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sloanesallow · 3 months

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lavender haze

Sebastian runs into some...difficulties while brewing a potion. (Previously written in October, not posted to tumblr). ✨Sebastian Sallow x F!MC Tags: NSFW! MDNI! Sexual content (masturbation), character under the influence of Amortentia. 1.7k words [Read on Wattpad] - [Read on Ao3]

Sebastian is distracted.

What should be just another session in the Undercroft is proving to be more difficult than he anticipated. Not because of the subject material, but because of the study partner.

Sloane.

Beautiful and brilliant Sloane.

He sits cross-legged on the stone floor, tension coiled tight in his gut as he watches his friend, his just friend, with a kind of lust that he ought to be ashamed of. Sebastian has always been fond of Sloane, grateful for her companionship and willingness to stick by his side through thick and thin. He is unable to pinpoint exactly when his thoughts about her switched from innocent to debauchery.

There is something different about her, something that stirs his blood and sends his heart into a frenzy. He has seen her every day, has known her for years, the two sharing laughter and tears and everything in between. It is more than infatuation, but he is too afraid to call it love. He settles on an emotion he is more familiar with—desire. He wants Sloane all for himself, the selfish bastard that he is.

Intrusive, wicked thoughts continue to swirl in his mind. He wants her in his bed, wants to fall to his knees and worship at the altar that is her body and soul, wants to devour her until she screams his name—

Oh, he is well and truly fucked.

Sebastian attempts to focus on the small cauldron of bubbling liquid he is slowly stirring but soon finds himself tracking her movements through the dungeon. Sloane's ash-blonde hair has grown out over the years, a few golden strands shimmering under the light of the flickering candles that hang from the ceiling. He openly stares as she bends over to fetch a book from her satchel, the fabric of her skirt moving across the curve of her bottom.

He swallows hard, a surge of heat threatening to swallow him whole. Sebastian shifts, wishing he had his robe to drape over his lap right about now. Sloane sits back down next to him, taking the stirstick and sending a shock through his body as her fingers against his. He snaps his attention to the parchment balancing on his knee, even if he can't for the life of him translate the gibberish that is his handwriting.

"It should be more pink, don't you think?" Sloane asks, softly laughing at her own rhyme.

Sebastian nods, fixated on her lips. "Yeah."

Her tongue pokes out as she bites it in concentration, adding a few more ashwinder eggs to the mixture, completely oblivious to his internal turmoil. There is a faint stain of red on her lips, makeup that her and some of the other seventh-year girls have been experimenting with. All Sebastian can wonder is if she kissed him, would she leave marks behind—on his lips, on his throat, on the sensitive patch on skin just above his hip-bone. He clenches his jaw, fighting the spine-tingling shiver at the thought of her lipstick staining his pillow.

Stop—he silently implores his mind, biting his nails into his palm before the last of his resolve spirals out of control. Sloane speaks again but he cannot hear what she says over the ringing in his ears. He watches the subtle way her throat tightens and relaxes around the words, wanting nothing more than to press his lips there and taste the saltiness of her skin.

"Sebastian."

His name falling from her lips snaps him out of the haze, if only for a moment. With a strangled chuckle, he meets her gaze and flashes a sheepish grin. "Sorry, what?"

"I asked if there were any more rose petals," she says, pointing to the pouch of ingredients nearest to him.

Sebastian startles into action, sifting through the inventory but finding nothing but powdered moonstone and peppermint. "Looks like we used them all."

"That's...not right," Sloane frowns, her brows furrowed in thought. She reaches over and takes the notes from him, nearly causing him to flinch. "Did we forget to add something? Or..." she trails, looking far too adorable as she pouts. "It doesn't look like the potion Professor Sharp brewed today."

Sebastian cannot remember what he had for lunch, let alone the potions lecture from that morning. He frowns, not wanting his distracted mind and wandering eyes to jeopardize their grade. Not when the project will ultimately affect their NEWT scores.

"Should we start over?" he asks, clearing his throat when his voice comes out garbled.

Sloane nods and is suddenly pushing off the ground to stand. She gestures for him to pass her the pouch and she peers inside to see for herself. "I'll be right back. Maybe I can ask the Professor for some advice while restocking."

Before Sebastian can say anything to stop her she is slipping past the iron gates of the Undercroft entrance and disappearing from view. He grumbles to himself, reaching down rather awkwardly to readjust the growing arousal in his trousers. In an effort to keep his mind and hands busy, he flicks through the book Sloane left behind, reading through her neat notes in the margin.

"Love potion," he mutters under his breath. "Pink or red in color."

His eyes glance over the edge of the book to see that whatever is brewing inside the small cauldron, it is not a love potion. Sebastian purses his lips in worry, flicking through the pages for anything that fits the description of what he sees. Somewhere in the back of his mind he already knows, the spiraling steam wafting through the air and invading his senses.

Amortentia.

Sebastian's stomach drops as his heart rate spikes. Only he would find himself in this situation, the accidental creation of the most powerful love potion in the world. He huffed a laugh and wondered—is this the reason for his wild thoughts? But then why wasn't Sloane affected?

Maybe he was a love-struck fool afterall.

Whatever the explanation, Sebastian is unable to form another coherent thought as a silky tendril of the potion sneaks up his nose, instantly setting his soul on fire. It is like every nerve in his body is firing at once, yearning and demanding attention so intensely that it hurts. His pupils dilate and with every staggered breath he can hear the echo of his heart, pounding so loudly in his chest he topples over.

He blinks hard, holding himself up against the nearby chaise. All he can see behind his closed lids is Sloane, her stormy eyes sparkling with mischief as she beckons him with her curved smile and tantalizing tongue.

"Fuck," he curses, snapping open his eyes.

Sebastian gathers enough strength to fight his wobbling legs, collapsing against the cushions as his entire body trembles. He sucks in a breath only to discover Sloane's scent is everywhere, the fabric of her forgotten robe spread out beneath his head. With every blink he can see her, feel her pressing against him, the ghost of her touch prickling his skin.

Frantically, he untucks his dress-shirt from his pants, bunching the fabric up around his torso as he fumbles to unfasten the clasps of his trousers. Sebastian wiggles his hips until he is free from the constricting clothes, his cock twitching as it makes contact with the cool air of the room.

With a shaky hand he grasps himself, hissing as his fingers clench of their own accord. He tries to pace himself, but the Amortentia forces him to focus on nothing but his arousal and deep seeded fantasy of claiming Sloane, fucking her until she is nothing but a whimpering mess beneath him.

God what he wouldn't do to have her right now, to have her delicate hand wrapped around his length, to be buried deep inside her core, not stopping until they both stumble over the edge of ecstasy.

His strokes become even as his hips jerk up to meet his hand, the vivid, imagined vision of Sloane before him—on top of him—making it impossible to hold back. A tiny, desperate plea forms in the back of his throat as he rolls onto his side, wondering if there is some deity that might grant his one desire. Sebastian reaches up with his free hand, grabbing Sloane's robe and pressing it to his face so he can breathe in the sweet smell of her perfume and stifle his groans.

In his fevered delusion, it is almost as if she is really there, her lithe and naked body writhing against him as their moans filled the otherwise empty room. He whispers her name over and over again before the syllables bubble on the tip of his tongue, tumbling out in a cry, "Sloane!"

With a strangled croak he meets his end, spilling onto his fist and the chaise cushions. Sebastian lays there, his whole body tense as the remainder of his release flows through him. The intense passion fades away, dissolving into a deep guilt that sinks his heart into the pit of his stomach. An overwhelming wave of exhaustion hits him before he can do more than tug his pants back into place.

He faints, or at least momentarily loses consciousness.

When he flutters open his eyes, Sebastian isn't sure how much time has passed. For a moment, he doesn't even realize he's still in the Undercroft, or that his head isn't resting against a pillow but Sloane's thigh instead.

He blinks, the feel of her fingers brushing through his hair comforting, if not equally terrifying. What feels like a damp rag passes across his forehead and he glances up to see her face.

"Am I dreaming?"

"No," she answers with a small smile. "I don't think so."

His heart skips a beat. "Did you—did you see?"

"No," she says again but the slight tint to her cheeks speaks volumes. Sebastian is about to question the appearance of her blush when her voice drops into a whisper. "But I heard...everything."

Sebastian briefly wonders if he can end his own life with a killing curse, or at least set himself on fire so he can escape the rush of embarrassment and shame that settles in his bones. He blinks, air wheezing out of his parted lips once he remembers to breathe.

He gulps, the weight of his tongue heavy in his mouth. Reluctantly, he lifts his gaze to her face and is shocked to find her expression is calm. "We have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

At least Sloane is smiling when she says, "yes, we do."

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfic #fanfic #sebastian sallow x f!mc #sebastian sallow smut

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currentfications · 6 months

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Ocean Eyes | Part 5.1

Pairing: Bada Lee x Producer!Reader

Synopsis: Continuing from Part 5, this is pretty much just smut~

Warning: Swearing, smut, 18+

AN: I have finally returned sorry it took me so long to catch up with work since my last sick day >_< this is my first smut in a LONG time I am very sorry if I rusty >/////< thank you all for reading!!

Previous | Next

You and Bada stumbled into the club’s toilet, stealing kisses in between the short walk as you weaved through the teeming crowd. Snickering, she pulled you into an empty stall and placed her hand back onto the nape of your neck - seems like she’s found her favourite spot to rest her arm on you, pulling you into another sloppy tongue down.

You reached behind her to latch the stall, pinning her to the door with your body. She looked up at your flushed lips through her lashes, pulling your face towards her own with a smirk. You shifted your weight onto the elbow on the door, sliding the other hand down to the hollow of her lower back. Feeling her arching towards you, you closed the distance between your bodies by tightening your grip above her tail bone. A small moan escaped Bada’s lips as she pressed her core against your thigh, her fingers tangled in your hair.

“May I?” You broke the kiss, whispering into the base of her neck. You felt her nodding and planted a soft kiss right under her ear. Her hastening breathing gave away her sensitive spot. You chuckled, sticking out your tongue ever so slightly to lick the sweet spot. Bada’s hand flew over her mouth to prevent a loud gasp from escaping, silently praying to whichever unholy deity there is that the club music is loud enough to drown out the erotic noises she’s currently making. Fired up by the effect you’re having on her, you trailed a flurry of kisses down her neck, towards her collarbone.

Bada gasped, panicking about the mark you might leave. “Don’t-”

“I know,” you reassured, cheekily grabbing her ass. “I won’t.” You continued to work your way across her neck and chest, harder than a tickle, but definitely not hard enough to leave any hickeys. After all, the last thing you want is to cause the dancer any problems during filming. Bada let out a sigh of relief as she rested her head on between your hand on the door and the crook of your neck, whimpering at your soft touches.

Dancers have such nice asses, you couldn’t help but think to yourself as you reached down to steal another sneaky pinch. Said dancer retaliated by biting down on your neck, and you let out a small whine. Smirking, Bada has found your weakness - a crack in the stoic glacier, and she is beyond elated to exploit it.

“Make that pretty noise again,” Bada implored, nipping your neck while she pressed her thigh harder against your cunt. You reached down into her ears and let out a sweet little gasp, effectively painting her already roast cheeks red.

The dancer sucked on your collarbone, slowing inching her way towards your shoulder. When she reached the strap of your dress, a mischievous look took over the choreographer as she shot you an inquisitive look. Raising an eyebrow, you nodded to allow whatever shenanigans she might’ve planned. Bada bit down on the laced detailing, sliding the spaghetti straps off your shoulder with a playful grin.

Her hand reached behind your back, fumbling as she unclasped your bra. “I’m usually better than this,” the dancer defended herself as she heard your low chuckle, “I’m six drinks in, cut me some slack,” she whinged as you continued to distract her by slithering your tongue behind her ears.

