#to be fair it might sound like i am mocking him but

[offonaherosjourney]

Why did no one tell me that Dracula was a fucking COMEDY.

The book opens up with Jonathan experiencing a paprika overload. Dracula pretends to be the coachman and drives Jonathan around in circles until he decides he's established enough of a dramatic atmosphere. By day three in the castle Jonathan has picked up that there are no servants and Dracula is secretly doing all the chores, including driving him there. The first time Jonathan tries to shave, the count barges into the room, yeets his mirror out the window, refuses to elaborate and leaves. Jonathan also notices that he is a prisoner in the castle but doesn't dare to bring it up, which... is a mood, but also hilarious. A week into his stay he sees his employer/kidnapper crawling facedown out a wall

[gretavanlace]

Feels Like Gold

Jake Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, language, dirty talk, breeding kink, Jake drives a car (the most dangerous situation of all), extremely mild degradation, etc

Okay, in honor of our collective jakedown, I rooted around in my unreleased work and then did a little revamping. This one is for you, @piratejakesgf thank you for your request ❤️ *loosely edited, fair warning

And kisses to @jake-kiszkas-smirk and her brilliant mind for titling this when I was at a loss 💋 xoxo

“Fuck, these are so uncomfortable!” you hiss with exasperation, tugging at the itchy nylon hell encasing your legs.

“Told you not to wear them.” Jake reminds you, flipping on his turn signal before switching lanes, though the freeway is dark and nearly deserted.

“You know how my family is.” you remind him right back, annoyed with his flippant attitude. “If I’d shown up to that wedding in a dress with bare legs I’d have been labeled the whore of the family tree. My branch weighed down with bad choices; exposed skin and a degenerate rockstar on my arm.”

“I mean, to their credit, I actually am a degenerate so they’re just calling ‘em like they see ‘em.” His eyes are locked on the road, but a tiny smirk tells you he’s pleased with his cleverness. “Plus, your aunt tried to fuck me, so you aren’t the only whore in the family.”

An abrupt laugh trills out of you. “Right. Which aunt?”

“Does it matter?” he shrugs. “She told me she slept with Joe Perry and it left her with a taste for guitarists…I told her Perry could suck my dick because I could stomp his riffs any day, but that only turned her on even more.”

“And then what happened?” you giggle, falling into his little pretend world.

“Well,” he sighs wearily, “Promise you won’t be angry with me?”

You’re solemn and stoic, as if this is very serious business, “Scouts honor.”

“Then, I excused myself and wound up fucking your uncle in the bathroom, instead.” he squints at an upcoming exit sign to be sure you’re headed in the right direction, and then settles back into a more relaxed state, wrist guiding the steering wheel casually.

“Was he any good?” you ask, mock sincerity laced through your tone.

“I’ve had better.” He shrugs.

“You’re so stupid.” you shake your head with a doting roll of your eyes, and reach under your dress to roll the torturous hose down and off.

He watches out of the corner of his eye, stealing glances as safely as he can while driving.

“Jesus, they were thigh highs all this time?” he sounds a little like he’s considering jerking the car over onto the shoulder of the highway to drag you into the backseat.

“All this time.” the garment in question lands in his lap.

“Lemme see.” he orders quietly before you have a chance to remove the second.

Up the hem of your dress travels until he can get a good look at the black lace resting at the top of your thigh. “Fuck, pretty girl.”

“You like that?” you tease in a silken voice.

He nods, tightening his grip on the wheel.

You push a little further with, “Are you hard?”

“I’m gonna kick you out of this car and make you walk home.” he lies, reaching out to snap the elastic lace against your skin. “Take this one off, too…it’s doing unspeakable things to me. Especially since you’re only wearing the one. You look sloppy - like I just rocked your shit in the back of a tour bus.”

“Jacob Thomas..” you gasp lightly, as though scandalized “Someone seems a little worked up.”

“I might be, if only I didn’t have such a firm grasp on the power of will, my darling.”

He’s being untruthful, but he does it so elegantly - in that soft, slightly British lilt of his, you decide to grant him a very gracious pass and drop the second into his lap.

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Kiszka.” You wiggle your polished toes, enjoying the freedom. “My baby cousin, the one you let dance on your feet? She asked me if you were a pirate.”

This tugs an honest laugh out of his chest…a gorgeous sound that colors your cheeks pink. “You told her yes, I expect?”

You hum in confirmation, “I did. And I told her that you have a special sword with strings on it and it makes beautiful, dark music that people come from far away lands to hear. Just like the sirens in Peter Pan.”

His face visibly softens in the flickers of light shed by the street lamps whipping by. “You always did know how to paint a lovely picture, pretty girl.”

The low purr of the engine lulls your head against the window, but just as your eyes begin to grow heavy, he pulls you back to him with a quiet, “Hey,”

Turning your head against the seat, you study his profile, charting the map of your favorite face, “Yeah?”

”Whose baby was that you were holding? The tiny, tiny one,”

It seems such an odd thing for him to ponder, and you have to mentally sift through the reception a bit, you held a great many babies tonight…it seemed like every cousin and second cousin in attendance was weighed down by a diaper bag stuffed full of diapers and pacifiers.

”The one with the little headband bow-thingy.” He clarifies. “She was so small.”

“My cousin’s. He and his wife’s third in almost as many years. She’s only like a month old and smelled like heaven.” You draw in a breath and wish her silken tufts of hair were still pressed to your cheek, “Why?”

”I don’t know,” you know him well enough to know that’s a damn lie. “I just- I don’t know…do you ever think about it?”

Caught off guard, you opt for a little joke, “Does Jakey have baby fever?”

He smiles, and there is a touch of shyness that lives there, “Shut up. Do you think about it?”

“Do I think about having babies? Well, I-“

He interrupts quickly to set you straight, “Do you think about having babies with me?”

Oh.

Where is he heading with this? Will a bit of honesty scare him? Will it scare you?

Deciding to take the plunge, this is simply a conversation after all, and a subject that he broached to boot, you choose truth. “Yes, I’ve thought about babies with you. Although that whole twin thing is fucking terrifying.”

Again, you joke. Again, he doesn’t take the bait. “Identical twins aren’t hereditary. We’re just an accidental fuck up. When you think about it, what do you think?”

”A lot of things.”

Smoothly, he guides the car onto the off-ramp that leads to home. “Very informative, darling. A veritable treasure trove of information.”

He hasn’t tipped his hand and you aren’t about to let him off so easily. “”Do you think about it?”

”Honestly, not before. I mean, I think about how you’ll look in your wedding dress and if you’ll wear your hair swept up the way I like, and I suppose that’s sort of the same thing. Or headed in the same direction, anyway. But watching you hold that baby tonight…”

Your chest suddenly feels a little tight. You’re touched by his admission.

And how endearing that he wonders how you’ll wear your hair. You reach out and stroke the back of your hand along the cut of his jaw, “When the day comes, I’ll wear it up for you.”

~

Later, he’s draped across the bed watching you glide about the room in your bra and panties. Earrings unfastened and placed gently on your jewelry tray, necklace hung carefully, hair let loose and shaken out at long last.

Hands folded behind his head, he speaks up, breaking the spell you have unknowingly cast over him, “You said ‘a lot of things’. Elaborate.”

You turn, eyes drifting over the king lounging about upon the bed you share, in nothing but the dress pants he hasn’t yet bothered to shed. “What?”

He cocks his chin, summoning your attention further ”Babies. You said you think about a lot of things.”

He looks so fucking sinfully delicious…a sickeningly sweet cake sent from the bewitching trenches of hell to rot your teeth. “The normal things. Baby things.”

The heavy wooden frame creeks quietly as he pulls himself into a sitting position to study your expression, “Liar.”

”Oh, I’m sorry,” you dance around the accusation, “I just happen to be looking at a disgustingly attractive little shit waiting for me to climb into bed beside him. Forgive me for looking flustered.”

”Don’t be coy, darling,” he tsks, clicking his tongue against his perfect teeth. “I can see it written all over your pretty face. You’ve got a secret.”

He’s moving towards the edge of the bed now, drawing you in closer with his devilish stare. “Tell me.”

”I don’t have a secret.” Whose voice is that? Surely it’s much too quiet and meek to be your own.

”Tell the truth.” He hums, a knowing twinkle flashing in his gaze. “What do you think about?”

Your eyes refuse to meet his own as your stomach knots, warm and vibrating. “I guess…sometimes I - sometimes I think about the trying part of it all.”

He’s watching you closely, you can feel it like warm fingers dancing across your blushing skin. “So you think about fucking?”

He almost sounds disappointed. He had expected more judging by your hesitancy to share.

”Well,” your fingers are plucking at the comforter now, rooting out a loose thread to spin around your finger, “Yes, but it’s kind of more than that. I think about you… inside me.”

At last, you peek up at him. He looks curious, as if he can’t quite figure you out. “Why are you being such a little mouse about this?” His palms are cupping your face now, calluses soothing you like a song. “I’m inside you all the time, and I think about it all the time, too.”

Shaking your head gently, you find your footing…at least a smidge, “Not like that. I think about you inside me. The way you would have to be if we were trying.”

Your birth control rendered condoms unnecessary ages ago, yet he has always pulled out - ever cautious and responsible. Confusion is still painted across his features…until it isn’t.

“Oh,” a lascivious grin appears and you long to curl your tongue over his lips, “you fucking filthy little thing.”

In a blink, you’re dragged onto the bed and into his arms, tossed down with your back against the sheets. his body heated and flush against yours.

Mouth suckling and nipping at your throat, he rasps into your skin, “Is that what does it for you? Pretty girl wants my cum?”

Your body’s reaction is visceral, primal, and almost embarrassing. You’re arching away from the mattress, desperate to be even closer than you already are.

“Answer me.” He huffs, sinking a bite into your jaw.

”Yes…” your hands are in his hair, thighs around his waist, “I want it.”

”Say it.” He’s rocking against you now, hard and straining against your panties. “Say what it is that you want. What you think about.”

”I think about you fucking me,” once again, whose shaking voice is that? “I think about the way you sound when you finish, and the way your cock throbs and twitches in your hand, and how it might feel inside me.”

”Keep going.” He orders, soft and wavering in your ear.

”I think about how warm your cum would feel inside of me, and maybe I wouldn’t be able to keep it all in. Maybe it might tickle a little when it leaked out.”

”Fuck, baby…” his hands are everywhere, yanking your breasts from the cups of your bra, winding your panties down your thighs, fingers sinking into your soaking, clenching cunt with a groan that sounds pained.

He seeks out your favorite spot and tucks up into it, wrenching a wanton moan from your lungs “You want me to fill this little pussy up? Keep you dripping wet with me all day long? Fuck baby after baby into you?”

”Jake…” you’re clawing at his bare shoulders, fucking yourself hopelessly against his hand. “More.”

He slips a third finger inside you, “Is that why you get a little whiny when I pull out? My girl wants me to do it inside?”

”More,” you urge through gritted teeth, eyes locked in on his face and the lust so evident in the set of his features.

”You want four?”

”Please, Jake…” tears are threatening at your lash line, “more, more, more,”

“You’re having some trouble listening tonight, aren’t you?” he sounds diabolical, and turned on beyond belief. “I asked you a question.”

His thighs prise your legs open wider as he squeezes his pinky into your warmth to join the rest of his drenched fingers, “Do you want my cum inside you? You want me to give it to you? Keep it all safe and warm for me?”

With a mournful wail you’re reduced to a million little pieces beneath him. Rocking frantically into his touch…the heel of his hand grinding quick circles into your clit as his fingers fuck you through it. He’s covered in you, it rolls down his wrist and beads against his stomach like early morning dew, anointing him as you thrash and writhe like a beautiful, fluttering leaf in an autumn wind.

When the hazy fog clears, allowing your sight, it’s his face - stunning and beaming - you find, “Hey, pretty girl.”

Now that you’re coming down, your diffidence returns and you close your eyes in a pathetic attempt to hide.

He’s having none of it, “No, no, darling…you stay with me. Right here, baby. You look so pretty with my cock inside you, imagine how fucking beautiful you’re gonna be when I fuck you full.”

“Please, jake…” it’s pathetic really, and maybe you should care about that, but you don’t. “I need it, I need it so bad.”

“Yeah?” The gravel in his tone makes you shiver with frantic desire. “Pretty girl just wants to bounce on my cock all day? Just using me to get what she wants?”

Rather than answer, you elect to begin wrangling the button on his pants.

“Someone’s eager.” He teases softly, lifting up on one elbow, easing your struggle. “You want it that bad? Are you gonna let me cum wherever I want? Gonna let me put a baby inside you?”

“Fucking do it!” Frustrated and sparking with electric desperation, you give up and tug on his waistband feverishly until he takes over, popping the button with ease and kicking them off.

His cock is fisted in his hand now, with your eyes fiercely focused on it. Hard and beautiful and yours. “You want that inside you?” He whispers, watching you stare. “You want me to fuck you? You want me to fucking breed that pretty pussy? Make you a mama?”

You should be ashamed of yourself, you well and truly should be…but fuck if you don’t want more, “Keep talking while you fuck me,” you breathe, somewhere between imploring and begging, “Dirtier, come on…”

His cock slips inside. Just the cashmere tip teasing at you, “Dirtier?” He nudges in a little deeper, just enough to make you whine, “well what should I say, pretty girl? Should I tell you that you’re my beautiful little cum slut and if I’d known it sooner I’d have been stuffing you full all this time?” Deeper still he glides, “Or that I want to cum inside you and then fall asleep with my fingers buried in your cunt to keep it where it belongs?” He’s fucking you harder, faster…the pillowy head of his cock kissing your cervix in a divine dance between pleasure and pain. “Or should I tell you about how I think about licking it up? Kissing you with my cum on my tongue because I know you’d suck it off like the greedy little baby you are.”

“I-“ a pitiful whimper escapes you, but his fingers are suddenly grasping your chin, grounding you enough to collect your scattered thoughts. “I’m gonna cum, tell me where you’re going to cum. Tell me where you’re going to put it. Please, I want it,”

Hips rolling into a succulent grind against your swollen clit now, he begins “I’m gonna fuck you until you’ve got every last drop, pretty girl. It’s all yours, are you gonna take it for me like a good girl? Are you going to be a good little mama and take it all?”

His name is all you can manage as you shatter. It’s primeval and animalistic, sounds that would make you want to crumple in on yourself if anyone heard them besides your Jacob.

“You’re so fucking tight and wet..” his perfect cock is pounding you through it as he inches closer and closer, “are you ready for me to make a mess of this little beauty right here? Hmm? Ready for me to fuck this cunt all full and dirty? You want it?”

