#wretched game from a wretched man

[adelaide-ill-omens]

It's funny hearing someone say that they liked Cultist Simulators writing when

Bro it's bad. Like, even before learning Alexis Kennedy is an abusive piece if shit, the game wasn't good or well written. And full disclosure, i liked some of his fallen london writing, notably SMEN. I went into CS hoping to like it and finding the gameplay boring at best and the writing just...bland. A tired knockoff of prior works it wants to follow in footsteps of. I sincerely can't believe anyone would find enjoyment in the game.

And then learning about the dev himself? Anyway please don't give a cent to the fucker idc if he has a new game, spend your 10-20 bucks elsewhere. Donate to a good cause. Fuck, even spending it on lunch would be a better use

[keeps-ache]

today! on the agenda we have [tears paper away to reveal the single word 'do'] ...

[doradorabobora]

Thank you Pokémon for my new poor little meow meow 💖

[januaryembrs]

CROSS MY HEART | Spencer Reid x wife!Reader

Request: read here

description: Spencer's wife struggles with the aftermath of JJ's confession

length: 1.5k

warnings: JJ's 14x15 confession spoilers (big ick, pull yourself together Jennifer) infidelity, thoughts of worthlessness, reader thinks Spencer is going to leave her for JJ.

authors note: I have loved JJ for all of fourteen seasons and fourteen episodes. this was a BIG ICK for me watching this won't lie

She should have known something was wrong the minute they left that damn store. 

It took her all of two seconds to throw herself into her husband’s arms, her voice choked with tears that had threatened to spill when she’d seen the video of Casey shooting at him, and she swore Spencer had never grabbed her so tight. 

“I thought you,” She sniffled, running her fingers through the back of his scalp, the entire spanse of his huge hands ran along her spine, counting every vertebra to make sure she was still intact, despite the fact he had been the one held hostage, “I thought he’d shot you- it came so close,” 

He hushed her mewls, a hand reaching to the back of her head and tucked her into his neck further, the sob rattling through her ribcage almost, almost, taking his mind entirely off what JJ had said in that stupid game of truth or dare. 

What the fuck did she mean she had always loved him? She had a husband and children who doted on her; Will, who loved every shred of her being like it was his only purpose in the world. His godsons who had known him as uncle Spencer since he’d held them in the hospital, covered in goop and looking like the cutest little aliens he’d ever seen. 

And yet JJ, his friend, perhaps one of his longest friends, was willing to throw it away for him? He, who had a wife he adored more than there were birds in the wind, leaves on an Autumn floor, more than there were galaxies in the damn cosmos. His wife, who had been there for him since the moment they’d met, who he’d known was the one since that first day she’d ran into him in the lobby, their files mixing together because neither of them had been watching where they were going, like one of those romcoms she forced him to watch and he pretended to hate, or like the silly thing she called fate that she insisted was very much real. 

Spencer was a man of statistics and numbers and facts; things he could see. But he was sure there was nothing in any textbook that could have ever made sense of how the one person so perfectly created for him, the blob of cells that made up his wife that seemed to call to his own as if they were coming home to one another, would have just so happened to bump into him on a random Tuesday in August. 

Most people waited decades for that kind of love, or something close, and he’d managed to get it at the ripe age of thirty three. 

And yet in the space of ten seconds, of four little words in a wretched game, he felt like the carpet had been pulled from beneath him. Because why would JJ, who saw as clearly as anyone else how much he cherished his wife and the future they were planning together, try to take that away from him?

And as if his own odd spiral of thoughts wasn’t a kick to the gut enough, his sweet wife had quickly released him from her grasp and thrown herself at JJ, who seemed to just now be understanding the gravity of her words as she looked around with wide eyes, tear stains wetting her cheeks, the guilt gnawing in her gut already. 

“JJ! Are you okay? Oh, you poor thing, you must have been so scared,” She sobbed, wrapping her friend in a loving hug that was shakily reciprocated, like JJ was waiting for the second she would get a fat shiner to the nose for confessing such a thing. 

But that never happened. Instead, she pulled away from the frozen blonde woman, who looked like she could burst into tears then and there and apologise for everything until her face turned blue, and ran a kind hand over the JJ's hair, stroking it behind her ear tenderly as she tried to quell her cries because she wasn't the one who had been held at gunpoint. 

She didn’t know. It hit them both at the same time. She didn’t know what JJ had said, hadn’t even got an inkling into what had happened, and god did it make the sinking feeling in Spencer’s chest swallow itself up into something the size of the Mariana Trench. 

And what was left, what had for a second been a horrid mix of confusion, shock, fear and then another big dollop of confusion for good measure, quickly was dragged away by the current and replaced with anger. 

Anger that JJ could do something like this to his wife; he frankly didn’t care how her words had affected him, that if he had been single he would have been left feeling unworthy of her affection the first time it had been offered around, like there was something so disgustingly wrong with him this was what it took for her to say anything. He didn’t care about any of that. He cared that this would absolutely destroy his wife. 

And it was for that reason Spencer hurried the paramedics into fixing the small graze on his palm as he watched with boiling blood his wife tend to JJ like she would any other time her close friend was hurt in the field. He seethed whenever Jennifer would simper and avoid her friend's eyes, how his beautiful, caring, devoted wife would stroke the woman’s back and will her to talk, to tell her what to do to make it better.

Because it was her who should be fussing over his sweet wife, certainly not the other way around. 

But he couldn’t say that, not there at least, and so he didn’t, not until he had got the greenlight from the medics to leave and he had all but cut off the circulation in her fingers with how tight he’d held her hand as he led her to the car. 

Spencer said nothing, not wanting to fight when she forced him to sit shotgun as she climbed behind the wheel, not wanting to cause a commotion when there was a much bigger bombshell he was sitting on that he knew would change her feelings entirely. 

-

“What?” Her voice was soft still, a murmur in the quiet night air of their bedroom. She sat, fresh faced, minty breathed, kevlar vest long gone and replaced with one of his old Dr Who shirts and comfy bottoms.

She said the word again, like she hadn’t heard him, but judging by the way her expression had fallen into something dejected, he knew that wasn’t the case. 

Sighing, drawing gentle motions up and down her legs with his warm hands, shuffled closer where he kneeled down in front of her submittingly. “JJ said that she has always loved me; that was her ‘truth’ in the game,”

“Well, she-she was lying right?” His wife said quickly, her voice shaking, trying to make sense of it herself. She didn’t get an answer right away, just her husband’s eyes casting down as he tried to think of the best thing to say, “Right, Spencer?” 

“I don’t know,” He said earnestly, and he saw immediately the way tears sprung to her eyes, her bottom lip trembling, her face warming in wet-anger, “But it doesn’t change anything, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter, to me- baby, please don’t cry,”

“Ofcourse it changes things, Spencer, it’s JJ. She’s literally the hottest woman to walk the earth, Pen said you were like in love with her when you started the BAU, and now you have your chance,” She whimpered, fat tears rolling over her freshly moisturised cheeks, and he swore he felt his chest concave at her words. 

“My chance? I don’t want a chance, I want you,” Spencer said in earnest, his hands rubbing further and further up her legs until his hands went under her night shirt, grabbing onto the soft of her hips with pleading tenderness, “I want you forever, no matter what JJ or any other woman feels about me,” 

She sniffled pitifully, her eyes still unsure and he took it as a sign she needed more, so he leaned in fully to hug her to him. 

“But it’s JJ,” She said again, like that was going to change anything, and he shook his head, stroking over the back of her hair softly.

“I don't care,” He said, and she sniffed gently into the crook of his neck, his skin wetting with the contact. She finally wrapped her arms around him, and he knew he was close to getting it through to her, “I had the smallest crush on JJ, what, fifteen years ago? Honey, I want you for the rest of my life, and nothing and no one is going to change my mind about that, not even you.” 

“Really?” His sweet wife whispered tearfully, and he chuckled sadly, hating how hard she had cried that it had ripped the life from her voice. 

“Cross my heart,” He kissed her hairline softly, tipping her head upwards with one long, warm finger under her chin, pressing a gentle kiss to her wetted lips, “Hope I never die,”

She smiled sorrowfully, kissing her husband as if it was the last time she could ever do so, hoping it made up for how puffy and ugly her tears had made her face. But he didn’t care, he never had, he thought she was perfect just the way she was.

And he’d remind her of that any time she thought otherwise. 

–

[rqnarok]

LATCH | pervy!old man!logan x fem!reader

summary: you come up at logan at night and he finally gives in to his desires. 

content warnings/tags: smut, mdni! little to no plot. old man!logan. unspecified age gap. soft dom!logan. sub!reader. pervy!logan. pet names (kid, kiddo, little girl, princess, etc). logan calls himself ‘old man’. fingering (f receiving). innocence kink. not proofread. wc: 1,5k

Logan Howlett is not a good man. 

“I’m not a good man, sweets.”

He has not been a good man in years. 

Still, when he scoops your sobbing figure in his arms on that day at the X-Mansion, he feels like a good man. 

“C’mon. Let’s go, kid. I’ll take care of you.”

Ever since then, you look up to him as if he is some kind of savior. A hero. A good man. 

And he starts to believe that. 

At first, it started oh, very casual—innocently. By working himself to death for the sake of your comfort. Earning money so that he could see that smile on your pretty face when he gives you gifts: new dresses, books, food—anything you want, really. He’d give it to you.

You walk up to him one Friday, showing your brand new sundress that you bought using his money, “Logan! It fits me so well, don’t cha think?”

The sight of you twirling around and giggling in front of him is enough to be his bad-day-cure, “Spin one more time, princess. Don’t have my glasses on.” 

He lies. He just wants to catch a glimpse of your cottoned panties in the process. 

Logan perceives himself as a sick fuck when he starts seeing you in that way. But hey, he did say that he is not a good man, right?  

He tried to control it, he really tried. Composing himself and creating some moral values in his head in an attempt to be in charge of his corrupted desires. 

But Logan forgot one simple thing: he can control himself all he wants, but he could never control you. 

You may be content but you are far from stupid.

It takes you months to perfect this mastermind plan—or so you call it. This mischief came into you when you decided that you had enough of Logan and his games. You know he yearns for you and you feel the same way, too. 

He peeks over you so… hungrily and thinks you wouldn’t notice? 

When you confront him about it one morning, he nonchalantly brushes it off by letting out a dry chuckle and mutters something around, “What ya’ talking ‘bout, kiddo? Go ‘head finish your breakfast.”  

But you know! You always catch his yearning gazes and… hear him over the shower one time. Moaning and grunting your name when he thought you were out buying the weekly groceries. It upsets you that he does not give in. 

So then, you concluded that you will determine to bring his temptation up to the surface and break his poor self-control through this little contemplation of yours. 

It takes a while to gain your courage and when you finally creep up into Logan’s room, the clock on the wall ticks at half past two in the morning. 2:30 AM. 

Logan said he’d take care of you, right? Said he’d do anything for you, right? Well, you need him now, “Logan? Logan? It hurts.” You whisper into the chilly air as you shake him up from his deep slumber.

And y’know, he’s a tired old man—so it takes him a while to wake up. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand beside him and slides them right on. When Logan sees you standing sleepily before him in your nightie gown, Good Lord. 

“Hey, hey—what’s goin’ on, princess?” You’re all teared up and your lips are bitten red. You look heavenly in the shaft of moonlight that slips through the window and into Logan’s bedroom. 

Your actions speak for themselves as you make your way onto his lap and nuzzle into his greying beard. “Tell your old man what’s got you so upset. C’mon.” He wants to take a good look at your face but you are so latched to him—snuffling into his broad shoulder all gloomy and wretched. 

“Hurts so bad.” You repeat yourself as your arms make their way around his neck. “Hurts, Logan.” 

“Hm? What hurts?” 

Pure silence as your little fingers wrap around Logan’s wrist and place it on your knee. Then, you’re guiding him up up up and he knows where this is going but he could not stop it. 

Fuck. He curses himself. Should’a know you’d pull some shit like this.

Finally, you stop his large calloused hand on top of your pussy. It’s heating up. Logan can feel the warmth of your cunt through your thin white cotton panties—his middle finger twitches with the urge to palm you. But no. That’s not what a good man should do. He tries to remember all the moral values he has created in his head while he sighs deeply and closes his eyes. 

“Kiddo-”

“Want to cum, please, Logan.” You take his face in your hands in the way that you always do and his hand is still on top of your clothed mound. “Please…! You said you’d help me, take care of me. I’ll be good, promise. Please.” His eyes open and he looks at your big eyes then your lips then your eyes again. That’s when you know you had him. “Hurts.” 

With half-lidded eyes, you watch Logan lose his composure, “Yeah? You’d be good f’me?” His head goes forward as he pampers your face with gentle kisses and you gulp because you don’t know what to do now. 

“Why don’t you lay down and let me take a look?” 

His scent combination of beer, whiskey, and cigars lingers around you as you rest your aching body on his bed. Looking up at him all mesmerized and lust-filled. 

Logan tries to soften his features for you. He thinks the heave of your chest moving up and down, up and down is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He said he’d take care of you and that’s all he’s doin’ now. Taking care of his pretty baby. 

“C’mon. Open up to your old man.” He says, patting the sides of your thighs to part. And you did what you’re told, revealing the wet spot of your panties, and Logan curses. Mutters something under his breath. 

“You’ve been touching yourself here, Little Missy? That’s what got you dripping?” You throw your head back and huff a breathy ‘ah’ at the feel of his big fingers rubbing circles along the slick. Logan wants you to sing for him, “Use your big girl words, c’mon.” 

“Y-yes! Been touching myself…” Your red cheeks heat up at your own answer, suddenly feel so little. Logan hums deeply at your reply, hooking his fingers at one side of your panties and pulling them aside. Oh, he can tell. “Mhm.”

You were in a moment of bliss until he stopped his movement and brought your panties back to its original place, “Show me.” 

“L-Logan…” you respond by shaking your head erratically. Nononono— this isn’t a part of your plan. This becomes humiliating. No way. 

“What d’ya mean no, princess?” Logan grins—he knows you’re playing something and he is not going to lose so easily. “You want me to take care of you, yeah? Gotta show your old man what you were doin’ so he knows what he can do.” 

Well, he is not wrong. You let a huff defeatedly and roll yourself onto your front, shoving one of Logan’s pillows between your plushy thighs. And Logan is bewitched and hypnotized and fuck, so hard. His cock sticks up in his boxers briefs it hurts. 

Through his lens, he attentively watches every move you make: how your nightie gown hikes up to your chest and reveals a glimpse of your breasts, how you roll your hips in circles, how you throw your head back up facing the ceiling. The noises you make—sounds he not-so-accidentally heard when he passes your room at night when he comes home from work. This is what you've been doing? 

“Aight’. I know the problem is, sweets.” You slow down your movements as you gaze at him all doe-eyed. He places his palm on your back to still you. Your head lulls back and forth as you wait for his guidance. 

“You need something inside. Have you had something inside, baby?” He turns you to him oh, so delicately as if you are something fragile. 

You shake your head slightly at his question, suddenly embarrassed. Logan is so hard at this. He can't hold back anymore. “I see. ‘S alright, little girl. Lean on top of me. I’ll show you how it’s done. Y’ just need to trust your old man, yeah?” 

And you do. You always do. You love him. 

He smiles down at you, showing the wrinkles and scars on his face. “I love ya’. Give me some sugar first. Let me kiss ya’.” 

The kiss is more than just a distraction. It’s a repetition of him saying I love ya’ through his actions. What comes next is new to you, his large fingers probing at your entrance as you hiss and whimper and sob. Logan eases you open while kissing your inner thighs, letting you feel his scruffy beard. Raining you with his sweet praises, “Oh, that’s a good girl, alright. My sweet girl.” 

Then it leads you to it. The main purpose of your plan here in the first place. 

The clothes you both had on are thrown all over the floor as he hovers above you, taking off his glasses—placing kisses everywhere he can reach. “Y’want it?” And the tip of his cock finally nudges between your folds in an aching stretch and you mewl.

“Your old man’s gonna take care of you.” 

He always does.

[moonbaby26]

Their Favorite Parts

*crossposted to AO3 here*

Prompt: One Piece men and the parts of your body that they fixate on most. 

Reader Type: GN!Reader

Characters: Doflamingo, Kuzan/Aokiji, Crocodile, Smoker, Buggy, Mihawk, Shanks, Law

Warnings: language, references to sex, penetration, oral, and foreplay

———————————

Doflamingo/Holes

He actually can be gentle with you. But you’ve found that level of care is always only a precursor to something else that he wants. And in the end, he can’t ever let you back to sleep until he’s been inside at least one of your holes and fully spent himself within it. 

Whether this wretched man is pounding between your thighs, or probing you with those long fingers, or dampening you with that equally obscene tongue…he wants to be as deep inside of you as he can possibly be. 

He loves you most when you’re trembling, thighs spread beneath him. Or on your knees looking up as your eyes water with your mouth full of his length. He’ll tell you what a good pet you are even as you plead or choke. 

But it’s as if you were made perfectly for him. He’ll never feel this with another lover. You’re his favorite until he destroys it all. And even then, he may just pull you from the ash to start with you again. Because he would sincerely miss you in his next empire.

Kuzan/Aokiji/Chest

He loves to sleep with his head on your chest. He can hear your heartbeat then and know that you’re still really there. That this isn’t all some terrible illusion, as much as he still feels he doesn’t deserve you and can’t keep you. 

His life has been too complicated. All the way from a respected, yet conflicted marine to whatever the hell people are calling him these days. But you never seem to judge him. You still believe in him, even now. He doesn’t understand your loyalty, but he loves you for it. 

And when the two of you are awake and intimate, he’ll be behind you, hands holding your warm chest as his fingers massage it. The way you lean back into him as your chill bumps form is so trusting. You know that he could freeze your heart in an instant if he chose to. But of course he never would. He wants this to last forever. He needs you at his side.

Sir Crocodile/Hips

He is certain you do it on purpose by now. The way your ever tight clothing forms around your body. It feels like a specific challenge you’ve made against him. As if you are daring his eyes not to follow you across the room as your hips sway while you walk. 

You’re his favorite assassin already. Though perhaps he can take some blame for letting this favoritism start to go to your head. And yet, even when he plans to punish you, he finds himself enjoying it too much. It’s hard to keep you humble when he’s still moaning your name as he fucks you over the top of his desk. 

With his one hand he grabs into that fleshy hip, riding you to his release as his hook stays warningly against the side of your face. But while you smirk against that curved metal as he finally cums, he knows you haven’t learned your lesson at all. Yet he also realizes that there are still years of this game to come. You’re too efficient to get rid of you anytime soon.

Smoker/Lips

It was the first thing he ever noticed about you. Just how pouty your lips could look, even as you argued and bitched at him on the battlefield. You cursed him through those lips, always lamenting that he made your shared marine ship smell like an ashtray. 

And by the time he’d found his way into your bunk one night, those same lips were about the only thing he would put his cigars down for. He’d wanted to kiss you for so long. By the time you finally let him, he never wanted to lose that high again. 

