#NONE of them are above this tactic and i stand by that

[explodingstarlight]

weaponizing your newfound "youngest" child status

everyone go read @snailsnaps fic "Alpha Stage"-- de-aged Donnie is giving me LIFE

👉 something of a sequel to this

[totaly-obsessed]

Goody-two-shoes

Katie McCabe x reader

-> Modeled after that insane Man City vs. Chelsea game. (I also have no clue how football works, please excuse mistakes)

-> Reader gets carded and doesn't quite know how to handle it - Katie is there for her

➳ Masterlist

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Referees can make or break a good football game -something that everybody knows, especially when being a professional footballer. And while you did believe in said statement, it had never been more obvious than now.

Emily Heaslip, the biggest Chelsea fan on this godforsaken planet. And while you didn’t necessarily think that, your girlfriend Katie definitely did. No one thought that Heaslip would referee another WSL game, after having been escorted off the pitch by security because of how angry she had made fans, trainers, and players.

Katie, a reliable candidate for yellow cards immediately knew that she would not be playing in the game against Tottenham – or at least she wouldn’t be in the starting lineup.

It had never happened before, that not only your opponent's tactics had to be talked through, but also the tendencies of the referee. The atmosphere was tense, no one wanted to play a game where a heap of yellow cards was guaranteed.

To Katie you were the only good thing during the week, always making the brunette laugh when you noticed her getting into her head too much. And she noticed you cheering up your other teammates as well – goofing off with Kyry in the gym, telling Alessia the dumbest jokes, and making a fool out of yourself, much to Beth’s enjoyment. If the Irishwoman wasn’t absolutely in love with you already, she would have definitely fallen for you by this point.

A few players of the WSL had their reputations – Katie with her yellow cards, Millie Bright the defensive brick wall, and Rachel Daly who seemed to make every goal she wanted to. All of them were quite serious, and then there was you. With your fair playing style and a bright smile always on your face, you had earned yourself the title of ‘goody-two-shoes’.

And you relished in it.

There were not a lot of people who didn’t like you, no matter what club they supported – the ones who really did not like you tended to think, that you were faking your personality.

A lot of fans find it ironic that you had ended up with Katie, who tended to get more cards in a season than you had gotten in your entire career.

But something was off on that Sunday, everything felt wrong. While it was okay that your girlfriend wouldn’t be standing next to you in the starting lineup, it felt wrong – especially in a game against Tottenham who were currently above Arsenal in the chart.

The start of the game was hesitant, with every player on the pitch walking on eggshells. It was Ashleigh Neville who got the first yellow card in the 22nd minute of the game. Her being the first player would seem weird when looking at the statistics at the end of the game.

And while you did not, Katie noticed a shift in the game – in the referee who got redder at any little thing that she saw.

It was Caitlin who got the next card, followed by Jen, followed by Lotte. Every card that Heaslip gave seemed wrong. Carding Lotte, when Beth England had stumbled over her foot – even the Tottenham player was confused by the card. Carding Cait when she accidentally ran Kit Graham over when jogging backward.

But then came the biggest shock of the game – you got a yellow card.

Kim had been roughly pushed to the ground by a Tottenham player, and you have had enough. You protested the ref, trying to explain to her that it was indeed not an accident but a punishable action. Emily Heaslip however had none of it, swiftly pulling out that annoying, little yellow card and holding it straight to your face.

The players fell into complete silence, not believing what had just happened. It was Kim who was up on her feet again, who pulled you away, patting your back in thanks.

Katie could see how the situation was messing with your head – no one was angrier than her, and she desperately wanted Frida to run over the ref as she had done before. The brunette tried to get your attention on the sidelines, shouting words of encouragement at you. “Oi! Keep ya head up!”

A few minutes later the whistle was blown for halftime.

Nil all.

The changing room was tense – no one was having fun. Jonas tried his best to give an inspirational speech. It didn’t matter how many goals you scored, it was important not to concede. Leah was pleading with the team to get your heads sorted out so that you could enter the second half with clear minds.

Your stomach felt uneasy as if it was at war with itself. Face dripping wet over the bathroom sink, eyes swollen and red, breathing heavily, is how Katie had found you.

“You did so well my love.” A warm hand found its place on your neck – gently guiding your still-dripping face into Katie’s dry and warm shoulder, letting you calm down for a second.

“Makin’ me so proud baby.” The thick accent felt like honey in your ears, numbing your mind temporarily before having to go out again.

Being back on the pitch felt like a fever dream, your head was not really where it was supposed to be but the game had to go on.

And go on it did – not to your benefit though. In the 62nd minute, Neville pulled a not-so-nice challenge on Kyra who was lying on the ground, arms raised in protest.

Arsenal was given a free kick, and you were supposed to take it. Beth England had brought the ball back where the kick was to take place.

It took you fifteen seconds until you decided on your target, Kim, who had run herself free from her defender. Just as you were about to take it, she was covered again, so you stopped in your tracks, only to shoot a second later when you saw your captain's hand gesture.

The Scot had just gotten to the ball when the shrill sound of the whistle could be heard. Not a single player on the pitch knew why. Both teams got loud with protest when they saw another yellow card being given.

To you.

You who already had a yellow.

Everyone was shocked. Katie couldn’t believe her eyes – after the yellow card followed the red which was held directly into your poor, shocked face.

‘Time wasting’ was what Emily Heaslip shouted at you. It took Kim everything to stop the others from rioting and instead guided you to Katie. The Irishwoman was standing at the sidelines, waiting for you.

The referee resumed the game, Arsenal now being down to ten players. The whole stadium was in uproar.

Your freekick had taken twenty seconds – the average took thirty. How was this time-wasting?

Katie could feel your body shaking as she pushed you into the shower and turned it on. She waited for you just outside of the door, a fluffy towel in her arms, ready to cuddle you to death.

She understood that you didn’t want to talk, instead filling the silence with telling you everything that had happened on the bench. “- and then Manu said that-“ She couldn’t keep going, her heart broke more and more, seeing you sit in your cubby, dressed in her sweatpants and hoodie, face all red and puffy.

Tears were still making their way down your face. “Oh, baby.” With soft coos the defender tugged you up and into her chest, just to sit down with you on her lap again.

You were exhausted, still not understanding why you had gotten a red card.

One after the other the girls came into the room – the game was over.

Kim was the first person at your side, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. Mumbling a little “Proud of ya.”

The others tried to cheer you up, but it was Katie who made you laugh. Your girlfriend, ever the jokester impersonating the referee who had gotten nutmegged by Alessia during the game. “God her face is just so stupid!” You just couldn’t help but laugh, Katie’s dimples smiling at you.

The brunette knew that while it was still fresh it would hurt but you would get over it.

And so would the fans – they were enraged with both of the cards you had been given, but it seems that your title of ‘goody-two-shoes’ would remain intact, even after getting a red card.

[tripleyeeet]

THE PADLOCK PLAYOFFS

SUMMARY: Astarion and you compete for the camp's best lockpicker.

PAIRING: Astarion & Gender Neutral Reader

WORD COUNT: 1,190

WARNINGS: None?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: @leighsartworks216 is a genius and wrote the hilarious text post this little fic is based off of, so thank Leigh for their perfect brain! Also, no editing because I'm supposed to be on vacay.

MASTERLIST

-

“Are you two always this competitive?” 

The question originally had come from Wyll. After a particularly heated argument over the most effective way to distract and pickpocket, the answer quickly became obvious and the topic was dropped, knowing that forevermore, you and Astarion would always be seen as two opposing sides, competing for the ultimate prize of best rogue within the camp. 

At first, it was civil. At least to some degree. Discussions between the two of you would always rise to a boiling point but would never overflow the pot. Oftentimes both of you would just laugh at the other’s supposed perfected tactics, claiming to be the best before deciding a test would inevitably occur once the time was right. 

No testing ever followed through though. Considering you were far too busy with the threat of the Absolute and the fact that none of your discussions were ever that serious. Each time a competition was promised it was slowly forgotten and neither of you had a problem with it. 

Well, until now. Until Lae’zel absentmindedly makes some comment about how long Astarion’s taking to pick the lock of the chest in front of him.

All of you are back at camp for the night. After a particularly rough day of looting through an overflowing camp of Absolute cultists, the majority of you are lounging by the fire, drinking ale or wine, staring at the flames in silence as you all settle down. 

Towards the tents though, Astarion kneels in front of a large chest, brows pushed towards the centre of his face in deep concentration while Lae’zel stands above him, arms crossed angrily over her chest.  Both you and Karlach spare a glance, watching the inevitable argument that breaks out, noticing the exhaustion in Astarion’s eyes as he turns towards the Gith and yells. 

“If you’re so keen on rushing my craft then I’ll just piss off and let the second best rogue do it!” 

He motions to you with an open hand as he says it, catching the annoyed look you give him in the process. How your jaw all but sets into a stiff position, your lips pressing together in an attempt to surpass the insults you wish to throw his way. 

“Yes, perhaps such a suggestion is best.”

Stealing your attention, you watch as Lae’zel motions to the chest with her chin, giving you the kind of nod that has you jumping to your feet and readying your tools, watching as Astarion merely rolls his eyes. 

“Second best rogue —are you kidding me, Star?” You huff and shake your head, angrily shoving him aside before he can even react. Then, you shove the short hook into the hole, feeling three successful shifts before pulling open the lock. 

When you do you narrow your eyes at Astarion before faking a yawn, patting the palm of your hand to your lips in the most dramatic way possible. 

“You were watching me do it,” he immediately argues, pointing to the tools in your hands, glaring at them like they’re the most evil instruments in the world. 

“From across camp?” You raise your brow and smirk. “Sweetie, you and I both know my eyesight isn’t that good.” 

“It’s good enough to recognize technique, darling.”

Somehow this time the argument of who’s better than who doesn’t die down like it usually does. Instead, it merely escalates to the point of interruption, causing both Gale and Wyll to step in, suggesting you all go to bed. Neither of you relents though, knowing what’s at stake. Knowing that whoever gives in will always be referred to as the lesser rogue. 

“How about we settle this fair and square then?” Astarion says.

You look at him like he’s just lost his head. “Wait, you’re capable of fairness?” you ask sarcastically, watching him roll his eyes before changing the subject, asking the camp for their finest padlocks.

It’s decided then that your semi-consistent call for competition is finally answered. That after countless weeks of rivalry amongst varying tactics, you’ll finally get to decide on at least one of them. 

The camp reluctantly wanders to their tents then, allowing you and Astarion a few moments to stare the other down with newfound skepticism until the party all returns with various locks, holding them out for both of you to survey. 

“Forgive me for questioning, but are competitions like this common amongst thieves?” 

Gale looks at you as you lower your head to his hands, narrowing your eyes at the lock’s design. It’s intricate on the outside, displaying an ornate pattern that wraps around the opening in two mirrored filigrees. 

“Very,” you reply, snatching the lock from his hand with a grin, turning to Astarion afterward. “Basic rules? I pick your lock, you pick mine, any means necessary?” 

Astarion nods, holding out the lock inside his palm to you, prompting you to do the same. 

Once switched you both immediately get to work, running your eyes and fingers over the mechanisms, trying to form the best course of action. Next to you, Astarion looks at his with great attention, mumbling to himself as he picks apart all the padlock’s quirks, quickly discovering your choice is unfortunately smart.

Hailing from a specific locksmith who works with magic users exclusively, you know he can tell the lock inside is enchanted. That once you stick your hook inside it’s essentially a free-for-all in regards to what happens next. 

Based on the filigree design it’s obvious to those who know that it’s laced with illusionary magic. Something you’re certain Astarion’s at least somewhat familiar with, allowing you to take your time.

Not that you need it. Not with the lock he so foolishly chose. 

As soon as it was placed into your open hand you recognized the model. An old faulty lock that had been giving rogues like you grief for years. Back when it was first developed it was quickly run off the shelves once people found it was impossible to open without destroying them completely, prompting a surge of collectors to adopt most for display. 

Knowing this, you also know a bit of brute force in the right spot can remedy such a fault.

Smirking to yourself, you twirl the lock on your finger and wander over to Karlach, eyeing her competition offering before holding out your hand. 

“May I?”

She and the rest of the party look at you confused, watching as the tiefling hands it over almost immediately. 

You thank her kindly with a dramatic bow before glancing at your competitor, noticing how he’s finally found the right hook to ensure his success. 

“I’m surprised, didn’t think you’d get that far,” you tell him then, earning his attention long enough to hit the butt of Karlach’s lock against the other, triggering a loud click to signify its opening.

At which point, Astarion all but stares. With eyes so wide you swear they might fall out, you toss the lock in his direction, watching him fumble with the one in his hand before ultimately catching yours against the base of his forearm, looking up to glare as you blow him a cheeky kiss.

-

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

[bigtreefest]

I dare you to write a piece using a character that you want to, but have never had a chance to write for before. With the sentence "Well that was a surprise."

Saint or Sinner?

College! Lloyd Hansen x Reader

Word Count: 1,331

A/N: Amber!!! Thank you for tickling my brain with this dare! I honestly wanted to do Andy so badly, but this quote was screaming Lloyd to me and I couldn’t resist. To be completely honest, I had no intention of writing him, but my fingers tip-tapped away and I lost all control. I might’ve been possessed.

I also always plan on writing a Drabble, and then it ends up being as long as one of my fic chapters, but anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, Smut (oral, m receiving), use of pet names, sociopathic tendencies, mean Lloyd, a twist?

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Ever since you were old enough date, you’ve been happily independent. You grew up in a small town, surrounded by blue collar families, including most of the members of your own.

You’d always had a keen ability to fit in anywhere, which you attribute to your upbringing. Your mom worked a corporate job, while your dad spent all day in a mechanic shop.

You were well off, but not raised like it, and you’d never judge those who had less than you, even though that’s what a lot of people expected.

Once you graduated high school, you got into Harvard where you met Lloyd. Lloyd was someone who was good at keeping his distance. You noticed it at first when you invited him to join a study group you had started with some other members of your cohort.

You received a terse “No thanks, Pumpkin,” punctuated with a curt nod and a wink, before he went to hang out with his other friends and his team.

You had made multiple attempts to include him in group activities, or engage in conversation when you could nab a seat next to him in class, but after some time, you stopped seeing him altogether. You could tell he was avoiding you and the study group you had become closer with. You’d probably actually call them your friends, becoming just as close as you were to some people back home. They picked up on the same things too, seeing that you were humble, and carried yourself in such a proper manner, earning you the nickname “the Saint.”

When word of that got around to Lloyd, he rolled his eyes. You were the complete opposite of him. Kind, welcoming, calculated, while he was cold, unpredictable, sociopathic. He couldn’t stand how successful you were, too. Professors and students alike constantly praised you, more than willing to help you in any way through your academic journey and career beyond. Where he schmoozed, you gracefully existed and got just as far.

You were perfect in everyone’s eyes, including his own, which is what infuriated him. There had to be a weak spot, somewhere where your surface would crack, and he had initially tried to find it by turning you down all those times, but it was unsuccessful.

None of the manipulation tactics he had worked so hard on perfecting for so long made you budge, either. He’d pluck out a random friend from your group to join his. Nothing. He’d sabotage your flash drive for your presentation, you’d have a backup in your email, ready to go. After you’d gone, you wished him luck and no technical difficulties like you had, with a giggle! He was enraged.

After being at the top of your class, the two of you were selected to go to a conference in DC. It was hardly supervised by your professor who had booked two rooms for you next to each other, getting himself a suite a few floors above.

You knocked on Lloyd’s door in the late afternoon, the day before your presentation. He opened it just enough to peek his head through.

“What do you want?”

You sighed with your signature smile on your face. “Did you want to go over everything one more time before dinner?”

He looked you up and down, face as stern as it ever was when he was dealing with you. “Not really, Sunshine.” He slammed the door in your face.

What Lloyd didn’t know was that all his little tactics were really chipping away at you. All you wanted was to spend time with him, to get close. You couldn’t help it. You’d be lying if you said it was in your usual friendship way, too.

No, you wanted more. There was something about how aloof he was that drew you in. You were obsessed and not willing to give up until you got what you wanted, what you deserved.

His little tendencies weren’t upsetting because he was rude, they were upsetting because they were keeping you away from what your body and the deep, dark recesses of your mind were screaming for.

The door slamming in your face was the last straw. Lloyd wouldn’t get away with this any longer. You could see what he was trying to do, and if you had any say, you’d make sure it failed. You were going to be the winner of the little mind game he was playing.

To be honest, by this point, Lloyd had given up, thinking you’d never break. You were just too sweet, a true Saint. Treating you like this had just become habit, which is why he was almost confused when he heard muttering on the other side of his door.

You had taken the magnetic clip out of your hair and maneuvered it against the hotel key card reader until it unlocked. The door flew open and your eyes landed on Lloyd, stomping towards him and pinning him with his back against the nearest wall.

He looked down at you, face unreadable beside his eyes being slightly wider than usual.

“Why are you being like this!? What did I do!?” You gritted out, your tone threatening.

Lloyd didn’t say anything, only the corner of his mouth twitched upwards.

“Tell. Me.” You slammed your hands against the wall, arms framing his head as you looked up into his eyes, your stomach pressed against his cock that was growing rock hard.

“Am I going to have to pull it out of you? Suck it out of you, myself?” Lloyd found himself at a loss for words for once. All he could do was part his lips slightly and give a small nod like he always did.

You began to unbuckle the belt of his ridiculously expensive pants, shoving them down just enough that you could see the hard-on pressing against his boxer briefs.

“Huh? Is that what you want? That what you need, Pumpkin?” You spat back at him, mocking his previous words.

His brain was finally beginning to catch up with the situation as he nodded down to you and you got on your knees.

“Yeah, do it. I know you want to. Suck me off.”

You didn’t need much more prompting, fueled by rage and control. You pulled down his underwear, his dick springing free.

You gave him no time to prepare, immediately licking from the base of his length to the tip before fully taking him into your mouth. Your mouth was stretching to accommodate his girth, but it was nothing for you in the lust of the moment. You set a vigorous pace, Lloyd’s head thrown back against the wall as he moaned loudly.

