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trellanyx · 3 years

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Dark!Stolas AU

I started to send a prompt to @vizowrites after reading the latest installment of her Dark!Stolas AU, then realized I wanted to write it instead. lol This is meant to be a direct sequel to Where You Belong. Thanks for letting me play in the sandbox for a bit bb!

Fic Warnings: This is an AU where Blitzo does not want to have sex with Stolas, and only does so in order to have continued access to the grimoire. Stolas has no qualms about using this leverage to keep Blitzo in line, or ignoring Blitzo’s boundaries. Nothing sexual happens in this fic, but if you don’t like reading fics based off this premise, this isn’t for you. Like the title says, Stolas is not a good person here.

“And you,” Stolas said, his gaze flashing back to Striker with a near break-neck speed, flashing in a surge of barely contained power that still seemed to simmer just beneath the surface. “While I admire that terribly forceful nature of yours, I highly suggest that you remember just to whom you are speaking. And just to whom you owe your continued opportunities that keep your schedules oh so busy. Which reminds me, darling Blitzy….bring the book with you to our next meeting.”

“Blitzy! There you are, darling.”

Regrettably, Blitzo thought. He placed the book on its usual place on the nightstand and shucked off his coat. Stolas loved it when his favorite toy showed such ‘enthusiasm’, not noticing, or perhaps not caring, that Blitzo’s only motivation was to get the night over with as quickly as possible.

He didn’t know which option was worse.

“Look, can we skip the roleplay tonight? My back has been bitching at me all day.”

Stolas giggled. “Ah yes. Isn’t that post-coital ache just delightful? I know my best mornings always happen when I can’t walk straight.”

Blitzo rolled his eyes. In the beginning, he’d respond to comments like that with something along the lines of, “I hear a good ass whooping produces the same result”, but Stolas always interpreted those retorts as encouragement, and Blitzo eventually stopped bothering. He nodded to where Stolas was decadently sprawled along a twilight-violet chaise. “That the spot you’ve decided on?”

“As thrilling as it is to be the center of such undivided attention,” purred Stolas, “I’d actually prefer we take things slower tonight. It feels like ages since we’ve had the chance to simply…talk.” Stolas’s eyes gleamed scarlet, all four of them pinned directly on Blitzo. “Given both of our busy schedules, after all.”

Blitzo stiffened, feeling his stomach shrivel with a sudden chill of terror.

“Stolas--”

“Sit, please,” said the prince, waving a hand at a matching armchair Blitzo knew hadn’t been there a moment ago. “I’m as eager to receive your glorious cock as you are to give it to me, but another need must be satisfied first.”

The words tumbled out of Blitzo so quickly they nearly slurred together. “If this is about what happened at the office, I swear--”

“I said sit.”

Blitzo’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click. He power-walked to the chair, unwilling to risk finding out what Stolas might do if he thought Blitzo was taking too long. But Stolas only giggled again, as if seeing Blitzo so flustered was cute.

“Though since you bring it up, I would like to discuss what happened when I last tried to visit you. I fear there may be some…misunderstanding among your employees about just what our relationship is like, Blitzy.”

“We don’t have a relationship, Stolas,” snapped Blitzo. “We have an arrangement. I fuck you, you don’t fuck over my business. Cut and fucking dry.”

Stolas clucked his tongue. “Blitzy, we are lovers. You could at least try to put in a little romantic effort outside the bedroom.”

Blitzo bared his teeth. “I’m plenty romantic,” he said, in a moment of reckless defiance. “Just not with you.”

Stolas blinked, and Blitzo nearly bit through his own tongue. He did not, however, take back the words. He was engaged now, for fuck’s sake. And the memory of his fiancé almost spitting in the eyes of demon royalty was enough to give Blitzo just enough courage to wipe out his remaining fucks.

You wanna talk, bitch? Fine. Let’s talk.

Stolas tapped a claw against his thigh. “Are you now?” he asked, terribly soft. Blitzo opened his mouth to snarl back, but it hung open when Stolas suddenly beamed and said, “Why Blitzy, that’s wonderful!”

“….It is?”

“Of course!” trilled Stolas. “I’m so happy to hear there are other paramours in your life! Not surprised, of course, my dear little imp. Who could possibly resist such a beautiful and wickedly talented creature like yourself?” He laughed gaily. “I wondered why that fiery little fellow seemed so testy last we met. Jealousy, hm?” Stolas gave a sage little hoot. “I understand, Blitzy. Love makes fools of us all.”

Blitzo couldn’t help but laugh incredulously. “Striker, jealous of you? Listen bitch--”

“Blitzy, darling, it’s alright,” Stolas soothed. “I understand.”

Blitzo raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Do ya now?

“It’s not the first time I’ve been threatened over our little courtship,” said Stolas, still smiling. “At least he didn’t throw something at me! Poor Seymour,” he sighed. “Two centuries of care, gone in a blink and a crash. Fortunately my reflexes are better than my wife’s aim!”

“…Am I on drugs?” Blitzo wondered. “Is Verosika about to pop out with a horse head or somethin’? ‘Cause I’m not gonna lie, that’d actually be a pretty sweet upgrade for her.”

“Silly imp,” giggled Stolas. “Well! Now that that little bit of unpleasantness has been cleared up, I say we move on to more enjoyable activities. How about some refreshments before we start?”

Blitzo withheld a groan. Feeding each other was one of Stolas’s favorite forms of foreplay. He’d constantly nip at or suck on Blitzo’s fingers, to say nothing of how often he’d pretend to feed Blitzo a strawberry or something before replacing it with his mouth at the last second. But if it got Stolas to stop asking questions about his and Striker’s relationship, Blitzo was up for anything.

“Just no strawberries, okay? Last time they made me break out in hives.”

“Alas, tonight I’m simply thirsty.” Stolas pulled a silver bell from his robe and gave it a dainty ring. Then he winked at Blitzo and added, “Of course, that’s always my mood when you’re on my mind.”

A servant imp appeared almost instantaneously, carrying a tray with two shimmering glasses of wine.

“I really do feel much better now,” said Stolas, taking his glass.

“Good for you,” deadpanned Blitzo as the servant turned his way. “Now can we get on with--”

CRASH!

“FUCK!” Blitzo scrambled backward, tripping over the arm of the chair and falling onto the floor. His claws scratched the tile as he scooted backwards on his ass, away from the servant who was now a solid block of stone. Blitzo’s wineglass was shattered on the ground. Why…why did it look like the exact shade of blood?

Stolas took a long, indulgent sip of his own wine. “Wiggles, this is Blitzy. Blitzy, Wiggles.”

“Stolas, what the fuck?!”

“Wiggles hasn’t been with me as long as Seymour was,” Stolas continued, not needing to raise his voice to talk over Blitzo’s panicked yelling. “I daresay Wiggles isn’t even his name, but that’s neither here nor there.”

The prince unfolded his unnaturally long legs and walked around the statue of Wiggles. “He’s a good servant, as far as imps go. Obedient, polite, deferential…he knows his place in the world and is content with it. Like Seymour was.” Stolas placed a hand on the top of Wiggles’s stone head. “And like Seymour…”

Blitzo realized what was coming a split second too late. “DON’T--!”

Stolas lightly pushed, and Wiggles fell forward. There was a sick crack when the statue hit the ground, and Blitzo watched in horror as Wiggles’s now detached head lay face-first in the puddle of wine. Stolas waved his hand, and the rest of the body crumbled into dust and rubble.

“Gone in a blink and a crash,” finished Stolas.

There was no flirting or good-natured silliness to Stolas now. He stared down at Blitzo with cold disappointment. Blitzo barely dared to breathe, let alone move.

“Let’s not forget what our actual roles are, my precious little imp,” murmured Stolas. “You are exceedingly good at what you can do with your body, and because of that, I allow your little family venture to succeed. Every time you rendezvous with the world above, you pay your way with my magic. Your daughter sleeps under a roof built from my generosity. Your lover fucks you in a bed gifted by my mercy. I could rip everything away from you, Blitzo. Everything you’ve ever touched. I wouldn’t even have to leave this room.”

Stolas knelt down, ignoring the way Blitzo flinched back. “But I don’t do that, darling. Because I love you. You’ve brought excitement and joy back into my world the likes of which I haven’t felt since my daughter was born. Of all my collections and all of my toys, you are my favorite.”

A crimson glow slowly bled into existence until it outlined Stolas’s entire body. Blitzo couldn’t look away from him, and wasn’t entirely sure that Stolas wasn’t making that possible. The air seemed to constrict around him, making his temples pound and his nose bleed.

“What you do with your time is your own business, Blitzo. But when I call on you, full moon or not, I expect you to answer,” whispered Stolas. The use of Blitzo’s full name stung him like a brand. “When I ask for privacy, I expect to not be interrupted. Above all, I expect you to make sure your associates know their place around us – and mind it. Do you understand?”

Blitzo jerked his head in as much of a nod as he could manage.

“They may hiss and spit all they like, but they will stay out of our way. Else I will remove them myself, and I will make you watch. Do you understand?”

Another nod.

“Say it, Blitzy.”

“…I understand,” said Blitzo through gritted teeth. The moment he did, the air returned to normal, leaving Blitzo gasping for air like a drowning man. Stolas finished his wine, and looked out the balcony window behind Blitzo.

“Ah! And there’s the moon. What a beautiful sight – not as lovely as you, of course.” Stolas cupped Blitzo’s cheek, looking at him with a familiar expression of lust. “Come darling,” he purred. “The night is still young, after all.”

#helluva boss #blitzo #stolas #helluva boss stolas #helluva boss blitzo #vizowrites #felt like stretching my evil writing muscles lol #thanks for letting me borrow him vizo!#does blitzo try to lay low or does he immediately go home that night like BABE GET YER RIFLE WE'RE GOING OWL HUNTING #it's up to you XD

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holdontorogers · 3 years

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dumbification with steve? innocence kinda corruption kink too if u wanna

࿐ 𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐬.𝐫.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; nomad!Steve x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲; You were on Steve’s side during the Civil War events, now you had to go undercover, just like him. After a few months apart, Steve has missed you more than both of you could’ve imagined. But he will surely make sure you know that.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭; 1,500

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬; 18+ ONLY | MINORS DNI, porn with little no plot, swearing, dumbification, mocking (dumb girl, cockdrunk), pet-names (pretty girl, honey, sweetheart), corruption kink, dom!Steve, face-fucking, blowjob, fingering, unprotected sex, degradation, size kink (Steve is huge, reader doesn’t think it will fit), slight breeding kink (Steve cums inside reader).

𝐚/𝐧; GIF NOT MINE CREDITS HERE. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! Made this with Nomad!Steve bc 🤤 why not? Okay, I didn’t expect to go so far out with this one but oh God. I guess writing smut is my new passion lol.

It has been months since he even heard from you. After a while running together, you ended up going separate ways. He wanted you. It was that simple. And at this point, after all of the events that led him to go undercover and a fugitive, he couldn’t care less. All he knew is that he wanted to cross lines with you, tonight.

You barely recognized him when he arrived at your new hidden place. The calm blue ocean that once shaped his eyes seemed dark and dangerous now. Those angelic eyes and clean face were replaced by wild, almost animalistic eyes. And the beard. Oh, Lord, the beard. You whimpered at the feeling of it rubbing your skin when he hugged you. You also didn’t think Steve could get bigger — but there he was. Broader shoulder, stealth suit fitting his muscles perfectly, and an evil smirk on his face.

“How you’ve been sweetheart?” the pet-name sending shrives down your spine. You simply stare at him, taking in all his features. “Did you lose your words, honey?” your eyes widened at his words, the blue in his eyes almost disappearing as they grew darker. Steve licked his lips staring at you, you could feel the pooling in your panties just by staring at him. Unable to move or do anything thing. You wanted him, it was that simple.

The only problem is that this Steve seemed dangerous, experienced, rough; and you barely knew how to do a proper blowjob at best, lacking much of the experienced he seemed to master by now. But you knew that for him you would do it. Whatever he asked, you were his. Ready for whatever he was willing to give up. You bit your lower lips, lost in your thoughts.

Steve held a groan, the sight of you pressing your thighs together as you looked at him playing hoops in his mind. He left a heavy breath, his dagger eyes focused on all your movements. He could smell your arousal from his place. Carefully, he went forward, cupping a side of your face with his hand.

“What’s going on in that pretty mind of yours?” his voice was heavy just like his stare. “I’m…” Fuck, did you forgot how to speak? Was he that intoxicating? “You…” he mocked “I need to know what you want so I can give it to you, my dumb girl” his fingers caressed your cheek, as you felt your blood rushing through your body. You leaned to his touching, biting your lips hard so a moan wouldn’t escape. What was he doing to you?

“My dumb baby” he taunted “can’t barely contain the sweet sounds when I touch you” you closed your eyes and swallowed, addicted to the sound of his voice and his fingertips. “Gotta tell me what you want, put that pretty mouth of yours to use” your eyes widened at his words.

“I want you to ruin me” this time the words didn’t fail to leave your mouth. Steve had a satisfied smile on his face, dragging his thumb to your parted lips. You took them in, sucking and swirling your tongue around it, a low, strangled groan escaping his mouth at the sight.

“On your knees, pretty girl” he commanded, and you quickly sunk down to your knees. “Wanna see that pretty mouth of yours having a reason for being so out of words” he stated while undoing his belt and lowering his pants. The bulge clear in his boxers watering your mouths and making you wonder if it would fit later.

“Steve” you mumbled, after his cock sprang free from the restraining underwea. “it won’t fit” you blinked a couple of times. Steve chuckled at your words “Oh, my dumb gir, already so needy for my cock” he pouted, mocking your expression “it will fit, don’t worry. Just wait for it” he promised. You gulped and turned your eyes back to his shaft. “Now,” his authoritative tone made you look at him “Tongue out, sweetheart” another barked command, another order you followed promptly. “Eyes on me” he tilted your chin so you could actually look into his eyes, you nodded complying to all his demands.

You could taste the salty pre cum as you licked and sucked on his reddened tip. Sweet moans leaving your lips at the feeling, Steve’s hand threw back in pleasure. He gripped your hair and started thrusting into your mouth, leaving no spacing for breathing. You tugged on his thighs for support, gagging as his cock reached the back of your throat, tears falling down your eyes. The sounds and your current state only made Steve grew harder in your mouth, seeking his own release, using your mouth at his mercy.

“Doing so good for me, my dumb girl” he purred “gonna cum all over your face, fuck” he promised, almost losing his mind at the feeling “then have you bent over and dripping with my seed after I fuck you stupid” he whispered, his words fading as his release approached, curses leaving his mouth. The sounds he was making became your new favorite, he was in control but his flushed look, parted lips, groans and moans were all because of you. You hollowed your cheeks, and continue to let him use you. Suddenly he removed himself slightly as you felt hot, salty cum filling your mouth. You swallowed all he had for you, licking your lips afterwards.

Looking at him with flushed, innocent eyes, Steve pulled you up by your hair, kissing you. Teeth, tongue and his taste in your mouth mixing together in a passionate and rough kiss. Steve finally started undressing you, his lips never leaving your body. He sucked on your lips and moved to your neck, he could bruise the skin that his mouth captured. Steve wanted to let everyone know who you belonged to. As he sucked on one of your boobs, his large hands cupped the other, squeezing and pulling your nipples, making you whine for more. His fingers found your panties ripping the fabric and throwing away.

