#Painting metal is so soothing

[forgetful-river]

Women are always talking about "long live the new flesh" then immediately exploding, it's a real problem.

[gouinisme]

last 2 journals + next 1

[winterarmyy]

Against All Odds | Part I

An arranged marriage with the duke's illegitimate son!bucky.

Summary: In a medieval kingdom where magic and political intrigue are woven into the fabric of society, Y/N, the youngest daughter of a noble Earl family, finds herself in an arranged marriage to James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke. Known as the Winter Soldier, Bucky's reputation as a monster in war had instilled anxiety into Y/N's heart. But that fear quickly begins to crumble when she discovers that her husband is not the brutal figure society depicts him to be.

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)

Words: 8.1k++

Pairing: duke's illegitimate son!bucky x noble!female!reader

Warnings: fantasy/medieval au, i did not write this with much knowledge of fantasy nor medieval lore. I write it solely for plot and the couple dynamic lmao. if you're expecting full blown fantasy novel; this ain't it, man. anyways, 18+ contents, no minors allowed, nsfw, cunnilingus, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, loss of virginity, praise kink, breeding kink (if you squint), marking kink (i think), soft fluffy smut, a wee bit of dirty talk. soft!reader and even softer!bucky. (idk what else, so tell me if there's something i miss.)

P/S: This is the fic for an idea I had earlier this year. The first chapter will only cover the original post but what happens next is something you will need to look forward on the upcoming chapters. Enjoy your read!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Y/N stood in front of the grand mirror in her chamber, her reflection staring back at her with wide, fearful eyes. The delicate lace of her wedding dress was the opposite of the twisting anxiety in her stomach. Today, she was to marry James Buchanan Barnes, the illegitimate son of the Duke of the kingdom, a man labelled to be more beast than human.

He was known as the Winter Soldier, a title whispered with both fear and awe. Tales of his gruesome feats in battle, his merciless brutality, and his cold, metal arm was deemed as a horror story for the children in the kingdom. People spoke of him as a monstrous weapon, a beast moulded by the Emperor to do his bidding without question or hesitation. 

Y/N had heard the stories many times before; and it has always been a hushed conversation that floats around whether a ballroom of a gala, or at the tables of the garden parties, sometimes even in between the racks of books in the library.

They always painted a picture of a man who lived only for war, devoid of humanity.

She couldn't help but let these tales feed her imagination. What kind of man was he truly? Did he revel in the violence, or was he a prisoner to his fate? Y/N shuddered at the thought, her heart heavy with fear and uncertainty.

Her father, the Earl, had made it clear why she needed to marry him. It was a political manoeuvre, a strategic alliance to strengthen their family's position. The duke, Bucky's father, wielded considerable power, and their union would bring the Earl closer to the heart of the kingdom's influence. 

And when he heard that the duke was looking for a wife for his bastard son, he knew that she would be perfect. That was when Y/N, the youngest daughter, became the pawn in this game. Her father's ambitions certainly outweighed any consideration for her feelings or desires.

Y/N had always longed for a marriage of love, a dream she clung to despite her circumstances. She was a hopeless romantic through and through; much like her late mother. She remembered the nights when her mother would read to her and her siblings, spinning tales of prince charming and valiant heroes.

The fire crackled warmly in the hearth as her mother’s soothing voice filled the room. Y/N and her siblings, her older brother Eric and sister Clara, lay tucked under blankets, their eyes wide with wonder.

"And then the prince, with a heart full of love, swept the princess into his arms, vowing to protect her forever," her mother read, her voice a melodic whisper.

Y/N, her eyes sparkling with innocence, declared, "When I grow up, I want to marry a prince charming too!"

Clara, ever the practical one, nodded in agreement. "Me too! He has to be brave and kind."

Eric, being a little boy, scrunched his nose in distaste. "I don’t want to get married. I want to be a knight!"

Their mother chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead. "It does not matter if he is a prince charming or a humble knight. As long as you marry the one you love, that is what truly matters."

Y/N's heart ached at the memory. How she wished her mother were still here to guide her through this terrifying day. The gentle knock on the door brought her back to the present.

"Lady Y/N, it’s time," one of the maids said softly.

Y/N took a long and deep breath, smoothing down the fabric of her dress. She followed the maid down the corridor, her mind a swirl of emotions. Reaching the grand doors of the church, her father waited for her.

"Remember, Y/N," he said, his voice stern. "Do not mess this up. Just endure it. And you'll be fine. This is the most useful you can be to our family."

Her heart sank further; yet she nodded obediently.

Compared to Y/N, her elder brother, a celebrated swordsman, and her sister, a master in the art of business, had always outshone her in their father's eyes. Y/N's talent with languages; ancient and modern – was seen as a useless skill, something that brought no tangible benefit to the family. 

Her father had never been cruel when she was younger but everything changed when her mother died. In fact, everyone in the family had lost a piece of their soul when she left. Now, his lack of affection only increases the number of scars on her heart.

The doors opened, revealing the crowds of high-ranking nobles; who were mostly strangers – staring at her. Some were judging her; some pitied her. She reminded herself that she was doing this for her family, for the greater good. But the little girl inside her who dreamed of prince charming certainly felt a pang of sorrow.

As she walked down the aisle, her legs trembled, and her hands shook so violently that she had to clasp them together to steady herself. From afar, she saw the silhouette of the man she was destined to marry. His tall and huge figure stood out compared to anyone in the hall. As she got closer, she kept her gaze fixed on the floor, too afraid to look up at her husband-to-be.

When she finally reached the altar, the priest began the ceremony. His speech was long and dragging, giving Y/N too much time to entertain her growing curiosity that she dared to glance up at the man next to her. Even from behind the veil, she could see his towering and broad-shouldered build, his presence commanding the room. His long hair was slightly untamed, and a scruffy beard framed his face. His metal hand, glinting in the sun that leaked through the church’s windows, was a jarring reminder of the rumors that surrounded him.

There were no heartfelt vows to recite to each other; only their promise of "I do" was exchanged. And that was the first time Y/N heard his voice. It was deep and resonant, sending a shiver down her spine; but there was a certain warmth in it that contrasted sharply with his fearsome reputation.

When the priest announced their union and Bucky lifted her veil, Y/N was struck by the unexpected gentleness in his eyes. They were a brilliant, mesmerizing blue, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe. Bucky's eyes softened as he looked at her, his gaze tender and almost reverent. Slowly, he placed one hand gently around her waist, pulling her slightly closer. His other hand came up to cup her cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle against her skin.

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as he leaned in, her breath catching in her throat. When his lips met hers, they were soft, warm, and so unexpected. She could smell his cologne; an earthy, woodsy scent mixed with a hint of something fruity; like peaches or tangerines. It made her head spin and her heart jumped all at the same time. 

The kiss was gentle and unhurried, very much differs to the forceful gesture she had feared. As he pulled away, Y/N found herself blinking slowly, her cheeks flushed and her fear momentarily replaced by confusion and a surprising awe. She was caught off guard by the tenderness of his touch, the way his lips had brushed against hers so gently.

Could the rumors about him be wrong?

"I’m sorry if I startled you," he said, his voice low and gentle. "I hope I didn’t scare you, my dear."

Y/N blinked slowly, trying to process the sudden shift in her emotions. The fear that had gripped her so tightly seemed to dissipate, replaced by a confusing mix of relief and intrigue. Her hands, which had been trembling, now rested at her sides, feeling strangely steady. Her eyes met his, and she could see softness in his gaze that contradicted the harsh rumors she had heard.

“I—no, you didn’t scare me,” she managed to say; her voice barely more than a whisper. She took a deep breath, her cheeks getting warmer as she processed the endearment he just called her. On the other hand, her mind was racing as she tried to reconcile the man in front of her with the fearsome figure of the Winter Soldier.

Bucky’s eyes mellowed even further, his gaze glazed with a tenderness that seemed to pierce through the weight of the room. A warm smile spread across his face, and he held her gaze with a comforting assurance.

“Good,” he said, his voice carrying a gentle affection. “I’m glad to hear that.”

The reception that followed was a blur of faces and polite conversation. Y/N moved through the crowd, accepting congratulations and well-wishes, but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to Bucky than the rumors suggested. Every time she caught his eye, he gave her a small, reassuring smile that made the butterflies inside of her go wild.

As the evening drew to a close, they were escorted to one of the Emperor’s palaces, a grand and opulent residence that was to serve as their temporary home before they traveled north to Bucky’s territory. The palace, with its lavish furnishings and golden accents, seemed to mock the uncertainty Y/N felt. She had been assigned a chamber to prepare for the night, and the palace maids were bustling around her, helping her into a set of elaborate, far-from-modest lingerie.

The palace’s maids’ whispers and side glances did nothing to ease her growing anxiety. Their condescending tones and occasional snickers were laced with cruel speculation about how roughly Bucky would treat her. The more Y/N overheard, the more her apprehension grew. Despite the gentleness Bucky had shown her earlier, she found herself doubting its sincerity.

Could he really be the caring husband he appeared to be, or was it all just an elaborate show?

The maids finally left, their laughter fading down the hallway, leaving Y/N alone in the grand chamber. Her heart raced, and cold sweat formed at her brow as she sat quietly on the edge of the ornate bed. She kept her gaze firmly on the floor, her hands fidgeting in her lap. The room felt enormous, its sheer size heightening her sense of isolation and dread.

The door creaked open, and Bucky entered the room. Y/N’s heart nearly stopped as she heard the heavy, measured footsteps approaching. She couldn’t bring herself to look up, her body tense and her mind a swirl of panic and unease. She almost held her breath entire when she felt the slight indentation of the mattress beside her.

“Y/N,” Bucky’s voice was soft and coaxing, a distinct difference to the coldness she was expecting. “Look at me.” He continued. She hesitated momentarily; torn between obeying and disobeying but ultimately decided to raise her eyes to meet his.

The sight of him; his upper body bare, revealing a tapestry of scars and the stark metal of his prosthetic arm; made her breath hitch. Her eyes traced the lines of his faded wound, particularly the jagged marks where his shoulder met his metal arm. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of sorrow and concern. Her fingers, almost of their own accord, reached out to trace the contours of his chest and shoulder.

Bucky let the innocence of her touch to trace the most tainted parts of him; however noting her trembling eyes, he misunderstood her apprehension. “I want you to know, Y/N,” he said, his voice firm yet gentle, “that I will never hurt you. You are safe with me.”

Y/N shook her head, her heart aching. She felt an unexplainable pain growing in her chest as she gazed at him. Her fingers still lightly touching his scars; her eyes, full of unshed tears, silently asked a question she was too afraid to voice. “Does it still hurt?” she wanted to ask, her expression betraying her concern.

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with affection, and he took her hand in his, holding it tenderly against his chest. “Don't worry. It does not hurt anymore,” he said with a reassuring smile. 

The connection between them was electric, charged with a deep, unspoken understanding. Bucky’s gaze was steady and filled with a depth of unspoken emotion that took Y/N’s breath away. “I know this is difficult for you, Y/N,” he said, his voice laden with sincerity. “But I promise, I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

His words and the way he looked at her left Y/N feeling both comforted and overwhelmed. For the first time since their wedding, she felt a genuine, flickering hope that maybe, just maybe, their marriage could become something more than a mere political arrangement. Bucky’s assurances, his gentleness, and the tenderness in his eyes began to dissolve the fears she had harboured since the beginning of their union.

As they sat there, the weight of the night’s expectations seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile but growing trust. Y/N had entered this marriage with a sense of duty, convinced that she would have to endure the consummation of their union as a matter of obligation. But Bucky’s tenderness, his understanding, and the sincere reassurance he had given her began to change her perspective.

The idea of fulfilling her marital duty had initially felt like a burden she had to bear. She had steeled herself to face it with resignation, convinced that it was merely another part of her role in this arranged marriage. But now, she found herself reconsidering. The idea of being with him no longer felt like an obligation but a possibility of something more profound and intimate.

Y/N hands softly toyed with the delicate strings of her sheer lingerie, pulling it softly as her doe eyes signalled her husband of her intention. Bucky, sensing the shift in her demeanor, looked into her eyes with a mixture of concern and affection. “Are you sure, my dear?” he asked softly. “I want you to feel safe with me and not afraid of me.”

Y/N’s heart fluttered as she met his gaze, her own eyes reflecting the depth of her emotions. “I am,” she said with quiet conviction. “I feel safe with you, James”

Bucky's hand naturally went to brush her hair behind her ear, “It’s Bucky, my dear,” he corrected softly.

“Hmm?” she asked, slightly puzzled.

He chuckled warmly. “You can call me Bucky from now on. It’s a nickname only a selected few who I trust and love knows.” Her eyes sparkled at his choice words; trust and love.

“Bucky…” she tested the name on her tongue, the syllables feeling strangely intimate. Upon hearing his name from her lips, Bucky’s heart swelled, almost bursting from his ribcage. He hummed in approval, “That's right, my dear. I’m your Bucky.” 

His reassuring smile grew wider, his calloused thumb gently stroke her cheek causing a shiver to strum all over her nerves; sending an emerging desire. One she had not fully acknowledged until now. The way he looked at her, the pure and raw endearment in his eyes, and the softness of his touch stirred something deep within her.

As the moments passed, Y/N realised she wanted this. She wanted to feel his lips on hers, to explore the warmth of his hands, to connect with him on a level she had longed for. The yearning for his touch, which had been dormant under layers of fear and uncertainty, now surged forward with undeniable intensity.

Without fully understanding why, Y/N found herself leaning closer to him, her breath coming in soft, eager gasps. She whispered, her voice barely audible but full of longing, “Bucky, please.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and a tender light filled his blue eyes, “May I?” he asked, his voice low and gentle as he held out his hand. There a shy hesitation before she finally placed her hand in his.

With a gentle but firm pull, Bucky lifted her onto his lap, his careful hands beginning the process of undressing her. Each movement was full of care, yet almost deliberate, as he slowly removed her dress, leaving her in nothing but the flimsy lace piece covering the sacred area between her thighs.

Bucky's eyes roamed over her bare skin, admiration clear in his gaze. Y/N could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes traced every curve and contour of her body. The intensity of it made her feel both vulnerable and cherished, a potent combination that sent pleasurable shivers all over her body.

Seeing the hunger in his blue eyes, she felt the warmth of his body and caught the scent of him; the same once she noticed at the church; warm and comforting. Her breath quickened, and she found herself unsure of what to do or where to place her hands, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Noticing the subtle panic, Bucky reached for her hands and guided them through the thick strands of his long hair. “You can touch me as you please, my dear,” he whispered, his voice soothing as he reassured her. He leaned in to kiss her bare shoulder, then moved up to her neck, along her jaw, leaving a trail of warmth on her skin.

Y/N’s fingers tangled in his hair, the softness surprising her. The intimacy of the moment, combined with his gentle kisses, began to dissolve the last remnants of her anxiety. The feel of his lips on her skin was electrifying, each kiss sending waves of sensation she never felt before.

Bucky’s hands, still careful and tender, caressed her back, drawing her closer to him. Her breath hitched as he kissed the valley of her breasts; soft gasps escaping her lips as Bucky begins to lick and sucked on her delicate skin; likely trying to mark his claim on her. 

Every touch and little kisses he left sent shivers straight to her already dripping core. And by the time his lips grazed her nipple, her body jerked forward; in response, unintentionally dragging her aching pussy against his thick thigh.

His lips latched around her right nipples as he licks and sucks the hardening skin; lapping at it as if he was feeding from her. The sensation was overwhelming, yet she found herself leaning into his touch, her body responding to his gentle ministrations. The grip on his hair grew tighter as the strings of moans poured out her lips.

Bucky’s large hands find their place on her hips, guiding her to gently rut on his thigh. Trusting him, she followed his lead as he continue to grind her clit through the thin fabric she was wearing; introducing the sweet friction in on her core. Bucky pulled back slightly to look into her eyes, his expression filled with a mixture of subtle affection and desire. “You’re doing wonderfully, my dear. Can feel your pussy leaking on me. Do you feel good?” he murmured as he dipped back to kiss her neck.

Oh, he was filthy with his choice of words but surprisingly she was not mad about it. In fact she didn’t even notice the whimpers purring in her throat upon hearing those sinful words.

It was as if Bucky recognized that needy sound she made; it caused a smile to spread on his lips. She can feel it grow against the skin in between her breasts, “My my, is my sweet wife feeling needy right now?” he teased playfully as he effortlessly lifted her up and laid her down on their bed. 

Placing himself in between her soft thighs, his lustful gaze trained on her naked body; he admired the marks he has left on her breasts, the wet patch on the flimsy fabric covering her cunt, and the way her breath shuddered when he teasingly grind his harden cock against her.

Y/N can feel the contrast of his hands on her thigh, one warm, one cold. Her eyes drew her attention from his hands to his gorgeous face. Oh, the pure unfiltered lust in his eyes was pulling her in so effortlessly; seducing her to submit her body and soul to him completely. Shying away from his stare, she dragged her view down to his chiselled jaw, his broad chest then slowly to his beautiful abs. 

She admired his body as much as he did of hers.

But what was more prominent out of all, was the way she could feel his erection throbbing against her heat. Blood went rushing towards her face when Bucky guided her hips against the confinement of his cock, which in response; causing her hands naturally found their way to cover her face in embarrassment.

