#duskys evening post

[builtlikeastickofcelery]

no fic only comic i started in like november

essentially my thoughts after rewatching season 2 episode 8

[celery-arts]

shapes and colors wheeheeeeeeee

ive been crawling my way out of artblock so take this

[mashmouths]

i was tagged by @jellino to post the first 9 photos with "[your name] core aesthetics" from pinterest ! (thank you jace ily <3)

the converse amidst the cottagecore princess. i contain multitudes i guess <3

i'm tagging @tired--misu @callisteios @bourgeoix @sunmisbf and @bulletsfrank and whoever else wants to get in on this

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

WYD💬2

Part 1 |

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: A fan makes an offer your can’t refuse.

(based on suggestion he’s been overworking himself for weeks if not months. He knows he needs a break but his work is too important. Maybe what he needs is someone to take care of him so he can focus more on work. from @thezombieprostitute)

Characters: Bucky Barnes

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your stomach writhes like worms in the dirt. You sit in the back of the uber, uneager to be at your destination. The driver asks if it’s a special occasion and you just sort of mutter. You look down at yourself; you’re sure dressed for something special.

It’s plain enough. A classic little black dress. Thick straps and a simple silhouette. Still, it’s tighter than you’re used to. You dressed it up with a slender silver chain that holds a heart charm and a velvet clutch. Your usual cotton and wool pale in comparison.

You watch on the GPS as the car moves closer and closer to the endpoint. You take out your phone and check the messages. You can barely read any of it as your hands jitter.

You’re being stupid. This is dangerous and stupid. You can’t meet a stranger. Even if he did pay you to do so. Even if you really need the money. You should just send it back.

‘Reservation for Barnes. The hostess will seat you.’

He sent that about an hour ago. His anticipation has only been met by your silent dread and dulcet agreement. It’s one thing to post photos online, faceless at that, but to meet a man like this. This is more than just posing and primping for a camera.

You thank the driver as he pulls up to the restaurant. You get out reluctantly and linger along the curb, tipping the uber as an excuse to take your time. You look up at the dusky facade and gulp. The cursive moniker assures you of your displacement. 

You take a breath and cross the broad sidewalk. You dodge out of the way of another couple entering the restaurant. You don’t follow them as you hover outside. There were at least a few decades between the pair; what is this place?

You hug your wrap tight and teeter on your heels as you try to see through the tinted windows. You need to scare yourself out of this. You get one look at this guy and you’re gone. You’re running the other direction. Only then will it really be real. Only then will you get a bit of sense in you. 

“Just in time, doll,” a deep voice crawls up your spine and you gasp as you twist around to face the speaker. 

Your ankle bends dangerously as your heel catches in the pavement. You bat your lashes up at the stranger; it’s him. He’s even more handsome in person. It almost takes your breath away.

“Uh, hi,” you murmur. Your escape is foiled. Your second doubts are crushed in that instant. You don’t have the courage to walk away. If he’d never seen you, you could've easily scurried back to your hole and deleted everything. “Mr. Barnes?”

He laughs. His smile is deadly. He puts his hand on your arm, bold but casual.

“Bucky,” he offers, “come on,” he checks the watch on his other wrist, “we’re late.”

He nudges you towards the door, bringing his hand down to hover along your lower back. You walk forward numbly. You don’t know what else to do but go with it.

He opens the door and ushers you ahead of him. The hostess greets him as ‘Mr. Barnes’ and is prompt to lead you through the dim lounge. A round booth awaits you near the back of the restaurant.

The hostess takes your wrap and you place your clutch on the seat as you settle onto the curved cushion. Bucky sits and orders a bottle of Shiraz. You fight to keep your shoulders up, trying to wilt in the luxury of the place. You’re an assistant librarian, what are you doing here?

He slides to the back of the booth, reaching over to wrap his hand lightly around your wrist. He tugs until you reticently shimmy closer. You keep your eyes on the table, fumbling with the wrapped silverware.

“Nervous,” he says. You nod and still the cutlery. “Me too.”

You’re surprised by his confession. He must do this all the time. He’s rich and handsome and oh, how stupid you really are. Of course you’re just another in the long line. 

You look up at him, flinching as you find him watching you. You wonder if your lipstick is patchy or if you smeared your eye liner again. You bring your hands back into your lap and wring them.

You notice the gray patch among the short stubble along his jaw, a few more strands of silver laced around his temples. His hair is smoothed back but the longer strands threaten to fall forward. He lifts his arm coolly and rests it on the seat behind you. He smells amazing.

“I…” you begin. “I think I made a mistake.”

He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly but otherwise, he does not react.

“How do you know? You haven’t even made the mistake yet,” his hand drifts down to tickle your shoulder, “one glass of wine. How about that? You have one glass before we order, then you can decide.”

“I… I’m not what you think I am,” you utter.

“Doll, you’re exactly what I want,” he winks just before he turns away, another dashing smile sent to the waitress as she arrives with the wine.

One drink. You can do that.

[sprout-fics]

Homecoming

(Simon 'Ghost' Riley x OFC 'Fix')

Snowblind Masterlist

Rating: M Wordcount: 3.8k Tags: Whump, Angst, Fluff, Post-torture, Post-rescue, Established relationship, Living together, Domesticity, Non sexual intimacy Warnings: References of torture, starvation, captivity A/N: Part of 'For Once In Our Lives' on AO3

It’s five in the morning when Simon pulls the car up to his flat.

Your flat too, but still his, technically. Your name, like his, isn’t on the lease. If anything it’s Price’s, his official signature on the document so as to avoid collecting a paper trail for his lieutenant. Despite that, it’s been your space together for most of the year now. Your presence is written in the curtains that hang neatly in the front window, the pitcher of kitchen utensils on the counter behind the coffee maker. You’ve staked you claim on a section of the bathroom counter upstairs, taken advantage of the corners of the shower to deposit half empty bottles of shower supplies you hardly ever get use with the amount of time you’re deployed. The couch in the living room was your idea, a replacement for the terrible worn thing that had tormented your spine in the evenings you’d spent sleeping on it, before you were allowed in his bedroom.

You left traces of yourself, whispers, small hushed murmurs that cling to his skin in the weeks you were gone. In your absence Simon had sought you there, had waited and prayed for the smallest blip of life on a radio that had long gone silent.

Eighteen days. Two weeks and roughly one hundred hours from the time you went dark to the time you’d been rescued.

Your captors had starved you, tortured you, beaten you bloody and left you to fester before returning for more. You’d gone through interrogation training with Price’s supervision, and you had been prepared from the moment you’d stepped off the plane for no man’s land for the capture that might, and did, ensue.

Nothing had prepared you for the return home.

Simon exits the driver’s side door fluidly just as you stir from your drowsy state, blinking wearily up at the flat beyond the garden gate. The windows are dark and shuttered, closed off, and it feels aching somehow, lonely. The dim, hazy light of dawn tucks dusky shadows around the corners of the townhouse, softly blue and patient, waiting for your return.

You open the door to your side, withholding a wince at the motion of your torn shoulder. Yet Simon is already there, hands reaching for you before you can protest. Normally you would, too stubborn to allow anyone else, especially him, to do things for you. Now, when Simon lifts you into his arms you say not a word. The walk to his car from the infirmary had been exhausting enough, atrophied muscles screaming with each step, too weak from the weeks you’d spent in hospital care. So you lift your good arm around his neck, brace yourself there and tuck the crown of your head under his jaw in a silent gesture of comfort to you both.

Simon is quiet as he walks up the steps, chest rising with slow, measured breaths as he balances the weight of you in his arms. You’re not sure how he manages to get the front door open, and if you weren’t...as you are now you probably would have made a wry comment about his dexterous hands. Instead it’s silent between you both, with the weight of the things that have happened weighing too heavy on your fraught souls.

You’re deposited on the couch that no longer smells like you while Simon fetches your bag from the car. In the time it takes him you manage to look around the apartment, witness the devastation your absence has caused.

Half eaten MRE foils litter the dusty coffee table. Beneath them are maps of Serbia, and you trace the marked coordinates of your last known location, notes scribbled in slanting writing that indicates sleeplessness. An empty tumbler sits to the far edge, a thin circle of amber at the bottom betraying his taste for bourbon. The room is unkempt, like he’d bumped into things and never bothered to pick them up. In the far corner: A knife wedged into the wall. The spare one you’d left behind.

The front door closes, and in the echo heavy bootsteps draw your attention to the large, looming figure that enters your line of view.

“How’s the pain?” Simon asks, and when you look up to his eyes you can’t tell the shadows there apart from his war paint.

You catalog the various aches and pains left even after your medical discharge. A broken shoulder that’s still mending. Stitches on the meat of your upper thigh, a dark slice across your collarbone above your two broken ribs, a fractured fibula that may leave you with a permanent limp unless you adhere to the PT instructions sternly given to you.

Yet the look in Simon’s eyes is different as it plucks a tender, grieving chord inside your chest. Tired, blank, hiding the rot you know is there, the rot he refuses to show you.

“It’s fine.” You almost say on instinct, but catch yourself before you can. It’s a lie, one he won’t appreciate, not here. Not now.

“How much more am I allowed to have?” You ask, and before you can finish the words Simon is fishing through your bag for the discharge papers, scanning them with his back turned before reaching back inside for a small orange canister. He vanishes in the direction of the kitchen and reappears just as swiftly with a tall glass of water that you finish along with the medication.

There’s a pause then, and once more your eyes look up to peer at him under his mask. There’s a sunkenness to his gaze that whispers of the dark grip of insomnia, a gaunt sort of coloring that you’re able to see despite the ink around his eyes.

“Is there anything in the cabinets?” You ask, and your voice seems so loud in the silence between you. “To eat?”

Once more he’s off, striding in the direction of the kitchen without a word. You hear the click of the stove, the cabinets being rifled through, and then quiet as Simon sets about making something.

After several minutes you get up to follow him, mouth parting in a silent, wheezing cry as the pain of putting pressure down on your booted calf. Yet you bite down on any wounded noises, clutching the wall and crossing the foyer to come stand on the threshold of the kitchen.

He didn’t even turn the lights on.

You do, and it makes him cast a small glance over his shoulder, the sturdy frame of him obscuring whatever he’s making on the stove.

“You shouldn’t be standing.” He tells you, voice low in his chest with a familiar rumble. “Sit.”

“You left me alone.” You try to joke, but it has no effect. He doesn’t even seem to register it, acting automatically in cooking whatever it is he’s poking at with a wooden spoon.

So you see yourself to the tiny kitchen table beneath the front window with the curtains still closed. As you wait, you study his back, the way Simon is postured. There’s a tightness to his shoulders, a coiled uncertainty that’s weighed down only by fatigue. The soft, dark, familiar cloth of his hoodie stretches across the planes of his shoulders, having shrunk from one too many times in the wash. The sleeves are rolled up halfway, exposing the dark swirling ink of his forearm on his left side. You trace the images there, of bombs and broken bones and viscera that you thought yourself would be a part of weeks ago in the dark shed they’d kept you in.

It’s similar, in a way. The slant of light that cuts through the curtains reminds you of the pale illumination that peeked between the gaps of wood of your cold cell with the dirt floor and the cold, cold earth beneath your exposed form. In the silence between you both, it feels like a different sort of prison, both of you captive to your own thoughts of the things that happened, and that which didn’t.

Simon turns at last with something red and simmering in a bowl- tomato soup, by the smell. It instantly makes your mouth water, pallet tired of the bland hospital food served to you for weeks now, interrupted only by the snacks Gaz and Soap had smuggled past your nurse. It takes restraint to allow it to cool, and as it does Simon slides into the chair across from you, his side of the table noticeable empty.

“You’re not going to eat?” You ask quietly.

“No.” Comes the almost instant reply.

You feel your expression fall as he watches you before he adds on: “Later.”

It’s as good as you’re going to get for now, and you’re much too tired to press him on it. So you set about slowly sipping your soup, letting the warmth curl in your empty belly. There’s an anxious sort of grumble there, body still too taxed to have anything more complicated than this you think. He knows, you’re sure, has been in the same chair you’re in trying to take care of himself in the aftermath of it all.

