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lvmimis · 2 months ago

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cw: fluff? reader has described magic.

“It should have been Eva, you know.”

Nero is almost surprised by the sound of your voice, piping up suddenly after nearly a half hour of silence, where you followed him close as he trudged forward despite the fact that you are supposed to lead, as you are the one with the sought after ability.

Now that you’ve made it through the corridors that lead to the underground lab, the two of you have paused, separating even further as you wandered off to peruse the ruins and he found himself unsure of what to do next. Nero had possibly resigned himself not to speak until you did, perhaps still smarted by your irritation with him (only partially fabricated), and found himself perched against a wall, waiting for… he’s not sure what exactly. But right now, he’s not much more than a bodyguard, and you seemed to need a few more moments before deciding how to best approach the task at hand.

So when you spoke suddenly, he found his heart skipping a beat

He didn’t expect you to bring up his grandmother.

Hearing her name, in this new context, is often still so discombobulating to him. When he thinks of family, he thinks of Kyrie, of Credo, of his adoptive parents - lately of Dante.

Yet it’s hard for him to think of Eva in anything more than a somewhat religious feature, and even in that setting, she’s shrouded in mystery.

But Eva is Dante’s mother, and his grandmother, and Eva’s blood runs through him, with just as much gravity as Sparda does. The bulk of his humanity springs forth first from her.

“What about her?” he asks, gruffly. He pretends no longer to be interested in anything you say, but the truth is, for some odd reason, he’s always liked the sound of your voice. Ever since you first addressed him years ago - there’s something in your eyes and the way your lips move and the way your voice rises and falls and rushes too quickly, sometimes too slow, as if the thoughts in your head and the twists of your tongue are never exactly in sync. He finds himself wondering what you’ll say next, if only it could be kind when it came to him.

When he tosses his head in your direction, you’re not returning his glance at all - rather, your fingers are lightly tracing a dusty textbook. He wouldn’t know it just by looking but you’re looking for a trace of demon or angel influence, the aura of those primordial beings far too powerful to fade or ignore. You’re not as gifted a sensor as your mentor, and will never be, but she’s taught you a few tricks that can help sometimes.

There’s nothing there. You continue to muse.

“We worshipped Sparda like a god, but it should have been Eva. Eva is who reached out her hand first.”

Nero watches you as you smile to yourself, then look around the room. You’ve lost interest in the book, and now are prodding at a few clumps of rubble with the tip of your boot.

He’s not here to waste time.

Nero pushes off from his leaned position against the wall to stand, but you speak again and unwittingly he stops in his tracks.

“I wonder if when she first met him she was afraid.”

Nero feels like the appropriate thing to do is to roll his eyes and tell you to hurry up, but he’s curious too for a moment. He was raised to hate demons, he feared being found out as anything close to one for so long, but Eva must have immediately sought humanity in Sparda who was nothing but that. A demon.

“It probably doesn’t matter either way,” he points out. You look at him, but instead you’re smiling instead of scowling, a dreamy look in your eye. “It didn’t stop her from…” he pauses. “You know.” He gestures vaguely with a turn of his hand.

You laugh, and he’s actually surprised that you found him funny.

“That’s true. But the reason why I think it should have been her is because her love is what led to the very salvation we prayed for.”

Nero watches you. He’s surprised you can even talk about love fondly.

“Love that humanizes,” you murmur in continuation.

How has he ended up in a room with a woman who hates him, now proselytizing about love?

Nero runs his hand through his snowy hair, visibly frustrated. “Do you want to hurry up and find this portal or…?”

He looks at you and you’ve stopped smiling, a faraway look in your eye.

“I suppose ___ is Dante’s Eva,” you murmur. You’ve started to move, and you’re now looking again, on task.

Nero moves a little closer, deciding somehow if he helps you along, you’ll be able to leave quicker. “I can see that,” he admits.

“And your Eva would be Kyrie,” you say and he pauses.

That’s not- he wants to say, but he doesn’t really know how to argue for or against. He loves Kyrie. She’s the most important woman in his life, without question. You look at him for a little bit too long, and he can feel an uneasiness in his chest, a pressure building he cannot so easily disperse.

“Maybe,” he decides. Cutting his losses with an unnecessarily uncertain answer.

Admitting that his childhood friend he loves dearly has that sort of immense pull over him feels suddenly uncomfortable to do in your presence. Sparda turned against his own kin for Eva. Nero would do anything for Kyrie, he’s sure of it. But as he looks back at you, he feels as though the confirmation cannot come out of his mouth, not at this very instant.

You’re looking away from him again, and he hates that.

Why oh why does your lack of attention upset him so?

“I’ve dreamt of having my own Sparda,” you muse. Your hand passes against a sunken bookshelf, then lingers. The portal must be here.

“Does my grandfather have to be involved in your romantic fantasies?” Nero tries desperately to crack a joke, but it falls flat. His ears grow hot as you look at him suddenly, your face blank.

“You’re right, maybe I need a different way to describe it.” You say, simply, even though he expects you to get upset, to retaliate and receives nothing of the sort in return.

If this room suddenly became overrun with demons, Nero could hack and slash his way out easily. But it’s just you, and thus, he has to live with the warm sensation creeping up his neck.

You sigh. “I’ll shut up.”

“I wasn’t asking you to.” Nero says but he trails off.

You laugh to yourself. “I’m talking to you like you’re one of my girlfriends. I must be bored.”

You place your hand on the glowing center of the portal you’ve located. Your eyes close, and you feel warmth on the runes tattooed onto your wrists.

“I don’t have to be one of your girlfriends, but I can be a friend.”

Magic glows from your wrist to your palm as you concentrate. Your eyes furrow, squeezed shut tight as you concentrate.

The way you use magic, the way you pour yourself into it, is not unlike Kyrie’s singing, Nero thinks. For a moment, he wonders if you are able to sing, if you’ve ever tried to carry a tune.

The portal closes, and your eyes shoot open. Nero quickly finds something else to look at.

“I think we’re done,” you murmur. There’s a softness to your lids that suggests fatigue, but you’re still steady on your feet. Slower to move, and Nero wonders how he could offer you a lean on his shoulder. Carrying you would not be hard, but he knows you would object to being so close to him.

You don’t talk anymore. Not about Eva and Sparda, or about Dante and your mentor, or about him or Kyrie, or your version of Sparda that you haven’t met yet -

Someone who you’d be allowed to love so much it would be a sanctifying force.

“Hey.” Nero takes a few quick steps to overtake your fast pace and step a little ahead of you, not unlike earlier.

“Walk slower, okay?” He shakes his head, as if annoyed. “And stay close, there could still be demons prowling.”

You’re too exhausted from using your magic to argue with him.

“Sure.”

He walks slower deliberately but as he anticipated, it doesn’t take long for you to suddenly find yourself lightheaded.

“I… I don’t think I can…” Your head spins. By the time he turns, you’ve already fallen into his arms and he’s just in time, ready to catch you.

—

Your weight is different in his arms than Kyrie’s is, the distribution less familiar. You smell different, like something it feels too sinful of him to parse out and describe, and even the soft way you snore, fast asleep almost instantly, is different. It occurs to Nero that he hasn’t held very many people in his life, not like this.

You’re easy to carry, physical strength aside, and in just moments, he has almost forgotten that he’s holding you when his mind wanders.

How did Sparda know Eva was the one? Had he ever loved anyone else? Had he loved before?

If only you had spared him all the romance talk, it wouldn’t make this situation so very awkward. Kyrie would kill him if he saw the way he holds you right now, like a princess, carefully, tenderly. Perhaps he could shift you so that you’re no more special than a backpack.

But that feels wrong and untrue.

He doesn’t know when this desire for you to like him came to be, but he can’t shake it. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s something that you aren’t allowing him to know, that you are supposed to mean more to each other than this strained relationship. Otherwise, why do you feel at home cradled in his arms?

Eva probably never saw Sparda as a threat from the very first time she laid eyes on him. She loved him from the start. And Sparda always protected her and the home and the city she loved.

Their love was easy and natural, not a single obstacle in their way. No false starts or missteps or bickering back and forth.

Yet, despite all that, where are either of them now?

Nero doesn’t realize he’s close to the front of the castle until Dante is raising his eyebrow at him.

“So what were you two up to?”

The uptick in his voice is playful and Nero ignores it.

If he’s carried you today, he should remember to carry Kyrie twice as long. Your mentor rushes quickly to check on you, relieved that you’re still bleeding and believing Nero’s account that you’re just fatigued.

“Thank you for taking care of her,” she offers.

Nero shrugs.

“Does this happen often?”

“Not as much as you’d expect.”

—

The car ride back is shorter than Nero wants. You rest your head precariously on Nero’s shoulder, rising only once to look in his eyes without recognition. His heart pounds until you place it again and fall back asleep.

Did Sparda get butterflies?

When you murmur thank you ten minutes later, he is sure he did.

#nero x reader #nero sparda x reader #mimi's notes #daydreams: dmc #devil may cry x reader

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 3 months ago

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cipher

one-shot

Paring: Demon!Dean x Ex-Spy!Reader

Summary: You've tracked Dean down, and you're going on a hunt with him before you get him back to the bunker to cure him... you didn't anticipate the mission going quite like this.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, smut (cunnilingus/oral, p in v, biting, marking), lil bit of pining, I think that's all.

Word Count: 7,215

A/N: I think I got way too into the plot for this one. I don't know if it's actually good, or if I'm just hoping it is. The delusion is real. I've proofread it so many times that I don't even know if it comes across the way I wanted it to anymore. I kinda love Ex-Spy!Reader, she feels so badass to me! And Dean having a soft spot for her is just so yum. All the love.

Shoutout to my lovely @mostlymarvelgirl for the request. <3

The night stretched wide and lawless before you, all ink-black desert and distant starlight, the neon flicker of roadside motels long behind. The Impala prowled down the empty highway, her engine a low, steady growl beneath Dean’s easy grip. The air inside smelled like leather and gun oil, like cigarette smoke curling from the ashtray, like the static hum of something that should not be.