A deep chuckle bubbled from Bucky’s throat; he found her reaction to be absolutely endearing. He leaned down towards her, one hand holding himself up and another tenderly pulling her hands away, then drawing it close to his chest, right against his beating heart. 

Having nowhere to run, Y/N’s teary eyes drowned in his ocean blues, “Don’t hide from me, dearest.” He peppered a delicate kiss on her forehead, then on her nose, then on her cheek. She could feel the prickly sensation of his beard grazing on her skin. It was ticklish and a little bit painful and yet weirdly enough, it felt good that it naturally made her want to nuzzle it more.

But before she could, Bucky’s lips were already making their way down to her stomach. Her body responds to how soft his lips trailing down; and further down until she could feel them on her clothed core. A surprised yelp fell from her lips as he tore the last piece of clothing from her.

“Now, hands away from your face, my dear. I want to see that beautiful eyes of yours when I eat your sweet pussy.” his voice was honeyed when he made himself comfortable in between her thighs. His hands reached upwards to intertwine both of her hands with his own; acting as a restraint to restrict her from covering her face.

Y/N almost sat up upon hearing his words, “Eat what now?”, the question she had in mind was unable to be vocalised; due to her confusion. Prior to marriage, she had learned about sex and its purpose in her marital studies. Unbeknownst to her, the knowledge she had was few and limited for academic purposes only. Which means there were only the few illustrations of penetration depicted in books and the process of how children are bred as a result of it.

So what does he mean when he said those words? While she was still lost and confused, Bucky on the other hand was in his own world; completely and utterly transfixed on the glistening need of her cunt. She was dripping wet; the juices covering her slits perfectly; her scent was intoxicating and if it weren’t for the fact that this is her first time, Bucky would’ve ate her like a man starved of touch. But, he can’t do that. Not tonight. He wanted to be gentle; to cherish her, to love on her.

Seeing the darkened clouds in his eyes as he stared at her private, Y/N braved herself to ask, “What are you– ohh hmmm” her sentence ended up transforming into a toe curling moan as she felt Bucky’s wet tongue flattened across her weeping core. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as he dragged her clit into his mouth and sucked. He strummed her clit with his tongue, causing her to arch her back and he took the opportunity to push his face further into her cunt; licking and sucking quite the literal soul out her.

It felt amazing but her self-consciousness won the battle in her head, she let out a whimpering plea, “Buc--bucky st-stop. That’s dirty.” as she gripped on his hands, trying to escape from his grip. Bucky growled against her in response to her futile protest. The sweet vibration only caused her pleasure all over her fluttering core. 

When Bucky pulled away for a moment; it caused her to feel a sense of loss. “It’s not dirty, my dear. In fact, it’s so sweet.” His lips moved to kiss on her inner thigh, murmuring against her skin as he left yet more of his marks on her, “So fucking sweet.” He releases his right hand from hers, just to rub his thumb on her clit, slowly dragging it in between her slit; smearing her wetness all around her throbbing bundle of nerves. Her thighs trembled to the sensation of his rough movement of his thumb and a string of shaky mewls fell out of her.

“But..” she tried to protest but immediately stopped when Bucky brought his soaked thumb to her mouth. Her lips were wet from how he gently smeared the juices on her, “Taste yourself.” He lured her softly. Hesitation glints in her eyes as her cheeks redden. Bucky’s eyes grew tender at her watery ones, he whispered lowly, “Sweetheart, do you trust me?” 

She does; but she does not trust her own voice to not come out sounding like a needy moan, so she simply nodded. Bucky’s pink lips spread into a smile, “Good girl. Now, open up.” he coaxed lovingly.

Y/N opened her mouth as she was told and let Bucky slip his thumb inside; he was not shy to smother her juices across her tongue, coaxing her to suck on it. To get a taste of what he was having. “It’s sweet”, she thought to herself. A muffled moan purred in her throat at the thought of her husband enjoying the taste of her.

Bucky smirk grew at her reaction, “Tastes good huh, sweetheart?” he pulled his thumb away, leaving her nodding to his question. “Now are you going to let me enjoy your pussy?” his brow quirked when he tilted his head to the side. How can she deny him now? Her eyes glazed with need as she replied,  “Yes, please”.

Her mouth falls open in anticipation as a low moan creeps up her throat. Bucky’s tongue slips past her folds, she watched him between her legs, savouring her pussy with his unfiltered groans vibrating against her sensitive spot. Breathless moans and incoherent pleads fall from her mouth as the soft and firm tip of his tongue circled her swollen pearl and flicked it. Bucky’s hands went to her hips, guiding it in time with her own movements, giving her partial control to set the pace.

“Buckyyyy.” She gasped as she alternated between wanting to push his head away or keep him in place. Meanwhile, the man in between her thighs had lost himself; consumed by pure desire the more he drank from her cunt. His tongue moved faster against her clit when he noticed the beat of her throbbing cunt increased. She was going to come. He was sure of it.

The way that she was practically creaming on his tongue drove him near feral. He kept lapping at her juices as if it was the sweetest honey he ever tasted; fuck he even sucked her clit in hopes to force out more of her nectar to leak; then he’d lap on it again. 

The sweet cycle had pushed Y/N over the edge, her eyes rolling back as pleasure and her hips slightly lifted as pleasure surges through her veins.“Oh oh Bucky please please.” She didn’t what she was begging for as she chanted his name. “I’m gonna, ‘m gonna–“ her words died as she squealed; her body trembling in pleasure. 

His tongue moved faster against her clit; her cum was dripping out of her; coating his beard but his frantic licks didn’t stop even when she continue to gush on his tongue. 

“Bucky please, sensitive..” It was too much; her orgasm, her swollen clit, his tongue. Everything. 

Unfortunately for her, Bucky was far gone to stop now. He had the taste of her cum, now he wants nothing more than to have it again. Despite her protest, Bucky held her hip down, interlocking his hands across her stomach to keep her in place and continue to lick and suck on her overstimulated cunt.

Her whiny pleas didn’t come across as a sign for him to stop; instead it kept him going causing him to bury his face further in between her legs. His cock continued to throb in his pants, probably leaking with so much pre-cum and in need of some sort of relief but he ignored it. He wants nothing more than for Y/N to cum on his tongue again.

And that is exactly what happened next.

The moment she fell over the edge, Bucky pushed her even harder against him as her whole body spasmed. He maintained his pace on lapping up at her all throughout her high as her hands went from his hair to the headboard, trying to hold her limp body upright. Y/N took a moment to gather herself together, panting heavily as she regained their senses; while Bucky was swift to pull his pants off and throw it to the side.

He grabbed on her hips, holding her firmly in place as his heavy leaking cock nestled between her aching pussy. “Are you sure about this, my dear?” his hot breath fanning against her neck as he gently ruts into her heat. Even though Bucky can see the darken lust in her eyes, he still wanted to make sure that she was sure of her decision.

Y/N’s heart swelled at his concern, and she found herself smiling, a genuine smile that reflected the warmth she felt inside. She pulled him closer and kissed him, pouring all her newfound trust and affection into the kiss. “Yes, Bucky. I am very sure. ”

Bucky quickly responded with equal passion, his tongue slipped in between her lips; exploring the warmness of her mouth, the softness of her tongue. Their muffled moans filled the silenced room, his hands moved to caress her sides, drawing her even closer before breaking away from the heated kiss.

Resting his forehead on hers, his eyes trained on her beautiful face; not wanting to miss his chance to witness the pleasure contorting on her expression. He nudges her clit first, rubbing it slow and sensual before trailing down to her entrance. Gradually, he inches closer, he pushes in and through the tightness of her sacred channel.

Delving impossibly deep, her tightness wrapped around his thick cock until the tip of him reached the deepest parts of her. The sudden feeling of fullness on her untainted pussy caused her to experience both pain and the delightful sensation inside her. The ecstasy of being so knitly connected to each other caused both of them to simultaneously let out moans and groans of raw pleasure.

Bucky waited for her to adjust to his size; leaning down to pamper her with the softest kisses and praises that tears started to swell in her eyes. It was as if Bucky knew exactly what she wanted to hear, how she wanted to be treated and what makes her feel good.

“You’re doing so good, my dear.”

“Look at how perfect your pussy’s taking my cock. So perfect.”

“Made for me aren’t you, sweetheart?. Made to be loved by me, made to be stuffed full of my cock.”

“I promise you’ll be safe with me, Y/N. Always.”

When Y/N finally gave him the permission to move, Bucky kissed her pouty lips and murmured sweetly, “Thank you, my dear.” His hands travelled to find her ankle; which he then gently prop her calf over his broad shoulder. He started pumping in and out slowly, letting her get used to the friction. 

Bucky couldn’t help but to groan out to the feeling of her wet hole gripping his cock ever-so-tightly. It was slippery and dripping, that he almost completely slid out of her. Gripping her closer he continue ramming himself back in, deeper, harder; sliding in and out of her at an even pace. Each force of his cock causing her body to jerk in ecstasy; hitting that good spot in her so perfectly.

“S-shit, sweetheart,” he moans deep and heavy as he felt her pussy tightening around him. His metal hand slid in between them and his thumb hones in on her clit. The coldness of his finger made her jolt at first but when he proceeded to rub and pinch on it, everything suddenly started to feel too intense; so incredibly good.

With his fingers assaulting her clit, each thrust of his cock and every deep guttural moan and groan coming from Bucky, she felt her release was growing closer. Bucky also started thrusting faster and harder; he knew he was about to come. Especially when he can feel how much pre-cum has been leaking inside her.

He leaned and rested his forehead on hers, his needy ruts became more and more irregular when her pretty doe eyes looked up at him, “Cum for me, my dear.” his lips brushed against Y/N’s as he coaxed her to her sweet release. His thrusts got harsher and deeper and the friction of his metal finger working on her clit got her cunt to frantically tremble around him, “I wanna feel you milk my cock, sweetheart. Then, I’m gonna my pump cum inside you until you’re leaking.”

Although his words were debauched to no end, however Y/N could sense his genuine affection for her. She felt his sincerity in the way he looked at her, in the way he held her, in the silenced gaze they shared. Overwhelmed with pleasure, her nails dragged across Bucky’s back as she moaned and screamed out his name; letting the high took over her body.

“Fuck,, sweetheart. I’m gonna cum!” groaned as he took in the sound of her pleasured mewls. He ruthlessly grinds into her, savouring the feeling of her cunt tightened around him. With one last rut, he thrust his cock, balls deep inside and let his warm white strings filling her up to the brim. His cock twitches in her fluttering cunt, his legs tensing with every small grind he makes, groaning lowly at her as he bites down on her shoulder, almost drooling on her as he emptied himself completely into her.

Y/N continued to let out strings of soft moans as he pulled out from her leaking cunt; all swollen and sensitive. While she thought she could finally catch some breaths, she didn’t notice the way Bucky was biting on his lip at the sight of his cum dripping out of her, or how his hands lazily tugging on his now hardened cock.

“Dearest?” Bucky hovered above her as he cradled her by her flushed cheeks. She smiled sweetly as she leaned to his touch, “Yes, Bucky?”, she was anticipating him to utter more of those soft words and praises to her; but instead his lips curled into a devilish grin when he slid his cock back into her, immediately pulling a long sinful mewl of his name from her. Bucky hummed approvingly in response; he gently brushed his lips against hers, “May I fill you up again?”

As the morning sun streamed through the windows, Y/N slowly stirred awake. She reached out, instinctively searching for the warmth of her husband beside her, but found the space empty. A pang of loneliness touched her heart, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity when she saw a bouquet of bluebells, her favourite flower, placed delicately on the bedside table.

Next to the bouquet was a note. With a small smile, she picked it up and began to read.

"My Dearest Y/N,

I hate to leave you alone this morning, but I must ensure our journey home is smooth and safe. I trust you slept well, and I promise to return to your side as soon as I can.

Yours always,

Bucky"

The words written on the note were filled with sincerity and reassurance that made her heart flutter. She smiled, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she wondered how he knew bluebells were her favourite.

Just as she was lost in thought, the door opened, and the palace’s maids entered the room. Their faces were a mixture of curiosity and impatience, clearly expecting to see a frightened and bruised young bride.

However, when they saw Y/N's skin, they temporarily froze in their spots. Her skin was indeed bruised, but each one of them recognized the marks for what they were: love marks, not signs of harsh abuse that they were expecting. The traces of Bucky's possessive love were prominent all over her neck, chest, and inner thighs, leaving Y/N blushing as the maids, too, found themselves flushed with embarrassment.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” one of the older maids muttered under her breath, her tone laced with irritation. Another maid, with a more condescending sneer, huffed. “Looks like we lost the bet, ladies. Who would have thought the beast could be so... tender?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned with a mix of embarrassment and pride. She could feel their resentful glances and knew they were not pleased with the outcome. The marks on her body were a testament to the affection and desire Bucky had shown her, and despite the initial fear, she now wore them as symbols of the unexpected bond they had begun to forge.

The head maid, who had been the most vocal the night before, now seemed to handle her with an edge of bitterness. The other maids, who had been so quick to judge, were now silent, their eyes wide with resentment.One of the younger maids, braver than the rest, couldn’t hide her frustration. “Well, my lady, I suppose you’re alright, then?” she asked, her voice barely masking her disappointment.

Y/N looked at her, considering the appropriate response. If it was up to her, she ought to punish every single one of them for not knowing their place. Unfortunately, they were not her maids to begin with, but the palace's staff. Otherwise, she would likely fire each one of them. 

The memory of Bucky’s affection and care filled her heart, leaving no room for anger or resentment. The warmth of his embrace and the gentle way he had treated her made the maids' behaviour seem petty and insignificant.

She could still feel the lingering touch of his lips on her skin, the way his hands had caressed her so delicately, and the sound of his reassuring voice. Her body was still tingling with the remnants of the previous night's intimacy. Her skin bore the marks of his love, not of brutality, and each bruise was a testament to the passion they had shared. It was completely different to the vile expectations of the maids.

A small smile playing on her lips despite the blush that still coloured her cheeks. "Yes," she said softly, "I am quite alright."

The maids exchanged annoyed glances, their expressions a mix of frustration and disbelief. Their muttered disappointments were tuned out as Y/N focused on the lingering warmth from the night before.

She couldn't hear a single thing except her heart beating to the thought of her husband. She missed him already. Who would’ve thought she’d be swooning for him so soon?

She found herself yearning for his presence, the comfort of his touch, and the sound of his reassuring voice. The memory of his gentle kiss and tender words lingered in her mind yet again, making her heart flutter.

As the maids continued their work, Y/N hoped they would at least perform their duties well enough to cover up for their childish behaviour. She wanted to be ready to see Bucky, to greet him with the same warmth and affection he had shown her. Despite their rudeness, she resolved to focus on the positive, cherishing the newfound bond with her husband.

Bucky stood at the head of the table, his stern expression and commanding presence filling the room. He was reviewing the logistics of their journey home, his voice cold and decisive as he issued instructions to his knights. His trusted knight, Sam, was detailing the possible hotspots for bandits they might encounter along the way.

"We'll likely face trouble here," Sam said, pointing to a spot on the map. "We should send some of our best men ahead to clear the path."

"Agreed," Bucky responded, his tone unyielding. "Deploy the knights in advance. Ensure the path is secure before we proceed."

Sam nodded and continued outlining the plan. He paused, expecting Bucky to reconfirm, but noticed a change in his leader's face. The harsh lines softened, his eyes filled with a tender warmth, as he stared intently at something across the room. Before Sam could look or utter a word, Bucky turned and walked away with determination.

Sam followed Bucky's gaze and understood immediately. "Ah, that's why," he muttered to himself as he watched Bucky approach Y/N. The change in Bucky’s demeanour was striking. He moved with a grace and warmth that was at odds with his usual stern and imposing presence.

Bucky’s eyes softened as he took in the sight of Y/N. He admired her beauty with a gaze filled with awe and adoration. The way he looked at her was as if he was seeing a vision he had longed for, a rare and precious gem that had finally come into his life.

As he extended his hand toward her, a gesture usually seen as etiquette but now entirely with different meaning, especially with the hearts bursting our of his blue eyes. Y/N’s face lighting up with a shy smile, took his hand; almost too eagerly. Bucky's fingers closed gently around hers, his touch tender and reassuring. The contrast between his usual, fearsome reputation and the gentle way he interacted with her was profound, making it clear that his feelings for Y/N were deeply genuine.

Bucky kissed the back of her hand, his lips softly caressing her knuckles. "My dear," he greeted her, using the endearment he had chosen when they first met at the altar. 

The scene seemed like it was pulled raw from a romance novel that the surrounding staff and knights simply watched in shock and awe. "Did he just..." one knight whispered, eyes wide. "Called her 'my dear'?" another finished, equally stunned.

Sam, who had witnessed firsthand the monstrous side of Bucky in war, found himself in a state of utter disbelief, jaw dropped loose. He had seen Bucky’s sword painted blood-red, his face splattered with the gore of countless enemies. The Winter Soldier was a force of nature on the battlefield, his brutal efficiency leaving a trail of carnage in his wake. Sam recalled the sight of Bucky’s cold, unyielding eyes as he cut through foes without hesitation, his armor and weaponry gleaming with the blood of those who dared oppose him.

And yet, here he was, the same man who had struck terror into the hearts of many, now standing before Y/N with a tenderness that seemed unimaginable. Sam could hardly believe his eyes. The disparity was pronounced and bewildering. Bucky’s expression was soft, his movements gentle as he held Y/N’s hand in his.