Alone.

The warmth sours in your stomach.

Simon watches the expression pass over your face silently, observing. Watching, as he always does, taking in every minute detail and storing it for some unknown study in his thoughts you’re rarely privy to.

You finish the soup despite the lingering bitterness at the back of your senses, swallowing down the touch of nausea from your painkillers and looking to the man across from you.

Silent. Still. Unmoving, like the dead.

You reach out across the table, set your hand atop his gloved one, and Simon startles.

There’s a glazed look in his eyes that doesn’t fully dissipate as he looks at you, and in return you offer him a shaky sort of smile.

“Simon.” You whisper, and it draws him back just a little more, eyes unblinking but still something a little less than empty. Not fully here with you, caught in the tormentous spiral of what if’s that settle heavy over you both.

“Where are you?” You ask, voice a breathy murmur.

It seems to shake something loose from him, your hushed inquiry, drawing him back to himself and out of the coffin of his mind. He’s silent for a few moments, just staring back at you, and you watch as his eyes clear, as he’s able to see you again.

“Not goin’ anywhere.” He tells you, and overturns his hand to gently clasp at your hand atop his. “Fix.”

You smile, finally, feeling some of the weight ease from your shoulders, and you squeeze his hand back in reassurance.

“Still with me?” You ask quietly in the dim morning light of your apartment, and Simon blinks slow before offering a little nod.

“Always.”

Always. With you.

Simon leaves the dishes in the sink as he helps you up the stairs one step at a time, gingerly making your way to the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom. He sits you atop the toilet seat as he runs the bath, and when you grumble about lifting your sore arm he merely grunts in reply, acknowledging of your griping in a gruff, familiar way that eases the bitterness lingering on your tongue.

He helps divest you of your clothes, and you try not to feel self conscious of the new scars that litter your skin. He traces them with nimble fingers and glancing touches, hovering over each one meaningfully and with great purpose. It’s as if he’s re-memorizing the shape of you, the touch of your skin with freshly healed lacerations and trials of stitches that embark a pathway under his hands.

“Fix.” He says again, softly, and it sounds reverent somehow, worshiping a cracked altar damaged by those who sought your demise. He remains at the foot of it, face upturned into the light that streams through the slats of the broken shed that held you captive and allowing the glow of revelation to stream onto his open eyes.

Later, once you two have mended yourself to each other once more, you’ll ask him if you’re still beautiful. He’ll say yes without question, fervent with a desire so raw it peels marrow away from his bones, strips the sinew bare from his flesh just so he has one more thing to offer you. You’ll get the same answer every time you ask him, and each time the silent question of “Do you still love me despite everything?” will echo soundlessly in your chest.

To which he too, answers: Yes.

He settles into the too-small bathtub behind you, and you shudder at the skin to skin contact that feels so foreign after being so far away from him for so long. The broad drum of his chest braces against your back as he takes his time bathing your tired, weary limbs. You settle into him easily with a sigh, allow him to scrub you free of the sterile touch of the hospital wing, the smell of antiseptic vanishing beyond a haze of fragrant bubbles from your too many bottles of soap. Beneath it is the smell of him, the thick and heavy weight of his musk that you crane towards with a small groan, bumping your nose under his jaw to drag in a breath of him.

“Alright?” He asks, pausing, and you nod into his collarbone, dopey and sated. It releases a little bit more tension from his shoulders, and you feel it in the way his chest depresses, burying yourself there in all the space he’ll allow you.

Which is, to say, all of him.

“I dreamt of you.” You say suddenly, and he pauses as he bends over you, one strong hand grasping the underside of your thigh to haul it upwards to wash. You almost don’t realize you spoke, eyes closed and body loose in the warm, sudsy water.

“I dreamt we went back to the states.” You go on, voice a soft murmur, slurred with fatigue now that you unwind softly into his arms. “We bought a big plot of land in the mountains where nobody could find us, with an old cabin and a fireplace.”

Simon pauses a moment longer before giving an answering hum, resuming his task and minding your stitches with gentle precision.

“Would have to chop a lot of wood.” He offers mildly.

“We took turns.” You reply, head lolling against his chest. You slip just an inch down, and one strong arm loops around your middle to keep you from descending further. “We got chickens too, and a cranky old barncat. I planted tomatoes in the vegetable garden.”

Simon is quiet as you ramble, allowing your thoughts to trickle free like the gentle loosening of a stream after a winter’s frost. He envelops you, warms you through, and in the beautiful blossom of your mind you allow the inside of your heart to be laid bare to him.

“Price and the boys came to visit. I made chicken soup.”

“With our chickens?”

You make a wounded little noise at that, and you feel him almost mistake it for a sound of pain.

“We watched the fireflies in the summertime.” You go on. “Stayed up to watch the sunrise just because. I can still see the colors beyond the trees.”

Pale pink and blue. The same colors that bleed through your curtains, the same colors that had slanted over your face in your would be tomb, allowing you the barest glimpse of freedom.

You swallow then, throat suddenly thick with tears. Like the trickle of a stream, your words pour gently out of you until they flood your eyes all at once, chest seizing with a pained breath as you shudder.

“Every day.” You croak, and he’s stopped now, bent over you as you tremble against him, hot tears seeping into the bath water. “Every day I dreamt of you. The whole time I was there. From the moment I fell asleep until the moment I woke up.”

Simon is silent, tucking you to him, stroking a heavy hand over the chilling flesh of your upper arms, allowing you to dig deep into him like he’s the only thing that will hold you.

“I knew you’d come for me. I never once thought you wouldn’t. The whole time I couldn’t stop thinking of you because I knew you’d come find me. I knew you wouldn’t let me go.”

He whispers your name then, your real name, and you hear in his voice the way he trembles through it, as if he’s somehow not allowed. Simon whispers your name like a hymn he’s unfamiliar with, a grace given to him by your endless adoration. You feel it crack in your chest with a cry, swallow down the pain just so the despair, the hurt, the relief surges through you in wet, broken gasps. There’s no longer any words. Instead there’s the shudder of you both as you fold into each other, as he holds you like he can never bear to part from you in his arms again.

There’s so many things you want to say, so many things you wish you could tell him. You want to say you were so scared he’d find your body, that you wouldn’t survive the trip back to base, that he wouldn’t recognize the person that came back to him. You want to tell him that you were scared he’d be so terrified of how deeply you’d consumed his soul that he’d leave you, that losing you that way was better than losing the whole of you to something he couldn’t stop.

You want to tell him you felt the same, that you almost wish he had left you so that someday, should you lose each other, it would somehow hurt less.

Instead now, you cry into his arms and silently beg for him to hold you just a little longer.

You’re not sure how or when you get to the bed, wrapped up in a towel and bare as you lay on your side quietly crying. He doesn’t disappear from you, merely takes you against him and tucks himself impossibly further around you, as if shielding you from your own fears and phantoms.

“Fix.” He whispers, a hand roaming your back as your breathing eventually evens out.

You cling to him, wet skin and all, drinking in his scent, leeching off his warmth and imbuing it in your wounded form. He shifts, tilts you up so you look into his face, free of his mask, wet blonde lashes clinging to his cheeks with every flutter of his eyes. The full range of grief plays out clearly on his face, a despair and a longing so deep that you feel dirt pour over the coffin where both of you are entwined.

“I’ll come for you.” He tells you, voice dark, an ominous, dangerous rumble of a distant storm threatening to consume the horizon. “Every time. There’s nothing in the whole fucking world that can keep me from finding you, Fix.”

You nod wordlessly at him, face scrunching with unshed tears, breath shuddering in the hollow of your chest where he resides.

He takes a breath of his own then, eyes wide before he speaks.

“When they took you to the chopper, I went back.” He confesses. “Price tried to stop me, but I couldn’t leave after what they did to you.”

You shudder to think of the sight that must have been- with Ghost as a wild, feral animal seeking blood, unable to be tamed by the man he trusted the most, seeking out vengeance just to cool the bloodlust raging beneath his skin. Disregarding your injured state at the hands of the other medics, instead taking one look at your crumpled form and feeling a fury so violent it clouded his unwavering judgment in the field.

“I killed all of them.” Simon tells you, and there’s no regret in his voice, no horror at his own actions. A cold, calculating killer fueled by the most terrifying of motivations. “I felt their bones break beneath my hands, how hot and wet their blood was. I carved out their brains and left them for the vultures but it wasn’t enough. I’d kill them a hundred times over if I had the chance.”

You know he would. It should scare you, the lengths this man has gone through to keep you here in his arms. It should terrify you, should make you reconsider all viable possibility of being with him. Yet you fail to even feign shock at the devotion he has for you, laying skulls at your feet just so you can tell him how much you trust him, how much he deserves you- as if you somehow deserve him too.

“When I saw you on that hospital bed...” He goes on, voice softer now, a tone reserved just for you. “The only thing I could think was that I...I could never lose you again.”

“Never.” You tell him, clutching at the arm encircling you to him with ardent fixation. “You’re not going to lose me. I’m going to wait for you each time because I know you’ll come. Even if it means going through it all again, I’ll stay alive just to come back to you.”

You kiss him then, slow and tender, and he shivers bodily into you before surging forward, lips catching yours, body pressing into you as he kisses you like he’d forgotten the taste. Simon kisses you like its the last thing he’ll ever do, like he want to carry the touch of you from one afterlife into the next, like he’s trying to ingrain the sensation of you against his scarred flesh in case you’re ever taken from him again.

“Simon...” You sigh, and he swallows the sound like he’s trying to drink in every breath, as if it’s just one more taste of you.

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to keep you away from me.” He swears coarsely into your mouth. “I can’t- can’t do this without you. You make it all so fucking bearable, Fix. Nobody else can have you.”

You don’t want anyone else. You want him.

“I love you, Simon.” You manage between kisses, the naked, damp planes of your bodies stuck together as he tangles himself inside of you further, so that you’ll never be able ti dislodge him even if you wanted to. “I love you.”

“You’re mine, Fix.” He tells you in return, and you know what it means even though he won’t say it. “I won’t let them take you.”

You know he won’t. In this lifetime, in the next, you’ll stand by his side. You’ll bathe in the darkness of him so ichor drips from your lips, so that your name is seared across his tongue as if it’s the last word he’ll ever speak. You’ll echo a prayer unto his violence and he will kneel at the altar of you once more and ask for a redemption you can’t offer. Instead, you’ll tumble down into the grave together, caught in each other’s arms just like this, the world be damned.

You’ll wait. He’ll come for you. Then you’ll go home and watch the sun rise.

Tag List: (Reblog this post to be added to future fics from this series! If you'd like to be removed please DM me!)

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[eagerbby]

𝖇𝖔𝖔? 2 - 𝖘𝖕𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 | 𝖊𝖒

pairing| Eddie Munson x female reader

synopsis| What was supposed to be a prank, payback, turns into so much more.

an| I wanna thank you for the incredible amount of love I got on part 1, it truly means the world to me and as part one just reached 10k today, I'm celebrating by giving you all the much requested part 2! I wrote/edited and am posting this all in one day so I apologize for any grammar or tense mistakes

warnings| 3k, masturbating (f), oral (f), protected sex, mentions of abuse (but no actual abuse), mentions of a deceased parent, teeth rotting fluff, virgin! Eddie, 18+ only

part one

Eddie wastes not a moment after Hellfire, cleaning up in record time and bounding to his van once he was done. The drive through the darkened streets is quiet, no radio blaring heavy metal jams out his open windows. Even his van, that on any normal day sounded ready to break down, idles softly at the stop light. Eddie is anxious with anticipation, fingers gripping the tattered leather of his steering wheel tightly as he breathes deeply in and out in an effort to cure the nausea riddling his stomach.

He knows you’re waiting for him, probably sitting on his bed reading whatever book you are currently deep into, bare legs crossed at the ankle and propped on the thin wall of his bedroom. The image has his heart pounding loudly in his hollow chest, picking up speed as the van flies down Cornwallis, slowing only slightly as he takes the right on Kerley next, the trailer park coming into view amongst the dusky sky.  