“You’re awful quiet over there, sweetheart.” His voice was silk dragged over gravel, rough in all the right places. “Regretting trading in Sammy for a ride with the devil?”

You rolled your eyes, staring out at the endless stretch of nothing ahead. The music thrumming low from the speakers—Jailbreak by Thin Lizzy—was a little too on the nose.

“This isn’t a trade,” you muttered. “It’s a mission.”

Dean huffed out a laugh, something sharp and indulgent. He tapped his fingers against the wheel in time with the music, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, cutting sideways to study you like a puzzle he was just starting to enjoy solving. “That so?”

You didn’t answer. The truth sat heavy in your chest, unspoken but relentless. You’d left Sam behind, against his wishes, against reason. You’d spent weeks—months—searching for Dean at his side, chasing cold leads, following blood trails gone dry. But when you caught the first real whisper of him—Dean, feral and free—you knew Sam wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done. Not yet.

So, you came alone.

One hunt. One last job before you dragged him back kicking and screaming. If you had to.

“Y’know, I gotta say,” Dean mused, his voice dripping with amusement, “I never figured you’d be the type to ditch the Boy Scout routine. But here you are, riding shotgun to hell.”

You scoffed. “You’re not hell.”

He glanced at you then, and something flickered behind his darkened eyes. A smirk ghosted his lips. “Oh, sweetheart. I am.”

The words slithered through you like something half-living, but you forced your expression to stay blank. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Instead, you shifted forward, elbows resting on your knees as you studied the map spread across the dash. “Let’s focus, yeah? The base perimeter is covered in infrared sensors, but there’s a blind spot here.” You tapped a point on the page. “Southwest access road. They switch shifts at exactly 0300. Gives us a two-minute window.”

Dean snorted, unimpressed. “And what, we just stroll into Area 51 like we own the place?”

“No.” You smirked now, slow and sharp. “I get us inside.”

Dean’s fingers drummed against the wheel, his gaze dragging over you with something new now—curiosity, suspicion, something darker curling at the edges. Interest.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Colour me intrigued.”

The Impala roared on through the desert, into the dark, into the unknown.

And Dean Winchester—the thing he had become—was watching you now, truly watching, as if he’d just noticed you for the very first time.

The silence stretched between you, thick with static, the kind that only came before a storm. The Impala ate up the miles, gravel crunching beneath her tires as you got closer to the dead zone where no cameras, no patrols, no wandering eyes would catch your approach. You had planned this to the second. Dean didn’t know that yet.

“You wanna tell me something, sweetheart?” His voice was all easy arrogance, but there was something sharper underneath, something restless. “Because I knew you were good, but this? Infrared blind spots, security rotation schedules, access codes? That’s not just ‘good.’ That’s trained.”

You didn’t look at him, keeping your eyes ahead as you checked your watch. “You’re welcome.”

Dean let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “See, that’s what’s got me curious. What else have you been holding out on me, huh? Double life? Secret government clearance? Or are you just that good at looking innocent?” His voice dropped an octave, thick with something shameless. “I gotta say, sweetheart, I always liked the way you played hard to get. Turns out, you’ve been playing me the whole damn time.”

You sighed, already tired of the game. “I had a life before hunting.”

“Yeah? What, Girl Scouts?”

You shot him a look. He grinned, all teeth and danger, like he could smell the past on you, taste the blood you’d once spilled. “Come on, just a little hint. How many bodies you got under your belt? And don’t say it like that—unless you want me to take it that way.”

You exhaled sharply, rubbing at your temple. “Jesus, Dean.”

He laughed again, the sound wicked and unrepentant, like he was getting off on rattling you. “Relax, sweetheart. You’ll tell me eventually. I can be real persuasive.”

You ignored him, reaching under the seat and pulling out a small duffel bag, double-checking your gear. Firearms, knives, USB drive, signal jammer. Everything was there.

Dean’s gaze lingered on the bag before flicking back up to you. “You ready for this?”

“Always.”

The car slowed to a crawl, then stopped. The base was still a half-mile out, its outermost fencing barely visible in the distance. You popped the door open, stepping into the cool desert air. The sky above was vast and endless, the stars stretching out like pinpricks in velvet.

Dean followed, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied sigh. “Man, I love a good break-in. All this sneaking around, you and me against the world—kinda romantic, don’t you think?”

You shot him a flat look. “No.”

Dean smirked, undeterred. “You wound me.”

You adjusted the strap of your bag, eyes locked on the target ahead. “Let’s get this done.”

Dean fell into step beside you, too damn pleased with himself. “Whatever you say, agent.”

And just like that, the hunt began.

The desert stretched wide and restless, sand whispering beneath your boots as you moved quick and quiet, the fencing of the base looming closer with every step. The night was deep, black and bottomless, the air still, thick with the taste of metal and heat.

Dean, of course, wasn’t in any damn hurry.

You could hear him behind you, his steps unhurried, his pace easy—too easy. You glanced back over your shoulder and there he was, swaggering along like the clock wasn’t ticking, like you hadn’t calculated exactly how long you had before the 0300 shift change. He was enjoying this, the slow burn of the night, the game of it all, like you weren’t minutes away from breaking into a goddamn government black site.

“Dean,” you hissed, turning just enough to glare at him. “Will you move?”

He smirked, hands slipping into his jacket pockets like this was just another night at the bar, like you weren’t both trespassing on one of the most classified pieces of land in the country.

“I’d hurry up if you told me a little truth, sweetheart,” he said, voice lazy, full of knowing. “You got all these tricks up your sleeve, all these little secrets. Figured if I just let you keep talking, you’d let something slip.”

You let out a sharp breath, whipping back around to focus on the path ahead. “We do not have time for this, Winchester. Pull your fucking socks up and get over here.”

Dean chuckled, unbothered. “Come on, sweetheart. Indulge me. I’m over here biting, and you’re just stomping your feet and walking away from me.”

You didn’t respond. You just picked up the pace, keeping your head down, eyes sharp as you scanned the perimeter.

Dean let out a low whistle, and you knew—you knew—he was grinning before he even spoke.

“Not that I mind watching you walk away.”

You bristled, but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. “Will you get a fucking move on? And quit staring at my ass, you pervert.”

Dean barked out a laugh, the sound rich, smug as hell. “Sweetheart, I will never stop looking at your ass. I couldn’t before, and I’m even less inclined to now.”

Your jaw clenched, but you refused to give him the reaction he wanted. You kept your eyes forward, scanning for the fence, for the guard rotations, for anything that might throw off your window.

Dean, of course, stayed a few steps behind, watching you like a wolf circling prey. But there was something else in his stare, something weighing in the air between you—like he was unraveling something, pulling at a thread he didn’t even know was there until tonight.

Then, up ahead—the fence.

Immediately, you slowed, your body shifting into something quieter, something sharper. Dean, for all his cocky swagger, matched your movements, years of instinct settling into place. The smirk dimmed—not gone, just tempered.

You both stopped just short of the chain-link, shadows stretching long beneath the red-washed floodlights in the distance.

The fence was just the beginning.

You moved quickly, cutting across the sand like a shadow, every step calculated, every movement designed for silence. The cold metal of the bolt cutters bit into your palm as you crouched at the weak point in the chain-link, slicing through with precision. The wind carried the sound away, swallowed it into the vastness of the desert.

Dean? He was watching. Not helping—just leaning against a rock, grinning like he had all the time in the world.

“Gotta say, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement. “It’s kinda sexy watching you work. All that focus. If I’d known you were good with your hands, I’d have put you to better use sooner.”

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t look at him. “Do me a favour, Dean?"

"Anything for you."

"Shut up.”

He chuckled low, dark. “So bossy.”

The last wire snapped, and you pushed the cut section aside. “Go.”

Dean sauntered past, movements slow and deliberate, like you weren’t pressed for time. The shift change was minutes away, and he was acting like you had the luxury of waiting for an engraved invitation.

You both slipped through, boots sinking into the dry dirt. The yard stretched out ahead of you—open space, floodlights sweeping slow arcs across the terrain. Your pulse pounded steady, controlled, as you scanned the movements of the guards.

One lingered by a utility post, his attention half-there, fingers tapping against his radio. Still awake. Still watching.

Dean let out a dramatic sigh. “This part’s boring. Could just rip his spine out, y’know. Save us the trouble.”

You shot him a sharp look. “We’re doing this clean.”

Dean made a face. “Boring.”

Ignoring him, you pulled a knife from your belt, slipping through the shadows. The guard barely had time to react—your arm wrapped tight around his neck, cutting off his air, your knife cold against his throat. He struggled for a second, then slumped, unconscious before he hit the ground. You eased him down, silent, calculated.

A slow whistle cut through the night.

You turned to see Dean watching you with something new in his gaze—something dark, considering.

“Huh,” he muttered.

You wiped your blade clean. “What?”

Dean’s smirk was pure sin. “No wonder Sammy likes you. You’re just as bossy.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him along. He let you, but you felt the tension in his arm, the sheer thrill humming beneath his skin. He was enjoying this. The hunt, the danger, the way you took control. It fed something in him.

The access panel was ahead—a reinforced security door, glowing red from the keycard reader embedded in the steel. You crouched in front of it, pulling a small device from your bag, fingers moving fast as you hacked into the system.

Dean crouched beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him. “You’ve definitely done this before.”

You ignored him, pressing a final command. The panel flickered, beeped twice. The lock disengaged with a soft hiss.

Dean let out a low chuckle. “Damn. I think I might be in love.”

You shoved him inside before the cameras caught you both. The air changed the second you stepped in. The hallway was sterile, humming with artificial light. Too cold. Too still. Your instincts screamed wrong.

Blood streaked the floor. Old, dark smears leading toward reinforced doors lining the corridor.

Dean stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, head tilting like he was listening for something just beneath the surface. The Mark of Cain was humming—you could feel the shift in him, the way his grip flexed around the handle of his blade.

“This isn’t just a science lab,” you murmured.

Dean’s voice was low, sharp. “No shit.”

Then, a sound. A low growl. Chains rattling.

You turned the corner and stopped short. A containment cell. Reinforced glass, lined with sigils, locking something inside. A demon. Bound, trapped, black eyes flickering in the dim light.

