#they do nothing but clean and just float around from room to room and hall to hall

[laughableillusions]

Thinking about the goblin castle…I feel like it’s all empty stone halls and dusty stone rooms. You can hear your footsteps echo as you walk around, it’s grand but it’s empty and it’s lonely and cold. It seems to stretch infinitely through untouched gardens to massive ballrooms and dining halls. A labyrinth inside a labyrinth that only Jareth knows.

[lunarmoves]

you weren't sure what had woken you up.

you only knew that one moment you had been dreaming—of what, you could not recall—and the next you were staring up at the textured ceiling of your bedroom. your eyes took a moment to adjust. moonlight, dewy and milky, yawned along the walls from the open-curtained window to your right. there was a stillness to the air befitting of the late hour. you blinked once, then twice, your mind hazy with lingering sleep.

that was when you heard it.

scritch scritch scritch.

slowly, you sat up, your blanket pooling around your waist. you rubbed at one of your eyes, groggily trying to piece together some vague understanding of what you were hearing. your room looked no different, honestly. boxes were still lined along the leftmost wall that you had yet to unpack. a desk tucked in the far right corner had your hunting weapons scattered across its surface—your bow and arrows. your silver dagger. the door directly across from you was slightly ajar, just like you'd left it earlier.

faintly, you could see small specks of dust as they floated in the moonlit air. you wrinkled your nose. you had yet to do a deep clean, preoccupied as you were with everything else. you wiggled your toes slightly from where they poked up from underneath your blanket.

it was quiet.

scritch scritch scritch.

you turned around, craning your neck back as you stared at the wall your bed's headboard was propped up against. it was a plain thing, painted a light lavender that looked midnight purple in the darkness of your room. you watched it for a moment, like you were expecting something to reveal itself or change. but nothing did.

you reached up and ran the tips of your fingers along the wall. then, carefully, you stood up. your feet sunk into the plushness of your mattress. it would be easy to lose your balance. you braced one hand on the top of the headboard.

you stared at the wall some more. and slowly, ever so slowly, you leaned forward to press your ear against it.

the plaster of the wall was cool against your skin. you could hear your own breaths, your own heartbeat. a steady rhythm that nearly wiped out all other sound.

you waited, terse and quiet.

scritch. scritch scritch.

it was like it was directly inside your ear. incessant. like someone was scratching a thin nail against concrete.

you huffed and leaned back to eye your wall once again. this house was old, handed down through generations until your grandfather had eventually gifted it to you. and thus you knew the prospect of rodents running inside the walls was not too absurd of an idea.

you rubbed at your eye again, too tired to deal with this at the moment. gently, you banged your fist against the wall—a muffled thump thump thump that echoed throughout your room. and after a few moments of silence, you plopped back down in your bed. hopefully that scared the rodents off.

you'd deal with them in the morning.

the next time you heard the scratching, it was just past sunset.

you were in one of the halls on the first floor of the house, repainting it after having ripped off the old, yellowed wallpaper. the lights flickered for just a brief moment, drawing you from your work as you glanced up at the bulbs on the ceiling. but before you could squint at them for too long, you heard it.

scritch scritch scritch.

right in front of you.

you paused and looked back down at the section of the wall you were painting. your eyes were level with discolored plaster you had yet to cover up. you'd bought rat poison a few days ago at the small town nearby and crammed it into whatever cracks in the walls you could find. you had hoped it would be enough. it was not.

your lips twisted as you frowned at the wall. you really did not want to contact anyone to deal with the rodents. it would cost a pretty penny, and you were trying to save up so you could make additional repairs on the house. you grunted and set your brush down on the top of the paint bucket. then, you stepped back and wiped your hands on your overalls as you scrutinized the wall.

further down the hall, you heard it again. faintly.

scritch scritch. scritch.

your head turned to stare in its direction. and after a short moment of consideration, you trailed after the sound. maybe it would lead you to a hole you'd missed.

the scratching moved down the hall and to the right, trailing all the way up to a peeling, white door with a large lock on it. you grimaced. the basement. you never did find the key to open it—especially with how cluttered everything had gotten once you'd moved in.

you weighed your options in your mind for a bit, then turned around to make your way over to one of the storage closets. rummaging inside for a minute or two, you let out an aha! once you found the perfect tool. a hammer.

gripping it in your hand, you made your way back over to the basement door. and with a few well-placed hits, you broke the lock on it and kicked it off to the side. you tucked the hammer into your overalls and pulled open the door. dust wheezed into the air.

wooden stairs led down to a dark room. it was stifling. musty. you could see the cobwebs that lined the rail and the corners of the staircase. you shivered slightly. this door had not been opened in a very, very long time. you could only imagine the amount of work you'd need to do for restoration.

you tugged the collar of your shirt up so that it covered your nose and mouth. just past the door frame, there was a switch on the wall. you flicked it.

light spluttered to life from a bulb that hung over the middle of the staircase. you peered down and caught a glimpse of a concrete floor. off to the sides of the stairs, you could see more boxes, their shadows stretching languidly towards you. you strained your ears, listening past the deafening roar of the basement's silence.

scritch scritch scritch.

you started your descent.

the stairs creaked and groaned with every step, protesting against your weight. you winced slightly at the sounds and found yourself skipping a few steps so you could reach the bottom faster. your skin crawled as you made your way past all the cobwebs. your shirt slipped off your nose once you stepped further away from the stairs. your eyes trailed around as you took everything in.

the basement was just that: a basement. another room for storage. moonlight from a small, rectangular window on the wall directly across from you filtered through the air. it cast everything in an ethereal glow, illuminating things just enough that you could decipher what you were seeing.

there were more wooden boxes scattered about. old, antique furniture and other miscellaneous items were interspersed between them. a lamp in the shape of a flower with curled petals. a rocking chair with carvings of small animals along its arms and legs. a chest with another lock tucked in a corner.

you marveled at it all as you ventured around the room, stepping between stacks of books and ornate dishware. you wondered why your grandfather never sold any of this stuff. though, you supposed he was a bit of a hoarder.

you kept your eyes and ears peeled as you glanced at the surrounding walls. there was no more scratching. no pattering of tiny feet against the floor. no holes from what you could see either, though you were going off of the limited lighting from the window, so perhaps you missed something.

you frowned. you'd have to come back when it was brighter down here, maybe get a few lamps to chase away all the darkness. mind made up, you turned back to head towards the staircase.

as you did, however, your eyes caught onto an object just under the window. it was covered with a white sheet—stark like a ghost against the shadows that surrounded it. and it was such an odd thing, wasn't it? the only covered thing you could see. curiosity got the better of you.

approaching the object, you took note that it came up to about chest height. your nose wrinkled as you caught sight of the layers of dust upon the cover. you used your arm to shield your nose and mouth. then, with your free hand, you swiftly tore the white sheet off.

you weren't sure what you'd been expecting, but it certainly wasn't a small, metal cage stacked atop another box. you let the sheet flutter to the ground, waving your hand in front of you in a feeble attempt to disperse the cloud of dust that had burst in the air. on top of the cage was a slim, vertical piece of paper. you picked it up.

you... couldn't tell what you were looking at. there was some pattern of sorts on the paper, drawn in ink that nearly glistened in the dim lighting. squiggles and waves. dots and strange characters. you squinted at it—felt the thick material of the paper itself—then shrugged and let it fall to the floor to join the sheet. your grandfather had been a strange man, particularly in his later years. you'd learned long ago not to question the things you found in his old house.

bending slightly, you peered past the thin bars of the cage. you'd been expecting an animal of sorts, dead or taxidermied or something. what you didn't expect were two dolls.

you straightened up and reached up a hand to the small lock on the cage's door. what was with your grandfather and locks, honestly. you pulled out the hammer from your overalls and quickly disposed of the lock before shoving it back into your pocket. the cage door creaked open. you pushed past it to grab the dolls and tug them into the light.

they were similar yet different, with matching smiles and crescent markings on their faces. one was colored red and gold, with yellow protrusions from its head that you realized mirrored the sun. the other was silver and blue, a hat with gold stars nestled comfortably on top of its head. both the dolls had blank, grey eyes that stared up at you hauntingly. you ignored the goosebumps along your arms.

you squeezed them slightly, one in each hand. your fingers sank into the plush material of their torsos. your thumbs ran across the intricate stitching of their tiny clothes. and you wondered what they were doing down here, locked in a little cage seemingly made for their little bodies. it was strange.

shaking your head, you glanced up at the window to see the moon steadily rising into the sky. it was getting late and you still needed to clean up. you eyed the dolls in your hand and set them atop the cage, propping them up against each other so they were sitting upright. you'd come back for them later. maybe you could sell them to one of the kids in town.

as you turned around to make your way back out of the basement, you failed to notice the way the dolls' eyes suddenly glowed a gentle white. following your figure as you disappeared up the stairs.

[squidwen]

🐙After Hours with Azul

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Synopsis: You spend a lot of time at the Mostro Lounge, and Azul’s starting to wonder why. You’re not some creepy stalker girlfriend, are you? You two might be “official,” but you’re at the Lounge all the time!

However, Azul reckons there’s a reason behind it that’s deeper. More serious. After taking you to his room, the pair of you snuggle up, arms, legs, and tentacles, and Azul’s hearts simply can’t take the real reason behind your frequent visits.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

You preferred the Mostro Lounge after-hours. It seemed more like an actual Lounge, with nothing but the cool lights and the final tunes of the piano player on the stage. No one bothered you either. None of the waiters told you to leave. No one even offered to clear your drink and plate away. The staff cleaned their tables, hung up their aprons, and that was that.

Except for Azul.

He got up from the piano and crossed the Lounge over to your booth. Your breath hitched at his cool hand on your shoulder. You always preferred him without gloves. His hands were beautiful; long, slender fingers with a callous on his right middle one from years and years of endless writing.

‘Another evening claimed by my establishment,’ mused Azul.

At last, you moved. His words thawed you enough to stand.

Azul welcomed you into his arms. His other hand sparked against your ribcage as he rubbed circles into your back. Somehow his chilly touch melted you. You became almost gelatinous in his embrace, as if you were the octopus rather than the warm, sweet little human.

‘You’re coming here more often, angelfish,’ Azul said.

‘Naturally. The foods good and the music’s even better.’

‘I’m sure the music is not better.’

You pulled away.

Azul held onto you. ‘Sorry-’

‘You’re still doing it.’

‘It’s a bad habit.’

‘You need to stop thinking you’re not good enough.’

Your kiss on the shell of his ear silenced any protests. Azul shivered with bliss.

Everyone else had already left; there was no point in keeping up airs. Who would you be trying to impress? Azul was stronger than he looked. Although he masqueraded as a human, he still retained most of his cecaelian strength, and he lifted you out of the booth. You felt as though you were floating. You were as weightless as the exotic fish in the giant Lounge fish tank.

Azul tucked you into his chest, one arm under your legs and another under your back. You smelled his cologne; lavender and something that reminded you of the sea. The tips of his bangs tickled your forehead. Together, you slipped out of the Lounge and through the halls of Octavinelle, hiding around corners for the coast to be clear before ploughing on towards Azul’s bedroom.

A snap of the fingers and the door swung open.

A lilac bed, freshly made, beckoned you forward. Azul laid you gently down. The duvet and mattress moulded to your figure, gasping and depressing as you wriggled your shoes off. ‘I can’t believe you had the energy for that!’ you laughed. ‘After playing all night.’

Azul laid down beside you. His hands, warmed by your back and thighs, searched for yours and brought them to his lips. ‘It’s the nature of octopuses to be dextrous, my dear. Three hours of piano playing was nothing but a warmup.’

‘How modest.’

Azul reddened.

You kissed his nose. ‘Tell me more. If you can brag to anyone it would be me. Not that I need to be told about how amazing you are. You just carried me up to the top of Octavinelle as if it was nothing. I bet Jack couldn’t even do that.’

Azul, however, did not bring up anything. It still didn’t feel right to. Not with you. Not yet. He was still so new to this. He had never loved anyone before, and the pair of you had only made your relationship official a few weeks ago. Azul was trying to strike a balance between impressing you, and boasting. He wanted to seem cool, not conceited. You already accepted him for what he looked like… for some reason, but surely there was only so much you could take. You could tolerate ugliness, but vanity?

‘A good businessman never puts all his cards on the table,’ said Azul.

You rolled your eyes. ‘Business talk? Here?’

Shoot, Azul thought. Play it cool. ‘You are in the bedroom of the dorm leader of Octavinelle and the manager of the Mostro Lounge.’

‘I thought I was in my boyfriend’s bedroom.’ You started to pull away again. Azul gripped you tightly. His strong fingers were like suction cups. ‘Come on, Azul,’ you sighed. ‘If you’re a businessman, does that make me a customer? Or some associate? I know this is new to you. It’s new to me too. But just… let yourself be… well, mine. Even if it can only be in this room. I need that.’

You shifted closer to him and snaked your arm under his head. His ear rested in the crook of your elbow, letting your fingers fiddle with his hair. The fedora fell away. His locks were stringy from hours under a hat, but you didn’t mind. It was like his head was a giant snowdrop; the petals stuck together as it tried to bloom after a long winter.

Azul drew closer. The bed creaked.

‘My angelfish,’ he breathed.

You hummed.

‘Why do you stay at the Lounge for so long?’

Your stroking stopped.

Azul tensed. ‘If you don’t want to say then-’

‘No, no. It’s fine. It must seem creepy, like I’m some crazy stalker girlfriend who watches your every move now that we’re together. But it’s not. Seven, it’s not. I just… it’s just a soothing place. Some people like the library. Others like the park. But the Mostro Lounge is perfect for me. I’ve been going there all year just to unwind. You might not have noticed. You’re always so busy.’

‘No other reason?’

It was your turn to tense.

Azul detected it immediately.

Sitting up, his cerulean eyes pierced into you like icicles. He was the businessman again. All the tenderness had been leached out of him. Something was wrong. He knew it. Something he was determined to get to the bottom of. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you being at the Lounge. He loved it. Your presence always made him play better, and he was happy to smuggle you on-the-house desserts whenever he could. But you had been showing up too often, as if you were hiding, or escaping, something.

‘Let’s not have secrets from each other,’ he said.

‘Secrets?’

‘Please, angelfish.’ Azul blinked and his eyes became gentle again. The eyes of a lover; lidded and pleading. To prove that he was being open – and to give you permission to do the same – he lay down beside you again and transformed back into a cecaelia. His skin speckled with lilac until it was completely purple; his legs unravelling into eight black and purple tentacles.

Azul couldn’t meet your eyes as he transformed. It embarrassed him. He felt so grotesque. So hideous. But then, you came to him again, and wrapped your arms around his torso. The feeling faded. Azul took you into his arms.

The tentacles wound around your legs like ribbons around maypoles. Cool and slick; the suction cups kissing your exposed skin, making it prickle with gooseflesh. You stayed still to invite them higher. Azul delighted in the feel of you. You were more detailed when he held you this way. He sensed every inch of you. You were beautiful, and more tentacles came up to bind you.

Around your waist. Around your hips. Around your stomach. With ease, they pulled you in close to Azul. The cecaelia buried your face in his chest. You could hear his three heartbeats. They were fast. You couldn’t help but smile into Azul’s shirt.

‘Are you comfortable, my darling?’ Azul asked.

You nodded, too relaxed for words. Azul’s touch was velvety soft. All your dark bindings were gentle and plush, like a caterpillar wrapped in a chrysalis.

A final tentacle cupped the back of your head. You shivered as the suction cups kissed your scalp. The feeling wasn’t unpleasant, but it brought you out of your comfort just enough to feel like talking again. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m at my best when you’re with me,’ Azul said.

You melted a little more. ‘Same here. And I confess, that’s the reason why.’

‘Why what?’

‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve come on too strong and I’ve spooked you.’

‘No, not at all.’

‘I just…I… you know you’re my best friend.’

Azul’s heartbeats got even faster. ‘A-And you’re mine,’ he breathed. ‘The Leech twins… they’re not the same as you.’

‘The others aren’t the same as you either. Don’t get me wrong, Ace and Deuce are great, but they’re like twins, and Jack and Epel are dedicated to sports, and Sebek’s obsessed with Malleus. I sort of feel like I just touch-base with them, but I spend time with you. And even if it’s not “with” you, just to see you, hear you play, admire who my partner is, even just sit in your Lounge, is enough.’ You mustered the strength to crane your head back and kiss his jaw. ‘I’m millions of miles from home, but I somehow feel there when I’m with you.’

Azul had never heard anything like it. You were so sweet. So kind. No one ever complimented him without wanting his attention, or recognition; without wanting something in return. Octavinelle was full of sychophants, none bigger than the Leech twins, but you… you were as pure as driven snow. You loved every inch of him, inside and out; something Azul had thought was impossible for him to find. To deserve.

His tentacles bundled you up even more, pressing you in close until it was almost uncomfortable. His suction cups kissed you. Thousands of kisses. Small pecks, until the tentacle cupping the back of your head lifted you to Azul’s lips.

Velvet. Smooth. Soft.

When you broke away, you were both breathless, and exhaustion descended upon you. The night had been long; the conversation hard. Azul loosened his grip on you but kept his tentacles in place. He could think of nothing sweeter than to fall asleep to the feeling of you, and you didn’t mind. You had never been so comfortable; so warm and welcome.

With a final kiss, you snuggled into your cecaelia and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic thump of Azul’s heartbeats.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Author note: Well hey! It’s been a while!

I hope you enjoyed the fic! I had to write an Azul one after being away for so long! He’s by far my fav character, and it was his birthday recently so I think we’re all in Azul-mode atm.

If you liked it, please like, comment, and share.

- Squidwen

[thelittlestoflives]

Thank You

soooo i sort of have a whole backstory to the Unravelling the Mystery fic and i just thought welllll i might as well post that too lol!! (i actually have lots of parts and stories)

again, very new to fic writing and i've thrown in some y/n lore in there too!! it's so vulnerable and scary to post stuff you've written (again i suck at proofreading so forgive pls)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

sanji x strawhat!reader, or the story of how y/n became a strawhat and gravitated towards the chef

use of YN, afab reader

cw: stuff to do with horrible exes, forced eating of a devil fruit, being severely injured, slight angst to fluff but mostly fluff i think

wc: 2.7k

It was like a ritual. The breathing in the room evening out, slipping out from under the covers and creeping through the halls towards him. His arms were your salvation, every gentle kiss burning your skin with love, each touch so heavenly you could almost believe in a higher power.

You can barely remember how it began. It's like it's just always been this way.

But it wasn't.

Not when you were stuffed in that barrel, just you and the darkness and the splashing of the waves against the wood, the drip drip drip onto your already soaking clothes. You can't remember how you survived it, how you endured the minutes and the hours and the days you remained in there, physical wounds nowhere near the pain of the scarring on your soul.

And like words out of the holy texts, there was light. A piercing, bright light. But unlike the holy texts, soft mutters echoed in your ears.

"Shit. It's a girl."

"Dammit. So, it's not treasure?"

"She's injured."

"How long has she been in there?"

"Why does this always happen to us?"

“Get her out of there, for fuck’s sake! Why are you all just standing around?!”

Just like that, the light vanished and darkness returned.

When you came to you were in some sort of medical infirmary, the light streaming through the windows so intense that you could barely open your eyes. An assortment of smells hit your nose; disinfectant, bleach, salty sea air, and a bowl of rich chicken noodle soup that steamed as it sat on your bedside table.

Maybe that's when it started. The soup. You stared at it for god knows how long, tears streaming down your face at the act of kindness. The trauma of what you'd just been through vanished staring at that bowl, feeling the love of whoever made it poured into it. Your body had been wrapped in bandages and cleaned, and you wore soft pyjamas that weren't your own, your hair had been brushed, and someone had made you fucking chicken noodle soup.

A couple of days went by as your body slowly healed. The only interaction you had was with the ship's doctor as he tried to make you feel comfortable and safe. You didn't see any of the other crew, but each time you woke from a restless, haunted sleep, there was a steaming dish beside you. Before long, you were strong enough to walk around. Chopper held your hand as he led you above deck to meet the crew who sat around the kitchen table.

You felt shy and nervous. Sure, you'd spoken to pirates before, but always in a controlled environment, never on their turf.

But they were vastly different from the pirates you'd encountered, offering easy smiles and gentle words, coaxing you to tell them what had happened to you. You caught eyes with a man with a cigarette hanging casually out his mouth a couple of times, quickly looking away. Was this where it started?

You explained that you're a journalist on your home island. Or rather, were a journalist. Now? You were dust in the wind, not taking any sort of discernable shape, floating with no direction, no intention, nothing. You thought you had it all; a home, a job you loved, family, friends, and someone who you thought was the love of your life. In less than a week, it was gone.

You had been investigating a cult on your island and stumbled across a giant conspiracy involving the World Government. You had written a tell-all piece, ready to blow the whole damn thing wide open. But you made a mistake, you told your then-boyfriend about it. Turns out he wasn't who he said he was, he was one of them. Sent to keep an eye on the local journalists, he’d pretended to fall for you to keep you close. The cult that terrorised truth seekers from the shadowy underworld was an unstoppable and dangerous force and he was one of them.