When she finally succeeded, Bada slid down the door ever so slightly to bury her face into your bosoms, her knee pressed against your core as she hungrily sucked on your nipple. You let out a faint purr as you pressed your chest towards Bada. The soft hum through your chest excited the dancer and she bit down on your breast.

“Easy there tiger,” you whispered under your shaky breath. You sure didn’t clock Bada for a biter, but in the heat of the moment you don’t seemed to mind either.

The choreographer rolled her eyes in protest, feigning annoyance like a child denied her favourite snack. “But I like them,” she nudged, before gently grazing her teeth over your now sensitive nipple, tugging softly. The sensation was almost overstimulating.

You jammed you knee between Bada, prying her long legs open. Riding her thigh as you press yours against her core, you both undulated against each other, using each other for pleasure. You felt tension forming in your stomach as you heard her filthy moans escaping her throat. She must’ve been close too, clenching her thigh around yours and intensifying her thrusts with every grind. You gently wrapped your hand around her neck as her moans grew louder, softly choking her as her eyes rolled back.

“Look at me,” you whispered at her, “I wanna see your pretty face when you cum.” Bada complied, her cheeks flushed and eyelids fluttering as she looked at you with her mouth wide, panting.

With one hand squeezing your bosom, thumb roughly running across your nipple and the other hand on your hips, Bada thrusted her hips against yours as you both reached your climax. Her thighs shook, her eyes rolled back as you covered her mouth to stop her lovely noises from escaping. Muffled, you faintly made out a few ‘fucks’ as you felt her slowly relaxing in your arms.

Panting into her with a faint laugh, you leaned against her forehead as you clasped your bra back into place.

“Awwh,” Bada whined, pouting as you put away her toy. “Can we do this again soon?” Her voice still husky from the hushed moaning.

You hummed and nodded, fixing the dancer’s hair as she straightened herself back up. Her sudden laughter stopped you in your track. Following her gaze down to her jeans you realised - Fuck.

“You’re dripping wet!” Bada exclaimed, your hand flying to her mouth to stop her from being heard. “Sorry,” she lowered her tone, still giggling at the sight. “Are you sure you don’t want round two?” She asked as she slid her hand up your dress, eyes widening at the wetness through the fabric.

You raised an eyebrow back at her, sliding your hand down her jeans while maintaining eye contact with the dancer. Your finger tips slid past Bada’s equally soaking panties and her breathing quivered. Her body is so sensitive after sex. “Guess that makes the two of us,” you whispered back with a mischievous smirk.

A loud banging on the stall made you both jump, as someone drunkenly shouted at the door. “GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE SOME OF US NEEDS TO SHIT GO FUCK SOMEWHERE ELSE IF YOU MUST-”

The two of you bursted out in giggles, shushing at each other to keep it down. Winking at Bada, you gave her neck one last peck. “Second round at my place?”

Tag list: @bada-lee-ily @lil-elliesgf @rubywonu @wiselight

#bada lee #bada lee x reader #fanfic #swf2 #swf2 x reader #smut #bada lee smut #swf2 smut #bada lee x fem reader

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thetalesofno-one · 2 months

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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. III -43 Tallies-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/? Chapter 3/5 ~5.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Forced together by the mists and lost in a strange new land, our four strangers run into a grim omen along their path and a fork in their road. The Ghost, the Rebel, the Charmer, and the Holy Man finally reveal their names where the deadmen carve their messages on the bones of trees. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Time seems timeless in this place.

No light wanders behind shaded skies, no sun, no stars. All the heavens diffused entirely behind grey skies hung so low the tops of the barren trees stretch their fingers to touch the clouds. A heavy shroud without breath, suffocating the land. Grasses greyed and withered, thin as straw, dry as hay. Their stalks rustle lightly in the rain with an endless shifting that carries the mind to places beyond. Luring thoughts away from the land like a dream.

Left in the rustling silence, Emet’s mind wanders.

The dim dissonance with the world bringing back memories of a darkened shop thick with the scent of paper and leather. Of a worktable scattered with various tools and thread, half sewn signatures left in a neat stack beside a half drunk and forgotten glass of wine as he remeasures a board and pares the edges of supple smooth leather, the scrapings curling across his fingers. Of candlelight flickering long through the sunken day, windows ever cast in the shadows of spires. Of night slipping over the city like a thief, light fingers pocketing the sun in velvet black without so much as a blink of notice from the little shop. The candles burning ever bright, the day’s end only realized when the flame flickers thin and the darkness steals the workman’s light.

Fingers pricked with needle thin scars and paper thin cuts lighting another candle. Hair loosely tied back, a few strands always slipping free as he smooths the marked tape along a new edge and carefully notes the measurements with a tailor’s precision. Of a guillotine blade sliding through a stack of vellum and trimming its edges to a fine point, a perfect block to be folded. Of the smooth texture of bone between his fingers, the gentle scrape as he runs the folder across the edge of a bent sheet, turning a bowed page into a sharp crease. Glue sticks to his wrist from a missed spot on the wooden table, the book shaping in his mind before its pieces are folded and glued and sewn together.

And all the while, the quiet loneliness whispering at his back with a phantom silence. Not of presence, but absence. Empty. The weight of a space where someone should be, infinitely loud in its stillness. Its siren voice chased away by the endless work. Its words unheard and yet unignored. Every movement his, every breath slipped through his teeth with no other lips to catch it. Scarred hands reaching for tools no other fingers brush across. And all the while knowing when he finally stops, the kitchen will be empty, the home devoid of spiced currents in the air, the bed cold. The bitterness left in tasting the flavors of an old life when you know now the sweetness of another.

“There is a scent of death.”

Emet’s attention snaps from lullaby memories. The holy man stopped along the muddy road, bent nose turned up and sniffing the air.

“Maybe undeath.”

The blades are in Emet’s hands before the old human even finishes his sentence. The broken glaive hanging dangerously from his hand, vicious tip polished to perfection and flashing brilliantly in the dim light. A stark contrast against the dark bloodstained cloth wrapped around its shattered haft.

The charmer knocks an arrow into his charred longbow with the fluidity of someone who has fired it under dire circumstances. A faint scent of smoke whispers past as his fingers tug the string lightly, ready for trouble.

“I don’t like this,” the rebel whispers, slipping her arm through a shield—a small round thing of black and gold painted metal. A coil of whip hangs from her belt but she reaches for metal instead. The short blade slips free of its sheath with a faint hushed breath.

The all too familiar stench of death doesn’t yet reach Emet’s nose, but he has no reason to doubt the holy man in this. Eyes flickering through the mist, resentment wraps itself around Emet’s chest and burns through his scars. But there is no place for spitting out what has been earned because of the hand that offers it. Not when it comes to undeath. Emet calls on his forsaken power. Soul reaching out beyond himself with clawed grasping hands ready to take what might be denied, he stretches out his inner self toward a god he isn’t sure will answer. Toward a god who heard his screams and turned away.

Power floods through Emet’s irises in a dim display. Pale grey light ignites his faded eyes in a hollow glow burning with ghost fire, and though they do not shine with the brilliant white of beacons as they once did, the divine sense is not gone entirely. Not yet.

The rebel glances up at him with an unreadable expression, but he ignores her and scans the mists around them. If anything undead or fiendish in nature lurks nearby, the divine power flowing through him will draw his attentions like someone taking his chin and gently pointing him toward unseen dangers. But no phantom fingers grace his scarred jaw or pull at his divinely heightened senses. Whatever smells of death here must then truly be dead.

Giving a nod to continue on, the holy man presses forward with the slow and quiet feet of a hunter stalking its prey. The faded light falls from Emet’s eyes after a moment and he feels the divine slip away from him with a cold chill. The rebel still stares at him with narrowed eyes and uplifted brow, but her lips remain sealed. Whatever question lurks in her mind, he suspects she no longer needs to ask it. A curiosity that seems less about the ability and more about the person wielding it.

Though he no longer wears his holy symbol or any sign of faith emblazoned on his person, no trace of a past better left buried, it is not uncommon knowledge to those of faith that only paladins—knights of gods—are blessed with such an ability. And Emet realizes he’s let something of himself slip in front of knowing eyes.

The rebel’s lips part—

The scent finally reaches them.

Sickly sweet and turning the stomach with a heavy wave of bile. Both enticing and revolting in that way only death can be. Corpse rot. There’s no doubt. Not but fifteen feet down the road, a human body decomposes half off the path with arms outreached toward the road as though it breathed its last in a desperate crawl. A young man once, clothes torn by brambles and thorns with flesh pockmarked by the beaks of birds feasting on an easy meal. A tarnished copper compass spills out from that outstretched hand, its red needle trembling and twisting uncertainly as though unable to find North.

The holy man kneels beside the body and looks it over without touching the overly soft and rain sodden flesh. The boy’s skin shifts across his bones with gelatinous ripples as the old man accidentally shifts the mud in taking a knee. A slimy sheen has already settled over the pale flesh like melted fat. Long strips and sharp pecks break through the wet surface to expose the black and purple insides, dark as a bruise, the blood long clotted and rotting. White bone peaks out from cheeks a fingertips, the nose half consumed. The birds have eaten well.

The holy man narrates his findings softly. Scratches from branches and brush, gaunt flesh, sunken eyes—what remains of them, at least—but no visible mortal wounds. The young man died from exhaustion of all things. The holy man’s eyes take on a dark and certain stain when he says the word.

Exhaustion.

How the holy man knows, Emet isn’t sure. But he never was the best at healing during training. Healing required not just blind faith like those outside of holy orders assume when they beg healers to fix their every ailing, but also knowledge of medicine. A bone cannot be knit together without knowing how its structure is woven together. A crushed hand cannot be reconstructed if one does not understand the pattern of nerves and vessels, tendon and ligament. Or rather, it will heal with faith alone, but it will never be the same again without knowledge behind it.

Emet has always been better at the unmaking…perhaps that’s why they were put together during training.

Him and Azemir.

Wrapped eternally like wax around the cold stillness of Emet’s heart, his name brings warmth to the hollows of Emet’s soul where nothing grows. Ever a flame without shadow, a sun without night. Healing and warmth have always been more of Azem’s specialty and Emet wonders how long it will be before he can touch those healing hands and feel their warmth. How far he must go to set things right again. When they will talk without so much distance between them. Or if whatever has happened in these mists will delay his journey. He will walk a hundred lifetimes seeking a way back if that’s what it takes. He will carry the weight of that name forever.

Sickening chills drift and trail cold fingers across Emet’s body snuffing out the thin flame of Azem’s name within his soul—always touching, always grasping. He shudders and crawls within his own skin wanting to shrink away, wanting to claw them off. They touch and grasp and choke and scream—

The calming coolness of one washes away all the others for but a moment. And Emet can breathe. Just one breath. Before they drift back like the sea and cling to him as algae on an anchor. But it’s enough. Why they grow restless, he doesn’t always know. Perhaps a reminder of the promise he made them so it doesn’t settle unfulfilled.

Emet’s eyes follow the old man’s ministrations with that name balanced delicately on the tip of his tongue. The way the old man’s rough and calloused hands move light as feathers over the boy’s corpse as though the kid can feel anything anymore. Pain is beyond him now, but still the old man moves gently. Emet isn’t sure what he is searching for. Perhaps some other answer than the one he already knows and something in the holy man’s expression settles like wet sand over a stone when he finds no other. The warm candle flame in his eyes dimming beneath a cold and familiar wind.

The old man rests a hand over the boy’s rotting one in a strange gesture of comfort. Bowing his smooth shaved head, he whispers blessings beneath his breath. Emet isn’t sure why the old man bothers. There’s nothing left to save.

Nudging the broken compass after his prayers and looking to where the boy’s hand falls, the holy man quirks his mouth sadly. Perhaps seeing another blessing where there is none.