It could be soft, it could be rough. Just like you and your ever changing moods. You acted like you hated him until your mouth was over his. Then you were thrusting against him soon enough and whimpering even as you both knew you couldn’t wake the rest of the ship. 

He always started and ended sex with you with those damned lips. And every time he knew curses would be flying from them again tomorrow, even if his name would also be moaning out through them just as passionately each night.

Buggy/Butt

His life was a circus. And not just in the literal way he would have preferred. Somehow every move he made garnered new success, but equal terror. He never knew what tomorrow would bring. As Cross Guild’s infamy grew, so did his reputation along with it. 

But his nerves were shot, and you could tell. When the others bullied him, you never added to it. He hadn’t a clue why you’d chosen him. But he wouldn’t take it for granted either as you’d come to sit in his lap, late at night in his room. You’d call him your captain, your emperor even, grinding that perfect ass into him as you tried to cheer him up. 

And it always worked. As he’d a bit too desperately slide your pants from you, you always humored him. Letting his hands massage and hold that enticing rear. If he wanted to spank you, you let him do that too. It was just so soft and…comforting? He might not admit it, but you were his only remaining stability in this place. If he lost you, that would have been his breaking point. But he trusted you too when you promised that you were in it for the long haul. He was already your pirate king.

Mihawk/Eyes

It was the way you’d looked at him that first time the two of you had ever crossed paths. You weren’t afraid of his history, even as you’d seen him kill a lesser swordsman right in front of you. 

By the time he got to know you better, he’d realized just how much he liked to gaze into those eyes. It was as if he could feel what you were thinking. And as your confidence grew, that ‘come hither’ look of yours became far more prominent as well. 

Just with a glance, he knew exactly when you were craving to have those physical needs sated. And he certainly respected that need, finding it rather quickly a mutual one as he’d often carry you to his bed. 

And even then as his hips would be pumping skillfully against your own, you’d be looking up at him in a haze of pleasure with those same beautiful eyes. A view for him alone, one he would cherish and protect forever more.

Shanks/Legs

It might have been a bit too crass on his part, that afternoon in the bar when he’d first noticed you from across the room. But his ship wouldn’t be in port for long. There wasn’t time to play this subtle. No, not at all as he’d whistled loudly, catcalling you while his crew had laughed. 

He’d gotten the full view as well when those same lovely legs had carried you right back up to the bar to tell him to go fuck himself. And the way he’d smiled at you just pissed you off even further of course. 

Your anger made you stay. And it was definitely a talent of his to inspire that, but he was persistent too. Soon enough you’d let him buy you a drink, and then a few more. By the time the two of you had been stumbling out of the bar, you were letting him know your room number at the nearby inn. You wanted to know if he was just all talk. He assured you that he was not.

And that night as he did get the privilege of those legs being wrapped around him as your bed creaked and shook in a marathon of lovemaking, he realized his crew probably could find more room on the ship. You had no ties to this town either. 

By morning he was more than pleased when you agreed to board. Beck had protested a little, just at the sudden impracticality of yet another mouth to feed. But Shanks knew you would fit in fine, all of you and those legs laying in his bunk warm beside him for years to come on your way through the New World.

Law/Hands

With an epithet like the Surgeon of Death, he of course knew better than most on the importance of dexterity and skill with the hands. Without his own, he felt that he would have been useless. 

But this appreciation for such talent had quickly extended to you once he’d finally given in. He’d ignored you for as long as he could, too logical in his understanding of how reckless it’d be to pursue a member of his own crew. But so many days and nights alone under the ocean’s surface had finally worn him down. 

The night on the Polar Tang when those skillful fingers of yours had finally been in his hair, and finally unbuttoning his pants soon after was one that had been so long coming. You’d gotten to see that other side of him then as he unraveled almost shamefully beneath your stroking and assurances. 

He’d taken care of everyone else for so long you told him, playing the part of their stoic leader. But you knew he was far from only that as your hands drew out all his pent up need. 

You promised him that he was safe with you. That you were with him until the end. And it was all true. The captain of the Heart Pirates would remain within your capable hands for as long as he desired to. And that desire would prove to be unbreakable.

[novaursa]

Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames. 

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long—it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.” 

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

[moronkombat]

asking for a friend, can i get hcs for Bi-han, Kuai Liang, Kung Lao, Liu Kang, Kenshi, and Raiden with an s/o with big boobs? im a simp for all these men..i mean what??

Just the very sight of you is enough to have Bi-Han collar feeling far too tight around him. His eyes watch the dips and curves of your body and his mouth is watering

In public, he remains restrained in a physical sense. But his eyes? Those eyes hunt you like a tiger that stalks it prey, waiting for that perfect moment to pounce and consume

When in private, he wants your clothes off quickly. He's pulling, he's tearing just to see more and more of you. Those hips should not be concealed. Those pillowy breasts must be held in hands most calloused

During sex his lips always find your chest. If he goes unchecked, there he will remain for hours, suckling and licking. He can't get enough of your breasts, often finding himself rather lost within them

Someone help this man. He is sweating under his collar, practically burning up when you walk by. It's perverted, it's wretched how his eyes follow the swing of your hips. Yet, he won't look away

Try as he might to avert his gaze, there is just something about your hips that make his mind spiral. He thinks thoughts most vile and the blush on his face so evident.

When he has you alone, he is worshipping your body. Warm hands will run up your thighs before hands sink into fleshy hips. He cannot get enough of you

Prefers when you ride him so he can see your breasts move and feel your hips come colliding down on him. No thick walls in the world can conceal the moans you bring from him

Now Kung Lao likes to talk big game act cocky but the sight of rounded hips and shapely thighs? His mouth is suddenly dry and his jaw is slack

Definitely tries to flirt with you often but gets distracted by what he's seeing and ends up turning rosy pink. So much for his expert flirting skills

You bring him the closest to heaven when you ride him. His hand covers his eyes, the mere sight of you undressed and exposed overwhelming him

He's panting, cursing, telling you how beautiful you are and how good you feel wrapped around his cock right now. Kung Lao wants to keep you there forever but he is provided no such paradise as pleasure overtakes him

Even a god is subject to temptations and Liu Kang's temptation is you. Your curves live in his mind. The swell of your chest. They are all consuming

Glowing eyes scan you up and down and Liu Kang thinks for a moment much longer than he will admit what it would be like to bury his head between your thighs

When the two of you are alone, he does not need to wonder that anymore. That is the first place he drawn to and there he will remain

He cannot help but thrive when your thighs press against him. The God of Fire would moan low and wanting. He never wants to leave your shapely thighs

While sight may not be his strongest sense, he still can feel you under his palms. Honestly, Kenshi prefers it that way.

Sento can provide him help to receive your imagine which Kenshi does well to remember. Though he seems to prefer tracing you likeness with you

When in bed, he wants to feel absolutely all of you and so he does. For hours he will comb your body with fingers over each and every one of your curves

Loves to take you from behind so he feel you ass clap against his hips. Kenshi is practically drunk off how your skin ripples with each thrust

Raiden is flustered, overly so. Those hips, your breasts...would his hand even be able to encompass them. He isn't sure but his thoughts are daring him to find out

Tries not to look at your chest but they are practically staring at him. Raiden will hold eye contact with you but ever so slowly his eyes drift to your cleavage and suddenly his throat is tight

In the privacy of the bedroom, his hands are trembling, shaking when he gets to touch you for the first time. Raiden is overwhelmed with your curves and he is not sure where he should touch first

Don't worry though, he'll find his rhythm and once he does, there is no part of you left untouched. It's going to be quite the long excursion for the two of you

Havik loves your curves. He sees them as more flesh to carve and paint with crimson

He does not hide his attraction to your hips and breasts. Havik will happily grope onto you, whispering in your ear just how much he wants you

And Havik will take you hard and unforgiving. Teeth bite into your rounded flesh again and again, covering them in bruising bite marks

You end up painted and well carved and Havik is sated but for how much longer? Well your curves are ever tempting

Really enjoys your curves probably more than he should but who is going to stop him? Definitely not you

Takes great pride in seeing you. He proclaims to everyone how curvy and attractive you are and how you are his partner and no one else's

Loves when you ride him. It is the the best way to see all your curves and features in action. One hand is on a hip while another gropes and plays with your breast

Smirks the whole time, vocalizing just how attractive you look and all the atrocities he will commit to your body and so he does but you don't complain

You are simply enchanting to Rain. He wishes to worship your gloriously curved body in ways that are pure sin

Can't help but stare at you when you walk by nor can he avert his gaze when speaking to you. He wants you and he will not hide that

Spends much time glorifying your body when he has you alone. You are his goddess and he is the ever devoted apostle

Loves to grip onto your rear while he lays himself into you. He wants to feel your flesh mold and move under his fingers

[lurochar]

Before It All (Pt. 2)

Warnings: Obsessive Alastor. References to racism, sexism, and racist terms

Part 1 + Part 3

-----------------------------

Hell.

So it actually did exist.

The pure elation, raw euphoria, and sheer mania completely overwhelmed Alastor when it finally did sink into him that, yes, he was dead – savagely mauled by a pack of hunting dogs and then shot in the head by an utterly incompetent hunter.

Pathetic.

But Hell, it was real, absolutely truly one hundred percent a reality he was now living and he couldn’t be any more ecstatic that was the case.

(He certainly had a first class ticket).

Because if Hell was real, that meant demons were real and if demons were real…

You were real. You existed.

Alastor had never been a religious person before his encounter with you. He hadn’t really changed his mind afterwards either. God had never done anything for him, so why should he ever bother to devote himself to a being who clearly didn’t give a fuck about him or his Mama?

A demon cared more about him, if only briefly, than Heaven ever did in his lifetime.

You probably had no idea what impact you had on him, you may not even think of him, or even remember him, the kid whose soul you had spared on some sort of whim born from pity.

Alastor obsessed over you.

He had felt cold the moment you had pulled away from him and that chill had never left him – only his Mama’s hugs could temporarily relieve him of the complete indifference he possessed for the world around him.

Ah, his dear Mama.

He never understood it, he still didn’t understand now. 

That day, that night was a blessing in his eyes. He had met, if only for a few minutes, the only other person(?), being, other than his Mama, that had actually cared, held any concern for his well being. You had even gone against your demonic instincts and let him keep his soul, just so you didn’t condemn him to Hell.

(He condemned himself, but those were his choices alone).

You had killed a human being for him.

His father was a monster – so why did his dear Mama cry and grieve over the man who had abused them both horribly over the years? Why wasn’t she happy that he was finally gone? She no longer had to endure being hit, slapped, or even worse because of that man’s unpredictable mood-swings.

She could never properly explain it and honestly, Alastor didn’t want to understand that mindset of hers.

Because of you, his Mama could be free of the misery his father put her through. Alastor could take care of her on his own, just as you told him to do.

Because of you, he was free from hearing his father’s muttered insults about his skin – how he might've passed as ‘right’ if his skin was a little lighter. 

Those cruel remarks grew more and more frequent and so did the homicidal thoughts Alastor harboured for his father.

If not for the book he found containing old magicks, strange symbols and sigils, and a ritual for summoning demons, Alastor was sure he would have snapped sooner rather than later and would have ended up strangling that drunk waste of life in his sleep.

He would have been caught, no doubt, and put to death. Lynched even.

Who would take care of his Mama then?

But because you had killed his wretch of a father for him, he had been free to grow and pursue his passion for radio. Hunting had become something of a secondary hobby, it was the only thing his father had done him good by – even if the man had only taught him how to track and hunt small game, claiming he wasn’t nearly ‘good enough’ for bigger game.

Well, he could always teach himself.

Alastor had never really preferred any particular type of meat before, always happy to eat whatever his Mama put before him, but when he remembered the tingle on his fingertips, the feel of your soft ears…

He remembered he used a deer skull he found in the forest in the ritual he used to summon you.

Deer.

He probably has eaten venison before, but he honestly could not remember what it tasted like since he just didn’t have a preference then.

He wanted, needed, to learn every detail about that animal.

Alastor really did find the taste of venison to be the most satisfying over any other meat he stripped from the game he hunted. Deer quickly became his favoured target.

He never shot at a doe.

His life was looking rather bright – his career in radio was taking off, he had learned to blend in better, socialize by watching people, and he was frighteningly good at it. He was charming, despite the prejudices and racism, his skin tone and creole heritage didn’t seem to matter much anymore with how successful he was, men and women were clamouring for him in different ways.

It was entertaining to watch.

Still, his homicidal thoughts never left his mind.

Abuse of women by men who were just like his father was rampant and it angered Alastor more than he imagined it would. Only this time, there would be no you to correct things, you were just a lucky break for him.

(And only him. He wouldn’t share you even if he could summon you again).

He’s perfected his hunting skills over the years and hunting humans wasn’t much different, it just took a little longer and a little more patience to assure he wouldn’t be caught.

If there is a Hell, Alastor will burn.

But he doesn’t mind so much, not if he can burn alongside you.

~00~

Is it ironic?

That he is a deer demon too?

From what he has gathered, one’s appearance changes depending on what happened in their human lifetime and how they lived it. Some Sinners have very mundane changes due to mundane sins and deaths.

A traumatic death has a large impact on the soul and being mistaken for a deer and shot dead can certainly be counted as traumatic and impactful.

Alastor is just relieved enough he doesn’t spawn as a dog demon.

Would you be happy he’s a deer like you? 

Alastor has to wonder if you would even recognize him, his appearance is quite different from his human one and it has been over twenty years since your encounter.

If there was one thing he regretted about summoning you, it was that he never asked for your name. He had been much too blinded by his rage for his father and his fascination for your ears to even think to ask and he always lamented about it.

Nothing would get done regretting the past, however.

He needed to figure out his new body and the structuring of Hell and how it works before he can even begin to think of looking for you. 

He needs to amass power.

Hell, with no doubt, is a dangerous place with powerful demons lurking about. Besides the pure thrill of eliminating those very demons by his own hand, Alastor will assure your safety as long as you stay at his side. 

He can pay you back for what you did for him, he can be your saviour this time around, whether you needed one or not.

It’s time to get to work.

~00~

“Another one?”

The man before you shivers at the sound of your voice before giving a shaky nod, looking every which way but you, clearly wanting to leave your presence as quickly as possible.

You couldn’t blame him.

He deserved every second of torment upon his miserable soul.

“I would like for you to go and take a look at this demon toppling Overlords like they’re nothing more than a child’s plaything. You can come back when you have an adequate description of this demon.” You flippantly waved him off.

“Are you fucking kiddin’ me, you little bitch?” The man cursed, his previous meek behaviour gone at the thought of having to go and put himself in danger just so he could get a damn glimpse of whoever this new demon was. There was no fucking way he was doing tha–

A collar materialized around the man’s throat and he lost his footing and his face was smashed into the ground when you abruptly tugged on the chain that materialized at the same time the collar did.

“Did you forget something important?” You stared down at the man in disgust. “If so, let me remind you now. I own you. I own your soul. If I want you to do something, you do it without question. Do you understand, Hartfelt?”

The man, Hartfelt, simply could not keep his mouth shut. “You murdered me in cold blood, you fucking slut! And now you think you can order me around like some dog because you have my soul too? Killing me wasn’t good enough for you? Go back to the kitchen where you belong. Goddamn whore.”

“You made a deal with me. It doesn’t matter if you were newly spawned in Hell and didn’t know how it worked – a deal is a deal. I only took your filthy soul for one thing, otherwise I wouldn’t have touched it with a ten foot pole.” You huffed. “And yes, I can order you around like a dog. It fits your appearance, doesn’t it?”

Hartfelt stood up when you allowed him to, growling like the mutt he appeared to be. “What was that one thing?” He asked, cursing in his mind. If not for that ‘one thing’, he wouldn’t have been under this damn deer bitch’s control for the past twenty plus years.

It's laughable that he has to take orders from a woman.

“I gave your son a pass then, but I saw it in his eyes. I hope I’m wrong, but I do believe Alastor will end up in Hell.” You sighed, glancing over to see pure terror flash across Harfelt’s face. “Figured it out now?”

“You kept me on a chain just so you could give me to that shitskinned boy!?” Hartfelt attempted to lunge forward to unleash his fury on you, but you wouldn’t have it.

You speared your claws into his muzzle and he howled in pain. “Say something like that again about Alastor–no, I’m already tired of your voice. You don’t need that foul tongue to see what this new demon looks like, so I’ll be taking it. I’m sure it will grow back soon enough… if I allow it to.”

No one batted an eye when screams of pain were heard from an apartment before they abruptly stopped.

Hartfelt stood on shaky legs, blood dripping everywhere from his mouth and you didn’t even glance at him. “You know what to do.” You said coldly, waving him off once more and he went without complaint this time around.

Not that he could if he wanted to.

~00~

The Radio Demon.

It wasn’t exactly an original name, but it fit him to a tee, whomever he really was. Hartfelt could never get close enough to get a good look at the Radio Demon and could only give a vague description of the male.

Red. Lots of red. Tall ears maybe? Or a part of his hair, Hartfelt couldn’t be sure. Big, creepy smile with yellowed fangs, and he always carried some sort of cane. His voice was filtered like he was talking on air through a radio.

It was expected, Hartfelt did a crappy job.

It would have to suffice for now, you would rather save Hartfelt for Alastor rather than hearing him scream on the Radio Demon’s broadcasts.

In any other circumstance, that would have been preferred. 

You just needed to pay careful attention, it's how you survived Hell unscathed as a prey-based demon thus far.

The Radio Demon’s rampage was coming far too close to the district you lived in for your comfort and you have no idea if the Overlord in charge would be able to hold on to his power or not.

You had to be prepared for any scenario.

Beyond his insane broadcasting of the screaming souls of the Overlords he had conquered, the Radio Demon was almost pleasant to listen to. His voice was definitely made for radio and his taste in music was exceptional (well, considering you had been dead for some number of years, you had no idea how music evolved in the human world).

“This next song is dedicated to the one I hold dearest to me. I have yet to locate you, my nameless Doe, but I do hope you are listening to this.”

Your ears twitched and you opened your eyes in surprise. It was a bit of a shock to hear that the Radio Demon, of all demons, had a lost lover out here in Hell. You had thought he was a sadist through and through.

You supposed some sadists could love too.

(You did hear rumours that Overlords Zestial and Carmilla Carmine were… something, so much was possible in Hell).

“It has been twenty-four years since our last encounter, brief as it may have been. You have been on my mind ever since. If you truly are listening, my nameless Doe, then know the Radio Demon is Alastor Hartfelt.”

You fell off your couch.

No.

No way.

The Radio Demon and Alastor Hartfelt were one and the same?!

“H-he died?” You said out loud to yourself and to no one. ‘It's only been twenty-four years. He… he didn't even make it to forty years!’

What happened!?

Your ears flattened against your head, not sure what to think of this situation. 

He held you dearest to him?

You've been on his mind ever since?

Your encounter was brief, barely even five minutes long and somehow, Alastor thought the world of you?

That kid twenty some years back definitely had a screw or two loose and you think you just made the problem worse. 

You should not have let him touch you.

You should not have hugged him.