As he pulls to a stop in front of his trailer, he can see the only light coming from his room. You’re here, just like you said you’d be, and something blooms in his chest akin to desperation as he climbs out the van and walks the short distance up his rickety stairs, the cold bite of the metal door knob isn’t enough to clear the haze in his brain as he enters the darkness of the trailer.

Quiet, it consumes him as he stands next to the door, shrugging off his vest jacket combo and toeing off his shoes, his chocolate brown button eyes locked onto the orange glow casting from his cracked bedroom door. If you hear him come in, you don’t acknowledge him, and it makes Eddie wonder if you’re asleep.

He thinks if you are, there's no way he’s gonna wake you up, no matter how long he’s waited for this very moment. He’ll simply crawl in next to you, hold you close to him, and rest his eyes. It’d be enough to satisfy the suffocating need to have you for himself. If only for a little while.

But as he creeps up to the door, peeking in through the crack, he can see that you definitely aren’t asleep. No. Eddie could drop dead at the sight before him.

“E-Eddie.”

You’re stark naked laying atop his bed, which you appear to have made in the time he’s been gone, head tossed back into his pillow as one hand roams the soft expanse of your skin and the other glides through the wet folds between your shivering thighs.

It’s quite a sight to behold, a sight Eddie has only dreamed of before, and his mouth falls slack jawed as you moan his name again, fingertips pulling at a pebbled nipple.

Eddie’s painfully hard already, reaching down to adjust himself before he pushes the door open, hinges creaking. Your head lolls to the side, eyes meeting him in an instant, and the look you give him knocks the air completely out of his chest.

He had this whole thing planned in his head, but the moment your eyes meet his, his plan vanishes into the thick air of his room. Instead he closes the space between you both and falls to his knees at the side of his bed, his hands hanging in the air next to your bare form unsure of what he can and can’t touch.

“Missed you.” You whimper, fingertips brushing your nipple as you go to stroke his cheek. Eddie leans into your touch, reaching a hand out, his hot skin pressed to your cool stomach. He watches the way your body reacts to his touch, how you grind your hips up into the palm of your hand and whine again, head thrown back once more into the pillow.

“‘S not enough, Eds. Please, I need more.” You’re pouting, wet bottom lip jutting from your bitten lips and Eddie can’t help but to kiss it. Follow the tilt of your head, meeting him with a ferocious hunger, your free hand gripping the hairs at the back of his neck in a tight grip.

When he pulls away a string of saliva follows like a translucent tether between you two. “Tell me what you need, baby.” His voice bleeds softly through the room and it makes you whimper. You guide his hand to your core with your slick covered fingers that tremble as he takes their place, rubbing hard gentle circles over your swollen clit.

“Is this okay?” He asks, completely unsure of himself, and you nod fiercely as you guide his lips back to yours. You don’t kiss him, just hover his lips over your own, breathe in each other's gasps and moans. It is so intimate, so unlike what Eddie had been expecting from this rendezvous, but something Eddie has craved from the moment you sat next to him at the lunch table and offered him the other half to your chicken sandwich and a kind smile.

Eddie waits for you to nod, whisper a hushed yeah, so good, before he’s crawling onto the bed with you. He settles himself next to your side, his fingertips slipping around you wet hole with gentle ease, collecting what he can of your slick before he bumps his way back up to your clit, rubbing tight circles at such a pace that you thighs tighten around his forearm, trembling in a way that makes him coo softly at you.

“Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” The compliment has you keening, lifting into his touch, clawing at the back of his Hellfire shirt. “Love you so much, you gotta know that.”

Before you can even respond, can even process the way his words make your heart bloom, his touch vanishes. Leaves your body cold, hands searching blindly for him, before you squint your eyes open.

He’s down between your thighs now, spreading them open so delicately, kissing at your ankle bone, up the smoothness of your calf, across your skinned knee, down the silkiness of your thigh. When his tongue treks an upwards path through your puffy folds, you moan in unison. Your taste is rapture on his tongue, his brown eyes rolling back into his head as he dives deeper, burying himself into you, plush lips sucking hotly at your bundle of nerves. His fingers burn against the skin of your thighs, clutching them open like his life depends on it. Like if you were to cut him off from your divine taste he’d surely implode.

“Oh my God, Eddie.” You're on the verge of tears, breast heaving, thighs spasming, hands grasping pathetically at his mussed brown curls as that white hot coil inside you bursts like a dying star, exploding supernovas behind your eyelids with titanic force. You arch, carrying your back away from the bed as a gasp rushes up your throat so hard and fast you choke, breath stuck tight and so painful it allows your tears to spill over.

Eddie licks you through your release, soft laps of his tongue as you collapse back into his bed, shaking and whimpering at every touch, every suckle from his lips. He’s resisting the urge to grind against the mattress, hips aching to rut, to find any source of friction available, but he doesn’t want to come in his jeans. He wants to come inside you.  

Eddie trails his lips across your hip bone when you’ve finally had enough, hypnotized by the glimmer of your tears falling across your beautiful face, slithering up your wrecked body to nudge his nose into your hot cheek.

“Taste so good.” He kisses the corner of your lip, humming proudly to himself when you turn into him, following his lips with an expression of pure bliss. “Wanted to do that for so long.” He tells you honestly, peering up at you as he rests his chin against your still pounding heart.

“I can tell.” You huff out a laugh as you try to gain your sense back, throat achy and raw, body tingling with electricity. His touch is delicate as he wipes your tears away, touches you like you’re some fragile thing he’s scared he might break. “I- that was incredible, Eddie.”

“Good,” He muses, settling on his knees between your thighs, he grabs his shirt at the base, pulls it up slowly like he’s teasing, exposing his alabaster skin to you. You reach out without thinking, following the slightly defined lines of his stomach, drawing your finger across black ink itched into the skin on his ribs. Wayne, in dark cursive, an homage to the uncle who was more a father than his biological one had ever been.

“Pretty.” You whisper out, smiling up at him as he tosses his shirt across the room.

“Don’t think guys are supposed to be pretty, sweetheart.” He quips, lips pulled into a little smirk that makes your stomach flutter like always.

“You are, Eddie.” You say it so simply, like it’s a complete no brainer, but to Eddie it’s earth shattering. Makes his smile falter as your words wrap tight around his heart, forces him to stop, to stare down at you with his big brown bambi eyes that you love so much.

You sit, feeling the shift in the air, feeling like maybe you said the wrong thing, but then he smiles at you so brightly it's blinding. He meets you halfway, presses his forehead against yours, closes his eyes.

“Eddie, are you okay?” You ask gently, brushing his hair out of his face to place your palm against his stubbled cheek. He nods into you, brushes his nose against yours before he’s capturing your lips in a slow kiss.

It’s tantalizing, the gentle push and pull of molded lips, wet pants, his teeth tugging at your bottom lip. Eddie doesn’t look the type - the soft and sensual type that is- his usual rough shield he’d built long ago to protect himself from the cruelty life had cursed him with guarding that hopeless romantic that lived deep in his chest. Eddie struggled to believe in things like love long ago, back when he was a gangly little boy listening to his mother cry herself to sleep next to him after another of his fathers devastating verbal attacks. As only a child, he saw the vacant stare his mother held when his father would chastise her for the littlest things, clench his tiny little fists as his father called his abuse love. The curse that was the Munson name scared any and all prospective love offers away.

”Don’t talk to that Munson boy, He’s bad news.”

“No good kid. Nothing but trouble just like his daddy.”

“Freak. Devil worshiper. Drug dealer. Criminal.”  

Eddie was fine with being alone. Saw no use in wearing his heart on his sleeve just for it to be stomped on by some girl that could never care about him.

But then you sauntered into his life with a pep in your step and a smile reserved just for him. He couldn’t believe you were talking to him that first day, watching with bated breath and unsure eyes as you stole his pretzels and questioned him about what he was scribbling into his campaign notebook. He thought it was a fluke, a one off experience, until there you were the next day offering him half your lunch and questioning his love for Dio. Then the next, and the next after that, until it was such a routine that he couldn’t remember a time where you weren’t by his side.

It didn’t take him long to fall for you, head over heels, walls crumbling to ash at his feet every time you smiled or laughed or hugged him in a way only his mother had. You weren’t scared of what people thought of you being friends with the town freak, standing up to anybody that dared to speak ill of him. You were everything to him, his heart and his soul, and he thanked his mother every day he woke up, staring up at the ceiling as if he could see her face against the white stucco tile, for sending you to him.

His saving grace.

“I love you.” His voice is broken as he says it, eyes watering. Shame washes over him like waves, the words feeling like poison on his lips. If you didn’t feel the same; he’d be ruined.

“God, I love you, Eddie. So much, so much.” You’re kissing down the thick cords of his neck, smiling as he shutters out a breath, wraps you up in his arms as you kneel before each other on his bed. “Want you so bad, Eddie. Please. Please.”

You wait for him to nod against your shoulder, hiding in the curve of your neck, before you reach between your bodies to undo his belt. It clinks softly as you pull it from his belt loops, tossing it to the floor before you start working nimble fingers to the button of his pants, fumbling briefly with the zipper.

You’re yanking his pants down when he stops you, cupping your face in his strong hands, gazing down at you tenderly.

“I’ve never… I’ve never done this.” His admission rings through the air, making you tremble deep in your tummy. I’ve never done this. Which means, you’ll be his first. It pleases you more than it should. “Are you sure you still wanna? I won’t be mad if you don’t.”

He’s so unsure of himself at the moment, nothing like the man he’d imagined in his head earlier when he left for Hellfire. In fact nothing about this was what he imagined and in a way it makes it entirely better. He doesn’t want his first time with you to be some fast, wild, fuck that goes nowhere. Doesn't want to sit next to you tomorrow afternoon at lunch and pretend that the moment you shared didn’t rewrite his entire image of you. The love of his life. He knows you’re both just seniors, adults but still kids, still have your whole lives in front of you. But he also knows, you’re it for him.

“I want this, Eddie. I want you.” It’s all you can think to say and you punctuate it with a heavy kiss, sighing into the deliciousness of it. “Need you bad, baby.”

That's all it takes, baby slithers off the tip of your tongue and carries like the most beautiful song into Eddie’s ears. He pushes you back gently, watches as you collapse into his pillow with a giggle, your eyes wide and glossy. You felt it too, he didn’t need to be a genius to see it, not when your love for him was written all over your dazzling face. You have bewitched him, spellbound by such a simple pet name.

He wastes little time pulling the rest of his clothes from himself, leaving the bed only to grab a condom from his dresser drawer. He blushes when he turns back towards you and catches your eyes raking his body, an insatiable heat digging into your core like talons, dripping wetness at the sight of him naked alone.

He’s long and thick, a fat vein leading from his pretty blushing tip to his base framed by a dark bush. You’ve seen plenty of dicks before -okay, maybe like three- but none of them have looked as pretty as Eddie’s. It has your mouth watering, has you making grabby hands at him until he’s laughing, finding his way back to the bed.

“Needy girl.” He titters, tearing open the gray wrapper with pearly teeth, yet his hands are visibly shaking as he slides it down his hard length, groaning inwardly at the most friction he’s gotten since he walked in and found you.

You spread your legs wide for him as he adjusts and finds the most comfortable position between your legs. He lets out a quiet whimper as he slots himself against you, hoping like hell you can’t hear it, one hand resting on your hip as the other drags the head of his cock through your dripping folds. You keen at the sensation, tilting your hips into his strokes in hopes he’ll catch on the place you really need him.

“So needy for me.” His voice is hush, breath hot against your chest as he looks down at where your two bodies meet.

“Don’t tease me, Eddie. Been wanting you too long.” You guide his face up with gentle fingers, offer him a soft smile, but your eyes are nearly black, the color blown away by the dark expanse of your pupils. He thinks it’s crazy how rabid it makes him feel, your pupils but an obsidian pool so deep and welcoming he could drown in them.