“The boy was going this way,” he points to the opposite side of the wagon trail toward a tree bearing faint tally marks—43 of them. An arrow carved into its bark points away from the muddy road toward a thin path cutting deeper into the woods. A jagged knife cut through the trees, all but unnoticed if it weren’t for the arrow to point the way.

“You want to follow the dead’s path,” Emet asks incredulously.

“Why not?” The charmer steps over the rotting corpse’s outstretched arm to get a better look at the path behind the body rather than ahead, “He’s probably a criminal trying to leave, so I’d say follow where he came from and we’ll find civilization.”

“Why would you say he’s a criminal?”

“Why else would he be out here?”

“Why are we out here,” the rebel counters.

The holy man looks up from body, “And we are not criminals.”

The rebel gives the holy man a nod, “What the old man said.”

“I am not that old.”

Emet looks over the kneeling holy man. Crows feet spiderweb out from his eyes into well worn paths, tracing old channels. Deep lines folding into the leather of his human face, ripples and cracks where great emotion has marked it forever in memory. The echos of pain and joy held forever in weathered lines. Calloused rough hands scarred with the burden of much hardship dust off his knees as the holy man stands from the corpse. But no light cracks and pops fill the air as his bones settle. And he springs back from his crouch with ease, not even bothering to lean on his shepherd’s staff. The skin past his toughened hands bears much scarring and yet a youthful smoothness.

If he is not old, then he lived a life full of immeasurable hardship.

The holy man quirks his head to the side and returns Emet’s stare, “Why are you looking at me like you are reading stones in the sand?”

“Human ages are a bit difficult for elves to determine,” Emet admits.

“I am thirty-two.”

The charmer and rebel both snort.

“Nah, mate,” the rebel crosses her arms and grins, “You’re at least sixty.”

“I am not lying.”

She smiles, “Whatever, old man.”

The holy man scrubs his scrawled salt and pepper beard, gesturing off to Emet, “I am not old, he is old. Elves are always old.”

Emet concedes that with a shrug. He’s already lived more years than most of those with him could hope to ever reach and lifetimes before that.

“Yet he looks closer to thirty-two than you, old man,” the rebel continues, picking her nails with a sly grin.

“That is because he is an elf.”

“And I’m not?”

The holy man sighs.

“Ah, I’m just fucking with you, grandpa” she chuckles, “I know I’m half human.”

“You are half—what are you doing?”

The charmer barely pauses his light-fingered search of the dead boy’s pockets, finding more interest in stealing from the dead than their idle chatter. The holy man is about to admonish him further when the tiefling carelessly flips the body onto its stomach and continues his search through pockets.

The holy hand throws up a hand, all conversation on age and good looks forgotten.

“Eh! Eh! Devil boy! Respect the dead! I already took his compass if that is what you are looking for.”

The charmer ignores him, his hands continuing to wander across the ragged clothes and slipping into the pockets and folds as though it is a dance they have performed many times before. His fingers wander with a speed born of practice, seeking whatever the dead may hide. But his search is fruitless, the tiefling finding little more than a small pocket knife like used to carve the tree with its 43 tallies. He turns the small blade this way and that in his red hands, dark nails tracing the edge before pricking his thumb atop the tip. No blood flows along the blunted edge.

With one quick toss, the useless blade flies over his shoulder, “I’m a bit too far gone for respecting the dead at this point.”

The holy man frowns deeply, those ancient lines creasing in old paths. He turns away from the grim display and takes out his feather once more. Whispering more quiet words meant only for the far reaching ears of gods, the old man holds the brilliant feather out before him like a candle in the dark. After a breath, he releases the stem and watches it flutter listlessly to the wet ground. The stem settles first in the mud, its tip angling lightly toward the deadman’s path.

“I think we should go this way.”

Emet’s lips curl into a faint snarl, “How much faith do you have in that feather?”

“A lot of faith.”

“Do you honestly trust that more than the actual, factual compass you have in your other hand?” The rebel asks with no small amount of skepticism, the moment of warmth shared between them only a moment ago blowing away with the breeze.

“It has never lead me wrong, nor has my god. Besides,” the holy man tosses the tarnished bronze compass to the rebel, “this does nothing. It is broken.”

“I can’t fucking map-read,” she growls as she snatches it from the air with a loud clang as the compass hits the edge of her shield. The rebel palms the bronze and glass bauble in her hands, watching it a moment and expecting the needle to settle. But the sharp red spine continues to wobble and spin as though unsure.

Her eyes narrow, “I don’t think it’s meant to do that.”

“I have never had a compass,” the holy man shrugs, “but I did not think so.”

“Hey, poncy bloke,” the rebel looks up at Emet, “You look like you know how to use this kind of shit.”

Emet arcs a sharp brow at the nickname. In the absence of anyone having offered up their names, it was inevitable they’d all call each other something. But poncy bloke? Not exactly his first guess. Most people went with ‘giant’ or ‘tower’. He’s even heard ‘statue’.

The rebel’s arm swings out with the compass and all the world slows. Emet’s breath catches and his eyes lock on that approaching hand like a blade plummeting toward his gut. For a moment he can’t see, his vision crystalizing on that hand and blurring all the world around it as he instinctively steps away before he’s even realized what he’s done. His body moving without thought, shifting back as though about to be skewered in a fight before the moment ends and only an open palm offering a compass hangs before him.

A strange look crosses the half-elf’s face.

Emet thought he was starting to get better about this. Hand-shakes, fingers brushing when taking a drink from a server’s hands, shoulders getting bumped in a crowded tavern. All of these things he could handle with a steadying breath. But all of those things are expected touches. Expected moments that he can predict and prepare for, ready his nerves to stand firm. But the more unexpected the approach, the more he steps back into the shelter of himself like a fox cornered between stones with nowhere to run from the wolf’s shadow. And his body reacts with all it knows in that moment. Fear.

Emet shifts his blade arm deeper beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulder, drawing attention away from the hand wrapped tightly around the glaive’s broken haft with a light cough as he forces his clenched fingers to release. He breathes, thankful he did not draw steel this time.

Acting as though nothing happened, Emet stiffly leans over when the rebel gives the compass a little shake, beckoning him to take a look. Her face immediately screws up, recoiling as though he’s some shit-faced drunk at the bar thick with the scent of whiskey and lust and offering her the best lay of her life. Emet doesn’t understand the shift in her expression a moment before he realizes he’s a very large man looming over this young woman despite the distance his previous reaction put between them. The half-elf’s discomfort is readily apparent and Emet quickly puts some space between them after a brief glance down at the compass.

“No, it’s not supposed to do that,” he says gently.

The compass disappears in one of the rebel’s belt pouches as she shuffles away from him, risking a look over to the holy man as though asking him to interpret what the hell just happened. The old man only shrugs lightly.

Everything is going wrong, that’s what happened.

He almost apologizes, but the words catch in his throat. What if doing so makes them ask why he practically jumped away from her. Those aren’t questions he’s ready to answer, so better to not give an opportunity for them to be asked.

“So we have a feather, a broken compass, and I’m hoping you’re a tracker,” Emet says to the charmer, trying to plough through and trample into dust whatever walls this disaster of a conversation brought up before anyone thinks too hard on it.

The tiefling regards him a moment before flicking away a piece of dried grass twirling between his long fingers, “I rely on instinct and I’m with the old man on this one. His dumb feather pointed to where I wanted to go anyways.”

“Thank you, young boy,” the holy man nods.

“Watch it.”

“You keep calling me ‘old man’, why can’t I call you ‘young boy’. It is better than ‘devil boy’, no?”

“You’re fair game,” the tiefling bites back, “I’m not.”

Emet pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Would it not be better to call each other by our actual names instead of these substitutes.” He cuts a glance at the rebel to his side, “Creative as they are.”

The charmer scoffs, “Let’s not get sentimental.”

“First names, then.”

The holy man’s eyes widen incredulously, face scrunching as though Emet just suggested the moon is an illusion, “I only have one name. Are you supposed to have more?”

“Typically…Your name and a family name.”

The rebel murmurs something under her breath about having too many.

“That is a…weird revelation, but okay.” The holy man lifts his hand in greeting, “My name is Roshan, but you can call me ‘old man’ if you like.”

“Emet. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Both the charmer and rebel suddenly find great interest in some moss on a tree and a particularly long strand of dried grass as Emet and Roshan’s attentions fall on them in expectant silence.

“I can just call you ‘devil boy’ and ‘lovely elf lady’ if you want,” Roshan offers.

The charmer rolls his eyes and flicks away the chunk of moss, “Evrrot. You can call me Evrrot.”

Kicking a loose stone on the ground, the rebel keeps her voice low. Perhaps hoping no one will actually hear her, “Most people call me Evie.”

Roshan nods after each one, fingers twirling in his beard as though he can tie each name to his memory, “Emet, Evrrot, Evie. Everyone is an ‘E’. That is strange, but okay.”

“So we’re done here?” Evrrot asks, “Everyone all happy with their little names?”

He walks off down the deadman’s path without waiting for an answer, abruptly ending the conversation that was more akin to pulling teeth than basic introductions. Roshan quickly follows with a grin, resuming his practice of trying to walk ahead of Evrrot, further irritating the charmer tiefling into a faster pace.

Emet and Evie watch them hastily disappear between the trees, left behind again. Realization slowly dawns on them as they share another look that this will likely be their shared fate quite often in the days ahead.

“You know,” Evie says, “I get the feeling that wherever we go, we’re gonna end up in the same place anyways.”

“As do I,” Emet sighs.

“We could just keep following this muddy slop road and they’d probably end up right behind us.” She shrugs, “We could just go.”

“Tempting, though I get the feeling we shouldn’t be separating in a place like this.” He glances around the dark and silent forest pointedly, the mists shifting into strange shapes and shadows in the distance.

“Mmm, probably right,” she groans. “Come on then.”

Evie ushers Emet ahead of her and they follow the already fading silhouettes of Evrrot and Roshan. Both still vie for who gets to lead without there ever being a winner. Though from the near permanent curl to the old human’s lips, Emet suspects Roshan takes the game itself as a win.

The arrow carved into the tree above forty-three sharp tallies—every slash bearing down harder than the last, the groupings becoming more sporadic and wild, telling a tale of madness and desperation—points them down a narrow footpath. The trail is thin, quickly forcing them into a line as the trees and brush crowd in eagerly to either side. Branches reaching out to snag on their clothes and boots sinking in the thick slosh of earth. Roshan and Evrrot are forced to relinquish their game of footsie. ‘Devil boy’ comes out on top as he slips ahead of the holy man through a rather narrow bend where two barren trees crowd as desperately close as lovers in a storm. Despite the loss, Roshan casts a secret little amused grin toward him and Evie. A promise their game is far from over.

Though the scent of decay and rot gradually gave way to bitterly sharp winter air as they walked beyond the corpse along the road, it returns again, thick as ever in their lungs and threatening to make them choke. Ahead, an eerily similar tree with another forty-three tallies looms near the path with a bowed back, its branches nearly sweeping the dried grasses. Another arrow continues to point further down the path. But it’s the second body that makes this repetition unsettling, a shiver passing through their bones as though someone walked over their graves.

A bulking husk, ribs splayed open in grim offering to the meal of its soft blackened innards spills out across the path. Bloated gases wafting from the entrails with fresh release as though only recently released from the prison of bone. A half eaten yawning skull grins up at them through the sinew of the face it once wore, hooves splayed out in deep grooves as though the beast tried to keep running until the very moment of death. The rotting horse rests on its side, never to rise again.