“I’ve missed you,” Y/N said softly, her eyes shining with affection. She truly did, it would be a lie that she didn’t felt the ache in her heart when she woke up alone that morning. The emptiness beside her had felt profound. The bed still carried his scent, a lingering warmth that whispered of his recent presence. Even though the separation had been brief, as evidenced by the thoughtful note and the bouquet of her favourite flowers he had left behind, the loneliness she felt was palpable. His absence, however fleeting, had created a void that left her feeling incomplete.

Bucky’s heart seemed to burst with emotion. He couldn't care less about the gawking staff surrounding them as he pulled her close and kissed her deeply. She initially froze, caught off guard and embarrassed, but soon melted into his kiss with a blossoming confidence.

As their lips met, memories of their tender and passionate night together surged through Bucky's mind. The way she moan his name, the taste of her cum, the tightness of her pussy gripping on his cock, the way his cum leaked out of her, every single sinful scene replayed in head; infinitely. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and he found himself nearly losing control. Reluctantly, he pulled back from the kiss, his breath uneven and his gaze filled with an unspoken hunger.

"God, what should I do with you, hmm, sweetheart?" Bucky whispered, his voice laced with seduction as he continued to place gentle kisses along her cheeks and jaw. His lips brushed softly against her skin, whispering how much he had missed her and expressing a wistful desire to stay wrapped in the warmth of their shared bed just a little longer.

Y/N’s soft giggle rang out as she felt the roughness of his stubble against her delicate skin. The sound was like music to Bucky's ears, brightening his mood and filling him with a profound sense of joy. Despite the joyful exchange, he reluctantly ended the sweet torment, his kisses lingering just a moment longer before he pulled away.

“We should be ready to begin our journey shortly,” Bucky said, his tone shifting to a more practical note when e turned to Sam, who had approached during their moment of intimacy.

“Y/N, this is Sam Wilson, he is one of my trusted knights.” Bucky introduced, his gaze shifting to his wife. Sam gave a respectful nod to Y/N, a hint of surprise still evident in his expression from witnessing Bucky's affectionate display. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

Y/N smiled warmly at Sam, appreciating the introduction. “The pleasure is mine, Sir Wilson.”

Sam, sensing that the formality was unnecessary given their imminent interactions, decided to ease the situation. “Just Sam, my lady,” he said with a friendly tone. Y/N repeated his name with a touch of amusement. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

Bucky, observing the growing camaraderie between his wife and his trusted knight, couldn’t help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. The easy familiarity between them seemed a bit too casual for his liking. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gave Sam a warning look. “Watch it, Wilson.”

Sam, not missing a beat, chuckled at Bucky’s protective demeanour. “What’s the matter, my lord? Can’t handle a bit of friendly conversation?”

Y/N, noticing the playful tension and Bucky’s slight irritation, couldn’t help but laugh. The contrast between Bucky’s usually soft demeanour that Y/N had witnessed and his current protective stance were both endearing and amusing. Her laughter lightened the mood, making Sam’s teasing even more enjoyable.

Bucky's stern gaze softened as he watched Y/N’s laughter, though his protective instinct remained palpable. Steering the conversion back to the preparations, he allowed a faint smile to tug at the corners of his mouth despite his earlier warning.

“I trust you can escort my wife to the carriage,” Bucky said, his voice serious but tinged with a hint of a smile. “However, I expect you to maintain proper distance and adhere to these additional guidelines.” He paused, ensuring his words were clear. “No unnecessary physical contact or overly familiar behaviour. And if you could, avoid any casual conversations that might be misinterpreted.”

Sam looked at Bucky in disbelief, shaking his head with a bemused expression. “Seriously, Barnes? You’re laying down rules for me to keep my distance from your wife now?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed playfully. “Consider it a precaution. I’d rather not have any misunderstandings.” Sam chuckled, rolling his eyes as he complied. “Understood. I’ll make sure to follow your... guidelines.”

Y/N watched the exchange with amusement, her earlier shyness melting away into a warm appreciation for Bucky’s protectiveness. The scene, tinged with a touch of comedy, only deepened the connection between them.

Bucky, intent on making a point to Sam while expressing his affection, pulled Y/N close and pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. The gesture was both intimate and deliberate, a subtle yet clear indication to Sam that she belongs to Bucky. “I’ll join you shortly, my dear,” Bucky said softly, his voice filled with warmth as he gazed into her eyes.

Sam, unimpressed by Bucky’s display, rolled his eyes at the seemingly childish antics. “This way, my lady,” he said with a hint of impatience. Y/N nodded in agreement but paused before turning her back on Bucky. With a loving smile, she whispered, “I’ll see you later,” before following Sam.

Bucky watched as Sam guided Y/N away, his gaze lingered with a mix of affection and something much deeper; an unspoken sadness. As their silhouettes walked further and further away from his sight, a sombre glaze settled over his eyes.

Beneath the surface of his composed exterior, his heart ached; the was a silent reflection of a pain he had hidden deep within his heart. It was a lingering sorrow that had shadowed him ever since he stood at the altar, the weight of unvoiced grief clinging to him as he gazed at his future bride.

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: Wondering why he was in the feels at the end? We’ll know it soon enough. I’ll see you in the next parts! Thank you for reading!

[daycourtofficial]

I am ash from your fire

Summary: Eris retires after a long night to find his mate, the princess of the night court, in his chambers upset.

Author’s note: Rhys is a jackass in this one. Honestly this was supposed to be Eris comforting reader but idk how it flipped at some point and sometimes you just gotta go with where the story takes you 🤷🏼‍♀️ also I’m headcannoning that Eris reads anything and everything he can get his hands on

(1k celebration masterlist 🍾)

Eris feels his shoulders sag ever so slightly, allowing the formalities of his stature to soften slightly as he moves further into his private chambers.

The only place in the Forest House he can at least somewhat relax. The hues of brown coating the walls, the paintings of hounds and forests covering the walls have been a comfort since his youth.

It was one of the few places Beron never entered. The High Lord would never sully himself by entering into his children’s chambers. No, he’d have word sent to them so they can come to him.

Eris walks towards the bookshelves, long fingers softly gliding over the edges of the leather bindings. His personal library was extensive - books of maps, histories, biographies, all subjects expected of a first-born heir. But also books of poetry, fantasy, and intrigue.

Eris was always a voracious reader, that need for escapism a constant in his life. His hands move on their own accord, searching for something to lose himself in when his ears perk up at a noise in his bedchambers. Unsheathing a dagger from his hip, he moves towards the room, seeing a shadow of movement underneath the door.

He reaches the door, slowly moving his hand to the handle. Once it’s in his hand, he turns it quickly, throwing open the door and pouncing on top of the person in his chambers.

His dagger is held at their throat, determined to find out who sent the risk before disposing of them. A laugh bursts out from under him, his dagger so close to their throat it knicks their throat at their laughs.

“That’s one way to say hello.”

His grip on the dagger falters momentarily, the sweet sounds of his mate’s voice causing him to loosen his hold. He pulls the dagger back, sheathing it back into his pants.

He brushes the hair from your face, taking in your amused look, his other hand going to inspect the slight knick on your throat.

“My precious fox.”

The nickname rolls off his tongue, his senses on high alert at your unexpected presence. He can sense something is off with you, and his eyes roam your body for injury.

Coming up short of any injuries sans the knick he just gave you, he sits on his haunches, grabbing your hands, helping you to sit up. You sit on your legs, keeping a tight hold on Eris’s hands, playing with his fingers.

You pull off one of his rings, sliding it on and off your own fingers, the warm metal soothing your cold hands.

He watches you for a moment, watches your fingers play with the rings he wears every day. He’s never understood your fascination with them, a nervous habit perhaps. He watches as you move the gold ring onto your thumb before pulling you into his arms. The feel of you settles him, and he can finally breathe deeply for the first time in weeks.

He holds you, pressing his face into the side of your neck, breathing in the scent of your hair. He pours what love and devotion he can down the bond, enjoying your presence before he can bring himself to ask why you’re here.

The two of you usually meet in his private cabin, miles and miles from the cruelties of the Forest House. He can’t recall if you’ve ever even been in his private chambers.

You pull back from him, shuffling around so you can sit in between his legs, back pressed to his chest. You know you have to tell him why you’re here, but you can’t look at him while you do it.

You’re not sure what you’ll find from him as you recount your tale.

You take in a breath, deciding to tell him what happened instead of letting him wait.

“Rhys found one of your letters,” you say, not able to look at him. “I was called away while I was reading one of them. It was foolish - I always hide them before leaving my room.”

Something warms in Eris’s chest at the thought of you, courts away from him, pouring over every word in the letters full of love you’d exchange between each other.

Much like he did every night.

“We got into a big fight, and he uh-“

Eris watches the tear slip out, sliding down your face.

“He told me I was no sister of his.”

Eris can’t help the snarl that comes from him, and you gingerly place a hand on his thigh, a motion he knows is grounding the both of you.

“What did his little lackeys have to say?” He spits out, unable to hide his contempt for them as he asks.

His dislike of Cassian and Azriel was no secret, but it took you a long time to coax out of him what about them he disliked.

“Truthfully, I found out how Illyrians treated females and it left a foul taste in my mouth,” he had told you once. It was all you could coax out of him, and perhaps that’s all there was to it.

At his core, Eris defined males by how they treated the females in their lives. Perhaps he assumed that Cassian and Azriel were the same as the other Illyrians and did not want to press further.

“They uh weren’t there,” you reply, “no one else was there. Perhaps he sent them all away so he could throw a fit.”

You laugh a little, thinking of just how red Rhysand’s face had gotten during your fight. You feel Eris’s head lay against your own, his fingers tangling into the strands of your hair.

“He was yelling, screaming about how I was defiling the family name by being with a Vanserra.” You sigh. “Then he began screeching about how you’re awful, you’re terrible, and ‘what about Mor’ and blah blah blah.”

“How’d you respond?” Eris asks, hands idly moving to hold onto yours in a soft grasp.

“I told him to ask Mor about what actually happened that day.”

He hums, allowing you to absentmindedly play with his fingers as you speak.

“He said that Mor would never lie to him. That she would never lie to any of us.” You blow out a breath, “then he said I had been cursed by the Mother to be mated to you.”

Eris knew the words were not your own, but the sound of them on your lips still stung deep in his chest.

“That’s when I told him to fuck off.”

Eris looks down at you as you peer back up at him, adoration, love, and a hint of sadness shines onto you through his gaze.

“We fought back and forth for a while after that. Then, after realizing I wasn’t giving up so easily, he gave me a choice.”

“My family name, my title, my claim to the throne, or you.”

Eris’s grip tightens. You two had spoken about what the worst outcomes would be if you were found out. Neither of you had ever expected Rhys to disown you.

Rhysand, who adored his little sister more than anything. Rhysand, who insisted you were an integral part of his life. Rhysand, who constantly ensured you were safe and happy.

He threw all that away the second he said you would never give up your tiara collection for Eris.

“Oh, my little fox.”

He peers down at you, your eyes wide as you peer up at him, your face upside down.

He knew he’d never get to love you wholly, unabashedly, publicly. He always knew something would come between you. He lets his gaze linger, memorizing the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheeks. His fingers move and, without his prompting, they start gliding across your face. They move as if he were studying it, preparing himself to have to recognize you in blindness.

To only see you in the darkest hour of the night, when his fingers can retrace these patterns, and pretend you’re next to him again.

He could, he thinks. He’d recognize you anywhere. His breath is shaky, knowing he will have to wait until you two are gone from this world to be together.

He would spend the entirety of his afterlife searching for you, in whatever form you took. If you were nothing more than stardust, a gentle whisper on the wind every Starfall, his flame would burn higher that day, reaching out for you one last time.

He resigns himself to these last few minutes with you, but he doesn’t feel the despair in his heart mirrored in your own.

You feel hopeful. You feel open.

He can’t ask, but you know he needs to hear it.

“I am no longer the Princess of the Night Court.”

Hot tears pour down his face, and he struggles to keep his mouth closed to keep from gasping at your decision. A tear falls onto your face beneath his, splashing across your cheek.

“I am officially without a name, without a home, and with no title,” your voice full of more determination than Eris could imagine, “I humbly ask if you could provide these things for me.”

A strangled sob breaks from him, and you twist in his arms to hold him. Surprise takes over your face, utter shock cascading through the bond before you can stop it.

Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, a master of masks and facades, always playing the sly courtier three steps ahead. Never in all the years have you known him have you ever seen him so emotional.

Eris looks to the ceiling as you throw your arms around him, embracing him tightly. The heat from his hands was clawing at your back, but it didn’t burn.

You shushed him as he continued crying into your hair, the sight of him becoming undone such a shock to your system.

“I apologize, my love, deeply and truly.”

His hands stay on you, every inch of you needing to make that contact with him.

For so long, his life revolved around choices he was not privy to, choices that were not his. He was a pawn in an ever tiring game, one he was trying to make his way out of.

He presses you into him, unable to believe that someone, anyone, especially you, would choose him.

You chose him. You chose him the day the bond had snapped, and you chose him now, when everything was on the line for you.

He knew that he would make the same choice, putting everything on the line for you, preparing to finally take down Beron.

“I choose you too.”

[just-some-user-hunny]

Bastard readers dynamic in the family...

(Implied yandere targarians, heavily implied fem!reader)

With Daemon, it's full of one-sided hostility and fire. Ever since he took you from your little home, with your little bed of warm scrapped fur and the comforting presence of your mother, he's been the monster. The monster that snatched you away. His abduction seemed very... Him, to begin with. Spontaneous, mad, rebellious. But something in him drove him to take you. His blood, his dragonfire. Aegon may allow his little silver haired bastards to roam and survive on scraps, but Daemon is too proud of his blood to do so. You are his. His daughter. Your rebellion and fight against him does deal him pain, but it also drives him further. You may deny it as much as you like, but you are his little mirror. His reflection of spitting fire and anger. From a teary eyed toddler stomping their foot, to a mirthful teenager with poison in their eyes- it matters to him. His little dragon.

And since dragons share their emotions with their riders, these controlling and obsessive feelings do not limit to only Daemon. Ceraxes is an extension of your father, another pair of eyes and a tongue of fire that always hovers and opresses you. As a little child, Daemon often took you to ride dragon back upon the blood wyrm- a form of bonding as he liked to put it. Ceraxes would chirp and fixate on you, his mirthful grin wide like a shark as he stares at you. He purrs and growls in your presence, seeing you as a precious extension of his rider. His little human. He's very protective of you, but also very controlling. You step a foot out of line and he's hovering over you like a frightening serpent. There's no fire in his throat, but his frightening teeth glint in warning.

Rhaenyra adores you. You'll be the daughter she never had, and although at first she was furious to see her husband return with a screaming kicking bastard child in his arms, it didn't take her long to fall in love with you.

Although she adores her sweet boys, a small discreet part of her yearned for a precious little daughter of her own. A little girl to dress and adore and spoil, to give her everything. Rhaenary is a warm and loving person towards you, often placating your little sobs and warbled pouts with taking you in her arms and hushing you with soft loving words. Everything is alright, you're ok. If she's not soothing you with motherly words, then she's showering you in gifts of dragon glass figures and dresses. She herself adores her jewels and gowns, so she sees it only fitting that you too get the same luxurious treatment.

Syrax is doting and sweet to you, just like her rider. You're the only other person besides Rhaenary who may touch her. The golden dragon would preen and coo at you whenever you are within her line of sight, bowing her head low for affection. She purrs and coos, huffing hot dragon breath into your face to make you smile- even just a little. She allows you to touch the rough scales on her face, her own smile almost matching the warmth of your stepmother.

Dragon Rides with rhaenary are always more tolerable- the days are always warm and tame, blue skies and her wings riding upon blossoming clouds of gold and lavender. Rhaenary holds you close to her, a buckled harness added to her saddle especially for you.

Viserys is old and soft, and although his presence has always remained as the silvery old willowed man who sits upon the frightening throne made of jagged blades and glinting metal, he has always been passive with you. As your uncle, and the king, hes always handled you with a soft yet dismissive hand. He may not always acknowledge you that often, but when he does, it's always pleasant and filled with ramblings of creative art mediums and whatnot. If you were to ever show interest in his built figures and constructions, he'd be delighted. He may be your first influence into creative outlets- either it be through painting,embroidery, calligraphy, or to his hopes, figure making. Despite your bastard heritage, he's rather accepting of you. His brother is wild and untamed, always off doing something peculiar and explosive- you are the least destructive thing he's created by far. You are also a source of joy for his daughter, Rhaenary, so he cannot be too harsh upon you living in DragonStone.

Balarion is long gone, his monstrously large skull glinting in golden candlelight within the cold stone walls. But viserys often ponder over your fascination with the war dragons remains, and you may get an earful of old stories that sang their songs long ago. Aegon the conqueror... The black dread with midnight flame... Bringing kingdoms to their knees or reduced to piles of ash. Your heritage is a painful one, dear, but it is powerful. You have the blood of Aegon the conqueror in your veins. You have the blood of the dragon. Be proud of it, for you have no choice.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, despite being shocked and confused by your arrival- like any wide eyed little children, grew to love you. They watched with their dark eyes as Prince Daemon returned with a shrieking and sobbing little girl, clutching the skirts of their mother and whispering little words or confusion and curiosity. Who's that? Where's her mummy?

