#THIS MAN NEVER HAS LESS THAN TWO CIGARS IN HIS MOUTH AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT I CAN'T BE DOING THIS SHIT

[one-winged-dreams]

Me: FUCK THE GOVERNMENT

Me: f,,, fuck the government,,,

#NO #I- I JUST WANT HIM FOR HIS BARA TIDDIES THAT'S ALL #THIS MAN NEVER HAS LESS THAN TWO CIGARS IN HIS MOUTH AT ANY GIVEN MOMENT I CAN'T BE DOING THIS SHIT #JUST BECAUSE HE'S ATTRACTIVE AND HAS A NICE PERSONALITY AND IS HONORABLE AND #-NO-

[the-witty-pen-name]

Tell Me Your Mine, Darling

Western AU 

18+ ONLY

Lee Bodecker x F!Reader

Warnings: prostitution, mentions of smut, alcohol, cursing, violence, mentions cheating 

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Hey! As always, this is unedited! Please let me know if I missed anything to include as a warning. I’m on the fence if I should make this a longer story, I like the idea of this being a stand alone, but let me know what you think! I’d love to hear any feedback cause this is my first attempt at a Western AU :)

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The player piano echoed throughout the whole saloon, bouncing off the walls as patrons moved about the crowded room. The peppy music was perfect for dancing as a few of the men threw back shots of liquid courage and asked some of the women working tonight for a dance. It was a night where the people who came in through the batwing doors could forget about their troubles and the existence of sins, and partake in merry drink and debauchery. The night air hung heavy and the room smelled of sweat, cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume. 

The women were scantily clad in dresses only slightly less revealing than their undergarments, and the men still in their clothes from long days of travel. Cowboy hats, rugged trousers, and boots that lost their shine years ago. Girls carried around large trays of shots and lagers, passing them around to the drunk souls who struck rich for a night and opened tabs at the bar. 

It was a busy night both downstairs in the saloon, but also many of the girls were leading men upstairs to their beds, for a warm place to lay their head and anything else they can afford. That was the secret that kept this dilapidated building up and running. The music and the watered down liquor wasn’t enough to keep the sheriff from closing and condemning the building. 

If the owner was honest, he knew what kept the sheriff from coming and toting him away to rot in one of the two cells down at the jail. Not only was the sheriff partial to a drink or a few each night after the sun goes down, but he was particularly taken with one of the girls who worked there. Sure, the sheriff must’ve had his turn with every girl in the joint, but there was something about you which made the sheriff absolutely smitten. Of course, no one dared admit to seeing his obviously growing affections but the owner knew as long as you were here, and his glass was refilled, he had nothing to worry about. No one quite knows what happened. He went from coming in every Saturday night asking for whichever girl is free and then it went to asking only for you, every week without fail. 

People theorize that maybe it’s your honeyed smile or the sweetness in your voice. The ability to deceive every man into thinking they’re the only one to ever touch you. The ability to put on the act of the farmer’s daughter while having the dirtiest mouth on this side of the Mississippi. No matter what drew him in, the sheriff had declared you his girl and anyone with half a brain knew better than to try to say different. 

Nothing was any different about tonight, you watched from one of the stools at the bar while the other girls worked the room. Sitting with your legs crossed, your dress skirted up high enough to show the tops of your garters, you sip on your drink stealing glances at the doors waiting for him to arrive. You can’t help but let out an impatient sigh, balancing your high heel on your toe as you watch the clock that’s mounted on the wall behind the bar. 

“Slow night?” the bartender asked as she topped off your drink. You smiled, but it fell a little flat, not meeting your eyes. 

“Every man here is scared to come near me,” you chuckle dryly. Not that you were necessarily complaining- but you worried more and more as the savings you kept under your bed dwindled. The sheriff was a regular who paid incredibly well, but he was feared. And no one else would touch what he called his. You wanted to save up to get out of this town, salvage whatever was left of this life and do something. You didn’t want to live cooped up in that room and in this town for the rest of your days. You were luckier than most, that you understood and never tried to forget that, but still you found yourself daydreaming. 

You thought about the men you’ve slept beside and the wild stories they told you. You didn’t want to live a hard life, the tedious and unfulfilling work they told you about. But, oh, you were so envious of how they traveled. Seeing the naked lands of the country and going to different towns. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to do, but you wanted to have the option. So in a little cigar box under your bed. You scrimped and saved what you could from each week. But, being the sheriff’s favorite girl, meant no one else dared touch you, meaning you have been having to open that little box of savings more and more. 

“That ain’t the worst thing in the world,” you heard a voice next to you. Soft, and velvety- you’d recognize the voice anywhere as Dottie, one of the older women who had been working there much longer than you. Middle-aged, but completely sensual in her mannerisms and her voice. She had the ability to captivate an entire room with her prominent curves and everything you know, you learned from her. 

“I know, I know,” you try to explain, but she feels your frustration. She understands it, and she knows it better than you do. She’d been there herself. The restlessness, the feeling of being incomplete, the utter fear of your life being wasted away under men whom you’re never going to fall in love with. She knows.

But she also knows the harsh realities of this world and how it treats lost souls like you, and she doesn’t want to see how it can hurt you like it hurt her. She understood how demeaning this line of work is, and how from here there is no way to move up in the world. It’s a limbo, where you're stuck in this saloon, listening to the complaints of men who despite their hardships will always have it better than you. However, the alternatives for women like you are far less desirable outcomes for your lives. 

“Appreciate the gift you’re being given, sweetness,” she chuckles, watching as the bartender makes her usual. “As long as that sheriff keeps coming around, you’re working less for the same room and board the rest of us pay.” 

You know she’s right. You know there’s so many things wrong about this town you can’t change. You can’t afford to worry about things like that, while so many of the people in this little one room saloon are just trying to survive tomorrow. It’s never going to be an ideal, and the world is much too cruel for miracles to happen for a woman like you who sold their soul. 

Jesus befriended Mary Magdalene, so it never made much sense to you when folks in this town claimed you were damned to spend your own eternity in hell. You weren’t sure if the people in this town actually read the Bible. Granted, you didn’t know much about religion yourself. But long ago you learned religion was a luxury only the wealthy people in this town could afford to follow, and they were the ones who could afford to participate in the sins you peddled. But, that was just one woman’s observation. 

Dottie disappeared back into the crowd as quickly as she arrived, and soon you were back to watching the doors again, waiting for the sheriff to relieve you of your ever growing boredom. The place was in full swing as a posse of men you don’t recognize entered, talking about how they were on their way to the coast, to mine for gold and become millionaires. You can’t help but roll your eyes, and you keep to yourself as they whoop and holler, making demands of the barkeep to send out a round for the whole place on their dime. Their rowdiness makes you flinch, and for the first time tonight, you find yourself anxiously waiting for the appearance of the sheriff so you don’t have to entertain the likes of them. Maybe God does like you, because before one of the men staring at you has an opportunity to saunter over, the saloon doors open suddenly and you can be saved. 

You know you shouldn’t find it thrilling, but there is something about being his favorite that fuels your ego on nights like this. The most commanding man in the town, calling you his- making you have this untouchable status for the night. It was the closest you think you can ever be to royalty. In that bar, on the nights he regulars, you’re a Queen. It’s a rush that's definitely spoiled you and yes, in the moment, you absolutely revel in the power you feel as he changes the atmosphere in the room- with his hardened blue eyes locked right on you. 

“Evening, sheriff,” you coo and shoot him a smile, genuinely happy to see him. 

“How many times do I have to ask you to call me Lee, darling?” He smirks, placing his hands on your knee so you uncross your legs and he can stand between them. The feeling of his hands on the exposed skin of your upper thighs sent a tingle right up your spine. His thumbs slowly rubbed circles on your skin, making you shiver. 

You rest your hands on his chest, rubbing gently, your hands shamelessly feeling the strength of his chest under his shirt. You straighten out the gold sheriff’s badge on his chest, and you can feel him tremble slightly at your touch, which strokes your ego more than it already was. 

“I forget,” you tease, straightening out his tie. He smirks, looking down at you as his hands trail up higher, resting on your hips under the skirt of your dress. “I need you to keep coming back and remind me,” you flirt shamelessly. 

“Your usual, sheriff?” the bartender asks over the loud music, people settling back into their own business after the excitement of the sheriff arriving has died down. Lee replies with a quick thank you but doesn’t take his eyes off of you. 

“Did you miss me, darling?” he quips, rubbing your sides, his thumbs trailing across the waistband of your undergarments. 

“I always do,” you wink, leaning up and pressing a quick kiss to the side of his jaw. “It’s so slow when you aren’t here,” you practically whine, pouting your lips slightly. 

“I’m sorry about that, sugar,” he mumbles, leaning in and trailing kisses down your neck. 

“It’s your fault you know,” you tease, your nails scratching his scalp affectionately. 

“Is it now?” he chuckles, as he nips at your skin. 

“No one else comes near me,” you admit, and you feel him smile against your skin. 

“Good,” he murmurs against your collarbone. 

“Ice is melting,” you chuckle, referring to the drink he’s ignoring on the counter. He just chuckles, pulling away only long enough to finish the drink in one long sip, and you watch as his Adam’s apple moves, and how the condensation of the glass drips onto his knuckles. 

After he places the empty glass on the counter, you pull his arm to lead him upstairs with you. He takes your hand and let’s you lead the way, he knows like the back of his hand, and at this point better than his own house.

“Impatient, darling?” he teases, “Not going to ask me for a dance?”

“You never say yes,” you giggle, “Figured you want to have some privacy.”

“I might’ve said yes,” he retorts and you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

“Would you have?” you counter and he shakes his head no with a devilish grin. 

“One of these days, doll.” 

“I’ll be an old maid,” you joke, continuing up the stairs and down the hallway towards your room. 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he says. You don’t know exactly what he means, but you don’t push him for an explanation. As soon as the door clicks closed behind you both, Lee’s lips attach to yours like if he waits a second longer he’d evaporate. 

“Been dreaming about this,” he mumbles against your neck, leaving a trail of love bites that send a shiver up your spine. “Think about you every night I can’t visit you.”

You noticed how much more intimate your interactions with the Sheriff were gradually becoming. You weren’t sure how much of it he meant. The way he fawned over you and treated you like something more. Plenty of times, men behaved this way, never admitting except behind closed doors that that craved a much deeper sense of intimacy. You had always assumed the Sheriff was no different.

He’d take care of you, and you saw over time the way he handled you changed. It used to be rough and impersonal, oftentimes as well relying on you to do all the work so to speak. But, overtime, his visits became more of a mutual endeavor, and soon he was kissing you like how he is now, or begging to let him settle his head between your parted thighs, saying he felt good making you feel good. 

“I’m addicted to the feeling of your skin, darling,” he whispers as he lets his fingers linger as he pulls the straps of the dress down your arms. When the dress pools at your feet, he stares in awe like it’s the first time seeing you, and then soon enough his lips are on yours again and his hands are free to wander where they please. 

“Most stunning thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers as you work on taking off his shirt, teasingly slow at undoing the buttons. 

“You say that everytime,” you point out and he chuckles, running his hands up and down your sides. 

“Cause I mean it everytime,” he smirks, walking you back until the back of your knees hit the back of your bed and you lay down with him on top of you. 

One time a month or so back, you were sitting on top of the bar counter with him settled between your legs. You were using a rag to wipe blood off of his face after a messy fight that happened. Well, a fight that he started. 

“I didn’t like him looking at you like that,” he grumbled, still fuming and he winces slightly as you press the damp cloth to the cut by his brow. “Shouldn’t be touching you like that,” he slurs, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. 

“Just means I’m doing my job right,” you chuckle, amused at his possessiveness. “It don’t mean nothing,” you say.

“It don’t mean nothing when it’s me either,” he pouts, with his eyes closed like he could fall asleep standing up. You are convinced he’s just drunk and doesn’t know what he’s saying. He leans on you slightly to keep himself upright, and you move to wipe the blood that is smeared by the corner of his lips. 

He’s so handsome, you can’t help but observe. From a distance, sure he’s gruff and rough around the edges but he’s got the most handsome face you think you’ve ever seen pass through. You’ll never admit to yourself that you were taking your time patching him up so you could just look at him like this for a little longer. It’s always nice sometimes to pretend a situation is something that it’s not. 

“Tell me your mine, darling,” he almost whispers when his eyes flutter open again to look at you. His gaze on you felt heavy and you weren’t sure what to make of it. 

“I’m all yours, Sheriff,” you can’t help but chuckle, thinking he’s just fooling. Just trying to tease you. He frowns and looks so  sad, those damn blue eyes more expressive when he’s drunk. 

“Tell me your mine,” he asks again, like a whispered plea as his eyes roam over your face. 

“I’m yours.”

By the morning, he’s always gone. He always leaves more than necessary, insisting to you the night before not to tell the owner. He doesn’t want him taking a bigger percentage. He whispers not to worry, and to let him take care of you. He knows how much he affects your wages and he wants to do the right thing. 

Lee doesn’t like to pay you. It’s a horrible reminder to him that you don’t actually care one way or another if he shows up or not. It’s the terrible wake up call come morning that you aren’t actually his, as much as he asks you to say it. 

You’d just have to say the word and he’d do just about anything to make you love him back for real. But he knows that this can’t ever go further. You deserve to go off and see the places he hears you tell the other girls about. You don’t think he knows about you wanting to leave but of course he does. 

The pictures of far away cities are hung on your mirror held up between the frame and the glass. There’s a picture of New York that sometimes he’ll stay up staring at, knowing your heart ain’t tied down yet to one place like his is tied here. He can’t leave and he knows he can’t in good conscience ask you to stay. He knows you would, but not for the reasons he wants. 

Good god, you’re still young and have a spark in you that he damn well knows he doesn’t want to be the one to put out. He wants nothing more than for you to look at him and see you could be happy and be in love. But what life is that compared to the life you’re dreaming of. You have hopes, dreams, and Lee knows he isn’t at the center of any of them. 

So for now, he settles for the time you share with him when he comes by like tonight. Where he hopes he can silently tell you with his touches how much he feels for you. Where he can carefully tread the waters of sweet sentiments in hopes you’ll return them without him asking. It’s not real, none of it is. 

He can hold you close and touch every part of your body like it’s only his to see and feel. He can hear every noise you make and watch every reaction to his touches and it fuels him for now. It’s enough for now to leave bruises on your skin and pretend it’s enough to keep others from knowing you’re his. It’s not, because the marks won’t matter. 

He can feel himself inside you, and feel how your body reacts to him. The way to him, nothing will ever come close to the feeling of you around him. He’s addicted and he can’t go back. He’s been ruined by you, and no one else will ever come close to adding up to you. 

But it’s not real. He’ll go home in the morning, and lie to his wife one more time, swearing that it’s the last time he goes back. He’ll tell her he worked late and slept in the Sheriff’s office. He’ll make the promise that he’ll be home on the weekend. But it’s not real. Because, he knows that he’s going to find himself going back to you. And he prays to God you won’t be there.

Taglist:

@missyellowbirdie @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @weenersoldierr @msgodofmischief @lowercasegenius @demirunner​

#lee bodecker x reader #lee bodecker x y/n #lee bodecker smut #lee bodecker #The Devil All The Time #western au #lee bodecker western au #lee bodecker x f!reader #lee bodecker x female reader #tdatt #tdatt fan fiction #lee bodecker fan fiction #sebastian stan characters #smut #x reader #x f!reader

[sugakoni]

Fic request please🤗

Daddy Heis is an angsty trash man because he has feelings for y/n but doesn’t think she feels the same.

He think she sticks around because she was more or less forced to become his assistant when she got captured by mother Miranda (y/n got lost, somehow ended up in the village and Miranda gave her to Karl to decide her fate).

Karl gets colder and distant towards y/n because the feelings freak him out.

Y/n gets sick of his shit. There’s shouting, helluva lot of tension that ends in him grabbing y/n and kissing her.

(maybe some rough, passionate smut 👉🏻🥺👈🏻 too)

(a/n): i saw this request last night and i literally needed to write it asap. so,,, here that is. teehee. thank you, anon!

warnings: porn with some plot. this is basically just pure smut after their argument. karl doing something with his cigar. praise. degradation. this was so fun to write.

word count: 2318

pairing: karl heisenberg x fem!reader

one-shot under the cut (heis simps, eat up.)

His somewhat desolate life was disrupted by your abrupt intrusion, though you were given to him under Miranda’s orders to decide your fate, the man seemed to differ from the people he called his brother and sisters. He kept you around, making you an assistant to his creations. But, he couldn’t help but admit his feelings towards you were somewhat more than… professional.

Karl thought he was crazy for feeling this way, feeling as if he knew the answer that he forever longed for from you. You were only there to help him, to survive. Surely, you had no mutual feelings towards him, which made him grow distant.

Any time you waltzed your way into his work room for the day from your room that he made you, his eyebrows would be tightly knit in a slight annoyance. He couldn’t stand to be around you with these nagging feelings, and just hearing your voice made it even worse.

Today, it was no different.

You had made your way into his workroom, a good morning leaving your lips in a sing-song tone. He gave you a small, dismissive wave, and you furrowed your eyebrows.

To you, this sudden distance and cold response from the man you were supposed to work with seemed harsh. You felt like you had done something wrong, but he would’ve told you if you did. Your heart stung, thinking about your own feelings towards the man. You stood beside him, arms crossed, and he didn’t even bother to look over at you.

A huff left you, which caused him to finally glance up. You looked at the pictures in front of you, anger prominent in your face as he studied you. You slammed your fists on the table, and Karl didn’t even budge, just rolling his eyes in response.

“What the fuck is wrong?! What did I do?!” You exclaimed, looking over at him. Karl threw what he was working on onto the table in front of you, a loud clunk being hard once it hit. You jumped, watching him forcibly take off his gloves and put them to the side.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he replied, now facing you fully. You turned your own body, hands moving as you spoke.

“You have been cold, distant, and honestly a douchebag. What the fuck did I do to make you want to treat me like this?!” You yelled at him again. His own face then scowled in anger, before he moved to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I asked you a question! What did I do! What can I do to fix it?” You whined a bit as you spoke, everything coming out as a plea. Karl just stood there, trying to think of what to say.

“What can I do!”

“Would you just shut the fuck up?!” Karl snapped, which caused you to wince a bit.

You blinked back the tears that formed in your eyes at his sudden choice of words, glancing away as the tension grew in the room. It felt hot, heavy, and certainly uncomfortable. You played with a stray hem in your jeans pocket.

“You are fucking annoying. I took you in to help me, and now I am stuck here with these feelings I know you will never give back,” Karl admitted. You snapped your head back at him.

“So your response is to be cold and now you call me annoying?!”

You had to admit, him saying that he had the same feelings for you as you did him really lifted a weight off of your shoulders. But, the way he was going about it was testing your patience. You bit at your tongue.

“Yes! You come in here everyday, with a smile on your face, telling me good morning n’ all that shit. And ya don’t like me, so every fucking time I hear it, it pisses me off,” Karl threw his glasses onto the table as well.

You pursed your lips together.

“You’re stupid.”

“What’d you just call me?”

“You. Are. Stupid,” You repeated, pointing a finger at him. He immediately grabbed your wrist, pulling you into him and pressing his lips against yours. You melted under his touch, brain going 100 miles per hour as you kissed him back.

The kiss was rough, teeth clashing together as you two stood there. A moan left your lips at the feeling, which caused Karl to press his tongue against yours. You gasped at the feeling, the taste of a cigar he must’ve had moments prior to you coming in still lingered.

He pulled away after a while, breathing heavy. Your own chest rose up and down with his own, Karl’s eyes flickering all over your face before pulling you in again. The grip on your wrist left, and you wrapped your arms around his neck. Kissing him back with such passion, your hands knocking his hat off of his head. He grunted against your lips, moving his hands down to cup your thighs, picking you up, and setting you on the table.

Karl was in between your legs, his hips pressing against your core. The two of you never broke contact with each other, his hands rubbing against your sides, occasionally going up to grasp at your breasts through your shirt. You pulled away to breathe again, looking into his eyes as he looked into yours.

You wrapped a hand around the assortment of things hanging around his neck, pulling him flushed against your chest, your lips against his ear.

“Fuck me, Karl. Fuck. Me.” You whispered, and it caused a small shiver to go down his spine, but he kept his composure.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he chuckled lowly, the sound going straight to your panties. You smirked a bit at his reaction, pulling away slightly before he loved to grasp the back of your head, tangling his fingers into your hair and pulling your head back forcefully.

“You think it’s funny to be a little bitch like that, huh?”

You whimpered, biting at your lip but a small smile was on your face. He tsked, going to kiss at your neck. Biting harshly against your delicate skin, but it wasn’t enough to draw blood. You gasped at the sensation, and he lowly mumbled a “mine” against you. You tried to clench your thighs together, but that ended up making your legs press harsh against his hips.

Karl smirked to himself, moving to remove your shirt. Your bra did barely nothing to cover you, your nipples perked slightly through the thin material. He moved to pinch at one of them, which made you arch your back into his chest.

Karl moved his hand away from your hair, that hand going to the button of your jeans. You blushed, feeling him unbutton it and unzip the zipper.

“Off.”

You obliged, moving to tug your jeans off. He glanced down, seeing that your panties were absolutely soaked. Karl placed his hand against your core, which caused you to shiver.

“Look at ya… all needy for me, makes you regret saying what you said, hm?” Karl asked, glancing up to see your face. Your mouth was slightly open, breathing a bit shallowly in thought.

“I asked you a question.”

You bit at your lip as the tips of three of his fingers began to rub your clit through your panties, a soft whimper leaving the back of your throat.

“Y-yes… It really does,” you whispered.

He hummed at the response, pushing your garment to the side to expose your folds. A blush painted your skin, before a moan erupted from you when he slid the three fingers into you that were just rubbing into your clit. They stretched you slightly, and Karl grinned at the way you reacted.

His other hand pulled your bra off of your breasts, leaving it on but exposing your chest to the air in the room. Karl groped your tit for a moment, fingers curling in your pussy which caused you to gasp. Soon, the hand was on your jaw, forcing your head down.

“See how wet you are for me? How your pretty little cunt is just begging me to fuck it? You really think I’m stupid?” He spoke. You whimpered, squirming a bit as his fingers pressed up against your sweet spot.

“Fuck.. no, I-I don’t… you just don’t think I-I like you and I do… Christ, Karl, keep moving your fingers,” you begged, starting to rock your hips against the fingers in you. He immediately grabbed your hips, forcing you to stop.

“Did I fucking say you could move?”

You whined, screwing your eyes shut as he started to thrust his fingers into you at a rough, fast pace. His hand traveled up to your neck, wrapping around it and applying a bit of pressure. Your eyes stayed glued to his face.

You took in every bit of him in this moment, how he had a small smirk against his lips, a slight bit of sweat on his forehead as he continued pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy. A groan left your lips, clenching around him which caused him to laugh a bit.

“Such a needy bitch. Ya wanna cum?”

You gave a nod, and he pulled his fingers out of you as soon as you gave your response. Your nose scrunched up in slight annoyance, and he released your throat from his grip. A prominent mark from his hand.

“What the fuck?!” You whined out, shaking a bit from the lack of a climax you had reached.

Karl moved to unbuckle his belt, undoing the zipper of his pants and moving to pull his cock out. It was hard, the tip glistening in pre-cum. He gave it a few pumps, a soft grunt leaving him.

You bit at your lip, watching him for a moment before he looked up at you. He pulled a chair up, sitting down on it and patting his lap. You shakily got up off of the table, your slick sticking to your thighs. You moved to straddle his waist, his cock nudging against your aching core.

Karl huffed out, going to grab a cigar from the pocket in his shirt and pressing it in between his lips. He lit it up, his other hand against your thigh, gripping harshly at the skin.

“C’mon darlin’. Get goin.”

You gave a nod, moving to press the tip of his cock against your entrance. You slid down, gasping at how he stretched you out in the best of ways. Karl grunted, smoke leaving his lips and hitting you in the face. You started to move your hips, your hands on pressed against his chest.

Tiny gasps kept left your lips, echoing in the room. Karl continued to smoke, watching as you bounced up and down on his cock. Taking in the sight, your breasts slightly going up and down as you moved.

“Ohhh. Look at ya… my little whore, getting off on my cock,” he hummed, moving to press the tip of his cigar against the skin of your stomach. A sharp gasp left you, the pain mixing with the pleasure that you felt. The tip of his cock pressed against your sweet spot, causing you to mewl out.

“So pretty… So so pretty,” he slightly praised, putting the cigar back in his mouth. Karl moved his hands to your hips, halting your movements before he began to thrust up into you.

