#he only exists to obey and nothing more... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

unadulteratedsoulsweets · 18 days ago

Text

A DC X DP IDEA #46

Monks?

Imagine dis…

I don’t know if im late to the trend or what, but recently a feed came and it featured Batman’s ridiculous set of skills and when asked he always answered the Tibetan monks.

Like come on, I would understand if the sorcerer supreme taught you how to astral projection and the mental barrier against I don’t know against a species that have evolved telepathy,

But this isn't Marvel.

…..

The Tibetan monks, an enigmatic, unknowable, and allegedly not real, were the whispered origin of some of Batman’s more peculiar skills. Astral projection. Mental shielding. The ability to remain entirely unreadable even to a Martian. When asked how he learned such things, Batman only offered a cryptic, “I trained with the Tibetan monks.” He never elaborated.

That was all it took to spark a minor obsession in his children and allies alike. If the monks could turn him into Batman, surely they were worth finding. And so they searched from combining every high-tech gadget, satellite scan, magical locator, and favor they could think of. Damian even tried to guilt-trip his father using a technique called “puppy dog eyes” courtesy from Dick. Nothing worked. Every lead crumbled like dust. The monks, if they ever existed, were impossible to trace.

The truth? The monks didn’t exist.

There had only ever been one monk.

And he was not a monk at all.

Years before the cowl, before Gotham knew the name Batman, Bruce had limped and escaped out of the League of Assassins with more bruises than bones and a fresh set of enemies. Refusing Ra’s al Ghul and his daughter had not gone over well. He’d wandered half-dead into the snowy wilds of the Himalayas, not sure where he was going, only that it needed to be far, far away.

Then darkness. Cold. Silence. A silhouette. And unconsciousness.

When Bruce woke, he was alive, bandaged, and lying on a bed of hay that smelled suspiciously like goat. A fire crackled nearby. His host was tall, silver-haired almost white, and moved like a shadow in silk robes. He claimed to be a monk. He never gave a name. He also radiated the kind of energy that made even Bruce’s paranoia sit up and go, “Hmm. That’s not normal.”

Bruce watched him from the sidelines. The man sparred with the air itself, performing forms Bruce had never seen before effortless, fluid, almost theatrical in how they ignored gravity. Despite claiming to seek peace, he kicked boulders in half during his morning stretches. Bruce knew what a formidable warrior looked like. This guy wasn’t just good. He was absurdly good.

Eventually, Bruce asked to be trained.

The monk agreed but with a devilish smirk that should have warned him.

It started with traditional exercises. Then came... less traditional ones. One day Bruce was balancing upside down on one finger. The next, he was chasing wild goats through the mountains with a blindfold on. There was a week he still refuses to talk about, involving fermented yak milk and interpretive dance. No explanation was ever given. Just a barked command, followed by a smirk, and Bruce reluctantly obeying because despite everything he was learning.

And the monk? He never moved when Bruce attacked. Not once. Bruce would lunge, strike, ambush, even beg the man to just flinch, and every time, the monk would remain motionless. The result was always the same with Bruce face-down in snow or mud, groaning, while the monk calmly re-wrapped his bandages and offered nothing but that smirk. That infuriating, soul-crushing smirk.

Name?

Bruce had asked and rasped, wheezing after yet another humiliating fall.

The monk merely chuckled and replied.

When you land a hit.

Bruce did not land a hit. Not that week. Not that month. Not ever.

And eventually, it was time to go. Bruce bowed, still never having won, still never knowing the monk’s name and returned to Gotham.

He never forgot the man.

….

What Bruce didn’t know was that his “monk” had a name, Dan.

Or, more accurately, Dan Fenton. Known in his own dimension for blowing up timelines, developing catastrophic anger issues, and eventually retiring from ghostly overlordship after a few centuries of introspection and really intense therapy. He took a page from Ellie and become a traveler, He’d been vacationing across dimensions, mostly avoiding interdimensional politics and his own mess of a reputation as well to avoid his younger self of a king when he stumbled on Bruce half-dead in the snow.

On a whim, maybe redemption, maybe boredom, maybe the sheer novelty of it, maybe his younger self and clone had finally rubbed of him, he saved him. And since he had time to kill, not that he would ever hurt Clockwork, he trained him.

Using ghost powers very subtle about it, just enough to freak Bruce out and maintain the illusion that he was a living, breathing über-warrior with mystical vibes and killer reflexes. The smirking was mostly for fun. The cryptic one-liners? Also fun. No wonder Clocky liked to say weird shit to his younger self.

What Dan didn’t expect was to actually like the guy. Sure, Bruce was intense, broody, and had the emotional range of a brick, but watching him faceplant into snow every morning had been surprisingly somewhat therapeutic. There was something calming about teaching someone who didn’t know who he was, who didn’t flinch at his name, or whisper “Phantom” like it was a curse. It helped Dan heal too, in his own weird way.

Years passed. Dimensions that he traveled and went. Dan forgot about it.

Then he remembered.

He missed his “student.”

He remembered Bruce mumbling something about Gotham in his sleep, something about a cave and a promise and since Dan had nothing better to do, well other than to laugh at his younger self for winning and taking the crown of the Infinite Realms, he decided to pay a visit.

On foot. Across dimensions. Because why not?

….

Meanwhile, in Gotham…

Bruce was panicking.

A letter had arrived. Just a simple, handwritten note. No return address. No explanation. But the handwriting sent a shiver down his spine.

I’ll be visiting soon. Hope you’ve gotten better.

Bruce dropped his coffee.

His children thought it was a threat. Jason offered to shoot whoever it was. Tim tried to trace the paper’s origin with four different forensic tools. Cass read the note and signed something to the others about posture and unresolved duty. Damian called it a threat that someone could rattle his father with one sentence.

But Bruce knew.

He was coming.

His old teacher.

The man who once made him wear a llama costume for a full week to “teach humility.”

He was coming to Gotham.

Bruce wasn’t sure whether to install extra security or book out every gym in the city to train. He hadn’t stopped pacing in two hours. Alfred found him shadowboxing in the Batcave while muttering things like, “I’ve got better reaction time now,” and “Surely… surely I can land one hit.”

Across the city, chaos was brewing, but not because of the letter.

Gotham’s entire vigilante network, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, Batgirl, even Signal were neck-deep in the investigation of the Joker’s sudden, mysterious death. Dead, now struggle no physical or chemical cause somehow. No evidence.

No struggle.

Just… gone. The only lead was a single blurry silhouette from a rooftop security cam. The figure was massive, hooded, and moved with a kind of fluid, terrifying grace none of them had ever seen before.

Nobody recognized him.

And Bruce hadn’t said a word, too busy to train or join Alfred in cleaning the manor.

While the rest of the Batfam poured over footage, mapped potential escape routes, and debated theories, Batman was notably absent, still in the Cave, still pacing, still trying to steady his breathing every time he glanced at the letter.

Because Bruce knew who it was. And for once in his life, Batman was torn between abject dread… and the tiniest, most humiliating spark of hope.

Maybe this time, I’ll land a hit.

Maybe I’ll finally learn his name.

Maybe I’ll even win.

…Or maybe he’d end up face-first in an alleyway again while his teacher laughed and handed him his own blend of yak milk smoothie.

Either way, Gotham was not ready.

And neither was Bruce.

…...

PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this, you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me, though.

PPS: I felt like posting a bit early. How was it?

#dc x dp #dc x dp prompt #danny phantom #dp #danny fenton #ghost king danny #dan

293 notes · View notes

luv-lock · 5 months ago

Text

⸻ ʙ ʀ ᴏ ᴋ ᴇ ɴ ⸻

Pairing: Yandere Anakin Skywalker x Fem Reader

Headcanon: What if his darling die?

Notes: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

When you die, Anakin doesn’t simply lose you—he loses himself. The moment your life slips away, the galaxy itself seems to go silent, as if mourning alongside him. Everything he fought for, everything he dreamed of, collapses into ash. You were his light in the darkness, his anchor, and now, with you gone, there is nothing left but chaos.

Your death is something Anakin refuses to accept at first. His hands shake as he cradles your lifeless body, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he whispers your name over and over, as though the sound alone could bring you back.

“No,” he murmurs, his voice breaking as he presses his forehead to yours. “This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Wake up. Please, wake up!”

When the truth sets in, it’s like a physical blow. A scream tears from his throat—a raw, animalistic sound that echoes through the air. It’s a sound born of pure anguish, a howl that could shatter stars.

Anakin doesn’t let go of your body for hours—perhaps days. He refuses to leave you, refusing to let the reality of your absence settle in. He strokes your hair, brushes his lips against your forehead, and whispers promises he knows you can’t hear.

“I’ll fix this,” he vows, his voice trembling with desperation. “I’ll find a way. You’re not gone. You can’t be gone.”

His mind immediately turns to the Force, to the possibility of reversing death itself. He becomes consumed by the idea of bringing you back, no matter what it costs him. Memories of Palpatine’s whispers, of the Sith’s promises of power over life and death, resurface in his mind like a venomous snake.

Without you, the darkness within Anakin flourishes. He doesn’t care about right or wrong anymore—he only cares about you. The galaxy could burn to ashes, and he wouldn’t bat an eye if it meant holding you in his arms again.

He delves into forbidden knowledge, seeking answers that others fear to even contemplate. He becomes obsessed, pouring over ancient Sith holocrons, experimenting with powers that twist the Force into something unnatural. He’s willing to sacrifice anything—anyone—to bring you back. His moral compass shatters entirely, and those who stand in his way are met with unrelenting fury.

“Don’t lecture me about the Force,” he snarls at anyone who dares to question him. “If the Force won’t save her, then I’ll tear it apart and make it obey me.”

Anakin isolates himself completely. He pushes away everyone who once cared for him—Obi-Wan, Padmé, Ahsoka—because they don’t understand. They can’t understand. They call him insane, accuse him of losing his way, but he doesn’t care. To him, they’re all hypocrites who speak of compassion yet refuse to help him bring back the person who mattered most.

His obsession with you consumes every waking moment. He surrounds himself with reminders of you—your favorite things, holos of your smile, even the scent of your perfume lingering on your clothes. He talks to these remnants as if you’re still there, as if you’ll answer him any second now.

“I’m doing this for you,” he whispers into the void, his fingers brushing over a holo of you. “I’ll make it right. I’ll make you proud.”

If Anakin’s attempts to bring you back ultimately fail, he becomes a broken shell of himself. His once vibrant blue eyes grow dull, and every ounce of warmth and humanity he had left is snuffed out.

Your death becomes his defining moment—the catalyst that fully pushes him into the abyss. His grief morphs into rage, directed at the galaxy, the Force, and even himself. He blames everyone and everything for your loss, but deep down, he blames himself most of all.

He becomes more machine than man, emotionally and spiritually. The Anakin Skywalker you loved ceases to exist, replaced by a figure of cold, unyielding wrath. The only thing that keeps him moving is the memory of you—a haunting, bittersweet echo that never leaves his mind.

If, by some dark miracle, Anakin succeeds in bringing you back, it doesn’t end the way he imagines. Perhaps you return incomplete—your memories fragmented, your soul scarred. Or perhaps you fear him, seeing the monster he’s become in his efforts to defy nature itself.

Even then, he refuses to let you go. He clings to you, no matter what, convinced that this twisted reunion is better than losing you forever. “I did this for us,” he says, his voice trembling with both pride and desperation. “You’re back where you belong—where I need you.”

But even with you by his side, the shadow of what he did to bring you back hangs over him. It’s a hollow victory, one that will never truly heal the wound your death left behind.

Anakin is a man defined by love, and your death strips him of that love in the cruelest way imaginable. Whether it leads him to madness, darkness, or destruction, one thing is certain: he will never be the same. Your absence leaves a void so deep that not even the Force can fill it.

In the end, Anakin’s obsession with you becomes both his greatest strength and his ultimate downfall—a tragic testament to the love he couldn’t bear to lose.

𝒍𝒖𝒗-𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌 ☆ 𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒑𝒚, 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒆𝒃𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔.

817 notes · View notes

eowynstwin · 7 months ago

Text

Lilies

Price x f!Reader. - Dom/sub dynamics. whipping. vivisection as a metaphor for love. boot riding. throat-fucking. angst. aftercare. 18+ MDNI. Ao3

The bedroom is dim when you enter, lights turned low. Price watches you stop in your tracks at the unexpected darkness; watches you look around and catch sight of him.

He’s in the chair in the corner of the room. Hasn’t been waiting long—expected you to arrive, in fact, around this very moment. Your schedule and all of its minute quirks, tiny variations you might insert out of hunger, or boredom, or fixation on some new hobby, play out like clockwork in the back of his mind, no matter when or where he is.

A mnemonic. More accurately, a memorare. Entreaty to some higher power, as if to remind Death that he has someone far more important to get home to.

You take him in. His ankle is propped up on the opposite knee, glass of scotch hanging carelessly from his fingers, crystalline bottom brushing the carpeted floor. Your eyes focus on the orange-red cherry of his cigar—

—you startle a little when you meet his gaze.

He doesn’t blame you. His pulse beats heavy through his veins. Every breath he takes is slow and controlled, miasmic as it leaves his lungs. He feels less a man and more a vessel for something seething and wrathful, smog rolling in and in again on itself, eddying when it hits the boundaries keeping it contained.

Noxious. Fetid.

The glow of his cigar probably reflects in his eyes.

Borderline pyrolic.

You look at the coiled whip resting ophidian and black over his thigh. His free hand rests along it, thumbnail toying with the braided leather.

“Not a word,” he says evenly. His voice leaves him like it’s coated in sandpaper, debriding the column of his esophagus.

Your gaze snaps back up to his. Holds it.

Searching, maybe.

Your lips do not part. Instead, you wait.

The next breath he takes comes and goes a little easier—but only just.

“Strip,” he says, “and cuff yourself to your post.”

On a better night—a kinder one—he would’ve asked if you needed more directions. Checked in first, even, or warned you ahead of time of his intentions. This thing that exists between the two of you was cultivated in the open, fertilized with his own candor as he told you what he wanted, needed, like turning over a rock to see what squirmed beneath it. It grew as you trellised it together and discovered, through trial and error, what you needed to survive it.

Reward incentives. Good reason to give a damn about what he tells you to do.

But tonight is not a kind one. Venom pumps through his veins—caustic. Acrid. Hissing and spitting in his chest, already drawn back and ready to strike.

Maybe you can tell, as you stand there, watching him. Maybe you don’t feel like protesting. Or, just maybe, you need this, too, need it in the way you’ve begged him for in the past when the present moment felt ephemeral and unreal—because you obey.

You toe out of your heels. Pull your shirt over your head, your skirt down your legs. It’s an outfit he’s expressed appreciation for in the past; the wide drape of the collar exposing your clavicles, the long seams down your hips that buckle as your thighs hold the fabric taut.

You fold everything like a good girl and set them aside on the bed, and then remove your bra and panties—nude silk, no lace, sensible and comfortable and paid for with his card—to place them atop the pile.

Price isn’t in a mood to care why you acquiesce. All that matters to him is that you walk to your nightstand and remove the padded cuffs from the drawer, then to the bedpost on your side of the bed. You remove the endcap hiding the loop of steed embedded into the wood, fasten yourself with a padlock only he has the key to—

And then you kneel, naked, on the carpeted floor.

Giving him your bare back, the dim light sinking shadows into the notches of your spine.

Price says nothing. He doesn’t have a kind word anywhere in his alveoli. There usually aren’t any, when he first comes home, nor could a single one get past the bars of his vocal cords if it tried. This has grown too nacreous, too hypergranulated in his mantle, and it demands excision. He taps the ash from his cigar and sips at his scotch, the dregs burning a line hot and corrosive down his throat.

He sets the glass aside. Rises.

Brandishes the whip once with a sharp snap.

You flinch; your skin is filmy and thin in the gloaming. Horripilation lifts the follicles along your bare arms; the scant light of the bedroom catches your hair standing on end.

He watches a slow tremble work its way to your suspended fingers. Your back expands as you take a deep breath in, and contracts as you exhale, shadows the width of his fingers pooling into and draining away from the valleys between your extruded ribs.

You pull in another deep breath, one, two, three, four, five, and let it go at the same meter. Calming the anticipation the way he taught you.

He draws his arm back, lunges, and the whip cracks against your bare back.

You gasp sharply and go rigid in shock. Price watches the pain spread outward from the lash into your limbs. Bleeding down into the fibers of your muscles; sinking through osseous matter into your marrow like dye takes to cloth. You shift on your knees, a shiver snaking its way up your back.

It’s always cataclysmic, that first bite of pain. Every nerve ending suddenly alive and on high alert. Charged up. Inadvertently destining the next strike to fall even harder by sensory comparison.

Then, the welt appears, rising in reply to the scourge. A clean, sharp return stroke, an echo of the braided leather just beginning its reverberation.

Something cleaves in Price’s chest. Some tight membrane splits open, seeping felsic, hot and black, dripping steadily into his bloodstream. Effusive. Not a dam breaking, but a fissure in the stone.

Your breathing quickens—

And then he whips you again, harder, laying the stroke right next to the first. You cry out when it lands, but he leaves no time for you to prepare for the third, drawing, lunging, and lashing again at unspoiled skin.

You shake in your bonds. He whips you again, laying another diagonally from shoulder to hip as fog blooms across his vision. You wail like breaking glass, china falling from the cabinet, cut crystal flowering in pieces on hardwood floor.

The same tenor he hears when he has you on your back, cock burrowed in your cunt and bullying the plug of your cervix.

Too much, too hard, but your nails dig into his arse and you cry even harder when he lets up.

He whips you again. Welts lift across the known topography of your back—intersecting every angle of your shoulder blades, orogenies shifting and transforming the landscape into something new.

Only passing familiar with the dips and curves he often walks the tips of his fingers across.

