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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

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Greater Bad - Part 5!

This is the final chapter of this series. I had so much fun working on it, making myself write a character that was genuinely just really mean most of the time and not chickening out by softening him (mostly).

Again, a gigantic, smooch-filled thank you to ceilidho for letting me write this based off her drabble/concept.

(The concept comes from @ceilidho’s concept/drabble of “military asset Soap” and heavily inspired also by @391780’s Nikto version. Please go check out theirs because they’re brilliantly written.)

Content: Dub-Con/Non-Con Elements, Unreliable Narrator, Semi-Safe/Not-Sane/Dub-Con Intimacy

You still smell the same.

Clean water, soap and skin. It saturates the back of his tongue when he inhales deep. The sharp, cloying scent of printer ink has been replaced by the buttery aroma of bread and sugar. It’s better. His mouth waters, canines too big and sharp in his mouth, jawing aching to bite down until he’s teething on bone. Scrape his imprint into marrow.

Some shrink mentioned it in those first sessions, before Laswell and Price realized their precious Johnny wasn’t lost in the hole in his temple.

The human olfactory sense is strongly associated with our memory. What smells like home to you, Soap?

The jagged puzzle of his mind didn’t have a piece for home. But it had one for his – you – and that’s just as good.

The humidity in the shower leaves him drowning in the scent of you, lungs heaving. If they’d waterboarded him with your perfume, he wouldn’t have struggled at all.

“Easy, easy,” your voice derails him.

Velvet and smooth, purring in the bottom of your throat. It bounces off the walls and cracks across his skull, a concussive force, disorients him. He grips tighter to keep his balance, swaying into you. You’re all slick and soft, caught between his body and the wall, nothing but naked skin and those big eyes that drive him more mad.

His face is still buried in the vulnerable curve of your neck; you taste just as good as you smell. You jump when he nips, a high noise caught on your clumsy tongue. He growls, wants to hear it. Wants to be overwhelmed by you until all his senses are blown out.

“I’m not saying no,” you soothe, hands skittering down his biceps.

Of course you’re not, not his girl. It’s not a matter of yes or no, not for the two of you. The moon doesn’t agree to orbit the Earth, the sun doesn’t choose to shine. You’re the gravity keeping his feet on the ground.

“Slow down a bit,” you murmur, “We’re not in a rush, are we?”

Just hearing you say “we” sends his heart thundering double-time and euphoria flooding his poisoned veins. “We” - you and him. You squeak as he thrusts hard against your lower stomach, where you’re pillowy and perfect from a life of plenty.

He doesn’t even process what you’ve said for a few moments, too busy nibbling “we” into your shoulder. Only when you thread shaky fingers into his hair – too excited to keep them steady, sweet thing – does his head surface over the swelling waves of desire to hear you properly.

“Missed you,” he explains, raking fingers over your thigh in hopes it’ll bruise. Your mouth parts on a gasp, inviting him in. He ravages your mouth, teeth snagging your plush lips. Needs to leave his mark everywhere for always. Don’t you get that? How could you ask him to slow down when your skin is still pristine, your cunt all tight and unspoiled – a fucking tragedy that.

“Ye missed me too, aye?” he asks. Of course you did, of course. Made this pretty little cottage for the two of you, filled it with so many things that he could never forget where he is again.

“I ken ye did.” He does you the favor of answering, since you’re too busy with his fingers in your mouth. You’ve gotten better with your priorities since that first reunion, laving your tongue over and between his digits rather than waste it on idle chatter. “Can go slow once I show yer mine. Been too fuckin’ long they kept us apart, little bird.”

Your fingers curl around his wrist. Must be satisfied with how wet they are, then. He presses down on your tongue one last time before pulling away.

“B-but you took care of them… we don’t need to—ah!”

He smirks as your entire body jolts. You’re already starting to warm up, but your saliva makes the slide between your delicate folds even easier. You’re just as silky as last time, clit shy at the top of your slit. He coos in your ear, gets you flushing and hot from filthy promises.

“Ye wan’ this just as much as I do,” he growls. Poor thing, he knows you like your little games and he’s being impatient. But it’s been too long and you’re playing with fire. “I ken ye do. Tell me ye do.”

You stutter in shock – if he still felt guilt, he’d feel bad for doubting you – and stumble over your words. He stills his hand to help you, bracing his arm over your head. The stretch of his body seems to distract you, mouth parted but frustratingly quiet as your round eyes roam scars and muscle.

He clicks his tongue and pinches your clit to catch your attention. You yelp, little nails sinking into his chest. He rumbles. It feels good, but he’s on a mission.

“Tell me,” he repeats when you blink up at him. “Tell me.”

“I-I just want to be able to go again,” you babble. “If I’m too sore…”

He chuckles. Is that all? “That won’ stop me, love. We’ll go plenty.”

You whine as he draws tight circles over your clit, coaxing it hard and swollen.

“I d-don’ wanna be t-too… sore! Christ!”

He huffs, caught between amusement and exasperation. Voice of reason you are, he knows you’ve got a point. Big as he is, and he knows he’ll lose any sense of restraint once he’s inside.

“I’ll make it good, bonnie,” he promises, biting kisses along your trembling jaw. “You’ll cum crying if tha’s what it takes.”

With that matter settled, he drops his head to your pretty tits. Water has beaded all over them and he jealously licks paths between each drop, flattening his tongue over your hard nipples. You moan and squeal as he sucks and nips, teasing them sensitive and achy. One of your hands tangles in his hair and tugs. Tingles race down his spine, scattering any sweet thoughts of going slow or gentle or with restraint.

You’re babbling at him but nothing could be more important than the rosettes he’s biting into your breasts. And you must agree because you’re getting so wet, leaking all over his rough palm, bucking your hips. He tilts the heel of his hand for you to grind against while he prods at your slick little hole.

You really have been good, somehow even tighter than he remembers. Of course, you were; he never doubted you. No wonder you were so insistent on prepping. He’d split you in half as you are now – fuck but that’s tempting.

“S-Soap – John. Please don’t… stop.”

“I won’ stop, birdie,” he soothes. Nothing could make him stop now.

Two is probably too much for you, but he loves the punched out little noise you make when he forces them in. The way your entrance clings and squeezes around his knuckles. How your spine goes tight and stiff, tilting your head back so that he has access to your singing throat. Pretty face all scrunched up as you struggle to adjust, stinging too much to even squirm. A flighty little bird right in the palm of his hand.

You’re so hot and wet inside. Feel fucking heavenly. Coating him in arousal, in need. His cock is aching to replace his fingers, feel you strangling him down to the base. Grinding against your thigh isn’t tiding him over anymore.

“Yer hand,” he grits out, “on my cock. Now.”

You shudder and circle the head, fingers tentative. Little tease.

He thrusts his fingers into you hard in retaliation, hips driving into the loose tunnel you’ve made. You must know what you’re doing, goading him on like this, plucking at his fraying patience.

“More,” he snarls, “or I’m going to use you like a fleshlight.” (Sooner than he was planning, anyway.)

You whimper and close your hand tighter, rubbing your thumb just under the head. Relief makes him generous, scissoring those two fingers inside you, easing you open. Lets you grind your clit on the meat of his thumb.

He crooks his fingers and finds a spot that has you mewling all sweet and precious. Does it over and over just to get your hand squeezing rhythmically around his shaft, precum dribbling over the back of your knuckles.

Christ, it’s been so long that he thinks he could blow just from this. Your voice in his ear, drooling pussy wrapped around his fingers, grinding into the open circle of your hand. But he needs to be inside you when he cums, he has to.

You don’t even seem to notice the third finger until it’s halfway inside, prying you open. Your legs buckle, knees shaking. He catches you with an arm around your waist, but it squishes you against his chest, the arm you’ve been stroking him with nearly immobilized. He can only stand the lack of stimulation for a few moments, occupying himself with his tongue down your throat.

“Enough,” he rasps, kicking the shower off.

Dazed, you blink at him in confusion, half-lidded and guileless, panting. He wants to fucking ruin you.

You yelp as he scoops you up, fingers still slippery where they grip your thigh. He croons as you cling, asking in a high, nervous voice where he’s going.

“Poor thing, dick’s not even in yet ‘n yer all addled.”

The dripping head of his cock grinds against your sopping slit as he carries you back to the bedroom. He remembers how much you liked it before – and you still do, your blunt little teeth buried in your bottom lip as you whimper.

It’s still dark, the crescent moon no use to your weak eyes. Like hell you won’t look at him when he finally claims you proper.

He slaps at the wall switch, a tiny lamp flicking to life across the room. You’re bathed in soft golden light, deep shadows swimming where it doesn’t reach. You and him, gold and black, light and dark.

He eagerly lays you out on the blanket, drinking in the marks decorating your upper body. You even have teeth prints on your arm that he doesn’t remember putting there – fetching, though.

You wiggle further up the mattress, and he follows, flashing a grin as he plants his hands on either side of you. The size difference is stark like this, the breadth of him subsuming you. Safe, tucked away, all his. Your breathing is loud as he bullies his way between your plush thighs again. You have to spread them so wide just to accommodate.

“Lemme see,” he says, voice barely leaving his chest. “Lemme see her. It’s been so long, baby.”

He can already tell you’re about to start up the fussing again – so shy, his little bird, but he’ll get you singing nice and loud now. No more of this demure chirping facade. You both know what you really are.

You squeal as he forces your thighs up, far enough apart that you babble that you don’t bend that way. Of course you do, though, you’ve just done it. Not that he really hears you by that point.

No, all his attention is on that gleaming, puffy pussy. So fucking pretty. Sticky and throbbing, your hole hardly showing the stretch of three fingers. Dripping as he watches, a dewy glob of arousal sliding down the seam of your cunt, towards your ass.

Just the slightest shift and his cock is nestled between your folds, the glans chafing against your hot clit. He measures the depth of it against your abdomen, head cloudy on the nervous whine that eeks from your throat.

Even with prep, he might break you anyway.

He hopes he does. Break you around him, shape you to him so that no one else will fit – not that anyone else will ever get the chance.

It’s not a conscious thought that gathers saliva on his tongue, purses his lips. You jump when he spits, rubbing the head of his cock through your combined fluids. Your cunt looks good in white. Like a bride.

You’re too needy, wiggling with nervous anticipation. He has to hold you down while he sinks into you – poor thing too blissed out to control yourself. One hand around your wrists above your head, the other pinning your hips at an angle to drive in as easily as possible.

One snap of his hips, and he’s buried to the hilt. You cry out, shuddering and dry sobbing. His vision goes spotty with the pleasure of it, your little pussy squeezing. You’re so…

“Fucking perfect.”

He shushes you, unable to bend to kiss you without making the stretch worse. Settles for rubbing circles into your hip, twisting to lace your fingers together. Now that he’s finally, finally where he belongs, it doesn’t seem such a monumental task to muster some patience.

“B-big,” you whimper. “You’re t-too big. I d-don’t – I can’t…!”

“You already are,” he coos, “little girl taking this fat cock, I’m so proud. My girl is so brave, my little bird. Bonnie lass.”

He’s rambling now, a dirty stream of consciousness. But that primal urge to fuck you open and loose and stupid is already clawing at him again. The tight clutch of your cunt calls for him to break you in, mark you up on the inside. Claim you as his irrevocably.

You feel him drawing back, eyes flying open wide. Writhing, half-formed protests on your tongue - that you’re not ready, that he’s too big, that it still hurts.

As if that’s any reason to stop, when anything needs to sting a bit to leave a lasting mark.

“Only way to make it hurt less,” he reminds, burying inside again. This time he rolls his hips, grinding the head of his cock along your satiny walls, against the hard barrier of your cervix.

Whatever you’re about to say is swept off in a wave of moans, washing over your wet tongue and down the back of your too-empty throat. Every time you try to gather them, he fucks back into you, hard enough to bounce you up the bed before he tugs you right back down.

Eventually you give up on doing anything but keening for him, massaging his cock from root to tip in those twitching walls. You loop your legs around his waist, ankles locked at the small of his back, knees squeezing against his ribs.

“Tha’s it, love,” he slurs, “jus’ take it.”

He lets your wrists go to clutch at both of your hips, angling them as he straightens his back. On the next thrust you scream, curse, throw your hands up to brace against the headboard. Smart girl.

His restraint unravels with each thrust until he’s pounding into you, slamming the bedframe into the wall. Your eyes are rolling into the back of your skull, jaw loose, spilling pathetic, weepy “ah, ah, ah” noises in time with his hips. He’s not going to last long at all. Not when you feel so goddamn good, finally claimed.

He presses his thumb against your clit and grins wickedly as you thrash. Tears leak from your unfocused eyes. You babble incoherently as he rubs a little rougher than he should, but your walls are sucking and clutching at every centimeter of him, so he doesn’t stop.

Even when you seize up, back bent into a sharp arch, clamping down so tight that he goes lightheaded.

“Soap! John… John it’s too much,” you sob. “John – Johnny!”

His orgasm blindsides him, makes him fuck you so hard that something in the bed cracks. In the haze, he flattens you to the mattress while bucking into you, not taking any chance of coming unseated. You whine in his ear but go limp, resigned to his cock spurting at the entrance to your womb – as deep as he can get – your cunt milking him for every drop.

He comes back to himself when you tap weakly at his hip, uncoordinated.

“Hm?” he asks, a little miffed that you’re disturbing his afterglow already.

“Hard to breathe,” you squeak.

He huffs. Alright, suppose he can understand that. Besides, he wants to see you.

And what a sight you make, splayed out and shaky on pleasure. Sweat at your hairline, lips swollen and bitten. He can still feel your pulse against his cock.

He sits himself up, eyes trailing down to the place where you’re joined. His cum is already seeping out a bit at a time, a thin creamy ring around his still half-hard cock. You keen a bit when it twitches.

“Pretty girl,” he coos.

You groan softly, flopping an arm over your glassy eyes as he pulls out – slow because he’s reluctant to leave.

But the sight of your slick diluting the milky white of his cum is too much to resist. You jolt at the first swipe of his tongue, react much faster than he’s expecting. Flip onto your front and try to scramble away. He growls at his stolen prize and pounces.

Under normal circumstances, you’re no match for him. Trembling and spent like this, you don’t stand a chance.

He grabs your calf and yanks you back, chuckling at the helpless stretch of your arms. You try to plead your case, but he’s hearing none of it. Plants his hand against your back as he shuffles onto his stomach, your thighs over his shoulders, knees digging into muscle. He tilts your hips with his other hand, thumb fitted in the crease of your pelvis, and brings you to his mouth.

Your struggling has made more spend leak out, and he laps it all up hungrily, tongue flat and ravenous. Sweeping from clit to hole to gather any stray droplets, even skimming over the tight furl of your ass. He licks into your loosened hole, high on pride at the difference he can feel his cock has made.

“’S too much,” you wail, “J-Johnny, please. I-I can’t, it’s…”

In retaliation, he slurps loudly at the fresh arousal blooming across his tongue. You hiccup, try one last time to wriggle away. He can’t have that.

You shriek as he fucks two fingers into you, voice thick with a fresh wave of tears. But you stop trying to escape. He doesn’t show mercy now that you’re behaving, coaxing more out, licking around his own knuckles. When he sucks at your overstimulated clit, you jerk and whine.

“I’m – I’m gonna… feels… w-wait, wait!”

It’s too late. He’s already laved his tongue over your trapped clit, crooked his fingers. You cum again with a shout, wetness splashing across his mouth, chin, down his neck. He groans, deep and rough in his chest. Doesn’t even give you a moment to recover before he pulls away, licking his lips.

“Do tha’ again on my cock.”

You’ve learned better now though – you lay there like a good girl as he stuffs you full again. Even better, you keep rewarding him with your soft cries of pleasure.

You really are made for him.

He likes the couch you picked. Not very big, but cushy. Besides, the two of you don’t need a lot of room anyway. Not when his lap makes a perfectly good seat for you.

You’ve been quiet all morning – probably still waking up from the coma he fucked you into. Eating babka from his fingers, licking them clean between bites. Docile and sweet, melting against his chest with your face tucked against his collarbone.

“Sore?” he asks.

“Mhmm.”

Your sweet little voice is all hoarse and soft. He’d coo if he didn’t think he’d be pushing his luck with skin so close to your teeth.

“Maybe I’ll massage you later,” he offers, smirking at the grumpy little “hmph” he gets in response.

He encourages you to sip a bit of water before your voice emerges again.

“What happens now?”

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand the question.

“Now I get the life I’m owed,” he answers. All that fighting, suffering, bleeding, dying – and for what? A hole in his skull and his own goddamn people thinking he’s a monster. Even you, at first. You’ve learned, though. He’s sure of it. The rest can swallow bullets for all he cares.