It looked at Dean. And smiled.

“Oh… you’re gonna love what they’ve got planned for you, Winchester.”

Dean’s jaw twitched, his fingers flexing around the First Blade.

You exhaled, steadying yourself. “What the hell does that mean?”

Dean didn’t answer. But you knew, with sudden, sinking certainty—this just got a lot worse.

The air was thick between you, tension coiling tight as you moved deeper into the facility, boots silent against the cold floor. The metallic tang of blood still lingered in the sterile air, clinging to the walls, the floors, the past sins of whatever had gone down in this place. You were focused, pushing forward, calculating the next steps.

Dean? He was right behind you. Close. Too close.

The sound of approaching footsteps snapped your instincts into place. A security patrol, moving fast. You barely had a second to react before you grabbed Dean by the sleeve and pulled him into the nearest alcove—narrow, tight, barely enough space for two people.

His body pressed against yours, broad, solid, immovable. Your back hit the cold metal wall, his arms bracketing you in before you could shove him off. The patrol passed, their voices muffled, footsteps fading. But Dean didn’t move.

He was watching you.

“Y’know, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, “I always knew you had a thing for me.”

You stiffened, forcing your hands to stay still at your sides, resisting the urge to shove him away. “Bullshit.”

Dean smirked, lazy and knowing. “Come on. You think I didn’t notice? All those nights? All those close calls?”

Your breath hitched. The memories hit harder.

Nights in the Impala, the heat of his arm against yours, the way he looked at you over the rim of a whiskey glass in shitty motel rooms, that night in the bunker when the power was out and neither of you had slept, the way his voice had gone softer, the way you’d almost closed the space between you.

Almost.

Dean leaned in, the heat of him sinking into your skin, the scent of leather and something darker curling around you. “You wanted me then,” he said, voice like velvet dragged over gravel. “And you want me now.”

His fingers trailed up your arm, slow, deliberate. Your breath faltered. You hated that he could pull this reaction out of you. Hated that he was right.

“Difference is…” His lips barely brushed the shell of your ear. “Now, there’s nothing stopping you.”

Your hands clenched into fists. He was right. There was nothing stopping you.

Except yourself.

The space between you was razor-thin, your pulse slamming against your ribs. He was warm, too warm. The Mark of Cain hummed beneath his skin, an energy that wrapped around you, that pulled. It would be so easy. So easy to give in, to let this happen, to drown in him like you’d wanted to all those times before.

Dean knew it too. His smirk deepened, eyes half-lidded, drinking in the way your breath came short, the way your resolve wavered for just a second.

“All you gotta do is say the word, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I’ll make you forget everything else.”

For a moment, you almost did.

Then the alarm blared.

The sharp wail cut through the air like a knife, echoing off the walls. Your body jerked, snapping back into reality, into focus. You shoved Dean back, hard, your breath coming fast as you ripped yourself free of the heat, the pull, the inevitable crash.

Dean only laughed, breathless, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. Like he knew. Like he had felt you falter. Like he had already won something, even if he hadn’t.

You didn’t look at him. You turned, took off down the hallway, gun drawn, senses sharpened by adrenaline and something worse.

Dean’s voice followed you, smug as hell. “You almost had me, sweetheart.”

You clenched your jaw and didn’t answer. Because the worst part? He was right.

The servers hummed, their glow casting eerie shadows along the walls, sterile blue light cutting through the darkness. Your fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard, bypassing encrypted firewalls, dismantling layers of government-grade security like you’d been doing it your entire life.

Because you had.

Dean was right behind you. Too close. The heat of him, the weight of him, pressing in without touching. His breath, slow and measured, just over your shoulder. Every shift of his stance brought him against you—chest grazing your back, hips nearly flush with yours, his hands braced on the desk on either side of you, caging you in like you were his favourite game to play.

“Sweetheart,” his voice was low, thick, dangerous, “if you keep wiggling that sweet little ass in front of me, I’m gonna have to do something about it.”

Your fingers faltered for just a second. Just enough for Dean to chuckle, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“Focus, Winchester,” you bit out, forcing yourself to keep typing, to ignore the molten pull in your stomach.

Dean smirked against your skin. “Oh, I am. Just not on the same thing as you.”

He shifted slightly—just enough to let you feel how hard he was, how much he was enjoying this. It was deliberate, teasing, a slow drag against the base of your spine that had your breath catching in your throat before you could stop it.

Dean groaned, low and knowing. “Son of a bitch, you’re so focused. So determined. Bet you're like this in bed, too.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively, body betraying you. He noticed. Of course he did.

“Y’know, sweetheart…” His voice dropped, gravel-slick and dark. “I’ve been real patient. But if you keep looking at that screen like that, I’m gonna bend you over this desk and make you look at me instead.”

A violent shudder raked through you before you could control it. You hated how much he affected you, how much he always had—but never like this. Not when he was himself, not when there were still lines left between you. But now? Now there were no lines, no rules. Just hunger. Just Dean, burning through you like something primal, something inevitable.

A slow smirk curled at the edge of his lips. He had you. He knew he had you.

“See?” He murmured. “There it is.”

You gritted your teeth, forcing your attention back to the screen. The firewall fell, one last keystroke giving you access to the files you needed. You yanked a USB drive from your pocket and shoved it into the port, transferring everything at once.

The sound of boots against tile made your breath hitch.

Dean’s head snapped toward the hallway, that razor-sharp smirk curving into something feral. “Well, finally.”

You barely had time to pull the drive free before the first guard entered the room.

Dean was on him before the poor bastard could draw his weapon. A brutal crack of bone, the sickening sound of a body hitting the ground, and then chaos erupted.

Dean moved like a storm, his body fluid, effortless, deadly. Fast. Brutal. His hands wrapped around a man’s throat, squeezing until the gasps stopped, until there was no sound left but the dull thump of a corpse hitting the floor.

You pivoted, sidestepping a punch, snapping your attacker’s wrist before driving your knee into his solar plexus. His choked wheeze barely left his lips before you finished him, one sharp twist of his neck sending him crumpling at your feet.

Another guard charged you, but you were faster. A swift strike to his throat, a kick to his knee, and he was down.

Across the room, Dean was enjoying himself. The way he moved was almost beautiful—graceful, effortless violence, an executioner painting in blood. He laughed as he drove his blade into the last man standing, eyes black, lips curled in something akin to ecstasy.

And then silence.

You stood there, chest heaving, the scent of iron thick in the air, bodies littering the floor around you. Blood smeared across your arm, cooling against your skin.

Dean turned toward you, his own chest rising and falling, a bead of blood rolling down his cheek. He licked it away absently, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

Then, that slow, wolfish smirk.

“Now, that’s my girl.”

Your pulse slammed against your ribs. Your fingers curled into fists. And God help you, because you wanted him.

You wanted him.

The scent of blood still clung to the air, thick and metallic, the only sound the distant hum of the servers and the cooling bodies scattered across the floor.

You exhaled, steadying yourself as you wiped a smear of crimson from your cheek. Dean was still grinning, tongue darting out to catch the remnants of someone else’s blood from his lips.

“Alright,” you muttered, adjusting your grip on your weapon. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Dean wiped his blade clean against the sleeve of his jacket, casting a glance back toward the containment cells. “And what about our little friend?”

You followed his gaze. The demon, still trapped behind reinforced glass, watching, waiting. The thing had known him—really known him. And that alone made it dangerous.

“We kill it.” Your voice was even, steady. Uncompromising. “Before it gets the chance to tell someone worse that you’re here.”

Dean hummed low in his throat, rolling his shoulders, considering. “Alright. We gank it.”

Then, suddenly, he was in your space.

A shift of movement, a blur of predatory grace, and you barely had time to react before your back hit cold metal, his body pressing in, caging you between solid muscle and unyielding steel. His hands braced against the wall on either side of you, his breath warm against your jaw.

“But first…” he drawled, slow and deliberate, the syllables curling like smoke.

Your pulse kicked.

The heat in his eyes wasn’t just hunger—it was something sharper, something honed, something starving. The grin he gave you was pure demon, sharp at the edges, an animal baring its teeth before the bite.

“You gonna tell me how the hell you know how to do all this?” His voice was velvet and gravel, his eyes black for the briefest flicker before they burned back to green.

You pressed your hands against his chest, trying to create space. “We don’t have time for this, Dean.”

A mistake.

The second you touched him, his hand slid down your side, slow, deceptively soft, trailing over the curve of your waist, an echo of something before. A memory of who he used to be, before the Mark, before he died and came back, before this. But it was tainted now, something darker curling beneath it, something that sent a shiver up your spine for an entirely different reason.

Dean caught it. He felt it.

His smirk deepened, voice dropping to something molten. “Oh, sweetheart…”

His other hand ghosted up your arm, fingers brushing along your collarbone, featherlight, teasing, coaxing. His hips barely, barely rocked forward, pressing against you in a way that had you biting the inside of your cheek to keep your breath steady. His lips ghosted yours, not quite a kiss, just a warning, a promise, a test of how much you could take.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured. “The sooner you do, the sooner we can get the hell out of here.”

You refused to react. Refused to give him the satisfaction.

Dean chuckled, dark and knowing. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re so hot when you’re trying not to fall apart on me.” He tilted his head, lips nearly brushing yours. “Got me all worked up.”

Your breath stuttered, but you forced yourself to scoff. “It’s the goddamn Mark that’s got you worked up, not me.”

His teeth flashed, a sharp grin. “Can’t it be both?”

You clenched your jaw, twisting to try and slip out from beneath him. But he was faster—his hand shot up, catching the back of your neck, pivoting you before you could break free. Your breath hitched as he turned you back toward him, holding you firm, his grip possessive but not bruising.

This time, when he leaned in, it was almost sweet.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, almost coaxing now, but the danger still coiled beneath his tone. “Tell me who the hell you are.”

The silence stretched between you like a wire pulled too tight, humming with tension, ready to snap. Dean still pressed against you, his body warm, solid, caging you in, waiting for the answer he already knew was going to wreck him.

You swallowed hard. There was no getting out of this.