“Jake…” you trail off, eyes fighting to stay open and locked in on his face while you shake against him, twisting and clenching around his perfect cock, “you’re so fucking hard.”

He nods furiously, burying his face in the crook of your neck to lick your pounding pulse “That’s all you, baby. You make me that hard.”

Your hips begin rocking up to meet him even faster, hungry to please. “Good girl, you keep fucking that cock. Are you gonna take what you want? Gonna make me cum? Gonna help me fill this pretty little cunt?”

In response, your nails dig into his skin, raking your mark, claiming him. You’re almost there again, though you can’t imagine how. “I’m so fucking close,” you’re sighing and shaking the words into the room, offering confession.

“Again?” He’s mocking you so sweetly, teasing dirty words into your ear like lullabies, “Already? Is my pretty girl gonna cum on this cock? Squeeze and suck the cum right out of me to steal it away? You want it that badly?”

You let go, with a trembling breath of his name, and feel his body tense against the feverish grip of your orgasm.

”That’s it, baby,” his words are but a sigh skittering across your cheek, “That’s it. Feels so good. Feels like gold. My pretty, pretty girl…”

He fucks you faster even as you melt into a puddle within his arms. “Gonna cum for you,” he promises, “I’m gonna cum so hard for you. Who’s going to take it? Who’s gonna take every fucking drop?”

”I am,” have you even made a sound? You can’t be sure, you’re so lost.

”Yes, you are…” his forehead, slick with exertion and need, nods against your own. “You’re going to take it just like you take this cock. My good fucking girl…pretty pink baby doll just begging for me to wreck her.”

Without warning, he collapses into your arms, moaning and crying out, shuddering as he releases inside you. Warm and perfect, everything you’ve ever imagined and so much more.

His fingers sink into your muscles, clutching and pulling you closer still, “Baby…” he sounds raspy and pained, “Baby, baby, baby, fuck..fuck…”

And when at last, he calms, it is with his cheek pressed to your chest, clocking the wild metronome that is your heart with your hands sweeping through his hair.

Soon, you’ll both crawl out of bed, maybe into the shower…perhaps into the warmth of a bath, but for now it is simply you, and Jake, and this tranquil bliss.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie

[literaila]

could you write a really fluffy peter Parker fic for Valentine’s Day (with banter ofc)

valentine, oh mine

tasm!peter x reader

a/n: this is not cute or fun or any of the things i aspire to be. it is painful. peter dies (he doesn’t). don’t read this.

*

“will you be my valentine?”

“hello, peter,” you answer, through your toothbrush. the words are deadpan. “i’m doing well, thank you. how are you?”

“better if you answer the question.”

you laugh, letting his response linger for a moment as you try to discern where, exactly, he is. your mouth tastes like spearmint, and it would be perfect to kiss him with. even though it’s monday, and almost midnight, and he shouldn’t be here.

for a whole multitude of reasons (number one being that you know he’ll keep you awake for at least a couple of hours more).

“where are you?” you ask him, listening to ruffling and a whine from the other end.

a manly whine, he might tell you, if you could see his face and make fun of it.

“stop deflecting. you don’t wanna be my valentine?” you can hear the frown.

and then there’s a horn, signaling absolutely nothing.

you spit into the sink, and put him on speaker as you rinse.

“i’ve gotta say that this is one of the more underwhelming valentine proposals i’ve gotten. you’re not even here. instead you’re…” you drawl, “where, again?”

“this is just further proof that i’m always thinking about you,” peter tells you, recalling an argument you’d had the day prior.

about how he wasn’t paying attention to you—or the conversation you were trying to have with him about one of your coworkers—but instead, according to him, thinking about you.

which did not help his case, of course. instead you’d given him the silence treatment for three minutes while he groveled—poorly.

and you doubt that he was thinking about valentine’s day when his eyes were glued to your lips the entire time.

“again,” you tell him, trying to hide the sound of a smile in your voice, “i would rather you just listen to me. answer my question and i’ll answer yours,” you bargain.

“how’s that fair? i asked first.”

“i asked second.”

peter sighs, and there’s a brief pause where he breaks up. you mess with the sound settings to no avail. up or down, his voice is distorted.

“are you—“ his voice wonders. “i was gonna tell you—“ and then a pause. and then. “are you giving me the silent treatment again?”

“cant hear you,” you hum. “somethings wrong with your phone.”

“how do you know it’s mine?” his voice enters again, breaking back and forth. another honking, and silence as he puts himself on mute.

because you’re no fool, and you know that peter would’ve answered the question already—if only to get you to answer his—if he didn’t know that you’d scold him for it.

“cause i can hear the wind while you swing,” you tease, though swallow, your voice is aiding the anger you should feel—because your boyfriend is a liar, and a traitor and you kinda hate him.

but you’re not really angry. you haven’t seen him since he left your house at six in the morning, so that’s probably why.

“i—“ there’s a pause. and then his voice is clear again. “that’s my hairdryer.”

“are you lying to me, peter?”

“it might even be the connection,” he continues, idly. “may’s been complaining about the service but i’ve been too busy to check the box, so—“

“are you still lying to me?”

you can almost see him swallow. “…no?”

“i told you not to call me when you’re out.”

“so you never want me to call you?” he asks, mock hurt. “when i’m not out, i’m always with you. i thought you liked my phone calls, and my voice if my memory serves me. someone really liked it—“

“you know what i mean.”

“do i?”

“peter parker, unless you want me to hang up—“

“okay, okay,” there’s still no swinging. “i’m sorry.”

“no, you’re not,” you whine, sitting on your bed and listening closely so he can’t trick you again.

“i actually am this time,” he swears. “i won’t do it again. but this is a very important matter.”

“swinging while talking is basically like texting and driving, and if i was doing that i’d be getting an earful from you.”

“it’s so not the same thing. first of all, spider senses, please keep up,” he tells you, laughing. “and who am i going to hurt in the open air?”

“a pigeon,” you say, almost angrily. “they’re an endangered species, you idiot.”

“they’re definitely not.”

“okay, then, yourself. who’s going to be my valentine if you slam into a wall and crack your head open?”

peter would not look cute without his skull, you remain firm on this fact.

you can hear his smile. “i knew you wanted to be my valentine.”

“before i knew you were lying to me.”

“you lie to me all of the time,” peter argues.

your brows furrow. “when?”

“when you said that you don’t like it when i call you,” he murmurs, almost soft, still teasing. “i know you do. you miss me.”

“i miss my boyfriend,” you answer, biting back some other remark about how you don’t miss him at all—honestly, you’re trying to prove that you’re not lying. “but apparently i’m talking to a superhero.”

“oh, did i forget to mention that? must’ve slipped my mind.”

“where are you now?” you ask. “it’s quiet.”

and then there’s a tap on the wall to your right.

“peter…”

“yes?”

“is that you?”

“maybe.”

“are you kidding?” you grumble, crawling on your knees to push back the curtains and open the window. you frown as you unlatch it, hands interrupted by other ones, doing the same thing. “how long have you been sitting out here?”

“since ‘are you lying?’ i think.” he says, in a terrible impression of your voice. “it’s cold.”

you pull him in by his wrist, immediately pushing him off when he tries to land on your bed on top of you.

peter pulls his mask off, smiling at you. “hi.”

“i’m mad. go take a shower.”

his fingers tip-toe up your arm, trying to get you to shiver. “are you really?” he hums.

“yes.”

“how can i make it up to you?”

“find me a better, non-lying valentine,” you tell him, pouting as you look away.

“is this supposed to be an answer?”

“why didn’t you just wait?” you ask instead. “if you were going to come here anyway, why didn’t you ask me in person instead of being a disappointment, and breaking a rule?”

“i don’t recall signing a contract…”

you groan, sitting up and crossing your legs as you look at him. unfortunately for you, his hair has fallen over his eyes just right, and you still want to kiss him.

“take me seriously.”

“i take everything you say,” he leans in, “very seriously.”

you push his nose. “you don’t.”

“i do!” he swears, grabbing your hand. “i’m listening. tell me what’s wrong.”

he says this condescendingly, because you already told him—kind of—but he knows that if you have to repeat it, you’ll break.

“this is why they say familiarity breeds contempt.”

peter smiles. “are you feeling contemptful right now?”

you nod.

he leans again, and you cant push him away. “how can i help?”

“you can apologize.”

peter’s smile grows softer as you look at him with eyes of steel, like he finds this version of you cute. your pout and your false anger, all bundled up into one perfect package.

just for him, you suppose.

he leans in some more, “i’m sorry,” he says, softly, just brushing your lips. “i was excited.”

you purse your lips, even while his are soft and teasing against them. it feels kind of like a feather brushing your skin, like peters got his own secret form of tickling you.

teasing you, like he always does. familiarity breeds contempt, and comfort, and confusion, and…

he kisses you fully, this time. a gentle peck. “i wanted to hear your voice,” he admits. “i’m impatient. i should listen to you more.”

“right…” you whisper, with him, as your only form of acknowledgement.

“i won’t call you while i’m out, okay? or i’ll pause somewhere.”

your brows are permanently fixed together. “don’t pause. just… get some headphones, or something.” you let your lips relax, finally, and they fall against his just as a consequence. “i like your voice too,” you admit, quietly, as an afterthought.

peters smile is bashful. “like wireless ones? not sure how that would work under the mask…”

“you made the suit,” you tell him, leaning back. “you cant figure it out, genius?”

“i’ll do it for you, i guess,” he sighs, but his fingertips trace the skin on both of your arms, simply because he’s that close.

“thank you.”

“are we done fighting now?”

you frown, pushing his hands away so you can cross your arms. “no. you really asked me to be your valentine over the phone?”

peter sighs, shaking his head. “i knew i should’ve gone with the skywriting.”

“or,” you say, rhetorically, “i don’t know, maybe a box of chocolates? flowers? a quick ‘hey, will you be my valentine?’ before you left this morning?”

“that’s so lame.”

“so is asking me over the phone.”

“i was excited,” peter argues. “i wanted an answer.”

“well you didn’t get one.”

“yes i did,” he tells you, finally grabbing your arm so he can pull you on top of him (because seriously, this is unfair).

“no.”

“you said i was your valentine,” he reminds you, tilting your head up so you’re looking at him.

“you’re mine,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “i never said i was yours.”

“wow,” peter murmurs. “that might be the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“please. i called you a vermin to may the other day.”

he pouts, childishly.

“ask me nicely,” you say, after a moment.

“i did.”

“ask me nicely again.”

there’s a pause where two stubborn people meet at a head—literally, head to head—and consider the prospects of losing this battle.

but peter is softer than you are, when you tease a smile on your lips, he breaks. “will you be my valentine?”

“hmm,” you ponder, looking away. “i’ll think about it. i mean, there’s a lot of options to choose from.”

peter bites your nose in retaliation and the two of you laugh until you’re dizzy

*

[pookietv]

checkmate | arthurtv

first non social media post!! hope u guys like and thank u for all the love straight away, very cool :)

a lil arthur tv x reader

being round whilst the boys were watching the football was.. a strange experience to say the least. the moment you walk through the door you're practically having a can of beer shoved in your hand and ushered to come into the front room quietly so they don't miss any commentary.

though you didn't follow football too much, you did sit quiet and watch also, mainly just following what you're told, from chris telling you the ref is 'off his head' to george trying to convince you that the guy in goal is the best person on earth, it was quite interesting, besides the often shouting at the tv as if those in the commentary box could hear them.

as soon as you sat next to arthur he'd give you a small smile and nod, a quick hello before a comforting and quiet normal from arthur, his eyes trailing back to the tv as you crossed your legs, opened the can of beer and observed, slightly leaning your bodyweight on arthur, moving your head back to check he was okay with it, as you usually did, and he gave you a small grin, signalling it was fine.

when the game finished with an arsenal win (much to chris' enjoyment) the boys began chatting amongst themselves, and arthur pulled out his phone, beginning a chess game as they talked, and instantly got a bit of mocking for it.

"chess already, you sad, sad man," arthur hill laughed at his own remark a little, and arthur just shrugged, "it's fun and the games over so," he murmured, his cheeks slightly red but laughing himself also.

"to be fair, i always wanted to learn how to play chess, i mean i played a tiny bit in middle school but 'm not very good," you stated, and chris rolled his eyes, "not another nerd," but arthur looked up at you with his widely interested eyes.

"you wanna learn chess? i, i can try teach you, if you liked... i mean, i don't know how good of a coach i am but i can try," he offered, looking at you with a goofy and excited grin.

you nodded a little, smiling back, "yeah, sounds fun, i mean if you have the patience to teach me, i might not be very good," you added, as arthur shook his head a little "i'm sure you'll be fine, you're smart," adding "lemme go get my board," and leaving the room quite quickly, earning a snort from george.

"he's just happy that for once in his life he's not having to convince someone to play with him, and they actually want to play," he teased, and your eyes rolled a little, a small grin on your face.

"and especially because it's you," chris said, earning himself a soft shove from you and a little laugh.

"hey, leave the guy alone," you giggled a little.

"he's just dying for you to be mrs television," george charmed in with their not-so-subtle jokes about you and arthur.

it had been a running joke in the friend group for a while, that arthur had grown a bit of a crush on you, but you had shoved that in the back of your mind (or at least attempted to) because you were almost certain they were wrong and he was just a sweet guy.

it had also been a running teasing point that they all were also convinced that you had a crush on arthur too.

and whilst they weren't exactly wrong, you weren't going to give them the benefit of confirming it, or the leverage of admitting to them that they were right

"hm?" arthur said, his head cocked a little as he walked back into the living room, a box in his hands, clearly just curious about what the subject of conversation had turned to whilst he was gone.

"we were just talking about the fact that it's interesting that she wants to learn chess of all things," arthur hill teased, leading to everyone else giggling like school children.

arthur rolled his eyes, also used to the joking, "doesn't really surprise me, i mean you guys are too dense to play so hopefully if she gets a grip of it i might have a decent chess partner for once," he quipped back with a slight grin on his face, before opening the box on the coffee table and beginning to set out the pieces, as you sat on the other side of the coffee table, assuming the position to play.

"i'll let you play the white pieces, cause it means you get to go first," he says first, and you nod, looking down at the board, before he starts again, "you know the names of the pieces and how they move?"

"a little," you said, before pointing at some of the pieces, "a pawn, right? an' it just moves forward a space?" you stated, earning a nod from arthur.

"except on the first time you move them, then they can move two, if you like," he confirmed.

as you continued to play, the boys began rolling their eyes and proclaiming that you guys were 'officially nerds' and teasing before going into their rooms.

after a while, you had began to learn all the moves of pieces quite well, with small encouraging nods from arthur and little pieces of help so you weren't left completely stranded playing against someone much better than you.