They'd captured you, and when the darkness was lifted there was no heavenly bright light. Just a dank basement dimly lighting up your boyfriend's face, grinning from ear to ear as he told you in laborious detail what was about to happen to you. You would eat a Devil Fruit, they would drug you, and you would be forced to do their bidding. No choice, no control, this was it. They’d already done this to every other person who had been investigating them. They had a small army now, he informed you. An army of ‘nosey bastards who didn’t know what they were getting themselves into’. Despite your pleading, he laughed and said that you better get ready for what’s about to happen.

And so they did it. They had it all figured out. They forced you to eat the Devil Fruit, and as its powers flowed through your veins you realised that perhaps they didn’t have it all figured out after all. They didn’t account for the fact that you would be damned rather than be bested by a man.

Your powers erupted out of you, flowing with such a force that all you could do was let out a silent scream, as the shadows wrapped themselves around the foundations of the building they held you in and it collapsed into rubble. 

An arm roughly grabbed you, pulling you out of the wreckage. It had stuffed you in a barrel, and an unfamiliar voice hissed the words: “It’s better if they think you’re dead. If you survive, never return.” 

As soon as the last word of your tale left your mouth, a straw hat was placed on your head, and that’s how Luffy obtained another stray to add to his collection. You became the Strawhats’ Chronicler, your job was to forever immortalise the crew’s journey towards the One Piece and to document how Luffy became the King of the Pirates. Although it was a difficult adjustment at first, you became fast friends with the crew. Robin in particular was a huge help for you, as it was she who understood your plight the best.

Sanji kept his distance at first. You were so beautiful that he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself from flirting, and that was probably the last thing you needed right now, so he resigned himself to being helpful in the background, finding out information about you from Robin and Nami and incorporating it into his cooking. But the two of you were like magnets, unexplainably drawn to one another and soon neither of you would be able to stay away.

You were ripped from your nightmare with such force that you shot upright, sweat dripping down your back. It was the same as always, but tonight you didn’t want to wake up Robin with your tears.

And that’s how you found yourself in the kitchen, face-to-face with a certain chef. He tried not to make a fuss as he saw your hunched, small frame in the doorway, tear-stained cheeks and sleepy eyes. Really, he did. But he’s only a man, after all. He gave you a warm hug and sat you down, making his own special sleepy tea (“I promise you, you will be knocked out after this. No bad dreams for our sweet Chronicler!”).

“I meant to say thank you,” you said quietly as you sipped your tea.

He arched an eyebrow, a gentle blush on his cheeks. “For?”

“The food. When I was in the infirmary, your food made me feel…” you trail off, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Made you feel what?”

You look up at him, an amused expression on his face. 

“Your chicken noodle soup made me cry,” you admit softly. “It was the first thing I saw when I woke up, and it’s my comfort food. And I cried. I was so touched that I forgot everything else. I can’t thank you enough for that. I could’ve lost my mind, but that small act grounded me.”

The blush was no longer gentle but furious as his eyes diverted from your face. “Ah. Well, it’s an honour to cook for a pretty girl like you, and even more so that it makes you feel something. So really, I should thank you for your high praises.” 

Your mouth twitched into a smile. “No, thank you!”

His mouth echoed yours. “No, no, thank you!”

And you continued like that, thanking each other more and more dramatically through laughs. The silliness wore off, and Sanji’s face turned slightly more serious.

“Look, I wanted to say something to you too,” he began. “I’m sorry that your ex betrayed you like that. No beautiful lady should ever have to suffer at the hands of a man, much less a man who should love her.”

You blink, suddenly remembering why it was you were here in the first place.

“It’s okay,” you say with a small shrug. “Well, no, it’s not okay but… I dunno. What else can I say? ‘My ex gave me up to an evil cult and altered my life forever and because of him my family think I’m dead and I didn’t even get the t-shirt’? I appreciate that though. I appreciate all of you.”

He blew air out of his nose softly as you tried to make light of what was clearly a horrific situation. 

“Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m here for you.” “Thank you, Sanji, same goes for you,” you smile.

He grins back. “No, no, no. Thank you!” 

You laugh and lightly hit his arm. “Cut it out or we’ll be here all night!”

His grin widens. “Maybe that’s what I’m trying to do.”

And maybe that’s where it starts. Those late nights in the kitchen when you both couldn’t sleep, sharing easy conversations and trying to make the other laugh. Warm mugs of tea and knees touching each other under the table. A bubble you created with just the two of you, a sacred space, with none the wiser as to these secret meetings of yours.

It would become routine for a couple of weeks. The nightmares jolt you awake, so you pad through to the kitchen for tea, smiles, and chats. 

“You know, I reckon you’re the beating heart of this crew,” you say as you blow on your tea to cool it down.

Sanji scoffs in derision. 

“No, I’m serious! If Luffy is the soul, then you’re the heart. I see everything you do for the crew, Sanj. You’ve got a kind soul.”

You wished you could frame the look on his face to cherish forever. A mix of gratitude, embarrassment, confusion, denial, and something else. Something you couldn’t quite place. 

“In saying that,” you continue, sipping on the now-cool beverage. “You look tired. If you’re looking after everyone else, who’s looking after you?”

He froze.

Your eyes are trained on his. “Look, there’s a reason we’re both here in the dead of night. You can’t sleep either, can you?” 

He looks down.

“Let me in, Sanj. Let me look after you.”

And he does. He tells you everything, and now the bond runs so deep you’re afraid. After all, the last person you fell in love with lied about it and broke your heart. You couldn’t take much more. But this was different, somehow.

Maybe it started the first night you slept in his arms. 

It was just a normal night. As usual, a nightmare ripped you from sleep. It was a particularly bad one this time, your cheeks wet with tears as you made your way to the kitchen. But when you got there, the lights were off. Panic clawed up through your chest. You’d come to rely upon the chef in the dead of night, and now that he wasn’t here, you were scared to face your demons alone. So, fuck it, you thought. I’ll just go to him.

The men’s quarters were loud. Zoro’s snores cracked through the room, and general grunts and smells and sleepy noises were prevalent, but it didn’t matter. He was there, and he would make you feel okay again.

And once you’d crawled in beside him, and his arms automatically wrapped around you, you knew that there was no going back. You woke up in your own bed, having slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

That night when you met in the kitchen, there was a slight awkwardness that hadn’t been there before.

He cleared his throat. “Did you, uh, did you sleep okay last night?”

“I did. Best I have in a while, really. I’m so sorry if I overstepped or-”

“No! No, I’m sorry for not being here at our usual time-”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“Thank you for-”

“Thank you for-”

You both stopped and he cleared his throat again, cheeks bright red.

“Well, honestly? That’s the best I’ve slept in a while too. So, thanks. And I…” He paused as if building up some courage. “I wondered if you would maybe want to… Do it again sometime. But, you don’t have to and I don’t want you to feel like I’m coming on to you because I know you don’t want, like, romance or anything because of the situation with your ex and-” He began to ramble anxiously, bringing a small smile to your lips.

“Sanji, Sanji, stop! It’s okay! I… I would like that a lot. And so thank you.”

He stopped blabbering and clasped his hands together. “Really?” There was a sparkle in his eyes.

“Really,” you nodded. 

You both built a little routine together. If Sanji wasn’t already in the kitchen, then you’d go to him. Otherwise, you’d meet in the kitchen for your cup of tea, before retiring to his hammock in the men’s quarters. The noises of the sleeping crew around you didn’t bother you at all as you lay entwined in Sanji’s long arms.

One night, you made your way into the kitchen and stopped quietly in the doorway. Sanji had fallen asleep at the table waiting for you. You took in his sleeping figure, the way his sleep shirt clung to his arms and revealed some of his chest. His face was relaxed and peaceful, and god, was it beautiful. Shit, you thought. I’m in way too deep now.

You gently woke him up, and the look in his eyes when he saw your face sent your stomach dropping and mind shortcircuiting. 

“It’s you,” he whispered.

You nodded. “It’s me, Sanj. Let’s go to bed, hmm?”

He had that look on his face again, the one from before when you couldn’t figure it out. But now? Now you knew what it was. It was love. It was adoration. It was ‘you’re my comfort, my safety, you feel like home and I’m at peace’. He stood up and pulled you to his chest, groaning softly as he rested his chin on top of your head. You looked up at him, fondness in your eyes.

“Sanj?” You whispered.

“Yes, my darling YN?” His sleepy voice and eyes were too much. You stood up on your tiptoes and pressed a soft, swift kiss to his lips.

He stiffened, eyes wide. 

“Are you sure?” He whispered. 

You nodded.

His face brightened and burst into a lovesick grin, one hand settling at your waist, the other snaking up to hold the back of your head. He nudged his nose against yours as your lips met, the world melting around you both. He pulled back and rested his forehead against yours.

“I want to promise something to you right now,” he murmured. “I promise to protect you, to keep you safe, I promise I will never do anything that could possibly hurt you, and I will hunt down anyone who does. Thank you, YN, for showing me what love could be.”

“No, Sanj… Thank you for showing me.”

His eyes were brimming with tears too, but he laughed softly, unable to resist the urge to say:

“No, no. Thank you.” 

And with that, you went to the safety of Sanji’s hammock, entangled with one another as you pressed burning kisses to each others’ skin, his heavenly touch making you forget what life was like without him. You don’t know exactly when it started, but you know this will never end.

[brighttears]

Home

Joel Miller x f!reader

No physical description, no use of y/n

Summary: Joel wakes up alone in your bed in your house in Jackson, only a few months in there, and does not know what to do without you there. When you get home, he figures it out.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: pet names (baby, my love, angel, good girl, perfect girl, darling), smut (minors dni), mutual masturbation, unprotected PiV, dirty talk, roughish?, creampie (joel wants to put a baby in you), size kink

A/n: some sweet nastiness that is all <3

—

Joel wakes up with a start, sucking in a breath, eyes, once the images from his nightmares have released them, flicking around the room, disoriented. All there is, though, is the white walls, littered with tasteful, plain paintings, hung by someone else. He feels the sheets under his hand, soft and light. Coming back to the present, relief washes over him, releasing his lungs. The feeling is fleeting though, and followed by hazy disconcertment. He’s still not used to this, waking up in a house. The place next to him in the bed is empty, a dip in the pillow still left from your head. Joel raises slowly, as he does these days, nothing to get up for, really, no pressing objective, no crisis to address. He wears socks, sweatpants, and t-shirt. He only just barely became accustomed to sleeping in something other than his full gear—jeans, shirt, jacket, even his boots. Ready for anything. But, again, there's nothing to be ready for in Jackson. 

Joel sits up on the bed, planting his feet on the hardwood floors with a sigh. You’re not here, which he never likes, but he knows you’re safe, helping out in the kitchen before breakfast, like you do many mornings. You are also stuck on not having anything to do, and have yet to adjust to a sound sleeping schedule. 

He raises to his feet to stand, not moving, not sure what to do now. He walks out of the bedroom, stopping again in the hallway, a bathroom and spare room doored along the wall with a staircase on the other side. He walks into the bathroom, clean and white. He stands in front of the mirror, blinking at his reflection. Another thing he’s still not used to. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Droopy skin, wrinkles and scars, dark circles stained under his eyes. Graying hair. Graying beard. The first time he got a good look of himself here it occurred to him that he’s too damn old for this. For all of it. But now… he’s safe. In a house. Waking up in a bed, a real bed, frame intact and all. But he doesn’t quite feel safe, normal, like the walls around him are. He feels alien. Like he doesn't belong.

He turns on the water and splashes it cold on his face, rubbing it off with a soft towel. He wanders back into the hall and starts down the creaky steps with heavy feet, running his hand down the smooth wood railing. At the bottom of the stairs, he’s stuck again. Nothing to do. 

Joel drifts from room to room, aimlessly wandering around the house. Passing his eyes over more tastefully plain decorations that mean nothing to him, running his hands over clean surfaces, he feels utterly lost. A stray in a new home, though you’ve been here for a few months now. The sound of laughing children float in through the open window in the kitchen, reminding him again that he’s in Jackson, a peaceful commune, walled in, safe. The word still tastes sour in his mouth, as if he’s being fed fruit that looks fresh but is rotten. 

He turns on the tap, lets it run, turns it off again. He misses you. You are his what to do. You are his direction, his plan, the one he looks to, stands by. You are what he does. Without you, he’s lost, lost in this big house. 

The doorknob turning perks his ears up, and Joel walks straight to it before it’s even open, halting his feet before he reaches you, timorously as you enter, a small smile growing on your lips once you see him, eyes halfway bright like a struggling bulb. 

“Hey,” you greet him softly. 

“Hey,” he returns, drawing closer as you unlace your boots. 

“You were at the kitchen?” He asks even though he knows the answer. 

“Yeah—I didn’t wake you up when I left, did I?”

“No, I only got up a little bit ago.” He motions upstairs, nervously scratching the back of his neck. Little greetings like this, casual chit chat, is another thing to learn. He’s used to emergencies, calamities, sudden movements, things like that, not frivolous conversation, though he cherishes every word. 

“Good. I never wanna wake you. You always look like you need the sleep,” you chuckle as you straighten, coming up to him to smooth your hands up his chest and around his neck, looking up at him with a wide smile, eyelids droopy, your soft expression rolling a smile upon his own lips. “You look good in sweatpants and a t-shirt.” 

Joel chuckles, wrapping his hands around your waist and rubbing them up and down your back. He sighs, then whispers, “I missed you.”

“It’s been less than 12 hours,” you chuckle, matching his quiet tone, idling eyes over his features filling his chest, though he’s watched it a hundred times, “but I missed you too.” You press a gentle kiss to his lips, and with his eyes closed, he hears you say, so soft it sounds like it’s only the air itself whispering, “My love.” Joel sighs, your words like clean air pumping back into his lungs. He kisses you again, unable to help himself, like it’s simply the next thing to do.

That feeling of disorientation and misplacement is gone now. Because you are here. You are absolutely his rock, his meaning, his reasoning, his purpose. The world makes sense only when you are there, here, in his arms, your lips bringing him back to the ground. And now, he loves this house, your new home, though it doesn't look like it yet. But you are here. So he is home. Within walls, a roof over your head, a bed to lay in, a table to eat at together. A couch to lounge on. A bathroom to shower in together. And somewhere were you can fuck however loud you want. That is another fortuitous plus of Jackson, he can finally hear your moans in their full capacity, hear you scream his name, beg for more, your sounds a new addition to all the things about you to be addicted to. No burying those sweet refrains in the palm of his hand or some filthy mattress. 

The first time you broke in the bed, Joel could felt like he might actually believe in god. And you get to do it whenever you want, every night, all throughout the day, like you’ve rediscovered it, and can now appreciate it in all its glory. 

You are also allowed slow moments, like this, defenses down, closed eyes and relaxed limbs, wandering, oh, the hallowed lingering, Joel is cognizant of every moment, treasuring the time he used to agonize over, all that wishing for something like this, just, time, and here it is, in his arms. 

Joel eases you into his embrace, wrapping his arms around you to press your body until it’s flush with his, burying his face in your neck, inhaling, and exhaling, “I love you so much, baby.” Your body configures perfectly with his, like two pieces of a puzzle, and he cocoons you as if to mesh you together permanently. Your hand tangles in his hair, the other smoothing around his neck, and you whisper back, “I love you more than anything, Joel.” He breathes your words in again, feeling his brow furrow up like he could cry. 

Yes, it’s strange here, sometimes perturbing, so completely unknown, and it’s been a battle to let his guard down, but he has some; he’s cried more times in the few months you’ve been here than he has in years. The first time, it was because of something like this. Lying in bed, unhurried, roaming hands, rolling together like slow waves, room for ease, for sluggish touch, oh god, the relaxation, words simply falling out, endless I love you’s, and you whispered in his ear, “I love you more than anything,” and he cried. And you held him, and reminded him that he could, and he cried hard, like a child, and you cradled him like one. 

It’s because he can now, can allow himself to feel fully, and be allowed to release it, into someone's arms, into yours. Safe. Home. 

He sways you slowly in his arms, pressing soft kisses over neck and shoulder. You told him you loved him for the first time years ago, but then, what mostly filled him was fear. Despair. Loving you, having you love him, was not very beautiful, because it meant pain. Always pain. He knew the love was immortal, but the two of you are not. Who would he rather die first, him, leaving you alone out here, or you, leaving him with that gaping wound? Every close call was like taking an ax to the poles that held the world up over his head, watching it swing, only barely missing the thing that kept all the wood and rock and sky from crashing down. But, you made it to Jackson. And now, that fear has been reeled back in, and the charm and grace of being in love has been unearthed. The I love you’s were caked in fear before. Now, they’re pure. 

“I love you more.” He smiles into your shoulder, knowing the response he’ll get, which is an annoyed hum and a quick step on his foot. 

“Stop saying that. It’s not fair.” You whine, muffled in his chest, though he can feel the smile on your lips. 

“Alright, alright,” he murmurs, chuckling. You pull back to look at him and he lets his hands rest on your arms, watching you. 

“I really did miss you.” You say quietly, “I’m still not used to not being with you all the time.”

“Me neither.” He mumbles, looking over your face. The face of an angel, that’s what ran through this mind the first moment he saw you. An angel with a rifle and a smile that could make even the roughest man swoon. Something sent from god to show him why he needs to keep going, why he’s here—to protect, to love. 

He was digging from the bottom of the barrel when you met, relying on old phrases that had kept him going for years, focused on Tommy, but the lens was getting dirty, and he found his movements starting to slow. But then you came along, and he was rejuvenated. Ready again to do whatever it takes. For you. For Tommy. To keep you and to find him. And he’s done it. Now all there is to do is to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Spending time with his brother, going on double dates with him and his wife, walking around town hand in hand with you, and fucking like rabbits. 

You hum a sigh, tucking a curly lock behind his ear and letting your hand rest there on his face. “We’ve still got some time before they start serving food. I wanted to come back here so we could go together.” You chuckle, “I don’t know what to do until then. Still not used to idle time.”

The thoughts rolling around behind his eyes slip out through his hands, traveling up the back of your shirt, and he smiles, “I have an idea.” You chuckle as he brings his face close to yours, ghosting your lips with his. No more quick and harsh, no need to rush. 

“Don’t tease me,” you breathe out, hooking your wrists around his neck to pull his kiss. He obliges, sliding his arms around your waist to bring you close once more. You press yourself closer, deepening the kiss with a mewling moan, a sound that never fails to get him hard. A moan rumbles from his throat as he crosses his arms around your waist to pull you against him, starting to grind his hips. You pull in a breath, parting your lips for only a moment before you lick back into his mouth. 

“Where d’you wanna go with this?” Joel mumbles into your lips, sliding his hands up to hook his thumbs over your shirt to start to pull it off. 

“We haven’t fucked on the couch in awhile, huh?” You reply, shifting back to help him to unclothe you. 

“We have not.” Joel smiles, shamelessly staring at your bare chest, bringing your breast into his hand as he pulls you back against him instead, kissing sloppy and wet. You start to walk backwards and around to the couch, and he chases you with his touch. You turn him for his back to be to the couch, then shove your hand into his chest to push him down on it before coming up to straddle him. “Goddamn,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, and you smile into his lips. You start your hand on his lower torso, gracefully sliding your hand under his shirt to pull it up his chest. Your touch over his skin sends shivers up after it, that giddy feeling that makes him feel young again making him sigh. Even after all this time, you still manage to make him feel shy about what you can do to him, how head over heels he is. Eagerly, he follows your lead and pulls his shirt up over his head, leaning forward once it’s off to find your lips again and then pull your hips over his. You start to roll them, placing your hands back around his neck, and Joel’s fingers dig into your thighs, reminding him that you still have too many clothes on. He starts to unbutton your jeans, and you raise to your feet to take them off, him rushing to pull own his bottoms off. Swift movements on both ends to get naked so that you can come back over him and start to grind your hips again. He’s already hard enough for his cock to be raised up over his stomach, the lack of stimulation raising another deep moan from him. You reply with your hand around him, using your thumb to drag his precum down, and his lips part, toes curling at the touch on his sensitive tip. You take the hint, keeping your pumps close to the top, and he rolls up into it, moans escaping from a mouth he can’t close. 

“That feel good baby?” You whisper. 

“Ahuh,” is all he can get out, eyes closed, and then your tongue on his neck creates a melody of breathy moans from him. In response, Joel opens his eyes to find where to slide his fingers into, your slit already slick for him, and he moans out, “Baby,” raising his gaze to lock on yours as you pleasure each other on his lap. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, then slowly let your hand fall down to his base to grip and then pull up just as slow, starting long pumps up and down his length. Joel’s eyes close again as they roll back into his head, leaning back against your other hand still around the back of his neck. 

“Joel,” you whine, and he knows what you want without you needing to tell him, moving his hands to grip your hips and help you raise them as you line up his thick cock with your entrance. You sit down on it slowly, adjusting to his size. Both of your bodies relax with each other, once again united in this way that feels so right, feels so good, and Joel starts to move like his body tells him he needs to, and then like you tell him he needs to, quiet begging that runs more chills through him despite your warmth now around him. He buries himself deep with you sat securely on his lap, fingers digging into your thighs, eyes closed, like it’s the first time again, fucking an angel gently, feeling like you were made just for him, fitting him so perfectly, your limit just around his tip. 