Even when they are made aware of your bastard heritage, they still love you. Jace will often murmur words of encouragement to you when he sees you look upset or down about something, and Luce will happily take you by the hand and lead you off to read and teach you high valarian. You're off-putting at first, still upset with your new living situation. Because they're not your brother's, you don't know them! Your brothers are back at your house, probably still wailing for your return. As a child you were probably filled with stubbornness, often attempting to stray from their sights, hoping to sever any form of connection before it can begin- both from rebellion, but also from fear of betraying your own little siblings. But these boys are stubborn too, and want to do things with you like any brother would. They want you to read to them. To watch them train, to practice languages and swordsmanship, to watch them ride their dragons and impress you with dragonfire and daring swoops. To them, you're their sister. Just please- give them a chance?

I'll probably get more Cannibal stuff out, but I thought the dynamic of bastard reader within the family would be interesting. I don't often see people expanding on the relationships one would have with their forced families dragons either, considering the dragons are very emotionally connected with their riders, I thought it'd be interesting to expand on this idea!

Also I may do more with team green, but I'm still figuring out what kind of relationships the reader would have with them. I'm definitely making bastard reader close friends with Helaena, she's honestly the chillest person in that whole family 😅

[n0tamused]

hi.iii.... Booth,ill request!?!?

Boothill gets a component jammed, and in this particular fix-up with his mechanic, he's twice as curious and won't stop nabbing things (Tugging on the mechanics hair, grabbing tools from readers apron, whistling and asking too many questions about the practicality of certain tool ect.)

A/N: TEA REQUESTING BOOTHILL, SOUND THE ALARMS AND GET TO WORKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GET OFF YOUR ASSS! I HOPE YOU LIKE IT POOKIE <3 <3

Content: Boothill x Reader, no pronouns used, Boothill calls you darling bc ofc, playful Boothill

“What’s this for again?” 

“It’s for the little screws that connect your plating together”

“Hm, looks like you can stab someone with it” Boothill commented, eyeing the thinner tool peeking from your work apron which lost its original white color, having changed to a washed out green with blotches of oil and metallic spray paint. It’s been only half a system hour since Boothill first stepped into the mechanic station you worked at, and already he has made a score for how many questions can be asked within those 30 or so minutes. It’s been a terrible morning with terrible weather and terrible news and terrible first customer, and this talking-your-ear off wasn't something you needed - it wasn’t exactly soothing, but you had no heart to tell him to quiet down.

You love to hear him talk while you work, you got used to it and have adjusted to it long ago, but today just had to be special. It had started to grow distracting and such distractions can’t be afforded if you are to properly fix the jammed plating and components within his arm. The plating pressed onto the wires within, making his entire arm remain in a constant position that would be painful were he still made whole of flesh and bone. The uncomfortable bend of it made you cringe when you saw it, reminding you of that one time your leg cramped badly from, and so you quickly got to work.

“Anything can be used as a weapon if you find ya’self in a bad situation, ain’t that right, darling?” Boothill mused, his cramped arm extended towards you as you worked your way to separate all the plating, the jammed and bent screws making it harder to pull apart. “Perhaps I should get m’self one of those too, y’know- for some close-range encounters. But then again, there’s not many situations that my bullets can’t help to resolve” he kept going, looking at your eyes that focused on the opening you made.

“Y-yeah..” you absentmindedly responded, not being able to pay too much attention to his words, but you caught a few words of ‘weapon’ and ‘gun’ and made a surface connection based on that. ‘Just nod along..’ You were distracted from the start of this day, despite your denial of that.

What came unexpectedly was two of his metal hands coming up to pinch a loose and hanging lock to tug on it, just enough to break your focus and move your head back. “Ow- heyy!” you protested as you turned to sharply glare at him. “I’m trying to fix you up here, you know? Do you want your arm stuck like this for the rest of time?” Your words are a challenge to him, and he greets it with a toothy grin. a hearty chuckle and slanted, hiding warmth behind them under a guise of mischief.

“Oh, come on! You’ve been fixing me up for a long time, and we are on friendly terms are we not, partner? What got you so gloomy today, I haven’t don’ anything wrong, have I?” His fingers give another small tug to your lock of hair before you pull your head back and your hair out of his hold, shaking your head. He was acting so stubborn now! What in the world has gotten into him?

“No! But come on- Hey!” you try to grab the screwdriver before Boothill fishes it out of the pocket of your apron with his good hand, twirling it between his fingers and staring at it as if he struck gold with his catch. Your hands all but abandoned your work on his arm, standing up to retrieve the screwdriver from his hold but he persists, stretching like a big, long cat to move the screwdriver out your way, and despite his disadvantage of sitting  down in a chair, he did a wonderful work of avoiding your grabby hands.

You huffed in frustration, biting your lip in hopes to choke back the laugh you felt bubbling in your throat. Your face was flushed from holding your breath and chasing him around and around, yet moving nowhere.

“Boothill, give it back! I need that for your arm, you fool” you argue, making another dash for his hand, only to grab onto air as he swiftly moves his hand down. 

“Nah, I think I may try doing this m’self, can’t have you working on me in that sour of a mood. I don’t know what I’ve done- hold on, has someone else soured your mood?” 

“Give- it - back” in some last ditch attempt to pry the screwdriver from his hands before he can do more damage than good, you threw yourself over his shoulder from behind, reaching for his wrist with one hand and grabbing the screwdriver with the other. “Whoa there!” you hear him cheer, more laughter coming from him, and this time you can’t help but choke out a chuckle, now at the grips with him. Toe-to-toe and at a tug of war.

“No one has soured my mood, now, please, give it back” you plead but he stays stubborn, shaking his head and  you feel his head turn and tilt, his nose touching your shoulder. “Wh-” you gasp as you feel his teeth nipping at your shoulder through your clothes, a playful snap of his jaw before he is pulling away just as quickly as he leaned in. 

As you turn and twist to look at him in pure and utter disbelief, his eyes catch yours, and he sees just how flushed you look and before long he is losing his grip on the screwdriver from laughing. 

“Oh shut up, you ranger! That was so unnecessary!” You won the screwdriver back, but at what cost? Yet.. seeing him laughing so earnestly was contagious. 

Boothill himself often came in for check up and fix ups with a sour and snappy mood, but never at you, and he always made it a point not to burden you with gloom and boredom of his situation, he never lacked to tell you stories of the world and where his travels took him when you weren’t around. And god- it’d be a lie to say you didn’t try to cheer him up more than once before. It finally dawned on you that perhaps you were too gloomy and he was trying to cheer you up, in whatever way he could, given his own circumstances.

“Ahh, you should go and take a look at yourself, darling, you look red like a sweet berry, pah!” 

How could you not be distracted when you had such genuine company? No gloom can pierce this cowboy. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[yuitoru]

๑ ⋆˙⟡ ⠀ 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐄 ⠀ ๑ ⋆˙⟡

๑ feat : lucifer morningstar

๑ cw : angst , no comfort , one-sided love

๑ part two

you knew that you would always be second to her. no matter how hard you tried or whatever you did, he would continue loving her over everything else. the ring on his finger proved it. even after seven years of heartbreak and betrayal, he still wears the ring, the shiny metal practically taunting at you every single day. it served as a reminder to you about how irrelevant you really were in comparison to his first love - how he would choose her over you without even having to think about it. you were just there, a temporary distraction to his years of grief.

it showed in how he looked at you, and how he looked at her. with you, his smile didnt reach his ears, a slight strain visible on his face. but, with her, it was real. she wasnt even there - he would look at her through the dozens of portraits scattered throughout his manor. even so, he looked happier being around dried paint on a canvas than you, opting to delicately trace his gloved fingers over her painted face than to seek out your tangible company. all you could do was watch - watch his adoring gaze as he stared at the past, not even bothering to turn around and face the future that was patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it. but, deep down, you knew that he never would.

you had to force a smile onto your face every time he would mess your and her name up, smiling through the pain as it stabbed and clawed at your breaking heart. you had to ignore how distant his touch felt, like he was trying to end it as quick as he could. you had to sleep alone in the oversized bed, as he had began sleeping in his office much more often, especially if the two of you had been intimate. and even during that, his eyes were never on you - instead locked on the portrait of her on the wall. you had to ignore the silence that followed whenever you uttered an "i love you", as he just awkwardly coughed and averted your gaze.

so, it didnt come as a surprise to you when you found all your bags packed and waiting after you woke up one morning. a few servants were standing nearby, clearly being there to assist you in moving the heavy luggage. the poorly concealed sympathy on their faces did little to soothe you - they had witnessed your years of neglect and isolation, and were now tasked with removing you from their master's life. silence filled the manor as you walked down the staircase, even when you locked eyes with your now ex lover, who had been standing at the bottom of the stairs. not a single word was exchanged between the two of you - you both had nothing to say. his gaze was filled with guilt, it being one of the only emotions you had witnessed from him since you two had first met. he looked at you one last time before silently walking past you - walking out of your life. you walked towards the doors, your fingers dancing against the firm oak before pulling them open and taking your first steps outside the building in years - being completely alone and abandoned by the one man you thought you could actually trust.

every single word he had shared with you, the fleeting touches, the love making, the affirmations - it had all been a lie. and like a fool, you drank up every drop of it that you could get. you were so blinded by love to realise he was never actually talking to you - it was all to her. it had always been her, and it always would be. no matter how hard you tried. you could never be lilith.

© yuitoru™ — dont copy, plagiarise, repost, modify and/or translate my works

[ghost-proofbaby]

NOW WE'RE STANDING IN THE RING, BREAKING EVERYTHING THAT WE'VE BEEN BUILDING UP SO LONG. I DON'T WANNA DO THIS - BREAK IT UP.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, everybody's a hypocrite, minors dni

☆ WC: 3.2K+

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

You can’t tell if the ride on the elevator is all too short, or if it drags out entirely. 

The entire ascension, you find the fire again. All the pain and anger that had fueled you to be acting out so cruelly in the lobby. And yet the bell that signals you’ve arrived to your intended floor still dings all too soon. 

It’s hard to get lost. The moment you step off the elevator, you can clearly see only three doors – two of which sit within an indented section of the wall and face one another, clearly the bathrooms. 

Behind the other one, Eddie Munson, no doubt. 

You still cling to that notebook as you take all your steady steps towards the door, turning over all your fury in your head. Turning all the lyrics over in your head. 

All those songs, all those lines – and he’d never picked up the phone and just called. 

You can only assume that it was all written more recently. Before he’d seen you again, even. And if he had still been writing about you, he could have tried calling you. He could have said all that he’d written to you directly, rather than hiding it all within songs that there was no guarantee you’d ever hear. Instead of singing them to crowds of adoring fans rather than to your face. 

You don’t knock on the door – you just open it. 

Music immediately surrounds you as you step in, loud enough that they clearly hadn’t heard you enter. Grainy guitars, deafening drums, billowing bass. And finally, amongst the madness, you can hear Eddie’s voice singing. 

“Do you wanna see how far it goes? Do you wanna test me now, my love?” 

Yes. Yes, you certainly fucking do. 

It’s not Eddie’s live voice coming through the speakers. It’s clearly a recording as he sits beside the producer, hunched over and nodding along, face twisted as he seems to dissect the music in real time.

One flourish of his ringed hand, and the producer is clearly hitting pause. 

“Do you think we can add in that synth I recorded earlier here-”

“Eddie.” 

His hand drops the moment he hears your voice. The chair he’s sitting in nearly tips from the speed in which he spins it around to face you, resembling a statue as he takes in your silhouette in the doorframe. 

You can only imagine the image he’s faced with. 

You, all your vexation and all your torment painted so clearly across your features. Your knuckles, looking physically strained from how tightly the metal spring of the notebook digs into your palm. Your chest, heaving with every breath, as if even being within his vicinity right now was torturous. 

And it was. God, it was. 

Salt in your wounds. Dagger in your stomach. Poorly bandaged contusions you’d never taken the time to balm and soothe. 

“Sugar,” he breathes out, earning him a strange look from the producer, “What are you-”

“Can we talk?” 

Your voice is quivering, strained from trying to keep a level head until the two of you are alone. 

“Right now?”

“Right now,” you almost add on the given alone, but Eddie is one step ahead of you. As he stands, he also waves his hands a bit, clearly dismissing the producer. 

“You want me to leave?” the man asks, standing slowly, looking curiously between the two of you, “Where do I even go? Matt said we’d be working for another few hours, at least-”

“Go to the fuckin’ lobby or something,” Eddie spits out, having a hard time pulling his eyes away from you, “I don’t-” He pauses, his eyes finally finding sight of that notebook in your hand. Clearly, he hadn’t noticed it before. “-care.”

All the blood drains from his face. He’s so pale, you’re worried that he might pass out any second now. 

He doesn’t look prepared for a fight – if anything, he looks terrified of whatever you may swing at him. 

The producer leaves, not without a few mutterings under his breath about not this again, but you don’t even bother to dig deeper into it. If Eddie frequently gets into fights in this studio, that’s his problem. 

Maybe he shouldn’t write songs about girls he’d hurt, and never pick up the phone.

He seems to be waiting on you, but you’re waiting on the click of the door. All that hurt, all that seething is burning in your chest, waiting for release. There’s no need to have any witnesses to the downfall of both of you. 

“How was your mor-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. One click from the door, and you’re storming across the room to slam that notebook into his chest, uncaring of how much it might hurt. 

You hope it hurts. You hope it aches like your palm that had held it, like your chest that feels as though it’s been pried wide open. 

“What the fuck is this?” you spit out, already choking up with tears. 

“What do you-”

“Where the fuck do you get off on writing all those- all those- all those fucking songs about us?” You don’t care that you’ve cut him off – it’ll be the least harmful thing you do during this argument. You’re desperate, rabid and crumbling as you push the notebook harder for emphasis, unable to let go just yet, “All those goddamn songs, lines about wanting me to come home, lines about us. Fucking pages of them! And not one single call. Not one single text.”

The first tear falls, and you’re quick to let go of the notebook so you can swipe it away. You’re not crying in front of him right now. You’ve done enough of that this morning, over old photographs and times you can never get back. 

“I’m sorry, excuse me?” he laughs nervously, looking between you and the notebook he now has ownership of. He flips open the cover, and his face falls when he sees the first page, “You were reading my notebooks?”

“Who even cares at this point?” you hiss out, taking a step back, needing physical distance now. “It was the only way I would ever find out how you really feel, right? It was between that, or having to hear it on the radio, right?” 

His face goes through several revelries before he settles on an emotion, mouth agape as he shakes his head slowly at you, brows furrowed and all his creases exposed, “Are you seriously pissed off right now that the rockstar wrote songs about you? That I wrote about you, which is what I do for a living?” 

“Your job isn’t to write about me!” Thank God for soundproof studios. Your voice is rising, tone cracking with emotion, “I’m not fucking mad that you did that, I’m mad that you never called-”

“I did call!” he yells back at you suddenly. Not out of intimidation, not even out of fury. He has to do it – he has to match your volume just to be heard. “I called hundreds of times. Before the tour ended, when I got back, when I saw you were gone. I did fucking call-”

“I’m mad that you fucking left!”

Silence fills the studio. Eddie has no retorts left as your words weigh down the moment, ricocheting off the walls and puncturing every delicate foundation of whatever closure bullshit you two had begun to falsely build. 

You finally throw your head back in bitter laughter, blinking away the unwelcome tears, “I’m so goddamn angry because you left me.”

“What?” his face falls, almost crumpling in the same manner as it felt your chest was, “You told me to go on those tours. You wanted me to get out there with the band. Not to mention, you left too. You left, seemingly without a goddamn reason. You said it yourself, just now-”

“It’s not about the physical leaving,” you interrupt, bones growing weary, tired from it all. Weighed down with memories and weighed down with emotions that should have been dealt with years ago. “I lost you long before you stepped foot on that tour bus that last time. You…” you pause, breathing erratic, coming out in harsh puffs, trying to build the courage for what needed to be said. 

“I what?” he’s all but begging now, the need to scream over each other evaporating into thin air.

“You stopped saying you loved me.” 

The words are out there now, and you can’t take them back. Two long years of him writing songs, of you washing away a stain that won’t ever fade, of something broken that can’t seem to be fixed. 

You reach out, but not to try and steal back the reason from him. No, that’s not possible. Instead, you take the notebook back from him and begin to gingerly flip through the pages as the tears fall and the words pour out.

“All those phone calls, all these songs, and you still never say the words I needed to hear,” you’re not just talking in past tense any more. It all seemingly blurs together, the past and the present nothing more than watercolors as they spill across the page and merge together. You can’t tell where the hurt from the beginning lays and where the hurt from now feathers at the edges. It’s all the same, and it all remains a stain, “I never needed elaborate metaphors or pretty words, Eddie. I just needed to know you still fucking loved m-”

You cut off as the door to the studio suddenly swings open. You’re frozen, rooted in spot, hand glued mid-flip as Eddie’s messy handwriting stares up at you from the page you paused on. 

Eddie looks ready to fight. To scream at whoever may have interrupted this crucial moment – a moment for you to finally say what you needed to, a moment for him to finally get his answers. 

He doesn’t, though. Not when a fairly livid, almost frazzled Matt is standing in the doorway, glaring at both of you.

“Ah, good,” he says, stepping fully into the small space that had just been a war-zone for you and Eddie. The door slams shut behind him due to its own gravity, “You’re both here. Makes my job easier.” 