"see, i've got you in check now, can you see it?" he asked a little softly as your eyes scanned across the board that was at least making a little more sense to you.

"mhm... it's your rook, right?" you said, though slightly unconvincingly as you bit on your nail a little, before arthur grinned.

"yeah, it is, so you obviously wanna move your king," he nodded, looking at you with almost a proud smile, "see, not long now and i'll have my own chess protégé," he joked a little, and you rolled your eyes.

"yeah, that may take a while arthur, but keep dreaming," you laughed back a little, looking up at him for a moment before back at the board. "by the way, why the hell is your guys' flat so cold? you guys can't afford the heating or something?" you teased a little more, before arthur shook his head.

"oh, i'm sorry, i didn't even realise it's cold, i thought it was warm, look, here," he practically babbled out before pulling his jumper from over his head, a baby blue one, and leaving him in a white shirt, well fitted on him.

"no, don't worry about it, you don't have to give me your-"

"no, seriously, take it, don't want you to be freezing," he murmured out, offering it to you, "like i said, i was warm anyways so,"

you nodded a little, looking at him with slightly flushed cheeks before taking it from him, thanking him quietly as you slipped it over your head.

"see? suits you more then me, anyways," he joked slightly but you shook your head.

"nah, i doubt it, probably look like shit right now, practically rolled out of bed when chris told me to come round," you joked a little, but arthur rolled his eyes a little, almost in disbelief.

"shut up, you. you know you always look good," he said, his own face flushed also.

"oh, um.. i mean, i doubt it, but thanks," you practically murmured out in response, cheeks burning red as you laughed a little at your own stupidly flustered state, eyes practically burning into the board in hopes that arthur could not see your flushed face as you moved a piece.

"i watched that shark documentary you recommended the other day," arthur stated, breaking the slight silence, and you looked back up at him, "oh yeah? what did you think?" you asked with a slight grin.

"the little section about shark bones was so cool!" he practically beamed, and you nodded, as he moved a piece in return.

"the part about when shark fossils are found they just look like bone because of calcium exposure! i thought that was so fucking cool," you giggled, and he nodded before pausing.

"i... i think it's really cool that i can always talk to you about my dumb interests like chess and animals and you're always interested and half of the time you know more then me, which i just find so cool," he said, and you smiled up at him slightly.

"well, i mean, its just... it is interesting, you know? i mean, you're very interesting, i like when you go on little rants about things and i get to listen," you nodded.

"i, um, i'm trying to say that, you know, i think it would be cool if we could go out and talk about weird things sometime," he said, and you felt your eyebrows furrow slightly, looking up at him with a slight twinge of confusion, his widened brown eyes looking down at you with a dopey grin.

"like, um... like a date, i mean," he clarified, before looking back at the board, "i have you in checkmate, by the way." he grinned slightly goofily.

"only you, arthur tv, could ask a girl out and checkmate her at the same time," you giggled a little, shaking your head in disbelief.

"i mean, i can take back the checkmate if that'll make you say yes?" he joked back.

"sure. i'll say i beat you in chess and you can take me on a date." you quipped back, and his grin only grew.

"best defeat of my life, easily."

[oneforthemunny]

I’m loving these blurbs girl!! Can I request something for my favorite cowboy where sweet girl tries to convince Eddie that she doesn’t need his help with everything around the house because she’s a strong independent woman! (even though he spoils her rotten and makes sure she doesn’t have to lift a finger 😂) love you!! 🩵

this is so sweet girl of her omfg. a little bratty and moody and she takes it out on him like that, then he turns around and just watches until she has to ask lmaooo. spoiler- that's how this blurb is gonna go haha. slight dom/sub undertones but no actual smut.

"Don't lift that." Eddie's gruff tone calls from behind you. The sound made your skin crawl, shoulders tensing with annoyance. "I'll get that. Just leave it."

"Oh, no," You snapped back sarcastically, teeth grit in agitation. "I'll get it."

It was silly, childish even, you knew that. The argument was just that, silly. You'd gone out to see Eddie, trying to coax him inside to eat lunch with you, stop working and give you a little attention.

"I gotta finish this, honey."

"You could finish it later. Please? Come eat inside with me."

"You know I gotta get this done."

"But you can't do it later?"

"No, I got other things to do."

"You always have something to do."

"Yeah? I sure do. Maybe if you helped me instead of poutin' all the time, it'd get done quicker."

You knew he was teasing, from his snarky, sing-song tone and curling of his lips. But it infuriated you, rubbed you all the wrong ways.

So, determined and furious, you slipped your little rubber work boots on and some extra gloves that were a bit too big for you, opting to help Eddie with his chores.

"Quit that." Eddie clicked, tossing the hay bale in the corner with a soft grunt. "You're gonna get yourself hurt, now, just let me do that."

"No," You snapped, blocking his hands that tried to take the small hay bale away from you. "You say I never help you, so I'll do it. I got it."

"That's too heavy for you. You're gonna hurt yourself-"

"-No," You sneered, teeth grit, gloved hands slipping under the rope that held the hay in place. "I won't. I got it. I don't need your help."

Eddie paused. For a moment, he contemplated catching you by your chin, making you apologize, but he knew you'd probably like that- that it was what you wanted. Instead, he crossed his arms, standing back to watch you.

"Alright," He nodded coolly. "Go on."

You shimmied your hands under the straps just like you'd seen Eddie do before, bending your knees, before you tried to pull up, only to drop it right back on the barn floor with winded grunt. Why the fuck did hay weigh that much? It's fucking straw?

Eddie smirked in the corner, watching you try over and over and over, shuffling a few steps before dropping it right back down, winding yourself.

You looked over your shoulder sheepishly, eyes cutting to see him there, a silent pleading in your eyes. Eddie shrugged. "You said you could do it. Go on then. Move it for me."

Mean, oh, he was being so mean today. You pouted, huffing with a petulant fury. You tried again, and again, and one more time until your back felt like it might snap.

"Ok," You grumbled, dropping the bale with a final grunt of failure. "I can't do that one, but I can do something else."

"No, you told me you could move that one." Eddie shook his head. "What? 'S just supposed to stay there?"

"No," You hissed, eyes narrowing in annoyance, embarrassment. "You can just move it over there, and I'll do something else-"

"-Me?" Eddie jabbed a gloved finger to his chest, voice lifting with that arrogant teasing tone he loved to mock you with. "Now how's that fair? You told me you can move it, and now you're just gonna demand I move it? Thought you were helpin' me."

"I am." It came out more like a bratty whine than a statement. "I just can't move that one."

"So you want me to move it then, hm?" Eddie lifted a brow, lips twitching to hide his grin when you huffed and gave a curt nod. "Fine, but you better ask me. Better ask me reallll nice and I just might."

"Seriously?" You snapped, tongue clicking in annoyance.

"Yes. C'mon now, baby, you told me you were gonna move this, and now you can't? That's really settin' me back." Eddie shrugged. "Least you could do it gimme a pretty please?"

Your cheeks burned. For a second, you contemplated telling him to fuck off, stomping back to the house- but you knew the stubborn bastard would stay out there all fucking night if he had to, stand out there and leave it until you came out and asked. Might as well do it now, get it over with so maybe he'd get a little soft with you, give in and come inside and eat with you.

"Fine." You gritted with a nasally huff. "Eddie will you please-"

"-eh," Eddie lifted a finger. "What're you 'sposed to say?"

Your eyes narrowed at him, jaw setting in irritation. He was just trying to embarrass you now, get you riled up and whiny. "Will you pretty please move the hay for me?"

Eddie smirked, pushing off the wooden wall, hands sliding under the hay bales and lifting it with a soft grunt, walking it towards the stables with the others. "Now was that so hard?" He quipped, hands dusting the other off.

You rolled your eyes, turning with a huff. "Why don't you try askin' me nice like that to come inside with you, hm?" Eddie hummed.

You turned just enough to give him a pout, one you knew had him buzzing with excitement, eyes widening and grin widening, a sure sign that you were close to getting what you wanted, you always did.

"Eddie, will you pretty, pretty please come inside and have lunch with me?" It was a little more sarcastic than what he would have liked, but he relented, tossing his gloves to the side, following you into the house, opening the screen door for you, smacking your ass playfully just to hear you squeal when you slipped inside.

[bettyfrommars]

the corner of Heartache & Jameson

18+only, cemetery meet cute, talk of grief and death, allusions to depression and alcohol consumption. Eddie is grieving and so is reader.

wc: 706

You hug yourself against the brisk, icy wind, flexing the collar of your coat up to cover your ears as you stand in the cemetery staring with wet eyes at the headstone in front of you.

“Sometimes I hate you for this, you know?” You scowl and shuffle your feet.  “For dying on me like you did, for leaving me alone here in this shitty world.  It’s not fair.”

Your grandmother’s name is spelled out on the cement slab, and there are fresh poinsettias just below it that will soon suffocate under the freshly fallen snow.  The sun is down and darkness crowds in around you, as if stumbling over shafts of light in its eagerness to be by your side.  You don’t avoid them like others might; you let them curl into you like stray cats and make a home.

You silently dare the gathering shadows to do with you what they will.  

You sniff back a sob and wipe tears from your eyes with angry yanks across your cheeks.  “I came to say I love you and I miss you and I wish you were here.  I don’t have anyone to spend the holidays with so—-”

Footsteps crunch in the snow and you hear a lighter flick.

You look up to see the small flame from a few yards away, and then, a face. 

“Did I scare you?” A man's voice asks, lit cigarette bobbing between his lips.

He sucks in a drag, and you scoff at whoever it is, irritated that he would dare to interrupt your therapeutic, sulking rant to your dead grandmother at her grave.  

“Quite presumptuous of you to think you’d have any effect on me,” you bite, wrapping your arms around your ribcage tighter, feeling for the pepper spray in your coat pocket, just in case.  

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.  He lowers the cigarette, and you can only see his silhouette against the falling snow.  “I’m just not used to bumping into people out here this time of night.”

“You hang out in the cemetery a lot? How hardcore of you.” Your tone is mocking, you want him to leave.  You wish to be alone with your misery and the several travel-size bottles of Jameson.

“These past few months, yeah,” he admits with a shrug.  You can see the outline of his hand and the bright cherry glow on his smoke.  “Since my uncle passed.  He’s right over there.”

He sticks his elbow out to the right, in a general direction.  As if he can’t look, as if it’s still too hard. 

“He raised me,” he offers, as if to accentuate the point that the man had not been just any uncle.  “So, I like to come here and get sad, too, you know?”

You relax your hand on the pepper spray.  You relax your jaw too, and for a brief second, you hope that he is the grim reaper coming to take you away from this earthly hell.

He takes a tentative step closer, and in the dim glow of the moonlight, you can finally see the gentle curves of his face.  “Names Eddie,” he shoves one hand into the front pocket of his jeans and flicks ash from his smoke with the other.  Other than ripped jeans and sneakers, he only has on a threadbare concert tee and a thin leather jacket.

You don’t tell him your name because you’re not sure if you want to know anyone anymore.  Being alone is better, being alone is safe.  

But you can’t help but notice: “Are you cold?”

He snorts a laugh. “I kinda am, yeah. I didn’t really expect to come out here.  It just…happened.”

You understood the compulsion.  You’d driven to the cemetery in your pajamas once in a fit of grief.  

You felt in your other pocket for the tiny bottles of alcohol and rolled them around in your fingers so that they sounded like crashing marbles.  You held one up to him by the glass neck.  “You want to come back to my car and get warm? Be sad together?”

“Well, it is the holidays,” he tried not to smile but couldn’t help the grin that crept up one side of his face like the Grinch with an idea.  “Sucks to be alone this time of year.”

[chaotic-iguana]

Hello, I would like to request a story about Joel (no apocalypse) who picking up reader from their workplace. However, as the reader is walking towards the car, she experience a hit-and-run accident or another type of accident (you can choose freely).

Joel, who witnesses the accident becomes extremely panicked and protective during and after reader out the hospital. Joel is deeply traumatized and afraid that something bad might happen to the reader. I need fluff and angst Joel and you are excellent at creating it 🥺💖

thank you anon! you’re so sweet, i really appreciate you and the prompt! im going to make this an installment of the husband! joel verse (introduced in tease)

Borrowed time

Summary: Reader gets hurt, and Joel doesn’t know how to deal with it. (no-outbreak! au)

Wordcount: 1.7K

Pairing: husband joel x f! reader (no use of y/n)

Warning: angst, hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, blood, a little gore, allusions to sex 

masterlist

Your car had broken down last week, so Joel had been dropping you off and picking you up from work. You’d resisted at first, suggested walking or cycling or even the bus - all of which had been met with the same incredulous expression etched onto your husband’s face, an eyebrow raised at you in amusement. ‘As if, honey’ was all he’d snark at you before shushing you when you tried to argue about the fact that this would add an hour and a half to his route after dropping Sarah off in the mornings and  two hours in the evenings, which felt unsustainable for you since your car was at the mechanic’s garage for the foreseeable future. At that, he’d just huff and mumble something about not minding the extra time with you that much, and your heart would just melt again. 

The two of you settled into the new routine fairly quickly; Joel chuckling at your sleepy grumbling in the mornings and getting teased by you when he was grumpier and complaining about his aching back in the evenings. “Too far past your bedtime, old man?”, paired with a shit-eating grin as you watched him scowl and shake his head at you, turning back to the road as his lips twitched ever-so-slightly upwards. Enough for you to make iterations of the same joke every evening, just to watch him fight his smile. 

On a seemingly normal thursday morning, you’d been slightly distracted by a meeting you had with your bosses. The board of directors, actually, and the anxiety was practically crippling you by the time Joel was ushering you and Sarah into his truck. There was just so much that could go wrong, but if it went right, it would result in a massive promotion with a pretty nifty raise and four-day work weeks. Which sounds amazing, but you were sure it would feel even better. A whole extra day? 

Joel rested a hand on your knee to stop its bouncing, the warmth of his palm seeping through your jeans and immediately crushing the wave of nervousness that had been rising in you. “Look at me, sweetheart. You’re gonna crush it. And ‘f for whatever reason you don’t, we’ll go out an’ watch that movie you’d been wantin’ to, even pig out on icecream after. Whaddya call it? Self-care.” His words made you burst out laughing and lean over to kiss his cheek. 

“That actually sounds good. And for the record, I call taking a bubble bath self care, not swallowing five pints of icecream at three am. Like you apparently have the ability to.” He mock-frowned while beaming in the rear-view mirror. 