You cried out, your high from earlier creeping up. You gasped, a thin layer of sweat on your body as you grasped harshly onto his shirt. Karl hummed, the occasional cloud of smoke leaving from his nose. He grunted harshly at how your pussy clenched around him, before pulling you off of his cock, halting your release yet again.

“Karl!” You let out. He moved to make you stand up, placing his cigar on the ashtray on the table. Karl turned you around, bending you over the desk in a sudden swift motion. You pressed your cheek against the cool metal of the table, shuddering as his finger swiftly went up your folds.

He stayed silent, his tip replacing his finger, grabbing his cigar again and placing the tip on the skin of your back. You seethed at the pain, moving your hips back and his cock began to slightly fill you up. Karl bit at his lip, placing the cigar down again and slamming the rest of himself into your aching pussy.

“Fuck!” You cried, and he started to thrust in and out of you at a quick pace. The sounds of his skin slapping slightly against yours filled your ears, your eyes screwed shut as ecstasy filled your body. Release already wanting to hit, and you groaned loudly as soon as your pussy clenched around him, cumming all over.

Karl let out a chuckle, still thrusting as you rode out your high. Whines and whimpers left your mouth, before you felt him release inside of you. The warmth of his seed wanted you to beg for more, but you knew you were slightly spent. Karl’s breathing was heavy as he pulled out, your cum mixed with his dripping from your cunt.

“I’m glad the feeling is mutual,” he whispered, helping you stand back up straight.

You looked back at him, a tired smile on your face as you sighed out. You fixed your bra, grabbing the rag he offered you and wiping the cum that dripped. He watched you, not knowing what to do to help, before handing you your clothes after he got his pants and boxers situated.

“It always has been,” you responded as you put your clothes on. Your hair was a mess, your face still red and ecstasy still laced in your words. Karl smirked, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Good.”

#karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg smut #heisenberg #lord heisenberg #heisenberg x reader #smut #this is smut #pwp fic #requests

[lovelywingsart]

Metallic (18+)

-- Karl Heisenberg X OC (AFAB, She/They) --

Oh lord here we go- Ok, first off, y'all get a small paragraph beforehand, please forgive me. :'D I've... never posted smut THIS PUBLICLY before. This is admittedly incredibly nerve-wracking and I'm hella nervous because I feel like I write... 'conservatively'? You'll see what I mean. So... Please go easy on me for this one...? I'm great for sweet stuff and angst, but smut is a whole other beast despite NSFW being one of my favorite art forms when drawing. I mean, I've already made a few *spicy* art pieces for them, but just... Writing is difficult. I mean, I really hope you guys like it anyway!! But fair warning. THIS is new for me. QuQ I do have a few more smut pieces in the works, but this was the first one written.

So uh... on to the story, I guess...!

**Small reminder that I have a small 'Masterlist' for these!**

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*Warning?: Hella smut, lots of biting, choking and kisses, some blood from said biting, just rough sex in general? Normal, to rough, to fluff. not entirely sure what else to add?? :'D It's all consensual, no worries.

Summary: With some high tensions, a smart mouth, and some unfortunate forgetfulness, Emelia gets herself into a bit of... 'trouble' with the notorious Metal Man. But maybe this time she bit off a bit more than she could chew... Not that she really ends up minding.

A pair of footsteps echoed through the underground tunnels of the factory, almost mimicking the constant sounds of pickaxes being dug into the stone. The walking man looked around every once in a while, seemingly proud of whatever progress had been made.

"All is going well. Good, good." He said proudly, puffing on the cigar he held between his fingers. The woman next to him rolled her eye. The small lights of the tunnels glinted in the glasses he wore as he turned his head to glance at her. "Is there a problem?" He chuckled.

"If by 'well' you mean 'excruciatingly slow by dimwitted slaves', then yes."

"Would you like to join them then, Emmy?"

"Bloody hell, no. I'm still sore from lugging those damned carts around..." Emelia mumbled, reaching to rub behind her neck. The man next to her chuckled again, handing over his cigar. He stepped forward slightly as she took it, holding out his free arm.

"And yet you're still walking!" He chimed, looking back at her as she puffed on the cigar, herself. "We'll change that soon enough."

"I'm not working myself to death, Heisenberg." She huffed, picking up speed and shoving the cigar back into his face. "While factory productions are important to me too, perhaps learn the definition of a 'break', and not as in 'break my back'."

Karl took the cigar with amusement as she walked forward ahead, clearly heading back to the main building.

"First you tell me to work harder, then you say not at all." He mused, following closely. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I can do what I want?"

"And yet, what you want is what affects YOUR factory in the long run... Timing, Karl."

"You act as if you know more about MY factory than I do."

"And what do you know?"

"Everything."

"Good, then you know I'm heading upstairs to rest for a moment."

"I assumed so."

~

The two wandered along the corridors to a hall with stairs leading to a metal door, sharing the cigar before she went forward and kicked the door open, snorting as she heard an irritated grunt behind her.

"If you break that, you're fixing it." He muttered, setting his hammer down to the side as he took the cigar from her. She snorted, tossing her own weapon to the side, watching it land on a pile of fabrics used for either covering machinery or covering herself when she slept, whichever happened to come first.

"You say that as if it would be difficult." She retorted, taking her hair out of the tie it was in and running her hand through it before stretching slightly as he walked past her to sit in a chair next to a desk in the room they were in. It was similar to a bedroom, but not quite. 'More like an office with a small bed' , she always said, occasionally taking residence on said 'bed' when she was tired. She felt Heisenbergs eyes on her as her muscles stretched and popped, and she let out a satisfied groan.

"It wouldn't be, but you'll have to make a new one from scratch." He said, arching a brow as he leaned back in the chair. She rolled her eye, moving to stretch her arms in front of her.

"Again, not hard." She shrugged, finally moving towards the desk he was next to. "Making a door takes less brains than you already have."

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"I'm not calling you a genius."

She almost laughed as she saw him pause before taking a long drag on the cigar.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't just hear you say that." He sighed. She shrugged, leaning over the table and looking over the papers that had been laying on it.

"It's a joke, Heisenberg. I'll admit you're more intelligent than you let on." She said, moving the papers and other objects slightly while looking at them. She then paused as she held them, her eye going over the plans, x-rays, and sketches. "Did you leave out the other Soldat plans?"

"They're in with the cadou notes. I thought you would have seen them." He said simply, reaching for a manila folder on the corner of the table. He put the cigar in his mouth as he opened it and flipped through with a huff. "The new ones haven't been functioning properly, damn things... I'm thinking of rewiring the circuits to the brain.".

"Wouldn't that cause more damage than good?"

"Not if it's done properly." He chewed on the cigar for a moment before flipping over one of the papers. "The worst that could happen is the head exploding from the current. In that case-"

"Lycan food?" She suggested. He nodded in agreement.

"Lycan food. They're mostly useless to me otherwise..."

"As are most things..." she muttered, earning a glance. She looked back at him. "What? Am I wrong?"

"Not necessarily. Others do still have use."

"How?" She asked, turning to face him. "No head means no use."

He shrugged, tossing the folder back onto the table before leaning back in the chair.

"Replace certain muscle tissue and bones with pneumatic or hydraulic systems, whichever proves to be less of a pain in the ass that day, hot wire circuits to the remaining muscle structures, add an engine system into the chest with a strong battery..." he tilted his head slightly, almost as if he were picturing the plans in his head, thinking of more details as he went along. "They would quite literally be mindless, but a few shocks and currents would make them go just fine."

"Sounds a bit like you..." Emelia snorted, turning back to the table to organize the papers as he glared at her. "Shall I pick a few poor sods from the village to test this?"

"Or I could just use you..." he muttered.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Keep making your ass-backwards comments and see what happens." He shot back, finally pushing himself up to stand. "Yes, I'd like you to do that. Fresh bodies work best for the experiments. I'll send out the Lycans as well, given they don't tear them apart."

"That wouldn't matter anyway, Karl. You'll just stitch them back up like you always do."

"I could, couldn't I?" He started, taking a step closer to stand next to her with a sinister smile. "Or I could make YOU do it. You seem to have fun with tearing things apart and putting them back together-"

"I'm NOT sewing your bloody creations together." She interrupted. "I'll kill them and I'll tear them to shreds, or I'll assist with the inner workings of the mechanics. I don't sew."

"You'll learn."

"Like hell I will."

"I'll make you."

"Bullocks."

"Keep talking, Emelia." He dared, his voice lowering in a threatening manor. "I'm not in the mood."

"You were before we got here." She challenged. She only held her breath as he suddenly snuffed out the cigar on the table itself while his eyes seemed to stare directly through her.

"That's what happens when you keep insulting me, Emmy. I start to get angry. You know that."

She felt a chill down her spine at his voice. It was different from any other time she had aggravated him... It was as if she were in actual danger. His face was only inches away from hers, and he smirked once he noticed her hesitation.

"Scared, Emelia?"

She kept her eye on him, watching his movements carefully. No, No she wasn't in danger... Maybe.

"No." She replied, lifting her chin slightly as he arched a brow.

"Oh?"

"What is it you say to me...? I'm 'in a mood'...? Because I believe you're currently in one, yourself." She asked, finally moving forward and brushing past him in a nonchalant manor despite being somewhat stiff in her movements. "Drink some coffee and throw a few things around with that power of yours, you'll be fine."

She felt his eyes on her as she neared a cushioned chair against the wall.

"I'll throw YOU around..." He growled, taking amusement in her body slowing down as he spoke. He walked towards her as she turned to face him. "See how that pretty mouth works after your head goes through a wall."

"You forget I've stopped your hammer with my arm." She huffed, crossing her arms over her chest before smirking. "You smashing my head through a wall would be as effective as Sturm trying to hold something with his nubs."

"You don't seem to understand what I can do to you, Emelia."

"And you don't seem to understand the amount of fucks I don't give, Karl."

His arm twitched slightly, and she glanced over as metal pieces on the floor began to shake just slightly. She just hoped he wouldn't direct his power towards her...

"If you would like to play, I'll GLADLY entertain you."

She suddenly got in his face, a mischievous, antagonistic spark in the gold of her eye.

"Entertain me HOW? Throw me to the Lycans? The Varcolacs? Hell, let Urias get ahold of me, see what happens."

He bared his teeth in a snarl, though the corners of his mouth stayed in a malicious grin.

"I'll turn YOU into a goddamn Soldat, you'll be so full of metal you won't be able to FUNCTION without me-"

"I'm more afraid of your SISTER than I am you!"

Her smirk widened as she saw a sudden spark of anger in his face, his smile faltering.

"Don't you dare attempt to bring that bitch into this, I'll put my hammer straight into your skull-"

"TRY ME, THEN-" She started, only to give a yelping gasp in surprise as Heisenberg slammed her against the wall by her throat.

"Shut your damn hole!!!-" He snarled. His grip was tight, but he seemed to stop once he glanced at her open mouth. All of a sudden the air around them changed, and she stared at him with confusion in her one golden eye. "Oh, Emmy, you didn't tell me!" He said with a sudden cheerful tone, moving his hand from her throat to her jaw. He switched so quickly...

"Wh-" she began, only to stop as her jaw was yanked open. She was confused until she saw the reflection of her tongue piercing in his glasses.

Shit.

"Well well, I guess you've got some metal in you after all. I won't have to try as hard..." He chuckled, tilting his head as she stared at her own reflection. "What else are you hiding from me, Emmy?"

Her eye was wide in simultaneous fear and curiosity. She knew she couldn't have hidden the piercings forever, but certainly longer than this. She usually at least took the one out of her mouth when around him given how often they talked for this reason... But even then, he had never noticed it before. Why now?! She kicked herself for forgetting. She wanted to shove him away... Shove him and run. Would he chase her? He was most definitely trying to scare her, she knew that much... But she also wanted to know how far he would actually go if she did nothing. Would he rip them out if he found the others? Use them as control like he mentioned? Or would he leave her alone? Something told her the latter was out of the question as he showed growing interest in her silence.

"N-.... Nothing..." she managed, nudging her jaw out of his grip. "I just-"

"You're a liar, Emelia." He said, his grin growing wider. She gave a huff and shook her head.

"I am not, you ridiculous-"

She was stopped with a startled gasp as a gloved thumb was shoved between her jaws, nearly propping her mouth open.

"Now now, this'll go far easier if you do it my way. Now open up."

He lifted his other hand to his face, taking a finger of the glove between his teeth and sliding it off. The glove fell to the ground between them, and she watched as he reached for her face with his bare hand. She flinched slightly as his fingers pressed against her lower jaw, though admittedly relaxed as his thumb drifted over her bottom lip. The skin was expectantly rough, she found, calloused and covered in smaller scars. She closed her eye as it drifted over her sharp lower teeth before thrusting over her tongue, pushing it back and causing a small gaging reflex. It tasted... metallic... Metallic with hints of other things. Not quite metal, not quite blood... Maybe residual oil? Maybe a hint of the cigars. She couldn't tell exactly what it was, but the mixture wasn't bad... She really didn't mind much. She could almost feel the interested look on his face as she relaxed, though she attempted to hide it. Oh god, was she enjoying this...? She only flinched as he pressed his thumb against the muscle, pushing it out of her mouth somewhat to see the piercing fully.

"Let's see how much you're hiding from me, shall we?" He grinned.

There was a moment of confused silence before she felt his thumb press against the metal rod, her eye snapping open with a gasping yelp as what felt like electric sparks and currents traveled through that piercing, as well as the others.

All the others.

The sparks lasted only a second, but a second was all that was needed as her back arched slightly away from the wall. Heisenberg took a step back in surprise as Emelia suddenly collapsed to her knees, shaking and panting ever so slightly out of shock and... something else. She doubled over with a wide eye, an arm covering her chest and the other pressed against her abdomen and ever tightening thighs. What the hell WAS that...?! What the fuck did he do?!

"W-.... Wh-...." she tried, trying to voice her thoughts. But alas, despite the tingling feeling up her spine disappearing, she couldn't. She couldn't even move as she heard movement directly in front of her, the shock of the feeling only allowing her to look up as he grabbed her chin and lifted her face to meet his. She watched as he kneeled, only to look up and see the most smug grin she had ever seen.

"Liar liar, Emmy... You know how I hate liars." He chimed, adding to the smug aura he held. It pissed her off, but she couldn't do much about it now... She then grew nervous as he tilted his head, taking in her reaction fully as she stared at him with an ever-deepening red blush on her cheeks. "If I was more foolish, I'd say you enjoyed that."

"I-I... D-did NOT...!!" She snapped, stopping with a small squeak as he shoved his thumb back into her mouth to silence her.

He was met with another squealing whine as he pressed against the piercing once more, gleefully sending more currents through the metal pieces in her body. Emelia reached up to shakily grab his arm as the piercing was left alone once more, though the residual shock still remained. She wanted to say something... Say ANYTHING... but the feeling in her face, chest and thighs was so odd and... and good... It kept her silent, and Heisenberg took interest.

"Lycan got your tongue?" He joked, chuckling as she let out a growl. He found it amusing, of course. She only frowned as he tilted his head with the ever present smirk, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light of the room. "You know, Emmy..." he started, yanking her forward by the jaw slightly as she kept her hold on his arm. "I can't help but wonder how it tastes."

She felt another shiver down her spine at the sickeningly curious tone in his voice. Taste... Taste?? She stared at him as he removed his thumb from her mouth, though nearly started to form words immediately in stupid curiosity. The answer came to her quickly, however, in the form of a hand around her neck, a mouth to hers, and being shoved against the wall once more. She made an almost strangled noise as her back hit the concrete, her mind attempting to play catch-up as she felt something being shoved into her mouth. More sparks traveled along the piercings as his tongue slid over hers, and she let out a whining growl in response.

The taste of metal and the slightest bit of sweetness filled her mouth, along with the taste of the cigar they had shared only minutes prior. But... Why did it taste so good? Why wasn't she fighting him? She found herself frozen for a few moments as the realization set in that she... truly enjoyed this. He couldn't have known, could he? There was no WAY he could have known... Oh god, what was wrong with her? She generally wanted to strangle the man, but now...

She allowed the frustration from earlier to bubble in her chest, giving her control of her limbs for a few moments. Heisenberg began to back off, thoroughly satisfied in her reactions and his 'taste test' before she suddenly grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him back against her, giving a quiet grunt as her back was forced against the wall again with his weight. He was brought to his knees at the force of the tug, and it was her turn to feel satisfaction as a startled grunt left this throat.

Emelia returned the forceful kiss with all her strength, her back arching somewhat with the now consistent current from the piercings. Her legs shook slightly as she felt a warm feeling in her thighs from the current, unintentionally letting out quiet whimpers and heavy breaths into the kiss. His hand stayed pressed to her throat before he moved it to the side of her neck and shoved her head upwards with his thumb. He tore himself away to attack her neck immediately, licking along the skin before closing his jaws around it. She gasped as he moved along her neck, leaving bloody bites and bruises while using his free hand to nearly rip at her shirt. The fabric was pulled it from its tucked position, his grip tearing a few holes in the worn fabric as he held it taught away from her skin. She couldn't help it as her heavy breaths turned into pants, and she gripped his arm tighter as she felt the fabric continue to tear from a mixture of his grip and her squirming from the feeling between her legs. She shuddered as he finally pulled away from her now very bruised neck, his lips hovering right against her ear.

"Let me taste all of them, then." He growled, returning his hand to around her neck and squeezing along the bottom of her jaw.

Her squirming paused in his grip. 'Please, oh PLEASE-' she thought, secretly wishing to rip the shirt off, herself. But he couldn't know that... If he did, she knew he'd taunt her mercilessly. Not that he wasn't doing the same now... Instead she shook her head just slightly, trying to even out her breathing.

"W-Wait-" she started quietly, only to gasp once more as he finally tore the front of the shirt clean off from the seams. He tossed the fabric to the side as her back arched to meet the new air her front was exposed to, the newly revealed silver nipple piercings glinting as her body moved.

"Too late." He chuckled deeply, grabbing her by the side and bringing her chest forward as if he were claiming a prize.

He leaned down slightly, his arm wrapping around her as his mouth returned to her skin. He kissed and nipped to her shoulders and collarbone until his lips met the tip of the large scar that rested between her breasts. She swore she could almost see something flicker in his shade-covered eyes as he seemed to study it before nipping at it carefully. The nips were... oddly careful. It was as if he knew what it was... She managed to compose herself enough to speak, one of her hands moving to nudge his shoulder. She couldn't help but give a nervous gulp as he looked up at her, his eyes burning as if her touch had fueled the fire.

"N-... N-Not... um..." she tried, her voice oddly timid. She knew what was happening, though the idea made her nervous... "N-Not... here..."

"Hm?" He tilted his head slightly, loosening his grip on her neck. He then followed her gaze to the small 'bed' in the corner of the room- though it was more like a single mattress over a solid 'frame' with random odd pillows along the wall and multiple covers lumped on top. It was how she liked it.

"Th-There... uh..." she looked away for a moment, heavily aware her burning cheeks. "P-... P-Please..."

She could nearly feel his smile against her skin as he chuckled, though he didn't reply. It was then that she was suddenly picked up with a surprised yelp and tossed over his shoulder, her knees pressing against his sides to balance herself. She managed to hold on long enough before he walked to the 'bed', landing roughly onto it as she was tossed. She nearly scrambled to sit up until she looked up at him, watching him quickly close the space between them, removing his thick jacket and single remaining glove.

"Stay still, Emmy. The show is just getting started." He taunted, unbuttoning the long sleeve shirt he wore before kneeling onto the cushion and looming over her. She couldn't help as her vision traveled down what she could see of his chest, seeing similar scars along his skin.

She opened her mouth to speak, giving a quiet yelp as she was shoved into the sheets by her neck, her legs now situated around his waist. Her back arched as he leaned over, biting at her shoulder and collarbone once more before around one breast and onto the other. She gave a whining gasp as he reached the peak, his tongue swirling around the sensitive skin and the small bar of metal pierced through it, his teeth grazing the it ever so slightly. He used his other hand to trail along the scar on her chest and down to her pierced belly, his rough fingers caressing the skin until they pushed underneath the tied overalls. Her legs twitched as his fingers reached the piercing between them, feeling as it was surrounded by a moist warmth. He smirked.

"I knew it." He said, rubbing against the piercing and bundle of nerves with another jolt of electricity before removing his hand. She couldn't help the whine that left her throat as her hips bucked lightly from the feeling, and he chuckled. "Easy..." he muttered, returning the palm of his hand to her stomach and shoving her down.

He dug his fingers into the skin around the belly piercing as she glanced down, and she made another strangled noise as he sent another wide current through her piercings. Her back arched as he pressed harder to keep her down, though she was startled as he suddenly crushed his mouth against hers once more. The small currents pulsed in a slow rhythm as she returned the kiss, her legs shaking and tightening against his hips. She let out a soft cry against his lips as the pulses increased, her grip on his arm tightening and even pulling him closer as the waves of a small orgasm rushed through her in spasms. The feeling was strengthened with the addition of... something pressed to her thighs underneath their clothing. But the waves... The small spasms that affected the muscles of her back and legs... While it hadn't been something she had felt even when human, and while she knew what it was, all she knew was that it felt good. REALLY good...

She could have sworn up and down she hated the man at any point before this, but as he broke the kiss and pulled away to look at her, she couldn't help but feel... want? Desire? Whatever it was, she knew she didn't want it to stop at the moment, and that's all that mattered to her. She still didn't want to give in so easily... But god damn was this feeling hard to fight off.

"D-... D-Damn you..." she nearly whispered, her voice wavering slightly. She was met with an amused chuckle as he removed his glasses and lightly sent them to the table they had been at before.

"Just what I like to hear..." He taunted, removing his hand from her throat. "Tell me, Emmy... Do you want more? Feel free to say nothing if you do."

She stared at him as he gave another sly grin, opening her mouth as if to protest... But she couldn't. Instead, she remained silent, though gave an irritated, embarrassed huff as she glanced off to the side. Her lip curled into a silent snarl as he gave another chuckle.

"I thought as much." He replied, leaning up. His fingers were dragged along her skin as he moved, trailing along other scars that littered her skin.

She glanced down to follow his hands, watching as they trailed over her hips and around to her front where the knot in the tied mechanic suit she wore. With one quick movement it was untied and loosened, and she jumped as everything was suddenly pulled away and off of her hips, sliding down her thighs. She froze at the new rush of cool air surrounding the warmth between her thighs, and suddenly the entirety of the clothing was removed as he seamlessly pulled it away from her legs. Now she was completely bare in front of him... Exposed.

The desire to cover herself was overwhelming as she met his eyes, seeing the smugness and sense of possession he gave as he took in every visible inch of her skin. Her arms and legs twitched in an attempt to cover any vulnerable areas, but she suddenly found her arms pinned next to her head and his hips against the backs of her thighs to keep them open.

"Don't you dare." He grumbled, a smirk still on his face as he glanced down slightly before looking back up at her face. "I haven't tasted everything yet."

"Wh-..." she tried, her legs twitching again.

She was met with another kiss as he leaned down, though it didn't last long. She let out quiet pants as his lips and teeth moved along her jaw to her neck, leaving more bites and bruises among the ones that already stained the skin. Her arms twitched as he reached her breasts again, hit tongue repeating the same actions as before on both piercings before finally returning to the large scar running down her sternum. He planted light kisses and nips along it, earning her confusion as he continuously moved lower. She watched as he nipped along the skin of her stomach, the corner of her mouth twitching as he seemingly, almost playfully, gently bit the piercing in her belly and glanced up at her. She rolled her eye for a moment before he sent another current through the metals, and she let out a soft whimper. It wasn't until he let go and moved to kiss and bite around her hips and thighs that she realized, her head shooting up with slight panic as she felt his lips against the inside of her thigh.

"H-Hey-"

"Quiet Emmy." He purred, the tone of his voice making her freeze. She watched as he kissed the inside of her thigh once more, her head landing back against the cushion with a shuddering gasp as he bit along the sensitive skin. Her hand flew over her mouth as he moved closer to her core, whimpering as she felt his tongue gliding along the skin.

"K-Karl, wait-" she whimpered through her fingers, only to take in a sharp, gasping breath as she finally felt his tongue against her, moving slowly as if savoring her reactions.

She tried closing her legs, though found it nearly impossible due to his hands forcing them to stay where they were. She could almost feel the bruises form where his fingers pressed against the skin, though that feeling was second in her mind compared to the pleasured sparks up her spine with each movement of his tongue. She couldn't help as her hand left the sheets, finding its way to his head as he played with the small piercing through the bundle of nerves, sending small electric pulses through her body once more. She felt the vibration as he chuckled against her, gripping his hair with small gasps and whimpers as his tongue delved into the warmth. Her back arched slightly with each movement, her thighs shaking from the new sensations. Why did it feel so good...?! She let out a long whine as the electric pulses continued, eventually biting down on her hand as to attempt to prevent any further noises. She could feel the tightness return as his teeth grazed against the piercing, and suddenly her hand was gripping his hair in a fist as she came again, a multitude of muffled whines and mutterings of his name escaping her mouth while her back arched. She barely heard the grunt he gave as he was pressed against her, not even realizing as he was able to pull himself away.