He pulled his head forward as his abs tensed, already close with the debauchery of the situation. He tangled his ringed fingers in your hair, helping to guide you along his length.

“That’s it. Keep going. Not such a Saint, are you?”

You hummed against his length in response, saliva dripping down your chin and his balls that you were lightly tugging in you hand. The other hand had its nails dug into his thigh, causing a slight sting that heightened the pleasure for Lloyd.

Before he knew it, he was coming down your throat. You pulled away as you swallowed his salty release, looking up at him and wiping off your face before standing up.

You caught his gaze again and Lloyd looked at you with bewilderment mixed with his post-orgasmic haze.

“Well that was a surprise.” He said between heavy breaths, pulling up his underwear and pants, buckling his belt again. Oh, he had no idea the tactics you had in store for him.

Your hands pressed against his abs in his knitted shirt. One stayed there as the other traced up his firm pec, past his collar and found purchase around his neck, lightly squeezing.

“So are you finally going to tell me what’s going on in the head behind that ridiculous mustache?”

Bonus A/N: Um… I don’t really know what happened. I think I blacked out.

[your-eternal-lies]

_  LOVE IS A CHOICE (chapter five - finale)

Main Navigation || Please follow @your-eternal-library for all my fanfiction updates.

PAIRING — Bucky Barnes x Agent f!Reader SERIES SUMMARY — In your experience, relationships only bring drama and heartbreak, and you want absolutely none of it. That is, until an act of sheer recklessness brings Bucky Barnes back into your life.

WARNINGS — Angst, more blood and injury, devastating revelations (but nothing we didn’t already know!), and if it’s any consolation, I concluded this on a happy note with some fluff and a non-explicit smut scene at the very end. That’s pretty much it!

LOVE IS A CHOICE

CHAPTER FIVE (finale)

Bucky’s metal arm whirrs with a barely audible hum, the vibranium plates shifting to optimize for combat as he steps into the fray. Bullets splinter the air, a savage symphony of chaos and destruction. His instincts, honed through countless battles, snap into focus as he catches a glint of danger in his periphery. 

With one fluid motion, propelled by a potent blend of adrenaline and fear for someone other than himself, he lunges. The Hydra agents, clad in their nondescript tactical gear, might as well be faceless nameless drones, but each represents a threat to you and your safety. 

And he can’t have that. In the shattered peace of the northern Canadian wilderness, he becomes the storm. 

He runs out of bullets pretty fast, so he tosses his rifle aside and lets his fists do the rest. They come down on his enemies like iron, his movements a blur—a dance of destruction honed by decades of stride. 

The air is filled with the clamour of combat, grunts and thuds of flesh and cracking bones, punctuated by the sharp cracks of splintering wood as his precious cabin bears witness to a battle between his indomitable will and a relentless tide of adversaries. 

Bucky fights with the ferocity of a man who knows the stake of every punch thrown, every kick landed. Each surge of his enhanced muscles, every pivot and parry, speaks to a silent promise he’s made to the woman in the cabin behind him—a vow to protect, to endure, to never yield until the cavalry of red, white, and blue storms over the horizon. 

“Come on, Steve,” he mutters under his breath, keeping one eye above the tree line. He can almost picture Steve’s disapproving frown at the recklessness he knows all too well in himself, but for Bucky there’s no room for doubt or hesitation. 

He will not fall, not when the mission of his life is on the line. 

“Stand down, Soldat,” one of the agents has the audacity to admonish him, pointing a rifle right at Bucky’s forehead. The latter practically growls, his chest swelling with a sense of satisfaction at the way the agent takes an uneasy step backwards. 

“That’s not my name,” Bucky snarls, his metal hand darting out so quick that the agent doesn’t have the time to register the movement. He grasps the barrel of the rifle, easily twisting it backwards and rendering the weapon utterly useless. 

His other arm then swings in a wide arc, his fist connecting with the agent’s jaw in a grim percussion of bone and sinew. His focus is sharp, each movement calculated, as he pivots and delivers a kick that sends another agent flying across the clearing. 

Suddenly, his thoughts loop back to Alpine’s serene gaze, one that’s saved him so many times since he’s come here. To Steve’s brotherly admonition, ones that always made him roll his eyes but smile at the same time. To you; a vision of your gentle eyes, the melodic cadence of your voice, and the feel of your lips against his. 

It’s for you, all of you—a feline’s contented purr, a friend’s unwavering loyalty, and a lover’s unspoken pact, all rolled up in the promise of warmth—that Bucky wills his body to endure, to become both shield and sworn against the encroaching darkness. 

Blood slicks his knuckles, the skin there now split and raw, his breathes coming out in harsh drags, hot and ragged against the winter chill. 

Keep them safe. Those three words are a mantra that pulses in his veins, louder than the ringing in his ears, more insistent than the fatigue that claws at his limbs. 

But then a sharp pain blossoms across his ribcage, one Hydra agent having found purchase with a serrated blade. Bucky grunts, twisting away, pressing his hand against the wound. The sensation of being outgunned begins to settle like lead in his gut, and he scans for an opening, any respite, but finds none. 

A searing heat lances through his thigh, a bullet finding its mark despite his enhanced reflexes. The force staggers him, and for a moment, the battle dims to a distant thunder. Bucky drops to one knee, feeling the warm wetness spreading down his leg, the coppery scent of his own life force spilling onto the snow. 

He clutches at the wound, his face contorting in not just pain, but in a sudden, piercing fear. 

It cuts deeper than any knife, more devastating than any bullet—the realization that he might not walk away from this, that the story he shares with you might end in a cold and lonely epilogue. 

Bucky thought he had been prepared to die for you out here, if it meant buying the rest of the team enough time. But damn it, he almost laughs, he’s afraid. 

After all this time, after all those days wishing he were dead, the will to live strikes him like a lightning bolt. He wants to finish this, to go back to you and reaffirm the words he’d been so scared to say to you in New York, but had come so easily in the moments just before he left you under the trap door. 

He wants your mornings, your touches, to turn those dreams of his that always seemed so distant into reality. 

And so he embraces the fear and pushes the doubt aside, buries it beneath layers of sheer grit and will, pushing against the ever-present spectre whispering of rest. He can’t stop here, not yet. 

Bucky rises once more to meet the onslaught. The air is thick with the scent of carbon and burning flames, and although the odds are daunting, relief suddenly floods his veins. There is a rumbling just beyond the trees, the ground beneath him quaking from the force of an impending arrival. 

A shadow sweeps over the battlefield, massive and imposing, a familiar silhouette of salvation. Bucky looks up through lashes wet with sweat and blood, just as the sleek shape of a quinjet cuts across the night sky, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. 

The Avengers are here. 

Bucky continues to fight, not just for life, but for every memory yet to be made, for every smile you might grace him with, for every gentle touch of Alpine against his skin, all in a world where peace is more than just a fleeting dream. 

For the chance to love again, without the shadow of grief and guilt looming over him. Because while there’s so much worth dying for, there is infinitely more worth living for. 

The roar of the quinjet’s engines drown out the symphony of battle. Steve, of course, is the first to emerge, his shield a bright disk against the gloom, catching the light as if to banish the darkness that’s come to consume his friend. 

Close behind, Sam soars under the cover his mechanical wings, a guardian angel clad in steel and resolve. Wanda’s crimson energy dances at her fingertips, her eyes glowing red as she rains hell down on her foes,  barely a foot out of the jet’s doors. 

Natasha’s movements are a silent ballet, deadly and precise, while Clint’s arrows never fail to find their marks. Even Tony Stark, encased in his gleaming red and gold armour, lands with a ground-shaking thud, his repulsors already humming with lethal intent. 

Together, the team moves as one. Bucky watches, his breath hitching, the weight of his body dangerously tempted to yield to the exhaustion, as his comrades turn the tide. 

Clint lands at his side, and despite the circumstances, cracks a smile. “C’mon, Tin Man, hold yourself together.” 

“Ugh, you’re about damn fucking time,” Bucky groans. He will never admit it, but he’s never been happier to see Clint or his dumb little smirk. 

“Tony, Sam, secure the perimeter,” Steve calls out, his voice a steady drumbeat against the turmoil. The two don’t need to be told twice before they’re flying off, taking down more agents on the way like they’re nothing more than falling autumn leaves. 

“Natasha,” Bucky manages, his voice hoarse with exertion and urgency. “She’s in the cabin. Keep her safe.” 

“Already on it,” she replies, her tone sharp and sure as the knives at her belt. She slips away like a wraith, darting towards the wooden sanctuary where you remain hidden from the carnage, her red hair flying in the wind behind her. 

The fight rages on, but now with the might of the Avengers tipping the scales. Bucky feels the burden on his shoulders ease every so slightly, even as his body protests each movement. He fights with the knowledge that you will be safe, that Natasha will guard you with the same ferocity with which he’s been battling. 

Together, the team turns the tide, the remaining Hydra agents falling one by one until the forest floor lays littered with the vanquished. Bucky stands amidst the ruin, his breaths coming out in shallow gasps, the world around him narrowing to pinpricks of light against a closing curtain of darkness. 

His muscles tremble with the aftershocks of battle; each heartbeat deafeningly loud in his own ears, drowning out the distant calls and quiet chatter of his teammates as they finish securing the perimeter. 

Bucky sways on his feet, battered, bruised, and spent, allowing himself a moment to lean on the strength of his friends. Suddenly, he lies sprawled in the snow, feeling the cool embrace of the earth beneath him. The edges of Bucky’s vision frays, pulling at the seams of consciousness. 

Steve is at his side in an instant, eyes etched with concern as he implores, “Stay with us, bud.” 

It’s then, among the invading shadows, that a piercing cry shatters the air—a siren’s call that claws its way through the haze. 

“Bucky!” It’s you, your voice laced with terror and something that sounds a lot like love, a symphony that plays upon the most vulnerable strings of his battered heart. In that moment, before the void can swallow him whole, Bucky finds the strength in the resonance of your call. 

He fights against the pull of darkness, wanting nothing more than to get up, to reassure you with a soft touch, a gentle word, anything. But his limbs betray him, heavy as lead and twice as cold. 

“Bucky, I’m here!” He hears you again, his body jostled as you slide into the snow next to him. He feels your hands on his face, your tears splashing onto his cheeks. 

And then, surrendering to the exhaustion, Bucky allows the darkness to envelop him, the echo of your voice a lullaby that carries him toward the uncertain embrace of sleep. 

The sleek doors to the compound hiss open, revealing an expanse of a room that could swallow modest homes whole. There’s a hum in the air, the kind that smells like money and buzzes with gadgets that probably haven’t even hit the market yet. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offer a greedy view of the Manhattan skyline in the distance, but none of that holds her attention. 

Natasha Romanoff stands there, the sterile scent of antiseptic wafting through the dimly lit medical wing. She glides between the beds until she reaches your bedside, a tangle of wires and monitors attached to your unconscious figure. You stir, lashes fluttering as if you can feel her next to you. 

“Bucky?” You ask, your first thought not for yourself but for him. 

“He’s in the other room,” Natasha replies, her tone even, betraying none of the concern within her emerald eyes. “They’re patching him up. Super soldier serum works wonders.” 

“And Alpine?” 

“I’m assuming that’s the cat,” Natasha cracks a tiny smile, “Tony’s keeping her company. I think he’s taken a liking to her.” 

The redhead sits on the edge of your bed, her posture impeccable, and yet somehow still conveying the weariness in her shoulders. A thick and heavy silence suddenly falls between you, and you can’t help but tense under her scrutiny.

“Natasha, I—” you begin, but she holds up a hand, interrupting the apologies you’re ready to spill forth. 

“Going rogue on that mission,” she starts, her voice soft but firm, “because you did technically go rogue, kroshka, was more than reckless. Your behaviour’s becoming a pattern; I thought it’d be better to give you some space, some time to work through everything that’s happened, but it’s just getting worse.” 

There’s a maternal edge to her admonishment, tempered by an understanding of someone who had once danced on the knife’s edge of danger herself. It’s why your gaze falls away, the heat of shame crawling up your neck. 

You know you’ve made a mistake, that your impulsive decision had almost cost you everything. “I know,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, “and I put Bucky at risk too.” 

The confession is a small surrender, the first verbal acknowledgement of the fragility that lays beneath your normally hardened exterior. Natasha reaches out, her hand resting lightly on yours, a silent reassurance on top of the regret. 

“Almost didn’t make it out this time,” Natasha continues. The subtext is clear: she could ill afford to lose you, not to death, nor to the darkness that seems to claw at your soul. 

“It won’t happen again,” you promise, looking her straight in the eye. She holds your gaze for a few seconds, and even though she has every right to, there’s not a single trace of doubt in her eyes. 

“Good,” she says, squeezing your hand, her lips curving up into the smallest of smiles. It’s only then that you notice she’s holding a tablet in her other hand, cradled carefully in her lap. Her eyes follow your gaze and she inhales sharply, the air in the room shifting as her sisterly demeanour is replaced by that of an agent’s. 

“What is it?” You ask, watching as her fingers dance across the screen. She angles it toward you, casting a pale glow against the sheets. 

“We found this at the Hydra base,” Natasha says, turning her eyes away from the screen and back onto you. You watch, breath hitching as the grainy footage sputters to life. The video shows a hauntingly familiar corridor, and there he is—the Winter Soldier, a phantom from the past, his metal arm gleaming as he dispatches guard after guard with ruthless efficiency. 

“Natasha, I can’t…” your voice trails off, strangled by the lump forming in your throat. The images of your own gaunt figure lying limp in Natasha’s arms comes into view, all the while the Soldier moved with a singular purpose, stepping into harm’s path so you can make your escape. “Nat, you couldn’t have known. We… we barely made it out of there as it was.” 

“Should’ve known,” she retorts, more to herself than you. Her words are steeped in self-reproach; for the Black Widow to overlook the details was not something that occurred often. “He was there, fighting for us—for you—and I didn’t even sense it.” 

“I guess even the best of us have our blind spots.” You try to joke, but it lands totally flat. 

“I guess so,” she agrees, never taking her eyes off you, the underlying meaning of her words suddenly making you emotional. 

“Were you ever going to tell me he was there?” She asks, but her voice holds no malice. In fact, you see regret in her eyes too, another reason for all those years of secrecy. Your heart clenches at the idea of stirring up ghosts that haunt Bucky, but it cracks under the thought that it might do the same for Natasha. 

You shake your head, admitting you would have taken it to your grave if you could. Your sister looks crushed, one of her hands coming to rest against the side of your head. 

“Why do you always suffer alone, little sister?” 

“Because some secrets are worth enduring for.” 

She doesn’t argue with you there. “You have to tell him, at least.” 

You scoff, turning away and pulling your blanket over your head. She’s having none of it, yanking it off you with surprising force. “Hey, I’m injured here!” 

“He needs to know, kroshka,” Natasha insists, her earnest gaze piercing through your defences. “He needs to know that not all of his past is soaked in blood. That even in the darkest of times, he did something good, something noble.” 

Your chest grows heavy with sadness, the walls of the infirmary seeming to close in as the truth looms large over the both of you. 

“How can I?” Your voice trembles, your eyes glazing over with tears. “After everything he’s been through, how can I dredge up those memories? They’re just echoes, Natasha. Echoes of a person he doesn’t even remember being.” 

“Because,” she replies, her voice softening. “He needs to hear the truth, and he deserves to hear it from you.” 

Right on cue, the door to the infirmary slides open with a hushed whirr,  and your conversation falls into a startled hush. Bucky stands at the threshold, his posture the embodiment of recovered strength, the super soldier serum having mended his flesh and bones with uncanny speed. 

His eyes, however, bear the weight of experiences that no serum could erase. Still, he tries to smile for you. “Hey there.” 

Your heart stutters at the sight of him, every wound on your body protesting as you attempt to sit up. Natasha places a gentle hand on your shoulder, easing you back onto the pillows. 

“Take it easy,” Natasha advises, a knowing smile gracing her lips. “He’s not going anywhere.” 

“Romanoff,” Bucky nods in acknowledgement, his glance briefly meeting hers before settling on you with an intensity that seems to anchor you both to the spot. 

“I’ll give you two a moment,” Natasha says, her voice a mere thread of sound in the charged atmosphere of the room. Her steps are silent as she crosses the space between you, and before she exits, she pauses at the door, her hand lingering on the frame. 

She turns to share a final look with you, a silent exchange fraught with meaning. You know what it means even without saying anything; it’s a look that implores you to embrace the vulnerability of truth, and a look that promises, no matter what the outcome, that she would never leave you to face the storm alone. 

With one last nod, she steps out into the hallway, leaving you and Bucky enveloped in the aftermath of her departure. You watch as Bucky approaches carefully, his broad shoulders squared, his footsteps measured. 

“Hey,” he says again, “how are you feeling?” 

“Fine,” you reply as he sits down in a chair next to your bed. He reaches out and gently brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. “A little morphine makes everything a lot better.” 

Bucky grins, but it falters after a second or two. “About what happened back at the cabin…” 

I love you. 

Sometimes, I get the strangest feeling that I have for a really long time. 

You look away, the vulnerability in his voice making your stomach lurch. It’s only been a few hours, and yet it feels like a lifetime ago. 

“I don’t want you to feel pressured to… to say anything. Nothing has to change,” he says, his gaze steadfast and tender. “But I want you to know I meant it. Every word.” 

You remember how he was like the last time he was in New York, his always solitary figure against the chaos of the city, a man out of time seeking a place in a world that had moved on without him. 

He’s stronger than you will ever be, but in that moment, emboldened by his admission, you reach for the tablet Natasha left behind. You activate the screen, before hesitating for another moment. 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asks, sitting a little straighter in his chair. 

Maybe nothing, maybe everything, you think, your throat tight as you hand the tablet to him. His eyes widen as the images play out before him—the Winter Soldier, relentless and lethal, cutting down Hydra agents with a precision that chills blood. 