Steve removed his remaining clothes, lifting you up and placing you in the couch arm. His fingers found your pussy as he groaned at how wet you were “fuck, baby, you’re so fucking wet for me” his fingers spread your arousal through your cunt, tracing every inch, the fraction at your clit making you nearly jump. Steve pushes two fingers into you at once, stretching you open, delighting himself at how well you took them. “Feel so good squeezing my fingers, can’t wait til it’s my cock” he hissed. His thumb starting circling your clit, the pressure building inside you. You felt dizzy, numb to the feeling, gripping his shoulders as you came, hard. The coil in your stomach turning into white, hot, unimaginable, pleasure. Steve licked his fingers clean and moaned at the taste.

With an evil smile, he turned you easily, bending you over, exposing your ass and pussy for him. With a few strokes on his cock, his was ready to ruin all men for you. You whine at his tip teasing your entrance. Steve wasn’t gentle, burring all of him at once, barely giving you time to adjust to his size, impossibly stretching you to fit all of him. He started at a slow, agonizing pace, teasing you. It worked, you whined, grabbed at any resemblance of balance you could find. Almost sobbing for him to stop the torturous pace.

“Steve, I” you whined his name and his cock twitched inside you. “So cockdrunk already?” he mocked “Can’t even form words” he slowed even more, yet you thought it was impossible. “Fa-aster” you tried “Plea—” no warning, his hips started thrusting harder and faster. The pace settled made you feel the coil to form again, his dick sinking into you at every thrust. “My dumb girl” he said with raspy voice “So fucked out by me, won’t even be able to think after I’m done with you”. You could only moan his name, a mess of incoherent whines, sobs and curses leaving your lips.

Steve’s pace lost his rhythm, his release approaching. He started rubbing circles around your clit, pushing you towards the edge with him. It was all too much, the feeling of your walls contracting around him, his thumb in a perfect pace, the fact that it was Steve. You reached your orgasm soon enough, giving Steve the green light to pursue his own release. It was like shockwaves all over his body, his cock buried deep inside you, his hot cum warming you. Steve collapsed on your back, his cock beginning to soften, still inside you.

After a few heavy breaths, Steve removed himself, watching his cum dripping from your cunt, down to your thighs. He grabbed you in his arms and turned you to face him, rubbing his hand through your face. “Guess we need to clean you up” he offered, a sweet, tired smile on your lips. After that night Steve knew that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t leave you ever again. He would make sure to take care of you, protect you. No matter what.

#steve rogers smut #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers oneshots #steve rogers headcanons #steve rogers blurb #steve rogers x reader smut #steve rogers x female!reader #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfiction #chris evans #chris evans smut #chris evans headcanons #chris evans x reader #chris evans x reader smut

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jackrrabbit · 3 years

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Adversary /// Overhaul x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: You make a deal with the devil to save your life, but it turns out Overhaul’s not interested in your soul.

A/N: Remember when I said I was going to do a fantasy collab and then dipped for like 9 months? Hahaha…anyway…

@pleasantanathema @ present-mel @shadowworks—if it’s not too late, here’s my part for the Pleasant & Strider Fantasy AU Writing Collab from a million years ago. Go check out the masterlist and gorge yourself on these amazing pieces!!

Tags/Warnings: dubcon, demon fuckery & occult things, big heresy/sacrilege/perversion of religion, sex in a church ft. Catholic sex guilt, other than that it’s not that bad lol, inexperienced reader, mild degradation, shameless camp and demon-fucking clichés, Overhaul calls you “little girl” 👉👈

He doesn’t look like a demon.

Not that you really know what demons are supposed to look like. But…red skin, right? Fangs and claws and swirling masses of bad energy. Maybe cloven hooves for feet. Yes, that’s the Disney version—but even if you didn’t expect a cartoon personification of evil, you didn’t expect this.

He looks like a doctor, you think. Lab coat hanging open, surgery mask pushed down under his jaw, stethoscope draped over his shoulders. No, he’s a little young to really look like a doctor…an intern, you amend, shifting back in your hospital bed. He looks like he fits right in here, not a hair out of place. Except for, you know, the polished black horns curling out of the sides of his skull.

Overhaul. It was written in the book. That’s the only thing you have to call him in your head.

He’s standing in the center of the sigil you drew at the foot of your bed before midnight, surveying the room critically without meeting your gaze. He looks annoyed—that’s not a good sign, is it?—but then again, of course he’s annoyed. You’d be annoyed too if you got summoned out of your cozy hell dimension in the middle of the night. According to the book, you’re lucky he even showed up…although ‘lucky’ isn’t really how you’d describe yourself most days.

“So,” Overhaul says after a long moment of silence in which you question every choice you’ve made in your relatively short life. “You’re dying.”

You nod.

“And you don’t want to be.”

You nod again, wondering if you’re supposed to be contributing more to this conversation. It’s a bit difficult when your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve been eating dirt, but you suppose being in the presence of an unholy servant of Satan will do that to a person.

“Fine.” He sighs, frowns, and then finally lowers his gaze onto yours—and you shiver.

Those eyes. No human has eyes like that.

“Make me an offer,” Overhaul tells you, and through his open mouth you catch a flash of sharp white teeth.

Okay. Okay. The chirping of the heart monitor speeds up (as if it weren’t obvious enough that you’re terrified) and you fold your knees up to your chest and fidget with your ring and think. He’s giving you a chance to establish parameters. You’re supposed to start with his end of the deal, the thing you want from him. That’s what it said to do in the grimoire, aka the 19th century demonology volume your creepy cousin brought back from her pagan anthropology research trip in rural France. The one you keep hidden under your bed because your mother would burn it if she knew you were reading about summoning demons.

Offer nothing to a hell creature without first telling him your price. You know the words by heart, both the winding calligraphy of the original French from the grimoire and the rushed scrawl of the English translation your cousin left for you in sheets of lined paper layered between the pages of the book for you to read. Really, this is her fault. She was the one who slipped you the book, who told you that it worked, who snuck you the ingredients for the summoning. She was the one who left a bookmark at the chapter on this particular demon, one that specializes in ‘Contrat pour Remédier au Déséquilibre des Quatre Humeurs’, which she said meant a contract to cure any illness. Even his ‘name’ is translated in her hand, practically an afterthought in the margins of the page.

‘Le Malin qui Ravage et Rebâtit’— Overhaul?

You looked up the literal meaning of this phrase on your own. It did not reassure you.

“Girl.” His voice is cold, irate. Your eyes snap back up to his and it feels like that burning gaze is laser-beaming into your skull. “Do not test me. My time is limited…as is yours.”

You swallow. “How long do I have left?”

“Less than a single human year,” he tells you without a trace of sympathy. “Seven months, twelve days, three hours. Or so. You’ll be too exhausted to leave this bed in four months, and the pain will become intolerable in six… By the end, you’ll wish—“

“Stop,” you breathe out. The heart monitor is beeping wildly and you squeeze your knees into your chest, trying to calm down your breathing. “Stop, I—I want to live.”

“Of course you do.” Overhaul’s lip curls. “How very predictable.”

Be specific, you remind yourself, doing your best to ignore the stifling disapproval from the man—the demon—in front of you. Something about him (maybe how clean-cut he looks, maybe the indisputable authority in his demeanor) makes you want to impress him. But you didn’t turn your back on your religion—you didn’t draw pagan symbols on the floor in chalk, fill silver cups with various questionable substances (including your own virgin blood), and turn the crucifix your mother hung over your bed upside-down so you could let a demon make you feel guilty for wanting to survive. “I want to be cured. I’m okay with whatever natural death I have instead when I’m older, I just don’t want to die of this illness. I want you to make me healthy.”

“Simple enough. What else?”

‘Simple’? Your heart surges with something you’ve felt very little of since your initial diagnosis—hope. “T-That’s it. Just the cure.”

Overhaul glares at you. “Humans… Every vice in the world available to you, and you limit yourselves to the basest priority of survival.”

“But you can do it? You can cure me?” you persist.

Overhaul steps forward (quiet, so quiet you wonder if he really moved) and holds a hand out to you past the foot of your bed—you hesitate, and a second later you can see the muscles in his hand flex, stretching the latex of his plastic gloves tight over his knuckles.

Just do it. You give him your hand. Carefully. Like you’re scared the contact will burn you. It doesn’t (although his skin feels warmer than yours), but after a moment his grip tightens, sliding down past your hand to circle the fragile bones of your wrist and squeeze.

“Ow?” You wince.

The demon’s eyes flicker closed for a second, lips moving silently like he’s talking to himself—and then he drops your hand unceremoniously back onto your lap. “You could be cured before the sun rises this morning. I doubt your stay in the hospital will extend past the end of the week.”

He sounds bored, voice as flat and passionless as it was earlier, but your heart is soaring. Cured. You’ve lived with this illness for so many years, you can’t remember the last time someone told you you could be cured. And getting out of the hospital that soon? You can just imagine taking down all the decorations from the walls of your room here and setting them up in your old bedroom at home. You could see friends on the weekend and not take an oxygen bag, you could get a job or—or apply to college, you could have a life—

“That is…assuming you have something to offer me in exchange for the cure.”

Your stomach drops. You’d almost forgotten about the other half of the deal.

“Don’t tell me I came all this way for nothing.” Overhaul steps back, and the orange light of the candles you set sends strange shadows over his arrogant face. The fires look brighter now, and you find yourself tracing the lines of those shining black horns. In an odd way, they look natural—so organically framing his temples that you can’t imagine him without them.

“N-No, of course not. I have some money—I mean, my mom has some, and I can get it for you…” Which is half the truth. If you know anything, it’s that your mother’s spent most of her savings on your treatment and care. You probably have more debt than you have money in the bank right now—you’d try to get rid of that, too, if you hadn’t read in the book how important it is to keep your request as simple and straightforward as possible.

…Although it’s apparently not enough. Overhaul’s eyes narrow, molten gold irises carved into slits. “Even if I had a use for human money, do you really believe your life is worth so little?”

“No—no,” you say quickly. “I just thought—in case you were interested—”

The air crackles with energy, the candle flames spark bright blood-red, and the hair on your arms stands straight up. “I am not.”

“Okay! I get it.” You wave your hands back and forth, pulling your IV line from side to side with the motion. The book was very clear about staying calm and rational while you work out the terms of the deal, but that’s easier said than done when you have a real live (live?) hell creature in front of you. You always knew this was going to be the hard part—all the stories say there’s only one thing that a demon would be interested in, and no matter how inviting the prospect of living past this illness is, you know you’d rather die than sell your immortal soul to the devil. “I’ll give you anything except my soul! And—and don’t hurt anyone I care about, or— just don’t hurt anyone, okay? Other than that, if there’s anything I can give you, I will.”

Overhaul’s lip curls, baring a thin strip of those unnaturally sharp canines. “And is your soul really so valuable?”

This throws you for a loop. Isn’t that the standard deal? A soul for a wish? That’s how it’s supposed to work—at least in this twisted version of reality where you can summon a demon to perform unholy miracles for you. But if you think about it, it doesn’t really make sense, does it? Why would your soul be valuable to him? You can’t form an argument, especially since you’re not willing to barter it away in the first place.

Your mouth is pursed open as you search for a response, but Overhaul doesn’t seem willing to wait. A gloved hand wraps its way around the railing at the side of your bed, and he leans in closer. “Little girl…what makes you think you possess anything I desire?”

Little girl. You’re not a little girl, you’re a grown woman—and yet there’s no untruth in the statement. In front of him you feel insignificant, immature, weak. You have nothing real to offer, and something tells you that you’re not going to get rid of the demon you summoned without a sacrifice you’re not willing to make.

You twist your ring around your finger—the nervous habit you haven’t bothered to break because you’ve always had more important things to worry about—and the glint of silver in the candlelight must catch Overhaul’s eye because before you even notice him moving, your delicate hand is trapped in his larger one to give him a better view of the tiny piece of jewelry. “What is this?”

“It’s—um, a ring. A purity ring.” Has he never seen one before? Well…actually, that makes sense.

Overhaul turns your hand over in his without touching the band of silver. He’s looking at it closely, inspecting the lovingly engraved cross in the design and the inscription on the other side. “Matthew 5:8,” he reads out.

“…Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” you recite cautiously. It feels wrong to speak the words in front of him, but somehow you can’t help yourself.

Overhaul’s hand doesn’t leave yours. “This ring is important to you.”

“It’s a symbol of a—a promise I made to God. To save myself for my future husband.”

“To ‘save yourself’? To save what?”

You can’t believe you’re explaining this to a literal demon. You close your eyes and inhale slowly and taste smoke. “My…virginity. It’s a promise that I won’t have sex until I enter into a biblical marriage.”

At this, Overhaul is quiet. You give him a moment to answer, half expecting him to question why you think God cares about your sexual status (honestly, you’d be lying if you said you haven’t wondered this yourself), but he stays quiet until you peek up at him to try and gauge the look on his coldly handsome face.

He’s still staring at the ring. He hasn’t touched it—maybe he can’t, because of the cross?—and through the latex, his skin feels hotter than a human’s is supposed to be.

“Is there…” you start, but you trail off when you realize you have nothing to ask. You give a little tug to try and take your hand away and you’re surprised when your wrist actually slides out of his grip to fall back on the nest of sheets in your lap. You didn’t think he’d let you go so easily.

Overhaul turns his head to the side, eyes drilling into you so you feel like you should lower your gaze. The candlelight flickers in strange shadows over his horns. “This will do,” he says quietly.

“What?”

“In exchange for your cure.” The demon taps his own left ring finger, the place where the purity ring sits on your hand, and your heart soars. He actually wants that? It’s just a simple silver band, not worth much, but you’re not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe it has some special significance because of the religious connotation. Your mother will be angry you’ve lost it, but you’re happy to cope with that if it means living to actually get married!

“Yes!” you blurt out before he has a chance to rethink his offer. Sure, you’ll miss the purity ring—you’ve had it since you were a kid, after all—but there’s no question you’re getting the better end of this deal. At least in your opinion.

Something flashes through his yellow eyes, something you don’t even want to try and identify. “The contract, then.”

You barely have time to notice that his voice has gentled, that it’s practically silken in comparison to before, when the candlelight flickers again and suddenly the contract is everywhere. Everywhere. Writing appears on every surface in the room, covering the walls, stretching over the ceiling, coiling around the sides of the hospital equipment and decorating your bedsheets until you and Overhaul are the only untouched surfaces in sight. The characters are inscribed in red, dark red like—don’t think about that, you tell yourself squeamishly. You can make out some of the letters, even a word here or there—French, you recognize, mixed with what looks like Latin and interspersed with what you can only guess are runes.

“I can’t read this,” you tell him, fidgeting with your ring for what you now realize will be the last time.

“I only need your name,” he purrs, and then you feel a fragile weight in your hand: a feather, pearl-black and glossy and too large to belong to any bird you can think of, its angled tip glistening with wet ink. There’s an empty space in the writing before you, and Overhaul’s gloved hand comes to yours again to guide you into place.

