slightly and looked away, but you could see a smirk on his face.

After the demonstration was finally over and everyone was clearing out, Elvis came back and leaned in close to you. “Baby,” he whispered, “ya can’t be lookin’ at me all hungry like that when I ain’t got nothin’ to keep myself…constrained. Ya don’ want everyone here to see him pokin’ out, ready to play, do ya?” His hand roughly squeezed your thigh as he spoke. “No, but I’m ready to play,” you whispered back, creeping your hand in between his legs, searching for the rip in the fabric. Elvis glanced over his shoulder and saw the room was now empty. He turned back to look at you right as your hand found what it was looking for. “Uuuhh,” Elvis groaned as your fingers reached through the hole in the crotch of his pants and traced over the soft chubbiness hanging there. You could feel him start to firm up right away, twitching under your fingertips. His hand found its way up your thigh and under your skirt. “A-a-anyone could walk back in, baby,” he whispered even as he slipped his fingers through the side of your panties and felt the wet heat waiting there for him. “I can see the door,” you whispered as you wrapped your whole hand around him, stroking his now hard length. “I’ll stop if someone comes in.” Your soft panting filled the room as you both worked on pleasuring each other, his long fingers deftly dipping through your soaking folds and rubbing the wetness over your clit as you tugged gently on him and rubbed your thumb over the weepy slit on his head.

Just as you felt your legs about to start shaking around Elvis’ hand, footsteps sounded outside the door. You quickly pulled your hand out of his pants and smoothed your skirt down. “Oh, Master Rhee, it was a great demonstration,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t sound strained. You stepped in front of Elvis to hide the giant erection he was still sporting. He stood so close behind you, you could feel him pulsing against your back. After you were alone again, you turned to Elvis and smiled. “Let’s finish what we started, baby,” you said breathily, needing to find some release. Elvis nodded, grabbing your hand needily and putting it back on his cock. “Honey, you don’ know whachya do ta me,” he groaned. This time he got you to the finish line without interruption, and after your legs stopped shaking, you knelt down before him so he could finish without leaving a mess anywhere but your mouth. “That was definitely a satisfying demonstration,” you teased, licking your lips as he helped you to your feet. “Mmm, ‘m glad ya enjoyed it, baby,” he winked.

As the two of you drove back home, you leaned against Elvis and let out a contented sigh, tracing your hand over his belly how you always loved to do. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asked, rubbing your leg soothingly. “I’m just excited to see if our baby is as good a kicker as his daddy,” you said with a big grin. “See, you think it’s a boy too, don’t ya?” Elvis exclaimed. “I can’t wait to find that out too, baby.” He kissed the top of your head and nuzzled his cheek sweetly against it.

Tag list: @be-my-ally @thatbanditqueen @whositmcwhatsit @ellie-24 @lookingforrainbows @arrolyn1114 @powerofelvis @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love @eliseinmemphis @18lkpeters @doll-elvis @artlover8992 @richardslady121 @everythingelvispresley @raginginkedslut @msamarican

#elvis #big daddy elvis #elvis fan fic #elvis fan fiction #elvis x reader #officer presley and the librarian #officer presley #i love this man

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