“Matt?” Eddie crinkles his nose, “What the Hell are you doing-”

“What am I doing?” Matt walks until he’s standing in front of the coffee table, and motions to the couch with a flick of his wrist. Eddie is quick to follow the silent instruction, taking a seat, but you’re slower to move. You are not Matt’s dog, refusing to be at anybody else’s beck and call at this moment. And so you continue to hover, “What are you doing?” 

You become the pet he needs you to be when he suddenly tosses a magazine down on the coffee table, and you realize that maybe, just maybe, Matt has good reason to be commanding you. 

The vinyl front cover stares up at you, shining beneath the lowlights of the studio, but the image is clear. 

You and Eddie, walking into his apartment building. And in bold lettering, simple textually strokes in blinding white, is a headline that weighs you down enough to make you take the last few necessary steps around the table to fall into place beside Eddie on the couch. 

EXCLUSIVE GOSSIP ALERT: Rockstar Eddie Munson Spotted Canoodling with Mystery Flame! (pg. 89)

Matt’s eyes dart between you two before he finally sighs, “We need to talk.” 

—

The sweat of your hands is making the corners of the magazine pages curl. 

It’s the detail you choose to focus on rather than all the honking and commotion surrounding the car you’re currently sitting in, or the chilling AC that has blasted your right cheek to the point of numbness. The radio is off, the tinted windows are rolled up to dull the music of the city around you, and Matt hasn’t said a word since you’d buckled yourself into his passenger seat. 

Following Matt’s abrupt interruption of you and Eddie, contained chaos had ensued. A symphony of Eddie immediately coming to your defense, claiming the two of you weren’t even canoodling in the photos on the front cover. Of you, only being able to utter a shocked question of how? 

How did they get those photos? How did they print them so fast? How, how, how?

In the last twelve hours, as your life had been piecing together old rotting bricks only to once more fall apart entirely, some cheap gossip journalists had been formulating a front cover that truly felt like it was ruining your entire life. You didn’t know who all had seen the magazine, you didn’t know if the news had spread far and wide across the internet, and you certainly didn’t know what happened next. 

But then Matt insisted you all return to his office. A guarded ivory tower to discuss exactly what you were questioning – to figure out where you go from here. 

Eddie had been quick to suggest you ride back with him in the car that had brought him to the office; you had been quick to shoot down the offer and ask Matt for a ride instead. 

That’s how you ended up here. A magazine you wanted to burn at the stake in your lap, stuck in traffic on a busy street that more so resembled a parking lot at this point. 

“We need to talk about it.”

The first words Matt has spoken to you since the drive began. Not a question, not a request – you were going to talk about this shit show. No running from it, it seems. 

“I don’t know how they got the photo,” you blandly reply in monotone, staring down at the two photos clearly taken back to back, merged together with some pretty impeccable photoshopping. Doesn’t erase the fact that they’d definitely caught you’re bad angle, “I didn’t even see any paparazzi-”

“I don’t care about that,” Matt waves off as the light you’d been stopped at for several minutes now turns green, and there’s just enough of a gap in bustling pedestrians crossing the street for him to make the right turn he’d been signaling the entire time, “One thing you need to learn right here, right now, is there will always be paparazzi around when you’re in public with Eddie. You won’t always see them, but you should always assume they’re there.” 

The ceasing of that irritating clicking is heaven sent. One less commotion to cloud your reeling mind. 

“What do you care about then?” you mumble, finally side-eyeing the older man beside you. 

“I care about what you are to Eddie.” 

“I can promise you, I am noth-”

“Don’t feed me the same bullshit excuses he has, please,” Matt sighs as the rolling car slows, and he signals once more to turn into the parking lot of one of the many impressive skyscrapers towering over the street, “I’m not an idiot. Eds may seem to think I am half the time, but I’m not,” a confining parking space is where the SUV finally settles, but Matt makes no move to turn the vehicle off as he turns to look at you fully, “Look, just level with me. Because as of right now, the only thing I know is that you went to high school together. I need to know where exactly you stand with Eddie, not just because he’s my client, but because of the conversation we’re about to have.” 

Your heart fully drops, “What kind of conversation are we about to have?” 

“A hard one,” Matt instantly replies, not missing a beat, “A very, very hard one. With so many moving factors, it’s gonna give you a headache. And I want to warn you of it, give you a fair chance, because you seem like a nice girl. You’re not used to this circus like me and Eddie are – you deserve a fighting chance at what’s about to be asked of you.” 

What’s about to be asked of you. 

You had a few guesses, simply based on the grave look on Matt’s face. Simply based off of all the research you used to do back in your room in Hawkins’, when the joke of you managing Corroded Coffin felt more and more like a real possibility. 

“An NDA?” you guess, trying to seem indifferent. You should have seen that coming. 

“More than an NDA, dear.” 

Your head snaps in his direction, brows furrowing, “What could you possibly want from me that’s more than signing a piece of paper that promises I won’t tell anyone what’s happened last night?” you hold up that magazine from your lap, giving it a fluttering shake for emphasis, “Wasn’t that the point of showing us this?” 

He only smiles. Your heart only sinks further. 

“I’m going to ask you one last time; what are you to Eddie, really?”

A muse. A stain. A ghost. Something to haunt every avenue he’ll ever take for the rest of his life. A mistake better left unspoken between the two of you. A blip in his past, impossible to avoid. Something better left dead and buried, but the Universe just won’t seem to let the two of you rest. 

“I’m his ex-girlfriend.” 

How do you define an ex, though? Did you ever really end it? How can something be over if neither party has ever been willing to say the words? 

Matt nods slowly, smiling almost sadly, “I figured as much. Thank you, at least, for being honest.” 

“Can I ask you something, and you answer me honestly?”

The car carrying Eddie is probably nearly here. They had probably gotten swept into traffic while following behind Matt’s car. A few extra minutes added to their journey as they’d tried to navigate the nightmarish streets of New York. 

Come to think of it, you don’t even know if he’ll be using the same front entrance as you and Matt. 

“You won’t always see them, but you should always assume they’re there.”

He could use the back entrance, if there was one, to avoid the paparazzi. 

Technicalities you had never had to consider before. You’d only experienced a fraction of Eddie’s fame firsthand, in the beginning, when it was still reasonable to show him off. To brag about him in public, to pronounce your love from every rooftop. Hiding had never been an option – it hadn’t needed to be an option. 

“I know what your question is,” Matt says carefully, “And we both know I won’t say anything until we’re inside that building with Eddie.” 

“Is he even going to go through the fr-” you start to question, but cut off just as you see a familiar black SUV pull up to the front doors of the building. 

You have your answer, it seems. 

Matt unbuckles his seatbelt, and you take it as your sign to do the same. But just as you begin to reach for your door, Matt’s hand on your forearm stops you. 

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what I’m about to ask the two of you. Especially now that I know the truth.” 

Your heart finally arrives to the point of no return, unable to answer as the organ is buried six feet under within the grave that should be meant for yourself when it comes to the history books of Eddie Munson. 

Just what was Matt about to ask of the two of you?

You open the door without responding. 

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @mediocredreams @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin

@ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87

@thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @aysheashea@kellsck

@cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking

@witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore

@mikiepeach @ali-r3n @hawkebuckley @alwaysbeenfamous @darkyuffie-blog

@vintagehellfire @lilmisssiren @elvendria@loveryanax@stylexrepp

@princessstolas @fangirling-4-ever @eddiesguitarskills @babez-a-licious @josephquinnsfreckles

@writinginthetwilight @trixyvixx @kittydeadbones @munson-addict @bluejeangenies

@cryingglightningg @joannamuns9n @missmarch-99 @rhirojo@findmeincorneliastreet

[matchadobo]

I absolutely love how you write kidd sm!!! Can i request a scenario where kid and killer are cuddling with us? Appreciate it ^_^

KIDD & KILLER; cuddles

wc: 1453

warning/s: very sfw <3, gn reader

it happened one evening when it was awfully cold. the victoria had no choice to be docked by a wintry island given the exhaustion of supplies. you couldn't sleep because of the weather and the warmth of your skimpy blanket and sheer sheets were not enough to keep you warm.

the clock had already struck midnight and you felt restless. so you pulled yourself up from your bunk and dawdled at the kitchen, shivering. you intend to make yourself something hot, maybe reheat some soup or make tea.

stirring up some leftover soup from dinner on the stove, the heat of the forming smoke soothed you. you felt a rush of weariness in your system at the contact of warmth; you really are sleepy, it's just too cold. so it led to you almost falling asleep standing. if it weren't for kidd turning off the stove as his arm snaked beside you.

"is it that cold you'd wanna burn yourself?" kidd cleared his throat, reaching for a bowl from the cupboard above your head and placing it by the counter beside the stove. "it's done. if you plan on not burning the damn soup that is."

"sorry. why are you still awake?" you rubbed your eyes, pouring the soup on the bowl.

"could ask ya the same thing," he replied. kidd was garbed with his thick fur coat blanketing his huge frame. "smelled somethin' good 's why."

"i'm... it's too cold. i assumed this'll warm me up." you carried your bowl and sat by the chair surrounding the dining table. kidd was heating up a drink, probably some milk.

you started sipping on the soup before kidd stood beside the seat across from you, chugging on some milk. "that ain't enough to keep you warm."

"either i sleep somewhere warmer or eat something warm to keep myself from freezing to death. got no choice here, captain." you shrugged as you continue to fill your system with the warm soup.

"that ain't gonna cut it. don't want my crew members gettin' sick or some shit." he placed his empty glass down and leaned forward.

"what do you suggest me do then?" you answered a bit harshly this time, the weariness was driving you crazy and irritated.

"sleep with me. got a fireplace." he eyed you intently, his gaze inviting you into something that drove you even crazier than the momentary slips of his coat where his chiseled torso peaks.

"w-what?"

"you heard me. unless you wanna freeze your ass up, be my guest." he picked up his glass and placed it in the sink. "no time gettin' shy now. hurry up before i change my mind."

as the only shot of getting a shred of comfort, you took upon his offer after finishing your soup.

it isn't your first time being in his quarters, he invites you here all the time. to drink or do whatever you two do.

it smelled like the same metallic cologne he always wear, it was his usual dimly lit room painted in his favorites of red and black, his sizable bed was placed by the center of his room where his gargantuan frame would be perfect for, and the already lit fireplace that settled by the corner of his room.

you hummed a moan of relief upon entering, it already feels warm and its scent was comforting. the crackling of the fire can be heard even from the doorway. you sat before the fireplace, on his soft, raven bear rug. you hugged your knees and rubbed your hands haphazardly. shivering from the cold outside.

"the hell are you doing down there? bed's got a lotta space. " kidd shimmied from the middle to the side of the bed to make space for you. his fur coat was finally off and his body was full on display.

you looked behind you with cautious eyes. "if you try anything, eustass. i swear to god." you picked yourself up from the floor and dusted off your bottom.

"hey, i ain't the one needin' the damn fire." he raised his hands in surrender. "let's just wait and see who'll snuggle up for warmth as the night gets colder." his voice was coated with a cocky tone as your bodies finally touch.

he was really warm. aside from the fire in his room, his body temperature due to his large size was significantly higher than yours. he was the perfect, huggable body warmer.

little by little, your arms linked and your legs intertwined. it didn't take long for you to get tangled on his limbs and approach slumber.

until the door cracked ajar to reveal killer, who was embarrassed to have walked in. he raised his hands in defense and cleared his throat.

"sorry, didn't mean to barge in you two. just checking on you, kidd." killer started, trying to maintain a professional front even in your sleepy state. "it's awfully cold so... but it seems you're holding up well."

"what took ya so long, kil? been waitin' since an hour ago." kidd let go of you gently to face his best friend and to be able to talk clearly with him, a little to gentle for a pirate such as himself. you weren't used to it, not that you didn't like it.

"got ready for bed. dry off my hair and such." you could hear the chuckle behind the muffle of his helmet despite your back facing him. "y'all got room for one more or am i interrupting?"

"don't think shortcake over here has protests. matter of fact, they could use another source of warmth. poor thing's been shiverin', ain't ya?" his voice was soft against your skin, breath warm on your arm. kidd's loose arm held onto you closer but not firm enough to jolt you awake. he looked over his shoulder ar your sleepy state, admiring how peaceful you look as you drift off to sleep.

the door shut behind killer and he shortly crawled into kidd's bed. surprisingly enough, it fit these two big guys and even you in it just fine. there's even more space left.

as they cocooned you in between, snores started emanating from your slightly ajar lips. it wasn't long until you were deep in sleep and they started becoming drowsy too.

maybe it was the smell of your hair or the sight of your face. or the needy grip on their strong arms as you refuse to let go of them even in your sleep that helped them rest in this cold night. their guard was completely down and they relish on the warmth of one another.

shortly after, morning came.

"guys...! kil...! kidd...! i need to pee." you tried wiggling out of their strong grip, but their echoing snores were proof enough that they won't budge.

but killer was the first one to wake up and hear your protests. he moved over and even helped you escape kidd's grip who was still deep in sleep.

killer waited for you by sitting at the edge of the bed so you can crawl back without any struggle. he had his eyes shut and his luscious, blond hair disheveled. a clear sign of his sound slumber yet he still managed to sit up and wait for you so you won't have a hard time.

"thanks, kil. would've peed myself on the bed if it weren't for you." you laughed a little, nudging the blond. he waved his hand a bit and smiled at you as a response, although his eyes were half-lidded so you decided to hurry up and crawl back to where you were so you two could go back to sleep. it's still pretty early.

kidd was now in a starfish position, you ought to lay on his arm and snuggle close to him to make space for killer who later had a firm embrace on you.

"did you sleep well?" killer broke out, his low, hoarse voice tickling your ear.

you nodded and smiled, "i hope i wasn't much of a bother here."

"ah don't say that. it's not everyday you get to have cuddles like this." killer responded with a chuckle, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

"yeah, maybe we can change that. let's make it an everyday thing, hm?" you looked over to see killer's expression and giggled at how he blushed and hid his face under his hair.

and a comfortable silence blanketed the air of kidd's quarters. but for now, the three of you slept soundly in the four corners of this dimly lit room. the fire was already long dead, but the embers of the unsaid longings still remain strong amidst the warmth of your arms.

part 2 🔞 is fem reader coded (still welcome for whoever wants to read 🥰)

hello anon!! 🌷thanks for the kid & killer request i'm starting to enjoy writing for poly now whahahaha hope i did your request justice!

that was a long ass absence again huh ASJDAHDHDASJ very sorry a lot happened,a lot of personal stuff just came crashing in (ahem graduation ahem college next) and just when you thought it could get any worse i got fucking sick!! ain't that fun! but i'm recovering now and i hope it doesn't get worse

[hrefna-the-raven]

Mask

Horror masterlist - Masterlist - Misc. masterlist

RZ Michael Myers x female nurse reader

Part 1

Words: 1248

Warnings: very mild and short descriptions about violence

Summary: you seem to be the only person who's able to communicate with Michael and so you continued to take care of him on Dr Loomis' orders

Reader: short female reader in mind, but no specific descriptions are used

The following days and weeks passed with the same routine. You were overseeing Michael in the observation room until Doctor Loomis would arrive for the therapy session. Occasionally, the doctor would even request that you stay, hoping that Michael would open up in your presence. He did, although the doctor was too engrossed in his own theories to notice it each time, but you saw all of it. The little amused huffs behind the mask whenever you challenged him with a question, the silent chuckles and crinkling eyes whenever you told one of your jokes and the way his breath hitched as soon as your hand found his in an innocent touch. All the while a frustrated Loomis sat across the table, huffing as he scribbled down in his notebook, so much to write and yet no wisdom to share, only speculations.

The conflict within Michael kept raging on, torn between his urge to kill and the growing fondness for you. You were a thorn in his flesh of bloody sin and yet, you soothed his mind and your touch left a sense of longing burning beneath his skin. Your fingertips brushing the side of his hand as he tried to help you make your own mask felt electrifying, a spark straight to his rotten heart, nourishing its dying flesh. His heart raced, threatening to burst out of his chest while his breaths grew heavier. As his eyes finally locked on yours, the entire world around him froze, time trickling away while you observed him, your perfect lips slightly parted, realising what was happening to him, what you did to him.

"Well mine doesn't look as good as yours but I still have time to learn from the master", you giggled, holding your mask up for him to see, "shall we try them on?"

A faint smile spread across his lips, well hidden beneath the painted paper on his face. The way you giggled so carelessly in his presence, the graceful movements of your hands, making the piece of paper-mâché seemingly dance in the air, Michael could feel a knot forming in his stomach. He had never felt like this, not even prior to that one fateful Halloween. Although his heart suddenly jumped as he observed your cheerful expression falter, replaced by a hint of fear. Would this be the inevitable moment of truth where you'd finally realise how ugly he truly was on the outside and deep within?

"I...I should turn around", you murmured, "sorry I forgot for a moment that you don't like showing your face."

His fingers moved up to grasp your chin, preventing you from turning your head away. Observing your initial confusion, he handed you his new mask and slowly removed his old one. A hushed gasp slipped passed your lips, eyes wide in shock as you gazed upon Michael's real face for the very first time. He let out a rasped groan as your fingertips graced his forehead, brushing the long blonde strands of hair away to tuck them behind his ears. His handsome face bore a rough charm, tiny dark stubble adorned his broad jaw and chin, his lips trembling ever so slightly while his icy blue eyes locked onto yours. He noticed your flustered expression and the heat rising to your cheeks as you leaned closer and put the mask over his head, but you didn't pull it down immediately.