This feels wrong…then again, of course it does. Even if you’re getting off relatively easy and just losing your ring rather than your soul, you’re still making a deal with a demon. You sign your name, forcing yourself to think about the future you have ahead of you rather than a disapproving white-bearded caricature of The Man Upstairs wagging his finger at you for haggling with a literal servant of Satan. People have done worse things to survive, haven’t they? It’s just a ring.

You set the feather down and Overhaul sighs, thick black eyelashes obscuring his intense gaze for a moment—and then the contract is gone, leaving your hospital room as blank and sterile as it’s supposed to be (well, aside from the candles and all the other ritual stuff you threw together to summon a demon in the first place).

“Are you going to cure—heal me now?” you ask.

“…Patience, little girl.” He’s pulling his glove off, peeling it down his fingers to bare the pale skin of his hand. You catch your breath and wonder what this is going to feel like, and then the tips of his fingers meet your cheek and—

you stop breathing.

It doesn’t hurt.

Or if it does, you don’t remember the pain a second later when breath floods back into your lungs. What you do feel is energy. Strength in your muscles, blood pumping through your veins, every inhale and exhale as light as a bird and freer. You feel healthy. You’re surprised you even remember what health feels like but you do: it’s like you’ve only been half alive, and now life is surging into you and through you and around you, bubbling up in your core like a spring overflowing. You blink rapidly, thinking you might cry from the sheer pleasure of it, but when you open your mouth it’s laughter that comes out. You’re healthy. You’re alive. You barely notice the IV line literally falling off of your skin because the hole where it entered your vein is sealed shut and healed perfectly.

No more needles. No more hospitals. Even without all the monitors beeping out your heart rate and measuring your vitals, there’s not a shred of doubt in your mind that you’re cured.

“Thank you!” you laugh, looking up at Overhaul and for the first time, not caring that he’s evil incarnate. “I feel—I’m okay! It worked!”

“Of course it did.” His expression is inscrutable, but he lets you have a few moments to enjoy your newfound health.

You roll your shoulders back, flex each muscle you can isolate one by one to test, make fists with your fingers and then run them over your hair, which is already thicker and shinier than it was a moment ago. Your body thrums with energy—you want to run, to feel the ground against your bare feet and the cold night air on your face, and you think you could do it! Your legs are already swinging over the side of your cot, ready to run barefoot out of the hospital if that’s what it takes, but before you can stand up Overhaul’s pushing you back down onto the bed.

“Have you forgotten your end of the bargain already?”

Honestly you did forget, but only for a second, only because you were so excited to just be outside again. “Oh, yeah. Of course.” Your hand goes to your left ring finger, ready to slip the ring off and hand it over, but Overhaul shakes his head.

“Not here.”

“What—?”

You’re falling. Your hospital room is disappearing, the image of your walls and your window and your bed disintegrating into yawning black, and you’re falling through it into nothing, into emptiness, and Overhaul’s still-bare hand in yours is the only anchor you have so you clutch onto it and squeeze your eyes shut. You want to scream—that’s the sane thing to do when you’re falling through miles and miles of empty space, right?—but when you open your throat the sound is swallowed up just like the light was…

Overhaul’s hand burns into yours, an improbable lifeline that you pull closer more out of terror than conscious thought. The slick, empty air rushes around you and you think I am going to die like this and then, incredibly, as soon as you’ve accepted your imminent demise, you feel your back mold onto a chilled, flat surface, vertebra by vertebra up to the back of your head, as if you’ve been lain down onto it.

Your heart thuds in your ears and you brace for an impact because your body hasn’t quite accepted yet that it’s not falling anymore—but at the same time, you know you’re lying down on something. You pry your fingers away from their vice-grip on Overhaul’s arm and feel around blindly for what’s underneath you, and when it seems reasonably tangible you let yourself open your eyes.

Way above, vaulted dozens of feet over your head, is a ceiling studded with gilt-edged frescoes and stained glass. It’s raining (even though it wasn’t in the hospital, you think) but through the massive panes of colored glass there’s enough oily blue light to make out that you’re in a church.

You’re in a church, with a demon. Isn’t that against the rules?

You sit up stiffly and look over at Overhaul, who’s standing at your side and looking down at you…which is how you realize the soft, cold surface you’ve been deposited onto is the blanket on top of the altar in the sanctuary. “Where...did you take me?”

“You should know this place.”

And you do, when you look around. It’s empty now and you’ve never been here at night, but this is a church your mother would bring you to when you were little, back before the disease got so bad you couldn’t risk traveling to it anymore. This is where you took your purity vow…the ring feels heavy on your hand. “Why—why—“

“I can’t stand human hospitals. Filthy places… How that reek of illness and death doesn’t bother your kind, I’ll never understand.” Overhaul pulls his latex glove back on. He’s dressed differently now, no longer impersonating a doctor—black shirt, black pants, and a…bird mask in red leather and gold. So are you, as a matter of fact. Instead of your hospital gown, you’re in a gauzy white dress that’s already been pushed up to pool around the tops of your thighs.

The slip is too thin for the cold, and you can feel your nipples standing up under the cloth so you fold your arms over your chest and hug yourself. “Why did you take me here?” The sound of your voice echoes off the walls eerily and you wish you hadn’t spoken so loudly. The reflection of your words sounds girlish, nervous.

“I told you. Your side of our contract.” Even in this dark, the angular features of his face are clearly concentrating—on you. “Are you already having second thoughts? Such a fickle little thing…”

“You mean the ring?” You reach for it again, ready to tear it off and throw it at him if that’s what it takes to see your deal through, but Overhaul snatches your hand away, pinning it above you.

“Not the ring,” he says. “The promise.”

The…promise?

A chill makes its way down your spine despite the heat radiating off the demon’s body and onto yours. “I don’t understand.”

“The promise,” Overhaul repeats—and you hear a sound almost like wings flapping and then he’s on the altar with you, knees straddling your hips as a single hand holds both your wrists above your head. “To remain a virgin until marriage. Your promise to God.”

A streak of lightning cracks down on the other side of the stained glass window behind the altar, illuminating the room briefly in spectacular pits of red and orange and yellow…and then it’s dark again, and the only color you can make out is the gold in Overhaul’s eyes.

“I’m going to break it,” he murmurs, lowering his head toward your ear right as the answering thunder rolls through the sanctuary, up through the altar, up into you.

///

Méfiez-vous de son piège, the grimoire said. Beware of the catch.

Of course it wasn’t just a ring.

Overhaul’s fingers are in—inside you, his middle and ring finger pumping through the length of your cunt like they belong there, like you were made to be touched this way. A mixture of your juices and your own spit cling to the latex because he made you suck his fingers before he put them in you and he hasn’t bothered to take his gloves off—not that you asked. You’ve been too busy biting your lip to try and muffle the moans that he keeps forcing out of you. He’s bracing himself on top of you with one hand and fingering you with the other, so your own hands are free to push into your eyes and hide your face…until he yanks your arm back and stops.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are screwed shut and you shake your head back and forth, the movement shuddering your whole body right down to your pussy wrapped around Overhaul’s fingers. He slows the movement and kneels back, pushing one of your thighs up into your chest as he does it.

“Look at me.”

And you’re not sure whether it’s some unearthly power he has over you or the plain old deterioration of your willpower, but you can’t refuse him. You crack your eyes open and he’s glaring down at you, skin pale as ice in the blue light. Once he’s satisfied that you’re watching, the demon leans back in to fuck your cunt with his fingers, slowly at first and then quicker when he hits something inside of you—a spot, a place on the inner wall of your pussy that makes you feel like you’ve been shocked— heat blooms through you like blood in water and you gasp and he curls his fingers up to pet over that spot again.

“Wait—wait, that’s—it feels—weird!” You’ve never felt like this before. You’re not supposed to feel like this, it’s wrong.

“I understand you’ve never touched yourself, but don’t pretend you don’t like it.” Overhaul says, voice as indifferent and calm as ever even though your cunt is dripping clear sticky liquid over the plastic of his glove.

He pushes back in and grinds his palm over the little button on the top of your pussy—your clit?—and you want to scream. “No, I—I don’t—nnhh...”

Do you like it? The demon’s body is so hot next to yours, like he’s running a fever except you’re the one going out of your mind… You’ve heard metaphors for sexual pleasure before (that it’s like having something to drink when you’re dying of thirst; or that it’s the ultimate act of intimacy, love in physical form) but all of that’s a fucking lie. There’s nothing to compare it to, no reference that makes sense, because it doesn’t make sense—you don’t even want him to keep going, do you? You’re only doing this because you signed your name on a devil’s contract, because you don’t want to die and there’s no alternative…but that doesn’t explain why you feel so warm from the inside out, why you’re squirming and your hips are rocking involuntarily no matter how much you try to keep still. This isn’t right. You feel like you’ve been lied to.

A good girl wouldn’t like this.

Overhaul isn’t going to let you close your eyes, so you don’t—but the sounds coming out of your mouth are so…indecent (and how can you think these things about yourself? the word feels like someone else is saying it when you hear it in your head) that your hand is drifting up to your mouth before you can stop yourself, trying to stifle all of it…

“Let your voice out. I want you to hear yourself moan.”

Long fingers slide their way out of your pussy and then move up to rub quick little circles around your clit and you moan, like a whore, like a girl getting her cunt rubbed by a demon— “Oh, uhhhn—something, it’s—coming—“ There’s something building up in your core—a peak, a climax, something that makes you fist your hands in the nightgown he put you in (so tight you’re surprised the thin fabric hasn’t torn) and tilt your hips up into him, begging without words because you don’t have any to express what your body is asking for…

But he doesn’t give it to you. Overhaul takes his hand away from your pussy and the shock of the cool air after his too-hot touch is almost enough to send you over that edge—almost. Not quite. And without it, you’re left shivering and quaking, thighs twitching as your baser instincts beg you to just put your hand between your legs for once and hump your fingers to completion if the demon won’t do it.

You’re not going to risk that, though. Not when Overhaul’s dragging your body closer, bunching up the blanket on the altar under your spine, so your pelvis is angled to his… He’s already shirtless and you hear him unzipping his pants but you can’t bring yourself to actually look at him, even when you feel something hard and hot nudging up against your inner thigh and then aligning to your sticky wet slit.

“This will hurt a bit, but I want you to look,” he says, and you don’t even understand at first until you make yourself feel it—his cock, pushing up against your tight cunt to finish this, this perversion of what your first time was supposed to be…

And what was it supposed to be? Roses and candles and soft kisses? A nameless, faceless husband unzipping your wedding dress and making love to you with the lights off? The way the demon touches you should be cruel in comparison but it isn’t, it’s lighting fires under your skin and turning your brains to mush, so how is your body supposed to tell the difference?

It’ll hurt, you know that, you’ve heard enough about sex to know that it always hurts the first time for girls…women. It was already a stretch to fit his fingers in your virgin pussy, so of course his cock is going to hurt. You turn your head toward the window at your side and try on look out at the rain drawing rivulets like veins over the glass, something to focus on instead of him.

“I said look,” the demon hisses, and his hips push forward a bit and you bite off a whimper of pain. “Watch me take your virginity…look at your tight little cunt swallowing me up just like it was made to.”

“N-No—“ you whine, even though it’s not like you can ignore it. “Don’t make me, don’t make me look, I can’t—“

“Then look at me.”

It’s what he wants, some kind of wicked satisfaction he gets off on, but you’re lucky enough to even get an option so you choose that one, shifting your gaze up into his face instead of the place where his cock is pressing deeper and deeper inside you. Overhaul’s eyes are half-lidded and it’s hard to tell from behind the mask but the look on his face is…pleasure? No, that would be too human. Restraint, at least. He could just thrust up into your body in one stroke, but he wants you to feel it for some reason.

Maybe because it’s a worse betrayal of your chastity if you want to get fucked.

Lucky for you, though, you can barely feel anything aside from the pain. The heat you felt building earlier is draining out of you even as Overhaul tilts deeper, layering his chest over yours. You’re almost grateful for the modest barrier the dress provides between your torso and the solid muscle of his abdomen. His cock in your pussy feels like it’s too big too deep too much and it’s the first time you’ve felt like your body wasn’t created specifically for this purpose so you hold it tight.

“Does it hurt?”

A second of clarity makes you want to snarl (of course it fucking hurts, I’m losing my virginity to a demon I summoned from hell) and you dig your fingernails into your palms to stop yourself from saying it out loud. Overhaul pulls out a fraction of an inch and then pushes back in and you feel like the breath’s being pushed out of your lungs. “Yes! Yes, it—it hurts—“

“I can make you enjoy it…for a price,” he sighs, settling into a slow rocking motion of his hips pushing into yours.

And you want to, every sore muscle in your cunt is telling you to give in and give up, give him what he wants so you can enjoy it like he says—but you’d rather hate every second of this than make another deal. You shake your head quickly and because you’re still too afraid to look away from him, you don’t miss the look of surprise that flits across his face before he tamps it down. “I don’t—I don’t want to—like it,” you gasp out between thrusts. “It’s better if—if it h-hurts…”

This time it’s obvious—his eyes really do widen, and you feel some petty triumph at having caught him off guard like this. Who’s predictable now? you think—and then he’s lifting one hand off the altar at the side of your head and tugging his glove off with his teeth, and you don’t even have time to be afraid of what he’s going to do to you because it’s too late, his bare fingers are already stroking over your mound and onto your core, massaging into the flesh of your stomach so he can feel his own cock sliding in and out of you—

and it doesn’t hurt anymore?

You only have a second to try and understand—he cured you, he healed the pain from your first time just like he healed your illness?—before he hooks his grip under your thigh and folds your legs into your chest so he can fuck into you harder than before. His cock slaps into your pussy and you can hear it, hear how wet your filthy little cunt is, smeared through with your juices. It’s sick—the sound of skin against skin, and the moaning you can’t hold back, you sound like a woman in a porno and you wish the pain would come back just so you could keep hating what he’s doing to you. “What—what did you do—“

The demon ignores you. “It feels good, doesn’t it.”

“Nn—“ It’s deeper like this…deeper and rougher and you can feel it. Now that the pain’s been reduced to the dull ache of a stretched muscle, you can feel everything—his cock sliding against that same spot in your cunt that makes you want to squeal, the friction of his body moving against your clit, all of it, everything you wanted to block out— he pumps into you and you hear your breath sobbing out a moan a second out of rhythm, the sounds of you bouncing on demon cock echoing over the walls. “Please—ah, ahhh…”

“‘Please?’ Are you begging—me, little girl?” Overhaul pushes your thigh up and drags his cock through you, excruciatingly slow, forcing you to feel the thick head slide over every gummy wall in your slick pussy.

You shake your head, mewl, try to force your hips to stop rocking back into his and grinding your clit against him. But you can’t. You’re a—you were a virgin, for fuck’s sake! Overhaul’s immortal. Probably thousands of years of experience on how to make you feel like you want this, like you’re only alive in the places he touches you… You’re at his mercy, if he has any. You never stood a chance.

“Then are you begging your god?” His body lowers directly onto yours and like you’re being controlled by puppet strings your arms fold around him and rake your fingernails uselessly into the smooth skin of his back. You can feel the vibration of his mirthless laughter through his chest. “It must hurt terribly…to know he isn’t listening.”

“Don’t—stop, please,” you sob. “Don’t say—don’t stop—please!”