But there, in the carnage, is a sliver of humanity. He, usually the harbinger of death, had in a single moment turned saviour for two women ensnared by the same darkness that had once claimed him. 

“But that’s…” Bucky starts, wanting to say that’s impossible. “I… I don’t remember this.” 

“That’s you,” you say softly, your fingers tracing the outline of his face on the screen. “You saved us. You saved me.” 

His hand shakes as he sets the device down, the wind knocked from his lungs as realization dawned. “How can I not remember?” 

“Because they didn’t want you to,” you tell him, your own heart aching with the burden of his forgotten moment of heroism. “But it’s true. That was all you… the part of you that Hydra could never touch. Even then.” 

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled with the ghosts of a shared history. But then the dam bursts, tears betraying your formerly stoic facades, tracing paths down your weathered cheeks. 

“Forgive me,” he pleads, taking your hand and pressing your fingertips to his lips, because while he had forgotten, you had remembered every agonizing second. “I should have known sooner. I should have remembered you.” 

“Don’t do that to yourself,” you tell him, but you can see the self-reproach clinging to him like a second skin. “I’m the one who should be ashamed. You’re always there, always pulling me back from the brink. And I—” 

Your voice breaks, the weight of a confession years in the making pressing down upon your chest. 

“I don’t deserve how you see me. You think I’m strong, capable, but I’m not. I’m just… broken.” The word falls from your lips like the final verdict of a long fought battle, more tears escaping your eyes and dripping onto your pillow. 

“What? No—” 

“I’m always the one needing saving,” you interject, a hint of desperation lacing your words. “You, Natasha, and even Steve. You’ve all saved me and I can’t ever do a damn thing for you.” 

“You done more than enough.” Bucky’s brow creases with concern, his expression crumbling, his hand reaching out before resting on top of yours. 

“How can you love someone like me? I’m nothing. I’m nobody. I don’t even have a name.” All the years of buried feelings, what was crammed into a tiny little box and shoved into the furthest corners of your mind, come rushing forth. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” 

Bucky looks into your eyes, watching as the last light from the setting sun is replaced with the twinkle of the night stars, the both of you searching for absolution in the other. 

“You’re wrong,” he whispers, hearing your deepest fears and wishing he could take the all away. “You see weakness, I see strength. You see shame, but I see bravery. You think you’re broken, but to me, you are… everything.” 

Damn it all. He’s smiling at you, really smiling, as if with each word the burden lifts from the depths of his soul. And while your rattled brain is constantly telling you that you aren’t worthy, that he deserves more than the mere remnants of a broken woman, your heart screams something else. 

It calls for him. It tells you to stay. Because if you can’t trust the world to make him happy, then you would have to do it yourself. And wouldn’t that be the best thing? To know that you, of all people, a nobody from nowhere, could make him happy? 

“I love you too,” you whisper, your hands stroking his face, your eyes shining as he presses his forehead to yours. “If you’ll still have me.” 

He clutches onto you like you’re the only source of the air that he breathes, like he can’t bear to let you go. 

“Ah, darlin’,” he says, leaning forward to press the achingly lovely curve of his lips to yours, his whispers muffled against your scared watery smile. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” 

And then he’s in your arms. You kiss him once, twice, and then a third time, and you know then that this is the beginning—or rather, the continuation—of something amazing. 

As he whispers love onto your skin, he etches onto your heart that love isn’t about deserving. 

It’s about choosing, again and again. 

And no matter how many times you fall apart or have to put yourself back together, you will always choose Bucky Barnes. 

. ONE YEAR LATER

You are stunning. 

It’s the only thought Bucky has as he lies back against the pillows, your hands on top of his as he grips your quaking thighs. The cabin, now restored to its former glory and moved to a new secret location, is warm—he’s made sure of it, spent a good ten minutes stoking the fire in its stone hearth just a few feet away, but he watches in awe as his touch raises goosebumps all over your skin. 

Your eyes are wild beneath your hair as you straddle his hips, drawing a shuddering breath from your sweet and always gentle lover. You slide up and down the length of him, your most intimate places pressed together, his grip on your thighs tightening just a touch. 

He’s doing okay until you take him in, slowly, and then rotate your hips, head thrown back and your back arched in pleasure. Bucky gasps, sitting up in a flash and holding you tight. 

“Too much?” You ask in a breathless whisper, your breath quickening as his hands stroke the base of your spine. 

“Too fast,” he chuckles, his words muffled against the delicate curve of your shoulder. He kisses you there sweetly before pulling back enough to look into your face. He wants to make this last, even if it kills him. 

“Then we don’t have to—” You start to say, but then he’s lifting you up… and then back down… so slowly, so deliciously glorious, you can feel your toes start to curl. Your hands grip his strong shoulders, moving with him at the pace he’s set, chest to chest. 

“Do you want to stop?” He asks, mischief and mirth laced in his voice. You reach up to thread your fingers into his hair and pull, just hard enough to make him hiss, before looking down at him with a smile. 

“If you stop, I’ll actually pummel you,” you laugh, the sound unfamiliar even to you, but a sweet warmth spreads through your veins. You didn’t know you could laugh again, after all that, but Bucky just has this way of tearing down your walls, of making you feel things you didn’t think you’d ever feel again. 

“Whatever my darlin’ wants, my darlin’ gets,” Bucky grins as he tilts you back, following you down onto his linen sheets. He settles on top of you, pressing your knees to the bed. Only when you’re whimpering and clawing at his back does he thrust himself all the way inside, right up to the hilt. 

With a cry of his name, you grab at his hips to draw him in, so deep you swear you can feel him right against your beating heart. Bucky buries his face in the crook of your neck, his moist breath gliding over the column of your throat as he speeds up his movements, but still carefully controlled, not stopping even as he feels you begin to spend. 

It’s not until your arms squeeze him tighter, until a sweet scream falls from your lips, your muscles undulating like rolling ocean waves around him, that he finally lets himself go. 

When he can finally feel his limbs again, he pulls back and you’re smiling at him. Tears, despite himself, well up as he presses a kiss to your lips. The sight is becoming more frequent, and each time you grace him with it, he has to admit it still makes him a little breathless.

Outside the cabin, his sanctuary that he now eagerly shares with you, the snow continues to fall silently towards the earth. You drift off to sleep next to him, your hand on his chest, right over his heart. He watches you for a few seconds, his own eyelids growing heavy. He blinks slowly, wanting to savour this moment. 

He vows to make you breakfast in the morning, to make a batch of fresh rolls just as you are being pulled from the lulls of sleep, with Alpine watching almost protectively from her usual spot. 

He promises to call Steve after, to let him know that you’re both settling in nicely in your new home, and that Natasha can stop sending him about a dozen daily text messages requesting status updates. 

He swears that he will one day have the courage to take out the velvet box tucked away in one of the drawers somewhere, and ask you for a yes or no answer. But tonight, he’s content to drift off to sleep beside you—warm, loved, and happy. 

When Bucky opens his eyes the next morning, you are still there, and he remembers this time. He doesn’t just know; he remembers. 

And the sky is new.

Fin.

Taglist — @cjand10 @pbs-theundeadmaggot @nerdreader @crist1216

Notes — I said I was gonna wait until Friday to post, but eff that lol. I couldn’t wait to share this finale.

So, this story turned into something totally different than what was originally conceived. I don’t know why or how. It was always intended to only have five chapters though, and I supposed I technically could have stretched it out into six parts, but I ultimately decided not to. I’m sorry if this isn’t what you were expecting or hoping for, but I am actually pretty okay with how it turned out in the end.

Thank you to everyone who supported my first fic! 🥹 I hope you enjoyed the angst and the brief fluff at the end! And now I can work on bringing you my rom-com Steve story, You’re Stuck With Me. Stay tuned!! 💖💖💖

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Offer me the deathless death”

Andromache the Scythian x Female Reader

request ( found here ) by @nightly-polaris

|･ω･) go wild, you said and go wild, i did. i included as much of the provided details as i could. hopefully, you’ll find it agreeable

cw : 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ // dubcon-ish // ✂️ ✂️😼 // overstimulation

casually quoting hozier for all my andromache fics. that fight scene on the plane and the way she grabbed nile by the jaw tho 😩 wanted to incorporate it in a fic ever since i saw it, and fucking finally did

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Hallucinations. A fever dream.

Anything but reality is what you tell yourself, and what a job you have been doing thus far! Fantastically foolish if nothing else. Cocooned in a bubble of lies that spill forth none other than your lips, and illusions that are carved by your very mind itself, you harbour not a droplet of doubt that the reality in front of your eyes is nothing but bona fide.

People after all are the most masterful at fooling themselves.

Ensnared in a web of deceit weaved by your fingers lie no hapless preys, but you, yourself, who revel in the sweet taste of false security as you do in the richness of the creamy warm chocolate drink that coats your tongue.

Even though business in your shop today is notably satisfactory if not the most profitable, it is not the digits that matter to you the most. Your little shop is borne purely out of your profound passion and desire; obligation is out of the picture. It is where you feel the most at home, doing what you love while bathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and cocoa.

Amidst brewing a cup of americano as per the order of a customer with stylish sun-glasses and a striking jawline, your dress is accidentally soiled. Little do you know, the scatter of black and bitter constellations along the pristine white of your sleeve is merely the dawn of a darker, more bitter happening.

��─────── ༻✿༺ ────────

Finding you has been relatively easy.

When the familiar dreams begin plaguing her usually dreamless nights, a telltale sign of a new immortal on the horizon, Andromache has half a mind to ignore them altogether. Had she not seen the places that stoke recognition amongst the wild tapestry of images, she certainly would have. But alas, her target, as it so happens, is no stranger to her. By no means does the Scythian know you. Nor you, the Scythian. New immortals bring together with them an assortment of risks, one of them being the exposure of their secret. It is with such knowledge in mind that Andromache feels obliged to set out for you despite her reluctance. You living in the neighbourhood of her temporary place of residence only makes the search all the more convenient.

Being a warrior for many a millennium has developed a vast array of tactical traits into personal trademarks. Those that once upon a time had had to be mindfully exercised, now occur as easily and effortlessly as breathing, involuntary more often than not. Beneath the dark shades of a spectacle perched on a well-defined slope of a nose lies a pair of sage green eyes, scanning the vicinity of wherever she goes like an eagle on a hunt. They have landed on it then, during her visit to a store, standing adjacent to it is a cafe in the name of “Trouvaille”. The Scythian is not one to be easily intrigued, but what a lie it would be to say that the charming building with its vintage air and curious name had not tickled her fancy. Or its owner whom she has noticed is all sweet smiles and dulcet eyes.

Eyes which she has only seen from afar then, now she stares directly into them. Protected by the shades, the intense greens study you with brazen openness, roaming all over your frame, from the tiny clips that decorate your cascading hair like colourful Christmas lights to the butterfly pendant that dangles from a simple silver chain, hovering directly above the dip of your throat, from the little flower prints on your dress, the skirt of which softly caresses your thighs, to occasional glimpse of seemingly soft flesh that teases the Scythian, left uncovered by a pair of white thigh-highs.

It is retrieving you that is the hard part.

Immediately upon arrival, Andromache has read your features for perhaps a trace of recognition. You paying the Scythian a visit in her dreams can only mean one thing after all: that she, too, must have appeared in yours. Yet, no widening of your eyes greet her, only a smile that does not waver.

“Hi, welcome to cafe Trouvaille. What can I get you?”

“Americano will do. Hot.”

Beside the fact that it is broad day light, a few people roam the place. As capable as Andromache is of manhandling you, it is not in her best interest to attract attention. The situation calls for patience. Rushing will spell only more trouble at best. Wait she must, and so, wait she does.

Leisurely, the Scythian sips her coffee, studying you periodically as she does so. It is after some minutes have ticked by, the cup of coffee sitting on the table, empty and cold, that she decides to fish a book, leather-bound and well-worn, out of her backpack. Thumbing through old pages, Andromache spends the better part of the wait indulging in literature, until one by one, people start trickling out of the shop.

In due time, it leaves only the Scythian and you.

The sky has taken on a deep orange hue by the time she stands to approach you. She eyes you surreptitiously, and upon confirming that she is not at the receiving end of your attention, the Scythian moves to lock the door. Ever the diligent wielder of caution, she does not forget to flip the little dangling plate. The letter “We’re closed.” that is carved into the wood will help ward off potential visitors.

Even as she walks towards the counter, you do not seem to notice her for you are kept occupied by the book in your lap, fingers busy scribbling onto paper. It is the tinkle of porcelain on marble as she drops the cup and saucer atop the counter that finally has your eyes zeroing in on her. She watches you watch her. Backdropped by the sunset with her shades finally tucked away into the pocket of her jacket, the sight of the Scythian brings about a subtle shift in your mien. Although fleeting, the furrow of your brows that must have been imperceptible to others, does not go unnoticed.

“Hello, again. I hope you’ve had a good time.”

The smile that you give her is sweet, if not the most genuine.

“Why don’t we save the pleasantries, hm?” The smile that touches her lips, in contrast, has a hint of sourness. “You’ve seen me before.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe I have.”

Your answer only brings about a twofold increase in the Scythian’s irritation. Judging by the slightest delay in your response, she knows that you are well aware that she has not meant it as a query, and so, she says as much.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

The adamant denial from you has strong, slender digits tightening around the strap that is slung over one shoulder.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you? You died, and then you woke up, saw a bunch of people you had never seen before in your dream, including me.”

“But, that was- No. Surely it was-.”

“Look, kid-” Forming into a thin line are Andromache’s lips as she takes a moment to compose herself, slowly huffing out an exhale through flared nostrils. “-I know you’ve got questions but I need you to come with me first.”

“No. No, I don’t think so. This isn’t real. None of this is real. Leave, please. I need you to leave.”

Lips that slowly curl into a smirk and a chuckle that comes out dark and dangerous. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”

Battered boots that come to rest just shy of polished loafers.

“You know…your folly is, dare i say, commendable. Reality is not just something you can rewrite, and yet, you managed an impeccable job of tricking yourself into thinking what you believe to be the truth is the truth.”

One foreboding frame that looms like a predator and the one that cowers like a cornered prey.

“Alas, I almost feel bad for shattering your little illusion. But then again, I’ve done a great many questionable things in my life having lived as long as I have. What significance would it make to add another?”

“What I saw in my dream. They really happened.” It is a question albeit not being voiced like one. The Scythian does not find the need to answer. Why bother when the answer already lies in your hand?

At her silence, a look of horror dawns on your features. “You’re a murderer. You and your friends. I’ve seen them. I- I’m not- I can’t.”

“Oh darling, a rose without thorns is but a weed, easy to be plucked, to be trampled on. You’re one of us now. You will come with me whether you like it or not, and you will do so this instant.”

Every single step you hesitantly take back is met with an immediate footfall of boots as they fall right onto the place that your loafers have just vacated. It goes like this for a while, you actively ruining the close proximity, and Andromache rectifying it, until there is nowhere for you to flee, and your hips collide with the counter edge.

“Why me?” She parries your plea with a nonchalant shrug, face impassive. “Beats me.”

“Please, I-” Tears glisten in your eyes, murmuring beseechingly. “Let me go. I can’t kill. I know nothing about fighting.”

While her hands grip the counter on either side of your waist to cage you in strong arms, her lips lower to the shell of your ear, breath warm as she speaks. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You can kill. In fact, anyone can. You just have to listen to me.”

“No! Let me go! I don’t want-” Yells dissolve into a yelp by way of digits seizing your jaw.

“I’ve gone out of my way to exercise great forbearance, but it is running terribly thin. It would do you well not to try it any further.” She husks threateningly, feeling the softness of your cheeks giving under the roughness of her battle-hardened fingers. Salty droplets drench her digits as tears start spilling in rivulets down your cheeks.

“Go on, bite me with those baby teeth. Scratch me with your little paws.” She taunts. “Why, would you look at that! All bark and no bite. How pathetic.”

It is as she says this that your teeth sink into the palm that is pressed tightly against your mouth. The unexpected retaliation has her stance faltering, and although you manage to break free from her bodily confines, the Scythian, being far more nimble and dexterous, hardly has to break sweat in recapturing you.

“You're a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Two can play that game, although don’t say I didn’t warn you. Breaking men, after all, is considered one of my fortes.”

Wrists locked behind your back in her iron grip, and body bent over the marble counter, Andromache revels in the quavering of your body beneath her own as one wicked hand, like a sneaky serpent, slowly slithers up your thigh.

“Are you-” A whimper flies past your lips when your arms are pulled taunt, shoulders craning uncomfortably. And then, she yanks, hard and unforgiving, until you are forced onto your feet, back colliding with her front. “Are you going to kill me?”

Andromache cannot help but laugh at your question, a rich throaty sound that brings about the erection of soft little hair on the nape of your neck.

Your wrists are released at the cost of your cheeks bearing the brunt of her ire as rough fingers dig into your flesh. They flee from their cage between the two of your bodies to take sanctuary on her forearm, soft fingers grasping the sleeve of her jacket. “Where’s the fun in killing you when I can just have my way with you, hm?” Her hold around one of your thighs remains unrelenting while the hand on your jaw coerces you into craning your neck. Your head rests on her chest with a grunt, and you drown, held spellbound by the intense green of her eyes. “I’d rather enjoy the view of you crumbling beneath me than watch you bleed out only to come alive again.”

Although it douses you in shame, you have to admit that you are not entirely immune to the woman. How can you when she oozes charisma, frighteningly beautiful even as she looms over you with all the grandeur of a great menacing panther.

And then, too many things happen all at once; fingers that crawl into a forest of hair to grab a fistful, with a yank to the side, a throat that is bared for the predator above to conveniently sink her teeth into, the frenzied little flutter of a pulse beneath the flat of a warm tongue, chocked sobs that dissolve into a strangled gasp as a cold hand journeys into the waistband of an underwear.

Previously, your hands have found home on her thighs, fingers grappling fabric, but upon feeling wandering digits inside your underwear, one of them flies towards the offending hand, locking around a wrist.