“S’ okay baby?” He mumbles, like he does every time, the question coming out with much thought. 

“Yes,” you reply, voice just as lazy, rolling your hips forward to tell him more, his body replying with anything you want as he lifts you to give him room to fuck into you. “Yes,” you repeat, sliding your hands onto his arms without a break in contact over his skin. 

A refrain of moans arises from your mouths, and his eyes are locked on your open mouth. As he quickens his pace, he relishes in your expressions, furrowed brow, your shoulders and chest moving up and down as your voice carries louder, displaying your tits. He takes a hand off of your hip to massage your chest, amazed still that he gets to touch you, gets to fuck you, that he’s the one that gets to hear you, make you feel good like this, that it’s his name that comes out of you, that you want him. That he gets to give you everything you want, anything you ask him for, which is more, harder, and that you want exactly what he does. Skin slapping skin echoes throughout your house, chorused with louder moans as he thrusts harder and faster, feeling himself hit your limit over and over. You lean forward to reunite your lips, messy sucking and licking and biting, needy and hungry for each other. Joel raises his grip to your sides, stilling so that you can fuck him yourself. 

“Fuck, baby, s’ good,” Joel voices, wet and mumbled, “you’re such a fuckin’ angel, such a good girl for me, pussy’s fuckin’ heavensent, I swear,” 

“All for you,” you reply as you start a rhythm with your ass, “I’m yours, baby, I’m yours,” and there again is Joel’s belief in god. 

“S’ good, baby, s’ good,” he mumbles, eyes closed, brow furrowed, aahing as your tight sheath strokes his cock. He splays his hands over your ass, requesting control again to match your movements with his own, fucking up into you again. “S’ good, you feel so fuckin’ good. Perfect lil’ pussy. My perfect girl. You’re so perfect, you’re so perfect.”

Your moans heighten in his ear, fingers digging into his biceps. “I’m gonna cum, Joel,” you say into his ear, voice lilting with his clapping beat. 

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

“Yeah,” you trill. 

“Go on n’ cum for me baby, cum for me,”

Moans catch and tumble from your throat, and he wraps his arm around your back to pull you close, fitting the side of his face against your neck. His  other hand still guides your ass to deepen his rowdy thrusts as he speaks, “I wanna feel all ‘f you, I wanna feel it, I wanna feel your pussy squeeze around my cock, cum for me darlin’,” Joel says, lips pressed against your neck. Your voice sings chirping moans as your body starts to tremble and you wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

Only half aware of what he’s saying, overcome mostly by the feeling of you cumming on his dick, thighs quivering against his sides with your crying moans in his ear, Joel mewls, “I wanna make a baby with you, I wanna make a baby with you,” and you hang onto him like you’re on the outside of a ten story building and he’s the only thing saving you from flying off of it, like you’re hanging on for dear life, wrists crossed with both hands gripping his hair. “God, baby, you feel so good, fuck,” he whines breathily, then grabbing your ass with both hands to tug up and pull you back down on him as euphoric pressure builds inside of him, blocking out most of everything other than your pussy’s tight trembling strokes around his cock. His hips buck almost involuntarily, and he’s ready to cum, needing it, in this moment wanting nothing more. “I’m gonna cum, baby,” he tells you, feeling that white electricity of pleasure building to its climax.

“Cum for me, baby,” you breathe into his ear, fingers tugging his hair with every thrust. With your encouragement in his ear, he loses all control, now requiring you, and he wraps his hands around your lower back to hold your hips down and pump himself into you. 

“I love you, I love you,” the words spill out of his lips as his hips buck, acting out of pure instinct as he cums. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, locking his gaze as you tell him, “I love you Joel, I love you, cum inside of me, I want your cum, fuck me,” Joel’s eyes roll back with them still open, “that’s it, baby, I want it all, cum inside of me,” filling his ears as he does as you ask, as if he could do anything else, nothing else in his head but your words and the pure euphoric pleasure as he cums. 

As his strokes slow and he comes back onto earth, moaning, you lean back to sit on him as he continues to pulsate inside of you. 

“Baby,” you drawl, sliding your hands to cradle his face as you kiss his lips. Joel’s hands wander up and down your back and sides, relishing in the touch. 

“Angel,” he replies, and you hum a sigh into the kiss. 

“You’d think this would get old eventually, with how much we’re fucking doing it,” you chuckle into his lips, “but I swear, it gets better every time.”

“We’ll be fuckin’ professionals in a couple months,” he replies, making both of you laugh. 

“There’s still some things we haven’t tried,” you say. 

“Well we’ll get to em’.”

“We sure will.” You chuckle, smacking a kiss to his lips before leaning back. “I’m sure breakfast is ready by now. Better get up before Tommy or Maria come to check on us and catch us like this.”

“Yeah,” Joel sighs, still slipping his fingers up and down your sides. “I’m fuckin’ starvin’ now, anyways. I’m old, this shit takes it outta me.”

You chuckle, teasing, “Are you complaining?”

“Fuck no,” he replies, pulling you back in for a kiss, “hell fuckin’ no.”

“Good.” You chuckle again, sighing into a sloppy kiss before leaning back again, and with another sigh, “I love you, baby.”

“I love you more, angel.” He smiles, laughing when you slap his chest. 

“Fuck off!” You laugh back, then climbing off of him to grab your shirt off the floor and pull it back on. Joel learns forward to reach for his pants, moving slow to watch you change back into your clothes. Catching him, you smirk, pulling your panties back up slowly, teasingly, for him to watch. He feels his lips part, realizing that you’re gonna have his cum leaking into them all day, like a secret just for him. A secret that’s going to tease him all day, and then when you get home tonight, he’ll slide those panties right back down to fill you up again. As you snap the band around your waist, you look at him like you know exactly what you’re doing, and exactly what he’s going to do about it later. As a cherry on top, you press a kiss to his cheek before turning around to pull your pants on. Joel chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he stands to dress. 

“You gonna go to breakfast like that?” You question, turning to him. 

Joel looks down at himself, realizing his still in sweatpants. “Why not? Not like anyone’s gonna care. Plenty of people go to breakfast in their pj’s. I’ll come back and change after.”

“Fair enough.” You shrug, “You look real good like that anyways.”

Joel smiles, chuckling and little shyly. This morning, the disorganization and looseness of life in Jackson felt intimidating, but now that you’re here, he can appreciate the freedom. Life is fucking good, he thinks to himself as he watches you tie your shoes, knowing he hasn’t had any thought like that in decades. Loud morning sex with you and a freshly cooked meal in his pj’s is something he can definitely learn to get used to.

[becca-e-barnes]

"You are. Every Inch. The fantasy."

I always thought men like this only exist in fiction but it turns out I was wrong, real men like this exist too and I'm thrilled about it 🙈 This needs a part 2 and I fully intend to give it one!

This belongs to the 'Shit He Said' series, and let me tell you, he's got it backwards.

Pairing: Professor!Bucky x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.3K

Warnings: Age gap (Bucky is in his early 40's, reader is in her 20's), semi-public, professor/student, sex toys, praise kink, degradation, pet names, multiple orgasms, consensual forced orgasms, I talk way too much about trusts and equitable maxims

Summary: Your professor finds a way to distract you during class.

Minors, do not interact.

You’d never been a ‘front row’ kind of gal.  Not that there was anything wrong with sitting in the front row.  Nothing at all.

You tend to prefer the safety of rows four to six and the comfort that comes from knowing that you're close enough to avoid straining your eyes when trying to read the screen but not so close that you're always going to be picked on when no one volunteered an answer.

Rows four to six were a safe zone.  They kept you far enough away from the chatter at the back of the room and close enough to the front that you often found your lecturers would recognise you in the corridor and offer a polite smile.

You’d found your sweet spot and it hadn’t failed you yet.

It didn’t hurt that the lecturer that took your Thursday afternoon classes was incredibly easy to look at.  He was always clean shaven and he had a voice as slow and sweet as warm honey.  In fact, you often wondered why he’d went into teaching in the first place.  With a voice like that, he’d make a killing recording audiobooks.  His hair was dark but scattered with greys and it seemed to have a natural, very loose wave that held its shape nicely.  He’d aged incredibly well, proving that your 40’s have the potential to be exceptionally kind to you, just as his seem to be to him.

He came off calm.  He dripped composure but he had a passion for teaching that he couldn’t have hidden if he tried.  

But perhaps the most attractive aspect of his character was the fact that he pushed you.  He knew you were capable of more.  He coaxed some of the more difficult concepts out with you in class because he knew you were able and willing to develop your own understanding.  He didn’t let you dwell in comfort for too long before asking more of you, expecting you to be more and while it left you a little on edge, it was electrifying, testing the boundaries of your own capability.

He had, in many ways, found a favourite in you.  He found himself invested in your learning, keen to aid your professional development and supplement your understanding.

But tension builds, as tension does.  There’s nothing wrong with letting it, after all.  Playful debate back and forth inside the lecture hall turns into a more sustained conceptual analysis after hours.  Your one-to-one sessions move out of the classroom and into the bar and eventually, to his bed and then his kitchen the following morning while you’re wearing one of his t-shirts and cooking breakfast.

It’s an interesting arrangement, to say the least and you’re acutely aware that no one can know about this, for both your sake and his.  You know exactly the kind of speculation that would float around if people knew.  They’d assume you get some kind of advantage from sleeping with your professor; that you’re only doing it for the grades.  It’s difficult and ultimately pointless to try to nail down which of you are benefitting most from the scenario, nor does it help to think of only one of you as a “beneficiary”.  You’re both benefitting from great sex and there really doesn’t need to be more to it than that.

“Wave of madness.  I got you a present last night.”  His message flashing up on your phone screen has the edges of your lips curling into a little smile.  You’re not used to someone getting you gifts.  It’s not unwelcome by any means, but you absolutely want some more details.

“Oh?  You didn’t need to!”  Your thumbs feel like they’re flying over the keyboard and a slight anxiety settles in your chest while you’re waiting on a response.

“I know I didn’t need to but I wanted to.  I got a matching one for myself.”  That doesn’t really clear anything up.  In fact, it only raises more questions.  You’re reminded for a second of your brother, his girlfriend and their matching crocs.  Somehow you can’t imagine that’s what Bucky has bought for you both. 

“Hang around after class on Thursday.  I just hope the box is discreet when it arrives.”  Your heart thumps just a little harder.  This sounds far too exciting already.  

“So that’s how the requirements of the common intention constructive trust were upheld by the House of Lords when they overruled the Court of Appeal’s decision Stack v Dowden.”  You never thought you could possibly care so much about what happens when an unmarried couple separates and only one of them is a legal owner of their home.

7 pages of notes later, your brain was buzzing pleasantly, watching your Professor pack up his things while explaining the work for your seminar on Monday.  You didn’t pay it much attention; there was very little point given that you had completed the prep work already anyway.

“Actually, Mr Barnes, I wanted to ask you something if you have a moment?”  You quizzed, noticing that his face gave nothing at all away.  He was as stoic as ever.  

You always had a question so no one noticed anything strange about the fact you tended to wait behind after class.  “How would you align the Supreme Court ruling in Jones v Kernott with the House of Lords’ decision in Stack?”  

It wasn’t a difficult question.  The cases were fundamentally very similar so the answer boiled down to a simple comparison of the basics.  You just needed something to ask him while everyone filtered out.

“Interesting question.”  Bucky smiled, looking up from his satchel to see how many people were still left in the hall before you could drop the act.  It isn’t an interesting question; he’s just awfully polite.  “How do you think the two rulings align?”  

“Well, it makes sense that they both hinge on the fact the courts don’t have to impute the parties’ intentions.  The parties’ intentions are clear in the very strict separation of assets and finances so it makes it easier to consider their respective contributions to the home.  No matter what the parties allege, consideration of the fact their contributions to the home were different is a sensible starting point.” 

You’ve answered your own question and he knows you know it.  Ultimately, the rulings, while slightly different, do align.

The coy smirk on his lips makes excitement bloom in your chest once more.

“Good girl.”  He coos, just as the heavy wooden door clicks shut at the very back of the room.  “I’m proud of you.”  Oh, that hits hard.  Your blood thrums through your body and you’re not entirely sure how he always knows exactly what to say.

“Thank you.”  Your voice is a soft squeak and barely any more than that.

He seems pleased by the effect he’s had on you and it doesn’t take him long to cross the space between his desk and the front row of the tiered seats.

He doesn’t waste any time, cupping the back of your neck in one huge hand, pulling you towards him into a searing kiss.  He tastes faintly of the flat white he brought to class this afternoon and his lips are so soft and gentle, despite their urgency.

“I can’t hang around today.  I have the faculty board meeting now and an event this evening.”  He sounds disappointed; you are too but it’s not the end of the world.  You’ll see him next week, if not sooner but you find you build your hopes up all week, almost just living for your Thursday nights with him.

“That’s okay.  Enjoy the board.”  You tease and he can’t help but laugh.  No one has ever enjoyed those meetings in the history of their existence.

“You know where I’d rather be.”  He reminds you, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb, barely able to tear his eyes off your lips.  It’s a soft moment.  Just a slight devolution from the passion a few seconds earlier but there’s no sense letting him go to the faculty board meeting half hard.  Any arousal would be stifled in minutes and that would be a terrible waste.

“There’s always next week!”  You remind him, your voice bright in spite of the disappointment that you won’t get to spend time with him tonight.

“You’re right.  But that reminds me, I got you a little something.  Charge it up.  Play around with it.  But bring it to class next week and come early.”  He steps back to his desk, pulling a little brown cardboard box from his satchel before dropping it into your open bag.

“Whatever you say, Sir.”  You tease, unable to help yourself but you know he needs to go.  At this rate, he’s going to be late.

“You.”  He whispers before pressing his lips to yours.  “Are dangerous.”  His lips are so inviting, it’s hard to stop.  “And you know it.”  

You can’t help but smirk to yourself.  He makes you feel powerful and desired and it’s incredibly attractive.

“You need to go.”  You remind him, capturing his lips just once more.  You’ve hardly even let yourself touch him because you know if you do, you’ll not want to let him leave.

“I do.  I’ll talk to you later.”  He doesn’t give into the temptation of one more kiss and it’s probably for the best.  Instead, he scoops up his satchel, securing it over his shoulder, heading up the stairs with you.  He holds the door for you like always, going your separate ways without a second glance now that you’re back in public.

Oh.  

Oh.

Well.

Thank God the box was discrete.

Inside the brown cardboard, you find a second box that’s ever so slightly smaller.  

The picture on the front tells you everything you need to know before you’ve even read the words “Bluetooth Adjustable Dual Vibrator”.

You’ve seen these before; the range of toys that can be controlled from an app on your phone but you’re rather excited when your head reminds you that it probably won’t be your phone that Bucky has in mind to control the toy.

The box is quickly discarded in favour of putting the toy on the charger while you read through the instruction manual.  You didn’t expect to be so heavy.  It’s not heavy in a bad way though; it feels sturdy.  While adjustable, it holds its shape nicely and for a second, you’re just not entirely sure what shape you’ll need it to be.

Once the charging light goes out, you click the bottom button once, following the instructions to set it up.  You download the app; you connect the toy and you start exploring the features with the toy in your hand.  

You can sync it to music, you can control both vibrating elements separately, you can play with different pulse settings or you can make your own, the app has its own chat function, you can send voice notes or videos and then delete them.  This thing.  Does.  Everything.  But that’s when you notice the option to sync up more than one toy at once so they can be controlled together.  Turning yours up would simultaneously turn the second toy up and you can’t help but feel entirely thrilled at that thought.

The following Thursday can’t come soon enough but the evenings pass a lot quicker when you have a fun new way to keep yourself entertained.

You’ve managed to find the perfect angle, one that lets the toy sit comfortably, pressed to the sweet spot inside you while the other component is pressed to your clit and you’re pleasantly surprised by just how mind-blowing this thing is.

The fact that this is really a dream come true isn’t lost on you while you walk onto campus.  Each year, your professor gets a new class and you’re certain that in the years he’s been teaching, plenty of beautiful young women must’ve wanted him.  You’ve seen for yourself how other girls talk to him, looking up at him through thick lashes, their hands clasped neatly behind their back.  You can’t fault them.  You’re just not sure how he’s never given in before now.

You press the classroom door open, slipping inside and closing it behind you.

“Well?  How is it?”  You hardly have the door closed before you hear Bucky’s voice from the front of the hall, setting up his presentation on the computer, ensuring it’s projected onto the screen.

“How is what?”  You tease, feigning innocence, descending the steps to your usual seat in the fourth row.

“How is the vibrator I bought you?”  He doesn’t waiver in the slightest and even the fact he’s so blunt about it sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“I’ll give you a full review once I’ve tried all the settings but I can tell you it’s been perfect so far.”  He looks satisfied with that answer and there’s nothing you want to do more than please him in that moment.

“Did you bring it with you?”  He has a mischievous look in his eyes, watching you pull the little black drawstring bag from your backpack.

“We can set it up when we get back to yours and I’ll show you just how good it is.”  Your suggestion doesn’t seem unreasonable but the corner of his lips tug into the tiniest smirk and for a second you worry you’ve said something stupid.

“Actually, I was thinking we could try it out now.”  He’s studying your face and when he doesn’t notice any evident discomfort, he leads you by the hand down to his desk at the front of the room, encouraging you to hop up onto it and you’re more than happy to.

“We don’t have a whole lot of time.”  His lips are on your neck, kissing gently down the right side while he cups the other side in his hand.  This is dangerous.  It’s so easy to lose track of time like this and taking it slow isn’t a luxury you have in that moment.  His face is so soft, you note he must’ve shaved that morning and you’re infinitely grateful because you hate how stubble makes your skin break out.

“We’ll have more than enough time.”  His warm hand lands on your bare knee, under the skirt of your dress, pressing your legs apart while his mouth continues its sinful trail down your skin.  “Class lasts a couple of hours.  I’d say that’s long enough.”

Fuck.  He’s serious.  

Alarm bells should be ringing in your brain but they’re dampened by the overwhelming feeling of his mouth on your skin and his hand trailing slowly up the inside of your thigh.

“Buck, we can’t.  That’s such a bad idea.”  Is it really?  The words are past your lips because you know that’s the response you’re supposed to give.  You’re not allowed to want this the way you do.

“Is it, sweetheart?  Why?  You don’t think you can keep up while I’m distracting you?  Maybe you aren’t just as bright as I thought.”  It’d be a blow to your ego if you weren’t acutely aware he’s only looking to get a rise from of you.

“No, I wouldn’t want the standard of teaching to slip while you’re distracted.”  You roll your hips forward against his hand between your legs, letting him feel what just a few minutes of him kissing your neck does to you.

“Let me worry about that.  I want you to focus on answering my questions like a good girl.”  He scoops you up with his hands under your ass, carrying you the few short steps back to edge of the desk in front of the fourth row.  He sets you down on the desk, kneeling in front of you while he kisses from your ankle, up your calve to your knee and then over the couple more inches to the hem of your skirt.  

He slips his phone from his pocket, opening the toy app and connecting his phone in just a few seconds before returning his phone to his pocket.

You watch as he turns the toy over in his hands a couple of times.  The vibrant pink certainly draws your attention, not that there’s anywhere else you would rather look anyway.  Not even when he’s slipping your panties down your legs, tucking them into his pocket.

“If you really need me to stop, drop your pen.”  He looks sincere and you appreciate it but you’re almost certain you won’t need a way out.

The tip of his index finger trails gently between your soaked folds and you couldn’t miss the gentle wet sounds if you had tried.  “Are you going to be a slut for me?”  Oh, that’s a sharp turn.  “You do realise I’m going to make you cum in a room full of your classmates.  Not just once.  I want you cumming over and over until you wish you could stop.  And then I’m going to keep going.”  He presses the fingertip to your clit, rubbing slowly up and down, watching your face while you melt into the pleasure.  “You’re just going to be a good girl and take everything I give you.  You know why?”  You shake your head, barely able to look at him.  “Because if you make a sound, everyone in the room will know what a slut you are.”

Your breath catches in your throat, acutely aware that he’s right.  This is the sluttiest thing you’ve ever even thought of doing and for just a second you wonder if this man is ruining you.  He probably is.  You’ll absolutely let him keep doing it though.

He wants to coax you to your first orgasm right there on the desk.  He wants to sink two of those long, beautiful fingers inside you and gently curl them, exactly how he knows you like but there just isn’t enough time.  Later though, if you can handle it.

“You are.”  He whispers, spreading your legs wider, giving himself full access to your sex.  “Every inch.”  He kisses the side of your knee, placing the bulbous head of the toy to your entrance, letting it glide inside you. “The fantasy.”

You gasp at the feeling of the toy, finally sitting comfortably, right where you need it.

He’s got it all wrong and you’re not even sure that he knows it.  So many other girls fawn over this man, whether he realises it or not.  He mustn’t know how desired he is; or how many young women would kill to be in your shoes at this very moment, being nothing short of worshipped by a frustratingly attractive, intelligent older man.

He hums contentedly as he stands up, offering you a gentle kiss before making his way back to the front of the hall to his computer.  The other students should be arriving any second, not that you’ve even really been thinking about that.

You make yourself busy, pulling your notebook out of your bag, along with your little pencil case, lining a couple of pens up on the desk while the rest of the students start to trickle in, taking their usual seats.