“Listen to yourself, girl—“ Overhaul’s breath is faster now, but you don’t have time to question it because you feel your peak coming again, the tension rising up through your cunt and your abdomen, harsher and crueler than when his fingers were in you but you want it just as much. More. “Has he ever answered your prayers? Has he...ahh, fuck—who’s the one giving you what you need?”

“No— please, please just let me let me, please—“ You’re talking nonsense now, begging for the release—at least then it’ll be over, and you need it, you need it so badly you feel your muscles locking up, cramping, your ankles crossing each other behind Overhaul’s back.

“Good girl,” the demon breathes, and then he lifts off you so he’s kneeling upright with the two of you still connected, his thick, heavy cock still speared in your pussy, and his fingers come down again to rub at your clit. Everything’s so wet you can hear the motion of his fingers slicking themselves through your juices, sliding up and down the little button over and over and it feels so good that a tiny part of you almost wants to drag it out, to savor it, but the rest of your body is going to die, is going to go crazy if the demon doesn’t let you cum right now, right now, right now!

And he does. Praise the Lord. The pads of Overhaul’s fingers pass over your clit one last time and your head rolls back, your throat moves but you can’t even make a sound, your legs shake and you cum.

You didn’t know it was like this.

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, throbbing and pulsing and your toes literally curl (you didn’t think that was a real thing!) and your vision goes black for a moment and—oh fuck oh fuck i want this i want more how is it possible that i’ve never felt like this—you understand, more intimately than ever, why sex is wrong:

because nothing that makes you feel this good could possibly come without a cost, could it?

///

It must take longer than you thought for you to come back to your senses, because when you regain awareness of your body you’re in your hospital bed. You’re clean, too, and you wonder for a second if Overhaul bothered to clean you up? Or no…he probably just snapped his fingers and transported you back to your room. You’re not really sure how it works.

What you are sure of, however, is that you just got fucked by a demon. You’re sore in places that you didn’t know it was possible to be sore, and there are already bruises forming on the flesh of your thighs from how tight he was holding you. You don’t really have time to inspect these, though, because apparently your…ordeal (if you can call it that) isn’t over.

Overhaul’s still here.

He’s facing the hints of sunrise through the east window, dressed again in the immaculate lab coat and surgeon’s mask. “You’re awake,” he says without looking at you.

You nod hesitantly. You’re not really sure what the protocol is in this situation, but at least you’ve finally held up your side of the contract, right? And so has he. Despite having been up all night doing sinful things, you’re still itching to get out of this bed and test the limits of your healthy body. “You’re…going to leave, right?”

“Yes—”

At that, you sigh in relief and settle back into your starched bedsheets.

“But there’s one more thing you owe me.”

“Goddamnit,” you swear for the very first time in your life. After what you just did, taking the Lord’s name in vain seems like a relatively minor sin.

Overhaul’s mildly irritated expression doesn’t change, but he holds his hand out to you, palm up, the way you imagine someone would if they were helping you out of a car or requesting a dance at an old-fashioned ball. And really, you want all of this to be over—you want to get out of this hospital, you want to taste what the air outside is like, you want to distract yourself from what you just gave up in exchange for a future. At this point you’re just going to have to hope God isn’t as picky about the whole premarital sex thing as you grew up believing.

So you put your hand in Overhaul’s.

Slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid it’ll burn him, he slides your purity ring down your finger and balances it in the palm of his bare hand. It sizzles when he touches it, glowing orange until it eventually burns down into a ash-black circle in the center of his palm. Once he’s satisfied that your pretty little ring has been reduced to nothing more than a scorch mark, he closes his hand around yours and you feel something sharp, painfully hot, etching onto your finger.

It’s over in a second, but you still yelp and yank your hand away from him as soon as he lets you. “Ah—ow, what was that?”

He burned you, he literally burned you! He’s already healed it, but there’s still a thin, pale scar, an intentional one left wrapping around the skin at the base of your left ring finger. Like a wedding ring.

When you look close, you can make out a symbol on the back of your finger where the cross used to sit—and even though your conscious mind doesn’t recognize it, the sight of it rings out something inside your ribcage, deeper and truer than flesh and blood. It’s the devil’s mark, you think. It’s his.

“…A promise,” Overhaul says softly, and even though it’s a chilly morning, you can feel the heat of his hands on yours a long time after he vanishes back into the dark.

#overhaul x reader #chisaki kai x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #tw dubcon #tw sacrilege #tw christianity #overhaul #chisaki kai #bnha #mha #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero imagines #my hero academia x reader #my hero imagines #boku no hero fanfic #smut

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crimsonophelia · 3 years

Note

hello basil!!! i’m the anon that sent the original request of reader being a big dumb dumb and accidentally mailing their love letters to childe in liyue—i personally just wanted to tell you that i absolutely LOVED what you wrote and that i’m so happy and grateful you did my request justice. keep up the good work!!!

if you wouldn’t mind, could i request for a hurt/comfort angst with kaeya and a gn reader? the reader is a fellow knight of favonius that regularly gets dunked on by their friends for their crush on the cavalry captain—but every time their friends insist they confess to him, they joke that “sure, i’ll tell him when i die.” and then they actually nearly die.

while on a mission with kaeya, something terrible happens that seemingly pushes the reader to the brink of death. they’re in his arms and convinced they’re about to die, so with their “dying” breath, they tell kaeya that they’re in love with him before the world goes black.

but then they wake up. 👁 (you know the drill—what happens next is completely up to you!!!)

featuring: kaeya x gn!reader

warnings: good ol' angst, some descriptions of blood, lots of typos lol

published: may 27, 2021

form: imagine

a/n: hi anon!! i'm glad you liked that imagine www and thank you for sending me ideas again! you know how much i love angst and kaeya lol~ also please forgive me for making it so long, i tried to challenge my writing abilities a bit more.

You came into this mission knowing that it would be quite a bit more difficult than the ones you typically took on. You were merely a B-rank knight, working on your certification to reach A-rank status, which definitely was not an easy feat. Yet the open commission to investigate a newly-uncovered set of ruins in Dadaupa Gorge was requiring one more member of the dual-member expedition team. When you saw who had occupied the first position for the mission, you threw caution to the wind and signed your name for position two, despite the mission being ranked A-level, at the very least. The occupied position? Filled by none other than Kaeya Alberich, captain of the Knights of Favonius cavalry, S-rank soldier and swordsman, and your former mentor. Who also happened to be the man you had hopelessly fallen for.

The mission was assigned by the headquarters of the Knights, specifically for fully-trained Knights only, as the nature of the mission would be too dangerous for your run-of-the-mill adventurer team, and the Knights did not want to be held accountable for any potential casualties or injuries as a result of a mission gone wrong. You and Kaeya had been assigned to go investigate a newly-uncovered set of ruins in the Whispering Woods, supposedly already showing signs of being an Abyss rendezvous point. Apparently, the team of archaeologists who uncovered the ancient rocks from behind a thicket of trees had had many difficulties even making it back to the city of Mondstadt alive. You were frightened, no doubt about it, but you also knew that this was your chance. Your chance to prove yourself and your capability as a knight. Back in your training days before you took the certification exam to become a knight, you were Kaeya’s favorite pupil, a star student. Also possessing a Cryo vision, like the captain himself, certainly did not hurt your reputation in his eyes. Now, having taken on and excelled at countless dangerous B-rank missions, you felt confident in your ability to take on a mere A-rank mission, especially with the captain of the cavalry at your side.

You had almost forgotten about the icy presence at your side, lost in your own daydreams of ambition. After following the paths leading out of Mondstadt, weapons and supplies ready at hand, you and Kaeya had finally made it to the edge of the Whispering Woods. It was starting to get dark, even though the two of you had left reasonably early in the day. The woods seemed so much more vast when their shadows grew longer, waning by the last seams of daylight. Faint howling moaned through the leaves (”Wolves? In the Whispering Woods?”, you thought to yourself), and you felt yourself tremble in the slightest. You couldn’t tell if it was due to the fear or the overwhelmingly strong Cryo aura that Kaeya emitted.

The tall man seemed unaffected by the ominous surrounding, forever carrying himself with an unwavering assuredness. He looked onwards, into the woods, eyes darting back and forth, exhibiting the remarkable surveying skills of a seasoned knight.

“Well, [y/n]”, Kaeya turned to you, with that smug yet rather comforting voice of his. “Are you ready?”

Kaeya’s unshakeable confidence was rather spiriting, you had to admit. Nothing like traipsing into a wild forest, overrun with archons-know-what, with only your own wits and a cunning, distractingly handsome knight to guide you.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose”, you replied, trying to hide the rookie anxiety from trembling your voice. Damn it, you weren’t even a rookie. You were one of the more experienced knights in the entire Knights of Favonius. You could handle this. Plus, Kaeya has your back. In all the years you had known him, Kaeya had never dropped that rogue-ish grin off of his delicate countenance--he had the face of a prince, but marred with the implications of his mysterious eyepatch (he had never told you how he had lost that eye) and the pierce of his sly smile. It made him all so painfully attractive.

You hate to recall the very first day you met him, the two of you only teenagers, barely adults grown into their own skin, yet he stood at the front of the training yard like the prolific swordsman he was, tan skin gleaming beneath the summer sun, hair tied behind his neck, sinewy muscles stretching as he maneuvered the sword in his hand like it was an extension of his own being. That day, you swore that you would become like Kaeya, that you would learn all you possibly could from him. That was also the day you had fallen hopelessly for the charismatic boy, though you were not aware of it just yet.

Trudging into the forest, you made sure to clutch the weapon at your side a little tighter, wary of any potential threats that could appear in front of you at any moment. You never know how much the Abyss mages could use their magic--they are always using the spirits of Teyvat for evil. Although you had only encountered Abyss mages a small handful of times in your past B-rank missions, you already knew how perilous an interaction with any of them could be. The last time you and a partner engaged with a Pyro mage, you left the site with severe magic burns to your side, which took at least three months to fully heal. Looking at Kaeya, he appeared to be as relaxed as ever, both hands loosely tucked into his pockets, his steps led by his elegant hips. The eerie silence of the woods didn’t seem to bother him at all, a comfortable void between the both of you.

“So, captain”, you begun, doing your best to break the proverbial ice a bit, trying not to let the emptiness of the whole forest get to your head. “How have you been? It’s been a while since we last took an assignment together, I believe. 3 months already, isn’t it?”

Kaeya chuckled. “Oh, drop the formalities, [y/n].” He looked at you with his singular, unobscured eye with a teasing glance. “You’ve always known me as just Kaeya, havent you?”

Blood rushed to your face, although not entirely unwelcome, due to the chilliness of the forest. You hoped that the twilight shadows could hide your red cheeks from the man beside you.

“To answer your question, I am doing exceptionally well, thank you”, he smirked. “Although, the last time I did see you was only about a month ago, at the Windblume Ball. Not sure if you remember it all though—you were rather... intoxicated, it seemed.”

Oh, archons. You didn’t know if your face could possivly get any redder from the embarassment. The Windblume Ball was a month prior, hosted by the Knights for all citizens of Mondstadt to attend, to end the Windblume Festival with a night of wine, music, and dancing. Your group of friends within the Knights convinced you to attend along with them, though they didnt quite succeed at convincing you to finally confess your attraction to the captain of the cavalry himself. You acquiesced only on the condition that you would not have to interact with Kaeya at all that night. The anxiety was simply too much and you did not want to deal with the potential situation of seeing Kaeya in formalwear and absolutely losing your mind, let alone Kaeya seeing you dancing and drinking.

“Oh, come on, [y/n]”, your friends had whined. “If you don’t tell him now, when will you ever? He most definitely finds you attractive, as well.” Chuckling, you took a sip of the wine lrovided by the Dawn Winery. You cringed at the sourness of cheap grapes. “I’ll tell him when I’m dead.” You took another sip of the wine, but over the rim of the glass, you saw the one person you were hell-bent on avoiding.

Kaeya Alberich stood across the room, talking to one of the other knights. He was dressed to the nines, in clothing you had never seen him don before. His hair was parted neatly, his long lovelock secured by a large sapphire band. His lean, upper body was covered by a three piece suit, fitted perfectly around his narrow waist, tailcoat resting neatly by his thick, carved thighs. His pants were pressed tightly, without a wrinkle, and he had brought along his usual white fur cape, giving him the sophisticated look of a king.

In awe, you spluttered in your drink as he caught your eye from across the room, clearly noticing you were staring at him. You turned the other way, seeing that your friends were making fun of your oblivious gawking, and they now excitedly pointed behind you, mouthing the words he’s coming! You tried your best to smooth down your hair and pat down your outfit, before turning back around to see that the captain was standing in front of you, face-to-face, with his hand outstretched.

He looked even more sparklingly glamorous up close, an image of old-world elegance that you never knew him capable of portraying. You suddenly felt more drunk than any cheap wine could possibly make you. Kaeya looked at you, a gleam in his eye, and asked

“May I have this dance, [y/n]?”

The rest of the night was a blur, what with your continued consumption of alcohol, convincing yourself you needed to periodically top up your liquid courage. Kaeya had asked you for a few more dances, as far as you remembered. But from what you could recall, he was just as elegant and charismatic as you had always remembered him to be. He never made you feel out of place.

It was awful that Kaeya only seemed to remember how disgustingly drunk you were, but you were thankful at least that he didn’t seem to recall the perpetual state of flusteredness you were in that night, by his mere presence beside you, and his hands guiding yours as you both danced to the upbeat music of the band.

“Archons, I assure you that I am not the unabashed drunkard I may have seemed to be that night”, you chuckled.

Kaeya let out a hearty laugh, his voice reminding you of the sounds of the bells ringing atop the Cathedral. “Of course not, my dear”, he drawled. “I’ve met many a drunkard in my day—you are far from one; I promise.”

You and Kaeya kept on your way in this manner, making pleasant small talk to fill the silence. You didn’t dare tell him for fear of seeming a coward, but hearing his voice and reminiscing with him diminished the fright you initially felt, entering the woods and taking on this assignment. Kaeya was a master conversationalist, and diplomat too, no doubt, always knowing what to say at what time. His warm remarks and playful banter took your mind off of the imminent danger of your situation, and you didn’t notice the path you were both on narrowing. The sun had already set, and the woods were doused in an eerie darkness, and as you and Kaeya approached the vicinity of the ruins, the thickets grew denser and the tree branches hung lower. Not a sound could be heard--

Until suddenly, Kaeya stepped in front of you, blocking your path with an arm outstretched. Shit. You smelled Abyss magic. How could you have possibly missed the putrid scent of sulfur before?

Kaeya’s grin had fallen. His attention was now beyond only you, as if trying to detect something he sensed nearby. Out of nowhere, a hum grew, louder, until an earblasting pop rang out in front of you and Kaeya, and in its place were three Pyro Abyss mages. Three. You could handle one, if you had a partner with you, but three?

Terror ran down your spine, knowing how difficult your Cryo vision could be against a Pyro mage. Your hand unsheathed the sword at your side with blinding speed, just like you were trained, but before you could even take a step forward, Kaeya was already charging at the mages, ice blasting forth from his swordtip, smashing up against the mages’ shields.