“N-no. You can’t.”

“You would do well to remember that I am in control here.”

The Scythian’s growl is not only heard, but also felt on your skin as teeth nibble, mouth suck, and lips soothe the stings that afterwards will linger on your body in the form of dark blues and bright reds.

Horror and humiliation dance a wild tango whereas fingers waltz delicately along your folds, a condescending tsk echoing off your nape when they come away wet. Betrayed and backstabbed by your own body, mortification colours your face as not one but two of her sizeable digits sink into your heat with little to no effort. Although sudden, it does not hurt, though it stings, leaves you breathless still. Dewdrops bloom on your lashes and they drop down your cheeks when fingers in your core bury knuckles deep, abuse your tightness. You feel them in the very depths of your body, filling you so deliciously that when they wiggle so much as a little, it is more than enough to sucker-punch a breath out of your lungs.

Between her hot mouth kissing your neck all rosy and sore, her fingers cleverly caressing your insides, and her hand toying with your breasts beneath your dress, it is no surprise that your undoing greets you with a tidal wave of pleasure.

It is, however, a surprise to find yourself being shoved back-first onto the table, legs being pulled wide by fingers twining round your thighs. You are still suffering through a series of aftershocks from your first orgasm when her mouth attaches itself to your quavering folds, that wicked tongue immediately slithering into your hole. It does a cruel little nudge and your fingers wind up entwined in her hair. Instead of a reproach, it is a hum of satisfaction that you earn as the Scythian grabs a handful of your buttocks and devour you like a starved man.

By the seventh one, you are well beyond exhausted, brain foggy courtesy of being fucked into oblivion, and body agonisingly sore, littered with deep hues and teeth marks. Somewhere between third and fourth, if you recall correctly, she has stripped you bare, bar your thigh-highs, and completely rid herself off clothes, magnificent muscles coming into display. You have ogled them with barely restrained awe until your attention is swayed elsewhere by her mouth leaving traces of herself all across the expanse of your body.

Now, once again, you marvel at them, entranced by the impressiveness of her muscles that ripple with every roll of her powerful hips.

You barely recognise the face that is staring right back at you, reflected in the surface of sea green eyes, or the sounds that are oozing out of your lips. Sweat clings to the forehead of the woman towering over you as it does to yours. One of your legs is slung over her shoulder, and the other lies limp and useless between her thighs, as she rubs herself into your core with wild abandon.

“I- I can’t. Too much. It’s too muc- ah!”

“Yes, you can.”

She has taken the hand that goes to rest on one of her hipbones only to weave her fingers with yours. Now, they hover in the air, tightly intertwined, suddenly made much tighter by the white knuckled grip of your hand.

“Slow- nghh please! Be gentle.”

“You do as I say. Not the other way round. Is that understood?”

The desperate nods of your head is met with a bite to the succulent inside of your thigh just above the brim of your sock.

“Answer me.”

“Yes!”

“My word shall be your command, and you will dance to my every desire, won’t you darling?”

“Yes! Yes, I will.”

“You are mine after all, aren’t you? Mine to do with what I please. Mine to use how I see fit. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m yours- ngh- all yours.”

“Good girl.” She moans, movements escalating from lazy strokes to untamed gyrations.

“Andy.” She rasps breathlessly. “I want to hear my name dripping down those pretty little lips when you fall apart.”

And hear she does. Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy. Her name is all you can cry out as your juices mingle with one another’s, the combined essence soiling your thigh-highs as well as the couch beneath you.

Back curving, toes curling, you soar high, high into heaven, swimming amongst clouds, drowning in euphoria. And then, you plummet, down into the pit of hell, down into another one of those little deathless deaths. An intense blinding white replaced by an absolute dark.

When you awake, it is to the heart-melting sensation of lips softly caressing your forehead. You find yourself on the same couch that you have passed out, cocooned in toned arms, face tucked snugly into a warm, musky throat. Reflexively, you begin nosing the soft underside of her jaw before you are startled by fingers wandering down your very naked thigh.

“Look at me.” Obediently, you oblige, reluctantly leaving the pleasant warmth of her neck to do what she desires.

“What have I told you?” All too delicately, or as delicately as the callouses on her hand will allow, the pad of a thumb grazes the apple of your cheek.

Fighting against the urge to slip your eyes shut, you sigh dreamily instead. “That as long as I remain a good obedient girl, no harm will befall me.”

“That’s right. And are you?”

A nod as an answer prompts a pat of a forefinger on your cheek, and then, another. You know what she wants, so you give her just that.

“I’m a good girl.”

Not only do you see the smirk on her face, but you also feel it on your skin as she leans down to drag her lips across yours. “You forgot to mention whose, darling.”

“I’m a good girl, Andy. Your good girl.”

“And will my good girl obey my every command like she had promised?”

“Mmhm.”

A breath catches in your throat as her lips journey down down down, admiring the traces of none other than herself until that ravenous mouth adjourn to your hip, sucking the tender spot on your hipbone to make it all the more vibrant.

Although it has not been the main purpose of her doing what she has done, it is without doubt that Andromache gets a sick sort of pleasure out of seeing you covered in her marks. Every inch of your body and soul, all irrevocably hers.

You have said it so yourself, willingly given yourself up to her. That being said, it is purely her own greed that has her craving more and more and more of you. The scent of you that is sinfully sweet, heady and uniquely yours, makes her ache. The sight of you, like the dewy petals of an exquisite flower, pretty and pulsating, makes her mouth water.

It is with this insatiable hunger swelling inside of her that the Scythian sinks to her knees between your luxuriously smooth thighs.

“One more, darling. Give me one more before we leave.”

And you do, oh how you do even as one bleeds into two and two into three, because a good girl does what she is taught, does she not? And you are a good girl, Andy’s sweet little good girl to do with what she will.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[halfmylife]

Late Night Confessions

Pairing Finan x Reader

Summary you escape to catch your breath when Finan joins you and suddenly your confessing your feelings

Warnings none

A/N as it’s Valentine’s Day here’s something cute and fluffy

The night was peaceful. Even with rowdy shouts from the men in the ale house, the city was peaceful. The breeze was gentle and the stars sparkled above, you could not take your eyes off of them.

It had been a long day. You supposed you should be inside, drowning your troubles away with ale and celebrating with the others but you could not bring yourself to do so. Having spent all day trying to get back to Finan during the battle only to see him chatting happily with another woman about his glory made something sink to your stomach.

You have never painted yourself as the jealous type and you told yourself that was not the case at all. It was not jealousy, you were simply tired. Yet, you could not erase that very image from your mind. So here you were, standing outside on your own, staring up at the dark sky.

“Are you not cold out here?” Finan’s voice cut through the peace and caused your stomach to drop. It was until you felt his presence beside you that you realised you’d been holding your breath.

“No I’m fine.” You tried to suppress the shudder that tingled down your spine but he was not so easily fooled. Your eyes never met as he stood beside you, his gaze following the direction of your own.

“Ya know we’re supposed to be celebrating?” He said suddenly, you could hear him take another sip of his ale next to you but you still did not dare to look at him.

“I suppose I just needed some air.” It was a poor excuse and half true at best. You wanted space, need it even. There was only so long you could watch on the sidelines whilst he was so content and you weren’t.

“Do you have an excuse for everything or are you gonna continue to lie to me?” He adjusted himself to face you fully and waited for you to argue back. Your face dropped at the statement, finally forcing you to look at him.

“I’m not lying.” You protested. Another lie.

“Ya are. Plain as day.” He argued, pointing a finger at you. “How many times do I have to tell ya, ya can’t lie to me.”

“Please Finan, I am fine.” your tone was calmer than before, trying to reassure yourself more than him. When that didn’t seem to work you turned away again, trying another tactic. “I’m sure you have plenty of ale to drink and women to charm, I would not want to keep you.”

“The ale and women can wait, you can’t.” How you hated when he said things like that. Any words like those made you think you had a chance when you knew that much was untrue. “So what’s troubling you?”

“Nothing, like I said I am fine.” Your jaw was clenched and you spoke through gritted teeth. Finan was always observant when it came to you, knew every expression of yours and knew exactly what they meant. There was nothing you could hide from him. It was both a blessing and a curse.

“And yet you’re getting riled up.” He teased.

“I am not.” You snapped.

“Like I said, you’re a terrible liar.” He laughed, he actually had the nerve to alight whilst you stood there, red faced and clearly not enjoying the conversation. “Just tell me and I’ll leave you alone to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking.” You mumbled. Alright, maybe you were but he didn’t need to know that and you certainly wouldn’t admit to it anytime soon.

“Ya are!” He argued once more. Finan knew exactly how to get under your skin and he was doing exactly that. “Staring off into the distance like a child that’s been scolded.”

“Will you stop?” Your voice rose unintentionally but you’d grown tired of his teasing and giddiness, all you wanted was to be left alone.

“I won’t stop until you tell me what’s bothering you?” Finan’s voice was soft when he spoke this time, clearly aware of your disposition. He knew something was bothering you, why else would you be in a foul mood? The man wouldn’t stop until he knew he’d helped however he could.

“Fine.” You’d given in. For a second you paused, thinking of how to word it. ‘I’m in love with you’ didn’t seem to be the right way to go about it. “I have fallen for someone but they do not feel the same way.” Really? That was how it came out? There was no going back now as it cling to the air around you.

“How’d you know?” He asked, scoffing. Was it really not obvious? Had you not spent years loving him? You half wondered if he was about to voice his own confession but it never came.

“I just know.” You sighed. Countless times you’d seen him entertaining women and the mornings after you’d always hear about it no matter how much you protested.

“Have you bothered to ask?” He asked as though it was as simple as that. Could you imagine?

Good morning, Finan. I’m in love with you, do you feel the same way? It was laughable.

“I don’t need to, I’ve seen how they feel.” You shook it off and kept your eyes trained ahead. It was easier, that way you didn’t have to look at him. Maybe you wouldn’t give anything away if you didn’t look at him.

“Is the bugger blind?” He half shouted. It was not the reaction you had expected but it wasn’t unwelcome. The thought tugged at you, don’t let this fool you, he doesn’t mean it. “Half the men in Winchester would fight each other bloody for a chance with you.” Hardly. The men of Winchester would hump anything that breathed if they could.

“You are just being kind.” You retorted slightly sarcastically. Most men wanted anything they could get their hands on, you would not consider yourself to be one of those things.

“I am being honest.” He corrected you, inching closer to you. There was little space between you to start with but now as he adjusted himself your arms brushed against each other, the sensation sending a flutter through your stomach. “You are incredible and fearless. Any man would be lucky to call you his.”

“And yet he does not want me.” That’s what you had always told yourself and yet he was here, staving beside you and complimenting you like you were the sun and moon. That was just how Finan was, how he’d always been.

“You don’t know that.” He rebutted. Finan seemed almost excited at the prospect and you hoped he’d stay this excited if you ever finally confessed. “What’s stopping you from walking in there and taking him by the shirt and telling him how you feel?”

“He’s not in there.” You blurted out, turning to face him again. You regretted it the moment it came out.

“Then where is he?” He faced you fully, waiting for an answer that did not come.

“Finan.” You whispered. No don’t say a thing, you told yourself. He doesn’t need to know, tell him a lie and forget about it. Before you could even think of a lie, he’d read your face word for word and realised what you had meant. His face dropped and his body visibly deflated as he processed it all. You couldn’t stop yourself from speaking, the words pouring out. “I never wanted to tell you. I thought you were happier not knowing, that maybe I wasn’t the one you wanted.”

He didn’t speak for a moment, it had been only seconds and yet it felt like forever. Say something, please, anything. You remained still, watching as he stepped back, placing his mug of ale down far more gently than usual. All you wanted to do was run, save yourself the embarrassment of any more words but then he spoke.

“How long have you felt like this?” Was all he asked and you no longer felt the strength to hold back or lie anymore. There was no turning back now.

“Years.” Your voice was breathy and you could feel the tears filling your eyes. Do not cry, now is not the time for tears. You searched his face for any sign of anything and still you could not stop the words. “But I knew you never wanted me the same way.” He seemed more shocked by that statement than the realisation of your feelings and it took him a moment to compose himself.

“After everything I just said, you think I never wanted you?” His brows were furrowed as you spoke and you couldn’t help but feel taken back. Maybe it had a been a passing phase and nothing more, maybe it was long forgotten.

“You were always preoccupied with other women.” You said, half to yourself. Now was not the time for jealousy but it had been one of those things that always nagged at you no matter how much you tried to avoid it.

“I never had you for the jealous type.” He laughed after a moment and suddenly the tension drained from your body.

“Finan!” You snapped, giggling as you did. You finally felt like you had him back. He no longer stood away from you perplexed, instead he closed the distance, gently cupping your face. You felt so small in his grasp but you didn’t want to move an inch, savouring this moment that you have craved for so long.

“Those women, they were never you.” He started to confess as his thumb rubbed against your now red cheeks. “All this time I thought I’d never stand a chance. You always kept your distance from me, I thought you hated me.” You couldn’t help but laugh a little as the words came out, though he didn’t seem to mind.

“I could never hate you.” You whispered, your hands finally reaching out for him. You placed your palms against his chest as if to keep yourself steady but you lost focus as soon as you heard the beating of his heart.

“There was never anyone but you.” He admitted and the thrum of your heart only grew louder with each word. There had never been anyone but Finan.

“Do you mean it?” You asked foolishly, in hopes this wasn’t some cruel joke. He only held you tighter, too afraid to let you go now that it was out in the open.

“I mean it. I’ve been a fool all these years.” The moment he reassured you, you practically beamed at him, the tears no longer in your eyes. When you tried to look away from his gaze, his hand held you in place, you gaze pouring into his deep eyes. “There’s that smile I love so much.”

“Shut up.” You laughed.

“Oh you’ll have to make-” before he could even finished you crashed your lips onto his, burying your hands in his hair as you pulled him closer. He kissed you back, pulling you in by the waist.

In that moment neither of you wanted it to end.

[harmofud]

Why Every BG3 Origin Character Could Work Romantically with Every Other BG3 Origin Character (Astarion Edition)

Just so everyone knows before reading this, I haven't finished the game yet so some of these might get updated later. I just started Act 2, but I was spoiled almost entirely for Astarion's, Lae'zel's, and Shadowheart's stories, partially for Durge's and Gale's, and almost none at all for Karlach's and Wyll's. Please do try and avoid putting spoilers in the comments and tags, because I would still like to experience some of these moments in game first.

Astarion x The Dark Urge: Astarion has a deep seated well of rage and fury that manifests into a very palpable bloodlust. He likes murder. He is a vampire spawn after all. His very existence requires causing some kind of suffering, and it is all made easier if he enjoys it. It's something he could either indulge in or struggle to unlearn, and Durge's character arc mimics that. Astarion also values trust, something he is afforded very little of because of his nature. In Durge, he would find someone who struggles with themselves and also struggles with the lust for death. They would either become the greatest and most horrific power couple there ever was, or they'd support each other in their mutual struggle to be good.

Astarion x Gale: Astarion craves power. Above all else, above even his want for revenge, he wants the ability to protect himself, whether that be through murder and theft or through a good-old fashioned illithid tadpole. Power for protection is his M.O. Frankly you could make a case for every character on this list being a potential romance because they have power and he wants it; however, he likes power that is from beyond the pale. Pure brute force is not something he tends to approve of unless it is an entertainment for him; if given the option, he'd prefer something subtler, something that can continue to give and grow. Gale fits that description perfectly, and is both subtle and not shy about his magical prowess: both things that would draw Astarion in.

Astarion x Karlach: He doesn't tend to like pure brute force, but Astarion does like hot people, and Karlach is Hot with a capital H. Not only do they have a shared experience of being taken advantage of and being forced to do the bidding of beings that they couldn't even pretend to hold a candle to, but that same feeling of requiring freedom no matter what unites them. They would both do whatever they have to to remain out of the clutches of those who want them back. There's also that wonderful dichotomy of Astarion being supernaturally cold and Karlach being supernaturally hot, and I imagine they'd find each other very pleasant to cuddle. Imagine being warm in bed at night for the first time in 200 years.

Astarion x Lae'zel: Of all the origin characters, Astarion and Lae'zel's morals and opinions match the most, even more so than Durge's. He likes being brutal and unforgiving, and Lae'zel is so much more pointed in both of those aspects than anybody else on the list. He would find her brutally strong in a cunning sort of way, someone who potentially could and would stand up to Cazador and any other number of enemies with him once she has marked him as an ally. I think he would view Lae'zel as a challenge to woo, and I think her almost complete refusal to engage with him in a way that he understands (she never smiles and her requests for a good time are blunt) would make him try all the more to get her to do something other than scowl at him.

Astarion x Shadowheart: At first, I think Astarion would find Shadowheart kind of cagey, but that's okay because he'd be cagey right back. She's cunning and manipulative to those she doesn't like, and he could very easily mimic that. I think they'd have a mutual distrust and dislike of each other that extends into a kind of regretful appreciation for the other's manipulation tactics. The two of them would ironically be the most real with each other compared to everyone else because they both know the other one is hiding something and hiding it well. They know what manipulation looks like, and Astarion might appreciate someone who knows how to manifest that. Also, they both carry secrets that would justify people murdering them/expelling them from society, and I think once they both reveal that to the other, they'd quickly become friends and companions, something they both sorely need.

Astarion x Wyll: The epitome of the 'I can fix him' arc. Wyll and Astarion could not be more at odds with their morals, and I think at the beginning Astarion would be upset at how constantly and unfalteringly kind and compassionate Wyll is, even to those he doesn't like and doesn't want to save (Karlach). After all, where was the kindness and compassion for Astarion in over 200 years, right? Why did no one stick their necks out for him? But when presented with the kindness over and over again, with Wyll making sure that Astarion is okay, I think he would warm up to Wyll. There's also the fact that both of them were/are under the thumb of something much more powerful than them, and Astarion would have some sort of pity in his cold dead heart for someone still clearly in the throes of a demon's grasp. I think he would try to 'fix' Wyll by making him care more for himself and think of himself sometimes over others. It also helps that Wyll is noble born, so things that Wyll would do for flirting and romance would be more graceful than Astarion is used to.