“What if they come back?” you ask.

He hums. “Might contract with someone. Not opposed to killin’ on principle – just sick of doin’ it to someone else’s tune, aye?”

“Wh-what… what about…”

What about you. Poor thing, afraid Laswell and her ilk will snatch you up and dangle you in front of him again. Or worse – some other sod drooling for a slice of heaven in the pits of hell.

He doesn’t loosen his grip even when you shift a bit – needs to feel you in his hands.

“Got a plan for that, don’ you fret, little bird,” he soothes. “Still got one friend, I think. Jus’ gotta find ‘im.”

You exhale slowly, accept another piece of babka. “We’re stayin’ here, though?” you mumble around the mouthful.

He chuckles. Sweet little thing.

“Worked so hard on the place, might as well. Don’ care so long as I’ve got my bird, aye?”

“Mm.”

“How ‘bout a kitty, eh? Get ya somethin’ to keep ye company when I’m away.”

You swallow audibly. “I wan’ a dog. Big one.”

He chuckles. “’Course ye do. Aye, love, a big fuck-off dog to keep ya safe.”

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Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #government asset!Soap #asset soap #heavy kink #mind the tags #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader

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somedaylazysomeday · 3 months ago

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I have a terrible track record at sticking with dark fics, but this idea refuses to leave me alone, so I'm just gonna throw this out there. It's super choppy, but I couldn't bring myself to leave it as an outline.

Kidnapped!TF 141 x kidnapped!fem!reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Stalking, kidnapping, physical abuse, emotional abuse, sexual abuse, lying, noncon, strong dubcon themes, nakedness, vulnerability

PLEASE mind the tags. This is a dark fic and every one of the tags is present. Dead dove and all of that.

Masterlist

---

You were leaving work when it happened. Your car was in sight, your keys already in your hand as you approached it. Work had run later than you'd expected, and you were one of the last people leaving. No one else was parked near you and - while you knew they gladly would have - you didn't want to ask anyone to walk you to your car.

The pinch in the side of your neck was all you needed to realize the depth of your mistake. Everything went dark a moment later.

You woke up in a house - a little small, but nice enough. Nicer than you had expected, especially since you had no idea how you had gotten there. it was a little warm - a good thing, in your opinion, since you had been stripped completely naked.

You weren't alone. You weren't yet sure whether that was a good thing or not. There were four men in the same room, each one just as bare as you were and in varying degrees of confused outrage at the current situation. Well, not just as bare. One of the bigger ones was wearing a black medical mask. It looked faintly ridiculous against all of that pale, scarred skin.

When you looked around - avoiding the sight and gazes of the men around you gradually regaining consciousness - you seemed to be in a kitchen. The only door seemed to be the type that would lead into a garage.

The man with the deep voice and the facial hair was talking generally, seeming to address everyone.

"Keep your heads. I woke up a few minutes ago and I've spoken with the people who took us. They won't tell me who or why, but they agreed to give us some clothes. The door to the garage should unlock in a few minutes."

You sat up blearily, your head aching and mouth dry. Whatever had been used to knock you unconscious, it had been serious.

Before you could muster the energy to stand, the man had disappeared into the garage and retrieved a stack of nondescript clothes. Everyone got a pair of gray men's pajama pants and a black tank top. There was no underwear.

You were grateful enough to have clothes that you tried not to be awkward about the fact that the pants left far too much fabric piled at your feet while the swells of your breasts pressed uncomfortably against the thin material of the tank top.

"How'd ye manage this, Price?"

The mohawked man had been the first to speak after getting dressed. You frowned. He had referred to the other man by name - did they know each other?

Introductions followed, and you learned their names (or nicknames, in some cases: Soap had the mohawk, Gaz was the pretty one, Ghost had the medical mask, andJohn Price was the leader of the little group. They did indeed know each other but - after extensive rounds of questions - none of you could figure out why you had been included in the group.

In your first few days in the house, you had learned that everything was controlled by a system of cameras mounted at the top of every door and a series of electronic locks. There were enough bedrooms for each of you, single-occupancy. There were a few bathrooms between you, a living room with a small couch, and the empty kitchen.

You never saw, heard, or spoke with any of your captors. The others did, on occasion. Their stories and mental states afterward had left you certain that you wanted to avoid contact with your kidnappers as long as possible. It was infuriating not to know why you had been taken, but you were sure one of the others would tell you as soon as there was something to know. In the meantime, all of you had slipped into referring to the unknown group as Them. There was no need to explain who you were talking about when They came up.

The strangest thing by far was the discrepancy in Their behavior. You heard about the interactions from the others, stories of terrible cruelty and warnings not to push Them. But there were odd moments of tenderness and care, too. An extra blanket on your bed when you mentioned being chilly the night before. A tube of expensive lotion when your hands cracked in the dry air. A supply of your favorite drink in the pantry.

But the proof of Their cruelty remained too blatant for you to ignore.

One day, soon after the small supply of food in the kitchen was gone, Soap had decided to do something about it. He took a page from Price's book and bargained with your captors for additional groceries.

Or, at least, that was what he explained to you when you found him on the kitchen floor, injured and surrounded by the spilled contents of several brown paper grocery bags.

No one else was around - not unusual, since They sometimes left certain bedroom doors locked until They decided someone could go out into the main house. With a lot of effort, you managed to get Soap into a chair at the small table so you could get a closer look at his injuries.

Fortunately, the damage was mostly superficial. There was nothing you could do about his black eye or bruised ribs, but you tended to his split lip and wrapped his bloody knuckles as he explained that They had beaten him for daring to make a demand.

You were standing between his thighs to take care of his lip when you felt the insistent nudge of his hardness against your thigh. You tried your best to ignore it, reasoning that it was a natural reaction to having someone so close. Besides, the thin pajama pants didn't conceal much. He was probably just as uncomfortable as you were.

With the injury to his ribs and the lack of mobility in his tightly wrapped knuckles, Soap needed you close while he cooked dinner for the household. You acted as a makeshift crutch when he needed to take some pressure from his ribs, chopping meat and vegetables at his direction as he pressed himself against your back to lean on you. The erection never dissipated.

A few days later, you were showering in the small bathroom when Gaz stepped inside, eyes carefully trained on the floor. You froze, staring at him through the clear curtain that gave only a mockery of privacy. Gaz apologized, explaining that this was the first time They had given him access to the bathroom that day. As it was early afternoon, you could hardly be shocked when he crossed immediately to the toilet.

You kept your eyes to yourself as he used the restroom, then washed his hands and brushed his teeth. You could only hope he was doing the same as you hurriedly finished showering and wrapped yourself in your towel.

When you stepped out of the shower, still wearing the towel, you made a small sound of surprise as a fully-naked Gaz slipped past you and got into the shower himself. You picked up your clothes and tried to leave, both to have some privacy as you got dressed and to give Gaz some privacy of his own.

There must have been someone sadistic behind the camera that day, because the door was locked. You turned back to get dressed and brush your teeth, though your face went hot when you saw that the steam on the clear shower curtain didn't hide anything. Gaz's perfect body only seemed accentuated by it, framed by soft edges like a painting or dream. Your face only went hotter as you realized that Gaz had probably seen more of you than you had originally thought.

You rushed to the relative safety of your room as soon as your bathroom door unlocked. Unfortunately for you, that didn't happen until Gaz was done, dressed, and brushing his teeth.

Your room became something of a haven, somewhere private and quiet you could use to hide from the situation. In there, you could almost pretend that things were normal... as long as you were turned away from the camera above the door.

But even that slight sanctuary wasn't always available. One night, you had tried to go back to your room only to find that the door was locked. After a few minutes of half-hearted pleading into the pitiless gaze of the camera, you gave up and resigned yourself to sleeping on the couch in the living room.

Unfortunately for you, Ghost was already there, lounging masked but shirtless on the small couch. He reported gruffly that he was also locked out of his room for the night. When you asked why, he had just scoffed, reminding you that there was no way to know why They did what They did.

The lack of predictability had never bothered you as much as it did that night, splayed on top of Ghost in the only position that was comfortable for you both on the closeness of the couch. Neither of you wanted to sleep on the frigid floor, especially without any blankets.

You slept surprisingly well that way. You had only woken once, when Ghost started to thrust against you. He seemed to be fully asleep, but his hands were locked around your waist. The pressure of him between your thighs was embarrassing at first, then delicious, but he stopped before either of you could make more of a mess. It wasn't easy to go back to sleep after that, but you managed.

Around midnight a day or two after the couch incident, the door to your bedroom opened. You sat bolt upright in bed to stare at the opening door. Price came through a moment later, stumbling as if he had been pushed inside.

He tried the handle on the door, though it had slammed shut as soon as he was inside. It was locked. Price sighed heavily, broad shoulders moving with the depth of it. He didn't seem surprised to find you awake. He sat on your bed, far nearer than you had expected, and leaned even closer.

"New development: They said They'll kill us both if I don't fuck you. Now, tonight."

You studied his face, feeling your own expression crumble. Things had been steadily moving this way, but you had hoped beyond hope that you could avoid it.

With gentle hands, Price wiped the tear from your cheek. When he murmured directly into your ear, his voice was low and soft and earnest. "I promise I'll make it good for you, love."

---

As he held you, your body naked and vulnerable and exhausted, Price looked directly into the camera above the door.

His mind was running wild, wondering how long it would take you to realize that there was no Them. Gaz and Soap and Ghost were behind those cameras. They wouldn't have missed seeing their girl's first time with one of them.

Price would join them soon and they could start figuring out how to 'break out' of the house. They would keep you with them, of course. It would be too dangerous for you to leave. They could convince you of that, easy. The threat of "Them" finding you again would be enough to make sure you stayed right where you belonged.

Not that he expected you to argue. Price pulled you a little closer, nose nuzzling against your temple. After surviving such a traumatic bonding experience, how could you ever resist being theirs?

---

Author's Note: I have no idea what this is. It's unhinged and weird and clunky, but I had to get it down in words before it would leave me alone. I'm not sure yet if this will end up on my masterlist or on AO3.

Anyway, thanks for giving it a chance!

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fatuilavaaaarer · 1 year ago

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→⟩°⌊FATHER DOTTORE X DAUGHTER READER⌋

.;`~☆ NSFW .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ TW : , Father-Daughter Incest, Noncon, Grooming, Experimentation, Use of Toys, Segment Orgy, Audience, Gaslighting, Manipulation .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

ᶻ 𝘇 Z Authors Note ?

- ⋮ ` Please Read @ Your Own Risk .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ I DO NOT ADVICE OR SUPPORT THIS IN ANY WAY .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ This Is For COPING PURPOSES IN NO WAY DO I SUPPORT THE FOLLOWING .ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ

Please ; Keep Yourself Safe, Love From Author , Remember , You Matter 𓈒𓏸

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Finding yourself hiding in his lab coat during surgeries, fiddling with his pockets, minutes might as well be hours to a child like you, looking at all the machines he would work with, hiding behind his leg while surrounded in his lab coat as you stared up at the way his hands held a mutation of sorts. Being a child and witnessing all the colorful buttons on the various interesting machines, any child would be frustrated after so long, just standing still, waiting for your father to finish his surgery.

So you would often fall asleep by his foot, an adorable and amusing sight to him once he looked down to find your head snuggled against his boots, a genuine smile. Was his smile genuine because he genuinely adored your adorable behavior? — Or was his smile genuine because he admired himself for his intellect and brilliance that led to creating you?

Your adorable childish attitude has indeed amused him, unfortunately, you would most likely just get in the way of his mobility, most likely to affect the surgery. He placed his bloody instruments back down, the snap of the rubber as he took his stained gloves off echoed through the operation room. With a soft dark chuckle he scooped you into his arms before a segment took you away so you wouldn’t bother anything.

You were no stranger to experiments, regularly having scheduled checkups or surgeries to study you. As a child you were used to the cold, used to the cold air in his lab, the freezing sanitized metal table you would sit and lay on, even your fathers cold gloved hands. Your fathers segments within the room, studying you as their prime examined every bit of your body. Various x-rays and scans, even spreading your legs and examining your folds. You were no stranger to crowds of segments just observing you as you solved various advanced equations and riddles, testing your iq, eq, even creativity. Studying until the next day had been built into your schedule, your fathers segments often lecturing you on various scientific fields.

Unfortunately, like your father, you had no friends. Often alone and entertaining yourself with a book or with a piece of scrap machinery. When you were given the opportunity to interact with other children your age, you were baffled and disgusted by their lack of knowledge, making it almost impossible for you to communicate. Your father had always told you how different the two of you were from the rest of society, and you couldn’t help but be thankful for it. It wasn’t any different with adults either, treating you like a toddler. Often making comments about your wide vocabulary, often saying such things as ‘Oh, that’s such a big word!’ It was truly tiresome and so you chose to spend your time with your father.

Reaching into your preteen years your father began a new routine. Your body is changing and developing, afterall, he must examine his treasured creation, he would say.

Your naked body laid on the pristine white hospital bed. Vulnerable to his gaze, looking at your chest, he gazed down your torso and to your hips. Your figure had begun to develop, focusing his attention onto your stomach before dropping his gaze further down to your hips, observing the growth of your pubic hairs. You had been softly mewling to yourself as he poked and prodded at your skin. With a cold gloved hand, he grazed the side of your hip, a signal for you to flip onto your stomach, his hand slipping under your hips, bringing your ass up. He squeezed your ass, his thumb pulling back the soft skin to reveal your hole. He remained silent as he mentally took note of all the changes that he had observed, his eyes drifting back to your flushed face, he couldn’t help the mischievous smirk that crept onto his face.

“Someone’s a bit frustrated, aren’t we?” He teased, his deep dark voice made your knees weak, as if he was mocking you for being so aroused. His gloved hand softly rubbing your ass.

Already well versed with human anatomy and reproduction at a very young age, you didn’t show much interest in the traditional ways of reproduction. But your hormones were working against your mind, the carnal desire rising every second your untouched hole and clit ached. It was freezing but you felt so hot, with his hands touching your naked body while your ass was propped up to reveal more. He was obviously just toying with you at that point.

You were an intelligent child, you knew what your body wanted, so with a devilish grin his finger trailed your folds, earning an unexpected soft carnal moan of desire from you. A side of your face was buried into a soft white pillow. Your father was a cruel cruel man, you knew that much. You were so utterly wet, you desperately needed relief, so at a desperate attempt you rubbed your hand against your folds. You looked so pitiful. His little creation, his daughter, on her knees, with her ass up and face down, itching for release.

His lips to your ears, sending teasing little breaths down your neck, taking pity on you, he decided to give you an ounce of satisfaction. “Look at yourself, utterly pitiful. A shame we all must bend to carnal desires, don’t you think, my child?” He let his middle finger slip through your folds, rubbing your aching clit for you. You whined in response, hoping he would rub harder. “You’re familiar with the concept of masturbation but I suppose you’ve never had the urge to do so until now. Poor little thing, yet to discover the pleasures of the flesh… the feeling of coming, and wanting to do so until your vision fades. But not to worry your pretty little hole” He spoke as his index finger pressed up against your opening “I’ll teach you very very well…”

You soon felt his finger press harder against you, screaming as you felt him circle your entrance, he began to drag it up and back down slowly, with a certain rhythm. His thumb playfully toying with your swollen clit, rubbing circles around it. You were left weak and crying, your moans getting louder as a knot in your stomach began to build. Moaning to your father about the strange sensation while his other hand had been leisurely playing with your ass, squeezing and slapping it to his content. Everytime you sobbed about the sensation, he merely shut you down, repeatedly telling you “not yet” until finally, you heard him calmly say “go ahead…” And so you did, you let yourself come undone by just his hand. A scream left you as you rolled your eyes back. Your first orgasm, achieved by your fathers skills. He pulled his slick finger out, the insane thought of licking his finger covered in your orgasm came to mind, and since when was he one for being selfless? You rode out your high and let your body collapse back onto the bed. Your mind still dazed, all you could think about was the pleasure.

Since that day your daily routine had changed. He’s been more affectionate to you, you used to think nothing of it when he kissed your neck and jawline but after the day he opened your body to new overwhelmingly addictive feelings, arousal was always in the air. Everything became so utterly lewd to you, surprised to discover your new test were to use dildos, vibrators, even having to ride a segments face to ‘check your endurance’. You were becoming a whore for your father well into your preteens, your evenings with him spent in lewd activities. He absolutely adores seeing his most precious creation be needy for him. He records, or rather films everything. When the two of you are alone at home, he loves to film you riding him. While he’s lecturing you, your face is buried into the pillow as your eyes try and focus on the words on the page, his hips slamming against yours as his words fall deaf to your ears. Loves to play with your clit and finger you while you still wore your underwear when he’s bored doing some menial important documents he can’t trust his segments with.