“How long, baby?” He needs to hear the answer before this goes any further, needs to hear how he hasn't been alone in this brutal yearning.

“So long, baby, before I even knew you. Used to- used to think about you at night, i-imagine what you’d feel like, what you’d taste like. W-why do you think I sought you out, Eddie? I needed you.” You’re gasping after every word, shuddering at the pleasure that shoots through you with every heavy glide over your clit. It’s all consuming, better than your fingers and your toys. You could cum from this alone, you’re sure of it.

But Eddie has other plans as he lines himself up to your hole, whispering softly into your ear -”My little perv.”- before he’s pushing in agonizingly slow.

He’s biting his lip as he focuses on not coming the second he enters you, so tight and wet and weeping for him. He buckles forwards onto his elbows half way in, your tight and sudden clenching knocking the air from his lungs. The feeling of you wrapped around him is nothing like his hand, in fact he’s sure that nothing in this world can compare to the way you feel around him.  

He’s struggling to keep his composure as he bottoms out inside you, burying his face into the side of your head as he whimpers and whines at the next level intensity of it all. A new, completely overwhelming feeling, that has him almost drooling into your hair as he moans into your ear as you grip his ass and beg him to move.

“Oh my god, y/n.” You smooth your hand down his bare back, soothing his fiery skin as he pulls all the way out till just his tip remains inside you, bottoming back out with a shaky thrust and even shakier breath. “F-fucking heaven.” He says as he screws his eyes shut, thankful you can’t see the pathetic expression on his face.

But it’s not enough for you, you don’t want him hiding himself, so you pull him up by the back of his head, kiss him sloppily once before saying, “Look at me, Eddie. I wanna see you.”

Eddie scoffs, shakes his head, eyes still tightly shut. “‘Mgonna cum if I look at you.”

“It’s okay, baby, I want you to come. Wanna hear you and see you as you cum inside me.”

“Oh fucking hell.” His thrust picks up at your words, eyes springing open to find yours as he fucks into you harder, less sloppy than before.

His hair blankets around your face, shields you from the room, leaves you in this private little bubble that's all you and him and wet hot pants, eyes locked in an rhapsodic gaze that neither of you can or want to pull away from. The coil inside you tightens tenfold as his fingers find your bundle of nerves, rubbing harshly against them as he keeps his even thrusts.

He’s the first to speak.

“Can’t go back to b-before.” He pleads openly, “Not now, not after this.”

“I know, Eds. I know.” You can barely speak, wound so tight you feel like you're gonna combust underneath him.

“Wanna be yours. Please, let me be yours.” He sounds near tears from the delirious pleasure coursing through his body, any other time he’d be filled with shame, but you’re safe. You’re his person.

You push the hair from his face, hold him tenderly in your grasp, thumb tugging at his bottom lip as you earnestly tell him, “You’ve always been mine, Eddie. I’ve always been yours.”

He crashes his lips to yours, craving your mouth as he cums deep inside you, whining prettily into the smoldering kiss. You follow after, nails indenting into the curve of his shoulders as you cum, air knocked from your lungs, toes curling against his bed sheets. Your scream is muffled by his hot mouth, hips carrying you through it till he’s whining from the oversensitivity.

You gasp at the sudden loss as Eddie pulls out and collapses against your chest, ear pressed to your thundering heart beat. Your bodies shake together in the come down, his lower half deflating into the mattress as you stroke his hair, tucking the crazy strands behind his ear and out of his mouth.

He wraps his arms around your back as he lays on you, nuzzles his nose into your soft skin, humming in satisfaction.

“Was it okay?” He asks after a couple minutes of silence, kissing against your ribcage.

“Incredible. I-” You huff out a laugh, smooth your thumb down his cheekbone. “I’ve never cum so hard before.”    

He wants to thrust his fist into the air, so proud that even on his first time he’s made you cum better than anyone before him, but instead he holds you tighter, basking in the glow.

“Wanna do that again?” You ask cheekily, smiling down at him with a devilish look. “I wanna try those handcuffs.”

He rolls off you with a laugh, titling his head up at you with a faux, and deeply exaggerated, look of disapproval.

“Damn, baby. Can a guy get a minute to regain his breath? I’m not some sorta machine, you needy thing.”

You giggle at him, curl your body against his, slap fat wet kisses at his bare chest as he continues to jokingly chastise you.

“I fucking love you, Eddie Munson.”    

[rosedom]

Oh, reading through your Tighnari alphabet post has me thinking- which Genshin characters do you think would be into unique bondage styles?

I saw a fan art of Kazuha where he has his wrists bound by a rope from the ceiling and was on the ground with his knees tucked under him and that has me thinking about which characters would be into more uncommon bondage :>

KAZUHA BONDAGE FANARTS ARE SO MMMMMMM . . . he is absolutely perfect for any form of it, be it simple or shibari—especially-so if the ropes are a deep red. red against his pale skin, contrasting it, and going beautifully with his rosy cheeks (and chest . . . and ass . . . and arms . . . 'cos there's no doubt that this guy is another full-body blusher !!) and streak of colored hair . . . he's literally the pattern-setter. genuinely, any kind of bondage just pairs so beautifully with kaz; but he thrives on his knees, knelt all pretty on a pillow <3

as for others . . . hm . . .

listen. really, really listen, okay?

alhaitham. haitham in unique bondage. maybe shibari, maybe something else; but this man wants to be all in. if his wrists are tied, something else must be, too—be that lines of rope or ribbon criss-crossing his biceps or even his chest, chafing so sweetly against his dusky nipples . . . i want this feeble scribe to finally feel feeble. helpless, with his arms tied up and wrists bound to the opposite forearm, his legs tied to themselves but left spread open. he's able to move, still, but only at your touch—you hold the power (the power he so easily gives, the secret loverboy) to open his legs.

on the opposite side of things, i think that venti is a HUGEEE fan of shibari—not in the restraint sense, but in the sense of artwork. he wants to have his body on display to you. so while his limbs may be tied some days, others they aren't; sometimes, he only has rope stringing across his torso without any impediment to his mobility. (he has definitely worn some rope under his clothes on an outing with you~.) venti's got the prettiest lil' body, and he knows it—he ought to show it off with ropes accentuating that trim waist of his, those plump thighs . . . mmm

and then there's cyno.

bondage isn't usually on the table for him—after all, he's an expanse of scarred yet smooth skin . . . any rope marks would be embarrassingly noticable. but, hey—he's got that big ol' cloak for a reason (look, i'm not saying he's got it just because it can hide the rope marks; but it's definitely a bonus he considered). he's another one of those cases of men in power wanting so desperately to submit, to no longer be in control; and what better way than through bondage? especially the types that leave cyno pulsing—through cock n' cunt—with each loop of rope you drag across his body.

but let's take ropes aside, though, and look at the possibility of leather cuffs.

heizou, for one, would be a huge fan of soft leather tying his wrists together and ankles apart, kept snugly locked to a leather-infused spreader bar. he already wears rope in his day-to-day get-up, so to make that switch to leather instead—it's perfectly ironic. just imagining the way sweet heizou would look with his legs kept shoulder-width apart, unable to close, cunt dripping right past his taint to puddle on the floor, his hands cuffed together in soft leather . . . maybe even a leather collar, too.

i'm not normally a fan of leather—the implications of it are always rough in a way i do not enjoy—, but like this . . . heizou is simply perfect for it !!

bondage is so touch n' go for me, but, god . . . when i like it, i like it.

[darlingofvalyria]

❝The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?❞

[ You talk your daughter down from her cold feet. ]

[ 1,405 ] [ series masterlist ] | king!jacaerys velaryon x aunt targ!reader (aegon's twin)

contains— canon divergence - fluff, smidge of angst - allusions to warfare, character death(s), infidelity, revenge, manipulative targ!reader - children, arranged marriage, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth - sort of fluff?? bits of angst, toxic as shit hhshs - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.

a/n— a little blurb before the third proper instalment of 'in hightower green' (yes, we now have a masterlist and a series title!!). this is post-the series, & contains a hint on what happens to the third part, which will be a two-parter, cos its heavy and reader goes full gone girl shdjshdhs can't wait to share it!! but for now have a glimpse of the future lol + comment, reblog & like at will, my loves!!

"I was told that you were on the verge of fainting, but I see you are upright as a horse." A faint smile glimmers on your playful lips as your daughter turns, smiling in an exact replica of how Helaena smiles.

It bursts wildflowers and warmth in your chest as you approach, standing behind her as you take the earrings from her fingers that have been turning them around and around, Nila, the spider whose web you placed by your daughter's, said.

You balance the heavy accessory, before you say, "Let me."

A quiet settles the pair of mother and daughter, the chaos of the feast unable to taint the tranquility provided in her chambers. As you take care in placing the baubles for her ears you press a gentle smile on your face as you gaze upon her on the mirror. Maegella Velaryon is a patchwork creation of your most beloved people, despite being the fourth born daughter and the second triplet, she bore Helaena's smile and Aemond's dusky laughter.

Though there is the Strong features in her jaw and face shape, her eyes and hair are your mother's. The Hightower features you have adored since childhood, the auburn hair and the gentle, round brown eyes.

Your seventh child bears the most resemblance to your Hightower roots, as she is the only one with her grandmother's auburn locks. Sweet orange red, a shimmer of a dying flame.

"I do not know if I am making the right decision, your grace." She breaks the silence, meeting your violet gaze with her gentle brown. She is young, on the verge of her womanhood, while you have aged, a mirror of what visage will soon become. "I understand that the Lord Stark is an honourable man, most auspicious is our arrangement thus far, but..."

"But?"

"I am fearful," she whispers.

There is Aegon in her chin, in her purse lips. It tugs at your heartstrings further at the reminder of your beloved twin.

Your children have always been Aegon's favourite to spoil, but much more your triplet daughters.

"They all look so much like you, sweet sister, even if their colouring is not fully Valyrian," he had said when they were born, snuggled against each other in their sleep much like the two of you when you were newborn babes.

"So they look like you, since we are twins," you teased. He nudged you with an elbow, giggling.

"Yes, exactly." He turned to Maegella, newborn as she is, her hair had been a lighter shade of red orange back then. He runs a finger down her hair and forehead before booping her button nose. "This one has mother's hair."

"And brown eyed. I thought of naming her Alicent, but I digressed. Much too on the nose."

He laughed. "Maybe the next one then, as for sure you will be round with the Strong bastard's babe once more."

Though there was no heat to his tone, you still slapped his arm. It wasn't like he was wrong. You promised Jace you will bring him heirs.

You promised yourself strong babes. Their blood is yours, and they breathe with you.

"Oh, my sweet, darling girl," you say now, smiling gently as you place a coifed, auburn lock back behind strings of pearl that swept up her hair in elegant coils, not unlike fully bloomed roses cinched together. "You are about to make a new life for yourself, there is much to fear. But you are the blood of the dragons. And of the oldest, greatest House in Westeros. And the sea. Which is ancient, and has drowned men in vigour despite her age."

"Just like Vhagar?"

You laugh. "Much like Vhagar when she lived, yes, that old, ferocious girl."

She giggles then sighs as you hold her close to you. Gentle as you are to her wedding attire, a faint, seafoam blue laced white dress. A gift from her father.

You stand straight, something in your expression triggers her own posture to straighten. The visage and orderly manner of a princess coming back to her spine and face.

"No true marriage is a fairytale. Most oft, you have to strangle fate by the throat and conquer your future."

Her eyes widen. "Mother! That sounds ghastly."

"It is." Your laugh isn't what she's used to. It's a breathless, mirthless exhale. A memory so entangled in your mind it weaves about in silvery threads between you. "But my marriage to your father had not always been such a gladdened time."

"I would expect so..." she says hesitantly, wary of every minute change of your expression. "It has been a long marriage, with a heft of babes of your own." Her hand finds yours and squeezes, trying for a jest with a pinch of honesty. "Do not expect the same amount of children from me, your grace. Though the birthing bed is a war all women must face, I have five other sisters to continue your lineage."