Evrrot studies the body from a good distance where the smell is not quite so overwhelming. Emet notes he doesn’t pinch his nose from the stench as though it is one he well accustomed to. In fact, none of them do. An odd revelation, but one Emet isn’t yet sure of what it means. His own line of work often sent him delving into crypts and left him covered in the rot of decay for hours before he could finally scrub it off. But the average person does not easily handle such a scent without practice. The newest recruits to the order often went on several missions before they could stand it without bile filling their throats. His own first experience left him nauseated for days and unable to keep anything more than light broth down.

Evrrot steps over the splayed hooves, “Alright, so that dead guy was on this horse obviously. Probably riding away from whatever settlement is down the path. His horse dies, he goes on foot, and then he dies.”

“Or the other way around,” Evie counters, “Horse could’ve thrown him, then the horse went and died.”

Roshan hops lightly over the body, kneeling by the tree with a dagger of his own and carving a new tally to the set, “Maybe he was carrying the horse,” the old man offers sagely, “He was very tired.”

All eyes turn on him and Roshan simply grins.

With the tally carved, Evrrot quickly jumps ahead of the holy man and presses the group further down the pointed path. Emet steps carefully over the corpse, glancing back at Evie to see if she desires a hand. But the half elf stares off behind them, unawares. The path they’ve walked is already half swallowed by mist, the large wagon trail long gone from view. She twists back with a sigh, face quickly shifting as she gives him a glare to move. They continue on.

Eerie becomes troubling when the path leads to a third tree with the same forty-three tallies and another arrow. The lack of a corpse this time does little to alleviate the hook twisting in Emet’s stomach. It lifts and snarls his insides, not in pain, but in anticipation. Anticipation of the moment it will all go wrong.

This is what it felt like that day. The day he should’ve listened to his instincts.

The arrow points to a swallowed path. All sign of trail and trees vanish behind a solid wall of fog so thick Emet cannot see even a glimpse of what lies beyond. It bisect everything perfectly, trees ending abruptly as though severed by blade. As though a curtain were drawn across the land on a giant stage. The line the mist cuts across the path is unnaturally defined, too sharp and perfect and to be natural, yet permeable as proven by the grasses swaying in and out, vanishing instantly on the other side, yet returning again.

The foreboding hook twists deeper with the echo of Emet’s past. Of dark crypts and silent darkness, a day that started in laughter and ended in screams. Blood spilled beneath the sickening brightness of beautiful sunny day, the color forever tainted in red. They should’ve stayed on the well-worn wagon path. They never should have cut through these godforsaken woods. His instincts tell him to turn back now, but going back on his own still seems a far more foolish idea in these unknown lands.

Emet steels himself. A chilled touch settles over his shoulder. If the self-chosen leaders get him killed—if they ruin what he’s given everything for—Emet will never allow them a moment’s peace. Not in this life or the next. He already knows Kelemvor will never collect his twice damned soul. Not after what he did. So he’ll have all the time in eternity’s glass to make good on his vow. Maybe this one he’ll keep.

“This repetition is how the kid died.” He glares at the severed path, “We’re going in circles.”

“This isn’t the same as the last tree,” Evie says, “The old guy put an extra mark in that one. Plus, no dead things.”

“Not yet.”

But Emet suspects they will pass that tree again and the horse one beyond. And if his instinct proves right, they will do so again and again until they too die of exhaustion, carving tallies into trees until they can carve no more. There’s madness here and he’ll be damned if it catches him off guard. But the dead kid probably thought the same thing. Now he rots with a skeletal finger ever reaching for the path that killed him. A warning they did not heed.

The wall looms before them, vast and endless until it vanishes into the grey of the skies. Tendrils of thick mist swirl and twist like eels against the edges, unseen bodies pressing against the glass but never breaking through. The snaking, winding movement is almost hypnotic in the terrible silence.

Evie’s eyes narrow, “Anyone else think this fog is fucky?”

“Yes,” Emet and Roshan answer in unison.

The holy man taps his staff, warm dawns light spreading across the wood like honey. Though it glows in the deep reds and oranges of the morning sun, the light does little to chase away the sickly grey of this place.

He nods satisfied, “But this is the path, so let’s go.”

Emet blanches as Roshan lifts his shepherd’s crook and presses toward the wall of fog without another thought. He vanishes instantly. Whatever god this holy man follows, Emet hopes they have as much faith in their followers as Roshan does in them because this is about as foolish as sticking your hand in a nesting viper’s den and trusting it will not bite.

Evrrot—never more than a half step behind the holy man—strolls past the moon elf as casually and carelessly as choosing a garden path to stroll, vanishing almost instantly behind the old human. Not even a shadow is left to hint at their passing.

Emet stands speechless, too shocked to believe what he’s just seen.

The words finally come to him, “Well, fuck.”

#curse of strahd #dnd fic #strahd von zarovich #barovia #dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #gothic fiction #adventure fiction #fantasy fiction #fiction #fiction writing #my fiction #my writing #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #Tales of No One

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maiz-of-light · 2 years

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@ghiralink-week, Day03, Scars/Reincarnation

The marks we are born with are often believed to be the scars of our past lives. – Unknown

“I can’t deal with this right now!”

The words, rasped through gritted teeth, carry the undeniable cadence of exasperation.

You can, that voice rings cold in his head, and you will, boy!

Indeed, the blade resting heavy against the Hero’s chest is plenty large enough to function as a shield, and is much sturdier, to boot. Splintered bark and pointed stubs prod infuriatingly into Link’s back, snagging on his tunic and scuffing his leather armor. Meanwhile, his thighs have already begun to cramp from crouching in so tight a slot. From his treetop perch, hidden among the thick boughs, he can just make out the faint orange glow of the hilltop shrine.

Although perhaps the cerulean, leaking luminous through the body of that guardian below, is a bit more of an eye catcher.

Steep as the rocky slates may be, it isn’t too far of a climb from Point A to B. The question is, can he dodge the guardian’s laser long enough to reach his destination?

Dark steel pulses in Link’s grasp, exuding the same scathing hostility as the chords growling low from its depths. Should Hyrule’s fate truly fall upon your feeble shoulders, then the scattered herds of humanity are a sorry lot, indeed! A sword is to be wielded, Champion, and wield me you shall, or else!

The boy snaps. How in Hylia’s blessed name is he to plot his next move through these constant strings of jeering?

“Do you ever shut up?!” he shouts.

Mistake.

Through the mottled curtain of oak leaves, blue flashes into violet, a thin red beam blinking in and out of sight as the ancient monstrosity perfects its aim. Bouncing along the walls of Link’s pounding head now is the sword spirit’s… laughter?

“Is something funny, my lord?” the human almost screams.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Cover officially blown, Link leaps from the narrow nesting spot that had so briefly sheltered them both, sticking a landing that jolts him from the joints in his ankles to the crook of his jaw. When he raises his head, he finds currents of white rippling through an unblinking eye, his own blood racing in sync. Link circles the metal beast with burning arms, nerves ignited, inflamed with adrenaline and possibly something else.

Well, my beloved Hero, purrs that honeyed voice, if you must know, this turn of events can have one of two results: you will put my superlative make to proper use, or you will crash and burn as penance for your own stupidity. Either outcome is satisfactory in my eyes.

Suppressing an eyeroll, the Hylian secures his grip with both hands. It takes no small effort, lifting a weapon much larger than himself, but he manages to angle the blade into a high block. The tip plants into the dirt, its wielder meticulously following the guardian’s searing gaze-

-its eye flashes white-

-a low clink chimes fierce in his ears, and Link’s arms move on their own. Divine light, tainted with malice, rattles his bones, pulsing through his hands to his shoulders – and in an icelike explosion, the corrupted mass vanishes, felled by its own flame.

Corroded metal drops into the grass, otherworldly heat leaving a visible char. The silence that follows is eerie, but short-lived. Within seconds, the birds have resumed their meek bouts of chatter, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Not a moment more before diamonds dance silver from the treetops, flitting from the leaves like so many drops of summer rain. They cascade according to the patterns of the breeze, a pleasant warmth on one’s face taking visual form. No obligation precedes this lavish display, prolonged with such blatancy. Still, Link doesn’t complain, rather admiring the surreal exhibition as the pieces of starlight gather, at last, where the guardian had stood mere seconds ago.

The pale demon’s towering frame, thin strands glistening like moonlight even beneath the afternoon sun, never fails to stun. Leather claps thunderously against leather as he showers the young Hylian in slow, sardonic applause, a wry smile playing on white lips.

Chest heaving, Link props the massive sword against his shoulder, lessening some of the strain on his tired muscles.

“Thank you, Ghirahim,” he chirps sweetly, pressing a blushing cheek against the leather-wrapped hilt.

“Honestly, Link,” the demon sighs, accentuating with an exaggerated flip of his hair, “one day you may find I’ve simply left you to time these maneuvers all on your own! Sink or swim, as it were.”

There’s nothing accidental about the way the man is tilting his hips, nor did he forget to don the mantle that typically covers those skintight garments. Once upon a time, Link would have reprimanded Ghirahim for such immodest behavior. Anymore, though, he’s simply learned to roll with it, now running his gaze brazenly over that scarcely-concealed, ashen form.

For once, sword spirit’s shameless preening cuts itself short.

“Come along then, little hero,” he croons, initiating their (hopefully brief) uphill trek. “The sooner we get this trial of yours over with, the better.”

---

The sky hangs differently over the Forest of Spirits, as though beheld through a thin tapestry woven by the gods themselves. Even whilst strewn through dawn’s pastels, the heavens grin immaculately, infinite glittering teeth flaunted proudly upon their admirers.

Of course, only one is awake to enjoy it at the moment.

Fireflies lilt through the treeline while the more raucous insects conclude their nightly symphony. Encircling the odd pair’s meager campsite chitter all manner of fauna, some species more docile than others, yet the clearing remains as safe a resting place as any: not too cumbersome a hike from their most recently discovered shrine, and not crawling with guardian filth. No, the greatest ‘threats’ prowling about here would be the ugly red hides of the Boko clans, frail as dried twigs and not half as clever.

Then again, any beast can prove deadly to the unconscious, presenting the necessity for a constant lookout – and who better than one who requires very little sleep to begin with? Yes, that’s why Ghirahim is so inclined to remain awake, eyes ever glued to the sun-kissed frame huddled beneath their weighty pile of blankets; why he so closely monitors the young man’s breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his naked chest peeking shyly through the covers, comfortably exposed to the cool morning air; why he strokes soft patterns along tangles matted against their shared pillow, flawlessly tousled into a golden mess.

The contradiction that is the Hylian Champion ever occupies the demon’s mind: a fearsome soldier whilst on his feet, possessing no less than the strength of ten of his kind; yet when lain on his back (or, better still, sunken to his knees), so meek and submissive, he proves time and time again somehow greater a force of nature. Even now, slumbering soundly by his companion’s side, lean muscle ripples gently beneath smooth, lightly tanned skin, every curve marked with colorful variations. It stands to reason, thinks the demon, that he ought to examine each for possible injury…

And so, tentatively, he begins peeling layer after layer from the sleeping human, careful not to bare any skin much lower than the waist. Propped as he is, Ghirahim maintains a thorough view, ranging from the top of Link’s golden head to the gentle curve of his hips. Grey, slender fingers ghost over varying paths: a clean slice just shy of the youth’s hairline, its origins hailing from childhood; a soft patch of yellow-green upon his collarbone, where a Moblin had recently landed a well-aimed kick; deep purple splotches along his nape, their cause far more, hm, pleasant; crimson hairlines, speckled along his left arm, that have since scabbed into a deep maroon, a result of having tumbled from the back of an untamed horse. With each gentle touch of claws upon skin, heat pools inexplicably in Ghirahim’s core, until he can almost hear the light crackle of flying sparks.