He’s become a very affectionate man to you behind closed doors, before he goes on a long mission he makes sure to ruthlessly love and fill you up the night and morning before he leaves. It’s required that you must make out with him before bidding him goodbye. You’ve grown used to the constant sex and affection, so has he, becoming separated for a long period of time without your presence is unnerving to him. Ever since he created you he had looked after you, cared for you, made sure you were well loved. It was hard for both of you whenever he had no choice. But once left alone, you can’t help but doubt his affections, wondering if it was just another way of manipulation. But once his segments and himself showered you with affections yet again, you’re reminded that he did admire you, adored your very existence, in his own sick and twisted way.

#dottore #il dottore #il dottore genshin #dottore smut #dark prompts #mind the tags #dark tropes #genshin #tw: incest #genshin impact #genshin x reader #fatui #fatui x reader

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kawareo · 2 months ago

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I keep forgetting to advertise myself

Are you interested in these two having a threeway with a pretty Banite npc that kinda looks like Gort?

I wrote a fic for it!

#listen it's smut #a smut oneshot #mind the tags #durgetash #ao3 link #my writing #fic

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haveyoureadthisfanfic · 2 months ago

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Summary: The body—cramped, crowded, cluttered—is nevertheless abundant with cavities. Venom prefers the thoracic. There is an area (Eddie has been told) around the heart and the left lung where a living black oil monster can pool most comfortably. “I hate that,” Eddie says. “I hate knowing that. I hate that you’ve told me that.” You asked, Venom replies. Body horror, sure, but make it a love language.

Author: @andhumanslovedstories

Note from submitter: One of my favorite Venom fics, the body is love.

#official fic poll #haveyoureadthisfic #pollblr #internet culture #fandom culture #fanfic #fanfiction #tumblr polls #fandom poll #cohabitation #venom #mcu #venom movie #symbrock #eddie x venom #ao3 #mind the tags #i think

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mielpetite · 3 months ago

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Puzzlecat had a birthday this week 🥳 and for them I did an illustration of the amazing fic Mark of the Serpent by Naro Moreau and SummerofSpock ! If you wanna see my first attempt at spicy ABO art, you can see it on Patreon but here’s a cut 😉

And if you’re interested in checking out this very hot ABO fic, head on over to AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/34016095?view_full_work=true

#good omens #good omens fan art #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #fanfic illustration #mind the tags

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dahlia-tourism-board · 3 months ago

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You look just like your father: Sam Collins

"You look exactly like your father, boy. don't let anyone tell you different."

[CW: implied child abuse and neglect]

Sam is twelve years old, hiding in his room. His parents are fighting, and judging by the breaking glass and pained groans, it's sounding like he'll have to hide for the rest of the day.

His stomach rumbles. He can't remember the last time he's eaten a proper meal. He thinks about climbing out the window to run off to his grandma's again, but his parents are in the living room. There's a chance they might see him, and he can't risk those consequences.

Hours pass, and the sun begins to set. He hears more arguing, then a door slamming shut. A moment of blessed silence, then-

"Samuel Collins, you get down here! Now!"

Sam scrambles from his bed and races downstairs, knowing what could happen if he's not fast enough for his mother's liking.

Of course, she's still furious on seeing him. She's got cuts on her arms and a black eye, but her knuckles are just as bruised. She stares him down as she holds a plate shard in her hand.

"You clean this up, you hear?" She gestures to the broken plates with the shard in her hand. "I'm headin' out to replace what your idiot father broke, and this better be spotless when I get back, or else."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She drops the shard, letting it shatter even more and laughing when he jumps. "Now get to it."

Sam grabs a broom and a dustpan. Once his mother leaves, he can sneak some food from the fridge. For now, he sets on cleaning.

His mother makes herself proper to go out, makeup on her eye and driving gloves over her knuckles. Sam thinks she'll ignore him entirely as she steps toward the front door. But just as she gets to the door, she turns back to him, furious, her jaw set.

"You look exactly like your father, boy," She snaps. "Don't let anyone tell you different."

She slams the door closed. Sam stands still as he listens to the car drive away. He knows he needs to clean before she gets back, and he needs to eat as much as he can get away with.

Instead, he walks into the bathroom. He looks into the mirror and tries to see what his mother was talking about. Both his parents have brown eyes, he thinks. He looks like both of them, and that roils in his guts.

The urge to break the mirror thunders in his mind. But if he did, he'd be no better then his parents. And grandma Adeline would be so disappointed in him. So he does what she taught him, takes deep breaths until the thunder in his mind calms.

He eats, cleans all the glass off the floor, and locks himself in his room, all before his parents get back. He hears them arguing again, but he tunes them out, finally falling asleep.

Years later, and he's looking at a photograph, one of only a handful of items he'd brought with him when he'd run away from home. He's surrounded by boxes, his mate having just moved in with him. They were planning to unpack properly tomorrow, and something about sharing a home with someone like them made him feel reflective.

As he looks at the photo, his mate, his Darlin' comes up and sits next to him. They look at the photograph curiously, but they don't ask anything. They never push when it comes to his past, knowing what it's like to carry a history of hurt. He was so grateful that they understood, that they let him take the lead.

But he wanted them to understand this too.

"Darlin', this was my grandma Adeline. She was good to me, when I was a kid and I didn't have much good to go off of."

"...huh."

His Darlin' sits up, and looks from the photograph to Sam's face and back again.

"Maybe this sounds weird, but you look just like her." His mate, fully focused, points to different parts of the photo. They mean it, Sam realizes. "Look, in the nose, and the cheekbones. She's even smiling the way you do, with the left side more than the right."

Sam didn't even notice he's started crying until he feels their thumbs lightly brushing away his tears. They're worried, asking if he's okay and apologizing until he smiles through his tears.

"Darlin', I think that's about the nicest thing I've ever heard."

#this one is drawn from ~personal experience~#this one was difficult to write but cathartic in a way #MIND THE TAGS #redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted sam #redacted darlin #cherry snippets

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jurijyuu · 2 months ago

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For Chapter 47 of my fic Scratch an Itch. Currently at 236K words (crazy for my first ever long fic). Please check it out on AO3.

“You wouldn’t be holding onto the other end so tightly if you didn’t care about me getting away.”

Tags: Alastor/Reader, Slow Burn, Obsessive Behavior, Alastor is Bad at Feelings, Demisexual Alastor, Non-consensual Cannibalism, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Idiots in Love, Cannibalism as a love language

#hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor #alastor x you #ao3 writer #ao3 link #fanfiction #mind the tags #baby's first long fic

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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

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Oh, Witchfinder...

The rumors are seeds carried along the last frigid winter wind. There’s a cluster of townships that flirt at the edges of a dense forest in the northeast. The smallest and farthest village is said to be infested by those most heinous of Hell’s denizens, a witch. Witchfinder General Shepherd sends the captain of the 141st witch hunting division to investigate. "Let me pour you a drink."

Original AO3 Link

Content: Witchfinder AU, Dark Content, Dub-Con and Non-Con, Abuse of Power and Power Imbalance, Murder (non-descriptive), Possessive/Obsessive Behavior, Unreliable Narrator, Blasphemy and Religious Elements (Christianity)

The rumors are seeds carried along the last frigid winter wind. They sprout suspicion in the fertile soil of the witchfinders’ information network.

There’s a cluster of townships that flirt at the edges of a dense forest in the northeast. The smallest and farthest village is said to be infested by those most heinous of Hell’s denizens, a witch.

Travelling merchants who have weathered the journey tell tales of shrieking trees and shadows that creep around campsites. Water coppery with blood and plagues of nightmares swathing entire caravans.

Witchfinder General Shepherd sends the captain of the 141st witch hunting division to investigate.

It is a sunny spring day when John first steps foot in your apothecary.

A bell above the door announces his arrival, a little brass thing that peters off like good laughter once it’s closed after him. The shop is absent of customers in the late morning; all the better to ask his questions without others to share the weight of his attention.

A voice calls to him from a room beyond the counter, a bright compliment to the doorbell just gone silent, begging his patience.

Church bells ring for death too.

But death knells are not what flood John’s mind when you flutter into view, sage-stained hands smoothing ribbon-laced hair. An apron hugs tight about your waist, a stained linen cloth tucked between double-looped strings. A smear of vibrant green when you absently wipe your fingertips over a corner.

Barbed hooks burrow into his mind and hold fast.

You come up short when see him, eyes big and blinking like a trick of the light you can’t make sense of. He takes a heavy step deeper into your shop, herbs fresh and bitter in his nose.

What remains of the man he was before this moment clings to his shoulders.

“Oh, hello,” you say, “I’m sorry, I expected… ah, what can I do for you, sir?”

You close the last bit of distance to the counter, a half step for him two of yours. Dainty hands stack at the edge, one beneath the other like nesting birds. John crosses your humble shop in two long strides, boots loud as gavel strikes across a clean-swept floor. He is accustomed to being judge and executioner, a blood-soaked cloak draping his shoulders; something in his chest stirs at being yours.

“You are the shop keep?” he asks, dragging his eyes over yours.

You peer up at him through your lashes. Sunlight spirals through your irises, trips over the dark ring that separates them from pristine white.

“Yes, sir,” you answer.

“You’re the village healer, then?”

You blink again, brows doing a complicated dance deciding if you’re offended or not. “I am.”

Petal soft lips curl and press together on that last phonetic, hint at the question you didn’t quite ask.

“The others tell me you were beset by a witch last year.”

Your mouth parts on surprise, closes when you notice the silver medallion perched on his chest.

“Oh,” you breathe in realization. “Yes, in the autumn. Another witchfinder cured me.”

His eyebrows arch, but your expression remains open and guileless. The counter is less than the length of his forearm, but it’s too much distance. He wants to drag you to his chest and bruise that delicate jaw, squeeze a story from your polite tongue.

“I heard no news of this,” he says, hardening his voice into brick.

You tilt your head. “I couldn’t say why. He seemed quite proud of his victory.”

John’s eyes narrow. Pride is a poison to be imbibed in small doses. A couple drops on the tongue will do, a honeyed warmth fueling good, hard work and living well. A witchfinder must abstain regularly, lest the work become hollow and the living too well.

“His name.”

“Sir Graves,” you answer promptly, then tap a neat fingernail against the countertop, “I’m afraid that if he shared his first name, I don’t remember it.”

Not likely, he thinks. Philip indulges pride a little too readily by John’s estimate – and by most others’ as well. It’s no wonder when Shepherd feeds his lapdog feasts just for fetching. Could, perhaps, put the Devil himself to shame one day, glutted on lording himself over peasant folk looking for salvation by his sword.

If Philip was in this little village and saved a lovely young thing like yourself from perdition, he would have come back to trumpets.

“Odd, that.” John muses. “That I heard of your village’s witch, but not one of my own killing it.”

You hum. “Yes, you said.”

“And the witch is dead now?” he confirms.

One shoulder lifts, a tentative shrug. “I should think so. The village has been peaceful and I’m no longer ill.”

No, you certainly are not. You’re a portrait of health, haloed in good humors. John has seen mere brushes with the wicked rend men in their prime to frail simulacra of themselves. Yet you stand exquisite upon the year’s rebirth, cheeks round from a full belly through the winter.

“And yet I hear that the woods cry in the night.”

He heard no such thing on his journey in, but better to see how far the roots spread.

“I could not say,” you demure, “I sleep quite well, sir.”

He flicks his gaze over the precious silhouette of you, a pretty thing in a dress trimmed in yellow. An idle thought tiptoes to the front of his consciousness, a thief sneaking away his good sense.

You, tucked up alone in a too big bed, sleep soft and vulnerable, moonlight kissing bare skin…

The sleeves of your dress are scrunched up a bit at the wrist, tender skin and serpentine veins peeking past modest fabric. A dark splotch near your thumb draws his gaze.

He snatches up your little wrist like a lightning strike, yanking your arm across the counter while you’re still scrambling past a gasp to protest.

“When witches consort with the Devil, he often marks them.”

John’s grip is iron, though it wouldn’t bruise if you’d stop pulling. Surely you must know, just from the size of him, that you have no hope of resisting without indulging in some inhuman power. Even bracing your free hand against the counter for leverage, you’re held fast.

He tugs your sleeve down, revealing the discolored patch of skin to the light. You make a noise in the back of your throat, brows scrunched and tilted with distress.

“It’s just ink!” you squeak. “Let me—”

He concedes to his initial urge and locks his big hand around your jaw, from corner to corner. You squeal, supple lips bracketing teeth blunt of suspiciously sharp edges. A slick pink tongue pillows the floor of your glistening mouth. He twists his wrist, rough fingers hooking under your jaw and chin so that he can plunge his thumb into that noisy cavern.

He’s tempted, so tempted, to leave it there. To pet at your tongue until it’s a tame pet, jumping at his command. But your whines are getting pitchy, your eyes shiny, and he has no need of scaring you until you’ve been proven heretic. He dips into the saliva pooling behind your bottom teeth, then pulls away before you can do something monumentally stupid – like bite.

He rubs the wet digit over the mark and sure enough, it reactivates and dilutes a coal gray. Just ink after all.

When he releases you, the glass-laden shelf behind you rattles, glass vials shuddering together with a tinkling sound. Laughter at your expense.

“W-wha – why…?” you whimper, arms drawn close to your chest.

Perhaps he was hasty. He nearly startles that he does not feel more than passing regret – that you will be warier to approach him again. Hastily, disturbed at his own reaction, he forms his expression into a moue of apology.

“I know,” he soothes, weaving his voice into a velvet blanket around your tense shoulders. “That must have been frightening. That was not my intent, little miss.”

You sniffle a bit, those unshed tears still glossing big, round eyes.

“Witches are a dangerous kind,” he continues, “you know that for yourself.”

At your tentative nod, he curves his mouth into a gentling smile. Combined with the scruff of his facial hair, he knows he telegraphs warmth and trust – Soap has even teased as fatherly. The sight of it unfurls you, a wilting flower twisting towards the sun.

“You can understand, then, why I had to act swiftly?”

You nod slowly after a moment, taking the tiniest of steps away from the wall.

Brave little thing, he thinks with a wicked curl of fondness. The type of fondness a dog would feel for their favorite bone to gnaw.

He offers his hand, beckoning you to come of your own volition this time. His palm tingles in anticipation of your touch, builds into a burn the longer you hesitate, your touch the balm he needs to relieve it. Your eyes flick between his face and his hand; your unmarked throat bobs as you swallow.

Then you shuffle closer and glide your soft fingers across his, alighting his nerves.

“Though it is my duty, I do regret the affect it has had on our introduction,” he rumbles, voice lowering. You lean a bit to hear him better; he nearly drops to a whisper. “But may I offer my name, as a sign of good faith.”

Your answering smile is small, still shaky, precious like gemstones.

“I am Captain John Price, witchfinder. At your service, my lady.”

Men avoid you in the streets.

It’s a subtle gesture, a slight change of course or pivot of the heel. John doesn’t even notice until a group of three splits two and one to allow you unhindered passage. They don’t appear nervous, nodding their heads in greeting that you respond to with smiles and tiny waves. There’s a basket on your arm that they are careful not to bump, though none offer to carry it either.

The women, by comparison, frequently stop you in the middle of the street for a pleasant word or friendly clasp of hands. Like songbirds on the eaves, twittering brightly.

“Where are all the men?” John asks the baker.

“Begging your pardon, sir?”

“There are fewer men than women,” John notes, nodding to the main street – three women to every man. “Why is that?”

The baker blows out a breath, the long sigh of an elder man. “Oh, the same reason all boys leave home, you know? They go out to make their fortunes, chase fame, fall in love. We’re a small village, little of those first two to be found here.”

John chuckles his agreement, thanks him for the insight – and the fresh rolls – then strolls towards the smithy. The short journey is riddled with curious glances and whispers, none with concern, but none with eagerness. He thinks someone might whisper your name to another as he passes.

As luck would have it, you are outside the smithy, a younger girl hovering at your elbow with a worried brow.

“Is something the matter, ladies?” he calls.

You jump a bit, cup your hands together, one over the other. Hiding something. He arches an eyebrow and hooks a hand in the belt across his chest, thumb peeking out. Stops a polite distance away. Without the illusory safety of a counter, you appear ready to dart off like a startled doe.

“Or are we up to mischief this morning?” he teases upon seeing the younger girl’s flustered face.

You drag your teeth across your bottom lip, trepidatious eyes scanning John’s features. He keeps his smile warm and friendly, the set of his shoulders loose. Your gaze lingers at the corners of his eyes where the skin has begun to crinkle with his age. Then you giggle a bit, an embarrassed grin sneaking across your mouth.