“Aren’t ya glad I caught that, [y/n]?” Kaeya teased, sword cutting through the air and the force fields surrounding the mages, as their strained groans pierced the night air. His movements were swift and effortless; at times his movements were so fast that it looked like he teleported from one spot to the next. This was the grace, the beauty of a true prodigy. “If I hadn’t stopped you, we would’ve been roast boar by now!”

You jumped into action, assisting Kaeya with his assaults against the mages, doing your best to dodge the onslaught of fireballs. You felt the heat of the fire magic graze your extremities more than once, counting your blessings that it was nothing critical. The way the two of you moved in unison, one complementing the other, like an avalanche of piercing ice, was a testament to the years of experience you gained in under Kaeya’s expert tutelage. One sword piercing the left, the other the right, until you both had broken down two of the Pyro mages’ shields. You had never gotten through their force fields in such rapid succession before, you thought, in awe. Swinging your sword calculatedly, whilst utilizing your vision and shooting out ice crystals, you defeated the mage, dealing a killing blow, piercing its side with your sword. You watched the creature groan out gutturally, and eventually dissipate into ash, drifting away.

Turning around, you noticed that Kaeya had already taken care of the other mage, already breaking down the final one’s shield. He dodged each blast of Pyro magic with grace and ease, not even showing any sign of fatigue.

“Hey, good work rookie!”, Kaeya teased, activating his ultimate Cryo weapon, sending a halo of ice crystals about his body, knocking into the mage’s shield with every swing.

You huffed. “I’m not a rookie”, you called back, joining him in his siege upon the last enemy. Exhaustion was quickly catching up to you, although you tried to hide it. You couldn’t let Kaeya down.

Over and over, the pair of you banged upon the force field with your swords, with more difficulty than any of the previous mages. This one was different, somewhat stronger. The grass surrounding the two of you was already lit up in flames, licking at your ankles. If you even so much as tripped, the heat would probably damage you more than a fireball could.

“Watch out, rookie”, Kaeya yelled in your directions, trying to be heard above the cackling of the mage and the raging flames, already beginning to catch onto the trees nearby. The night was filled with a reddish glow--hellish and suffocating. “I think it’s about to activate it’s ultimate.”

The cackling grew louder, as you worked yourself into a frenzy, shooting more and more ice crystals, trying to break it’s force field. Three, dragon-like heads began to emerge around where the mage floated. Fuck. The fire-breathers were out. You had only ever fought a Pyro mage that could use fire-breathers once before--that also happened to be the instance that caused you to be an invalid for several months, healing from a deep flesh burn. But Kaeya was here this time. Things would be okay, right?

You could tell Kaeya was growing panicked as well, his swings becoming a bit more hurried and erratic. You didn’t know, but he was deathly worried about you. He had no idea how experienced you were with dodging the fire-breathers, and he knew he had to make quick work of the blasted mage before things could escalate, Archons forbid you get hurt. Kaeya activated his ultimate once more, and, finally, the mage’s shield broke.

You heaved a sigh of relief, closing in on the Pyro mage. Kaeya’s strength and incredible reliability in battle did not fail to impress you, even beyond just the prowess he had demonstrated as a trainee and a mentor. You finally activated your own ultimate, summoning a boulder made of hard ice. Approaching the mage as you saw it struggle to get up off the ground, the ice in your boulder began to form, and you willed it to hurl towards the mage, intending to finish it off. Finally, you would show Kaeya your true strength, your capability. He could depend on you. Hell, you were his star student. Even if you were afraid to tell him about how he had stolen your heart, you could at least show him that the time and effort he had dedicated to you wasn’t for naught.

The seconds slowed down, as the blinding white ice made its way through the air, aimed straight at the pathetic mage, groveling in the dirt. But beyond the ice, was something even brighter, not making its way to the mage; no, it was headed straight at you. A fireball.

You felt an excruciating pain on your left side, right below your ribcage. A scream in the distance--the mage? No; it was Kaeya’s voice. The white-hot pain blinded you, as you felt your back make contact with the hard ground beneath you. Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. Archons, what will Kaeya think?

Vaguely willing your arm to press into your side to assess the damage, you felt warm, sticky liquid pooling on your waist. Lifting a hand, you saw it drenched in crimson blood, dark in the moonlight. You heard another scream again nearby, this time coming from the guttural squeaks you knew was the mage, the dying cries of a pitiful monster. At once, a pair of arms lifted you from the ground, supporting your head. What a damned disappointment you were.

“[y/n]! [Y/N]! DAMMIT!” You had never heard Kaeya this worked up before. The pain of hearing the panic in his voice was also tinged with a selfish gladness that he cared, that Kaeya Alberich gave a damn if you died. Because, in that moment, you were certain you would die.

Straining out a chuckle, your chest racked up a wet cough, sticky blood now staining the edges of your lips. I’ll tell him when I’m dead, you once said. Well, isn’t this all quite ironic.

“Fucking hell, [y/n], I need you to keep your eyes open”, Kaeya commanded. He was using his captain voice, the one that only comes out when a new recruit wasn’t following orders. “Rookie, don’t you dare pass out on me.” His voice wavered.

Would it be worth it to tell him now? Did you want his last memory of you to be a pathetic, wishful fantasy spilling forth from your bloodstained lips, like the nonsense uttered by a mere child? Your vision spun faster, losing sight of Kaeya, hovering over you. You couldn’t make out his features too clearly in the darkness, but something about the wet drops of water landing on your cheeks told you that it wasnt more blood. You supposed that you should do yourself justice and at least keep the one promise you made that night in Mondstadt.

Straining to open your mouth, you uttered, “Kaeya, I—”

But before you could muster the strength to speak another word, your vision went dark.

*****

The first thing you heard when you woke up was the sound of birds chirping. The second was a silent snoring sound coming from somewhere to your right.

Cracking your weary eyes open, you sensed the faint light of the early morning coming in through an nearby window. Getting your bearings, you realized you had woken up in the Knights of Favonius headquarters hospital. Your damaged adventurer’s clothes were gone, and instead you could feel bandages dressed around the wound at your side. Oh, right. You thought you had died.

Trying to sit up, you fekt an excruciating pain burn through the side of your body that had been hit, setting your nerves on fire. You hissed, and the snoring beside you abruptly stopped.

“Archons, you’re awake.”

Kaeya sat up from the chair he had apparently been sleeping in, still dressed in his captain’s armor, just as dirt-covered and singed as when you last saw him. Was that only last night? You figured Kaeya must have hurried you back to the city before your condition could get any worse.

Fuck. As all your memories of the prior night came flooding back, your eyes pooled up with salty tears. Not only had you cone closest to death than you’ve ever had, you had completely disappointed Kaeya and made a fool of yourself in front of him.

“Kaeya, I’m so sorry—”, you started.

Your words were interrupted by the man next to you leaping into your embrace, arms wrapping your shoulders where you were not injured. “Dammit, [y/n]. When won’t you just shut up.” His voice was muffled by his face buried into your neck. “You don’t have to say a word.”

It scared you, seeing him vulnerable. The ever-cocky and cunning captain of the cavalry, the man who always had a plan and was never caught off-guard. Now, a man bearing his innermost emotions to you, little old you. Had he heard what you begun to tell him last night? Or were things going to return back to the way they were, you admiring his dazzling beauty from a distance, comfortable yet agonized at the degree of separation.

You hoped to the archons for the latter. You hoped that it wouldn’t take another instance where you almost lost your life for the love you felt for him to spill forth. Archons, even if you had to die, it would still all be worth it, if it were with him at your side.

Kaeya trembled as he pressed himself deeper into you, desperately clinging on. “Don’t you dare open your mouth, rookie”, he chided. “I don’t want to hear something you’ll only tell me when you’re almost gone. Please just let me do the talking.”

Pulling back, you looked at him in confusion. His hair was disheveled, eyepatch slightly askew, yet his face was full of an almost childlike wonder, akin to the gleam he possessed when you had first met him, however many years ago.

“Do you think I did it all for nothing?” Kaeya looked at you. “Do you think all those years of training together, eating together, soarring together, was all because I thought you had potential as a soldier? The private walks through Windrise, the nights spent at the tavern, the dance, that damned dance we shared—what did you think that was?” Desperate and exhausted, Kaeya’s eye began to shimmer with tears. “Fucking hell, [y/n]. I’ve always loved you. Since the very beginning, you idiot. Why else would I dedicate all my time, all my energy to you and only you?” He grasped your shoulders tighter. “If you think that I haven’t been madly in love with you since I first laid eyes upon you that day, then you’re fucking wrong.”

You cut him off, burying your hands into his hair—pain be damned—and kissed him. It was bitter and metallic, the taste of both of your blood on your tongue. Kaeya’s neck was ice cold, but his cracked lips were thick and warm, and when you pulled away from them, you suddenly felt like you could take on the world.

“Well”, you remarked. “I’m glad that we got that out of the way.”

a/n: uhuhuhu this is pretty long but i hope you like it! i wanted to improve my writing a bit and elaborate on descriptions a bit more, so i hope i did your request justice!

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin headcanons #genshin imagines #genshin impact fanfiction #genshin x reader #kaeya #kaeya headcanons #kaeya imagines #kaeya x reader #kaeya alberich #genshin impact kaeya #angst #genshin angst

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pink-jindallae · 5 years

Text

Night - NSFW

[Nathaniel/Candy] NSFW and a tiny bit hurt/comfort because I'm evil. The story happens after Nathaniel told everything to Candy in episode 11, and they sleep next to each other… But not in my world. Come on Beemove, let us fuck Nathaniel you coward. Words: 4349 Note 1: Candy is not named so you can imagined whatever name you want. Note 2: Y a-t-il des francophones intéressés par la même histoire en français Note 3: I’m writing the same story with Nath P.O.V ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) WARNING: heavily smutty. I mean, it’s basically a PWP lol

Candy P.O.V.