He was an adolescent boy probably starving for positive attention and a soft touch outside his mother and you unwittingly fucked up what normal development he should have gone through.

Well, you couldn't undo the past, but you could try to make up for it by giving Alastor complete control over the man who once controlled him.

You supposed it could be a start.

~00~

He hoped.

But he really expected nothing.

Alastor was rapidly gaining territory, toppling numerous Overlords with his newfound powers within just a year.

Along with wailing souls, Alastor always sent that little message out on his broadcasts, hoping you would hear and respond to him by showing up to the radio tower he built.

But the amount of power he had grown into wasn't enough yet, he could only hijack a portion of Hell’s radio waves at a time, not the entirety of it like he needed to.

You may not have even heard his message.

How irksome.

These were the times he actually craved Mimzy’s company and the atmosphere of her speakeasy.

Mimzy would just keep the whisky flowing until he was intoxicated enough to allow a couple select women a few touches here and there, barely even considered lewd by any means.

Getting drunk was the only way he could handle those touches without flinching or feeling a deep need to shatter the other person's hand – an unfortunate side effect of his father's beatings.

Your touch was the only one he longed for.

It only happened a few times, Alastor stopped as soon as Mimzy casually pointed out that he had a clear type, that the few women he chose all had similar traits.

The same hair colour and length, the same eye colour, and the same height.

All features you possessed.

Back then, the last thing Alastor had wanted was to end up drunk in some random woman's bed calling out for you, ‘my Doe’. Rumours of that nature just wouldn’t be good for his image and career.

And really, saying that whilst in bed with another was just plain weird.

Alastor would have to find a decent bar here in Hell, he could use a drink to take the edge off.

A chirp catches his attention.

His shadow, a magick he has just recently begun to delve deep into, chitters at him and Alastor raises a brow and tilts his head, his smile remaining in place despite his bewilderment.

A guest?

A guest at his radio tower?

Could it possibl–?

Hope, but expect disappointment.

~00~

You're nervous.

(Why?)

You just want to turn around and run.

(Why?)

The Radio Demon and Alastor Hartfelt may be one and the same, but the Alastor you met was just barely on the cusp of manhood, someone so trapped by his shitty situation that he was desperate enough to summon a demon of all things to get him out of it.

He was extremely lucky he had gotten you, very few demons, if any, would have let him keep his soul.

You didn't know Alastor anymore. He was the Radio Demon now, a being quickly becoming infamous and feared for his ruthlessness.

If this was a trick to lure you here, you just hope Alastor has it in him to spare you like you did him.

You tense and your ears and tail stand straight up when you can feel and hear static before he speaks.

“How I've missed your wonderful ears, my nameless Doe.”

What a peculiar greeting.

--------------------------------

Sorry, thought it would be fun to end it here. Part 3 soon.

Tags: @alishii @yourdoorisunlocked @godsent69 @eris-norwega @catticora @tayraedoll @michi-keinz @martinys-world

[mrsvalentinefucker1]

Support class dick hc, kinks + How they fuck

Cw: knives, rough sex, blood

Sniper

•Dick: I’d say about 6, 6 1/2 inches if I’m being generous here. Definitely not thin, it’s got some girth to it that’s for sure. He never ever clean shaves he thinks it looks weird (he’s not wrong) so he’ll definitely just trim up a little or maybe not at all. Wild man moment. Plus, he kinda loves the scruffy look he has going on. I know everyone says he’s uncircumcised and i definitely agree with that. Tip is not red but definitely a deep pink, it’s cute. Two visible veins, one on the top of his shaft and one underneath it. So he’s very very sensitive.

•How he fucks: Rough. He likes to be fucked hard and to fuck hard. His favorite position to see you in is definitely mating press or doggy style (with a knife to your throat) he loves to see your face contort with pleasure and fear. He’s very vocal i mean haven’t you heard his voice lines. Come on. He loves telling you how great of a fuck toy you can be when you aren’t being a cunt or a teasing slut. He doesn’t have a favorite place to cum really.. Whenever he gets his rocks off is where it stays so.

•Kinks

Praise: definitely, but backhanded praise “look at you, good little slut.” Stuff like that you know?

Predator vs prey play: I know this is so basic but oh my goodness he LOVE LOVE LOVEEEESSS to chase you down and just fuck your brains out if your skull. Like I said, he likes it rough. (Me next)

Knife play: Ofc this is one of them. That mf is a literal animal. He just likes the power trip tbh. Having your life in his very hands, though he’d never do anything to ever hurt it.. it’s hot to watch your fearful eyes and if you enjoy it just as much as he does, you’re in for a ride of dirty talk and rough hard sex.

Public sex: touching you while in public. Something about it. Maybe it’s bc he likes to tease and see how long you can last without gripping his arm while shaking and begging to cum or maybe it’s because nobody around you can (probably) tell how good he’s pleasing you, and how they’ll never get a chance to touch a wonderful lady like you the way he does. Who knows

BREEDING: Though he is scared to have kids and will take every procedure to make sure you won’t get pregnant, he still loves to just cum inside of you all day, everyday. (Same sniper.)

Stepping: he probably likes to be stepped on. He’ll buy you beautiful, expensive heels just so you can step on him or press against his hard cock. (Meow.)

Spy

•Dick: solid 5 1/2, it’s not too thin but not exactly thick.. it stretches you very very nicely that is for sure. He trims it constantly. He is never out of order, he takes too much pride in himself to let it grow out like that wretched bushman. Uncircumcised, his dick skin is like.. oddly soft and velvety. One small vein on the side of his cock, it’s nice. Tip, I’d say, is a light cute pink.

•How he fucks: He either makes love for a long time or he plows you hard. Usually both. He rides the fine line very well. While he goes at it soft and caring, he teases you a lot. Vibrators, toys, his finger, his mouth. He just likes to tease you a lot.. but once he slips in, its game over for him. He can’t help it. He has to fuck you like an animal in heat.

•Kinks

Lingerie for sure. He loves to either buy them for you to give you his card to buy yourself some and then surprise him with it! (Will probably write a fic based off this)

Spanking or brat taming: He will absolutely wreck your ass if you talk back to flirt with ANYONE. He will spank you so hard you’ll become a babbling mess.

Body worship: Giving or receiving, he loves to tease you by kissing down your gorgeous body and leave small bites all over you. Nipping, kissing, nipping, kissing. You know. Backhanded kisses

Medic

•Dick: He’s German and from my experience, they’re packing serious heat. 7 inches hard. Argue with the wall because I will not listen. Tummy bulge will happen so be prepared. Much like spy he keeps himself in check, trims every couple of days. Circumcised, dark pink with a red hue tip. It’s sensitive as hell. No visible veins until he gets to fucking, then they all start popping out. Thick. Hard stretch that’s for sure.

•How he fucks: They all fuck hard but him.. dear lord. Pray and buckle up because he will bruise your cervix. He pounds. He doesn’t even fuck, HE SLAMS. bed? broken, operating table? broken, desk? Broken twice. He loves to just fuck you into a mindless mess. That’s all

•Kinks

Roleplay: He loves to roleplay anything really. Nurse and doctor, doctor and patient, boss and intern, things like that.

Knife play: scalpels are going to be pressed against your skin.. which leads me to my next kink hc

Blood kink: Licks the blood off of your wounds or the small cuts he marks your body with. If you have a period, best believe he will be begging to fuck you on it

“Meine Liebe! It feels so much better when you’re on your period, it also relieves cramps too!”

[devilmademewriteit]

If You Lie Down With Me

pairing: (pre-ellie) dbf!joel miller x fem!afab!reader

summary: there’s only one guy in all of boston that can get you a morning after pill. unfortunately, on top of being a huge asshole, Joel Miller also happens to be your dad’s closest peer.

warnings: rough sex / smut (masturbation, fem penetration, oral [m receiving]) so 18+ only content; unprotected sex; light choking & restraint; light dom/sub dynamic; fem afab reader; reader has long-ish hair (that gets touched); plot-typical violence (guns, death); plot deviations (no Tess); medication ingestion; pet names (baby, sweetheart, angel); dubcon (slight intoxication, power imbalance, no explicit consent).

word count: 6.5k+

no use of y/n in this fic

alright y’all I’m baaaaAAAaack! so this is basically the other version of Dark But Just a Game that I started back when I was writing it & figured I’d finish it to get out of my hiatus. like any devilmademewriteit fic, it’s dark and nasty and deprived like meeeeeee <3 hope u enjoy !

don’t forget to reblog, check out my masterlist, sign up for the taglist, & leave any comments / feedback / & suggestions!

(ps: new part of Salvatore up next !)

—

“three times the guy I ever thought I would meet, so don't say you're over me when we both know that you lie”

— lana del rey, ‘If You Lie Down With Me’

—

Fuck.

Waking up to a racing heart, a pounding head, and a stomach swimming with nausea was never ideal, although it was always a better experience alone — when you could squint and hiss at the light slicing through the weaknesses in the drapes without hearing your groans echoed by a lower, louder, and annoyingly more pitiful voice.

Right. What was his name?

Jared? Jordan? Jermaine?

Ah, who cares.

If he’d wanted a safe place to nurse his hangover, he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in your bed. Sure, the odds of dad being conscious at this hour (especially the odds after a party like last night’s) were Kate Moss — no, Rolling Stones — slim, but the man would get up at some point, meaning that this poor J-whatever was likely sleeping through his only window of escape from certain homicide.

You whisper. You shake him gently. You gingerly tap the roundness of his bicep.

Huh — Not bad.

You congratulate last-night-you for reeling in this morning’s good-looking catch.

Still… nothing. Not a twitch. Nary a croaked ‘lemmesleep’ graces your ears.

After loosing an exasperated sigh and running through your options, you decide to take the most effective (and least girl-next-door) route. The corner of your elbow collides with his ribs, and the boy jumps up, his loose, blonde curls as wild as his eyes, searching the room for his attacker.

You want to smile at the scene, but the motion hurts your head.

“Y’gotta go,” you croak out, thumbs rubbing circles against your aching temples.

He collapses onto his back, copying your movement with his own fingers to his brow. “God. I feel like shit.”

Despite muttering your agreement, you let your eyelashes flutter closed and your weight turn you away from last night’s paramour: no use figuring out who he is after the (f)act — that just makes it personal.

After a few breaths, the boy moves back up to a shakey sitting position.

Probably sourcing for his clothes.

He reeks of booze and sex — but then again, so do you. His roughened, unfamiliar tenor climbs to barely above a whisper, “Z’something stuck on my leg… blood, or something…”

His interrupting your suffering comes as a deeply unwelcome annoyance, so you try to sort him out to clear him out: “Prolly just the condom,” you mumble, rolling back onto your shoulders, reluctantly supervising his movements.

He lifts up fully, sitting criss-cross and pulling his calf towards him.

“No,” he tries to laugh but succumbs to the nausea, settling for a low breath instead, “S’blood, dude, from beer darts — and I didn’t use a condom.”

Your eyes immediately dart over, settling on his naked, wretched, shivering form. He notices your ire and the hitching of your throat, immediately defensive.

“I asked if you wanted to.”

Unfortunately, he had. The memories of your drunken entanglement start to resurface inside your mind. “It just feels better without one.” This time, you curse last-night-you for being such a careless, inconsiderate, horny bastard.

You’re making problems for me, girl.

“J’s get out.”

J-whatever spares no time complying, collecting his few strewn belongings and staggering out the front door. Once it slides shut, so too do your poor, weary eyes.

Shit.

There goes the afternoon.

Getting your hands on condoms in the QZ was at least fifteen times easier than snatching a morning after pill. Those were a hot commodity, especially among the younger, less responsible crowds.

Luckily for you, as a member of aforementioned younger, less responsible crowds, you knew where your best chances lay in finding whatever it was you needed (if what you needed was deeply immoral or wholly illegal). Unluckily for you, that ‘best chance’ happened to be your dad’s closest and longest-running business partner: temperamental, judgemental, frustratingly competent, Joel ‘Local Asshole’ Miller.

But that could all be dealt with after another eight hours of sleep.

—

Opportunity strikes sooner than expected.

Miller’s in your living room by the time you wake up, the low rumble of his southern baritone recognizable even through the closed door. After scrambling to throw on some clothes, you press an ear to the chipping paint, hoping to determine the number of bodies gathered in your home.

Not many. Just Miller (and the old man, of course).

The latter’s presence bodes ill for you. This would all have to be done in secret, which was not an uncommon strategy where ever the former was involved. No one dealt with Joel Miller to conduct clean-cut, wholesome activities. No one was calling him up for a spare copy of the holy book.

No, getting him alone was essential.

A drink slams down on the counter. After a good, patient ten minutes, you hear your father (‘s rather crude way of) excusing himself to the washroom and heavy-set footsteps decrescendoing down the hall.

This is it.

You slip through the door.

At first, your company takes no notice of you, his eyes still glued to the maps and papers littering the counter before him.

Then, a low grumble: “fun night?”

His voice makes you weak in the knees — an involuntary, near ritual-like response you’d noticed around your mid teens and hadn’t managed to kick yet.

You swallow before responding. “Yes.”

It’s all you manage to muster. Miller finally looks up, wincing slightly as his back straightens. He looks tired, at least more than usual, with his wild, grey-streaked hair tousled and the lines by his mouth cutting deep into his skin.

You’re sure you don’t look much better, a suspicion proven by the man’s slowly spreading, barely-noticeable smirk. That gaze makes you self conscious, mute; your right hand snakes up, absent-mindedly dragging a fallen bra strap back to its proper position.

“So, what was his name?”

He’s teasing, sure, but Miller was there last night. He’d always had sharper perceptions than your father did, especially — and ironically — when it came to you. That skill tended to squander your confidence as the daughter of a modern-day mafia-boss and the owner of a hard, violent heart.

Rushed by the sound of your father’s footsteps, you default to honesty.

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“Josh.”

Amusement flits across his stern expression. “Again.”

“Jamie.”

“Warmer.”

“J-J-something—”

“Gettin’ colder, sweetheart—”

“I need the pill.”

It just tumbles out, an exasperated, desperate plea. Miller, a bit taken aback by your candor, drains of his previous playfulness. You almost notice the split second those dark eyes glaze over. For a second, you’re almost convinced he’s distracted by his imagination’s recreations of the act that had you making such a request.

You almost notice the tingling between your thighs.

He stares. You stare back.

Fuck.

It was moments like this that made you wish Tess was still around. Oh, she wouldn’t be any kinder — no, not at all — but she’d certainly be more professional. Tess was all work, no play. Joel was…

You’re enjoying this, you bastard. You’re enjoying that I’m cornered like this, aren’t you?

The bathroom handle clicks when it turns, and your heart drops into your toes.

Maybe Miller really wasn’t going to help you. Maybe he didn’t have the pill and you’d just embarrassed yourself for nothing. Or, maybe he did, but preferred outing you to your dad at the very first opportunity — letting him deal with you the only way he knew how.

Your fears seem confirmed: his eyes leave the grace of your own, trailing back to his big, splayed hands on the countertop. Unwelcome tears burn the corners of your eyes as the panic begins to set in, as footsteps begin to fall…

“Mine. Tonight.”

It’s low and rushed, but it’s clear, cutting off to the sound of your father lumbering in. A man who saw, thought, and lived through transactions, he’s (thankfully) blissfully ignorant of the tension collapsing around him.

“Morning,” he throws your way.

A taunt, of course — it was well past noon.

You nod in acknowledgement, slowly backing into the doorway of your sacred, beckoning room. They resume their conversation from before, letting you sink into irrelevance.

Before shutting yourself in, you catch a few of Miller’s hushed words. They’re spoken casually to your father but, you later decide, surely meant for you:

“Not that one kid — Jeremy — don’t trust him.”

The door seals (well, not seals… it creaks on its rusty hinges and squeezes into its shrinking frame), and relief courses through you, reaching the very tips of your fingers.

That only lasts a minute.

Soon, you’re negotiating with the rising anxiety of being at Miller’s place alone, asking for his help with a problem that could’ve been avoided if you’d only kept your legs shut.

Alone with Miller, the both of you knowing that you hadn’t.

Crawling back under your covers, you begrudgingly make a vow of celibacy. If this was the cost of attention and a (potential) mid-range orgasm, you were about to become very frugal.

Dreams come easy, but they don’t come sweet.

Flashes of last night’s sins overlay Joel Miller’s unintelligible speech, his voice from the next room over lulling you into a rather confusing, disturbed sleep.

—

At nighttime, it’s a short walk to his building.

Down this alley, past this street, up this back stairwell. Part of being in with Boston’s seedy underbelly gained you access to the best and most up-to-date intel; by the age of twelve, you could run the safest — well, least policed — post-curfew routes from memory.

(Which had come in handy in situations a lot more dire than this.)

Sneaking in was easy, although you cursed him for being so preoccupied during the day. Coming in at this hour required some delicate maneuvers through a half-shattered window, and a less-than-graceful leap down left you with a nick on your cheekbone and a shallow cut along the side of your hand.

Thankfully, the blood mostly dries on your walk up the six or eight or ten flights of stairs. You don’t resent the exercise; it feels good to move, putting the jitters building in every still moment in abeyance.

Still moments like the kind that passes after a barely-audible, coded knock delivered by a girl sucking on the side of her hand, almost wishing for the door not to open.

It does.

He’s in jeans — dirty jeans, dusty — and a simple flannel. It’s Miller — it’s Miller at his most Joel-Miller-like-ness.

So why am I so fucking nervous?

He holds the door open, brows knitting at the sight of your hand in your mouth.

“Window,” You offer.

He mouthes a silent ‘ah,’ before leaning forward to duck his head out the door and, in the process, somewhat sandwiching you against his chest.

Maybe it’s because he smells like forest-fires, but your skin burns red-hot.

Miller looks both ways, checking the status of the hall (empty), then nudges you into the dim light of his place with the weight of his hand against your lower back.

The door shuts behind you.

You’d been here at least a million times before, but the thoughts rising now feel so… new. The jacket strewn on the side of the sagging sofa is his — Joel Miller has sat at this table and showered, slept, fucked inside these walls.

Cut it out. It’s just ‘cause you’re alone. And older.

But what about it, now that you were alone and older?

Old enough to know what goes on between a man and a woman and a little bit of desperation at just the right amounts… and there sure was a lot of him, and some desperation, too…

“Nervous?”

Your feet hit the floor, all thoughts evaporating at the sound of his word. Blushing, you try to de-code his taunt, spoken with playfulness and too much condescension.

“Wh — what’d you — nervous for what? No.”

He’s already across the room, sifting through a box of miscellaneous items. A yellowed lamp shade catches his side-profile, illuminates the smirk spreading across his face. Then, a low command:

“Relax,” and your spine settles, acceding to his wish. “Some girls get nervous, y’know, takin’ it the first time.”

Oh.

You clear your throat, daring to take a step into his place, incensed enough to trace the indents and stab-marks decorating his kitchen table.

“No.”

You’re taken aback by the accuracy and the strength underpinning your answer. It’s true, you aren’t afraid, and hadn’t been afraid of much in a very long while.