“We’ve made a friend, Sir Witchfinder,” you reveal.

“A friend you say?” he asks, tilting his head.

You hum and lift your hands a bit in offering. “Would you like to see?”

He arches an eyebrow, taking his turn at a cautious measure of your intentions. The glint in your eyes is joyous, not sinister. Shaking his head a bit, he idles a step closer.

“If I end up with a face full of ash…”

“We would never!” the younger girl gasps.

“I wouldn’t dirty my hands for a silly joke like that,” you add with a cheeky curl to your lips.

“Let’s see it, then.”

You slowly, carefully, lift the hand on top. Sat in the well of your palm is… a mouse.

“This is your friend?”

“Handsome little devil, isn’t he?” you coo, thumb smoothing behind a rounded ear.

“A bit waterlogged, though,” he notes.

The poor creature’s fur is dark and clumped together, sticking up where it's brushed against your hands. It’s curled into a tight, shivery ball, beady little eyes staring out at a world far too big for it.

“He fell into the rain barrel,” the girl explains sadly, “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You could have sent it on its way,” he offers, peering at her across your arms.

This, apparently, is of great offense.

“He would die! It’s still far too cold!” she cries.

You hum in agreement, soothing the mouse as its ears twitch. “He’s a young one too, would be a shame that he survived the winter to die like that.”

A circler patch on your skirt reveals just how much of a shame you thought it would be.

“Well, what’s to be done with it now?” he asks.

You cuddle it closer to your breast, beaming as it huddles into the warmth of your body.

“Mallory, would you collect a wooden bowl your father won’t miss?”

“Gladly!” the girl chirps and scurries into the smithy.

Left alone, you don’t seem to grow wary of John again. Most of your focus is on your tiny charge, though you flick him a warm glance when he ventures a careful finger over its spine.

“What a stupid little thing,” he muses, not unkindly, “falling into the water like that.”

You laugh a bit, soft and quiet. A precious jewel shining from a riverbed.

“I like stupid creatures,” you reply. “When they lash out, you know it’s not with malice. Ill intent is an invention of man.”

His brows arch. “How do you reckon?”

You tilt your head, eyes sliding away in thought. “Well… I’ve never heard of mice starting a war for gold. Have you?”

Such a seemingly harmless question; it sits like stone in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I have not.”

Mallory returns, a wooden bowl with high sides in her hands. You pluck a square of linen from the layers of your dress and arrange it at the bottom of the bowl, then deposit the soggy rodent atop. Its tiny black nose twitches, exploring its new bed.

“Set this in a sunny window with a thimble of water. When he’s regained his strength, you can return him to the forest,” you instruct.

John clicks his tongue. “Your father will not be pleased if it gets loose.”

Still, he tears a bit of bread from his bounty of rolls and drops it next to the mouse.

“I’ll keep an eye on it,” Mallory assures and trots off with her occupied bowl.

You and John watch her until she’s disappeared back inside the smithy.

“It’s still a pest, you know,” he says after a moment.

You slant your eyes towards him, a sad twist to your smile now. “That didn’t make him any more worthy of drowning.”

“Someone may still kill it one day.”

You turn to him fully then, chin tilted in not quite a challenge. “Then why did you give him bread?”

It’s a question he could easily shrug off or wave away, but the weight of it settles heavy around his shoulders. Your gaze bores into him.

“I don’t believe in cruelty for cruelty’s sake,” he explains after a moment. “And I do not believe in suffering for principle.”

You blink at him for a moment, storm clouds churning in your eyes. Then someone calls your name and you bid John a quiet ado.

The sheep are huddled in the pasture, an off-white island in a blue-black sea of grass. Their sentinels perk as John passes, eyes glinting by fish-belly moonlight. They make no sound, only lift their shaggy heads to track his passing. John spares them a nod, one guard dog to another.

The nature of a witchfinder is not so different from theirs, to protect the flock and bend to the shepherd’s guidance. How must they feel when their master inevitably slaughters one of their own lambs and lets them taste of the meat?

The forest is loud for the first half-league. Mother nature has let her night children out to play – foxes in the brush and owls perched amongst crooked boughs. Perhaps she has welcomed the arcane tonight as well. The moon is not full, but the lure of sin drives the craven to sate themselves on unripe fruit.

John follows the trodden path to the river where the witch drowned. No trace of the execution or her remains. The wilds are cruel that way, swallowing the righteous and wicked alike and leaving not even bones behind. Marrow is always good for feasting, no matter the soul that inhabited them.

He follows the bank upstream a ways, deeper into the forest, and farther from the places that most would venture. The animals here are more cautious of unfamiliar scents and flee long before he might disturb their evening. As a consequence, the night grows quieter, lonelier.

Then silent all at once.

John is a blooded witchfinder; he knows what this silence means. His palm curls around the handle of his flintlock.

A shrill scream splits the air, high and awful. A death cry – a rabbit’s.

The insects return as the night folds over the bloodshed. John doesn’t move his hand from his pistol.

He waits, a chill wind gnawing at his skin, wriggling in the spaces between his clothes, tangling in his cloak. But there never comes a sign of anything more. Eventually, he turns and navigates back towards the village along the threads of deer trails.

Just as he passes the tree line, a breeze stirs. A few faint haunting notes burrow into his ears and carve maddening paths through his brain. Someone is singing.

His gaze curves towards your apothecary, though even from this distance the windows are ink black.

How easy it would be to steal inside, confirm that you are a good girl tucked up in bed. Perhaps even, for the sake of thoroughness, confirm with his hands and tongue that your croons are not the ones teasing him on an unnatural wind.

John takes a single leaden step towards your home. Towards you. Then the church bells toll – once, twice, thrice.

He pivots on his heel and returns to the inn.

You are at mass the next morning, in the third row from the front, tucked between the baker’s wife and the blacksmith’s daughter. The latter is giggling to you while the other parishioners trickle in and lace the pews. Your smile is bright and sweet, primrose blooms in the trellis outside the inn. A spiderweb of lace threads through your hair today, an intricate pattern he traces with his eyes, over and over and over.

He asked after you – before going to your apothecary and then after. You are well-liked, of course you are. Their precious healer, so handy with your tinctures and ointments, so kind in word and deed. A dreadful business it was, when the shadows appeared in your eyes and spilled over, vitality washed from your skin. You snapped at a huntsman one day, then snarled at the mayor’s eldest son a week later. They each fell fatally ill by month’s end.

You had not liked the witchfinder one bit. Had forced him from your shop and refused his men aid for their travel sores. No one knows what happened All Hallows Eve, when they dragged you from your home to the tiny village jail. All anyone knows were the rabid screams, the curses you shouted through the night, the staggering gait of one witchfinder come first light.

The villagers spoke little and reluctantly of the drowning. That you were marched, silent as death and blank as parchment down to the riverside in chains. The forest was silent when they bundled you up in canvas and roped it closed. There was a terrible splash when they threw your still body into the depths, how you sank and sank and sank…

You were sitting at old woman Josie’s side when they returned, dry and warm and so curious about where everyone had been for so long.

John watches you kneel for communion, mouth parting to receive sacrament. How powerful the Lord must feel, to be placed upon that silken tongue and taken into that soft mouth. The light shifts through stained glass, you’re dyed with Heaven and saints.

No, you are far too exquisite for God; all His angels would fall for envy of you at their gate.

Blasphemy tastes like fresh bread, warm and soft and a little sweet.

John forgets to cross himself. The eucharist has ended and you are gliding down the center aisle towards his post at the church doors.

“Good morning, Sir Witchfinder,” you chime.

The baker’s wife squeezes your elbow as you part ways. John replaces her touch with his own, turning with you towards the apothecary.

“I trust you slept well?” he asks, falling into step.

“Like a lamb,” you reply, “and you, sir?”

“Well, for what I got.”

You are a song that followed him into sleep. His dreams were laden with your big eyes and your soft lips and the memory of you yielding beneath his grip. He woke this morning humming your tune.

You have to tilt your head so far to gauge his expression. “Trouble sleeping?”

“I went into the woods last night, looking for truth to the rumors.”

“Oh! Did you find any?” You wear innocence like fine pearls.

“None. Though I may find something on the full moon.”

You hum, curious. “The full moon is important, then?”

“It is sacred to witches.” He scoffs, “Well, what passes for sacred to them.”

Another question perches on your lips, but a call of your name robs your attention once more. The mayor, asking for a tonic. You pause to ask after his symptoms, and his wife, and his niece in the next town over. It’s a simple yet beautiful net you weave, ensnaring the man’s good will. You promise a bottle before noon and continue on with John at your pretty little boot heels, a dog on a silver leash.

“Tea?” you ask as you enter the apothecary.

He nods. “My thanks.”

You hum and flounce off to the back room. He keeps half an ear on you there while he wanders the shop, a more critical eye upon your wares. There are jars labelled in looping script with commonplace items. A quartet of honey, a cluster of infused oils. Tins of balm for wind chafe and sunburn. Nothing of suspicion, though it would be a foolish witch that keeps virgins’ blood and reptile eyes in plain view. He’s still not sure if he expects to find them anyway.

Spurred by he knows not what, John rounds the counter. Beneath it is a number of other glass vials and containers with careful labels. Their uses are not included, but he recognizes some of them. Cinnamon powder, crushed chamomile, lavender buds, mint leaves. There’s also a little sheaf of bound parchment denoting inventory and sales; business is healthy for the village’s sole healer.

The quiet shuffle from the other room becomes supplemented by a light hum.

John’s feet move of their own accord. The backroom is a well-lit, clean space, but the entirety of his razor focus is on you. He does not bother to lighten his steps and so you’ve already turned by the time he reaches you.

A gasp pitches high in your throat when he backs you against the table behind you.

“Sir—”

You smell like vanilla and daffodils today. Incense in the church that’s been built for you in his mind. He braces his hands against the table to either side of you, caging you in.

“Price,” he growls against your ear. “Call me by name.”

The sweetest little shudder wracks through your smaller frame, a spray of blush blooming across your nose and cheeks. He exhales the urge to drag his tongue across it, let the heat burn his mouth, initiation by fire.

“I-I couldn’t possibly – never mind, what are you doing?!”

He could coo at the affront daring to color your voice. How dare this big man invade your shop and your space and your life, how dare he sink his teeth into the very thought of you?

“I heard singing last night,” he says instead, a growl in his chest that you surely feel against your fluttering breast. “It sounded like you.”

You shake your head, a little furrow between your brows. “I slept through the night, sir.”

“Price.”

“Captain, please, are you sure it sounded like me?”

He stiffens to his full height, towering over you. You try to shrink away, but space has become a commodity he will not afford you.

“You doubt me?”

That little spark of indignance is already cooling, smothered before it could grow into a proper flame. You try for reason with a man who thinks he lost it sometime between seeing you for the first time and his next breath after that.

“There are many children in the village,” you explain. Your hands inch up between your bodies, like ivy creeping up stone walls. Their roots will find purchase in the cracks you’ve chiseled in his foundation. “Perhaps it was a mother singing a lullaby?”

He grasps for all the good sense he was once graced with that made him captain.

Behind him, the kettle begins to shriek.

“Please… Price?” you murmur. “Let me get that?”

He allows the narrowest margin for you to escape. You take it with nervous, stumbling steps. As you collect the kettle from the modest fire burning against the back wall, he tries to wrestle up what remains of his tattered resolve.

John has always considered himself a fair and reasonable man. Unlike a tragic number of his fellows, who have never met a woman they did not condemn, he has strived to be more discerning. A shepherd dog cannot protect the flock if it bites its own sheep. He’s saved as many from the stake as he’s sent to the noose.

Since meeting you, however, he feels as if he’s stranded with no compass and no stars. You’ve robbed him of sense and patience and virtue, left a ravenous beast behind in his skin. It’s unlike any enchantment he’s heard of – one that wishes to ruin the caster so thoroughly. He’s possessed by his need to possess.

It’s some kind of magic, it must be. He doesn’t think he’d recognize himself in a mirror.

“We’re putting this to rest.”

His voice startles you, eyes wide and anxious when he closes the distance again. He counts his steps, measures them on whirls in the floor. You fidget at the sleeves of your dress, light blue trimmed in white lace. A bit of sky draped around temptation. Hell hidden in Heaven.

“The Lord’s Prayer,” he commands, “now.”

Though your voice wavers, you manage its entirety without stuttering or coughing, each word carefully enunciated. It is no surprise; you attended church and took communion without strain.

And yet… and yet.

“I need to be sure,” he decides. “I must examine you.”

You blink. “E-examine?”

“You must be familiar with this, yes? The Devil hides his marks in many places.”

Realization washes across your pretty panicky face. What an awful spell you’ve cast, that makes him want to see that expression when he wrests terrible ecstasy from your trembling body.

“I-I don’t…”

“I know,” he soothes, “it is frightening. We will do this last thing to ensure your innocence, and then I will not seem so mean, I promise.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, perhaps finding solace in darkness one last time, before your glamour is revealed.

“One thing at a time,” he encourages, firm but not unkind. You look like your knees are about to give out. “It will not take long.”

With shaking fingers, you unbuckle the thick leather belt cinching your waist. You fold it in half and set it aside on a clear patch of worktable. Your gown comes next, laced at the front with a neat bow that had been hidden by the belt. This is draped atop the table as well, and then you pause, hands twitching in the skirt of the cream shift you’re left in.

John takes pity, generous with the promise of more to come. Delayed gratification has always been his vice of choice. “Let’s start from the bottom, shall we? Shoes next.”

You sigh softly in relief and bend at the waist, drawing the hem up with one hand. The other tugs at the laces of first one boot, then the other, stockinged feet padding out onto the wood floors. You tut offhandedly about tears while you set your shoes neatly aside.

Higher and higher your thin shift goes, a measure for the anticipation roiling in his gut. Your stocking climbs up to your thigh, where a clever little cuff hugs plush flesh, a slight bulge where you’ve laced it tight to stay in place. It slides down, down, down, and off your dainty little foot. Between the deliberate slide of fabric and the fluttering of your shift, bits of skin flicker into view like clouds passing over the moon.

The other stocking is just as torturous, just as hypnotizing. John drops to his knees when you’re finally standing barefoot, the hem of your shift still drawn up enough to display how you shift your weight.

Even your ankles are so small that he can fit his entire palm with fingers overlapping. You make a nervous noise as he pries your foot up from the floor.

“I’m going to fall,” you mumble.

“Hold onto me, then.” With his free hand, he guides one of yours to his shoulder. The other follows suit, balling into his tunic. “Just like that, there we are.”

You hum, sounding unsure but mollified. He tilts the limb until he can get a look at the sole, finds smooth and unmarked skin. The same for the other, and he luxuriates in how you lean into him for stability.

On both feet again, you seem to forget to let him go. He does not remind you while he smooths your skirt up your calves, your knees. He thumbs at a little bruise on the left and bites off a mean smirk when you twitch away.

“I bumped into a table,” you explain.

“Clumsy thing,” he tuts.

Your pouty little huff tempts him to look, but he refrains, rallying all his years of witchfinding service to the task at hand. There’s a scar on the inside of your left thigh that makes his mouth water.

“And this?”

“I dropped a kitchen knife when I was thirteen. My mother was furious.”

His teeth ache to bite into it. He taps at your hip instead. “The back now.”

“Oh.” You unlatch your hands from his shoulders to hold your dress for him. When you turn, he can’t resist drawing his palm up your thigh, marveling at living silk against his callous-roughened hand. It feels like he could tear you.

He stands, so close he can see the shade of each strand of hair. You glance at him over your shoulder, curious, but he wraps his fingers in your hair and faces you forward again. If you keep looking at him with those big, wet eyes, he’s going to do something unspeakable.

He examines the nape of your neck, the fine hairs that gather at the base of your skull. You fuss a bit about him ruining your braids when he tugs the lace ribbons free. Like a kitten, you subside when his fingers card through, scraping blunt nails along your scalp. It’s its own sort of magic, that. How your shoulders fall, and you lean into his touch just that guilty little bit.

“Back ‘round now, little miss,” he orders when the moment has stretched far, far too long for any justification.

He gives you another moment to gather your courage for what’s next and continues his inspection above your neckline. You scrunch your cute little nose when he brushes your ears and shiver a bit when he tilts your head back.

“Last of it now, c’mon,” he encourages.

A bit calmer now, you unlace the corset from your abdomen. An endearing little breath when it’s gone, ribs expanding like fireplace bellows. In nothing but soft linen, your nipples form rosy shadows through the fabric.

You have to turn away as you gather it up, flushing the brightest yet as you pull it over your head. The shift is piled with the rest of your abandoned clothes, and you are left wonderfully, scandalously, bare.

“No knickers?” he asks, a fingertip skimming over your buttock.