Arguably more intriguing is the white, sinewy pattern zagging across the young Hero’s ribs, slithering predatorily from the shadows beneath their quilts. Though lost almost entirely to the artful canvas of Link’s body, Ghirahim exercises special care, quickly finding himself fallen captive to a harping sense of nostalgia-

Oh.

As if to punctuate this rearing epiphany, a shudder runs through Link, the gooseflesh pricking his arms at once becoming visible. How easy it is, he observes, whilst succumbing to the lure of ancient memories, to forget that this incarnation is much lighter a sleeper than-

No.

Perish the thought.

He wills it to drown in blue eyes, not like ocean waves so much as slivers of luminous stone. They gradually peek through heavy lids, only to fall shut at twice the pace. As they do, the Hylian rolls stiffly into the other’s chest, groaning softly. He pulls Ghirahim closer, lush lips brushing bare pectorals.

“See anything you like?” he breathes, groggily, into warm cinder skin.

Prides swells momentarily within Ghirahim’s core – surely, the lad’s sharpened wit can only be credited to the spirit’s own tutelage – but is soon swept away by the blithe current of emotion ebbing from that silvery scar. It extends rather stylishly over the younger man’s side, tapering off towards a smooth, sunbathed spine.

“This bearing is aged,” the demon muses aloud, tracing the jagged elevations. What was once a spark fades to an ember. “It would appear to have been acquired prior to the beginning of our partnership. Why, it almost looks as if-”

He stops himself short, afraid to allow his mind to finish the thought – much less his mouth.

The Hylian Champion, lax as his body would seem, maintains a tenuously sharp sense of alertness. “It’s just a birthmark,” he sighs. “There’s no story.”

‘No story.’

Palled lips nuzzle strands knotted and coarse. “Oh, my dear Link,” purrs Ghirahim, breathing in the scent of campfire and crushed leaves and singed grass and clouds. “There is no such thing as ‘just a birthmark.’”

His reflection falls on deaf ears, the little Hylian surrendering once more to sleep’s siren. Sinking wistfully lower onto their downy spread, Ghirahim allows himself to cater to his own oncoming weariness, gingerly carding through Link’s tangles until rest should overtake them both.

Would that you knew…

… sky child.

#ghiralink #ghiralink week 2022 #skyward sword #breath of the wild #botw #botw link #ghirahim #legend of zelda #tloz

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flerwexy · 1 year

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she is the wind that causes wrecks. she lies on my chest breaks the cage of ribs and listens to the faint heartbeat. she flows through my arteries like crimson wine and i get drunk forgetting my own name or the code she marks me on the insides of her skull. she is a midsummer storm. she destroys brittle bones and turns them to limp ash.

she is a ray of sunshine that paints amber freckles on my cheeks. she barely gets the pieces of my heart of ice and steel trying to put it together like a puzzle. she sticks bright plasters on it and sings songs from old tapes found in her old grandmother's forgotten closet. she takes my trembling limp hands connects all the moles and makes new constellations hiding them from prying eyes. she leaves translucent kisses and draws little stars around my unhealed scars.

she is the air of an autumn sunrise and she taught me to breathe with full lungs.

/ if she only knew how long i've been waiting for her /

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 3 years

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part i, autonomy in your coherence | c.g

With something like time that runs round with the world — ignoring it’s inhabitants and stealing things that you’d hidden away for safekeeping — you’ve taken up the hobby of art, furiously sketching faces that are six-feet under.

The skill is beautiful and horrific all the same, watching like a person with amnesia as the portraits begin to lose their depth, the freshness, the personality that came free with who you’d chosen to print on the page.

You’ve forgotten your feelings for Carl, because he didn’t feel the same.

You just wished you did a better job at it.

WARNINGS: mentions of death, suicide ideation

this is a continuation of watch you burn away and i recommend you read that, first! this is also part of a series, so here is the masterlist if you need it!

(cross-posted on ao3!)

Your father once told you he had a patient that died from heartbreak.

“Your heart can’t really break, though, right?” You’d said. A doctor for a father and a laboratory technician for a mother made you more than aware of things, seeing through the myths and pretty white lies of figures like Santa and the tooth fairy.

(They had gone through with it anyway, because although their child knew, it was a gateway to normality in such a busy home.)

Your father scratched his chin, unsure how to respond. “My patient had died from a broken heart, though the process wasn’t as simple as it’s term name. A broken heart — the nonliteral meaning — can be the cause and the domino toppling to many things that could lead to death.”

“Like what?” You’d said with little admission into the conversation, having been flicking through a novel you’d picked up a while back (which featured a one eyed pirate and his partner who’d ended up dying in the end — not that you knew, yet, at least.)

“I don’t know, er,” Your father swirled his coffee lightly, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “Mental health issues, for one. Erratic actions, depression, a lost sense of self. Obsession.”

“Huh,” You muttered, looking up at your father for the first time. “A lost sense of self? Really?”

“What is your father teaching you?” Your mother said, stepping into the kitchen with a questioning expression. The conversation ended there, without so much as a thought after.

You wish you pried your father for further answers. What you’d give to get the workaholic of a man to dump his duo psychology medical major thoughts unto you with little care.

The knowledge would be gold in your time of need, when pulling and pushing distance further between you was like venturing through a field of thorns.

(Perhaps you just missed your parents. But that couldn’t be it, right? They’d died and you had lived, their blood on your hands and the gun in your fingers, their glazed over eyes and your own that nearly matched, cold and willing without a drop of emotion.)

But you’d gotten through it for him— without him. Without anyone, quietly harboring scratches and bleeding from the field with little effort.

If someone asked, you would tell them with full and honest confidence that you harboured no more attachments. You were a naive teenager, running through your feet and over yourself for something that was just a crush.

Crushes are — in their whole singularity and purpose — temporary.

They are brief, and momentarily something that causes ripples and waves in your thoughts, just the slightest mention or faint sight makes you detour down a road of sickly sweet dreams and fantasies.

He was first love (like? You didn’t love him, no, it was a crush and it was something for the unattainable and the inappropriate — in which with full truth, he was.) so you poured the honey glazed remembrances and rose coloured lenses over your memories, because he was a first love, and you know that those were cracks in the heart, growing vines and constricting the part that was him — the part that’d always, always be there, without a doubt.

(However much you didn’t want it to be.)

The leaves and the venomous flowers that sprout in decaying grooves come with age, and you are older now.

You bear fresh scars that litter your entire being and wear newly buried bones of people who were once not just that, the dirt still sitting in the crevices of your nails, and you seem to forget their voices with each passing day.

More and more, the faces look like reference art rather than a taken from life picture, which was all telling them to sit still and watching their eyes crinkle at the edges when you show them the result, voices echoing and asking if they could have it.

Everyday, as it has become a peevish habit like biting your nails or obsessively reminding yourself your stove is off, you draw pictures of everyone.

If you are close enough with them, you ask the subject to sit and model for you, analyzing every breath and laugh they take when you crack a joke or engage them in meaningless conversation just to see how the light hits their brows when they raise, the shadows pooling in their aging lines.

Everyday, you wish and hope and even fucking pray that their portraits continue to be something of anxious routine, rather than trying to dump their image out of your head and onto paper so you can see their faces one more time.

His image seems to change with each moment he sits in for you, once a face with two piercing blues, then a patch and eyes that looked at the dusty wooden floor, and later, someone who looks at you straight, something that told you he was a survivor, who bore his battles proudly, the scar on the right of his face sitting ruggedly and bewitchingly.

You draw him, exactly the way you see him, and when you show him the picture, he laughs, and says “You made me look too pretty,” and you shake your head, “It’s exactly the way I see you.”

You do her, too, upon request. When she sits, you draw her almost like it was professional, drawing the curvature of her face with exact precision, intense shading, marking the features she holds. The dip in her nose, the straight of her hair.

(You often forget who you’re drawing in these moments, and when you step away from the canvas you’re hit with whiplash. It’s subconscious, the way you do these things to please him, wanting to see so clearly how his face spreads delicately with delight.)

It takes a little while for you to convince Ron. When you first propose the drawing, he gives you a confused face, before walking off to do shooting practice. He’s gotten better with the gun over the years, and doesn’t respond when you tell him you know why.

(His mother didn’t come out of it alive, and his brother didn’t come back without harm. The younger boy was alive, but would grow up with only his brother by his side and one less limb to account for.)

The second time, he makes a snide comment, albeit with no bite, about how ‘you must be a horrible artist, to ask me of all people to model for you.’

The third time, you’ve dragged him to the small office you makeshifted for the drawings in the garage. He studies every slit of paper you’ve ripped out of your book, the unfinished sketches or yet-to-be painted canvases piling up against the walls. Complete works sit proudly on your wall, displayed for the world to see.

His hands hover over the paints sitting on your desk, charcoal, dirt, sticks, paintbrushes, handmade dyes, wallpaper cut-outs.

“Why?” Ron says curiously.

“‘Why?’ what?” You echo, fiddling with a fork you grabbed from the kitchen, splaying out a thick lather combination of beet dye and cement onto your finger to check the consistency.

“Why do you draw these portraits? I get the others because,” He says, leaving the words “because they’re dead” hanging in the air between you two in mutual and regretful acknowledgement, “But you draw these everyday. You drag Carl and Enid off, or just sit on the benches and draw Maggie and Glenn knee-deep in the dirt.”

You sigh a dreadful breath, wiping the rest of the beet-cement mix onto the page with the pad of your fore-finger. “We’ll forget them one day.”

He looks at you, unblinking. The dead, the gone, and the soon to be long forgotten only existed in your memories, in your words, and when the time came that the world had moved on and stopped, they would cease. Their whole memory relied on the living, nothing about them able to reach and grasp life on their own. Memory was all that was left, and it was all you could do to wash away regret.

“And the rest?”

You bite your tongue hesitantly, your movements rigid, “You see their portraits. Everyday they get less and less coherent. When — when time comes , these drawings will be the only thing getting me by.” You whispered.

The ball had dropped. Coping and grief in it’s big and ugly form, preying on your conscious hungrily, taking shelter in your largest worries. Claws sunken in your flesh, the monster was a thing that felt like it would never go away, because it would loom right alongside death itself, watching and waiting for the moment they’d deemed someones time to have been enough.

(It would never be enough. Enough meant they’d pop in from next door and ask to borrow something, enough meant they’d swipe dirt across your face to make you angry — enough meant they would come in everyday and sit for their portrait once more.)

A creaking on the floorboard caught your attention, eyes watching as Ron’s feet walk to the corner of the room, before hopping onto the wooden seat with little effort.

“I’m not going. I never will. But — do it anyway. I’d… like to see how I look on paper.” He said cheekily, picking up a thin pencil off your desk and handing it out to you.

So you did. Seconds turned to minutes and minutes snowballed into hours in the dim lighting of the garage, asking the blond to turn his body, stretch his head and make different expressions, fulfilling and destroying the little worm of worry sitting in your head.

When you’re done with the charcoal, turning it around for Ron to see and to inspect, he asks, “What about you?”

“And what about me?” You say. His questions never make sense without further discussion, but the boy always has to wait for you to pry and ask him to elaborate.

“You don’t have any drawings of yourself. You’re the artist, the photographer, the one who makes these things that will stay longer than the memories and the words — so what about you?”

It’s rare that Ron delves into his emotions and the things he really means, but when he does, it’s something that stays, for a long while.

“I,” You didn’t have an answer for it. You weren’t one to do a self-portrait, it not being the same as having someone to sit and take from. “I don’t want to.” You finished simply, an ice cold realization coming to reality in you.

“Why?” He says the same words as before, but the words hold a heavy weight.

“I don’t know.”

You knew.

Maybe one day, you’d wished that you’d wash away like seafoam on the beach. You wouldn’t leave a single portrait behind of you, and the memories and the words were left mum behind his lips, because you knew how he got in a loss.