She flinched as Heisenberg reached up to grab her wrist, her body shaking slightly as he managed to nudge her hand away. He ran a hand through his hair to smooth it out, rising to loom over her once more as he licked his lips. Where the actual FUCK did he learn that?!

"That hurt, Emmy." He purred, keeping his grip on her wrist as she finally looked at him. Her face was red as she panted, her legs trembling as they rested against his hips once more. "Good girl."

He smirked as she stared up at him, his tongue swiping over his teeth before he leaned over and yanked her other wrist from her mouth, pinning both of them to the cushion beside her head. Her breath caught in her throat at the sudden movement, her eye widening as it met his. There was a moment of silence as they held a stare down, only ending as he shifted her wrists into one hand and used the other to undo the belt and button of his own pants in one swift motion. It took her a moment to register the movement, keeping eye contact once the full realization of just how far- and how fast- this was about to go hit her. She squirmed slightly in his grip as she glanced down, nearly breaking said grip, only to get caught in yet another rough kiss as she felt something warm press against her thighs. She could taste herself on his tongue, and somehow it made her arousal worse...

She let out a whining groan as she was rubbed against, her back arching once more at the new feeling, only to give a surprised and somewhat pained cry against his lips as she felt him enter her quickly and fully with a grunt. She gasped into the kiss as he returned his hand to her neck, her back arching into his chest and her thighs once again tightening around his waist. More of the pleasurable feeling shot up her spine as he moved a few times, pressing against her roughly as she gave small whimpers and whines. It felt... good... so good. Why did it feel good? Why did all of this just feel GOOD? What the hell was she missing from her old life that didn't include THIS?? She couldn't help the small moan she gave as the kiss was broken, and he shoved his hips against hers. He tightened his fingers around the sides of her neck with a sly smirk as he stayed where he was. Although the glint in his eyes may have looked malicious, his actions proved otherwise as he allowed her a few seconds to relax.

"Am I being too rough with you, Emmy?" He asked, his smirk widening into a grin as she mindlessly shook her head, though it was more like a few twitches.

"N-... No... N-Not rough enough..." she growled with a challenging tone, though her voice was still light. She was met with a dangerous chuckle.

"Good."

Emelia glared up at him with a somewhat clouded eye, her breaths coming in light pants that turned into gasps and moans as his movements continued, growing faster and harder with each passing second. She struggled to keep her voice down despite the feeling of each thrust sending sparks into her chest. The sounds of his low grunts and deep breathing weren't helping, she found, and it made it much more difficult to control her own pleasured noises. She was then aware of a low laugh from him.

"Ah... I didn't think... you could sound like THIS, Emmy...~" He purred, his grip on her neck tightening. She opened her mouth, nearly flinching as she let out more soft moans.

"S-... S-Shut...." she tried, though was unable to finish any thought with her gasps and whines.

Her arms struggled in his grip, shaking with each thrust, only to suddenly be freed as he let go in order to take ahold one of her hips. She mindlessly reached for him almost immediately, gripping the edge of his shirt with one hand and grabbing the necklaces around his neck with the other in order to yank him down. She was rewarded with another rough kiss, her head being jerked up as he kept a hand around her throat. She let go of the necklaces, instead reaching under his shirt, her fingers trailing over his own scars until her nails dug into his back. There was an internal satisfaction as she heard Heisenberg give a surprised grunt, only to give a yelping cry as he suddenly pulled away to replace his hand around her neck with his teeth.

Small sparks of pain made their way through her shoulder as his teeth broke the skin, though they seemed to amplify the feeling as the thrusts became rough and quick. She finally reached her other hand around and under the shirt he wore, her nails dragging down the skin of his back as her moans and whines grew louder.

"F-... FuCK...! K-Karl...!!" She said suddenly, her voice cracking somewhat as she was met with a possessive growl and the slight smell of fresh blood as he let go of her neck. She couldn't help but gasp as she felt his cheek against hers, his beard scratching against her skin as his lips nearly against her ear.

"You're MINE, Emelia..." He growled.

Emelia felt as more pulsing currents were sent through her piercings, and she couldn't help but cry out as the pulses caught her by surprise. Her muscles tensed, her nails tearing at Heisenbergs back as she felt the waves of a strong orgasm, making her body shake and her legs flex around his waist. Her thighs tightened at his hips, halting him enough to keep him where he was as she came, but not long enough to stop him entirely. He let out a low growl as he kept up his movements until he slammed against her hard enough to move her up a few inches. She gave a gasping moan as could feel his muscles shudder and a strange warmth in the pit of her stomach as he filled her, and her back arched against his chest as she nearly hugged him to her for dear life.

There was small silence as their movement ceased, each breathing heavily. Emelia held onto the man over her as if it meant life or death, momentarily forgetting her irritation around him in the first place as there was a sudden feel of lips along her neck in a multitude of small kisses. They were gentle against her bruised skin... The odd tickle of the facial hair made the corner of her mouth twitch as she panted, unintentionally laying her head to the side for him as she very slowly but surely relaxed. Her irritation only slightly returned as she heard a chuckle from her neck, and she glanced down.

"Th' bloody hell is so funny...?" She muttered, unable to keep the lightness from her voice. She watched as he looked up from her neck, a sly smile across his still bloody lips.

"You're adorable, Emmy." He said simply, making her groan and start to push him away.

"Piss off...!!" She growled, only to gasp as he suddenly leaned over her with a chuckle, nearly being pushed into the mattress again as he finally slipped off the button-up shirt.

"Precious little doll, you didn't seem to hear what I said."

'Doll' ...? Emelia stared at him, now also shirtless, taking in the rest of the scars she had never seen. She could feel her face heat up more as he leaned over her, holding himself up with his hands on either side of her shoulders.

"Wha-" she started, only to let out a gasping yelp as he gave a single hard thrust to silence her.

"I told you, Emelia. You're mine. In more ways than one, it seems." He nearly purred, leaning down to press his nose to hers.

Her single eye widened as he grinned, only to be met with a quick, relatively gentle kiss. It took a moment for her to calm down before she returned it, staying where she was and secretly holding herself to that proclamation. She didn't want to admit it... She never would. But somehow, despite how he could be, this made her feel... wanted. It was an odd feeling, and one she knew she would be hesitant on getting used to. But she still hated him... Right?

She gave a soft whine as he pulled away, physically removing himself from her with a shuddering breath. She let out a whimper as she relaxed back against the covers, feeling an odd coldness and even a slight sense of loneliness as his weight left the mattress. She opened her eye with confusion and watched as his pants were fixed before her vision trailed up his back to see the bloody scratches she had left.

"Whoops..." she muttered, earning a chuckle and a glance back.

"I'll let you relax for now, Emmy. I don't wanna break you just yet..." He joked, nodding to the shirt he had left. "Use that for now, we'll get you another shirt later."

She couldn't help but smirk, her face red.

"Done already...?" She asked, her smirk faltering heavily as he glanced back with an odd mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Never said I was, Doll. This is for your sake."

Emelia watched as he began to walk to the jacket he had left, but she felt... sad. Not because he had stopped. Not even because she almost wished they would keep going immediately... No, it was another reason she couldn't quite place with every step away he took. She carefully pushed herself to sit up, wincing at the tenderness that settled between her legs before reaching for her discarded jumpsuit. But she only grabbed the simple boxers she had, managing to slip them on with minimal issue. She saw him slow his movements as she managed to stand, her knees just the slightest bit weak. Holding on to a support beam on the wall, she shakily made her way over to him as he glanced at her with an odd curiosity. She didn't care if she was entirely naked save for underwear, simply covering her chest with her arm as she reached for him. She stumbled into his back, feeling his muscles tense as her arms slowly wrapped around his torso, her fingers lightly drifting along the hair and scars on his chest.

"Don't you dare leave me like this, Heisenberg..." she muttered, pressing the scarred half of her face against his back. She knew he could feel her trembling as her legs threatened to collapse on her.

There was a moment of silence before she heard and felt him chuckle.

"You really are an odd one, Emmy..." He chuckled, turning his head to glance at her over his shoulder before giving a dramatic sigh. "Have it your way, then."

Emelia jumped as he suddenly turned in her arms, her cheeks going red as his face was suddenly mere inches away from hers. What was she DOING? Why she acting this way? She didn't know... But she was pleasantly stunned as she felt his hand raise and nudge her chin gently. However, instead of it going around her neck again as she expected, he simply caressed her cheek, avoiding the scars around her missing eye; Even he knew she hated them being touched, and now didn't seem like the best time to annoy her. In fact, he almost enjoyed her more when she was calm like this... She couldn't help but feel relaxed as the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her skin. Relaxed enough to settle her cheek into his hand fully, ever so slightly trying to remind herself that this wasn't who he was all the time. This was temporary... But she could do temporary.

"... Don't tell anyone..." She muttered suddenly, keeping her hold on him as he leaned back against the shelving next to them to stay comfy. He chuckled once more.

"Who do I have to tell, Emmy?" He chimed. She stared at him for a moment before shrugging, laying her head against his chest.

It was a moment of domesticity that she vaguely remembered wanting as human... Something about someone being close physically always seemed tantalizing, yet there was no way to achieve it here... Or so she thought. If she could just have more time like this... Though she knew it wasn't meant to last, especially not with him... But for now, she appreciated it. It wasn't until her senses focused on the machinery noises outside of the room that she gave a sigh, reluctantly pulling away from him.

"I should get back to work, then..." she mumbled, taking a few steps away, her fingers dragging along his chest before she turned, not seeing Heisenbergs face as he watched her walk away and run a hand through her hair to push it out of her face.

She made her way over back to the bed-like cushion, absent-mindedly picking the button-up shirt he had been wearing and slipping it on, herself. She'd take it since he offered, and because she didn't necessarily feel like hunting down new clothing. It was only slightly loose over her frame, being only slightly smaller than him in stature, and she felt his eyes burrow into her back as she buttoned it up. Quiet footsteps approached her from behind, causing her to jump with a small gasp as arms surrounded her while the shirt was only halfway buttoned. Heisenberg pulled her back against his chest, one hand on her hip and the other around the front of her waist.

"What are you-" she started, only to stop as the arm around her waist raised to nudge the collar of the shirt off her shoulder, placing gentle bites and kisses along the skin as soon as it was shown. Small shivers went up her spine with the movements, and she let out a wavering breath in attempts to not laugh from the tickling of his beard. "K-Karl, stop-"

"I never told you to get back to work..." He said simply, his now semi-serious tone interrupting he train of thought and causing any hint of laughter to disappear. He trailed kisses and bites to her jaw and her ear once more. "Indulge me then, Emmy, and I'll let you go. Let me have my fill."

Her face fell slightly. His fill... Did he mean...?

"W-What, be your toy until you're done?" She huffed, turning her head slightly to face him. Though he was on her blind side, she could almost feel the grin.

"Well, when you put it that way..." he started, letting his hands wander. One trailed under the shirt slightly, his fingers drifting below her belly, while the other found and gave a gentle squeeze to a now exposed breast from the shirt being moved before resting over the large scar. "Yes. But don't worry. I take care of my toys... I said I wouldn't break you so soon. And besides..." he pressed another gentle kiss behind her ear, "You seem like you want more. Am I wrong?"

Emelia took a shaky breath as she felt the odd sensations once more, reaching to hold onto his forearms as his hands moved. Well, of COURSE he was right... She knew there wasn't much else she would have to do around the factory today anyway. She worked constantly, and the factory ran relatively smoothly without her. She even came here for a break, anyway... And, despite her feelings about him, what the man had just shown her was... Well, her legs still held a slight wobble. To say she wanted more was an understatement. And so, she have a small huff and looked forward, tilting her head to allow him at her neck.

"... Go ahead..." she muttered, her voice an embarrassed tone. She felt his grin against her neck taking a breath as he gave a small, rough bite.

"You won't regret it, Emmy."

She gave a small, joking snort.

"I'll believe you if you can prove it, Karl..."

"Oh, even after what I've just shown you?" He played, his lips pressing to her neck once more. She said nothing, only somewhat easing against his chest with a huff. She rolled her eye as he chuckled, though her breath caught in her chest as his hand left the scar, letting his fingers trail up and along her throat. "I didn't think I would have to prove anything."

"You never do..." she muttered suddenly, only to close her mouth as she felt him freeze behind her. Where the hell did that come from...??

"Oh?"

She was silent for a moment before clearing her throat.

"Th-That, ah..." she started, only stopping as he grabbed her throat and pulled her to him roughly.

"What?" He growled, ever so slightly moving them forward. She took shaky steps, following his direction.

"N-Not... what I... mean..." she finally managed, glancing down with a quick breath as she felt the edge of the work table against the front of her thighs.

"Hm. What did you mean then, Emmy?"

"I..." she tried, though was unable to find her voice. What was this rush of excitement...?? The tone of his voice sent chills down her spine as he nibbled at her shoulder while awaiting a response. She then decided to just speak. What could go wrong?

"I-I mean...." she managed, gaining a smirk and holding onto his arm. She could feel as he tilted his head in curiosity. "You haven't quite done so thus far, how am I to believe you could...?" she continued, feeling his grip tighten. Good. She pulled away from him slightly to aggravate him. "You always need to prove yourself Karl, you won't get far without it-"

She was stopped with a surprised grunt as she was suddenly shoved down against the table, giving a surprised grunt of pain as her chin hitting it with a light *thunk* . He kept his hand between her shoulders, using his weight to keep her down as she moved to rub her jaw. Her hand was then suddenly yanked away as he twisted her arm behind her back, earning an uncomfortable grunt.

"Bloody hell- H-hey-!"

"I don't give proof, huh?" He growled suddenly, leaning down over her to talk into her ear. "I assure you, Emelia, I have all the proof you need."

She opened her mouth to speak, only to shut it with a surprised noise as he suddenly bit down on her neck and yanked her towards him. The backs of her thighs hit his hips, and she let out a small, surprised whimper. He slipped his fingers under the waistline of her underwear with his free hand, taunting her by slowly dragging them down. There was a sudden spark at her piercings once more while her lower half squirmed, and she couldn't help but give a small, moaning whine as she felt the sparks increase. Waves of pleasure traveled up her spine, causing her back to arch into the table somewhat and nearly bite her bottom lip until it bled. Small goosebumps covered her skin as she felt her underwear finally fall to her ankles. It wasn't until she felt him adjust himself behind her that she attempted to look to the side, only to be met with a growl and his teeth digging into the skin more.

She could smell the blood as it began to seep from between her skin and his teeth... It made her head swim as she finally felt him rub against her roughly, the small sparks of pain from his teeth adding to the odd pleasure she was feeling. He removed his teeth from her neck for a moment to speak into her ear, sending more shivers down her spine.

"I've got your 'proof' right here." He purred, his smirk nearly audible. He shoved her down again once more. "HERE!!"

He gave a rough thrust forward as he spoke, filling her quickly once again and earning a yelping moan; but this time, he didn't stop. A mixture of pain and pleasure racked her body as he kept up the rough thrusts, simultaneously twisting her arm more behind her back to hold her there. She couldn't stop the now loud moans and whines she gave as she panted, nearly digging her nails into the metal table supporting her. She could feel the pulses of her muscles threatening to tighten and mutate as she was slammed into nearly mercilessly, her fingers creating small dents in the material as she forced her mutation back once she felt a familiar flutter in her chest. He seemed to notice, letting out a low chuckle through his own grunts and growls.

It wasn't long before she felt the sudden waves of an orgasm, making her give a loud cry as she shifted under him, pressing back against him for a moment. She reached forward quickly and gripped the edge of the table, easily denting and nearly crushing it in her grip with light cries as he continued his thrusts through the tightening spasms. Her body shook while he didn't slow down. Instead, he increased his movements, and she almost felt tears come to her eye with the overwhelming sensation.

Her other arm was suddenly freed as he moved to grip both of her hips, leaning down to bite at her shoulder once more with low grunts and growls. He kept going... Oh god, he kept going. She couldn't speak, the only noises leaving her throat being whines and cries. She couldn't help but lean into his jaw, almost begging him for more despite the overstimulation. Her neck was bitten multiple times as if she were being marked, each bite breaking the skin with ease. Beads of blood slowly dripped from the wounds and over her skin every time he let go, only to feel his teeth elsewhere. She felt tightness below her belly once more as she let out a wavering cry of his name, only to be met with slower thrusts and a growl at her ear.

"What do you want, Emelia?" He growled, his voice low and strained. She couldn't help but squirm and push back against him with whining whimpers as he slowed more, quickly becoming frustrated and seemingly desperate. No... No, why was he stopping... Why was he slowing down?!

"N-.. N-No...!! D-Don't- fuck- D-Don't slow-...!!" She managed, earning a dangerous chuckle.

"Tell me Emelia, or I swear to God I'll stop right NOW." He played. She could hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke. She knew this was amusing to him... It was payback for her insults. Her body shook out of desperation and anger as the thrusts slowed considerably, and she put her forehead against the table with a growling whine. He held her hips in place against the table to prevent her from moving against him. She couldn't take it anymore... She wouldn't even try to fight it. It was as if she were being denied a prize, and she hated it already.

"F-Fuck- I-" she started, barely able to get words out, "Y-YOU Heisenberg, you bloody idiot!!! I want YOU!!!" She finally yelled, her voice cracking somewhat. "J-Just... D-Don't... Don't FUCKING stop!!! Fuck- PLEASE!!"

She could almost feel the pride-filled smirk he gave in knowing he had won, but she didn’t care... Her little outburst gave her slight confidence as he chuckled, his last breath coming as a low growl.. She jumped as she suddenly felt an arm around her waist, roughly pulling her back towards him as his other hand reached to pin and hold hers as if keeping her in place. A wavering whine left her lips as he gave a possessive growl, looming over her with obvious intent.

"Good girl." He grumbled, only giving her a chance to inhale before returning to the powerful, near brutal thrusts from before, pulling her to him with each movement.

She didn't even attempt to hide her voice again, her cries and moans growing louder with each passing second. She almost didn't want the feeling to end, allowing herself to melt into him as her back arched into his chest.

"D-Don't... D-Don't stop... F-FUCK- Don't stop...!!!" She repeated, her voice wavering with uneven pants and gasps.

"You. Are. MINE." He suddenly growled in her ear, not letting her respond before biting into her shoulder once more.

More electric pulses were sent through her piercings, nearly making her scream while gripping the hand over hers. The orgasm she felt then was strong, traveling through her body in waves and overstimulation as the pulses continued. The feeling was amplified as he kept moving for a few seconds, finally pressing her roughly against the table with a loud, wavering growl and swear as he came as well. She let out another gasping moan as she felt him twitch inside of her, shuddering with the light warmth she felt at the pit of her stomach.

The room was filled with the sound of their panting and deep breaths as their rode their highs, and Emelia finally relaxed against the table with a shaky, satisfied sigh while still panting. She felt... good. Great, actually... Very sore now, as well as numb, but good nonetheless. It was as if any frustration she felt had melted away with the thin layer of sweat on her body. She gave a quiet whimper as she felt Heisenberg shift somewhat. He removed his jaws from her shoulder, nudging her head and pressing his cheek against hers as his grip on her loosened to allow her to relax more.

"Are you alright, Emmy?" He asked quietly, his voice low and catching her off guard enough to flinch. She only made a small, confused noise as she glanced over. He chuckled, catching a glimpse of the residual pleasured tears that stained her cheek. He reached over, dragging his thumb over her skin to wipe them away. "Is that a yes?"

She kept her eye on him for a moment before giving a small nod and setting her head back on the table. She attempted to shift, but found her body was... unable to move. The numbness had begun to turn into the feeling of being a puddle, she found. Her muscles shook as she tried to push herself up, and she almost collapsed under him. He nearly laughed while kept his grip on her waist, keeping her upright while he watched in interest.

"Would you like some help?"

"N... N-No, I..." she tried, her voice quiet. There was silence for a moment before she gave a shaky sigh, putting her head down once more in defeat. "... y-yes..."

"I thought so." He chuckled, finally pulling himself away with a quiet grunt. She could hear the amusement in his voice. "Alright. Keep steady, now."

Emelia glanced back as he partially adjusted himself, not bothering to fully fix his pants before he let go of her waist. A small panic entered her chest as her legs began to collapse under her, barely able to use the table to keep herself up before she felt him at her side. Her body shook as she tried to lean up once more, reaching to hold on to Heisenbergs arm as he draped it across her shoulders. He didn't even flinch as she leaned her full weight on him, and he chuckled.

"Come on, then." He said, suddenly leaning down once she was fully off the table. She let out a surprised yelp as he swept his other arm behind her knees, bringing her up into a cradling position against his chest as she held onto him tightly. She tightened her grip more as he started to walk, her face red. "Something wrong?" He asked, amusement thick in his voice. She watched his movements, only somewhat relaxing as they neared the bed.

"N-No..." she replied quietly, slowly easing herself in a sitting position the tattered covers as he set her down, wincing again at the soreness she felt. While the fabrics weren't always the best for relaxing, right now they were comforting, and a godsend for her shaking muscles. She then jumped as he sat down himself before he laid beside her with a huff. She stared at him for a moment as he held his arm out for her. What was he doing...?

"Well?" He asked expectantly, raising a brow as she looked confused.

"... what?"

He rolled his eyes.

"You're wearing my shirt Emmy, the least you could do is lay down."

"What-" she started, only to look down. "O-Oh... um..." She had admittedly forgotten what she had been wearing, and sheepishly pulled the shirt over her now throbbing shoulders and neck. She then adjusted herself on the mattress with a quiet grunt. "Ok..."

"NOW you're embarrassed??" He asked, nudging her arm slightly. "Should I describe, in detail, what I just did to you?"

She glared at him and gave a small huff as she managed to lay down.

"Shut up..." she mumbled, somewhat begrudgingly cuddling onto his chest as he smirked.

"It was an honest question."

Emelia only grumbled in response, though relaxed as she felt his arm go around her. She adjusted her head on his chest, pausing as she felt a heartbeat. It was slow and rhythmic, lulling her into a relaxed breathing pattern. He glanced at her as her arm wrapped over his chest as well, though he froze as she mindlessly began to trace over some of the smaller scars over his skin. She watched her own fingers move, an amused smile creeping on her face as she felt him tense and relax at her touch. She tilted her head slightly as she heard a light grumbling from his chest, her fingers pausing. He shifted under her, and she looked up to meet his eyes.

"What...?" She asked, resuming the movements. She watched as his eyes traveled between her and her fingers multiple times, his breathing easy with small grumbles in each inhale.

"Nothing." He replied simply, only to lift his chin slightly in confusion as she moved her hand to the scar across his neck. She felt his breath hitch as she traced it, and he looked at her again. "What are you doing, Emmy?"

"Nothing." She copied, almost laughing as he rolled his eyes.

"Don't get soft on me now Emelia, just earlier you were threatening me." He snorted.

"I still can if you would rather that."

"Hm. No, I'd rather fuck you again."

She went silent for a moment, her face heating up once more with embarrassment. "You said you wouldn't break me." She huffed.

Heisenberg gave a chuckle before turning to face her, gaining a smirk when she looked at him in surprise.

"I won't. I can't, actually." He said matter-of-factly, suddenly pushing her shoulder to have her lay on her back. She jumped, staring up at him in a stunned silence. "That doesn't mean I can't try. I haven't had that much fun in years, and I know you're durable. So am I."

"I-I can tell..." Emelia managed, clearing her throat slightly. Well, she knew he had a point... Despite being sore, she still felt oddly energized... Sure, the light exhaustion was there, but she knew she would have gone back to work immediately if she were physically able to. And she had to admit... She enjoyed this. It felt... normal. Almost.

She kept her eye on him for a moment before taking a breath. Was she really debating on this? The reality of the current situation hit her full force like Sturm on a rampage. She was silent for another moment before gulping slightly.

"What... What is... 'this' , exactly...?" she asked, her voice quiet. Karl drew back slightly, caught off guard by the question.

"Excuse me...??"

"I... You... You piss me off, Heisenberg..." she started, her arms resting at the sides of her head. Each movement of her shoulders resulted in a dull pain from his teeth, and his mouth twitched as he realized. She paused as she saw the smallest... tiniest twinge of regret in his eyes. But she shook her head, looking down at herself.

"I don't... I've been here for... only a short time compared to you, Karl... And now I... We do... THIS..." she continued, looking back up at him as he held his place over her. "What are we doing...?"

It was his turn to stay silent, obviously contemplating his answer. She had seen the same look on his face when discussing important factory matters... It almost made her feel better.