[prowlingz]

TRAPPED SEX | 18+

AFAB Reader x Ghost

“Fuck!” you scream, a bullet flying right above your head. You’re trapped behind a barricade, spotted by the enemy sniper. You toggle your radio,

“Shit, anyone nearby who can take this sniper off my ass?” you yell over the gunfire.

Slight crackle of the radio, “On it”, Ghost’s deep voice rumbling through the device.

Within 20 seconds the gunfire stops, Ghost saved you. You peek your head over the barricade, once the coast is clear - you hop over the cement wall, your lifeline, and run towards a building. You’re against a wall, peering through the dusted window. You feel a hand on your shoulder and turn, instinctively trying to shift your weight and toss the person - but soon realizing it’s Ghost.

“Fucking hell, you scared me” you sigh.

“My apologies” he replies, indifferent.

You stare through his mask as he gleams down to you.

“Are we still flanking them? I thought-“ before you could finish your sentence, you’re cut off by more gunfire. Some sort of automatic rifle was firing at you, and you definitely did not want to get close enough to find out what.

You two run into the building, you’re trapped. All you have is each other and the weapons on your back. Ghost has a sniper, hand gun and a few grenades. You have an automatic, but you’re out of ammo - and a hand gun with maybe 3 bullets left. Other than that, you both have a tactical knife.

“Shit” you say, looking up at Ghost who seems to have the same realization.

Without another word, he grabs you and throws the both of you into a small storage closet. Before you can protest, he covers your mouth. Luckily so, as two men speaking a foreign language run in, screaming their dialects and looking under the tables in the room. You feel your heart beat out of your chest, not even noticing the fact you’ve now pressed yourself very close to Ghost.

They speak, a language you cannot determine, and point towards the door that was slightly ajar. You think they must believe you two escaped into there, as they soon run through the door - their footsteps getting quieter the further they go.

Ghost lets up on your face, causing you to sigh out. Your ass is pressed against his clothed body, you find yourself at the perfect height for your body’s to merge.

You bite your bottom lip in embarrassment.

“Think it’s time we get out of here..” you whisper in the steel container. You look down to see where the latch, knob, or whatever would let you out would be - but to no avail.

“What the.. is this..? Is this a fucking locker, Ghost?!” your voice no longer a whisper.

“Quiet, don’t make me use my hand again” his voice low, not a whisper, but burly.

Your eyebrows furrow, great, stuck in the Middle East in a steel locker, non ventilated room with another person mashing against you in full military gear. Just what you wanted.

Ghost grabs hold his radio, “Trapped in a steel locker, unsure of coordinates, but we are about 20 metres West of the nearest tower”.

Waiting for a response, but none comes.

What the fuck? Are Price, Gaz and Soap dead? Why aren’t they responding? So many thoughts fill your mind, but Ghost seems unbothered, at least from what you can tell, he is behind you after all.

Soon a voice comes through, “We? Are you both trapped in a fucking locker!?” you hear Soap’s undeniable accent chime through the radio.

Your face would be bright red from that if it wasn’t already red from the heat.

“Right” Ghost replies.

A slight pause.

“Fucking hell, I’ll come get you two. Might be a bit, some bastards really want my head” Soap speaks.

A bit? Fuck, you don’t know if you can make it that long. You already feel slightly dizzy from dehydration, the heat, standing - all of it.

You have only slight room to move, just wanting to get out of the already hot locker. You shed your large gun and place it against the small space below your feet, Ghost mirroring you. After a few minutes of silence, awkward silence, you need to shed some more. It’s way too hot.

You take off your top, revealing a white tank top. Your legs wobble slightly, Ghost quickly grabbing your hips.

You can’t go past the irony, unsure why, but you decide to open your mouth “You know.. this would be hot if it weren’t for the situation”.

Silence.

Fuck, why did you say that? The feeling of embarrassment grabs hold of your stomach, yet - Ghost hand’s don’t move from your hips. If anything, his grip tightens.

You decide to double down, pushing your ass into him. If he says anything, you can just say it was an accident. Damn, pervert.

You soon feel his erection, one that has likely been there a long while.

He lets out a groan, his hands snaking down to your thighs.

“Fuck” he groans.

You put your hands against the locker door for stability, bending to the best of your ability into the man.

He pulls you in with his hands, helping you grind against his clothed length.

His pace quickens, and soon you’re practically fucking with clothes on. He lets up on pulling you, instead snaking his way onto the waistband of your military pants, dragging them down. The locker was dark, except for the slits of light in the holes.

After your pants are off, to the best of both your abilities, he then moves to your panties, slowly sliding those off too.

He fondles your ass for a bit, grazing your soaked cunt with his gloved hands. It causes you to twitch, eliciting a slight chuckle from him, he knows how much power he has over you right now and he loves it.

“Please..” you whine.

“Hmm.. princess?” he hums.

His name for you causes you to whine, pressing yourself further into his still clothed erection.

“So needy..”

He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last time you were fucked, definitely at least 10 months ago. You both wanted this, no, needed this.

He soon takes his waistband, pulling it down, his erection pulsing against his briefs. A slight pool of precum soaking it.

He pulls his briefs down, his length springing to hit his stomach.

You can’t say you didn’t expect him to be big, but definitely not this big. His base was at least 2.5 inches wide and probably 8 inches long. His cut tip leaking precum.

He slaps it against your ass, causing you to bend further against the locker door.

He teases your soaked cunt, playfully circling your seeping hole before pushing the tip in.

He groans, “Feels good, huh? Hmm, princess?”

You let out a moan, his tip already making you feel full. His other hand snakes to your clit, while the other steadies his cock and tip in your pussy.

He pumps into you slightly, “Hmm? Feel good? You can take it, I know”

“Fuck, S..Simon..”

His reaction to you moaning his real name was.. unexpected.

“Ughmm.. fuck.. say it again, say my fucking name”

His groans fill the small locker.

“Simon, please fill me”

You speak in a seductive tone.

This is enough for him to push himself straight into you. His balls slamming into your clit as his fingers circle it. His hand that once held his length now holds your waist, pushing you further onto him.

Your moans and screams of pleasure and the stinging pain that comes with sex, fill not only the locker - but the whole room.

“Your moans are so fucking hot”

His brooding voice turning you on even more.

You soon find yourself at your limit.

“Fuck, Simon.. I’m gonna.. fuck” you cry.

His pace becoming sloppy, his dick twitching inside your tight cunt.

“I know.. fuck.. cum with me, baby” he buries his head into the nook of your sweaty neck.

You soon feel your orgasm taking over, pushing yourself unrythmatically against Ghost.

Once you’ve came, you continue to feel Ghost pumping into you, reaching his high not soon after you.

You feel his warm seed fill your inside, causing a deep groan of your name from Ghost’s mouth.

“Fuckkkk..”

He leaves his cock in you for a bit, before pulling it out.

You’re both out of breath, hot as hell, and naked below your belts.

“Shit, Ghost, what about So-“

“Soap. I know”

He then opens the locker with a card he stuck in between the steel of the locker and the door. This causes the locker door to push open.

The direct light blinds you for a moment, before you realize your nudity. You pull your panties and trousers up, realizing his seed sits inside of you.

You turn to see Ghost already dressed. He hands you your gun without a word. You hear someone running in, and you’re not prepared, Ghost raises his gun - but realizes it’s Soap.

“Thought you guys were trapped in a locker?” He asks out of breath and slightly annoyed.

“Something like that”.

[purlty23]

Anonymously asking the people I follow to talk about something that makes them happy! (I don't remember if i've already asked you this before ignore it if I have) Do me a learn if you're so inclined!

Hello dear anon! I don’t think I have gotten this before, it must have been one of the many that I’m sure slip through tumblr’s cracks. I love any excuse to talk about my interests, this is such a gift! Since we’re in the demon church fandom here, why not some history of demon summoning? Every horror movie you’ve ever seen where demons are summoned in under 24 hours vastly underestimate the work that allegedly went into the practice!

Before anything, I’m going to cite my source for everything here. Grimorium Verum is a grimoire written in the 18th century, though in the books itself it claims to be from 1517. Markedly untrue. It translates to True Grimoire, and it’s one of the only grimoires out there from the era that has a detailed description of the summoning of demons. It shares some things of note with the Greater and Lesser Keys of Solomon, which was written during the Italian Renaissance. You can read Grimorium Verum translated here! One thing you’ll notice if you read it is how quickly the author is to tell you that everything is of consequence. Every action, every word, and even down to the time that they’re done or said is of meaning. It would be incredibly difficult to do it ‘on accident’ going by these guidelines like a lot of pop culture would have you believe First, you’d have to know which demon you want. Each demon has a specific talent or task it can complete. They also have their own sigils. That’s where works like Psuedomonarchia Deamonum, published in 1577, come in handy. Here’s my personal version of it if you’d like to read. It’s a full A-Z list of Hell’s notable demons and their standing in Lucifer’s leagues. Once you’ve figured that out, there’s a lot to plan. Preliminary incantations are just the beginning of pages upon pages of latin that would need to be spoken. The first Invocation is written on virgin parchment- parchment made of a young animal’s tanned hide, likely goat. Purification of the summoner must take place before any instruments for the summoning can be made:

The lancet, made of new steel on the day and hour of Jupiter in the crescent moon. Followed by reciting Orison and the Seven Psalms

The sacrificial knife, which needs to be made of new steel and strong enough to cut through the neck of a young goat. Made on the day of Mars on a full moon. It needs specific carvings on the hilt, and once more follow by Orison and the Seven Psalms

The virgin parchment, which must be made from the sacrificial goat, lamb, or other animal killed with the knife above. All other instruments must remain on the altar at the time of creation.

Two rods; both of hazel wood, one cut in a single stroke on the day and hour of Mercury on a cresent moon, one cut in a single stroke on the day and hour of the Sun. Followed by none other than Orison

Confused about all these days and hours? No worries- those of the time and talent would have had a great grasp on planetary days and hours. Every single step of tanning the virgin parchment comes with it’s own ceremony and incantations, and every action matters.

The summoner must to it all on their own before preparing themselves. They must pray in specific ways at specific times for three days. Seeing how we know this all must start in the day and hour of Jupiter, after those three days of prayer it would be 11 days of preparation.

The actual summoning ritual has to be on a Tuesday. It’s a lot of drawing of sigils, invocations and conjurations. It’s actually the simpler part of everything, if the grimoire is to be believed. However… it claims there to be two kinds of pacts to be made with demons: the tactic and the apparent. The apparent is notably also called the explicit. We can infer quite a bit from that one sly comment by our sassy writer here.

[schrijverr]

You Don’t Know Me, But I Know You 3

Chapter 3 out of 6

5 times Tim showed he stalked Robin + 1 time Jason did

Inspired by this post of thecrazyleader.

On AO3.