Quiet and unfeeling, it was so selfish of you that you’d counted on how he got in that state to leave you behind, neglecting you like the fruits of your memories you’d never get to bear.

Ron’s gaze bore into you like he knew exactly what you were thinking, telepathically taking in every thought you’d conveyed at your dispense.

“You should.” Is all he says, before stepping off the wooden stool and out the door.

What was wrong with you? You feel so… entirely foolish. Obsolete. Embarrassing.

You walked past the remnants of those who were gone everyday, obsessively creating canvas over canvas of them and the only thing you could think was that you’d wish to position yourself beside them?

This world was catching up to you, and fast, but you’d just have to run faster than it could.

#twd #carl grimes x reader #carl grimes #chandler riggs #angst #the walking dead #twd x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead carl #carl grimes x you

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diaphragmjellyfish · 3 years

Text

Careful

So after I wrote that last Paul fic involving vaginismus, I got quite a few messages saying how much it meant to some of you and I just want to say how much it warms my heart to bring others joy or comfort through my writing. Like I’ve been telling a lot of you, fan fictions are amazing. I love them. But they’re not always realistic, and that can be damaging to people who think sex is supposed to go a certain way and then blame themselves when it’s not like that. We’re all different, and everyone deserves to have a partner that cares about your well-being and pleasure. Don’t settle for less.

Seth Clearwater x vaginismus!reader smut

(Seth is 18+ in this)

Being with Seth Clearwater was, in a word, magical. He truly was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for. He was always there for you when you were upset or having anxiety, always made you smile and laugh, got you cute little presents or sometimes cool rocks that he found on patrol, and was super physically affectionate. Hugs, kisses, cuddles, hickeys, hand-holding. Y’all were the poster children for PDA. It made you nervous when you first started dating, because you thought he would want to get intimate right away. You knew that if you told him you didn’t want to have sex right away, he would be more than understanding. That’s just the kind of person he was. But you feared that holding off on intimacy would damage your relationship. Seth’s love language was physical touch. Yours was too, so stopping things every time it got too heated was a big roadblock in the relationship. Or so you thought.

The day came where you had to tell Seth about your vaginismus. He had asked tons of questions before letting you know how he felt about it all. What causes it? What does it feel like? How does the physical therapy work? Is there anything I can do to help? Once you explained the logistics of it all, you guys could start to be more open and honest about what you were comfortable with doing. It turns out, he thought you just didn’t want to be intimate with him. He thought you were only sticking around because of the imprint bond. Once you explained that yes, you definitely really really want to have sex with him, you just can’t right now, he was all smiles and wanted to try all kinds of stuff that didn’t involve penetration. You guys would have super open conversations about what he could and couldn’t do to you, and started experimenting with the things you were comfortable with. Let’s just say, Seth became an absolute master in the art of oral sex. For a while, it was all he could do, so he did it. A lot. I mean, you’d have to physically pull him away sometimes when it got too sensitive. He loved knowing that he could make you feel so much pleasure. It made him feel needed. Wanted. And of course you returned the favor.

You guys definitely have the foreplay routine down pat. Seth was almost always there when it came time for you to dilate every day. He would sit next to you, hold your hand, kiss you, or just talk to you about his day. Whatever you wanted, and whatever would distract you. He was so supportive, that when the day finally came that you wanted to try having penetrative sex with him, he said no. He didn’t think you had been using the biggest dilator long enough. What if he hurt you? What if you just didn’t like it? What if what if what if…..

But you had been waiting long enough. His support honestly turned you on. Every day when he would sit there while you did your therapy, you wanted to jump his bones for being so. Damn. sweet. No guy had ever cared about you to the point of withholding from sex for you. They always just let you put up with the pain. Not Seth.

“But baby, what if it hurts you?” he voiced.

“Then we can stop and try again another time.”

“But what if-”

“Seth,” you cut him off. “I know my body. Believe me, I’ve had to pay attention to it every day for the past year and a half while I did my exercises. I’m ready. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but don’t say no because of me. I want to try.” You sounded so soft and adorable while you said the last part that he nearly melted through the floor. Here he was, with the most beautiful girl on the planet all but begging him to have sex with her, and he was hesitating. That’s what love made you do.

“Ok, we can try. But you have to promise, I mean really promise, that the second it starts to feel anything but good, you’ll tell me.” His voice was laced with concern.

“I promise,” you said with so much confidence that he had to believe you.

“Alright. So we’re doing this. Did you want to… try it like, now?” The poor boy was a blushing mess right now. You just nodded your head and smiled. “Okay. Cool. Yeah, that’s cool. We can do it now. I’m totally down with that.” You knew based off of the way he was acting that you were going to have to make the first move, so you walked up, grabbed his face between your hands, and kissed him.

He seemed stiff, so you pulled away and said, “Everything ok?”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah. Everything is perfect. I just… do you want to go to my room?” Again, you just nodded, and let him take your hand and lead you into his bedroom, closing the door behind you guys. Jeez, he seemed more nervous than you were. You sat down on the middle of his bed, and reached your arms out and did grabby-hands until he laughed and joined you, lying you down and hovering over you. He kissed you sweetly, giving you every opportunity to say stop. You didn’t, but instead threaded your fingers up through his inky hair and pulled him closer to you. He took this as a green light to deepen the kiss, and brush his tongue up against your own. You guys continued kissing for a while since this was comfortable territory for you both. He eventually started moving his hands under your shirt, first massaging your stomach with his thumb and then moving up. He pulled back from you suddenly, eyes wide. “No bra?”

“Nope. I didn’t want anything to get in the way today,” you smirked and slid your hands over his shoulders. He had a look of awe on his face as he pulled the hem of your shirt up. You sat up and took it off, throwing it to the floor. Okay, yeah, so you were eager. You’d never enjoyed sex before and you thought you actually might for the first time. It was exciting.

As you laid back down, his eyes never left yours. He came back down for another kiss before trailing his mouth down your jaw, suckling at your neck for a few minutes before it was covered in faint red marks, and moved down to your breasts. Seth had always worshipped your chest. It was one of his favorite parts of your body. The size, the shape, the feel, were all beyond perfect to him. You gasped as he took a nipple into his mouth, your back arching up into him. He brought his hand up to massage your other breast while his tongue continued swirling around the first one. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, just relaxing into the feeling and letting your muscles be at ease. He sat up for a second, which was far too long, to take his shirt off, and you opened your eyes to admire his sculpted body. You would have loved him even if he wasn’t a shapeshifting beast, but damn, the muscles that came with were such a nice bonus. And they weren’t just for show. You never told him this, but whenever he picked you up so easily or carried you around or pushed you up against a wall, you got beyond turned on. You always wondered what it would be like to have him actually get rough with you, but that would be for another time.

Once Seth thought your boobs had been shown enough attention, he slid his hand back down to your stomach, and then lower. He fiddled with the waistband of your jeans before popping the button at the front and dragging the zipper down torturously slow. You felt so hot at this point that you thought you would climb out of your skin if he didn’t touch you properly soon. You raised your hips in a silent signal for him to take them off, but he was too distracted by the feeling of your soft skin to notice.

“Seth,” you whispered. He looked up at you, hand already stilling in case you wanted to stop.

“What’s wrong?” he panicked.

“Nothing is wrong. Can you help me take these off?” His eyes widened at this, and then he smiled. He sat up on his knees, gripping the waistband of your jeans on either side of you, and you raised your hips as he pulled them down slowly, admiring your legs as each inch of them was revealed. His breath caught in his throat as he took in the lacey g-string you were wearing, which you had bought specially for this moment. You never really cared about wearing cute underwear before since it would always end up on the floor anyways, but this was a big day. At least you hoped it would be. So you wanted to wear something cute, and boy did Seth appreciate it.

Once your jeans were all the way off, he gave a low whistle and said, “damn. My girlfriend is the most beautiful woman alive. How did I get so lucky?”

You hit his shoulder and looked away blushing at this. And then… oh, then.

Your sexy werewolf boyfriend lay down on his stomach in between your thighs, lifting your legs onto his shoulders, and gave you a smirk that could only be described as savagely canine. He kissed the insides of your thighs, nipping here and there before soothing with his tongue, inching closer and closer to where you really wanted him to be. He liked to take his time with this part. He flattened his tongue and gave your center a broad lick over your panties, eliciting a small gasp. He did this several more times until your hips were writhing and grinding, desperate for more friction. He reached under you, gripping the fabric of your underwear before all but ripping them off you.

“Hey, easy. Those were expensive,” you haphazardly pointed, too lost in the moment to really care.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he spoke lowly into your center right before diving in and wrapping his lips around you, sucking and kneading with his tongue. You gave a small moan, fingers once again tangling in his hair. He kept this up, alternating between firm licks and small sucks, his tongue constantly flicking that perfect spot. Seth heard in Paul’s head through the mind link once that porn wasn’t accurate at all to what women actually got off on. You were supposed to pick 2, maybe 3 key moves and do those until she was close, and then just keep doing exactly that until she came. Women are about consistency and rhythm, so if you change it up, they have to start all over. This advice had not failed him yet. Had not failed either of you, and you could have kissed Paul if you found out that that’s where Seth had gotten this tip. Fifteen delicious minutes later and you were teetering on the edge. You used to be insecure about how long you took to finish, but Seth had always reassured you that he just wanted you to feel good, and he would spend all day between your legs if he could. You were right there, legs shaking and eyes screwed shut, but couldn’t quite get that knot in your stomach to unravel. Seth pulled away, sensing your impatience, and knew you needed a little push. He got up and opened your bedside table, pulling out the large bottle of lube that you used for dilating, slathering his middle finger in it, and laid back down between your legs.

You knew what he was going to do, and trusted him enough to be careful, so you lie back and relax, knowing he would get you there no matter what. He dove back in with his lips, tongue flicking and rubbing for another few seconds before positioning his finger at your entrance, swirling it around to distribute the lube. He looked up at you, knowing you liked to guide his hand at first to make sure you were comfortable. You grabbed his hand, sliding his finger in slowly, inch by inch. You were pretty worked up at this point, so it didn’t take very long before his finger way fully inside you. He stilled his hand, waiting for you to give the all-clear, still sucking at your clit like a starving man. You tugged at his hair, shifting your hips against his hand, which he knew to be the cue to start moving. You didn’t much like the in-out feeling of being fingered. You preferred the pressure of him pressing on certain spots. He twisted his finger slowly so that his palm was facing upward, and began to stroke your top wall, making you shudder.

This was going to push you over that edge. Several minutes of consistency, pressure, and suction had you cumming hard, grinding on his face and moaning his name loudly. When you came down, Seth was still going, though more gently since he knew how sensitive you got post-orgasm. You had to whine and tug on his hair to get him to take his mouth off you, his finger stilling but remaining inside.

“Wow,” you breathed, eyes closed in a haze.

“Wow yourself, Gorgeous,” he winked at you. You made a move to reach down and grab him through his sweatpants, but Seth was quick to pull your hand away. “This is about you tonight,” he said with total sincerity. You wanted to argue that it was about both of you, but you knew he had his mind set on taking care of you, so you decided to let him. “You ready to try, baby?”

“Hell yes,” you laughed, sitting up. “Maybe I could start on top? That’s how I dilate and I could control it better that way.”

“I was just about to say the same thing,” he teased back. He moved to lie back against the headboard after taking his pants off as you kneeled on the edge of the bed, grabbing the bottle of lube. While you were turned away from him, he brought his hand to a cheeky slap on your ass, catching you by surprise.

“Hey!” You squealed and then giggled, turning to give him a playful glare.

“I couldn’t resist! It was right there,” He said, holding his hands up in surrender.