"What do you want from it?" He asked finally, tilting his head with a light shrug. She blinked.

"... What?"

He rolled his eyes, giving a small smirk.

"Ah, who's asking the hard questions now?" He played, chuckling as she glared at him. "I don't quite care what this leads to, I know what my goals are." He explained. "What are yours? What do YOU want out of it?"

"I..." she started, looking to the side. "... I don't know."

"Then don't worry about it!"

"But I-"

"Look, Emelia. If you can't figure it out, then focus on something else. Is it really worth wasting the energy if you don't know right away?" He asked.

She was silent. He... He was right.

"That... That's the most intelligent thing I've ever heard you say."

She nearly laughed at his insulted expression.

"Hey-"

"I'm joking, Metalhead..." She sighed with a small smile. There was silence for a moment before she finally gave a huff. "Just... For now just..."

"Come on, we don't have all day." Heisenberg joked, smirking as she glared at him.

"... Shut up you daft idiot." She growled finally, reaching to yank him down by his necklaces.

The movement startled him, but he seemed to know exactly what to do as his lips met hers with a light chuckle. The kiss was... gentle, oddly enough, but she relaxed once more under him. Light shivers traveled up her spine as she felt his fingers travel along her skin. The shirt was fully unbuttoned once again and nudged to her sides, and she took a deep breath as she felt the air on her chest. She only whined as her legs were moved, making him pause. There was a soreness between them from his roughness beforehand, sending small waves of a low, pulsing pain through her body. He gave a questioning hum against her lips, and she spoke against his.

"Sore..." she admitted quietly, feeling his amused smile.

"Good." He replied simply, adjusting himself and his pants to rest between her thighs. Emelia let out a quiet whimper as she was rubbed against, her legs shaking against his hips and her arms reaching out to his onto and wrap around his shoulders.

The dull throbbing sensation continued as he pushed into her once more, earning a somewhat pained whine as her back arched. It hurt... But the feeling lessened to a light sting after a few seconds, and she took lighter breaths. She couldn't help but wonder as he stayed still, his words and question playing in her mind as he returned to his position of leaning on his forearms over her. What DID she want from this...? Did she truly wish for any sort of stability from this? Or just survival? Maybe this was the first and last time she'd experience this, or maybe it would be regular. Did she WANT it to be regular, though? She didn't know... All she knew was that his touch swung wildly between rough and gentle every time he touched her, even before this. He always switched between harsher interactions and kind ones, making her angry and thankful at the same time. And yet, when he touched her NOW... Even while over the table, it was almost careful, hesitant to push her too far even while leaving bruises in her skin. Somehow, while sharing this intimacy, he was a perfect mix of the two. And somehow, it calmed her and even gave a small hope in the back of her mind.

Her thoughts stopped, letting out a breathy moan into the kiss as he started moving, this time at a slow pace. This time she kept her arms around him, hugging him close enough for their bare chests to press against each other. Her breaths and moans came from a different sort of pleasure, almost willing to believe that sharing this with him would allow some sort of normalcy. Her nails dug into his shoulders as he set a careful, hard rhythm, one of his arms moving down to press his hand against her stomach.

A single second passed before Heisenberg sent a low pulse of electricity through her body and piercings, causing her back to arch as she pulled away from the kiss with a gasping whine. She felt as he lowered his head with a low groan, starting to kiss and nibble along her jaw. Her nails dug into his back as his movements increased somewhat, creating more scratches to match the ones he already had. Her voice came out in quiet whines and moans into his ear as she clung to him. Sure this was making the soreness worse, but she almost couldn't tell between the low pulses and thrusts coming from the man. Her body shook while simultaneously encouraging more. She WANTED more... She already admitted as much to herself. Another whine escaped her lips as he nibbled just below her ear.

"Fuck, Emmy...~" he nearly purred into her ear, lifting her hips slightly and switching to smaller quick thrusts.

"K-... K-Karl-! F-FUCK-" she managed, her voice breaking somewhat as she allowed her legs to loosen at his sides to bring him closer. She whimpered as he suddenly leaned up, her nails digging and sliding down to his biceps before gripping them as she felt a familiar tightness below her belly; he could feel it, too.

Emelia suddenly held her breath in a surprised, wavering gasp as he slid his hand up her body from the belly piercing, his fingers dragging along the large scar on her chest before lingering and pressing against the sides of her neck. Her whines and moans continued, even as his hand moved higher to her jaw. She then jumped as his thumb pushed past her parted lips, resting on her tongue. She attempted to look up at him, but found it difficult to even keep her eye open... Heisenberg gave a low chuckle at the sight, pushing on her jaw slightly. He didn't even have to say a word as her mouth nearly closed around his thumb. Her whines and whimpers grew louder and her grip on him tightened, and she could only gasp as he pulled his thumb from her mouth and replaced it with his own.

The kiss was returned instantaneously, followed by her wavering, now muffled cry as she finally came once more. He grunted into the kiss as she tightened around him, her legs wrapping around his waist once more while her back arched. She wrapped her arms fully around his shoulders with overstimulated whines as his pace quickened before he finally let out his own wavering moan against her lips. She joined him with her own moan as he shoved his hips against hers, feeling the warmth enter her as he rode out his own orgasm with shaking muscles. God, it felt... It felt good... The warmth and twitching from him kept her whines going as they panted, her body shaking under him.

Both were silent for several moments, the kiss lessening to gentle movements before breaking.

"D-... D-Damn..." Emelia nearly squeaked, her head rolling to the side as her jaw was nuzzled.

"Hm. Are you alright?" Heisenberg asked, earning a small nod.

"... gonna be sore..." she replied quietly, relaxing somewhat as he kept his face against hers. He chuckled.

"You wanted it."

"Shush..." she huffed. Her breathing eased, feeling his smile against her skin. This was... Nice, she had to admit... An uncomfortable whine left her lips as he began to push himself up and away, only pausing as her legs twitched around him to keep him there. "N-No... stay..." she whined, watching as he raised a brow. "... P-Please..."

"I've never heard you say 'please' this much." He joked, earning a light glare. But he simply returned to his place over her with an amused chuckle, nearly laying on her.

She was relaxed despite nearly his entire weight on her torso, though she had no issues. He was really warm... She could almost purr with the warmth both on top of and inside her, the feeling relaxing her to the point of her limbs going lax around him. She felt him chuckle against her skin, taking a breath as his lips found her bruised neck. But her mind wandered elsewhere, and she found herself pressing her cheek to his.

"Can we... Not talk about this...?" She asked quietly, earning a confused hum as he glanced at her.

"Oh? What do you mean?"

"J-Just... Um..." she tried, turning her head to look at him. "M-Maybe this could be... just... stress relief...?"

She jumped as Heisenberg shifted, his face now hovering over hers with their noses together.

"Just stress relief?" He asked, amusement dancing in his eyes as her face reddened. "Is that what you want?"

She simply nodded, her fingers traveling over small scars that covered his upper back and shoulders. 'For now...' she thought. Wait, 'for now'...?? Did she really mean that...? She was pulled out of her thoughts as he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.

"Then so be it." Heisenberg said simply, meeting her gaze. She stared up at him before nodding and taking a breath. But he moved before she had a chance to even think, wrapping his arm around her waist. "Hold on."

"What-" she tried, only to cling to him with a surprised yelp as he pushed against the mattress to lean up with her against his chest. She let out a light whine as she was shifted on him, small sparks shooting up her spine as she was settled against his hips while he sat and leaned back against the wall. He couldn't help but smirk as she let out a whimper, her legs twitching. "Better?"

"I..." she tried, though couldn't manage words as she felt him shift against her to make himself comfortable. So she simply nodded before leaning against his chest.

It was his turn to freeze as she nuzzled to his neck, giving a pleased sigh as his arms hesitantly went around her waist. She relaxed against him, enjoying the warmth he gave and the feeling of his arms around her.

"... You're warm..." she said quietly, earning a surprised chuckle.

"I would almost hope so." He replied, reaching up and under the shirt she still wore to drag his fingers along small scars on her back. He smiled as she relaxed. "I'm going to assume you're not moving any time soon?"

He nearly laughed as she nodded against his shoulder.

"Fair assumption..." she mumbled, closing her eye.

While she wasn't necessarily tired, there was a sliver of exhaustion in her chest. She had to admit, there was still pain from the bite marks that now covered her neck and shoulders, and the soreness of her legs came as a dull throbbing. But she oddly didn't mind... She held her breath as she realized her enjoyment of this. The touches, the intimacy... Even the dull pains she felt. Maybe she didn't even mind HIM...

No, no... She DID mind him. Did she...? She still found him infuriating... But the way he held her now was... Well, it made her question quite a bit.

She finally sighed, relaxing fully against him. She focused on his touches against her back instead of the thoughts in her mind, willfully ignoring them for once. She'd enjoy what she had for now... Her attention went to the sounds of his heart and distant machinery, letting them lull her into a light sleep. She didn't NEED she sleep at the moment, but to her, it was almost perfect.

She only hoped it would stay that way.

#oc #resident evil #resident evil oc #resident evil village #resident evil village fanfiction #resident evil village oc #re8oc #re8 #heisenberg #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg smut #lord heisenberg #smut #lovelywingsocs #LovelyWings Writes #Metalworks Fanfiction #heisenberg fanfiction

[regrettablewritings]

Preference: What Does Amortentia Smell Like to Them?

Amortentia, for those unaware or having forgotten, is the name given to what we would call a love potion, as depicted in the Harry Potter universe. While the  nature of love potions is dubious at best, the one thing I think amortentia’s got going for it is that its aroma differs depending on the person, so no two people will always smell the exact same thing. Generally speaking, a proper amortentia will smell like whatever the individual is drawn to or likes. As a result, this can mean that it smells like anything, from reminders of home to the smells of their favorite foods, to the smells that bring them comfort, to reminders of the people they love and were loved by. Things that would soothe somebody enough to be tempted enough to sip it. I thought it would be interesting to explore what smells make them happiest/feel the most love and loved. So without further ado . . . 

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dinah Lance, Benoit Blanc, Geralt, M’Baku

Bruce Wayne

Prime rib. Aged scotch. Expensive perfumes spritzed on the necks of statuesque stunners . . . These are the smells Bruce came into contact with the most, and they were symbolic of the luxury that his lifestyle was open to.

And they were also far from what Bruce would likely smell if he were to ever come across amortentia.

Surprisingly, Bruce enjoys much simpler smells. Smells with specific memories and feelings attached to them. For example, his mother’s perfume: Bruce doesn’t remember the brand, and it honestly probably wasn’t anything too expensive (his mother, for the most part, preferred to air on the side of modesty, all things considered), but the scent nevertheless is one that comforts him even to this very day, many years later. It reminds him of his youth, of his mother pressing her hand to his forehead whenever he ran a fever, of the hugs she would give him before and after school. It is a comforting smell, and one that reminds him of the safety there can be in being loved.

The smell of buttery popcorn is a another favorite, albeit bittersweet. Of course, it has connections to that tragic night when everything changed. But there’s just something about it . . . Just being with his parents. Seeing a movie together, that one last moment . . . It took Bruce years before he could properly cherish the stimuli found on that night without a feeling sinking into the pit of his stomach, or without a hint of static screeching in his mind for a second. But the day did come. And perhaps in a route of recovery, he finds himself enjoying the popcorn smell and the lighter memories he’s become determined to assign to it.

The most recent smell to join his favorites, however, is that of fresh laundry. Not linen washed and dried in premier detergents or fabric softeners, mind you: Just whatever brand you’d been using that one day he came home. Whatever they were, they were what the house smelled like. It was what he smelled when you walked up to him, balancing a basket of freshly-dried linen on your lip. It was what filled his nostrils when you exchanged a “welcome home” kiss.

It was the smell his body tucked away to mark the moment: It was the point he truly realized that you were It for him.

Dinah Lance

The problem with Dinah is that she’s a bit of a tough cookie to crack: She doesn’t easily let people in, much less show any signs of vulnerability, and she constantly exudes the idea that she’s indifferent to the people around. Well, she tries to, at least. But in spite of it being a non-sentient potion, the amortentia knows better: The moment Dinah smells the stuff, she’s hit with a whirlwind of soft spots. All of which concern you, from one very specific moment.

Dinah’s dating life has never exactly been on point, but she was willing to see what happened with you when you came around. She really wasn’t rushing to put a title on whatever it was the two of you had, be it drinking buddies, party buddies, or, God forbid, Girlfriends with a capital “g”.  That is, until one particular night out: You suspected that maybe a run with the Birds hadn’t gone as planned, because you were currently watching your . . . drinking-party-boo-thang-buddy . . . pounding shots like they had money at the bottom of each glass. But you weren’t about to push for details. She vaguely remembered appreciating that at the time, but didn’t remember much else when she woke up with a pounding headache the next day.

Beneath all the grossness of her current existence, she appreciated how everything otherwise seemed to be blessedly merciful: The curtains were closed, muting any damnable light; the sheets weren’t stifling enough to cause the vodka sweats; the t-shirt she now wore smelled like your soap --

She didn’t remember you taking her back to your place, or you taking the time to not only changer her out of her tightly-fitted clothing and into the much more breathable sleeping shirt. And when she stumbled into the kitchen to find you quietly setting up the table with some takeout you’d just picked up, she realized she didn’t remember you joining her in bed or even the feeling of you waking up, either.

But when she tried to bring it up, you insisted it wasn’t a big deal. Instead, you shooed her away to the bathroom to take a much-appreciated shower. And the moment she stepped into the bathroom, she smelled it: Your hair products. They weren’t even anything special, just the usual kind you could grab at one of the many rinky-dink, common beauty shops that lined this area of Gotham. Hell, Dinah had some of them herself. But the smells were just so strong that her memory couldn’t help but file them away. They weren’t even nauseating to her vulnerable state, just . . . strong. Enough to latch on in his mind, right alongside the pho that greeted her when she had finally finished cleaning up. 

Soupy dishes were the best for combating hangovers, you reasoned. So while it might’ve been an unconventional brunch dish, it was one you made sure accounted for your drinking buddy/party buddy/maybe-girlfriend’s current state. And while it wasn’t in Dinah’s more immediate nature to feel all “mushy” and “gushy” about it, it wasn’t something that slipped her attention, no matter how garbled it might have been in the moment.

Fast-forwarding to now, there’s no question about it: You are one another’s Girlfriends with a capital “g”. And if Dinah were to catch a whiff of amortentia, all she would be able to think about would be those smells that remind her of you.

Benoit Blanc

It’s no secret that Benoit loves himself a good cigar. Specifically, one of the lancero variety if it happens to be on hand. Smoking is a bit of a guilty pleasure of his but clearly not too guilty, considering he’s still prone to doing so while on the job. He just flat out enjoys the rich, almost spicy flavor, almost masochistically tickling his lungs with every puff. But he supposes that that’s just how addiction works, so it would make sense that that’s one of the things he would gather from an amortentia brew.

Less than expected (at least, to those that aren’t him), however, is the scent of mothballs. Or perhaps it’s best referred to as an odor, because while it isn’t the worst smell, it’s not exactly one that many would call pleasant, either. But to Benoit, it reminds him of playing in his Nana’s attic, making blanket forts from her quilts and the trunks and her old hope chest. Admittedly, it isn’t a romantic or even particularly enticing smell but for Benoit, it’s just right: It fills him with the melancholic sweetness of nostalgia, reminding him of a time where he felt so safe and blissfully ignorant to what a strange world he lived in.

An ignorance that was sullied as he grew older and began to follow somewhat in his father’s footsteps, becoming ruthlessly torn apart once he officially entered the world of investigating. However, this wasn’t to say that he had been left bitter and vulnerable. In fact, in his older years, Benoit can’t help but know that there’s plenty of things left in life to see the beauty in, and to find pure happiness and optimism with.

Take, for example, Chinese food.

Plenty people might find themselves identifying the bouquet of food in amoirtentia: The MSG-rich noodles and dumplings, the mouth-watering scent of rice fried just long enough to obtain a hint of crunch to it . . . It would make perfect sense for someone -- anyone, really -- to list them as one of the things in the amortentia. And these reasons are all well and good, but they aren’t the reasons Benoit would identify it.

As it so happens, Chinese food was what he smelled one day as he entered the precinct, looking for files related to a specific case. It was because you were the one eating it. And whether he committed the details of that meeting to memory because it was in his nature as a detective, or because his soul somehow knew it was important that he remember, every image and reminder that his senses could gather were grabbed with desperation and held close.

And ever since then, every time the man has smelled Chinese food, it’s been accompanied by a sense of warmth; a feeling of relief and happiness that washed over him like a hug sourcing from his heart and soul.

But also hunger because come on, it’s impossible to not feel your stomach growl and mouth water when you smell that stuff.

Geralt

To be perfectly frank, Geralt and pleasant smells do not commonly go hand in hand. It’s honestly hard to when you spend so much of your time on the road, away from a bath, and fighting monsters with none-too-pleasant-smelling innards. On top of this, that his sense of smell is only enhanced by his mutation can make enjoying certain aromas difficult at best and borderline incapacitating at worst. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate good smells when he encounters them. He just may not actively voice his approval of them.

Hell, he might not even admit to himself what he enjoys.

He’s most ready to allow himself to enjoy petrichor, as most anyone would be able to find that enjoyable. There’s very little intimate reason behind liking it; but his constant ventures in the wild have allowed him a stronger familiarity than most with it. It’s particularly gratifying when he and Roach have some semblance of a shelter to lay beneath, able to watch the fat drops replenish the dry earth . . . It’s a calming scent for him, one that he won’t necessarily fight himself for liking.

The complete opposite of the second smell that shocks his senses: That of a home-cooked meal. Now, this may cause some confusion to many, given that home-cooked meals are generally considered downright pleasant things. And considering that the Witcher doesn’t come across many during his travels, one would assume he’d relish in such a scent bearing meaning for him. But for Geralt, they’re reminders. Ones he doesn’t want to have, but has nonetheless. Which is a pity, given that what he assumes is the source isn’t entirely the truth.

For Geralt, smelling a home-cooked meal surely is linked with his memories of his mother. But for his subconscious, it’s got more to do with what such banquets mean: Stability. Safety. Structure. Things Geralt’s nomadic lifestyle is lacking. You can’t quite have a feast of roasted pheasant and quail eggs and roasted vegetables from the garden or fruit tarts when you travel so constantly: You need a foundation. Someone to help prepare such a meal with. Someone to share with.

And the thought frustrated Geralt. That is, until he smelled the third and final scent.

Having an awareness of botany and plantlife as a whole comes with the education of being a Witcher. So of course, Geralt knew what the properties of certain flowers were, what they were used for, and so on. He never thought of them beyond practical means such as for healing for for herbs or teas. And he never thought much of lavender until he smelled it on you. You giggled sheepishly as you explained that you couldn’t help yourself: This was the first inn you had stopped at in ages, you had wanted to treat yourself to some scented oils.

“Lavender for relaxation,” you explained. “I want to take full advantage of sleeping in a bed for once and just fall straight to sleep the moment my head hits that pillow.”

Geralt nodded, not knowing what more to offer. But he also sniffed. Not with bemusement, but with . . . need. He liked the smell. He liked the smell on you. It was calming. You were calming. It wasn’t an epiphany or anything; it was just a moment his brain decided to capture by way of scent. And now it was in there, inside him, reminding him of a moment of relaxation.

It is the most calming scent that the amortentia can offer for him personally, and he would never out loud admit to it being his absolute favorite.

M’Baku

The thing was, given his intentionally secluded lifestyle, M’Baku’s aroma library was rather limited when compared to his peers in the Golden City, especially with regards to those who traveled out of the country. But that suited the Jabari leader just fine: He had his sovereign, his people, and a recognized alliance with the other Wakandan tribes after centuries upon centuries of isolation – what more could he possibly want? Truthfully, very little, which was why what he might smell from an amortentia would probably be rather limited.

Really, the top three smells he could make out could be divided into sections of his life: A smell for his origins and youth; a smell representative of his progress as a leader, opening up to new experiences; and a smell that signifies how far he’s come as a whole, both as a person and as a Jabari.

Living in the snowcapped mountains of Jabariland meant that the man had always been around fire: It lit pathways on torches; it lit up and warmed rooms of dwelling spaces; it cooked food. While it had become common in the more modernist world to associate fire with destruction, the Jabari never forgot the truth: Fire was also life. It was also the source of that peculiarly sweet smokey smell that M’Baku would be able to single out in a batch of amortentia. It is a reminder of his traditionalist roots, harkening him back to the life-giving light that guided his people through all their lives, even as the rest of the country marched onward without them. And even when he gains a position in the Tribal Council, thus demanding him to familiarize himself with some aspects of the country’s use of vibranium in day-to-day life, it’s remembering scents like that familiar smell of fire that brings the Jabari leader a sense of calm even in times where he finds himself frustrated.

However, it’s also through gaining this position that his worldview and experiences grow. And for better or for worse, he has you to blame.

Even as the both of you became more and more involved, convincing somebody as stubborn as M’Baku to accompany you anywhere in the Golden City was a bit like pulling teeth: Usually, the warrior would try to spend as little time as necessary in the capital, much preferring to immediately begin taking the journey back to the mountains as soon as whatever affairs he’d left them for had ended. But time’s way of weathering things down worked on plenty things, including M’Baku’s obstinance: Eventually, he did take up your pleas offer to accompany you to an actual restaurant, rather than a food stall in the market place. You chatted up the vegan and vegetarian selection, hoping that taking note of his diet might soften the blow to his pride he was already taking. It didn’t. In fact, to your surprise, it wasn’t until the food came that there was any positive shift in your beloved’s mood.

Being the sort of man that he was, M’Baku was generally rather staunchly against eating anything that wasn’t sourced from Wakanda. And given that Brussels was not, in fact, a city in Wakanda, you were fully prepared to either consume or put aside the small side of roasted Brussels sprouts that accompanied your entree. What you weren’t prepared for, however, was the curious look on M’Baku’s face as he eyed the small bowl full of vegetables. He seemed to be perfectly content eating his roasted fish dish just moments before, but apparently something about the smell of your side dish was . . . curious to him.

You thought it was startling, to say the least. You thought perhaps Bast or even Hanuman were at play when the man actually asked to perhaps try the tiniest smidge of sprout. And you just about nearly died when your boyfriend wound up inhaling the bowl in the end. Meanwhile, M’Baku was just as shocked: the M’Baku from four years ago would never have dared to try anything grown outside of Wakanda’s borders. But perhaps that was just a testament to the sort of person he was now.

For one thing, he didn’t know you four years ago, let alone have you as a partner. But now he did. And that honestly changed everything, all things considered. Because if he never met you, then he wouldn’t have known what the third smell in the amortentia was. Really, even while knowing you, he still wouldn’t be able to identify the exact nature of it: Your body oils were a concoction in and of themselves.

They didn’t smell exactly like anything specific, yet they constantly smelled too close and familiar to scents M’Baku thought he knew from his exposure to perfume stalls in the market place: There were hints of tea tree oils; eucalyptus; lavender; some almond? A hint of sage, perhaps? A spice he couldn’t name . . . Though not quite any of those. Yet, whenever he inquired you on what you used, what gave your rich skin its melanin glow, all you would respond with would be a teasing smile. As though you were pleased the scent caught his attention and interest (which, to be honest, was indeed something you enjoyed).

If M’Baku was “lucky”, you would respond with, “It’s made with a special Jabari bait; looks like it’s working”, and he would scoff, dissatisfied from your lack of answer, but not so much that he would become disenchanted with whatever scent you chose to go by that day. Because whatever it was, whether you’d ever tell him its ingredients or not, M’Baku had already made up his mind about what the scent was: It was just (Y/N) to him. And even though he’d gone so much of his life pretty certain that he already had everything he needed, having (Y/N) made him stand corrected.

So it made sense that a potion meant to entice and draw a person in would smell like his favorite person.

#bruce wayne x reader #dinah lance x reader #bop!dina lance x reader #benoit blanc x reader #geralt x reader #m'baku x reader #batman x reader #black canary x reader #the witcher imagines #dceu imagines #knives out imagines #black panther imagines #dceu imagine #regrettablewritings #batman imagines #birds of prey imagines #batman imagine #birds of prey imagine #black canary imagine #black canary imagines #the witcher imagine #black panther imagine #preference #preferences

[writemekpop]

Unrequited | Lee Donghyuck (Haechan)

Pairing: Lee Donghyuck (Haechan) x Reader

Summary: Haechan was your first love, but now you’re engaged to Jaemin. One stormy day, Haechan knocks on your door begging for you back... but is he too late?

Genre: Angst

Word Count: 0.9k

You realise your fiancée Jaemin has stopped talking. He’s been droning on all night about bitcoin and how the Chinese are ‘taking over everything’. You’ve long given up pointing out that everyone’s heard it before.  