Nathaniel and I have spent all the evening to talk. He told me the whole story and I'm thankful he was honest. I know it was hard for him to confide such a secret to me but I couldn't bear anymore lies. He explains everything in details; what had happened, how alone he has felt, how lost he is now and more than anything; how he is willing to change for me. I could only listen, his shaking hands between mine to encourage him. The sky is already dark when Nathaniel has decided to leave. According to him, it's dangerous to stay too long in my room and I struggle to squeeze the feeling of anxiety that seizes me. Would the guys he works for come here? As if guessing my thoughts, he reassures me right away, a smile on the corner of his lips. "Relax. They don't venture into the campus." he said to me as he got up from the bed. "Then I don't understand." I reply, standing up as well to face him. "What's so dangerous?" His smile stretches, more suggestive this time, and his eyes shine with what appears to be mischief. I suddenly feel like a little mouse caught between the claws of a cat. He plays with a lock of my hair for a moment before answering. "You don't guess?" "I…" I'm interrupted by his fingers gently brushing my neck once he puts my hair behind my ear. My throat is dry; I swallow my saliva somehow and try to keep my eyes in his. "You?" he inquires with a muffled voice, taking a step forward. "… don't know." I gasp, breathless. My head is completely empty. He is so close that I can't think properly and I'm under the impression that the situation amuses him a lot. I hear him chuckle inwardly. "Really?" He leans his head near my ear and his breath ruffles my skin, making me shiver. "It's embarrassing for me if you pretend not to understand." His tone is warm and coaxing. A pleasant wave runs down my spine, from the nape of my neck to my lower back. The heat is rising in me, the temperature of the room is almost reaching an erotic degree. He is the danger. All my senses go crazy and he knows it, he plays along insolently. I refrain from chewing my lip, it would only give him too much satisfaction. Although, my eyes close unwillingly as the tip of his index moves aside the thin strap of my tank top with a tender stroke. I removed my tartan blouse earlier, only wearing a skinny piece of clothes that doesn't cover my flesh greatly… and he likes it. A lot. His lips rest on my bare shoulder, an indecent sigh escapes mine. Did I just moan like that? It's so embarrassing... Encouraged by my docility, he pecks my skin bit by bit, knotting a necklace of kisses on my collar bone while his hands quietly rest around my waist. I arch against him, already seduced, and tilt my head to the side to grant him a better access, letting myself be carried away by the sensuality of this moment. The fight is already lost. "If you say nothing I won't stop." he whispers. His breathing is hard, as if trying to control himself. He presses me to reply, but what was his question again? Did he even ask me something? His touch breaks my train of thought and I forget to answer when he goes up my throat languidly. My fingers are clutching his powerful torso. He kisses my cheeks, my nose, each of my eyelids and then my forehead. I grow impatient and bring my lips forward... Only to be met with a touch barely perceptible. I lose his warmth out of the blue. He has just stepped away. "Sorry sweetheart, time's up. I should go home now." He is smiling tenderly with no more trace of malice in his eyes. My only reaction is to blink, puzzled. Didn't he just say he wouldn't stop? What the hell is this sudden change of behavior?! He playfully ignites a desire in me then dares to move away, acting like nothing has happened! It's not fair to toy with my body. He knows it works! The worst part of all is his tinkling laugh as he sees me glare at him. "Do you think that's funny?" I pout, crossing my arms. "A little bit, yes." Here he is again playing with my hair. "Don't be mad, princess. You have no idea how much I wanted to keep going. But no answer no special cuddle. See you tomorrow." He plants quick peck on my forehead and then turns around ready to leave. Before he walks through my door, I grab his jacket to stop him. He seems surprised because I notice his pupils widen a little. "Nath, wait! I ..." "Yes?" he asks without hurrying me. My cheeks flush and I look down unable to meet his golden eyes. Why do I feel so shy? It's not like we've never done it. Okay, last time was years ago. But I'm not a newbie and I also did it with other men after him, although I must admit it's been a while. And yet, I am troubled to the very depths of my being in front of Nathaniel. "My roommate is not here tonight ..." I resume in a very small voice. Come on, I can do it. "She's away for three days and I ... well ..." My statement has captured all his attention. He quietly closes the door and spins completely to face me. He doesn't move though. On the contrary, he leans against my door with his arms firmly crossed against his chest. "So what? What do you want?" he demands now more urgently, contrasting his apparent calm. His eyes are feverish, fogged by a spark that isn't unknown to me. His breathing has quickened again. He wants me. My muteness makes him speak again: "I already told you last time but I don't mess with indecision." His tone is agitated but firm. "If it's me you want then say it frankly." Nathaniel is starting to get impatient; he tightens and loosens the grip of his hands on his biceps a few times. After a deep breath, I move unsteadily towards him and gently put my hand on his own. He uncrosses his arms without flinching and lets me entwine our fingers together while I tiptoe to steal a kiss. He refuses to move an inch since I still haven't said anything. I feel him stiffen under my other palm that strokes his arm and lingers on his chest. His annoying cloak keeps me from enjoying the feeling of his muscles, so I hasten to slide it over his shoulders. Stubbornly not batting an eye, he observes me without rejecting me as the garment falls heavily to our feet. "You still haven't answered me." he murmurs with a short breath. I shush him by putting a finger on his mouth and caress tenderly the scar on his lip. His body is tight as a drum when I kiss his jaw. A plaintive growl scrapes his throat that lets out my name just after I reach his neck. Our roles have switched and I'm the one who dominate this. I'm so thrilled. If Nathaniel wants to play with my senses and leave me cowardly the next moment, I'm going to beat him at his own game. He won't touch me until I say so. I notice an incandescent glow in his golden eyes when I detach myself from him, mingled with an unmistakable disappointment. With a mischievous smile, I grab his necklace, guide him to my bed, and push him; he compliantly falls on the mattress, straightening himself on his elbows as I straddle him. He's smirking, the flame that I have lit in his eyes shines even more intensely. "As usual you prefer being in charge. That didn't change." My cheeks flush in spite of me at the evocation of this memory. I remember us years ago in my teenage bedroom, in the same position after I had removed his top. I had even dared to say I wanted him. He seems pleased by my reaction because his smile widens. He must have guessed what I was thinking about, but I won't allow him to perturb me. I gently pull on his necklace to reduce the distance between our faces. We're so close that his breath tenderly caresses my cheeks. "You speak too much." I seal our lips again and he responds with a lot of eagerness, not insensible to my little game. Our tongues intertwine, tease each other. "And you not enough." he adds, panting between two kisses. Nathaniel lies down more comfortably without separating our lips. With an adventurous impulse, my hands sneak under his shirt to feel his powerful body, tracing the path of his hard abs that contract under my fingers. His heart is pulsing at full speed in his ribcage. I take off his top impatiently, wanting to touch him better. I greedily eye him, not bothering to hide my lust. Damn ... Boxing has carved him a dream body that can drives the holiest nun crazy. His chest lifts at the rate of his irregular breathing, his cheeks are rosy due to our sensual session. This beautiful vision makes me unconsciously bite my lip. I plunge my head into his neck, tasting his skin with more audacity and assurance. I touch, lick and nip all that is now accessible to me. Nathaniel begins to go out of his mind, his hands glued on my side force me to interrupt the lascivious wave of my hips against his. "Let me touch you..." he begs me in a groaning voice. His gaze is imploring and moist. My lover is on the brink of explosion but his request fades in the silence of my room. I remove his hands in no time and blocks them on both sides of his blonde head. "No." My tongue travels lower and lower. Only the sound of my mouth tasting him and his heavy breathing resonate through the place. His belly flinches a little more under the fire of my kisses. I undid the button of his jeans in a rush to free him from the prison of his pants. Excited by my daring initiative, Nathaniel raises his hips up and I pull all his clothes off in one go. Not an ounce of shame streaks his bright eyes. His hard cock stands proudly in front of me, offered to my only desire. I stare him a bit longer to tattoo his feature in my mind. Am I dreaming? It wouldn't be the first time. My fantasy seems so real. He is so beautiful, even more than I remember. This aphrodisiac vision of Nath naked under me sends powerful electric shock in the bottom of my stomach, my femininity wildly craving to be filled right now. But I haven't satisfied all my desires yet ... I grab his callous member and Nathaniel freezes. The slow back and forth motion I impose drags several erotic vocalizes out of his throat. His whole being vibrates to the rhythm of my fingers and his pelvis begins to move at the same tempo. "Fuck…" he swears. His fingers are firmly gripping the sheets. In all honesty, I have to admit that his self-control is impressive. I strive to make him mad but he obediently follows my order not to move. How long will it last? The idea of toying with him further crosses my mind. Too bad, I don't have time to put my plan into action. Before I can understand what's happening to me, I find myself laying under him. My wrists are trapped over my head by one of his hands whereas the other one holds my leg to his side. His body deliciously towers over me while his hungry lips are devouring mine with passion. He presses his hardened member against my vibrating center still dressed and a groan escapes me, swallowed by the ferocity of his mouth. Stuck on the bed, I try to release myself from his grip. I so much need to take off my clothes, to feel my bare skin against his. This fabric barrier is so frustrating! However, Nathaniel doesn't give in. His hand tracing imaginary figures on my thigh now goes up my belly in order to grab my tank top and he uses it to tie my wrists. "What are you…" "It's your turn not to move." His eyes say everything: he wants revenge. Without warning, his thumb strokes my naked nipple indecently erected, dragging out a sob of pleasure from me. Needless to say he appreciates my lack of bra. "I see you didn't wear anything under your top." I try to answer but my words die immediately under his mouth on my chest. He languidly sucks my nipple imprisoned between his lip and tongue. He nibbles and I flinch, then he licks as if to ask for forgiveness. I can't do anything except give myself to him and be suppler in his arms. Lost in an ocean of bliss, I hardly notice that he is undressing me. "When one is so beautiful, it's a crime to wear clothes. And it's a bit unfair to be the only naked, don't you think?" I jumped as his fingers slip between my wet folds. Without an ounce of embarrassment, my hips roll to meet him, eager to get a delirious friction. Nathaniel responds to my desire immediately and I utter an acute cry. He lifts his head from my bust - now covered of hickey - and looks at me proudly, his hand still busy at making me insane. Nath… Oh Nath!" I moaned indecently. "Nath please!" I'm not even ashamed to beg him. "You're suddenly very talkative." he laughs sweetly. "You want something?" He finds an evil entertainment in teasing me. My hands are still struggling to free themselves, unfortunately in vain. Whenever I try to say something, he changes the pressure on my clit and makes me unable to structure any coherent word. "So?" His voice seems amused. "I… Ah! I want … Hmmm!" "Yes?" he presses me, softly biting my neck. I'm going to have lovebites there too… "Y-you… I… Aaaah. N-need. Insi- Ah!" Nathaniel pretends to muse on it. "It's not what I wanted to hear." He lazily applies himself to massage the entrance of my vagina without entering it. I need so much to feel him in me. He put me in a real ordeal even though he knows very well what I want. "I say it earlier, didn't I?" he continues in a smooth voice. "No response no special cuddle." "Nath please…" I let out a sob halfway between ecstasy and torment. Watching me so desperate by my inability to articulate any sentences, he stops his torture for a moment and lets me come back to my sense. Catching my breath is difficult. After a few minutes, I eventually manage to express myself. "Take me... Now." "Your wish is my command, princess." I exhale a sigh of relief when he doesn't pray to fulfill my request. His fingers are wasting no time and sink inside me, starting a lascivious movement. Nathaniel skillfully alternates a slow and fast pace, a gentle and strong pressure. I vaguely hear him speak, not understanding what he's saying. I'm too absorbed by the pleasure he is giving me. My eyelids are closed and my body is arched to better accommodate him. However, that's still not what I want. I want him plunged deep inside me. "Nathaniel not your fingers…" I think I heard him laughing softly. "As you want." Except, he doesn't stop fingering me yet. He continues his game whereas his mouth begins a burning path on my skin, starting by the lobe of my ear. Then he goes down and down again. He goes through my throat, between my breasts, then past my belly button ... He spreads my thighs without effort and he swaps his fingers with tongue. I jerk by reflex but he keeps me firmly against the sheets while he laps me like a thirsty man. The pleasure becomes more and more pressing, more and more intense. Almost unbearable. The climax rises in me until the sensation strikes me on the spot, taking me away in a maelstrom of bliss. Oh god. I've just screamed louder my orgasm… People in the dorms may have heard me. For the time being, it doesn't bother me. I just feel so good that I'm not able to care about it. How could I be concerned when Nathaniel is looking at me in such a loving way? His thumb is prolonging a bit more my pleasure while he leaves a tender peck on each of my cheeks. He then brushes my hair gently for as long as I calm down and catch up my breath. After a while, I finally feel my hands being freed and I hasten to plunge them into his golden hair. My lips beg for a kiss that he offers me without resistance. It's tender and sensual, full of love. My hands rub the bare skin of his neck and in an instant, he gets passionate again. All of sudden I realize that his member is still hard against me and I feel bad about it. I want to give him the same pleasure he has offered me… He gets off me though, preventing me to do anything and I soon feel very cold. I miss his warmth already. I sit up, watching him searching for something in the pocket of his pants. "Nathaniel…?" A few seconds later, he pulls out a condom then comes back to me. He gently lays me against the bed and sits between my legs once the protection is put on. And although I can read lust in his eyes, he doesn't penetrate me yet. His gaze is veiled with doubts that squeeze my heart. "Tell me you want to make love with me." he pleads. We've just spent a lot of time into foreplay, so I thought our intentions were clear. Why does he hesitate that much? And why does he look like he's about to cry? Worried, I cup his face between my hands. "What's wrong?" I ask softly. His expression is full of apprehension. I can see his mind ponders. Even so, he just sighs, maybe not knowing how to phrase his emotions. He closes his eyes and lets himself sink into my palms as if to feel them better. "I don't want you to regret being with me." His voice is so weak that it's almost inaudible. He sounds so unsure, so afraid that it hurts. Filled by a tenderness almost maternal, I shower his face with adoring kisses. "Nathaniel… Of course I don't regret anything." "Then please… Say it for me. I… I need to hear it from you." A whiff of love overwhelms me. More than permission, he has been waiting for the proof of my feelings since the beginning. It took me a while to understand that he wasn't just talking about sleeping with me. He doesn't just ask for sex either. He wants to make love. "I want you. Please make love to me." To seal my consent, I place a chaste kiss on his lips. He smiles, grateful and touched. I guide him and finally, he enters me. Inch by inch, he fills the boiling void of my throbbing core and I hum with delight. To feel him better, I tie my legs around his waist whereas he shoves himself deeper. Fully inside, Nath stops and nuzzles my neck. "Love you." he whispers fondly. "I love you too…" A sensual ballet between us follows after. He takes me with a desperate sweetness. The cold metal of his chain necklace grazes my breasts with every single move. Our lips seek and find each other again, our tongues dancing at the same beat as our bodies as his right hand interlaces with mine. Gradually, a new climax is ascending. My hips undulate, prompting him to accelerate, but his pace remains unaltered. I utter a cry of pleasure after a powerful thrust. Nathaniel growls when I dig my nails into his back. His forehead sticks to mine and our twitchy breathing mixes together. "Nath faster." I wail but my supplication has fallen on deaf ears. He keeps going on languidly, only the pressure of his pelvis is changing, softness and strength succeeding one after another. Unlike earlier, the peak is rising in an aching slow pace… I feel it so close and yet so far away. How can something be so good and so painful at the same time? "Nathaniel… I… I need…" My voice is sobbing, nearly weeping. "I know." Yet he is stubbornly denying me. I'm on the edge of release. A little more. Just a little more and I'll sink into madness. Given his obstinacy, I decide to take matters into my hands and try to switch our positions. Maybe if I ride him, I'll be able to impose the pace I desire, the one need right now. However, he doesn't flinch, keeping me under him. Out of options, I start to touch myself. If he doesn't give it to me, I'll do it myself. There, I'm closer… I'm almost reaching it. Against all odds, he doesn't stop me, he even stands on one hand to make it easier for me. He grabs one of my legs, places it on his shoulder and I arch my body to give him a better show. "You're so beautiful…" he breaths. More and more impatient, Nathaniel's cadence begins to break, growing jerkier. He moves my fingers away, switching with his, presses and rolls his index on my swelling bud. And slowly, very slowly, all the nerves of my body are melting in spasm. "Oh Nath…. Yes…" My muscles surrender as I navigate through the wave of pleasure. It's strong and it lasts deliciously. How long, I don't know. And I'm still lost in bliss when I realize that Nathaniel is not far away from his release. He's frowning, eyes closed and sexily focused now on his own pleasure. So handsome. Then he stops and convulses, cumming inside me. The hoarse groan he delivers is so alluring. I want to grave this moment in my memory forever. He needs several seconds before regaining his composure. I can't help a hum when he pulls himself out. He lies down beside me after throwing the used condom into the trash, taking me into his arms immediately. I let myself go against him without a word, too tired anyway. I struggle to stay awake and Nathaniel's fingers drawing circle on my lower back doesn't help either. "I don't want to sleep yet…" I say, yawning anyway. "Why? Do you want a second round?" "The idea is appealing but I'm too tired." "Such a wimp." he jokes and I gently smack his torso. He laughs softly and I can't help joining him. Once we calm down, the silence is enveloping us again. I nuzzle my head near his soothing heart. To be honest, I'm afraid I might be dreaming. I'm scared he'll disappear once I close my eyes and I'll wake up in an empty bed the next morning. I don't think my heart will survive if he leaves me alone… As if reading my mind, Nathaniel reassures me, fondling my hair. "I'm not going anywhere, love." That pet name makes me smile. It's the one I love the most, the one he used when we were still in high school. He stoles me one last kiss and I peacefully end up falling asleep in his arms. -- "You sound in a good mood today." Rosa points out. "Oh… really?" My eyes are everywhere except on her. Jeez, am I really like an open book? After the whole network blackout and the thing between Alexy and Rosalya resolved, she and I went to the park. Girl talk. I know she is still in pain and I wanted to make her think about something else. Seems it works a bit too well. "Yes. You cannot stop smiling." She giggles. "Did you spend a good night?" "H-huh? Uh, I slept very well…" Of course, she doesn't believe me. Do I have a sign around my neck saying otherwise? She is still grieving and it will take time for her heart to heal but I'm glad she can at least laugh with me. "Come on! You shine with an aura of sex." I jump at her raw words. How can someone have an aura of sex?! "You'd better tell me a-b-s-o-l-u-t-e-l-y everything in details." I can't dodge. I suddenly feel my cellphone vibrate in my pocket. I've just received a message. - I miss you Nathaniel. My smile has widened because I hear Rosa making some joking comments. He has sent another message meanwhile. - We can go to my flat tonight. Blanche missed you too, she would love to be petted That's not very subtle Honey. It's cute… I want to tease him a little. - Isn't it you who want to be petted instead? - Can't deny I hope to get as much attention as her, or more ;) I pinch my lips so that my smile doesn't stretch more. My cheeks kinda hurts a bit. I tap on the keys of my phone quickly. - Already needy? We just left each other this morning - Say the girl who threw herself on me last night I'm sure I'm blushing right now. Well, he isn't innocent either. After all, he was the one who initiate a make out session. I only answer: - Okay I'll come but only for Blanche. See you tonight ♥

#mcl nathaniel #my candy love #amour sucre #mclul #my candy love university life #amour sucre campus life #corazon de melon #nathaniel x candy #smut #hurt/comfort

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v-the-adventurer · 6 years

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January (Graceland Angst Fic)

Okay so this is my first time posting any of my own writing on tumblr? I’ve been lurking for years, you guys, years, so I figured it was finally time to contribute. That said, be kind lol. This one isn’t strictly a sickfic, but it does feature some casual emeto so if that’s not your thing, don’t read. Trigger warning for suicide.

Mike slowly drifted into consciousness, waking like every other morning during his placement at Graceland. The orange glow of the rising sun filtered in through the windows and the soft light was gentle as the young agent blinked awake. He let his eyelids fall closed as he stretched his languid body, feeling comfortable and warm beneath the comforter of his now-familiar bed.

Five months had passed since the bureau had sent him out to California, but it had taken a long time for Mike to feel comfortable out west. Between his new job and roommates, the unfamiliar climate, and the lifestyle change that accompanied moving cross country, the agent had had a lot to adapt to. Even the actual house had been difficult to get used to. It was filled to the brim with decor, but it felt like a showroom. Everything was just impersonal enough to remind him that the people in this house were replaceable. It wasn’t--and never would be--a real home.