What’s a Joel Miller to your best friend’s public hanging? What’s he to a dozen rows of semi automatics raining down on your zigzagging toes? What’s he to a period cramp?

Like a bolt of lightning hitting you in the chest, that cocky, gauche and indelicate rebel you’d grown into reappears.

“I’ve been told I take things pretty well my first time.” The tension rises — this time, at your command — just as Joel does, carrying a leather pouch in his right hand. “And it’s not, anyways,” you add for good measure.

The leather drops onto the marked-up table. Joel crosses his arms.

“Not sellin’ me on givin’ you one of these, sweetheart.”

He gestures to the bag.

A mock-frown as you draw closer to him. His eyes, although severe, reflect the playfulness dancing in your own.

“Why not?” You ask, voice dripping with false innocence.

Joel’s gaze doesn’t stray as it hardens, focused on your own. “They’re for accidents, mistakes, attacks,” he explains, deep and dangerous, “Not girls who can’t keep their pretty lil’ legs together.”

Oof.

On one hand, it sounds like he’s genuinely chastising you for your careless behaviour. But, on the other, he sounds jealous, taunting, hungry.

I’ll play that hand.

Sleeping all day had left you wide awake, and that long-time, school-girl crush on the man before you was dying for content to fantasize about. Even if he pushed you off, you’d get to feel the weight of his hands on your body, right?

So, you return with a taunt of your own: “You think my legs are pretty?”

He shakes his head, his signature scowl spreading as he mostly ignores you. “I think you should at least use condoms,” a breath, “N’ know their first names.”

Ouch.

“I usually do.” you murmur, “and it broke last night.”

“Bullshit.”

“What do you mean, bullshit?”

Joel sighs and lowers himself into one of the four old, rickety chairs lining the table. His hand comes up to his temples and you notice how his legs, exhausted, part.

The man doesn’t deign to respond.

Irritation begins to well in your core, sneaking through your arms and up into your throat. The muscle in your jaw must be twitching like crazy.

How does he know? How the fuck does he always know?

Across the QZ, as a skilled liar and born and bred bandit, people tended to hold whatever image of you that you’d crafted for them.

Not Joel. Never Joel.

He saw through you in a way that had always felt… intimate. It was one of the reasons, you guessed, he didn’t dare spend too much time alone with you and why you’d always been curious about him (as a man, of course). Now, there was no avoiding your obvious vulnerability from either of you — you were stripped bare, your dressings in his hand.

It makes you want to flee as much as it makes you want to leap into his arms.

You snatch up the pouch, opening it up to find a mass of differently coloured and shaped pills. Rifling through, you ignore Joel’s stare boring into your hands’ erratic search.

“Yellow ones,” he says.

“I know what they look like,” you retort.

“‘Course you do.”

He moves faster than he should be able to.

One moment, your palm is slicing through the air, headed straight for the highest point of his cheek. The next, you’re facedown on the table. Your attacking hand is caged in by a much larger, much stronger one, pinned to the decaying wood; the other, he pins behind your back. Pills litter the floor — Joel’s boot crunches into a wayward one as he adjusts himself behind you, leaning over your struggling, smaller frame, immobilizing you with his weight.

“Let go of me—” you hiss, words smothered by the wooden surface pressed to your profile.

“—Shut up ‘n listen,” he commands, leaning over to tower over his trapped victim. “Try that again n’I’ll do worse’n kill you. Understand?”

Despite the authenticity of his threat, a strangled laugh wracks your lungs.

“Gonna turn me in for contraband, Miller? Watch them gun me down in the square?”

You smile through your heavy breaths. There, behind your hips, is a growing movement indicative of some other kind of punishment he’s got in mind.

“Or,” you continue on coyly, “Give me another reason to need that pill?”

Joel pauses, untangling your meaning.

Then, an exasperated scoff. His hold tightens on your wrist and you wince. “You always thinkin’ of the fastest way to get a man to fuck you?”

“Only when his cock’s pressed against my ass.”

He goes quiet — only for a moment. Somewhere outside, rounds echo through the night.

“Z’that what you want?” His voice is deep and threatening, promising of the kind of hard, mind-numbing fuck you’d been craving for weeks.

After a hard swallow, you nod, catching the raise of his eyebrows in your periphery.

A moment passes as he mulls over your answer. Only your shallow, anticipatory breaths populate the quiet space.

“Alright.”

And he lets go.

Heart racing, wrists aching, you flip around to his neutral, impenetrable expression.

“Get down on your knees.”

Without taking a moment to decide whether you’re living anything more than just a really fucked up dream, you sink to your knees, folding your hands in your lap (to stop them from shaking). Before you, Joel’s bulge twitches while he watches you yielding to submission, and you try to ignore the excitement building between your own two legs.

His eyes burn into yours: black, starved, weighty. He tells you to shut your own and you do, unable to resist the tone of his command. Within the self-imposed darkness, Joel’s following order — ‘open your mouth,’ — parts your lips as if they were under his spell. You wonder what you must look like to him, needy and ready to receive whatever you’re given.

He speaks again.

“Show me your tongue, angel.”

The gruffness punctuating his arousal doesn’t let you stand a chance. You let your mouth fall open wider.

Next, there’s rustling. You try to remember whether or not he’d had on a belt, listening and failing to hear the soft clinks of a buckle coming undone.

Too soon, something wraps around your chin — thick, calloused fingers — and the pressure of a thumb running down the middle of your tongue sends a rush of electricity down every stacked vertebrae. It’s slow, tantalizingly slow, as if the man were trying to memorize the feel of every groove, ridge, and bud on his leisurely way out.

When Joel drops his hand, a small weight remains at the back of your throat.

“Close.”

You do, opening your eyes to meet his own: severe and wanting — or wanting for severity?

It’s a pill. That much is obvious once the taste begins to spread, bitter and chemical and totally gag-worthy. He follows up with ‘swallow’ for his own sick enjoyment; by the time he says it, it’s clear that you already have.

What kind of game is this, Miller?

Your cheeks burn when your company kneels down. He places his big, broad hand partly on your neck, partly to the side of your jaw, and you’re still too taken aback to tear it off. The feel of his rough palm against your racing pulse silences every urge to enact revenge. Words don’t come — too quickly forgotten on one’s knees.

“You’re way too easy for your own good, sweetheart,” he near-whispers, shooting to kill in a blow packed tight with condescension. “Don’t let me see you here again.”

And that’s it: your cue to get lost.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Miller pulls away from your reddening skin, straightening to stand. You follow suit soon after, heart pumping lead, tongue bruised by the memory of his touch (more overwhelming than the metallic residue dripping down your throat).

He turns, running a few fingers through his hair. It’s the last look you get before resigning yourself to the journey back home.

Still, before turning the rusted handle, in a brief moment of respite, of clarity, you seize the final word:

“I’m only ‘easy’ when I’m drunk. Or interested.”

Silence courses through the room as Joel registers the meaning behind your confession.

“Goodnight, Miller.”

With that, you see yourself into the hallway, checking its status before tearing into the stairwell.

You barely breathe.

He wanted me — he had to have wanted me.

Miller was a pragmatic player; surely, he’d only bother to play with toys he liked like that… right?

Right?

Unable to clear your head or cool the heat radiating through your core, you take the long way home, the distant sounds of a war between rivals soothing the cacophony of noise swimming between your ears.

—

For the next two weeks, all you’re able to think about is him.

You think about him when he’s gone and when he’s in the room, grumbling in hushed tones to your father. You think about him when you’re unable to fall asleep, letting your hands slip beneath the waistband of your shorts, imagining your own fingers as thick, tan ones running through the warmth between your legs.

He takes no notice of you — a fact you deeply resent. Even in your skimpiest clothing, he’s like a damn horse with blinders on. You decide, in the past weeks, he’d either acquired the patience of Job or purged every sinful craving from his system when he’d stuck his fingers down your throat.

Naturally, you’re more than happy when, at breakfast (two in the afternoon), your father gives you the heads up about tonight’s gathering at the Bar (which was really just an asbestos-ridden basement equipped with enough prohibition-style gadgets and architecture to host a good ‘strategic meeting’ every other month).

“Everyone’s gonna be there,” he mumbles. “Need you to keep your ears open. Had to take a couple rats out last week…”

Everyone’s gonna be there.

Smiling to yourself, your thoughts start to spin out. Business, distractions, booze. Tonight would host a million opportunities for you to get him alone.

Hope blooms through your chest.

Do your worst, Miller.

—

“Man, I wish we could’ve experienced cocktails. Straight hooch is ass.”

A peer named Mel, just a year older than yourself, cringes as she sips on whatever murky liquor’s found its way into her cup.

You don’t mind the taste so much, having grown mostly immune to its taste and burn. In fact, you’d come to welcome the subsequent lapse in breath and judgement.

There was little else in this world that made you feel alive.

“Mhm,” you respond absent-mindedly, looking for a familiar scowl among the mass of scowls peppering the crowd.

A sigh to your right. “Always awesome, having your attention.”

The criticism snaps you back into your body. You smile sheepishly at your friend, apologizing through a wince.

She shrugs, her raggedy, pin-decorated jacket jingling with the movement. “S’okay. Known you long enough to know that look.”

For that, she receives a quizzical glance.

Mel comes back with a scoff. “No victims tonight?”

“Oh god,” you shoot her a look of disgust. “Do you mind not using such weird vocabulary? Make me sound like a predator.”

As the words tumble out, you zero in on the object of your search. There he is: eyebrows knit together in concentration, drink in hand, unsurprisingly (and annoyingly) in conversation with your father. A few other stragglers are in the mix, too, but they’re easily overlooked. Time slows to a full stop in his wake —only for the briefest of seconds —

“Well since the last guy actually wound up dead a week later, I think it’s fitting.”

Once again, Mel’s managed to wrangle your interest.

You stare blankly into her onyx eyes, ringlets falling through molasses around her face. “Jeremy?”

And she’s bewildered. “You didn’t hear?”

This time, both of your heads turn in the same direction.

“Ratted to FEDRA about the storehouse off tenth,” she explains, gesturing towards Miller and your father with a tilt of her head. Famous for her bravery, she stoops into your shoulder, averting his gaze and speaking under her breath, “Judging by the way they found him, my guess is it was mostly Miller’s stuff.”

It’s as if she’d screamed it.

The subject of your conversation turns to face you right as your company’s words drift off. Despite the level of noise, the amount of people, and the cloudiness of the air, you’re trapped in the corridor of your mutual stare, cornered.

The challenge, the knowing marking his expression.

“I need some air.”

You twist into the body standing behind you, shoving row after row of criminal scum out of the way. Mel doesn’t follow — she’d never hung around to comfort you, only to inform you. A mutual, typical relationship for the age, and just how things worked in the QZ.

You slam into the door, stomping into a deserted, silent alley, empty save for a few drunk strays. Your lips begin to tingle and a scream builds inside your lungs. Stalking blindly into the night, unsure of your direction, alone in half a top and a plain, ass-length skirt, shivering despite the warmth of the air…

You’re practically begging for trouble.

Just as your eyes catch the numbers on the old, rusted street sign above, just as you realize you’re on a monitored street tonight, only safe after curfew every other Monday and Wednesday, you’re grabbed by the waist, pulled into the space between two buildings, and shoved into a sheltered nook.

A dim, yellow light clicks on automatically. There’s a door (chained closed) leading into the building to your left and darkness to your right.

And there’s Joel Miller above you, his expression indeterminable.

“You asshole,” you barely hear yourself breathe over the sound of the blood rushing in your ears before lunging forward in a useless attempt to, once again, strike his profile.

He catches your wrist, no doubt having anticipated the attack. It’s written on your face, in your eyes, in your shallow, uneven inhalations. He takes your other hand before you’ve even thought to use it, lifting it above your head and slamming it against the old stucco behind you.

“You’re violent,” he says flatly.

He tightens his hold when you struggle against it. “Proud of yourself, yeah? You’re a killer.”

That inspires a slight smirk. You half expect him to return with an ‘as if you didn’t already know that.’

Instead, he says, “Sweetheart, you didn’t even know his name.”

“You should’ve told me.”

And that’s the real source of this anger: it’s rage at being the last to know.

And for what? To protect your feelings? Since when had anyone in your life bothered to do that?

“And don’t call me ‘sweetheart’,” you add for good measure.

You’d wanted him to touch you so badly for weeks now, but here, scorned at being left in the dark and confused at the death of a paramour, you only want to get free.

“And what’d he call you?” He spits, leaning down and in, inadvertently pressing his thigh between your legs — when his breath grazes the skin of your ear, it causes them to part (against your better judgement). “Got lots of names, right?” He continues to tease, “Heard your boyfriend’s pretty one for you before I shut him up — ‘that fuckin’ slut,’ f’I’m rememberin’ right.”

Despite your rage-shakes, you’re warming at the core, Joel’s pressure against it dizzying your already-addled head. It confuses you, makes the scorn easier to access.

“How did I come up, Miller?” You exhale, jutting your chin towards him. “Couldn’t help asking for all the dirty little details, could you?”

He smiles, and the act lacks any sort of kindness. “‘Lot easier gettin’ him alone once he thought he was meetin’ you.” Joel slams your wrist harder into the wall when you try to wriggle away. “Not sure you wanna keep making that kind of impression, angel.”

It’s hard to rationalize with him so close, as his pet-names echoe inside your head. He’d used your name to enact gang-law violence on a boy who’d been inside you, and yet, all you can think, all you can hear, is the way ‘sweetheart’ sounds tumbling off his lips.

“Fucking let me go, Miller,” you manage to exasperate, resenting the begging edge to every word. “I don’t need another abstinence lecture from you.”

Kicking one ankle off balance, Joel turns you around, pressing your stomach to the wall, your back into his chest. Ignoring your whines and pitiful struggle, he wraps a free hand around your neck, pushing your head against his collarbone. Your stomach erupts with butterflies as the rough pad of his thumb traces the front of your throat.

Yes — no — yes, he wants me — no, no, this is wrong, this is so wrong —

“‘Be wasted on you, anyways,” he says, rough and earnest, like his hand sliding down your chest, your breasts, your stomach, “Startin’ to realize if I can’t fix your dad’s mistakes…” and he’s finding the hem of your skirt and yanking it up, bunching the fabric around your hips —

“Might as well take advantage of them.”

He moves hungrily. He’s everywhere, sliding into your underwear and across your breasts, his big arms and suffocating biceps enveloping your entire frame.

“Joel—”

But he claps a hand over your mouth, silencing any hope of your pleas being effective.

“Think I haven’t seen you? Your lil’ looks…” a low laugh, “n’ those fuckin’ clothes?” God, the rumble, the sheer want in his voice hammers at your initial resistance, and you feel yourself welcoming the feel of his thick, long fingers, sliding between your wet folds. You’re clay, melting against the curved, firm wall of his chest.

You mewl pathetically into his palm.

Another low laugh wracks his lungs, dances at the top of your ear.

“Knew you’d be this wet for me.”

“Knew since you got down on your knees,” Joel continues, uncovering your mouth only to ease a few fingers between your lips — lips that part as though commanded, and a mouth that welcomes and caresses whatever it receives, “‘N opened this pretty lil’ mouth for me to fuck it. Can’t close my eyes without seein’ you like that — so fuckin’ needy.” He exhales from between his teeth, signalling his approval while you suck him down to the knuckles.

His fingers tease your clit and you give him your thanks by pleasuring those of his other hand.

When his hands move, it’s to hold you steady and balanced as he drags your underwear down your legs. That thick, heavy cloud of arousal hides any and all rational thoughts from view.

And he knows. He knows you’re past the point of no return, restraining you only out of his desire to rather than out of a real need to. He knows from the whine you breathe at the loss of his hand against your clit, moving to work at his belt buckle instead.

“Gonna use a condom?” You breathe, emboldened by your clearing senses at the temporary lack of stimulation.

At first, you think he’s missed your taunt.

He backs up, pulling your hips along with him until the tips of your fingers are no longer touching the decaying wall before you. Joel pulls you upright and against him with an arm around your waist and a hand around your throat, turning your head and tilting it back to meet your eyes.

You grasp onto his forearms, failing to stand, unable to breathe. His hardness digs into your back, and his cruel eyes show you just how much pleasure he takes in your struggle.

“Don’t like to waste ‘em,” he finally answers, rocking his cock against your spine, “But I will if you beg. You gonna beg?”

He manipulates your answer, fingers moving to your red-hot core — he barely grazes the nerves, only dancing over the needy flesh. You can’t tear your eyes from him either, tethered to your body through his gaze.

Joel Miller was a frustrating lover.

“N-no,” is your answer, slightly strangled and softly stuttered.

He smiles. “S’what I thought.” Then, “Show me what you can do, angel,” he coos, lips just inches away from yours, his hold on your body relaxing —

“Use your pretty lil’ hands n’ put my cock where you want it most.”

And you both know exactly where that is.

After a nod, Joel allows you to bend forward slowly — it’s like moving through honey. Your legs burn with effort as you reach between your legs to wrap a hand around his thick, hard length.

Christ, he’s huge.

He groans when you touch him and uses his own hand to help guide his tip between your folds. One hand holds your waist, fingers extended under your ribs to support your weight in a skilled show of experience.

With his tip at your aching entrance, you try to lean back, to slide yourself slowly down his many inches.

But Joel doesn’t allow it.

He pushes into you in one go, clicking his tongue at your strangled gasp —

The man hadn’t even bothered to open you up with his fingers.

“Ah, c’mon,” he condescends, “You can take it.”

Then he’s setting a hard pace, hands moving from your hips to your ribs to your biceps to your hair to your neck — anywhere he wanted to go, he went. One eventually comes to the front of your throat, tilting your eyes back and up towards the ceiling. Every one of his thrusts arches your back further until you’re contorting into a half-moon shape, standing only by the grace of his support.

And it feels so good. Joel fills you up to the brim, takes you to heaven and floods your ears with hymns, punishes you in the kind of way you’d only experienced in dreams.

Words tumble out, but they’re filled with nothingness. “Joel,” “fuck,” and “yesohgodyes,” quickly become staples of your vocabulary.

He laughs whenever you sob, grows harder every time you moan, restrains you when you try to run away.

The hand around your throat tightens, digging unforgivably into the flesh as you start to let go, as your walls begin to clench and flutter appreciatively around his cock.

“M’I making you happy, sweetheart? My cock making you smile?” He asks gruffly, pulling you back into his chest. Joel readjusts you into whatever shape you need to be in at the new angle, hips still slamming into your ass. Struggling to stand on your tiptoes, he steadies you with his arms and his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look up into his rugged face.

“Mmhm,” is all you can offer him, the pitch jumping up halfway through when the head of his cock grazes that perfect spot inside your cunt.

He doesn’t let up.

“Show me, baby—” he commands, out of breath, too, but not nearly as tortured as you, “—Show me your smile.”

You do your best, smiling up at him, degrading yourself even more at the hands of Joel-fucking-Miller. And he eats it up, loves the way your grin turns into a bitten lip and knit eyebrows over closed eyes, slowing his thrusts to rock even deeper inside you.