"That...uhm...is a very beautiful face", you whispered, "thanks for allowing me to see it...for the trust."

You pulled the mask down and right before it covered his face entirely, you saw his lips curl into a wide smile. As you were about to put your own mask on, the metal door swung open and Loomis entered with Cruz following closely behind.

"Thank you nurse", the doctor called out while Cruz simply waved at you with a smile, "you can take your leave now. Mister Cruz will take care of Michael in the coming days and I will commence the daily therapy session now. Happy Halloween!"

You sensed Michael tense beside you, the breaths under the mask becoming more erratic with each second of silence passing. Your hand found his, squeezing it gently while his gaze met yours at the subtle reassuring touch.

"I'll take a week off from this evening on, but", you spoke calmly, sensing his rising panic, "I know tomorrow is Halloween, soooo....after discussing it with Dr Loomis, I got the approval to drop by and visit you, in my Halloween costume. And of course I gonna bring you some candy."

You offered a gentle smile while your hand remained on his but it wasn't nearly enough to quell the anger burning within Michael in this moment. He had trusted you, opened himself up to you, and now, like everyone else in his life, you were about to leave him again. Leaving him all to himself and his darkness again? The thought of being abandoned consumed him, causing his teeth to grind and his once warm eyes turned cold and lifeless. His hand instinctively moved towards your neck while his mind exploded with images of how he could simply smash you head first into the table. The cracking sound of your skull, the crimson trickling from every wound, pooling around your face in perfect contrast against the dark grey metal underneath, all mingling with the sweet melody of your panicked last breaths, realising your life was drained away by his hand, the very one you're still holding onto right now.

"If you write me down your favourite candy, I gonna try and get that one for us. Promised!"

Your soft voice snapped him out of his murderous trail of thoughts back into reality and he felt his hold on your neck loosen, gently caressing your skin before retreating. Steel blue eyes blinked at you a few times, the love and gentleness slowly returning to them and with a loud sigh Michael leaned forward, hastily scribbling a few words on a piece of paper before sliding it towards you. The chuckle escaping your lips went straight through his chest, it being the most beautiful sound he had ever heard, forgetting all the pain and doubt it had caused within him just a few seconds ago.

"Oh those two are my favourites too", your finger tapped on the paper, "you have an excellent taste in sweets, Mr Myers."

He rolled his eyes in response but you could almost see the smirk peeking out from behind the paper-mâché.

"I'll see you tomorrow then. Make sure to wear your scariest mask", you winked at him before heading towards the doors.

Before the door fell shut, Loomis slipped through it, calling out for you. It amazed you how this man knew so much and so little at the same time about his most famous patient. He listened, analysed and yet, he never seemed to truly see or hear Michael. Maintaining a friendly and professional expression on your face, you continued to listen as he provided additional instructions for your visit the following day.

As you laid in bed that night, a stash of candy and sweets stowed away and ready, excitement bubbled in your stomach while your restless mind got lost in the anticipation of your first private meeting with Michael, outside your nurse outfit and the obligation to watch over him. It would simply be you and him having as much Halloween fun as a place like Smith's Grove would allow.

Part 3 - Home (18+)

[lunarmoves]

"what does touch feel like to you?" you muse one quiet night as you spin around in the chair behind the daycare's security desk.

moon tilts his head as he turns his upper torso around to look at you. he is perched precariously on the surface of the desk where his protocols allow him to venture. you can just barely make out the thin wire connecting him to the suspension system attached to his back, ready to pull him up into the air at his slightest of whims.

warm, ruby light from his eyes paints your vision in a way that's infinitely more soothing than the harsh, fluorescent lighting of the daycare. you catch his gaze and at his curious look, you elaborate on your thoughts.

"like... can you feel it?" you ask, letting yourself idly spin in a circle again. the room passes around you in a blur, darkness fading to red fading to darkness over and over. "or does your code just tell you when you're feeling something?"

he's quiet, but it does not bother you. not like it used to. you give him time to respond, letting yourself get lost in the tranquility of a daycare that's closed for the night. the tiny, glow-in-the-dark stars speckled across the ceiling do not hold even a match up to the real things, but you appreciate them nonetheless. eventually moon replies, and his voice is low and contemplative.

"what does it feel like to you?" he postures in return, turning the rest of his body around so he can sit cross-legged before you. the bells attached to his wrist make not a single sound.

you hum, giving it some thought. "it's kinda hard to explain." at your words, moon gives you a pointed look that makes you huff. "okay, fine, unfair of me to ask, i suppose." you are daringly curious tonight. you find yourself staring up at him from your slumped position, then straighten and lean forward so you can make a gesture at his hands resting in his lap.

his head cocks again, but he complies with your silent request and holds out one of his hands towards you. his ribbons trail languidly below his wrist, two waterfalls of silk. the dark metal of his hand gleams in the dim lighting from his optics.

"can you... sense this?" you murmur out as you use two of your fingers to trace a line from the bottom of his palm to the tip of his middle finger. moon doesn't utter a word, just latches his gaze onto your hand. eyelights sharpen, but you do not notice. you take his silence with a grain of salt and continue. your fingers move back down to his palm and trace a little circle into it. "how about this? does it feel like anything?"

is his H.U.D. bringing up code as an indicator that you're touching him? or does he feel the way your fingers are moving like how you would? the sensation, the warmth? you wait, but you get nothing from him. there's a quiet, quiet click-click-click that you know is his head rotating around. slow and steadily.

"we have touch receptors," he eventually says after a long, long time and it's like he had forced it out from deep within his chest. his fingers twitch minutely under your feather-light touches. "just like you." the edges of his sharp smile thin out almost imperceptibly.

"we're not so different, you and i," you remark lightly and allow the entirely of your hand to brush against his. soft, gentle. his hand is warm and almost seems to vibrate upon contact with your own. you're not sure what you'd expected, but you think it wasn't that. you can lose yourself just doing the simplest of things with him.

"no," moon whispers, and there's something to his voice that makes a shiver scuttle down your spine. that grips at your insides and refuses to let go. look at me, it seems to say. look at me, right now. "we're not."

and when you finally move your gaze from his hand to glance back up at his face, you find that the way he's looking at you is bright and all encompassing—ready to devour you whole.

[cellophaine]

Chapter I: SERVE

Masterlist

Pairing: Art Donaldson x F!Reader

Word Count: 2377.

Warnings: None.

Author's Note: The first chapter is here!! I'm so excited to finally release this as this idea formed in my head a while ago and it's been itching to take shape. I hope you will enjoy this chapter and stay for the messiness of it all!

GIF Source: @harcive

2021. San Francisco.

Your bedroom, 2 AM. Outside, the storm raged. The whistling notes of winds pried their way inside through the seams of the window. You lay on your side, watching the maidenhair tree as its leaves and branches were torn in different directions, but the thick trunk barely wavered. The constant pattering of rain running along the window soothed your troubling mind.

Another sleepless night.

It was also raining like this on the day that you met him. Perhaps it was nostalgia, maybe it was your indulgence of self-loathe, either way, you often recalled that day over the years, long after it was over, thinking about how cruel fate was even though you didn’t believe in it. You often thought about how had you listened to the weather forecast on that portent day, there wouldn’t be so many sleepless nights.

2006. Stanford University.

The angry and ruthless storm swept over the campus’ ground, painting a murky varnish over the courtyard. You didn’t bring an umbrella. The cafeteria was almost empty with the exception of some other unfortunate souls like yours. Your messenger bag wouldn’t survive in this rain with its metal clasps broken and glued together, its nylon strap peeling off along the edge, and its canvas surface thinning.

You chose a seat by the big bay window overlooking the courtyard. The rain railed on the glass panels, loud and blurred together in a clashing harmony. The perfect background for your wandering thoughts while you stared out the window. You had a shift at the coffee shop on Friday, then the weekend to yourself. The library’s copy of Mrs. Dalloway was due the following Friday, but you didn’t need that much time. You could finish it this weekend. You should return your mom’s missed call and your dad’s message. Probably more of what you didn’t want to hear, but you should respond nonetheless.

Out of the peripheral of your vision, a moving silhouette headed in your direction. You ignored it until they stopped at your table, far enough that you couldn’t touch them if you reached out, but close enough to make your head turn. Your eyes caught onto the white shirt before skipping along the length of the torso before reaching the face. You were taken aback by his appearance, and most of all, his piercing eyes on you.

“Hi. May I sit here?”

He had a half smile that softened the outer corners of his eyes. Blond locks swept all over, framing his face in tousled waves. A sharp jaw that your eyes couldn’t help but trace along. He was cute. There was an easy air about him that almost disarmed the guard you placed when it came to strangers. Almost.

Your eyes quickly flitted around the nearly empty cafeteria involuntarily as if to signal that there were other seats he could take. But you nodded regardless with a thinly veiled hesitance and watched as he took his seat across the table. You wondered what he wanted from you.

“Looks like we’re stuck here for a while.”

You bobbed your head in agreement.

“Yeah. I should’ve brought an umbrella.”

“Me too. It doesn’t rain very often so I thought today would be one of those days, you know? Should’ve listened to the forecast.”

You hummed noncommittally and turned your head towards the window again. He moved a little in his seat as if he was trying to pull at your attention physically.

“I saw you sitting alone from over there, and uh … I thought you might want some company.”

Your eyes squinted at that and watched as he reached over the table.

“My name’s Art. Art Donaldson.”

You shook his hand and told him your name. His name stirred at a memory in the back of your mind.

“I know you. I mean, I’ve heard of you.”

His face lit up ever so slightly at that.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Your name is mentioned pretty often, especially whenever tennis comes up. Some people in my class seem to be fans of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and light.

“What about you? Are you a fan of me?”

You pretended to think about it and shook your head.

“Ouch.”

You held up a hand in defence.

“Hey. I’m just not a sports person.”

“That’s fair. We’re pretty annoying anyway.”

You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief. You could see the way his smile dropped, the way his body went still, and guilt trickled in rapidly until it was a big, sweeping wave.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“So you were thinking it?”

“Yes, I mean, no, but kinda?"

Art only stared at you. You straightened in your seat.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? It just came out, I honestly don’t mean anything by it. My roommates said that I’m very sarcastic and if you don’t know me you might think I’m very mean but honestly I really don’t mean it I’m so so sorry …”

You trailed off as Art’s smile grew until his body shook with the sound of his chuckle. It was you that stared now. Your heart was pounding, nerves pulled tight across all directions, unsure of where they were heading.

"Uh …"

Your voice wavered, and you cleared your throat. Art waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it. No offence taken.”

The joy he seemed to get from your momentary despair cast his face in an endearing light. You found yourself staring at the way his eyes crinkled, the way his lips quirked up, one side higher than the other.

“Still. It was rude of me.”

Art looked at your rueful expression, and you could almost tell the moment his light bulb went on.

“You’ll have to make it up to me.”

“What?”

He leaned forward. He was now halfway over the small table.

“To fix my broken ego. You’ve just destroyed it, after all.”

You fixed your eyes on his and met him in the middle, turning the distance into proximity.

“You know what they say about having a fragile ego?”

"What do they say?"

"Hm, I thought you knew already."

Art held your gaze for a long moment, searching for your tell. You couldn't hold the grin back, and he mirrored you, understanding your sarcastic nature a little more now. You broke away first and stood up, eyes roaming around the cafeteria and eventually landed on the food counter. You turned to look at Art, jerking your chin towards the other side of the room.

“Alright, let’s go. Whatever you want, on me.”

Art chose funnel cake fries with vanilla ice cream. You could feel his eyes on you as you smoothed out the slightly crumbled bills, counted the change and gave it to the woman behind the counter. His gaze made you feel a little insecure. You kept your eyes on the woman as you thanked her.

“Anything on it?”

She held up the paper box. Art turned to you and asked if you wanted anything. You said caramel sauce absent-mindedly as you put your wallet back in your pocket. After a generous drizzle, she passed the box to Art, along with two spoons.

“Wait, it’s your treat. Why did you ask me what I wanted on it?”

He shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“I thought we could share.”

You returned to the table. The rain had calmed down, reduced to a light shower. It took some convincing from Art as you refused to have some as it was your treat for him, but eventually, you shared the first few bites in silence. You tried not to pay too much attention to his lips every time he licked the spoon when Art broke the voiceless air and asked about your major. English, you said, as your parents dismissed and scorned. Despite their disapproval and incessant attempts to convince you otherwise, you still wanted to be a published author, dreaming of seeing your name on the shelves one day.

“The scholarship helped a lot. If it wasn’t for it, my parents would have forced me to stay home and attend the community college there.”

“I'm guessing you didn't want that?”

“Not at all. And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the college back home, but …"

You considered our next words properly. A cold feeling crept up your spine, but you found the words that you'd never had the courage to say out loud before tumbling out.

"I just don’t want to be stuck there, you know? In the same place that I grew up in for years and years on end with my parents, and it's …”

You met Art's eyes to find that he was staring at you. All of a sudden, the cold became unbearable, and you felt so uneasy that you felt an instinctual urge to physically press your lips together to prevent anything else from slipping out. The baggage was too much for someone you met not even an hour ago. You cleared your throat.

“Anyway, what about you? Are you going to be a pro tennis player?”

Art's brows slightly furrowed, and he took a moment before responding. He seemed to sense your discomfort, but he let it go. You felt the weight eased off your stomach, feeling grateful that Art chose not to pursue the topic further.

"Yeah, I hope so."

"Is it something you've always wanted to do?"

He thought about it for a brief moment.

"I … think so. It's something I've known for a long time, and very well."

You nodded, taking another spoonful of ice cream.

"Okay, maybe not as well as my friend Patrick."

"Tell me about him."

The funnel fry stopped just before it reached Art's mouth.

"Why? Are you interested in him?"

“Sure am. I’m the kind of girl that needs more information on a guy before expressing my interest. So tell me."

A small frown formed on his lips. His hand made a slow descent to the table, the fry forgotten. He looked like a kicked puppy, and you felt bad for your harmless joke. You reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze.

"Art. I'm joking."

He took your words in, and an amused smile slowly spread across his lips. With the other unoccupied hand, he rubbed on his ear, which drew your attention to it as it turned into a faint shade of pink. He cleared his throat, and you pulled your hand away.

"Uh– okay! So … Patrick."

You nodded, encouraging him to continue. He told you about the Mark Rebellato Academy, how Patrick was his roommate and became his best friend, how they played tennis together and made …

"Fire and Ice?"

Art nodded.

"Who's who?"

"He's Fire, and I'm Ice."

"So when you're together, what do you make? Warm water?"

"Okay, when you put it like that, it doesn't sound very exciting. But we're good, I promise."

You put the spoon down, decided that you were done with the dessert and let Art finish the rest.

"When can I see you guys play together?"

Art thought about it for a moment.

"I don't think it'll happen soon. He's trying to pro, and he's busy with a tour right now."

"I see."

The rain had ceased to light mist, which made Art's silence became palpable.

"Do you miss him?"

"I– I'm happy for him, I am. He's doing exactly what he has always wanted to do, which is becoming a pro and not having to concern himself with a degree, but …"

"You wish he was here, playing tennis with you. Like how you used to."

Art nodded. You felt the air become heavier, so you switched it up.

"What about your family? They must come to your game to support you?"

Art smiled, but his voice was tinged with a sadness that made you regret even asking.

"My grandma asks me about every game I've ever played. And, uh … my parents enrolled me in Mark Rebellato, but they don't really come to my games. They don't … ask me about them, either."

The silence thickened like honey, but it wasn't confining. A tangible thread of mutual understanding wrapped around you, binding you together across the small table. You couldn't bring yourself to say something, anything, but when your eyes locked, the kindness in his eyes assured you that you didn't have to.

You blinked and allowed the quiet moment to slip through your fingers.

"I have a question for you."

He gestured for you to go ahead.

“Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

You arched a brow.

“You know what I'm talking about. There are other girls in there. Why did you choose me?”

“Just wanted to introduce myself to the prettiest girl here.”

You rolled your eyes at his smirk. He picked up the last funnel fry and popped it into his mouth.

“Do you really use that line on every girl you've met? Has it ever worked?”

“No, not every girl. And, you tell me.”

You shook your head, trying to fend off the inevitable smile that tugged on a corner of your lips.

“It’s not working.”

You said before standing up. Outside, the rain had cleared for the sun to poke through. Taking the empty box and cutlery, you put everything in the trash bin nearby while Art was still sitting.

“I guess I’ll have to get your phone number.”

You returned to the table, where Art looked up at you with that playful look.

"Why?"

"So I can prove myself to you."

“There’s no need. I’m sure I’ll see you again around the campus anyway.”

You picked up your bag, signifying the end of your talk. Art sprung off the seat as if it was on fire.

"But–"

You placed a hand on his shoulder and applied the tiniest bit of pressure.

“This has been enjoyable, really. I’ll see you around, Art.”