Again. The planes of your back tighten, as if solidity will lessen the impact of the lash. Again, right across the tight line of your shoulders—you shriek, thrashing, hands fisting as you pull and swing futilely in the cuffs.

Geography added to. New land raised like it was beckoned by the hand of God. Hot and magamatic on the inside, too delicate to touch without collapsing in on itself.

Again. He snaps the whip, shaping the parabola with the jerk of his arm, shaping the line of a hill like a child’s drawing, then brings it down, sharply, cutting the fall across the meat of your hip. A hillside he often dwarfs with the ugly size of his hands.

Price envies the whip sometimes for its privilege. He’s never been able to lay hands on you directly for its purpose; not easily, at least. The flat of his palms have known the meat of your arse, have made ample flesh ripple like tossing stones across water, but he can’t employ them for much else without turning his own stomach.

He can pull your hair, wrap your throat in his grasp, shackle your wrists or the slopes of your hips in an iron grip, dig his fingers into your thighs and stomach like trying to tunnel through wedges of clay. Often afterwards he’s transfixed by the marks he leaves behind—dotted bruises aligned with the arc and spread of his fingers, or blotchy oblongs fitted to the heel of his hand.

Indelible evidence that Price Was Here.

He’ll try to match the grip that left them, his touch as light and gentle as a dove’s wing; a paintbrush without pigment, remembering the strokes it left behind. Synapses in his brain firing colors to match, claiming them for himself.

He put them there. That makes them his. That makes you his.

But striking you barehanded is beyond even his limits. No matter that you’d allow it. Have allowed it—

He whips you again. Draw. Lunge. Crack. You jolt against the bedpost, throw your head back, buck your entire body to work the pain through it.

One scene, similar to this, tephra building up in his craw and threatening to catalyze if he didn’t find some hurried way to exorcise it.

Some mission gone bad; some idiot disobeying his orders. People dying who didn’t need to.

He’d slapped you across the face, after forcing you to your knees with his fist in your hair—sent you tumbling to the floor. The next thing that had occurred to him had been to swing his foot back—

And the bile had risen so quickly up his throat that he’d frozen. He’d stared at you, on the floor. Lying there, sprawled and waiting. Fear in your eyes—but you weren’t moving.

His collapse after had been swift. He’d fallen to his knees and crawled to you, gathered you up like a stuffed toy and buried his mouth in your hair and hadn’t let you go for nearly three hours. Price can count on one hand how many times he’s cried in his adult life, and this had added one more to the tally.

It’s one thing to send his fury along through leather or wood or crop, and quite another to deliver it to you like you actually deserve it.

So, the whip.

You moan as the next stroke hits. Something long and stretched-out. Caramelized—molasses subducting the bite of the fall, sucrose splitting in the phreatic churn of draw, lunge, lash.

He pauses briefly to look you over. Claw-mark weals, like he’s been dragging his blunt nails down your back, hatch the skin paralleling your spine. Your heels press divots into the bare cheeks of your arse; you squirm in his gaze, drawing them together as you tighten your thighs.

There’s a moment when pain transforms. When heat fills the empty spaces between moving, frantic particles and melds in around them. Capturing them in place.

The calcaneus of one foot finds its way between your folds as you shift; your whole body twitches from it, and you lift your hips a little. There’s an obscene squelch as you settle down again, slick dribbling down your heel into the arch.

Price lunges. The whip cracks. You low like a trapped animal, grinding, and the pitch of your voice swoops upward when he lays another lash right on top of the previous.

Dangerous. Taunting something welling up to the surface, testing what it can take before it breaks. Price knows better.

Knows better, but the roil and hiss in his gut yawns wider with every lash, trembling as a fed appetite is only whetted. Horrible feedback loop—the cry of your voice, he often thinks, is the only thing that could possibly satisfy him, but when he gets it, Price can’t be satisfied.

A taste demands mouthful. A meal demands a banquet. When he hears you wail, he wonders how many different ways he can make you do it, how many octaves are there, hidden away, for him to tease out of you.

He knows everything about you. Everything. He knows every dip and curve of your body, every jutting bone, every creaky joint, every fold and roll and wrinkle. Sometimes he thinks he's got individual hair follicles memorized.

With the whip, or the scourge, or any other tool, the reward for his greed is ephemeral. The known plains present themselves as blank canvas, and for a while, after his work is wrought, there’s something new for him to fixate on. New patterns to trace his fingers along.

Sometimes he thinks he wants to cut you open, just to see what more of you he’s been missing.

Stomach. Lungs. Intestines. Arterial pathways leading to your soft, beating heart. All he wants, he thinks, is to see them. Say hello to them. Run his tongue along their membranes, caress each tiny capillary webbing them together with the lightest brush of his teeth, if only just to organize his experience of them into the archives of you that he keeps locked behind his ribs.

More of you. He always wants more of you.

He lunges again. The whip sings in the air, and the cracker bites again into your flesh. You undulate like rippling water, breath coming out in erratic stops and starts, and then you give a full body yank against your cuffs—

This time, he’s broken skin.

You curl in on yourself, suddenly going still. Your thighs tighten; your scapulae rise, shoulders touching the lobes of your ears.

As you’re if holding onto something that will escape; balancing, on an unsteady surface, something fragile. Delicate as spun glass.

It isn’t deep. A pearl of crimson wells up in the trough, collapsing when the mass betrays the surface tension. It trails a thin, straight line down your back as it slips between stark weals still yet to split open.

You haven’t moved; your body is a trembling fist.

Price takes a long, ragged breath. He asks the question, although he already knows the answer.

“Did you come?”

You shake your head.

Of course not. His good fucking girl—you’re waiting for permission.

Price extracts the little key from his trouser pocket and goes to where your wrists hang limp from the bedpost. The lock turns with a small click, and your arms drop like heavy stones. A breath of relief, involuntary, leaves you.

Price wraps your hair around his fist and yanks you back a little like pulling a dog on a leash. He rounds you, looming above your kneeling form, and wedges the tip of his boot between your knees.

It’s not a new pair. He’s had them for years, and the leather shows it, even despite regular maintenance. They’re brutish things, squarish and unkindly shaped, rough at the edges. Meant to trample underbrush and kick through teeth. A scratched-up battering ram between the soft skin of your thighs.

You lift your hips immediately to open the way for him. Automatic. Pavlovian.

He lifts the toe against your clit in reward, circles it, dragging your folds around. Your lips fall open; glittering, rheumy eyes stare up at him as your cuffed hands circle his knee.

Something soft in Price’s chest touches the inside of his sternum.

His hand goes to the zipper at his groin, and he draws his cock out. In the furor of the lash, he hadn’t even realized how hard he was, but he feels blistering in his own palm, the head ruddy and ugly with it, the veins thick and pulsing. Equally as inappropriate to subject you to.

He drags your head to his cock with his firm grasp in your hair. You don’t need to be told—your mouth drops, and he pushes in without preamble, grunting short and hard when the flat of your tongue melts along the broad artery on the underside of his shaft.

“Rut,” he husks, shifting his boot beneath you, “until you come.”

You moan around him. The vibration of your vocal cords travels up his cock, reverberating with an intensity that has him shoving into your throat with a snarl. You choke at the intrusion, saliva bubbling at the corners of your mouth, but your hips bear down on his boot, thighs clenching it at the sides.

Your whole body rolls and humps against his leg, cuffed wrists coming up so your hands can wrap around the meat of his thigh. You scrabble at the canvas, dig your nails into the weave of his trousers like you want to tear through it to get at his skin underneath.

The whole time, your eyes never leave his, glistening with tears that shiver on your lashes as they threaten to fall. He grits his teeth as your lips pull out around him as he withdraws, and then thrusts short and hard into your mouth in time with the frantic cant of your pussy up and down his boot.

He can feel the heat of your sex even through the leather, could swear that he can count the contractions as you clench around nothing, the tiny bud of your neglected clitoris rasping against the unkind fibers of his boot laces.

Obedient to perfection.

You’re past the threshold as you lean back a little, levering your body to change the angle at which your pussy engulfs his foot, and he half-steps forward to follow you so his cock doesn’t escape your mouth. You roll against him, a full-body wave that lifts chest, then stomach, then hips—

And then he sees it take you as you freeze in place, muscles tensing all at once.

Your eyes roll back, throat convulsing around him as quick, reedy mewls travel up his shaft in quick succession. Your whole body shakes with it, frenetic as you hump his boot to prolong it, loosening the knot he’d tied with your vigor.

He pulls out a little to let you breathe through the end of it, but when you realize what he’s doing you dig your nails into his thigh, following him back. You catch his gaze with yours, eyes pleading, brows knitting together in entreaty. The claws become cupped hands, stroking up and down, and you bob your head a little, hollowing your cheeks.

Price huffs a breath. He hadn’t planned for an orgasm for himself for this. Rewards are for people who earn them.

This—this isn’t that.

But your eyelids lower in pleasure as you take him deeper, saliva slicking the way to his base, and Price has never been able to deny you anything.

His grip around your hair becomes a soft palm on the back of your head, guiding you steady, and he props his shin up along your stomach, knee between your breasts to give you balance.

It’s an orison; tossed into the caldera, something precious given to gravity and the incandescent fate at the other side of it. Your lips melt around him softly, tongue skimming his length like the reaching strand of a candle flame twirling around the tip of his finger.

He loves you so frightfully much.

“That’s it,” he huffs. “Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You moan in your throat, eyes closed, lashes against your damp cheeks.

“Yeah,” he continues, digging his fingers into your hair. “Too good for the likes of me—mmm—”

You suckle around him, pulling all the way back to mouth at the head of his cock before engulfing him again, cuffed hands rising higher to nestle one into the crevice of his groin and thigh and to spread the other over his hip. His breath quickens, and he brings his other hand to the back of your head, digging the fingers of both into your scalp.

You accept the roll of his hips with a little laugh that escapes through your nose, opening your jaw wide; making room for him to take what he pleases, again, how he pleases, as he thrusts faster, harder, taking what you give freely and delving harder for even more—

The head of his cock bullies your soft palette as his pubic hair tickles your lips, and then it shoots through him, up and down his spine, and he rams into your throat, forcing your nose to his mons as his cock pulsates, erupting hot and viscous, heartbeat forcing his cum out in deep, rhythmic pulses he feels across his whole body.

When you swallow around him his whole body heats up, balls clenching as they empty themselves into you, and he punches his hips in again short and hard as the last vestiges of his climax play out.

You hold him in your throat until he pulls you away, and then you take a long, wet gasp, hot breath fanning across his softening cock as it falls down, drained out. Tear tracks are silvery down your face, lashes stuck together with lipids and salt.

He brings one hand to your cheek, caressing beneath your eye gently with one callused thumb. Sweat beads along your hairline, and your skin is sticky and humid, glistening with perspiration that pools in your collarbones.

He feels his own sweat running down his chest, along and around the follicles of his chest hair and down toward his navel. Your eyes follow each drop; he thinks you’d lean forward and lick them up, if he told you to, even though he can see the exhaustion pulling at you.

“You good?” he finally asks, his voice coated in grit, but steady as it leaves him.

It’s what he always says, after.

You open your eyes to meet his, and this, too, is a moment repeated. He searches. Waits for doubt or fear or dismay to flicker in your gaze, some omen that he’s gone too far, that this, finally, has been too much for you to take from him.

You grace him with a little smile. The lines of your face are slack and loose. Your expression is smooth—languid, floating on satisfaction.

“I’m good,” you say, calm and tranquil—

And the smoke clears from his eyes.

He rubs the indent around your finger, branded by your wedding ring in your clenching fist, and brings the knuckle to his mouth to kiss his apology into your skin.

“What happened?” you ask.

You’re boneless, splayed on the mattress with your belly to the duvet. Your head rests against the pillow, face turned toward him.

Even in the haze of afterglow, filaments of oxytocin and dopamine unspooling, your eyes are sharp. Insightful.

You know him too well.

John kisses your ring finger again and returns to the oblations he owes for his violence. The lines on your back are ugly, dotted with broken capillaries and set to linger for weeks. He applies aloe gel, cooled in the fridge, in a thick, generous layer with a soft brush. The kind your aesthetician uses on the rare occasion you treat yourself to some time at the spa, dragging the bristles lightly across your face, around the apples of your cheeks and the corners of your lips.

Softer than he can possibly touch you right now with his callused fingers. A consequence of his vice; flayed skin, lifted weals, cannot tolerate the weight or heat of his hand, no matter how curative or contrite. He destines his own gentle touch to futility.

The one place he broke skin will probably take a month to heal.

A puff of air zips by his ear again. So close as to be your gasp. The rock behind him explodes around a .50 caliber round. Fragments of dry stone, osseous and pale, shower his neck and back.

“The usual,” Price says.

With a q-tip, John dabs bacitracin along the open gash down one side of your back. It isn’t very long or very deep. It might not even scar.

When John is gone—deployed or dead, the difference is negligible, really—there will be no evidence of his presence in your life that you can’t get rid of. It kept occurring to him throughout his deployment, after the near miss.

Everything of his in the house you share, you can box up and donate. Deep clean the place to eradicate whatever traces of his scent are left behind. You can cut your hair in some new style he’ll never see, wear all new clothes, choose a new perfume.

You can take off your wedding band. Shove it in a box in some forgotten drawer, or just pawn it.

It’s childish. Downright adolescent. Snapping your bra like a pimply cunt in secondary school, because the only way he knows how to etch himself into the bedrock of your memory is with pain.

“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching out with one lolling hand.

He leaves the q-tip on your back and clasps it between both of his own, bringing the curl of your fingers to his mouth. He kisses down the side of your palm, trails his lips down the soft skin of your forearm. Squeezes so hard he feels the bones in your hands shift.

You’re sorry. He took a whip to your back, made you hump his boot like an animal, and fucked your face like a whore, all because he couldn’t stand the thought that you would someday be without him. And you’re sorry.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he murmurs, scratching at the soft part of your wrist with his beard.

It seems even the softest version of his affection must somehow be abrasive.

There’s a little smile playing across your lips as you close your eyes. A deep, serene breath leaves you.

He places your hand back on the bed and dips the brush back into the aloe, loading it generously up to the ferrule. The brush make little furrows in the gel as he lays it down, the layer already thick; he floats the flat of the bristles overtop, smoothing over his contrition, and then, idly, he wedges them in again, carving runnels down through the clear to your skin.

You must fall asleep as he does, or at least you enjoy it enough to indulge him. John follows the lines of each lash from beginning to end, tracing their length, mapping the way they’ve changed your skin.

In a few weeks, as he cares for them, they’ll fade away completely. Left only to memory—both his and yours. But for now, you’ll feel them every day. Feel him every day, even when he’s not there, brushing along the inside of your shirt, stinging with every light touch.

Remembering the hand that held the lash.

He smooths the painted lines over and begins again.

a/n: this started as a casual one-off and became a loose masterstudy of @yeyinde's writing style. Lev, affectionately, you are insane. I know this because in writing this I also went insane.

Also dedicated to @391780. Please never stop being kinky online. I live for it.

Also that one part was inspired by this piece of art.

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price smut #john price cod #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price smut #captain john price x female reader #cod smut #madi writes #mwritesprice #i'm not exactly satisfied with this one but if i spend any more time on it i'll never want to write again

685 notes · View notes

gay-dorito-dust · 1 year ago

Note

Can I request headcanons for Sunday, Welt, Gallagher, Blade, and Dan Heng react to his shy gn s/o asking to kiss him on his forehead in hopes that it would bring him the same love & comfort they felt whenever they received it?

Sunday: his first reaction is; aww aren’t you just the most precious and adorable thing he’s ever seen.

He immeditly obeys your wish and presents you his forehead, where you planted a soft, tender kiss against.

He instantly relaxes beneath the featherlight touch of your lips against his forehead, smiling softly as he selfishly indulges himself in your presence and the way you managed to calm him without uttering a single word.

Your wish is his command in every sense of the word.

You’re probably the only person he’d gladly kneel before, but only in private though because he wasn’t fond of people staring at what was meant to be a special moment between two lovers.

And the fact that you weren’t fond of overcrowded places, regardless of whether they were staff members hired by The Family or just regular pedestrians who can’t go a single day without sticking their noses into things that don’t concern them.

So before anything happens Sunday makes sure to take you to your shared room for a much more private setting for the both of you.

After all this moment was meant for you two and you two alone.

So back to the moment you kissed his forehead, Sunday felt the weight of his responsibilities slip off his shoulders like water off a ducks back and he could even feel himself breath again now the weight was nonexistent; And you were to thank for making him feel that way.

You, sweet, kind, generous, you. Sunday’s own personal angel who makes him forget about his duty and make him feel alive again as you breathed new life into him with just a forehead kiss.

Welt: he would welcome the idea of you giving him a forehead kiss wholeheartedly.

He knows that it was nearly an impossible task for you to ask anything of him and he’s more then willing to let you go at your own pace, as he could clearly see that you didn’t expect to get this far.

‘You don’t have to do it if you don’t feel up to it just yet dearest.’ He says calmly as he places a comforting hand on yours. ‘There’s no time limit to do things under, so please take your time and remember to take deep breaths if needed.’ He adds.

He just wants you to feel comfortable and not feel pressured to do something that you weren’t comfortable with doing just yet. For it wasn’t fair on you in the slightest.

‘No. I want to do this, it’s just-‘ you then took a deep breath before refocusing yourself in the moment. ‘You know what I’m just going to kiss your forehead now. If that’s alright with you.’

Welt smiles. ‘It’s more than alright with me. Please continue.’

The moment your lips touched Welt’s forehead, he felt as though he were a young boy in love, everything he was feeling the longer your lips lingered were both indescribable and addicting.

He felt warm, he felt giddy, he felt excited but most of all he felt loved, cherished and really happy.

Nothing else existed in that moment but you two and that was fine by him because at the end of the day he would love nothing more than for it to be you whom he sees no matter what.