“Technically honeymoons are to learn new things about each other. Plus, we’d been fuckin’ an’ passin’ out with damn near no breaks f’thirty six hours at that point. A man’s gotta have some fuel to keep up with that kinda pace, no?” He snickered as he glanced at you with a pointed look. To be fair, you had, in fact been fucking till you passed out for the first three days of your trip to Italy, and you’d both only realised how hungry you were when neither of you had the energy to leave the bed. It was three am, and for some inconceivable reason, most restaurants had closed. So Joel had walked into the nearest grocery and just gotten 5 huge tubs of icecream and some waterbottles. While it worked great as fuel, you and Joel had been forced to spend two consecutive days holding each others’ hair back and eating proper meals, because as it turns out, eating four meals’ worth of icecream on empty stomachs does not sit well. 

“Seemed pretty good at keeping up when you fingered me in a full restaurant just because the waiter asked to get some wine for your missus.” You retorted back, shaking your head at how insatiable he’d been, too. It had taken a whole week for the nearl-feral glint in his eyes while referring to you his wife to fade - even then, not completely. 

“Never gonna tire of hearin’ that, you know.” Turning the corner to pull up to your stop, he leaned down for a sweet, slow kiss before leaning back to whisper softly. “You’re gonna do well, baby. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever seen, alright? Don’t you worry about a damn thing.” At your wordless nod, he kissed your forehead. “Go get ‘em, honey.” With nod and a parting greeting, you turn and walked into the building. 

After a long but extremely successful day, you rushed out of work the second your phone buzzed with Joel’s message, practically vibrating with the need to give him the good news. Brows furrowing, you scanned your surroundings looking for his truck. You caught his wave out of the corner of your eye and  returned it with a breathless laugh, striding in his direction and failing to notice the smudge of black approaching your side rapidly. The last thing you saw before your vision went black was Joel’s wide, panicked eyes and the urgency with which he pushed his door and stumbled out. For a second, it felt like you were in the air, limbs flailing. A second of impact; a sharp pain settling in your right leg, before you were out. 

Your eyes heaved open, blurry, and you heaved your head to the side to see Joel holding your hand and stroking your head, tears running down his face. You were lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by a crowd of concerned passengers. Joel’s mouth was moving, but you couldn’t hear him- in fact, you couldn’t hear anything except for a high-pitched tone buzzing in your ear. There was blood on his shirt, and before you could ask whose it was, you noticed it coated your hands, too. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of your thigh, flesh ripped open as bone jut out from its side, just before your eyes rolled back and consciousness slipped from your grasp once again. 

When you woke, it took you far too much effort to wrench your eyes open. Blinking against the painfully blinding lights overhead, you opened your mouth to call someone, anyone, to explain where the hell you were and why the beeping coming from next to you was so damn loud. Even your thoughts were lagging, unable to piece together why you were in this room that definitely wasn’t your own. Images of your previous waking moments flashing in your mind, you felt alarm building in your chest as your breath began coming in short gasps. Suddenly, something in your peripheral vision moved and suddenly Joel was here, his large hand cupping your face as he urged you to breathe. It took a minute - maybe even more- for lucidity to return to your rapidly-spiraling mind, but he stayed unwaveringly calm as he held you patiently and waited for you to come back. 

“W-“ you wince at the dryness of your throat, at how hoarse your voice sounds from lack of use. “What happened?” You tried again, clearing your throat this time. Joel’s soft eyes met yours, lips turned downwards in a frown. 

“Fuckin’ idiot drivin’ a car was on his phone, texting when you started crossin’ the road. Bastard didn’t see ya, and one second you were smilin’ so sweet at me, an’ by the next you were on the floor, bone stickin’ outta your thigh. Closest I’ve ever been to a heart attack.” You could fear fraying at the edges of his voice as you moved your hand up to hold his, cradling it to your cheek. “Asshole drove away, too. Didn’t even get his number plate ‘cause I was so fuckin’ scared for you.” He looked away, tears filling his eyes. 

Reaching out to stroke his jaw, you nudged him to look at you again. “‘M sorry, honey. Should have been more careful. Think I would have gone crazy if I ever had to see you like that.” You murmured, feeling your heart break at seeing Joel this scared, this frantic. He shook his head. 

“Not your fault, baby. None ‘f it, ya hear me? ‘M just so glad you’re okay. Rest up, sweetheart, you need it right now.” You nod, kissing the back of his hand as you lean back in your bed.

The next few days in the hospital go by in a blur, Joel refusing to leave your side for a single minute. His hand is always somewhere on you: holding yours, stroking your face, your hair. Sarah hadn’t come in at your request; you hadn’t wanted her to see you in a hospital bed, unable to move much. When the time to get discharged rolled around, Joel seemed even tenser, his grip on you tighter. It took some time for you to get the cast taken off, which on one hand was an extreme relief, it also meant that you now had to attend regular physiotherapy sessions to regain full mobility. 

The real adjustment, however, was the way Joel would straighten and tense up any time you left home after that. The way he grabbed your hand when you crossed streets; accompanying you even to the pharmacy down the block. At first, it irked you. Then, you realised what he had been through. If the roles had been reversed, you’d want to accompany him everywhere too. His fear was very real and very valid - one of his worst nightmares had just taken place in front of him, afterall, and if all he needed to feel a bit better was to walk you to places you needed to go, then you’d indulge him for as long as it took for him to realise that you were safe. 

It lasted a few months, but as you returned to normal, so did he. Your car came back from the garage, but Joel still drove you. Not because of his fear, or because he had to, but just to revel in that extra hour he got out of it. He’d learned that time was precious, and he wanted to spend every conceivable second of his with you and Sarah. 

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore AMAZING dividers by @cafekitsune!! absolute god who makes amazing dividers for free! 

[ghuleh-recs]

Swisstom fic recs PLEASEEEEEEEEEEEE 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

YES. Love love love these two. This was a fun one to put together! I'm slowly but surely catching up on my asks now that I have my life and will to live back (I don't know why being a bridesmaid always turns into a full-time job for me). Thank you for your patience ♡

recs under the cut.

Kinktober Day 2 - Quintosis - @askingforthesun

"Aeon's First Unsupervised Mindfuck" Swiss twisted around just enough to plant a casual, comforting kiss on Aeon’s jaw. “What are you even so afraid of?”  Aeon scowled. “Breaking your mind beyond all recognition or repair?”

kinktober - day twenty - @iamthecomet

1k about why ghouls should not be allowed in bars. AKA: Swiss and Aeon share a perfectly innocent dance in a very crowded bar.

untitled - @ghoul-slime

“Don’t you dare take that uniform off of him, Swiss,” Aether chides. “We just got him all laced up and put together and he still needs to get fitted for adjustments.” Swiss holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Aeth,” Swiss reassures him. “Just helping our boy kill some time while he waits.” “Uh huh,” Aether answers, sounding unconvinced. He shoots Phantom a warning look. “And please, for the love of Satan, don’t get it dirty.”

untitled - @crimsonclergy

852 word of unedited (stoned) hand stuff what if bug accidentally got a lil bold? what if swiss’ hands had looked so beautiful rolling a joint, so skilled as he set it between his lips and flicked the lighter to life behind a cupped a hand, that bug was asking before he even really understood what he was asking for.

pleader - @p1nkcanoe

a risky little hump in the library takes an unexpected turn when phantom begs for swiss' knot. *and this one too if you enjoy how p1nk writes them (spoiler alert: you will).

Green is the Warmest Color - @miasmaghoul

“You’re staring,” Swiss lilts, eyes crinkling as he brings the smoldering end of their joint to his lips. Aeon's sure he's right, but in fairness, how couldn’t he? Swiss is a vision, sitting pretty in his lap in a wide straddle with a hand planted on Aeon’s stomach. The setting sun throws every inch of the other ghoul into such sharp relief; everything from the chips in his curved horns and the strong line of his jaw, to the breadth of his shoulders and the slight softness of his stomach. From the swollen, stiff peaks of the nipples Aeon had spent ages teasing once they’d finally fallen back into bed, to the flushed length of Swiss’ cock where it sits heavy against Aeon’s pale belly. Dribbling sticky fluid into his happy trail with the occasional languid rock of those incredible hips. "'Course I am," he replies, loose and relaxed, "you're real nice to look at."

Attention - @arcaneacolyte

Phantom likes attention. If anyone were to watch how he performs at Rituals, how he interacts with screaming fans, blowing kisses and moving his body in ways that make them scream all the louder, it’s obvious. He loves to be watched. So much so, that he’s jealous when other Ghouls get attention. He might argue until he’s purple in the face—or at least more than his unglamored skin already is—but Swiss knows, Swiss sees.

𖤐 you know the drill--bookmark, read, and leave kudos/comments!

[sunshine-on-my-mind]

Fairy tale

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Plus Size Reader

word count: 1064

warnings: angsty fluff, self doubt (reader), insecure reader (about her body), kissing.

a/n: hey cuties, this is the first time i’ve written for Bucky, I hope you all like it. REBLOGS and COMMENTS are appreciated!

Is loving someone with all your being enough to make them love you back? Love doesn’t work that way. Neither does life, since reality is no fairy tale.

You try to shift your gaze away from reality which seems to be mocking you.

James Buchanan Barnes, who you had given your heart was knowingly or unknowingly crushing it in his hands.

The two of you got so close so quickly, ever since he joined the Avengers, you felt drawn to him. You were not a member but an assistant to the team, a valued part though. They all respected you. And Bucky? well at first he took time to open up but when he did it felt as if the both of you couldn’t be separated even for a second. Always sticking together, sometimes talking, sometimes listening and the other times just being in each other’s presence.

Maybe it was all too good to be true.

The loud noise of the party seemed to have faded away when all you could hear was the laugh coming from a gorgeous girl who had her arms all over Bucky, as they danced together. She was everything you were not. Everything you wished you were if that’s what it took for Bucky to love you back.

What hurt you the most was that even for a second your heart gave you the false hope that Bucky Barnes might be different, that he might love you for who you were.

Last night when Bucky came to you like a lost puppy, his cheeks red and his lips gracing that soft smile, he admitted to you that he had not danced in a long time.

“What if some one asks me to dance tomorrow, sweets?” His nickname for you, as cheesy it may sound. Bucky gave you the name because he was sure he had never come across a sweeter person.

“Well then you dance with them, silly.” You told him with a giggle.

“What if I embarrass myself? You don’t understand, I haven’t danced in a long, long time.” He admitted with a blush.

“Let’s practice then.”

“Really? You would do that?” Silly Buck, as if he didn’t know that you would do anything and everything for him.

The two of danced the night away. You brushed up his old moves and taught him some new.

“Thank you, sweets. I knew I could count on you” Bucky gave you his signature charming smile.

“Now all I have to do is repeat this tomorrow, which I think will be quite easy” He smirked. And you felt your cheeks heat up, imagining various scenarios of the two of you dancing together in the party.

Oh how wrong you were. Bucky is after all another man, no matter how different or how special he felt to you.

The way he was laughing with her as the two swayed with the music. It broke you but was a much needed reality check.

You sniffled trying to hold back the tears. Bucky with his heightened hearing could hear your sniffles, he turned around to find you in the crowded room. When he noticed the tears in your eyes his heart seemed to have stopped working. Bucky immediately pulled away from that girl and practically ran towards you but before you could see him making his way towards you, you had left the room.

“Sweets! Wait up, what’s wrong?”

Bucky quickly caught up with you. To be fair you were both shocked and confused to hear his question.

“Are you okay? What happened? Did someone say something?“ You took a deep breath before finally giving him an answer

“Am I okay? Are seriously that oblivious or simply cruel James?” You didn’t ever use his first name, he must have messed up. But he truly didn’t know what was wrong. Bucky tried to come up with words but couldn’t form a coherent statement.

“Save it James. This won’t be the first time getting my heart broken, won’t be the first time someone would pretend to be oblivious to my feelings only to find a easy way out. Because otherwise what would be your response? Let me guess, ‘I had no idea you felt like that and that I have never seen you in that way?’ or maybe ‘We are better off as friends, I don’t wanna ruin that?’ Because I’ll always be the good friend whose shoulder you can cry one until you find a better shoulder, a prettier one?” You were full on sobbing at that point, you regretted spilling your heart open and didn’t like feeling so vulnerable in front of someone who might not care about your feelings.

“Sweets… I-“ Without another word Bucky wrapped you in a tight hug. You weren’t expecting that at all.

“I’m so sorry for hurting you, trust me it was never my intention. I understand if you choose not to believe me when I say I really didn’t know you felt about me in a such a way. I didn’t think that someone so pure and kind as you can want anything more than a platonic relationship with someone who has such a tainted history.”

Bucky was crying too, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around him.

“I barely feel like a whole person at times, but you always make me feel so calm. I was afraid that I would read into things that were not actually there maybe just in my mind, and you know very well I still don’t trust my mind.”

On hearing that you pulled away slightly and took his face in your hands.

“I pushed away my own feelings because I thought you could never love me back” Bucky confessed.

“Oh Buck, all this while I was trying to do the same.” Bucky chuckled softly in between sobs, thinking about how the whole situation turned out.

“I love you, Sweets.”

“I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky moved his hand on the back of your neck and pulled you in a kiss. A soft loving kiss soon turned into something heated and you only pulled away when you were out of breath.

“Will you be my girl, sweets?”

“I’d love nothing more Buck.” You hugged him again, as he held you tightly, he won’t let go of you ever, he knew that in his heart.

Maybe, life can be a fairy tale, sometimes.

[maracujatangerine]

I woke up thinking about this so I'm asking! How would Cory fair if, for some unimaginable reason, Lydia had no choice but to have Wayland watch him for the weekend??

84. Unfortunate Circumstances

CW: NSFW, non-con, institutionalised slavery, dehumanisation, box boy universe, pet whump

“Of course, dearest. You and Lydia should enjoy your girls’ weekend together and I’ll keep an eye on the pets.”

“Are you sure you are all right with looking after Cory-boy, too?”

“No problem, Ceci. It isn’t more than right considering your friend took care of Brutus for our trip. We should help her in return.”

Mistress Cecilia pouted prettily.

”But that sounds so boring and full of drudgery, dear. Perhaps I should stay to keep you company?”

Wayland gave Cecilia an affectionate kiss. “Don’t you worry! I’ll have some fun too. I might have a few friends over tonight.”

“That sounds better.” She wrapped him in a quick hug. “See you in a couple of days!” Looking at Absalom, Brutus and Coriander all kneeling in line, she added. “Be good, pets.”

And then she was out of the door.

*

Handcuffs clinked as Wayland locked Cory’s hands behind the pet’s back. Then, he pushed him down to kneel on the cold floor. Brutus watched helplessly as Coriander, naked, lowered his head. His scarred back, the vulnerable arc of his spine, the blonde hair falling freely around his face. The fair-haired pet looked… broken.