You offered him a smile before letting your hand drop. You didn’t look back once when you walked away despite the urge to have a final good look of him. Art gathered his bag, his hand reached inside and grasped the umbrella lying amongst the notebooks, his eyes followed you until you disappeared.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

For updates, please follow @cellophaine-archives

[niki-phoria]

it's so sweet knowing that you love me

pairing: okkotsu yuuta x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff/comfort word count: 554

notes: yuuta my beloved <33 trying to work on making my fics longer lol, mention of reader wearing lip tint, inspo from this prompt list by @urfriendlywriter, title from cigarettes after sex - sweet

“i’ll be back soon,” OKKOTSU YUUTA tells you with a soft smile. he holds his katana in his hand, diligently wrapping the covering around it before sliding the weapon over his shoulder. “they said the curse is only a grade one. it’s nothing serious.”

you frown softly, taking a step closer to him. your gaze lingers on the thin metal ring wrapped around his finger. it almost glints beneath your kitchen lights, a glaring reminder of the curse permanently attached to yuuta. “if it wasn’t serious they wouldn’t have called you.” 

“i’m sorry.” yuuta catches his bottom lip between his teeth. his eyes flutter shut as he reaches up, brushing a hand through his bangs - a nervous habit. his hand lingers at the back of his neck, anxiously scratching against the nape of his neck. “i know this is hard on you, too.”

yuuta startles when you catch the collar of his jacket. he watches with wide eyes and rosy cheeks as your fingers curl around the fabric, gripping it tightly. his uniform will need to be ironed later, crumbled in the grasp of your hand, but he can’t find it in himself to care as you pull him back into your arms. 

leaning your head against his shoulder, you find solace in hiding your face into the crook of his neck. stray strands of his hair tickle against your cheeks. his arms snake around your waist; you shiver when yuuta’s fingers slip beneath the fabric of your t-shirt, rubbing indistinct shapes against the skin of your hips. 

the hum of the refrigerator whirring fills the silence. you shift slightly to lean your head against yuuta’s chest. closing your eyes, you focus on the rhythmic sound of his heart beating. the continuous thump thump thump soothes the worst of your anxieties. 

time passes indistinctly. you allow yourself to get lost in the tranquility of the moment until yuuta leans in. he presses a feather-light kiss against your forehead. “i need to go,” he whispers guiltily. 

reluctantly, you pull away, but your arms linger wrapped around his neck and his hands remain tentatively against your hips. yuuta’s eyes are the colour of honey. his gaze traces the contours of your face, admiring your features. slowly, you lean in. his lips are soft when they meet your own. your bodies mold together like two puzzle pieces - like you were made for each other. your lips linger for a little longer than normal; the kiss is bitter but sweet. remnants of your lip tint stain yuuta’s lips, painting them a soft cherry pink. 

yuuta’s hands slip to rest comfortably against your waist. your own fingers tangle into strands of his overgrown hair, raking through the soft strands at the nape of his neck. his cheeks flush brightly when you pull away, leaving his face shining a brilliant shade of pink. yuuta smiles bashfully. he’s almost sure you can hear just how fast his heart is beating in his chest. 

“come back soon,” you murmur. resting your hand against his cheek, you carefully brush your thumb against his smooth skin. your fingertips trace against faded acne scars and still-healing bruises. hues of purple bloom along the edge of his jawline. “come back safe.”  

yuuta smiles. leaning in, he presses another chaste peck to your lips. “i always do.” 

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[deanbrainrotwritings]

— right people, wrong place

SUMMARY : part two of and their name was treason. confrontations and unexpected turn of events. the truth and the consequences. 

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : sam winchester

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), angst?, dirty talk/dirty thoughts, slight gunplay, cock bondage (i was scared), slight knife play, edging, sub!dean my beloved, degradation, cliffhangers (my saviour)

WORD COUNT : 3.3k

A/N : title from RM’s song💕. this fills the cock bondage square on my @jacklesversebingo card. I couldn’t stop thinking about James Bond getting his balls smacked xx

DEAN’S POV

He wasn’t going to lie, he felt betrayed. 

He also felt embarrassed. And ashamed. 

He could feel Sam’s gaze on him every once in a while.

Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, attempting to ignore the pity on Sam’s face. 

The tension that filled the car couldn’t even be soothed by music. He knew that the tension was originating from himself. It wasn’t entirely Sam’s inability to comfort him, or whatever Sam was trying to tell him by not actually saying anything.

He sort of wished Sam would just say anything, so that it could be over and done with. Even if it was just to tell him he was dumb and that they should’ve just left…

Whatever. 

How could he be so stupid?

He could still feel her. 

Her lips on his neck, his chest, and around his cock. He could feel her hands in his hair, nails scratching desperately down his back, the clench of her wet heat around him. Her warm skin against his, soft and smooth. 

He remembered every detail because she asked him to.

He remembered the taste of her painted lips. The taste of her sweet tongue. The taste of her flowery skin. The taste of her pussy. 

He could still hear her voice. The way she begged and cried. For everything. To stop, to never stop. The way she praised him for the way he pleasured her.

“Remember me.” 

How could he forget her? 

Especially now.

Sam broke the awkward silence with a clear of his throat before announcing: “Okay, Charlie’s got her exact location.” Dean grunted softly for Sam to continue, but inside he was grateful for Charlie’s quick, hard-work at tracking her down. “She’s staying in the Spire Hotel, it’s ten miles away from our current location.”

Even if he did see her again, he had no idea what he would say to her. Any type of conversation would be humiliating for him.

READER’S POV

When she stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped only in a white towel as her hair dripped with excess water, the last thing she expected was to be pushed into a wall so the front of her body faced the white, boring paint. A gun cocked audibly, the song of the chamber and bullets moving made her tense once the metal prodded at her ribs.

“I bet you didn’t think you’d see me again,” a familiar voice growled in her ear. She squirmed, turned as much as she could beneath the strong force of the man, to catch a glimpse of those beautiful green eyes and adorably dainty freckles. 

“You couldn’t have waited until after I’ve changed?” She whispered, only half nervous about pissing him off so much he actually went after her instead of cutting his losses. 

Dean chuckled bitterly and the gun moved away just for him to grab at her wrists in his painful grasp. With a thin rope, he tied her hands together behind her back, still pressing her against the wall with his hips. She squirmed again, but she was more aroused than afraid at the way he was handling her. 

“Stop moving,” he grunted and finally removed himself from her to yank her away from the wall. 

“Why?” She smirked, fluttering her lashes up at him as she allowed the towel to slip from her body. His eyes instantly dropped down to her breasts and sneaked lower, but it was quicker than she’d liked. He pushed her until she fell into the couch, leaning slightly on her side. “Thanks,” she muttered sarcastically, shifting to sit up straight and feel for the knot he made on the rope. 

Instead, she looked over to where the case had once been. It was missing, but she didn’t care much for it. She just had to make it out alive. She’d heard plenty of stories about Sam and Dean Winchester from Bela, she just didn’t know if they were exaggerated because Bela hated them so much. 

“Sam’s long gone with the case.” She looked over at Dean—who took a seat a foot away from her on the same couch—and rolled her eyes at him. He looked tired and messy still—from the sex. 

She eyed him curiously and he did the same. She could see the hickey on his pulse darkening, found the stain of her lipstick on the collar of his dress shirt, the missing buttons at the bottom when she became too impatient with them. His hair was a mess, but not the same mess from the way she pulled and tugged on it, it was now messy from his frustration. 

“You’re not as good as you think,” he broke the silence. 

“At sex?” She pretended to be serious and pouted a little. 

He faked a laugh. “Your plan is a mess, I didn’t expect to find you so quickly… I’m disappointed.” 

She scoffed and looked away from him, irritated and slightly embarrassed. She angrily searched for the knot and began to tug at random until she felt it become loose. 

“If you got the case back, why are you here?” She asked, dreading the possibility that maybe Bela was right about them being a step away from being serial killers. Dean leaned closer to her, a half-terrifying smirk on his plush lips.

“For revenge,” he whispered against her ear. Her skin prickled as his warm breath blew over her wet skin and on half-dry droplets, and her nipples tightened despite the anxiety that seized her body. 

His gun flashed against the lamplight and she chewed on her lip when she felt him tilt her head with the barrel of it against her jaw. Her stomach felt knotty and sick as the gun slid down her neck to her heart.

It was as if he were trying to imagine which way would be better. Her heart thudded with fear and she began to fumble with the knot she’d almost certainly started to loosen. He dragged the gun over her breast, across her nipple. Her skin tingled and she bit her lip, unfortunately aroused as his eyes followed the path of his steel gun. It moved lower and she watched the steel move down, as it became warm against her skin, rather than the enthralled eyes that were already steps ahead of her. 

He used the gun to part her thighs and she forced herself to look away, incredulously studying his face. She felt the metal against her folds, teasing and cold and slippery. Dean hummed deep in his chest and shifted to get a better look. 

Her legs opened wider, she was ashamed of that, but the way he bit his lip and turned pink was fascinating. He moved the barrel of the gun closer to her entrance and slid it back up to massage her clit with the warm arousal she could feel ruining the couch. 

She didn’t mind getting fucked by him in whatever way he wanted. What she minded was dying by his hand. She felt the rope slip from her wrist and she forced herself to focus on how to escape him and survive. 

His lips found hers in a surprisingly slow kiss. She lifted a brow and stared at the lashes that rested against pink freckled cheeks. He continued to blindly play with her clit and she was embarrassed to admit that part of her wanted to cum on his gun, but he pulled away with an almost cold stare that made her come to her senses. 

She braced herself and slowly pulled one hand out of the loosened knot and headbutted him as hard as she could. The gun fell loosely between her thighs and she gasped, more afraid of the gun going off than focused on the pain that spread across her forehead as Dean cupped his bloody nose. 

She grabbed the gun and slipped away before he could start grabbing at her again. Dean remained shocked, but his jaw clenched in anger and she shook away the rope before he could use it to his advantage and pointed the gun at him, her finger on the trigger. 

“I’m so sorry, your face is so pretty I kinda feel bad, but… I'm not a fan of you having the upper hand.” He blinked up at her, confused, stunned. He got up and she instantly pistol whipped him so he fell regrettably  hard and cold against the couch. 

She grimaced and watched him with the gun pointed at him, but he appeared to be knocked out cold. She waited for a few seconds before being sure about his unconsciousness. 

“Am I naked?” Dean's groggy voice made her smirk. She heard the clink and jingle of the handcuffs she used to keep him bound to the bed frame and turned around to admire her work. He did the same and eyed the metal wrapped around his wrists and the bed, and down at the pale yellow cloths that tied his ankles to the bottom of the bed. 

“Yeah, it’s payback for threatening me when I just came out of the shower.” She made her way to him, now dressed in a satiny robe, and gazed down at him with a pleased smile. 

He glared up at her. “You used me.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“We both used eachother,” she reminded him, “to pleasure ourselves.”

“No, you used me to get the signatures.” 

She laughed jokingly, then became serious. Dean frowned and squirmed when she sat down beside him. “Sex with you was purely for pleasure. It had nothing to do with the signatures, I could’ve gotten them without sleeping with you, trust me.”

“My brother-”

“Isn’t coming any time soon because I convinced him that we were fucking our hate away.” Dean's face fell and she showed him the messages she sent to Sam of her kissing him while he was unconscious. It looked believable. 

Dean's head bounced back on the pillow as he huffed out a breath in defeat. She moved her attention to the objects she’d placed on the bedside table behind her. Knives clashed and gleamed in the moonlight when she tugged the long, slim rope from the table.

She turned to find Dean with a blush on his cheeks. She lifted a brow and leaned towards him, the red rope dangled and slid with her. Dean swallowed, quickly glanced at the rope, and attempted to look over her body to catch a glimpse of what else she had on the table. 

“Were you going to kill me?” She asked to steal his attention and began to slowly unwind the rope from the coil it was in. 

“No,” he muttered, eyeing her movements cautiously. “Are you going to kill me?” 

She snickered mockingly and straddled his thighs instead of answering him. She admired him beneath her, from his messy brown locks on his head, the plush of his pink lips, to the redness clawing its way down his freckled chest, the softness of his stomach, and his semi-hard cock. 

He really was so beautiful, irritatingly hot, especially tied up. The way he was tied up to the bed made his arms look stronger and damn if she didn’t realise now that she never found someone else as attractive as she found him. 

“What are you doing?” Dean squirmed, and tugged at the cuffs in an attempt to pull himself upwards. 

“Lookin’ at you.” 

Dean rolled his eyes. 

“What are you gonna do?” He rephrased his question. 

Instead of giving him an answer, she slithered up his body, and closely studied his face. She traced the faint lines on his forehead, the tiny scar in the middle and the furrow of his brows. The curve of his lashes, the wrinkles at the corner of his curious green eyes, the bags beneath. The almost hard to tell crookedness of his nose, the freckles dusted across his flushed cheeks, the direction of his stubble. The shape of his lips, the freckles that managed to make their way onto the pillowy flesh. 

She kissed him. 

Slowly, experimentally. 

She waited for his response, kept the kiss PG-13, and received a soft moan from him as approval of her approach. The kiss slowly unravelled into something hotter, passionate, and even aggressive. 

He may have been tied up but it didn’t stop him from using his teeth to try to get the upper hand. All it did was set the mood. She gave what he did. From soft nibbles to harsh stinging of teeth on the puffy, red flesh of their sensitive lips. 

She reached down between their bodies to grip his cock at the base and slowly ran her dry hand up and down. Dean grunted against her mouth and bit her lip roughly in retaliation. She chucked and released him to play with the wetness between her legs instead. She dipped three fingers through the dampness and rubbed her clit to draw more arousal from herself. 

“I hate you,” Dean panted against her lips. 

“You kiss everyone you hate like that?” 

Before Dean could even get a word in, her hand was wrapped around his cock again to drag the tip around her slick entrance. His moan was strained and his words died after evaporating in his mind. 

“I can’t stop thinking about how you fucked me,” she murmured aginst his lips, refusing to give into his pleading eyes.  “I can still feel you inside me. Still feel your lips and tongue on my clit. On my tits. God, you are such a filthy whore, Dean.” He whimpered and the frame of the bed squeaked when he tugged at the restraints. “You eat pussy like a starved man. Want me to ride your pretty face again? Or did you like it better when you forced me to keep my legs open for you-”

“Please,” Dean whined, nuzzling her nose with his to ask for a kiss that she refused to give him once again. 

“No,” she replied firmly. Unfortunately for him, she moved away from him and he lost the wet heat of her pussy. His cock twitched excitedly when she slowly undid the lazy knot of her robe. He stared at what little skin she revealed and watched her grab the slim red rope he’d forgotten about completely. 

“What’s that for?“ 

“Your pretty cock,” she finally answered. Her eyes were glued to his face to gather as much information about how he was feeling. He swallowed and silently watched her start to cave his hardened cock with the rope. He hissed and moaned and whimpered at her light touch, at the rub of the thick strand against his sensitive, throbbing skin. 

When she finished, she tugged experimentally at the rope so that it tightened around his dick and then released it after a few seconds. She repeated the same action a few times and proceeded to carefully massage the skin beneath the head of his cock. 

“Fuck,” Dean breathed out, his thighs became tense and his hips bucked upwards. He looked away from the way the rope was intricately wrapped around him and stared at her amused face with his teeth buried in his bottom lip. 

“You look pretty when you come,” she murmured, her eyes flickered up to his. He blushed harder and squirmed more than he already was. “Can’t say every man looks pretty when they come, but damn… you sure know how to put on a show.” She squeezed his cock so he felt the rope and then relaxed her grip to tease the slit of his cock and play with his precum. 

“Fuck. Please, can’t you-”

“No,” she interrupted him. He licked his lips and frowned. She moved her hand away and reached over to the counter where a set of knives were sitting inside a knife storage bag. “I want this to last.” He swallowed when she picked out a knife. She stared at her reflection and unfocused her eyes to watch Dean behind the knife she held. “I’m not gonna hurt you… unless you count how painfully hard you are as me hurting you.”

She used the blunt edge of the knife to slide down his neck, slowly she followed the dips in his body, and with her eyes followed the messy trail of freckles on his sweaty skin. When the cold blade came closer to his crotch, Dean’s body became tense. 

“Can you not-”

“Shut up,” she replied instantly, and turned the knife over to the flat side when she slid it up against the rope around his dick. She watched him chew on his lip, but his stomach twitching along with his body showed her the true pleasure he felt when she spread his precum over his cock with the flat surface of the cold knife in the most casual way. 

“Look at you, you’re so turned on,” she teased. Dean swallowed again and licked his lip. She tugged gently at the rope with the knife and released the rope again after a few seconds. Dean groaned softly and squirmed relentlessly, the restraints on his body being tugged caused the bed to creak. 

“I wanna cum, please,” he murmured.

“I know, baby.” Mercifully, she placed the knife down on the table and gave him no chance to relax before wrapping her lips around the sensitive head of his cock and sucked at the precum that watered her mouth almost instantly. 

“Oh, fuck,” he moaned, hips bucking up into her warm mouth. She released the tip to kiss and lick down the shaft, teasingly tracing the throbbing veins with her tongue until he started begging again. 

“Just let me- why won’t you let me cum?” 

She laughed and watched the arousing amount of precum that seeped into the ropes and dribbled down the rest of his cock with her saliva. She tugged at the rope, smiling playfully at him. “God, I just really loved it when you begged me to let you cum inside me last night.” 

“Please,” he laughed breathlessly, closed his eyes, kept moving his hips off the bed despite the way she became instead against his thighs. 

“Where?” She asked with a smirk, he opened his eyes and turned a shade darker. “Tell me where you wanna cum and I’ll give it to you, Dean,” she promised, leaning forward as she spoke so she could kiss him hard once she finished. 