He often feels as though he wasn’t putting as much time in your relationship as he was with anything else but when you kissed his forehead, all of those worries he had yet to speak up upon faded away as he was reassured with the way you treated him as though he were priceless.

For he viewed you within the same point of view and was glad that feeling was reciprocated tenfold.

Gallagher; ‘Gallagher, can I-‘

‘Yes.’ He says with impeccable speed.

‘I-i haven’t even asked yet-‘

‘You don’t have to because my answer is yes little bird.’ He cuts you off once again with a wolfish smile before dragging you to sit on his lap as you rested your hands against his shoulders for stability when you kissed his forehead.

The feeling was incredibly fleeting for Gallagher as before he could fully enjoy the feeling of your lips against his skin, you pulled away, Gallagher was pouting like an overgrown child.

‘What?’ You said, thinking you’ve done something wrong.

‘It wasn’t long enough.’ He mutters and tugs you by the waist, causing you to be flushed against his chest. ‘What wasn’t?’ You asked, not understanding what he was getting at.

‘The forehead kiss.’ He clarified. ‘It wasn’t long enough for my liking so I want another.’ He adds, getting a lot of enjoyment from your wide eyed expression as he lifted your head to meet his eyes with a finger under your chin.

‘Don’t you have work to get back to? Won’t Sunday be mad?’ You questioned, knowing that the Halovian’s patience was wearing thin with Gallagher recently, and you didn’t want him getting into even more trouble just because he wanted more forehead kisses.

‘Who cares what that winged prick thinks little bird,’ Gallagher practically purrs, ‘I’m the one busting my ass. So I feel like I’m more than deserving of an extra five minutes to spend with a cutie like you in my lap, giving me a shit tone of forehead kisses.’ He adds.

And that’s exactly what you ended up doing for those extra five minutes.

Blade: ‘why?’ He asks bluntly.

You fiddled with your sleeve, a force of habit of yours that has stuck with you since as long as you could remember. ‘I just hope that it’ll bring you the same comfort and love I feel when you kiss my forehead.’ You admit sheepishly.

Blade knew the kind of guy he was and he wasn’t one that made people feel loved or comforted, if anything it was the complete opposite, but upon hearing you -sweet,shy and socially awkward you- admit that you feel love and comfort from a simple gesture he’s done once maybe twice.

Blade remained silent for a while before feeling himself begin to crumble under your patience gaze and muttered out a gruff. ‘Sure.’

The twinkle in your eyes and the tender smile across your lips melted his scarred heart, but the moment you gently held his face between your hands as though you were holding something worth admiring and pressed the sweetest kiss against his forehead, Blade felt himself practically become a puddle between your palms.

He hums in content as he closes his eyes and lets the love and comfort you claimed he gave you, spread throughout his body, from the bottom of his feet to the tips of his ears. He could feel your love for him encase him in a protective, warm embrace and Blade couldn’t help but selfishly wish to stay here in this position for the rest of your lives.

However you pulled away and Blade noticed how much colder he felt without your touch as he catches his breath, it almost as though he was plunged into an icy cold bath with the way his muscles became frigid and taut.

He had got a mere taste of your affection and now he craved it more than anything.

Dan Heng; knew how hard it was for you to ask for anything of him, despite him countlessly reminding you that he was more then willing to fulfil your wants and needs the best he could.

So when you managed to muster the strength and asked to kiss his forehead, he felt his cheeks become aflame but lets you do so anyways as he casts his gaze elsewhere, praying that you don’t hear how fast his heart was going.

He purrs. I repeat, he purrs the moment your lips touched his forehead as his inner dragon noodle was bursting with happiness upon receiving your affection. It wasn’t something that happened often but when it did, it was always something that never failed to make you smile and him slightly embarrassed at how easily you affected.

He’s just unsure how to voice his liking for your affection without it coming across as awkward or forced. He’s not a man of words when it comes to you as you often left him speechless and unable to think about anything that wasn’t the feeling of your plush, slightly cracked, lips pressed against his forehead.

In that moment all he could think about was you and how despite your differences, you two couldn’t have been a better match for one another.

It was during tender moments like these did Dan Heng want to cling onto forever for they reminded him that he has someone who was worth everything to him.

Someone who loved him regardless of who he was in the past. Your love knew no bounds and Dan Heng could feel every ounce of that within a simple thing as a forehead kiss.

1K notes · View notes

five-rivers · 26 days ago

Text

symbolic

[This fic is based on a prompt by @astatia-ghast! You can also read it here. Enjoy!]

“So, this is, like, a formality? It’s just a ceremonial, symbolic thing?”

Clockwork sighed and Frostbite made a face. Danny felt his shoulders twitch up defensively. He liked both Frostbite and Clockwork, but together, they were a bit… much. Plus, Danny didn’t like getting unexpected visitors at school, no matter how much he liked them. He was supposed to be in Health right now. And even if people didn’t look in the basement very often, the custodian had an office here.

“No, Great One. It is more than a formality, otherwise we would not be so… diligent… in asking you to do this.”

“I don’t really get why you’re asking me in the first place. I’m not the only one who fought Pariah Dark that day.”

“You are the only one to fight him directly, one-on-one,” said Clockwork. “You lead the army–”

“No, I didn’t,” said Danny.

“You rallied them. They supported you and acted to carry out your plan,” continued Clockwork, mercilessly. “You know this. Let us not waste time.”

“Okay. But I don’t understand the point of crowning me - or anyone - as Ghost King if the Ghost Zone doesn’t need a Ghost King. There hasn’t been one in hundreds of years.”

“Yes, there has,” said Clockwork. “Pariah Dark was the King of Ghosts. Until you defeated him.”

“But he was in the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.”

“And he was still king,” said Clockwork.

“Great One,” said Frostbite. “The position no longer has any official political power. I do not think that there is anyone who would obey you simply on the strength of you being the King of Ghosts. But it is of great spiritual importance.”

“So, it’s religious. Ceremonial,” said Danny.

“No. Daniel,” said Clockwork, exasperated. “Spiritual. Ghosts are often called spirits. The Infinite Realms, consisting mainly of ectoplasm, are shaped by the wills of their inhabitants, but such an arrangement is unstable, prone to falling apart under the influence of too many perspectives and intentions. You would not be called upon to rule, but certain physical aspects of the Realms depend on the existence of a king for stability. The King of All Ghosts, the King of the Dead, the Deathless, and the Neverborn. One who has Dominion over the Earth, the Sea, the Sky. Every place where the dead may be committed. Every place where a spirit might dwell or come into being.” He paused. “In short, a reference point or template.”

“That sounds like a bad idea,” said Danny.

“It is written into the oldest of the laws of the Realms,” said Frostbite, apologetically. “But, in truth, you would not have to do very much. It is simply important that such a king exists.”

Danny looked between Clockwork and Frostbite. “I wouldn’t have to do anything,” he repeated. “No laws, no tax stuff, no diplomacy, nothing?”

“I would encourage you on the subject of diplomacy,” said Frostbite. “You would have a unique position from which to act as a peacemaker. But it would not be your responsibility.”

“As you said,” added Clockwork, “the Realms adapted quite well to a king who was eternally asleep.”

“Okay,” said Danny. “What happens if someone beats me? It’s not like I’m invincible. Is this the kind of thing that’s going to give someone, like, I don’t know, super murder powers?”

“No,” said Frostbite. He sounded faintly appalled. “Your powers should change very little, if at all.”

Danny licked his lips. “This is really that important? What would happen if I said no? Because this honestly sounds like way too much responsibility for a random high schooler.”

“Yes,” said Clockwork. “It would be too much responsibility for a random high schooler. You are not a random high schooler. You are a high schooler who spent the last two years defending an entire city and defeated Pariah Dark. But if you want to see the consequences, I can show you. Exactly.”

“You can?” asked Danny. “Oh, right. Time travel.”

“Indeed.” Clockwork waved his staff, and a portal appeared in the air. “After you.”

Danny gave Clockwork a suspicious look (he thought he deserved it, after how much fun he’d had repeatedly slamming Danny into a bell), but flew through the portal. On the other side, there was…

… Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Clockwork and Frostbite followed him through the portal. Clockwork summoned a transparent blue shield around the three of them, which slowly filled with air. Or at least some kind of gas. Danny was in ghost form, so it didn’t really matter.

“So,” said Danny, casually. “Where are we? Heat death of the universe?”

“Yes,” said Clockwork.

“Wait, seriously? I was joking.”

“I know,” said Clockwork. “But this is indeed the heat death of the universe.”

“The heat death of the universe cannot possibly be my fault,” said Danny. “It’s just, like, a thing. A thing that happens. Because of physics.”

“Yes. The second law of thermodynamics. Entropy in a closed system increases. But your universe is not a closed system.”

“Because of the Ghost Zone.”

“Correct,” said Clockwork. “Many laws of physics are reversed in the Ghost Zone. Including that one. Things can and do spontaneously become more complex. Ghosts form out of raw ectoplasm. Portals open to other times. Space layers upon itself. Entropy from this world flows into the Realms, and vice versa. But the system is not stable.”

“A king is needed,” said Frostbite.

“But this isn’t going to happen for ages and ages, right?”

“No, this particular thing would not happen for quite some time,” said Clockwork, “but in the Realms, it is already beginning.”

Danny closed his eyes, feeling the massive emptiness around him. “Okay,” he said. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Just like that?” asked Sam.

“Just like that,” said Danny, taking a bite from his burger. “They grabbed the crown for like a minute, said some words about what I was king over, bought me an ice cream - that was kind of weird - and then left.”

“With the crown?” asked Tucker. He’d already eaten his burger and was leaning across the table.

“Yeah, I mean, what would I do with it?”

“I don’t. It’d be kind of cool.”

Danny thought about it for a minute. “It was kind of cool,” he agreed. “With all the fire and stuff.”

Sam sighed. “I just hope that there’s not some weird side effect or fine print that’s going to jump out at you. I mean, what’s ‘stabilizing’ all of this going to do to you?”

“They said that it shouldn’t do anything.”

“To your powers,” said Sam. “That’s different.”

“I…” Danny rewound the conversation in his mind. “Heck, you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“But Frostbite would have said something,” said Danny. “I mean, Clockwork might think it was funny, but he wouldn’t.”

“Would Clockwork think it was funny?” asked Tucker.

“Yeah. He wouldn’t show it, but he’d think it. He likes messing with people.”

“Fits in pretty well with you, then,” said Sam.

“I don’t know,” said Danny. “It’s pretty obvious that I like messing with people.”

Sam laughed, then started to clean up the burger wrappers. “Well, if something weird does happen, you know where to find us.”

“And then you’ll say ‘I told you so?’” asked Danny, finishing off his burger and starting to help her.

“You’d better believe it.”

Danny woke up in ghost form.

This wasn’t unusual, exactly. It had happened a lot in the first few weeks after his accident with the portal, when he didn’t have good control over his transformations. On the other hand, it was always nerve wracking. What if his parents came in? What if he floated up through the ceiling, or walls? What if he fell through the floor? What if he triggered the house defenses?

Somehow, none of that had ever happened.

Still, when Danny realized he was in ghost form, he woke up far more quickly than he did for anything but his ghost sense. Which meant that he noticed that something was wrong almost instantly.

It wasn’t a big thing. Just a pull. An itch. But something in his brain, some instinct, tagged it as being very wrong.

Something was wrong.

But what?

Still a little muzzy from sleep, Danny started taking account. He had his arms and legs… good, okay… Head… Face in the right place… He’d shrugged it off at the time, but those duplication errors had made him paranoid. He was under a couple layers of thick blankets, which felt weird laying on his jumpsuit, as always…

He paused, then felt around his shoulders and neck a little more. There was something– Had his jumpsuit slipped off? Sometimes, it got beaten up and torn during a fight, but it never slipped when he was just hanging out or sleeping.

But it must have tonight. He could feel bare skin where he normally couldn’t. That must be what he was registering as wrong. The jumpsuit was itching where it was bunched up, and pulling at other parts where it was stretch. Probably.

Satisfied, he returned to human form and went back to sleep.

Danny ran into the gap between the house and the shed to transform in private before flying to school. It was easier and faster than taking the bus or walking, as long as he avoided the ghost hunters. But before he took off, he paused.

He'd almost forgotten waking up last night and feeling something off, but now… His jumpsuit seemed loose, like it had been stretched out too far. But he couldn't remember a fight like that. Couldn't remember the suit ever not fixing itself automatically, for that matter.

Underneath the suit, Danny's skin felt dry and itchy. He took his gloves off and looked at the backs of his hands. The skin was dry enough that it was segmenting into flaky, scale-like patches. He frowned at them. If this had been his human form, he would have blamed this on a new soap or shampoo, but his human hands had been fine. Whatever was causing this, it was only affecting his ghost form.

… It still might be because of soap, if his parents were mixing anti-ghost stuff in theirs.

Danny hoped they weren’t. It’d be a pain to deal with.

He still had to get to school, though, and it seemed like this wasn’t going to kill him or melt him, whatever it was. At least, it wasn’t going to do that soon. So, he jumped into the air and started the trip to school.

The loose suit flapped awkwardly in the wind and pulled weirdly at his shoulders. And it was itchy.

He didn’t like this development. Granted, he rarely liked developments with his ghost form, but this one was particularly annoying.

He landed behind the school, near the dumpsters. Hardly any students came back here, especially this early, so it was a pretty safe place for him to transform. He did a quick check for people, then flicked back to human form.

He felt… normal. Normal-adjacent, anyway, which was as close as he ever got. Still, he was… concerned. Which apparently showed on his face.

“Did something happen?” asked Sam.

“Do we get to say ‘I told you so’ yet?” asked Tucker.

Sam elbowed him. “We do that after we deal with the problem.”

“Not always. Sometimes we say it while we're waiting to take action!”

“I don't think it has anything to do with the king stuff,” said Danny. “I don’t see how it could. It’s just weird.”

“So, what is it?” asked Sam. “New powers?”

“Flaming crown hanging over your head?”

Danny sent Tucker a glare. “No,” he said. “It’s something with my suit. It’s… loose.”

“Loose? That’s weird. You’d think it’d get tight. You have grown a little, after all.”

“Gee, thanks, Sam. But, no, it’s loose and kind of itchy. It’s never been itchy before.”

Sam and Tucker gave each other a look.

“It’s loose, huh,” said Tucker. “Like maybe it’s changing shape? Into something more… kingly, perhaps?”

“Oh my gosh. No. It’s not that loose.” The warning bell rang, and they all looked up. “I’ll show you during lunch, okay?”

Lunch came quickly, and Danny, Sam, and Tucker just as quickly found an unused corner of the school to stake out and claim. There was a small risk, back here, by the old soccer field, that a teacher might do a patrol to find smokers, but it was relatively small.

“Okay. Here goes.” Danny let his rings flick over, transforming him. “What do you think?” Then, he blinked and looked down at his hands. “My gloves didn’t come back. That’s weird.”

“It does look looser,” said Tucker, starting to slowly walk around Danny.

“What’s that on your hands?” asked Sam.

“I… don’t know,” said Danny. Before, the backs of his hands had just been dry and slightly cracking, now, the skin was slightly raised in silvery flakes. Almost like actual scales. He swiped his fingers over them. They didn’t feel like dry skin. They felt smooth. Like real scales.

“Hey, I think there might be something stuck under your suit back here,” said Tucker.

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’ll have to take it off for me to see it, though. The suit, I mean.”

Danny exchanged a glance with Sam, then reached up to his neck and unzipped the suit. Instead of having to wriggle out of the sleeves as he usually did, the top half of the suit just sort of… fell off him.

Behind him, Tucker sucked in a sharp breath. “What?” asked Danny.

“Uh,” said Tucker in a distinctly panicked tone.

“What?” repeated Danny, turning to face him.

“Oh,” said Sam. “That’s not good?”

“What isn’t good?”

“Um,” said Sam. “Uh.”

“Something’s growing there.”

“Where?” demanded Danny.

“There’s, um, something growing on your back,” said Tucker. He jogged around to look at Danny’s back again. “It looks– Well, they look like wing–”

Danny jumped when Tucker touched– Something. Not Danny’s back.

He sucked in a breath between his teeth. “That’s bad,” he said, finally.

“It– Yeah,” said Tucker.

“And your skin…” said Sam.

Danny looked down. The scaly pattern on his skin continued up the backs of his arms and shoulders before disappearing beneath his tank top, except that past his elbows, the color slowly shifted from silver to charcoal.

“Heck,” said Danny. He twisted, trying to see the ‘wings’ on his back. “What’s happening? Is this– Did I pick up Dora’s amulet or something?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “But I don’t think you’re turning into a dragon.”

“I’ve got scales.”

“But your wings are feathery.”

Danny twisted again. He could almost see something in the corners of his eyes. Maybe, if he warped his body he’d be able to see more, but that felt like a bad idea when he wasn’t aware of his current body plan.

“Okay,” said Sam. “We’re going to have to go to Frostbite about this.”

“Yeah,” said Danny. He left off trying to see his ‘wings’ and bent slightly to tie his sleeves around his waist and rub his palms on his pants. “Obviously. But, uh. I think after school. This isn’t affecting my human half, and I really can’t miss geometry again. I’ll die.”

Sam chewed her lower lip. “This all happened since school started?”

Danny shook his head. “No, I think it started last night. I woke up because things felt weird, and then my hands felt all dry and flaky this morning.”

“That’s not too fast, then… I don’t like it,” said Sam. “But you’re right that we can’t all skip again. After school, we’ve got to go straight to the Ghost Zone.”

“Yeah,” agreed Danny. “Yeah. I think that’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” said Tucker, “because this is kind of messed up.”

Sam pushed down on the accelerator, and the Spector Speeder floated smoothly through the portal.

“Okay,” she said. “Go ahead and change now.”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” asked Tucker. “What happens if his face melted off during school?”

“My face didn’t melt off,” said Danny.

“Do you know that?” asked Tucker.

Danny looked at him flatly and went ghost.