When he goes outside for a cigar, you and your guest Irene are left alone. You take a long sip of the bitter wine that only Jaemin likes, letting your eyes wander over the priceless junk that fills your living room.  

“So, how’s Haechan doing?” Irene lowers her voice theatrically.

A deep blush rises to your cheeks. “You mean from college? We haven’t spoken in… ten years.”

“I’m not buying it! He was head over heels for you – everyone knew it.” Irene puts one clawed hand to her mouth. “Everyone was surprised you got engaged to Jaemin in the end.”

Your heart is thrumming, but you can’t work out why.

You swivel your engagement ring in your fingers. “I would be lying if I said I’d never considered dating… Haechan,” you start. “All that talk about true love and star-crossed lovers… that’s not realistic. You need someone… reliable. And that’s what Jaemin is for me. I mean, Haechan studied music, for god’s sake!”

You push your wine away, the bitterness suddenly even less appetising than usual.

“So you have been thinking about him.” Irene jeers, not really listening. No one really listens.

You ignore her jabs, turning your gaze to the storm battering your French windows. The rivulets of water look like tear tracks.

All of a sudden, you’re no longer on your Louis XVII lounge chair. You’re on the university sports field, wind ruffling the grass into waves, everything tinted with the sepia of memory.

Haechan is across from you, in one of those baggy tie dye T-shirts he always wore, his scruffy hair long at the back in the precise way your parents hated. He’s holding your hand, and asking if maybe, possibly, you might want to go out for a drink with him? In that moment you would have exchanged your sensible engagement ring for the chance to say yes, you would have-

Your heart leaps at the sound of knocking on the door. Not just any knock, but a rhythmic beat, the one that is etched onto your heart: de-dum, de-dum, de-dum. The decade since college vanishes as if it never happened.

Your wineglass tumbles onto the sofa, spreading a deep red stain. You don’t notice – you’re too busy tripping into the hallway. You yank open the door, and reveal-

Haechan.

A sharp jaw has replaced the soft cheeks of your memory, and his shaggy hair is clipped military-short, but it’s him. Haechan pushes inside, shaking water over your precious, ridiculous possessions.

His aching cinnamon eyes pierce into you, and your pretences collapse like a house of cards.

Haechan holds your hand again, and your skin is dripping and burning all at once. “I should never have walked away that day in the quad- I- I should never have let you go.” He says.

The long dormant embers in your chest leap into flame.

As Haechan continues, telling you about his two divorces, the letters he never sent, you’re frozen, because you’ve spotted the man nearing behind him.

“Y/n. I- I have a confession.” Haechan steps towards you, and every inch of your skin crackles and bursts with his closeness. “I- I have to say something I never had the courage to.”

Haechan pulls your hand into his, and the look he gives you is so wild, so aching that it breaks your heart. “I…I love you. I fell helplessly in love with you in college, and I’ve not stopped loving you since.”

Your heart soars into the air, then is pounded down on a rock. Jaemin’s stone-cold face comes into focus behind Haechan.  

The rain cries down your cheeks, seeping inside your skin and snuffing out the flames. Your soul is sodden ashes. Because you know what you are going to say to Haechan.

With Jaemin, life is comfortable. He’s never been out of a job, not for one day. Jaemin might not be Romeo, but he cares for you, in his own garbling, dependable way. Sure, his touch doesn’t set your skin alight, but how important is that really?

“Life is like a game of cards,” your mother used to say. “When you’re winning, you don’t dare take risks. You tap out with the money and spend it on an umbrella.”

With Jaemin and his dependability, you know you’re winning. Risking it all for old fantasies is pointless. Dreaming about Haechan is pointless.

Just as Jaemin clamps his hand on Haechan’s shoulder, you mumble, “I’m sorry Haechan. I can’t… My place is here, with Jaemin.”

Haechan’s smile streams off his face and forms a small puddle at his feet.

Taking Jaemin’s rough hand, you step back into the house.

You shut the weeping door, and Jaemin’s hand slips out of your limp fingers. Through that tiny glass square, you can see Haechan’s face, a glowing smudge in the night.

The rain batters desperately at the window, pounding its fists, screaming to be let in. But that blurry smudge does not move. And neither do you.

After the longest second of your life, you turn away, smothering a sob in the back of your hand.

Dreaming is pointless.

#haechan #lee donghyuck #nct dream #nct dream imagines #nct dream angst #haechan angst #haechan fluff #haechan imagines #nct #nct fluff #nct angst #nct smut #nct dream smut #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct dream fanfiction #nct fanfiction #nct fanfic #nct 127 #lee haechan

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Omertà👄8

Warnings: noncon sexual acts; tags to be added throughout series

This is dark!Bucky and dark! Loki and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your father was a bookie and taught you everything you know about numbers. After his death, you were taken on as a bookkeeper for Loki Laufeyson, resident crime boss in Manhattan. But can you keep your place in the background when a man from Brooklyn threatens to drag you to the forefront?

Note: Okay, a little more of plot chapter which I know y’all are reading for a little less than plot, hehe, but enjoy!

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

It was an odd sensation. Being numb and yet entirely worn. You could feel nothing and everything at the same time. Loki was in and out of the office, your little cell behind the antique shop. 

You stared at the numbers but couldn’t read them. Your mouth tasted of bile. Your thoughts were a blur of the previous night and that morning. The humiliation seared deep inside of you.

Loki didn’t return as the clock ticked. You checked your phone time and time again. No messages, no change. You’d usually be gone by then but you lingered. You were too afraid to leave, nervous to rile the man. He had shown the depths of his depravity and you had no urge to push them lower.

When the door did finally budge, you were further frazzled by the figure who greeted you. Thor strutted in, the door ajar behind him as he neared your desk. You did your best not to cower. It was best not to encourage this man; best not to show him how terrifying he truly was. To him, that was permission.

“Well,” He tapped two fingers on your desk. “My brother has sent me to fetch you.”

“Fetch me?” You frowned and rolled your pencil across the ledger. “Where is he?”

He smirked and grabbed the pencil from beneath your fingertips. He tossed it away and closed the ledger, nearly crushed your hand as he did. He pushed the book towards you and you caught it before it could topple in your lap.

“He said to bring your numbers,” Thor smirked. “And that if you insist on wasting his time, he would be inclined to remind you of your place…” His blue eyes flitted down to your turtleneck and focused on the fabric stretched across your chest. “Again.”

You stood almost immediately, embarrassed that you were so quick to dissemble. You bent and retrieved your purse from beneath the desk and slid your phone off the desk along with the ledger. You held it to your chest and nodded at the muscular lump.

“Well,” You said sharply and swallowed your nerves. “I would be inclined to let him know if it were you wasting his time.”

“Oh ho,” He grabbed your arm and dragged you around the desk. “You are a sharp one.” He loomed over you. “I see why he would rather that mouth for better uses.”

“Get off of me,” You smacked his chest and he chuckled at what was little more than a poke to him. “I know Loki enough to know he is not one for sharing. That he made very clear, didn’t he?”

Thor squinted and you saw the flicker in his eyes, followed by resignation. He turned and hauled you through the open door, your heels scratching against the aged hardwood.

“Perhaps when he tires of you, he won’t be so selfish,” Thor snarled. “Girls like you…”

“Men like you,” You snapped as you ignored Lopez’ gaze, “All the same. Just as stupid as the next one.”

He spun you so that your back hit the shop door and he closed in on you in an instant. He grabbed your throat and pinned you to the glass. Lopez looked away and pretended to be busy with his closing duties.

“He wouldn’t mind a black-eye so much,” Thor growled. “He doesn’t need to look at your face, does he? Not when--”

“Ugh, stop,” You squirmed in his grasp. “I’ll… be quiet.”

He hesitated and let you go. He checked his watch and sighed.

“If I hadn’t already wasted so much time,” He mulled. “Come on, then.”

You turned and opened the door. He followed with a tap on your ass and pulled the door closed behind him with a jingle. He directed you down the sidewalk to the garish sports car with butterfly doors and ordered you inside. Say what you would of Loki, his simplicity was almost admirable compared to others of his ilk.

The ride was silent as you picked at the corner of the ledger and wondered, rather dreaded, what was in store for you. You were surprised, however, as Thor drew up before Diablo’s underground den. You glanced at the shadowed stairway which led down to the slatted door and back at your escort.

“What--”

He gave you a pointed look as he got out and shook his head. You struggled with the door and he came around to open it for you. As you stepped out, he seized you by the arm again and ushered you across the street, paying little heed to the cars that blared their horns at him. 

You stumbled down the stairs beside him, nearly toppling over as you were crammed in the tight space beside him. He stopped at the bottom and thumped once. The door shook against his strength and the slat opened almost immediately as rounded eyes peered out. 

The doorman barely righted himself and uttered the code word. Thor yawned his response and the door was quickly pulled back on its hinges. You were shoved through first and another man stood further along the corridor. He pushed himself away from the wall and glanced at Thor who nudge you forward.

You followed the second man and Thor growled beside you. You entered the party room, barren but for a few suited men playing at cards are fiddling with pistols. You crossed to the red door hidden around the corner where Diablo did his business and another knock was placed on its face. 

The man opened the door and beckoned you through. Thor remained without as you entered and the red door shut behind you. Loki sat in a leather chair as Diablo reclined on a matching chaise in an embroidered robe. His silver-lined hair shone in the light of glass-shaded lamps as he chewed on an unlit cigar and Loki held a snifter of scotch.

“Ah, finally,” Loki mused as he snapped his fingers at you. He pointed to a stiff back chair just a few feet from his own. 

You nodded and took the seat without question. Loki’s gaze lingered on you and his lips slanted. You knew what he was thinking of; the very thing you were trying not to think of. He returned his attention to the other man and rubbed his chin.

Diablo took the cigar from his mouth, twirled it, then inhaled its scent. He sat up and tucked it in the chest pocket of his robe. He reached to a small notebook on the low glass table between him and Loki. He tossed it into your lap and you barely caught it with the ledger resting there.

“All the info is in there, I’m certain the bookie’s daughter can figure it out,” Diablo huffed. 

Confused, you resisted the urge to peek inside the book.

“Surely she will have it looked over before we come to our final terms,” Loki waved his fingers at you. “It might take some time so I think another scotch might be in order.”

“Well, if you don’t mind,” Diablo stood and gripped his lower back. “I actually have a prior engagement for the next, oh, I don’t know, hour.” He grinned and stretched his arms. “Doesn’t take as long as it used to.” He winked a Loki who gave a slight twitch of his lips. “You have my office for the duration to look it over. I expect a decision tonight. This offer will not be repeated.”

“Of course,” Loki stood as Diablo did. “She is efficient enough.”

“Let’s hope,” Diablo narrowed his eyes at you before he headed for the door. “For both our sakes.”

He left through the red door and you looked to Loki with a confused grimace. He chuckled and searched around for the decanter of scotch and refilled his glass. He took another and doffed it towards you. You shook your head.

“Care to explain what this is?” You opened the notebook and glossed over the margins of numbers.

“A new business venture,” Loki sipped between words. “You know, I figured I’d move on from this whole Barnes debacle. A draw is better than a loss, I suppose.”

“Mhmm,” You continued to flip through the pages. “Buying a bounty is one thing, but Diablo… he likes to hide his true colours by calling my father a shill but my father only ever dealt with men like him. Men he could read.”

“Oh, but the bounty did prove to be ever so profitable,” Loki came up and gasped the back of your chair just beside your head. “You just look this over like a good little mouse.”

You stopped and let the book splay open on your lap. You looked up at him in disbelief.

“It’s a fucking casino,” You sputtered. “Are you crazy?”

“Half, well, forty-nine percent,” He said. “Diablo would retain the majority.”

“Oh, forty-nine percent of any loss is better than fifty,” You rolled your eyes. “So you would rather trade in a comfortable stability for a foolish gamble? You know, casinos rarely draw in as much money as they would suggest.”

“Atlantic city is approaching another renaissance and it’s much closer than Vegas,” Loki moved behind you and ran his fingers over your hair. “Now, you will look at those numbers and tell me what I am looking at.” He stepped around the chair entirely and strode along the leather chaise. “Forget your history books and give me the figures.”

You shook your head and lifted the notebook as you opened the ledger beneath. You flipped back to the first page and sighed. It didn’t matter how the numbers looked at that moment, a casino rarely held a pattern and never kept a promise. He should have known this or at least his natural caution should have girded him against it. Running drugs was easy enough, maintaining a gambling house was a recipe for disaster.

As you kept on, making notes of revenue you could draw from to augment possible losses and tracking those already in the books, you grew further agitated. Despite your focus, you couldn’t ignore Loki. He’d sit then stand again, get close, touch your shoulder or your back, let out a long breath as he stood over you.

When at last you’d done as much as you could, you sat straight and your back sang. Your neck was still tender from Bucky’s love bites and your muscles ached worse than before. You tried not to think of him as you closed both books and set them on the low table.

“What I can say now is that yes, there is potential in the casino, but is it worth bartering everything you have?” You said carefully. “That is a gamble on its own and the irony of that isn’t amusing enough for me to advise you to take this deal.”

Loki arched a brow and set down his empty glass.

“A likely loss?” He wondered.

“Possible loss,” You said. “And you’re right, there is a boom nearing but booms are always followed by crashes. If you were to take this deal, I would suggest you not see it as a permanent asset. Do what you can on the upswing but bail before the decline.”

“Mmm,” He pushed his bottom lip under his teeth and thought. “What is this potential?”

“Potential profit; millions.” You said evenly. “Potential loss; even more than that.”

“Ahh,” He sat and rubbed his knees. “But considering our already split income and this issue with docks, I would need some additional revenue soon.”

“True enough, and there are opportunities outside of Atlantic City,” You advised. “Hell, I would suggest the tracks before I sent you to the tables.”

“Tracks are small time,” Loki sneered. “How far did your father make it, eh?”

“He was… consistent,” You shrugged. “You asked for the numbers and my advice, and I’ve given you those. Either way, you risk a loss, even if it is only half… sorry, less than half.”

He traced a fingertip along his cheek and his face tensed as he thought.

“Thor has offered half of the buy-in,” Loki intoned. “He has a few casinos in London. He has made the best of them.”

“So you would own half of half?” You asked.

“A loan,” Loki insisted. “He is my brother and I have helped him before. As I see it, it is family business.”

“And he has consented to this loan?”

“My brother loves London,” Loki explained. “He will soon tire of being in New York because he is not the big boss. When my father handed over the business, Thor thought he won. He thought London was jewel in the crown, and I think, deep down, he knew he could never make it in New York.”

“It is your money, your business,” You said. “I just run the numbers.”

“Oh, darling,” His face softened and he grinned. “You will be doing much more than that. Atlantic City will be full of opportunities.”

You looked down and took a deep breath. You were embarrassed and angry but this was not the place. Not the time.

“Away from that jackass,” Loki stood and hooked a thumb through his belt. He reached to press two fingers beneath your chin and lifted your head. “We will have all the time in the world to rebuild the trust you broke.”

#loki #Bucky Barnes #dark loki #dark bucky barnes #dark!loki #dark!bucky barnes #loki x reader #bucky barnes x reader #dark loki x reader #dark bucky barnes x reader #dark!loki x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #omertà #mob au #mob!au #mafia au #mafia!au #mcu #marvel

[whirlybirbs]

𝒜.𝑀.   ;   rattlesnake whispers.   |    a high-society drabble

summary: you’re beginning to distrust dutch van der linde.

pairing: arthur morgan/reader (turner placeholder lastname), hosea + reader friendship-centric in this drabble.

a/n: things weren’t gonna be peachy forever. part of a companion piece to simpler said aloud. this is a drabble for the collection high-society, which follows the events of that fic.

In the last handful of weeks, you can't help but feel as if someone has suddenly plucked the pair of rose-colored glasses — ones you weren't aware you were even wearing — from your nose.

...Concerning the one Dutch van der Linde, specifically so.

In the beginning, when you'd been swept from that stagecoach on that hot summer day — when you'd eventually ended up marooned by your own family, left with nothing but a trunk of old belongings and a growing sense of alienation... Well, Dutch had been nothing but kind. Fatherly, even, and you'd found yourself admiring that gang's head of household.

After all, he and his boys had dragged you — quite literally — into this mess; Dutch would see to it that his well-manicured and grandiose reputation as the good (not the bad, nor the ugly) would ring true.

He fed you, sheltered you, even let you dig your roots in when that ransom money never came, and when it felt, at times, you brought more trouble to them than good.

There were times when the sheep's clothing slipped, however; when he showed his teeth and spun silver-tongued threats veiled in well-to-do manners. There were times when Dutch van der Linde's voice was gilded with promise, yet all you heard was greed. You knew that sound well. You were practically weaned on it.

Oily and greasy and slippery.

High Society and the like.

You dared not say a word of these thoughts — though, you could sense the shift in the air when you'd all been forced to Clemens Point many weeks ago. Between him and Hosea, a canyon had been driven. The divide seemed to shake Arthur.

At the time, you didn't know any better.

Now... Well, you know the exasperated wince that flickers onto Arthur's face when Dutch raises his voice beyond the tents, down by the lake — insisting a stagecoach robbery would do the boys some good.

To get out there! Get some cash... and soon! California...

You know the gentle squeeze of his hand on your shoulder; the passing mutter of a promise he'll be back soon... All the intricacies of Arthur Morgan sewn uptight with irritation and hesitation. He rides off with Charles and Bill, blue eyes cast back your way. The errand boy once more.

You fiddle with the dog-eared page of the book in your hands.

You've read over the same paragraph a hundred and one times by now.

Hosea notices.

"You're fussing."

Your lashes flutter.

Hosea is smirking — he turns his attention back to his newspaper and if you knew any better, you'd think he was simply trying to quiet the vicious paranoia beginning to unravel itself in your brain.

"I suppose I am."

Hosea's brows furrow at the quiet admission; he looks back up at you with a mild sense of surprise.

You're a smart girl — very smart. So smart, in fact, that Hosea is continuously wondering how on Earth Arthur keeps up. You've got a sharp sort of wit that could cut a man down in two strokes. To hear you go quiet at a playful jab... Hosea decides, in that moment, he will follow up when there are not so many souls around.

"You an' our dim-witted golden boy, then?"

You note the change in subject with a sigh of appreciation.

Your book snaps closed and falls to the table; you cross your legs, sunshine colored gingham skirt swaying in the afternoon breeze. Hosea managed another wry smirk in your direction as you shake your head and laugh.

"He isn't dim-witted —"

"Says you," Hosea mumbles, "I taught the oaf how to read..."

"Last week?" you chirp, voice alight with amusement, "Late bloomer, he is."

Hosea barks out a laugh. He folds his paper up. "Is it serious, then?"

You waver. "I certainly m'not lookin' t' play his heartstrings like a harp, if that's what you're wonderin', Hosea."

A hum.

"Good," he knocks his knuckles on the wood of the table before him, "You two are a smart pair. He's... had his heart broken before, poor sod, but... He's good. Strong. Has a lot t' give to th' right person."

You fiddle with your fingers, a light smile playing upon your lips. "He's far too hard on himself."

"Always has been," Hosea sighs as he leans back in his chair, "When he was younger..."

The words die off like Hosea remembers something with an immeasurable fondness. The twinkle in his eyes finds the afternoon clouds, and you exhale softly through your nose.

"He's a good man," Hosea says finally, "Robbin' an' killin' aside. Given th' chance, I know he'd a' been more in this life. Just th' way things worked out, s'all."

"Isn't that how it is for all of us?" you earnestly, "If things were different..."

"If things were different," Hosea continues, gently and with a warm sort of fatherly care, "Would you still be here?"

"How y' mean?"

"If that daddy a' yours had paid the ransom," the seasoned con-man explains, "Would you still be here?"

Would you have left? Broken Arthur Morgan's heart once more?

You pause. The paranoia that sits on your tongue tells you to think quick but — this is Hosea. Blind faith and undying loyalty matter little to him. You know that. Hosea is not Dutch van der Linde. You wonder, bitterly, if that will be his downfall.

He cares about his son. You know those intentions sit deep in his words.

You fiddle with the hem of your linen shirt, rolling the sleeves as you weigh your answer.

"I knew I cared for Arthur back when we were camping at Horseshoe Overlook," comes the timid confession, "He... He went and bought me this beautiful gold fountain pen, and..."

Your brows furrow and you look as if you might bleat out a laugh.

Hosea smiles. "I remember."

"I acted like it was nothin'. Both of us did... but, I think we both knew we didn't nearly hate each other as much as we went on about," you sigh with a little laugh, weaving your fingers together and leaning forward onto the table, "And, Christ... You and Dutch and Miss Grimshaw and... I'd never met people so quick to take me in. Had that money ever come... I wouldn't have wanted t' leave. But, debts owed are a dangerous thing."

Hosea is quiet for a moment.

"You know," Hosea lowers his voice, "Leaving, sometimes, isn't a bad thing."

He then sees that flicker of emotion from earlier — the very one you'd been fussing over — and he knows you get his meaning. Your eyes dart to the tent of the man in question... But, before you can open your mouth to press on about it, the roar of the very one you'd come to stiffen around flashes his teeth and rounds his tent.

"My, my!" Dutch calls, "Look at you two hens, gossiping the day away."

Hosea sees the flash of anger on your face. Only for a moment. Well-timed and well-bided. Gone as quickly as it came.

You turn in your seat, smile as bright as the morning sun.

The con-man wonders how many years of practice that took.

"Hello, Dutch," you call with such sincerity, Hosea nearly wonders if he'd misread your previous worries, "How are you?"

"Just peachy, my girl," he swaggers forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his vest, "And what, may I ask, had you both so deeply engrossed in conversation?"

"Our bumbling idiot son," Hosea supplies, waving his hands as he drops the paper down, "and his good-nature."

"Ah, yes, Arthur."

You'd wished Dutch would just move on. Slither to whisper in snake-tongue to his rattlesnake brethren, Micah, across the camp.

But, no.

Down he settles into the empty seat across from you. Dark eyes try to pin you in your seat — but you don't allow it. You're quick. Wretchedly smart. You lean forward and drape your chin into your palm, attention fully rendered on the gang's leader.

How Hosea ever thought you to be some pure, little lamb... He knows better know. Better than Dutch, it seems.

He supposes that's what High Society does to women like you. Anger and hatred and all those very human emotions... You learn to disguise them beneath facades of couth manners and passive smiles.

"You say that as if y' have an amendment you'd like t' make, Dutch."

There's a beat of silence that washes over Dutch at the polite challenge to speak his mind — and at first, the dark-haired man can only muster a bark of a laugh and slip his eyes to Hosea. He hadn't expected that. You'd caught him off-beat.

Dutch then wets his lips and reaches to palm his pockets for a cigar.

The gears are turning as he reaches for a match.

"Well," he begins, striking it on the table with a flick, "I s'pose our blockheaded enforcer is a romantic, is all."

Hosea feels as if he's watching something he should stop.

"And do y' have quarrels with romantics?" you ask with a well-manicured kindness. Hosea wonders if Dutch even questions it, or if he's got his head so far up his ass he can't even hear you, "I, well... I always thought yourself a romantic, Mr. van der Linde."

"An idealist, Miss Turner," comes the puff of cigar smoke, making his gaze look hollow and lifeless, "I am an idealist — our dear boy Arthur, however, is not. He lets... fantasy cloud his better judgment."

"Does an idealist not drown himself in ideals," you tut easily with a smile sweet like honey, "As a romantic does in fantasy?"

Dutch's words falter for a moment.

You fill the silence.

"A well-spun argument, I must say, but semantics all-the-same," you wave off the idea that your words could be construed as anything less than polite as Dutch narrows his gaze, "Wouldn't you say so, Hosea?"

"I s'pose so," comes the hesitant affirmation, "When it's put like that."

Another beat of silence.

"Perhaps you misunderstand me," Dutch laughs loudly, clapping his palm on the table — and you watch as the silver tongue spins his web up and around, as he always does when caught in the mouth of the truth, "Arthur is... well, he loses himself in romance. Very different."

Very different, indeed.

Loses faith. Clears his head. Realizes you're goin' batshit, Dutch.

You hum, leaning back and tilting your head.

Hosea clears his throat.

"Speaking of," Hosea tries to redirect, "Where did they head off to?"

Your eyes never break from Dutch's stare.

It's he who looks away in the end.

"Micah heard whispers of a stagecoach passin' through the Bayou. Some real estate brokers, lookin' to reinstate foreclosed land. Could be some papers we could work on sellin'."

"Whispers."

Not a question. But it's laced with doubt. You're playing a dangerous game.

Hosea's eyes bounce to Dutch. "We dealin' in whispers, now, Dutch?"