Ships none

Warnings: none

~~~~

3. A Familiar Story

This time, they’re not out on patrol, but sitting around in the living room. It’s a rare moment that Jason is joining them, not for a case, but just to hang around.

They’re all in the library, draped over the comfortable chairs and couches there. Duke and Damian had been doing homework, while Tim worked on WE stuff and Jason read a book. However, they have all slowly abandoned what they were doing and are now sharing stories of their time as vigilantes (mostly trying to one up each other in front of Duke, the new guy, the fresh canvas).

Jason is talking now, just finishing his story smugly with: “And that’s how I knocked out Killer Croc with one punch. Guy never saw it coming.”

“Are you for real, man?” Duke asks, both awed and skeptical.

“Yeah, I had a mean right hook, even back on the street. He didn’t stand a chance,” Jason brags.

“I don’t know,” Duke says, a little apologetic. “You were our Crime Alley Robin, everyone heard you talk. We were extra proud of you back there. I kept up. But you were like a 100 pounds soaking wet back then. I’ve fought Killer Croc, there’s no way.”

“Tt, it does seem unrealistic, Todd. It’s unbecoming to aggrandize yourself and a tactical error,” Damian says.

“Oi, brat, I was your size back then, think you couldn’t KO Croc?” Jason shoots back, getting annoyed.

“Of course I could,” Damian sniffs. “But unlike you, I have years of training and am naturally more gifted when it comes to martial arts.”

“Who’s aggrandizing now, you little shit,” Jason snarls, gearing up to jump Damian, when they’re interrupted by Tim, who says: “Nah, Jason’s telling the truth.”

“What?” Duke chokes.

“Why are you taking my side all of a sudden?” Jason asks, suspicious (which is fair, since Tim usually doesn’t take his side, often leaving him on his own, even when Tim knows he’s right, just because he can).

“I took pictures of it,” Tim shrugs. “I can show them to you if you don’t believe it.”

“What the fuck,” Duke mutters softly, but he’s drowned out by Damian telling Tim to cease aiding and abetting Jason’s lies, while Jason demands Tim shows them the photos so he can get justice.

Soon they’re in Tim’s bedroom, where Tim is dragging a big box from one of his closets that is marked with the date of Jason’s second year as Robin. As he opens it up to reveal tons of photos, Jason comments: “Okay, if I wasn’t so hell bend on proving my badass-ness, I would comment on what a fucking creep you were, Timbo.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” Tim says resentfully. “It’s just a hobby.”

“Can anyone please tell me what the hell is going on? Where did he get all these?” Duke asks, sounding a little scared as he watches Tim go through the box to find the right one.

“B didn’t say that Tim only got my job because he used to stalk us?” Jason asks, though it’s more a comment.

“It’s so pathetic, it is obvious that only Drake would wiggle his way in like that,” Damian says, managing to judge both Tim for the photos, Bruce for adopting Tim and Duke for not knowing.

“No,” Duke replies, a little shrilly.

“It’s in the files, don’t any of you read those?” Tim complains, before making an aha sound as he pulls out a photo set that shows exactly what Jason described.

Jason holds them above his head as he crows: “Victory!” before he ruffles Tim’s head: “You’re still a fucking creeper though, Timbit.”

“You don’t get to complain when I’m backing you up,” Tim bitches back, snatching the photos back.

[songsofbloodandwater]

I want to bring to the attention of people that overgeneralizing history is just as bad as pseudohistory, if not the very same thing. History is incredibly region and culture-specific. Claiming that specific things never happened anywhere is just as bad as claiming that this very specific thing happened everywhere and that it's somehow all connected.

Just to give an example, I've been seeing a lot of discourse around how "the whole 'Mother goddess worship was replaced by patriarchy' is actually pseudohistory" and I have bad news for you. This has happened. Multiple times, in multiple cultures. One such example is in my own indigenous culture and history. My Nation is strongly matriarchal, both political and spiritual authorities are always women, and a big part of our culture is the idea that all our people are descended from (or created by, there's some variations in myth) a single female "goddess" Ancestress. Goddess isn't really the right word for this indigenous ancestral spirit but it's the closest thing in english, bear with me.

Wouldn't you know, we eventually became part of a bigger Empire for almost 200 years before the spanish even got to the Americas, and that Empire was... you guessed it, a patriarcal culture claiming their political leaders were a lineage directly descended from a sun god. What happened is exactly what you're claiming to be "only pseudohistory": a patriarchal culture invaded us, colonized us, and as part of said colonization and in order for us to be both politically and spiritually-culturally annexed to their Empire, our Ancestress-Goddess was demoted from "Mother of all, none is above Her" to "just another goddess, sibling of the other gods" and yes, subordinate to the Sun God their patriarchal leaders claimed descent from, in order to justify colonization through myth.

This is just one example. Take to reading real history and you'll find hundreds of similar cases around the world. The downgrading of local female cults being used to justify patriarchal cultures invading, colonizing or anyhow ascending to power is found almost everywhere in the world. It's a colonialist tactic used over and over again throughout history and not only applied to matriarchal societies, but to any society they wished to overpower. It's not always "we had one goddess in our matriarchal culture" as that is, again, overgeneralizing and oversimplifying things. In ancient times polytheism was more common, and more often than not it was less about replacing one god with another, or one cult with another, and more about subduing the population by first subduing their god/desses. Look no further than the case of Asherah and how one king decided he had right to rule the entire region because "my god is better than yours! and we should all be monotheistic!" and next thing you know, they're telling people to destroy Asherah poles and embrace the One True God. They didn't just ban Asherah worship, they also demonized all the other Gods (see, the treatment the Divine Council got and how all except one God were demoted) but you can't deny that yes, a patriarchal cult banned and destroyed a goddess cult. It also was part of a far bigger religiopolitical process of assimilation under one rule.

My case stands: "Goddess worship was destroyed by patriarchy" is not pseudohistory. It's just that all those different cults and "Goddesses" weren't all the same. They were different cultures, with different cults, and in very different religiopolitical contexts. The problem isn't that "that's never happened in history" the problem is the idea that "every goddess is one and the same" and therefore all the instances it's happened in history are somehow the same and connected. They're not. We need to attack the real problem, the real misconception.

Denying that patriarchal colonialist cultures work by undermining the religious-political structures of the people they invade, by destroying their faith and subjugating them to their own religio-political structures, is denying history.

We need to stay away from throwing overgeneralizations and embrace the nuances that come from history being so different from region to region. And please, learn to take into account indigenous voices and acknowledge the colonial biases in what you read. If you don't know or don't want to acknowledge how the politics of colonialism affects and warps the colonized population's religion and beliefs, of course you'll say it's all pseudohistory.

The truth is we need to acknowledge our differences (and respect those differences between cultures, historical periods, and cults, and the very real consequences it's had on different groups of people to this day).

[godsfavdarling]

that makes two of us

pairing: Spencer Reid x Elle Greenaway

summary: There's always been more between Elle and Spencer. Will they be able to be honest with each other?

list of chapters, also available on wattpad and Ao3, my masterlist

warnings: none

words: 2,5k

Spencer sat at his desk, his gaze fixed intently on the chessboard before him. The pieces were arranged in a familiar pattern, the black and white squares forming a grid of possibilities. He studied the board, his mind racing through the potential moves and countermoves, lost in the intricate dance of strategy and tactics.

Suddenly, a voice broke through his concentration, causing him to startle slightly. "Check. Checkmate in three moves," said a familiar voice behind him.

Spencer turned to see Gideon standing next to him moving the pieces on the board, a knowing smile on his face. 

"What?" Spencer asked, blinking in confusion.

Derek with a grin chimed in, "You know, you'll beat him when you start learning."

Spencer furrowed his brow, puzzled by Derek's cryptic remark. "Learning what?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

“To think outside the box.”

Spencer frowned. Lost in thought, he returned his gaze to the chessboard, the pieces blurred and indistinct before him. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was missing, some key piece of the puzzle that eluded him.

Just as he was about to delve deeper into his thoughts, Elle's voice cut through the silence. "Question for you," she said, her tone serious.

"Shoot," Derek replied, turning his attention to her.

"The Footpath Killer," Elle began, her eyes narrowing in concentration. "Why did he stutter?"

As Spencer heard her voice and saw her approaching, a subtle flutter of nerves coursed through him.

She mesmerized him, her presence casting a spell that left him captivated. He watched as she leaned against her desk, her movements graceful and fluid, while Derek spoke beside her. Her proximity to him, right beside his desk, only heightened his awareness of her.

Try as he might, Spencer found it increasingly difficult to focus on the chessboard before him. His attention kept drifting back to Elle, her every gesture, every word captivating him in a way he couldn't explain. It was as if she held some inexplicable power over him, a magnetic pull that he couldn't resist.

Just as Spencer's thoughts began to spiral, a blonde figure appeared beside Elle, interrupting his reverie. 

It was JJ, their new media liaison, her vibrant energy filling the room as she launched into conversation. Spencer forced himself to listen, nodding along absently as JJ chatted animatedly with Elle and Derek.

But trying as he might to follow the conversation, Spencer's mind remained fixated on Elle, her presence a constant distraction that left him feeling off balance. He couldn't shake the feeling of excitement that danced in his chest whenever he looked at her.

As Hotch's voice broke through the chatter, commanding everyone's attention to gather in the conference room, Spencer felt a sense of relief wash over him. The sudden shift in focus provided a welcome distraction from his tumultuous thoughts. 

As he rose from his desk and followed the others into the room, he couldn't help but notice Elle's lingering gaze on him.

He turned to meet her stare, his heart skipping a beat at the intensity he found there. For a moment, they locked eyes, a silent exchange passing between them, before Elle finally broke the spell.

"Hey, Reid," she said softly, falling into step beside him as they made their way to the conference room. "You seemed a bit distracted back there. Everything okay?"

Spencer blinked, caught off guard by her sudden attention. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he struggled to find the right words. "Um, yeah, I'm fine," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just...lost in thought, I guess."

Elle's brow furrowed with concern, her eyes searching his face for any sign of discomfort. "You sure?" she pressed, her tone gentle.

Spencer nodded, offering her a small smile in return. "Yeah, I'm sure," he replied, willing himself to appear more composed than he felt.

They entered the conference room and took their seats around the table and Spencer stll couldn't shake the feeling of Elle's gaze on him, a constant presence at his side.

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

As Spencer and Elle delved deeper into their analysis of the case, their conversation flowed seamlessly, each idea building upon the last as they pieced together the puzzle before them.

"The timer sets the road flare, which then lights the chemical mixture inside the canister. Simple," Elle mused, her brow furrowed in concentration.

"Yet sophisticated in its simplicity," Spencer added, nodding in agreement. "There's a meticulous construction to it."

"Chemical accelerant could mean a chemistry student," Elle stated, her gaze fixed on the evidence board.

"But it could also mean a chemistry professor," Spencer countered, his mind racing with possibilities.

Elle considered his words for a moment before offering her own insight. "I say student," she decided, her voice confident. "You need self-confidence to lecture in front of a classroom full of 30 college kids."

"Arsonists are socially incompetent," she continued, her tone thoughtful. "This guy doesn't go on dates. He doesn't go to parties. He doesn't feel comfortable in front of groups."

Spencer's brow furrowed as he realized she was describing him. His mind raced, but before he could respond, Elle continued.

"And, of course, he's a total psychopath," she added, her eyes flicking to Spencer as she saw him piecing it together.

"'Course," Spencer replied awkwardly, a hint of discomfort in his tone.

"I mean, not that you're anything like them, Reid. I didn't mean—"

Spencer held up a hand, cutting her off before she could finish. "It's okay, Elle," he reassured her, offering her a small smile. "I know what you meant.”

"Still... I'm sorry... if I made you feel uncomfortable. That... wasn't my intention."

Spencer shook his head, dismissing her apology with a wave of his hand. "No harm done," he replied, his voice steady. "We're all just trying to understand the unsub, one puzzle piece at a time."

As they lingered in the aftermath of their discussion, a subtle tension hung in the air, laden with unspoken words and unexplored feelings.

"I appreciate your insight," Spencer said softly, breaking the silence that had settled between them. "You always think of the details,"

Elle met his gaze, a faint smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Thanks, Reid," she replied, her voice warm with gratitude. "You're not too bad yourself."

Spencer felt a rush of warmth spread through him at her words, a small spark of hope flickering to life within him. "I'm just doing my job," he murmured, his gaze dropping to his hands as he fiddled with the edge of his notebook.

Elle reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "You do more than just your job, Spencer," she said softly, her touch sending a shiver down his spine. "You care. And that makes all the difference."

Her hand on his arm sent a subtle tremor through him, a sensation he couldn't quite ignore. It was as if her touch carried an electric charge, stirring something deep within him. A tender shiver ran down his spine, a response to the gentle yet steadfast pressure of her fingertips against his skin.

"You care too," Spencer murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Well, that makes two of us," she said with a smile, her eyes sparkling with warmth and sincerity.

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

On a quiet Sunday evening, Elle picked up her phone and dialed Spencer's number, curious about his recent date with JJ. As the call connected, she could sense a hint of apprehension in Spencer's voice.

"Hey, Reid, how was your date with JJ?" Elle inquired, her tone gentle.

Spencer let out a sigh on the other end of the line. "Well, it wasn't exactly a date," he admitted reluctantly.

“What happened?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.

Spencer hesitated before confessing, "She brought Garcia along, so it wasn't exactly just the two of us."

Elle frowned, puzzled. "What? How did that happen?" she asked, her mind racing to fill in the blanks.

"I don’t know, it just happened," Spencer said, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his voice.

"Well, that's... unexpected," she remarked, shaking her head in amusement.

Spencer let out a rueful laugh. "Tell me about it," he said, his tone resigned. "But it's fine. JJ just doesn't think of me in that way, whatever."

Elle's heart went out to him. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

"It's okay," Spencer said, his voice carrying a hint of resignation.

Elle paused, considering his words before a spark of determination lit up in her eyes. "Well, it's not that late, and you don't go to sleep early either way, so... how about we go for a drink?" she suggested, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You don't turn 24 every day."

Spencer blinked in surprise at Elle's proposition, caught off guard by her spontaneity. But he couldn't help but feel a flicker of excitement stir within him. "Sure, why not?" he replied, a smile spreading across his face. "A drink sounds nice."

The dimly lit ambiance of the bar provided a comforting backdrop as Spencer and Elle settled into their seats, the clink of glasses and murmur of conversation filling the air around them. Spencer tried to put on a brave face, but the weight of disappointment still lingered in his eyes.

Elle studied him for a moment, her heart aching at the sight of his pain. "Are you okay, Reid?" she asked softly, reaching out to gently touch his hand.

Spencer forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, his voice tinged with sadness.

Elle shook her head, her expression full of empathy. "You don't have to pretend with me," she said gently. "I can see that you're hurting."

Spencer sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It's just... JJ," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thought maybe... but I guess I was wrong."

Elle reached out, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Sometimes, things just aren't meant to be," she said softly. "And that's okay."

Her touch sent a jolt through him, his stomach twisting with nerves. 

He usually avoided physical contact, but with her, it felt different—her hand on his sparked a flutter of warmth and longing he couldn't ignore. Despite his usual aversion, he found himself drawn to her touch, grateful for the comfort it offered in a way he had never experienced before.

Spencer nodded, though his heart still felt heavy with disappointment. "I know," he murmured. "It's just hard to accept sometimes."

Elle leaned in closer, her gaze locking with his in a silent display of solidarity. "You'll find someone, Spencer," she said earnestly. "I promise."

Spencer's lips curved into a small smile, touched by Elle's words of encouragement. "Thanks, Elle," he said gratefully. "I appreciate that."

She smiled back, her eyes shining with warmth. "Anytime..." she replied, her voice filled with sincerity. 

"And remember, if you know, you know. JJ clearly wasn't meant for you, but I promise there will be many more pretty blonde girls who'll fall head over heels for you Doctor Reid."

Spencer chuckled softly, the heaviness in his heart beginning to lift. "I'll hold you to that," he said, his smile growing wider.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his words stumbling over one another as he struggled to articulate his thoughts. "And, uh, I don't... I mean, blonde hair... It's nice, right? JJ's hair is... beautiful. And I think she looks very... good in that color. But that doesn't... I mean, I don't... It's not like I have a preference or anything. Brown hair, dark brown, that's great too. I mean, your hair, Elle, it's... it's great. Really great. I like it. A lot. It suits you, and... and it's just... really nice."

Elle couldn't help but smile at his nervous rambling, her heart swelling with affection for the endearingly awkward man sitting across from her. "Thank you, Spencer," she said softly, reaching out to gently pat his hand. "That's very sweet of you to say."

Spencer blushed furiously at her words, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "I, uh, I mean... it's just... you know," he stammered, struggling to find the right words.

Elle chuckled softly, her laughter ringing out like a soothing melody in the crowded bar. "I know," she reassured him, her gaze warm and understanding. "And I appreciate it. Really... I do."

"You know, there's actually an interesting correlation between hair color and attraction," he began, his voice gaining confidence with each passing word. "Studies have shown that blonde hair is often associated with youth and vitality, which can be perceived as attractive traits. But then again, darker hair colors like brown and black are often seen as more sophisticated and mysterious, which can also be appealing to certain individuals."

Elle listened intently, her eyes never leaving Spencer's face as he spoke. She found herself captivated by the way his mind worked.

"And then there's the cultural aspect to consider," Spencer continued, his words flowing effortlessly now. "In some societies, blonde hair is highly coveted and seen as a symbol of beauty and desirability. But in others, darker hair colors are preferred, and blonde hair might not be as valued."

Elle nodded, absorbing Spencer's words with keen interest.

"And of course, personal preference plays a role as well," Spencer added, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "Some people might have a strong preference for one hair color over another, while others might not have a preference at all. It's all subjective, really."

Elle's curiosity piqued, she leaned in slightly, her eyes fixed on Spencer with genuine interest. "So, Reid, if you had to choose, which hair color would you prefer?" she asked, her tone soft.

Spencer paused for a moment, his gaze thoughtful as he considered her question. "Honestly, I don't really have a preference when it comes to hair color," he confessed, his voice gentle. "I mean, sure, I can appreciate the beauty of different colors, but ultimately, looks are just superficial. What I look for in a person goes beyond mere physical appearance."

"And what is it that you look for, then?" she inquired, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Spencer smiled, a hint of warmth in his eyes. "I look for something more," he explained, his voice earnest. "I look for kindness, intelligence, compassion. Someone who... sees the world with the same sense of wonder and curiosity that I do. Someone who... challenges me, inspires me, makes me... want to be a better person."

Elle felt a swell of emotion stir within her as she listened to Spencer's words, her heart touched by the sincerity of his sentiment.

"Maybe one day," Spencer added softly, his gaze meeting hers. "Maybe one day, I'll find someone who fits that description. And when I do, I'll know... it's worth the wait."

Elle smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest at the thought of Spencer finding the love and happiness he deserved. "I have no doubt you will, Reid," she said, her voice filled with conviction. "And when you do, she'll be one lucky girl."

Spencer's gaze softened, touched by the sincerity in her voice. He could feel the warmth of her encouragement seeping into his soul, kindling a spark of hope within him.

A faint smile played on Spencer's lips as he glanced down, realizing that Elle's hand still rested on his.

[madeleine-w]

DBD Killers and Face Camping

Contains: Trapper, Huntress, Oni, Plague, Cannibal, Legion (Frank) and Ghostface

Warnings: None (except a bit of swearing )

The Trapper

Fuck no. I headcanon that this guy is basically in charge of the killers (I mean he obviously has no authority over any of them but you know what I’m talking about)

He’s been around since the beginning, he knows how to win this game

Usually puts a trap hidden near the hook and carries on looking for the others

Occasionally, when he hates the Entity even more than usual, he’ll put three or four traps around whoever he’s hooked — it’s his own special version of face camping :)

The Huntress

This is the only one I’ve been properly on the fence about, and truthfully it could go either way

Now Anna is an incredible hunter, we all know this, and she’s well aware that you have a better chance of catching your prey if you have multiple potential targets

She enjoys feeling like she’s eliminated all threats to her space and that’s easier to do if she leaves a survivor on a hook to chase the others

But there’s still that hunters’ instinct

She’s NOT happy about the idea of leaving her prey out of sight, especially knowing it’s likely someone will save it - it just feels unnatural to her, unlike much of The Entity’s Realm.

I’d say she usually doesn’t face camp (or at least tries not to) but sometimes she can’t help herself

The Oni

Lmao

This man must have some kind of ADHD because, upbringing or not, he can’t stay still

Like come on, he has demon dash and you’re gonna pretend he likes to stand about? No, Kazan is a ball of energy (and rage)

As soon as you’re hooked, he’s racing off to find the next poor sack of meat to string up

The Plague

Yes but in quite a loose way

She’ll stay in the general area and keep an eye on whoever she’s hooked, and would definitely attack the survivor who goes to help them

I can’t see her standing right next to the hook for ages

Which is probably a good thing cos she doesn’t smell like roses

The Cannibal

100% yes

Will facecamp for no reason, there are absolutely no tactics involved

The other killers have half-heartedly tried to explain that it just makes it harder for him to win the trial

He’s ignored them all

He’s just happy to be involved

Kate once complimented his mask and he unhooked her…

The Legion (Frank)

A deeply unhinged individual so who can really tell at this point

Usually he doesn’t face camp, kind of on the same wavelength as Kazan

He just has too much energy and races straight off

BUT this man’s instincts in trials are incredible and I will fight someone on this

He immediately knows when a survivor is about to be unhooked and will turn straight back round to attack whoever decided to play hero

(Will face camp Dwight with no hesitation, the only explanation anyone has ever gotten is “his face annoys me”)

The Ghostface

Generally speaking, no

Purely because there’s a limit to how much chaos he can cause while waiting for someone to come and unhook their friend

It’s much more fun to roam around and create more panic

However

Danny is a little shit and we all know it

So if he’s feeling particularly… playful, he’s much more likely to sit and laugh at you (and maybe stab your foot while you kick)

Has a whole bunch of photos of him holding a peace sign above the head of hooked survivors. At least he’s having fun I guess??

Feel free to send me any headcanon/one shot requests for any DBD killers or other slashers :)

[intheticklecloset]

Miscellaneous Coffee Shots #2

A compilation of coffee shots for fandoms that I'm pretty sure I will not be writing for anymore. This compilation includes: Dakaichi, Demon Slayer, Junjou Romantica, Sekaiichi Hatsukoi, and Snow White With the Red Hair.

~~~

Dakaichi

Lee Junta, Ler Takato

“Ah!” Takato barely covered up his surprised squeak in time, blushing furiously as his partner leaned over his shoulder from behind and chuckled into his ear.

“Gotcha,” Junta teased, arms slipping around the smaller man playfully. “You’re so sensitive, Takato~”

Takato growled, wriggling in his grip. “I’ll make you regret that,” he snapped. “Mark my words.”

Junta chuckled again, not believing him in the slightest, but it only made the fire in Takato’s chest burn even more. He would get revenge this time. He would!

~

Later that night after they’d put the groceries away, had some dinner, watched a movie, and were climbing into bed, Junta began kissing his neck and ears as he usually did to get things going, but this time Takato was having none of it. In a move so quick it actually caught the light-haired man by surprise, the smaller of them was suddenly on top with Junta looking up at him.

“What do you think you’re doing, Takato?” Junta purred, smirking.

Takato flushed, but he was not backing down now. “I’m making you pay for all the times you’ve embarrassed me in public, you demonic angel. Take this!”

Fingers flew across Junta’s torso, causing him to snort and cackle, arms pressing against his sides reflexively. “Hehehehey! Tahahahakato, dohohohon’t do that!”

“‘Don’t do that?’” Takato asked, incredulous, beginning to dig once his fingertips found a good spot just above his partner’s hips. The way the light-haired man threw his head back with clenched teeth as helpless giggles bubbled out of him was beyond worth it and so adorable Takato almost couldn’t stand it. “You never stop teasing me, even when I beg you to. So yes, I think I will do this. Seems you’re quite ticklish, Junta~ How could you have kept this from me? Hmm?”

Junta whined, barely managing to catch his lover’s eye as his giggles grew up and became genuine laughter, Takato’s thumbs rubbing circles into his hipbones and turning him to putty far quicker than either would have imagined possible. “Ahahahahaha! I’m sohohohohohorry, Takato! Plehehease!”

Takato snorted. “Sorry? No, you’re not sorry. But you will be.” He smirked, settling in, determined to make his infuriating partner beg him for once. “You will be.”

*

Demon Slayer

1) Lee Tanjiro, Ler Inosuke

“Fight me!”

“No.” Tanjiro ducked under Inosuke’s swinging kick, unsurprised and unbothered. It wasn’t unusual for his friend to get riled up like this, so dodging out of the way really felt like part of his everyday routine at this point. “You know I won’t fight you.”

“Yes, you will,” Inosuke insisted, kicking again, missing again. “I’ll get you to give up and fight me eventually!”