The top half of his jumpsuit was gone, and the bottom half had somehow fused with the tank top. Sort of. The sides of the top were open, and his boots were gone, too. Which made it really easy to see what had happened to his hand and feet. Their backs and tops were covered with shiny scales, and the skin between each digit was webbed. His toes were longer than they were supposed to be, too, making his feet look like abbreviated swim fins. Meanwhile, on his sides… Were those gills? They looked like gills.

He felt something and looked over his shoulder… shoulders? Shoulders. To glare at Tucker.

“What can I say?” said Tucker, shrugging. “They’re fluffy.”

Needless to say, the wings were much larger, now. Big enough for Danny to see them.

“There’s a bunch of fluff on your back, too,” said Tucker, helpfully.

“Thanks,” said Danny. “That’s great.” He returned to human form. “Let’s get there as fast as we can, okay?”

“Frostbite!” called Danny, transforming as he bounded out of the Speeder and into the snow. Sam and Tucker followed him. “Frostbite, look!” He transformed, then spun. “Do you see this?”

“Yes,” said Frostbite, “your wings and scales are coming in quite nicely, but if speed is distressing you, I could give you something to accelerate the process.”

“I– What? Wait, why are you acting like this is something you expected?”

Frostbite frowned. “Because it is, Great One. You have dominion over Sky and Sea. Your form is changing to represent that.”

“Oh my gosh,” said Tucker. “Dude. Dude. It’s the king thing. This is happening because of the king thing. Sam. Sam, we totally told him so.”

“We did,” agreed Sam. “But we should still try to fix the problem first.”

“No,” said Danny, forcefully. He flew up to Frostbite’s eye level. “It isn’t, is it?”

“It is, Great One.”

“Is it, you know, reversible?”

“No,” said Frostbite, confused. “It is as permanent as your kingship.”

Danny covered his mouth to muffle a scream. “And you didn’t think that maybe you should warn me that I was going to turn into the Starbucks logo?”

“You don’t actually look all that much like the Starbucks logo,” said Tucker. “That has two tails and no wings.”

“I don’t care,” said Danny. “Can you even use wings like this while you’re swimming? Are these things even going to work with each other? Who thought this was a good idea?”

“Great One,” said Frostbite, soothingly, “I apologize if I did not appropriately prepare you. I had thought that you would understand that dominion over Earth, Sea, and Sky would require this.”

“Why?” asked Danny. “It’s just– Okay, the scales and fins and stuff, that I sort of get. I guess it’ll let me swim better. But the wings? I could already fly. I could fly really well.”

“It is my understanding that it is largely symbolic.”“This is the part that’s symbolic?”

#danny phantom #phic phight #phic phight 2025 #phic #my fic

206 notes · View notes

soulshaped · 1 month ago

Text

let me get what i want this time

remus lupin x reader | friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, slow burn

a/n: please, please, please let me get what i want by the smiths will never ever fail to remind me of remus. i was going to make this one part, but i got carried away… there will be more parts i promise!!! this is year 1

part two

wc: 5.1k

The moon taunts him from where it rests so very far, far away. It is the picture of serenity against the dark night sky and it seems to him as if even the surrounding stars kneel to its great light, head bowed, praying.

Son of the moon, obey me, let go and give in, give in to the wolf, just for the night

The voice is clear, booming and omnipresent, and Remus knows he can not escape it. But still, he is just a boy. He hasn’t received his letter from Hogwarts yet, and he does not know if he ever will. His bones begin to break, over and over again. The skin of his back tears, opening and closing to reshape itself over his growing form. He writhes on the cold, wet cellar floor until the transition becomes just bearable enough for him to roll to a stand, unsteadily. His teeth sharpen, his eyes darken under the moonlight. He is in complete agony, he is alone, and he is just a boy in the body of a wolf.

The next thing he remembers is the sun kissing the horizon at dawn, waking up gently, like him. The lightened sky is just bright enough for Remus to see the silhouette of his fingers without squinting, confirming that he has the hands of a boy once again. It would be brighter if it wasn’t for being in Wales, if it wasn’t for the days of unbroken clouds above him. He’s not particularly sure where in Wales they are by now, having moved around so often and so quickly for as long as he can recall. Even his earliest memories are of packed bags, rushed whispers, night drives. Loving fingers wound tightly around his little wrists, pulling him deeper and deeper into the mountains. Away from his little home on the coast with the bushels of wildflowers and tall grass he yearned to play in. He wanted to stay there, he wishes he could’ve stayed forever, but it’s far behind him now.

His father should be coming to free him soon enough. There are heavy metal bars on the windows above him, though Lyall’s magic was doing most of the work to keep the wolf’s chaos contained within the basement walls. Remus knows that he does not mean to be cruel – that his parents are only out of options, not of love. They tried for years and years to find a cure, or even temporary escape from the monster always lying dormant inside of him. The healers had nothing to add to the limited knowledge they had already acquired from ancient books, they knew nothing at all. So Remus knows his parents have only ever wanted what is best for him. But the cellar is cold and damp, his head is pounding incessantly and he yearns for laughter, he yearns for the house by the coast. He prays to a God that he’s sure doesn’t exist.

Dumbledoor shows up at his doorstep a few moons later. He enters through the front door, blown like a great wind. Lyall and Hope greet him politely, but Remus can see the shock hidden beneath their calm demeanor. He can see how Lyall’s hands have a mild quake as it meets Dumbledoor’s calm, warm palm. Remus shivers too, in hope of a new life. He stands behind his father, but the older man spots him quickly and slips him a small grin. It was nearly imperceptible and it felt like a gift. The tea is still warm when Dumbledoor stands to leave. The meeting was short and concise. Remus would be attending Hogwarts come next September. The life he longed for suddenly seemed close enough to taste.

Fall comes faster that year. Just as the tips of tree branches begin to shine in a golden hue, Remus stands on a train platform surrounded by more people he’s ever seen. He finds his only comfort in his father’s warm, steady hand resting on his shoulder. The train conductor blows the horn in final warning and Remus turns to find his mother holding back tears. He can’t seem to find the right words to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, darling, don’t ever be,” Hope kneels down to meet his anxious eyes before continuing, “we only want what’s best for you.”

She picks up his case, pulls his nimble fingers over the handle and covers her hand over his in a quiet, gentle embrace.

“Hogwarts is waiting for you, Remus.”

He smiles toothily and bids them a farewell, promising to owl as soon as he can. He braces himself as much as possible before stepping onto the train and is immediately overwhelmed by the flurry of fellow students rushing about the corridors, presumably searching for their friends. Luckily, he quickly finds an empty train cart.

At least what he believes is an empty train cart.

In the very moment he sets his case down, a boy with brunette hair and crooked wire glasses pops his head out of what seems like thin air beside him. His head is excitedly floating about as his body (Remus hopes exists) is still invisible to the eye.

“Hiya! I’m James Potter!”

“Um… wha-”

“Oh! Sorry mate, I was hiding from my friend, Peter. I really wanted to scare the trousers off of ‘im.”

James’ body is instantaneously visible as he grips a glimmering blanket in his hand. He bundles it up to rest as a messy lump in the space between them.

“So… what’s your name?”

Remus opens his mouth to answer when he’s ambushed once again. This time, by a very flustered, freckled boy out of breath.

“James,” he squeaks in relief, “there you are, I’ve been looking for you all over this train!”

Remus assumes this must be the Peter that James was referring to. He looks towards Remus with a curious gaze, as if he was nervously sizing him up. It confused Remus greatly, as he didn’t really see himself as threatening, but maybe it was the scars. No one has ever really seen them, outside of his family and himself, so he couldn’t exactly predict a stranger’s reaction to them. He feels the heat traveling rapidly to his cheeks and turns his eyes to the floor. He can almost hear the wolf laughing at his own timidness.

“Well, I was trying to scare you, but he found me first!”

“Who’s this?”

“He was about to tell me before you rudely interrupted us, Pete,” James says without a hint of malice.

Remus looks up to be faced with widely different expressions. While Peter’s eyes are slightly narrowed, James’ eyes are wide and enthusiastic, paired with the widest smile he’s ever seen. It’s infectious and he can’t help but smile back.

“I’m Remus. Remus Lupin.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lupin.”

“Hey! Who are you lot?”

Another head pops into the compartment, which seemed to be growing smaller and smaller by the second. Remus sees the long, black hair first, before a very clean, cut boy with striking grey eyes comes into focus.

“I’m James Potter, that’s Peter, and that’s Remus. And now, you’re caught up!”

“My family hates yours,” the stranger declares confidently as he pushes in the rest of the way, “it’s perfect.”

He plops down across from Remus and next to Peter in a great huff.

“I’m Sirius Black. Anyone want a chocolate frog? I’ve bought about a million to just peeve off my mother.”

Peter jumps in excitement as Sirius empties an entire sack solely dedicated to chocolate frogs. Remus' stomach rumbles with anticipation, it was going to be a very eventful year it seemed.

The journey passes too quickly, Remus thought, even quicker with the company. As the train pulls into the station, Remus can just make out the aged stone walls on the very top of Hogwarts’ pointed towers. As the carriages pull them closer and closer to the castle, Remus feels a pull of anticipation from the growing pit in his stomach. He knew what was to come in the Great Hall; the Sorting Ceremony had terrified him for weeks, ever since Dumbledoor paid him a visit in Wales.

He knew Lyall was sorted into Ravenclaw when he attended Hogwarts, a house known by all of the wizarding world for their daring intelligence and wisdom. What if he was sorted into a different house, what would his father think? What if he was sorted into Slytherin? He had felt the harsh disdain and fear in Sirius’ gaze when Slytherin was brought up as a possibility, as if the entire house was a stain on Hogwarts itself. Remus swore he was going to be sick at this rate, maybe he could miss the ceremony entirely and be unsorted.

Two girls and a boy with long black hair sat across from him and the boys in the Great Hall. His hair was much shorter than Sirius’, and it was cut bluntly, adding a harsh sharpness to his frown. One of the girls had red hair that flowed gracefully down past her shoulders that were bouncing in excitement. The other was more distracted, her nose buried in a muggle book he’d heard of once or twice before. She had an incredibly peaceful smile, in such great contrast to the other boy that it was almost amusing. The more Remus looked at her, the more at peace he felt – all of the noise in the Hall dimmed around him in the nearness of her calm demeanor, a needed break. He looked away immediately when she turned up to meet his unintentional stare, red flushing across his pale skin. But when he peeked at her again from the corner of his eye, he saw that she was turned towards the front of the room now with the same, kind and knowing upturned lips.

To his relief and (equally as intense) shock, Remus was sorted into Gryffindor. All four boys now sit under the great red and gold banners together. James’ is unable to contain his proud exclamations at all of them, seemingly getting more obnoxious and simultaneously admirable by the second, while Sirius’ head seems to be forever hidden in his arms as he softly bangs his head into the wood he rests on.

“I’m as dead as dead can be,” Sirius groans into the table, “Walburga is going to hex me into the next century.”

James smacks a hand on his back, but leaves it resting there, gently.

“It’ll be alright mate, we’ll be right there with you, together! We’re Gryffindors now! All of us! There’s nothing we can’t do, we’re unstoppable!”

His energy was undeniably infectious, even pulling a smile out of Sirius who lifted his head to rest his chin on his hands instead.

“Potter, we get it! Enough, please, for the love of Godric, just let us all eat in peace for a moment,” the red head, Lily, exclaims from a few seats away.

The other girl, (Y/N), bursts out laughing with her head thrown backwards.

“Girls… who even decided to invite them anyway…” James mumbles, only ever so slightly disheartened by Lily’s scolding.

Remus smiles so hard, he finds his cheeks hurting from the tension. He hopes this feeling lasts forever.

The fall of his first year passes in a blur. Sirius’ birthday is the height of the season, with all four boys deciding to pull their first grand prank in celebration. Though Professor McGonagall did not seem to appreciate the exploding toilets as much as Sirius did.

Moons are just as difficult, even with Madam Pomfrey’s much needed aid, but Remus finds the break from his friends and schoolwork make his returns to normalcy more exciting than he could’ve ever imagined. It’s everything that he yearned for, and yet he’s still awaiting the inevitable fall of the curtain. To reveal what he’s secretly always believed, that this great life was never made for him, that there has been a grave error in placing him, of all people, in the midst of all of this incredible joy. He’ll wake up, one day, and the fantasy will cease to exist. It would be much more believable than his current reality.

It doesn’t help that so much of what his friends know is a complete fabrication, but it does help that he is the only one constantly worrying about the entanglement of his own lies. No one, to his knowledge, has come to suspect anything, yet. Remus thinks that this may still be due to the distracting excitement of their first year practicing unbelievable magic, but he’ll never be one to kick a gifted horse in the mouth, however temporary.

He tries to push aside these incessant thoughts and draw his attention back to his work scattered across the table before him. The library is eerily quiet as the evening draws to a close, but he welcomes the silence wholeheartedly. The joints in his knee continue to seer with pain with every wrong step, a result of the most recent moon, but he finds that the complete stillness of the library at this hour helps.

Suddenly, a loud crash sounds a few feet away and Remus jumps. In the same moment, a girl yelps.

“Shoot!”

Remus hurriedly glances around him to find you picking up a concerningly tall pile of books. He can barely see your face behind them. As he starts to arise from his seat to help, pain shoots so far up from his knee he can practically feel it in his throat. He sits back down quickly.

You manage to balance the pile on the corner of the long table and stand back in a huff. Your eyes meet his own in shock.

“Oh! Remus, hi!”

“Hi, (Y/N). That’s a lot of books.”

“Tell me about it, I don’t know what I was thinking, really, taking out so many,” you sigh.

“Couldn’t help yourself, I suppose?”

“Seems like it, huh?”

For the most part, the first year boys in Hogwarts seem to be in a constant state of annoyance towards all girls, any girl. Godric knows Lily and James have been bickering non-stop since the Sorting Ceremony.

But, Remus likes you enough, he thinks. You’re really nice to him and you laugh at almost anything. It makes him want to laugh and he isn’t used to it, it’s never come as easy to him as it does to you. He would never see peace again if he ever admitted his real thoughts to the boys, though. They would definitely think of it as a clear betrayal of everything they stand for – girls are the worst.

“Sorry for the ruckus, by the way, you seemed to be really focused.”

“It’s alright, wasn’t really doing much anyway.”

“Well, in that case.”

You plop down into the seat across from him and immediately take the first book perched on the very top of your mountainous pile. He looks at you questioningly.

“At least one of us should do something productive in this silent library.”

So the two of you sit peacefully, on opposite sides of the table, reading. Remus isn’t sure how long you’re really there for though. The next thing he remembers is waking up and wiping the drool from his chin as Pince looks down at him in reprimand.

“You have a bed, Lupin, I suggest you use it.”

Remus clumsily shuffles to a stand and starts to gather his things when he spots a single chocolate frog resting inches away from his quill. There’s a note attached in scratchy writing,

‘Sleepyhead!!!’

A corner of one of his blank parchments is torn off. Remus carries the frog happily in the pocket of his robes as he limps past Filch, grumpily hanging Christmas garland in the halls.

The holiday season rushes towards them in a hurry, carrying with it a new air to the castle. Maybe it is the layers of snow blanketing the surrounding land, barricading students indoors and leaving them to sprawl lazily across common rooms, deep into the night. Maybe it is the anticipation of their well-earned breaks, buzzing like electricity through their tired fingertips as they rushed to complete their final assignments. Or maybe it is, simply, a combination of all of the above, creating a surge of unrealized energy that seeped into the very walls of Hogwarts. Remus can nearly feel it in the soles of his shoes beneath him as he leaves his very last class before break. It seems as though his friends are a victim to this as well, considering he can hear their yells from three corridors down. He finally approaches the group, their noise reaching a peak as he nears, whilst James and Sirius wrap around his and Peter’s shoulders as they lead them back to the Gryffindor tower. Conveniently so, Remus supposes, as he hears several cauldrons explode at once behind them. By the end of dinner, rumors of ruined classrooms and chalkboards signed with utmost sincerity from the Marauders would be the talk of the school.

“The Marauders, huh?”

“I think it’s catchy,” James grins. “Don’t you think so, Remus?”

“Well, it’s definitely the best of the ones we came up with.”

“And it looks even better written down,” Sirius sighs happily.

Peter squeaks, “For the whole school to see as well!”

Remus awakes earlier than usual the next morning, eager to soak in just enough of Hogwarts to get him through the holidays. The guilt of dreading his return to Wales is overshadowed by the upcoming full moon, the memory of the basement, and the tired eyes of his father that will follow. The reality of his life, despite his best efforts in ignoring it, is waiting for him on the train platform, just a few hours from now. The overcast sky mirrors his darkening mood, but the incessant snoring from the beds beside him inevitably makes him smile. He knows he will desperately miss the feeling of never being alone for long, even if it’s only for the next few weeks.

As he swings his legs off the edge of his bed to come to a stand, he accidentally knocks something onto the floor. He doesn’t remember leaving anything at the end of his mattress the night before. It’s a bundle, wrapped (horribly so) in festive paper and when he picks it up gently, he finds more of them resting on top of his comforter.

They’re presents. For him, supposedly, at least according to his name scribbled messily on the tags.

The most expensive ones, a huge box filled with dozens of chocolate frogs and a brand new quill set, came from James and Sirius, respectively. Peter got him a box of Bertie Bott’s along with a nice note thanking him for his help in classes, wishing him and his family a Merry Christmas. Madame Pomfrey gifted him two small vials, a Pepper-Up potion and a Sleeping Draught, presumably anticipating his moon at the end of the month just as he was.

There was one more, the only one addressed to him in fancy cursive. It was a muggle book, Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, wrapped in a big red bow with delicate gold trim. It was in rough shape, clearly used, with small markings in familiar handwriting all over the text. He’d seen you reading it once as he passed you by in the halls, but he didn’t think you’d seen him. There was a note as well, politely wishing him happy holidays with your name written in the same pretty cursive at the bottom.