You moan something unintelligible, and a laugh rustles through your tangled hair.

“Am I makin’ you come?”

You nod, feeling that familiar rush of pressure blooming somewhere within that throbbing bundle of nerves under his spell.

He smirks in pride and victory, the last look you get before your head falls against his shoulder, your muscles going lax as the peak builds, as your half-sobs grow louder.

“S’it, baby, tell ‘em,” he coos, nipping and sucking the skin on the side of your throat. “Gonna tell the whole street how you take it like a good lil’ slut.”

His fingers fall to your clit, enticing you right over the edge. You vision blurs and your legs shake, but Joel talks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings starting with, “S’right — show me — yes, fuck — good girl…”

And then —

He stops.

You whine, stars dancing before your eyes as the mean, mean man inside you refuses to fuck you through your climax.

“Joel,” you plead, grinding back against him in a pathetic show of need, “Come with me.”

He does the opposite, sliding himself out of your sore opening. You turn to face him, restoring your balance with hands against his chest, gazing up at him in desire-stricken reproach.

“Use your mouth,” he says, voice gruff at your ruined sight and from his own hand on his cock, keeping his arousal level, “Not gettin’ any more help from me.”

It’s unclear whether ‘help’ means pills or his cock, but you assume both to be safe.

You try to argue (having spent the last few weeks dreaming of Joel dripping down your legs) but he just won’t budge.

Then, his voice softens.

“You know your dad’d kill me, angel.”

And it’s really the sweetness of his tone that does it.

Sinking to your knees, it’s déjà vu when you open wide for him, steadying your shaking knees with both hands on his half clothed, half naked hips. Gravel and debris dig painfully into your bare knees, but you ignore the sting, smiling instead at the taste of yourself on Joel’s cock, lips sliding adoringly down the thick length of it.

He groans his approval, tangling his fingers in your hair to help guide your movements.

As you take him in again and again and again, pleasing every inch of him, he chokes out a laugh.

“Never seen you so quiet,” he muses (mostly to himself), caressing your cheekbone with his free hand —

“Gagged by an old man’s cock.”

You pull off, pumping him with both hands, asking breathlessly, “Are you all so big?”

He smiles, eyes darkening at the dirty compliment. “Give you a few numbers n’ you can tell me.”

God, he’s beautiful from down here.

You hold his attention and lick a slow stripe down the underside of his cock, half-grinning up at his lust-filled expression.

“I only want yours, Joel Miller.”

An uneasy inhale as you take him back in, his brows furrowing and his cock growing impossibly harder. Your words please him, he returns by groaning orders and praises like: “S’all yours, baby — take it all — take aaall that dick — good fuckin’ girl.”

He’s so close and you know it, moaning in submission at his hand’s pressure against the back of your head. With your nose crunched into his abdomen, you hold your throat open for him to use it however he pleases — reduced to nothing more than the man’s plaything.

There’s a low “ah, fuck,” from above, and then you finally know what Joel Miller tastes like.

It’s better than the Plan B.

You hear nothing beyond his recovering breaths, feel nothing past pride, lust, and exhaustion.

Eventually, he loosens his grip. You pull off of him delicately, drawing a groan from between his gritted teeth when you make sure to suck every last drop of his seed into your mouth.

Sitting back on your ankles, you roll your head up to face him.

He swipes a thumb under your lips, clearing the saliva connecting you to his softening cock.

“Still mad at me?” He asks.

You’d be crazy to say yes.

“Only for pulling out.”

You note the twitch at the corner of his mustache.

Joel helps you back on your feet, using one hand to pull you up by your arm and another to arrange himself back to decency.

You adjust your shirt; Joel fixes your skirt. It’s a strange kind of silence settling inside this pocket at the side of a random, ruined building.

Then, your company clears his throat, that mask of seriousness falling over his expression once again.

“You gonna be smart?”

What ever could he mean?

Stay away from him? Stay away from men? Practice abstinence? Use protection?

Either way, you’re not one to make promises you know you can’t keep.

You cross your arms.

“No.”

He sighs.

Well, looks like things are already back to normal.

His face softens and he shakes his head, already regretting his next words. “Just — just come find me, then. I won’t do… this again, but — but I’ll help.”

You frown.

“What do you mean, ‘this’?”

He stares down into your accusatory eyes with a look you’d received many times from him, one screaming, “get real.”

“Fine,” you mutter, breaking eye-contact, “Thank you.”

With a stoic nod, he walks around you, heading back into the night. You try, in vain, to watch him go in silence — god knows you had some thinking to get to — and find that, instead of getting it out of your system, the entanglement had only left you wanting for more.

And more and more.

“Is this what you meant?” and you hear his footsteps halt, “When you told me you’d do worse than kill me? When I tried to hit you?”

It comes out before you can help it, and you twist around to face his still, broad shoulders.

You can hear the smile teasing his lips as he utters the words.

“Why are you askin’ me that?”

Still facing his back, you break into a smile of your own. “So I’ll know what I have to do to get you to do it again.”

You watch him shake his head, grey-streaked ripples in the low light.

“Try your best not to find out, angel.”

With that, he disappears into the darkness, leaving you in the flickering doorway. Thighs aching, heart racing, you take a deep breath, trying to memorize the feeling of what it felt to have them taken from you by Joel Miller.

A feeling you’d chase.

—

Put your red boots on

Baby, giddy up

Baby wants a dance

Baby gets her way

Dreamy nights

Talk to me with that whiskey breath

Twirl me twice

I'll treat you like a holiday

And don't say you're over me

When we both know that you ain't

Don't say you're over me

Baby, it's already too late

Just do what you do best with me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like a ballerina, super high

Dance me all around the moon

Light me up like the 4th of July

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When we both know that you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

When you lie down right next to me

Get your jacket on

Be a gentleman

Get into your truck

And pick me up at eight

'Cause we were built for

The long haul freight train

Burnt by fire

Without trial like a stowaway

And don't say you're over me

When they all know that you ain't

If you lay down right next to me

Dance me all around the room

Spin me like ballerina super high

Dance me all around the moon

Like six times 'til I'm sick and I cry

Once, twice, three times

The guy I ever thought I would meet, so

Don't say you're over me

When they all know that you're lying

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

If you lie down right next to me

Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie

Lie, you lie

When you lie down right next to me

—

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[devils-dares]

Man's World

summary: a tight championship race, a relationship situationship enemies with benefits that can't take place anywhere but behind the scenes, two drivers pitted against one another. who will prevail?

pairing: f1 driver x f1 driver!fem!reader (written with lewis hamilton in mind, but contains no identifying traits for any driver)

warnings: smut MDNI, verbal fights, driving, strong language, toxic masculinity, women being talked about negatively (in a man's world), being pathetic

wordcount: 5005

a/n: i have been working on this since august. this fic has gone through many phases of life with me, and i have finally finished it. i truly hope you enjoy.

-----

Good God, what had you gotten yourself into? It wasn’t supposed to be anything, if anything you two were bitter rivals to the death. Saying his name was like licking a battery, leaving a coppery acidic taste in your mouth.

So why did you wake in his bed? He, his body shining in the early morning sun, was making a plate from what you imagined was room service breakfast. His sheets, they smell like him, and the memories from last night and nights past come flooding into your head again.

He’s laying it on thick, smiling at you when he sees you sitting up in bed.

“You okay?” He says, the sweetest voice spilling from his lips. You hum, the ache between your thighs and the soreness in your hips delectably painful. He hands you a plate.

Your head spins from the irony of it all. Enemies to lovers, you’d said the night before as a joke. And what did he say in response?

“Lovers don’t fuck each other like this.”

It was true, the bruises on your body spoke wretched stories when they darkened over days, but sung beautifully while you moaned out his name underneath him as he pressed on them. He fucked as hard as he fought on track, the two of you trading first and second place back and forth every race. It’d become a game, riling each other up all week long just to end up on the podium next to each other and the same bed later on. It was a joke around the paddock that the two of you had tension and needed to “sort it out”.

All things had to end eventually, right? It bothered you when his alleged girlfriend was at Silverstone. He’d just spent the night prior making sure you couldn’t talk while his head was between your legs and now Thursday brings rumors of him walking the paddock with a lady friend.

She was beautiful, and that pissed you off.

He came to your room Sunday night after the race, a knock you two have come to create inadvertently. You didn’t bother to open the door, instead opting to lean against it.

“Open the door,” he said, “someone could see. Open the fucking door.” He’s agitated, good, you think. He led the race by a few seconds, but his cockiness came through like always, leading to an ill-timed spin and you taking the win from him. You’re winning the championship by just over ten points, and he’s had a slew of what could be considered amazing races, but losses in his book because he’s a place behind you. He knocks and knocks until you’re sure his fingers go raw, and you wipe a stray tear before opening the door to toxicity personified. He pushes past you to get in and slams the door shut. You sigh and rub your forehead before he pushes you up against the door.

“When I say open the door, open the fucking door, got it?”

“I’m not going to listen to you.” You challenge him, and he puffs his chest out, showing off just how much bigger he is than you.

“You’ve already tried being a brat, remember what that got you?” A night full of edging and no release, that’s exactly what that got you. Your body shudders at the memory.

“Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought.” He laughs.

“Fuck you!” You try to shove him but he barely moves an inch, instead grabbing your wrists and pushing them back against the door.

“What’s got you in such a mood? Back to back races left you a little sex-starved?” He tuts. “I thought I taught you better than that.”

“Who was that girl you were walking around with?” You ask, tears brimming at your waterline in anger.

“You’re jealous! Do you know how pathetic that is? What gives you a right to know, being my whore in private?” Your face turns away from his, but he pulls your hands up to hold with one of his, and he turns your chin towards him with his free hand. He sees how red you are, face burning with embarrassment.

“She’s an obligation. Management, you know.”

“So you’re not-”

“No. I wouldn’t be here if I was. She’s in the room across the hall from me.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? You don’t own me, you shouldn’t be obligated to know who she is.”

“Yet you told me.” He drops his hands.

“You know, if I’m not going to get what I want from you tonight, maybe I should go to her. She seemed very eager to get to know me when we got together for this.”

“Wait, no,” you say, sighing at the words you’re about to say, “just stay here with me, you’ll get what you want.” You’re embarrassed, face turning red. He smiles, and the bared teeth spell out danger for you.

“That’s what I wanted to hear from you.”

He leaves at two in the morning. You know because you lay awake all night, listening to him breathe. The ache between your legs was no longer pleasant or welcome, and you were tired of giving in to him. He gathers his clothes, does a half-assed job at pulling the covers back over your body, and doesn’t even bother to close the door quietly, instead opting to come near to slamming it.

You wish he could just break your heart, leave you to sulking by yourself, but he seems to have that same, sick attachment that you have to him. He’s bad for you, and the both of you would be sick in the head if you had any fantasy of this becoming a real thing. He’s not worried about losing his job if this gets discovered, his name is more than enough to keep the lights on and the paychecks running. You, on the other hand, were not well liked throughout the paddock apart from the drivers. You were a controversial topic, people either hated you or were your fiercest defenders.

You turn over and check the clock, 2:46, it reads. You sigh, squeezing a pillow over your head. This needs to end, for both the betterment of you and him.

—--

That ideal comes crashing down in Qatar, literally. The two of you collide, taking each other out of the race. It was his fault entirely, and that was reflected with the addition of two penalty points to his super license. Unfortunately, the two of you had to enter the media pen at the same time, and the daggers of death he sent your way were not easy to miss.

You were wound up, he hadn’t come into your room since Zandvoort when he’d beaten you by quite a close margin, just a touch over half a second. He hadn’t even spared you a word, driver’s meetings be damned. You were left to hang high and dry.

It wasn’t for lack of trying, though. Almost every stop you had, and weekends in between, you spent time at the clubs, attracting men to bring back to your place, but none of them scratched the itch that he left. You barely even finished with half of them. He was obnoxious, insufferable, yet you found yourself in the bathroom of another hotel room fixing up your hair to go knock on his door.

You looked at yourself. You were attractive, sexy, but it made you feel dirty that you dressed up all for him. Suddenly, the lace in your lingerie felt itchy, cutting into your skin. The silk felt like it was actively pilling against you, and the tendrils of your hair wouldn’t stop sticking to the lipstick that just so happened to be his favorite shade on you.

You had to get your independence back from a man who knew he had it and just didn’t care. You didn’t go.

That didn’t stop you from opening the door when he knocked a few minutes later, though. He smiled when he saw your attire, you didn’t bother to cover up. At least you didn’t fall into the trap of knocking on his door, small victories.

He stayed the night this time, just like the first few times. He actually cared back then, and it feels like that today, with his hand in your hair holding your head to his chest. You woke to his soft breathing, he’s still asleep, and that gives you the perfect opportunity to leave him like he left you.

You throw all of your clothes in your suitcase haphazardly, and drag out the luggage to the hallway to zip it up, in fear that he might wake and try to talk or squeeze another round out of you.

You two ran into each other a weekend later at an event in Monaco.

“You left.” He says.

“What did you say?”

“You left a week ago in Qatar. You weren’t there when I woke up.”

“Did you expect me to be?”

“Considering how-”

“If that sentence ends in some grade school jab against me I’m going to hurt you. You just lost a good thing.” He put his hands up in mock defeat.

“I didn’t know how sensitive you were going to be about this whole thing.”

“And if you knew?”

“I would’ve found someone else to fuck.”

—--

The Las Vegas Grand Prix, if you could’ve skipped it you would’ve. Inaugural grand prix in Sin City, your hands were already shaking on the way over here. He must’ve gotten the idea after Qatar, because absolutely no effort was given in him talking to you other than what was necessary, which seemed like a lot, given every single interview question was framed towards yours and his friendship. Both of you answered the same, there was no friendship beyond what was required in a purely professional setting, and the two of you were excited to put the championship race behind you once one of you was crowned.

Mathematically, there were about six drivers still in the championship race, the thorn in your sides that kept the two of you from being in a truly isolated battle, but realistically it’d come down to the two of you. That idea was currently being drilled into you from your team. Keep a clean race and good pace. Every single scenario was being run through during this meeting, and you only participated when necessary, which wasn’t smart, considering this would be your first time racing this track. You couldn’t help it, your mind was wrapped up in a twisted way, your situationship taking over your mind like a sick grade school crush.

I wonder if I’m on his mind as much as he is on mine. Does he think about me often? Does he think about what happened? About why I left the way I did in Qatar?

Your name was being called and your teammate knocked your leg with his knee. You looked at him, a thankful look in your eyes as you answered a question on strategy.

The start of this race weekend sucked. Practice 1, you’d picked up a puncture from an extra bit of carbon fiber on the track. Practice 2 brought mechanical failures, components overheating from the temperature of the track. Your confidence was shot seeing him at the top of the leaderboard in the sessions leading up to qualifying. And when qualifying came, your bad luck stuck around. You felt a power cut in your last flying lap of Q3, resulting in a measly P6 where your teammate qualified P2 and he got pole position.

With the team breaking curfew to put you in a driveable car for the next day, you were shaken up to say the least. You were in the car, the team doing their last minute checks and holding tire blankets and coolers to the car. The track was lit up beautifully in an elegance that only the night could hold.

Five cars in front of you. Five to pass and then hold the position. That’s all you had to do to secure a good lead into the final race. The clock clicked into position, the track cleared. You took the formation lap to get locked in, butterflies fluttering in your chest when the red lights started stacking.

The timing was perfect. You had an amazing start, picking off two positions into turn one. The start was great, but not much else was. You gained another position about halfway through the race, and a botched pit from another team allowed you to gain second up until an aggressive move from another driver caused damage and relegated you to P3.

But everything about his race was aces. Perfect pit, minimal tyre degradation, he was flying. You would’ve taken him out yourself, he was pissing you off that much. Yet again, you felt a power cut in the straight, and that caused you to lose fastest lap to him. Luckily your teammate was in a position to steal it back, but that was one less point for you in a championship battle for the ages.

You stood on the podium next to him, proud bastard, you thought. He walked past you, a glint in his eyes that was unmistakably lust, but could’ve only been seen as a rivalry spark by anyone else. He took his spot on the podium, and when it came time to spray, he was sure to aim only for you, seemingly rubbing in his victory.

He didn’t knock that night, or the night after that. You waited up for him, willing to bring him inside, but he never came. You couldn’t bring yourself to knock on his door either, saving yourself from the embarrassment of him not answering. You didn’t go clubbing, you couldn’t. If you saw him out with another woman, having the time of his life… you shook your head. It wasn’t worthwhile to think of him like that.

You flew home. Wasting tears in Vegas would do nothing to prepare you for the last race. The only one that really mattered, the championship decider.

You put in the hours at the facility, spending nights there because you didn’t want to go home. You’d sleep in your office, the only place he hadn’t tarnished with his presence. The team was concerned about you, but they still had two cars and two drivers to get ready for the finale.

I wonder if I’m on his mind as much as he is on mine.

If you had to go to one more team related event, you were going to cry. You were squeezed into formal wear and airbrushed to the gods the days leading up to Abu Dhabi. You shook hands with sponsors and promised results over the weekend. You were fucking exhausted.

It didn’t help that he looked amazing every time you saw him, which was often considering you stayed at the same hotel, and he was everywhere you were. Whether you were arriving and he was already sat in the breakfast lounge, or you were with a friend and his gaze lingered just a bit too long on your smiling figure, he was fucking everywhere.

Finally, a moment of reprieve, you thought as you entered the hotel. You were able to sneak past the fans, and took your hood off as soon as you entered, the lobby serene in the middle of the night.

You punched the button to call the elevator, and once you got in you pressed the button for the rooftop terrace, leaning against the back wall. Just before the doors closed, however, a hand jutted between the doors. A few people darted in from different teams, immediately making the cart feel small, and someone came to stand next to you, their body pressed up against the side of yours, pushing you against the wall. You knew that cologne, and dared to peek up.

It was him.

You cursed him in every language you knew. He stayed pressed up against you like that even as staff began to filter out. Soon enough, it was just the two of you, and he seemed like he was heading to the roof with you. As if every holy body hated you at that moment, there was no one else on the terrace when you two got there. You rushed to the edge, taking in a breath with your arms on the railing.

“Been a while since it was just the two of us, hasn’t it?” The man had to be immune to taking hints. You didn’t answer.

“Are you just planning on ignoring me for as long as possible?” Ignored again.

“I just hope you’re doing okay, y’know.”

“Don’t do that thing where you pretend to care just to get into my pants, it’s not going to work.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” You turned around to face him, a look of disbelief on your face.

“I swear.” He says. You don’t answer.

“What we were doing, it was fun, it is fun, but I’m not losing you over it.”

“Look who’s ready to be the bigger person,” you say sarcastically, “we weren’t friends, you’re not losing anything.” He rubs his forehead.

“Don’t you get tired of all of this?”

“I tire of you.”

“Ouch.” Silence falls on the conversation.

“We’re rivals,” you say after a bit, “we were never meant to be close.”

“So it’s like that.”

“It always was.” The two of you lock eyes, both unwilling to break first. You’ve effectively shut down the conversation, but your heart still aches to hear his voice, his hands on your skin, anything.