You exchange a laugh, pinching her cheek whilst she yelps.

"I cannot fathom birthing the same amount as you have. You are the strongest of us all."

"Your great-great grandmother, The Good Queen Alysanne, named after your sister, bore much more than I, I will remind you so."

She shivers. "Madness it is."

"It is," you agree. "The realm had asked for only two, but I had love your father so. But our marriage... it had almost cost me everything."

"Everything?"

Your smile is flaccid. "My crown, my birthright, my position in your father's life. Everything."

She stands, thoroughly alarmed, spinning to you and holding your arms. "Mother? I have not heard of this before."

"Oh, how can you? You were yet to be born." You run your fingers over her sweet face. Your seventh child. To think you almost lost them all. To think such bastards nearly took everything from you. "Only Daenera and Aemma had been, and I am not sure they can remember it all. They were quite young. And I am furious to tell further, but... but for you, I can. So you might understand that marriage is too, a battle to be won. A prize you must covet. As a dragon, your hoard is your own. Any who dare touch it must pay with fire and blood."

Your chin tips. "Even if sometimes, your enemy is your own spouse."

"Father?" A faint gasps leave her lips. "You are scaring me mother. What story is this?"

A smirk plays on your lips. "The story of how Winterfell almost burnt to the ground."

"What?"

"Rage, my sweet girl, especially born out of a dragon's flame, can raze armies to the ground. We were called conquerors for a reason." You cup her face with your hands. "Though I have not made a promise to your father, I had kept this piece of history deep within the wells of my heart. But for you I shall. To guide you into your marriage, and to comfort you that no matter what happens, no matter what tragedy curses your vows, you are able to control your future. You are no mere wife. Your blood sings above the sheep alike, and with it, a reminder to all that you are a dragon and nothing less."

You release her face, smiling gently, before you tug her to the bed. "We have time for a story, I'm sure. They cannot start it without a queen nor the bride."

"The story where your rage nearly tore Winterfell to ashes?" She frowns. "How does father fare in this?"

"Oh, he had lied to me."

"Father?! Lied?"

You tap her lips. "You must take this story to your bosom. And you must not look at your father any differently. He is changed now. He has kept his vows with much sincerity." Though a certain bitter triumph echoes in your heart at the idea that his own daughter might look at him with hatred.

The years had been kind to you, yes. But by no means have you met it with ease. The crown you bear on your head bore witness to every battle you had won, every war you had forged, and only those who understood its stench know of the blood you had spilled to get it.

And though you have forgiven him long before, the memory sings old embers anew.

"Her name was Sara Snow, and your father had dared..."

TAGGED: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata @xxvelvetxxxx @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @bunbunbl0gs @yazzzmints @bellstwd @hiraethrhapsody

[kiss-me-cill-me]

Now We Pay The Price | Bonus Drabble

Okay, so I lied a little bit when I said I wouldn't be posting any more of this for a while. This is not the third and final part, but just a little something that I wrote as a thank you to @cillianslvt for all of her help with Part 2! This is a flashback idea she gave me that I wasn't able to fit into the fic, but still really liked and wanted to write.

So, here it is on its own as a bonus-drabble-extra-thing. Mostly fluffy, slightly suggestive, and with a hint of the usual angst prevalent in the rest of the series.

If you have no idea what this is, you can check out Part 1 HERE! Thank you all for reading, and thank you again Madi for your help <3

You wake slowly, becoming aware of each limb only gradually. Flexing your fingers, you feel the soft brush of the bed sheets, and let out a small sigh. 

Morning light streams through your bedroom, hitting your eyelids and making your vision behind them a dusky red. You bathe in it for a moment, taking a long breath through your nose. 

When you finally open your eyes, he’s still there.

Like you had hoped he would be, although usually it’s a split chance on whether or not Jonathan will get up before you. But today, he sleeps in, and you take the chance to gaze at his face at it’s most peaceful. 

Even in his sleep, a soft crease runs between his brows, as if he’s pondering something while dreaming. The lines of his face capture your eye, and you survey the contours that make up his cheeks, his soft nose, and his full lips. You want so badly to kiss them, but he deserves the extra rest.

As you throw the sheets back gently, your eyes drift down to the mark on his hand, laying face up on the mattress. A little heart that matches yours, sketched just below his thumb with black marker. Streaks of ink bleed away from it slightly, caught in the miniscule lines of his skin. It’s like your tattoo in every way, except for the pain of permanence. 

You can’t stop yourself any longer. You slide your hand into his, pressing your matching hearts together. Jonathan stirs, waking up with a soft hum.

“Good morning,” you whisper.

“Mmm. Morning,” he replies.

Now that he’s awake, you crawl halfway on top of him, draping a leg over his waist and resting a hand on his chest. As you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, you feel wholly content.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, voice still raspy enough to send a shiver through you. You love listening to him after he’s just woken up.

“Perfect,” you sigh, nuzzling into him. “I always sleep best when you’re here.”

“That’s confirmation bias,” he laughs, resting a hand on your head. “You probably only think about how well you slept when I ask you, and I wouldn’t be able to ask if I weren’t here.”

“Or,” you tease, pressing a finger against his chest. “Maybe I just sleep better when I’m with you.” You poke him a few times to hammer home the point, then add, “Not everything has to be scientifically proven, Jonathan.”

“Maybe you’re right. I sleep best next to you, too,” he relents. 

As he presses his lips to the top of your head, you sit up, too impatient to waste time with chaste kisses. You lean forward until your lips meet, and you smile. Drinking in the warmth that passes between you, flushed skin pressed against his.

“Or maybe we’re both just delusional,” you say, smile still wide as you pull away.

“Well. Maybe one of us is…”

Your face scrunches, lips pressed into a prickly pout as you feign offense at his joke. 

“If that’s how you feel, you can stop sleeping over,” you taunt.

Jonathan’s hand is already at the back of your neck, pulling you in as he hums.

“But then you wouldn’t sleep well, would you? And we don’t want that.”

You laugh out loud as you kiss him, and wrap him up tight in your arms until neither one of you stand any chance of leaving the bed.

[builtlikeastickofcelery]

I’m drawing the funny because @cupcakeslushie your leo au hurts me inside and I’m pretending it doesn’t

[wolfoftheblackflames]

Had this adorable thought in my head. Basically, imagine this scenario. (Post Episode 6 too since I felt like it, also first time writing something like this, enjoy!)

Vaggie and Charlie are going on a nice little walk since the two could use a break from the hotel, plus date night. As they're walking, Vaggie continues to hear the annoying assholes disrespecting her girl and gets rightfully pissed. Charlie, not wanting to cause a scene, tells her, "It's OK" and that "She's used to it" which in turn prompts Vaggie to get even more pissed swearing in Spanish. She then starts cussing at the assholes branding her spear at them. Charlie tries to stop her girlfriend's rampage but fails. Touched her girlfriend got mad on her behalf, but annoyed because some jerks ruined their outing, Charlie manages to scoop up Vaggie in her arms before it gets too out of control.

She then carries the fuming woman back to the hotel, walking past some curious on lookers in Angel Dust and Husk. The boys noticed a bit of blood on Vaggie's spear and winced with Husk saying, "Who pissed that one off?" And Angel replying with "Some shmuck who probably pushed her buttons too far."

Upstairs in their room, Charlie sets Vaggie on the bed and crosses her arms, but her expression from annoyed softens when she sees Vaggie rubbing her neck and looking away. She tries to hide her embarrassment and hears Charlie's footsteps moving away but only to come back with a basin of water and a cloth. "Look, hon, I'm sorry I lost my temper, but those assholes.." She begins but blinks, feeling that soft loving hand touch her cheek. Charlie then gently wipes away some blood smeared on her girlfriend's face replying with a soft "I know, thank you for doing that but also what if you got hurt?"

Vaggie would lightly blush, remembering how they met, and then holds Charlie's hand to her face, kissing her princess's palm. "I'm a lot sturdier than I look, baby, but thanks for worrying about me." To which Charlie chuckles and replies."What did I do to get such a wonderful person as my girlfriend?"

With that Charlie nuzzles Vaggie smiling as her little moth has a darker shade of blush tinting her dusky cheeks. "That's what I should be asking you." With that Vaggie plants a warm kiss on Charlie's lips but a part of her couldn't help but think "If you only knew what I did and who I was, would you still want me around?"

As if on cue, Charlie knew the sadness and scooped up her girlfriend again, carrying the smaller woman and shifting their bodies to where Vaggie could just rest comfortably against the princess, letting the doubts fade for a moment. Surprised Vaggie looked stunned but then her eyes started to close as she just nuzzles into Charlie's chest listening to her hellborn's heartbeat, it was the one sound she loved to listen to when her mind was clouded with thoughts of worthlessness, because it made her feel like she was worth something, at least to her beloved Charlie, who in turn just held Vaggie close as the two drifted off for a small nap.

However it was short as an explosion and cussing awoke the two causing them to rush out and peer over the railings. Angel Dust with an annoyed look while holding burnt food, Alastor smiling like a mad man amused, Nifty trying to clean up the mess, Sir Pentious looking concerned replying with a "I guessss you're not cut out for cooking Angel Dusssst." And Husk just chuckling at the softie. "Hey I'm a pornstar, my food gets served to me on a silver platter, so excuse me for not being able to cook!" The spider replied annoyed but then blinks hearing the girls on the railing laughing at his little antic. "You're banned from the kitchen Angel, at least until you stop blowing it up." Vaggie stated as she smirked with a playful grin.

It was a fun note to end a shitty day on, but damn it what was suppose to be pizza turned out to be a huge charred mess that pretty much broke apart as soon as you tried to pick it up.

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

The Dangers of Hope Ch. 2

Series Summary: When Y/N shows up at Camp Chitaqua with her little girl in tow, her bloodshot eyes leave no doubt that she's infected. Or is she? Everything Dean has come to know for certain over the last five hellish years, is about to be challenged.

Pairings/Characters in the series: Endverse!Dean x Reader, Emma (OFC), Castiel, Sam Winchester, Lucifer, Michael, Zachariah, Risa, Johnston (OMC), Patrick (OMC), Theresa (OFC),other survivors and soldiers.

Series Explicit 18 +/Warnings: Show level violence, some gore, angst, smut, fluff all the usual for a series of mine. ❤️ Endverse!Dean (that's a warning for his anger and callousness as well as his extreme hotness. 😁) Each chapter will have their own specific warnings.

Chapter Warnings: Not too much. A mention of recurring nightmares, some talk of fears.

Word Count: 4,240

A/N: So, I've had this idea for quite a while. Basically since I watched The Last of Us. I loved Pedro in the role of Joel, but I kept thinking how incredible Jensen would have been. Which then made me think of how amazing he was as Endverse!Dean which then led me to this idea. Lol! I've stolen the premise of Ellie's storyline from TLOU, but made her a grown up, a reader insert, and a love interest for Dean.

If you've never seen TLOU, don't worry - you don't need to have seen it to understand this story. 😊

I've taken some liberties with the Endverse in my story, changed a few things from canon, but kept lots of things too.

I sincerely hope you enjoy the story. It will be ten chapters and I will do my very best to post one chapter every weekend. ❤️

A/N 2: Thank you SO much to everyone who was so kind and gave such a lovely reception to the first chapter of the series. I hope you enjoy this new chapter too! ❤️

Series Master List || Tag Lists

The dividers used here were created by @saradika .

The big, wide log cabin seemed so completely empty after Dean Winchester left, as though his presence alone was what had filled it.

The blue-eyed man - Castiel - ran after him quickly, shouting an order to a guard outside to let no one go in. 

So Y/N sat completely still, listening to the muffled sounds of camp life happening on the other side of the pine walls. Her exhausted brain was trying to comprehend what had happened, trying to piece it all together.

The first person she'd encountered had been the woman, Risa. She and another soldier had been guarding the border of the camp when Y/N and Emma finally stumbled out of the forest.