But nevertheless, Mike had persevered. The culture shock had eventually worn off and he was finally starting to find his footing. He’d warmed up to his housemates, however impossible it had initially seemed. It had started with conversations over breakfast but as the time passed it progressed to nights out at The Drop and excursions to the beach. Things with his roommates were good right now, and Mike wanted more than anything for it to stay that way.

While his life at the house had gotten significantly easier, the same could not be said for his cases. The work he was doing was incredibly draining and he found himself struggling to stay out of the moral grey areas. Countless times he had stepped over the line for a case, but it was easy for him to justify his own actions. He did it to keep evil off the streets, to save people from the world of drugs, to prevent violence. No matter how he did it, he could always comfort himself with the fact that the bad would outweigh the good. Learning to sell your lies was an art, but lately it felt like he was buying too many of his own.

As the agent woke more fully, he reached for his phone to turn off his alarms. He’d woken before they sounded, for some reason, but he paid it little mind as he unlocked the screen. He flicked through his notifications lazily, messages from friends on the east coast who’d already been up for a few hours. There was one from his dad, which was rare. They had a strained relationship in the best of times, which wasn’t exactly conducive to random texts. Mike furrowed his brows as he read the message.

It’s a tough day, stay strong.

At first he was confused. Had the text been meant for someone else? Mike swiped through to the calendar app on his phone, hoping to find a clue there, but as the date flashed across his screen it hit him like a truck. The abrupt realization stole his breath and the sudden nausea he felt had him leaping from bed and running to the bathroom. He retched until he was empty, left gasping for breath over the rim of the toilet.

Today, it had been one year since the day his little sister committed suicide.

The nausea quickly gave way to guilt, and the sudden weight in Mike’s shoulders had him anchored to the spot. He couldn’t breathe past the growing lump in his throat, but Mike knew the pain in his chest was from more than a lack of air. He felt as though all of the wind had been knocked out of him. He was crying, he noticed, as a tear slid down to his chin. How could he have forgotten the worst day of his life?

When the agent was finally able to pull himself up from the tile floor, he only managed to stagger back to his bed. He was exhausted by the short walk, and there was not a chance in hell that he would be going downstairs anytime soon. He was too emotionally drained to see anyone, led alone eat. Depression had crept in like a filthy snake and moving felt like an impossible task. He spent the better part of the morning laying in bed, taking advantage of the fact that the rest of the world was still asleep. He sipped at the cup of water he’d brought with him from the bathroom, but nothing could wash the taste of bile and blood from his mouth.

He needed a distraction, he realized, but music from his headphones could do nothing to console him. The tears steadily flowed as he listened to the quiet chords of songs he had never heard, and as he sank into the sheets he couldn’t help but feel sorry for himself. On the east coast today, his family would all be together, mourning together. They would be looking out for each other, watching movies and playing board games to pass the time. But here, in his too-big bed in an empty house, Mike was all alone with his grief.

Except, not really. He knew it was raising a red flag with his roommates that he had yet to come out of his room. They’d likely be concerned, but the last thing he needed was for them to find out. He’d seen “the look” too many times to count in the months since his sister passed, the odd mix of horror, pity, and discomfort that played across the faces of those who heard. It was always followed by a stiff, “I’m sorry for your loss”, and damn if that didn’t make Mike want to punch someone in the face.

The funeral had been one of the hardest days of his life. He’d nearly chosen not to go, unable to find a purpose in it. It wouldn’t bring her back; nothing would. But when he saw the scared, confused eyes of his four year old nephew, the heartbreaking sadness that Mike felt was more compelling than anything he’d experienced in his entire life. So with his nephew resting on his hip, Mike went to the ceremony.

They said he would feel a sense of closure, but as Mike watched them bury her, all he could feel was empty.

He wanted to get drunk, he realized. Impossibly and immeasurably wasted. Maybe the numbing haze of the alcohol would stop the void in his chest from growing. It felt like there was a hole in his lungs, but he hoped beyond hoped that the alcohol would act as a patch. In his biggest show of strength for the day, Mike rose from the bed and slipped into a pair of joggers and a white tee. His muscles ached and he felt vaguely nauseous, but he walked downstairs anyways. He got into the kitchen slowly, mentally preparing himself for the barrage of questions he was sure to receive.

“Where’ve you been, sleepyhead?” Paige teased from the stove, ruffling Mike’s hair as he passed. Mike didn’t really respond beyond a half hearted shrug, moving forward towards his singular focus--booze.

“Mike?” Charlie prompted from across the island. “You in there?” She said it around a laugh, but at his lack of response her teasing morphed into worry. Her concern ticked up another notch as Mike lifted the bottle of gin from their alcohol cabinet and took a large swig.

“Dude, it’s like two o’clock. Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?” Johnny asked after a moment. Mike realized they were all staring at him.

“Not on the east coast,” he mumbled sharply as he retreated from the kitchen with his prize. He felt like a ghost in his own body as he sailed up the stairs, flying under the covers like a robot. The next swig of gin burned all the way down, bringing tears to his eyes. He coughed lightly as the liquid settled in his stomach. His phone buzzed again, a call from his mother, but he let it ring through to voicemail. A shiver ran through him as the events from just one year ago surfaced again in his mind.

He remembered the sound of her voice, the way they’d hugged the last time he left the house. The way that she’d called out to him that she’d see him later, and how she waved at him as he drove away. He also remembered his mother’s screams, the way her face contorted as she sobbed. He remembered the way he’d knelt with her in a pool of bloody water, frozen stiff as the liquid flowed into the next room and stained the carpet. He remembers burning his clothes the next day, and how even after a week’s worth of showers he still hadn’t felt clean. He remembered her lifeless face, now imprinted into the back of his eyelids.

Mike remembered every little detail about that day. How he’d thrown up on the lawn outside the house the moment his sister was taken away, how he’d listened to the zipper of the body bag as it concealed her face for the last time. He remembered shivering in his coat in the biting January wind. He remembered holding his mother until his father arrived. He remembers standing there by himself for hours, not able to bring himself to go back into the house. Neighbors had suffocated them with casserole and gardenias for the next few weeks, but almost as soon as she was in the ground, Ashlyn Marie Warren was forgotten by the world.

As Mike took the last swig from the bottle and rose from the bed, he felt a familiar numbness creep into his limbs. Maybe it was the inebriation but all of a sudden he was ready to face his housemates. He stumbled his way downstairs, depositing the empty bottle into the sink.

“Mike?” Paul called out, stepping into the kitchen from the living room. “You okay?”

And of course Mike opens his mouth to say yes, but then he vomits instead. The gin burns worse on its way back up, and Mike is sure now that he shouldn’t have had an entire fifth on an empty stomach. Paul lunged for a bucket as Mike retched again, catching the sick before it could land on the floor with the rest of Mike’s stomach. Paul’s hand is on his shoulder once he’s done, guiding him around the puke to sit at one of the barstools. Miraculously, none of the vomit had landed on his clothes, but there was still a fair amount on the floor to be cleaned up.

Paul handed Mike a damp rag with which to wipe his face, and then placed a glass of water in front of him. “Drink slowly, kid,” Paul instructed before he called out for Charlie to come down.

Charlie paused when she entered the kitchen, taking in the puddle of sick and her wrecked roommate. Mike was the newest to the house, but still, it had been five months and he’d never done anything like this. The kid was as straight-laced as they came, but what he’d just done made him seem more like an out of control alcoholic than a federal agent.

“I’m sorry,” Mike choked out as he wilted in his chair, a few tears slipping from his eyes, and that was all it took for Charlie to rush into the room. She took a seat next to the rookie, brushing the fallen hairs from his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers as he gives in and cries. Charlie pulls him into a hug, shooting Paul a confused glance, but the other man knows nothing more than she does. When Mike eventually quiets, Charlie and Paul know they have a limited window to figure this out before Mike closes up back into himself again.

“Mike,” Paul starts, “what’s going on? This isn’t like you.” When Mike hesitates to respond, he adds, “You’re scaring us.” Charlie’s hands find their way into Mike’s hair while he chokes on an answer, and he shudders under her touch. Silent tears are still leaking down his cheeks, but the agent doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on staring at the floor.

Quiet settles over the kitchen like a thick morning fog. Mike is fidgeting with his hands, pulling on each individual finger while he struggles to find a way to explain himself. The way that Charlie plays with his hair is incredibly distracting to his drunken mind, and he kind of drifts off. He’s instantly brought back down to earth by a rough palm on his cheek, prompting him to look up into the eyes of his mentor.

“Kid,” Paul starts, a resigned concern lacing his voice, “You’ve gotta let us in. Is it Bello? Did something happen?” After a moment’s hesitation, “Is it Eddie?”

And all of a sudden Mike’s vomiting again. Just the mention of his name brings back another unwanted and painful memory, another death he has on his own hands. He remembers standing there on the pavement as red pooled from the fresh bullet wound in the Nigerian’s skull, the thick metallic scent of blood and gunfire hanging lowly in the air. He gags on the reminder, wincing as Charlie and Paul stumble back.

Embarrassment colors Mike’s cheeks when he sits back up, and he grimaces at the new pool of sick on the kitchen floor. But Charlie just shushes him as tears run down his cheeks again, and he turns to lean his head into her shoulder. Paul places a protective hand on his rookie’s back as the tears turn to sobs, feeling out of his depth for about the millionth time since Mike stepped into the kitchen.

“M’sorry,” Mike mumbles after a long moment. “For everything.” He’s slurring and his tongue feels like it’s too big for his mouth, but he goes on. “I just didn’t know what else to do. I just couldn’t, couldn’t feel anymore.”

Charlie wraps him in a tight hug as he breathes in shuddering gasps, fighting for control of his emotions. “What is it, baby? What happened?”

“I just miss my sister,” he chokes out around a sob, and his throat sounds like it’s been cut with glass. “Hate being an only child.”

And there it is, the piece of the puzzle that Charlie and Paul have been missing. This isn’t just some random act of rebellion or retaliation. It’s grief. It’s anger and pain and mourning and Mike just couldn’t deal with it. Charlie tenses for a moment as the reality of the situation sets in, but she shakes off the surprise as quickly as it came. Paul just steps back and grabs a seat at the barstool adjacent to Mike’s and rests a hand on his rookie’s neck. This moment is just another reminder that they really don’t know that much about each other, that they’re all strangers masquerading as friends, as family. Paul sighs deeply. How did they miss this?

They hold Mike for what feels like forever, until the tears finally taper off into nothing more than sniffles. Mike peels himself slowly from their embrace and rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, feeling only a little trace of the buzz he had earlier that afternoon. He’s exhausted, and his hands shake as he moves to stand up.

“I’ll clean this up” he murmurs, grimacing at the soreness of his throat and the leftover taste of bile in his mouth.

“No, Mikey, we’ll get this,” Charlie promises, pushing him to sit back down. “But we need to talk about what happened today first.” Mike’s shoulders sagged, but he eventually relaxed back onto the barstool.

“You need to tell us what’s going on with you, Mike,” Paul starts. “We take care of each other here, but when we don’t know what you need it makes it really hard to be there for you. And I’m sorry that we didn’t check up on you earlier, because we should have known something was up as soon as you came downstairs today, and that’s on us. But you’ve gotta help us out, kid. This, all of this, only works if we’re honest with each other.”

Mike nods slowly, not meeting either of their gazes. He’s not sure he’s ready to talk about it, but Paul’s right. So after a steadying breath, Mike starts.

“I lost my sister a year ago today, to suicide.” Mike grimaces as he feels the hands resting on his back tense, but he presses forward. “She had been going through a really hard time, and none of us did anything. I didn’t do anything. I thought it was just typical teenage angst, or some bullshit like that. But it wasn’t. And I will pay for that mistake every single day for the rest of my life.”

Charlie sucks in a long breath and lets it out slowly, pulling Mike into as tight a hug as she’s ever given, hoping to be able to offer any kind of comfort to the distraught agent. “Mike, this wasn’t your fault. And I know that you don’t believe that and that you might not ever believe it, but this was a choice that she made in a time when she could have reached out to someone and asked for help. You can’t take that weight on your shoulders, because you didn’t make that decision for her, okay?” She tilts his chin up to look directly in his eyes. “Look at me Mike, this is important. None of this was your fault, okay?”

After a short breath of hesitation, Mike lets out a soft, but firm “okay.”

“And you need to come to us when you need help, kid,” Paul takes over, “so we can deal with whatever it is together. That’s why we’re all here, because there are some things we can’t handle alone, and that extends beyond our cases. We’re here for you, for each other, so please, just talk to us when you need something. We’ll always be here.”

This time when Mike nods, he’s wiping tears from his eyes and he’s more than willing to melt into the waiting arms of his housemates. They stand there like that for an immeasurable amount of time, and Mike honestly couldn’t tell if it’s been minutes or if it’s been hours, but Paul and Charlie never waver in their embrace. It felt good to have someone to lean on.

“Alright, why don’t you head up to bed, kid?” Paul suggests once they finally pull back. Mike nods slowly, fighting a yawn, and stands from the barstool. As he stretches out his tense muscles, Charlie presents him with a water bottle and a bottle of advil.

“Drink a little water tonight, the advil is for tomorrow morning.” Mike lets out a little laugh at that, grimacing at the thought of how sick he’s going to feel.

“Thanks, Char. And,” He pauses as he turns from the kitchen, “thanks for everything you guys.” He wears a small smile as he pads up the steps, reassured that he’s not near as alone as he thought, and that there are people here who will take care of him.

#first fic #sickfic #kind of #graceland #angst #emeto #tw #suicide #graceland tv #mike warren #fanfic #fanfiction #god this is literally one million tags #no one will read this

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rosierthot-blog · 6 years

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Three Days

November 2nd, 1981. During the Waxing Moon.

A/N: Major Remus angst I guess lmao. Featuring some fun unrequited love and betrayal moods, just what the doctor ordered :^)

Just something I wrote for practice... I’ve kind of let myself go creative writing-wise so I thought I’d try to go back to my roots: misery lol

A warm green light filled the small living room as green flames leapt up to devour the hunched figure of Albus Dumbledore. As quickly as the green warmth came it was gone and dusk once again draped itself around the hunched figure of Remus J. Lupin.

Remus had collapsed into an armchair, his face in his hands, his nails digging into his temple. He was filled with… The werewolf closed his eyes, his eyelids burning. Something was gnawing its way through his throat muscles, his chest constricted.

Sirius Black. Padfoot. It doesn’t add up, a voice in the back of his head said. The voice felt far away from him. It doesn’t add up.

A shard of ice slipped down his spine. Remus got up, his mouth dry and his hands shaking. Lily and James and Sirius and Peter. Vertigo took hold of him, causing his eyes to swim and his stomach to lurch. It was all he could do to rush over to the kitchen faucet, his knuckles growing white as he clutched the counter top---his stomach emptying itself into the brushed steel sink.

Staring down at the mess in the sink, his jumbled thoughts lurched into focus. James and Lily were dead. And today, Sirius had been found their betrayor. As good as their murderer.

Robotically, Remus stretched out his hand---turning on the faucet to at least make an attempt at cleaning the sick. The drain will clog, the little voice nagged in his ear.