Everything is going smoothly, in fact, you almost question whether Bucky has got so wrapped up in his lecture about equitable maxims that he’s forgotten about the toy altogether.

The first half hour passes quickly and while the topic is interesting, it’s hard to relax, knowing that he could disrupt your train of thought at any point.

The arousal he’s built up in you doesn’t subside either.  You’re always reminded that the toy is there, despite how interested you are in his explanation of equitable maxims.

You’re about 35 minutes in before you feel the first hint of a buzz inside you and it’s so surprising, it almost makes you squeak.  You faintly register that it’s only the internal element that he’s brought to life and you’re more than fine with that.

Heat blossoms through your chest and while it feels good, it’s not nearly enough.  You don’t want to need more.  Not when you know you can’t beg him for it so instead, you avoid his gaze, focusing on your notes and not on the man at the front of the room who’s eyes are almost entirely trained on you.

A further half hour passes before you feel any kind of change, just as you were beginning to squirm in your seat.

The clitoral element buzzes to life, quickly followed by the internal element turning up.  Your thighs clench together, pleasure radiating through you and you find yourself grinding against the seat beneath you to press the toy exactly where you need it.  Your hand stalls on the page, your train of thought abandoned because even at only half it’s strength, this toy is incredible.

“So now that we’ve looked at the defining characteristics of equitable maxims, what do you think the problems are?”  Bucky hasn’t looked at you since he turned the toy up and you’re beyond glad.  You know this question is coming to you though.  He’d warned you.

You glance up from your page to find you’re right.  He’s now right looking at you, waiting for an answer and he looks so incredibly smug, it makes you shiver.  He knows you’re getting off on this but so is he.  You’re no better than each other.

“You could argue maxims are outdated.”  You provide the answer but that’s not enough.  The vibration inside you gets just a little stronger and that’s when you see his phone in his hand, his thumb sliding across the screen, controlling the strength of the toy.

“Good.  What else?”  He’s relentless.  Fuck.

The increased sensation leaves your mind blank.  You can’t cum now.  You can’t.  Not with everyone watching.  “Um, they’re too old to be relevant?”  You’ve never sounded so unsure.

“You’ve said that already.”  Shit, you did.  “What’s the biggest potential flaw with that system?”  This is embarrassing now.  You should know this.  You do know this.  The toy inside you, getting incrementally more intense doesn’t help you gain clarity of thought though.

“The…  Discretionary power maxims afford to judges.”  That answer pleased him.

“Very good.”  He nods, slowly making his way to the other side of the classroom, taking the attention off you.  You notice his thumb sliding methodically up and down on his phone screen while he explains that maxims don’t offer the same rigidity as legislation, but you truly can’t find it in yourself to care.  He’s giving your body what it needs and no matter how your head tells you to stop, you can’t hold back no matter how hard you try.

You look down at the desk, trying to keep your hand subtly clasped over your own mouth, muffling any sounds that threaten to escape your lips.  Your body flutters around the toy, pleasure almost making you feel dizzy as you cum while holding your breath. You want to roll your hips. You want to take and take until you don't need more but you know you can't.

Once your high has subsided, you find yourself very quickly given over to overstimulation when the toy doesn’t stop.  There’s no escape from the feeling that’s now becoming almost too intense to bear in the very best way.  

“But on the other hand, how could it be argued that these flaws have been overcome?”  His voice rings through the classroom and you realise that if no one answers, the question is coming to you, as it always does.

Sure enough, after a moment or two of painful silence, your professor has made his way back to your side of the room, stopping in front of you once more, waiting expectantly.

“Case law.”  That’s all you can manage.  You bring yourself to look up, meeting his stare and for the first time since your orgasm and he can see your desperation.  He can almost feel your need, just from the look on your face.  He’s seen you like this before, overwhelmed by the pleasure you’re receiving but not willing to tap out.  You’re enjoying it.  You’re allowed to.  But he’s far from done.

“What about it?”  He almost feels guilty for how much he’s picked on you during this class and he makes a mental note to make it up to you later.

The toy is at full intensity now and you can’t bring yourself to focus.  You can’t think of anything except the gentle buzzing that you’re certain only you can hear, the feeling of the inside of your thighs that are now slick with arousal and the unstoppable, building orgasm that’s about to take hold of you.

“The body of case law now prevents any gaps.  And case law sets binding precedent so modern judges have very little discretion.”  You could’ve developed your thinking but not today.

“100%.  That’s exactly right.”  He looks proud and part of you almost thinks that's what was really enough to tip you over the edge into blinding pleasure once more.

Again, he walks away, over to the other side of the room to draw attention away from you.  Your orgasm makes your thighs shake and if that soft whimper came from you, you’re sure it wasn’t loud enough for anyone else to hear.  It’s electric; the thrill of doing something you know you absolutely shouldn’t and it only makes this even more intense.    You’re almost not sure you’ve ever cum this hard before but this isn’t the time to try to recall past experiences.  Right now, he’s turned the toy down, rushing through the last three powerpoint slides while explaining the work for Monday and you’ve never been more glad to have a class wrap up early.

[ghostboybrainrot]

Out of Touch Part 2

Part 1, Part 3, Part 4, AO3

Edit: I'm starting the process of transferring these to AO3. Click the link above to subscribe and get updates more reliably! (But don't worry I'll keep posting on Tumblr, too)

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It’s odd being invisible to the living world. Danny doesn’t have to put on a performance. He doesn’t have to awkwardly smile at strangers. He doesn’t have to monitor his facial expressions to make other people feel more comfortable. In a way it's nice. Freeing, even.

He didn't have to worry about people misconstruing his actions or his words. Assuming he had ulterior motives. Looking at him like he was weird for asking clarifying questions.

He wasn't judged for asking someone to explain a joke. He wasn't called rude and self-centered for sharing a similar experience when a friend was venting about their problems. He wanted to understand. He wanted to connect. But it felt like the way he did it was always wrong.

He'd been lucky to find friends who understood him. Who shared in his idiosyncrasies. 

He didn't have that anymore, but at least he didn't have to pretend either. It was a small victory, but he still counted it

Of course, his invisibility didn't affect the dead. They could see him just fine. And many do not like what they see. His ghost form had been shifting. He hadn’t made change consciously.

When he looked at himself he saw something sharper, something darker than he used to be. He wasn't happy about it but he didn't feel the need to dwell. This was who he was now. He didn't have any control over it.

If the other spirits he came across flinched away from him, he tried not to let it bother him. Spirits were just people. And he could deal with people.

Fortunately, most ghosts were too distracted by their own problems to pay him much mind. The shades floated around usually tethered to a specific location, sometimes a specific person. They interacted with things that were not there. They carried on conversations with themselves. If Danny attempted to talk to them, they would respond. He’d even held a decent conversation with a couple. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t seeing the same things he was. That their reality was much different than his. Once he’d finished talking, they’d continue about their business as though he wasn’t ever there. 

)-(

Danny had settled in an abandoned apartment near Park Row, or Crime Alley, as the locals called it. The building was only 3 stories. It had been condemned but had never gotten around to being torn down. It's not property investors were going to want to build something in it's place. Not in Crime Alley.

The bottom floor had been boarded up at one point but the boards on the back entrance had long since been pried off. Several squatters had made the bottom floor their temporary home. If they heard odd noises coming from the upper floor they ignored it.

Once, a man had come to the top floor to look around. He stepped carefully, testing his weight on the unstable floor. He checked the empty apartments. They’d long since been picked clean. When he neared the door at the end of the hall a chill shot up his spine. This door was closed, unlike the other three which had been swinging ajar before he’d arrived. Was someone already squatting in there? No one had mentioned it to him. He’d stayed here a few times now. Surely, if someone had already claimed the room, he’d have heard about it. He continued to approach the door. The cold sensation was worse the closer he got. He started shivering slightly and he could see his breath misting in front of him.

Weird. He swore it hadn’t been this cold outside earlier. How could it be so cold INSIDE. Maybe a window had been left open? That would explain why this door was closed. The wind had probably blown it shut. It had to be empty. No one would be able to stay in these freezing temperatures. 

If nothing else he should go and close the window. Wouldn’t want a draft to follow him downstairs. They needed to conserve the heat the best they could. 

He grasped the door knob. For a moment he worried his hand would stick to it. It was like holding a ball of ice. He attempted to turn it. Locked. 

He wasn’t sure why but he let go of the handle and raised his hand to knock on the door. Three short raps echoed in the empty hall. For a moment there was silence.

Then. Three short raps answered from the other side of the door.

He jumped back. Okay, someone was in there after all. Weirdo. Who the hell locked themselves in an abandoned freezing apartment. Before he could decide whether to tell this person off or just mind his business, he heard it again.

Three more knocks. These were much louder.

Suddenly there was a steady pounding on the door. It rattled from the impacts. The man’s heart leapt in his throat. He’d had enough. He started making his way back to the stairs. The pounding hadn’t stopped. If anything, it had gotten even louder. And closer! It was following him! It was coming from the walls in the hallway now. He could hear it coming from the other empty apartments. Everything was pounding. The whole building seemed to be shaking. He didn’t remember bolting but next thing he knew he was running down the stairs. Not paying attention to the cracks in the floor, as he had on the way up. He took 2 steps at a time. By the time he reached the bottom, the onslaught of sound had stopped. 

At first he didn't notice. He could still feel the pounding. It felt like the banging was coming from inside his head. It took him a moment to notice it was his own heartbeat hammering in his ears.

He spent several minutes at the bottom of the stairs, hands on his knees gasping for breath. After his heart finally slowed and his breath came easier, he went back to the room where he'd placed his sleeping bag.

He thought about packing it up. This place no longer felt safe. What if whatever it was followed him? 

He glanced at the door that led to the stairwell. If it were going to follow him it already would have. It was already late and this wasn't the first time he'd crashed here. And something told him, whatever it was, hadn't just arrived. He swallowed nervously. It had probably been above him this whole time.

He looked back down at his sleeping bag. He'd paused partway through rolling it up. Lost in thought. Finally, he decided to stay. At least for the night. He rolled it back out and got ready to get some rest. He was exhausted. The adrenaline from only 10 minutes prior had fled his system. Leaving his muscles weak and his brain foggy.

He wasn't going to be able to find a safer place this late. There were worse things than ghosts haunting the streets of Gotham at night.

If his upstairs neighbor didn’t want to be bothered. He just wouldn’t bother them.

—-

Danny felt a little guilty for scaring the guy. In the moment it had been exhilarating. Like playing a prank. After all, he had no intention of ACTUALLY harming him. He wasn't in danger. He just didn't want the guy poking his nose around his stuff.

But of course the man had no way of knowing Danny wasn't a threat. It wasn’t like Danny was going to jump out and yell 'Gotcha!' In fact, that probably would just scare the guy even more. 

Danny looked down at his hands. They were clouds of black smoke. The edges were fuzzy and undefined. His fingers were long and came to sharp points. 

Scary, he thought.

Before he could linger too long on that uncomfortable thought, Danny decided to make it up to the guy.

It took a while for the man to fall asleep, unsurprisingly. But Danny waited patiently.

)-(

When the man woke up the next day he found a few cans of soup, some clean socks, and a small pack of baby wipes. It had been stacked neatly next to his backpack. Clearly, it had been left for him. He looked around but no one else had come to join him in the night and the door to the room was still locked.

He didn’t mention the interaction to anyone. And none of the other squatters mentioned it either. He knew they had to have heard it. The pounding that shook the building. He knew he hadn’t imagined it. Even if he had, it didn’t explain the food left in a locked room in the middle of the night. 

He decided whatever this entity was. It wasn’t kicking him out. Just expressing a boundary. He could handle that. As long as he left the apartment upstairs alone, he should be fine.

Hopefully.

)-(

Danny hoped the guy would see the gifts as an olive branch. He thought about leaving a note, but decided against it. It was one thing to insinuate that the building was haunted. It was another thing, entirely, to come right out and say it. 

Hey I'm the ghost that haunts the upper floors! Sorry to give you a fright. Here's some food as an apology just stay out of my area, okay? 

Thanks!

He smiled at the thought. It'd be funny but l would just bring more attention to him. The last thing he needed was other people finding his haunt. A note was tangible. The guy could show others. More people would want to investigate. Without any concrete proof, people were less likely to believe him.

Danny did not want to have to move, especially when he had just gotten settled.

He’d just gotten running water. It had taken a lot of time and effort but he'd finally figured out how to turn the water back on.. He'd had to phase through a lot of walls holding a flashlight in his teeth. It had taken a week of following pipes around and messing with valves, but he’d done it! Granted, when he first got it, it still went out randomly and it wasn't hot or even warm. But it was a start.

Now getting electricity, that had been much harder. He wasn't an electrical engineer. He felt uncomfortable with the idea of trying to mess with high voltage wires. Getting electrocuted again, scared him more than he'd ever admit, even to himself.

Eventually, he settled for a small generator. He'd pilfered it from a big chain farming supply shop several miles outside of Gotham. It was a pain lugging it all the way back. It wasn’t that he was too weak to carry it, but it had been very awkward to hold.

He set it up on the roof above his apartment. Feeding the wire down into the apartments poking holes through walls. It didn’t look professional but it worked. 

The best part was that he’d gotten a model powerful enough to run the old hot water heater.

Danny hadn't taken a hot bath in months. The closest he got was taking quick showers in the 24 hour gym down the street. He'd go in the middle of the night after patrol when no one was around. But he tried not to linger in case someone decided to do an early morning workout. Those showers were more functional than relaxing. 

He didn't need to bathe that often, anyway. He spent more time in his ghost form than his living form and he didn't sweat when he was dead. He'd been getting by on baby wipes and paper towel baths at the sink in public restrooms.

So, when he finally had an opportunity to have a real bath. He decided to treat himself.

He lit a couple tealight candles and set them on the counter. He turned out the lights. The bath/shower combo wasn't very deep but fortunately Danny wasn't a very tall teenager. For the first time he counted himself lucky that dying had stunted his growth.

He had swiped a bath bomb from a dollar store a few blocks away. He'd never used one before but he figured he should at least try one to get the full relaxing bath experience. He drew himself a warm bath and dropped the lavender-scented bomb into it.

As soon as he sunk into  the water he immediately felt himself start to drift. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this relaxed. He closed his eyes and was asleep within minutes. 

)-(

Danny was having a bad night. 

Nights? He wasn’t sure. 

He’d gotten carried away again. He felt that familiar tug at his stomach. He wasn’t sure for how long. He knew he needed to stop. To take a break. At least grab a drink or something to eat. But he knew if he stopped, if he switched forms, he'd be too exhausted to switch back. 

He just kept telling himself one more. Just one more person to save. Just one more person to stop. And then he would rest.

As he neared his apartment he felt his form stutter. 

Oh no.

Just a little bit farther. He could still make it! The form continued to stutter. He felt gravity pulling on him. He couldn't keep flying like this.

He looked for a place he could land. There was an empty alley below him. Only 50 feet or so ahead. He angled his descent. But he was falling too fast. His ghost form continued to flicker, petering out 20 feet above the ground. He plummeted, reaching out trying to find purchase on the side of the building. Only managing to scrape his palm. He hit the ground on his side, with a soft thud.

He groaned. He had definitely broken something. His earlier exhaustion had been replaced with sheer terror as he'd fallen. This was the only thing allowing him the energy to push up off the pavement. He sat in the alley wincing with every movement. He took inventory. His shoulder was bruised as hell. He'd, also, bruised his ribs, breaking at least one. He was lucky he was so resilient. Falling from that height would have been much worse if he wasn't already half-dead.

He tried to pull himself to his feet. His leg buckled under the weight and he fell back on his backside. He'd definitely messed up his knee. He reached down to palpate around the joint. It was tender and he could already tell it was starting to swell.

Great.

He pulled himself up again favoring the side that hadn't impacted the ground. He braced himself against the wall of the building. His vision swam. He realized it probably had more to do with the fact that his blood sugar was dangerously low than his injuries. 

After a couple minutes, his vision began to clear and he could take in his surroundings. 

Good news, he knew where he was. He was close to his apartment. Bad news, his apartment was in crime alley. And he had a couple blocks and two flights of stairs before he could get to it.

Danny did not like his chances of getting there unscathed. Normally, it wouldn't be a problem. He could just switch to ghost form and fly straight there. But seeing as how he'd already been doing that, and he'd fallen from the sky. He didn't think this was going to be an option.

He tried anyway. Focusing hard on fading into his phantasmal form. He felt the barest hint of a flicker but no transformation came. 

Figures. 

The adrenaline from the fall had worn off, at this point. He was feeling woozy again. His exhaustion and hunger hitting him full force. 

The ground next to a nearby dumpster started to look very enticing. His eyes were drooping. He had enough awareness left to know if he was going to pass out he needed to hide.

It wasn't the first time he'd had to take an impromptu nap in an alley. Usually, he found a cozy dumpster to crawl in to sleep it off. Bit his leg was too injured and he was too weak to pull himself up. 

Behind the dumpster would have to do.

He kept his hand against the wall as he stumbled forward, ignoring the pain in his palm from the scrape, he'd suffered during the fall. He wondered, dully, if it was a bad idea to be rubbing an open wound on a grimey building. Probably not, but he'd have to worry about that later.

He felt like he was moving through molasses. As he rounded the side of the dumpster he looked back, making sure no one was watching. Satisfied he was alone, he tucked himself into the corner behind it. He was already pretty small. It didn't take much to pull his hood over his head and pull his knees to his chest. He pulled a few loose pieces of plastic and cardboard over him. With that and his grimey clothes he was pretty sure it would be hard to spot him. At least, in the dark.

Certain this was as good as it was going to get, he closed his eyes and fell immediately into a dreamless sleep.

He hadn't noticed the figure in the dark when he'd fallen. He hadn't noticed its eyes watching him as he pulled himself up and limped toward the dumpster. And, he didn't notice as the figure approached the sleeping boy.

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

Sorry to anyone who was waiting for me to update my Ghost Zone Amity fic! This one was making my brain itch so this is the one you get.

I love getting comments! Keep them coming. Who do you think found Danny? Is it one of the bats? Is it a rogue? Let me know what you think so far!

Tags:

@alinmenttreasure @quirky-gardener @mnemovoid @amercurio @may-rbi

@allmune @i-havenothingelsetopost @kittenline @alienzil

[strugglingwriterwattpad]

Regulus Black Teaser

Year one 1972-1973 11-12

“Stop staring regulus is very unbecoming! Filthy half-bloods” Regulus’ mother spoke with venom. The young first-year couldn’t help himself. the girl clutching onto her brother's arm was beautiful to him. baby cheeks flushed rose with nerves a light dusting of dents and scratches decorated her face very similar to her brother's own. He knew of the Lupins from Sirius over the summer. The older black had given his brother a full rundown of his friends. There was James Potter who couldn’t wait to be on the quidditch team, Peter Pettigrew wanted to be just like Sirius and James, and finally Remus Lupin a very intelligent boy with a love for chocolate. Sirus had mentioned that a younger lupin would also be joining Regulus’ year. But he failed to mention just how pretty she would be. Regulus quickly obeyed his mother feeling the burn of her angry stare towards him. “don’t even think about talking to her regulus black I will not have our blood tainted by their traitor.” She growled.

(Y/N) jade lupin followed her brother onto the train after a long farewell from her father. She wished her mother was there also, but the growing fear of the dark lord and his followers made it impossible for her to be safe on the platform. “what if I don’t make friends Remus?” she stuttered watching her brother take their cases and place them in the sturdy storage above their heads. “you’re worrying too much (Y/N). even if you don’t make friends for a bit, you have me. My friends know about me, so they’ll also be willing to help you.” She nodded her head slightly before a blur of silver caught her gaze. An open bar of muggle chocolate. “calm down and eat some.”  

Remus was a pale-faced pre-teen also covered in scars. His hair was light brown hair that, was already starting to go grey from his ‘illness’. Stress can do a lot to a witch or wizard. (Y/N) knew it was only a matter of time the silver jumped to her hair. “finally got away!” the siblings quickly locked eyes on the boy barging into the carriage like a herd of wildebeest. Sirius black. (y/N) could never deny Sirius was handsome. Dark luscious curls that just touched his shoulders with matching dark eyes filled with mischief. Next to tumble in was James potter. He was very similar to Sirius, James was a tall, thin boy with hazel eyes and untidy black hair that stuck up at the back. The final boy to enter the compartment was Peter Pettigrew. He was the largest of the group and the shortest with mousy brown hair and silver eyes. “well, well well this must be the little lupin we’ve heard so much about!” James seemed extremely ecstatic to meet (Y/N) shaking her hand hard. “it’s nice to meet you all.” she stuttered smiling brightly at their welcoming personalities. This was going to be a very interesting year indeed.