Y/N was fairly certain she would have been shot on site if Emma hadn't been there. Instead, their hesitation gave her the chance to swear up and down that, despite appearances, she wasn't a Croat.

The two soldiers had eye-balled each other and Risa had finally told the other guard to stay at the outpost. 

“The Boss is still out on the raid. I'm taking them to Castiel.”

She'd pulled the heavy chains and manacles out of the guard post shack, and brought Y/N, cuffed and bound, to see Castiel. She’d met with him in the big cabin, tying Y/N to the table and then explaining things to him. He'd seemed a bit out of it at first, but then seemed to sober up quickly when Risa explained the situation to him a second time. Then he examined Y/N and made her tell him the story again. His face got progressively more dumbstruck as she spoke.

When he was informed that the Boss was back, he'd told Risa to take Emma away somewhere safe while they all talked.

Now, in the big, lonely cabin Y/N had to shake her head. She’d been so certain, in the end, that she was going to die. But Dean had walked away and left her breathing.

Just another miracle that somehow kept her alive for one more day.

The evening wore on and the light began to disappear, leaving only a dusky blue twilight inside the cabin. She didn't like the night time and the dark. It was a fear that had started with the poltergeist when she was sixteen - when every time she turned off the light and closed her eyes, something evil emerged to cause her pain and terrorize her in the dark.

Before long, the very last of the twilight left the room, and unknown, unkind darkness loomed all around her, and she began to feel the panic rising. But suddenly, just before it could take hold completely, Dean strode through the door, carrying a bright lantern that banished the dark. She breathed a sigh of relief, thankful to see him in spite of everything.

He moved to stand directly in front of her, almost exactly where he stood when he’d elected not to shoot her. She looked up at him and gave a slight smile, not knowing what else she could do. Then she thought to ask the question foremost on her mind.

“Can I see Emma? I'd like her to know I'm safe.”

“No.” He said, shooting down the request without hesitation. He moved over to a metal folding chair that sat at the end of one of the tables and pointed at it.

“I'm gonna sit right here, all night, not sleeping. And if you so much as twitch? I promise I'll put you down.”

Y/N still couldn't help but appreciate the light he'd brought in for her, and the fact that she was still breathing, so she gave another half smile. “Okey dokey.”

He looked briefly taken aback by her response before his scowl returned. He plunked himself down on the chair and folded his arms across his chest, sitting up ramrod straight. It didn't look very comfortable.

But then, her spot on the hard floor, chained to the table, wasn't all that comfy either. But she decided she was grateful that the length of the chain allowed her to comfortably move her arms around. That was something.

She leaned back against the wide metal leg of the table and tried to relax. But soon her active mind was wandering and she stole a glance at Dean, wondering about how very different he was now. Of course twelve years was a long time in the best of circumstances. Twelve years spent fighting monsters and battling through an apocalypse was bound to change a person. 

As she stared at him he turned his head and caught her at it outright. She blushed slightly and decided to cover with a question. “Can I see Emma tomorrow?”

“No.” Dean said before going back to staring at the far wall.

His outright refusal was frustrating. But she worried that arguing with him might be considered “twitching”, so she kept her mouth closed.

The silence stretched out again and made Y/N antsy. She was used to Emma’s little-girl-babbling, her singing, and just her general five-year-old noisiness. The camp was mostly silent on the other side of the wall as well, only the crickets could be heard, playing their creaky songs.

Her eyes once again settled on the only interesting thing in the room, Dean. She tried to be less obvious about staring this time, but realized she’d failed when he spoke harshly without looking in her direction.

“Why are you staring at me?” His voice was full of annoyance.

“I’m not.” She said quickly and unconvincingly.

He finally looked at her and his face was cold and angry. She remembered that he used to have a really bright, beautiful smile. 

“Why can’t I see Emma?” She asked, aware she was probably pushing buttons she shouldn't.

Dean ignored her and slowly looked away again. Y/N huffed out an angry puff of air and despite her worries about riling him, decided to argue. “She’s my daughter. I just want to make sure she’s okay, and let her know that I’m okay too.”

He remained silent and Y/N’s voice became desperate. “Please!”

Dean swung his head back to look at her angrily. “Look, I’m probably going to end up shooting you. When that happens, do you want her to have to go through all of it again? Or worse, have her sitting in the room when you turn and I have to take you out?”

Y/N felt a lump form in her throat, but she shook her head. “No.” She said softly.

Dean lifted his hand and then dropped it, looking away again. “So okay. Then shut up about it.”

Y/N was only a little offended and sighed slowly. After being quiet for a minute she spoke with another frustrated sigh. 

“Okay, but do we just have to sit here? This is boring.” Her eyes lit up slightly. “We could play twenty questions.”

Dean looked back at her and his expression was finally registering as something other than angry or blank. He obviously thought she was nuts. 

She shrugged. “Just to pass the time.” When he just continued to stare, she shook her head. “No? How ‘bout the alphabet game?”

Dean’s perplexed expression fell back into his usual scowl but Y/N trudged on anyway. “The alphabet game is where you pick a subject, like countries of the world, or 80s action movies or something, and then go back and forth, each having to come up with something that matches the next letter. Like if I said ‘Action Jackson’, you’d say…’Beverly Hills Cop’, then I’d say-”

“Shut. Up.” Dean said succinctly. His mossy green eyes were dark, and quiet frustration oozed out of him.

Y/N slumped back against the table leg. “Sorry. I talk when I'm nervous, and when I’m bored. So, it’s a double whammy here. Hence the motor mouth.”

“Go to sleep.” Dean said in a clipped tone.

“I have too much adrenaline for sleep. I WAS almost shot today, after all.”

Dean’s jaw clenched before he looked away from her again and leaned back slightly in the chair. “If you don’t shut up and go to sleep I may change my mind about the ‘almost’ part.” 

Y/N bit her lip trying to suppress a giggle as exhaustion and adrenaline combined with her twisted sense of humor. The result was a loud snort that had Dean once again looking at her like she was nuts.

She smiled at him, wishing he’d smile back, and shared the movie quote that was tickling her funny bone. 

“Good night, Westley. Good work, sleep well. I’ll most likely kill you in the morning.”

When Dean just stared at her silently, she shook her head. “Princess Bride? No? It’s a classic.” 

She swore she saw his hand move towards the holster on his thigh and she raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. Sorry. I’ll be quiet now.”

Dean stared a while longer at her and she wondered if he really was contemplating shooting her, until he finally looked away and settled himself more comfortably in the chair.

She sighed. It was gonna be a long night.

***

Y/N was floating down a river in a little canoe. Emma was sitting across from her and talking to her, though she was still a baby. 

“We’re lost, Mommy.” She said and Y/N shook her head. She had to keep her baby safe and that included keeping her safe from the truth.

“No we’re okay, baby.” Y/N said as the river got choppy and sharp rocks jutted out, waiting for them around every bend. They careened straight towards one, and Y/N could do nothing to steer the canoe around it; the one oar she had was mostly turning her in circles. They smashed into the rocks and the boat began filling with water.

“Mommy, the water is coming up.” Said Baby Emma. “We’re gonna drown.”

“No, we won’t baby. I won’t let us.”

Y/N tried to scoop the water out with her hands, but it was just too fast. They were sinking. Y/N grabbed for Emma but the baby began to float away. 

“Emma!” Y/N called out to her daughter as she floated farther and farther away. But even though she was almost a mile away, Y/N could still hear her little voice right in her ear.

“You lost me, mommy. I can’t come back, I’m lost.”

“No! I didn’t!” Y/N cried out, jerking awake.

The cabin had sunshine pouring in through the east-facing windows. It was morning, she was alive, and so was Emma, she reassured herself, she was just out somewhere in the camp. Her recurring nightmare could be left in the shadows. She took a deep breath and looked over at Dean. He was staring intensely at her. She raised her hands.

“Sorry, not ‘twitching’, just a bad dream.”

Dean still didn’t blink. It was unnerving. “Did you really not sleep at all?” Y/N asked.

“Said I wouldn’t.”

Y/N took in his posture in the chair, straight and alert; he’d barely moved an inch all night. It made her smile and shake her head.

“Huh.”

Dean’s scowl was firmly in place. “What?” He questioned.

Y/N shrugged. “No, nothing. It’s just good to see that things haven’t changed much, after all.”

Dean scoffed. “Woman, everything in the world has changed.” He looked away from her. “And it just keeps changing every day.”

“Maybe,” Y/N conceded. “But yet here you are, all these years later, and you’re still protecting people.” 

His head swung back towards her and he seemed offended. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Y/N lifted a manacled wrist and gestured beyond the cabin. “You sat up all night, in what I can only assume to be the world’s most uncomfortable chair, to make sure that everyone in the camp was safe from a potential monster.” She shrugged again. “Because you’re still protecting people.”

“That is not what this is.” Dean said angrily, and Y/N raised an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No.” Dean reiterated. “I am the leader of this camp, and leaders do their own dirty work. If you turn, I’m gonna be the one to shoot you.”

“To save your soldiers having to do it.” Y/N said with a nod. 

“No!” Dean barked. It surprised her that he was so angry about what she was saying. It was obvious to her. The hunter she’d known may have turned into a soldier, may have gotten a little harder, but from everything she’d seen, he was still Dean Winchester underneath.

His face was a snarl now, though. “Look, I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of benevolent nursemaid here.” Dean tried to explain. “Everyone in camp has jobs, has their roles. It’s how we’ve all survived so far. My role is to keep the camp guarded. And I do that so everyone else can perform their roles. It’s simply a matter of survival. If you turn into a Croat and start killing folks, that lowers our numbers, makes us all more vulnerable. That’s all this is. So don’t go thinking I’m some kind of bleeding heart. When the time comes, I will take you down.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Okay.” She said calmly. She didn’t really believe a word of it. But she wouldn’t argue with his need to make her see him as deadly. 

“I mean it. I won’t hesitate.” Dean said coldly.

“But,” Y/N looked at him and gave a small smile, “you already did. Hesitate, I mean.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. “Are you taunting me?” His voice was low and very menacing. 

Y/N raised her hands, making the chains rattle. “No!” She denied vehemently. “I’m not taunting you, I’m thanking you. That hesitation saved my life.”

Dean’s glare was hot and angry. “Well, like I told you, things change real quick these days, so don’t tempt me.”

He turned away from her again and Y/N lowered her hands. His attitude was not what she’d expected. He honestly seemed insulted that she’d implied that he was a good man who made it his mission to keep people safe.

Silence descended again, until Y/N began shifting around, noisily rattling her chains. 

“Stay still.” Dean barked without looking at her.

“I can’t.” Y/N said, slightly embarrassed. “I…I have to…pee.”

Dean turned to look at her for a moment and then shrugged. “Go ahead.” 

Y/N’s face scrunched up in disgust. “Ew.” When Dean made no move to rectify the situation, she let out an annoyed huff. “Do you at least have a bucket?”

Dean continued to stare at her for a long time, before calling out. “Johnston!”

A thin man holding a rifle stepped in the door. He’d clearly been standing just outside. “Yes sir?”

“I need your help with the latrine.”

“Sir?” The young man’s face was confused and Y/N snorted out a laugh. 

Dean shot her a dirty look. “Shut up.” He ordered. She bit her lip to stifle her smile. 

He turned back to the soldier. “With her, Johnston.” He said, pointing at Y/N. “I need help taking her to the latrines. I’m gonna hold her chains, so I need you to keep a gun on her.”

“Oh!” The man was clearly very relieved. “Yes sir.”

Dean stood up and took a key from the inside pocket of his green canvas jacket, bending to unlock the padlock that kept Y/N attached to the table. He pulled her to her feet and she stumbled into him, her legs being slightly wobbly and asleep from her uncomfortable position.

“Sorry.” She said, suddenly shy as she stood so near him. She looked up into his face and was slightly mesmerized by his shining emerald eyes and the dusting of freckles on his cheeks. He really was remarkably beautiful, moreso today than when he’d come to save her all those years ago.

Dean just grunted and stepped back, holding her thick chains in his big hand easily. He took the lead, his long strides forcing her to jog along behind him or risk being dragged all the way.