You simply rolled your eyes at this, grabbing a condom from the bedside table as well. You turned to him, still kneeling, and handed him the condom, which he ripped open with his teeth (and it was so hot). He slowly rolled it onto his rock hard dick, keeping a hand around the base as he looked up at you. “You absolutely sure about this?” he questioned.

“Yes Seth. I really want to.”

With this, you climbed up to straddle his lap, squirting generous amounts of lube onto him and spreading it around with your hand. You knelt up, positioning him at your entrance after throwing the lube on the floor. He sat straight up, hands going around your waist, one reaching up behind you to cradle your head. He gave you a passionate kiss as you lowered slightly, letting the tip of him find its way in. You stopped here, doing some deep breathing as Seth stared intently at your face, looking for any signs of discomfort. Seth was slightly smaller than your largest dilator, but what had you slightly concerned was the friction. The in-out-in-out factor usually caused you pain when you tried bouncing on your dilators. You would just have to keep the lube on stand-by and remember to breathe with your stomach.

When you were sure you would be ok, you lowered more, sinking down an inch with every exhale. Seth lovingly rubbed your back, hand petting your hair as he waited patiently for you to adjust. You felt unbelievable around him, but he didn’t want to express too much pleasure, fearful that you would put up with any pain for his benefit. He settled for nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, holding you as close as he physically could. You lightly scratched at his shoulders, holding on for dear life. You had to stop for a moment at the half-way point, trying your best to control your pelvic muscles and picturing a flower bud opening in your mind. Slowly, you lowered another inch, and then another, and another, until you could feel his thighs touch you. At this, you sat down fully on his lap, his cock sheathed fully inside of you.

I need a minute you thought. This was a lot. Silicone dilators were one thing, but to have your boyfriend inside you like this was completely different. He was warm, hot even, and you could feel his pulse, feel the throb in his veins. The twitch of him deep inside you.

“Fuck,” Seth gasped quietly, as if he didn’t want you to hear.

“Feels good?” you questioned.

“Mm-hmm. Are you okay?” He asked right back, face still buried in your neck.

“I think so. Just give me a second.”

“Take all the time you need, baby. Do you want me to touch you?” His hand came over from your back and he grazed your lower stomach with his knuckles.

“No. Too much,” was all the answer he needed before he wrapped his arm around your back once again, massaging your skin soothingly. This was going on too long, you thought. Seth was probably dying right now. You didn’t want him to suffer, so you lifted your hips a couple inches, sinking back down on him. You felt a stinging sensation at your entrance, but ignored it. Before you could lift your hips again, Seth grabbed your waist in a vice-like grip, still holding you against him but stopping all movement.

“Don’t you dare,” he spoke softly yet firmly. “I can feel how tense your muscles are right now. Relax and then you can try again.” You wanted to cry at this. He was getting frustrated. He was going to break up with you! But you silenced those negative comments and realized he was right. So you took some deep breaths again, focusing on the pressure of his tip deep in your walls, the feel of his fingers grazing your back, his other hand playing with your hair. You closed your eyes and focused only on the sensations. “There you go, Sweetheart,” he said as he felt you relax around him. Instead of going straight up and down this time, you ground your hips against his, making circles on top of him. And it felt… good? Jesus. For the first time in your life, sex wasn’t hurting. It still felt a little tight and stiff, but it didn’t hurt. So you kept at it. Your breathing picked up at the sensation, along with the exertion of kneeling for so long. Seth pulled his face out of your neck and used the hand that was petting your hair to pull you into a passionate kiss. You guys made out as you continued to circle your hips, both of your breathing labored. Seth gripped your ass in one of his hands, helping control your movements as your legs began to shake.

“You getting tired, baby?” he questioned, even though he could see that you were. You just nodded, slowing down a little. “Do you want to try a different position? Maybe one where I could do some work?” You wanted to, but were nervous. The trust you had for Seth was absolute, but what other position could work?

“Like what?” you questioned hesitantly.

He thought for a moment, hands stilling your hips, before he cracked a smile. “I have an idea. Here,” he spoke as he shifted you both further down the bed and laid back so he was flat on his back, you still on top of him. He brought you down so you were stomach to stomach, hands going to the small of your back, and planted his feet on the bed. He held you close as he lightly thrusted up into you.

“Oh,” you breathed a moan. This felt really good. Being on top and controlling the movement had been good to adjust, but having Seth fuck up into you like this was another level of pleasure. He barely thrusted, but still hit the right spots. And you could still easily lift your hips to pull away if it started to hurt.

“Good?” he whispered.

“Mm-hmm. Oh my God,” you whispered to yourself, reaching up with one hand to grab the headboard. You thought you heard him breath a laugh, but were too lost in the moment to pay much attention to anything but Seth’s movements. He kept a steady pace of small thrusts, going slowly, never questioning the pace or pushing your limits. After a while, you started to push your hips back against his as he went into you.

“You want to try going a little faster, Sweetheart?” he questioned gently.

“Yes,” you said with half-lidded eyes as you looked right into Seth’s coffee-colored irises.

He brought himself out a little further at this, pushing back into you slightly faster than before, and hitting that perfect soft spot inside you that had your toes curl. You released a real moan this time, and Seth swore he could have cum from that sound alone. He kept this pace up, not daring to go any faster since you both were already enjoying it so much and he didn’t want to risk ruining the moment with pain. For the first time in your life, you felt actual pleasure from penetration, and you wanted more. You wanted to cum, and you felt like you actually could. With this realization, you brought one of your hands down to your swollen clit, rubbing tight circles on it that had your moans go up in pitch.

Seth grabbed your hand, putting it back on his chest as he reached down and began rubbing you with his own fingers and cockily stating, “That’s my job.” You felt your eyes roll back in your head at this, and it was the hottest thing Seth had ever seen. You felt a knot begin to form in your stomach, tightening faster than it ever had before. After just a couple more minutes of this, you moan “Oh, Seth. I think I’m gonna cum.” Of course this only spurred him on to keep going. Consistency, he reminded himself. Don’t change a thing. And he didn’t, not until you were seeing stars, trembling on top of him and screaming his name as your climax crashed into you like a wave. You had to rip his hand off your dripping center when the sensations became too much, and he stilled inside of you.

“Did you finish?” you questioned him once you came down, confused. If he had, it had sure been subtle.

“No, but I didn’t know if you were okay to keep going. You seem pretty sensitive right now.”

“Seth, I want you to cum too. Just… do you think you could like, not take a while? Like, could you finish in the next couple minutes? I’m okay now but I don’t want to push it.”

“Baby, I can finish in the next 30 seconds after looking at your face while you came like that.” You blushed deeply at this, breath picking back up again as he continued to gently thrust into you. He screwed his eyes shut after a couple thrusts, losing rhythm in his hips as he spilled into the condom with a growl and relaxed underneath you. “Fuck,” was all he said.

You laughed. “Yeah, fuck.”

He let you sit up and pull off of him at your own pace before dismounting and moving to walk to the bathroom.

“Wait! Wait,” he almost yelled, startling you half to death as he sat up, removed and tied off the condom, and hopped off the bed to throw it away. “This is the part where you let me clean you up and take care of you.”

“You just did take care of me, Seth,” which made him giggle.

“Not like that silly goose! Just stay there.” He joked as he made his way into the bathroom, coming out with a damp towel. “Spread ‘em,” he motioned towards your legs. You laughed deeply, obliging. He was ultra gentle as he wiped the lube off the insides of your thighs, kissing your knees as he finished. Then, he threw the towel into the hamper and retrieved his softest sweatshirt and placed it over your head as you moved your arms into the sleeves. “And now, we cuddle.” He looked so damn pleased with himself.

You laid your head on Seth’s warm chest, his arms coming to wrap around your waist. You two stayed like this for a while, just soaking in the details of what just happened. You did it. You had sex with your boyfriend. Actual penetrative sex, and it didn’t hurt.

As if reading your mind, Seth spoke. “I’m so proud of you.”

#twilight #twilight smut #seth clearwater #seth clearwater x reader #seth x reader #vaginismus #dilating #booboo stewart #paul lahote #embry call #wolf pack #sam uley #jacob black #jared cameron

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prfctethereal · 3 years

Text

just another horror movie. | james potter

pairing: james potter x reader

chapter: prologue

warnings: NSFW smut, oral (female and male receiving), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, talks of a killer, general horror themes

word count: 2.9k

summary: its been a week since you’ve last seen your boyfriend as there is a murderer out and about you spend the night together, not knowing that they aren’t safe themselves.

The power had long gone out, yet you couldn’t sleep, as the wind bashed against the side of your house. Home alone - your parents had gone away for the weekend - and the storm outside gave you the spooks. A faint candlelit light warmed the living room, silhouettes dancing across the walls, as you sat curled up on the couch, trying to get the noises out of your head.

A book lay open on your lap, a random page open, but your eyes couldn’t focus on the words. You were nervous - storms always made you like that - but there was nothing you could do. All you hoped was that the storm would blow over in the morning. All you hoped was that you would peacefully fall asleep and morning would come quickly.

A scratching at the door knocked you out of your trance. Your head flicked up, eyes glossing over the front door, as you listened out. You tried glancing out the window to see who it could be, but the outside was too foggy. You could barely make out the flickering street lamps.

Cautiously, you moved towards the front door, your book folded back neatly in your hand. Maybe you could use it as a battering ram if there was an attacker at the door.

In your left hand, you picked up a candle, shining it towards the door handle. Taking a deep breath in, you flung the door open. Well, you slowly opened it, but the howling wind opened the door further.

“Jesus sweetheart, you gon’ let me stay in this rain all evening, huh?”

It was only James Potter.

Giggling, you tugged on his shirt collar, pulling him into your house, dropping your book on the way. His shirt had been soaked by the rain, no doubt that he must’ve walked all the way here from his own house. His usually beat fluffy hair was sticking against his forehead, crystal droplets clinging against his face. He looked devilishly handsome from the weather.

Staring up at his hazel eyes, you bit your lip seductively, waiting for him to make a move. For a moment, it seemed like he was just going to stay there, peering down at you through his water clogged eyelashes. Eventually, a half smirk tugged on his cheeks, a gentle rouge returning to his skin as he warmed up against the candle.

You couldn’t handle the suspense much longer. You leaned upwards, pressing your lips against his hungrily. You drank him in momentarily, getting intoxicated on his flavour - something sweet and something bitter at once - until you pulled away, needing oxygen.

“That’s a lovely welcome wagon.” James said cheekily, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek, his wet fingers brushing against your cheek bones. “I was starting to think you had forgotten me.”

“It’s only been a week.” You hummed, leaning your forehead against his, happy to be in his presence once again. “You know my parents don’t want me going out at the moment. They’re still so tense about the so-called killer roaming around.”

James pressed his lips to your cheek, calming your nervousness down with his touch. “I know darling. I wish they wouldn’t take it out on me though.” His soft voice vibrated against your skin. You hummed along to what he was saying.

“It’s not your fault.” You muttered. “I have you now.” You started kissing from his lips to his jawline. Your plush cushions left tiny marks on James’ skin as you nipped lightly. Listening to his light moans only spurred you on, tugging him from the entrance way to back into the living room.

Pushing him onto the couch, you straddled his lap, continuing your venture on his neck. Sucking and nibbling at the skin underneath James’ ear, your desire to see your marks on him grew. Pulling back, you admired the flush on his neck, the other warm scarlet hue already fading to a gentle violet. Underneath your heat, you could feel James’ growing bulge against you, making you groan with arousal.

You couldn’t help your excitement. Clawing at his chest, you tugged on his shirt some more, signalling that you wanted it off. In a frantic scramble of limbs, you both worked together to undo the buttons on James’ damp button-up. Pushing it off his shoulders and revealing his toned torso, you pressed your lips against his chest, smothering open mouth kisses across his pectorals, eliciting whimpers from the bespectacled man before you.