The truth made his skin crawl and his throat constrict painfully. His best friends. Two murdered---no, three murdered: Peter was gone too. Peter, who had always found himself left in the dust of the brotherly bond between James and Sirius. Peter---so unlike Remus---had been unable to adapt, unable to establish himself and find his place in the pack. The beast inside Remus reared its head: He was never one of them, he lacked the character and adaptability. Immediately, Remus regretted the ugly thought. After all it was Peter Pettigrew and not Remus John Lupin who’d gone and lost his life confronting the traitor.

Sirius. With a pang, Remus pictured a younger Sirius--it must have been their seventh year, before they’d left for the Christmas holidays. “I’ll miss you Remus,” Sirius was wearing that expression of his that always left one weak in the knees, “Don’t be afraid to write---if you forget about me, I’ll hex you when we get back.” He’d leant in close to look Remus in the eyes---an unnerving habit of his, that always caused Remus’ mind to go blank and the werewolf’s heart to leap into his throat. Those sharp grey eyes had a way of making you feel like the floor had given way beneath you.

Remus fist went to the place just over his heart and gripped the shabby nightshirt he was wearing. There was a tightness in his chest, his breathing became ragged and painful. All these years, Sirius Black had been his greatest friend.

Theirs was a different friendship from that of Sirius and James. Sirius and James were all hard slaps on the back, competition---sharp edges and fierce laughter. He and Sirius had been incessant teasing, lingering eye contact, and hugs that had maybe lasted a few seconds too long. Sirius and James were blood brothers, yes, but Sirius had grown closer to Remus. Perhaps it was because Sirius was more able to be vulnerable with him--ironically enough, as Sirius pointed out himself one library session in the autumn of sixth year, he had a sense of security with the werewolf, one he’d never found with anyone else before. Remus still remembered the way his ears had burn and his heart leapt when Sirius had confessed this to him. Sirius had always had a way of making you feel special. When Sirius spoke, Remus would find himself lost in his deep voice, his cadence lazy with a gravely rough-around-the-edges feel. He had a way of speaking that made you feel like you were the only person in the world to him, the only person that mattered. Sirius had a way of making people feel special. Back then, Remus had bitterly concluded that this was the quality that made him so popular with women. Well, one of the many qualities at least.

It was really in fifth year that Remus began to second guess his relationship with Sirius. It was then, that he realized that James’ eyes never caused his heart to perform summersaults in his chest, Peter’s voice never made his fingers tingle, none of his friends caused his head to spin and his heart to sore--none of them except for Sirius. Perhaps, it was this realization that caused Remus to pull away from the dark haired boy. He could still Sirius’ younger face, grey eyes just as piercing and filled with something incomprehensible: “Why’ve you been avoiding me Moony? What’s your problem…” Sirius had later said that that year, Moony had been like sand running through his hands. Remus’ heart had clenched when he’d said this, though he chastised himself for it. Fifth year had been the year he’d both discovered and accepted his feelings for Sirius were beyond platonic. But it was also the year that he’d resigned himself to the brutal reality: his was an unrequited love. He felt content knowing that his heart belong to his handsome best friend and although he did feel the usual twinge of jealousy whenever Sirius gushed about one of his conquests or whenever he walked in on Sirius and yet another red-faced Gryffindor girl, he was content to be by Sirius’ side. He’d reasoned that he didn’t need much more than Sirius’ friendship and his continued trust.

Remus’ heart and throat both constricted painfully, and he forcefully wrenched himself back to reality. No. He shook his head, stumbling backwards until he connected painfully with the kitchen wall. His legs went weak, he found himself on the floor. That never really was Sirius. He’d been wrong, he’d misjudged. Sirius had played him. He’d played everyone.

Taking his head in his hands, Remus dug at his scared, prematurely aged face. He’d noticed Sirius pulling away from him these past few months. He’d noticed the deepening gulf between them, the way Sirius would go quiet whenever he entered the room. He’d noticed that those rare times Sirius had actually spoken to him it wasn’t like it had been then. Then had been words laced with cinnamon and warmth beyond description. Now, it’d been hard, distrusting.

It had been Remus’ turn to panic, to frustrate, to feel like Sirius was pulling away from just out of his reach, fading into the background. He’d never understood why--Well, he admitted to himself, perhaps I did have some sort of theory. Perhaps Sirius had grown to mistrust him for what he was, an evil, dark beast. Perhaps Sirius had grown weary. Perhaps Sirius believed that he’d be the one to give up Lily and James---and it was then that pained disbelief gave way to pure, unadulterated fury. Moony wanted to break, to break until his insides became unbroken. He felt the wolf inside him rage against his ribcage.

With a new found strength, Remus was on his feet and his fist was through the wall. Fuck Sirius Black. Curse him all the way to hell. Liar, player, disgusting and revolting bastard--he’d played them all, and he’d played Remus most of all. He’d never felt anger like this before, it was intoxicating yet oddly replenishing. He took a step back from the wall, shaking his now bruised fist. His knuckles bleeding. You’ll regret that tomorrow, the voice nagged in his ear.

Why hadn’t Sirius confided in him? Why had he pulled away?

Guilt washed over him: he should have been with Peter. He should have been by Wormtail’s side, ready to duel the traitor. Peter wasn’t stupid, but he’d never been a gifted dueler. If only he’d come see him beforehand… Then for the umpteenth time since the waxing moon had begun, Remus Lupin cursed his horrid condition. It had cost him his childhood, his youth… and now potentially the life of one or all three of the people he loved most in the world. He’d been weak, everyone had seen it. The new moon marked the beginning of his fatigue, in reality he was always exhausted but the closer he got to the full moon the older and greyer and shabbier he became. He hated his lycanthropy, but most of all he hated that even when he wasn’t transformed it still weighed on him. The wolf inside him constantly hungered, draining him at all stages of the moon both physical and mentally.

It doesn’t add up, the voice echoed in his head.

And that’s when the tears came and his heart broken. He hated Sirius. He hated Sirius for ruining the part of himself he treasured the most--his love for Sirius had always made him feel more human, more redeemable. And now, now there was nothing left. His continued love for Sirius now made him feel dirty, guilty. He wanted to break, to destroy everything Padfoot was--but deeper down, he knew that if he saw Sirius again, he would not be able to. But most of all, he hated Sirius for allowing Voldemort to take away James and Lily. For murdering Wormtail. For orphaning James and Lily’s young son. He hated Sirius for tearing a hole in his and so many other’s lives. He hated Sirius for taking away his pack, for forcing him back into isolation and loneliness. At 21, he felt the way he had after his sixth birthday, a full year after Fenrir Greyback’s cruelty had altered the course of his life forever.

But most of all, he hated Sirius for proving him wrong. He hated him for tainting those memories Remus held the closest to his heart.

#wolfstar #remus john lupin #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #james potter #lily potter #albus dumbledore #peter pettigrew #first wizarding war #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #hp fanfic #first fanfiction basically lmao #my writing

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maidservant-hecubus · 7 years

Text

Sweet Thing (alternate version)

Evil Rick Sanchez/Fem Reader - Explicit like woah.

**this is the same story as the other version but without the Daddy Kink. Edited for one of the lovely Sanchez Babes who LOVES Evil but not the kink <3. I haven't had a spare moment to write anything new, hopefully back in the swing of it tomorrow.)**

Anon Asked: Can I get a fic where reader is snarky and disobedient on purpose? There's not enough fics like that with daddy rick lol preferably evil rick, i love the way you wrote him in that other fic!

Apparently some of you twisted kittens LIKE my Evil Rick. Well… he's very disappointed in you. Anon is going to get themselves killed one day…

CONTENT WARNING: Just holy shit. Don’t. I’m SORRY! Fucking yikes, Blood, Violence, I’d say BDSM but NONE OF THIS IS SAFE OR SANE, Reader with a death wish, PiV, tears, lots of tears, MeNtAl InStAbiLiTy, serious stockholm shit.

________

“You’re trying my patience, girl" Evil Rick stood in the threshold of his lab, arms crossed against his chest, his lips twisted down in what was so far mild annoyance.

He had broken you in enough that he didn't feel the need to lock your cell when he wasn't using you. With all the hard work you had done to earn that trust you weren't quite sure what you had been thinking when you snuck out that night. Though you had a feeling every day spent here with Him saw your sanity slip just a little further away.

And so you found yourself sitting on the cold metal slab of his exam table in nothing but one of his lab coats, legs swinging as you met his annoyed glare with a manic grin.

His frown deepened, “Why. are. you. here?” he enunciated each word as if he was talking to a child. Shit. You fucking hated him. You loved him. You needed him.

“You told me to tell you when I needed something, sir,” you purred as you leaned forward, the lab coat parting to expose your bare breasts.

Rick huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Oh for fucks-- what do you need then, girl?”

This was it, do or quite literally die.

“I want,” you bit your lower lip in a way you hoped looked seductive, “Please, I want you.” the last came out as a breathy, desperate whine.

“And what gives you the right to ask for me, little slut.” he snarled, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“I could go back to taking care of myself" you hissed as you pulled back the coat sleeve and thrust out your scarred forearm. Fear, anger, and sheer fucking want overriding any sense of self preservation, “I can take your punishments if you catch me, old man. You saw to that,” you spat, “You made me like this so fucking use me.”

All it took was three strides of his long legs and he was on you. His hand caught your jaw in a crushing grip as he forced your mouth open with his thumb.

“Give me one - one good reason why I shouldn’t cut that smart fucking tongue out of your mouth right fucking now.” Rick snarled and gave your head a sharp jerk for emphasis. You didn’t flinch, that had been quickly trained out of you. You just stared up at him, eyes wide, and darted your tongue out to lick the pad of his thumb.

Snarling, he jerked his hand away and backhanded you across your face splitting your lower lip, “Is this what you fucking want?” he spat, “Don’t I hurt you enough, girl?”

Reeling from the slap you stared back up at him as you sucked your lower lip into you mouth to taste the fresh wound. Thanks to his excruciatingly diligent work on you, the sweet metallic taste of your own blood had you instantly rubbing your thighs together as wet heat pooled between them. Your lips curled up in a wild grin, stretching the wound on your lip even further, red drops falling to stain the crisp, white lab coat you wore. Maybe, oh god, maybe you would end up with a scar to match his. You groaned at the thought.

Ricks eyes darkened at the sight of your blood dripping down your chin. He reached out and swiped the rivulet from your skin. His scarred lip twisted up in delight as he pressed his bloodied thumb to your mouth and you wrapped your lips around it, sucking his digit into your mouth, moaning as you tasted yourself on his skin.

“You are mine aren’t you, kitten?” he purred, finally realizing what you had known for weeks now. He slid his thumb from your mouth, trailing blood and saliva down your chin.

You nodded, dazed and eager. “Yes, sir.” you breathed.

His hand pulled away and he struck like a snake, back handing you again across the other cheek. Your grin didn’t falter until he grabbed you by the throat, fingers pressed hard over your pulse, “If i made you, kitten, then you’d best - you need to fucking remember that I am your fucking God, and I will decide when and how you are unmade.” his grip on you tightened and your vision started to blur around the edges. He gave your head a violent shake, “Do you understand, girl?”

You nodded as best you could with his hand crushing your throat. You had always understood and now he did too.

Rick’s hand didn’t let up and dark spots began to swim in your vision. His smile widened to show teeth as your mouth gasped futily for air. You were floating, you felt your body begin to go slack. Christ, you thought you might come just from his hand around your neck…

With a barked laugh he released you and air flooded back into your lungs and you fell forward against his chest. “C-crazy little slut.” he chuckled, almost making it sound like a term of endearment. He stroked a hand up the back of your neck and you shivered, fearing a gentle touch from him more than any pain he could deliver. His fingers tangled in your hair, fisting it by the roots as he jerked your head backwards to look up at him. “Now tell me kitten, what do you need from your God?”

You whined and griped the lapels of his lab coat as he forced you to look up at him. “Pleeease fuck me, sir.” you begged, “Fuck me, hurt me. Oh God- please, claim me, kill me, make me yours.”

“You’re a fucking greedy little thing, aren't you?” Rick sneered as he slid his other hand under the lab coat you were wearing to tease a nipple with his calloused fingers, “Asking for so much more than you deserve.” he caught your nipple between his thumb and index finger and twisted.

“Ahhh!” you yelped. He yanked your hair harder. For a moment he came into sharp focus and you caught his eyes, radiating a self awareness he thought he had cut out of you. “Don't I deserve It? I've been so good for you, sir.” your voice was rough and determined. “I give you everything you want. Where is mine?” you bared your teeth at him in a parody of a grin.

His face went blank then. No rage or disgust. Just empty as he stared through you as if you had vanished before him. Fuck.

You opened your mouth to apologize or beg or scream you didn't even know. Rick dragged you to your feet by your hair and flipped you around and threw you back across the table. The edge of the metal slab rammed into your stomach winding you. He grabbed the collar of the lab coat you had stolen and ripped it backwards, wrenching your shoulders back painfully as he striped you.

You had enough reason left to know better than to struggle when he was like this. He leaned over you, his groin pressed against your ass, digging an elbow into your spine to hold you down while the other hand reached down to undo his belt and slipped it from the loops. He shifted slightly and you felt the warm, stiff leather wrap around your throat and the clink of the buckle as he made it a choke collar around your neck.

“Is this what you fucking wanted girl?” he snarled in your ear as he yanked the belt, cutting off your air. You heard the zip of his fly and felt the press of his cock against your entrance. “Will this please you, slut?” He thrust his hips forward, forcing you open as he rammed into you, rough and unforgiving.

You wailed in satisfaction and pain as he pulled out and thrust back in.

“Is this what you fucking needed?” He snapped his hips against you. Splitting you in half as he fucked you with every ounce of mad fury he contained. You were bent backwards by the throat as far as your spine would allow, tears were streaming down your face and your vision blurred as your air rapidly ran out.

He released the belt and you gasped for breath. He grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back so you were flush with his chest as he continued his violent rutting.

“Fucking- Fuck.” he hissed in your ear, “Do you like this, when- when I lose all fucking control?” You could only answer him with hiccoughing sobs as you prayed for the pain to forget itself and turn to pleasure.

“I do everything for you girl, and you still want more, don't you?”

“P-pleeeeassee…” you begged, sobbed, as your body shook around him. Every muscle in you pulsing and grabbing for him, wanting more and more, even as he filled you to bursting.

He hooked two fingers in your mouth and wrenched your head back to lick the tears pouring down your face. “Find pleasure in this where you can girl, because I’m taking mine and I don't give a good fuck about yours.”

And you did. You screamed as you came undone at his selfish words. The sharp edge of the table bruising your hips. The pain of him abusing your cunt. You shook and thrashed as he fucked you back open, through your pleasure and back into pain again.

His rhythm faltered as he gripped you by the hair again, exposing your neck to him. You sobbed as you felt his teeth sink into your neck, felt your skin parting for him, bleeding for him as he emptied himself into you, burying the roar of his orgasm in your flesh.

He pulled out of you as if any further contact would poison him and released his grip on your hair. You crumpled to the floor in a broken sobbing heap at his feet.

“If you ever-” he spat, panting as he ran a hand through his hair, “You ever try that shit again and I'll slit your fucking throat.”

#rick and morty #rick sanchez #evil rick #evil rick sanchez #Evil/reader #Evil Rick/reader #ALT VERSION OF FIC #fanfic #fan fiction #my writing #Read the fucking CW

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