The camp was still just waking up and she could smell coffee brewing around the campfires where people sat sleepily rubbing their eyes and then popping them wide open as the strange procession passed by them. She tried to smile at them, but the fear on their faces made her remember her bloodshot eyes, and she lowered her head. They probably thought their leader had gone crazy, dragging a Croat around on a leash.

After a few minutes of walking they reached a row of outhouses, plain but well built. Dean pointed to the one on the end of the row and Y/N went in. She stopped just inside the door, looking back at Dean.

“Are you going to let go of the chain?”

“No.”

She frowned and waved her hand at the wooden door. “I can’t close the door if the chain is in the way.”

Dean just shrugged in answer.

Y/N’s face was imploring. “Come on.”

Dean said nothing.

Y/N gritted her teeth. “Well could you at least look the other way?”

“No.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and let out a little growl of frustration. “For pete’s sake, I am in chains, and you’re holding on to them! Where the hell am I gonna go if you look away for a minute?”

Dean stared at her a moment longer before finally, begrudgingly, turning his head. 

“Thanks.” Y/N mumbled, trying to pull the door over as far as it would go with the chain stopping it. 

When she was finished, she came out with pink cheeks. There was no way both men hadn’t heard her peeing. There were definitely some real indignities involved in people thinking you were a monster.

When they got back to the cabin, Dean was locking Y/N back up to the table, crouched down beside her, when her stomach rumbled from hunger. He ignored it, double checking her manacles before walking out and leaving Johnston watching over her with his rifle.

A few minutes later though, a young girl, probably no more than thirteen, came in with a bowl of oatmeal and some canned oranges. She also had a cold glass of water on the tray and Y/N groaned out loud. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until she saw it there. Her groan seemed to startle the girl who was approaching Y/N with considerable trepidation.

Y/N tried smiling again, knowing there was nothing she could do to change her bloodshot eyes, but hoping she could still show kindness in them. 

“Hi.” She said softly. “My name is Y/N, what’s yours?”

“Theresa.” The girl said, as she came a little closer. “Boss told mom to make you some breakfast and she sent me to bring it.”

Y/N nodded. “Thank you so much. It smells delicious. Tell your mother I said thank you as well.”

Theresa nodded back and finally came up beside her to set the tray within reach on the floor. Then she scuttled away quickly and Y/N tucked into the food. The oatmeal was slightly stale and plain with nothing to go in it, but it was warm and filling and the oranges were sweet and juicy despite their slightly tinny taste. It was the best meal she’d had in well over a week and she was grateful to Dean, the man who didn’t care about anyone, for providing it for her.

She hoped Emma was eating well this morning too, and that she was somehow coping with everything. She closed her eyes and tried to send her daughter strength.

The next few days passed much in the same way. Dean would watch her every night, assuring her that he was watching for any signs she was turning. But a couple days in, she woke up in the night to see his head slumped onto his chest, exhaustion finally winning out over any remaining fears he had of her changing.

On her fifth morning, Dean was locking her back up to the table after a visit to the latrines (during which he now allowed her to take the chain in with her and shut the door), when he swore and grabbed onto her right hand. He pushed the manacle up further on her arm and examined her wrist where it had been rubbed raw on the underside.

“What the fuck? Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Y/N shrugged. “Didn’t hurt that much, and I figured you wouldn’t care, you know, if you were still figuring on shooting me.” She said with a teasing smile.

Dean gave her his usual dirty look. “Yeah well, I wouldn’t want you to die of sepsis before I get the chance.”

He called to Patrick whose turn it was to guard the cabin for that morning. When the red-headed man stepped inside, Dean told him to bring a first aid kit from the medical tent. When Patrick left, Dean pulled another key from inside his jacket and unlocked the manacle on Y/N’s right hand.

Her arm felt strange without the extra weight of the manacle and chain. Dean checked her other wrist, satisfied that she only had the one wound. When Patrick returned with the first aid kit, Dean began cleaning the raw spot on Y/N’s grubby skin. 

As he worked, Theresa came in with Y/N’s breakfast. She pulled up short when she saw Dean there, since he was usually gone by the time she came in. Y/N tried to encourage her forward. 

“Thank you, Theresa. Don’t worry, your boss is just fixing up a scratch on my wrist. You can still bring breakfast over.”

The girl hesitated before moving over to Y/N and setting the tray on the floor. “Have you seen Emma today?” Y/N asked. 

Most of the time, she tried desperately not to think about what her daughter was going through. If she were to dwell on it too long it would drive her mad. As it was, the nightmare of watching Emma float away from her, was coming two or three times a night now.

The girl looked afraid to answer with Dean there and kept glancing over at him, clearly nervous. “It’s okay.” Y/N reassured her again. “Please, how is she?” Y/N asked, aware that desperation laced her voice.

Theresa looked up at Y/N, her big brown eyes far too wise for a thirteen year old girl.

“Sad.” She said simply before standing and scurrying out of the room.

Y/N felt like a knife was twisting in her gut. She closed her eyes and tried to stop her tears from falling, but simply couldn’t. Two fat tears fell down her cheeks as she stared into her lap. Without saying anything, Dean tied a bandage around her injured wrist before tying more gauze around her uninjured left wrist, protecting it from the rough metal.

He cleaned up the first aid kit and left without a word. It was a few minutes before Y/N realized he hadn’t re-manacled her right wrist.

All that day it felt as though a heavy stone sat in her stomach. She barely touched her breakfast (an egg and some sliced fried potatoes) and didn’t have a bite of lunch. She felt terrible wasting the food and insisted Patrick eat it. It tasted like ash to her and she simply couldn’t swallow. All she could think about was Emma and how she was hurting.

Her ability to compartmentalize her pain and fear was breaking down as worry and heartbreak took over everything. 

That evening, Dean showed up earlier than usual. He walked right up to her and, kneeling beside her, unlocked her other manacle so that she was free of the chains at last. She gave him a quizzical look.

“What are you doing?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s been nearly a week that you’ve been here and almost two weeks since you got bit.” His usual scowl was highlighted by confusion in his green gaze. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it seems increasingly unlikely that you’re gonna start foaming at the mouth any time soon, so…”

He stood up and moved away, nodding to someone outside. Risa stepped through the door and behind her, holding her hand, was Emma.

Y/N gave out a loud cry of surprise, too many emotions flooding her at once to articulate any actual words. She tried to leap to her feet, but ended up stumbling back to her knees as Emma launched herself at her.

“Mommy!” Emma’s tears and sobs soon choked anymore words out of her as well. 

Y/N wrapped her daughter up tightly in her arms. “Oh, baby, baby!” She buried her face in her daughter's long hair, squeezing her too hard, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. She’d been so terrified she’d never get a chance to hold her again, so she savored the moment briefly before turning her head to where Dean was standing by the door.

Her throat was choked, but she pushed the words out. “Thank you. Thank you.” It was all she could say.

Dean didn’t respond and just walked out the door.

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters: @lyarr24 @lacilou @deans-spinster-witch @globetrotter28 @suckitands33 @akshi8278 @evznackles @jackles010378 @impala67rollingthroughtown @krazykelly @candy-coated-misery0731 @envyaurora95 @spnwoman @deans-baby-momma

Dean Fics Only: @roonthelittlespoon920 @slamminmine @zepskies @deangirl96

Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom: @kazsrm67 @slut-for-evans-stan @sexyvixen7 @nancymcl @waywardcheshire

Everything Incl. Fan Edits: @k-slla @leigh70 @eevvvaa @kickingitwithkirk @foxyjwls007 @notinthislife50 @roseblue373 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @avanatural @mrsjenniferwinchester @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone

[bishh-kanya]

A guide to incorporate vintage Indian fashion to your daily life .

Statement sleeves

The original Indian attire hardly has mention of blouses it's the colonisation that brought the picture of blouses and sleeves , the rich could afford high necked statement sleeves that are elegant but detailed , white and pastel colours could be considered while experimenting with colourful and neon shades also work .

Pearls

Pearls brought in what everyone could afford , from big statement pearls to small pearls , they offered a sense of extravagance not in a super rich gold , diamond sense but a subtle old money pearl dim shine sense , they elevated ones look and provided a rich zamidar, financially stable look , the use of pearls must be well matched with the choice of necklines and patterns of your attire.

Sarees

Sarees are the ultimate staple to vintage Indian looks tho the mention of salwar can be seen I'll be focusing on the sarees coz ofc I'm in love ,

Satin and shiny sarees provided a glamour look ,you can pair it with some jewellery for a vintage look to yourself.

Statement border sarees , the banarasi , kanjeevaram holds the key to our hearts , the karigari with some beautiful designs in the borders are appreciated and the saree be plain and minimal , while the borders let shine this .

Although the prevalence of organza isn't seen much , the floral designs of the organza material will absolutely coincide with the sleeves and the pearls , floral sarees were also famous then , tho the material differs.

Makeup

Don't shy away with moving in accordance to your features , downturned eyes go with downward liner and lashes, upturned eyes or doe , siren eyes , a long winged liner will take you great miles , use kohl the depth will suit you and even kajal will make you look absolutely lovely , slight blush and skincare will take you miles , for a good make-up look , good skin works best , get the right products for your skin . Maroon and red lipsticks work great , the dusky lipsticks will give you the look as well ,nude lipsticks will be less preferred, but if it suits you go for it . All in all very natural to your face canvas and statement with your eyes and lips .

Hair

Suble hair buns , with some hairs to shape your face will look good, the kala movie is such a good reference to vintage fashion , wavy hairs or straight hairs a bun will give you the look you desire .

Flowers never left

Flowers in the form of gajra or all over your braids , a single flower of love will elevate you so well .

That's all for this post , this is how I see it basically and now i manage to style myself, this may not coincide with the original fashion , but i hope this is helpful, if you like such posts my asks are open for any other arena of Indian fashion you'd like me to explore.

Alvida for now , stay beautiful! :)

[hippolotamus]

Tagged by my love @disasterbuckdiaz (with a super hot snippet) @daffi-990 (with a whole lotta feels) @tizniz (with a super cute new fic 🦖) @buddierights (with a sweet fic of V-day past) thank you lovelies 💖

Today I bring you two snippets because Fuck It, amirite??? The first is because I was rewatching Fellow Travelers last night and a moment in Episode 2 hit me like a freight train.

But then the skit starts.

Caroline and Carlos, dressed in a suit and skirt respectively, playing as a couple having dinner at home. Caroline sits at a small table while Carlos stirs an empty pot of imaginary soup.

Even though it’s all pretend, the whole scene is so terribly, achingly domestic. A reminder of an unattainable dream. Within seconds Tim feels as though he is submerged, drowning in heartache. It fills his lungs, taking up precious space where air should be. Every silently jagged breath burns as he tries to take in oxygen, but only receives more pain. He doesn’t know how he’s not making a spectacle of himself, attracting attention to the way his heart cracks, just short of breaking completely.

It is a relief when Carlos approaches him, holding out the wooden soup spoon. The gesture is silly but provides a much needed reprieve. Tim finds it in himself to be able to laugh again as he’s fed the invisible offering. A bright feeling that bursts forth, genuinely happy as it displaces his gloominess.

When Carlos and Caroline have bickered and teased their way to the ending, they bow and curtsy as the group claps and cheers. Some even call for an encore. Instead Caroline insists Mary put a record on so everyone can dance.

A lesser version of Tim’s earlier distress settles over him like a thick fog. It blankets him in loneliness while he watches Mary and her lover sway to the music, holding each other close with their cheeks pressed together.

Snippet #2 is noticeably more zesty (any guesses from the banner???) but with no fewer feels. Find a bit of honey, when you call my name under the cut 😏 Hoping this one will be posted very soon.

“You okay?” Buck’s face is etched with such concern and care it makes Eddie’s chest tight. A squeezing around his heart that makes him wish he could pull it from behind his ribcage. To clutch it in his palms while he shows off all the places Buck’s mended and healed for him. A way to prove that Eddie is more than okay, and only improving as they continue to intertwine their lives together.