“Found your presents did you, Remus?”

Sirius was sitting up from his open four-poster bed across the room, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” he responds, quickly tucking the book under his covers.

The curtains from the bed on his left rip open aggressively, revealing James’ wide smile,

“Well?! Do you like them?”

“Of course! I’m sorry I didn’t–” Remus turns away, unable to stop his cheeks from heating up, but hoping he can still hide them. “I didn’t realize you guys were getting me gifts. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything yet.”

“Don’t worry, Remus, I’m sure we’ll like whatever you get,” Peter chimes in.

Before he can respond, Sirius throws a quick glare towards Peter on the other side of the room,

“Remus doesn’t need to get us anything, if he so pleases.”

“We don’t need anything in return, Remus. It was just a little something from us, no biggie, really,” James responds, more sincere than ever before. It was almost unnatural, given his usual joking tone laced into his every word.

“Thanks,” Remus directs at them before throwing Peter a smile, hoping to quell the much too wounded look on his face, “and I’ll definitely be owling you guys your gifts for Christmas Day.”

They moved on from the subject quickly then, their stomachs rumbling out for breakfast. Remus reminded himself to carefully pack the book you’d given him in between his cloaks later, just so he was absolutely sure your note wouldn’t get damaged.

For most students, returning to Hogwarts castle in the thick of winter was an unpleasant experience. Even after the constant excitement and adrenaline that comes with the holidays, students quickly descended into restlessness almost as soon as they stepped foot back on the snow-covered land. It wasn’t uncommon to overhear the groans and pleas for spring – the inevitable months of rain that would wash away the snow and bring new life. They were desperate for something brighter, something livelier.

Luckily for everyone, the Marauders seized all of this pent-up energy with vigor. Winter was officially the season of mischief, and they had a high standard to uphold after their iconic pre-Christmas prank. Remus found himself returning to the dorm after long days in the library only to see Sirius and James whispering and cackling at the foot of his bed more often than not. To their credit, they had various texts splayed open on their laps, though none of them were related to their courses in the slightest.

Remus, on the other hand, thought his research skills could be applied better elsewhere. He’s already read most of the beginner and elementary books in the library, after all.

Ever since he found a hidden cubby behind a small tapestry in one of the corridors on the way to Transfiguration (completely by accident, it was Severus’ fault for practically pushing him into it), it was all he could think about. It tugged at his attention constantly – in classes, in the common room, in his dreams. His curiosity for all of the other hidden spots throughout the castle–there must be hundreds in an establishment of this age–could not be quenched, not until he’d found them all, or most of them, at very least.

James’ invisibility cloak became infinitely useful for his purposes and given the endlessly gracious nature of his personality, he never once asked Remus what he needed it for. Remus would have told him, told all of them actually, if they asked. But they hadn’t yet, so he didn’t mind having a non-wolf related secret to himself. It almost made him feel normal.

He didn’t need the cloak tonight, though. It was still early and a while before curfew; the sun had just set when Remus finished his work, casting the sky in a mixture of pink and purple hues as he walked along the open hallway past the Transfiguration courtyard. It is getting closer and closer to spring now, and he has been able to push his boundaries of discovery even farther than ever before with the weather on his side. He’s found nooks and crannies all over the castle, so many, in fact, that he’s begun to wonder whether he should draw up a map soon. He’s thinking about this one particular spot tonight, behind a statue of an awfully hunched back lady with one eye, that he’s sure is something… if only he could find just the right spell…

As he turns the corner, Remus stumbles upon the first spot he ever found, behind the tapestry, same as before. Almost mindlessly, he pushes aside the thick, dusty fabric, not knowing what he was expecting to see. He nearly jumps out of his skin when all he can see is a dark mop of hair hunched over onto a dim ball of light. As the thing, whatever it is, turns around, he opens his mouth to scream. For a second, he thinks he is screaming, before he realizes the sound is coming from your mouth instead.

The gears finally begin to click into motion as his eyes dart from your familiar face (currently looking horrified) to the wand in your hand casting the Lumos charm. In your lap rests a rather large novel that you had snapped closed in your panic – it was The Count of Monte Cristo.

“What’d you do that for?!”

“Me?” Remus gapes at you. “You! You’re the one curled up creepily behind the tapestry!”

“Well… leave me to be creepy, then!” You huff. “What are you doing? Sneaking around peeking behind all of the castle’s tapestries?”

“I–I wasn’t… it’s none of your business!”

You narrow your eyes at him as the outer corners of your lips tug upwards slowly, as if directed by a puppeteer with a string. It sends a chill down the length of his spine, and he convinces it’s the residual fear from when he hadn’t known it was you.

“Alright, then.” You drop your annoyance instantaneously, shrugging your shoulders as if you really can’t be bothered.

“At least help me out of here, would you, Lupin?”

He quickly wipes his hands on his robes, just in case, before offering up his palm. Your small hand slips into his with ease as he tugs you lightly up and out of the hole. It’s cold, much colder than his, but he tends to run hot. It feels nice. Once you’re in a standing position, however, you unfortunately take your hand back to rest on top of the book in your arms and Remus isn’t able to relish in the physical touch for as long as he would’ve liked to.

“Shall we head back, then? It’s almost curfew.” You say distractedly, glancing down at your wristwatch.

“Sure,” Remus shrugs.

You don’t ask him again about why he was looking behind the tapestry, and he doesn’t ask you about your choice of reading spots. Thus, the pair of you are left in relative silence, with only your footfalls echoing along the cobblestone walls, in tandem.

As the Fat Lady portrait accepts the password and swings open, Remus gestures for you to enter first. He quickly follows, stepping into the toasty common room to find you stopped in front of his friends and Lily, lounging on the couch. All of their eyes morph into various different expressions–confusion, suspicion, amusement, a mixture of all of the above. Sirius’ eyes look especially full of mirth, but just as he opens his mouth, Lily kicks him from where she lays on the carpeted floor. You and Remus exchange a quick, confused look, causing Sirius to actually scoff.

“Well… anyway, bye Lupin.”

Lily walks over and winds her arm around yours, tugging you up the stairwell to the girls’ dormitory.

Remus sits down in front of the fireplace, facing his best friends, looking down at him questioningly.

“What?”

“He dares to ask us what?” Sirius guffaws.

“Are you two… friends?” James asks, one eyebrow raised in a slight curve.

Remus shrugs, “I don’t know… I guess? I’ve only talked to her a few times.”

He doesn’t dare mention your Christmas gift, definitely not now, maybe not ever.

Sirius frowns, clearly displeased with his response. “You better not replace us with her.”

“Of course not. Girls suck anyway…”

It lacks the confidence Remus was aiming for, but it seems to do the trick. Sirius laughs, James smirks, and Peter nods, all in agreement. They quickly move on to other topics, mainly discussing the upcoming prank they’ve planned. Soon enough, their yawns become more and more frequent and they head to bed.

Remus finds it hard not to smile as he remembers your angry expression after being scared.

Spring comes and goes quickly, and not before long, the sweltering heat of summer becomes almost suffocating. The Shrieking Shack, in particular, is unbearable in the heat. Still, he is dreading his return to Wales.

At the end of course exams, when all his first year work has finally come to a close, Remus gets a letter delivered directly from Professor McGonagall. The look on her face is unclear as she hands it to him–it doesn’t seem as though it is good news. But surely, if he was being kicked out of Hogwarts, if they decided that the wolf was too much, too dangerous, they would tell him in person and not through a letter.

He sits on it for much longer than necessary. It’s one of the last nights in the dorm, when all of the other boys have gone to bed with light hearts, he sits with his own in the pit of his stomach. It weighs heavier and heavier with each breath, so he tears open the letter in a blind panic, just to try and rid himself of this feeling.

His eyes scan over the words as fast as he can, but it’s a short letter and the meaning fails to make any sense. He goes back to the top, reading it slowly this time. It tells him to go directly to St. Mungo’s to meet his parents, as soon as he arrives at King’s Cross Station. It provides some vague instructions on how to get there, before ending with a few explanatory words.

Please ask the front desk for Hope Lupin’s floor and room number upon arrival.

Remus is many things, but he is not shocked. He is guilty, for feeling so much dread about returning home, all while his own mother was sick and stuck in a hospital, likely wishing to be anywhere else. Maybe, if he hadn’t spent so much time angry at himself, angry at the world, maybe things would be different. Maybe if the wolf never existed, Hope would still be healthy. The stress, after all these years, couldn’t have been good for her health. Remus is many things, but he is not shocked. He was not foolish enough to ever let himself fully believe that he could be happy here, finally get what he wanted. Misery seems to always follow him wherever he goes, even all the way to Hogwarts, and he wonders helplessly if he will ever be free from it.

#remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin fic #marauders era #remus lupin #the marauders #remus lupin fanfiction #remus x reader

226 notes · View notes

wardenparker · 1 month ago

Note

Congrats!!!! 🎊Can I have Dave York & “Does no one here know how to knock?”

Please and thank you!

Dave York. 2k words. "Does no one here know how to knock?" E for Explicit! A smattering of foreplay along with domestic fluff. Co-written with @absurdthirst

In honor of Pedro's 50th birthday, a little domestic snapshot with Dave and the fam! 🎂🎁🎉

Mornings are normally chaos. A whirlwind of activity. Breakfasts bolted down and coffee consumed in gulps just as soon as the cup is cool enough to drink. Helping with last minute spelling practice for tests while packing lunchboxes and having an ever frequent argument about what is appropriate to wear. There is never just time to be.

Sundays are different. Sundays are slow, and sometimes lazy, and sometimes even romantic. There are Sundays where the girls don't even get up until eight in the morning, though that is admittedly rare. Sundays where the dog is lazing in the sun instead of barking for attention. Sometimes Sundays are absolutely divine.

It’s a rare morning for Dave. Dreams haven’t plagued his sleep, the internal clock that seems to run his body has been set to a rare snooze. He’s allowed to slowly crawl out of sleep, body warm and weighted down by the presence of someone else snuggled up against him. Making him smile even before his eyes ever flutter open.

You always stay close when you sleep, claiming it's because you run cold and Dave is a human heater, but the fact is that his presence is utterly calming for you. Even in your dreams, the place you want to be is as close to him as possible. Sweet, steady, supportive Dave. He doesn't even mind when you accidentally drool on his chest a little in the middle of the night.

It starts with a small move, your foot. Sliding up slightly against his leg. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his hand moves. Sliding down from your shoulder as he holds you close. Down your spine in a soft caress.

Next is the hum. Deep in the back of your throat and far away as you only just begin to wake up. Throaty and pleased, warm and relaxed. Exactly the way he likes you to be.

“You’re awake.” It’s an ironic observation, since he is too, but you can hear the smile in his voice. Lips near your ear.

"Mmm..." Humming again, you shift slightly on his chest but can't quite unglue your eyes yet. "Sort of," you huff, laughing at the way your first words of the morning make your voice crack a little.

He chuckles softly. “That’s okay. We can stay sort of awake together.”

"What time is it?" It feels later than usual, based on the fact that your step-daughters have not yet woken you up but you can feel the sun on your skin, and that fact just makes you want to burrow back into Dave's warmth and pretend nothing else exists for a little bit longer.

“Hmmmm.” He doesn’t know, but he honestly doesn’t care. “Does it matter?” He asks.

That earns a raspy chuckle from you, and you force your eyes open if only for the divine sight of your sleep mussed husband glowing in the morning sun. "Not at all."

He can feel your eyes on him, his own finally peeling open to see you staring at him. “Hello, beautiful.”

"Good morning, gorgeous." That first moment of seeing each other in the morning is so rarely peaceful that you just sigh to yourself and drink him in for a long moment. "Sleep well?"

"Holding you, aren't I?" He sleeps better with you. Holding you. Sometimes - he never admits it out loud - he believes you have become his security blanket. His own personal protection while he sleeps. It's silly and insane, but he feels more relaxed when you are in his arms.

“I love you, too.” Dave has little tells. Ones that you genuinely hope he never becomes aware of so that he’ll never train them out of his unconscious mind and body. Particularly this one — the tiniest pout in the world when he wants you to be the one to kiss him first. “I slept very well being your extra blanket,” you promise him, leaning forward to press your lips to his and obey that silent request for affection.

He loves when you kiss him. When you give the affection that seems to come so naturally to you. You shower the girls with it as well. Making sure they know you are not trying to replace their mother, but to be a friend and confidant if they should need one. Building a strong relationship with them and loving them even though they are only here half the week. He hums softly into the kiss and pulls you tighter against him.

The shift in the feeling in the room is palpable. Deepening the kiss is almost instinctual, letting touches linger and become grasping as the morning shifts from something gentle and soft to a feeling of neediness.

The house is still silent, so it's easy to let his hands wander. The soft, thin layers of your sleep clothes are no match for his interest in touching you, providing very little barrier as the kisses continue.

Need builds fast on these mornings. Not having a lot of privacy means that when you do get it, you’re hungry for touches and kisses that would be fully inappropriate to exchange in front of other people. Especially the kids.

Dave grunts, smirking against your lips as he rolls you under him. “Someone’s eager.” He teases, honestly just as eager himself and that’s obvious.

“And?” You grin against his lips and shift to open your legs, letting him lay in the cradle of your thighs. “We love morning sex and never ever get to have it.”

He hums and rocks his hips forward, teasing you through the thin layers of your panties and his boxers.

"Dave..." His name is a whine from your lips, but your breath is already in pants as you hitch one leg up on his hip.

His fingers are just hooking under the hem of your panties when the door to the bedroom bursts open. “Daddy!”

"Hey Molly!" You shift away from him almost instantly, readjusting the nightie you had slept in and dragging yourself reluctantly away from his hand the second you heard her voice.

“What are you doing?” Still innocent in so many ways, the younger girl tilts her head as Dave flips over and sits up.

“We were cuddling.” He answers, making her eyes light up.

“I want to cuddle!”

"Well then get up here, nugget." Patting the top of the blankets beside you, you beckon Molly up onto the bed and take a long, deep breath that wills all of the sexual charge to leave your body in favor of cuddling with an eight-year-old.

The irony of being cock blocked by his child is not lost on him, making him chuckle and roll his eyes at you as she flies into the bed.

"How did you sleep, nugget?" The affectionate nickname for the younger of the two girls has been around since you started dating her father and it's stuck.

“I slept good.” She chirps, barely missing Dave’s nuggets with a knee as she monkey-climbs into the bed between you. He can’t get too mad when she immediately leans over and kisses him. “How ‘bout you?”

"We slept well." You grin when she settles down against her Daddy's shoulder and shimmies under the blankets with you. "Are you excited to swim in the pool today?"

“I’m always excited to swim.” She turns and pouts up at Dave. “Mommy said I should have been a mermaid.” She tells him, making him snort.

“Who says you aren’t?” He teases, leaning in and nudging his nose against yours.

"I think your Mommy was exactly right." The relationship you have with Dave's ex-wife Carol is far more cordial than most people expect. The three of you are an active co-parenting team and encourage the girls to communicate openly and equally all around.

The wag of the bushy tail at the end of the bed catches Dave’s attention a second before head and paws appear. The large golden retriever not jumping up on the bed, but she whines because her girl is up there.

"Gigi!" Molly screeches so loud and so close to your ears that both you and Dave flinch away from the sound the second it erupts, but Molly is already scrambling out of bed before you can react more. The family's five-year-old golden retriever is her very best friend in the world and they spend as many waking hours together as possible. Including, clearly, right now.

“Close the door!” Dave huffs after her as she speeds out of the room, turning around to slam it shut. “Jesus.”

"Just a regular, chaotic morning in the York house," you snort, flopping back against your pillow.

“Yeah.” Dave grumbles. “Right before I was about to slide my fingers inside you, we are interrupted.”

"It's probably a good thing that it happened before." Even though it was an interruption, it was better than having Molly walk in while Dave was inside you.

He rolls his eyes even though you are right and smirks as he turns on his side. “Well, she’s gone now.” He points out.

"Boxers off," you intone seriously, already sliding your hand inside the waistband to get his hard-on back.

His almost chuckle is more of a groan, choked off when you squeeze him gently as he starts to rapidly harden again.

"Fuck." It's just a small moan, but you lean into his bulk and stifle it against his chest while you stroke his cock with methodical, rhythmic twists of your wrist and the long strokes you know he loves.

He loves the way you touch him. Right from the start you’ve confidently taken charge and learned what he’s liked from his soft moans and groans. “You’re so fucking perfect.” He promises, pushing his boxers down slightly before he slides his hand under your panties to tease you just as much.

You’re halfway to straddling him — leg lifted and body already shifting — when the door bursts open with another shriek of “Daddy!” From his older daughter that has you crumpling like a paper napkin back into the sheets.

Dave huffs, seriously regretting the open door policy he has with the kids. He never wanted them to feel like they couldn’t come to him. And obviously with his job, he would never lock his kids out of his bedroom at night. But this is annoying. “Does anyone here know how to knock?” He hisses, knowing that Alice is old enough to remember.

“Daddy can Lucy and April come over to swim today?” Alice asks from the doorway, obviously already awake for some time as there is a fresh cereal milk stain on her pajama shirt.

He pushed up to his elbow and sighs. Looking over at you before he nods. “Sure.”

“THANK YOU!” Alice goes running back down the hall, calling to her sister that “DADDY AND MOM SAID YES!”

“I guess we’re up for the day,” you sigh, though you can’t help but grinning. The girls took their time to it and you were glad to let them get there in their own way, but it’s a personal thrill for you that they’ve started calling you Mom.

Dave grunts, reaching down to pull his boxers back up as he lifts his hips. “Gonna have blue balls all fucking day.” He snorts, not really upset because the crinkle around his eyes gives him away.