You jump. “I-I need to do laundry.”

He hums, amused despite the suspicious convenience of that explanation. Still, you are hardly the first woman to forget your washing, and you are a busy little bee at that.

“We’ll continue from here.”

The curve of your spine is a masterpiece, a thing for starving artists to make their name if they could capture it on canvas. He draws his thumb along each ridge, counting knots of bone down to the dimples at the small of your back.

Silver fissures decorate the lush roundness of your hips and lower stomach, where your body grew too fast inside your skin. A sign of a good, healthy childhood. They’re even softer and smoother than the surrounding skin, more decadent than silk.

“Once more. We’re almost done.”

You turn with great reluctance, arms drawn up and thighs pressed tight together. You’ve turned your face away, staring into the low fire. When he opens his mouth to coax you again, you fling an arm out, smacking into his chest. The other is still folded across the swell of your breasts.

“These as well… right?” you ask.

He tries to keep his chuckle soundless, but the dubious glance you send him from the corner of your eye is unappreciative.

Deft fingers unfurl when his thumb presses to the center of your finger palm, reflex that spreads them wide. It’s mouthwatering how easy your body yields. He turns your wrist and forearm over, checking along the tender parts beneath. You wrinkle your nose again when he holds it out to check your armpits as well. Once he’s satisfied with that, there’s some awkward shuffling to offer him the other arm.

“Your stomach, now?” he guesses, not trying to hide the patronization this time.

You jerk your head in a haughty little nod. He bends a bit to scrutinize your stomach, soft and well-fed. A sharp noise bursts from your throat when he thumbs at your naval. He arches an eyebrow as he tilts his head to your face, but you’re stubbornly looking as far from him as you can.

“That tickled,” you complain.

“My sincerest apologies, miss.”

Your nose twitches like you want scrunch it at him again. All that fussiness evaporates, however, when you realize what’s next.

“We’re almost done, little one.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Slowly, achingly, you lower your arms. They don’t go far, folding across your stomach with tight little fists. It only takes a glance to know that you are unmarked, but John is far from satisfied. He can’t bring himself to look away, fingers tingling with desire to touch that supple skin, to feel the weight of your breasts in his palms.

“Thinking naughty thoughts, are we?” he teases, the barest brush of a fingertip over one hard nipple. “And on a Sunday.”

“N-no!” you squeak. “There’s a chill. I-I’m not…”

“So when I check this precious little cunt, I won’t find you dripping for me?”

You yelp, hands flying up to cover your face. “You mustn’t say things like that!”

“Mustn’t I?” he wonders as he lowers to his knees. It sends an ache through them, but the view is worth the toll.

“I know this is all so unusual but that’s – that’s improper, sir!” you cry.

“How many times must I remind you?” He traces his fingertips up the back of your calf, delighting in the goosebumps left in his wake. “Call me by name.”

You squeal when he hooks a hand beneath your knee and jerks it over his shoulder. Your hand flies to his other to keep your balance, eyes huge. He rakes his gaze deliberately down the curving length of that delicious body until it settles on his prize.

Heaven, he thinks, is on Earth. It is here, nestled between your thighs. The pearly gates are dripping between plump lips in a bed of downy curls. The clouds are pink and shimmering; the apple of Eden is a swollen, throbbing bud. God’s throne is the tight little hole twitching around nothing, untouched for want of a worthy offering.

Heaven’s choir is your shuddering little inhale when his thumbs part your slit wider. It’s the bitten off sound from cool air blown over sensitive flesh. It’s your sweet, startled “oh” when he draws a knuckle through all that decadent wetness. Angels sound like your moan when he pays special attention to that forbidden fruit, light circles until your hips twitch.

“W-wait,” you whimper, breathy, “I’m a – I’ve never…”

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, “I won’t hurt you, but the Devil can hide things inside, can’t he?”

You whine as he prods a careful finger at your entrance. Your modesty is still intact, really the last bit of evidence he could ever need that you are innocent. He gathers your slick on his fingertip and prods gently at that thin bit of tissue. You shake your head, bottom lip pinched between your teeth.

“Calm yourself, little miss,” he croons. “This hasn’t been painful so far, has it?”

“N-no…”

“It will not be painful now, either. Just stay still for me.”

You make a weak little sound of agreement, hands clenching and unclenching. He massages at the membrane of your entrance in slow, even strokes, his thumb toying at that swollen button when you start to tense. It finally gives just that little bit and your body welcomes his finger inside.

He does not rush, keen to fulfill his promise of a painless touch. Who would forgo the pleasure of exploring Paradise in favor of sprinting from one end to the other?

When he’s down to the knuckle, he pauses, absorbing all of this exquisite moment, all of you. Shaking and panting, leaning into him with blush down to your chest. He curls his finger, draws it out just a bit, then sinks back inside. You bend your head to him as if in prayer, mouth falling open.

“Steady on, darling,” he coos. “You’re doing well.”

When you start to squirm, he hides a smile against your thigh and pumps his finger again. Deeper, faster, curling just that little bit to pet your supple walls. Your voice breaks loose when he finds his rhythm, a cascade of moans and whimpers that baptize him an acolyte. He devotes himself to your alter, to the pleasured twitching of your virgin cunt and the rocking of your untrained body.

He finds a spongy place inside that makes you flutter around him, a gush of slick beading a bracelet down his wrist. It soaks into the edge of his sleeve and beneath the leather of his vambrace.

“Th-that’s… oh.” You nearly sing with pleasure, a hymn made of monosyllables and whiny hums. He presses his thumb firm and insistent to your sensitive clit, rewarded by another flood of wetness and desperate whimpers. “I feel… ah, I feel l-like… what are you doing t-to me?”

He chuckles deep in his chest, brushes his lips along the side of your knee. Your traitorous pussy clenches around him, not nearly so demure of its admiration.

“Let that feeling build. Let it wash over you,” he purrs. “Don’t be afraid.”

You tilt your head back, crying your pleasure to the heavens as you tighten and shake. John braces your standing leg as your eyes roll back in your skull. You’re vicelike around just a single finger, it would be nearly painful around anything thicker. He rubs at that spot inside you, thumb still in place, unspooling your ecstasy like pulling a thread from knitted cloth. You unravel so beautifully for him, on and on until you’re a puddle in his hands.

It takes a little sniffle and a wordless mewl to coax him from your heat. His hand is drenched, slippery between his fingers. You lower your leg shakily from his shoulder, reluctant to put your weight on it with aftershocks still wracking your frame.

“Good girl. You’ve been so strong and brave, there’s a love,” he soothes, stroking your hip with his dry hand. “We can put this witch business to rest now.”

You tilt your head. Perhaps a nod; perhaps just exhaustion. He straightens while you gather yourself, flexing your fingers, likely sore from how hard you held onto him. He considers the mess on his hand, a temptation more intoxicating than any wine…

But he would rather drink from the source.

There’s a spare cloth folded into a neat square next to herbs you likely meant to cut. He cleans his hand with it and turns back just as you’re fumbling for your shift.

“Easy now, little miss. Allow me.”

John leans you up against the same table where you’ve piled your clothes, palms lingering at your waist until he’s sure you have your balance. You’re sweet and pliant under his touch, his voice. He redresses you with careful consideration, putting you back together just as he found you. Or nearly just.

The post-orgasm haze dissipates like fog with each article of clothing, an odd curiosity chasing across your face when he helps you back into your boots.

“You’re a strange sort of man,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “Is it because you’re a witchfinder?”

He arches his eyebrows as he stands again, arms winding around your waist to buckle your belt.

“I could not say without knowing what makes me so strange,” he chuckles.

You tilt your head, eyes still and deep, Leviathan’s abyss. Something is coiling behind your irises, a beast stirring from long slumber. Ripples in a lake will calm eventually, its natural state to be a placid mirror. You’ve become contemplative in your satiation; it’s the most substantial you’ve ever felt.

“You can’t decide to be cruel or kind,” you muse. “I didn’t know someone could be both.”

He presses his mouth to your temple.

“I’ve taught you a few things today, then.”

John sighs and runs his hands down his face, scratches a thumb absently at the corner of his jaw. His room’s modest writing desk is obscured by four pieces of parchment. One from each of his men, and a fourth from the witchfinder’s spymaster.

He sent Ghost, Soap, and Gaz to investigate the neighboring villages before setting for this one. They have each reported that there was nothing of note from any of them. Just the same things they’ve all heard. Rumors of a witch, a story of a healer who was exorcized of the evil. No curses or hexes since.

Laswell’s message was the last he was waiting for, just come in this morning.

Two men fell victim to your affliction. A huntsman, and the mayor’s eldest son.

The huntsman, an unpleasant man by the name of Robert, traveled along the province following his prey’s migration patterns. Apparently, he also had a predilection for women - girls, really - far too young for him. His last occupation before expiring: a certain blacksmith’s daughter.

As for the mayor’s son, there’s something to be said for still wearing that title at some four and a half decades old. Though Laswell’s information is scarcer here, owing that it was a very local matter, it seems he had a conflicted relationship with you. Would preen and fawn for your attention and then condemn you when you did not return it past politeness.

Even once boasted to a merchant two towns over that you would be the one he married, then stormed off when you declined to let him carry your basket.

Misfortune couldn’t have befallen better men, John muses. It was fortunate that no one else in the village fell victim to the witch’s wrath.

Fortunate indeed.

He sighs, sets his hands on hips. There’s really no need to stay, not now. None of his squadron have found any evidence of foulness. His own investigation concluded when his one suspect passed every measure of witchcraft he knows. He’s no reason to stay.

Gathering the parchments, he sets them aside and pens three identical messages commanding his men back to headquarters. He pens another to Laswell, thanking her for her diligence.

He returns downstairs, to hand his correspondence off to the innkeeper. Cecilia, the wife, is there instead. Talking to you.

“Oh, Captain Price,” she says, “dearest me, were you waiting there long? And here I am clucking like an old hen!”

“Not at all, madam,” he replies, approaching so that she need not go through the trouble of leaving her chair. You watch over the rim of your teacup, eyes dark and too knowing. “I thank you for looking after my correspondence.”

“Not at all, dear,” Cecilia coos. She takes his letters in one hand and pats at his shoulder with the other. “Now, then, we don’t want you losing any of that muscle, do we? How about a bowl of stew, it’s been cooking overnight.”

He stumbles out an agreement - not that he thinks it’s needed, she’s already bustling off to prepare him a bowl. You set your cup down with a gentle clatter.

“Important witchfinding business?” you ask, nodding after Cecilia.

And there’s the crux of it. You’re not a witch; you can’t be. He’s assured of that himself.

Yet…

Something lingers in the back of his mind, that animal knowledge of an unknown predator lurking nearby. Gut instinct tells him something is off, despite all evidence to the contrary. It has never betrayed him before.

“Something like that,” he answers.

You hum, apparently satisfied with that answer.

He’ll stay until the full moon, at least. Perhaps then better sense will finally win out.

There’s a garden in back of the apothecary, just sloughing off hibernation. You’re tending to what few brave plants have ventured above ground in defiance of the lingering cold. John finds an orange cat batting at your apron springs. It flicks its ears towards him, then turns back to your laces.

“Flaunting your familiars?” he asks to announce his presence.

You half turn, though your eyes don’t stray from the rosemary spines you’re collecting. “Do you mean Curtis?”

The cat overbalances and lands on its back, rotund stomach hindering its ability to gracefully recover. As far as familiars go, it would be a pathetic one, stocky and cockeyed as it is.

“He’s a village cat, but he likes to test his luck with the crows.”

“You’ve crows now, too?” he asks, sidling closer. He’s mindful of the neat rows of your garden, where seeds or bulbs may lie dormant. “You enjoy drawing suspicion.”

You scoff; it’s unladylike, but he’s enchanted by sincerity. “There have always been crows. They eat pests from the garden. Better here than in the fields, no?”

He does spot a number of crushed snail shells and unharmed leaves amongst your few charges.

“I defer to your logic, my lady,” he chuckles, hands up in defeat.

You shake your head, but he spies your smile regardless. “Have you need of me, Sir Witchfinder?”

“I’ve need of your expertise today.”

He follows as you gather your little harvest and sidestep him out of the garden, arm brushing his. Curtis brings up the rear, tail swishing. You don’t seem bothered by his presence and so John only closes the door after the cat is inside. Back to your preparation room; you’re ignoring the back wall by the fireplace.

“What is it?” you ask.

“The full moon is tonight. I intend to camp in the forest. Have you anything to deter wildlife?”

You hum, eyes gazing off and head tilting back and forth as if shaking the information loose. “Yes, I think so.”

You beckon him about the backroom and the shop. He holds a cheesecloth pouch open while you sprinkle powders and dried herbs into it, murmuring as you go. Calendula and some of that fresh rosemary for wolves, ground spice for bears, peppermint for foxes. It’s certainly fragrant, but even if it is not effective, it’s worth its weight in gold to watch you flutter about with a confident set to your fine brow.

You tie the pouch closed with a neat but tight bow and instruct him to sprinkle it around his campsite. When he tries to pay, you shake your head, flushing hotly as you tell him it is thanks for making your examination so… painless.

He chuckles and strokes a finger down your warm cheek to make you swat at him.

Just as he turns to leave, you take his wrist and press a smaller pouch into his palm.

“Lavender, to help you sleep,” you explain.

“Will I dream of you?”

“So improper!” you complain, pressing your little hands to your cheeks.

He dips down close, bristly cheek brushing the softness of yours. You shiver as his lips skim the shell of your ear.

“My thanks, love,” he whispers, “I will show my gratitude when I return.”

You turn your face away, “It is a gift, you need not repay me.”

He grins wickedly. “Oh, but it will be my pleasure to do so.”

You shake your head and push gently at his chest. “Out with you, Sir Witchfinder. You’ve preparations for your hunt, I’m sure.”

He goes, though not without locking his gaze with yours. “I will hear my name from your lips again.”

There was never a vow so sincere.

If God is the Holy Father, Mother Nature reigns His queen. It must be a contentious marriage.

It’s the first warm night and a fat full moon. John’s gut tells him that if ever there were a night for heathens, it would be this one.

He makes camp on the other side of the river, only just within earshot of the water. He builds a modest fire and scatters the sachet generously. It makes for a pleasant perfume, at least, and mingles pleasantly with the tobacco he smokes while he lets the night deepen.

The moon is high and the stars bright by the time he sets off from his campsite. Much like his last foray, however, there is little more than chittering animals and nightbirds to disturb the evening. John returns to stoke the fire after a couple hours. He is a patient man – except, apparently, where you’re concerned – he can wait for some sign.

It comes as he’s dozing on his bedroll, the scent of lavender fogging his mind with pleasant apparitions of you. The singing, again.

He pads through sodden leaf litter, ghostlike as he weaves among the vegetation, following faint notes. They grow louder as he picks his way through the forest, building in strength and pitch – and number.

It is not just one voice he hears but several, threads that twine a haunting tapestry. Soon there is not just melody, but shouts and whoops as well, powerful as they bounce off the trees. It is pitch black until all at once it is not. The thick tree line breaks upon a great clearing, where a bonfire smolders in the center.

Around it, a dozen dancing women. They are not naked, levitating hags painted in blood and ichor. They are dressed – or mostly dressed, in any case, as firelight gilds thighs peeking from skirts and shoulders bare of under-shifts. Some have their hair pinned back, others wear it loose, flying and tangling as they throw themselves about.

Hands joined and rising as they bounce around the flames, then spinning apart with cries of delight. A few plant their feet wide apart in the earth and drop their chests, hands extending towards the fire and then up towards the stars. The others whirl around them, voices rising to start a call and response that sends chills down his spine.

“When God is gone, and the Devil takes hold,” one set begins.

And the other answers, “Who will have mercy on your soul?”

A few refrains of this and then of others, until a single voice rings damnation above the rest.

“I am Death, none can excel. I am the door to Heaven or Hell.”

It has been burned into John’s bones, into his soul. Your voice.

A glamour he knows now. He knows, he knows. It is a foul trick meant to distract him from his true query, one he is ashamed clouded his judgement for so long. Of course you would not cast such a garish and obvious enchantment to draw his attention – lest it was not you that cast the spell in the first place.

Death is in the valley.

John knows his own capabilities, and he knows he cannot beat nor catch a dozen witches on a full moon. He must content himself with what he can, far as he is from their ritual and unable to distinguish any particular features. It need not be this night; he’s caught the scent and will root out the wolves from the flock.

The morning light is water between his fingers. He swims through it at the perimeter of the village, smoking another roll of tobacco. The night was long and cold; he did not linger near the witches, wary of being found. He gathered what little information he could, stamped out the coals of his campfire, and returned to the inn. Your lavender came in quite handy; he means to be especially generous with his thanks this morning.