The great hall was everything Remus had described. The ceiling was filled with beautiful night sky stars twinkling down like it was real. Floating candles scattered around flickering brightly. The whole room was filled with students all watching the first years as they entered. “now when I call your name,” Professor McGonagall began, “I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you shall be sorted into your houses.” (Y/N) could instantly tell the professor cared for her students her stern expression fought with her floaty voice of passion and upper-class education. “regulus black.” (Y/N) watched as a boy walked towards the stool almost nervous. Instantly she could tell he was a pureblood. The young boy stood as straight as a pencil nothing seemed imperfect. His curly hair was styled with no frizz or kinks, his face clean of freckles dirt or imperfections of any kind. The only thing she could see of any difference to purebloods was his eyes. They swirled with every natural colour possible. But something so bright and vibrant was clouded with a layer of grey mist an emotionless gaze. The boy sat gracefully on the stool as the sorting hat was placed on top of his head. “Slytherin!” the hat barely brushed his hard curls before screeching the ‘dark house’. (Y/N) watched as he walked towards the emerald, green table still no emotions. “(Y/N) Lupin!”

Regulus watched the girl from the train. He didn’t blink, he didn’t move. He finally got a better look at the tiny girl from the station. And he was captivated. He had never seen a child so small and dainty. She still had an amount of baby fat on her cheeks like an innocent chipmunk. Her hair was tied in a braid low to the neck with light wisps of baby hair framing her face. But her eyes were the best part of Regulus. In contrast to his murky eyes, hers with bright and full of wonder, like a kaleidoscope. “now here's a challenge!” the hat murmured cackling as the girl bit her pink lips. “so many traits for such a small child. The intelligence of a Ravenclaw, the bravery of a Gryffindor, the loyalty of a Hufflepuff…but the ambition that radiates from you girl. Better be Slytherin!”

The portion of the table Regulus sat on snickered and laughed as the small girl walked towards the table. She sat down slowly away from everyone out of fear. He couldn’t blame her. “look at the little duckling. She couldn’t hurt a fly.” Bellatrix snickered towards Lucius and Narcissa. “she's gonna be eaten alive. Filthy half-blood.” Regulus knew his first year was going to be very strange.

[honeybubblebeeeeee]

TW: established relationship, toxic relationship, Eren has a temper. angsty

inspired by a scene from the movie 'Priscilla'

(also send requests! i appreciate them they help smmmm with writers block <3)

Eren has a bit of a temper, he is always under constant stress with everything he is trying to do and accomplish. He sometimes has a habit of snapping on people around him, including you. Most cases it's hard to tell if he means it or not. He swears he doesn't mean it.

Eren was in his office in the home you shared. The one he asked you to move into so you would be closer to him, so he could keep you safe.

You were cleaning out his bags from his last couple month trip. He didn't tell you were he went, he couldn't. You understood in a way, if you didn't know you truly couldn't answer when asked and therefore would be safe.

You pulled out a jacket, and shook it to straighten it. A piece of paper fell from the pocket, floating to the ground. Your eyes trained on the folded paper. Slowly you bent down and hesitantly took the paper and dropped the jacket.

The smell of a woman's perfume wafted towards you as you unfolded it. A woman's neat writing marred the page.

Thank you for everything Ren. Meeting you is the best thing to happen to me. ~Mae <3

The note seemed like it could be innocent but the hearts and lipstick marks that covered the paper made your blood run cold as your body shook.

Slowly you stood and walked quickly towards his office, you ignored the closed doors that usually meant to leave him be and stormed up to him. As the doors opened he looked up from where he sat with his feet resting on the desk. Slowly he straightened, giving you a dirty look.

"Sorry I'm gonna have to call you back. Something's come up." Eren hung up the phone and looked up as you held up the note. "Now don't go imagining things."

You scoffed. "Like what? Mae? Ren?"

He sighed annoyed and pushed away from his desk, walking past you. "Look, I don't wanna hear it right now." He continued out of the office. "Well is there something you're hiding?!" Your voice broke as you followed him down the hall towards the bedroom you shared.

"I don't have a goddamn thing to hide! You're always being too goddamn aggressive and demanding!" He stopped in the middle of the room. "You know what? Maybe you should go back home for a little while."

Tears brimmed as he glared and you and walked into your closet. Panic settled into your chest. "What?! NO! I'm not going! I won't!"

He ripped down a suitcase from the top shelf. "Well I think you should! You know what I'll help you start packing!" Eren blew through the closet, ripping hangers of clothes off the rack and throwing them in your general direction as he screamed. "AY! Someone get Y/N a chaperone and get her out as soon as possible! She's going back home for a while!" Eren continued his terror through your closet. "HURRY UP!" He continued throwing items towards you.

You could do nothing but watch in horror as his temper took him over. Tears fell and slowly you sunk to the ground, picking up a few items as sobs started to loudly wrack your body. You could barely think as you kneeled on the floor, eyes blind with tears, trying to hastily fold the items. Sobs interrupted you from continuing as you closed your eyes and just let the cries come.

You hadn't even realized Eren had stopped. He kneeled down beside you and placed a hand on your arm. You sniffled, looking up towards him with tear stained eyes.

"I-I'm sorry baby. I didn't mean it. Are you okay?" A sob escaped you and he slowly stood, softly pulling you along with him. "Come on, come on baby, come here." He sat you on the bed, softly gripping your chin and turning your head towards him. You chest stuttered as you tried to hold back a sob, tears still fell rapidly as you looked at him.

"It's okay, I'm sorry. You need me." A soft smile crossed his face as he pulled you in. One arm wrapped around his neck and the other around your torso. He laid his head on your shoulder, kissing the bare skin that was visible.

You're body relaxed into a weird state of calm even though your mind reeled as the event but what could you say? He swears he didn't mean it.

[literary-motif]

Prologue

In which plans are made upon your return to London. ~4,300 words

Overview // Author's Note

The city had barely changed since you had been here last. The streets were almost black with soot from the chimneys of homes and factories, and the dark clouds rolling over London felt more like omens of bad luck than the product of its booming economic success. Nothing had changed at all.

You walked up the steps to the place you had not called home for years, pushing open the sturdy wooden door only to hesitate in the entrance hall.

It was deserted.

The fading sunlight was kept out by the fastened shutters, allowing only a fraction of the warm orange to stream in through the cracks in the old wood. The welcoming atmosphere of the house you remembered so vividly was only a far echo now, unrecognizable as you looked around the empty room, letting your bag fall to the ground with a loud thump that echoed uncomfortably. 

Where was everyone?

You had expected to find several people scurrying around as they always did. Your mother was so obsessed with keeping up appearances. She would strut through the house and bark a string of nonsensical orders at the poor servants she had requested follow her every step.

Her vanity was laughable, and you had used to joke that in her deluded fantasy, she was pretending to be Queen Victoria herself with her court of ladies. 

The vase with freshly cut flowers had been a particular point of pride for her, and she always requested the most expensive ones to be bought only to flaunt your family’s wealth. She required the dark blue curtains of the windows to be fastened with a specific knot she had glimpsed once in the queen’s palace.

The floor had to be spotlessly shining at all times, even after your father returned from mingling with his friends and enticing them with his lofty plans of investments, dragging the soot and dirt from the London streets into the house and dirtying the tiles that had been scrubbed on aching knees for the better part of the day. 

You looked down at your shoes, scoffing at the immediate feeling of regret crashing over you.

It had been too long since you had been here last, but not long enough all the same. The memories and sentiments the house and the city dragged up in you were better kept buried. 

Leaving the bag by the door, you walked into the entrance hall, taking a closer look around. The flowers on the coffee table at the foot of the stairs were wilted, filling the air with a stifling odor. You turned towards one of the windows, opening it wide and pushing aside the shutters. 

It disturbed the dust on the curtains. The particles floated around the room, catching the gentle yellow light of the setting sun and making you wonder just how long it had been since someone had cleaned.

You turned your gaze towards the dark city outside, the smog rising in the far distance where the heart of the country’s economic success lay. Your jaw clenched. Even in the golden rays of the setting sun, London could not hide its bleakness and the dirt it was overflowing with.

You longed for the countryside. You long for the confines of your studio in Paris, far away from this life of exploitative riches and the screaming poverty outside your front door. It made you itch to leave as soon as possible, the reminder of why you left almost painfully burning in your chest. 

The quiet greeting you, as you faced the house again, was not peaceful, but it felt like evidence that perhaps some things had changed since you had been here last — almost five years to the very date. You cursed quietly, pushing away the melancholy that had snuck up on you. 

“Theodore?” you called into the silence, expressing some of your annoyance at being called away from your new life abroad. “I’m home,” you muttered in disdain, waiting for your brother to appear and tell you what ‘urgent matter’ had him insisting on your presence in London. You felt it had something to do with the darkness in the entrance hall and the dust on the curtains.

A heavy door shut somewhere overhead, and you looked up in time to see familiar golden curls poking over the banister as he approached it hastily. His face twisted into a dazzling smile when he saw you. “Da Vinci!” he called, almost tripping over himself as he took the stairs two at a time. 

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, catching him as he nearly fell down the last few steps. He pulled you into a tight embrace, holding you against his chest as you buried your head in his shoulder and breathed in his familiar scent. “I’m so glad to see you,” you said, your voice muffled. 

You had missed him dearly. Despite your many invitations, he had continuously declined to visit you in Paris, citing his alleged responsibilities at home or his engagement to his soon-to-be wife as an excuse.

It felt good holding him in your arms again after so long. Faintly, you could hear the elevated flutter of his heart beating quickly. You chuckled, happy to see him as well. The longer you stayed in the embrace, the more you noticed the restlessness he seemed to exude. 

Theodore was trembling faintly in your arms, his hands roaming your back as if he could not bring himself to stay still. He seemed nervous, almost afraid. You lifted your head, drawing back to look at him properly. 

The dark circles under his eyes looked like he had not slept these past days. His usually so expressive eyes were dulled, the excitement and energy within them dimmed with exhaustion you had never seen on him before. 

“Theodore,” you began in concern, but he shook his head with a twist of his lips that you could only guess was supposed to be a reassuring smile.

“Fine. I’m fine,” he said with conviction, not reassuring you in the slightest. 

He was a terrible liar, and with the evidence visible on his face, you did not know why he bothered at all. Still, you did not push. “What is the matter with ‘needing me urgently’?” you asked instead. Raising your hands to gesture to the bleak room you stood in, you could not hide your confusion. “What is going on?”

Theodore averted his gaze, clearing his throat before inhaling shakily. His lips twisted into a tight smile again, and he nodded nervously. The silence stretched on as you waited for him to explain. 

“Yes,” he said eventually, running a hand through his hair and looking around the room to ensure nobody was lurking in the desolate emptiness, “my letter must have come as a surprise. I would have explained more— I wanted to, but the matter is sensitive. You see, I—” 

He shook his head quickly as if to disperse unpleasant thoughts and closed his eyes to take a deep breath. When he reopened them, he was calmer, and his eyes softened as he looked at you. 

“I know you would have rather stayed in Paris,” he said, taking your hands and giving you a sad smile. It expressed both his gratitude and guilt at seeing you in London. “I’m sorry to drag you back. How— How have you been?”

You looked at him for a long moment. 

Paris had not been what you imagined. No matter where you went, your dissatisfaction with the world around you never vanished. You found solace in your art, losing yourself to the brushstrokes and colors on the canvas until the deeply seated longing inside you was quenched to an extent, only to find it returning with a vengeance when you resurfaced from drowning yourself in beauty and the picturesque. 

Misery was an old friend, one that never wavered from your side, no matter how successful you became or how admired your artworks were. You had stopped looking for fulfillment or contentment long ago until it felt like misery herself was leaning over your shoulder, taking your wrist and guiding the brush across the canvas. 

Happiness was never sufficient to create a meaningful work or seep into a life and suffocate the devouring longing for more. You had found that melancholy, sorrow, and misery were. 

“Well, brother,” you said. To your surprise, you meant it. “And you?”

He chuckled tiredly, releasing your hands to lead you towards the stairs. “Mostly well, until last week,” he said, his tone souring. “It is why I—” He stopped abruptly. You bumped into his back with a huff. “Where have you been?”

You looked past his shoulder to see a figure standing on the landing, staring down Theodore with dark eyes and an even darker scowl. “In the garden,” she said dismissively, and your eyes widened as you realized that the woman clad in the deepest possible shade of black was your sister.

“Lizzie?” you asked incredulously, earning only a nod in greeting.

Her straight black hair hung loosely over her shoulders. It was disheveled as if she had run her hands through it repeatedly, and you blinked away the memory of her excitedly thrusting ribbons into your hands, pleading with you to braid it. 

You could hardly reconcile the image of the bright and adventurous young woman you had kept in your mind all this time with her dark and brooding self you now saw before you.

She had changed so much since you had left her behind on that porch with tears in her eyes, begging you not to go. It had been so long since she had replied to your letters.

“Why do you look like you came from a seance?” you blurted out, at a loss of what else to say.

Her mouth twitched into a minuscule smile. “You have been gone for too long, Picasso,” she said, the barest hint of amusement seeping into her monotonous voice as she looked you up and down. “Seances are on Thursdays. Welcome to London.”

“Elisabeth!” your brother said sternly, raising his index finger in warning. It did not have the desired effect. Elisabeth snorted at his attempt to scold her. “I better not find any residue of your activities in the garden again. You know how frowned upon—” 

“I know, Theodore,” she interrupted him, sauntering towards the library nonchalantly and leaving you both standing at the top of the stairs. “I cleaned up. Believe me, I’m the last of your worries right now.” It sounded more like an ominous warning than a reassurance. She disappeared behind the door. The lock snapped into place, the sound echoing loudly in the empty hall.

Theodore sighed. “She spends too much time with these books,” he said, shaking his head. He gestured towards the study, opening the door for you. 

It had not changed much from how you remembered it. One wall was taken up by an enormous bookshelf, nearly overflowing with thick volumes. The dark wood of the desk before the window had lost some of its shine, and the papers thrown haphazardly on its surface were in a disarray that your father would have despised. 

“Have you taken over the study?” you asked, sitting in the armchair opposite the settee and nodding towards the desk. 

He gulped, his hands suddenly unsteady as he passed you the tea. 

“Theodore?”

The sound of the fragile porcelain pieces scratching against each other made you frown. You eyed his shaking hands, wondering what you had said to upset him this much. 

He quickly set the cup on the table between you before he spilled his tea. “Not by choice,” he whispered, keeping his eyes fixed on the tea. “I asked you to come back because I need your help. Our parents—” he hesitated, gaze flickering up to meet yours before anxiously darting across the room. “They are gone.”

“Gone?” you asked, not understanding the gravity of the situation. “Gone where?”

Theodore threw up his hands in frustration, leaping from his chair to pace around restlessly. “Just gone!” he exclaimed, wincing at his volume and looking around anxiously. This was driving him up the walls, turning him into a nervous wreck. “They left with— they left. I don’t know why. I don’t know where.”

You set down your tea, taking in this piece of news. Despite their brutish dominance over the household, both your parents were very mindful of the family’s standing in society. It was unheard of for them to disappear without a word. It would lead your reputation to ruin.

“What happened?” you asked. This made no sense at all.

“I have no idea,” Theodore said, sinking back into the settee and burying his face in his hands. “They just left.” 

He straightened a moment later, clearing his throat and retrieving his tea. You saw the shift in him, the facade he put up to appear in control of a situation that overwhelmed him completely. 

The neverending game of pretend he played was brought on by his misguided sense of duty. To his eyes, being the oldest meant carrying all the responsibilities, shielding you and your sister as much as possible to take care of things himself. He wanted to be perfect. He needed to meet the expectations your parents pushed onto him relentlessly to earn his place and justify the life he had. 

Theodore was always scrambling to obey, never stepping out of line for fear of falling from grace — and seeing him now slowly crumble and cave under the pressure thrust upon him made your heart ache.

Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, indeed.

You leaned back, closing your eyes and wishing for a moment you had chosen to remain in selfish and blissful ignorance in the city of your dreams, with paint staining your fingers and indulging in the pleasure of being the second-born to its fullest extent.

“Does it matter why?” Elisabeth asked from the doorway, making both you and Theodore jump. Neither of you had noticed her walk up, her footsteps as quiet as a ghost’s. “They were never pleasant to have around, and we are better off without them. Theodore can manage the estate on his own. You have your life in Paris. What are we worrying about?”

You turned to look at her, holding her impassive gaze as you wondered when she had gotten so frigid. “They are our parents,” you said. While a part of you resented them, you still wondered what had become of them and why they had suddenly decided to disappear without a trace. It was hard to imagine that Elisabeth did not care about them at all.

She scoffed, flopping down next to your brother on the settee. Leaning forward, she stared at you intently as if trying to catch you out in a lie. She had gotten cold. You suppressed a shudder. Was this resentment she harbored towards you the reason she stopped replying to your letters?

“Oh please,” she said, an unfamiliar fire burning in her eyes that made you wonder if you were wrong about your assumption of her again. 

Perhaps she really did not care. 

“Mother threatened to disown you in as many words every time you talked, or have you forgotten that? ‘Stop wasting your time with frivolous things!’ or whatever it was she spewed when she caught you painting. You might as well have died when you left. It would not have made a difference to them. What’s there to miss?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, knowing she was right. The harsh look in their eyes when you said goodbye that day and the sneer of your father — “Don’t bother returning” — was a memory you had tried to bury long ago. 

Their disappearance was peculiar nonetheless. You tried to think up reasons that could have led them to finally snap, inspiring them to turn their back on their comfortable lives in London. Was it the longing for something exciting? Was it the haunting feeling of the city’s long nights? 

Did their circles of friends not entertain them enough anymore? Did they grow sick of your brother’s desperation in tryingto please their unattainable expectations? Could they no longer stand the sight of your sister’s dark eyes glaring at them when she returned from speaking with the dead?

Had they decided to abandon your siblings to live selfishly somewhere far away where nobody knew them, and they were free to do as they pleased under the secure protection of their anonymity?

Had they picked up a canvas on their way to call themselves artists?

The parallels made you sick. You averted your gaze, ashamed at the understanding that a part of you had for them.

“That’s not the issue,” Theodore said, running his hand through his hair. His golden locks were in disarray, and he rubbed his temples tiredly as if to ward off a headache. “I couldn't care less about where they went. Elisabeth is right. There is nothing to miss. The problem is how it makes us look. It would jeopardize our standing if word got out that they just left. It is unheard of!”

You nodded, swallowing your guilt to focus on the problem at hand. “We need an excuse for their absence,” you said, picking up your tea to take a sip. You needed to think up a plausible reason.

“And one for their deaths,” Elisabeth added, deep in thought. Her nonchalance about never seeing them again had you in awe. 

You had made your peace with not having them in your life anymore when you left. There was only so much of a relationship you could maintain with people who seemed to despise every day you spent pursuing your dream. They had not bothered to reply to your letters — you doubted they read them at all — but you knew throughout your absence that they were well in London. Your brother had written occasionally, keeping you in the loop of family happenings that you acknowledged but did not particularly care about. 

It was enough to know they lived in safety, far away from you. This novelty of being uncertain if they were even still alive felt different. You hated not knowing what had happened.

“Simple,” Theodore said, taking a sip of his tea. He nodded to himself, reviewing the story he had constructed in his mind and making sure it made sense.

You raised your eyebrow. Elisabeth scoffed, waiting for him to continue. Nothing about this seemed easy in the slightest.

“They embarked on a trip to Greece. Mother always wanted to go. They visited Athens. They insisted on visiting Crete and got killed in one of the uprisings. We tell everyone they decided to travel on a whim — or because of father’s deteriorating health. He had been complaining of an ache in his bones, yes, Elisabeth? — and apologize profusely for them not saying their proper goodbyes.”

Elisabeth laughed at that, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms. “That is so absurd it might actually work,” she said in amusement. 

“On some later date, we will feign to receive a letter from local authorities informing us of their deaths. We will act shocked, lower their coffins into the ground symbolically,” Theodore continued, waving his hand in the air as if burying his parents was nothing but an inconvenience, “and save face in society as the poor orphans who are lucky enough to be endowed with estate, land, and property. That will be the end of this, and we can continue as if nothing happened.”

“Good thing Picasso’s return will keep the drawing rooms gossiping and marveling for at least a week,” your sister said, satisfied with the plan. “Nobody will think to question it.”

You stared at the rich brown of the coffee table, trying to find any fatal flaw in the made-up story. “What if they come back?” you muttered. “As far as we know, they are not dead. They could come back.”

A tense silence passed between you.

Theodore looked to the ground, opening his mouth to speak. Elisabeth beat him to it. “We kill them,” she said monotonously, her face devoid of any emotion other than fierce determination. You choked on your tea. She was deadly serious. 

He blanched. “That— that will not be necessary,” he stuttered. “They are gone for good, trust me.”

“How do you—?” 

“Just trust me, Elisabeth!” he snapped. 

She raised her hands in mock surrender, glancing at him as if she suspected something. 

“Apologies, I— It’s a lot right now,” he sighed, setting down his cup of tea. He winced, hissing in pain and touching his forehead. “I’m fine,” he said when he caught your concerned stare and rose from his seat. “We are invited to the Alderton’s soiree in approximately” — he pulled out his silver pocket watch — “twenty minutes. I suggest we get ready.”

Elisabeth hummed, making a show of dusting off her dress as she rose as well. “As much as you know I love soirees, brother,” she said sarcastically, earning a low groan from Theodore, “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass. You two have fun making the Lords and Ladies” — she bowed mockingly — “believe our little story. I have a prior engagement this evening.”

“What could possibly be more important than saving us from ruin?” he asked pointedly, silently resigned to going without her. The last time she had accepted such an invitation must have been years ago.