“I really won’t.” Another dodge, another jump over an attempted sweeping of his legs. Tanjiro rolled with it every step of the way. “Eventually you’ll be the one to give up and leave me alone.”

“Not today, Manjiro!”

“Tanjiro.”

Inosuke grumbled, eyeing his rival closely. Kicking the air wasn’t doing him any good. Maybe punching would be better? Though he wasn’t as good at that, it was at least worth a shot, wasn’t it? Balling up his fist, he swung his arm towards Tanjiro’s torso.

Tanjiro was surprised by the change in tactic, but still had enough training under his belt to jump out of the way in time. However, he was still unprepared enough that in trying to dodge he tripped and fell over. Before he could sit up again, Inosuke had seized his moment and pinned him to the ground.

“Fight me!”

“No!”

“I’m not letting you up until you agree to fight me in mortal combat – why are you laughing?!”

Tanjiro was biting his lip, desperately trying not to giggle and failing miserably. He flailed his arms, trying to claw Inosuke off of him. “I’m s-sorry! I’m not trying to! Y-You’re – ehehehehehe! – you’re tickling me!”

“What? Tickling?” Inosuke glanced down, confused and frustrated. He curled his fingers in, digging into his friend’s upper ribs, making Tanjiro jolt and giggle even louder.

“S-Stohohohohop!”

“I wasn’t trying to tickle you,” Inosuke grumbled, settling himself on Tanjiro’s waist, purposefully digging and clawing into his ribs and underarms this time. “But this seems to make you weak against me just as well, so I’ll take it!”

“Nohohohohoho! Wait, Inohohohosuke! Dohohohohohon’t!”

“Don’t what? Don’t tickle you? Don’t tell me you’re giving up that easily, Banjoro.”

“It’s Tahahahahahanjiro!”

“What kind of demon slayer are you if you can’t take a little tickling? I’m not even hurting you, you wimp!” Inosuke laughed, though it wasn’t mean. It sounded like he was enjoying messing with Tanjiro this way more than he was letting on.

Tanjiro laughed when his friend scribbled into his underarms, clamping his arms down in the split second before Inosuke grabbed both of his wrists and shoved them above his head, pinning them there while continuing to tickle gently but relentlessly.

“Oh, no you don’t!”

“Ahahahahahahaha! Stahahahahahahap! I behehehehehet you’re juhuhuhuhust as tihihihicklish as mehehe!”

“Oh yeah? Bold words for someone who’s losing the battle right now.” Inosuke laughed victoriously. “Guess the only way for you to find out is to fight me.”

*

2) Lee Tanjiro, Ler Inosuke

“How could you?!” Zenitsu screamed, beginning to punch Tanjiro from behind before the poor man even had the chance to turn around.

“How could I what? Ow!” Tanjiro whined, trying to defend himself but not fighting back as his blonde friend continued to hit him. “Zenitsu, stop!”

“You told her, didn’t you?!”

“Told who what?!”

“Nezuko!”

Upon hearing his sister’s name, Tanjiro was only more confused. “What about her?”

“You told her, didn’t you? You told her how ticklish I am!”

Tanjiro could only blink at him, completely lost. “Uh…” Truthfully, he hadn’t even known Zenitsu was ticklish at all, let alone how much. “Did she…?”

“Yes!” Zenitsu resumed punching him. “And it’s all your fault!”

“Stop hitting me!” Tanjiro whined, finally managing to grab his friend’s arms and stop him. It was at this point that Inosuke seemed to have overheard their ruckus and came barreling up to join in on whatever was happening. “Zenitsu, I didn’t tell her anything. But even if I did, it’s no reason to hit me.”

“Why’s he hitting you?” Inosuke demanded, bouncing on his feet. “What did I miss? Who are we beating up?”

“No one!” Tanjiro exclaimed at the same time Zenitsu cried, “He told Nezuko I’m ticklish!”

“I did not!” the swordsman was growing weary of this conversation fast. He let go of Zenitsu’s hands and rubbed his forehead.

“Jeez, I thought you’d have been happy to have her lay hands on you,” Inosuke said brazenly.

Tanjiro was indignant. “Hey! That’s my sister you’re talking about!”

Zenitsu had gone silent. Very silent. Too silent.

Both of his friends watched him, exchanging concerned glances. Tanjiro opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly the blonde had perked up again.

“You’re right! I never thought of it that way!” Zenitsu then hugged the same friend he’d been punching just seconds before and took off, shouting over his shoulder, “Thanks for telling her, Tanjiro!”

“But I didn’t!” Tanjiro insisted, sighing, knowing it was all useless.

“Now, that was interesting.” Inosuke looked at him strangely. “Bold of you to spread rumors about other people when you’re pretty ticklish yourself, Hanhiro.”

Tanjiro sighed again. “Tanjiro. And I didn’t start any rumors – eeeek!”

Inosuke’s smirk could be felt even through his boar’s mask. He started out pinching, but quickly tackled his friend to the ground and tickled with more vigor, digging into Tanjiro’s ribs and sides mercilessly. Tanjiro squealed and threw his head back with a stream of giggles, weakly kicking his legs, trying to roll away.

“Hah! See? You’re ticklish, too!” Inosuke cackled victoriously. “Not so bold anymore, huh? Don’t go around telling people how ticklish blondie is when it’s just as easy to take you down!”

Tanjiro whined through his growing laughter, shaking his head in a desperate but useless gesture. “Buhuhuhuhut I dihihihihidn’t say anythihihihihing! Ahahahahaha! Inosuke, plehehehease, stohohohohop!”

Inosuke merely snorted in a way that Tanjiro knew meant he was having fun, and the swordsman resigned himself, knowing there was no way out of this ticklish situation now…

*

3) Lee Inosuke, Ler Tanjiro

“Keep up, Renjiro!”

“It’s Tanjiro!” Tanjiro shouted back at Inosuke, who was currently several paces in front of him as they ran laps around the complex where they’d been healing from yet another intense battle against the demons.

Why were they running laps? Well…honestly, Tanjiro wasn’t entirely sure himself. He’d been startled awake by Inosuke insisting they get back up and active (his friend was never one for sitting still, even while healing) before physically dragging him from bed and outside into the morning sunshine. Then Inosuke had taken off, and Tanjiro had never caught up to him since. It was amazing, really, considering how light on his feet he usually was.

“You’re getting too soft!” the boar-headed man called back to him now. “What if we get called into battle right now? You’ll die on the spot!”

Tanjiro couldn’t even argue with that. Gradually he slowed to a stop, bending over at the waist to try and regain some of his lost breath. Inosuke kept going, but a minute later he had circled around the complex and caught up to him from behind.

“Wimping out already?” Inosuke laughed. “I really am superior to you, Yonjiro!”

“Tanjiro,” Tanjiro corrected breathlessly as his friend sprinted past. “Why don’t you take a minute? You’re going to wear yourself out!”

“Can’t hear you over the sound of my victory!”

Within the next minute, Tanjiro had recovered his breath completely and was standing upright, turned to face the direction he knew Inosuke would be coming from any second now. Sure enough, after another half a minute he reappeared, looking – as much as Tanjiro could tell beneath his friend’s mask – just as worn out but stubbornly refusing to take a break.

“Inosuke, stop,” Tanjiro tried to order, but typical Inosuke completely ignored him and began to run past again.

Tanjiro quickly channeled what little energy he had left into bolting after his friend before he got too far away, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind, trying to slow him down by sheer force of gravity.

When that didn’t work – and before he could be pummeled to death by his friend’s endlessly pumping legs – Tanjiro did the only thing left he could think of. He dug his fingers into Inosuke’s ribs.

Inosuke let out a startled yell and twisted as he ran, sending both of them to the ground in a heap. Before he could think twice, Tanjiro was on top of him, fingers dancing along his ribs and sides quickly but with a light, playful touch that merely kept his friend in snorting giggles – enough to keep him from taking off again easily.

“Take a break,” Tanjiro said now that he had his friend’s full attention. “You’re going to wear yourself out, and then you’ll be dead if we get called into battle.”

“Thohohose dehehehehemons cahahahan’t kill me!” Inosuke cackled out his defiant reply, squirming on the ground and only barely trying to fight Tanjiro off of him. “And neheheheheither will thihihihihis pathetic attehehehehempt!”

Tanjiro smiled and kept tickling, enjoying the sudden, fun turn this morning exercise had taken. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not trying to kill you, isn’t it?”

*

4) Lee Inosuke, Ler Tanjiro

“Gyah!”

Inosuke turned to Tanjiro, who had jumped like a startled kitten at the slightest movement nearby. It was just another weird shadow, but the overactive boy didn’t seem to realize he was panicking over nothing.

“I’ve already told you,” Inosuke said, “there’s no one there. Stop being such a wuss.”

“You can’t know there’s no one there,” Tanjiro replied, hand on the hilt of his katana, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

“Of course I can.”

“You’re too relaxed! You need to have your guard up, Inosuke.”

“It is up.” Finally the boar turned to look at him fully. “Why are you so freaked out? This is weird for you.”

Tanjiro hesitated. He knew his friend was right, and he didn’t exactly want to admit why, but…

“My…my sister,” he finally managed, glancing around. “She’s not here with me, and it’s making me jumpy. I’m used to her weight on my back. And…I don’t know. Having her here just makes me feel better.”

Inosuke snorted. “Thanks.”

Tanjiro immediately realized how that may have sounded and backtracked. “No, no! Having you nearby helps, too, Inosuke! It’s just—”

“She’s your family. I get it,” Inosuke replied in a gentler tone, crossing his arms. “But seriously, you gotta calm down. There’s nothing here, and if there was, I’d know about it. You’re safe with me.”

The words were comforting, and Tanjiro finally felt the tension in him bleed out a little. “Thanks.”

Inosuke nodded, then turned and continued trekking onward. Tanjiro hurried to keep up. Watching his brazen friend so confidently strolling through a forest in the middle of the night both empowered him and made him curious. “So…if something were out to get you, you’d sense it?”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Yes, I would know.”

Tanjiro grinned, feeling mischevious. He lunged forward. To his surprise, Inosuke indeed suspected he’d do so and whirled around to meet him, but it did nothing to prevent the two of them from sprawling onto the ground together. Tanjiro’s hands quickly found purchase on his friend’s stomach, scribbling wildly. He was rewarded with a snort and a leg kicking into the air behind him

“Whahahahat?! Why are you – ahahahaha stahahahap! Hanhiro!”

Tanjiro chuckled, quickly laying on top of Inosuke so he couldn’t wriggle away easily, enjoying his surprisingly high-pitched laughter. “Maybe I should tickle you until you get my name right!”

“Nohohohoho!” Inosuke cackled, bucking again, another snort filling the air between them. “Quihihihihihit it! Lehehehehet me go!”

“But hearing you laugh makes me feel safer,” Tanjiro teased.

Inosuke groaned through his increasing giggles.

The two of them wound up being fairly late getting back home.

*

5) Lee Tanjiro, Ler Nezuko (ft. Zenitsu and Inosuke)

There were screams coming from a few rooms down the hall, startling Inosuke and Zenitsu into first looking at each other for confirmation they were both hearing it and then flying out of their beds in the sick ward to investigate the source.

Zenitsu fretted the whole way, worried it was a demon that neither of them were really prepared to fight in this state, but when Inosuke reached the room and flung open the door, both of them stopped short on the threshold, staring.

“GUYS!!” Tanjiro shrieked, red-faced and teary-eyed, laughing himself silly as his sister sat on his waist and danced her fingers along his torso, one hand plunged into his armpit. “HEHEHEHELP MEHEHEHEHEHE!!”

“What…?” Inosuke muttered, but Zenitsu’s eyes were wide and he couldn’t help blushing seeing the beaming smile Nezuko gave them both. Even though she couldn’t speak, it was apparent to them both how happy she was reducing her older brother to hysterics like this.

Neither of them moved.

Tanjiro continued kicking the air and pushing weakly at her hands, begging for mercy. “PLEHEHEASE, NEZUKO!! STAHAHAHAHAHAP!! I FEHEHEHEHEEL BEHEHEHEHETTER I SWEHEHEHEHEAR!!”

Zenitsu shoved past Inosuke and hurried over to them both. Nezuko watched him, curious as to which one of them he’d help. “Was Tanjiro feeling sad? Is that why you’re tickling him?”

She nodded.

He shot Tanjiro a smirk and positioned himself behind his friend’s head, reaching for his flailing wrists and pulling them away so his entire torso was opened up for Nezuko. “Then allow me to assist you, my lady!”

Nezuko beamed at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat.

“WAHAHAHAHAIT NO!! NOHOHOHO, PLEASE, I PROHOHOHOHOMISE I FEEL BEHEHEHEHETTER!!” Tanjiro cried, feeling panicked but also secretly enjoying this small return to normalcy for both him and his sister. Still, he screeched when she scribbled in both his underarms, Zenitsu’s hold on him keeping him at her mercy entirely. He suddenly remembered his other friend in the doorway and begged, “INOSUKE!! HEHEHEHEHELP ME, PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!”

Inosuke continued to stare for another few moments, then took a few tentative steps into the room. He was on Nezuko so fast no one had a chance to process it until her squealing giggles filled the air. The boar was just as surprised as the others that he’d chosen to intervene this way.

“Hey! Get your hands off her!” Zenitsu cried, lunging for him, but Tanjiro grabbed him around the waist and dug in, making the blonde shriek with laughter as well.

Soon all four of them were tickling each other wildly, not caring who was who, not taking sides. It was a rare moment of blissful fun for them all, and they took their time indulging in it while they could. When it was all over, all four of their hearts were full.

*

Junjou Romantica

Lee Misaki, Ler Usagi

“Are you stuck?”

“No!” Misaki shrieked, already knowing where this was going even as he struggled to get the shirt over his head and onto his body.

“Here, let me help you.”

“No! Don’t touch me-heeee! Usahahahagi-san!” the brunette squealed and burst into laughter at the light, teasing fluttering of fingers along his ribs. He wanted to bring his arms down to protect himself, but that was part of the problem – his arms were trapped in the shirt above his head, and the dark color of the fabric made it impossible for him to see anything.

Not that he needed to. He could feel Usagi smirking at him.

“There you go. Keep wiggling, it’ll come down eventually.”

“Usagi-sahahahahahan!” Misaki pleaded, trying to arch away from his evil boyfriend but only succeeding in toppling onto the couch face first, making it easier for the older man to pin him down and tickle him silly. “Nohohohohohohoho! Stahahahahahahahap, plehehehehehease – this is tohohohohohorture!”

“Is it?” Usagi teased lowly, practically lying on top of him, murmuring right into his ear, pinning him in place as he tickled. “Sounds like you’re having fun to me.”

“Please! I can’t breheheheheheheathe!” Misaki cried, truly gasping for air in the confined space he found himself trapped in. “Usagi-san!”

Thankfully Usagi could tell he was being serious, so he sat up and stopped tickling, finally grabbing the hem of the shirt to help tug it down the rest of the way, revealing Misaki’s blushing, giggly face as he turned his head to the side and gasped for air. “There you are.”

“That was mean,” Misaki pouted.

Usagi smirked, flipped him onto his back, and lightly scribbled along his belly teasingly. “I can’t wait for you to take it off later~” Misaki’s eyes widened, his blush darkened, and he grabbed the closest throw pillow he could find and smacked it into Usagi’s laughing face.

*

Sekaiichi Hatsukoi

1) Lee Ritsu, Ler Takano

“I’m mean? How would you like me to critique people, then?” Takano asked as he and Ritsu stepped out of the elevator, headed to their respective apartments for the night. At least, that was Ritsu’s plan, anyway – but god knew Takano often managed to get him into his own apartment one way or another.

“Just be nicer about it,” Ristu muttered. “It’s not that hard. Instead of saying something sucked, you could say you understand what they were trying to do but think it would come across better a different way. Authors are delicate creatures, you know.”

“Too delicate.” Takano sighed. “Whatever. I stand by my methods, and I daresay you could learn from them yourself, Onodera.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hey.” Takano grabbed his hand. “Stay with me tonight.”

Ritsu yanked his hand away. “No, thank you.”

“What’s the matter? Should I be nicer in my methods of persuasion?”

“You could stop grabbing me randomly like that, for one.”

Takano shook his head. “Maybe you just need a lighter touch.”

“L-Lighter…touch?” Ritsu took a step back, gasping when he felt the wall behind him. Takano trapped him against it. He didn’t like where this was going. “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s a bad idea.”

“Oh?” The taller man smirked, gently trailing his fingers down Ritsu’s sides to his waist. “You used to love it when I tickled you, remember?”

Ritsu’s eyes went wide. He struggled to keep his giggles at bay but was helpless against his wide smile. “S-Stop it!”

“Don’t you remember, Onodera? How you used to beg me to tickle you in high school?”

“Shut up! I’m not a kid anymore!”

“No,” Takano conceded, grabbing onto his sides with a vengeance and wrestling him into his apartment with relentless tickling, grinning at the squeals and giggles he got in response. “But you’re still just as ticklish.”

“Nohohohohohoho! W-Wahahahahahait! Takano! S-Stohohohohohohop…!”

*

2) Lee Kisa, Ler Yukina

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you really laugh before,” Yukina murmured into Kisa’s ear as he hugged him from behind, making the smaller man blush and squirm in his grasp.

“So?” Kisa mumbled. “Let me go, I’m trying to cook dinner.”

“What’re you making?”

“Food.”

“Oh, good. I thought it might be shoes.”

Kisa smirked, biting his lip. He tried not to giggle.

Yukina groaned playfully, grabbing his sides, tickling him. “Oh, come on, that was funny!”

“Hey! N-No! Yuki – stohohohop!” Kisa squealed, bringing his arms to his sides defensively, ladle still in hand. “You’ll buhuhuhuhurn me! Stohohohop!”

Yukina snatched the ladle from his hand while still tickling up into his underarm, forcing Kisa to twist to the side so he could put the utensil back in the pot and turn off the burner before wrestling his smaller boyfriend to the floor and pinning him there, fingers flying up and down his torso.