Wayland rubbed his hands together, grinning.

”Don’t worry your sweet little head, pet. We are going to have fun together. First, Absalom is going to make you feel so good. He is a wizard with that mouth of his. He knows exactly what to do.” He smiled languidly. “And then, Brutus here, will take you from behind.”

Wayland reached up and patted Brutus’ upper arm a couple of times. Just like you would pat your horse or your hunting dog. For once, Brutus didn’t feel the elation that praise from his Master usually gave. Instead, he felt a sick, cold dread roiling in his stomach.

“You’re going to pop some pills, boy.” Wayland said. “So that you can stay nice and hard for a long, long time.” He chuckled to himself. “This will be a show for me and the lads to enjoy. I have heard from Cecilia that your dear Mistress Lydia doesn’t even play with her boy toy.” He spat. “Just what you could expect from that fridgid bitch, am I right?”

He reached out to smooth over Coriander’s hair in a mock caress, only to violently fist his hand into the silken, blonde tresses and force the shivering pet’s head up. Tears glimmered in Cory’s grey eyes, catching the lamplight, but the pet did not let them fall.

“Hmm.” Wayland almost purred at the sight. “But that should mean that you are nice and tight.” He laughed. “Perhaps too nice a treat for a simple guard dog, maybe all of us should have you? Brutus can get his chance when we are all done.”

He looked up, behind Brutus’ shoulder. “What do you think, Absalom? You little whore. I’m sure you have all the experience in the world when it comes to these matters, don’t you?”

The romantic gracefully sidestepped Brutus’ hulking form and sashayed into the room. When he passed the guard dog, he turned his head and locked eyes with Brutus. The eye contact somehow electrifying, meaningful, as if he wanted to share a message. But Brutus had no idea what Absalom meant to convey, and the moment passed.

“That’s right, Master.” Absalom stepped close to Wayland, let his hand glide lightly down the bigger man’s chest. He looked up at him through his eyelashes. “But..” Absalom said slowly. “Why would you bother with these… amateurs?” The pet tilted his head upwards, as if inviting a kiss. “I can give you and your friends all the entertainment you need.”

He turned his head slowly towards the door. Again, that meaningful glance towards Brutus. An expression of urgency flickering over his face, only to be completely erased when Absalom looked up towards Wayland again. “You can send them away.” He suggested, coyly. “We can have some privacy to enjoy ourselves before your friends arrive.”

“Aha, I know what you want.” Wayland said. “You just want to have the chance to curry some extra favour for yourself.” He laughed. “That’s kind of sly. Smart for a pet, at least.” He grabbed Absalom’s chin, forcing the pet’s head further upwards. “It will be fun playing with you. But me and the lads, we probably want some novelty as well.”

He looked over all the three pets with a calculating expression that chilled Brutus’ blood.

”Maybe..” he said, and the glint in his eyes held no hint of clemency or compassion. “Maybe I’ll just take all three of you at once.”

Brutus awoke, heart still beating fast with fear. The familiarity of the sparse room. The shapes of his weights on the rack at the end of his bed, each of them glistening silver in the light from the street lamps. The hard cot beneath him. It all brought him back to reality.

Coriander was safe, at home, with his owner. Absalom probably asleep upstairs.

It had all just been a dream. But the uneasy feeling stayed with Brutus for a long time.

*

The ‘it was just a dream’-trope is a bit of a cheap cop-out, I agree. Sorry about that. ☺️

I don’t think Lydia would ever leave Coriander with Wayland. She would rather leave him to stay home alone.

Thank you for the fun ‘what-if’-inspiration, Anon! ✨💖✨ (I love getting asks, but I am very slow in responding to them.)

*

Tag List Part 1: @cupcakes-and-pain @whump-em @whumpzone @wh-wh-whu @neuro-whump @carnagecardinal @cowboy-anon @whump-me-all-night-long @redwingedwhump @myst-in-the-mirror @haro-whumps @eatyourdamnpears @bloodsweatandpotato @pinkraindropsfell @whumptywhumpdump @theydy-cringeworthy @whump-in-progress @whumpsy-daisy @nicolepascaline @whumpcreations @briars7 @shiningstarofwinter @whumppsychology @alex-ember @miss-kitty-whumptastic @whumpy-writings @in-patient-princess @youtube-fandoms-bands @goblinchildindabog @mazeish @distinctlywhumpthing @inpainandsuffering @canniboylism @icannotweave @incoherent-introspection @kim-poce @broken-typewriter @the-monarch-whumperfly @whumpers-inc @grizzlie70 @lil-whumper @writingbackwards-blog @sunflower1000 @wingedwhump @thecitythatdoesntsleep @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @onlybadendings @rabass @wolfeyedwitch @melancholy-in-the-morning

[neverwalka1one]

Magnus Protocol 18

In which Alice might not be getting out the corkboard and red string, but I am.

Note: Sure, Teddy can 'leave' to OIAR. Sure. Just can't get a job anywhere else. That's. So comforting.

Alice and Teddy are cute. Also, ... Alice as the office matchmaker? Huh. IDK. Was she trying to shove Sam and Teddy together because it obviously wouldn't work and thus was not worrying? Sticking a pin in that.

Hi Augustus, long time no hear!

Royal Mint Court... hey! I've been there! I mean, not _there_ there, but the Tower of London is literally across the street, and I've been there. Got some tasty roast chestnuts. ... So, across the street from where they used to put traitors, where they've executed people, where there's the ever-important ravens, etc etc. hmm.

Lena, your people skills are, as ever, astoundingly bad. I'm getting you one of those 'world's worst boss' cups. You can share with Elias.

Hi Augustus! Long time no hear!

Huh, another malnutrition case. Is this another Magnus Institute reject?

Another body that talks after death. Reciting a 'story'. Hey Medical Examiner dude, my buddy, my pal, I don't think this is fiction.

So, I'm clocking the Spider, the Lonely, the Spiral, the Corruption, the End, the Eye, maybe the Vast if I stretch a bit (I must be careful on the stairs, or they will break and I will fall)... that's more than half of the fears. Who else do we know that had multiple fears mark him?

So again: was she a reject from the Magnus Institute??

Hey Alice, I'll take the corkboard and red string, don't you worry.

... Is it just me, or does Alice's steadfast refusal to be curious sound a lot like S1!Jon viciously mocking real statements because he was convinced that if he didn't sound like he believed them, they'd leave him alone?

to be fair to Alice, if someone told me they didn't want the job they'd spent the last however long demanding to get because it wasn't 'fun', I'd also mock them. Please pick better words Gwen.

Oooh, Alice has picked up on Gwen's classism tendencies. And Gwen is not the one to protest the charge.

To be fair to Alice and Sam, if someone told me the super scary person that is making their dream job a nightmare was an annoying children's tv character, I to would mock the shit out of them. That sounds like a joke. It should be a joke.

Mr Bonzo is never a joke.

Mr Bonzo's on his way he wants to stay he wants to play

'Who keeps taking Georgie’s face' is not a question you ask of a baby, Georgie. Also, is this alt!universe Georgie?? She's got the vibe.

... Did Celia end up on the side of the road again? In her PJ's?

So just gonna throw this out: We've got dopplegangers. We've got bodies that sometimes forget to act like they're bodies or like they need air or blood or anything to work. We've got supposedly innocent people asking face-stealing questions of BABIES like that's a THING. Did this world get taken over by the Stranger? I'm JUST SAYING.

[dira333]

A moth to the flame - Ibiki x Aburame! Reader - part 1

tagging @heavk11 @snuggleboots and @missalienqueen for Naruto content

The woman across from his is stunning, no doubt, but Ibiki cannot stop focusing on her front teeth, the lipstick marks there that she missed when she got ready. It’s such a small thing, but it ruins the smile she’s showing now. It’s probably meant to be sultry.

“You really are a hard working man,” she teases, her left hand touching his right. He almost flinches away, barely manages to keep it together. He really should get out more.

“Of course I am. A family does not feed itself.”

Her smile flickers out like a dying lightbulb. “A family?” She asks, her tone weirdly cold.

“Well, so far it’s only me and my cat, but-”

She laughs. It’s not the same laugh he’s heard before tonight, light and airy and no doubt flirty. This one is mocking and cruel.

“A family? With you?” 

He breathes out, grabs his drink and takes a sip. He should have seen that coming.

“Now,” he tries to smile as fake as she is, “That’s not nice.”

“Sorry,” she giggles again, no doubt convinced that it sounds sexy. “But women like me don’t settle for guys like you.”

“Mhm,” he nods, pulling out his wallet, “And vice versa.”

-

He’s almost out of the restaurant - glad that no one’s around that he knows well enough to be ashamed around - when he spots you. 

Your coat is open, a rare sight, and the dress you’re wearing modest, but it has him slow down enough to hear your conversation.

“Can you please check again? There should be a reservation under the name Yamane. Or maybe Aburame, if he used my name.”

“No, there’s no reservation, I’m afraid. Not for the whole night. Maybe you should check in with your partner. He might have just forgotten-” You obviously tense at the last word and the hostess stops, clamps her mouth shut and turns away. 

“Aburame-san,” Ibiki walks over, not really sure why he’s doing it, but still urging to do so. “Seems we’ve both had bad luck tonight.”

You turn to him, dark glasses reflecting his own face. 

“Your date forgot that you existed?” You ask, voice cool and smooth, like the ice cubes he puts in his drink.

“No,” he laughs softly, “But I think I would have preferred that tonight. Do you want to get something to eat? Together? Though not here, if that could be arranged.”

You sigh and pull your coat closed around you, hiding away again like he knows you. 

“I think that would be nice.”

-

“Is it a Jutsu?” He asks over a bowl of Ramen, watching with odd fascination as your glasses fog up from the steaming food yet you don’t pull them off.

“No.” You pick up a Narutomaki with your chopsticks and plop it in your mouth. No lipstick stains on your teeth. “And before you ask, not every Aburame is constantly forgotten. It’s not genetic.”

“But what about-” “Ibiki?” He turns, a little mispleased that he got interrupted yet again. Genma’s standing only a few feet away, Senbon carelessly dangling from his mouth. “Aren’t you supposed to be on a date tonight?”

He’s not sure how Genma even knows about it, but he already hates him for it.

“What if I am?”

Genma blinks. “With who?”

Ibiki stares him down for a second before he points at you. Genma blinks again.

“Is she in the bathroom right now?”

“Are you blind?” He asks, “Aburame-san is sitting right across from me!”

“Oh, shit!” Genma laughs awkwardly, “Didn’t see you there. My bad. Well, I… I’ll get going then.”

Ibiki scowls and turns around. You’re sitting stiffly now and he can only imagine how much that must have hurt, especially after what has happened earlier tonight.

Being simply forgotten by someone you were supposed to go on a date with is never funny, even less when it happens consistently.

“You didn’t have to say that,” you point out, chopsticks now resting on top of your bowl. “Now they are going to assume things.”

“I’m sorry I said it,” he apologizes, “I didn’t know why… I” He sighs. “Since I couldn’t help but overhear your predicament I think it’s only fair to tell you about mine. I was asked out a few days ago. I don’t really read much into these things because so far nothing has worked out, but she said some hurtful things and… I guess I just didn’t want Genma to think I could not land a date even if I wanted to.”

Not for the first time he wishes he could look through your glasses. 

“I hardly think Genma will be impressed by your choice of date,” you point out stiffly, “But I don’t condone hurtful behaviour, so I am most welcome to soothe the hurt. What was it about, if I may ask?”

He can’t help but chuckle. “I want to have a family one day. Apparently I’m not the man women want to have a family with.”

“How many kids?” You ask. He’s not surprised by your direct approach, after all, he’s gotten to know you in the last years of working together.

“Ah,” he considers it for a moment, “I think my ideal number would be three, but I’d be lucky to even have one, I guess.” He hesitates only for a second. “You?”

“Five,” you say without missing a beat, “But I could see myself compromising there, if needed.”

He almost chokes on his drink.

“That’s… good for you, I guess. Your date tonight… Have you talked about that yet?”

“He’s a friend of a friend,” you explain, stiffening again, “I asked him out and he didn’t seem against it. We haven’t had a chance to talk about these things yet, though I don’t believe we will in the future.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But you know, we’re only 18, I guess we still have some time.”

“Right,” you nod, picking up your chopsticks again. “I heard about your promotion. Do you plan on implementing some new methods?”

-x-

“Shibi,” you ask, your eyes focused on little Shino, “How did you court Zoka?” 

Shino looks up at the sound of his mother, but when neither you nor his father address him, his attention turns back to the riddle you brought. It’s a tough one, but you think he’ll get through it on his own. He’s a smart kid, even at three years old.

“Why do you ask?” Shibi asks from the table where he’s writing a mission report.

You’re sitting on the hardwood floor, can see the way he’s bent over the table. Does he not want to talk about this topic?

“I want to court someone. I don’t know how.”

“I brought her flowers. Why? The Yamanaka insist that it’s a perfect gift to capture someone’s attention.”

“Flowers,” you repeat, considering this. “Thank you, I’ll try that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Shibi offers, but you shake your head.

“Not yet. I don’t want to… how do people say? I don’t want to Jinx it.”

“Auntie,” Shino pipes in from where he’s sitting across from you. “I got it.”

“Of course you did,” you lean in to inspect his work. “Marvelous.” 

A shy smile lights up his face.

-x-

There’s a bouquet on his desk. 

Ibiki stares down at it, not really processing what he’s seeing. It’s beautiful, even to his untrained eye. White lilacs and dark red carnations against a deep green.

“Kawano?” He asks the poor Chunin who’s been working as a Secretary the last two months. “Did someone put this flowers here?”

“Flowers?” The boy blinks. “What flowers?”

“The flowers on my desk.” Ibiki points at them. Kawano almost jumps at the sight.

“What are they doing there?”

“You’re the secretary, you should know!”

“I-I.. I’m sorry, I didn’t… No one was coming by for at least half an hour, I swear.”

Ibiki harrumphs. He’s not sure what to do with them now. Should he bring them over to Inoichi, ask him if he knows something about them?

From the corner of his eye he can see movement. When he looks up, you’re standing in the doorway, stiff as a board.

“I just found them,” he explains the elephant in the room and points at the flowers. “Did you notice someone coming by?”

“Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer,” you offer, your voice tense. “Aren’t flowers part of courtship.”

He laughs tersely. “In that case,” he picks the flowers up and offers them to you, “They should go to someone more deserving than me.”

-x-

“Zoka liked sweets,” Shibi remembers.