“I wasn’t always a hunter.”

Dean’s expression flickered—smugness didn’t leave, but something sharpened in his gaze, something interested.

“No shit, sweetheart. I figured that part out an hour ago.”

Your jaw tensed. You exhaled through your nose, steady, controlled. “I was something else before this. Something that didn’t exist on paper. Someone the government made sure didn’t exist.”

Dean let out a sharp laugh, but there was no humour in it. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

His grip on your hip tightened, his fingers digging in—not hurting, just holding. Keeping you right there. “You were a fed?”

You shook your head. “No. I was a ghost. Someone they used, someone they cut loose when I wasn’t useful anymore.”

Dean went silent.

Not because he didn’t believe you. Not because he needed time to process. But because he was pissed.

His nostrils flared, his jaw tightening before he let out a slow exhale. His grip on you flexed. His voice, when it came, was calm. Too calm.

“And when exactly were you planning on telling me?” He tilted his head slightly, eyes dark, unreadable. “Or were you just gonna keep playing house with me and Sammy, keep your little secret tucked away while we ran around thinking we knew you?”

His words cut deeper than you expected. Your throat tightened, but you pushed past it. “It didn’t matter.”

Dean let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “Bullshit.”

His hand moved—trailing up your side, slow, dragging over your ribs, over the curve of your waist, something deceptively soft, something dangerous.

“I mean, damn, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice curling like smoke. “You’ve been lying to us this whole damn time. Playing the innocent little hunter, when really, you’ve been something else completely.”

His fingers found your collarbone, tracing it, his touch featherlight. His other hand braced against the wall beside your head, his chest flush with yours. His head dipped lower, his lips ghosting over your cheek, close, so close.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, almost to himself. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Your breath caught. Your body betrayed you, muscles coiling, heat licking at your spine.

Dean felt it.

His smirk deepened, his nose brushing against yours. “All this time… you let me think I was the dangerous one.”

His teeth scraped against the shell of your ear, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savour the way your breath hitched, the way you shivered.

“Turns out, you were just waiting for the right moment to show me who you really are.”

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “Dean.”

The warning in your voice was weak.

Dean chuckled, the sound low and knowing. His hand moved lower, pressing at the dip of your spine, his thigh slipping between yours just enough to make your heartbeat hammer against your ribs.

“I should be pissed,” he murmured. “Hell, I am pissed.”

Then his voice dipped lower, rougher, thick with something twisted.

“But right now? I don’t know if I wanna punish you for keeping that from me…”

He shifted, his thigh pressing against you, his fingers digging just slightly into your hip.

“Or if I wanna fuck you stupid for it.”

The breath in your lungs turned sharp, jagged. You barely had time to register what he said before—

A snarl cut through the air.

You both turned, the spell breaking just enough for clarity to sink back in.

The demon.

It grinned at you from behind reinforced glass, its black eyes glinting with something cruel. “Oh, at least get to the good part. I'm dying from the suspense.”

Dean’s expression snapped. His eyes went black, full demon now, no hesitation, no warning.

Your breath came fast as you shoved at his chest, creating space. Focus. Reset.

“We kill it.” Your voice was steady, controlled, back in the moment.

Dean’s fingers flexed around his knife. His grin was something wicked, something feral.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck. “That?”

His gaze locked onto the demon, full of promise.

“That part? I was looking forward to.”

The containment cell’s glow flickered, unstable, as your blade scraped through some of the painted sigils. The moment the etched line severed, the air shifted—the energy that had been holding the demon in place cracked like shattered glass.

And then? All hell broke loose.

The demon surged forward, its body snapping into motion, black eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Dean was faster.

He caught it mid-air, slamming it back against the glass, the impact sending a violent crack through the reinforced surface. His grip tightened around its throat, his knife pressing just beneath its jaw. The demon choked out a strangled laugh, its teeth glinting with amusement even as its body twitched in pain.

“Oh, you really are gone, aren’t you?” It sneered, voice syrupy with mock sympathy. “Tell me, Dean—how long until you tear her apart too?”

Dean’s smirk was slow, deliberate, dark. “Nah. You first.”

And then, he drove the blade home.

The demon’s body seized, eyes going wide as the blade burned through it like fire, deep and precise. A raw, guttural scream tore from its throat as black smoke spewed from its mouth, curling and writhing, before dispersing into nothing. The body crumpled, empty, dead.

Silence fell, heavy and sharp. The only sound was the distant hum of alarms, the blood pounding in your ears.

Dean exhaled, slow and controlled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the high of the kill. But when he turned to face you, his breath was still uneven, his pupils blown wide, eyes dark with something else entirely.

“That,” he murmured, voice thick, “was fucking hot.”

Your jaw tightened, forcing yourself to ignore the way your stomach twisted. The way his words sent something unsteady through your veins.

“We need to go.”

Dean tilted his head, his smirk curling at the edges. “Oh, now you wanna leave? Could’ve fooled me a minute ago.”

You pushed past him, your body still vibrating with adrenaline, but he was faster. His hand snapped out, catching your wrist, dragging you back.

Your breath hitched as he pivoted you, pressing in close, his grip firm but not bruising. His thumb dragged slow across your pulse point, tracing the heat beneath your skin. His eyes—still dark, still predatory—searched yours, something unreadable flickering in the depths.

“You and me?” His voice was a whisper now, low and dangerous. “We’re not done talking about this.”

The way he said it sent a thrill down your spine.

Then, he tugged you forward, and you ran. Out of the facility, through the silent, blood-soaked hallways, past the bodies left in your wake. You weren’t sure whether you were running from the guards, or from something worse—

But you knew exactly where you were going.

Back to the Impala. And if the heat still crackling between you was anything to go by? The Impala was about to get very steamed up.

The second you reached the car, Dean snapped.

He caught your wrist, spinning you, yanking you against him. Your bodies collided, the heat of the fight still burning through your skin, through your veins. Then his mouth crashed against yours—hungry, violent, claiming.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his hands were on you, gripping, taking. He lifted you clean off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as his fingers dug into your thighs. Then? He threw you down onto the hood of the Impala.

The cold metal bit into your back, but you barely felt it. Not with the way Dean was moving—possessive, relentless, mouth trailing over your jaw, throat, dragging his teeth across your pulse like he wanted to mark you from the inside out.

You gasped against him, high on adrenaline, on him, on this.

His breath was ragged, his hands tore at clothes, fingers curling in fabric, tugging, desperate. His mouth sealed over yours again, heat and hunger pouring into the kiss, like he’d been waiting for this for years and now? Now, there was nothing stopping him.

Between frantic kisses, you tried to pull yourself together, tried to form words, tried to push logic through the thick haze of lust clouding your mind. “Dean—” you gasped, gripping his biceps, nails biting into his skin.

He growled, low and dangerous, pressing harder against you. The metal beneath you creaked.

“We need to get out of here.”

Dean didn’t answer—not immediately. His mouth was too busy burning a path down your throat, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding under your jacket, tracing the heat of your skin like he was memorising it.

“Dean.” Your voice wasn’t steady anymore.

He snarled but pulled back, just enough to meet your gaze. His pupils were blown, his breath ragged, his lips red from kissing, his whole body radiating heat.

His frustration dripped from every inch of him. His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing against your waist before—“Fucking fine.”

Then he yanked you off the hood, dragged you to the passenger door, and shoved you inside.

The road was dark. The Impala tore through the night, dirt kicking up behind her, tires spinning, the growl of the engine mirroring the hunger burning between the two of you.

Inside? Everything was red.

The dash lights bled crimson into the dim interior. The blood still clinging to your skin smelled red, thick and metallic, still warm. The heat was red. The tension was red. The want, the ache, the hunger—

Red.

Dean drove like a maniac. One hand white-knuckling the wheel, the other? On you. His palm burned against your thigh, fingers gripping too tight, too possessive. His thumb stroked slow circles, teasing, dangerous.

The tension coiled, winding tighter and tighter as his fingers drifted higher, pressing between your legs, rubbing slow, lazy circles through your clothes.

Your breath stuttered.

Dean smirked. Didn’t even look at you. Just kept driving, eyes locked on the dark road ahead, dust swirling in the Impala’s rearview.

The only indication he felt anything? The way his fingers flexed, pressing harder, deliberate, testing.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to sit up straighter, forcing yourself to breathe. “Dean—”

“Shh.” His voice was wrecked, a low, dangerous thing. Dark and knowing. His fingers curled, pressing against your clothed-cunt in slow, taunting circles.

“Focus on the road,” you warned, voice weaker than you wanted it to be.

Dean laughed—low, dark, full of sin. “Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, pressing harder, watching your legs tense beneath his touch.

“I am focused.” His fingers drifted higher. “Just not on the same thing as you.”

The same words he'd said not an hour ago. The heat between you, unbearable now. The red inside the car felt suffocating, thick with blood, lust, adrenaline, the echo of the kill still fresh between you.

Then, suddenly, Dean yanked the wheel.

The Impala spun into the motel parking lot, tires screeching against gravel. Dust clouded the air, swirling in red as he slammed the brakes, throwing the car into park.

Silence.

Your breath was uneven, heart hammering against your ribs like a living thing desperate for escape. Dean’s hand was still on your thigh. The weight of it sent a shiver down your spine. Slowly, he turned his head, eyes dark, mouth parted, still hungry.

His voice? Raw. Shattered. Starved.

“Get in the back.”

The neon sign outside the motel bled red through the Impala’s windows, pulsing like a heartbeat, like a warning, like the last gasp before everything went up in flames. The air was thick inside the car—too hot, too heavy, too full of everything that had been simmering between you and Dean for years, and now? Now it was finally spilling over.

Your pulse hammered. You glanced at the motel, the vacancy sign flickering. “Dean, there’s a motel right there.”

His grin was wicked, smug as sin. “Oh, sweetheart. You think I’m not gonna take you in there after?” He leaned in, breath hot against your ear. “But right now? I wanna fuck you in my car to make up for lost time.”

A full-body shiver rolled through you. Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Okay.”

You turned, already shifting over the front bench, crawling between the seats—

And then? Teeth. A sharp, stinging bite to your ass, hard enough to make you yelp.