“We’ll find a way to fit a quickie in.” Slipping from the bed, you throw him a wink and head for the bathroom to take an ultra-fast shower. More kids in the house means you need to get to the grocery store for snacks and the things to make a pool-day lunch. “Love you, baby.”

“I love you too.” Dave flops back down and looks up at the ceiling, smiling. He’s lucky. He has two great - meddling - kids and a wife that goes with the flow. So what if no one knows how to knock? They are comfortable enough to barge in and that says a lot.

------ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @haylzcyon @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73 @iceclaw101 @loveslide @elegantduckturtle @becsworld @julesonrecord @its-nebuleuse @itsrubberbisquit @mikeyswifie @guelyury @lizzie-cakes @for-a-longlongtime @vabeachazn @purplerain04 @weho2kcmo @madnessofadaydreamer

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Dave York #Dave York x reader #Dave York x you #Dave York x female reader #Suburban Murder Daddy #wife reader #microfic #Happy Birthday Pedro #Pedrito turns 50

158 notes · View notes

hawkinsbnbg · 9 months ago

Text

nightingales

Written for @steddieangstyaugust Day 13: "Please, stay."

tags: mutual pining, mildly dub-con, slight daddy kink (1 word), hurt/comfort, hookups to lovers, idiots in love, post ss2/post starcourt

rated: M | words: 3k | ao3

"Please stay."

That halted Eddie's movements briefly. Only briefly. And then he resumed zipping up his flies and buckling his belt as if nothing had been said.

Eddie's heart trembled in his chest, begging him to obey the voice of his Adonis, but he resisted. Because he had gone into this with his eyes wide open and head cleared of any delusional thoughts.

He knew his place, knew how to get his job done, knew what parts to hide safely away from prying eyes and protruding ears, knew just the way to make every night worth the time.

And knew he wouldn't find real love in one Steve Harrington—the town's sweetheart and golden boy—however lovely their rendezvouses had been so far.

"You're drunk, Harrington," he dared a look over his shoulder, sighing when he found the bane of his existence was already snoring softly.

Unable to help himself, Eddie cursed under his breath and stepped over to the bed once more to tuck Steve under the blanket neatly, safe and sound, and lingered for a bit to admire how young and carefree Steve looked while asleep.

Mouth slacked, eyes closed peacefully, features softened from all the edges, so unlike the bone-deep exhaustion that clouded those pretty hazels with gloomy shadows.

At least, after their little arrangement started, Steve seemed to have benefited from it judging by the lack of his heavy eye bags.

Two months ago, Steve had come asking for something to help him sleep and somehow left with a bag of weed after blowing Eddie's brain out.

It was so surreal that Eddie thought he had hallucinated the whole thing while high off his ass.

Except, Steve kept seeking him out, going from paying for drugs with intense blowjobs to something more, something Eddie could give him without affecting the Munson household's finances.

Since then, Steve would wait for him at the Harrington's residence considering it was easier and safer that way, and Eddie would do his best to pound Steve so good he would conk out by the time they were done.

And yet, more often than not, Steve would already have taken a few swigs from daddy dearest's pricey liquors and would be quite tipsy by the time Eddie arrived.

Not that Eddie hated it. He was obsessed with a tipsy Steve actually. Because tipsy Steve was always sweeter, more open and pliant with everything Eddie gave him, more expressive and vocal in a way that made Eddie weak on the knees.

Then again, tipsy Steve also got quite a loose mouth.

He asked for things Eddie would be dying to give him, he said things that were too good to be true, he sang Eddie's name like prayers, and he always begged Eddie to stay.

None of that helped Eddie's stupid heart to stay at bay at all. Because the moment Steve's pretty mouth pressed on his ear and whispered "Daddy", he was a goner.

Nonetheless, Eddie hadn't survived to this day to not being aware of how dangerous Steve Harrington was.

A rich straight boy who was curious about the world around himself. Who would stamp on Eddie's heart once he got bored and decided to move on. Who would leave Eddie behind to go get a perfect family with a beautiful wife, two kids and a half, and a white-picket-fenced house.

It didn't take Eddie long to make up his mind.

He looked at Steve once more before turning on his heels to leave the room, somehow feeling less hollow and cold after two months of witnessing them together.

So long as Steve needed him, he would be there. And Eddie would make himself sacred when the time came.

———

"Stay the night?"

Eddie glanced up from the task in his hands—wiping Steve down with a warm washcloth—and smiled humorlessly.

"You know I can't, Harrington."

"Why, though?" Steve asked softly, eyes still hazy and bottom lip jutting out petulantly.

"My uncle will worry sick if I stay overnight outside," Eddie offered a half-truth considering Wayne had stopped giving him curfews since he started dealing.

"I'm flattered you wanna keep me in your chamber, princess," he leaned forward to press a kiss on Steve's forehead. "But I gotta go."

For a fleeting moment, Steve seemed sobered up enough to regard him with an unreadable look, like he could see right through Eddie's lie.

But the moment just passed as quickly as it came when Steve let out a teary yawn that shouldn't be as endearing as it was.

"Good night," Eddie whispered as he pulled the blanket up to cover his sleepy boy.

"G'night," Steve smiled, small and sweet, and was off to dreamland within seconds, leaving Eddie sitting by his side and gazing at him longingly.

———

When Steve wasn't drunk, he would be more tense and on guard, which Eddie could completely understand given their circumstances.

What Eddie couldn't understand, though, was that Steve still asked him to stay.

"I, uhm, have nightmares," Steve averted his eyes, he did that a lot lately, like he was afraid Eddie would figure out the secret in them if he looked too long. "It'll help to have someone hold me while I sleep."

It was so sly of him to use that card on Eddie, knowing full well how much of a bleeding heart Eddie was.

Therefore, Eddie knew the decision had been made for him even before he opened his mouth.

"Alright, I'll stay, but only 'til you fall asleep."

It was the right and wrong thing to say.

Eddie realized with great displeasure that he didn't like the way Steve's eyes dimmed right after having brightened up just seconds ago.

When Eddie left that night, he tried to not think about the disappointment on Steve's face when the younger boy woke up to his cold side of the bed in the morning.

(He failed.)

———

Steve didn't ask him to stay anymore.

And Eddie pretended that it didn't crush his heart just a bit when Steve refused to receive the aftercare.

In response, Eddie simply fucked him harder for that so he wouldn't have any strength left to protest by the end of it.

It was worth all the glares and pouts Steve shot his way when he just gave up on the charade after a while and let Eddie take care of him again.

"Stay, please?"

It was said so quietly, and if Eddie wasn't always paying attention to Steve, he wouldn't be able to catch it at all.

Eddie swallowed dryly, wanting nothing more than to return to Steve's side and scoop him in a cuddle until they both drifted off in each other's arms.

But reality was always cruel. And Eddie had learned that the hard way. He couldn't afford to make mistakes now when everything had been going smoothly so far. Especially when his traitorous heart was constantly on the verge of running away from him.

"I can't–"

"Sorry," Steve let out a sigh. "Just... Just forget about it."

When Eddie finished dressing, he turned to look at Steve and was greeted by a sun-kissed back.

He squashed the urge to come closer and run his fingers on it, mapping out the constellations and tracing love lyrics with his lips on those moles and freckles.

Instead, he walked over to the door and saw himself out.

"Have a sweet dream, Stevie."

He lingered a bit, only leaving once he was sure Steve had fallen asleep.

———

They didn't meet quite often anymore. Steve was busy with his summer job and Eddie was well... hung up on the what-ifs.

What if Steve was also a trailer kid? What if Eddie wasn't a drug dealer? What if they both came from normal families that loved and accepted them for who they were? What if then?

Eddie liked to think they would always meet each other at some point in their lives no matter what the circumstances. Eddie liked to think they were star-crossed lovers who couldn't get together because of the period they were living in. Eddie liked to think Steve also loved him back.

And yet, Eddie had seen Steve flirt with endless girls at Scoop Ahoy, making eyes with some guys who looked like college jocks, who could guarantee him a good time once he dropped Eddie like a sack of potatoes.

Eddie had stood on the sideline and watched with burning, acidic jealousy as Steve threw his charm carelessly at everything that could breathe and walk on two legs.

When Steve turned to look at him with that same charming smile, Eddie realized it was time for him to wake up from his dream.

And so he did.

———

"Can you come tonight, Eddie?"

"Sorry, man, I've gotta sell all of this new stuff by the end of tonight 'cause the bills are due next week, ya know?"

"'S okay. Uhm, see you later?"

"See you later."

———

"Are you busy tonight?"

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that. I have band practice until midnight. And Wayne will be home by the time I'm done. So..."

"Yeah, I got it."

"Uh-huh."

"Rain check?"

"Rain check."

———

Eddie turned up the volume of his music until it drowned out the ringing of the phone.

———

Eddie bit his nails, watching Steve's beamer park outside the Mayfield's trailer, watching him talking and laughing with that red-haired little girl, watching him finally get back into the car and drive away once the sun set.

He didn't know if he should feel relieved or disappointed when Steve never looked at the Munson Trailer once.

———

Eddie jolted up by the sharp knocks on the trailer's door. A quick glance at the clock told him it was only two am, too early for the police's raid and too late for his customers to linger outside.

There was only one answer to that and he hoped Franklin would be cowed away by a broken beer bottle just like the other night.

Stumbling out of his bed and pulling up his jeans hastily, he blearily thanked his lucky star that Wayne wasn't home yet.

Because for all the patience the older man had, he didn't doubt Wayne would pull the shotgun on Franklin and well, Eddie wouldn't be sorry for the drunken bastard but he didn't want Wayne to get involved in his mess too much.

On his way, Eddie picked up his weapon from under the couch as he passed by it and marched straight to the door.

When he threw it open, scowling and ready to swing at his enemy, he was greeted by not Franklin but Steve Harrington instead.

Eddie faltered, feeling sick with worry and cold dread as he took in the sight of the younger boy.

"Jesus Christ," he dropped the bottle, ignoring the clang! it made on the floor, to hover his hands over Steve's face. "What the fuck had happened to you, Harrington?"

Steve honest-to-god giggled.

"S'not important anymore," he slurred and swayed on his feet, eyes swollen in purple and red, face caked in blood and bruises and scratches. He was a bloody mess.

Eddie pulled him inside as gently as possible, trying to stay level-headed for both Steve and himself because it wouldn't do either of them any good if he panicked now.

Carefully, Eddie guided Steve to the couch, flipping on just the lamp on the side table, knowing from experience that too much light would cause discomfort to someone who had just got beaten to a pulp.

He poured Steve a glass of water, watching him drink it slowly before getting up to retrieve the quick aid kit, clean towel, and wash his hands thoroughly with soap in the bathroom.

Once he was done cleaning the cuts on Steve's face, he applied some antiseptic cream on the injured areas—which didn't look that bad after the blood was gone.

During the whole time, Steve remained oddly silent, eyes slightly glazed over like being high or in shock, just watching Eddie do all the work and only letting out a few quiet hisses when the cuts burned.

Eddie had apologized plenty for that, wishing he could share half of the pain Steve was feeling at the moment.

Then he asked Steve about the other possible injuries and concussions, not wanting to overlook anything and receiving a simple "Yes" to both questions.

("Christ, we should bring you to the hospital, Stevie."

"No, no hospital. Please."

"... Have you had anyone besides me checked your injuries, yet?"

"Uh, yeah, the paramedics. They cleared me after a bit. 'Cause there's nothing really bad, though.")

"Can I sleep now?" Steve sniffed, sounding small and lost, making Eddie's heart ache terribly.

"Not yet, Bambi," Eddie smiled softly when those pitiful doe eyes looked at him. "We gotta bathe you first, wash away these dirt and grimes before bringing you to bed."

And he wasn't lying, either. Wherever Steve had been all night had soiled his cute sailor uniform and turned him into a real Cinderella.

"C'mon," Eddie guided him up with a hand around his waist while ducked to shoulder one of his arms. "The quicker we do it, the sooner you can get your beauty sleep."

Fortunately, Steve didn't protest and allowed Eddie to half-carry him all the way into the bathroom.

———

Eddie took in a sharp inhale when he got to see the damage beneath Steve's clothes. It was far more severe than he had anticipated and he wondered if the paramedics would've let Steve go had they seen this.

Sighing inwardly, Eddie used a washcloth and gently scrubbed all the mud and blood off Steve's body, shushing the younger boy softly when he whimpered at the stings and dull aches.

Eddie had half a mind to kiss them better, but he reined in his desire to soothe Steve's pain and concentrated on making the shower as short as possible.

By the time they left the bathroom, Steve was trembling minutely but the fog in his eyes had dissipated and he seemed more conscious than when he appeared on the Munson Trailer's front porch.

After putting on one of Eddie's old Metallica tees and a pair of red flannel pants by himself, Steve ran a hand through his dampened hair and gave Eddie a crooked smile.

"Sorry for bothering you this late."

"I wanted to help," Eddie corrected him quickly.

"Of course, I know you would," Steve swallowed, eyes flickering back and forth from Eddie's eyes to his pale tattooed chest. "But I'm still sorry for having turned up without calling ahead. I was lucky enough I didn't ruin your uncle's sleep."

"He'd do the same for you, you know that right?" Eddie raised an eyebrow, chest tight with possessiveness at the sight of Steve wearing his clothes, standing in his bedroom, and smelling of his shampoo.

"Look," Steve spoke up before Eddie could say anything. "I gotta go now."

"No," Eddie reached for Steve's hand and held on it tightly. "You're not going anywhere."

"Why?"

Eddie clicked his tongue in mild annoyance, wanting to know what made Steve think it was wise to sleep without supervision while having a concussion and cracked ribs.

"I'm not letting you go back to your place alone like this."

Steve snorted and rolled his eyes, a hint of King Steve peeking through the veil. He tried to pull his hand back but gave up once he realized Eddie wouldn't let him go.

He settled with a tired sigh instead.

"I don't want your pity, Munson."

"I'm not pitying you."

"So what is this?" Steve hissed as he raised his captured wrist and shook it lightly for emphasis.

Eddie only tightened his grasp further, paranoid that Steve would slip through his fingers like sand.

"It's not pity," Eddie met those hazel eyes, still burning with that same fire he always loved. He brought Steve's hand to his lips, pressing shaky kisses on those bruised knuckles.

He still wanted to run away. But the idea of leaving Steve caused him such unbearable pain that he just knew would break him down if he ever did it again.

"I care for you, Steve," his voice cracked as he confessed quietly, "I care for you a lot."

Steve breathed in sharply, eyes glassy with unshed tears and lips quivered.

"Then why did you never stay?" He asked softly. "Why did you always leave even when I begged you not to?"

Eddie stepped in closer and used his free hand to hold on to Steve's as well.

"'Cause I was scared, sweetheart," he whispered. "Scared of having my heart broken. 'Cause I knew, always do, that I don't deserve pretty things like you. That I can't give you all the good things that you deserve."

"So I'm begging you now," he blinked away his tears and looked at Steve beseechingly.

"You don't have to–"

"Please, stay," he pleaded. "Please give me another chance to show you how much you matter to me. Please trust me to make it right this time. Please."

Steve became worryingly silent at that. But Eddie still waited patiently, knowing it was a lot to take it all at once. Even Eddie himself was reeling from what he just said.

"You ignored my calls."

"I'm sorry."

"You always left although I begged you not to."

"I'm sorry."

"You lied to me."

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't tell me what I did wrong," Steve mumbled, lips wobbling and nose turned pink.

That cut him deep.

"No, sweetheart, no," Eddie tugged him closer and embraced him gently, heart swelling with fondness when Steve melted in his arms.

"You did nothing wrong, baby, it's all my fault," Eddie sniffled, walking them both to his bed carefully. "I'm so sorry for making you think that way."

As Steve let out a wounded noise and started shaking with small sobs, Eddie cried with him and stroked his back soothingly, knowing he would kill and die for this boy in a heartbeat, knowing that he could never not be in love with Steve Harrington.

When they finally settled on the mattress together, Eddie spooned Steve from behind and pressed kisses everywhere he could reach.

Steve giggled quietly, too exhausted to say anything but still leaning into Eddie's warmth all the same.

Eddie knew they still had a lot to discuss to make their newly found relationship really work, but as he listened to Steve's soft snoring, he was certain they would be fine this time.

As long as they were together.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie angsty august #sionewrites

438 notes · View notes

collectorofsoulss · 2 months ago

Text

Obey Me! The Exchange Students I

Part II

As the first human to attend the Devil's Exchange Program, you had walked through the gates of this infernal realm a year ago, unsure of what awaited you. Your time in the Devildom had been a whirlwind of unexpected friendships, cultural shocks, and—let's be honest—a fair amount of chaos. From awkward encounters with demons that were far too interested in your human snacks, to getting tangled in the absurdly confusing politics of the Demon Lord’s court, you had survived it all.

When you had first arrived, it was just you—one lone human (Solomon definitely does not count! His immortal ass) on an exchange program that no one thought would succeed. Yet, somehow, it did. Diavolo, the charismatic Demon Prince, was so impressed by the success of your year-long stay that he decided to expand the program. His vision? To introduce more humans to the Devildom. And so, the program grew.

Now, seven humans were entering the program, each assigned to one of the infamous seven demon brothers. Their personalities were as varied as the colors of the rainbow, and you had to admit, you were curious how this would work. What made you pause, though, was the fact that each of the brothers was paired with a human. For a brief, fleeting moment, you couldn’t help but feel… uneasy. Seeing the brothers each assigned a human…made you question your place. It was a strange feeling, an uncomfortable thought gnawing at you. Was it jealousy? Or insecurity?

But you also knew that this wasn’t about you. It was their job. The brothers were given this task because Diavolo trusted them to guide and protect the new humans, just as they had done for you. It was just a job, right? Still, that tiny seed of doubt lingered, gnawing at the back of your mind. Would they care for these new humans the way they cared for you?

There was something you hadn’t fully considered—the sheer length of time the brothers had lived compared to the short, fleeting year you’d spent with them. A demon's lifespan wasn’t measured in years or decades—it was centuries. And in the grand scheme of their existence, a year? That was nothing.