You are not in the garden and the shop is still locked up from the night before. Perhaps you were called out early to treat some ailment. He makes a direct line from your shop back to the tree line and hears your humming again.

When he follows it this time, he’s led to a creek and your naked form sunk beneath the surface. Your back is to him, hair streaming with the current.

“And what naughtiness are you up to this morning, little miss?”

You shout, hands instantly flying up to protect your modesty. When you spin to find him, arms crossed, on the bank, you make an angry little noise and splash at him. Not even a droplet touches his boots.

“You know witches bare themselves in the open like this?” he asks.

You scrunch your nose at him, an embarrassed blush high on your cheeks. “That’s not funny.”

“You oughtn’t to be out here like this.” In fact, the more he thinks of another man stumbling upon you like this, the hotter his blood simmers.

It seems you’re not entirely unaware of your actions either as you deflate a bit. “I know, I know – but I spilled an entire jar of vinegar all over myself.”

A bloodless finger emerges from the water to point at flat rock, where your clothes are laid out in the meager sunlight. A brush and bucket rest beside it, suds still clinging to the sides.

“Clumsy thing,” he sighs, fond and exasperated.

“You oughtn’t to call me names,” you huff.

He arches an eyebrow and uncrosses his arms.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” you reply haughtily, turning away to scrub at your hair. He suspects it is to give you reprieve from his darkening gaze. “It’s terribly rude.”

He wades into the creek. “Rude, you say.”

“I do.”

You peek over your shoulder and startle when you see him approaching. “John, you’re getting wet!”

“I’m not the only one, I reckon.”

You sputter long enough for him to snatch you up in his arms, the entirety of your shivery little body pressed against his. The creek isn’t actually that deep – just to his waist standing. You’ve only been knelt down among the round stones of the bed, but he drags you up to your feet as you wiggle.

“Why do you insist on such impropriety?!” you groan, ducking your head.

He takes your chin between thumb and forefinger and tilts your face back towards him. Craves your eyes on him like the starving man craves food.

“I may be improper in word, but you are in deed, my lady,” he counters, drawing spirals at the small of your back. “A matched pair we make.”

You dart your eyes away and purse your pretty, pouty lips, but you cannot conceal your pleasure at his declaration.

“You oughtn’t to call me your lady either,” you mutter. “I am not yours.”

A serpent’s tail thrashes his insides. He swallows the sick, violent burn in his belly.

“No?” he asks. “How can that be when I’ve pleasured you the way a man pleasures his? When you take such good care of me with your teas and herb pouches?”

You blink, latch onto that last thought with endearing desperation to alter his course.

“Oh, how did the lavender treat you?”

“Quite well,” he answers, sweeping his hands along your sides. “Allow me to repay your care.”

Your fingers curl gently in his sodden shirt, peeking up at him through your lashes again.

“I told you, you need not – wah, John!”

He’s hoisted you up on the steep, grassy incline of the embankment by your lush thighs. Your weight is negligent when he has your knees nearly to your hitching chest. Splayed open and lovely, a breakfast fit for a king – no, for God. He would usurp Atlas to have you like this.

“Remind me again, little one, how exactly you are not mine.”

Your lip wobbles a bit as you try to gather your scattered words. Have just begun your very sensible quibble when he laps at the cream between your thighs. Digs his tongue into that precious hole he so recently collared as his newest pet. Traces the seam of your cunt to that perfect, round clit and flattens his tongue against it.

Whatever pretty bouquet of arguments you’d arranged are swept downstream. His mouth is mortar upon your flimsy defenses; devastates you to trembling rubble. The mewling pours fast and easy now that you’ve found your voice, pitches into a squeal when he sucks. You taste clean and human on his tongue, sticking in his facial hair, ambrosia from the purest source. He pampers your cunt to keep the drink flowing, swallows you down like the finest wine.

Even better than those weak cries, is the way you squirm in his hold. You arch your back and twist your hips, fingers tearing up flossy grass, then tugging at his wet shirt, then scratching uselessly at his forearms. He growls when you think to tug his hair, and the vibration of his voice against your swollen folds makes you sob dry.

“Please, please, John,” you chant. His new favorite psalm. “Please, I can’t, John, please.”

He hides a smile by curling his tongue as far inside you as it can go. When he comes up for air, you’re properly teary this time.

“Why not?” he murmurs against your neck, false concern makes your hips twitch. “Why can’t you, darling?”

“It’ll – I’ll fly apart this time,” you gasp. “I swear, John. I’ll fall apart.”

Oh, so precious. So sweet and perfect and utterly his. You can’t be anything else. Not now.

“Is that all?” he asks. “I’ll put you together again, just like last time.”

He dives in with your bitten off fretting in his ears, licking you into silence, compliance, until you’re obediently whimpering again. Your slick spills down his chin, his neck, smears across his cheeks. Gentleman that he was raised to be, he is a messy eater, and you are a delicacy.

Now that he knows what it sounds like, he recognizes the rising tide of your pleasure and rides its crest with gusto. You wail and whine about that feeling again, that sublime crescendo to a symphony played with your own body, by a conductor so cruel as him. He swirls his tongue around your clit, then suck it into ravenous mouth.

“John, John, John!”

He only just manages to cover your mouth; your songs are for him alone, no need to serenade the rest of the village. You taste like salvation, communion he’ll kneel for at every mass.

Overstimulation makes you noisy, fussy sounds in the back of your throat as you try to press away, pushing with earnest at his forehead. He relents only because you say his full name, sharp and scolding, and he needs to see the angry little furrow between your brows.

“You are incorrigible,” you pant.

He hums, licking shamelessly at his lips. “My sincerest apologies.”

“Lying is a sin.”

He gives you a look. It makes you burst into a fit of giggles to rival birdsong.

“Yes, yes, have a laugh at the old captain,” he grouches, lowering you gently to your feet.

“You’re not old, John,” you scoff.

“Older than you, spring chicken.” He pauses as he notices that the fine tremble in your limbs has not subsided. “And speaking of spring, you’ve spent far too long in this water. You’ll catch your death.”

“I would have been out sooner had I not been accosted.”

“Oh yes, I’m a terrible man,” he soothes, guiding you back to shore. “A scoundrel.”

You hum in placid agreement, clinging to his side to leech his warmth. “Yes, yes. All of that.”

“As you say, little miss.”

You tuck up against him by the fire in the apothecary’s backroom and send him warning looks whenever his gaze grows hotter than the flames.

John wakes in the dark.

He cannot move his arms or his legs. The mattress at his back is softer and thicker than the inn’s, absent the odd lumps that bent his spine at angles. He is also stark naked.

He has been captured, somehow.

Memory shines thin and useless beams through a waning fog. A thick, warm stew… sweet, floral tea… you…

You.

Where are you?

There is little point in trying to gain his bearings, though he does regardless. There are no windows to light his prison. Only the scent of exposed wood and slightly stale air. It’s warm enough, at least, even bare as he is. Sound comes from above his head, creaking boards.

He’s belowground.

Some minutes pass in consternation, his last memory your hands in his hair and his head in your lap.

Then the creaking above shifts. Away, then to his right. A louder, metallic squeak. Hinges. Individual steps now, descending a set of stairs. A faint seam of gold grows near the ground, a miniature horizon with an approaching dawn.

A click.

Candlelight infiltrates the room, shying from corners and exposed ceiling beams. John gets his first glimpse of his prison – a rather cozy bedroom. The generous bed he’s splayed on and tied to. A vanity in one corner; a bedtable to his left. A chair kept company by a small shelf of books.

There’s even a rich burgundy rug on the stone floor, on the other side of which you stand.

“This is one way to have a man in bed.”

You do not speak, only cross the room, round the bed. The heavy candelabra you’ve brought is set on the bedtable. The flames play ghostly shadows across your features, caressing the line of your nose and the curves of your mouth.

The silence stretches so far it begins to sag beneath its own weight in the middle.

You – or the facsimile of you – have not turned your gaze from the whirls of silver in the candelabra.

“You need not keep this shape any longer, witch,” John growls at last.

The illusion twitches, fingers curling tight in its skirt.

“I know this is a glamour, stop hiding behind her face.”

“Damn you, John!” You – it snaps around, gaze burning hellfire and brimstone. “There is no glamour.”

Held still before, he is stone now. “What?”

It – you? – snarl, showing all your teeth. Still as blunt and neat as ever.

“You witchfinders,” you scoff, shaking your head, “and your so-called purpose. You’ll see anything shiny and call it gold. By God, any woman is a witch if you try hard enough, isn’t she?”

“I acquitted you.”

You snort. “Was that before or after you wanted to wet your cock?”

It was always, regardless. He does not think it wise to answer. You don’t seem to need one.

“Graves condemned me only after I denied him – repeatedly.” You perch at the edge of the bed by his ribs and press your palm against the mattress on the other side of his head. John denies you the pleasure of leaning away. “He took me to the river in chains.”

“Magic.”

You roll your eyes. “What did I say? Use the wits your God gave you.”

When he just stares into your blown out pupils, you pull away with a groan, standing again.

“The blacksmith made the manacles,” you explain. Slow, quiet. “And Agnes brought my last meal.”

Mallory, the smith’s daughter and Agnes, the baker’s wife. Your church companions.

You hum as understanding smooths his brow. Despite the pleased lilt, your mouth is a flat, angry line. “Makes much more sense, doesn’t it?”

He tugs at his binds as you gather up the skirt of your dress.

“I took a blade to that wretched sack and swam with the current downriver,” you explain. There is no shift or corset beneath this time. “When I emerged, I snuck back home and hid right where you are now.”

You bend at the waist to unlace your boots, ass on full, beautiful display. You are no longer just a temptress; you are a succubus. The limited candlelight paints you in burnished gold, Hell’s currency. John is far, far too gone on your sin to help his reaction to the sight of you, even now.

“When the moon rose, Cecilia let me into the inn and unlocked their doors.” You kick off your boots, inner thighs glistening. You don’t even bother with your stockings. “One. By. One.”

You pad to the foot of the bed and place your knee on the mattress between his legs. It’s real weight, your weight that sinks into it. You crawl up the bed, body swaying over his, flesh and blood depravity.

“I saved Graves for last.” You straddle John’s thighs, trace soft palms up his abdomen and over his chest. The bite of your little, clean nails chases belies that deceptive gentleness. “I slit his throat with his own iron dagger. The blood looked like ink in the moonlight.”

His cock stands proud and flushed, pressed against your belly, begging entrance. A tower of pride in spite of God and all sanity, he throbs with the low thrum of pride in your velvet voice. He tries at the ropes again; they hold fast, creaking in reprimand.

“I fed him and his men to the river.” You lift yourself, wrap an elegant hand around the girth of him. Your lips part, above and below, at the heat of him against sensitive flesh. “I thought it was over. Hoped I could finally have my peace again.”

You grind the flared head of him against that bundle of nerves, back and forth, up and down. A sigh slips from your lips and blankets him in fire. Head tipping back, neck rolling as everything that makes you human sloughs off, overworn garments. You tease yourself and him, wetness dripping down his shaft and spilling over his groin. He is a slave to his desire’s whims, your whims, hips twitching to grind.

You crack your eyes open, damnation in your gaze. “And then you showed up.”

You bare your teeth and take him into you all at once. A ragged shout cracks you both in half, clashing in the lust-heated air between your bodies. You are tighter than a vice, strangling him in plush, slick walls.

“Fuck,” you grit, sucking in air. Your mouth drops open, a delirious bark of laughter hitching in your throat. Ruby crescent moons decorate his chest. “You fucking bastard.”

Swallow thick and harsh, as if you can feel him in your throat. It certainly feels as if he reaches that far, as deep inside you as he is. He wants to test it for himself, but the ropes do not relent despite his persistent tugging.

“I could not do a goddamn thing without feeling your eyes on me,” you snarl. “Is this what it’s like to believe in God?”

You rock your hips. A little at first, still somehow so mortal to the pain of a thick cock in your virgin pussy. And then your spite and pride overtake the discomfort and you bounce once, hard. Grin wildly when it guts a groan from him and do it again. And again. And again—

It’s torture, it’s paradise. It’s John’s undoing. Your face twisted in divine wrath and hedonistic ecstasy, riding his cock like you were born to bring men beneath your dainty heel. He drops his head back against the mattress, tries to arch up to meet your thrusts. You’re having none of it, hissing as you brace all your (not considerable) weight on his chest.

“I don’t care if God is real,” you breathe, “I care about the people He and His have forgotten on Earth. Does that make me a witch?”

It’s all so much noise to him with the way you squeeze around him, walls fluttering. You’re moving hard and fast, but not hard or fast enough. John moans your name, earns another of those scowls that makes him throb.

“Shut up, Witchfinder,” you pant. You rise up, back arching as you find an angle that breaks your voice. “I will have my pleasure and you will thank me for the privilege of delivering it. The least you can repay me for all the trouble you’ve caused.”

The angels themselves could come to his aid now, and he’d only ask that they cut him loose.

And for all your scoffing, perhaps there is a greater force at play because the rope circling his right wrist catches. A rough edge or a bent nail, it does not matter. John works his arm back and forth, sawing through rough fibers, any remaining blood in his body dedicated to this salvation.

Your voice rises with your pleasure, knees widening to get him deeper, but not with any actual intent to bring either of you to climax. No, you’re luxuriating, gloating. You’ve won. He reaches across while your head is tilted back to pull the loop from his other wrist.

He will show you the spoils you’ve wrought.

“Tell me, oh Witchfinder,” you smirk, diamonds dripping between your breasts, “what am I?”

Your eyes go beautifully wide when he fits his wide palm around your pretty throat. Small hands grasp at his wrist, need both just to wrap around the circumference. Lips parting, you clench down so tightly as he sits up and reaches for the silver hidden in your right stocking.

A paring knife, honed to a deadly edge.

“Now what did you plan to do with this?” he wonders. “Little girls shouldn’t play with knives.”

Eyes locked with yours, fluttering like butterfly’s wings, he slices his ankles free with two flicks of his wrist. The knife is discarded over the side of the bed, far from your sneaky fingers.

It is laughably easy to flip you onto your back, to bind your dainty wrists together with the remains of one of his. So he does laugh, cock still buried deep inside your pulsing cunt and his hand loosening from your throat.

Each blink brings you back to focus, until you seem to realize all at once what’s happening. You snarl, kick your legs, back arching at an angle that makes him grunt. And you are still so, so wet.

“I should have killed you!” you shout, even as John guides your legs around his waist. Your knees press into his ribs, ankles interlocked at the small of his back.

“You should have,” he agrees, pressing your tied wrists to the mattress. He forges a path of biting kisses up your chest, over your neck, licking where he can feel you swallowing noises.

“Oh, let go, let go!” you demand, except it comes out more a whine, and one you don’t even mean at that. Not when you twist your hips to feel him pressing inside you.

“Oh, my little witch,” John rumbles, drawing his tongue along your jaw. “Never.”

That just spins you up further, mouth clashing violently with his. He revels in the scrape of your teeth on his lips and tongue, chasing into your mouth and counting how long before you remember you hate him.

“I’m not a witch,” you spit when he pulls away.

“Then what was all that business in the forest?”

You smirk. “Just a bit of fun to hail the spring - and at your expense.”

He sinks his fingers into the roundness of your hips. “Funny.” And slams home.

You shriek, loud and shameless, body jerking as he sets the pace you couldn’t achieve atop him. It’s brutal and animal, you keen at every scrape of his fat cockhead against your (nearly) untouched walls. The headboard knocks against the stone wall, a steady, rapid beat to match his thundering pulse.

You’re still cursing and threatening him between moans, rocking your hips eagerly to meet every thrust. He snakes a hand down your stomach, down to where your bodies collide with obscene wet squelches. You yelp when his thumb finds your neglected clit, shake your head and struggle in earnest.

“Don’t you dare,” you wail. “Y-you don’t get to…”

He sheathes his cock as deep as he can and grinds.

“Say my name,” he commands. You shake your head, squeeze your eyes shut. “Say, ‘John, don’t make my pretty cunt come.’”

You whimper, high and keening, sinking teeth into your bottom lip hard. There’s nowhere for you to go but try to press your hips into the mattress - and he can’t have that, can he?

Manipulating your squirming body is becoming his new favorite addiction. John gets his knees under him, curls an arm around your waist, and hauls you up into his lap so easily. You’re half-limp and half-struggling and yet still he sinks you deeper and deeper onto his cock unti the head of his cock bumps against your womb.

“There we are,” he purrs against your jaw. “Do you feel me? Right here?”

He presses a covetous palm to the spot where he swears he can feel the pulse of his own drooling cock. Your arms loop over his head, try to pull yourself up and off. A firm flex of his biceps drops you right back down again, squealing.