Irritation bubbles in his voice when he speaks. He takes a long puff of his cigar. "An' just then, were you not th' one chastizing me on my semantics, Miss Turner?"

Yet, despite the tipping point of rage indicated in Dutch's voice?

You smile and laugh and shake your head. "All in good fun, Dutch. I caught your meaning."

It snuffs out the fire. Where there is no means to justify it... Dutch knows anger that's seen as undeserved will draw sides.

Smart.

"Good fun, indeed, Miss Turner," he says as he stands, "Hosea."

"Dutch."

Those rose-colored glasses are gone.

Hosea's were lost long ago.

Now, the two of you share a long look sans the hue.

#simpler said aloud #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #this is mostly PLOT device #bc things r gonna pick up for a bit

[griimreaping]

@alreadybrcken​  ━━━━━   plotted

Cigar   smoke   hangs   in   a   haze   over   the   shadowed   patrons   of   the   speakeasy.   Black   suits   with   silver   cufflinks   and   dresses   with   sequins   catch   the   low   lights   as   waitresses   move   through   the   dim   space.   On   the   small   stage   raised   above   the   floor,   a   piano   fills   the   room   with   the   soft   phrases   that   might   have   been   Waller   or   Tatum.   Jean   never   had   been   one   to   pay   too   much   attention   to   which   music   filled   the   spaces   between   conversations,   though   tonight   is   slower   than   most.   Rain   pecking   off   the   shuttered   windows   hinting   at   the   late   autumn   storm   rolling   through   the   city.   She'd   been   working   business   deals   with   one   of   the   establishments   in   lower   Boston   that   had   been   a   bit   behind   on   their   payments   for   the   better   part   of   two   hours.   

Tapping   the   ash   off   her   cigarette   as   the   men   depart   her   booth,   the   blonde   scans   the   room   picking   out   her   people   from   those   that   call   this   place   their   regular   haunt.   Decidedly   a   few   less   than   a   moment   ago,   given   how   spectacularly   these   talks   went,   but   it   meant   that   balances   would   be   squared   away.   Jean   had   never   been   one   to   shy   away   from   knocking   a   few   teeth   loose   to   get   her   point   across,   which   also   meant   that   her   regime   was   one   that   most   people   knew   better   than   to   cross.   If   Maxamillion   could   see   her   now,   Jean   thinks   bitterly,   leaning   back   into   the   warm   leather   embrace   of   the   booth.   Exhaling   the   last   sigh   of   smoke   before   snuffing   the   cigarette   butt   into   an   ashtray   in   the   center   of   the   table,   Jean's   ears   catch   a   slight   raise   of   voices   from   behind.   

She   wouldn't   have   paid   any   attention   if   it   isn't   for   the   fact   that   Jean's   almost   certain   that   the   name   Shelby   passed   the   younger   man's   lips.   It   had   become   habit   over   the   last   decade,   but   at   that   moment,   Jean   realizes   that   she   worries   the   ring   on   her   right   hand   with   the   pad   of   her   thumb.   Several   thoughts   reveal   themselves   simultaneously,   one   being   that   many   had   the   name   Shelby   and   it   isn't   exclusive   to   anyone.   No   matter   how   it   made,   her   ribs   ache.   The   second   being   that   not   too   many   Shelbys   were   in   the   business   of   chopping   the   head   off   the   local   hydra   Changratta.   Though   how   many   mourning   years   did   Jean   give   herself   at   this   point,   taking   the   blow   that   Tommy   hadn't   come   back   from   the   war.   

Still   adjusting   the   ring   on   her   hand   with   the   reeling   thoughts   that   rush   through   her   mind   stumbling   over   one   another,   Jean   stands   from   the   booth   and   interrupts   the   conversing   pair   behind.   As   fortune   would   have   it,   they   were   her   people   that   were   gossiping   like   a   pair   of   fishwives.   It   didn't   take   too   many   questions   for   the   woman   to   find   out   that   the   Shelby's   were   operating   out   of   an   establishment   on   Boston's   docks.   A   rather   lovely   setup   as   a   customs   and   imports   booker   for   ships   coming   through   their   particular   channels,   more   than   a   thousand   different   illegal   exports   shuffle   through   Jean's   mind.   She'd   even   had   her   own   offices   with   much   the   same   fronts   along   New   York's   expansive   docking   districts.   Perhaps   there   would   be   a   reason   to   go   and   visit   her   investments   in   Boston   after   all.   

Typical   security   that   didn't   show   teeth   after   Jean   made   it   clear   she   isn't   asking   to   see   Ada;   she   was   telling   them   to   take   her   to   the   woman.   It's   a   cozy   office   that   they   have   set   up   here,   the   vague   smell   of   orange   floor   polish   and   stamping   ink   lining   the   hallways.   However,   there   is   this   looming   sense   that   Jean   is   watching   it   all   from   over   her   shoulder.   A   type   of   tingling   nervousness   that   makes   her   skin   feel   like   it   has   an   electric   current   running   through   it.   Ada   hasn't   seen   Jean   in   over   a   decade   now,   and   there's   the   real   possibility   that   this   is   run   by   one   of   the   other   brothers.   They'd   all   had   their   proclivities   toward   the   grey   side   of   legality   when   it   came   to   bringing   in   money   for   the   family.   Her   office   door   had   a   large   window   on   it,   allowing   Jean   to   see   the   full   breadth   of   shock   on   the   younger   Shelby's   face   before   she's   up   and   out   of   the   chair.   

It   takes   one   question   amid   the   back   and   forth   on   what   has   been   happening   over   the   past   years   to   bring   Jean   to   her   current   state—fraying   the   edge   of   a   memo   from   the   desk   of   Ada   Shelby   with   a   phone   number   scrawled   on   it.   All   that   she   asked   was   how   Tommy   has   been   doing,   a   test   of   the   waters   that   gave   her   this   number   in   return,   along   with   a   slight   smile   when   she'd   told   Jean   to   ask   him   herself.   

—   and   she's   quickly   finding   that   she   might   not   have   the   nerve   to   call.   Shouldering   one   another   out   of   the   way,   anxieties   in   the   woman's   mind   first   work   over   the   fact   that   he   may   not   even   pick   up,   choosing   instead   to   worry   about   the   possibility   that   he   would,   in   fact,   answer   the   phone.   Heart   stuck   hammering   somewhere   in   her   throat   Jean   glares   at   the   suddenly   malevolent   form   of   the   phone   sitting   on   her   desk   amongst   the   neat   stacks   of   papers.   Shivering   before   huffing   out   a   curse,   the   woman   steps   forward   to   snatch   the   receiver   off   its   cradle,   mentally   scolding   for   acting   like   a   child.   Dialing   the   number   wrong   twice   before   getting   it   correct   on   the   third   attempt,   she   leans   a   hip   against   the   cherry   wood   desk,   counting   the   rings.

Did   long   distance   calls   have   more   rings?   She   hasn't   made   a   call   back   to   the   UK   in   four   or   five   years   since   she's   spoken   to   Vedic,   who   still   kept   the   Masters'   estate   together.   Mouth   going   dry   as   the   receiver   switches   to   her   other   hand,   which   is   just   as   clammy   as   the   other   Jean   glances   down   at   the   phone   housing   fighting   the   tingle   in   her   fingers   to   hang   it   up   before   anyone   answers.   Just   as   she   moves   to   hang   up,   a   voice   picks   up,   and   a   heartbeat   of   silence   drags   between   them.   Blinking   into   the   dim   lamplight   of   her   office   Jean   swallows   thickly   before   replying   in   turn.

❛   Yes,   hello   I'm   ah—   Is   Thomas   Shelby   available?   His   sister   Ada   gave   me   this   number.   ❛      That   felt   stupid   to   say   Jean's   mind   immediately   jabs   at   her,   and   the   woman   folds   her   free   arm   across   her   torso.

#‘ﾟthread » JEAN MASTERS — ❝ my body’s already cold ! ❝ #verse﹕MAIN ► it all runs red in the ﾟ* END #ﾟships » ALREADYBRCKEN — ❝ hello my old heart are you still there inside my chest ! ❝ #had to cut for length since uh it's over 1`k words >> #alreadybrcken #i'm so excited for this dude you have NO CLUUUUUUUUUE

[star-birthmark]

Dear Mother: Melone x Reader

To the anon that requested a “letter thingy”, something similar to my “Oh Brother” Risotto piece, here we are. This one hurt to write, and I might have poured too much of myself into it, but isn’t that where true angst lies? Anyway, here’s a flowery Melone piece

It was a hot summer night, spent lazily in your and Melone’s study, reading and discussing recent scientific studies. Late into the evening, he suddenly sat stiff in his seat, his mouth closed into a thin line, his gaze vacant. Asking twice for his attention, the heterochromatic eyes flicker over to meet yours, a newly discovered exhaustion within them. Not long after, Melone left the room to go to bed while you remained there, sitting at the desk. A piece of dirtied stationary wedged in one of the books caught your attention, seeing an old letter in Melone’s hand writing. Underneath remained an old document, detailing Melone’s acceptance to Sapienza University, dated 1996. Your curiosity peaked, your mind flashing to the lifeless expression he had given you only an hour before, you draw your focus to the words of the handwritten note. The dirtied letter read as follows. 

“Dear Mother, The first time I ever held an encyclopedia, I felt the world melt itself into the palms of my hands. Grandpa had given it to me. It was the day before my fourth birthday, the day he and I sat on our back porch and he asked me if I could have one wish, what would I wish for. With ill-thought-out eagerness, I told him I wanted to know everything. 

And he laughed at me, mother, with his big, hearty, toothy laugh that only arrives to a man after he’s circled the world a few times. Fortunately for him, his world was small. It was a street corner where’s he’d buy fresh produce and gossip with a friend. It was playing cards with other veterans. It was solving problems with his hands and yelling at my uncle to get off the couch. It was smoking cigars to hasten his terminally ill end.

So when his toothy grin hid behind his aged lips, and when his heavy chest had stopped heaving from his cackles, and after I’d tackled him onto the grass and wrestled him like David had wrestled Goliath, I asked him carelessly what he would wish for. He stared into my eyes and told me he wanted to see Nonna again. The very next day, he gave me the encyclopedia, a 1966 edition, ripped at the corners, darkened with stains, more paralyzed from old age than he was. And he told me that was as much everything as he could go his hands on. A week later, he left us and went home to Nonna.

Oh mother, how does it feel? You’ve spent your whole life telling me that my everything must be less than other people’s. You’ve turned our peaceful cottage into a desolate breeding ground for sin. You’ve stared down at your husband’s grave, having invited your lovers to the funeral. You’ve burned your father’s clothes in a bonfire in our backyard, and whenever I would fall silent, you would pull on my hair so hard, a cry would escape my lungs and enter your ears and you would tell me that you wished I hadn’t ruined you. 

I can write with both my hands. I can hold my breath underwater for 10 minutes without getting light headed. I can solve a Reimann Sum in a minute and a half. I can speak in Italian, English, French, Spanish, Greek and Latin. I can recite off the top of my head the first 35 base pairs encoding for the receptor gene that it’s corruption caused Grandpa to die. It goes ATTATGCCATGACTAGACTTACCCATTGGATCGGA-see! You laughed at my attempt to impress you with my knowledge, your laugh shrill and mocking.

I killed one of your lovers in cold blood the night after my eighteenth birthday, and it was the first time you ever took me seriously. 

Oh mother, how dare you think so little of me?! How dare you choose to stay blind during those nights that I called out to you for help?! How dare you choose to stay blind when all of your men lavished you in affection while they beat me to a pulp?! How dare you lay on your back, deeply rooted into your silk bed sheets, complacent to them while they desecrated my home?! You were the only thing holding me back from learning everything, mother. You’re the only one who regulated me to a simple life devoid of advanced thought, devoid of love. You don’t deserve the inherent nurturing connotation of your title. The woman I love, our baby has not yet breathed one breath on this Earth and she has already become a better mother than you. I see the way she smiles as her stomach jolts with every kick of our child, and I learn, for the first time since Grandpa died, what real love is. When I hold her in my hands, when I learn of her flaws and creases and desires, I feel as if I know her like an encyclopedia. I feel as if I finally know everything. 

I ask you now, how can she so easily accept me as a killer, when you didn’t want me when I still embraced life? Sincerely, your Son.” 

You slowly set the letter down, rushing out of your chair, your breath shuddering weakly from the your tears spilled. You made up your way up the stairs to your bedroom, your head pounding with exhaustion, your lungs aching for you to slow down. Finally you stopped in the doorway to your bedroom, seeing Melone’s back facing towards you, his head in his hands, his shoulders hung low. In the pungent silence of the room, you heard your lover’s small whimpers and sniffles. Drawing closer, you stepped in front of him, calmly taking his head on your hands instead of his, and forcing him to look up at you. The two of you took each other in, neither remember how to speak for a brief moment. 

His eyes shown brightly from the light of the bedside lamp, their contrasting colors reminding you of the first time you ever saw them, when Melone first made his way to you with an arrogant confidence that you saw through easily. You had allowed him to buy you a drink, only on the condition that he act like his true self, and you’d been in love with him ever since. 

Finally, you broke the silence, leaning in close to his ear and whispered, “I want to know everything too.” Eyes wide after having realized what you’d read from his desk, Melone finally broke down the last of his walls around you and nestled into your chest, his gaze flooding once more as he couldn’t hold back any longer. 

Turning to look up you once more, Melone whispered to you, trembling, “I never want to see her again.” You laid him down on the bed, resting yourself next to him and holding him in your arms, reassuring that he never would as long as you were around.

With such a thought in his mind, Melone was finally able to fall asleep. The next morning, he set off to go kill a man, pulling him one tally farther from his goal of saving life, not ending it.

#JJBA #late night fic #melone #part 5 #golden wind #i hope this makes sense #it's really late rn #la squadra #letter piece #jjba writing #jjba fic #jojo

[pathetic-has-been-rockstar]

A different order

Pairing: none

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo​

Square filled: Christmas photshoot

Warnings: none

Summary:   The festive atmosphere is finally making its way in the bunker. Sam decides to involve everyone in an unsual Christmas photoshoot, and to leave a tangible mark in the Men of Letters bunker. Ugly Christmas sweaters, brandy glasses and a new softness will lead Dean to a new way to look at his family, while waiting for you to get at the bunker.

Words: 2659

Beta: @raspberrymama​

A/N: my work can be found on AO3, here! If you’re interested in the whole series, you just have to click here!

Sam walks into the kitchen, bringing a box along with him. He sets it on the table, and Jack immediately goes to check its content. Castiel contents himself with a strange look. When Dean turns around, wearing an apron and in the middle of cooking pancakes for all, he points at the box with the spatula he's holding.

“No. Take that thing off the table, Sammy. Breakfast first, research later.”

“It's not research, actually. I was looking for... Christmas decorations and things like that, and look what I've found”.

“Pictures!” Jack, as usual, looks thrilled for a second, before looking at Sam with a confused expression. “Wait. The bunker is filled with pictures. Why are these important?”

Sam smiles and points at the frame in Jack's hand. “Look closely. These are Christmas pictures. I was thinking that maybe, since it's the first time we celebrate properly... we might continue the tradition?”

Dean thinks about it for a moment, then scoffs lightly, more touched than what he lets on. He's well aware that Sam has been keeping up with him and the hunting life, and that he kissed goodbye the idea of a normal life to stick with him... but this doesn't mean he was okay with it. The idea of being part of something, the whole “legacy” thing obviously means something to him. To belong somewhere, for people like them, is a luxury and a privilege beyond their wildest dreams. If a stupid photoshoot is what his little brother wants, a stupid photoshoot is what he's going to get. Naturally, this doesn't mean he's going to get it easily.

“I don't know, Sam... do you really want to be up a wall with Cuthberth Sinclair's pals?”

“That's the whole point, man. We might leave proof of what we did.” Sam's smile could light up the room, right now. Castiel looks at him, curious.

“... meaning what?”

“Come on. Can you imagine? A... a Man of Letters picture with an angel, a nephilim, and four hunters?”

“... you want to flip them a proper bird, huh?”

Sam is practically beaming while he nods. “Why, don't you?”

The consensus about the idea of Sam seems to be unanimous, until Dean does a quick headcount. “... wait, four hunters?”

“Yeah, I... I invited Eileen. Did you hear from Y/N?”

“Yep, she should be here tonight. I'll call her later. Eileen? Is she okay with spending your first Christmas with us?”

Sam gives Dean a little, awkward smile, and fishes a picture from the box. There's Sinclair in a corner of it. Sam carefully opens the frame, takes out the picture, and folds it so that “Magnus” isn't visible, before setting the picture back in the frame.

“There, much better!” he murmurs with an approving smile. Castiel looks at Sam, cautious.

“Last time you asked me to be in a picture with you both, things didn't go well.”

Dean answers before Sam can even think about it. “Another good reason to take a new one, right?”

Jack curiously looks at Dean, but he shakes his head. The kid is going to hear that story about Jo and Ellen another time, maybe after some drinks, and in a very different mood. Dean spins on his heels, turns off the flame under the pan, and grabs the handle of it.

“Alright children, settle down. It's time for breakfast. Sam, if you complain about bacon, I swear...”

Sam raises his hands in surrender. He knows better than fighting Dean over breakfast. “I'll settle with cereals, thanks. Can I have some eggs, though?”

“... yeah, you can.”

After breakfast, the four men spend quite a long time studying the old pictures of the order before finally agreeing on the idea for the picture. They're going to use their federal agents suits, but wearing Christmas sweaters underneath them. Dean insists on optional cigars and glasses of cognac, because “that's what gentlemen drink”, even if he doesn't answer how he knows that, despite being asked several times.

Castiel even offers to fly somewhere to find anything missing, but Jack forbids him, siding with Dean.

“We must follow tradition! We'll go buying the things we need at the mall, like people usually do.”

Castiel has seen crowds around Christmas, and that's not a memory he revisits happily. “Jack, tradition is long, complicated, and surely it doesn't include mystical beings such as we are.”

“Then we'll make a new one!”

“I don't think you get the point of traditions, Jack.”

Dean laughs at the deadpan tone of Castiel, then stands up. He looks at Sam and starts giving orders to everyone.

“Cas, you go and look for the brandy and the cigars. Jack, you're on the sweaters. Sammy... you and I go to look for the glasses. They must be somewhere around...”

“Uh, actually... I was thinking to go look for the camera.” Sam interrupts Dean, who tilts his head a bit.

“... what do you mean the camera? We have phones, and we have the digital camera we got a couple of years ago.”

Sam stutters a bit, trying to explain his idea. If Dean didn't tease him about it so far, he surely will now. “Yeah, but I was thinking of using the original camera, too. There's a dark room in here, I was curious to try my hand with that.”

Surprising Sam once again, Dean offers him just a small sigh and a bright smile. “Anything to keep your little geeky heart content, Sammy. Let's start fixing things, come on. As soon as Eileen and Y/N are here, we'll take the picture.”

“Do you think it looks Christmas-sy enough?”

Jack holds a red sweater with a reindeer embroidered on it and turns it so that Cas can look at it. Castiel sighs, opens his mouth to say something, then looks at Jack's expectant expression and resolves to sigh.

“It surely delivers clearly the theme, yes.”

“Great! Let's get this one is for Dean, then, I've heard it's good for people to get in the right mood.”

“I'm not sure Dean will agree... or if he's in the right mood for... anything. Ever.” Cas murmurs while following Jack to another stand of terrible sweaters. The idea of Dean wearing one of those is incredibly unlikely... and yet, somehow, endearing.

He would never do it if he wasn't ready to be given Hell about it... or perhaps he's just defensive of that tradition? He never mentioned a particular fondness for that clothing piece, but it wouldn't be the first thing he missed about the first human he saved from Hell. Just as he's starting to think about how things changed more in the last twelve years than since the dawn of creation, Jack's voice tears him away from his thoughts.

“Then it will be up to us to put in a good mood. You think Sam would like a sweater with a tree? He's very tall, it might be a good match.”

With another pained sigh, Castiel nods and understands that he will have to keep a closer look on Jack, and learn how to deal with an overly Christmas-enthusiast child. New world, new challenges.

“You know, it might be a good idea to tone it down. We don’t...”

“Cas, look at those!”

The thrilled shout of Jack in seeing the sweaters with little lights in them almost makes Cas feeling nostalgic of the Apocalypse. At least he knew where the danger came from, how to deal with it, and the rules to engage. A shopping mall in the days before Christmas knows no rules, and that is somehow unnerving.

“Sammy! Get your ass over here!” Dean shouts, prompting Sam to pop his head through the door frame.

“What?”

All Sam sees is Dean's legs, the lower part of his torso, and one of his hands, waving behind him, holding a small crystal glass. “... you think these are good for brandy?”

“... no, those are to taste whiskey.”

Dean pulls his head out from the depths of the cupboard, looking at Sam with a skeptical expression. “Bullshit. What... how can you tell?”

“You asked me, why you... look. They're small, you see? For a smaller quantity, and also, less space on the base to... you know what? Never mind”, he lets go, already recognizing the question rising in Dean's eyes.

“When did you learn about this stuff?”

“I don't remember, but I thought it could be useful. It happened that we had to go undercover at parties and stuff, and a server who knows the glasses is far more believable”.

“... you are just so damn smart. Any luck with the camera?” Dean has a sort of proud smile dancing on his lips, even if he tries to sound as snarky as possible.

“I was just checking it. The lenses are a bit dusted, but I can clean them. Everything else... seems ok. Whatever spells Magnus placed on this place... they kept things working perfectly, no exceptions.”

“Yeah, well... I ain't thanking the son of a bitch.”

Sam scoffs, thinking about their far too close call with the master of spells. Another experience he's very happy to archive under the “never again” file. Dean is sticking his head inside the cabinet, ignoring the sinister creak of the little stool under his feet. Sam picks it up almost immediately.

“Dean...”

Sam is cut short by the act of catching a glass from Dean's hands. If he's aware to have interrupted, he doesn't show it. “Eight glasses are enough?”

“Eight? Why? It's the two of us, Cas, Y/N and Eileen.”

“You want to leave Jack out?” the way Dean's voice echoes inside the cabinet almost makes Sam laugh, but he needs to stay serious.

“Of course I want to leave him out. He's three, Dean!”

Dean hands Sam a few more glasses, before coming out from the cupboard and down the stool holding a couple more. He then gives Sam a sassy look.

“He's also the most powerful being in the universe. He slayed two archangels, countless angels, and rendered powerless God itself. I doubt a glass of cognac is going to do him any harm.”

“Perhaps you have a point. Anyway, why eight? Even counting Jack, it's just six of us.”

“Nah. With Y/N around, Crowley is going to be here.”

“... you think?”

“I know. Watch it happen.” Dean nods resolutely, ignoring the bemused expression of Sam before going on. “They've been together, you know that, right?”

Sam's jaw drops and he almost drops the glasses, making Dean laugh. Judging by the expression on his face, with raised eyebrows and open mouth, he didn't know.

“What?”

“Yep. It was... while Lucifer was loose, a bit after the Vince Vincente's thing. They were hunting together, apparently, and got drunk enough to finally put up with their awkward thing.”

“That's... that's new.”

“Well, no, not exactly. Anyway, I'm willing to bet twenty bucks that we won't get Crowley out of our hair until after Christmas.”

“I'm sure that she knows better. I see your twenty.”

“Thirty if they make out or have sex.”

Sam laughs, already feeling thirty dollars in his pockets. Plus, Dean has no idea of the bets placed on him by Sam, Eileen and you.

“I see your thirty.”

A very exhausted Castiel and a thrilled Jack walk through the door of the bunker with several bags of stuff. They've bought the Christmas sweaters, a few baubles for the tree that is somehow still missing, an unholy and definitely unhealthy amount of Christmas cookies, and anything else that somehow managed to inspire a vague Christmas feeling in Jack.

Dean takes the bags from Castiel's hands, smiling at him with a tender expression.

“You look exhausted.”

“I feel exhausted. Redoing Heaven was draining, but at least there were no teenagers around.”

Dean laughs and pats Castiel's shoulder, trying to offer him some comfort. The angel studies him, fascinated by the way Dean's lips curve upward in a smile and listening to him.

“Well, at least Jack is... well, I don't know what he is, but I don't think he'll ever go through that. Come on, let's go see what you've bought.”

“Oh, God...” Cas groans, anticipating the protests from both Sam and Dean.

Instead, not one of the brothers seems annoyed by the obnoxiously bright choices of Jack. Whatever changed in them, Cas wishes it stays like this. He's absolutely baffled when Dean picks up the sweater with Rudolph the reindeer - an America's favourite, apparently -  and turns it so that Sam can see it with a delighted expression.

“Look at this, Sammy! Oh, God, I must have this.”