Would the feelings they’d developed for you last? At first, you tried to push the thought aside. Surely, their bond with you was deeper than just a passing interest. But doubt crept in, and the more you thought about it, the more your stomach twisted with uncertainty. What if, after you left, the brothers would simply slip back into their old ways, as though you’d never been there? Would they still hold onto the bond you shared, or would it fade with time, as some distant memory of a human they once cared for?

There was that gnawing thought in your mind: Out of sight, out of mind. The brothers were used to long separations. Was it possible that, once you were gone, their memories of you would blur? Was it even realistic to expect that your year-long stay had truly impacted their eternal lives? Perhaps it was just the nature of demons. Time meant very little to them. But you weren’t like that. You were human. You’d only been there for a year, and even now, you weren’t sure if the relationship you had with each of the brothers was strong enough to withstand time and distance.

As you stood before the House of Lamentation, a strange mix of emotions churned inside you. Part of you wanted to believe in the bond you’d created with each of them, but another part of you… wondered if, like many things in the Devildom, it was just a fleeting moment in their endless lives.

You couldn’t help but wonder: Do they still hold the same strong feelings since you were gone?

Lucifer

Lucifer’s assigned human is a self-assured, confident individual—a bit too much for their own good. They walk around like they own the place, constantly giving orders and demanding attention from everyone, even Lucifer himself. They have no respect for Lucifer's position—assuming that because he’s a demon, he’s subservient or lesser in some way. Lucifer doesn’t let anyone speak to him like that, especially not humans. However, he bites his tongue and uses his incredible patience, knowing that it’s his responsibility to ensure the human’s safety and that they adjust to the Devildom properly.

Lucifer’s typical interactions with this human test his limits. Their bossy attitude has him holding back, trying to remain diplomatic, especially since he doesn’t want to risk any issues with the exchange program. Even though they constantly challenge his authority, Lucifer keeps his calm, regal demeanor. There will be moments of passive-aggressive tension, where Lucifer’s patience is thin, but he’d never let them see how close they are to crossing a line that could make him lose his temper and make the human lose their life.

The halls of the House of Lamentation felt as familiar as ever—the low hum of magic in the air, the faint scent of dark roses drifting lazily through the stone corridors. You hadn’t been here in what felt like ages, but everything, from the sleek marble floors to the faint sound of boots echoing through the vast chambers, was just as you remembered. You missed everything—the dim lighting, the faint scent of black roses. But most of all, you missed him. When you spot Lucifer by his office door, your heart clenches. He’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed, that familiar poised stance still intact. His crimson eyes lock onto yours, softening a rare crack in his usually stoic demeanor. He knew you were here; he could just sense your essence and it was unmistakably you.

“Welcome home darling.”

Your breath catches. The way he says it—low and sweet—makes your chest tighten. The two of you slowly gravitate toward each other. You can feel the weight of the years between you, all the unspoken things, the distance.

Mammon always joked about how Lucifer was older than dust, how he’d lived before Earth, before mankind itself. Surely, someone with so much knowledge, so much experience, would forget—right?

The thought stings more than you care to admit, and you shyly avert his reach, walking further into his office. Your fingers brush over his paperwork absentmindedly, pretending to focus on something, anything else but the way he’s looking at you. The subtle tension, the way your heart races—you’re scared to feel him.

“You remember…me?” you said timidly.

Lucifer watches you carefully, his presence is as strong as ever, but there’s a gentleness in the way he moves toward you. He stops beside you, his voice is calm and steady, laced with warmth.

“Of course, I remember you.”

He presses himself against your side, just close enough to let the heat of his body fill the space between you. His hand finds your hips, touching you softly, the feeling of his fingers trailing just a little lower, just a little too intentionally. The touch sends a wave of warmth rushing through you, and you blink in surprise, your breath catching in your throat.

“You remember me that well?” you ask quietly.

Lucifer’s gaze softens, and his lips twitch in the slightest hint of a smile.

“How could I forget?” He leans in closer, the deep, rich tone of his voice wrapping around you like a velvet embrace. “You’re not someone I can forget, no matter how many years pass.”

His hand moves along your side, brushing your skin, fingertips barely grazing. His touch is gentle, making every nerve in your body stand on edge. He moves so smoothly, drawing you closer without a single word. He’s done this dance with you—he’s always known how to make you feel like you’re the only one in the room.

Without warning, his touch shifts, just enough to land on a particular spot. The instant he touches you there, your entire body freezes. It’s an intimate, private place that only he has ever touched. And now, feeling his fingers press there so softly, the connection between you feels electric. Your cheeks flush, your heart races.

You quickly look away, trying to suppress the warmth creeping up your neck, but Lucifer’s gaze never wavers. He can see it—the way your body reacts to him, the way you can't quite hide it.

“Does this still affect you, darling?” he murmurs with a small, knowing smile.

You glance up at him, and before you can say a word, he’s lifting you effortlessly, settling you onto the edge of his desk. The cool surface beneath you contrasts sharply with the warmth radiating from him. He stands in front of you, his eyes tracing over you like a careful artist, admiring what he's longed to see again. His gaze softens, and he leans in just slightly, enough to be close enough for you to feel the heat of his breath on your skin.

“I remember every moment with you,” he says, his hand resting gently on your thigh, his touch almost possessive yet filled with a tenderness you always expect from him. “Every look. Every laugh. Every sigh. You’ve never left my thoughts.”

Soon a voice cuts through the moment. “Lucifer. I need you now. I have some business to take care.”

Your eyes flicker to the side, and there stands his assigned human. He’s standing with his arms crossed, furrowed brow, and an arrogant tilt to his chin. He glances at you briefly but dismisses you immediately, clearly prioritizing his own agenda.

Lucifer’s gaze narrows. “Excuse you?”

“I have an appointment in the Human World,” the guy says impatiently, tapping his watch like he has the right to rush the Avatar of Pride. “You need to escort me.”

You glance at Lucifer, expecting him to give his usual polite but firm dismissal. Instead, his entire presence darkens. The air shifts—the weight of his magic pressing heavily in the corridor. His eyes narrow into something dangerous, his hand twitching slightly as if restraining an urge.

Lucifer’s voice lowers, deep and venomous. “You dare interrupt me?”

The human scoffs, oblivious to the danger. “Yeah, and? That’s literally your job, right?”

Big mistake. HUGE mistake. Without another word, Lucifer steps toward him, his boots heavy against the stone floor. His magic crackles faintly, the tips of his ebony wings materializing ever so slightly—a slow, deliberate display of power. The temperature in the hallway seems to drop several degrees. Lucifer’s tone is icy. “You seem to have misunderstood your position here, human.” His eyes gleam with a dangerous glint as he leans in slightly. “You are under my protection. Not my command.”

“But—” the human stammers.

Lucifer narrows his eyes ever so slightly, “Allow me to remind you of your place.”

The human stumbles back slightly, his face pale. His eyes flicker toward you, almost as if searching for help, but you just arch a brow. Yeah, you’re not helping him. Lucifer takes a slow step forward, his boots clicking against the floor.

“You are nothing more than a temporary guest in this realm. Do not mistake my hospitality for servitude.”

The human backs away, visibly shaken, his previous arrogance completely shattered. He practically bolts out of the room without another word, slamming the door behind him. The moment he’s gone, the room falls into heavy silence. Lucifer slowly exhales, closing his eyes for a brief moment as the lingering tension in his shoulders dissipates.

He then turns back to you, his expression immediately softening. His wings dissipate reigning in his magic. When he meets your eyes, the contrast is jarring—the sharp, merciless demon replaced with someone who only ever looks at you with tenderness. He strides over to where you’re sitting and leans down, bracing his hands on the desk, caging you in.

His face is inches from yours, “Now… where were we?” he murmurs, voice like honey, as if the previous encounter hadn’t just made you weak in the knees.

Your breath catches slightly at his sudden shift in demeanor. You stare into his eyes, the lingering traces of his dangerous aura making your pulse quicken. Lucifer’s voice lowers further, his lips brushing your ear. “You do know… I only obey you.”

Your eyes widen slightly at his words, and a delicious shiver runs down your spine. His low chuckle rumbles softly against your skin. He captures your lips in a slow, possessive kiss.

“There is no one who comes before you. No one.”

Bonus Detail:

After the incident with Lucifer’s assigned human, the poor guy is so intimidated that he immediately requests a reassignment.

The human, now constantly on edge, has to remind himself not to interrupt Lucifer while he’s with you.

He knows the human assignment is a mere formality, but when he’s with you, he’ll take every opportunity to make you feel like the only one that matters.

“You’ll always remain my priority, no matter how many humans Diavolo sends my way.”

Mammon

He finally gets the taste of his own medicine. Because of their reckless nature, Mammon is forced into the role of a responsible protector—something he’s not used to, given his chaotic personality. He has to be the voice of reason, preventing them from making dangerous decisions like setting things on fire, taking wild risks, or just generally creating a mess of things. Mammon has to constantly babysit, running after them to stop them from doing something ridiculously dangerous. He’s often seen yelling at them. Mammon has always been reckless himself, but now, with his human, he gets a taste of what it’s like to be the responsible one—and it's not easy.

The House of Lamentation looms in the distance, its ominous yet familiar architecture sending a flutter through your stomach. As you make your way down the path, your fingers brush the iron gate. It swings open with a low creak, and that’s when you hear it—his voice.

“Oi! Get back here, ya idiot!”

You turn toward the sound, and there he is—Mammon. He’s sprinting after a chaotic blur of a human, his jacket billowing behind him, blue eyes narrowed with exasperation. His hair is messier than usual, sticking out at odd angles from clearly having a rough day. His D.D.D. is clutched tightly in his hand, and his mouth is moving a mile a minute as he barks orders. But then… He sees you.

His entire body locks up, eyes are wide in disbelief. For a moment, everything else falls away—the background noise of the human shouting, the distant chaos, the entire Devildom itself. It’s as if the world slows down, and all he can see is you. The human tugs on his jacket, clearly panicking about something, but Mammon doesn’t even blink. His gaze is locked onto you—and only you.

“...No way…” he breathes, barely above a whisper.

Your name tumbles from his lips in a voice so gentle and reverent it makes your chest tighten. Without thinking, he drops his D.D.D. and shrugs off the human like they’re nothing more than a leaf in the wind. The human stumble but Mammon doesn’t care—he doesn’t even notice him anymore. He’s already moving toward you.

Before you can process it, Mammon crosses the distance in an instant.

“You’re… You’re really here…”

His hands are suddenly on your face—trembling fingers brushing over your cheeks, your jaw, your lips, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t touch you. His eyes search yours frantically, almost like he can’t believe you’re real.

“I-I missed ya—damn it, I missed ya so much,” he stammers breathlessly.

And then, before you can respond, he crushes you against his chest, burying his face into your hair. His arms lock around you tightly, almost desperate. You can feel his heart pounding violently against your own, racing so fast it might burst from his chest. His fingers fist into the fabric of your clothes, knuckles pale from the force of his grip. You gasp softly at the intensity of his embrace, but then you melt into him, your arms winding around his waist.

“I missed you too,” you murmur into his jacket.

You feel him shudder slightly at your words. His fingers trail up into your hair, trembling as they card through the strands. He presses you closer, as if trying to memorize the feeling of you in his arms all over again. For a moment, he just holds you, his breathing ragged and uneven, as though he’s trying to keep it together but failing spectacularly.

A loud crash echoes behind you, breaking the quiet intimacy of the moment. You glance over Mammon’s shoulder, startled, only to see his assigned human tangled in a heap of broken wooden crates. Something is smoking in his hands, and his jacket is slightly singed.

“MAMMON!” the human shrieks, waving his arms. “I NEED HELP! I—I THINK I MIGHT’VE… OH, SHIT, IS THAT A DEMON HOUND?!”

You hear feral snarling in the distance. You look at Mammon in mild panic, but…He doesn’t even turn around. His arms are still locked around you, his face pressed into your neck, ignoring the absolute chaos behind him.

“Tch. He'll be fine,” he mutters gruffly, nuzzling further into you. His hands tighten on your waist. “Ain’t no way in hell I’m lettin’ go of ya for that moron.”

You blink in surprise, glancing over his shoulder again at the disaster unfolding behind him. His human is now frantically stomping out the flames on his jacket, screaming something about impending doom, while the distant demon hound howls ominously.

“Mammon—” you start, but he cuts you off with a low, gravelly murmur in your ear. “Nah… Don’t care. I ain't lettin’ ya go.”

Your eyes widen slightly, but then you feel him kiss your temple—slow, lingering, and achingly gentle. When he finally pulls back slightly, he gazes down at you with half-lidded eyes, his pupils slightly blown out.

“I ain’t lettin’ ya go,” he rasps. His eyes soften, filled with nothing but raw, unfiltered love. “Don’t care what happens—ya hear me? Yer mine.”

Your chest tightens at the tenderness in his voice. His hand cups your face, his thumb tracing slow, reverent circles against your cheek. “No one’s takin’ yer place,” he breathes, leaning in closer, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours.

“Yer always first, sweetheart.”

He closes the distance, kissing you deeply. His lips move slowly against yours like he’s savoring you, desperate to memorize your taste all over again. And despite the chaos and screaming still going on in the background, Mammon doesn’t even flinch. He’s far too busy falling in love with you all over again.

As the chaos continues to unfold behind him, Mammon’s frustration grows. His human is still yelling, running around like a headless chicken, and the shrill sound of him calling his name echoes through the air. Every time he screams his name, Mammon’s brows twitch in annoyance, and his grip on you tightens slightly. He’s had enough.

With a low, frustrated growl, Mammon’s eyes flick toward the disaster unfolding in the distance. His human is now struggling with an oversized demon hound, trying to fend it off. Mammon clenches his jaw and mutters under his breath.

“Ugh, seriously? Can’t a demon have a damn moment!”

In one swift motion, he pulls you closer, his hands gripping your waist possessively, and before you can even blink, you’re airborne, flying higher into the sky. You yelp, but Mammon’s grip on you is firm, holding you securely as he takes you to the roof of the House of Lamentation.

Once there, Mammon wastes no time. He sits down cross-legged, and pulls you into his lap without hesitation. His arms curl around your waist, and his lips are already pressed against your temple, sighing deeply in contentment. He leans back against the roof, his eyes closing for a brief moment before looking up at you with a playful glint in his eyes.

“Ain’t no way I’m lettin' some idiot ruin this moment,” Mammon mutters, still sounding gruff. His hands trail slowly up your back, pulling you closer to him, locking you in place on his lap. His eyes never leave yours, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Now... I want somethin’ from ya,” Mammon says, his voice lowered to a hushed whisper, a hint of impatience creeping in. “A kiss. Keep 'em comin' ya hear? I need ‘em, lots of it!"

You blink at him in surprise, but Mammon's expression is unwavering, his gaze full of longing. He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth, each kiss slow and soft. Until he pulls back to ask “Well? What ya waitin’ for?”

You smile, a warm, tender feeling spreading through your chest as you return his kisses, each one more passionate than the last, the world fading into the background. The sounds of his human’s chaos below seem so distant now, as Mammon only cares about the feeling of you in his arms, keeping you close and demanding more of your affection.

Bonus Detail:

Later, once you’ve reunited properly with the brothers, Mammon gets lectured for abandoning the human.

“Mammon… What happened to him?” Lucifer.

He only shrugs lazily, throwing an arm around you, “Eh… He didn’t die.”

The human, still limping, waves off the concern with a weak smile, “I’m alright… really… just a sprained leg… and a… couple broken ribs…” Just as he finishes speaking, he faints and collapsing onto the floor.

Mammon doesn’t even flinch, instead looks at Lucifer with a smirk. “See? Told ya. He's fine.”

Lucifer just sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. Mammon ignores the gravity of the situation and instead decides to tease the current shocked expression on your face.

Leviathan

Leviathan’s human is like the ultimate cheerleader, helping him see his own worth and that he deserves a little bit of love, especially from you. They’d also be a great source of moral support. They also have a love for outdoor activities. Leviathan would find it so awkward and be overwhelmed by their energy. He’d much rather sit with his games and anime, but they don’t give up.

Slowly, he realizes they’re not trying to change him but to help him grow and experience life outside of his comfort zone. By the end of their time together, he’s probably more appreciative of outdoor activities and even starts to enjoy them, but he’ll never admit it. He just likes having a balance now — time for gaming and time for a little adventure. They have some playful streak in — always willing to try new things and encourage others to push their boundaries, including Levi.

You’re standing outside of Leviathan’s door, your hand hovering just over the handle. For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to knock right away. Your chest tightens slightly as you stare at the familiar wood, memories rushing back. You remember the hours you spent in his room, watching anime marathons until you both passed out. You remember him excitedly rambling about a new game, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm while he explained the lore. You remember when he shyly held your hand for the first time, his face flushed to his ears. But now… you aren’t sure what to expect. Finally, you muster the courage and gently knock on the door, “Levi? It’s me.”

There’s a brief pause, followed by the sound of something crashing inside. You hear Levi’s frantic scrambling—the familiar shuffle of game cases falling and his tail smacking against furniture. You can practically picture him panicking at the sudden intrusion.

“J-Just a sec!” he calls out, his voice breathless.

When the door finally creaks open, Levi stands there, slightly disheveled, his face flushed from his hurried movements. His amber eyes widen slightly when he sees you.

“Y-Y/N…?” His voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid you’re an illusion.

You give him a soft smile, expecting him to pull you into the room—maybe even into his arms. But instead… he hesitates. His eyes flicker nervously over his shoulder.

Your gaze follows his, and that’s when you see her. Leviathan’s assigned human. She’s seated on his gaming chair, her back to you, completely immersed in one of Leviathan’s newest games. She’s wearing his headset, chatting casually with other players online.