Shino’s sitting on your lap, so completely focused on your newest batch of moths that your conversation seems to go over his head.

“What kind of sweets?” You ask, already thinking. You haven’t seen Ibiki eat chocolates ever and you cannot picture him with those disgusting gummy worms Inoichi feeds his daughter. 

“There’s this delicacy from the land of earth,” Shibi remembers, “I got them when I was on a mission near the border, I think. They were quite pricey, but she loved them. She called them pillows of sweetness.”

“Hmm,” you make, calling your moths to fly a formation for Shino with the flick of your hand. “Imported candy could be interesting. It’s always interesting to try new things.”

Shino claps his hands when the moths land again. 

“Can I show you what I’ve learned, Auntie?” He asks, offering up his own Kikaichu.

“Of course,” you say, help him slip from your lap. He walks over to the kitchen table and your eyes get caught on the bouquet in the middle of it, the dark red and white against the deep green. 

You swallow thickly, but Shino doesn’t notice. 

“Are you watching, Auntie?” He asks and you refocus.

“Of course!”

-x-

“What’s that?” Ibiki musters the box in your hand. It’s fairly small, made out of a dark wood with intriguing carvings.

“It’s a foreign candy,” you explain, “I got it on my latest mission.”

“Ah, the land of water, right?” He nods. “I didn’t know you were into sweets.”

“I am not,” you explain tersely, “But I thought you might want to try them.”

He blinks. He’s never been a sweet tooth and he doesn’t know what could have given that impression.

“Ah, thank you, I guess.” He accepts the wooden box that’s surprisingly heavy in his hands. “Do you want to try together.”

Something dances over your face, something like the flickering sunlight falling through the foliage. It’s beautiful, but it’s hidden away just a second later, hidden away like your body behind your wide coat. 

He blinks, chasing away the memory of you in that dress.

The candy does not look appealing in any way, twelve globs of a clear, wiggling substance. It’s moving too much to be regular jello.

“How do you eat that?” He asks. You shrug and hand him chopsticks. It doesn’t work, the gel just breaks apart. 

“I’ll get spoons,” you offer, rushing to the little coffee station they’re not actually supposed to have but hide very well every time the Hokage threatens them with an inspection.

Ibiki digs the spoon into one of the globs, realising this one has a faint green color to it. It’s cool on his tongue and tastes vaguely fruity. He holds it in his mouth for a second, not sure if he should bite it or swallow it whole.

Your eyes, hidden behind glasses, don’t tell anything, but your mouth is pulled into a line that tells him you’re equally displeased with the experience.

Eventually, he decides to bite into it, only to realize that it changes the taste. And the texture. It’s prickly now and his tongue starts burning. He wants to swallow it, get rid of it, but the way his tongue feels, almost as if it’s swelling up, tells him to do the opposite.

You stiffen as he spits it into his coffee cup. His tongue feels furry in the worst way, and double its size.

“I think I might be allergic,” he offers weakly.

“Do you need me to get a medic?” You ask, hands hovering.

“A glass of water would be a good start.”

-x-

“Jewelry,” Shibi offers over a game of Go, “Though I doubt it will work for you.”

“Why not?” You ask, making your next move even though you know you’ve already lost. Your attention is elsewhere, and it’s not on Shino, who’s napping on a pillow next to you.

“If the other things didn’t work, I doubt it will work.”

“I doubt he realized what I was doing,” you say, deeply dissatisfied with today’s outcome. Ibiki did have to see a Medic and as far as you know he’s still unable to speak properly.

Shibi looks up. 

“That’s the most important part, though,” he says, “You cannot court someone if they don’t know you’re the one courting.”

You hesitate, Go piece in your hand.

“I just…” You start, the words painful enough that you don’t want to say them out loud. But you must, to get over them. “I don’t want to be forgotten again.”

“If you’re courting him, he must be worth it, right?”

You hesitate.

“Maybe.”

“Think about it,” Shibi offers, taking the piece from your hand and putting it where it belongs. “You’re still young. You don’t have to know today who you want to marry. You still have time.”

-x-

They could have done with some more people on this mission, Ibiki thinks as they race through the forest. He trusts you and he knows you’re going to do your job the way it needs to be done, but he would feel safer with at least one more person at their side.

They only rest in the early morning.

“I’ll take first watch,” he offers. You shake your head.

“I don’t have to sleep yet. I’ll go first.”

He hesitates for second before he nods. “I trust you with this.”

They hardly talk, a comfortable, focused silence between them.

It’s only on the way back, hands still caked with dried blood, that he slows down.

“Let’s rest earlier tonight,” he points at the formation of rock and trees. “We can get a good sleep and travel quicker tomorrow.”

You nod, offering to gather herbs, berries and wood while he sets up a sleeping place and some matters of defense.

He’s halfway through putting up the shitty tent that’s in every mission scroll when you approach him. There’s a white flower in your hands, one he hasn’t seen before.

“What did you get?” He asks, not sure if you want to show him something poisonous or edible.”

“This is for you,” you say, voice higher than he’s ever heard. “It reminded me of your eyes.”

He stares. “My eyes… are brown.”

“The biggest part of the eye is white,” you insist, pushing the flower into his hands. You’re stiffening again. “Though it may be a sickly yellow if you don’t have a healthy lifestyle, I-”

“Why are you gifting me flowers?” He asks, an idea creeping up his back like a slow spider.

You shut your mouth, breathe loudly through your nose. Ibiki wishes he could pull off your glasses, just once get to see your eyes.

“I like you,” you say, mouth pulled into that thin, almost pouty line he only sees when you have to admit something you don’t want to admit, “I am courting you.”

“Oh.”

Your back is as stiff as a board now as you turn, the flower dropping to the floor in your haste to get away.

“It’s alright,” you insist, “Forget about it. I’ll get us firewood and food.”

-

It takes you a long time to get back.

Long enough for him to gather his thoughts. And some supplies.

It’s nothing much, nowhere near the stuff he could get in Konoha, but he’s trying his best.

He’s covered the bedding in the tiny white buds of wild garlic, the aromatic smell filling the tent. He’s found a bush of wild strawberries too and even though he’s only managed to pick three ripe ones, he thinks they count as something sweet. Candy, if you will.

“I was supposed to bring the food,” you point out stiffly.

“Oh yeah, that’s not…” He can feel his heartbeat in his chest, realizes with a pang how uncomfortable you must have felt before. “I want to court you too.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” He waves at you to sit. “I know how it works, I just… I don’t know yet if we could work, but I like you. I’d like to get to know you. So… if you’re not allergic to garlic or strawberries, this is me courting you back. Just don’t… don’t tell it back home, okay? I’ve got a reputation to lose.”

[its-julia-in-outer-space]

Our Love Eternal - Part 1

Prompt: Harry is a Viking, and invades Y/N's land.

The Demon was taller than Y/N had expected him to be. Dressed in fighting leathers and a heavy fur coat, he stood alone before her father’s throne with both hands on the pommel of his greatsword. He had no beard, no visible ink staining his fair skin and his thick dark curls were free from any braid or decorative bead.

Had she not known any better, Y/N might have thought him an English mercenary, come to offer his services to the kingdom. But she did know better. The stories of the northern invaders had reached her ears long before they came knocking on Castle Branagh’s doors. 

A furious storm was raging that night, said the stories, when three ships emerged from the mist. Twenty men on each ship, rowing to the shore to the relentless sound of drums. One man did not row, people said. He stood still as stone, at the bow of the foremost ship, staring ahead. Jarl Harald, his countrymen were said to call him. Demon, did the people of Lothian.

The invaders did not know hunger, thirst or weariness. They marched on, day and night, taking all the riches and valuables they could get their hands on. An unstoppable wave, heading straight for the castle, the heart of the kingdom.

Neighbouring lands had faced the northern invaders before, and fallen before them. But this group seemed different. They took no lives, so long as people did not resist. Women were left unabused, homes unburnt. From the monasteries, they seized the gold, but left the monks alone. From the fields, they took what food they needed, and cared not to ruin the rest.

Men had been sent to stop them, of course. The strongest warriors in Lothian had been torn from their homes, lifted onto brave steeds and sent off to lay down their lives for the kingdom. And lay down their lives, they had, cut down like children by the northern beasts.

Y/N had seen them appear over the horizon one morning, a shifting mass darkening the path to Castle Branagh. Standing on the battlements, she had watched them approach as the castle erupted in pointless chaos. There was, after all, nowhere to run.

Nowhere to run, she thought again as she stood behind her father’s throne, the Demon before them.

“Ask him what he wants,” said the king to the translator. Her father wore his best finery, the Antler Crown placed proudly on his balding head. Slightly crooked, as always. Y/N could see beads of sweat running down his neck, and hoped that the invaders could not. For dignity’s sake.

The translator, a short and plump spice merchant who had apparently done frequent business in the invaders’ northern lands, spoke then in a strange, rhythmic, melodic prose. The Demon tilted his head to the side, bright green eyes on the Antler Crown, as he replied in that same strange language.

“He asks if you are the one called the Stag King,” the translator said.

“I am King Roderic of Lothian. Like my father before me, and his father before him, I am called the Stag King by the people of my lands.”

An old title, its meaning forgotten. Undeserved.

The translator translated. The Demon’s eyes narrowed, his gaze leaving the crown to travel the crowd of stoic soldiers and cowering nobles. He spoke then, his tone sharper.

“He asks if you have a child,” the merchant said. “No - a daughter.”

Y/N froze as, one by one, each member of the royal court looked at her. Following along, the Demon’s green eyes settled on her figure. She was covered from head to toe, gloves on her hands, cloak around her body, veil over her face. Yet she felt naked as he watched her, watched every tremor, every shiver that racked her.

The Demon spoke again, his chapped lips curving into a predatory smile. Spoke to her.

“He says hello,” the translator said. “He says not to be scared.”

“Scared!” her father scoffed. “The nerve! Has he come to mock us? Is this why he asked for an audience? To make fools out of this court before they slaughter us? We know his men stand ready! We know who waits in the darkness!”

The Demon’s eyes went cold, flickering to her father as he bit out two short sentences.

The translator hesitated. “He says - he says he was not speaking to you, Your Highness. He was speaking to Lady Y/N.”

Her father opened his mouth, fury reddening his skin. Before he could speak and possibly damn them all, Y/N took a step forward.

“Why?” she asked. She sounded frightened, and cursed her lack of control. It was impossible to ignore the smile that blossomed on the Demon’s face. “What does he want with me?”

Her heart pounded against her ribs as she listened to the translator’s wheezy voice, and the Demon’s deep one in return. Air turned scarce as she watched the merchant’s eyes widen, his shoulders tense as he turned to her.

“He’s offering a deal, my Lady. He says he and his men will depart Lothian at once, and not harm a single soul. He swears not to return in ill spirit, lest the deal is broken. He says he is ready to make a solemn oath to you, and to the gods of his faith.”

“What- what does he want in return?” Y/N asked.

Time seemed to stop, seconds stretching into centuries as she waited with bated breaths for the translator to speak. The Demon stood still, his green gaze boring into hers through her veil.

“He wants the Stag’s Daughter to come with him back to his land. To Kaldagr. My Lady, he wants you.”

-----

The northerners’ longships were called drakkars, Y/N learned.  Their word for sword was sverð, the one for shield, skjold. Come was koma, and skynda was hurry. To her, they said nei most often. She needed no translation for that one.

She was told the crossing would be dangerous. Depending on the winds, it would take them three to six days to reach their homeland. Three to six days of cold winds, harsh waves and unpredictable weather. 

They asked her if she could swim, and laughed when she said no. They opened her sole bag of belongings and threw away all three of her dresses, and ordered her maid to pack men’s pants instead. They never left her alone. Never.

As if she could have run from them. As if she wanted to. 

The Demon’s audience with the Stag King had ended ten days prior, with the signing of a treaty between the kingdom of Lothian and Kaldagr. The treaty was simple: there would be peace and friendship between both lands, so long as the Princess of Lothian remained in the great city of Kaldagr. It was not stated what she was expected to do, once in the north, and she did not dare to think about it for too long.

In the end, what did it matter? If it saved her people, she would endure.

“My Lady, you must drink.”

Robben, the merchant turned translator, was handing her his waterskin. They were sat pressed together from hip to shoulder, at the back of the longship. They had departed from the Lothian shores almost four days ago, and the open sea surrounded them on all horizons.

There had been rain, there had been wind, and waves so tall they seemed like mountains. Every now and then, weather permitting, the northerners would pack the oars and let down the sails. 

“Thank you,” Y/N said as she took the waterskin from Robben. She lifted the bottom of her veil and drank a few mouthfuls.

As ordered, she had put on men’s clothing, the pants an unfamiliar feeling on her legs. She had too large hunting boots on her feet, kept in place by leather laces around her calves, thick socks underneath. Two cloaks had been placed around her shoulders, and still the cold wind passed through.

If the courtiers of Castle Branagh saw her, they surely wouldn’t recognize their princess. She looked like a vagrant, and smelled like one too after days at sea.

But still, she kept her veil over her hair and face. Not out of modesty, or out of respect for her father’s orders. She’d never cared much about those, even if she’d obeyed them for her entire life. But keeping her features hidden felt safer, the veil almost a shield against the northerners’ eyes. It was the last thing she owned, the last thing that was truly hers. She already dreaded the time when she would have to remove it.

She was still surprised she hadn’t been asked to take it off yet. Thought she would have to, that day on the beach.

On the morning of their departure, her father’s men accompanied her to the shore where the drakkars waited, already prepped for the journey home. A single row boat waited on the sand, two men sat inside with oars ready.

The Demon stood before it, his boots lapped by the waves, the rising sun over his left shoulder. The soldiers who brought her to him stayed back at the end of the dirt road, standing in a line as she walked alone towards the monster who now owned her.

As she approached, she noticed first that his arms were bare. Dark ink covered his fair skin, swirls and strange symbols running from his shoulders to his wrists. His dark curls were braided back, silver beads holding the ends together. The greatsword he’d carried at the audience was now accompanied with twin axes at his hips, a dagger at his belt and a bow across his back.

Now, he truly looked like a demon. Y/N’s heart faltered, an age-old instinct to run rising in her bones. She was smart enough to recognize that if he was the predator, she was the prey.

But she was the Princess of Lothian. She may have been going to her death, but she would go with pride and dignity. So she kept walking, stopping three steps before him. Even though he could not see her eyes, hidden behind the veil, she refused to look down.

A small, secretive smile on his lips, he bowed his head in a show of respect that made her want to spit in his face.

“Y/N,” he said. Her name did not sound the same coming from his mouth, his accent distorting every syllable. Then, he gestured at his own chest and said in broken, exaggerated English, “I am Harald. Harry.”