“Nohohohohohoho! No fahahahahahair tickling – Yuki, plehehehehehehease!” Kisa laughed, flailing and kicking, head thrown back with helpless cackles. “Ahahahahahahaha! Stohohohohohop!”

Yukina beamed down at him, slipping a hand beneath his sweater to scratch at his navel, adoring the shriek of desperation that he pulled from his partner. “You are too cute.”

“I’m nohohohohohohohot! Plehehehehease stop it, Yukihihiehehehehehe!”

Yukina gently took his hands and laced their fingers together, pinning them to the floor on either side of Kisa’s head. He leaned down to kiss him. “I love your laugh~”

“S-Shut up,” Kisa muttered, blushing, turning away. “It’s not cute.”

“It is.”

“Is not.”

Fingers scribbled against his side again, making Kisa yelp and Yukina smile. “Cute.”

“Nohohohohohoho!”

“I’ll tickle you all night long if that’s what it takes to convince you~” the taller man teased, biting his boyfriend’s ear gently. “Is that what you want?”

“N-No! Ah, wait – wahahahahahahait, Yuki! Plehehehease not agahahahahahain!”

Yukina chuckled. “Better admit it then, Shouta~”

“B-Buhuhuhuhuhut I’m nohohohot—! GAH!! NOHOHOHOHO, OKAY!! OKAHAHAHAHAY I’M CUTE PLEHEHEHEHEHEASE NOT THEHEHEHEHEHERE!! NOT THERE – YUKI!!!”

*

Snow White With the Red Hair

1) Lee Zen, Ler Izana

“Don’t do that!” Zen snapped at Izana, the next words coming out before he could stop them. “I’m ticklish!”

Izana quirked an amused brow at him. Zen immediately wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, flinching on instinct when his older brother took a step toward him again. “Brother—”

“Ticklish? Yes, I seem to recall you being quite ticklish.” Izana smirked, lunging for him once more.

Oh, how Zen wished Mitsuhide and Kiki were here. He reacted on pure instinct and training, fighting off his older, stronger brother easily at first, but it soon became apparent that Izana hadn’t really been trying right away. As soon as he had a mind to win, the crown prince grabbed both of Zen’s wrists and shoved him against the nearest wall, pinning him in place.

“That’s more like it,” he said, chuckling at his little brother’s vain attempts to escape.

“Don’t – Izana, don’t!” Zen let out a squeak when his brother pinched his side that instantly made him go pink in the cheeks. “This is childish!”

“On the contrary. I think this is exactly what you need,” Izana replied, then scribbled over Zen’s exposed belly, making the younger prince dissolve into helpless giggles. “Does your lady herbalist know how sensitive you are?”

“Nohohohohoho!” Zen both protested and pleaded in the same breath, snickers escaping him whether he liked it or not. He hadn’t been tickled by anyone – let alone his distant older brother – in years. It was almost as if the passage of time had made him more ticklish, because he did not remember it being this bad, and Izana was hardly touching him! “Stop! Izana, quihihihihihit it!”

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Zen?” Izana mused as though he weren’t making his brother cackle helplessly at his touch. “I’d almost forgotten how girly your giggles are.”

“Thehehehehehey’re nohohohot!” Zen snapped as best he could manage, cheeks going from pink to red. “Stohohohohop already!”

Finally Izana seemed to have had his fun. He released Zen and turned his back on him in one swift motion, leaving the younger prince to gather himself. “Well, that’s enough playing around.”

“You’re the one who—!”

“We both have work to do, so we’d best get to it, brother.” Izana’s tone was businesslike as usual, but Zen noticed with no small amount of surprise how his elder sibling shot him a knowing smile over his shoulder as he departed. “We’ll have to catch up some other time.”

*

2) Lee Obi, Ler Shirayuki

When Ryu stepped into the medical room, he took one look at Obi’s giggling form and stopped short. “What—?”

“Ryu! Perfect timing,” Shirayuki said, waving toward the lab next door. “I need you to make an antidote for Obi. Someone slipped him something in his drink and now he’s…well, like this.”

Obi snickered like it was a terrible joke he was trying not to react to. “I’m lohohohohohoopy!”

“You are,” Shirayuki replied gently as if responding to a child. “Ryu?”

Ryu blinked and stepped away without another word.

It was certainly unheard of for Obi to be so openly happy about something, but the thought that someone had managed to give him something to lower his defenses made one wonder if the drink wasn’t intended for Zen and Obi had swiped it first.

Either way, they had an overly giggly bodyguard to deal with now.

“You’re prehehehehehetty,” Obi cackled at Shirayuki, taking her arm and swinging it playfully. “I lihihihihihihike you. And Zehehehehen. And eheheheheveryone!”

Shirayuki was doing her best not to laugh herself. This was a serious matter and she knew it. “Thank you, Obi. I like you too.”

“You lihihihihike Zen mohohohohore.”

“Well…I like him differently, that’s all.” She blushed at his straightforwardness, though that in itself wasn’t all that unusual.

Then Obi pulled her down so she was sitting in his lap, and that was unusual. “You lihihihihike me dihihihihifferently?”

Shirayuki tried to stand up, but when he wouldn’t let her she resorted to the only thing she could think of. She grabbed his ribs and curled her fingers in.

To her surprise, Obi let out a girlish squeal and collapsed on the mattress, clutching his stomach. “Thahahahahat tihihihihihickles!”

She really shouldn’t. She needed to get him back to normal, now. It wouldn’t be fair of her to take advantage of him like this…

He reached up as if to tickle her back, and she panicked, sliding her hands to his hips and tickling there instead.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHA NOHOHOHOHOHO!!” Obi cried, bursting into actual laughter now. He gripped her wrists and squirmed crazily as she poked and prodded his waistline. “NO, DOHOHOHON’T TIHIHIHIHIHIHICKLE ME THEHEHEHEHEHERE!! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!!”

From the next room, Ryu called, “Um…Shirayuki?”

“Just hurry!” she called back, grateful he couldn’t see them, see the huge smile on her face as she played with her friend a little more. “His giggling is getting worse!”

Later, when it was all over and Obi was back to normal, Shirayuki would think of that day and cringe at how caught up she’d been in the moment. But then again, it had been so worth it to hear Obi let go and laugh like that…

[swan-of-sunrise]

Endgame (Chapter Two)

Summary: Armed with coordinates and a solid battle plan, the Avengers hunt Thanos down in the hopes of retrieving all six Infinity Stones to bring the Vanished back, but are quickly met with a shocking discovery.

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: This chapter’s on the shorter side but if you know what’s about to happen then you already know why (obligatory heads-up for sadness and angst in this one lol) Thank you for reading, I hope you all enjoy!

Chapter Two (Previous Chapter)

“Looks like you’re one of the ones with an added leg-up on this mission, hot-shot,” Natasha commented, casting a wary glance over at the towering Benatar while they waited for Rocket and Nebula to finish up their last-minute repairs to the spacecraft. “I’ve done a whole lot of things as a Black Widow, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and an Avenger, but I can’t say that I’ve ever traveled through space before.”

(Y/N) cracked a small smile as she fastened the last of her Asgardian armor over her new tactical suit. “Well, imagine you’re on the world’s fastest roller-coaster in the middle of a kaleidoscope and that kaleidoscope is trapped in a 9.5 magnitude earthquake, and that’s sort of what it’s like. Oh, and there’s a slight chance that you might pass out; that’s what happened to us after we escaped Sakaar and traveled to-” As she spoke, Natasha shuddered and Steve’s face paled, so she thought it best to quickly backtrack her words. “That’s only when you’re traveling through a jump-point, though! Normal space travel’s just like flying in a Quinjet or a helicopter, only the view is much prettier than anything you might see here on Earth and spaceships are a hell of a lot safer than a damn helicopter.”

“When I was a little kid, I always used to daydream about going to space…” The super-soldier sighed as he tugged his finger-less gloves on, the sorrow filling his features telling her that he was thinking about Carina. “Never thought that something like this would finally get me there.”

“Ship’s ready, humies!” Rocket announced across the manicured lawn of the Avengers Facility. “We just gonna stand around staring at each other all day or what?”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes at the raccoon’s attitude but followed Natasha and Steve as they boarded the Benatar for the first time. The trio took their seats in the second row of the spacecraft’s roomy flight deck, sitting in front of Rhodes and Thor and behind Rocket and Carol while Bruce and Nebula were seated on the lower level; for the first time in three weeks, the Asgardian didn’t look away when (Y/N)’s gaze met his and judging by the hint of a smile he gave her, he was feeling confident in their plan to acquire the Infinity Stones from Thanos and bring the Vanished back.

The spacecraft’s engines roared to life and once all of them fastened themselves into their seat harnesses, Rocket piloted them off the ground and up through the skies towards the planet’s upper atmosphere. Noticing how both Steve and Natasha were tensing up in nervous anticipation, (Y/N) nudged their shoulders and rested her hands palms-up on their shared armrests in an open invitation; the spy immediately latched onto her hand without taking her eyes off the flight deck’s viewport ahead but Steve was slower, tightly threading their fingers together and bringing their joined hands up to kiss the exposed skin above her engagement ring. They shared a knowing look before glancing over at Carol as she remarked with a reassuring smile, “Trust me, you get used to it.”

“Easy for you to say, Danvers, you glow and fly around shooting plasma bolts out of your fists for a living…” Natasha grumbled under her breath and (Y/N) bit back a smirk of amusement.

When Earth began to grow smaller through the flight deck’s viewports, Rocket turned around in his seat to address all of them. “Okay, who here hasn’t been to space?” Steve, Natasha and Rhodes all raised their hands. “You better not throw up on my ship.”

“Approaching jump in three…” Nebula called out as Steve’s hand gripped (Y/N)’s with a bruising force. “…two…” Natasha held her breath and braced herself against the back of her seat. “…one!”

The Benatar shot through the jump-point at breakneck speed and they were encased in swirling shades of blue and purple, speeding through space so quickly that all the stars around them appeared as fleeting streaks of white light. (Y/N) glanced over at Steve in time to watch his azure eyes widen in awe and despite the seriousness of their situation, she felt herself smile at the endearing sight. The moment they exited the jump-point at their final destination, however, her smile fell; the spacecraft hovered in orbit before the orange-colored planet where Thanos intended on living out the rest of his days, happy and satisfied in the knowledge that his plan to balance the universe had succeeded. He won’t be happy for very much longer, she thought as her jaw clenched tight, not if we have anything to say about it.

“That’s my cue.” Carol unclasped her seat harness and disappeared into the bowels of the Benatar; moments later, she appeared outside of the spacecraft and her voice spoke through their comm links. “I’ll head down for recon.” The captain flew off towards the tranquil planet while the rest of them finished planning and preparing for their impending fight with the Mad Titan.

(Y/N) had gotten up to help Natasha reboot the newly-repaired Hulkbuster armor for Bruce and was in the middle of adjusting her worn golden-yellow cloak when she saw Steve staring down at the familiar faded photograph of Peggy Carter pasted into the lid of his old compass; several years ago, she would’ve felt a pang of jealousy at the sight but now that she was older and their relationship had matured, she understood Steve’s connection to the remarkable woman and that there was nothing to feel insecure about. Throughout her groundbreaking life, Peggy Carter always seemed to know just what to do and if (Y/N) were being honest, she’d give just about anything to hear Peggy’s advice if it meant they’d win against Thanos and succeed in bringing everyone they’d lost back.

Natasha, who also noticed Steve and the weathered compass clutched tight in his hand, pursed her lips as her green eyes filled with sympathy. “This is gonna work, Steve.”

“I know it will.” After a moment, Steve closed the compass lid and looked up at the spy, the barest hint of fear in his gaze and a wavering edge to his voice as he continued. “Because I don’t know what I’m gonna do if it doesn’t.”

(Y/N) crossed over to where her fiancé sat and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss onto his jaw before nuzzling into his neck and listening to his steady heartbeat. “I promise that whatever happens down there, sweetheart, you won’t have to face it alone.” She tightened her hold on him as he leaned into her embrace. “I love you.”

Steve sighed and maneuvered his head so he could kiss her lips. “I love you too, sunshine.”

“No satellites, no ships, no armies…” Carol’s voice announced through their comms and they all turned toward the spacecraft’s viewport to see her fly up to it. “No ground defenses of any kind. It’s just him.”

(Y/N) and Steve exchanged a look as Nebula’s raspy voice filled the flight deck. “And that’s enough.”

The Benatar’s thrusters activated and Rocket piloted the spacecraft down through the planet’s upper atmosphere and into its clear blue sky littered with snow-white clouds; it was a tranquil planet, covered in trees and grass and peppered with stunning waterfalls of crystal-clear water, and (Y/N)’s blood boiled in rage at the thought of Thanos retiring to somewhere so beautiful after committing such heinous atrocities throughout the entire universe. The raccoon landed the spacecraft behind a dense forest of trees, out of sight of Thanos’ small hillside farm but close enough to journey there on foot, and they wasted no time, gathering their weapons and making their way through the trees towards their destination.

“Nice retirement project.” Once their group stopped by the trees bordering Thanos’ crops, Carol squared her shoulders and turned to face them as her body began to glow with cosmic energy. “Let’s pay this loser a visit, shall we?”

Carol shot off into the sky and blasted her way into the Mad Titan’s spacious farmhouse while Rhodes and Bruce followed in their respective armored suits; the sounds of battle echoed throughout the once-silent farm as all three heroes worked to restrain Thanos, and the rest of them began making their way up the path to the farmhouse. Once Rhodes gave him the signal through the comms, Thor burst into the farmhouse and Thanos bellowed in pain as the Asgardian severed his gauntlet-clad arm off with Stormbreaker.

(Y/N) exchanged an anxious look with Natasha and gripped her blaster’s shoulder strap as they followed Steve up the steps and into the farmhouse; inside, Thanos was kneeling on the floor and being restrained by Carol and Rhodes, while Bruce held him at repulsor-point and Thor brandished his blood-soaked battle axe. Rocket was the first to reach the severed arm but froze in shock when he flipped the heavy limb over to reveal six empty settings where the Infinity Stones once rested. “Oh, no.”

(Y/N)’s heart jolted in her chest and she glanced up to meet Steve’s eyes, an unsettling feeling beginning to form in the pit of her stomach; her emotions were reflected in her fiancé’s face but he did his best to bury them as he turned to face Thanos. “Where are they?”

When Thanos didn’t immediately answer, Carol’s glowing arm tightened around his neck. “Answer the question.”

“The universe required correction. After that, the stones served no purpose beyond temptation.”

“You murdered trillions!”

Bruce shoved the Mad Titan across the room, where he landed hard on the ground and spat out, “You should be grateful!” The Hulkbuster’s metal fist slammed into his charred purple face and stopped him from saying anything more.

Natasha’s green eyes shone with unshed tears and her voice shook as she took a step closer to Thanos and repeated Steve’s question. “Where are the stones?”

“Gone. Reduced to atoms.”

With her panic steadily rising, (Y/N) impulsively slung her blaster’s strap off her shoulder and aimed the weapon directly at Thanos’ smirking face, unbothered by the sudden threat of violence she found herself displaying. “We know you used the stones two days ago, so tell us where they are. Now.”

“I used the stones to destroy the stones. It nearly killed me, but the work is done…it always will be.” Her blood ran cold as the Mad Titan’s self-satisfied smirk widened, obviously relishing in their growing dread as they realized what had happened. “I am…inevitable.”

Hot tears formed in (Y/N)’s eyes as he repeated the same words he spoke to her back in Wakanda and she forced herself to look away, her knuckles tightening painfully around her blaster and her breath coming out in uneven puffs while all around her, the others were struggling to grapple with the seriousness of their situation. “W-We have to tear this place apart, he has to be lying-”

“My father is many things,” Nebula interrupted Rhodes’ rambling, her gaze trained on Thanos as a grim expression overtook her features. “A liar is not one of them.”

There was a subtle shift in Thanos’ demeanor and he looked up at his adoptive daughter with an emotion akin to pride written across his face. “Thank you, daughter. Perhaps I treated you too harshly.”

The sudden sound of Stormbreaker slicing through the air barely made (Y/N) flinch, her body entirely numb as she watched the Mad Titan’s decapitated head roll across the farmhouse’s floor. The others were in various states of shock, with a horrified Rocket being the only one to break the heavy silence engulfing the room. “What did you do?”

“I went for the head…” Thor replied, his voice shaking with grief and his eyes filling with tears. Without looking at any of them, the defeated Asgardian turned and walked out into the field of crops, his bloody battle axe still clutched tight in his hand.

Nebula, with the blood of her adoptive father speckled across her face, knelt down beside his severed head and closed his vacant eyes. Natasha and Rhodes were crying silent tears while Rocket sat on the farmhouse’s steps and buried his face in his hands, and both Carol and Bruce were at a loss for words as they stood and stared at Thanos’ body. (Y/N) hadn’t realized that her blaster was still raised until Steve’s hands came into view and gently pulled the weapon out of her bruising grip; her own hands were trembling as she covered her mouth and her shoulders shook with suppressed sobs, the feel of the super-soldier’s arms wrapping around her waist from behind proving to be the final straw. (Y/N) spun around and buried her face into Steve’s chest, her muffled cries echoing throughout the farmhouse as his own tears dampened her hair.

Steve held her against him even when her legs lost their strength but no matter how tight his grip on her was, there was nothing he could do to prevent her heart from shattering as she grappled with the knowledge that they’d lost. Their friends – some of the only family that either of them had – and their own daughter were truly gone forever, all because of Thanos.

“I am…inevitable.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I mean...you know I had to do it, right?? Lol at least we all know that things will eventually get happier for them both! Thank you all so much for reading and commenting! I’ve created a Spotify playlist inspired by this series, and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter. Enjoy!

Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5L6MERx3PIydW3FyNPqYvl?si=6e6119bc3e8b49d0

Chapter Three

“Endgame” Masterlist

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