Dean laughed, low and sinful, the sound curling into your bones. “Fuck, you sound sweet when you squeal, sweetheart.”

You glared at him over your shoulder, breathless. “You’re a goddamn menace.”

His smirk deepened. “And you love it.”

Your stomach flipped, heat pooling low, but you ignored it, settling into the backseat. Dean followed with his eyes, watching you strip. Your jacket hit the floor first. Your fingers hooked into your jeans, sliding them down, slow.

Dean? Absolutely gone.

His gaze dragged down, locked onto the darkened fabric between your legs. And then? He laughed.

“Fuck, sweetheart. You’re already soaked.”

Your face burned. “Shut up, Dean.”

His smirk turned feral. “Why? You embarrassed?” He reached out, dragging a single taunting finger over the damp cotton. “This all for me?”

You swatted his hand away. “Get your ass back here already.”

And just like that? He was on you. The second he climbed into the backseat, his lips crashed into yours, devouring. His hands were everywhere—gripping, possessing, dragging you closer, tighter, deeper.

He was growling between kisses, voice wrecked, rasping against your lips. “You don’t get it, do you?”

His teeth scraped over your jaw, down your throat.

“How bad I’ve wanted this.”

His hands dug into your thighs, spreading them.

“How many nights I had to sneak out to the Impala to jerk off while we were sharing motel rooms.”

Your breath stuttered.

Dean groaned, mouth trailing lower.

“Had to listen to you breathing soft in the next bed over while I was out here in this backseat, picturing what you’d sound like if I got my hands on you.”

Your fingers knotted into his hair, tugging.

Dean laughed, breathless, wrecked, desperate. His fingers curled against the waistband of your panties, tugging, teasing.

“You got any idea what you do to me?”

His breath was hot against your stomach. His fingers dragged down, slow, deliberate, teasing.

“Gonna show you, sweetheart.”

He pushed the soaked fabric to the side, spreading you with his fingers, sliding inside—

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

Your head slammed back against the door. Dean let out a low, guttural groan, watching the way you took him, watching the way your body clenched around his fingers, warm and tight and perfect.

“Jesus. You’re taking me so fucking easy.”

His other hand braced against your thigh, spreading you open further, locking you down. Your breath came sharp, eyes fluttering closed—

And Dean tutted. His fingers curled inside you, pressing just right. Your head snapped back down, locking eyes with him.

His smirk burned through you. “Look at me, sweetheart. Don’t you dare shut those pretty eyes.”

Your breath hitched, body trembling as heat licked at your spine, tension pulling tighter, tighter. Then his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You shattered. The orgasm hit fast, blinding, an electric shock rolling through every inch of you. Dean moaned against you, greedy, devouring, drinking in every shudder, every gasp. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you there, keeping you open as he licked you clean.

“That’s it. That’s my fucking girl.”

Your whole body was trembling, still pulsing from the aftershocks. And before you could even think, before your breath could even settle—Dean was moving. He was up, towering over you, pupils blown, lips slick. His hands shoved his jeans down just enough. His cock—thick, flushed, dripping—sprang free.

Your stomach flipped.

He grabbed himself, dragging the head over you, teasing, coating himself in your slick.

“Jesus fucking Christ, sweetheart.” He was breathless, trembling with restraint. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”

He lined up, pressing just barely inside. His hands braced against your hips, locking you down. His voice was wrecked, raw, full of everything he’d held back for too damn long.

“I’m gonna make you mine.”

Then? He thrust all the way in. No hesitation. And the whole world went red.

The Impala had seen things. Bloodstains in the leather, bullet holes patched over, the ghosts of too many hunts clinging to her frame. But never this. Never you and him, tangled in the backseat, drenched in sweat and moonlight and the neon red bleeding through the windows like a prophecy fulfilled.

The air inside the car was stifling—thick with heat, with want, with the gravity of inevitability.

Dean’s grip on your hips was bruising, fingers digging in, possessive, reverent, like he was anchoring himself to something holy. His cock buried deep, stretching you, filling every aching space inside of you, and he groaned—low, shattered, wrecked.

“Jesus fucking Christ, sweetheart. You were made for me.”

His hands moved like scripture, tracing the lines of your body like they held secrets only he was meant to read. Deciphering you. Cracking you open. Like you were a code that needed breaking, a secret written in heat and moans and teeth against skin.

The slow, devastating pull of his hips turned brutal, sharp. Each thrust was a translation, a revelation.

“Always knew this would happen.” His voice was dark, desperate, too far gone.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath hot, body burning. “Didn’t know when, didn’t know how, but fuck—”

His teeth scraped along your jaw, down your throat, biting down just enough to make you arch.

“Knew you’d be mine one day.”

His tongue soothed where he bit, but his hands were still unrelenting, gripping your hips, keeping you open for him, keeping you his.

“You are mine, aren’t you?”

Your breath stuttered, head tipping back, body drowning in sensation, in him. Dean pulled back just enough to see you—really see you—waiting for the answer. Your lips parted, but you could barely find the air to speak. Every thrust pulled something loose inside you, something sacred.

“I’m yours, Dean.”

The sound he made? Fucking primal.

He lost it. His thrusts turned desperate, ruthless, chasing something just beyond reach. His mouth was everywhere—on your throat, your jaw, your collarbone, sucking bruises into your skin, biting down like a claim, a vow, a goddamn brand.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Say it again.”

Your fingers clawed at his back, at his hair, at anything you could hold onto.

“I’m yours.”

Dean groaned, the sound ripped straight from his chest.

His thumb pressed against your clit—circling, teasing, knowing. The pressure built, hot, unbearable, climbing higher, higher, higher. Then his tongue was at your ear, whispering filth, destruction, devotion.

“Gonna come for me, baby? Come on my cock while I tell you how fucking obsessed I am with you?”

It broke you. The orgasm was violent, raw, dragging you under and ripping you apart at the same time.

Dean groaned, thrusts stuttering, control slipping. His teeth sank into the curve of your shoulder, muffling the sound of his own wreckage as he followed you over the edge. His release filled you, marking you, making you his from the inside out.

The Impala sat still, silent but for the ragged breathing between you, the echo of what just happened still heavy in the air.

Dean was still inside you, still panting against your throat. His lips pressed a slow, almost tender kiss over the bruise he just left.

“Never letting you go now, sweetheart.”

You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. You knew—deep in your bones, deep in the red-tinted dark of the car—that he meant it. That he was never going to let you go. And that you never wanted him to.

But now you had to figure out how to get Dean back to the bunker, back to Sam, so that you could cure him. You knew how to crack a system, how to break through firewalls, how to decode the things that were never meant to be seen.

But Dean Winchester was a cipher you weren’t sure you’d ever fully solve.

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secretsnowclub · 25 days ago

Text

Building a Time Machine to Review Lancer

This article begins with Snow completing a time machine and traveling back to the year 2006. Snow appears in her childhood bedroom with her Fourteen-Year-Old Self [from now referenced as 14].

Snow: I’ve come from the future to ask you some questions. I’m struggling to review this book.

14: I become a girl?

Snow: We don’t have time for that. I’m only here for the book.

Snow holds up Lancer, the 2020 Mecha TTRPG from Massif Press. Funded on kickstarter in 2019 to the tune of $432,029 on the back of a long beta-phase, facilitated by the Lancer subreddit, and the vibrant illustrations of Tom Parkinson Morgan, creator of Kill Six Billion Demons, the wildly successful web comic.

Snow doesn’t tell this to 14 because it would take too long to explain that, in the future, people could have a job like that and make that kind of money. And if 14 knew, then the entire trajectory of her life would change.

14: Makes sense. It’s really big. What’s a Lancer?

Snow: Like 500 pages, but It’s not important. It’s like a Gundam.

14: Like Gundam SD? Zaku Zaku hour?

Snow: No.

14: Like G Gundam? With the horse guy?

Snow: No. I thought you were cooler than this.

14: Shrugs. So it’s just a mecha thing? Mechs are cool. That art’s really sick. Can I be that guy on the front?

Snow: Ideally. It’s like 4th Edition. Has that come out yet? Never mind, you’ll like it. Here. Hands 14 the book. I want you to read through it and tell me what you think.

14 opens the book, flipping a few pages, then cuts the book in half, flipping quickly through the front and middle.

Snow: What’s that? What’re you doing?

14: I never read the front stuff. I tried with D20 Modern, but it’s all just kinda boring. I wanna make a mech. In the Naruto game we played, making your ninja was the best part.

Snow and 14 sit on the floor with some paper and make their mechs.

Snow: It says here that all new players start with the same basic frame, the Everest.

14 flips to the Everest.

14: There’s no picture for it.

Snow: Well, my guess is that they let you make it look however you want since everyone starts with it.

14: The others have pictures though, and look how cool they are. The Blackbeard, the Drake, the Nelson. I wanna be the Nelson. Look at the cape!

Snow: Can you make sense of the stats and stuff?

14: I mean, it mostly makes sense. I don’t know what Repair Cap is. Or Heat or anything like that. But the traits are cool. Boost is probably an action. Immobilized or Slowed make sense as conditions. And the Skirmisher ability is so cool. I’m like, gliding through the battlefield with a spear, cutting down mechs and backflipping away.

Snow: Okay so…

Snow bookmarks page 140 with a finger and flips back to page 30. She does this several times before reading through to page 36.

14, bored, tries to draw a mech.

Snow: Um, ah, I see. So these things are your stats, like in Star Wars or Pathfinder.

14: What’s Hull?

Snow: That’s like your strength. It says “Roll Hull when smashing through or pulverizing obstacles.” But you won’t know what your Hull bonus is until you make your pilot. They get mech skill points to put into your mech stats. We need more bookmarks if we’re gonna do this..

14: Mom’s got the printer. A lot of books are big and confusing, so I just print off the important pages. You really only need like 20 of them to figure out the game I bet.