“You know my language?” she asked. He frowned, confusion in his eyes, and she took it as a no.

He spoke then rapidly in his own dialect, his hand pointing to the longship behind, then to her. He repeated the same words a second time, while she looked at him blankly.

“Kaldr,” he said. “Cold.”

Y/N looked down at herself, and the coat that had been given to her. It must have belonged to a hunter, stained with old blood and dirt, but she had no clothes of her own for extreme temperatures.

“This is all I have,” she told the Demon - Harry.

He clicked his tongue, muttering under his breath. Then, to her horror, he pushed back his cloak. Truthfully, calling it a cloak was doing it a disservice. Made of white, immaculate fur, it must have belonged to a wolf, but one larger than Y/N thought existed. It looked wonderfully warm and soft.

“No,” she protested as he took a step closer to her, the cloak in his hands. “I don’t want it.”

“Cold,” he said again. “Death.”

“I’ll be fine!”

He snarled, teeth bared at her. Such an animalistic behaviour, a savage show of dominance. But her protests died in her throat, her muscles locking up in fright.

His gaze turned softer at her reaction, and he looked almost regretful. But he said nothing, and stepped into her space. As he draped the heavy garment around her shoulders, his arms on both sides of her head, she kept her gaze on his chest.

“No cold,” he said, stepping back. “Varmr.”

“Warm,” she guessed. “I suppose I’m no good to you if I die from the cold before we even get there.”

“Warm,” he repeated, struggling on the w. “Já.”

Then, his hand lifted towards her face. As the tip of his fingers brushed her veil, Y/N startled backwards.

“Don’t,” she hissed. “Nei.”

He inclined his head in surrender, and sighed.  Then, without stepping closer, he gestured towards the row boat. 

For a moment, Y/N debated staying put. Digging her feet in the sand, the soil of her homeland. Would Lothian hold her, she wondered? Would her kingdom grip her ankles, her thighs, her waist, keep her with it no matter how hard the northerners pulled at her?

She entertained the fantasy for a few seconds. Breathed in. And walked to the row boat.

“We will reach Kaldagr before nightfall, I believe,” said Robben, his wheezy voice startling Y/N out of her memories. “Only a few more hours to go.”

“And then what? Will I be locked up? Beaten and raped? Made a slave to my enemies?”

Robben sighed.

“I don’t know what will happen to you, my Lady. But I do not believe you will be harmed.”

“Why not? Isn’t that the Viking way?”

“If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so in Lothian.”

Y/N scoffed.

“That’s assuming there’s any kind of logic to their actions. Do you know them so well, sir, that you can assure me of my safety?”

To his credit, Robben seemed to take no offence to her sharp tone and biting words.

“I am not so arrogant. But I have spent time with the northerners, and with Jarl Harald himself.”

“Harald,” she repeated. “Or Harry?”

“Harry is a nickname of sorts, one he uses with foreigners. Perhaps because it is more familiar to them, less…”

“Northern?”

“Less threatening. Many in the world believe the Vikings to be savages, conquerors, people with little thought who steal, and rape, and kill. We imagine they live depraved lives, uneducated and beastly.”

“Do they not? They certainly behave like animals.”

“No. They are warriors, certainly. But you will see in Kaldagr that there is tradition, art, laws, commerce, and all the same complexities that you have in Lothian. The culture is different, yes. Very much so. But I would say the same of Francia, of the Byzantine Empire or Flanders.”

“You are a well-travelled man.”

Robben nodded, looking at the horizon with a distant smile on his face.

“I thank you, my Lady, for what I believe is a compliment. But do not mistake me for a learned man. I am no wiser than a child.”

“Do you truly not know, then?” Y/N asked, fear slipping into her tone. “What he wants with me?”

“The Jarl? No. But he is a private man. I do not believe even those closest to him know why he took you from Lothian.”

“Well,” Y/N said, hugging the white fur coat closer to her body. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

-----

As Robben had said, land appeared on the horizon hours later. Cliffs that seemed to reach the clouds rose before Y/N’s eyes, grey rocks topped by emerald green grass. Forests of spruce stretched on and on, dark and imposing.

The longships sailed to a narrow opening in the cliffs, which Robben said was called a fjord. They followed the river for some time. The further they travelled, the more the northerners smiled. The men had been quiet, focused and sullen during the crossing, but now, they laughed and joked, sang songs. Ale was distributed, caskets passed from one ship to another.

Even Harry, who had not said a single word the entire journey, now sang with his men from his place at the bow of the ship. He looked younger somehow, his green eyes lit up with barely restrained glee. Happy to be home, Y/N supposed, while she felt she was getting closer to her grave with each passing minute.

As dark as her mood was, she could not hold back her gasp when Kaldagr came to view at last.

It was the largest city she had ever seen. It stretched from the end of the fjord to the top of the hills beyond, an army of timber houses with thatched roofs pressed close together. No walls surrounded the city, but the forest around was so dense that Y/N realised they did not need one.

All of the homesteads were low to the ground, made of one story. They looked barely discernible from one another, an extra window here, slightly wider walls there.

There was one building, however, that contrasted with the rest. It was built from the same timber and thatch, but its length and width far surpassed that of any other building. It was also much higher, towering above the city.

“That’s the longhouse,” said Robben. “It’s where the Jarl lives, and where the northerners hold their meetings and gatherings.”

“Like a castle?”

“Not exactly. Castles, like the one you grew up in, are meant for the nobility. Longhouses welcome everyone.”

“Are there no upper classes here?”

“No, there are. But the gentry is not so separated from the rest of the people, like you might see in Lothian.”

“How strange,” Y/N said, looking at the longhouse. Her father would have never allowed the lower class to step foot in Castle Branagh. When he spoke of the common people, it was always with disdain and mockery. As if the very bread he ate hadn’t been made from their hands.

But then, her father had always been a selfish, greedy man. The veil Y/N had borne her entire life was yet another example: how much he’d loved that only he knew what she looked like, how he’d basked in the curiosity of the other nobles, of the neighbouring royalty. She’d been yet another jewel in his coffers, to be kept hidden, under lock and key.

“Ah,” said Robben. “The welcoming party has arrived.”

Y/N looked to the docks. A crowd had gathered, men and women of all ages cheering and waving at the approaching ships. At the end of the longest dock, three women stood.

Two of them had dark hair, and wore long, thick dresses of the same burgundy colour. Golden jewellery adorned their necks and wrists, their hair pinned up. They could have been twins, had one not been considerably older than the other.

“The Jarl’s mother and sister,” Robben explained. “Hedda and Astrid.”

The resemblance to Harry was more evident the closer they got, from the shape of the mouth to the colour of the hair. But Y/N’s eyes were drawn to the woman in between them. She was as tall as a man, her figure toned. Blonde hair fell from her scalp in wild curls, the wind blowing them in front of her icy blue eyes. Freckles decorated her skin, like stars in the night sky.

She was not wearing a dress, but fighting leathers. A large axe hung from her waist, the woman’s hand resting on the handle as if she might draw it at any moment.

She was beautiful, stunning even, in the way that a snake is before it strikes.

“What about her?” Y/N asked.

“Ah,” answered Robben. “That would be the Lady Saga. Eldest daughter of Jarl Thorvald of Skolstrond, to the north of here.”

“The Lady Saga has quite the weapon.”

“Yes, she does, and she knows how to use it. Does that surprise you? A woman fighting?”

“No,” she said, and shrugged at Robben’s doubting look. “Why would a woman be incapable of fighting? We have arms, don’t we?”

“Do you not believe females are weaker?” asked Robben, throwing up his hands with a smile at the sudden tension in her body. “For the sake of argument only, my Lady.”

“No,” she replied. “Not when I look at the Lady Saga.”

At last, the longships reached the docks. Ropes were thrown to secure them and a human chain was formed to unload the many bags and crates, filled with the northerner’s plunder.

Y/N’s name was called, and she looked up to see Harry before her, his hand stretched out. There was a wild smile on his face, victorious. A man who’d gotten what he wanted, although she still wasn’t sure what exactly that was.

She looked at his outstretched hand, those long, calloused fingers. The hand of the enemy. The joy in Harry’s eyes faded, replaced by apprehension. He spoke softly.

“He says not to worry,” said Robben. “He only means to help you off the ship.”

Y/N took a shallow breath in and placed her hand in Harry’s. He gently closed it around hers, pulling her up to her feet and guiding her to the edge of the longship. Stepping off first, he grasped her elbow and supported her as she stepped onto the dock.

“Thank you,” she said, her words barely audible.

“Þökk,” Harry smiled. A translation, offered like a gift.

He did not let go of her hand as he accompanied her down the dock, as if she was an honoured guest and not a prisoner of war. As they reached the trio of women, his mother and sister kissed his cheeks and forehead, tears pearling at the corner of their eyes.

The sister, Astrid, couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She was bouncing on the heel of her feet, wide brown eyes flitting between Harry and Y/N. The mother, Hedda, had a bit more composure and only snuck glances here and there.

“Saga,” said Harry, drawing Y/N’s attention. The warrior had approached, bowing her head respectfully. Harry clasped her forearm, as one would a fellow warrior.

They exchanged a few words, before Saga’s cold blue eyes settled on Y/N.

“Y/N,” she said. “Welcome to Kaldagr.”

Her voice was melodic, surprisingly high. Most surprisingly was how seamless her English was, her accent nearly indiscernible. 

“Thank you,” Y/N said tentatively. Robben hadn’t said who Saga was to the northerners, and she was unsure of the level of deference that was expected. “I didn’t think many would know my language.”

“Most do not,” the warrior replied. “But I had a good teacher.”

Saga said nothing more, and Harry took this opportunity to softly pull at Y/N’s hand. He led her down the docks to the city itself, his mother and sister falling in step behind them. Robben had joined them, and as Harry gestured at some buildings here and there, he translated.

They passed the armoury, the butcher’s shop, the sick house, the forge. There was a school, training grounds and a tailor. They walked through two different markets, both overwhelming from sights, scents and sounds. 

Men and women hurried down the busy, narrow streets, many clasping Harry’s free hand with sincere joy in their eyes. He knew most of their names, and always introduced them to Y/N, though she understood very little of what was said.

At last, they reached the longhouse. While not as tall as the smallest tower of Castle Branagh, the longhouse was daunting in its sheer length and width. The large doors were thrown open, and through them, Y/N could see a large room filled with tables and benches. At the centre was a firepit, and against the room’s back wall were two thrones perched on a dais. The floor was covered with thick furs and carpets, the walls decorated with tapestries.

Harry walked straight through, pulling Y/N along. They passed the tables, the firepit, the dais, and walked through an opening to the side. She saw the kitchen to her right, many closed doors to the left. At last, they reached another door, more ornate than the rest. Harry opened it and guided Y/N through.

At once, she saw the bed. She whirled around as the door closed behind her, realising with dread that she was alone with Harry. His mother and sister, the Lady Saga, Robben, were all gone.

Instinct took over. Harry blocked the path to the door, so she bolted to the other side of the room. Her eyes passed quickly over the desk, the chests and wardrobes, the bed, and widened as she saw the weapon rack. She grabbed the handle of a sword and pulled. But she hadn’t realised how heavy it was, and her grip loosened as the sword fell with a great clatter to the floor.

She cursed under her breath, and strained, lifting the sword off the wooden planks. Her arms ached, muscles screaming in pain.

“Stay back!” she ordered, air coming out of her lungs in panicked wheezes.

Harry hadn’t moved from the door. He stared at her, eyebrows raised high, his mouth slightly open. 

“I will kill you if you touch me,” Y/N hissed. “I will cut your head off, I’ll split you open, I will - I will rip out your lungs!”

Gone were her promises to her people, the treaty, her father’s orders. If this demon put a hand on her, she would bite it off. Or, at the very least, she would try.

Harry laughed.

“What?” she asked, baring her teeth. “I will!”

With an amused smile, he shook his head. He spoke, but she understood none of the words he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she said, her tone rising. 

His brows furrowed in concentration.

“No hurt,” he said. He was looking at his hands, like a boy trying to remember his lessons. She realised then that this was exactly what was happening, as he continued in English. “You - are safe. No danger.”

“But - why,” she stammered. “Why did you bring me here?”

She gestured to the bed, and his eyes widened.

“Nei!” he said. He spoke in his language, and his face twisted in frustration as he struggled to find words. He pointed at her, twice, then at the floor.

“Are you…,” she began, looking around the room. “Are you saying this is my room? Just mine?”

He nodded, pointed to the closed door and the hallway beyond. “Mine,” he repeated.

His, over there. Hers, here. Separate bedrooms, because he was not going to touch her. Y/N deflated, the sword sliding a second time from her grip and falling to the floor. She ignored the wince on Harry’s face and leaned against the wall, her legs shaking.

“Safe,” he said again. “Safe.”

There was honesty in his eyes, his features devoid of any sign that he might be lying, trying to trick her. How stupid could she be, to want to trust him? He had taken her from her land, her people, her family. He had forcefully brought her to this city full of strangers, to his home, and she was supposed to believe he meant her no harm? What else could he want?

But there was something, in the bottomless green of his eyes. In the tilt of his full lips, in the shyness in his gestures.

“Okay,” she said. “Safe.”

With shaking limbs, she lifted her hands towards her veil. Part of her was screaming not to do this, not to let go of her last defence. But it felt like a show of trust, a step in his direction. She would see what he’d do with it.

She pulled at the clasp that held the veil in place, and felt it fall from her hair and face with a whisper. It pooled at her feet, the heavy lace stained from the days of travel.

Harry did not blink. His eyes pored over her face, the shape of her jaw, the tilt of her eyes, the colour of her hair. It seemed as if he looked at her for centuries. She dared not move, dared not breathe. She was afraid, but did not know of what. His judgement? 

“Þökk,” he said, his words soft as a morning breeze. Thank you.

Then, he bowed his head and stepped back to the door, leaving the room. As soon as the door was closed, Y/N’s legs faltered and she slid down the wall until she was sat on the floor, the fallen sword next to her feet.

She looked at the room properly, at the rich furniture, the open wardrobe in which many dresses were hung, the finely woven tapestries and the bed fit for an empress. She may have been a prisoner, but it seemed she would be a comfortable one. The luxuries she’d been awarded at Castle Branagh paled in comparison.

So many questions filled her head. But the fatigue of the past days caught up to her at last and she dragged herself to the bed, falling down on the furs without bothering to undress herself. 

The moment her head hit the feather pillow, the world turned dark.

-----

Thanks for reading the first part, let me know what you think!