“For your sake, I hope you win on Sunday.” He starts to walk away, towards the elevators.

“Why the sudden attitude change?” You blurt out.

“Maybe I realized I lost a good thing.” He turns back to you as he says it.

“You…” You try to start. He steps closer to you, looking at your hands as if he was contemplating holding them. He huffs, deciding on grabbing them and holding them close to his chest.

“You are far more important to me than you realize.” And just like that, he’s got you trapped again. He leans down, letting go of one hand to cup your chin, tilting your head up to kiss you. You curse yourself for feeling a connection to him, even still. HIs hands fall to your hips, squeezing them.

“We shouldn’t… too out in the open up here.” You say.

“My room?”

“We have practice tomorrow.”

“Okay. Whatever you say.” He starts to turn away.

“Just a little bit of time together won’t hurt, right?” You say. He smiles at you.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” He takes your hand, leading you back to the elevator, clicking his floor number.

As it turns out, spending a night with your ex-enemy with benefits does hurt. Your phone was buzzing off the nightstand with your manager asking you where you were. You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you reached over.

“Fuck!” You yell, waking him up with your voice.

“What? What is it?”

“I’m going to be massively late, I have to go.” You scramble to find your clothes, scattered across the floor.

“I’m not going for another hour and a half, you can’t be that late.”

“I also can’t be seen with you, do you know how bad that would be for both of our reputations? If someone were to catch me leaving your room and going back to mine… I knew this was a bad idea!”

“Don’t overreact, we’ll figure this out.”

“There is no figuring this out, I’m going to get caught on the way to my room in my clothes from the night prior, which, may I remind you, I was photographed in. That is going to ruin me publically, who, may I remind you again, already hate me.”

“I’m sorry.” He says.

You get dressed quickly and sneak out, getting to your room with almost no eyes on you.

—--

Friday brings a better showing for you and your team than Las Vegas did, topping both free practices by two-tenths and one-tenth respectively. Everyone was happy about your performance, and you were excited to see yourself on the top of the timing sheets again.

Saturday brought the same results, topping another free practice. It was a bit touch-and-go at qualifying, having to rush across the line with only a few seconds remaining to get your last flying lap, but that was just enough time to push you over him.

Sunday. The day you were simultaneously dreading and looking forward to. Between the two of you, winner takes all.

You sat in your car in the pole box. You glance to the side and catch a glimpse of him, he’s nodding his head to something the mechanics are saying. You sigh. Your mechanics float around your car, fiddling around for anything last second. The coolers blow on you as well as the car, the temperature of Abu Dhabi was nothing to trifle with.

You take a deep breath, feeling secure and quiet in your helmet. You play out the track in your mind, feeling every twist and turn in your body before you drive. Your eyes are closed, but your mind is far from relaxed.

During the formation lap, you become acutely aware of just how much is riding on this race. Not only your reputation, but your opportunities for the next season, and just how much power you can have with negotiations as it was your contract year. You shake your head. No time to think about that if you haven’t even accomplished the first step, winning this race.

You roll into your box, watching in your side mirror as the last of the drivers do so and then your eyes flick up to watch the lights. All you had to do was get the start.

Your timing couldn’t have been better. You were gone by the time you reached the first corner. He’d gotten a good start, but nothing compared to yours. All you had to do was manage the race.

The two of you quickly realized you were both pulling away from the competition, and he had much more grip in the corners, cutting at your lead. Soon enough, you were called in to box.

Time ticked away as you rolled into your pit box. The mechanics lifted the car, but one of the tyres wouldn’t come loose. Your internal timer was screaming at you. You see him enter the box and leave before you get all tyres on, and by the time you exit, he’s got a second and a half on you. You curse out your engineer after learning the pitstop took six seconds.

The race was on, and with him just out of DRS, you had a lot of time to make up. The race was slipping out of your grasp, and you thought of every wrong decision that put you in this position. Did you not slim down enough? Was there an extra gram or two of something on the car? You huff, shaking your head clear of the thoughts. There was no time to think like that, not when there was a slim chance you could still win.

And then it happened.

The screens on the side of the track blinked the letters that turned out to be your saving grace: FCY followed by SC. The limiter flashes on the screen of your steering wheel and suddenly you’re back in the race, seeing his rear end grow closer and closer until you’re right up against him. Finally, after a few laps, your engineer lets you know that the safety car is coming in.

“Be ready,” he warns, “you know he could take off at any point.” And so he does. The exit of turn 16, onto the start straight.

You had him, you didn’t let him slip away, not even for a second. It was close with him for a while, two laps to be exact, before your slipstream and DRS combo took him. Your engineer cheers you on as calmly as he can, his even voice showering you in praise. You breathe through the turns, knowing only a few laps remain between you and this championship. Everything rides on this, everything. Win this last race and your name will be in the history books forever.

And that’s exactly what you did, crossing the finish line with those fireworks going off in the background, nothing could take this from you. You did your cooldown lap, pulling back up to the finish line to do your celebratory donuts, laughing and hollering on the radio with your team. You couldn’t even be bothered that he was there with you, right next to you. You pull into the pitlane, your heart racing as your engineer offers the news that you are not, in fact, the target of any penalties. You sit in your car after pulling up to first place, flipping your visor up and crying, soaking up every emotion possible in this moment. You feel pats and slaps on your helmet, other drivers congratulating you on the win, on the championship. You finally find it in you to leave your car, climbing out slowly and soaking it in, that your name will forever be in the history books. You drop your steering wheel in your car and turn around-

He’s standing right there, his shoulders droop a little more than usual but he stands there, waiting for you. He approaches you slowly, leaving his helmet on.

“Congratulations, you drove well.” He says softly. Interestingly enough, your heart breaks a little for him. You pull him into a half hug.

“Scared me for a minute there, thought I’d lose to you again this year after that pit stop.”

“You underestimate your drive. There’s nothing I could do to stop you in those last laps. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful set of last laps to close out.” Your heart races at his words, his praise eliciting a reaction that feels unlike anything you’d ever felt with him. He flicks your visor down as he walks away, getting a small giggle out of you.

Finally, you get to your team. They’re practically bursting over the barricades to congratulate you, chanting your name. You laugh, running up to them, allowing yourself to be bombarded with their congratulatory cheers.

“Go get that damn trophy for us.”

The trophy ceremony was honestly a blur, literally and figuratively. You’re pretty sure you blacked out during it, and tears filled your eyes and rolled down your cheeks. You don’t even remember the party afterwards, the sprays of champagne, the club overflowing with the team’s staff, your teammate getting hammered after helping to win the constructor’s championship as well.

You didn’t remember much until the next morning.

You woke up groaning in the hotel room, your phone buzzing itself off the nightstand. You grabbed your head, this hangover was not going to let you go gently. You snatched your phone off the floor, genuinely surprised that you remembered to plug it in last night.

“Hello?” You answer, your voice hoarse from whooping and cheering all through last night.

“Please tell me you didn’t fuck him, because if you did I’m gonna bury your body where no one will find you.” It’s your publicist, sounding exasperated and also hungover.

“What?”

“Did you fuck him?”

“Fuck who?”

“Friday morning, somebody has a photo of you stumbling out of his room at the goddamn crack of dawn in your dress from the night before.”

“Oh my god.”

“So I’m gonna take that as a yes-” You drop your phone, unwilling to hear the rest as you can just predict how much of a PR nightmare this will be.

“Who knows?”

“It’s a pretty grainy photo, honestly, and it’s posted by one of those deuxmoi wannabe F1 twitter pages… but-”

“But what?”

“If you edit it to make it a little clearer, it’s pretty fucking obvious. It’s circulating pretty fast, but we can put out a statement if it’s not true. So, did you?”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“How many times?” You sigh, rubbing your forehead.

“I don’t know. A lot.” It’s her turn to sigh.

“I’m too hungover to deal with this, but I’ll see what I can do. It… it won’t be a lot, more likely than not we’ll be planning damage control. And of course this comes out the morning after you win the championship, you need to pick your men better.” She hangs up with a click.

You know you shouldn’t, but of course you begin to scroll through social media, seeing everything that’s under your name. Forget the championship, this is the biggest piece of news this sport has seen in a while. And of course nobody’s condemning him, why would they? He’s got a paycheck the size of his goddamn ego and a fanbase that spans continents. You scream into a pillow, throwing your phone across the hotel room. Your phone buzzes on the floor again, and you’re the most sure you’ve ever been that if you dare to check, it’ll be your team principal. He wouldn’t reach out, it’s not his reputation that’s being destroyed. No, he’s being paraded around for hitting that.

Angry tears stream down your cheeks. How could you be so fucking stupid? Of course you were bound to get caught, but they couldn’t let your championship sit undisturbed for one day? The stupid trophy sits on the countertop by the bar, practically taunting you with its presence. The hunk of metal changes from an achievement to an accusation before your eyes. That you slept your way to the top, that he let you have it, that you needed a man to get you to where you are. It makes you sick, and that’s probably why you find yourself hugging the toilet now. It’s not fair, it’s never been fair…

And it will never be fair.

[shinjisdone]

*sigh* that time of the year again where I brielfy obsess over Alucard from hellsing ah shit here we go again

Random Alucard thoughts (also he is totally yandere)

TW: Huge yandere behavior, mentions of murder, torture, vampirism, blood, extreme possessiveness, obsession, crossing boundaries, belittling, mind games, Alucard fully sees himself as your monster, hints at Alucard's true identity and past, everything is in random order according to my brainrot

Vlad "Alucard" Tepeş is 100%, absolutely, with zero doubt a Yandere. It's proven, it's real, he is one, do not argue with me look at him from any angle, it is yandere.

He had long embraced the title and flesh of a monster. He is selfish, twisted and full of bloodlust. His life as a true vampire consists of short bursts of pleasure, of getting that kick of almost being killed. Battling with a "man" who can kill a "monster". Yet he is so powerful that no one can come close to put him in his well-deserving grave. A shame.

Besides Integra and Seras, its the only thing he lives for. To meet the end by the hands of a human.

Hence why he, ironically, is very drawn to humans and humanity in general.

He respects bravery, wit and the want to be human and stay so no matter what. A steadfast knowledge of who you are. So you'd have to have all that for him to pay positive attention to you.

He has seen and lived through the worst of it. Not once a taste of love or kindness but only the wretched side of humanity that it can offer.

He can offer it all back...but not love. For love is pure and good and he is not and never was. Love is for humans. Monsters can only "love" in much darker ways...

And if you are the one thing that intruiges him so much, he might smother you in his twisted love.

Of course, you do not need to be a mortal to become his obsession. But for the sake of diving into his psyche, to really see how....unhinged this creature is, let us go with that 👀

A creature of the night is always interested in humans. How one particurarly thinks and acts, what they believe in, whether they have cowardice or courage in their hearts. Many are the same but a lot of them prove themselves to be more and worthy of his attention.

You'd have to have something to begin that spark of interest. Power, knowledge, strength of character whatever it is, it should be enough to interest a vampire but not deter him away from you from striving away from your humanity. Casting it aside makes you a fool in his eyes.

Then - there has to be that humanity inside you. Not the ugly and candid one he knew all his life as a count but this...fleeing beauty. The seldom joy and kindness. Love for another being all because you simply chose to.

Not because this person fought for your love, sacrificed for your love, impaled your enemies - but because you chose to share love.

How human.

Interesting yet...perhaps weak. Or is it strength? Can you cast it all aside when you do gain enemies that want your head?

Besides, when you are in Hellsing, you do tend to be messed up. Integra, Seras and Walter are no different in their own way and how can you still carry an ounce of selflessness in a place like this with how you are? Can you be selfless when you fight?

A part of him wants you to succumb to the rage, this oh so human rage but...once you cave, it is hard to get back up. Alucard would rather have you stay the way you are.

The beginning is slow but already startling...

The longer he watches, the more intriguied he becomes. And once this humanity of yours touches him, it is all over.

With Integra, he is loyal. With Seras, he is patient. Both women have gained his respect through their courage and boldness, as well as their will power for what they believe in.

But you? You have nothing to gain from the Hellsing hound. If he wanted you dead, you'd be so long ago. You are already protected from his power (as long as Integra says so and Seras is not endangered) so what do you think you are doing, little human, sharing an ounce of love with him?

Don't you know that monsters cannot love?

Yet still, he feels a tightness in his chest. There, deep within where his heart is supposed to reside, is a dark yet darker, deep yet deeper black hole, an abyss of all that he is now as Alucard - still, the tightness is there and slowly spreads through his limbs as warmth.

It is different than the bolts of bloodlust that spark and jolt within him. It is slower and graduate. Calm like the sea in the morning fog. It is so interesting that he allows himself to indulge in more.

You foolish human.

You will see the error of your ways. Will see how this creature of the night's darkness will twist and turn into an admiration that is sick, an infatuation that looks down on you yet worhsips you at the same time, an adoration that is deadly. Love does not exist within the being that is called Alucard. It is too pure and good for a monster like him.

Know that it will take a long and enduring time for something like that to blossom. But if your actions are consistent, it will certainly happen - your doom.

It begins mellowly.

His constant presence when allowed to have some free time, the unblinking gaze and the everlasting smile. Alucard always smiles around you.

He tends to talk a lot more with you. Asking you questions of your views to gain more and more knowledge about you, to understand you as a human and how you tick. He greedily sucks in any kind of information that makes you, you. The mortal he fell for.

For you are simply too fascinating not to know more of.

It happens through interrupting your own free time, your privacy (he just goes through the walls) and your boundaries. He doesn't mean any harm, quite the opposite, so why do you become so hostile?

Are you not on the same side as Hellsing?

In battle, he enjoys protecting you. As if it was a hard task or would get in the way of the objective - putting a bullet through a threat or biting their head off is easy and fun. He's keeping you, his favorite and most interesting mortal, safe. He can't have you killed, for who else is as unique as you and could ever replace you?

It's gruesome and he shows no remorse in how you feel on such a vile display. He will not ever admit it but his actions speak louder than words and you will notice, very soon, that he focuses a lot on your safety - while gleefully slaughtering so-called "dogs".

Any kind of acts of love are your doom...

It is only when you act so humanely even further with him that things go down.

Alucard watches you in your sleep but dares not touch you. His grotesque hands do not know how to caress and care. It's unfamiliar, too unfamiliar for him to simply begin. He stares and watches, observes and grins and comments, bows and gestures and overdoes everything but he does not touch you. He does not know how.

Yet one night, when you are not asleep but admiring the moon, he comes to you.

Makes it seem like a coincidence even when it is part of his nightly routine to see you. You talk but not dare bring up his odd behaviour towards you. Instead, he listens before Alucard slowly gets lost at the sight of you and his hand gently lowers to your head.

It does not matter if you show no fear or maybe jump and whimper at his touch - all that matters is that you let him touch you. Him, Alucard, the true, great vampire and nightwalker. A creature of the night so great that nothing can harm him but he certainly can bring torment to you - yet you let him touch you.

It is the first in millennia that he ever found himself putting a hand on something he does not wish to kill. His hand engulfs your head, fingers run through your hair and his thumb caressing the underline of your eyes. A hand that could crush your skull, fingers and thumb that could dug into your eyesocket and you let it all happen. It serves as some kind of evidence, at least to him, that he can...do something he did not ever think he could.

It would bring even more meaning to it (or perhaps mockery to the injury) when you accept his touch by putting your hand over his. You can say whatever you want, feel whatever you want but actions speak louder than words and here, right now, you allow a monster to caress you and do not reject it by taking its hand.

You...beautiful human.

You...foolish human.

What are you doing? What have you done?

How can you expect Alucard to forget this and you?

He did not forget the armies, the ottomen, the vampires and ghouls, or Integra's father because all they did was inflict unforgettable pain.

And now, he cannot ever forget you because you touched him with love - whether you liked it or not.

Whether you see it like him or not.

It doesn't matter.

Alucard won't forget. Won't cast aside the new light he now sees you in.

Brave. Steadfast. Aware. Kind. Fragile. Naive. Weak. Loving.

What a truly beautiful night it is indeed.

Blood spills for you...

The damage is done and tenfold at that, too.

Alucard won't try to hide these...emotions he bears no longer and will not care what Integra and Seras will have to say. For how could they fight against a monster's nature?

He endears you with new names. He does so with many in an rather ironic way to describe them in a way he knows them best. But you get many pet names.

'My Dear' is a classic and most used. 'My Darling', ' my beloved' and even 'my little human'. There will always be that possessiveness that he bears oddly proudly. Of course you are his in a way. He cannot really claim you as his but maybe he can let himself be yours in a twisted way. No matter how you feel about him though, you will always be close to his non-existend heart - and in his non-existend heart you do belong to him. His dear, his darling, his beloved, his little human.

Though he will also mostly use a nickname that either describe your appeareance or personality at best - something that encaptures the you.

Any kind of physical appeareance will be endearing to him and called out in a rather...mocking way. Just to get a rise out of you. Alucard does love to see your reactions.

But how he really feels is shown through his nicknames for you based on your personality. Your actions and quality of character.

It would be...rather painfully ironic that would stir him to guffaw like a madman if any nicknames were somewhat...connected to his past life. Like to seek the sight of an angel.

How absurd. The one thing he has fought for and then abandonded at the fear of dying...and now, an angel appears before him.

How maddening.

Names like angel or queen would be highly amusing to him in his own mind (its an inside joke, u wouldnt get it) and Alucard would call you these things with a chuckle or two to the point where you wonder if he is mocking you. However, that is far from the truth. The irony makes him laugh but that never undermines how he truly feels about you. An angel that deserves to be treated like a queen - that also should be besides him, the no life king.

Alucard is also very verbal of his..."affection" for you. Often compliments but also belittles you, during and outside of battle.

"You think this meager weapon will help you? How adorable."

"What a wonderful night to meet you here, my dear. It's always a pleasure to see you."

"No, I do not mock. I am simply enjoying your little human naivete. It is so precious that I just have to indulge in it. Please, go on, and never let anyone take that quality of yours away."

"Why, how could I ever say no to such a beautiful human? The scent of your blood lured me in, like a sweet lullaby."

With enemies he is especially possessive if you are there/are spoken of.

Any filth and maggot that dares speak your name deserves to die. They think they know you, they think they are better and stronger than you just because they have turned themselves inhuman.

They couldn't be more wrong.

"My darling is a braver and far superior being than your pathetic selves could ever be. So don't you dare speak so foolishly of them or its off with your tongue."

"Oh? You think you can talk to my dear like that and live? Hehehe...a dog like you needs to be pummeled! That human belongs to me!"

He will not mind you hearing all this let alone witness the torment he brings onto these fools. In fact, he enjoys it.

Watch him tear down all those that mock and hurt you, mere insects that are nothing! Nothing compared to you!

Alucard loves to be verbal and scream out for them to beg for mercy that he will never show. He loves torturing them in your name. It is what a monster does. Somewhere in the back of his twisted mind it is a sign of devotion to you that he would slaughter all those that dare proclaim themselves to be your enemies. And if they do, it just gives him the excuse to he more brutal than he is usually.