Jack turns to Cas with the most smug expression he's ever sported. “I told you he'd like it! Sam, check yours out!”

About ten minutes later, when everyone has put on his Christmas sweater, they all meet in the war room, wearing them under their fed suits. Dean chuckles and walks over to Castiel, fixing his tie, ignoring the bright red sweater he’s wearing underneath the dress coat.

“Lookin’ good, man.”

“I thought we decided to look like the Men of Letters.”

“We don't need to look like them, Cas. We are Men of Letters. We indulge Sammy here, but we do things our own way. Here, you look... great.”

Sam and Jack exchange an amused look, while Castiel and Dean share one of their long, dramatically and ridiculously intense gazes. Sam clears his throat and calls for their attention.

“Dean, why don't you call Y/N to see where she is?”

Grumbling and tearing his stare away from Castiel's eyes, Dean nods. He's still surprised about the way everything changed. He could swear to know Cas in every single way, and yet he feels like he's discovering a completely new person. Not being at war is strange. Pleasant.

He's still trying to adjust to that. He never felt authorized to have anything like that. He tried to bury every memory of the few months during which he allowed himself to believe that something other from hunting was possible.

Freedom might also mean a chance to explore all that he ever denied to himself. Leaving behind the past, the expectations he so tirelessly tried to satisfy might be the hardest thing he's ever done... but Castiel challenged Heaven's orders after obeying for millions of years. In a heartbeat, one of the most fearsome warriors of God decided to disobey his very nature, and fight alongside humanity. Once again, Castiel is giving him courage and purpose, and he doesn't even know it.

Dean smiles and fishes his phone from his pocket, dialling your number.

When he goes back to the war room after the call, he stops for a second, taking in the sight of the room. Sam is teaching Jack how to keep the glass in his hand, while Castiel is curiously studying the cigars he bought, making the puzzled expression he usually exhibits when fiddling around mundane stuff. When Jack puts on his Santa's hat, Dean laughs and steps closer to the group.

“Alright guys, she's not picking up. I guess she'll be here shortly. How about Eileen?”

“She's on her way. I guess she'll be here in a couple of hours.” Sam answers with a smile. He always smiles, more or less unconsciously, while speaking of Eileen. Dean grins, decided not to waste a chance to tease his little brother.

“... well, I'd keep that sweater to welcome her here, if I were you. Green suits you!”

“Get bent, Dean.”

“Language!” Cas intervenes, hinting at Jack.

“Oh, I've heard much worse from Dean, Cas. Like that time he spilled coffee on his pc and it froze on the Bust...”

Before he can finish, Dean shouts at him. “Jack! That wasn't supposed to come out!” Dean panics and opts for a quick retreat to the kitchen, deciding to find comfort in some leftover pie while waiting for you and Eileen to finally join them for dinner.

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

Thank you for reading! 

I truly hope you enjoyed this little story. Every kind of feedback is very much appreciated, just as much as likes and reblogs!

Please, do not repost my works or part/s of it on different places, not even if you give credits.

#spn #spnfic #spnchristmasbingo #sam winchester #dean winchester #castiel #jack kline #christmas photoshoot #fluff #feels #canon divergent #reblog

[thepilgrimofwar]

Volition

She knew the word, and every letter that made it. It was an odd word: Volition. It never rolled off her tongue quite right. But when she spoke it outloud, it was like magic. Her blood would rise, and electricity would flow through her veins as if uttering any other spell from any other arcane tome. 

Vo-li-tion.  

It meant the will to act. Not desire, or want, even though both those things also drove her actions. But it was nothing as base as that. Volition meant will. It meant choice. And as Lirelle had told her some days ago, volition was what she was going to need in the coming weeks. For a choice needed to be made. To be a mother to Stenden, or to be her own woman. Neither could reconcile the other.

Her body was now both lithe and strong, after weeks under the instruction of Thanidiel Highdawn. Accelerated by both potions that restored her stamina and a tenacious drive to not be useless on the field of battle. Relriah had become a capable fighter and commander, even if neither role suited her personally. It was evident in the recent action during the Illithian counter-offensive.

“Lady Highdawn,” she called out once training for the day had concluded. “Thanidiel, might I have a word? It’s on something of a personal nature,” Relriah asked, figuring that the rapport they had established over the course of the campaign would give the paladin some insight on her dilemma.

“Aye?” sounds out - her voice always a drum that reverberated through a space. Even now after the hours some of exercises and drills, little strained her voice. But it never did, in these moments away from both Emberglades and Quel’Thalas in a way. When they were amongst those who held loyalty to Highdawn - those who were willing to toil and perfect themselves under her education - she walked and she spoke less like a lynx on the frayed boundary of striking, and more like a creature within domain.

Her back is turned even as her long ears flick towards the Lady’s direction, attention taken on briefly educating a younger woman who’s joined her ‘fold’ on wrapping a blister. Some native of these lands taken by the motley band Thanidiel had marched with and had attached, much like Relriah. In spite of all of the once-knight’s grumblings of distaste for being still looked to for leadership.

“I’m not quite sure where to begin, but I feel like something has happened to me,” she brushed her hair aside. Relriah recalled her conversations with Lirelle a few nights before. “Because, as we approach an inevitable victory given our numbers, the thought of this war ending has me on edge. As if I am afraid of peace, finally returning to the Glades - Of becoming the Lady of the House once more...”

The Lady’s voice trailed off as she waited for Thanidiel to finish up her aid to the newcomer. There was still that tensions that twisted itself in her chest. An apprehension of trading the star-filled skies of the present, for the four walls of the manor that was slowly creeping back into her life. Though she had promised Solendis that she would be his wife once more, she did not know how she felt about it. Not truly.

“I am afraid of peace,” is the frank and honest sentiment conveyed as she pats the youth’s shoulder with the bandage of proper tightness and about-faces to regard Relriah fully. Her way of establishing an immediate camaraderie in that department as she now starts to unstrap training armour in favour of the soaked woolen shirt underneath. “It removes me of purpose; my skill has never been in the tending of fields or roads like how the armies of these Northern lands operate. Even when I was younger than Stenden, I spent my time in the mountains ‘fore Eastweald in a constant war of our own with the Amani.”

“You sound like the Wintergales,” she comments as Thanidiel retrieves her cigar tin. “Before The Fall that is. When Amani raids still came from deep within the Cloudrends,” she says, noting the knight’s for purpose.

She starts to stride a short distance to the side, towards fencing where she had left her cigar tin. Plucking up one from within as she uncaps it with a steady slide of a knife and lights in a brilliant little ‘pop’ of arcane-flame. “Even the Wintergales have walls and towns to return and maintain, no? I cannot say I remember such ‘luxuries’ from my youth.”

Relriah notes the emphasis on the luxury of walls to return to, trying her best to form an image of Thanidiel’s past. But can’t. Relriah’s life had been nothing but walls.

Puffing the acrid first smoke out from her cigar, it fumes out into the air quickly, followed almost immediately by a longer one that rolls around her mouth and over her tongue. “It is not the responsibility of being a Lady that burdens you,” presses itself in a firm observation of the other’s character. 

...marital problems?”

Relriah shakes her head. “No- Yes- Not really,” she says unable to grasp that feeling in her chest. “Solendis has never mistreated me, nor am I unhappy with our arrangement- But-” A fire seems to light behind her eyes. “He loves me- But never the way his brother did. By comparison it is cold, calculated. Punctuated by words like: Obligation and Duty.” Lady Emberheart paused, realizing she had spoken too much in her attempt to express her truth to Thanidiel.

Thanidiel starts to scratch at the corner of her azure-blue eye as she watches Relriah, that same pupil tracking the Lady just a beat slower than the furious fel-green other, “I took a man for a lover before. He grated me in a similar way - too cold to match up to my blaze.” Then she rolls her shoulder, an action that serves as both a shrug and as a way to loosen the previously unstrapped leather armour and let it all fall onto the soil. It seems as though she’s simply stomping right over the implications drawn between Solendis and Sederis. A quiet mercy, or more realistically, an apathy to such things.

“But if you are not unhappy with such an arrangement, then what it is that displeases you?”

Relief fills her when she hears her instructor’s reply, mercifully apathetic to her accidental revelation.

“Because,” Relriah replies. “I think something in me broke when I took the field, and the lives of others. It’s as if the longer I stayed on the battlefield, the more my heart rip in two. One belonging to Lady Emberheart. One belonging to…” She trails off, glancing up at the stars. “Me.” There were two of her now, and which would survive this war was still in the balance. 

Thanidiel stares at Relriah for an eon of a moment - like a parent taken aback by some philosophical revelation of the child and knowing little of what to do with it. Even the cigar held at the edge of her lips has smoke suspend from it like incense. Then her brows start to furrow, that entrenchment already between them like a fault in the earth.

It is rare for the Phoenix Guard to voice much of anything that proximates near that ironclad heart of her’s, but yet here it is, barking out as the bemusement of processing what Relriah’s fucking problem was fades. Skipping over clarifications or allowing the other to expand her say further and going straight to the hamfisted solution.

“If Lady Emberheart is not you, then to force yourself to claim contentment with her arrangements as you do now is foolish. You are strong enough to be your own, so do so. That is what Sederis died for; what every Sin’dorei has died for.”

Relriah listens to her, and bows her head. She spoke true. The Phoenix Wars were fought primarily for their right to be their own people. Not to have their future dictated to them. In the same manner it had always been dictated to her. 

“I am,” she nods speaking an affirmation to herself, “I am strong enough. But to choose myself is to forsake the life I knew and had grown comfortable with. Because I am no longer comfortable. There’s an energy now, that will not be satisfied with four walls of someone else’s choosing. Being nothing more than a passenger to another’s ship.”

She could not articulate it at the time, but she felt like a child. Forced to bear poorly conceived decisions of parents who did not know better. Listened to, but never heard. Powerful in her own right, but impotent to change anything in her world. But here, at the bleeding edge of impending peace that had been heralded by her own hand, Relriah felt like she could bear it no longer.

“What would you choose, Highdawn? Duty, or yourself?”

“One does not distinct from the other. When I was young, these things were forged into one. I came in as wet earth rich with mineral, and came out as steel,” answers back in a matter-of-fact fashion. Then she shakes her head some, pushing away a loose lock of hair from her bun then swings her palm out to brandish another cigar to Relriah.

Both an offer and the indication of a point being firmly laid to the other woman’s feet.

“But if you have the opportunity to be split of such things, I would not pursue the things that leave me cold.”

Relriah makes a soft chuckle, and takes the cigar. She had not indulged in such things since being married, lest she be seen by others and let it be the spark of rumors. Lady Emberheart had been perfection incarnate. It was built into the role that she had carried on her shoulders. But in that single gesture, she took a big and knowing step towards one of the women she wanted to be.

With the tiniest of cantrips, she lights her cigar. Summoning a small curvature of flame at the tip of her forefinger. She breathes it in, and in a long drawn exhalation, spreads the smoke into the sky in… relief?

“My life has been cold,” she states. “Immaculate and perfect, perhaps. But with all things without blemish, it was a sterile thing. I don’t think I will bear such a thing any longer.”

The warrior nods once - firm and resolute as though on Relriah’s behalf, as well as showing her immediate approval. “Then you will not, because you have the Will, and one’s Will is one’s Strength. Just as I am nothing without this, so can you make yourself again with it.”

Her arms fold over her chest, chin lifted imperiously as always as her gaze travels to follow that smoke and puff out her own gust of tobacco. “That is the luxury soldiers wish for the Sin’dorei, so advantage it than to needlessly burden yourself with ‘should do’s when the dead already have.”

Relriah gives a thoughtful pause, another breath of smoke. “I think that’s it. That’s the answer to all of this. My life had been given to me. The privilege of upbringing, clothes, suitors, and the expectations that came with it. This,” she gestured to the camp, filled with men at arms who had joined Thanidiel of their own accord. “This is a life I’ve made for myself. Worked for. And through pain, and blood, and sick. It’s a life I earned.”

She looks at Thanidiel, and gives a nod. Of a new form of rapport and of respect. “Thank you, I think you’ve helped me, more than you know.” With one last sigh, she looks back at the Phoenix Guard. “So, we’re coming to the end of all of this. Where will you go when this is over?”

The woman, more weapon than individual, stills with this inquiry. A breadth of silence needed to bring the abstract of her thoughts into language; a process rarely demanded of her to much capacity beyond the thunder and action of the field. Approaching kinship with the way a hound is asked something beyond its education.

“I don’t know. I tire of service yet duty is all I know. I am… dysfunctional in the ways of the civil world. I could die, but yet I do not. I could step into line with the Phoenix Guard proper and I would excel as I always have but it would be an obligation like my whole century and some has been.” Another pause before eventually she works out with a screw on her face, “I suppose after everything, I have attempted to resolve what would make me happy and have not found any solutions as I can with more… tangible things. So I… wait.”

The show of unfamiliarity with her own thoughts was not lost on Relriah, who listens intently to what she had to say. It was not everyday she got to hear of the inner workings of a warrior, much less a Lady as accomplished as Thanidiel was.

“If it pleases you, and if it suits your purpose, there will be a place for you in the Glades should you wish to stay,” Relriah makes a tangible offer. “I am my father’s last remaining heir to House Illithia and to the province of Westheath. If I’m not to be Stenden’s mother after all, I suppose I will be mother to those who would follow me. That said, I will need the very best advisors available to me if I am to keep the realm stable for the sake of my son.”

“Maybe. Beathyn promised me land in the Glades on your husband’s behalf. It was… intended for,” The fighter raises her hand to wave towards the whole of the bustling campground, “Them. My Lieutenants at bare minimum. I thought it’d be more grueling, that I’d die and that would be that. But it is looking like that is not the case.”

She breathes. 

Not a sigh but a sound weary all the same.

“Somewhere far from walls. The hundred years I’ve spent at Silvermoon’s whims has shown me that I drown when I must consider lifestyles I was not birthed into. Perhaps whatever wilds have not been tamed and settled at the Glade’s edges if such a thing exists.”

“Ah, of course,” she makes a comment about her husband’s offer that must have been made long before now. “There will be good land to settle in the Bulwark, if farmsteading suits your lieutenants and a possibility of something more martial. But if you wish to remain far from walls, in places untamed then you may be content with the Cloudrends...”

Relriah gestures at the mountain range that overlooked the Emberglades no matter where they went. Always looming in the south, earning their namesake, forcing the clouds to coil upwards towards it’s crown. “I suppose the land there may be reminiscent of your childhood. Save the Amani raids since The Fall. Though, as you must know by now, The Cloudrend Glades are never completely safe.”

The ex-Knight hefts a shrugging motion upon her shoulder, her neck bending away from it as she rolls another mouthful of smoke over her tongue.

“I don’t think they need me any longer if they take up the idea of the Bulwark. But I’m no dictator, I will see what they all wish for, either way of company, I think you are right. And perhaps something familiar to those times would be… good, seeing as I cannot tread those lands any longer.”

Finally, as though struck by an afterthought, Thanidiel grunts then tacks on a sloppy, “Thanks.”

—

@retributionpriest @stormandozone @thanidiel

#Epilogue #Relriah

[scarletgardensrpg]

LIVING ♦ FORTY-ONE ♦ HOUSE OF EDEN

JULIAN BUCHANAN is a powerful Resurrector affiliated with the House of Eden. He is also a high-ranking military officer for the Undead army, tasked with accompanying Doctor Kazimir on recruitment missions to scout out new soldiers and train them. Gifted with an unsurpassed ability to raise strong and loyal Undead soldiers, nearly all of the House's best and most capable Undead personnel can be accredited to Julian. He is blind in his in left eye, having forsaken it to resurrect Evander.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: cannibalism

This one, Cecile insisted, and wrapped two tiny, fat hands around his wrist, yanking it this way and that. Get this one. A smile risked revealing itself on Julian, and wordlessly, he lifted a hand, if only to brush a curl out of her face. From behind them, his mother pulled her back sharply and snapped, Don't do that to my son. The silence after, thick and uncomfortable, splintered abruptly to Cecile's wail of indignation—one loud, pitchy shriek followed by another, a vindicative tantrum if Julian had ever seen one. For God's sake— Mrs. Buchanan looked pointedly at him, as if to say, This is your fault. Though they would be Julian's hunting dogs, he had allowed Cecile to come along and help pick. At his father's reccommendation, he'd selected two Dobermanns, who, affirmed by the breeder, were the best of the litter. The one Cecile wanted, squirming blindly in his hands, looked runty and weak. As if sensing Julian's disapproval, it nipped him once on the finger. It might've been an unfriendly bite; it might've been an eager kiss. I'll take this one, too, he told the breeder.

- ❀ -

He was blessed and he was cursed. He was unspeakably beautiful and he was irredeemably brutal. He was a faithful prince knelt at the altar of God, and he was arrogant Lucifer, punished for his vainglory and plunged forevermore into darkness. The Buchanans, as it was, were a family of well-groomed scoundrels, who came away from every handshake with blood on their hands and jewels between their teeth. This was no secret: they were known liars and cheats, filthy rich southerners from money older than dirt, their greatest legacy being their aptitude for elegant barbarism. And this kingdom of rotten ambitions: it would all someday belong to one Julian Buchanan. Ah, Julian: he was, in every way, the golden heir and the favored son—a young god sitting high and mighty with his Dobermanns and black cars, his fitted suits and aristocratic drawl. He, so caustic and cold, carving out an indelicate place at the table of suits and cigars for himself; with meticulous cunning, with perfect control, with the relinquishment of any conventional morality that might've held him back. He could not have been a kind man, even if he wanted to. He could not have wanted peace, beauty, love—those were things other people might deserve. Not him.

For much of his life, Julian could draw a line dividing himself from all the rest of the world. Cecile, who soiled her reputation with a crass tongue and one expulsion after another, and Evander, who wasted his days away like a cat basking in the sun, would never understand what it meant to be a son of sons and an inheritor to empire. When his father had called on him to shake hands and make good with Barberini and van Houten, he'd listened silently to their offer. Life after life. Deathless death. Didn't he want to live forever, they asked? Didn't he want to bathe in divine glory, ascend to new heights of power, and, in true Buchanan fashion, cheat Death itself? Yes, this sort of proposition did pander to the deepest desires of all men, didn't it? And it intrigued Julian, too. The expectant look on his father's face, which remained unchanged when it became clear what would become of Cecile and Evander, instructed Julian that saying no was not an option. That was fine. He hadn't intended to. The decision was made, the damage done, and the cards of fate laid out in perfect, awful alignment: his siblings would die, so that he might live forever. He would silently watch them sign their lives away, leave for the Red Room, and hate him for all of it. That was fine, too. 

You could call it cruelty. Julian preferred calculation. He had always planned to go back for them—after the drug was perfected, and he'd tasted it, he had made plans to bring them back. Were they not his darling little sister and brother? Always, that was what he had wanted: a family, a peace, a kingdom for them to play in, and for him to rule. He had not expected Cecile to spit at his feet when they crossed paths once more, she herself a summoner of Death. He had not expected to gouge his eye out for Evander to eat, and be disobeyed still, the rare gift he’d given unaccepted and unforgiven. It stung his pride more than anything else—and in the years after, bred within him a chilling need for control, lest something slip out of his grasp and wander astray again. The Undead he raised, in owing their second lives to him, would worship his will and bend like reeds to the wind. Why shouldn’t they? Hades sat on his throne in Hell; and a thousand souls cried his name.

CONNECTIONS

SASHA – HIS FINEST CREATION.  He had found her at the beginning of the end of the world, deep in the winter pines: he, a blood-soaked hand pressed to the gash where Evander had taken his eye, had in a moment of bitter, cold impulsion pulled her from the jagged gray ice, if only to see what she would do: a rotbeest of astonishing ferocity and grace, eager for something to sink her teeth into. Come feast, then, he had commanded, mouth twisted into haughty self-satisfaction. She listened then—and she continues to listen now. Sasha, a perfect soldier in every way, is his pride and joy. She has far surpassed any other Undead soldier in prowess, in competency, in power—but of course, that is his design. He would expect nothing less from someone under his wing. Though he regards Sasha coolly, he does, in fact, feel genuine affection for her. His favoritism is subtle, but present nonetheless: a protective hand on her shoulder, little gifts and favors, difficult privileges he negotiates with Thalia to take her with him on missions, so that she might see the world. Capable and strong as she is, he sees her, in a way, as a little sister—someone to guide and care for, someone to mentor and protect. Didn't know you liked to play house, Thalia mocks. Don't tell Cecile. And of course, there is some truth to that, too. Maybe he's playing out an odd fantasy. Maybe he just likes being looked at like a righteous man—God knows his real family sees him as anything but. 

CECILE & EVANDER – I DREAMED. He had wanted to love them both, once: to build them a palace of gold and rubies and, with a wave of his hand, fulfill their every want and need. He could still do it, if they'd only let him. But, alas, his siblings have always been...difficult. Julian would say it's complicated, but it really isn't. Cecile bares her teeth and wrath to him at every opportunity she can, with no softness to spare—her jabs childish and incessant, her anger inexhaustible and nearly incoherent. Certainly, forgiveness is out of the question, though Julian feels he has nothing to be sorry for. He had only ever wanted good things for her; but she, proud and unwilling to accept his help, refused time and time again to listen to reason and stand down. With his sister, Julian has largely forfeited his efforts. Instead, he harbors greater hopes for Evander: young and clever, his little brother had once looked to Julian as a bloom to the sun—and though now he offers him nothing but forlorn gazes that simmer with quiet accusations, Julian knows they are tied too closely together for Evander to ever simply walk away. Someday, Evander will understand. They are blood brothers, and, whether Evander can stomach the truth of it yet or not, he walks the Earth now thanks to Julian. 

NEEVE – QUEEN OF THE DEAD. She is exquisite and nonsensical: a woman who courts death as if it were her lover, and strains her neck over the dark floors of Tartarus with playful, admiring tenderness. Despite their mirrored positions as Resurrectors of the House, they disagree fundamentally on how to handle the Undead: where he treats them like as a general might treat his men, willing himself to hold his creations at a cool arm's length, she chooses instead to surrender, to get up close and intimate, to love them as a mother to some, a mentor to others. It's an eccentric pedagogy, Julian asserts, but one that works. The Undead fear him, but they adore her. Neeve is, truthfully, someone he has never known the likes of before—and though he is reluctant to admit it, the intrusive warmth she insists on bringing into his life is not an unwelcome one, merely unfamiliar. She dances in fields of hair and bone, and expects him to partake in her strange, strange celebrations. He will not—but she is lovely to watch, indeed. 

OPEN ♦ FC: CILLIAN MURPHY

#julian #o #l #r #house #all #lsrpg #lsrp #new rp #bio rp #horror rp

[nlovendwar]

( dacre montgomery, 32, male, he/him ) speaking of the bardet crime family, there goes antonello lucchese. i’ve heard that the heterosexual scorpio works underground as an advisor, but that’s all stuff of rumors. however, the fact that they’re notoriously diligent and imaginative as well as impulsive and perverted doesn’t bode well for their rep. sharpened cutlery sliding between perfectly white teeth, the stench of pomade and tom ford, billowing smoke from a peach flavored cigar. ( bobby, 23, cst, they/them )

**tw: **implied attempted murder, child abuse, abandonment; mental illness & torture mention

First name: Antonello

Middle name(s): Giuseppe 

Surname: Lucchese

Age: Thirty-two

Date of birth: November 19th

Sexuality: Straight (?)

Relationship status: Divorced

Nationality: Italian American

| TRAITS OF VOICE |

Languages known: English, Italian, French, German

Style of speaking: Politically Incorrect

| PHYSICAL APPEARANCE |

Height: 5'11

Weight: 191 lbs

Eye color: Light blue

Hair color: Dark brown

Hairstyle: Typically short, feathered/layered

Distinguishing features: Physique/smile

Build of body: Muscular/stout

Tattoos: None

Piercings: Earlobe

Typical clothing: Business casual, button-downs/linen pants and vintage suits

Is seen by others as: Loud, intimidating, confrontational

| PERSONALITY |

Aesthetic: “ Did you guys come by? “

Likes: Winning, music, Friedrich Nietzsche, indulgence, working out, and reading

Dislikes: Birds, uncertainty, anything grape flavored, waiting, swimming in open water/the ocean

Education: High school degree

Fears: Heights, dying alone

Personal goals: To accept/love himself, to bring honor back to his family name

General attitude: Quiet, reserved, snarky

Religious values: Raised Roman Catholic but considers himself agnostic and a vitalist

General intelligence: Somewhat above average

General sociability: Average to below average

| HEALTH |

Illnesses (if any): Traumatized, most likely very depressed, bat shit crazy and probably a bit of a sociopath, but refuses to see a Dr./Therapist

Allergies (if any): Cats, amoxicillin/penicillin

Sleeping habits: Sleeps 3-4 hours normally, gets up early and stays up late, is sometimes up for days

Energy level: Moderate, to low

Eating habits: Eats more than three times a day, mostly pasta, bread, and sweets

Memory: Fair and remembers faces well but tends to repress quite a bit from his life/childhood, under certain circumstances it is poor

Any unhealthy habits: Overspending, binge eating, smoking, not getting enough rest, binge drinking, uses recreational drugs daily

| HISTORY |

Birth country: United States

Hometown: Crown Heights, Brooklyn

History of family: He doesn’t remember much from his childhood other than he never really had a mother and father, but figures he might have gotten luckier not having them around. Apparently, his mother worked numerous jobs to keep a roof over their heads for years, dealing with the constant absence of his father until it became too much to deal with. Then, at just the fragile age of three and four years old, Amy and Antonello Lucchese were carted off to Crown Heights, New York to permanently stay with a mixed family of uncles, cousins, and loving grandparents. Almost all the surviving members of the Lucchese crime family in a three-bedroom apartment. 