Masterlist

[garbinge]

Poorly Healed

Angel Reyes & F!Reader

From these August Prompts: A Poorly Healed Injury

Words: 1.3k

Warnings: Angsty. F!Reader has a kid with Angel.

Mayans Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics  @narcolini @danzer8705 @keyweegirlie

“I thought you told me that wasn’t bothering you anymore?” Your voice startled Angel. 

He was standing in the kitchen, his hand over his bicep where a bullet had grazed his skin a earlier this week, his face wincing in pain as he applied pressure. But the minute he heard your voice he snapped out of it and turned to you, his face full of shock and you could see the gears in his head turning as he tried to come up with an excuse. 

“Don’t even try.” You took two steps into the kitchen before grabbing his arm and looking at the wound. It was red, while it had started to scab, it didn’t look proper, it looked like it hurt. “Jesus Angel. This shit is infected.” You were mad but more so, you were concerned. 

“Go.” You nodded towards the door in the kitchen that lead to your backyard. “Go sit on the back porch, I have some antibiotics and should have something to sterilize whatever the fuck this turned into.”

He did as you said, moving to your covered back porch, it was dusk out, but the sunset was still offering ample amount of light. The chair he sat on faced the yard which was just plain yard until a forrest full of trees filled it. The sound of the highway that was only a few miles away buzzed as white noise in the background. 

You walked out soon with two medications, antibiotics and pain meds, along with antibiotic cream and alcohol. 

“You don’t care about scarring, right?” You asked him already knowing the answer. Angel might have been a pretty boy but he didn’t care about a scar. 

“It’ll make a good story.” He smiled from ear to ear as he took his shirt off so the wound was fully able to be treated, although a simple sleeve rollup would have sufficed. Again, pretty boy. 

“Good story, huh?” You began to clean the wound with alcohol, patting it with cotton balls and q-tips. “This one time I got shot at and even though it nearly missed my heart, it sure as hell gave my girl a heart attack because the call she got from the MC was Angel’s been shot, get down to the clubhouse.” You mocked the phone call from one of the prospects who called you. 

“To be fair, that was more Bottle’s fault, not mine.” Angel defended himself. 

“It’s more the fact that you got shot, Angel.” You stopped applying the neosporin to look up at him. 

“I know, it was a stupid situation we got put in, it’s not gonna happen again. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Angel rested his other hand on your knee. 

“That’s the thing Angel, I’m always worried.” 

Your eyes were locked on eachother, faces serious now. He knew what you were saying, he agreed, but it was more complicated than that, and you knew it but didn’t want to believe it because if there was a will there was a way. 

“We aren’t kids anymore, Ang.” You inhaled and closed your eyes, softening your voice before opening your eyes to lock with his again. “We’re not 23 looking for the next cheap thrill, the drugs, the partying, the money, it was fun then, but now, its scary– it’s terrifying honestly, not knowing when you’re coming home–if you’re going to come home, we have a kid, Angel. A child. Who looks up to you. You want him to sit at that table? Look what that shit did to Guero. He’s fuckin’ drowning in that emotion, in that regret, that revenge. I’m not even around the way I used to be and I can see that shit.”

“It’s not that easy, querida. I’m trying.” Angel pleaded with you. 

“I need you to try harder.” You picked your hand up and grabbed his face. “We need you to try harder.” You referred to your son. 

He rested his forehead against yours after letting out a deep sigh. 

“I want you to be happy.” He whispered. 

“I am happy. I have a beautiful son, beautiful family, a home, a handsome man,” You added some humor in your voice to those words to make him smile, “I just want the luxury of knowing when you walk out that door the odds of you coming back home are in my favor.” 

“Shouldn’t be a luxury.” Angel’s voice got serious. 

“I know.” You agreed with him and pulled away from him to continue applying the cream to his arm. 

“EZ should have been the one to call you when I got shot.” Angel back tracked to the vague phone call you got from Bottles that day. 

“I shouldn’t have to get that call.” You retorted. 

“I know.” He repeated your words back to you. 

You wrapped his arm with gauze and a bandage. “Take one of each of these, and for the love of God, Angel, let me clean this out everyday.” 

“Deal.” He tapped the bandage before leaning over and putting his hands around your waist to bring you to sit on his lap and stare out into the yard, the sun setting and the light dissipating as the minutes passed. 

“I think we should move to Mexico.” You had your arm around his shoulder but hand tangled in his hair. 

“Mexico, huh?” He started to caress your arm lightly with his fingers. 

“Yea, I think our boy would love it, plus it’d be nice to bring your dad back to his home, even if it's not the same town, it’d still feel more like home than Santo Padre ever did I’m sure.”

“Good luck getting him out of that house.” Angel laughed. 

“You underestimate the powers of a 2 year old little kid.” You smirked and leaned your head on top of Angel’s. 

“He’s there now?” Angel asked where your child was and you hummed to answer him. “I’ll go pick him up.” 

Angel was now standing up getting ready to head out, you were standing now too, soaking in the quick kiss Angel left on your lips before he was walking away. 

“Angel.” You called out to him, a little desperation in your voice. The fear of him not coming home haunting you like it did every time he left the house. 

“It should’ve been EZ.” You repeated the statement from your conversation earlier, it was something Angel said but you never agreed with it then. The fear of him not coming home and getting a call like you did when he was shot was eating you alive and you hoped he saw that without you needing to explain further. 

He turned around, his face looked heartbroken because he knew exactly what was going through your head. 

“I’ll let him know.” 

With that, he nodded and pulled out his phone so you’d know he was calling to tell EZ right now, it wasn’t what you truly wanted. You wanted Angel to tell EZ he was leaving, done with the club, but you’d take this. If you had to deal with the uncertainty of club life, at least you had some comfort knowing if anything happened EZ was going to be the one calling you to break the news, the right way. As if there was a right way to break that kind of news, but based on the past experience, you knew there was definitely a wrong way of doing it and you could breathe easy knowing that’d never happen again. 

[captain-mj]

I am here to beg for more selkie au. Its so cute and has my whole heart (i feel so bad for poor soaps mom)

Here ya go! this is probably the second to last to chapter btw

Ghost sat outside, smoking quietly. Every puff, he'd pass it to Soap who would pass it to Davina and then Rosy and then Iris and then they'd hand it back. It was a bit silly, treating a simple cig like a joint, but it was funny so he let it slide.

"Used to smoke cigs on my roof with Tommy. Good times." Simon told them, lighting another one to share.

"Tommy?"

"Little brother. I was the best man at his wedding." Good times.

Soap glanced at him. "And I haven't met him?"

Simon imagined his bright and sunny Soap meeting Tommy. Living Tommy. They'd get along like a house on fire. Then they'd set the actual house on fire. He smiled a little, forgetting about how his scars pulled when he did. For once, no one said anything. No one looked at him like he was sad or pathetic.

"How about the next time we're on leave I'll introduce you to him?" Simon looked at Johnny. "He's dead. But I got some tapes."

"Oh..." Johnny winced. "I'm sorry."

Simon shrugged. "It's been nice. Being around you guys. Reminds me of him."

Davina hummed. "Bet he was a cool guy."

"Fucking coolest. Cooler than me that's for sure." Simon smiled. "We were in a band in high school. He played drums. I played bass."

"Any good?"

"Fucking sucked." Simon shrugged. "Nostalgic though. Loved playing. Then I went to the military. Fucked up my hands."

"You're a sniper."

"Yeah. Don't have the muscle memory for guitar anymore. Just the gun." Simon mock aimed a gun. "S'okay. Like I said. Dog shit at it. Tommy was good, but he quit for his family."

Johnny must've realized that asking about his family might not be a great idea. So did everyone else.

Fergus came home. He saw them all on the stoop outside, glancing at all of them. "You all okay?"

"Just fine, sir." Ghost answered, pulling Soap's coat further around him. His arm was around Soap, making everything feel right. Good. "Moray is making dinner I believe."

Fergus nodded. "I see..." He must've noticed something was off. But he still went inside.

Soap closed his eyes and leaned into Ghost.

They all heard the sounds of Moray beating the shit out of him. It was rough.

"Good for her."

Davina grabbed the cigarette and took a deep, deep puff. "She deserves it."

Simon nodded and lit some more cigarettes for them to all share. They all just chilled for a bit longer as he struggled to get the upper hand over a woman who was, from he sounds of it, using a frying pan.

Moray came out eventually and Ghost quickly lit one for her. She took it and started smoking quickly, hands shaking. "That was... great."

"Have fun?" Simon smiled.

Moray nodded. "I can see why you beat your father."

"Jesus, Mom." Rosy gasped.

Simon laughed. "Nah, it's fair." He checked his phone and showed Soap that they had been approved for a longer leave. They shared a look and both smiled.

"Alright, ma." Soap smiled at him. "You going to be okay?" He crouched in front of her and kissed her cheek.

Moray nodded and took a puff. "Course I will. Might disappear for a while. I... I want to come back though. See you three."

Simon didn't miss how Soap got teary eyed over it. He remembered Soap saying she'd abandon them without a second thought.

Soap must've decided he'd cry later when he was alone. Because he just nodded. "I will see you soon, Ma." He stood up.

"Alright, boys." Moray hugged him and gave him a quick squeeze. Then she hugged Simon. Soap winced and mouthed sorry to him.

Simon tensed at first before hugged back, trying to remember how his Mom would hug him after Dad had one of his episodes. She relaxed immediately.

"He's very good at hugs. And handsome. I can see why you picked him."

Simon very suddenly and aggressively realized he was not wearing anything. "Ah..." He noticed her look at the pointed ears and the odd freckles.

"Ma!!"

"Too bad he's British or he'd be perfect."

"Ma!! We have to go back to base now." Soap grabbed Ghost hard to go get packed.

[im-an-anthusiast]

Liar, liar

“Jeez, you alright?” asked the boy, sticking his outstretched hand right up to her face. 

“Uh, yeah, I’m good,” Erin replied, plastering a toothy smile on her face. Liar, liar. 

“Ah, good. I am glad. Looked like one nasty fall,” the boy said almost absently as he helped her stand. Rising to her far-above-average-for-a-7-year-old height, Erin inspected the boy. He seemed about her age – but looked unlike anyone she had ever seen. His hand contrasted hers as she held it, tan skin far different to hers, pale and freckled; his hair was unlike any she had seen before, stark white waves curling around his face, far different from the dark brown hair framing hers. He was pretty. Whatever pretty even means to Erin when thinking about boys, anyway. 

“What’s your name?” the boy asks, pulling Erin out of her staring trance.  

“I’m Erin. You?” 

“Maxwell.” 

“That’s a long name...” 

“It’s really not.” 

“It so is,” said Erin, her amusement surely apparent. Another thing that was apparent – to her, at least – was what would come next. 

“Don’t-” he started, seemingly being able to tell as well – and not looking too pleased with it. 

“Max?” Erin interrupts, a grin growing at the boy’s – Maxwell’s – apparent frustration. “How about X?” 

“The dangers of getting hit by a football, I suppose. So sad seeing kids with brain damage at such a young age,” Maxwell said with an obviously forced wistfulness, trying to talk over Erin’s quickly growing menagerie of nickname suggestions. 

"-Maxy?” 

“NOT THAT ONE,” Maxwell said forcefully, blushing up a storm, “PLEASE NOT ‘MAXY’” 

“What, can I not use that part of your name? Pfft, okay, Well.” 

Maxwell narrowed his eyes, muttering, “Kids can’t go to prison for murder, right?” 

The pain in her side made itself more known as Erin lit up, doubling over in raucous laughter. Even so, hunched in giggling fits, she still towered over Maxwell. And despite the sore face he was making, she could see his eyes. Those smiling, steel grey eyes. 

- 

“And the winner is... yours truly!” Erin exclaimed tauntingly, her voice almost melodic. 

Gasping and panting, Well held up his index finger, before pointing it at her and talking in a manner most people with lungs don’t. “N-no... no... God... No fair...” he stuttered out, a half-hearted glare narrowing his eyes. 

She laughed heartily, and teasingly said, “Oh, don’t be a sore loser, Well! I won fair and square!” Liar, liar. 

“I’m not,” he paused, getting an impressively large and loud lungful of air, before continuing, “the biggest fan of this game.” 

“Makes sense – since you keep losing,” she said, then added with a grin, “just like with every other game.”  

“You’re... cheating,” Liar, liar. “-or something. Just... no fair!” 

“Well, that, or...” she hummed in mock-thought, lit up, and exclaimed as if she had a revelation, “You suck, and I don’t?” 

“You are so lucky I am out of breath right now.” 

- 

“What is it?” he questioned, one white brow raised. 

“Never mind, nothing,” she said after hesitating. Liar, liar. 

His eyes soft as they met hers as he replied, asking genuinely, “Are you sure?”  

“Yes,” Erin answered, the concern in his voice only making the bile rising up her throat more biting. Liar, liar. 

“Alright, Inn. You know I’m always here – should you ever need something.” 

“Careful, or I might take you up on that, Well.” Liar, liar. 

- 

He wasn’t saying anything. Neither of them was. The sound of the rustling of bandages filled the dark room – and was only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of either of their breathing. The not-quite silence hung heavy with unspoken words – with omission. Liar, liar.  

Erin hated how silent he was being. How gentle he was being. She hated that he wasn’t asking why or how this happened. And she hated herself for not telling him. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t. He can’t know. For his own good. Liar, liar. 

He sighed. “Tea?” 

“I- What?” 

Sighing again, he tried elaborating, “Tea always helps me when...” he went quiet, seemingly having lost his train of thought, before shaking his head and continuing, “Want some?” 

“Uh... yeah? Sure?” 

He picked himself up from the bed and left the room. She could hear him making noise in the kitchen – the kitchen she knew so well – even without using Magic and enhancing her hearing, and she was thankful for every noise cutting through the oppressively deafening silence.  

Before long, Well pressed a steaming mug into her hands. She hoped that he couldn’t see how they glistened with blood, that he couldn’t see the deep gashes in her flesh that stretched from her hands to her arms, morbidly decorating them – with no bandages to coat them, as her torso had required far more attention than she thought and far more supplies than he had. She met his eyes.  

“It’s fine.” Liar, liar. “I’m fine.” Liar, liar. 

- 

“I would have-” Liar, liar. “-told-”  Liar, liar “-y-” 

“Liar,” he cut her off bitterly. 

“N-no. No. No! I’m... I’m not a-” LIAR, LIAR. LIAR, LIAR. LIAR, LIAR. “You weren’t-“ LIAR, LIAR. 

She looked at him, sorrow and desperation twisting her face. But he couldn’t see it. She looked into his- Liar, liar. 

She tried looking into his eyes, but they weren’t there. All because of her. And no voice in her head told her otherwise.