Snow: Speed is movement, Evasion is kind of like Armor Class, Sensor is your range to detect enemies and use hacking things on them, and E-Defense is Armor Class for hacking, but Heat is like HP for hacking, and then Stress is like Structure but for hacking, so, like, Structure and Stress are, like, if you drop to 0HP, you lose a Structure and regain all HP and kinda do it all over again, so it’s like extra lives, except you might get a scar or something, same for Stress–

14: Mom’s got the printer.

14 sits at a buzzing Dell computer on the enclosed front porch while the bulky printer spits out some pages in jagged black and white ink.

Snow reads about combat.

Snow: Do you still have the old gundam figurines? I think we put them in the basement. I don’t remember when.

14: I’m not sure, why?

Snow: First of all, don’t let mom throw them away. She’s gonna throw away a lot of your stuff and you’ll wish you still had when you get to where I am. Secondly, we can use them for combat. It’s grid-based, so we’ll have to figure that out. Get a map or something.

14: I hate grids.

Snow ignores 14 and continues to read.

14: Figure all that out yet?

Snow: Yeah, I think so. I think it’s actually really simple, just that everything’s spread out. You’re just rolling a D20-plus-stuff against the static numbers to see if you hit. Then your attachments can raise the static numbers. Accuracy and Difficulty are like additional modifiers that can happen with cover or if you’re affected by a status. It’s just like D&D. But with mechs.

14: It does just kinda give you a buncha numbers.

Snow: We also just flipped to the mechs though, so–

14: But that’s why we’re here though, right? I don’t want to read about all this random stuff. I want to take the mechs and play the game in as little time as possible. If I have to sit and explain all this to the guys, they’re gonna be so bored. They’d rather play Star Wars or something.

Snow: You think it would be better if you opened the book and it was just mechs right up front?

14: It sounds kinda silly when you say it like that. It’s more that, it being a big book you already know it’s going to be boring, right? They always are. I feel like the good version of such a big, mecha book is that it would be filled with mechs. It should be filled with pre-built pilots and just, like, the rules for making your own if you want to. The art is so cool, why would you want to start by building your own mech when you could pick this cool gunslinger one? If I opened this book and it was just like “pick a pilot and pick your mech, here’s a grid so you can fight and here’s the one page with all the basic rules on it,” then I could play it right now and we wouldn’t be sitting here waiting for these pages to print.

The printer stutters.

Snow: Would it make you feel any different if I told you this was made by just two people?

14: What? Really? Why?

Snow: Well, not only two people. Miguel Lopez and Tom Parkinson Morgan wrote and designed the whole thing. Tom and a bunch of others did the art. It was edited by Melody Watson and the layout was done by Minerva McJanda.

14: I don’t know who any of those people are.

Snow: It was a small team, is what I’m trying to say.

The printer whirs to a stop.

14: But look, I just put together the important parts so that we can actually play. And I’m fourteen.

14 and Snow continue talking, sitting at the dining room table.

Snow: What about the GM section? Won’t you need it to run the game?

14: No. I’ve seen Gundam Seed and Patlabor and Appleseed. I’ll just do that but with, like, a Death Star or something.

Snow: Just take a look. I want your opinion on it.

14 skims the section.

14: GM Principles. Facilitate fun, no duh. Renounce control? That’s a no brainer. Just last week the group killed the big bad in the Star Wars campaign in the first session. Funniest shit that’s ever happened.

Snow: Haha, I remember that.

14: Consider your players… I’m sorry, but what is this? Is this book trying to teach me how to be a good friend to my friends?

Snow: Well, maybe you’re not playing with friends?

14: Why would I do that? And why would playing with strangers make me act like a jerk all of a sudden?

Snow: Shrugs. Remember that game at the card shop when that new worker ran a game and was killing everyone’s characters for fun?

14: Yeah…that sucked. But that guy was just a jerk. He got fired for stealing Magic cards or something, I think.

Snow: Well, maybe the idea is that if this is in the book, stuff like that won’t happen or can be stopped. Y’know, like a kid reading this might feel comfortable enough to speak up.

14: The only reason we didn’t speak up was because he was an adult. We knew he was a jerk the whole time, we just wanted it to be over so we could go do something else. Maybe if adults weren’t assholes things would be better.

Snow: I understand.

Beat.

Snow: I kinda like the questions here under Eliciting Responses. Those are actionable and could be nice for awkward pauses.

14: Yeah, those are alright.

14 and Snow sit at the table having just finished making pilots.

Snow: How’d you like that?

14: That was kinda fun. The pilot portraits are really cool. There’s a lot of cool art in here that makes me really want to be those people. The backgrounds remind me of D20 Modern, but they’re actually useful here. I like the Triggers and I want to make a bunch of them. I can’t wait to see what the group ends up making.

Snow: My favorite part is that all skill checks are just trying to beat a 10. I’ve stolen that for some of my own games.

14: Wait, you make games?

Snow: Yeah. It’s sort of why I’m doing this interview with you.

14: Oh, so this is your job?

Snow: Thinks for a moment. No, this is just sort of a compulsion. But my job is making games. I’ve made a few.

14: That’s really cool. I didn’t even know that could be a job.

Snow: You’re gonna like it. It’ll be a while before it happens though. You’ve gotta go through some things first.

14: Ignores her. But yeah, I really like the pilot stuff. I could honestly see us using that for its own game. I don’t know, my mind has like six different ideas for a campaign right now. You could use this as like pilots for fighter planes, or race cars, or like even some kind of Code Lyoko situation.

Snow: Is that important to you? Being able to reuse ideas or think of new ways to use what’s in the book?

14: Well…I think it’s more that the book showed me an easy way to make ideas I already had into a reality. Like, we always wanted to run a zombie game, but with D&D it didn’t feel right. After we read D20 Apocalypse though, it felt more natural.

Snow: That’s a good thought. What about Section 2: Missions and Downtime?

14: I probably won’t use any of it.

Snow: Why not?

14: I don’t know. Like I said before, I’ve seen Gundam. I already know the stories I want to have. I think that’s the easiest part.

Snow: What’s the hard part then?

14: Um, maps, enemies. Cool rival pilots. Things that give me more ideas. I don’t really need it to tell me how to do a mission or whatever. I’ve watched Saving Private Ryan and I’ve played Medal of Honor, so… the only thing missing is the inspiration. Stuff I couldn’t think about by just sitting and watching T.V.

Snow: And what about the downtime actions?

14: I don’t know.

Snow: No opinions?

14: Shrugs. Same answer, I guess.

Snow: Do you think the rest of the book is used well?

14: I don’t really know what you mean by “used well.” But it’s a lot of information to parse. They can’t expect I’ll read this all at once, or even read it all before I play the game. There’s so many templates and different types of NPCs. Tons of symbols for weapons and attacks. It’s just a lot of information that my brain can’t really make sense of right now.

Snow: Do you wish it were simplified?

14: I think we both agree that the game is rather simple, the actual rules are easy to learn, but the way it’s presented makes it hard to grasp.

Snow: Yeah, I agree. But when I actually stop to read any of it, the ideas are pretty good and usable. Like, reading the Sniper NPC gives me an idea for an encounter. But you’re right, it is A LOT. But I don’t think it’s any more or less than, say, what the Monster Manual has, for instance.

14: Yeah, but there’s so many optional things. The Monster Manual really just gives you one instance of a thing, so you can take out, like, a dragon, and just use it right then. You don’t have to build it or be selective about it. I don’t really know if one way of doing it is better, I just know that I feel overwhelmed by the book right now and will probably just make a lot of stuff up on the fly as we play.

Snow: I understand.

Beat.

Snow: I wish mom would take you to the doctor.

14: Huh? Why?

Snow: It’s nothing. There’s so many things I wish I could tell you–so many things you’ll learn between now and when you become me–

14: A girl?

Snow: Unphased. And you’ll wish that maybe someone paid more attention. So many things that would help you make sense of who you are and how your brain works.

14: Wait, are you crying?

Snow: No, no.

14 and Snow run a few rounds of combat, just the two of them. 14 pilots the Nelson, decked out with a Custom Paint Job, Expanded Compartment, and Manipulators. The last of 14’s SP is spent to get the Type-1 Flight System. So now the Nelson counts as flying while it boosts towards enemies, War Pike at the ready. Sides strapped with two pistols and a shotgun in case things get hairy.

Snow builds out Horus’s Pegasus model but doesn’t use it for the combat. Instead, they control a few squads of infantry and an Archer NPC with the Flier Ship Template.

Snow sets the scene: 14 is sent behind enemy lines to take out a ship that holds a nuclear armament. It’s set to leave the atmosphere this evening and must be grounded.

The fight is slow and methodical. They listen to the Halo 2 Movement Suite the entire time.

Snow: That was fun.

14: Yeah, that was epic. I don’t normally like grids, but it kinda makes sense with mechs. It’d be really fun to, like, be the pilot and do Gundam Wing stuff before getting into this big conflict that’s, like, really intense.

Snow: I bet it might get a little monotonous with all the guys here.

14: Naw. They love it when combat takes forever. I think it’ll be even better with more people. You can use strategy and talk to each other about where you’re gonna go and who you’re gonna attack. Coordinate stuff. I’m sure there’s a limit to how many people you can add before it’s too much, but that’s true of everything.

Snow: Good point.

14: I can’t wait to play some more tonight.

14 and Snow sit quietly for a moment.

Snow: Well I should really get back. Do you think I should leave the book with you or take it back with me?

14: If you need it, you can keep it.

Snow: It’s your choice, kid. I came here for you.

14: I’ll definitely keep it then.

Snow hands over the book to 14. They don’t hug or anything. They just stand there as awkward reflections of each other.

Snow: So…you like it after all?

14: Yeah. It’s really cool. I’ll probably read it all some day. Or not. I’ll probably just make up the stuff that makes my brain all fuzzy.

Snow: Good plan.

Snow says goodbye to 14 and steps back through into the present.

When they return, on their desk is a beat-up copy of Lancer. The pages are torn, some removed completely. Spine bent. Water damaged. Notes written in the margins. Black marker crosses out enough to make it look like poetry.

And atop it, a solitary Gundam figurine sits waiting.

You can find lancer on itch.io.