“Just like this, darling,” he whispers, “You’ll milk my cock just like this.”

You moan, hide your face in the crook of his neck. This position slows him some, but he’s not lost any of the power or angling that makes your eyes flutter. He rolls his hips each time he buries inside, just to tease at your cervix. If he could, he’d bury himself there too and fill you with his seed directly.

As it is, he’s not nearly done with you yet. No, not when you’re starting to shake so badly that all you can do is grip onto him for support. Your clit is rubbing against his pelvis each time he bounces you to meet him. An object built solely for his pleasure.

“I’m going to - no, no, you can’t,” you hiccup, tugging and pressing closer, closer, closer. Your hips are twitching of their own accord. “You shouldn’t get to—”

He doesn’t even need to coax you over. A final shiver wracks your body as you clamp down. Head falling back, you scream to the ceiling, fingers twisting in the short hair at the back of his head. He rocks you through it, steady, until you finally go limp against his chest.

There’s a sharp pinch to his shoulder - you’ve bit him. When he eases your head away, your mouth is smeared crimson. At first he thinks you’ve managed to break skin; then he notices the bead welling up on your bottom lip.

“All that just to avoid my name,” he tuts, amused despite himself.

When he leans in to lick at the wound, you sigh softly. “I-I’m going to kill you.”

He grins against your mouth. Kisses you one last time as he pulls you off his cock. You whimper, sensitive, arms barely able to lift over his head. He lays you down gently, follows to ghost his lips and tongue over the marks he’s left all over your skin.

“Now, then,” he says, sitting back on his haunches. “Once more.”

Your eyes fly wide and panicked as he turns you onto your stomach.

“Absolutely not,” you gasp, scrambling away.

“Ah, ah.” He catches your hips and yanks you back. The force of it knocks your trembling and still-bound arms out from under you. “I’m not done with you yet, little witch.”

Chest against the mattress and hip high in the air, he has a perfect, unfettered view. And what a view it is. Your pretty little cunt is puffy and red, visibly stretched, and the sensitive little button above it is swollen with abuse. Slick drips and drips from your entrance, entreating his return.

John nudges your knees wide and fits himself between them, the dripping and flushed head of his cock slipping over your folds.

“Get that away,” you snarl, “you’ll fucking break me!”

You try to wiggle away, but he just holds you firm, waits you out. And when you pause to catch your breath, he plunges inside.

“If you don’t recognize God, then there’s really no need for ceremony, is there?” he muses.

You make a questioning noise, the best you can manage when he’s forcing the air from your overworked lungs.

“My little witch wife,” John croons into your ear, “what pretty children we’ll have.”

It’s suffocating, how tight you get around him, even as you buck and swear. Your voice breaks when he tilts his hips just so, torturing that spot that’s already tipped you over once already. It’s such sweet music to his ears, protests cut off on long, rapturous moans, each time he bullies your overstimulated walls.

“I’m going to keep you.” John adjusts his bruising grip on your hips. Widens his own stance and presses his chest to your back. “I will be your god and your devil. My name will be amen.”

He drives home especially hard, and your voice breaks with a sob. His groan twines with it, divine harmony.

“We’ll form our own covenant, you and I,” he rasps. “I will give you everything, and you will be mine.”

His end is coming. Balls drawing up tight and hard, sparks crawling up into his stomach. A ragged grunt leaves his chest as you spasm around him, leftover of the last orgasm or forewarning of the next. He shifts to one arm and wraps the other around your hip, reaching for your clit to ensure it’s the latter.

“My name, love,” he breathes, “that’s all I need.”

“You’re awful,” you cry, “I hate you, John.”

“I know, little one,” he moans, shuddering. “Show me just how much.”

You reach your peak with his name on your tongue, loud and clear. His ears ring with it. Hips tilted back to get him as deeply as you can, John finds his end in the rhythmic, coaxing pulses of your cunt. His cunt.

He buries as deep as he can, hips stuttering roughly against your plush ass. Hopes he’s gotten you pregnant on this first try - perhaps your baby will be born on Samhain. You’re cooing softly when he comes back to himself, so sensitive you can feel the last feeble twitches of his release.

“Easy does it, now, darling.”

He supports your hips as he slowly pulls out and your knees collapse. The sounds you make are truly pathetic, he shushes you half-heartedly while he pets at your sweat-sticky back. He doesn’t let you drop; that’s no way to treat his new wife.

John lowers you gently to your stomach, then reaches over your head to pull the knot of your binds loose. You make a noise as he rubs at the red marks left behind, kisses at any raw spots.

“I-I have a salve…” you murmur, “upstairs.”

“We’ll get it in a mo’,” he assures, pushing tangled hair back from your face.

You nuzzle into his palm, lips skimming his fingertips. Not quite a kiss. “Don’t pretend to be kind now.”

He chuckles, exhaustion leaving the sound mostly in his chest. “I’m not the one who pretends between the two of us, little witch.”

You huff. “I’m not a witch. Witches aren’t real.”

“Of course, love,” he huffs, “and neither is God.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #witch hunting au #witchfinder au #Witchfinder John Price #Village Healer Reader #captain john price #john price x reader #mind the tags #cross posted on ao3

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queermccoy · 4 months ago

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have i had enough now (2442 words) by queermccoy

Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Original Male Character(s), Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard Characters: Tommy Kinard, Evan "Buck" Buckley, Original Male Character(s) Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Sex, Rough Sex, Writing on the Body, Revenge Sex, Insecure Evan "Buck" Buckley, Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard Break Up, Hurt Tommy Kinard, Face Slapping, Slapping, Porn Video, Spit Kink, Blindfolds, Daddy Kink

Summary:

There was a video, thumbnail innocuous enough, but Tommy knew it was dangerous. Like stumbling across a tightly coiled snake. If he didn't move carefully, he was going to get hurt. His hands shook.

is this enough experience for you? Buck had sent, just before the video.

With shaking thumbs Tommy typed, I'm not going to watch that.

He bit at the skin around his index finger, watching Buck bubble at him. The three lines appearing and then disappearing for an agonizing minute before he said, you should. i made it for you, daddy

or, Buck is desperate.

---

for @9-1-1-kinkmeme

#911 #bucktommy #911 kink meme #mind the tags

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lovemedarkly29 · 4 months ago

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Trying this whole self promotion thing more and reposting a link to what is still my favorite thing I’ve written because it’s perfect for a short little Valentine’s Day read! The Agreement is a little steamy, feel-good escape set during the good old days of FW at Basgiath. Violet and Xaden agree to have no strings attached sex when their dragons are mating. But of course —they end up falling stupidly in love ❤️‍🔥

Hope it makes a few of you smile (or gets in the mood 😈)

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ps-cactus · 5 months ago

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No Voices But Ours | HL oneshot

5,400 words | also posted on AO3 and Wattpad Ominis x f!MC, & Sebastian (unnamed MC, no appearance descriptions)

Thank you, the ever-amazing beta @accio-bagel

Tags and TWs: Major Character Death, Post-Canon (10 years later), Haunted House Vibes, Thriller, Mystery, Unreliable Narrator, POV Multiple, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Survivor’s Guilt, Redemption, Tragic Love, Tragic Friendship, Hallucinations, Implied Suicidal Thoughts, Found Family But Also Lost Family, Depressive Themes, Nightmares.

Summary / Preview:

If the past calls, can you ever ignore it? Should you run—or listen closer?

Ominis is right, of course. Sebastian Sallow died months ago, and she saw it happen. He’s gone. Completely gone, because this is certainly not a ghost. She recalls clearly from Hogwarts: ghosts are visible, faintly tangible, capable of conversation, and some even of heated discussions. Whatever voices reach her, whether in dreams or waking hours, they don’t truly exist. It’s nothing more than something perfectly normal that comes with grief—the wish that he were still alive. ... Tonight, he receives another reminder that it's not even a ghost. He knows what ghosts look like and how they behave... Sebastian crouches down but makes no effort to pick up the book. Resting his palm against the polished wooden floorboards, he feels this again. The faint, rhythmic pulses, like the ghost of a heartbeat. After all this time, he knows the pattern—once the rhythm fades, all the odd sounds fall silent too. Not forever, no, but for a while at least. Usually, it fades fast. And it's fading already. Good.

“Are you hearing him again?”

Familiar hands grip her shoulders firmly, bringing her back from the depths of sleep. They also force away a lingering echo of her own scream that still rings in her head. She lets go of the wall where she had probably instinctively clung to escape the familiar rhythmic pulses coursing through every surface in moments like this.

“Yeah,” she answers, feeling the scratch in her throat, and hastily adds, “I know. Just a dream.”

Ominis brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, and she knows he’s using the gesture to feel for fever. She watches his face, bathed in pale moonlight, and his eyes, where this light glimmers in fleeting reflections. It keeps her from acknowledging the never-ending shadowy hallway looming behind him. At night, this house always seems oppressively enormous.

“Just a dream,” Ominis reassures her, placing a light kiss on her forehead. The suffocating dread slowly fades, and sleep starts pulling at her again.

Whatever voices reach her, whether in dreams or waking hours, they don’t truly exist. It’s nothing more than something perfectly normal that comes with grief—the wish that he were still alive.

Sebastian doesn’t move, hardly even breathes, standing barefoot in the dark corridor. The moonlight carves a pale path beneath him. The screams have faded. Except for the ones that will never leave his head, of course. But in his mind, that same voice isn’t screaming. It’s casting spells. Calling his name sometimes. Spitting out curses occasionally.

But here, it’s always the same—a scream of fear, a scream of pain. He holds back from speaking to that voice again. Maybe there’s no voice at all. Maybe it’s just this old house driving him mad. Tonight, he receives another reminder that it's not even a ghost. He knows what ghosts look like and how they behave. This is a haunting punishment.

He checks a few unused rooms, just in case—filled with nothing but silence, as expected.

Of course. He’s just going mad, plain and simple. Serves him right.

He leaves without another glance back, retracing his steps toward the bathroom.

The trees stand bare, having surrendered into an early slumber even before winter’s touch, yet she always finds comfort in strolling through the garden. Especially as soft strains of a piano drift through the air from a slightly open window.

She is careful enough not to glance toward the far end of the grounds, taking an early turn to avoid the white tombstone among the old oak’s fallen leaves. Clutching the book she failed to concentrate on to her chest, she lifts her head, absentmindedly looking for the seagulls in the silent sky, but the island’s autumn fog is thick as wool, even at noon.

Lunch passes soon, as unremarkable as so many that came before. The house-elf follows every request, preparing the meals exactly to their liking, but they all taste like nothing to her. Just like the familiar groans of the floorboards, the whispers of the drafts in the old house are simply background details she doesn't even notice anymore.

But her cup slips from her fingers, rolling on the table and sloshing its remaining tea the moment she hears a sharp, furious thud from the room above.

Sebastian brushes the book off the table. Useless. Worse still, he can’t even leave to search for something more useful on his own, depending instead on booksellers he barely trusts.

But there is always this fear whispering to him: what if, by leaving, he risks the protective spells faltering or vanishing altogether? He doesn't trust his own magic anymore. Whatever that risk is, it isn’t one he can take. He has to finish what he started. No one must find him before that. He won’t be able to explain. No one could ever understand.

He barely understands himself these days. Least of all can he grasp what truly happened after she used the spell meant to rid them of the relic for good. But he just blacked out—no other term fits better. When he regained consciousness again, it was long past the moment it mattered.

Maybe the confusion goes back even further, because he still has no explanation how the relic found its way back to him after almost a decade.

He hadn’t looked for it, of course. That much was certain. The moment he saw it again, he knew only that it had to be destroyed. He had the audacity to ask his friends for help without having any semblance of a plan. What a fool. How dare he even call them friends now?

She quickly says, "There's something upstairs," even though Ominis hasn't yet asked. He’s just frozen, worried, across from her at the table. “Something fell. Dusky, see what’s going on up there.”

The house-elf, having already cleaned up the tea from the table with practiced efficiency, nods and disappears with a sharp pop.

A muffled pop, both remote and unnervingly near, makes Sebastian turn to the middle of the room. Nothing.

A second noise, like the lingering reverberation of the first, makes him blink and peer at the empty space. Still nothing. Not a shadow, not a whisper. Not a ghost.

He almost wishes it were just a ghost. He wonders if just a ghost would even bother speaking to him. Or would it simply linger, observing in silence, with no words to give? Would it despise him? Or pity him?

He’d take hatred over pity any day.

“Nothing?” she asks sceptically, irritation rising as the elf shrugs and shakes his head. She knows he returned too fast. She sees he’s scared. “Are you lying?”

His frantic head-shaking intensifies, eyes flickering in panic for a moment before he dashes from the room.

“House-elves can’t lie,” Ominis notes calmly.

“Wait!”

The elf doesn’t stop, his retreating steps disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen. She turns sharply toward Ominis.

“House-elves can’t disobey, either.”

Sebastian crouches down but makes no effort to pick up the book. Resting his palm against the polished wooden floorboards, he feels this again. The faint, rhythmic pulses, like the ghost of a heartbeat. After all this time, he knows the pattern—once the rhythm fades, all the odd sounds fall silent too. Not forever, no, but for a while at least. Usually, it fades fast. And it's fading already. Good.

He frowns at the book on the floor before eventually placing it back on the table, where there’s still a little space left among all the glasses and plates.

Beneath the papers, Sebastian notices an envelope resting at the very edge of the table. This one holds nothing but more grief and pain. So be it.

He tugs at the corner of a letter a little. The recipient’s name stings his mind. His own handwriting looks foreign. It’s the last letter he ever sent here. He never should have written it. Even if it had been the last thing he ever did, he should have handled it alone.

Well, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it? That’s exactly how it will be now. Alone as he is, and with this probably being the last thing he ever does, he will see the relic destroyed. There are already a few ideas he’s considered. For instance…

A gust of wind scatters some papers from the table along with that letter, making Sebastian glance up, noticing the seagulls flying by again, their cries unusually loud today. With an annoyed flick of his wand, the window snaps shut, and the glass rattles in protest.

“...Or suddenly go mute! But all of this—” Her voice rises, frustration mounting with every syllable of a conversation they’ve already had too many times—until she stops. “Did you hear that?”

Ominis doesn’t answer, focusing instead on making a genuine effort to understand, just as he does every single time she hears something he does not. As usual, for him, there’s only silence. Her chair screeches against the floor right before she darts past him out of the room. Soon, her hurried footsteps reach the top of the stairs.

Ominis hesitates before going after her. Whatever these ‘sounds’ are, they terribly exhaust her. She doesn’t know how to stop them or make some sense of them, and he has no idea how to help. All ever since that day.

He still remembers the rage that consumed him—his entire being, the whole world at once—when Sebastian, after ten years of a perfectly decent life, claimed that the relic had simply turned up in his house. How convenient, Ominis said then, because it was agonising to realise that every bit of faith he had in his friend’s redemption had been misplaced.

However, she had always been the one willing to trust people, to believe in them. It’s because of her he agreed to listen to Sebastian at all. Now her faith is likely the reason she still can’t accept how truly catastrophic his mistake had been and why she can’t let it go.

When Ominis finally follows her into the room, she comes to him at once. He searches for any disturbance, any inconsistency in the signals from his wand—but there’s nothing. Nothing but silence and stillness.

“There’s nothing.” Her voice comes out quiet, almost shaking, just like her hands. “I don’t know… Must have imagined it. Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he squeezes her hand slightly, repeating the simple words that still seem to help them both. “It’s alright. It’s an old house; I used to hear things here all the time. It’ll pass.”

Later that night, Ominis leans over a sink in a bathroom far from their bedroom, gripping the porcelain with both hands. The rush of water fills the silence around him.

Yes, he still remembers that all-consuming rage. But the rage and anger are long gone. Ominis has had no will for anger in a long time. The little strength he does still have, he hoards for forgiveness but never quite reaches it. If there’s one thing he has in excess, it’s pain—so much that, deep down, he knows exactly what she feels, far better than he cares to admit.

Each time he jolts awake from that nightmare, detailed as ever, Ominis edges closer to acknowledging what she had always seemed to know. That the person coming to their house that day wasn’t a reckless teenager, but a man genuinely terrified of something he wanted to but couldn’t explain. Terrified of what came true after all.

Odd enough, Sebastian’s death had never once appeared in his nightmare. The final moment is never about him at all. And her dream is the exact same. There are moments when Ominis almost speaks aloud the theory forming in his mind. He may not hear voices or strange sounds, but he feels the way the silence here lingers unnaturally. It makes every room feel emptier than it should, stretching the time even. Or the way the fire in the hearth loses its warmth the more attention he gives it. The simple yet so complicated theory. Almost impossible. Rather insane.