“How do I pause the game? Ugh! I don’t know how to jump!” she panics.

Leviathan notices your expression immediately, and his eyes widen slightly in panic, “W-Wait! I-It’s not what it looks like!”

His tail nervously coils around his ankle, a clear sign that he’s flustered. But you can’t help the pang in your chest. The scene is so… familiar. It reminds you of all those times you gamed with him, wearing his hoodies, sitting in that same chair, listening to his ramblings.

“Oh. You’re… busy.” Your voice comes out smaller than you intended.

Leviathan visibly panics, his hands flailing slightly as he steps toward you. “N-No! I’m not busy! She’s just—she’s just— l-leaving!”

The human twists around in the chair and gives you a sincere smile. “Oh! You must be Y/N.”

Leviathan stiffens, his eyes wide in horror, his face instantly turning red. “W-Wait, Don’t—!” But before he can try to shut her down, she appears before you, her grin wide and enthusiastic, “Levi talks about you all the time! You’re like, his favorite person!”

Leviathan’s tail whips around wildly, knocking over a few figurines in his panic. “N-No! I-I don’t know what you mean! I don’t… I don’t talk about her that much!”

The human presses on, practically bouncing with excitement. “Oh, you’re so cute! You’re the one in all his pictures! He has them all over his shelves. I swear, you’re like, the highlight of his life! It so adorable!”

Leviathan looks as though he’s about to faint right there, his tail coils around his ankle so tightly that it’s almost cutting off circulation. “D-DON’T say things like that!” He shrieks, grabbing his head like he’s about to explode from embarrassment. You feel a little bad for him, but his flustered state is just too sweet. You give him a teasing smile, leaning a little closer to him, “You never told me you had all those pictures of me.”

Leviathan freezes, and his eyes widen in shock. “Th-They’re just there for… for sentimental reasons!” At this point, Levi is literally hiding his face behind his hands, mumbling under his breath in defeat. It’s clear how much he still cares.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, “I missed you too.”

“Y-You do?”

You nodded shyly, stepping closer and closer. For a moment, everything else fades away, and it’s just the two of you, standing there in the dim light of his room. As you both stare at each other, you feel a strange pull toward him—an invisible force drawing you closer. You notice his pupils are dilating, and the way his breath catches in his throat. Then there is a quiet voice from behind him—a voice too excited for its own good. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

You glance over at Leviathan’s human, who is now quietly chanting, eyes gleaming with mischief. She’s practically grinning from ear to ear, clearly loving the drama of the situation. Leviathan’s face turns beet-red, and he practically staggers backward, his tail flailing as he trips over a stray video game case.

“W-Wait, R-Right now—! I-I can’t—!”

Before Levi can retreat any further, you make a decision. Stepping closer, you place your hands gently on his shoulders, guiding him toward you. Without giving him time to overthink, you pull him in, and your lips meet his—quiet, soft, and shy, just like everything between the two of you had always been. Leviathan’s body stiffens at first, caught off guard by the intensity of the moment, but then he melts into the kiss. His arms, still a little hesitant, tentatively wrap around you. His tail, which had been nervously flicking behind him, curls tightly around your leg in affection.

His heart is practically hammering in his chest, and for a moment, it feels like the world slows down. All that’s left is the gentle warmth of his lips against yours, the softness of his touch, and the steady rhythm of his breath. The world outside seems distant, unimportant. You pull away after, your eyes on his, but just as you do, you hear an unmistakable sound—the giggles of Levi’s human.

“Ooooh, that was so cute!” she teases, clearly loving the scene unfolding before her.

Leviathan’s eyes widen in shock, his face turning an even deeper shade of red as he starts to sway on his feet. Then, in a sudden, dramatic swoon, his eyes roll back, and his knees give out beneath him. In a dead faint, Levi crumbles into your arms, leaving you to awkwardly catch him. The human stands there, eyes wide with disbelief, her mouth hanging open in utter surprise.

“Did he just—?”

You can’t help but sigh softly, feeling a mix of amusement and fondness. “Yep. He does this sometimes. Don’t worry, he’ll wake up in a second. It’s totally normal.”

The human’s jaw drops even further as she stares at you, her eyes darting between Levi, unconscious, and you, who seems completely unfazed by the situation.

“You’re... you're seriously telling me that he just faints like this all the time?” she asks, incredulously.

You give a small laugh, trying to adjust Levi’s weight in your arms, “Unfortunately, yeah. But I’m getting used to it by now.” With a soft groan, you attempt to move him, but he’s heavier than you expected, “Can you help me get him into his tub? He’s kinda heavy.”

The human snaps out of her stunned state and nods eagerly. “Sure!”

Together, the two of you awkwardly drag Leviathan’s limp body across the room. Every now and then, you accidentally bang him against something or nearly trip over him, but you manage to get him into the tub. Once he’s finally settled in, you let out an exhale, dropping onto the floor. The room falls into a moment of silence. After a moment, you look over at Leviathan, still knocked out, and then glance back at the human.

“So… what else did he say about me?” you ask eagerly leaning in.

The human’s eyes light up, a mischievous glint flashing in her gaze. Levi is not going to be happy when he wakes up.

Bonus Detail:

He definitely made up for lost time, having intimate conversations in the tub, noses inches away as you two cuddle.

Constantly feels you up, muttering a shy sorry if he grabs you too hard. What? He's nervous, okay!

Leviathan’s human is the ultimate wingman.

She’s always making sure his brothers don’t cockblock.

Definitely takes secret candid photos of you two to give later, adding to Leviathan's collection.

148 notes · View notes

hoosurdaddy · 19 days ago

Text

Nest. (Part 2)

Joe Goldberg x Love Quinn x Reader

Summary: You thought you understood the rules. You let yourself fall into the warmth of their arms, the thrill of being wanted by two people so completely. But now, you’re starting to wonder if you’re still in control—or if you ever were.

Trigger warning: Graphic smut, dominance/submission, obsession, possessiveness, explicit sexual content (f receiving oral, fingering, restrained intensity), praise/degradation mix, voyeurism, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, unhealthy dynamics.

You have been warned: it’s your fault if you continue and get upset.

Not taking requests.

Part 1.

—

You don’t remember when it stopped being a game.

Maybe it was when Love started locking the bedroom door after you fell asleep. Or when Joe stopped letting you walk anywhere alone—no more quick trips to the store, no more time without one of them by your side. Maybe it was when they both stopped pretending you had a choice.

But you stayed.

Because their touch made you melt. Because their attention made you feel like the only person on Earth. Because when you’re with them, nothing else exists. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what scares you the most.

—

They don’t ask anymore. They take.

Love is the first to move—she always is. Her hand glides across your thigh as she leans in to kiss your jaw, lips warm and slow and knowing. You’re curled up on the couch between them, and the air is so thick with tension you could choke on it.

Joe doesn’t speak. He just watches you, eyes burning into your skin like he already knows you’ll give in. Like you always do.

“Do you want us to stop?” Love asks, but it’s a whisper against your throat. Not really a question. More like a dare.

You don’t answer. Not with words. Your hips shift, your breath catches, and that’s all the permission they need.

⸻

Joe is the one who undresses you—slowly, methodically, like it’s a ritual. Like unwrapping a gift he’s waited too long to touch.

“You don’t know what you do to us,” he mutters, sliding your shirt over your head. His knuckles brush the swell of your breasts, and he doesn’t hide the way he stares.

Love’s already stripping off her own clothes, her eyes locked on you like a predator sizing up prey. She crawls over you, pressing her bare chest to yours, kissing you so deeply it makes your toes curl.

Her thigh slips between yours, grinding slow and deliberate as she whispers, “You’re so wet for us already. You like being our little plaything, don’t you?”

You gasp when she tugs your bottom lip between her teeth, and her fingers slide between your thighs—slick, teasing, just enough to make you squirm.

Then Joe’s behind you, his lips at your ear. “Open wider. Let her see what’s hers. Let me see what’s mine.”

You obey before you even realize you’ve moved.

⸻

Love groans when she sees how soaked you are, her fingers dipping in slow and deep. “Fuck, look at you,” she breathes, voice ragged. “So desperate. So good for us.”

Joe watches over your shoulder, one hand wrapping gently around your throat—not tight, just there, just present, making you feel every inch of his control.

“She’ll come for you first,” Joe says, lips against your ear. “And then I’ll remind her who she belongs to.”

You’re barely coherent by the time Love’s tongue replaces her fingers. Her mouth works you over with expert precision—firm, unrelenting pressure that makes your legs shake. She moans into you like she’s the one unraveling, like tasting you is the closest thing to heaven she’s ever known.

And Joe?

He’s behind you, stroking himself slowly, watching your body come undone for his wife. His free hand roams over your chest, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples until you’re gasping.

“Come on her tongue,” he whispers. “Be good for us.”

You do.

Hard.

Shaking, sobbing, back arched as Love holds you in place and licks every last drop of your release like she needs it. Like she’s starving.

⸻

But they’re not done.

Joe pushes you back against the pillows, hands gripping your thighs apart again. His gaze is dark, possessive, dangerous.

“You thought that was enough?” he growls.

Love kisses your cheek sweetly as she whispers, “That was just foreplay, darling.”

And then they’re both on you.

Love kissing you hard, her fingers relentless. Joe trailing kisses down your throat, across your chest, down your stomach. His tongue follows where her fingers lead, and it’s too much—too hot, too sharp, too good.

Your body’s not your own anymore.

It belongs to them.

And they know it.

⸻

After, when your body is trembling and you’re gasping for air, they don’t let you go.

Love pulls you into her arms, her fingers running along your jaw. “You’re not allowed to leave,” she says, almost sweetly.

Joe lies behind you, one arm curled possessively around your waist. “We’ll take care of you,” he murmurs into your neck. “So you don’t have to think anymore.”

You realize then—you never really had a choice.

You don’t want one.

#love quinn #joe goldberg fanfiction #joe goldberg #Joe Goldberg x reader #Joe Goldberg smut #Joe Goldberg imagine #you netflix #you imagines #you x reader #Love Quinn x reader #Love Quinn smut #Love Quinn imagine #Joe Goldberg x reader x Love Quinn #tw dom/sub #tw power imbalance #tw manipulation

129 notes · View notes

silvergreenseraphim · 6 months ago

Text

“Obedient Soldier”

[A phrase uttered by Sephiroth in Scene 07-06. As this line indicates, Sephiroth in BC (Before Crisis) was regularly obedient to orders, such as defending the Mako canon and protecting Hojo. Therefore, Shinra valued the worth of Sephiroth's loyalty and treated him like a hero.]

-Keyword Collection, CC Complete Guide, p. 285

“Until then, I will be an obedient soldier of Shinra…”

He uses the term “従順な“ which is described above. He willfully submits himself to Shinra’s authority regularly in spite of inner turmoil and reluctance much of the time.

I see more of this with every update in The First Soldier. Sephiroth calls it his only job. You would say then “Yes, and he is paid for it and treated like a hero! That is why he obeys!”

First. Where is this interest in money? And who is to say he receives it? He was raised and trained by Shinra from his boyhood days. His lack of interest in money is said clearly.

Angeal might have partially misjudged him for it too in chapter one of episode 2 when Bachman asked Sephiroth’s opinion on the situation in Robio:

Sephiroth: “Search for the missing troops. Don’t interfere with the filming. Anything else is not my job.”

Angeal: “You’re a stingy guy.”

Sephiroth: “What?”

Angeal: ”There’s no harm in experiencing things. Don’t just consider profit gain and loss.”

Sephiroth: “That’s not the reason.”

Angeal: “Then tell me what it is.”

Sephiroth: “….”

(Japanese translation) (*Note about the nuance here at the bottom of the post!)

There is another reason Sephiroth focuses so narrowly on his job but he does not want to state it. He does not want to explain why he focuses on nothing else. Why?

His disinterest in money itself was more obviously stated in episode one:

Matt: “We'll have to talk about the distribution of the reward money… fortunately, he (Sephiroth) doesn't seem to care about money.”

Money is not the reason for Sephiroth’s loyalty to Shinra then. You might then say it’s because they treated him as a hero! Like as it was said in the Guide, they valued his loyalty and dealt with him as a hero. But where is it stated that Sephiroth wants that either? No, it is the opposite.

Sephiroth: ”I don’t want to be a hero. I want to live a normal life…”

Glenn: “What did you say?”

Sephiroth: “Nothing. It’s never going to happen.”

But Sephiroth! Since you are a hero, Shinra must spoil you and treat you well? They must give you so much! Is that why you stay with that defeated resignation?

Perhaps you have authority and respect within the military! The fandom has always called him the General….

Ignore that you see the cameras he hates, the false propaganda he knows about, his low sense of self-worth, how he sees himself as a cyborg killer that does not deserve friends. He never experienced the sensation of joy and fun with others until he met Glenn’s team. Ignore that he was trained to be afraid and heartless. Forget that he has memories of Hojo’s pain and training.

And authority?

“Very sorry. We cannot follow orders from others outside of the normal chain of command.”

These are just infantrymen.

Sephiroth’s ability to refuse orders in Crisis Core was also an unofficial privilege that existed under Lazard’s generous command. If it were Heidegger, no privilege like that would have existed and Sephiroth would have had to kill Genesis and Angeal in Banora. Lazard, a man already disloyal to Shinra, had to be in command for that point in Crisis Core to exist.

“Also, there may or may not be a right to veto orders...It seems to be just unofficial though..”

-Kunsel to Zack, CC DMW flashback

Angeal Hewley is also made team leader over “Shinra’s hero” in episode 2 of The First Soldier. Years later Angeal still gives orders to Sephiroth that the hero follows. Sephiroth’s authority inside Shinra is not like a general or even a captain.

Not that then. Perhaps you are living a lavish lifestyle, hero?

….ah, but do I even need to explain why this one is nonsense when this boy was isolated and brought up by Hojo?

”Mom? Why are you in my bedroom?”

-Sephiroth, chapter one, The First Soldier Episode 2, Japanese.

A lab cell near to where Aerith and Ifalna were held as prisoners?

“I’ve never had many opportunities to interact with people.”

-Sephiroth, chapter five, The First Soldier Episode 1, Japanese.

He would not have in the environment Hojo gave him.

“I am a SOLDIER that was raised to stand on the battlefield. SOLDIERs are worthless unless they are strong in body and mind.”

-Sephiroth, chapter five, The First Soldier Episode 1, Japanese.

“You and I grew up in different worlds. The day we understand each other will never come.”

-Sephiroth to Angeal, chapter one, The First Soldier Episode 2, Japanese.

Hojo is who raised him like this! In isolation and cruelty!

“I am the only one who can speak to Professor Hojo freely at any time, who researches the limits of our SOLDIER abilities…”

-Sephiroth to Angeal, chapter one, The First Soldier Episode 2, Japanese.

Did that Halloween event not show us the deeper horror beneath these other horrors? And who they were connected to?

Hojo: “Endure the pain, Sephiroth. You’re not at your limit yet. The more you endure, the more of your hidden strength will awaken.”

Glenn: Hey! Hang in there!

Sephiroth: “I’m sorry. I was suddenly in a lot of pain, but I’m alright now.”

Glenn: “Don’t be so strong!! Rest! Rest! Don’t push yourself so hard just because you’re the team leader!! Just relax!

Sephiroth: “….I’ve never heard anything like that before. It’s just the reverse of what the professor said…”

(Japanese translation)

Who would have ingrained such deep loyalty into the world’s strongest SOLDIER so well other than his father Hojo? Sephiroth does not speak of leaving Shinra until he is close to 25 years. He was shaken when Elfe questioned why he fought and if it was for any reason. He responds to a command from his friend Genesis on immediate instinct.

He is conditioned. That is why he was an obedient soldier to Shinra and why he stayed with them even when he hated his life. He was afraid. Of them and of Hojo!

The First Soldier will only keep showing this. Sephiroth’s friends were his chain to mental stability. When they left and died, he became vulnerable again and Nibelheim was timed just right. How much grief and anger must he have felt learning about how deep the use of his body and mind had gone? Enough to hate Shinra and soon everything.

Shinra is run by greedy pigs who have their dogs and sheep. They have their SOLDIER recruits, their Turks, their Deepground prisoners, their clueless employees. You will find that among these pawns, there are many who try to leave or question the power keeping them in check and that is because Shinra was not so careful enough to condition and lie to them.

They were careful with Sephiroth though because disloyalty from him would be so dangerous. The story shows this well enough.

Out of all of their abused pawns and attack dogs, Sephiroth was the one chosen to be exploited in front of the world and decorated in hero’s ribbons to cover up the scars. He was lied to about the depth of his abuse and given false hope in his two dear friends. He was trying to claw his way to the light and find himself so that he could be a real hero and protect others but there was no hope for such things. His cage was gilded and when he became aware of it, that boy’s heart was filled with sadness and then anger and then hatred.

His life was DESTROYED by Shinra from the start. His loyalty was sown into him mostly by Hojo. This new episode of The First Soldier has brought this truth further to the light and I do not think it was will stop.

Thank you to those who helped me with this post in DMs!

Notes:

*Angeal’s words in chapter one of FS Episode 2 about Sephiroth’s “stinginess” do have a nuance that I do not want to ignore. He can be talking about money gain/loss but also a whole mindset! His words are broadly referring to a narrow-minded and “Scrooge-ish” view of things where there is not much room for anything outside of Sephiroth’s thin focus. That thin focus is Sephiroth’s assignment and the gain of completing it, which could include profit from Angeal’s perspective and would be a reason to complete a mission if we remember his scene with his parents where that is a discussion. The point is to say that Angeal is not only talking about money, but for this post I focused on that aspect of it because of Sephiroth’s response against the entire assumption and his formerly mentioned lack of interest in money.

#now i will sleep #this was a passionate write up for me #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #ever crisis #the first soldier #sephiroth #crisis core #angeal hewley #glenn lodbrok #professor hojo #shinra #my translations

468 notes · View notes