If you enjoy writing like this, consider supporting my patreon and following my substack, where this and many more articles have been available already~

#ttrpg #ttrpg community #ttrpg education #review #book review

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carelessflower · 27 days ago

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Ranking all of the jewelry enchanted by Magnus so far

3. Lightwood family necklace

Function: Pulses and glows in the presence of demons

Ranking: Despite its immense monetary value, it has one function only, which puts it at a disadvantage compared to other pieces of jewelry on this list. The necklace is also not enchanted by Magnus himself; the phrasing suggests that when Magnus bought the jewelry, it already had its magical properties

2. Heron necklace

Function: Alerting and calling for Magnus when it's activated, helping near the necromantic bond

Ranking: This necklace has more functions than the first one, also it deals with necromancy bond and ghosts, and calls Magnus directly for help

1. Alec's Lightwood family ring

Function: protection, deflection, accuracy in combat (for Alec's arrows and blades), wards-sensor

Ranking: It stands out for being a ring - a family ring, no less, and having the most function out of them. This blog also discusses Alec's ring here and here. Bonus point for containing "too strong" magic from "the very heart of hell" that doubles as protection physically and politically, as if by making the wearer carry his magic signature everywhere, Magnus's saying Alec's under his protection

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag

@banesapothecary @culiehua @seolihexagon @n3v3r-l3ft

@herongrystrs

#malec #alec lightwood #magnus bane #tsc #tmi #shadowhunters #the mortal instruments #the shadowhunter chronicles #the dark artifices #ty blackthorn #livvy blackthorn #heron necklace #the infernal devices #ghosts of the shadow market #gotsm #the land i lost

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macabr3-barbi3 · 1 year ago

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pretty when you cry- vox/reader

Vox likes seeing one of Velvette's new workers cry and pushes it as far as he can.

I suck at writing endings once the fucking is done but here's a little break from my Alastor stuff to write something for the TV demon who also owns my heart <3

Tags: Reader-Insert, Vaginal Sex, Desk Sex, Begging, Crying, manipulation?, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Obsessive Behavior, possessive Vox, Excessive use of italics <3

Vox had his eyes on you.

The newest little demon on Velvette’s team, there was something about you that had him keeping a camera or a sensor on you at all times within Vee Tower.

You were a sight to behold working for her. The Vee respected you in a way that he didn’t see often, delegating you to control of models and stage management roles. And you took to those roles well, commanding respect and authority like second nature. He watched you watch him for a while, eyeing him up from across Vel’s studio. He saw the way your eyes followed the line of his legs when he strolled into the room, how you swallowed a little harder when he rolled his shirt sleeves up and showed off his forearms. He was used to that though, Velvette’s little flunkies wanting to be a Vee groupie. It wasn’t until she sent you to him by yourself for approval on something that he got to see what you were hiding underneath.

He expected you to be the way you were in the studio- demanding voice and loud tone, shoulders squared and undressing him with your eyes while he remained disinterested. What he got instead was even better.

All trembling lips and quivering skin, you were just begging him to hurt you when you slid into his office, gave him the proposal and tried to dart away. It was baffling. He sent some electricity to the doors to slam them shut before you could escape, relishing in the way that you jumped and your eyes flicked back to him. This was exhilarating- how could a demon so at ease taking control be reduced to this ball of nerves? It had to be the lack of Vel’s presence. Maybe you knew he wouldn’t do anything while Velvette was around- she always bitched about him messing with her models and assistants, and the occasional killing or dismemberment of one was a surefire way to end up needing a screen replacement when she fucking threw something at him. But with just the two of you the possibilities were endless. It wasn’t even sexual to begin with, he just fucking loved the idea of breaking down that facade of control. Making you fear him.

It was nothing personal- Velvette had sent you with a shitty proposal and he loved to yell, and sometimes a solitary scolding was like nothing else, especially when it was someone new, someone exciting and fresh. So he took it out on you, and as he was yelling and noticed your big, bright eyes welling with tears?

He couldn’t have gotten a better high from crack.

Vox made it his personal mission to bring you to the precipice of tears whenever possible. Never in front of the team- he wasn’t an asshole, he wouldn’t make you look incompetent in front of Velvette or the people you managed- but he did let slip to Velvette that he was more likely to approve her proposals if she sent her cute little assistant his way.

He got to see you almost every day then. Velvette always had something she needed him to sign or look over, and despite the couple of times he heard you simply begging to send someone else you always ended up right back at his door.

Standing in front of his desk with your head down and your eyes lowered.

Your hands clenched at your sides as you tried to avoid eye contact, tried to keep him from seeing what he so desperately was working for.

It was enough for a while. Months of hounding you and making that porcelain exterior of yours crack just enough to let a few tears slip out when you were sent to see him. Of the change in seeing you go from fucking him with your eyes to how you still checked him out but tensed up when he came into the room for something from Velvette, fearful that he would say something, destroy this image of yourself that you’ve cultivated so carefully to display for the people you work with.

Like the limits of technology it evolved. He found himself wanting more as he watched playback recordings of you begging Velvette to send someone else in your place. His mind spliced the videos together with his own recordings of you, eyes full of tears in his office.

The result was delicious. Red rimmed eyes that sparkled with tears as you looked up at him and said, “please, V̵̡͔͔͔̭̾̀̂̑͞o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞x͕͕͚͍̿̆͂͞, ” and the only thing that kept him from blowing a fuse and throwing the city into a blackout was the fact that the audio was fucked because he had nothing to input. You never said his name- it was only ever ‘sir’ in his office, or ‘him’ when speaking with Velvette.

He wanted it desperately. Wanted you to beg him with those pretty eyes, that full mouth in a pout as he denied you just to make you plead more. To make you say his name as tears ran down your cheeks and made him short circuit from dripping into his screen ports while he railed up into you from below and made you cry from the pained pleasure-

It wasn’t citywide, but Vee tower blinked offline for a few minutes.

He booted everything back up from his control room, the spliced video of you back on the screen as the door burst open and Velvette strode in to bitch about her socials going down. She looked at the image of you on the screen, eyes wide and wet while you said Vox’s name on a loop- she looked to the demon himself and seemed to wrestle with something internally for a moment.

“If she fuckin’ quits because of you,” she warns, “I’m gonna mount your goddamn head on my wall to watch the replacement interviews, you selfish, sadistic prick!” She stormed back out of the room, muttering something about how Vox was no better than Valentino but hey- that felt like he had permission in his book!

He texts Velvette a few days later and asks her to send you to his office at the end of the day. Naturally, she replies with an eye roll and middle finger emoji, but when 3PM comes around there’s a tentative knock at his door.

He waves a hand to open it, trying his best to look bored despite the excitement racing through his hardware. He slams it behind you, relishes in the way that you flinch and your lip trembles. You approach his desk, hands clenched to your sides like always. “Miss Velvette said you wanted to see me, sir?”

He leans back in his chair, kicks his feet up onto the desk and watches the way your eyes travel the length of them. “I sure did, doll! And you can drop that ‘sir’ shit with me; Vox is just fine.” He throws you a grin which catches you off guard- your eyes go wide and you startle, almost taking a step back and fuuuuck if he doesn’t want to just call his whole plan off and just jump you where you stand.

But Vox could be patient. He wanted to have you where he wanted you first, which was red faced and slack jawed and teary with ecstasy and need.

He beckons you closer with a claw and you obey- a lamb to the slaughter. “Vel tells me that I’ve been a little hard on you,” he says, all syrupy sweet and earnest. “Says that you’ve been asking her to send someone else up for her errands and proposals.” He lets his screen drop into a frown. “I’m hurt, sweetie. Did I do something wrong?”

He can see it in your eyes, the internal conflict. Deny deny deny- or be honest. He could work with either one.

“I- I mean, you’re kind of… mean to me, sir.”

Bingo. Honesty it was. He lets his feet drop down from the desk to stand and lean forward, far enough that he can get a grip on your chin. “Darling, you’ve not seen ‘mean’ from me,” he chuckles. “You think a little yelling is mean? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

You’re fighting the urge to pull away from him, and he can see it then- the shine of moisture along your lash line. It’s so much better up close than it is from across the desk, and he resists the desire to flick his tongue to your eyes and let his mouth crackle and pop at the taste of you. You aren’t talking though, adopting the same manner you get when he yells at you, all quiet and downturned, and that just won’t do.

“I asked you a question,” he says, and tightens his hold on you ever so slightly. You grimace and a drop leaks from your clenched eyes- his cock pulses at the sight. “I said, do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Yes, sir,” you stammer out, and it turns to a yelp as he lets a jolt of electricity bolt through his fingertips.

“V̵̡͔͔͔̭̾̀̂̑͞o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞x͕͕͚͍̿̆͂͞,” he corrects, his voice distorted as he tries to reign in his control. He wasn’t prepared for the feel of your skin in his hands, doesn’t think he can draw this out as long as he wanted to. “But it’s okay! Here’s what we’re gonna do, you and me- we’re gonna let it be in the past!” He lets you go and you stumble back a couple steps. He’s quick to follow, coming around the desk and throwing an arm around your shoulders. “How’s that sound, huh? I’ll stop yelling at you when Velvette sends you up here- who wants to take the time to teach someone new the route anyway, right?- and you just have to do this tiny little thing for me in return.” He turns you with his hands on your shoulders so you stand in front of him, wedged between his domineering height and the hard surface of the desk at your back.

He can feel how tense you are under his hands and delights in the way you glance up at him, bottom lip held lightly between your teeth, pupils huge and mesmerizing- almost the picture perfect duplicate of the video that he had spliced together, the reality of it so close he could fucking taste it. “What… what do I have to do?”

He uses the leverage he has to shove you, your elbows flying out to catch yourself on the desk as you’re bent backwards at the waist. As you try to push yourself up and out from under him he drops to his arms, bracketing you between them and keeping you locked in place beneath him. “Beg me,” he growls, his teeth snapping in front of your face, and the way that you’re trembling under his body is making the processors in his head spin. Your eyes are wide and wet and dilated but he can’t tell if it’s the way he wants it yet- it might be in fear, not in pleasure. And sure, fear was fun, you don’t become an Overlord without a taste for it. But he wanted you to want him. He wanted to make you need him badly enough that you would let the pleads fall from your lips like rain from the sky, like the tears he wanted to watch you sob while you asked him pretty please.