“No. This is ridiculous,” Ominis murmurs, shutting the tap off. He presses his hands, insufficiently cooled by the water, against his face. Wrapped up in his own mind on this troubled midnight, he fails to notice that the tap seals itself shut, ceasing its quiet dripping.

Sebastian twists the tap tighter and hurriedly returns to his usual spot—the blanket spread out on the bathroom floor. Thick enough that he can’t feel the subtle impulses beneath him, though he knows, without a doubt, that they’ve started the moment the tap started dripping by itself.

He sleeps right here often because the space is just small enough not to smother him with its hollowness and because, until now, this was the only place where they had never reached him. He always hears them from afar, from other rooms, but never here.

Although now he would swear on anything, he just heard Ominis’ voice right beside him.

He isn’t afraid of such things anymore. He doesn’t even indulge in these imagined voices, either, weaving the illusion that he was never at fault at all. But lately a mere voice seems a rarity, because what he hears more often is the scream. And it gets closer. Just like the voice was right here in this room. As though any semblance of peace is vanishing from his reach completely.

“You’re gone… you’re not real… you’re gone…”

She rushes through the garden, her tears sliding off her cheeks just as fast. This time, she doesn’t turn away from that path. She is barely awake from yet another dream that returned the terrible, aching thoughts.

She doesn’t even wait for Ominis to come back, so desperate is the need to see the tombstone again, to remind herself of reality, of acceptance, and—please—just calm down.

It’s too late to change anything. She must live on. Must focus on the future, or at least the present. Anything but the past.

She steps closer to the white stone standing out in the darkness and wipes off the soggy leaves clinging to it. Her fingers trace the rough-cut letters briefly before they freeze.

Sebastian hugs his knees closer, still sitting on the bathroom floor. Her voice. The deafening ‘No!’, as distant as it seems resounding straight from within his own head. He senses the faint, rhythmic pulses coming off the floorboards and walls. Stronger than he’s ever felt them. The pain is no longer confined to his chest; his whole body hurts.

He knows what’s doing this to him. Knows it’s punishing him and knows why. But he can’t take it anymore. No matter how—it just needs to be over. He has to act. He has to try.

As he stands, he keeps his gaze on the door, refusing to acknowledge the mirror. One of the reasons is the grey in his hair. As if he has any right to still be here, growing older, when they will never get the chance.

Determined, he steps into the hallway.

Each step down the creaky staircase is deliberate, and the grip on his wand is firm.

All the resolve drains from him as he reaches the entrance to the vast, empty basement. Almost empty. He leans into the cold stone as his breath catches.

Is he really allowed to take another step? Will it let him even try? What if it already knows what he wants?

The house drafts feel much colder than before. He’s barefoot again, clad in only pyjama trousers and a thin shirt, but sweat drenches his skin.

As she drops to the ground, the wet leaves beneath her knees smear into mud. Ominis calls her name again and again, but her voice is just as lost as her mind might be. It’s only when he touches her shoulder that she jolts and tries to speak again, unsure, however, she will make any sense at all.

“Th—there…” She chokes out, unable to finish, her eyes locked on the letters on the white stone. “And you… your…”

Ominis kneels beside her, dropping his wand on the leaves. One arm wraps around her, steadying her trembling body, while the other gently finds her face.

“Shhh… I’ve got you, shhh… It’s alright.”

That’s when she notices that unlike her, he hasn’t even thrown on a coat. She doesn’t think when she starts to rise, oddly happy there is a reason to leave. She keeps swallowing her tears, trying to say, “It—it’s freezing. Why are you—”

“No, it’s not,” Ominis stops her. There’s tension in his voice, but it carries a quiet steadiness hers lacks. “Feel it. The wind, the ground—they're not cold. Please, just stop and feel.”

The request stuns her for a moment, but she lowers her hand to the damp leaves. Her fingers dig into them, seeking for the earth beneath, searching for a chill that should be there, that must be there—but isn’t.

“How? Why?” Her voice falters as her eyes snap back to the white stone. It doesn’t make any sense. She begs it to be some nonsense. Another nightmare. She finally speaks the words she had meant to, even as each one feels unbearable. “Ominis, the tombstone… It has our initials. Both of ours. Ominis, please… Why?”

“That dream we both have sometimes,” he says, drawing closer, his fingers skimming her cheek again. It hurts him too, to speak, but he can’t keep holding this in. “You had a feeling it was the truth, didn’t you? But something stopped you from saying. Like a word on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach, no matter how hard you try to grasp it, so you let it slip away.”

The truth.

The truth is somewhere so painfully close.

It is in so many things she keeps both accepting and hopelessly missing. All this time, she had never questioned when their break from work, taken months ago, would end. There were no letters sent or received. No owls for so long. No seagulls in the ever-quiet sky, not once in months.

And yet, she never questioned it.

She had turned away from these questions, just as she had turned away from the tombstone, because deep down, she knew too well. Because even though Sebastian’s body and the relic had vanished without a trace, she knows that the stone was more than a memorial and that beneath it, the ground was not empty.

She knows why the nightmare always ends there.

She understands why it always ends the same way.

Another drop of sweat trails along his temple, blending into the single tear streaking down his cheek as Sebastian steps into the basement. He lights a few torches along the walls.

The relic waits, undisturbed, right where he left it.

A monument to his foolishness.

Spells are echoing in his head again, desperate, never-ending.

Slowly, he advances toward the small pyramid on the stone floor, more surprised at each step. It didn't even let him this near that day.

Blink. A glance to the side—that’s where Ominis was. He was closer, so Sebastian reached for him first, fingers searching for a pulse. He hoped. Listened for breath. Heard nothing. Blink. His eyes dart to the farthest, darkest part of the basement—where she fell. Walking toward her, he knew already. Blink. He turns, just for a moment, toward the door. That’s where a curious house-elf was peeking inside, terrified.

Sigh.

He raises his wand, aiming directly at the relic. He doesn't know if he could cast the spell or if he could even force out a single word and what might follow.

He simply wants this all to be over.

She once believed that facing some kinds of truth can be painful enough to unravel someone completely. And still, even through the ache, her mind is sharp; it feels clearer than it has in such a long time. To understand, to recognise the truth, is now as effortless to her as drawing breath had once been. A pang of guilt and disappointment in herself stirs inside her—is she really so selfishly determined to deny her own destiny that she chose to believe it had belonged to someone else?

For so long, she had been spiralling, lost between reality and endless illusions, unable to comprehend whatever this is that’s happening to them. But now all her thoughts, both clear and still taking shape, flow down her cheeks in the form of tears…

No, not quite. They flow onto the fingers that slowly trace her skin.

Ominis is here. Beside her, just as he always has been. Even as she pulled away, as she lost herself, when he had been struggling just as much.

“Ominis, I’m so sorry…” She whispers, leaning on his knee, clutching at the thin fabric of his pyjama trousers. “I’m so sorry…”

“No—Why?” His hand moves carefully as he brushes against a stray strand of her hair near her face before returning to settle beneath her chin.

“I think… the last thing I remember before everything changed… Is using Ancient Magic. Something went wrong. That must be why we’re both… I’m sorry. I don’t know… Merlin, I just…”

"No, don’t say that," he says firmly, holding her tighter against him. "We made that list of ideas together, didn’t we? We all chose to take the risk. That relic was far more complicated." He breathes in deeply before continuing. "You remember when I said that if it found him, rather than the other way around, it could be worse than anything else?"

She watches as his hand trails down her arm, finding her hand clenched into a fist on his knee. Carefully, he unfurls it, weaving his fingers through hers.

“I do. It would have meant this relic is so powerful and complex, it may have something like a consciousness of its own…” She looks up at him. “So… you believe him? That he didn’t try to find it again?”

“I truly don’t know. But if both he and the relic are gone, and that means he’s facing it alone somewhere... then I genuinely hope he can overcome it.”

“He loathes himself so much. There’s so much pain inside him. But whatever happened then, I know the relic has no hold over him anymore.”

Her eyes drift back to the gravestone with six letters on it. It hurts more the more she understands; her mind is flooding with all the realisations she used to suppress. And yet, she still doesn’t fully get it. “You truly haven’t heard anything? Nothing at all? No thuds, no footsteps, no voice?”

“I swear, I didn’t hear anything,” Ominis says, as if regretting that it’s true. “No voices but ours, no footsteps, nothing unusual at all.”

“But you had the same dream as I did?”

“Yes.”

She grips his fingers tighter, and his thumb strokes hers in slow, steady movements. Her mind swirls with thoughts, and though some facts settle easier than others, they wound her just as deeply.

Sebastian has some bond with the relic because he once wielded it, and she has one because she attempted to destroy it with magic she believed she understood. Could that be the reason she had heard his voice?

But why—why is Ominis here? And the elf...? What if she is the reason they are all somehow trapped? That would be too cruel. Is there any part of this she can still change? Is there anything left for her to undo at all, or did all the possible moments pass beyond reach?

“What if… maybe this is all just another dream?” She breathes out, pressing her eyes shut, unable to handle the number of questions—some unanswerable, some too painful to even voice.

Ominis says nothing. He simply leans forward, pressing his forehead lightly against hers.

Sebastian clenches his teeth so hard it hurts—from sheer anger. Mostly, he is furious at himself. At the foolish fifteen-year-old boy who once decided this damned thing was the answer he needed.

The relic had changed—there are no Inferi on its edges, it seems smaller, and utterly silent. And he didn’t black out after unleashing magic on it, spell after spell.

Still, none of it worked.

The only thing left to try is the spell he had used the first thing back then. The relic had changed so much in the months. Maybe this time, it will work.

Anyway—

He is so done he’s ready to tear the whole world down and himself afterwards just to make it all end. He takes a deep breath, his wand already starting the precise movement.

A flash.

A thunderous crash.

He freezes, eyes narrowing as he notices something new. The smallest, almost invisible crack on the relic’s surface. He feels something he hadn’t felt in eternity—a sharp, unexpected jolt of joy that almost makes him laugh.

Ominis lowers his hand from her face, his head tilting toward the house.

“There’s someone there,” he whispers, his words almost lost in the wind. “It’s not the elf.”

“True… Not an elf,” she whispers back, placing her palm to the ground again out of habit, expecting the usual pulses, but there is nothing. The shock of it—both the missing sensations and the man standing before her, whom she hadn’t seen for so long—is so great that it takes her a moment to realise she wasn’t the first to notice.

“Hold on, you actually heard it?”

The silhouette doesn’t move closer, stopping just a few steps away.

“Is that… Is that you?” The distant voice wavers, hesitant, uncertain.

“I hear,” Ominis nods. “It’s Sebastian.”

“Forgive me,” he still hesitates, as if afraid to take another step. “I fixed it. I think I did. Just… please…”

For the first time in forever, the voice doesn’t come from within her own head—it’s real, right beside her. His real voice. But the weight of the new suspicion is so heavy, so full of sorrow, that if they had been near the island’s shore, she is certain the grief alone would have pulled her under the waves straight to the ocean floor. From the way Ominis remains perfectly still and silent and only furrows his brow, she knows he feels the same.

The brief hope they had is mercilessly gone.

The pyramid’s peaks emit a soft silver glow, their rhythmic pulses no more spreading through the ground and the walls. A faint light seeps from the crack, sluggish and indifferent, as though the relic knows it has no audience. And even if Sebastian Sallow weren’t lying motionless on the stone floor and was still able to be interested in anything, he wouldn’t have seen this glow no matter how hard he tried.

The glow pulses at the four peaks, climbing the ridges toward the highest, the only still unlit point. When it reaches the top, it gives a last, weak flicker. And fades.

A last, feeble shudder runs through the relic. Then, there is only stillness. Probably the kind that exists in the last fragile second before an unstoppable storm.

The relic cracks.

One thin line becomes many, crawling over the relic’s surface like vines overtaking a house, claiming it entirely.

“He just vanished,” she murmurs in disbelief. She barely has time to process it before noticing something worse. “Ominis, the house—it’s fading. Something’s changed.”

The world transforms quickly. She doesn’t even have time to describe what she sees, but soon there is nothing left to describe at all. The wand on the ground is gone. Ominis’ arm remains wrapped around her waist, and she suddenly understands that she must not let him go, so she clasps his hand and presses it tighter against herself.

The house is gone. The elf is nowhere around. There’s even no earth beneath them anymore. No leaves. Nothing but the blackness where the world used to be.

Beside them, on what looks like a floor made of black glass, lies Sebastian. In the vast, consuming darkness, the only glow emanates from beside him. Covered in an endless network of fine lines, the relic appears to still be whole only because of this soft, familiar glow.

“He destroyed it,” she realises, looking closely. “The relic. It looks slightly different now, and it carries a little trace of Ancient Magic.”

“So using your magic wasn’t the wrong choice. Maybe that’s what altered the relic and allowed it to be destroyed. But why did he appear so briefly?”

“He’s… he’s here as well.”

She guides Ominis’ other hand to Sebastian’s shoulder, and he tightens his fingers uncertainly around the damp fabric of the shirt.

“Tell me, is it just me, or…”

She knows. She doesn’t understand why, but she’s glad to know. “This is strange, but… yes. Maybe…”

She glances around quickly, but there is nothing. Nothing at all. The void stretches on, endless, empty. The last traces of the faint glow continue to fade.

“Nothing?” Ominis asks, but she can hear it in his voice—he knows the answer.

“Nothing,” she says, because she has to say it out loud. “If all this was tied to the relic, that means we… we’ll be…”

She knows, with unbearable certainty, what’s happening. There’s nothing they can do to change it. And the only thing that truly matters now remains unknown—what comes next.

“Hey. It’s alright. This is just a dream. Any moment now, we’ll wake up,” Ominis murmurs, lightly lifting her chin. “You hear me? There will be no more nightmares. All of them are over now.”

She watches the tiny reflections of light flicker in his eyes as she trembles in his arms again. She doubts it will happen the way he describes, but the way he says it soothes her.

So she accepts it.

And from acceptance comes peace.

From peace comes… hope. The last one.

She reaches for the silver glow of the relic, if anything of the original relic remains at all. For the last time, she calls upon this magic, and it obeys, eagerly, almost as if it’s glad to. The glow drifts with her hand as she lowers it onto Ominis’ fingers, which have just returned to Sebastian’s shoulder, as if he had known exactly what she was about to do.

“It’s alright,” Ominis says, leaning slightly toward Sebastian. “It’s not your fault. None of us is to blame.”

“No more nightmares,” she adds firmly, watching as the edges of their fingers blur, dissolving within the dwindling glow. She looks away, squeezing her eyes shut, curling forward, her forehead pressing against Ominis’ chest.

The sharpest pain now comes from knowing that their final days, their last months together, had been filled with confusion and suffering. And that those months were truly their last.

“I… I wish we had more time,” she says.

“Let’s find each other again when we wake up, alright?”

She barely nods. “Alright.”

“Just please, don’t be too hard to spot. I’m not exactly great at hide-and-seek.”

A weak laugh escapes her as she sinks further into his embrace. His hand settles over her head. His other hand moves slowly, smoothing down her back in a measured rhythm—steady, unchanging, like the tide rolling in and out. Her trembling lessens with each pass of his touch, and at last, she feels safe, fully sheltered—not just from the endless emptiness that’s already around, but from whatever comes next.

The last traces of the silver glow fade away. The relic lingers only for a heartbeat more, as if offering a final farewell, before it shatters into countless fragments, each no larger than a speck of dust.

xxx

Sebastian Sallow’s pulse hammers against his ribs, wild and unsteady. Each breath he exhales pushes the tiny piles of dust away from his face. He doesn’t dare to move yet.

He listens.

The voices reach him, but for the first time, they bring no fear. There is no anger in them for some reason. No hatred. He doesn’t like that. He thinks back to his own thoughts, but the weight of self-loathing is no longer there somehow. It isn’t his choice—he doesn’t want any relief—but he lacks the strength to fight. His gaze catches on the scattered dust, and suddenly, he knows what it is.

He actually did it. It worked. The relic is gone.

As he steps outside on unsteady legs, he shields his eyes from the light that burns his eyes. It’s too bright and feels almost too warm for autumn. He looks toward the white tombstone. There’s no one there, of course.

He trembles, feeling his body surrendering to exhaustion. He stumbles back inside and sinks onto the first sofa he finds.

He sleeps for hours, peaceful, dreamless, and unmoving. This sleep will definitely settle something inside him. When he wakes up, he will know what to say to people who keep asking. He will know how to return to work he once loved, and he will love it again. He will live.

And no one in this house will ever suffer another nightmare.

P.s. I couldn't have said in the beginning but it was partially inspired by 'The Others'. Thank you for reading, your feedback is very much appreciated ❤️🥹

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