He also gets a kick in having you watch. Watch, watch, watch! Watch, how a monster tears down the flesh and skin of an weakling all for you! This is what a monster is, dear! See it, hear it, have the stench of blood be ingrained into your mind and senses! See if you can still be human around a monster like him! If you would still show love and kindness to a monster like him!

It's a weird game to test you on one hand, merely because he is curious. Would you still show some kindness to him after all this? He wonders as he thrusts his arm into the enemy's heart.

Nevertheless, he mostly does it because he enjoys killing for you. It's what monsters do.

Love does not exist...

The man and his intentions are obvious. To his master, his fledgling and you.

When approached by any of the three, Alucard chuckles, eerily, and nonchalantly admits his infatuation.

Why, yes, master, the human of this mansion has caught his eye and dead heart. Truly something special they are, wouldn't you agree?

Of course, police girl, will he make sure nothing happens to his darling human. Did you ever think otherwise? Ridiculous.

And when you finally talk to him, Alucard sits there on his throne, quiet before he chuckles again. It grows into cold laughter as he rather indirectly admits it. Why, don't you like the attention he gives you? Him, the no life king? Hellsing's hound? A monster?

Don't you appreciate all that he has done for you? He does so gladly, you know. Anything to make his little human safe and sound, showered in his affection and his alone.

No matter if his strokes are cold and his breath reeks. If his presence is unwanted and you are unaware of his watching eye.

The Vampire feels free to tell you all that he thinks of you - your strength, your character, your beauty, your quirks, weaknesses that are endearing, your humanity.

Yes, dear! Darling! Beloved! Angel! Royalty! Liege!

Yes, this monster adores you! Worships you! Is infatuated with you! You have his dead heart in your hands! His power!

However...not ever will and can Alucard say that he loves you. A monster can be obsessed. A monster can be infatuated. Worship that he cannot have, admire and adore the thing he looks down upon. But a monster does not know "love". It has no soul, no heart. Nothing to sacrifice and be selfless with. Alucard is the complete opposite.

Whatever his emotions may be, they are selfish.

He may admit that, too. That he cannot love. It's simply something impossible, he believes.

He agrees with you, that what he feels is not love. Love...he never knew it. Only the good and the pure can love. He never was either.

But know that this will never stop him.

Whatever you may feel...it doesn't matter in the end. Alucard will continue to be selfish and "love" you in the only way he knows how.

Whatever will you do, human?

On that note, Alucard fully does not expect you to accept him let alone love him.

It's understandable. Just as a monster cannot love in general, a human cannot ever grow to love a true monster.

Parts of him will never change. His desire to destroy and for power, as well as his bloodlust. The regret he feels. He can change but those parts can never be lovable enough to be...normal.

He is aware of it all so he's also fine with this one-sided obsession. He is content with being your freak of nature.

Additionally, the man...enjoys the whole ordeal of you two being the Beauty and the Beast. A twisted version of it. You, a pure, beautiful human cursed and haunted by your bloodthirsty beast. The protection, the loving gestures, gifts left for you to find (all flowers with thorns), the ghostly arms wrapping around you in the dead of the night, the sweet nothings that are incantations of curses, the many eyes watching you, the over-the-top exclamations of adoration...all from your filthy, filthy beast.

All because you showed it an ounce of humanity that it couldn't have.

Now, you are all his.

[ne-videl]

𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐡

♡

yandere archon Zhongli x mean fem reader

Morax turned your new life into hell and you despise him for that.

MDNI, sub then dom then sub Zhongli, yandere, unhealthy relationship, forced marriage, kidnapping, just very very unhappy and abused reader, sexual violence, slight violence from reader, nsfw?? or just heavily suggestive, poor english!!! please tell me if I forgot anything ><

word count: ~2k

a/n: hiii everyone! welcome to my first post!! as a fellow yandere x reader enjoyer I decided to share some of my own stuff here. (it took a while bc translating any of my work is hell)

I hate violent and domineering yanderes so at the end geo grandpa gets what he deserved for being toxic ^^

I think Zhongli was a menace in his youth and you can't change my mind.

basically we just turn mean and cruel yandere morax into pathetic yandere morax

bon appètit.

you push your fingers deeper, harder, making his knees tremble and his back arch.

Zhongli exhales noisily, pressing his heated face against the cold wall.

you squeezed his throat with your long, musical fingers: the lack of oxygen made his heart beat even faster.

"why...?" he whispered with a hoarse moan, turning an intoxicated, misty gaze on you.

"for you being alive."

____*:･ﾟ✧

your new life was good, even better than the previous one – you thought. kind and affectionate parents, friends, little shop in a little village. little people doing their little things.

when you realized you were in the game, your new body was about three years old. "Liyue" fell from your mother's lips, and that was enough for you to understand.

"what a strange Liyue they have here... still in it's cradle, perhaps." – little you thought, concentrated on sorting out bright and shiny stones, sitting on the porch of your modest house.

over the years, little girls turn into beautiful women: with pink cheeks, delicate skin and lips with the color of fresh peach tree fruits.

when you, bright and beautiful you, working in the shop of your dear parents, met a man with amber eyes, you were sixteen.

even at the first glance you recognized your deity. beaming, you greeted him from behind the counter. the only answer for you was silence and his heavy gaze.

chrysanthemums silently looked at you with their curious heads, standing in a vase on an old table top.

when Morax came for the second time, you realized that he was here for you. all that remained was to silently say goodbye to mom and dad, cheerful girls at the neighborhood and to kind elders of your tiny village: you will never see them all again. while he was leading you through the corridors of his cold palace, clutching your little hand until it hurt, you were saying goodbye to your old life. It was impossible to even think about who you were before: it was as if she didn't exist anymore at all.

you wanted to cry.

from that day on, you began to hate chrysanthemums.

____*:･ﾟ✧

day 345765. your 948th anniversary is approaching.

life is akin to hell.

warrior god knew nothing about love. you've already lost count of the nights you've had to perform "marital duty", waking up with back pain and counting bloody red hickeys on your delicate skin.

your husband's stamina could only be matched by his insatiability.

you examine your neck, covered with bitemarks, with the gaze of a pathologist looking at a corpse before vivisection.

what a vile, gut-wretching sight.

over the years, the personality of geo archon's spouse has suppressed the personality of the one you used to be. and the attachment of a girl who spends the night playing videogame towards her favorite character no longer existed at all.

only hatred remained. blind, caustic, it alone forced you to get up in the morning, waiting for never coming end of this nightmare.

someday you will make him regret that he was even born into the world.

he wasn't the character you loved: not Zhongli, not the funeral parlor consultant. only person you knew now was Rex Lapis, lord of geo.

he alone was capable of destroying your pride: tearing off all the sparkling jewels from you, depriving you of the shine of false power with which you methodically surrounded yourself with decades.

it was making you angry, irritated to the point of trembling in your hands: it made the inferiority complex tear your chest with it's disgusting little claws and wail plaintively. he is the master, and you are the property.

you aren't trembling under your husband's steady gaze. you didn't like being alone with him, but on every night you spent together, your posture was stiff, like an unbending bamboo shoot. haughtily raised chin and burning eyes. burning not with passion, no. with disgust.

"I..."

I belong to you. the words you've said at least hundreds of times by now.

"I hate you. I despise you with every little piece of my soul."

Morax greedily bites into your lips, and you feel your skin cracking under his sharp fangs, while hot hands painfully squeeze your shoulder under the silk hanfu.

painful. disgusting.

he takes you, as he did on many nights before: cruelly and vulgarly.

and you scream, you grin at his impassive face: you promise your husband that someday you will kill him, will wring his neck. that you will hate him for the rest of your endless life. you desperately tear the skin of his broad back with your blunt nails, growling and whining like a hunted, beaten dog.

Rex Lapis licked the blood off a fresh bite on your skin.

pulling the maid by the hair, who dared to chatter right in your ear early in the morning about how romantic it all was, was quite in the spirit of the "noble spouse", known for her more than bad, bilious temper.

"nights and nights long, oh, what a passion! what a burning, beautiful love!"

you are so lucky, madam.

girl is sobbing, with her head pressed against the wall. you hiss, venomously and viciously, tightening your grip on strands of her hair with tenacious, elegant fingers.

"stupid bitch. romantic, huh? you think I enjoy it? what, want to take my place?" – frightened maid runs out of her mistress's luxurious bedroom in tears.

you were jealous of that innocent girl. a girl who was able to cry when after being raped. who could see something beautiful in trivial things. who probably had a loving husband and family. that pathetic maid was better than you, an icy cold shell of a human driven only by hatred and a thirst for revenge.

you pursed your lips in disgust.

you developed a habit of despising everything that was better than you.

____*:･ﾟ✧

you always loved music, and over time you became very fond of playing it on your own. it helped to keep your mind in order.

whether it's a guqin with silk strings or an elegant erhu, or, a more exotic one, a lacquered piano brought especially for you from Fontaine – over time you have mastered every available musical instrument perfectly.

it was a good way to keep yourself busy, to not think of useless things. you've had more than enough time in a couple thousand years to master all this.

thin fingers drum on the keys: furiously, with malice, while the piano obediently gives out note after note.

Morax loved listening to you play, especially erhu. his delicate dragon hearing gravitated towards graceful, gentle melodies. even in this matter, your opinions did not agree: you, his spouse, loved to play music so that the maids, shuddering, thought why their mistress was furious once again.

you had beautiful hands, as befits a great musician; and with those beautiful hands you were concentrated on running your fingers through your husband's long hair.

the tips of the strands shimmer with amber in your delicate hands.

you never took the initiative or showed affection, and Morax, although genuinely surprised by such a sudden request, gladly complied. it was nice to feel the gentle touch of your thin fingers, occasionally touching the scalp and sending shivers down his back. low, guttural rumble came from his chest as he closed his eyes in euphoric bliss.

you put the jade comb aside.

"indeed, what a beautiful hair." – you drawled indifferently, noticing the hot blush on his neck, which burned even more after you pulled harder.

indeed, beautiful. how nice it would be to hit his head on an expensive countertop, wrapping it around your fist. how he would react? you would really like to see tears and fear in his bright eyes.

"beauuutiful..." – you hissed with a caustic sneer at the very ear of the lord of geo, pulling especially hard.

your husband's uncharacteristically high-pitched moan was your answer.

____*:･ﾟ✧

with each millennium spent together, your spouse has become softer. calmer, more respectful towards you. and even if you still noticed the possessive twinkle in his amber eyes, it was incomparable to the fire of poisonous passion that burned in them once.

at least now you were allowed to manage your own time. how generous of him, to end your imprisonment within the walls of the palace – you thought with caustic sarcasm, picking up another glaze lily for a bouquet.

now you even had friends – if that's what you could call the adepti and other loyal companions of Morax. all of them, of course, sympathized with your situation, but never made any attempts to help. they didn't interfere – no one ever did.

the sunset was blazing bright orange – or scarlet, or pink – didn't matter. you frowned, looking into nowhere.

Guizhong plopped a large bouquet of glaze lilies into your hands, snatching you out of your gloomy thoughts, but immediately running away in embarrassment.

"and why?" – you felt the urge to roll your eyes, but pulled yourself out of the annoying habit. goddess of dust, although considered you friends and did not hide the fact that she liked you, the wife of Morax, alone with you trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind.

piercing, cold eyes slid to embarrassed goddess, and you tried to give her a smile: the best you were still capable of, if were capable at all. so that it doesn't look like a facial muscle spasm.

"thank you. they're pretty." – goddess of dust smiled back: bright and sunny. in your gaze, for a second, shifted a non malicious envy, with which elders who have lived a long, harsh lives look at children. you yourself forgot how to smile like that a long time ago.

yes, perhaps you were really a little jealous of Guizhong. of the fact that she did not meet Morax as a young and cruel deity. the lady of the Guili Assembly knew him as wise and merciful, her faithful ally and reliable support. you didn't blame her for that, but you still couldn't help a slight tremor in your hands at the sight of your husband having a pleasant conversation with his friends.

well, after another millennia, Rex Lapis has come to love having pleasant conversations with you too.

"lovely flowers." – Morax patted you on your shoulder, smiling tenderly, but you, however, did not consider it necessary to respond in kind.

"Guizhong gave it to me." – you mumbled dryly.

"I see. do you like her?" – geo archon leaned closer to you, affection shining in his amber eyes.

"I don't know." – you closed your cold eyes, without taking your tired gaze from the bouquet.

Morax kissed the top of your head, and you twisted your face in disgust.

____*:･ﾟ✧

war of the archons died down with great noise, bringing destruction and devastation. having lost many, Morax took his place among the Seven.

and even Guizhong, sweet and kind Guizhong, fell victim to this massacre. although, of course, for the wife of the geo archon her death and the deaths of many others were not as much a blow as for himself.

slender fingers pluck the strings of the erhu, playing an elegant, long-drawn melody.

"[name]. I know you hate me, but still-" Rex Lapis looked at his wife with deep, sick affection and sadness in his amber eyes, like a beaten puppy, – "but still, please..."

you lift your eyelids, giving him a cold, indifferent look, and put down the instrument.

"you do not worth pity." – you say dryly, pursing your lips, – "at least not mine."

Morax rests his head on your shoulder, desperately inhaling your scent, as if afraid that you will disappear.

"please. just this once. help me just once, I beg you." – you feel the hot moisture staining the silk of your hanfu.

your beautiful hand rests on the top of his head, and you hear a noisy intake of breath, and his fingers tightly grip your forearm in a desperate embrace.

your little god is so pathetic. how disgusting.

see, how simple everything turns out to be? beg, even better if you cry, and maybe I'll feel a little sorry for you.

but you both knew that you would never allow him the luxury of your pity.

your tenacious fingers grabbed his hair in a firm grip, and you lift his head so that your husband looks into your eyes. into your cold, mocking eyes.

the only thing you desired to see in your former tormentor's gaze was fear, but even in that matter he disappointed you. Morax was looking at you with the same sick love that you had never been able to get used to over the last millennium.

you were waiting for fear, hatred, anything, but not this.

you huffed, relaxing your grip. your husband's arms wrapped around your waist, and he rested his head on your shoulder once again.

"you can be cruel. you can shout at me or hate me. you can do whatever you want with me, just please, please... don't go away."

there was no answer for him.

____*:･ﾟ✧

warm midday sun illuminated the domain in the Aocang mountain. fluffy clouds floated overhead while you sipped fragrant herbal tea, entertaining yourself with conversations with the Guardian of the Clouds.

"Zhongli, huh? how sweet. well, why don't you invite him to have tea with us?" – you giggled venomously, enjoying the intense gaze of the adepti. – "I will be more than glad to see him once again."

guilt will always follow geo archon, you will make sure of this.

you will be glad to see his sadness again, to hear the regret in his voice, and maybe, maybe even laugh a little when you'll see the same pathetic obsession in his eyes.

because it doesn't matter if it's Morax or Zhongli, he will always come back to you.

geo archon will always desire, and you will always despise.

always. forever.

thanks to everyone who (for strange reason 🤨🤨) finished reading this!!! honestly I was so scared to post it and my english is probably awful uuuh

maybe I'll post something else but it'll sure take a while bc as a said before, translating any of my stuff takes a shit ton of time

bye!!

[cursedcola]

Prompt: "Will You Marry Me?" - Proposal Headcannons Characters: Everyone :) Part(s): Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore(Here!), Ignihyde, Diasomnia(Pt.1)(Pt.2) Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Warning(s): None. I mean, unless you don't want to marry any of them. Just don't read if that's the case. Note: May have overdone it. Also, I'm a bit rough with my french. It's been 2 years, go easy on me.

There is a word for this young man. A term that has always been a one-way thing in his past. A noun that he has experience being the target of, and not the one it is describing.

Whipped. Oh, dear heavens, Vil is whipped for you. The thought both entices him and sends a shiver of distaste down his spine. Why? Because, my dove, in recognizing that he is whipped he is also acknowledging that he is dependent. Reliant. No longer the boss a** queen who needs nobody other than himself. The man the world knows him to be but this schoolboy crush has progressed to borderline infatuation.

Let us do a little synopsis of this downfall. A summary, if you will. An exploration of this Schoenheit's thought process as his prospective future melded from being Twisted Wonderland's resident supernova, to a domestic fantasy that would make his past self vomit.

It all began with a little birdy falling into a nest of snakes. Lost, alone, scared, weak - they slowly melted the hearts of everyone they came in contact with. Vil watched from the sidelines in interest. Not enough to investigate because *why* would he place his time in the hands of prey. It would be an utter waste.

Albeit so...Vil recognizes potential when he sees it. Not unlike himself, they took the hand they were dealt and carved a path to the top. He could respect that ... until there was a collision that threatened his own plans. Suddenly their oddities were no longer amusing and instead a hindrance. Like rain. Nice at the start, but the muddy aftermath never pleases.

And muddy his life became indeed. He became the villain he always disliked. Wretched and old. Completed his self-fulfilling prophecy...and somehow lost it all, yet gained something new in such a short span of time. He was no hero in the story, had no life-changing epiphany, yet somehow it felt different. For a brief moment, he was the fairest of them all to that little birdy. Despite his venom and scales, he was the fairest.

It dawns him that they both are not as alike as he once thought. He was playing a game of chess against someone playing checkers.

The oddity turned hindrance now became an object of interest. He started to watch them again and to approach as well. He wanted to bloom the potential he saw in them. Letting it go to waste would be neglectful on his part, so he would shelter them during their time in this den.

Or so he told himself.

While they could never make it to his level...the little birdy was morphing into a beautiful dove right before his very eyes. All without his help or a need for change. He never felt so desperate to be needed by someone else.

The object of interest becomes an object of affection. He doesn't want to recommend new potions, fashion, workouts, skincare routines - he wants to do them with you. He wants to sit in a rosewater bath together and talk about the day. He wants to be chided for wearing a sleepmask, blocking your view of his eyes at night. He wants to go on a morning jog together and share breakfast. To have you on his arm as he walks the carpet at premiers - brighter than any other accessory his stylist could choose. He wants to kiss your pulse points and smell his perfume on your skin. He wants to share clothes and give the press something to gossip about. He wants to love this little birdy who has always been a dove.

And he gets this fantasy. He has it for years but there is always an underlying gnaw beneath his skin that it is going to end - which he is prepared for initially. He does not do anything half-effort and dating you is not taken lightly - but he is prepared until he does not want to be. Until the possibility of splitting up is unfathomable and he can't imagine not having all the little moments that now he has become so...

Reliant. Whipped.

He initially wants you to propose to him, and hints at it frequently. How glorious would he look dressed in white, no? Which do you like better, black forest cake or almond chip? Oh dear...these tulips would make such a lovely Boquete for a bride...

You are either too dense to understand his hints (unlikely, considering you have years of practice) or he needs to take initiative. Well, if it is a proposal you want then it is a proposal you will get.