“Things beyond your comprehension,” she said darkly, her eyes glistening with passion. “Also,” she added, disappearing behind the door to retreat to the library, “I am waiting for a delivery. Good luck.” 

Theodore sighed, gripping the back of the settee and allowing himself a moment to breathe. He lowered his head until his forehead rested against his hands.

You placed a hand on his back, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Since when has she been like that?” you asked. 

He raised his head slowly, glancing over his shoulder to look at you. “Later,” he said tiredly, straightening again. “We should not be late. I will call for the carriage.”

It was only when you were sitting on the barely comfortable cushions of the carriage that brought you ever closer to the Alderton’s estate, that you realized there was still dried paint under your fingernails. 

It was the light blue you had used for the sky on the canvas half-finished and now surely gathering dust in your studio. 

“Elisabeth has taken to the occult lately,” Theodore said, smoothing down his black vest and trying to fix his crooked bowtie. 

You batted his hands away, loosening the knot and retying it neatly. “So she said. What was that about seances?”

He sighed, shrugging. “I have no idea, honestly,” he said, breaking into a fond smile as you brushed a bit of dust from his tailcoat. “Thank you.” He tilted his head to look out impatiently before glancing at his pocket watch. He nodded, satisfied that you would arrive on time. “She told me something about a failed ritual during dinner a few days ago. I did not dare inquire further, but it devastated her. She locked herself in the library for days after that.”

“I see,” you said hesitatingly. Your confusion at your sister's peculiar interest was overshadowed by concern for her.

What was she trying to summon? Why did it mean so much to her? 

Theodore winced again, his expression twisting into one of pain. 

“How is your headache?” you asked, wishing you could do something to relieve his pain.

Your fingers twitched. You wanted to run them through his hair soothingly like you used to. He had always been susceptible to headaches when the stress crashed over him like a wave, pulling him under until he drowned in it.

“We can turn around. Or drop me off,” you said, “I will take care of tonight. You should rest, Theo.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, giving you a small smile. “I can manage, don’t worry. I've had worse.”

You searched his gaze but chose not to argue. “Alright,” you sighed. Leaning back, you waited for the estate to come into view. “What has society been like recently? Is there any news I should mind?”

“Well,” Theodore said, trying to be cheerful, “Lady Bingley recently took a liking to theater, and she won’t shut up once she starts talking about the stage. Lady Fairhurst has taken a lover in Piccadilly, much to her wife’s indifference. Still, she gets irrationally defensive when the street is mentioned, including its shops. It’s quite funny, but her aggressive defense turns the conversation very draining. Lord Houghton is as obnoxious as ever. He made investments in China and is urginganyone who will listen to do the same.”

“I heard the Qing Dynasty has become unstable,” you mused, brushing down your clothes as the light of the manor came into view. “The Chinese population has grown tired of Western meddling, I have been told. It seems only a matter of time until they fight back. The missionaries are especially unpopular.”

“Do not tell him that,” your brother chuckled. 

The carriage came to a halt in front of the manor. His hand shot out, hovering over the door handle. 

“Remember our plan,” he added, looking at you one last time with a smile that almost seemed genuine, “and don’t let all the praise for your art go to your head.”

Annotations // I. The Symposium

[ameliathornromance]

The Manor House: A Vampire Romance: Chapter 3

Your jaw dropped. If it were possible, it might have hit the floor. 

“S-Sorry?”

“You heard me.” The Lord’s smirk didn’t drop as he crossed his arms. “I want you to clean the entire Manor.” 

You stared at him. Is he being serious?

What made him think that you had the capability to do such a thing?

“But, that will take longer than a day!” You insisted, jabbing your index finger into your palm. “And, how am I supposed to do that all on my own?! It may be possible if there were others around, but-” 

“But there’s not.” The Lord grimaced, his tone condescending. “Best you get started now then, the more time you spend complaining, the less time you’ll have to actually get the task done.” 

And with that, he turned on his heel and made his way back up the stairs. “Where are you going?!” You ran after him, stopping at the bottom of the staircase. “You can’t just leave me to do all this!” 

“I’m going to bed. I woke up early to make sure you knew what you were doing,” Lord Baal yawned, “and I’m tired.” He turned back to you, smirk still on his face, “best of luck to you.” 

And with that, he vanished into the dark landing. 

You stood there for a moment, stunned. “That slimy-” You groaned, clenching your fists and turning to face the entrance hall. 

The sheer size of it weighed on you as if you were carrying pails of water, assisted by a carrying pole. 

“Right,” you said to yourself. He wants the Manor cleaned in a day? Fine.

After opening and digging around in some closets that the Lord hadn’t bothered to show you, you finally found some cleaning supplies.

A feather duster, a thin cotton cloth, a bucket and an old rag. You snatched them up, stomping into the entrance hall and dropping them to the ground with a clatter.

First things first, you’d get some damn air into the Manor. You tied the thin cotton cloth around the back of your head, covering your nose and mouth and set to work.

*

The day passed with record time. You were happy to discover that there wasn’t a lot of work that actually needed doing. 

Apart from the thick layer of dust, there was virtually nothing else you had to do to clean the Manor.

You chuckled deviously to yourself the entire time. The look on the Lord’s smug face when he saw your work would be golden.

You knew that the only reason why the Lord would set up an impossible task like that was to punish you. 

Even though your question about the lack of servants had only been out of curiosity, it very clearly annoyed him quite a bit. That would be the only reason why he gave you such a difficult job to do. 

You had to admit, perhaps you didn’t phrase your question in the best way possible, but that was still no excuse to try and work a freshly recovered injured person to the breaking point. 

Your anger floated away, just like the combination of dead skin cells and clothing fibres that you dusted out the window and into the blue skies above. 

As you beat the feather duster out the window - also using it as a chance to hammer out any remaining anger you had - you spied an overgrown, unkempt garden. It was at the bottom of the hill from where the Manor was built upon.

Even from the top floor - cleaning the first salon of the day - you could see the array of brightly coloured flora. 

You admired them for a moment, indulging in their disordered beauty, before realising that the Lord would probably have you tidy his garden next.

Sucking in a deep breath with a shudder, you gave a last, hard hit to the feather duster and continued on with your work.

Your mind drifted as you cleaned.

You hadn’t truly realised how quiet the Manor actually was. The eerie silence began to bare down on you, heavier and heavier as you cleaned.

Every now and again, a creaky floorboard would make you jump out of your skin, or the squeal of the underused door hinges would cause your eyes to dart around the room wildly, as if you expected something else to be in the room with you.

Once or twice, the silence even made you glance over your shoulder, sure that there had to be someone else in the Manor with you, besides the Lord. 

But there never was. 

As much as you tried not to acknowledge it, the thought of Lord Baal, being all alone in this giant house made your heart twinge.

Even if there were one or two servants around, he would have been a little less alone. Maybe he wouldn’t be so bitter if there were more people around. 

Loneliness can do that to you. Make you bitter. Mean. Cruel. 

You tried to push those sympathetic feelings away, but your thoughts always returned back to the Lord’s loneliness… Sometimes, people like that need compassion, rather than someone to challenge their authority.

Just as you had moved onto the bookshelves in the office, you sighed. 

The fresh air seemed to have blown away all the bad feelings you had. And with a groan, you tore off your protective cloth and stormed out of the office.

Although all you did was clean during the plague back home, that didn’t stop you from having empathy for the Lord.

And the flowers you saw earlier, had given you an idea.

*

When the Lord awoke the next evening, a satisfied smirk crossed his face, upon breathing in the same, old, thick, mouldy smell that he was used to.

He knew you wouldn’t be able to get all that work done in a day. The way Lord Baal saw it, there was nothing wrong with knocking someone entitled down a peg or two.

You’d asked him why a servant wasn’t attending to you, as if you were privileged to that kind of treatment, just because he pulled you off of that river bank.

Sure, it was true that he was the only person here in the Manor, but even so. The audacity of a commoner to ask for something like that was just so… 

He didn’t finish his thought as he dressed for the evening. It didn’t matter now, you’d served your sentence for that slight against him.

The Lord was willing to forgive your entitlement - after all, it’s not every day a commoner gets to live and serve a Lord in his own home - but you had to have at least done half of the Manor by now, right?

When he was dressed, finished brushing his hair and tying it behind the back of his head, he stepped out into the hall - only to recoil at the brick of fresh air that punched him straight in the face.

Lord Baal clasped at his face, hand over mouth and nose, wide eyed. 

After regaining his composure, he braced himself for the cleanliness that greeted him.

All the candles in his hallway had been snuffed out, the dripping wax the only indication that they had ever been lit in the first place. 

He made his way down the hall, eyebrows furrowed. At random, the Lord pounced on a salon door, flinging it open.

The same freshness came for him, the windows open, the curtains drawn back and billowing softly in the night breeze.

The Lord slammed the door shut. No. There’s no way…

He rushed to the imperial staircase and gripped onto the bannisters with all his might as he watched you rearrange a bouquet of flowers in a vase.

Sensing eyes on you, you cast a look at the stairs. “Oh, good evening.” You said, lightly. 

Lord Baal said nothing as he descended the stairs. The moon beamed down through the tall windows, curtains drawn back with carefully entwined matching rope.

“I did it. I finished all the rooms.”

The Lord expected you to be dishevelled. Ruined, sweat running down your brow, nearly in tears from the stress of trying to please him.

But you weren’t. 

“The games room?” Lord Baal said, quickly. “Did you do that?” He never went in there, still felt that he wasn’t allowed to, lest he get anyone else sick.

Even though he no longer had that sickness. Or that there was anyone to catch his illness. 

"Yep. And the front room, the office too.” With one final fluff of the flowers, you held the vase out to him. “I thought these might help freshen the entrance hall up... I found the garden was quite overgrown, so I thought I’d pick these and then get started on that tomorrow.”

Words escaped the Lord as he stared at the vase in your hands. He absently took the vase from you. 

“I… also wanted to say sorry.” 

“Sorry?”

“Yeah…” You pursed your lips. “I hadn’t realised that you’d been on your own for so long and didn’t realise that a question like ‘where are your servants?’ would be so insulting… So, let’s make peace for now, okay?”

It wasn’t just that you wanted to say sorry - you needed to stay here. 

The Witch Hunter was still out there… somewhere. Looking for you. 

When the Lord gave you no reply to your apology, you clasped your hands together awkwardly. “Well… I’ll go to bed now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, you left the Lord standing there, clutching at the vase.

Lord Baal’s grip tightened as he realised what kind of flowers you had cut: Peace Lilies. 

Hands shaking, he whipped around, looking in the direction you’d left in.

How dare you pity him

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Masterlist

[buckyalpine]

hi 🫶🏻 sad fluff anon here. btw j wanna say I LOVED “always you” thank you sm!! i j love love ur writing 🥹 if it isn’t a bother…could u please write another sad fluff fic with bucky but its inspired by the tiktok audio “u came.” “u called.”

Nomad!Ex!Bucky x reader (happy ending)

Baby the only bother here is how fucking long I took to get to this, I'm so sorry. I really really hope you see this. I love this.

Some sadness but plenty of fluff to make up for it.

His hands shook as he tried to stitch a gash on the side of his torso, blood spilling from the fresh cut, the serum doing little to heal the wound. He winced, collapsing to the floor feeling dizzy, floating in and out of consciousness. The last thing he could remember was running. He'd managed to make it to his apartment without bleeding out in the hall but he couldn't do anything to stop it now.

He cried out, trying to stand back up and slipping on his own blood, finally resting on the floor, unable to do much else. His body moved on his own, his hand reaching into the pocket of his jeans, pulling his phone out. He struggled to focus on the buttons of his burner phone, he didn't even bother saving numbers, fearing what would happen if it got lost and landed in the wrong hands.

He didn't even know who he could call. Part of him wondered if he should just succumb to his injuries. 

No.

If he was lucky, he'd die but what if, just what if they some how found him first. Just like the first time they found him in the snow. He couldn't go through that again. The world couldn't go through that again.

He only had one number he could remember. 

It had been 3 years but he’d never forget it. 

Even if he tried. 

He tried so hard to shake off all the memories, to remind himself it was better this way, for him to be alone, no ties to anyone. He ended everything, with nothing but a note left in his place, begging his angel to forgive the choice he was making. 

****

He could hear the sound of footsteps approaching, running, down the hall, getting closer and closer to his apartment. After a momentary struggle with the lock, the door opened and clicked shut. 

“James?”  He heard those soft footsteps search frantically around the apartment, his angel’s voice calling for him. He could barely keep his eyes open when the bathroom door swung open. 

“James!” You gasped, running to his side, your hand covering his gash, while cradling his face to make him look at you. Dark bruises littered his skin, a another cut near his forehead and other small wounds covering his body. “Bucky, what happened, who did this?” 

"You came" Bucky whispered tears welling in his eyes, feeling your warm soft hand cupping his cheek, the sound of your voice already healing him. 

"You called" You didn’t know where to focus first, your heart racing when you felt his hand on top of yours, pressing your hand further against his cheek. 

"You came" Bucky repeated, unsure if he had died on gone to heaven, the sweet angel that had always been by his side, gently holding pressure to his wound while softly caressing his face. "You came"

"I'm here now" You nodded, doing your best to hold pressure on his cut while digging through the first aid kit, quickly working at his worst injury before tending to the others. Bucky didn’t feel an ounce of pain, because nothing hurt more than his heart. Here you were, tending to him with soft gentle hands, whispering comfort, asking if he was okay, as if he didn’t break your heart, leaving you without looking back. 

3 years. 

His heart had ached for you, yearned for you, he missed you every second of the day but he didn’t want to be selfish, dragging you into the mess of his life. He cried and called for you every single night, only to wake up alone, the bed cold, the room dark with nothing but his nightmares to keep him company. 

“You came” He couldn't take his eyes off you while you gently cleaned him off, before helping him stand, and strip the rest of his clothes off, guiding him to the shower and turning the warm water on to wash the grime and dried blood off of him. He winced at the sting, while you grabbed some soap, lathering it between your hands, softly massaging his skin. 

“Are you okay baby?” You felt your face heat up and the slip up of the name, even after all these years it felt natural. You kept your eyes trained on his chest as best as you could; your body heating up, he was still as beautiful as always. His eyes were more sullen, beard grown fuller and he had more scars on his body than you remembered but he was beautiful nonetheless. 

“I’m okay doll” The name he had just for you rolled of his tongue without hesitation, his hands slowly moving to grip onto your waist, slipping up your now wet t-shirt. He rested his forehead on yours while you gently slipped your hands down his body, careful to avoid causing him more pain. You grabbed a towel that hung nearby, drying him off while he sat on the edge of the tub. You went to his room, grabbing some boxers for him to throw on. 

“Come here” You threw his arm over your shoulder, helping him into bed and tucking him in before cleaning up the remaining mess of the bathroom. You hopped in the shower yourself, throwing your wet clothes aside and rinsing off any blood that had gotten onto your skin. You wrapped yourself up with a towel, making your way over to his room to change into some of his sweats.  

He watched you carefully as you quietly padded around his bedroom, grabbing one of his Henley’s and boxers, dropping the towel onto the rack before slipping his clothes on. Bucky’s breathed hitched watching you fold away a few of his clothes that he hadn’t put away. You left the room, coming back with some pain meds and water, sitting on the side of his bed. 

Home. He finally felt like he was home. 

He had lived in the very same apartment for 3 years but tonight it felt like a home. 

“Here, take these” You handed him his medicine, helping him take a few sips of water before putting the glass on the side of the table. “I can sleep on the couch-

“Stay?” He held your wrist when you were about to leave, tugging you to slip under the covers with him. “Please doll?” 

You couldn’t resist him, carefully crawling under the sheets, your heart hammering in your chest when he wrapped his arm around you waist to pull you closer. He brought your head to lay on his chest, his body finally relaxing, for the first time, his bed felt warm. 

“Angel?” He lifted your chin to meet his eyes, “I’m sorry sweets” You wiped the tears that slipped down his cheeks, kissing them away. “Please don’t ever go” 

“I’m here baby, not going anywhere” You stroked his hair, gently lulling him to sleep, while he hugged you tighter. 

“You came” He kissed your forehead, holding you close, he’d never ever let you go. He made the mistake once and he’d never make it again.

“You called” You whispered against his skin, finally feeling whole again. 

Tags:

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[regalityandcoffee]

Nicknames (Pirate! Jon Moxley x Princess Reader)

Summary: due to a bizarre set of circumstances, you, the princess of a far away land, find herself at the mercy of one Captain's William Regal and his strange but kind crew of pirates.

Warnings: Fingering, breast play, Sir kink, Mox being a damn tease, implied William x Mox x Reader near the end because I'm a predictable slut.

Enjoy? <3

☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡☆♡

"Achoo! Damn all this dust…" Mox muttered to himself as he cleaned under the bunk.  He brought it on himself, really. He should have gotten under here days ago, but like a lot of things it had simply slipped his mind. Now he was stuck on his knees in the cabin he shared with Bryan while he helped Regal, Claudio, and Wheeler on the upper deck.

He got up, dusting the dirt off his slacks. At least now all he had to do was sweep the room and he'd be done. He turned toward the door and practically jumped out of his skin.

The princess was standing in the doorway, chewing on some hardtack. 

"Fucking Christ, are you a ghost or somethin'?" He grunted as he walked to the door, removing the broom from its holder on the back. He stood over her now. "Ye can't just go floating around like that."

"Sorry," he barely heard her as she made to go back down the hall. A pang of regret stirred in him immediately. He sighed.

"Get back here." To his surprise, she came back, her hands behind her back as she looked up at him. It had to be some sort of crime to have eyes like that. It was near ridiculous how cute she was. "What are you doing out of the Captain's quarters without supervision anyway?"

"I went to the kitchen… I was a bit hungry, that's all." She looked into his eyes, moving her hair away from her face, slowing the last little bite of bread. Damn it, with a head full of curls like that, who needed a crown? As meek as she was, there was no doubt that she was royal by just looking at her. 

"Well just stay there, and I'll take you back up, alright? Can't have you getting hurt or lost." That was the last damn thing he needed on his conscience; her getting hurt somehow after they all promised her she'd be fine in their care. He was no stranger to crime,  holding hostages, pillaging scum and dealers across the seas and land. He was a pirate for fuck’s sake. But the woman watching him sweep wasn't any of those things.  She was a maiden swept up from her fancy, safe little life in her castle by a band of dangerous freaks like him, all because of an old grudge she had nothing to do with. She was just the right lady in the right place at the wrong time.

And she was taking it bafflingly well.

She tilted her head, gripping the door frame, seemingly scared to come into the room. "I heard you coughing, Sir. Do you need help?"

That was yet another thing about her that stumped him. They way she addressed them all like they were... noblemen. He the most was the furthest thing from respectable, why the hell was she calling him "Sir"? Still, Mox chuckled. this had to be the most unique and odd hostage situation he'd ever be in. Why couldn't she be as scared as everyone else he kidnapped? Probably because most of his hostages were other pirates or rich assholes or corrupt government officials…

"What's your name again, miss?"

"Y/N," She said clearly.

"Yeah, Princess Y/N." He moved back to the center of the room. "Princesses don't get on their knees and clean dirty pirates' rooms, last time I checked." He kept sweeping, fighting back another cough. To his surprise, he watched as she came inside and gently took the broom from his hand. 

"I can sweep...  and you can finish whatever else you need to do, is that alright, Sir?" She looked up at him, giving him a small smile.

Mox couldn't believe what he was seeing. She wasn't trying to run? Or fight? She... she was trying to clean with him?

"Y-yeah sure if you want. But there ain't a reason in the world you have to do it. I'll be fine... You're a princess, after all. Shouldn't be cleaning anything I've touched…"

She ignored him, and went to sweep the wooden floor. Shrugging to himself, Mox lumbered over and tidied up his bed. Once he finished, he sat down on the edge and watched her. Why, out of all of the gowns they brought her after hers was torn, why did she pick the one that hugged her body the most? 

Gone was the frumpy bright dress that -if he was being frank- made her look like a walking cake, now she roamed their ship looking like sin itself. Of all the possible dresses, she picked a green number that laced in the front and revealed her ample cleavage, hugged her waist, hips and (as he was looking at that very moment) behind. 

Did every damn thing about this woman have to drive him mad?

He leaned on the post of the bed, his chin tucked in his arms, listening and watching her as she hum to herself. Soon she finished, sweeping the dirt and dust and dumping it into the bin in the corner.

"You…you actually like to clean?" He said as he watched her put the broom back against the door.

"When I can. I don't get a lot of chances, with having staff and whatnot. Papa says it's not a royal's place to do such labor, and Henry says it's commoners work,  he hates it when I do such things. I just like to be helpful, Sir, when I can…" she explained.

 "Hmmm." Mox grunted as he sat back up.

"Are you done? Are we going back to the Captain's quarters, Sir Jon?" She wiped her palms on her dress, then stood with them behind her back.

"What did you just call me?" His eyebrows raised.

"Huh?"

"Sir..." Jon mumbled the word to himself. Sir… Sir Jon…

"Oh...I'm sorry... do you prefer Mister? Mister Moxley? Or Mister Jon?" Her eyes had gotten wide, as if she was afraid she had made a mistake. 