He moaned against her mouth, and opened his lips without hesitation, waiting for her tongue to explore him as thoroughly as she had before. But she only gave a tiny, playful lick against his tongue with her own and moved down his neck to suck and bite at the mark she left behind earlier. 

 “Dean,” she murmured expectantly and squeezed his cock gently in her hands. Dean grunted in surprise, the handcuffs clinked, and the bed squeaked beneath the impatient shift of his hips.

“I wanna fill you up again, sweetheart, I wanna watch my cum.. drip out of your pretty pussy so I can lick it clean, and then make you cum on my tongue. Let me feel you,” he pleaded shamelessly, unaware of the wave of arousal that made her drip down her thighs once he spoke.

“You’re so pretty when you beg and so fucking filthy,” she murmured against his parted lips and simply pulled at the rope so it fall apart around his painfully hard and sensitive cock. “Pussy-obsessed slut, are you always this desperate?” 

She slowly aligned his cock with her dripping entrance and watched him hold his breath momentarily. His body slowly turned to jelly and he waited in unabashed anticipation for his cock to be buried deep inside her warmth once more. When the tip pressed into her, he released a shaky breath of relief, moaned loudly, and swirled his hips to push himself deeper into her. 

“You drive me so fucking crazy,” he murmured and nibbled on her lip, “ever since that damned taxi ride, I knew you were trouble.” 

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[diejager]

hii!! just so you understand, I have real brainrot because of your “Only Human” series! I love it madly tenderly and with all my heart😭😭 anyway, I saw that you have requests open, but feel free to ignore if this is not the case or I indicated something incorrectly. how about our favorite monsters and hybrids 141 with a new member of the team who is a witch??

also, sorry for my english, I use google translate☠️

Hey, no worries, I understood your request!

Spell Cw: witchy stuff, death, murder, drowning, blood and injury, fluff, magic, inaccurate understanding of magic, tell me if I missed any.

He always found it mesmerising, the soothing coldness of your spell working its magic on him, gleaming like water embracing his bleeding wound, the skin ripped apart at the middle and flesh throbbing painfully. It wasn’t anything new, pain wasn’t a stranger to him, rather a friend, a brother to him. Pain was a repetitive thing in his life, wound after wound bleeding him, and scar after scar painting his skin, he’d gotten so used to it that the stripes on his face were now an integral part of his identity, pushing the facade of a tiger if he didn’t have his ears and tail out.

But with you, everything had smoothed over to a soft thrum, like the warm waves cradling his shifted body, your magic, attuned to their aches through your bond and being, worked to cure everything to ensure that the pack he grew to love and care for stayed safe. Your being was like a body of water - the ocean - a beauty of nature when calm, but a terror when enraged, storms crashing against land and causing devastation in moments of fury. You were as dangerous as you could be caring and loving —just like the sea.

“Why didn’t you come see me first?” You sighed, tone laced with amused disappointment, brows tensed but your pretty lips quipped up, “I thought I put you in control of this Horangi…”

You worked your magic on König, fingers weaving invisible threads over his bleeding forearm, pulling the strings of puppet of flesh and bone, controlling the sinuous fibre of his skin to sew itself back. Horangi watched his friend’s wound steadily close up, injury shrinking with every pull of your finger until all that was left was the lingering scent of your cool magic and the metallic odour of blood.

“König is stubborn, ” Horangi chuckled, flashing you a sly smirk despite your exasperated expression, “Big too. I can’t move him.”

“And I can?” You scoffed, finishing off your skin weaving with a soft pet on his arm, letting König admire your work like a child with a new toy even though you’d gone through the same process over and over in the past, König had a habit of collecting scars as often as he toppled his enemies.

Your magic wasn’t only used in healing, you were an adaptive soul, your comfort found itself in water, and water meant life, and life meant whatever violent fury came along with quiet calmness. And in the right situation, where Laswell sent the Task Force on a boat or by the shore, you could level the oceans at your will in anger or protection. You gave men and women a watery grave on land, drowning them in their water-made coffins to stop them from reaching your wounded comrades, glaring off at anyone who tried approaching your cover .

You had Gaz, Price and him, tending to their deeper injuries and letting them use their first aid while you kept the enemy at bay, lower lip pulled between your teeth, gnawing on the skin until it bled. Separating your attention for both healing and defence/offence demanded a lot of concentration, especially when you were sewing up Price’s deep gash on his leg, listening to his hiss and groans of pain.

“Fucking-” Horangi busied himself with wrapping the bandage and gauze over Gaz’s wound, his eyes occasionally peeking at your clenched fist that pushed out your anger through the waters you controlled, “Bastards keep coming.”

You were a puppet queen and the sea your mannequin.

“Almost done, Hunter,” Gaz hissed out when Horangi pulled too tightly on his bandage, sending you a reassuring look to calm down your raised hackle, teeth bared and eyes burning the enemies alive as much as you were depriving them of air.

This was another show of your prowess, your fingers puppeteering water, commanding it and coaxing the water’s will to follow your call, heeding your every whim. It was a majestically show, as tragic as it was beautiful, much like the cleansing of the world when the oceans flooded Earth, leaving but Noah and his wife, and couple of animals to remake the land. You were remaking the land you fought on in an imagine, to make it safer and protect them —it would tire you out for the day, Horangi will ready to help you with anything wile you doze on and off.

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[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 1)

—

Tw: one instance of canon-typical violence (DC), vivisection mention

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Prologue) - (Pt. 2)

(Subscription post/masterlist)

—

Danny has been working for Mr. Cobblepot for over a month now.

The first few weeks he was in the Penguin’s company, he couldn’t do much of anything. Instead, Mr. Cobblepot made sure that he was well-rested and beginning to recover.

Danny cried a lot in the first week that he was there.

He cried when he ate for the first time in years; the GiW had kept him on IVs and a feeding tube, so they wouldn’t have to move him from his surgical table.

He cried when he was given his own room to stay in, when he was brought clothes to wear, when he was given a bodyguard to protect him.

He cried when Mr. Cobblepot’s doctors told him that the damage to his vocal chords was likely permanent, and that he would never sound the same again. That he would find it hard to speak at any volume above a whisper.

Apparently, he had a lot more damage to him than he had thought.

The doctors said that the scarring in his brain stem suggested his entire brain had been removed and had regrown. Danny couldn’t really disprove that, and it did line up with a pretty substantial gap in his memory, but if that was the case then why couldn’t his voice recover too?

The scarring and incredibly new tissue that showed up in scans of several other parts of his body suggested that the GiW had done the same thing with most of his organs, as well as a few limbs, and all of the fingers on his right hand.

Danny could remember that. He just didn’t want to.

Perhaps it was the feeling of pity that kept Mr. Cobblepot so understanding of Danny’s slow recovery. That didn’t really matter much, though; Danny’s energy was focused on keeping his place here, ensuring that Mr. Cobblepot didn’t decide he was no longer worth the effort.

As it turned out, there was an easy enough solution to that.

Danny was the only one who knew how to properly operate and modify the weapons and inventions stolen from the GiW.

And so, Danny had a niche he could occupy. He could be useful, useful enough that Mr. Cobblepot couldn’t get rid of him, even if he wanted to.

And, as it turns out, Danny remembered quite a lot of the theories he heard while he was on the cutting board.

As soon as he had enough muscle control of his arms to do so, he was working away at the machinery created by the GiW and his parents.

No, not his parents.

Doctors Madeleine and Jack Fenton.

Regardless of their creators, he was able to understand them quite intimately.

Maybe it was because the ectoplasm flowing through the weaponry was his own, maybe it was because he had nothing to listen to for three years other than the excited chatter of his vivisectionists as they cut him open. Maybe it was because they were both simple weaponry without a purpose.

Danny found working on the machines soothing in a way that nothing else was.

The smell of oil and grease, the sounds of mechanical clanking and metal joints squealing, the feeling of cold steel beneath his fingertips.

The first thing he did to the machines was replacing the paint, from shiny white to a matte black. That way, they were recognizable as his own modified creations.

It was only a bonus that he didn’t catch his reflection in the metal surfaces this way.

Still, his reflection was starting to become more familiar to him. It was still strangely off-putting to see, but his face was beginning to plump out from consistent eating, and his skin was beginning to lose its unhealthy pale tone, going back to a more natural pinkish color.

His eyes still looked devoid of life, but that could be ignored as long as he didn’t look at himself for too long.

Danny sighed, leaning back in his chair as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He was working on modifying the ectoblasters so that they could properly hit humans, as per Mr. Cobblepot’s orders.

He probably should feel some sort of moral conflict over it, but really, Danny couldn’t find it in him to care. Maybe it was some sort of deep internal flaw, or maybe it was because he knew that they wouldn’t be shot at anyone without blood on their hands. Either way, he didn’t have any qualms with what he was doing.

As Danny reconnected the circuitry within the gun, the indicator lights on the side of the muzzle blinked to life, a familiar neon green.

Danny would have to change that color too, he thought. Maybe red would be nice instead, or an icy blue?

He was pulled from his thoughts by the door to his temporary workshop opening. Danny looked up, and smiled when he saw that his bodyguard was the one standing in the doorway.

The man, known only as Derringer, was 6’2”, built like a tank, and known for his love of unusual firearms. He was also a big fan of card games, and had been teaching Danny how to play Blackjack during their meals.

He gently closed the door behind him, strolling into the workshop.

Danny hopped out of his seat, hugging the man tightly. Derringer laughed, patting Danny on the back as he clung to him like a koala.

��Good to see you too, kid,” the man said, his deep voice rumbling in his chest, “you just about done in here?”

Danny nodded, letting go of the bodyguard. He picked up the gun on the desk, handing it to Derringer, and pointed to the target resting in the far corner of the room.

Derringer glanced down at Danny, shrugging before aiming the gun.

He pulled the trigger, and a large scorch mark appeared in the center of the target.

Derringer whistled appreciatively, walking over to inspect the damage.

There was a deep dent in the center of the metal target, around an inch in diameter, and a large scorch mark surrounding it. The metal of the dent was white-hot, and the area around it was somewhat warped.

“That’s real nice, kid,” Derringer said, “don’t know how you do it.”

Danny grinned, baring his teeth at the man. He smiled back, ruffling his hair.

“The boss is gonna go forward with the Arkham raid soon, so long as your guns are ready,” he said, “he’s eager to try them out for real. You think you’re up to talking to him?”

“Yes,” Danny signed, nodding to the man.

“Good,” Derringer signed back.

Mr. Cobblepot, not wanting Danny to be limited in his speech by the damage to his vocal chords, had ensured that all of the people who interacted with him knew at least the basics of ASL.

When he wasn’t working on the ectoblasters, Danny was practicing his ASL with a dedicated tutor, or with Derringer, who learned the language when his mother had gone deaf.

“Can I eat first?” Danny signed, “I forgot to.”

“You forgot, or you didn’t want to leave your work?” Derringer asked, signing as he spoke, the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement, “and yeah, the boss wants to talk to you in thirty minutes. You’ve got plenty of time before then.”

“Thank you,” Danny signed, “let’s go.”

“Hey, just a sec,” Derringer said. His face had dropped into something unusually serious.

Danny nodded, tilting his head as he signed a quick “what’s wrong?”

“You’re a good kid. Even after what you’ve been through, you’re…you’re a really sweet kid,” Derringer said, looking away. “But you…you can’t keep being sweet to everyone. You gotta act tough, alright?”

“Why?”

“You just…” Derringer sighed, combing a hand through his thick, curly hair, “a lot of the guys think that you’re too weak to be here. They’re calling you the Penguin’s pet project, and the problem is that they’re not really wrong. You gotta be scarier to survive, alright? Gotham’ll eat you alive if you don’t. Just make up a persona and roll with it.”

Danny nodded slowly, processing his words for a moment.

“Like a mask?”

Derringer laughed, a bittersweet smile on his face.

“Yeah, like a mask. Just don’t start fighting crime while you’re at it.”

“Okay,” Danny signed, his movements slow. “I can do that.”

“Good on you, kid,” Derringer said, ruffling his hair once more, “now let’s go get lunch.”

The two of them ate quickly, Danny’s mind on Derringer’s advice the entire time.

He was right, and Danny knew it. He’d seen the way that some of Mr. Cobblepot’s men had looked at him.

He wasn’t anywhere near big enough to pull off the looming intimidating look that Derringer did; his doctors back in Amity had told him that he would grow to be over six foot, but his time in the GiW seemed to have stunted his growth significantly. He was only around 5’6”, and it seemed that he was going to stay that way.

In the same way, he wasn’t nearly frightening looking enough to pull off the terrifying stares of the smaller individuals working under Mr. Cobblepot. He just couldn’t get the glare right; his face would always fall back to a blank, dead stare.

Though, maybe if he played into that…

A few minutes before they had to leave, Danny excused himself to go to the restroom. He stared into the mirror, looking into his cold, dead eyes, and let his face drop.

When he adjusted his stance, and kept his eyes a bit wider than usual, he looked downright unnerving.

Danny had already noticed that most of his mannerisms were…unusual, after his stay at the GiW base. Put simply, he had forgotten what it was like to be a human.

He had noticed that most of the people around him would avoid being in his presence, and had begun mirroring their body language as much as he could to seem more normal.

Maybe, though, it would be better for him not to.

He could lean into the whole thing. An unstable young adult, experimented on by the government for years.

Danny looked into the mirror, and wide, icy eyes stared back at him.

Danny left the restroom. Derringer turned to greet him, jolting when he did. After a moment, he nodded.

“That what we’re going with?”

“Yes. Is it good?”

“Yeah. Freaky. Gonna take some getting used to, but yeah. Now,” he said, getting up from his spot at the break room table, “let’s go see the boss.”

Danny felt anxiety bubbling up in his chest, his entire body beginning to twitch. If Mr. Cobblepot didn’t approve of the weaponry, or if he thought they were underwhelming, would he be thrown out? Would he be tortured again, or killed?

Danny shivered when they came to a stop in front of the door to Mr. Cobblepot’s office. Failure wasn’t an option. He had to make sure this went well.

“You’ll do great, kid,” Derringer whispered, pushing the door open.

Mr. Cobblepot had been talking with a few other people, but their conversation died out when Danny and Derringer entered the room. Danny’s skin crawled.

“Ah, Danny! Just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Cobblepot said, a large smile on his face, “Do you have one of your guns with you?”

“Yes,” Danny signed, nodding.

“Wonderful. I was just telling my associates here about your work. Do you mind giving a demonstration?”

“Where should I shoot? Do you have a target?”

Derringer was quick to translate. Mr. Cobblepot nodded, gesturing for a hired hand in the corner of the room to pull out a small wooden board, holding it up in the air.

Danny paled. He would definitely burn the man’s hands if he hit the target, even if he aimed for the furthest corner of the board.

Still, he was more terrified of disappointing Mr. Cobblepot than he was empathetic towards the man, so he drew a blaster from the holster on his leg and aimed carefully.

The blast hit the center of the board. The man holding it howled in pain, dropping the target and drawing his hand close to his chest. The nauseating smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Danny breathed shakily, in and out.

Mr. Cobblepot, for what it was worth, looked like he couldn’t possibly be happier. He and the others inspected the board on the ground closely, ignoring the hired hand as he ran out of the room, still cradling his damaged hand.

A large hole had been blown into the board, and a good portion of it had been incinerated.

“Look at that, ladies and gentlemen! I told you that Danny would deliver, and deliver he did! Imagine if that had been a person instead! Danny, what would you say would happen?”

Danny paused, trying to wince when he realized that the question wasn’t hypothetical, and Mr. Cobblepot actually wanted an answer.

“It would give them S-E-V-E-R-E burns,” Danny finger spelled the word that he didn’t know the proper sign for, “mostly S-U-R-F-A-C-E. It can’t P-E-I-R-C-E, because there is no bullet, just energy.”

Derringer translated for him.

Mr. Cobblepot frowned, and Danny frantically continued, “but it can be L-E-T-H-A-L! Burns on the head kill fast. Burns on the body make S-H-O-C-K, and kill. Strong I-M-P-A-C-T, too.”

“So they do still kill, just not instantly?”

“Yes,” Danny signed, “they’re fast. They hurt bad. Bad way to die, hurts a lot.”

“Well,” one of the other men in the room piped up, “I guess he’s not completely hopeless.”

“Of course he isn’t,” Mr. Cobblepot replied, fixing a terrifying glare onto the man, “it was my idea to bring him in, after all.”

“Danny,” Mr. Cobblepot said, turning his attention back to him, “we’re going to be collaborating with these fine individuals in the future. I’m going to need twenty guns ready for use in a week. You can handle that, can’t you?”

Danny nodded frantically.

“What kind?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Cobblepot said, waving his hand dismissively, “semi-automatic is preferable, but handguns and shotguns also work. Just make sure they work perfectly.”

The room was silent for a moment.

“Well, that’s all. You can leave now, and I’ll finish discussing the details with my associates.”

Danny nodded, signing him a quick “thank you, goodbye,” and slipped out of the room alongside Derringer.

They made their way back to Danny’s workshop in silence. Once they were inside, Derringer heaved a heavy sigh, running his fingers through his hair.

“You really think you can make that many guns that quickly, kid?”

“Yes,” Danny replied, “but I need your help.”

Derringer groaned, a smile on his face.

“Of course you’re putting me to work. I should’ve expected it. Now, what do you need me to do?”

“Well, first, hold this…”

—