He stages it under the guise that he needs a partner for a photoshoot. Specifically for a wedding magazine. You, thinking this is another one of his blatant hints, comply to his pleasure. He calls in a contact from one of the magazines he has modeled for before and asks if they would like an inclusive - never before seen- scoop. Aka. to photograph his proposal and feature it on their front cover. With his reputation, the offer is accepted readily and they agree to set up the shoot with whatever theme he wishes. He goes traditional - set in a gothic chapel that is decorated with red and purple floral adornments. The works for a proposal with a dark vintage twist.

That morning, he leaves before you to handle a separate modeling gig. With a kiss to your wrist, he is gone and off to make sure that everything is perfect for when you arrive later on. Photographers know him for his tenacity, but none have ever seen Vil so anal over small details. Every ribbon must be perfect, there must be both black AND white rose petals spread along the walkway. You must be photographed in rose-tinted lighting, so the camera should face towards the biggest piece of stained glass.

When you arrive, you are escorted to hair and makeup in a whirl. The scene is a blur and you're decked head to toe in white. Gothic lace as far as the eye can see...and when you are finally allowed to enter the chapel, Vil stands haloed by his arranged decorations - waiting for you to join him.

"Stunning, my dear. You look absolutely stunning. A sight I will have etched in my thoughts for many nights to come..." he takes your hand, and signals for the cameramen to get ready. They instruct you both to pose as a couple taking their vows. The camera clicks once, and then Vil gets down on one knee.

You think it's part of the act and that he is improvising. Well, until he pulls out a ring from his breast pocket. One that is a sharp contrast from the dark atmosphere and obviously not a prop.

"Alas, my patience runs dry. I can no longer wait for you..." he begins, and takes your hand in his. Another click echoes in the room, "with this ring, I make you mine. There will be no escape. No lies or uncertainties. I am already yours. I have been for many, many years. Will you finally join me in matrimony?"

{Black Opal. Staring into the gem puts any viewer in a trance. It sucks them in with bright swirls - hypnotizing. It is so beautiful with its intricate pattern, yet at a distance it appears solely black. We often narrow complex things down to one-note interpretations. Do with this information what you will}

Our man of mystery likes to keep things fresh. He loves the thrill of the chase. The anticipation. The adrenaline.

There is no better game of cat and mouse in life than romance. At every stage there are twists and turns that one can never predict. Each day brings new surprises and events! At least, that is what Rook believes a relationship should entail. No partnership should ever feel the lull of comfort...no-no. There must always be a little spice and sweetness around every corner to keep the relationship alive.

At your side, Rook does not doubt his beliefs for a second. You are like a magnet for attention and rightfully so. Out of all the people he finds interesting...you are the most tantalizing to observe. He finds himself following your every movement early on. Long before you began to enter his personal bubble, you were rare prey for the hunt. Otherworldly, full of secrets, attentive, attractive, enticing - he had his mark set so firm that he would have watched you even without Vil's order.

Nothing is missed under his fond scrutiny. Rook is the first to notice small things, like if you trimmed your hair or sewed new buttons on your blazer. He has your walking pace memorized to match when he is at your side. He knows your favorite meals in the dining hall, your habitual seat in the library, how to read your body language, what your favorite treats are and when you like to have them - his knowledge is so extensive that it's up to you if it is considered sweet or creepy. Rook's affections are often teetering the line with infatuation; however, he is not controlling or weird about it. He simply is a romantic who feels the need to know the ins and outs of the person he will give his heart to.

If that includes protecting you from ill-mannered heathens and appearing out of thin air to catch you if you trip? Well, best not question where he comes from. Just know that you have a second shadow. He will only become worse when his affections are returned. You may feel the need to set ground rules for how he can behave in public. Loud declarations of compliment and suggestive topics will not be reigned in otherwise. He is a lover and a fighter. Remember that.

There will come a day that Rook feels you are ready to marry him. Yes, specifically you. He was ready very early on, likely because pining for so long (while exciting) was a chase that gave him plenty of time to learn what he wants. Any time spent waiting was merely for your sake. Only when he notes your fondness towards the idea of marriage does he create a series of tests to ensure your desires. Things like leaving a wedding magazine on the counter to see your reaction, and taking you for a romantic boat ride that just so happens to be a hotspot for couples on their honeymoon. He also mentions the topic in his flirtations more often, to see if you'll respond in kind or shy away. He is a thorough man, if anything.

Oddly enough, he takes a reserved approach for proposing. He uses poetry, which is not unlike him considering how he loves to speak with flourishes. In his heart Rook would love to set up an elaborate event to propose. Something exciting, like a train mystery or a scavenger hunt. Yet some things do not need to be active to be thrilling. Marriage is a delicate act, so it is with a delicate hand that he pens a book of poetry over the course of nineteen days. On each day, he writes one poem to describe one reason he wants to marry you. The first letter in the title of each poem corresponds to a hidden message that you will have to decipher. He does not tell you either of these things.

He hands the book off to you with a cunning grin, and says that it is up to you to find the hidden meaning. If you can, then he will give you a 'special prize'. If you ask the occasion, he offers one of his closed-eye grins and claps his hands. 'Because why not?' He'll say, and it's enough to pacify because it is such a Rook way of thinking that you don't question it.

No matter how long it takes, he waits. He'll watch you analyze each poem and pout for an answer - one he refuses to give. It's all in the chase, after all. He can be patient. All good things come to those who wait.

One cold afternoon, he finds you curled up on the couch in your shared home. A blanket around your shoulders, a hot drink, and the book nestled in your lap. Nothing out of the usual...aside from the pen in your hand hovering over a notebook. Silent as a mouse, he hovers over your shoulder to take a peek and smirks at what has you so miffed.

"Ah...I take it you have words for me, mon coeur. Are they perhaps about a certain mystery?" You jump, and slam the notebook shut before turning around. His eyes crinkle in delight at the sight - his well waited prize. The flush of your cheeks suggest you solved the puzzle and the sweat on your brow shows that you know he knows. Rook rounds about the couch in an instant and crouches on his knees in front of you. He takes your notebook, opens it, and displays the words 'Will You Marry Me?' for you. "Is this your answer? Are you confident?" You nod, avoiding his eyes and he grabs your chin to face him. With a hum of approval, he tips off his hat to pull out a wooden box. In the box is a ring, and he effortlessly slips it onto your finger without asking permission. "Mon moitié...mon trésor. Je te chérirai. Je t'aimerai. Je ne te laisserai jamais partir. Avec cette bague, je suis à toi jusqu'à ce que la mort nous sépare…"

{A large pearl, nested between two emeralds, and a pure gold band. In Rook's eyes, the ring should compliment the wearer. It is the accent piece to your beauty. It should be comfortable, so you never have reason to remove it. In addition to this, it should also serve as a reminder that he is always looking for you. The pearl represents his untainted affection, and the two emeralds are his all-seeing eyes. He hopes this ring brings feelings of comfort and safety}

He is beauty, he is grace, he will punch you in the face - unless you're the object of his affections. Then you get a get out of jail free card. One use. Reinstated every time his heart skips a beat.

Our young lad is a bit of an unpredictable case when it comes to his emotions. Growing up in a small town like Harveston, there was no one his age to spend time with. NRC became his first exposure to people his age, and that made you his first love by default. He wasn't looking for it, didn't have any way to identify it, and frankly he disliked the emotions at first for various reasons. There is a lot to unpack here.

As everyone knows, Epel has a feminine appearance. The exact opposite of how he feels inside. The frilly clothes his dorm makes him wear do nothing to fix that - and now there is this tingling feeling in his chest that takes away his thought process? No. Just no. Not welcome at all. He needs his wits to make up for his unassuming appearance, and he ain't going to have some stranger twisting that about just because they're a bit attractive. Every apple tastes sweet until you try another kind - he says to himself.

He lets it fester for some time and actively avoids you. He sees the hurt in your eyes at his offput demeanor, but can't do much about it. It's your fault if you want to put yourself out there when everyone knows he's not the biggest talker.

Unfortunately...you stick around. Being in his academic year means that most of your classes align, and eventually your friend group does as well. There is no getting around you, and it doesn't take long for other people to connect the dots. Any chance at him getting a tougher reputation were ruined before they even began.

Eventually his resilience runs out and he gives in. Except now we have reason two - he has no chance with you. Zip. Nada. How Lovely.

Why the h*ll would ya go for this country bumpkin with the social skills of a rock? You'd be crazy to an' he ain't going to put himself out for heartbreak.

Now he's stuck humming love tunes and making carved apples of your face because he has years of pining built up with no outlet. It's pitiable, which makes him seethe because he can't do nothin' about it. Rook teased him once after finding Epel making yet another carving while laying in bed, and barely missed getting an apple to the head. The splattered remains of his fruit art on the wall spoke more than any threat could.

Point being, he is emotionally stunted and so he does not ever confess. Not until you do, that is. In that moment all class flew out of his body and he reverted to the socially challenged boy he was before enrolling at NRC. An extremely rare sight for anyone to see...he cringes thinking back on it. When you first said your feelings, he thought you were pulling a prank and got pissed. When he processed that you were serious, Epel lost control of himself and just blurted his thoughts out like a child.

Which is why his proposal is going to be different. It *has* to be different. This time, he'll be the one to ask you and he'll be prepared to avoid any mess ups. He refuses to be one-upped for such an important moment. This time you will be the flustered mess, and he will be the collected one.

To do this, he chooses to propose back in Harveston where he is most in his element. You'll both stay with his family on a weekend vacation in autumn, which meant there would be plenty of open land to arrange for something nice. Not to mention nice scenery from all the fallen leaves and orchards being in bloom. After a long talk with his family, he'd arrange to take you on a day tour of the land on horseback. Basically flaunt all of his farmboy knowledge for a confidence boost, and at the end of the night he'd light a campfire. With some warm cider, the noises of the night, and calm warmth of the hearth - he'd propose. It was almost perfect. *Almost*.

A simple ring feels too disconnected for Epel, and anything extravagant is too expensive considering the family farm's financial state. So, he decides to make it extra special by carving the ring box himself. Wood isn't that much different than apples...

On the first night he decides to work on some finishing touches after you've gone to sleep, and sits on the front porch to widdle away at the design. Like he does when carving apples, he hums a tune into the night as he focuses. Thoughts of the next day making him a bit louder and more excitable than usual - which, unfortunately wakes you up.

The front door opens and he pays it no heed, thinking it's one of his parents coming out for some fresh air. When you plop down next to him and look at the box - well, to say the earth shattered would be an understatement.

"Why aren't you sleepin'?!" His heart hammers and he tries to hide the box under one of his legs. The reaction being too late, since you already got a good look at it. You quirk an eyebrow at his haste, and a mischievous glint twists in your eye. Without warning, you fight him to see what's behind his back. 'What'cha got there Epel~ Why you so embarased huhu~' you tease and his ears flush a deep red. "It's nothin'! Mind your own buisness" 'Well clearly it's something' "I said it's not for you! Get your hands off me," 'Oh? I thought you liked my hands on you~ It looked like a ring box though. Who're you giving a ring to, huh?' "Dangit maybe you'd find out if ya stopped ruining your own surprises!" In his last attempt to avoid your teasing, he tries to yank away but drops the box. It hits the porch with a thud and the lid pops open to show an engagement ring. "...ah sh*t," he swears and hastily crouches to pick it up. You don't tear your eyes away from it, neither from the carvings or how your name is etched in perfect cursive on the lid. Still on his knee, Epel checks the ring for damage before noticing your shocked stupor. He looks at the box again, and signs through his nose before turning towards you. "I had a whole day planned, y'hear me?! For once, I wanted ta be the one surprisin' you...but seein' how you're all tight lipped now, guess I did a good, huh? So? What'dya say? Will you marry me?"

{Crafted using the common hardwood from one of the many apple trees on the family farm. On the outside, there is a carving of a tree taking roots to symbolize the start of a new life. Definitely not because he was surrounded by trees while working on it, and decided to use them for inspiration. When the box is open, the top lid has your names carved along with the date. Well, the date of his *intended* proposal. That will need to be altered. Inside is a simple rose-gold band with small diamonds. Despite the ring's simplicity, he hopes his efforts to make you feel special are not in vain}

NOTE: Translation for Rook: "I will cherish you. I will love you. I'll never let you go. With this ring, I'm yours till death do us part"

[samwinchesterswifu]

Linger (Sam Winchester x Reader) Angst

Season 4 x Episode 21 - When The Levee Breaks

Song Inspo: "Linger" by The Cranberries

Warnings: Sam being an asshole & Demon blood drinkin

MINORS DNI

A/N: this one is shit but i had to get something out there. *italics are flashbacks

Word Count: 1360

Summary: Locking Sammy up in the panic room was something she didnt want to do, but she needed to protect the boy she loved, even if he seemingly didnt love her.

“What do you mean Sammy has demon blood in him?” She seethes towards Dean as she tries to understand the conversation unfolding in hushed tones.

“Look, that’s all I know from what Dad told me. I couldn’t keep this a secret anymore.” Dean states, hand in his hair in frustration.

“And you decided to me? Of all people?” She asks bewildered.

“Yes, because we both know that you’re his only hope.” Dean sighs.

“Your brother doesn’t love me, he’s made that very clear.” She scoffs.

“He does, he does deep down and he’s terrified.” Dean grunted. She shakes her head at his comment.

“Okay, so what do we need to do?” She asks.

The memory played loudly in her head as she sits on the stairwell of Bobby’s basement. Sam had gotten to far with the demon blood consumption and she was forced to lock him in the panic room to help him detox. But her heart ached at the wretched sounds of his screams. Tears softly fell upon her cheeks as she cried listening to his pain. She was so in love with this man, this boy that had no idea what he was getting himself into. But she was so angry with him choosing a demon over her.

Trying to juggle her keys, phone, and drink in hand, she managed to successfully unlock the motel door of the room they were sharing. Only to look up and to see Sam feeding on Ruby. Dropping her drink catches Sam’s attention, making him jerk away and poof, Ruby was gone. She couldn’t have believed what she had witnessed. It was like some sick sex act the two had engaged in with their clothes on.

“Y/N, I can-uh I can explain,” Sam says rising to his feet. Wiping away the red off his lips.

Without saying a word to him, she pushes past him and grabs her duffle. Preparing to leave him, and Dean for good. Too fed up with the situation. But as she turns to leave, Sam catches her arm in a tight grip.

“You can’t,” Sam whispers through choked tears.

“Not you too.” Sam had let a few tears stain his cheeks. Making her own throat become rock solid at the sight of the boy she loved crying.

“Then it has to stop Sammy,” she whispers to him. Barely meeting his eyes.

“You know I can’t,” he responds.

“I can’t keep doing this Sammy, play this mind games of yours. You’ve known that I love you yet you play me like a damn dog,” she replies. Her own tears brimming at all the turmoil she’s experienced.

Sammy sighs, dropping his head low.

“I know,” he whispers. His voice seemingly sounding broken.

“But you know that I’ve stayed away to protect you, that’s all I’m doing Y/N. I cant let you get consumed with me.” Sam’s voice was stern but warm.

“I would rather be consumed by you, or with you, then be away from you,” she responded, grabbing his chin to have him look towards her. Caressing his cheek, and whipping away the tears.

Sammy’s screams pull her out of her thoughts. Grabbing on to her left flannel pocket, squeezing. God, it truly hurt her heart to hear him.

“Y/N?” Sam calls out to her.

“Y/N!” Sam yells again. Pounding on the door of the panic room.

As she rose to try to comfort him somehow, the door to upstairs opens with Dean standing at the top of the stairs. Sam calls out to her again, and Dean shakes his head. Offering his hand to her.

“Dean, I-I can’t,” she says through choked tears.

“You need a break, Bobby has a bed made for you, please, I got this for a while.” Dean replies still holding out his hand.

She sighs, and begins to make her way upstairs, grabbing onto Dean’s hand as he helps her up. Bobby instructs her way to go, that it was safe. Nodding, she makes her way upstairs to take a short nap. That’s all she told herself, a short nap.

Closing her eyes, she opens them again.

Only to find herself sitting on a park bench. A head of her, was a younger version of herself. She remembered this day. She had snuck away from her father to meet Sam. She must’ve been 15 here. She watches herself closely. Smiling at the necklace her younger self was toying with. It was a simple single pearl necklace that Sam had managed to get to her.

But there was a sudden gust of wind, making her jump she realized that Castiel was next to her now.

“Really Cas?” She asked. This was a habit of the angel to check up on her sometimes when dreaming.

“I just wanted to see if you were alright.” Cas stated bluntly.

“Where are we?” He asks, looking around and then his eyes settling on her younger self siting on the play set steps.

“Shh, just watch.” She replies. Castiel nods in agreement.

“Hi angel,” Sam’s voice comes from behind her younger self, making her jump from her seat.

Turning around, she notices Sam holding a few picked road-side flowers in a make shift bouquet.

“Oh Sammy, they’re beautiful,” she gushes, grabbing them and giving them a sniff.

Sam sheepishly smiles at her, digging his hands deep in his pocket.

“I didn’t know Sam was like this.” Castiel states. Looking at her curiously. She sighs.

“He wasn’t always,” she replies. A twinkle of fondness rested on her voice.

The two of them watched as the younger Sam and her return to steps of the play set. The two younger versions chatting and getting caught up on their lives. At some point, Sam had made a bold move, and captured her hand in his, making younger her blush deeply.

She goes to turn to say something to Cas, only to see that he had left her dream without realizing. Shrugging her shoulders, she turns to see younger Sam in front of her.

“Y/N!” He screams.

Suddenly she sits up in the bed she was sleeping in. Movement down stairs makes her suspicious, prompting her to grab her gun from the bed side table, and she makes her way down. She hears commotion outside and opens the door to see Sammy had escaped and Bobby laying unconscious. Sammy holding on to the barrel of a shot gun that presumably Bobby had held.

“Sammy, come on, we just need to get you downstairs,” she tells him, gun still drawn.

“Are you kidding?” He scoffs, eyes wild and stricken.

“Sammy, please. I don’t want to hurt you,” she responds hoarsely. Tears threating to escape again.

A sickening laugh leaves Sam’s lips. The sound causing a rift in her stomach that made her feel like she was going to be sick.

“You’re not gunna hurt me?” Sam walks up to her.

Hesitantly, she closes her eyes and shoots towards his direction. Sam’s laugh echoes through the salvage yard as he grabs on to her gun. She begins to wrestle with him for control before the gun awkwardly slips from her grasp. Sam points the gun at her. Making her swallow the lump that had formed in her throat.

“Do it.” She states harshly.

Sam cocks his head in confusion.

“You’d be totally fine with me doing this right now? Killing you?” He asks, and she nods in response.

“If you let me go, I will hunt you down Samuel.” She states harshly while starring into his eyes.

“Fine, come find me then.” Sam replies. Before she could respond, Sam’s fist comes flying towards her. Closing her eyes, she loses consciousness on impact.

The sound of a rusted car engine sputtering to life jolts her awake. Realizing she was on the graveled ground outside, she begins to push herself up. Just as a car comes flying by her. Confused, she looks to see Sam in the driver’s seat as he turns out of the drive way and booking it down the road. Gritting her teeth, she hobbles her way towards Bobby, hoping that the old man was still alive.