"Come here."

She raised her eyebrows at him, watching as he crooked his fingers. Still, she complied, slowly walking to him. Even sitting down he could tell how much larger he was than her. especially as his hands made their way to her waist and the small of her back to pull her near, until she stood between his legs.

"Mox is fine." He couldn’t help himself, a small laugh escaped him. He found himself... enjoying this now? Even if it were a bit embarrassing that a princess had referred to him like a knight. It was strange. The only one who called him by his first name was Regal, and even he didn't use a title like that when referring to him. He didn't mind it though, strangely enough….

"It's just that… all the men call you "Mox", but Sir William said your name was Jon Moxley…"

"They call me Mox cause its shorter than my surname. Its just a nickname, just something that started when I was young I guess.... You can call me whatever you want...." Mox paused, thinking about what he was going to say. "You can call me whatever you like, Princess…"

She nodded. To his surprise -and partial relief- she didn't pull away, instead placing her hands on his shoulders. He looked up at her, and immediately his eyes went back down. Why the hell did she have to have a face like that? Long lashes, eyes that looked like they were looking through him like glass, pretty plump lips and cute round cheeks, she looked like a dream. If he wasn't touching her, he couldn't even be sure if she was real, or just some bizarre fantasy of his.

"What made you pick this, huh? Not that you don't look like a dime, it just ain't something a princess should be wearing, get me?" Mox moved a hand to her chest, giving the end of the lace. that barely held front of her dress together a small tug.

She paused, eyes looking nervous as she looked down at him. "I... I just thought it was beautiful... I've never seen a dress like this before..."

"I have, but usually on thieves and harlots."He murmured. Mox smirked at the pout forming on her lips as he pulled her closer to him. I'll admit... Not exactly a typical dress for a lady like you."

He paused for a moment, deciding whether or not he should say what was on his mind.

"But I'm not complaining." His free hand went down, stroking her hip. "You got a suitor, don' you, little princess? Some dandy the King set you with? Just looking at you I can tell you could have your pick of anyone..."

He was just teasing, but to his disappointment she nodded.

"I guess we gotta give you away to them when we take you back, huh?"

To his surprise, she looked alarmed at the idea. Almost like…she didn't want to go back to whoever she was set with. What did her future prince have to be like for her to want to stay with a bunch of pirates? He pushed the thought from his head as he kept her near.

 At this point, had no idea what he was doing. This wasn't some wench he met on the street or in some brothel, this was a goddamn, honest royal. Having her like this could lead to imprisonment or worse. But he was already risking that since he helped kidnap her for fucks sake. He might as well take it further. Besides, to his surprise she seemed a lot less… tense now that he had her closer.

"You got a real way with words, princess. Are you this quiet in your little castle? Or with your man? …or are you dumb because of me?" Mox watched as she struggled to find words, moving his arms around her fully.

"I thought you did… I thought you hated me, so I stayed away…" she seemed brave enough now to look him in the eyes. Why in God's name did she have to have eyes like that? And what magic did they hold to cause him to act like this?

"Hated you?" He raised his brows. He knew practically nothing about her, why would he- oh. Oh. He snorted, shaking his head. "Fucking Regal, guess he was right…"

The princess tilted her head, seemingly confused.

"He tells me how I come off sometimes, standoffs  and gruff and shit. But it's just how I am, Princess. I didn't think you'd notice." He moved a hand up, twirling a strand of her soft hair around his finger. "I'm sorry for scarin' you. But like we all said before, we won't hurt you, understand? You have nothing to do with our plans, alright?"

She nodded, her pretty dark lips poking out in a pout. 

"Regal told you that too, right? You trust him?" 

She nodded quickly. "Yes, yes of course."

"Good." Mox hummed. 

They stayed like that for a bit, feeling the sway of the boat as he held her way closer than he should. She didn't seem to mind, even moving her hand to pick some dust out of his beard, tilting her head as she looked at him. The breeze coming in through the door gave him another whiff of her perfume. She smelled divine, that was the only word for her. She smelled pure and divine, of flowers and citrus and shit like that. A vision like her had no place in a world like this, but the more he held her the more he was glad she was there…

Especially with him.

He cleared his throat. "Your Henry is- he- do you love him?"

Y/N raised her eyes, and he could see her struggling to word her thoughts. "He is my betrothed…"

"That ain't what I asked. Do you love him?"

"I have been engaged to him, I must love him as-"

"So you really didn't pick him out yerself, huh?" Mox took her chin in his hand. His eyes raked over her body once more, from her lucious chest to her belly to the curves of her hips in that accursed, tantalizing dress."That means he don't count. Do you love him or not, Princess?"

Her hand crept up his arm, stopping to intertwine with his as she shook her head.

"Then he definitely don't count." He let go of her chin, his hands going back to her hips, hers back to his shoulders.

"Is he good to you, Princess?"

"G-good to me?"

"He don't leave you to fend for yourself… do he?" One hand made its way down her thigh, bunching up the soft material of the dress and tugging it up, revealing more and more of her pretty calf, then her thigh, then the soft dipped curve of her hip. "He knows how to please you, right?"

Mox looked back up at her wide eyes. He watched as she looked so confused, so cute. Something was building up in them too, he knew that look anywhere, the lustful way she gazed down into his eyes.

"When's the last time you've had a proper fuck, huh, princess?" He said, his voice low.

"I…I don't know," she whispered back. "It's been… a while…"

"That ain't no good. What's the point of marryin' a lady like you if you ain't gonna treat her right? You want me to treat you right, Princess?" He creeped the dress up more, finally bunching it up just bellow her belly, revealing herself to him. Not a pair of bloomers in sight. Not very ladylike, he noted…

"M-mox, the door!" She squeaked, looking over her shoulder at the wide open doorway. 

Mox. She actually called him Mox…

"Don't worry,everybody's above deck..," he chuckled. "It's nice and private down here for now." With Regal busy looking over the map with Bryan, and Claudio and Wheeler probably swabbing the deck, he had plenty of time for what was on his mind, what he wanted to do to her. 

She looked away from the door and back to him.

"You trust me, Princess?" 

She nodded. 

"Thatta girl. Keep yer eyes on me, alright?" He moved his face towards her chest. His teeth caught the end of the tie between his teeth undoing the cording covering her bosom in seconds. She sucked in a breath as the dress revealed her soft  breasts to him. 

"Mox…"

"Such a pretty fucking thing you are, Princess…" his hand made its way between her thighs. He kept his other firm at her lower back as he rubbed her clit, smirking at the soft whimper that escaped her before he dragged his tongue over one of her nipples. He moved his fingers from her clit, dragging them down to press between the soft folds of her pussy to her entrance. 

Seems like it really had been a while for the poor girl if she was this wet already.

Slowly, he pressed his index into her, feeling her walls clench around him as he kept at her chest. He relished the sound of her whining as her hands gripped his shirt. He took his time getting a feel of her, pushing his finger back and forth, no real rythm on his mind until he found her weakest, most sensitive spot…

"M-Mox…!."

Suddenly, a thought entered his head as he pulled away from her chest to look up at her. He wiped some saliva from the corner of his mouth as he watched her eyes fluttered, as she choked back another pretty little noise.

"What's that yer always calling me, Princess? Sir?" She nodded, moaning as he pressed another of his thick fingers into her. He crooked them, moving them back and forth slowly as her pussy clenched around them."Say it."

"Mph, S-sir Jon…"

"You're a fucking dream, Princess," he murmured before flicking his tongue over her other nipple, then wrapping his lips around the sensitive bud. He switched digits, pulling out his index to thrust in her with his middle and ring fingers while his thumb rubbed hard circles against her pretty little clit.

"Uh, mmmph, S-sir…!"

"No need to keep your voice down, lass, we've got the whole lower deck to ourselves. C'mon, let me hear that voice…" he purred as he sucked at the skin around her nipple. 

"Sir Jon… don't stop, please, please…"

All he could do was nod as he left marks against her chest. He had no plans on stopping anytime soon.

It didn't take much more of his teasing for her to reach her point, she shuddered against him, panting and crying out as her pussy clenched around his fingers, dripping down to his wrist. He listened to her little whines for mercy, pulling his fingers out. 

He assessed the damage, looking at the  way his fingers glistened from her juices. He looked up at her, sucking the taste off her off them.She looked on with shock, her pretty eyes still cloudy with lust. Mox pulled her onto his lap, an arm around her pulling her lose while his other lay firm on her ass. He rested his head againstt her shoulder, yet again breathing in the scent of her. 

“Been wanting to do that since I got you on this ship…” he muttere, laying a kiss against the side of her lovely face. 

“Thank you…” She mumbled as she wrapped her arms around him. 

“My pleasure, Princess…” They sat like that for bit  him rubbing her back, until his eyes went to the wide open door. “Guess I ought to get you back upstairs, huh? Captain’s probably missing you something fierce…”

She nodded slowly, letting out a surprised noise as he stood up, quickly wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“Let's’ get you back to him then, alright?”

“Yes, Sir. “

Mox tucked an arm behind her knees, carrying her like a bride. He tugged her dress back down as he walked with her into the hall,. She struggled to fix the cording covering her chest as the went  up the creaky stairs to the top of the ship. The beautiful sky was still there to great them, with just a few clouds rolling in now that midday had come. He passed by Wheeler, his eyes open in surprise, a smile quickly forming on his lips. He avoided eye contact wit the rest of the group as he walked over to the door of the Captain’s Quarters. He gave the door a knock.

“Come in,” the unmistakable voice of Captain William Regal said on the other side. Mox took in a deep breath and pushed open the door. 

There on the edge of his bed sat the Englishman, his head in a book of poetry. He closed the door behind him, taking Princess Y/N over to the bed and helping her to sit down in the middle. He tucked the feather next to him in the book and smiled at the princess, gently taking her hand and giving the back a kiss. “I was wondering where you had gone to, love.”

“I went to the k- kitchen, then I-”

“She was just helping me clean, she was keeping me some company,” Mox interrupted her. His eyes widened as she tucked her legs underneath her to sit; the lace across her chest was nowhere as neat as it was when she hasd first came downstairs… and the Captain was sure to notice. 

“Just keeping him some company, were you?” William murmured. To Mox’s bemusement, his hands went to the princess’s face, looking into her eyes with those famous blues of his, before giving her a soft, gentle kiss on her forehead. “I’m sure it was quiet a time indeed. Claudio could hear your merriment down the hall you know, when he went to check on our dear Jon…”

Mox stiffened as the man’s gaze turned to him. “I’m sure you to had quite an interesting time, didn’t you?”In the older man’s eyes wasn't an ounce of anger, disappointment, or anything of the sort… There was a twinkle in his eye that read solely of mischief. “I’m just disappointed, that, well…you hadn’t a mind to tell mind to call upon me.”

Oh? “Call upon ya?” Mox tilted his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. Surely, the oldewr man wasn’y implying what he thought he was…

And yet, as he watched William lay a kiss against the princess’s cheek, a hand moving to twirl the cording around his finger, loosing it once more,  he knew instantly knew better. “I would have just loved to see the look on her darling face as you two entertained each other…”

“It ain’t too late to, Cap’tn,” Mox chuckled. 

The poor sweet girl on the bed looked between the two of them, her eyes widening with sudden realization.

“Well, Y/N, my little dove” What say you? Will you let me entertain you like our Jon, hmm?”

She gave a little nod, covering her mouth with her hand. SHe sucked in a breath as the lace at her chest was discarded, as the Captain helped her to lay at his pillows and his hands moved to tug her dress up and off.

Mox gave the Captain a smirk, and began to unbutton his own shirt.

This was going to be a hell of an evening for them…

-fin-

[the-snake-and-the-steel]

[100%].

[Lazy writing incoming]

Hexe continues floating through the hall as normal, as if she was not just frozen for god knows how long. She doesn't even realize it, as if time for her has simply resumed.

Nothing seems out of place. The twins see her and quickly duck out of view, Achilles watches her leave with hatred in his eye.... nothing out of the ordinary, she's acting... well, normal.

Slyn is sitting at his desk when she teleports in, sitting on his bed.

"Hello, Slyn."

Slyn jumps and turns around, brandishing a small dagger at her. She tilts her head.

".... oh-" he drops out of his chair and kneels at Hexe's feet. "Greetings, my queen.... apologies, you scared me...."

"I am aware."

He tries to act as if he doesn't want to run up and kiss her but also run away at the same time. Hexe's blank expression curls into a frown.

"Something has just occurred. And I want to know what it is."

".... m-my queen, I do not know what you are speaking of-"

"Don't fucking play dumb like this, Slyn. Someone forgot to clean the gold glitter by the stables."

Of course they fucking forgot, he thinks as his heart drops.

The dagger slips from Slyn's hands and flies into Hexe's, as if magnetized. She inspects the blade, a trickle of blood dripping down the metal and onto her finger.

"For once, I do not know what has happened. Something in the kingdom feels... different. More hopeful."

"That can not be. That is not allowed. So I implore you to tell me...... what. Happened."

Slyn adjusts his sleeve a bit, looking down.

"I've been in my room for the whole day, don't ask me."

"You are the king, Slyn. A king does not isolate in his room, cutting his arms for menial situations involving those whom do matter."

Slyn winces. Of course she knew.

He feels sharp nails trace the back of his neck before they grab his hair with an iron grip, holding him down as Hexe leers over him. Slyn feels a shiver flood down his spine, a mix of fear and excitement.

"You are more attentive than this, Slyn. You know something. So I will give you another chance to be a good king and tell me...."

"What. Happened."

"............."

Slyn stares up into her eyes. His are dead and dull, with just the smallest hint of affection as she glares at him.

He continues to bite his tongue.

"...... Ah. I see how it is."

She throws him against the wall harshly. Slyn grunts in pain before prying his eyes open.... everything is cold. He can't see anything easily, from how dark and cold the room is.

.... this isn't my room....? He thinks, falling to the ground. The snakes of his hands land on something wet and rough.... carpet? No.... moss.

Hexe teleports in front of Slyn. She takes off her hat, and the only illusion of disguise disappears to unveil the shadowed monster beneath.

Her voice is hollow, warped, and full of so much anger as she speaks.

"I'm finished trying to restore you to your former glory. You have fallen too far.... and now you shall pay the price for your negligence."

Vaga quickly tells Samuel once he comes across the glitter, and they burn it with Celio's help. It's only 10 minutes after Hexe unfroze.

"Do you think she noticed?" Vaga whispers to his brother and friend.

"I dunno.... maybe."

"But then wouldn't we all be getting punished r'now? She's a loose cannon, she'd totally be punishing us all if she thought something was up."

Vaga and Sammy look at each other apprehensively.

"....... guess not. Maybe she didn't notice."

"I hope not..."

Eventually they go their separate ways... no punishments. No screaming. No torture. Everything seems calm.......

No one can hear anything from the dungeon though.

[thegreatsylvando]

A short little dotmunch fanfic i wrote, delving more into their bond & whatever powers munch might have. also posting here in case the link fails for whatever reason.

Dot is not outright paying attention to the commercials, but the banal jingles stick in her mind uncomfortably enough for her to note that a particularly annoying one has played four times. She has a headache that coffee and breakfast failed to soothe, but she can't muster any energy to switch the TV off and give her brain some reprieve from the light and sound. Wayne is at work. Scotty is at school. They have the house to themselves. When it's all four of them, it's a hearth in the darkness. She could never want for anything ever again. She even turned down Lorraine's offer to relocate them somewhere bigger and fancier. Dot was never one for showing off wealth. Not that she ever had it to begin with, but she always found Lorraine's castle garish and hollow; a museum that happened to have some beds and a kitchen. A trophy hall. She could never leave this house. It breathes with her, is scarred like her, is bent and broken in some places but patched up in others, where it matters. And when it's just her and the strange man with ancient eyes, she feels its tendons and capillaries bind to her own.

She decides not to call his name. He might get scared, or think she wants him to do something. She shuffles up to the guest bedroom, trying to dodge the places on the stairs that creak. He's almost deliberately quiet, in everything he does. When she fed him for the first time, he cried, but he did it silently, swallowing everything with each bite of pancake. She felt it anyway. The way the fork trembled in his hand magnetically resonated in her own. He held the rim of his plate delicately, but she noted the tips of his fingers were white with effort, as if he were trying to prevent his good fortune, this dream, from floating away. She watched his tears drip into the syrup, the muscles in his swollen throat working to make room, his jaw clenching sharply to keep it focused on nothing else but chewing. 

He cleaned his plate and allowed for one singular moment to drop decorum, when he sucked some residual syrup off his thumb. Dot's insides twisted when she saw that, her own throat closing up at how innocent it was, and the deprivation it inferred. A ragged "thank you" clawed itself out, and he stood robotically to start helping her with the dishes. Wayne and Scotty were stirred momentarily from their chatter when they saw him looming in their peripherals. Scotty got right back to it, but Wayne's eyes lingered before resuming, the cadence in his voice implying a sort of desperation to uphold normality in the wake of this intimidating stranger he had no words for. Dot told him he didn't have to help, but he didn't seem to hear, instinctively reaching for the dishwashing liquid and sponge with the same stiffness. He did look at her, though. His eyes were bloodshot. The skin across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose were flushed, and, against every titanic ounce of effort he put forth, his bottom lip quivered like a little boy's. She squeezed his hand as tight as she could, keeping his gaze, hoping that through the tears he could see her seeing him. Her own welled up, and spilled over when he squeezed her hand back. The water softened his calluses, and their bony sharpness made them feel like that of an old woman.

She knocks on the door gingerly.

"Munch?"

She's surprised she was able to go this long without catching his attention. His senses seem so primal. He turns to look. Around his shoulders is a thick, washed-out-blue comforter. Instead of reclining on the bed, he's curled up in the corner it makes with the nightstand.

"Dot."

A fuzzy warmth pools in her belly.

"Whatcha doin' up here?"

He holds up a yellowed copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz she didn't know she had.

"...Reading."

Her ears perk up. She enjoys the way he speaks, the way he makes her name thicker with his pronunciation, though she has no idea how to articulate that. His voice is raspy, but marbly, purposeful, with the kind of crisp emphasis on each syllable that implied English was not his first language.

"Oh, yeah? That's a blast from the past. We should watch the movie sometime."

"...Movie?"

"Yeah. You ever seen a movie before?"

"...No." 

A pause. 

"I know what movies are."

Something about the way he says that, the unintentional attitude, almost makes her laugh. She nods, remembering when he told her he was very old without clarifying exactly what that meant. She chose not to pry any further. It was none of her business, and she probably wouldn't understand anyway. 

His expression softens as she approaches to sit beside him; the beginnings of a smile in his eyes. He's wearing a loose charcoal t-shirt with a lighter gray thermal long-sleeved underneath and plaid pajama pants, courtesy of Wayne. Dot notices the soapy scent coming off him, mixed with what seemed to be the unwashable smell of age. Musky and slightly damp, but not unpleasant, as if he were an old house, too. It's a stark contrast to when she first invited him in a week ago, and there were no forces of weather or perilous circumstances to distract her senses. Immediately, she was hit by unwashed hair; sweat; clothes that smelled as if they were locked away in the dark for a long time; fresh dirt, but dirt nonetheless; and something coppery, not dank enough to be blood but not mundane enough to be pennies either. His skin was badly chapped, his lips split in multiple places, and she noticed he tucked his chin in when he deigned it necessary to speak, as if to hide his teeth. She watched his eyes dart around self-consciously, his bottom lip disappearing into his mouth to be gnawed at. The maneater with the sun at his back that pulled her up from the pit of rot was nowhere to be found. In his place, a lost child who does not speak the language of his saviors. Immediately, she felt her chest collapse in on itself. Please don't tell me I've already taught him shame. Thankfully, Wayne saved the day, clapping a hand onto Munch's shoulder.

"S-so, you're the guy, huh? I gotta say, um...thank you for your service. I...uh...I mean, th-thank you. For what you've done. You really, um--"

He takes a breath. Maneuvers into shaking Munch's hand after realizing he flinched from the clap.

"You saved my Dottie's life. Thank you."

Munch gave a curt nod, still a deer in headlights. The face of someone who'd never been congratulated for anything in his life. Dot suddenly felt her surroundings melt away. She was eight years old, in a verdant field, the summer breeze warming her neck. In front of her was a little boy, shaggy pale hair obscuring a dirty, gaunt face that was more shadow than skin, shreds of filthy cloth hanging on his shoulders and waist. She cocked her head, and he did the same. She raised her palm towards him, and he followed. The childlike glee of old bubbled under her skin, fireworks going off in her head. The boy interlocked their fingers, and she heard cheerful laughter somewhere in the distance. Before she could determine where it was coming from, the vision vanished, Munch's wide eyes locked onto hers. He blinked away. The base of her neck tingled. Somehow they both knew this was never going to be a one-time compensatory meal. There was a thread between them.

"You have many books. We have not had books in a long time."

She almost asks what a long time entails, but bites her tongue.

"Yeah, I see ya hoarding books whenever you can like a little squirrel. You show up in front of the bookcase and there's a big gap all of a sudden."

Munch looks like he's trying to figure out how the word "little" tastes.

"I...do not mean to steal."

"No, no-no-no-no-no, hon! You're all right! I'm just playing. I'm glad you're a bookworm. I see Scotty try, but she mostly stays on her computer."