“Yeah, baby. I’m good.” Eddie lifts his head, angling his neck so he can kiss Buck again. He pours all of his gratitude and overwhelm into it, hoping the message is clear. That their unique brand of silent communication applies here as well.

It must because Buck continues to slide in, albeit slowly. He goes inch by inch, periodically checking in with a questioning look that Eddie returns with a small nod until Buck’s fully seated. And it feels… unusual. Not in a bad way, but an altogether different sensation than the times he’s fucked himself with his fingers or a toy. Of course it would be, because it’s Buck. It’s novel and precious and life changing. An event that Eddie would scribble in his diary if he had one. But at the same time — it’s Buck. So it’s also an inevitable homecoming, like being able to finally set down his burdens and breathe a sigh of relief.

“So good, Buck,” Eddie tells him before the question can be asked, because he knows it will be. He can see it in the infinite blue staring back at him, sparkling with affection and love.

Buck dips his head down, brushing their noses together, and Eddie doesn’t miss how bright, sunny blue turns darker, like dusky twilight.

“Gonna move as soon as you say so,” Buck murmurs against his lips. “‘ve wanted to fuck you for so long.”

Eddie’s belly swoops and his muscles clench in anticipation. Because it’s a two way street and this has been years in the making for both of them.

“Oh, yeah?” Before Buck can answer he tacks on, “Do it then. You’re not the only one waiting here, y’know.”

He’s rewarded with a mischievous smirk just before he feels Buck pull back. A moan — closer to a growl — rips out of him when Buck thrusts forward again, making him feel so, so full and whole. Complete.

no pressure tagging @wildlife4life @spotsandsocks @wikiangela @jesuisici33 @diazsdimples (I know you have something to share by now!) @stereopticons @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley @monsterrae1 @buckaroosheart @indestructibleheart @thewolvesof1998 @loserdiaz @fortheloveofbuddie @steadfastsaturnsrings @elvensorceress @honestlydarkprincess @spaceprincessem @apothecarose @barbiediaz @chaosandwolves @eowon @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @hoodie-buck @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @statueinthestone @singlethread @the-likesofus @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @watchyourbuck @your-catfish-friend @vanillahigh00 and anyone else who wants to share

[necroixe]

Js realized I never posted this guy but I have ocs other than Nico I swear lmaoo

This is Noah, formerly known as Micah Vance before he got fucked over by slender man as they all do and ws hit with a healthy dose of cloud strife style retrograde amnesia + identity theft.

Full character file and details under the cut! Be warned– it’s LONG:

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‘ ‘ did you say something, what’d you say?... ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ was that your voice, or was that me? ‘ ‘

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N A M E

Noah Rivers

A L I A S

The ghost

A G E

22

G E N D E R

Male, he/him

S E X

Male

Noah is a human operator proxy.

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"I've never been fucking scared of you," He snapped, and Noah grabbed his jaw.

"I've always hated that."

"What?"

"How often you lie through your fucking teeth."

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A P P E A R A N C E

The most notable thing about Noah is his mask. It's drawn over crudely with charcoal, smudged all over, black around the eyes, the nose, the mouth. But the features are visible. The nose is sharp and angular, and the lips are drawn in a thin line. He wears it so often it's more like his face than his actual face. The only time he takes it off is when he's asleep, and sometimes not even then. His actual face, the one under the mask, has a scar that drags from above his right eyebrow down across his nose to his left jawline. His face is slim, angular, edges hazy against a monochromatic color scheme. The structure of his face is proportionate but it’s usually frowning, brows furrowed, mouth cut into a scowl. His features look like they were cut from alabaster or marble. Would’ve been pretty, maybe, in another universe. His eyes should've been black, but one of them is blinded, grayed over, and the other seems perpetually suited for low light. They are upturned, half lidded at a default and followed by bags, lines, and dark circles. They look bruised or dusky in color. He's bad with bright lights. He has black hair, cut choppy and messy, like he did it himself. His skin is so pale it's almost a sort of gray, the kind that suggests he doesn't see sun often. Lips chapped and dry, always cracked and bleeding, same with his hands, long black nails he likes painting for a reason he can't fully explain. They make his already slender fingers appear longer than they are. Almost clawlike. Noah is thin. He's tall, taller than he remembers, standing at 5’11”. He's built like an alley cat, all sinew and muscle, sharp shoulders, sharp bones. Scars all over his body. Some are new, from fights, other's he's had before he can remember in odd, purposeful places.

V O I C E

Baritone

Rough, and unused. When speaking his voice is barely above a whisper. He’s one of those people with a voice so low you have to lean in to listen. There’s an edge to his tone, a slight southern drawl. Sometimes the things he says sound more like they’re coming from a machine than a person. His voice is muffled when it’s under the mask, he compensates by being slightly louder.

S C E N T

His scent isn’t something that’s easy to pinpoint. It’s almost sterile, but not hospital sterile. He kind of smells like the woods.

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‘ ‘ how many times did i tell you

before it finally got through? ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

‘ ‘ you lose. ‘ ‘

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C O M B A T

Noah has heightened strength and speed, but he’s still human. A human that ignores the capabilities of his own body, but human nonetheless. He’s a skilled fighter, can hold his own against nearly anyone when weapons aren’t involved. He doesn’t like knives. Helpless with them, helpless against them. Noah is a firearms sort of guy. Always has a gun on him, either a pistol, or when he’s hunting he has a rifle. He’s interesting during fights. A textbook masochist. Pain doesn’t elicit the same reaction from him as it would for most other people. At best, he’ll ignore it, at worst, he’s drunk on it.

P E R S O N A L I T Y

Noah doesn’t remember much about his life before meeting the operator, if anything. There are glimpses of a history that doesn’t feel like his in the back of his mind, or when he’s half asleep, or when his brain turns off and he isn’t really thinking. Those are his favorite moments. Where he can pretend he isn’t himself. He’s a murderer. He’s quiet, and secretive, and temperamental. What might’ve at one point been a charming persona, dulled and narrowed itself down to a chassis unrecognizable to people who knew him when he was younger. He’s quick to anger. Restless when things are calm, and when he feels alright. He’s never actively antagonistic, but he doesn’t like other people, and his skin itches for instability. He can never hold down a relationship. Of any kind, platonic, romantic. Always ends up ruining it somehow. And he likes it that way. He doesn’t even know why he’s so angry, he just is. His internal world is indecipherable, even to him. He’s constantly mixing things up, getting things wrong, getting distracted, forgetting things. Which is strange, because in the abstract he’s intelligent. There are moments where it seems like he’s lucid, and he’s calm, easy going, likable, even. He has a dry sense of humor that on boys like him feel more charismatic than it actually is. But the neuroticism always comes back eventually. He isn’t Noah without the neuroticism. Maybe he isn’t Noah at all.

B A C K S T O R Y

He isn't. He grew up as a boy named Micah. A different person, honestly. Relatively normal, all things considered. Had parents, friends, a boyfriend, people that cared about him. A trajectory that should’ve been normal. He would’ve graduated highschool, gone to college, him and his boyfriend would break up and he’d marry a girl, or they wouldn’t and they’d end up together only to divorce later, or something. He thought domestic bliss was a stupid concept. Would give anything for it now.

The operator in his hometown was a story you told to kids. They called him the thin man. Micah and his friends would play in the woods on the outskirts of Haven, hunt for bird eggs, mark fake trails, the woods were sparse enough to not really worry about getting lost or losing each other, you could walk in any direction and reach a clearing in half an hour, or so, until you reached the deepwood, but no one went in there. Not even him. Haven was famous for having people go into that part of the woods and never come out. They said it’s because it was so disorienting, that you could walk in without even realizing it, and before you know it all the branches look the same and you can’t see a path. But when he was nineteen he went in. And he met the reason why no one ever really left those woods.

The concept of a proxy was weird to him. Someone that worked for an invisible force of nature you couldn’t see, but you could feel, and Micah felt him in the form of thick static at the back of his neck. Then again, he was drugged the entire time. It might’ve been that. The man who’d kidnapped him was named Noah. He was older, had a limp, a face he covered up by some sort of mask. Micah couldn’t remember. But he remembered his hands. They were unstable, shook constantly, leathery skin, or maybe gloves. Felt like fire. He remembered the way they’d palpitate when he took a blade, dragged it down his face, or somewhere else on his body. And this man, Micah would think to himself in a sedated haze, would use those hands to kill him. There was no universe where he got out of here in one piece.

The brain does fascinating things under extreme trauma. Noah would’ve made a brilliant psychiatrist in the 50s, because he’d triggered an artificial disassociation in Micah that helped him survive the ordeal at all. Mind over matter, he’d think, over, and over, and over, mind over matter. If he liked how much it hurt it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d make himself like it. If he missed home, his boyfriend’s stupid face so much he wanted to die, he’d tell himself he didn’t miss any of it at all. Where was he now? They’d gotten into a fight the last time he remembered, he wasn’t looking for him, wouldn’t save him, it was a waste of energy he didn’t have the luxury to sacrifice. The sedative helped. He didn’t know what it was. Some sort of depressant. His mind reeled, ran, sludged, brain into liquid. He wondered if Noah did this to everyone. Whatever that static was, it never shut up. A constant, ear grating buzz. Red noise. He’d get sick, Noah would laugh at him. He hated Noah. Hated Noah’s voice, his shaking hands, the smug sort of way he’d talk to him like he’d already won, like he’d already killed him. And he really should’ve. Noah was arrogant. Didn’t think he needed a gun for him, even though he had dozens lining the wall of his basement, an arsenal. And he didn’t. It wouldn’t have been difficult to kill someone locked to a chair and half awake. He was just an idiot. Let Micah slip out, let him kill him. His death was anticlimactic. A face pumped full of lead, features torn asunder. But the static was too loud all of a sudden, and he was nauseous, and his vision dimmed.

The amnesia paired itself with some delusion disorder, courtesy of the operator, he’d realize. He didn’t recognize his face, or his body, a perpetual state of psychosis, of dysphoria. Noah was the strongest thing in his mind. The last thing he really remembered. Maybe that’s why he latched onto the name. The memory of him. Or a voice he didn’t recognize told him it was him, that it was the only thing he made sense. This was Noah’s cabin, he recognized it, recognized the rooms, the temperature, the basement, the bloody, empty spot on the floor where something should’ve been. And then Noah’s cabin turned into his cabin. Noah’s mind turned into his mind. Some things scared him. He didn’t understand why his hands didn’t shake anymore, why he couldn’t stand to see his own face. But he clings to anything familiar. The thin man is familiar. He does what it tells him to.

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“you had no right to kill him.”

A voice said, from nowhere and everywhere all at once, register so alien and low it made his heart flatten to the pit of his stomach.

“a life for a life. your kind values equivocal exchange, no?”

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[aphroditestummyrolls]

More catstarion because I’m fighting so hard not to starting posting this on ao3 till it’s done 🫠

He couldn’t see Astarion’s tail, bundled away as he was, but could recall how it had flicked back and forth threateningly when he’d been cornered. How his fur had fluffed out to make him look bigger than he was, and his hackles had arched sharply. He thought his temperament would even out once he was free of the log and realised he was among familiar faces. But, even through the heavy layers of swaddling fabric, Gale could feel the tension in the cat’s body. He trembled.

Astarion was shaking with distress. He was utterly terrified.

It hit him with a pang that felt suspiciously like guilt.

The lanterns of camp were lit, glowing through the trees as they followed the dusky forest path. It was quite literally a light at the end of the tunnel, and Gale let himself hope that the warmth of the fire and a hot meal— well, some fresh blood, in Astarion’s case— could help them all feel a bit more at ease. They could see if they didn’t have a potion of animal speech left over somewhere, and there was always Halsin to help bridge the gap while they waited for the spell to fade.

Right? It would be alright.

“All will be well, Astarion. You’re safe with us.” He dared to stroke a finger over the soft fur between the cat’s ears.

Those lethal little teeth snapped.

He tried not to take it personally.