Most of their wives had passed away or left them by the time they'd arrived, so it was a lot like growing up in a dingy old bar but, both children grew up and learned quickly, from their mistakes. Learned to use them to their advantage, but every once in a while there would be unnecessary punishments, overdramatic arguments, dinners missed and uneasy, awkward mornings, but. It was more than what anyone else could have given them, so they were grateful nonetheless.

Everything changed drastically for Antonello when he entered the fifth grade. Things became easier to deal with at home, but not exactly in the way anyone had expected. Especially not his grandmother. He’d always clung to her for guidance, support, and love but the moment the family exposed the young heart to their lifestyle, he broke away and heedlessly dove in. 

But as the years passed, most relatives and himself included, were absolutely convinced that he was made for it, and it was made for him. It was in his blood after all, but a large number of them also knew it marked the end of his innocence, and the beginning of ruthless trek towards a twisted, egotistical version of manhood and success.

In the span of six years, he’d become the youngest in the family to rise through the ranks in a proud, composed fashion and landed a spot right beneath his grandfather. He was creative, intelligent and respectful in a way that the elders of the Italian mob began to appreciate more than the efforts of his own immediate family, so soon after Anton realized the long list of dead or incarcerated relatives were mostly rats, scumbags, and hypocrites, coincidentally, he was asked to leave.

Then while out at the local bowling alley, his cousins spotted one of his better friends groping his girlfriend. He didn’t even make it twenty-four hours after his grandmother had broken the news of the heartless eviction, and the younger boy spent almost two weeks in the hospital. Luckily, her grandson wasn’t around long enough to suffer any harsh consequences, or god forbid a life sentence. But one punishment that should have been totally unrelated, would slowly begin to ruin his life.

Out of pure fear of her older brother and grandparents, Amy decided to finish her high school career at home and cut all ties with him. Shortly after the devastating blow, a family friend was contacted and found a job and apartment available in Amiens, Louisiana.

Present: Antonello has worked for the Bardet family for fifteen years and was promoted to an advisory position in 2015. He’s recently divorced, lives alone and prefers a conventional lifestyle even though he loves what he does. 

| RELATIONSHIPS |

Parents: Bill & Teresa Lucchese

Siblings: Amy Lucchese

Enemies: Tbd

Children: None (that he knows of)

Friends: Moved around too much as a child to have a stable set of friends, tbd

Best friend(s): Tbd

Important friends/relatives: Tbd

Love interest (if there is one): Tbd

| COMBAT |

Peaceful or violent: Unpredictable

Weapon (if applicable): Gun, golf club, curling iron, hands

| OTHERS |

Occupation: Advisor

Favorite types of food: Anything you put in front of him

Favorite types of drink: Water, wine and Ski soda

Hobbies/past times: Running, swimming, cooking, fencing, journaling, marksmanship, knife throwing, reading, avid glass collector and tobacco aficionado

Guilty pleasures: An old soul, loves red wine, Telenovelas, listening to Nina Simone, drag queens, and torture

Quirks: Has a really loud sneeze and goes into sneeze fits, likes to go on midnight shopping trips, gets too emotionally attached to people that shouldn’t matter, always carries a tiny notebook with him, has to move things around in a certain pattern before going to sleep, bruises super easily, writes and eats with his left hand but is right hand dominant, likes to memorize numbers instead of saving contacts in his phone, gets homesick very easily, brushes his teeth five times a day, likes to stay off social media, makes lists of random things, gets his heart broken too often, only writes in cursive, holds grudges like no other, and has the attitude and approach of a working-class sixty-year-old man that’s slowly losing his shit

Pet peeves: Being ignored, interrupted, knuckle cracking, people eating with their mouths open

Pets: A rottweiler named Jinn 

Talents: Can play piano, coronet, drums, braid hair and relocate an entire family in less than 48 hours

Favorite colors: Black, earth and neutral tones

Favorite types of music: Classical/jazz/r&b

Strengths: Efficient, observant, protective, loyal, brave, affectionate, poised, fair, chivalrous, playful, honest

Weaknesses: Intolerant, negative, stubborn, short-tempered, impatient, arrogant, dominant, cold, hopeless romantic, aggressive, blunt, reclusive, paranoid

| WCS |

I’m up for anything, from vengeful family members ( either directed at the Bardet family or his, it doesn't matter. ) to crazy ex-girlfriends, a tiny group of faithful, likeminded friends, and whatever else.

#eclatantintro

[thegreenfairy13]

Growing Up Together

This was written for the @dwsecretsanta for @jemsauceonice, who wanted Tentoo x Rose being domestic, a big revelation and a party. It turned out less fluffy than I originally intended but it's absolutely a happy fic. I hope you'll like it.

Happy Holidays!!

“Do we really have to go?”

Rose glances at the mirror, sees the man standing behind her. His hair is mussed, standing up in all possible and impossible angles, face still flushed from a recent shower and freckles visible quite prominently.

Heaving an exhausted sigh, she inspects the crossed “Cs” decorating her mascara much longer than exactly necessary. Not answering, she starts applying her lipstick. It’s a matte rose color, matching the natural shade of her lips. A couple of years ago, her make-up used to be over the top: too loud, too shrill, too much. Now, it’s more sophisticated, toned five notches down and truly elegant.

Rose Tyler has grown up. Her life forced her to. Despite what one could think when being faced with the petite blonde, the woman standing in front of the mirror is a fierce warrior. She had been in the center of a battle more than once, has faced the extinction of entire planets, has fought and bleed for the salvation of countless species more times than she can count. Rose Tyler broke through the walls of the universe to save all of creation but she had been selfish, too. If she’s being entirely honest, she fought for this universe and all the other universes to be with the man standing behind her. The one who’s currently pouting like a three-year-old child about to taste broccoli for the first time.

She never thought it would be easy when he promised her to accompany her to her universe, to live an ordinary life without a ship that could travel through space and time and the lack of adrenaline rushing constantly through his veins. She never thought it would be so hard, either.

It’s no use denying the Doctor is bored out of his brilliant mind living on the slow path. He’s tied down to one planet when the whole universe used to be at his beck and call. The ordinary world is much less terrifying than one would believe, it’s mundane and days tend to develop certain routines.

He’s a teacher now at the university and working in research for Vitex industries. Now and then some aliens would visit Earth but mostly, it’s peaceful. Constant imminent threats are a thing of the past, and the Doctor is struggling to adjust to this life that consists of family gatherings, meetings and fine dinners in exclusive restaurants.

Rose misses the old adventures, too. But unlike her Doctor, she has adjusted. This new life, at the side of her father, offers new opportunities, new chances to do good, to have some impact. The Doctor can’t see that, yet. But she can see it. Sometimes you don’t have to save an entire universe or a planet, sometimes just making the life of one human being better suffices - it has to.

Maybe it’s something entirely else, Rose muses. When the Doctor previously would jump in to save the day and move on, leaving anyone behind to deal with the consequences without ever looking back, he’s now condemned to observe the effect of each of his actions. Be they small or big.

“Honestly, Rose,” he carries on. “Wearing a tux is bad luck. Bad things happen when I’m wearing a tux. Like, a war would start or aliens would try conquering the Earth, again, or…”

“I bought you tailcoats,” Rose interrupts. Giving him a pointed look, she turns around. It’s the expression she usually has reserved for stubborn Daleks. Seeing it directed at him, the Doctor swallows heavily.

“I’ll look like a penguin,” he laments weakly.

“Everybody loves penguins,” Rose shots back, already slipping into her dress. It’s made of black velvet, high necked but short enough to show off her well-formed legs. The mixture of sexy and chaste convinced her to buy it. She smirks when her Doctor’s jaw slackens.

“They are cute, Rose. Cute! I’m not cute, I’m a time-traveling alien, defender of the multiverse, number one race driver on Gelemitanta six but not cute.”

“Right, you’re adorable,” she replies, giving him a tight grin while sliding her left foot lasciviously into her heel. She can see his cheeks burning, eyes following her movements wholly enraptured.

“Please, it’s going to be so boring. Pleasant, empty conversations on numbers, company’s performance, politenesses being exchanged to the point of pain and plans to increase profit. That’s downright torturous. We could go out instead, stargazing on the Mehir-hills. Today, we’ll be able to see some shooting stars. Not that they are shooting stars but remnants of the war from 567/omega. Rose, can you imagine the Merkerans and the Helphaistons conducted a war over a movie?! Their kings disagreed over the cast of the leading role and dragged their people into this pointless argument until I stepped in. Uh, or we could go into a movie. There’s a new Ryan Reynolds film. You like the actor, don’t you?” There’s a little manic light shining merrily in his eyes, the one that tells her he's out for adventure - or just being evasive on doing something domestic. God, how he hates that word. Domestic.

“You don’t know if that war ever happened in this universe,” she replies. The moment the words have left her mouth, she knows it was a mistake saying them. Her man’s shoulders slump and a defeated expression crosses his face. It’s like all the energy he’s constantly vibrating from is being drained.

Rose squints, trying to calm herself down. He’s being like that since arriving in what he still calls Pete’s world - peppy one moment, depressed the other. He’d do anything not to entangle himself too much with the ordinary world. Sometimes, he’d sweep her away for gorgeous dates, sometimes he’d whine and pout.

The TARDIS coral given to them by the other Doctor wouldn't grow, probably never will and the realization slowly sinking into this Doctor, is outright painful to watch. Actually, she’s terrified it will drive them apart.

Straightening her shoulders she turns to face him. Pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose she says, “please, it’s important we show up at the Vitex Christmas party.” Biting her lower lip and giving him her best puppy eyes, she convinces him to cave in. She wonders how long he’ll still relent before buying a surfboard and a jeep and leaving her behind. Tonight, the trick still works.

The Christmas party is like everything Pete does: over the top. He’s got ice sculptures, crystal decorations, desserts decorated with gold, tons of caviar, champagne that is worth more than Rose’s first car, rare wines, and cigars worthy of Winston Churchill. Pete greets each of his guests like old friends, remembers all the names and is - unlike her Doctor - the politest man one could imagine. Naturally, her Doctor has absolutely no understanding for such behavior. To him, these people are traitors, corrupt and only care for their own profit. Of course, he’s right to some extent but during the years Rose has spent hopping through dimensions and navigating the enterprise along with her new found father, she gathered a new understanding about what it means to have a legacy worth fighting for. Vitex will live on long after Pete is cold and dead. And it’s not just that. There are jobs on the line too. Thousands of people rely on the enterprise doing well, entire families live and eat thanks to Vitex products.

Besides, the Christmas party isn’t only about exchanging pleasantries - it’s also meant to introduce Rose officially as the future vice president. Unlike a few years ago, Rose isn’t riding the high moral horse, she’s overlooking certain flaws in Pete’s guests, arranging herself with the mistakes they made and probably will make. But it’s alright, cause the bigger picture matters and not some small detail, right? Plus, growing up also means to compromise, to accept that the world wasn't black and white but all shades of grey.

Of course, her Doctor would not ever share that train of thought. In this regard, he's still like a child. And as much as she loves him for being him, she also loathes that unforgiving streak of his.

As a reaction, he wanders off like she used to do all the time. And of course, it’s the port that catches his interest. And of course Pete only just offers the finest, sweetest there is to be found. Eyeing him suspiciously, she observes him drowning two glasses quite quickly. He's halfway through a third one, when Rose strides over, laying her hand on his. “It's quite heavy,” she warns.

The Doctor downs his glass, directing a wide grin at her. It’s all teeth and lacking any warmth. “I’m a Time Lord, Rose,” he chides. “I can metabolize alcohol much better than humans,” he scoffs. “Besides, that’s only wine - hardly more exciting than water.”

Rose leaves him be, frustrated, climbs the podium to hold her speech. Looking down at the crowd, she sees him dancing without restraint, black bow tie already hanging askew. Dipping back a gorgeous blonde woman, he earns himself a couple of scandalized hisses in the process.

The Vitex heiress should be jealous, yet she isn’t. It’s not his fault. It’s hers. She has changed so much while he is still the man he used to be, the one she literally loves more than the universe.

Finding his eyes in the crowd, the other woman still in his embrace, she starts holding her speech. “A few years ago, I would have never felt being worthy or being ready of being given the chance to manage a multinational company. I would not have been worthy of being given that chance. Yet, I was lucky enough to meet people who would believe in me. My father Pete, of course, my mum Jackie but above all - my Doctor.” Swallowing heavily, she directs an insecure smile at him, fidgets with her earring that is much smaller than it used to be.

“He met me when I felt worthless, when I was worthless and he gave my life it’s meaning back.” Holding his gaze, Rose makes sure he knows she’s being sincere, not only giving a show for the investors. Noting he’s still holding the other woman, his hands drop to his sides and he takes a step away from her, starts straightening his bow tie. “

“He showed me what I could be and what I could achieve. He’s the best man and he gave me a life I would have never had. Unfortunately, I can’t give my man the life he deserves in return.” Rose’s voice wavers as she says those words for she knows they are true. Her Doctor, the man who cherished his freedom above all, is now being trapped and it’s her fault. She should have known he could never be happy on only one planet, should have dragged him back to the TARDIS, should…

Sobering up and holding back the tears, she pushes through the last few sentences. ”But thanks to him, I can lead my dad’s company into the upcoming decades, I can make sure all our employees will have secure jobs and with our combined efforts, we can work on preserving this planet we all live on. Thank you!”

On unsteady feet, she makes her way down, right into her man’s waiting arms. He looks solemn and Rose thinks that must be it. He’ll confess that living with her was a mistake. Readying herself for the heartbreak, she sucks in a deep breath. Scooting a hand through his luscious hair, the Doctor opens his mouth yet is being interrupted by someone congratulating Rose on her promotion.

“I didn’t like your speech,” he then blurts out. “You were never worthless, not even when working for Henrik’s.”

“I know you’re unhappy,” she interrupts. “Don’t deny it.”

“I,” he swallows, looking away. “I miss my old life. And I’m being rude and I drink too much when I shouldn’t.”

“And you dance with other women,” Rose notes.

“Woman,” he corrects. “It was only one.”

“For now.”

“But I'm trying.” Holding up one hand, he silences her. “I'm not a good man, Rose. I did terrible things in my life. And you have to stop believing you're not good enough. For you are.” Stepping back, he gives her an admiring once over. “Look how far you've come. How confident you are. You have grown up, evolved while I'm still struggling.” He barks out a humorless laugh. “Nearly a thousand years old, me, but you are the adult.”

“And where do we go from here?” Rose wants to know, voice small.

“I don't know, Rose. But wherever, I want to go with you. I guess, what I'm trying to say is, I want to grow up with you. Want to grow old, if you still want me, that is.”

Getting down on one knee, he produces a small black box from his pocket and Rose's heart stops. “I guess what I'm trying to say is, would you marry me?”

She nearly can't hear him over the applause crashing over them and the roaring in her ears. Still frozen in shock, he slides the ring on her finger.

“I sincerely hope that was a yes,” he mumbles anxiously.

“I crashed through the walls of the universe to be with you,” she says, still frozen, in lieu of an answer.

“And I turned human,” he retorts, mouth twitching.

“So.”

“So.”

And then they both double over in laughter, irritating Pete's guests thoroughly but not caring about them at all. They were engaged and whatever life would throw at them, they would manage it together.

#dwsecretsanta #Jemsauce #Tentoo x Rose

[sparklycitrus]

Virtus Principalis - Charity (Part 2 of 2)

Remember guys, this is the seven deadly sins. It’s not (just) about our boys being badass motherfuckers, but about them being bad.

I may also have gone a bit off theme but whatever. XD

Virtus Principalis

V. Caritas

(part one here)

The shower, like Q described, is cold and perfectly adequate. Bond scrubs until all signs of blood and dirt and tropical insect bits have been washed away. His camo, however, is a lost cause, so he chucks everything behind a shrub and goes back in as nude as his born day. The Quartermaster did ask, after all, and Bond is not one who disappoints.

Q has moved from his spot on the floor to the threadbare couch. His laptop, sans the thick cable, is perched on the rickety coffee table amidst a large spread of Colombian pesos. A loaded Walther (Q’s) sits to the side, along with some loose bullets, a butterfly switchblade, and box of Cuban cigars. Bond strides over, unabashed, and settles down on the couch. The fabric isn't the smoothest thing rubbing against his bare ass, but Bond’s sat in way worse, and the achieved effect is certainly worth the discomfort.

“There!” Q announces, a bit too loudly. Bond does not miss the furtive look thrown his way before the other resolutely returns to the laptop screen. “Now the Colombian government can’t possibly complain that we've never stuck our necks out for them. Really, every time someone moves a bit of refined coca off grid the entire region goes into fits. And they wonder why we prefer to keep tabs from afar.”

Bond makes a noncommittal noise. His attention has wandered to the cigar box, once he saw the Bolivar brand on the open lid. He distinctly remembers the last time he’s had a good smoke: it was in the backroom of a colonial hotel in Morocco. There were no less than three different guns pointed at his head at the time, but the only thing Bond could focus on then was the heady flavor of the Montecriso No.2 flooding his senses. The experience was regrettably cut short when he had to go out guns blazing. Would've been a remarkably successful mission otherwise.

He reaches for a stick, sliding it under his nose to take in the rich, loamy aroma. An appreciative hum escapes his throat. Beside him Q makes an interruptive noise. Bond looks over, just in time to see a guillotine cutter and a large butane lighter thrust his way.

Bond quirks an eyebrow. “I didn't know you smoke these.”

“I don’t,” Q replies. “The cutter came with the box and the lighter I stripped from a dead body. I doubt he’ll be missing it.”

“Where’s the body now?”

“Somewhere out back. Keeping your clothes company, I imagine. Why are you naked?”

“I clearly remember you asked me to be.”

“Let me rephrase: why have you decided to sit next to me, naked? This couch can’t be too comfortable, not to mention the health implications.”

To provoke you. Isn't it obvious? But Bond doesn't answer, instead he snips off the cigar tip, sniffing deeply once more before lighting it. The drag he takes in is deliberately slow. He knows Q is watching intently while pretending not to. Bond grins. He proceeds to stretch, arching his back and jutting his hips out so that his abs and half-hard erection are on prominent display.  

“Would you rather I sit on top of you naked?” he says.

He’s expecting the scoff but not the laugh that follows. It’s a nice sound, soft and lilting, and Bond feels an overwhelming desire to make it happen again. Q shakes his head, hands instinctively returning to the keyboard. But Bond can see the bright green eyes dancing mischievously even as he refocuses on the screen.

“As much as I enjoy the absurdity of that image, no, thank you, 007. Not my type of thing to unwind with, you see, and completely inappropriate for the current circumstance.”

It has only now gotten inappropriate? Bond chuckles at the thought, then asks, as nonchalantly as he can manage: “Oh? And what, exactly, is your type of thing?”

“Do you really want to know?”

There’s a pause when they turn to assess each other. Q is biting his lip, clearly debating whether to give a real answer. Bond waits, until the other man finally lets out a half-defeated sigh, subsequently closes the laptop and moves it off the table.

“Well, considering extraction is not for another six hours,” Q stands up, cracking the stiff joints of his hands and neck. “I suppose we have time.”

There are things that Bond expects the Quartermaster to dabble in, both as an inquisitive genius and as a member of a deadly organization with literal and figurative blood on his hands. The sheer amount of legal substances the man must've consumed to brave the flight down is already questionable, not to mention their mission has gone on for the past 40 hours with minimal breaks. In truth both of them should be using the precious time they've given to sleep. Instead Bond is sinking in the exquisite slow rush of a Royal Corona, watching his skinny, strait-laced Quartermaster walk toward him holding a brick of pure cocaine like an ordinary mail parcel.

“They aren't going to miss that either?” Bond quips, recalling their previous banter.

“This whole place will be burned down once we leave,” Q shrugs. “Right after they confiscate the valuables and deposit whatever is needed to keep the heads of state securely in power. Hardly something they’ll notice,” he gestured to the large stack of identical bags leaning against the opposite wall. “And even if they do, it’s not like they can openly declare a kilo of cocaine have simply gone ‘missing.’”

“Plan to do all that by yourself?”

Q laughs, the same melodious cadence, and Bond again is confronted with how much he desires it. “A kilo? In under six hours? You know, I've gone on a few binges in my life but, that may be just a tad too much for one person.”

Bond only smiles blandly in return. He relaxes into the couch, a comfortable haze surrounds him as he watches Q slash open the plastic wrap with the switchblade. The spilled white powder blankets the spread of pesos with a pure, crystallized sheen. Q makes a sweep of the notes, scattering them all over while making a clearing on the table. Bond stares.

“What?” the voice is indignant as Q meets his gaze. “No one claims a coke habit is tidy.”

“I see that it’s far from your first rodeo.”

Q answers him with a rude gesture. He then cuts a small amount with the back of the knife, making a neat, narrow line. A 50 mil note quickly becomes a rolled tube with practiced ease. “Bond,” he tsks. “Did you genuinely think those 60-hour shifts are pulled off on the mere merits of Earl Grey?”

He doesn't wait for a response before leaning down to rail the line. A rapturous look soon envelopes his features, and the satisfied sound coming out of that lush mouth sets Bond’s blood on fire. There’s a spot of white hovering just above the thin red lips. Without thinking Bond reaches over, swipes up the bit, and puts it into his own mouth.

It’s some damn fine coke, alright, Bond thinks as the numbness travels up his tongue. The look Q shoots him is positively filthy, and Bond suddenly has the urge to throw the coltish man onto the floor and fuck him, slow and deep. His body reacts at the thought and he makes no moves to hide it. It sounds heavenly in any case.

“Would you like some?” Q asks. His eyes are still lucid and the flush is very faint. Got a tolerance, Bond notes, as another neat line is cut onto the smooth tabletop.

“Not my vice of choice,” he declines, shaking his head.

“Ah, right. Liver failure. Always a pleasant way to go.”

“It’s not nice to judge others’ habits, Quartermaster, when you've just inhaled a gram of pure coke and it’s evidently not enough.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, 007,” Q’s narrows his eyes. “One, I wasn't judging, merely making an observation. And two, please, that was only half a gram, which makes this…”

He bends over and the second line disappears into the paper tube. “…the full amount and quite sufficient, thank you very m – oh!”

Q falls back against the couch with a moan, eyelids fluttering rapidly as the effect kicks in full force. Long, trembling fingers run through the dark curls, traveling down the elegant neck to pull ineffectively at the loose shirt buttons. Bond instinctively reaches out, but before he can touch any exposed skin Q slaps his hands away. He abruptly rolls over, bodily onto the agent, then clumsily deposits himself right into Bond’s lap.

“I’ll have you know, that certain stimulants tend to exacerbate my need to keep myself...busy,” the Quartermaster says as he rubs himself against Bond’s naked torso. The half-finished cigar is plucked from lax fingers and dropped onto the table, and Bond, for a moment, harbors a ludicrous thought to lament the loss. “And I believe, as an elite agent of MI6, it’s your solemn duty to protect your superior from committing any international cybercrime that could potentially endanger the integrity of the entire agency, simply out of boredom.”

“And how do you propose I do that?” Bond smirks. He pulls the man closer, hands sliding up the shirt to finally touch warm skin. Q hovers precariously above him, face flushed and pupil dilated and still covered in someone else’s blood, and Bond has never seen him look more beautiful.

“Oh, you’re a clever and capable man, 007,” Q whispers, lips gently brushing against Bond’s own. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

end

(I erased all my browser history after this because leaving ‘how to snort cocaine’ and ‘drug routes in Colombia’ in your Google search is just not an ideal thing to do.)

Other parts of the ‘sins’ collection: Chastity; Kindness.

#00q #james bond #q #virtus principalis #charity #seven deadly sins #seven heavenly virtues #fanfic