“Beg and we’ll let it all slide, dollface, does that sound fair?” Vox lets one of his hands up from the desk, trailing a sharp claw through the lingering wetness from your eyes and down your cheek, brushing across the front of your throat. He hears the catch in your breath and wants to drink the sound down, let it fester in his body until it consumes him. “You give me a couple ‘pleases’ with some tears in those pretty eyes of yours and all is forgiven! You can keep running those errands for Vel, keep yourself in her good graces. And I’ll stop yelling at you- we can be regular old pals when you stop up here for something!”

The tension in your jaw is delectable, as is the way you’re trying to keep your legs pressed together so he can’t slot himself between them like he wants to. He wishes he had olfactory processors so he could smell you, press his screen to your neck and chest and just fucking everywhere, tell from the scent of your body if you were as fucking turned on by this as he was. He’s so caught up in the thought of it, trying to figure out if he could get the necessary equipment installed to make such a thing possible, that he almost misses it.

“P-please,” you whisper, and Vox can’t help the way that his hips stutter hard against the air, not yet pressing into you like he fucking wants to. “Please, sir-”

He parts your legs with a knee, groaning internally at the heat coming from you where he presses against you. “If I have to correct you one more time,” he warns, “you’ll really see what mean looks like coming from me.” He needs you to say it like you did in his edited video. Needs his name dripping from your lips and his cum dripping from your cunt but you have to ask properly first. He rolls his hips, knowing that you can probably feel the hard length of his cock drag against your thigh.

“Vox, please,” you finally say, and when your eyes open he can see the tears gathered at the corners, so sweet and perfect and exactly what he fucking needed. There’s no distortion this time, the words falling freely and unaltered. It’s all he can do to rip himself away from you, allow you to rise off the desk with your chest heaving, drops of wetness sliding down your face with the change in angle as you watch him with wide, confused eyes.

Vox has to clear his throat but when he does, he’s back to the picture of business. “There we go!” He says, letting a little bell ding like a game show winner, fists resting on his hips. He’s cool, casual despite the harsh line of his dick pressing against his zipper. “That wasn’t so hard, huh? And now we’re all set- I’ll see you next time Vel sends you up, doll!” He turns to leave and it’s fucking killing him to act this next part out. If there’s even a chance that you don’t do what he expects you to do, he’s gonna go back to the penthouse of Vee tower and tear his goddamn organs out through his throat-

“Wait!” A hand grips the back of his shirt and he grins, wild and glitching before he schools it and turns back to you with a disinterested glance. “I-” You swallow hard and avoid his eyes, but he can still see the lines where the tears had run.

“You need something, doll?” Your eyes track his body from top to bottom, stopping at the obvious bulge in his pants. He reaches a hand out to tip your chin up to meet his gaze. “Can’t help you if I don’t know what you want.”

There’s bells and whistles going off on his internal soundboard as you step closer to him, fisting your hands in his shirt properly. “I… I want you,” you mumble, and even without the crying its got him rock hard. “I want more. Please, Vox-”

His hands are on your hips and setting you back on his desk before you can finish the thought, shoving your skirt up to your waist and dragging you against him. “F̼̼͓̙ͤ̋̅̚͞͞ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡c̨̨̣̮̝̈́̔ͯ̀͂k̼̼̞̦̞̼̔, baby, that’s all you had to say,” he groans at the feeling of your panties, hot and damp against him. He relinquishes a hand from your body to snip through the fabric like paper, wrapping your legs around his waist and grinding against you as hard as he can with his fucking pants still in the way. He’s ready to cut them off himself when you reach a trembling hand down between your bodies and start clawing at his belt.

He feels his legs turn to jello, and he presses his screen to your forehead. “That’s fucking right, doll, need me like I need you,” he hisses, and then his tongue is in your mouth and you’re moaning against him.

(Val had told him once that to kiss him was like an arc flash- that what he lacked in lips he more than made up for with tongue, and that it felt like shoving a fork in a power socket- “but like, in a good way… and with my dick.”

Vox assumed that translated to pussy as well- he’d never had any complaints but he really needed it to be the case here with you.)

You manage to get his belt undone and pulled from the loops of his pants, discarded on the floor as you whimper into his mouth. He rips his fly open and pulls his cock out to press against your slick cunt, delights in the way that you groan against him and try to angle your hips upwards to meet him.

“Slow your roll, baby,” he starts to starts to say as he pulls off your mouth; only to bluescreen, choking on his tongue when you find the angle and get the tip of his dick inside of you with a gasp. “F̼̼͓̙ͤ̋̅̚͞͞ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡c̨̨̣̮̝̈́̔ͯ̀͂k̼̼̞̦̞̼̔!”

The heat of you is blinding. He wants to clench his eyes shut with the pure fucking ecstasy of it, just fuck himself into your pliant, willing body and make you scream his name.

“Please, Vox, please, I want-” You dig your fingers into his shirt, try to roll your hips more into him, to spear yourself on him. “Please-”

“Oh, I’m gonna f-fucking g̬̬̱ͩ͋͟͟i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟v̹̹̘̼̞̻͆ͩ̓ͪ͢ḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧ i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟t͖͖̠̬͛ to you, b-baby,” he glitches out, his voice processors overwhelmed like the rest of him. “Whatever you w-w-want, it’s y͙͙̪̰ͫ͌́o͙͙̙̘̙ͤͫ͞ụ̴̴̾̀͟͡ṛ̣̬̫̍͌ͩ͟s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅ, and you’re fucking-ing m- m̰̰̹͚̙̂ͦ͗͠i̧̻̻͉̜͑ͪ̾͟n̫̫̘̗͕̲̲̎ͥḛ̡̰̳͓̥ͬ͋ͪͧ.”

He brings a hand between your bodies to circle your clit, thrusting the rest of his length into you in one hard shove and you cry out at the feel of it. His eyes flash to your face and he short circuits at the sight that greets him- he’s pretty sure his hard-drive just gives out.

Your mouth hangs open, sharp teeth on display as you pant and gasp his name, your face red and tear-streaked clinging to his shirt.

He shifted his angle a bit and you cried his name, throwing your head back so hard you smacked it off the desk. He didn’t even have time to ask if you were okay before you were clenching around him, coming with a scream that echoed the walls of his office, your body tensed and locked around him like a vice.

It’s beautiful. Magnificent. That video he had spliced was fucking dogshit compared to the reality of having you clenched around his dick and weepy with need. Everything was dogshit compared to it- he could live in this moment for the rest of his afterlife. For the rest of eternity and beyond. Maybe he could find a way to bottle this feeling and make it a substance he could inject into his fucking heart.

You’re still grasping at him, fingers sliding down from his shirt to grasp at his hands where claws are digging into your hips. “Do it,” you’re gasping, “please, Vox, more-”

Vox comes with a grunt inside of you, the force of his thrusts making the desk screech across the floor as your cunt wrings every drop of pleasure from him, a snarl on his lips as he gives you everything, fucks into you until you lay breathless and tear-stained on the desk as he pulls out, his release spilling back out of you. He wants to frame the sight of it- he’d make it his screensaver if he could bear the thought of literally anyone else seeing this from you when he spaced out or went inactive. But this, your tears and your pleads and the way that you’re still shivering with the force of your orgasm? That was his, and would be his alone. He would fucking kill anyone who even thought that they could bring you to this state, anyone who dared to imagine it.

“V-Vox?”

“A͔͔̜̗̦ͩ̅̎s̨̞̞̰͎͎̪̩͕̈́̀ͯ̍ͧͅd̶̵̯̯̼̘ͨ̓f̰̰��̯͕̃̊͞͞͞g̬̬̱ͩ͋͟͟h̨͚͚͖ͯ̒̄͗͞j̺̺̭͖̘̬̃̓ͨk̼̼̞̦̞̼̔l͖͖̰̝ͭ̀͘” he says eloquently, and the word flashes across his screen a couple times before he comes back online properly, enough to string together an actual goddamn sentence. “Fuck, sorry doll,” he chuckles. “I think you broke me for a sec there.” He helps lower you from the desk onto your shaky legs, his chest only puffing a bit at how unsteady you are after being freshly fucked. “You good?”

“I think I’m okay,” you agree, sorting your skirt out, covering up all of the delicious bruises and scratches he had etched into your skin. Maybe next time -would there be a next time?- you would let him use his teeth, draw blood and leave marks in places that people would see so that they would know you were owned. “Um-”

“I’ll, uh, replace the panties,” he says sheepishly when he notices the strip of fabric he had sliced off your body on the floor. He brings a clawed finger up to wipe gently under your eyes at the lingering, unshed tears. “I just couldn’t help myself, you know.”

“That’s okay,” you say, and for the first time- was it really the first time? He would have to review his files, search through them to see if this had happened before- you smiled at him, eyes crinkled and a sweet curve to your mouth. “I was just as much involved, sir.”

“Vox,’ he says with an edge, but no real heat to it. Could he make you smile like that all the time? The crying was hot, the tears what really got him hard, but that smile… he’d do bad things to good people to see that again. “You’ve not gonna quit, are you? Velvette threatened to decapitate me if you quit because of me.”

You chuckle, the sound soothing his fried audio sensors. “I won’t quit. I’ll even offer to come up more often if we get to do that again.” You throw him another dazzling smile. “Unless that was a one-time thing?”

“Not at all, babydoll,” he says, and throws an arm over your shoulder as he escorts you to the door. He makes a mental note- which then sends an actual note out- to bring someone up to the office to get it cleaned up before work the next day. “Let me walk you to your car. I think you and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other going forward. Hey, I even have an idea- what if you leave Velvette’s team and come to mine? A personal assistant doesn’t sound-”

‘I think she would kill both of us,” you interject, and he has to agree you aren’t wrong. But he still spends the rest of the walk- “hey what do you know, elevator came to the penthouse instead of the garage floor, why don’t you come in for a drink?” - trying to convince you.

#hazbin hotel #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #vox x reader #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel vox #x reader #vox smut #my stuff <3

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