Munch starts to smile, but sucks in his lip before his teeth can show, turning it into an awkward wince. She reaches to gently squeeze his shoulder.

"Don't be afraid to smile, hon. Everything here is yours, too."

He seems to embrace her with his eyes. They're heavy with longing, and gratitude. Too heavy to hold up. He looks back at the book cover blankly, curling up further into himself.

"We--I...am not afraid of you."

"I know," she whispers.

"You can talk to me about whatever you want. You know that, right?"

"Yes."

"Good. I don't want you to coop yourself up here because you don't wanna bother us or whatever."

"...I cannot just speak whenever I want to. Forgive me if I seem...ungrateful. The words stay in my head. Never become anything. 

...But I feel. I feel...so much...and I...it is a stomachache. I have never been so full."

His voice cracks as he finishes, each word more deliberate than the last. She can feel the threads there too, making each letter longer and meatier, all of them held together by fleshy ropes of held hands that bloom from one palm to the next. She can't help but hug him, cradle his head into the crook of her neck. He shrinks into her.

"I wish I knew you when I was little. We could have played together. You'd have liked our farm. Lots of apples."

"Would have protected you."

"I know."

Then Dot blinks. She starts to ponder his tone, insistent and specific.

"From the wolves."

She flinches away from him. Fear stiffens his face, worried that he's scared her off for good.

"...How?"

He starts to take her hands, but stops before they touch, swallowing to ground himself and changing the look in his eyes to do what his hands cannot. Admirable, she thinks. An emotional maturity she truthfully, ignorantly, didn't think he possessed.

"...Things...are known to me. Other people's feelings. Their weaknesses, their strengths. Like they are on fire, and I can see it breathing around them. Changing color. Getting bigger, getting smaller."

Somehow, the explanation starts to comfort her. Thoroughly supernatural, delusionally magical, but an explanation, nonetheless.

"I...do not know why...but your fire..." He looks above and around her with reverence. A hand grazes the air for the proper words. "You...are the strongest. I can see you, hear you, have seen and heard you, from very far away. It came out at me when I--" He swallows again with discomfort, like he's tasting something bad. "--tried to hurt you. Gold, and black. After that, my head..." He knocks against his temple. "...pounded like there was another heart. And I learned that it was yours. You were everywhere."

Dot is not aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks until one drops onto her clasped hands. The wet sniffle that follows embarrasses her. Tigers don't cry.

"They tried to pay me to hurt you again. I was close-by, but I saw someone else's flame. I thought maybe I could try something else, try to ignore you. Hers...was liquid. Oozing around her in blue and gray, like ash. Her heartbeat reached out to me, too, but she did not know me. Not in this life." He taps the book cover with a sardonic wince-smile. "Once upon a time."

"Y-you know those things, too?"

"If I focus. Not very successful most of the time. But...this woman, she...when Munch was a boy, a very long time ago, she gave me water. And a potato from her garden. I was very sick. I had started to digest myself. But she gave me another chance. The water was clean. Not like water from the forest. And she washed the potato for me. Cut it up into small pieces. I did not expect her to know me now, but..."

But it still hurts, Dot thinks. Munch's face twists. His bottom lip trembles in that way again. She chooses not to acknowledge the fact that he seems to nod at her thoughts.

"She was killed...because of me. That...boy, that...creature, followed me and attacked her. I gave her money...for food. She went out...and I found her later, on the ground. Her head...cracked open--"

Munch hugs his legs, burying his face in his knees, rocking back and forth. A whine turns into an agonized groan, a child getting his first shot.

"Munch? Hey. Hey-hey-hey. No. No...look at me--Munch? Hon?" She starts to pry his arms apart, but they snap back to scratch at his scalp. She tries to force herself between his arms, but he begins to hit himself. "Don't do that, honey. Look at me." She clenches her belly instinctively, gathering the strength to fight his own, clawing at his shoulders and waist until she gets ahold of his wrists and worms her way in, and he eventually gives, hugging her back just as tightly, unloading what sounds like decades (centuries?) of pain and loss with the most ragged wheeze she's ever heard come out of a human being. Munch is tall, wiry, muscular in his thinness. He's all sharp edges and endless bony limbs, and yet the crooks of his joints melt into yarn. His hollow cheek squishes against her collarbone.

"Shh-sh-sh."

He cries so strangely, as if he's pulling a blade out of his diaphragm, and she shudders, not knowing what to do with all the blood. Closing her eyes tight, she flexes the muscles in her core again, breathes in, and relaxes, trying to make the words in her head as tangible as anything else in the room.

Can you hear me, hon? Can you feel me?

The next heavy breath is quieter, less abrasive on his throat.

They can't hurt us anymore. Its over.

Dot imagines the ribbons of her flame cloaking them both, binding them together.

You never have to be alone again. Just hold onto me.

They stay entwined for some time. Eventually, Dot weeps as well. There's a completeness here that she wouldn't be able to explain to anyone. Its not the way Wayne makes her feel, or what its like to comfort Scotty after a bad day at school. Its not a sexual or romantic fulfillment either -- couldn't be further from it. But Munch's skin and hair and even his stilted voice feel like her own. She thinks back to the vision of the boy in the field, recalling how similar he looked to her with his long hair and scabby knees, how their palms felt fused together.

"Can you read my mind, Munch?"

He sniffles. The fresh vulnerability in his voice, the way it rolls out with his head rested comfortably near her chest, makes her shiver. "...No. I feel people's intentions. Their emotions. I do not know what you are thinking. Just how you feel when you are thinking it.

Turn off the lights...for a moment."

"Yeah, sure." She reaches up for the lamp, surprised at how inky the darkness is at midday, even with the pulled curtains. Two faintly iridescent feline-like dots stare back at her. It takes her a second.

"This is what I am."

She can't hide the icy stab of fear that seizes her when Munch's voice matches them. Its immediately followed by viscous, acidic shame, then balmy fascination. In response, his cool hands slip into her own.

"...What happened?"

"...I've told you. I am very old. When Munch was a younger man, he would do anything not to starve. He would wait outside the houses of evil men, until they left or went to sleep. Then he would take their food. Most of the time, he would have to kill them. Learned to do it quietly after a while. When he was caught, he made a deal with the men in charge. He would live, but he would have to take on the sins of other men. When they died, bread and porridge were placed on their bodies. Prayers were said. Their sins were absorbed by the food. And we got to eat."

The ridiculousness of the ritual itself doesn't surprise Dot. She's never been a particularly religious woman and, after being with Roy, has not had much need to respect it.

"Many years. Many years. No one talks to us. They turn away or spit at our feet or throw things at us when we make ourselves known."

I would have killed them all, she thinks. Everyone in that damn village...or wherever he lived. The wives, the husbands, the kids. She doesn't care how unfair or cruel that sounds. Rage has been her friend longer than she's been a mother and wife. I would have fed them all to you.

Munch takes a moment to gather his thoughts. She remembers he can taste that bloodlust. This time, she doesn't feel exposed. The hair on the back of her neck bristles like a wartime cat.

"You are so angry for me," he says with a slight smile in his voice; part prideful, part touched, part in disbelief that someone could love him this much, or at all.

"I did kill them. The priests. The congregation. I finally got to watch them squirm, they way they did me. I ate the sins directly from their flesh, and got stronger each time."

Good, Dot thinks. Eat their eyes and lips and tongues and fingers. Everything they ever used to hurt you.

She blinks. Again, she is transported somewhere else entirely. The acrid funk of animal filth and poor hygiene is magnified by the flames licking the walls of the church. Someone knocked over a lantern in their scramble to escape, but the windows are too hot and broken to touch. The head priest lays shattered at her feet, screaming, his legs bent in unnatural directions. I'm saving you for last, she thinks. The moment the thought concludes, she lunges into the crowd, nails and teeth sinking into man, woman, whoever's unlucky enough to be caught. First come the layers of dirt and grime on their skin, but then the cartilaginous crunch of flesh and muscle, the savory salt of their blood and tears seasoning their meat, the pungent sour of their terror. Never has her stomach felt so empty, but so prepared. It roars, and she roars louder, her insides the sacred halls of a king, and her voice a war horn.

How much of this rage is his? How much of it is mine? Is there a difference anymore? Does it matter?

She jumps from one member to the next indistinctively. A cheek, a nose, a throat. The tendons of someone's hand as they try to push her off. Eyeballs snap in her mouth like fresh berries. Someone's brain matter smashes against the stone wall like a boiled yam. They all come apart with the ease of slow-cooked pork. She never realized how soft and tender human beings were. The blur of the slaughter starts to come into focus once the priest is truly defenseless, with no one to hide behind. His skin crackles with blisters from the heat, while she remains very much unscathed. Instead, the flames seem to coax her, comforting her with loving, delicate fingers. Mama. She starts with his arms, chewing into the muscle. The skin peels away like chicken fat. Her fingers easily sink into the priest's thighs, then his sternum. At some point, he'd finally screamed his throat raw, the only sound coming from him now the dumb, pained braying of dying cattle. She rolls the eyeballs around in her mouth, tracing the veins and residual tails of flesh with her tongue before swallowing them whole. Finally, she gets to the heart. Its rewardingly tough. The chambers are gummy. She giggles as they bounce against her molars almost playfully. A floodgate is opened, and the laughter is in full bloom. Mama's tickles don't help.

"Dot. Dewch yn ôl ataf. Fy chwaer fach."

She's back home. The air is crisp and clean. Munch is cupping her face, their foreheads touching. The edges of her mouth are sore from the laughter, and the feast.

"I did not mean for it to go that far."

"No, no. It's okay. It was...fun. I'm so proud of ya, hon."

"Dot. You must look at me."

"Munch, I'm fine. I swear."

Dot's eyes immediately sting when the lamp is switched back on. She admittedly feels a little less rabid. He looks down in shame.

"I only meant to share my memory. Not have you participate in it."

"You think I haven't felt that angry? You don't think I would have done that to Roy if I had the chance?"

"No. Did not mean it like that. I just...you have had enough inflicted upon you. Including myself."

"You can't do mind control, can you? Takin' over other people's thoughts?"

"I cannot."

"So? You didn't inflict anything on me. You wanted me to see through your eyes for a little. And if you can't control me, you can't pull me into your head against my will. I wanted to be there."

"...It was still a painful memory. I do not want to see you in pain."

"You told me before you weren't scared of me. What's so scary about you that doesn't already exist in me?"

He takes one of her hands, petting the back softly. She acquieses.

"...You would not say that if you knew how old I am."

"Try me."

A heavy pause. Then he looks up.

"...The memory you saw happened almost five hundred years ago."

It is, truthfully, shocking. But for some reason, Dot doesn't feel it. Maybe she will later. But if nothing about it stirs her now, she doubts it ever will.

"Stranger things have happened."

Munch cocks his head to the side. She caresses his cheek with her knuckles.

"I'm still proud of ya. You're the one who said you'd have protected me when I was little. Would you have helped me tear Roy into little pieces?"

"...I would."

"Well, there ya go."

Dot gets an idea. An image of Roy splayed out upside down on their old bed, spread-eagle. Munch is mounting him like a woman, kitchen knives buried deep in each pectoralis. Munch's lips and eyes are peeled back, his pupils shrunken to feral pinheads, his overcrowded, nicotine-tarnished teeth resembling fangs. Dot is at the foot of the bed with a toothy knife of her own, carving into Roy's neck. He splutters and gurgles stupidly as they bathe in his blood. She can see the inner meat of his throat snapping apart with each slice. Munch is hissing profanities in Welsh, riling her up enough that she abandons the knife halfway and starts to pull, slamming one foot flat against the edge of the bed for purchase. The sensation of her muscles digging as deep as anatomically possible for every ounce of strength she can muster is as exhilirating as it is exhausting. Her teeth clench so hard she thinks they might break. Her howls of effort erupt behind her eyes and billow into her brain. Roy's head finally snaps free, and she back to reality. Munch's eyes, aglow with encouragement, bore into her own.

"Some of that was you, ya know. On account of the Welsh."

He tries smiling again. "You knew it was Welsh."

"Only because you were in there with me." She taps the tip of his nose.

This was always me, you see, she thinks. This is what they made me. Its not evil or poisonous. They already showed their true colors when they sold me to keep the farm. When he touched me for the first time. When my menses was late. When he'd break and rebreak my bones after talking back. Everything I did, everything I became since then, was to protect myself. To survive. Just like you. And look at us now. We found each other. Against all odds. Against time itself.

She giggles as Munch rubs his forehead against hers like a cat. He raises her wrists against his eyes in veneration.

"C'mere, you." She pulls him in for another long hug, stroking his hair.

"Maybe you could teach me how to speak Welsh sometime."

"I have never taught anyone anything. I might not be good at it."

"Then we both can learn something. For example; what did you call me before?"

"Fy chwaer fach. My little sister."

[nexysworld]

In a Bind 🖤 Chapter 1 🖤

Read on AO3 🖤 Requests are Open 🖤 Fic/Request Master List Read Part 2 Summary: You’re a witch, new to these lands and now you’ve found yourself quite literally stuck to the God of Foresight due to Odin’s sense of humor. What could happen?

🖤 Pairing: Heimdall/Fem!Reader 🖤 Tags: Female Reader, Reader Insert, Eventual NSFW content, sexual content, violence. A/N: Hope you all enjoy, want to use this first chapter just to lay some stuff down. There will definitely be some spiciness later on as well. I am also thinking of a few one-shots with our golden God while I work on this as well.

The air of the night was cold and crisp, the shackles around your legs and wrists jingled with each move you made. You were cold, scared, and unsure. These were not your realms or your people. You’d heard tales of the All-Father but it was not until meeting him that you took those stories seriously. He seemed like a gentile old man, but the shackles on you were evidence that he wasn’t as kind as he appeared. He had questioned you thoroughly himself, deciding a little witch like you may be useful. First, before he decided to let you live, he wanted you to meet his closest ally. He said this man had a gift that could ensure you were telling the truth. You weren’t sure how that worked, but you shuddered at the ideas you had floating in your head. 

Once the clouds of black birds dissipated you were standing in what seemed to be the center of a village atop a cliff. You walked slowly towards the building he had referred to as “The Great Hall.” The doors opened to a large table. “Please have a seat my Dear.” Odin said, guiding you to where he wanted you. “I will be right back.”

You looked around at the empty room and had half a mind to try and make a break for it, but knew better. Only a few moments went by but the anxiety of the situation made it feel like hours. Finally, Odin appeared with another person in tow, a tall blonde man. You were captivated a little by his look, very different from Odin himself as well as the other gods who were there when you were originally discovered. He was clean shaven with intricate braiding in his hair, his tunic was fine and lined with gold, so were his bracers and the jewelry he wore on his ear. He looked less like a god and more like a prince. 

“It is not polite to stare.” The man said with an annoyed look on his face. “Though I guess when you dress in rags having bad manners it’s the least I should expect.” 

You averted your eyes embarrassed that he caught you staring. “Be nice Heimdall.” Odin said sitting next to you. “Heimdall here is the God of Foresight in this land. He can read minds and intentions, so you see I just need him to poke around in that head a little bit to ensure you’re no harm to us. Nothing painful, should only take a moment.” 

You nodded not fully trusting what the man said, but having nothing else you could do about your current situation. Heimdall came over to you, an annoyed expression across his face, he studied you up and down before his expression changed to confusion and then anger. “This can’t be right.” He said moving closer and bending over, too close for comfort. “Look me in the eyes girl.” You complied and brought your line of sight up to his, shocked at the glowing purple orbs. You weren’t sure how long the stare off had gone on for, but when he pulled away he did not seem happy at all, which made your stomach drop. “I don’t see anything All Father….not a single thing. It’s like her stupid little head is empty. I doubt she’s the brightest from that expression she wears, but even she should have something going on up there.” 

“Hey!” You attempted to protest at his rude comment, but immediately shut down by the look you received in return. 

Odin nodded, pondering what the man had said. “I’ll have to think on this one further.” Odin commanded a new set of what looked like maids over to you. “Dress her, feed her, have her come by my study later. And for now, you can take the shackles off as well.” The ladies nodded and ushered you with them. The release of the shackles and warm bath water felt like heaven. From the moment you found yourself in this realm, you hadn’t a moment of peace, or cleanliness for that matter. You leaned back as the ladies worked soap along your body and through your hair. Once the bath was over, they dressed you in a simple gown and robe. Your hair was braided with silver cuffs added for decor. “They match your markings.” The maid said with a smile as she ran a finger over the silver tattoo of your skin. You nodded in return to her, silently thanking her for the kindness. Dinner was uneventful as well. You sat in a small room nibbling on the food they left. You should have been starving by now but your nerves had kept hunger at bay. You were more occupied with what would happen next.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by a knock at the door. One of the maids had come to get you again, you followed without protest. Halfway to Odin’s study you could already hear what sounded like an argument. “You can NOT be serious!” Heimdall said while pacing back and forth in front of Odin’s desk. “It’s the best way for you to keep an eye on her. Besides, having someone's thoughts you can’t read will be good for you. Might make you use your brain for once.” 

You didn’t like what you were hearing as you entered the cavernous room. “Ah and speak of the devil.” Odin said, walking out to you, holding his arm out and putting it behind you to guide you over to the desk. “See Heimdall, she cleans up nicely.” The blonde man turned up his nose in disgust, refusing to look in your direction. 

“I have made a decision Dear. Though I wish you no harm, we do not know the extent of your powers, nor can we read your intentions as such, I think it best if you are under supervision. I am entrusting you to Heimdall here to keep watch.” Odin took your hand and studied it before pricking it slightly with a knife. “Ouch!” You squeaked and went to pull away, but he held tight to your wrist. He waved the fingers of his other hand and the blood began to float upwards and formed into 5 long chains that all connected to a single ring. The opposite end of the chains found themselves wrapped around your limbs and neck, except you couldn’t feel them, only see them. The ring end that Odin was holding floated over to Heimdall and wrapped around his wrist before all the red chains dissipated and appeared as tattoos on your skin. You were astonished. You had never seen magic like this before, and touched at your wrists feeling nothing but your regular skin. “More comfortable than you standard chains, but will help ensure you don’t stray far. Heimdall, show her around will you?” Odin said, walking back over to his desk. “You two be off now. Try not to give each other a hard time.” Heimdall turned and stepped out with an annoyed gait. He got a few steps towards the door before your whole body was yanked forward by an invisible force, the unseen chains no doubt. You had to nearly run to catch up to help from falling over and being dragged. ‘Great, so I’m stuck a few feet away from him at all times now.’ You thought to yourself. “Will you hurry up? Or do you prefer to be dragged along like a ragdoll?” Despite asking the question, he didn’t let up his pace, if anything you thought he had sped up on purpose to watch you scurry behind him. He only stopped once you were several paces outside.  His attitude alone had you wondering how you ever even considered that he was reminiscent of a prince.

“Your name?” While it was technically a question you could hear the demand in his tone. 

“Y/N” “Well then y/n. Look around you, drink in the pleasures of Asgard. It is not often an outsider gets to be here.” He whistled and you heard a thumping from across the way, you turned and looked at the large beast barreling towards you coming to a halt in front of its master. Heimdall pet the beast as he laughed at you. “This is Gulltoppr, do not worry, he won’t harm you unless I say so, and I’d rather not drag your corpse around.” You were amazed by the creature, it was like nothing you had seen before, a large cat-like thing with horns. You took a cautious step forward, the beast sniffed you a few times before sticking out its large dry tongue and licked you on the side of your face before it purred. “Good boy?” You asked as you pet him in return. Heimdall was unamused. “You actually like this girl? Traitor.” He huffed, slinging himself over the saddle. “Is that right?” You said to the cat with a giggle, ignoring Heimdall’s annoyed sigh. “What are you doing? I am not going to wait forever.” He said looking down at you, expecting you to get up onto the saddle with him. “Talking to Gulltoppr. He’s pretty funny, you know.” “I’m sorry, you are talking to Gulltoppr?” “Yep. I’m pretty good with animals, though his accent is pretty strong.” The look Heimdall gave you was quite funny. His brows knitted together making a confused ‘V’ between his eyes. “You can actually talk to animals?” “Yes.” “Then enlighten me, what hilarious thing does Gulltoppr have to say?” As he asked the question, he reached down and yanked you up. The ease in which he lifted your entire being was impressive, like lifting a kitten. You hadn’t considered how strong a God might actually be, especially given his leaner frame compared to Thor and Baldur whom you met with Odin. He plopped you in front of himself so you could hold on to the front of the saddle while he held the reins behind you. You tried to scoot as forward as possible to put some distance between the two of you, but you were still stuck with the expanse of him against your back. You noted that he smelled fresh, like lemon and honey mixed with rain, it would have almost been nice if not for who the scent was coming from. “He said when you make a kissy face at him you look like a salmon.”  Heimdall snorted and yanked the reins causing Gulltoppr to come to a complete halt causing you to slam your back into him from the jolt. “Excuse me?”

You gulped and dared to turn around as much as you could with your limited space. While his eyes were clearly filled with anger, he had his face turned away and you thought you could almost see a tint of a blush on his cheeks. “I suggest you keep your conversations to yourself then.” Was all he said before yanking the reins again as Gulltoppr began to move.