James bucked his hips against you, signalling that he was getting desperate. In an attempt to sooth his desires, you pulled yourself downwards onto your knees, looking up at him. “May I?” You asked for consent, resting your hand against his thighs, the pads of your fingers tracing delicate circles against the material of his jeans.

“Please.” James gulped, already breathing heavily. With a smirk, you hoisted yourself upwards again, hands fidgeting with the zipper on his jeans, undoing the top button. When the jeans would allow you, you pulled them down, revealing James’ girth, straining against his boxers. The sight alone made you grow wetter in your underwear.

With another nod of consent from James, you pulled down his boxers, his thick member slapping against his stomach, red and angry from the tensing beforehand. Lethargically, you stroked the palm of your hand against his skin, spreading the leaking precum from his tip all over his length, making it smoother to handle.

Quickening your pace, you looked up at the fine young man before you, whose eyes were squeezed right from the pleasure. Except, you wanted him to look at you. It had been over a week since you had last been intimate and you wanted the attention on yourself. You were the one pleasuring James, not the inside of his eyelids.

“Look at me,” you whispered against his cock, “I’m the one making you a whimpering mess.” In an attempt to please you, James looked down at you, fixing his eyes to the way you pressed gentle kisses to the underside of his cock, your lips rubbing across his sensitive veins.

“S-so good.” James whimpered, as you took the beginning of his length into your mouth, suckling on the head. “Please… I need more. Please give me more. I’ll be so good to you, please, just give me all of your mouth. I beg of you, give me more.”

Satisfied with James’ begging, you started downwards on his cock again, trying to fit as much as possible in your mouth. As you were entirely caught up in the way James was falling apart beneath you, you didn’t notice the scratching at your window, until the wind had entirely slammed against it, rain pelting the pane of glass. The swinging window had opened itself up from the ferociousness of the storm, a cool draft interrupting your intimate moment.

A chill ran up the back of your spine, and it wasn’t from arousal. You took yourself off of James’ cock, giggling as to disperse the tension. His thigh muscles were flexed and tense, sweating beading from his palms. Sitting up slightly, you placed your hand against his, a feeble attempt to calm his racing mind.

“It was just the wind, love.” You murmured, sitting back on your heels, making your way to the open window. The hissing rain coated you in a thin layer of ice cold water, as you poked your head outside, checking the yard to see if anyone was there. Exactly like you thought, no one was there, except for a stray rodent in the grass. Satisfied, you closed the window, double checking the lock to make sure it was locked tight.

Spinning around again, you noticed James’ attention wasn’t on you once again. A frown appeared on your lips as you followed James’ gaze outwards into the kitchen. “Babe..” He whimpered again.

“What’s wrong?”

“The lights.” James paused, turning his head back towards you once again. “They were flickering.”

“Impossible.” You scoffed, strutting back towards James, placing your hands on his shoulders lovingly. “The power went out hours ago.”

You could tell James was still nervous, and rightly so. For the past few weeks, it seemed like a serial killer had invited themself into the neighbourhood, slaughtering mischievous teenagers whenever they could. Luckily, it hasn’t affected your friend group much, but it has still rocked you and your community. Your parents even refused to send you back to school.

They were hesitant to even go out his weekend, but you convinced them it was a good idea, as to leave you alone from their constant pestering.

“Would you like to go upstairs to my bedroom, love?” That peaked James’ interest, who immediately started flashing puppy dog eyes, as if that would convince you further. Grinning sweetly, you took his hand in yours, pulling his pants up momentarily, as you grabbed a candle.

Hand in hand, you walked up your creaky stairs together, with you leading the way with your candle. When you reached the landing, you invited James into your bedroom, closing the door behind you to set the mood even more.

Gently placing the candle on your bedside table, you laid yourself against your plush comforter, spreading your clothed legs to tease James slightly. It was just then when James realised that you were fully clothed when he had already lost his shirt and some of his pants. Greedily, he lunged forward, nimble fingers working at the hem of your shirt.

“Please can I take this off?” James asked sweetly, meeting your eyes with his. Humming in affirmation, James ripped the top through the middle, receiving a chuckle from you. He plunged his face into your protruding breasts, inhaling the scent on your skin. His hands worked subconsciously against your arms, pushing the remains of your shirt off of your body. When the last of that flimsy material was off of you, you swung your hands behind you, unhooking your bra, revealing your perky tits fully to your boyfriend, who looked like he had just won the lottery.

“Go ahead darling.” You affirmed to the boy, who immediately latched his mouth onto your nipple, humming in delight at your taste. At that moment, you felt like heaven. The soft noises of James sucking against you brought you peace in this stressful time.

You felt James move across to your other tit as your eyes glossed over to your open curtains. In a flash, you saw a darting figure, something solid and dark standing within your tree. When you looked back, it was gone.

Must’ve been a trick of the light.

You were getting too worked up again. To move the thoughts out of your head, you gently reached underneath James’ chin, tilting his face upwards, stroking his cheek with your hand. You reattached your lips to his, pushing the anxious thoughts away, only focusing on the person giving you pleasure in the moment.

“May I?” James nosed at your jaw, taking in deep breaths, yet you were unsure of what exactly he wanted. Smirking, you cocked your head to the side, pouting ever so slightly.

“What do you want darling?” You teased, letting your finger wander across James’ skin. “If you want something, you have to ask.”

James was slowly turning into a whimpering mess as he continued nosing at your neck, placing gentle kisses to your sensitive skin when he felt like it, something you let him do lightly, as he was still a little spooked from the window situation.

Then, you felt James’ hands travel south, trying to connect to whatever skin was available. You understood in that moment what he wanted, grinning cheekily and tugging his face down. With your approval, James looked delighted, flipping your skirt upwards and pulling down your panties. Mesmerised by how your arousal had already soaked through the material, his jaw fell open slightly.

James dove in, kissing and nibbling at your quivering cunt. He licked a fast stripe up the entire length of your pussy, finishing at your throbbing clit. It was screaming to be touched from James’ accidental teasing. When he eventually attached his lips to your clit and sucked, you arched your back off of the bed in pleasure, blissful to finally be getting what you wanted.

His playful tongue teased your entrance, dipping in momentarily before completely pulling out. You hadn’t realised how much you needed him until now, but you let him have your fun. He was your good boy after all.

James continued his venture of your cunt, feasting upon it like a starving man. You tried to keep your eyes on him - to admire the sight and to not be a hypocrite - but your eyes wandered towards the window. You had the full view of the tree once again. You still couldn’t get that figure out of your head, as much as you would like to with the adoring man between your legs.

A crash rang out from downstairs.

In an instant, James shot up from between you, looking at your bedroom door that was pulled shut. You could’ve sworn that you had even heard James growl slightly. Reaching towards him, you carded your fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp in an aid to sooth him.

“Shh- shh- shh, it will just be my cat darling, don’t fret.” You tilted his head back towards you, pulling him upwards so he was hovering over your naked body. You stretched upwards, connecting your lips with his, tasting yourself on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, the feeling of his cock pressing against his lower stomach getting to you.

“I need you in me. Please, I want you.” You begged, showing a little submissive behaviour to redirect James’ attention. It worked. His eyes were fixed on you once again, his tongue darting out from his mouth to lick his lips.

“Okay love, just lie back.” James hummed to himself as he lined up his member with your entrance. Looking back at you for consent once again, which you granted with a nod, he entered your tight cunt, a moan escaping his lips.

It felt like ecstasy to be connected once again so intimately. You had forgotten how obsessed you were with the way he slotted into you. Bottoming out, he started thrusting with more effort, pushing himself along so you would fall apart. James’ favourite thing ever was the look you made when you came.

Trailing your fingers downwards, you played with your own clit, feeling your back arch from the bed. It was all too good. James was thrusting into you like it was your first time, and it almost made you forget about the storm outside.

Almost.

It seemed like your eyes were transfixed on your window. The rain was now peltering down ever harder, as if that was possible. As your own orgasm grew, it felt like the storm did too. Sweat was dripping down your face, but it felt like icy rain against your hot, flushed skin.

The lack of control was driving you mad. In a last attempt to clear your anxiety, you pushed James onto his back, his cock slipping out of you momentarily, until you straddled him once again.

Riding him made you feel better. James was back to moaning beneath you and you were calming down. The only sound that you were focused on was the sound of your skin slapping against each other and James’ heavy groans echoing off the walls.

“May I cum?” You had almost forgotten about James for a second. His eyes were screwed shut and it seemed like he had been asking for permission for a while, something that your senses must’ve skipped over. In a way to reassure your boyfriend, you ran your fingers over his chest, focusing attention on his tight nipples.

“Of course, such a good boy for me.” And with that, James came with a shout. You could feel the hot ribbons of his cum filling you up, as James toyed with your clit, desperate to make you cum against his cock before he softened. It didn’t take long as only seconds after James came, you came with him, your orgasm washing over you like a tidal wave, knocking over all of your senses.

When you came to, you noticed a scared look back on James’ face. Confused, you peered over to where he was looking, and heard it too. Banging against your bedroom door, someone was in your house and someone was trying to get into your room.

You screamed. It was the only thing you could do. Finding a rogue sweater off the ground, you struggled to push it over your head as James scrambled to pull his pants up. When you both felt like you were dressed enough, you rushed over to your bedroom window, opening it desperately.

A splatter of rain water hit your face, cooling you from your previous exhibitions. There was a tree right next to your window, which you reached out to, curling your fingers onto the branch. Looking back, you saw the door begin to open and panic settled in you.

You jumped. You jumped from a second story, landing not so ideally on your ankle. You hissed in pain and James followed suit, only he managed to land in a skilled way.

“Come on, hurry.” James pestered you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and hoisting you up. You began running away from your house together, your sprained ankle slowing you down more than you would’ve liked.

When you looked back, all you could see was a hollow figure standing on the footpath, watching you.

*** a/n: i wrote something again hell yeah

#james potter #james potter x reader #james potter smut #james potter fluff #james potter angst #marauders era #marauders #harry potter #jahmfic

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sasukelore · 4 years

Note

Cockwarming with with todorki and bakugou? I love your work. -🧠

Summary ↳ NSFW, Some of the BNHA boys like to be kept warm. Cockwarming ensues.

Authors note ↳ Weewww another bnha hc? Yes. Don’t worry I haven’t forgotten about Naruto. I’ve been meaning to write these kinda hcs for months now, so I thought ‘why not go all out?’. I added Dabi and Hawks into the mix! Hope it’ll add some extra sizzle ✨ also for some reason the character headers are saying they’re explicit idkw LMAO I hope that doesn’t cause any problems or confusion!

Character(s) ↳ Dabi Todoroki Touya , Bakugou Katsuki, Todoroki Shouto, Keigo Takami.

Warnings ↳ NSFW. Mentions of genitals, intercourse, kinky, cockwarming, degration.

Bakugou definitely uses cockwarming to tease and put you in your place. But that’s not to say he wouldn’t enjoy it... In fact, he might even overreact, just to see you writhe and whine still on his hardened member.

Move and you’re getting your head pushed into the pillows, a string of curses about how you should’ve listened to him, and that you don’t even deserve what happens next falling from Bakugou’s mouth

Bakugou can be rough as shown above, but he’s very attentive. If he sees you becoming too overstimulated, to where it doesn’t even feel good anymore, he might be a little concerned you’re really not enjoying yourself

He might try to vanilla things if that happens, if only just a little bit.

If you try to casually sink onto him, he’ll complain about what a brat you are sure, but his hands gripping your waist tells you something else

Bakugou loathes when you think you’ve gotten one over on him. Don’t go thinking you’re better than him, stubborn Baku will bite back a raspy groan just for that- Which is exactly what you want not to happen

His little noises have your legs twitching and the slick of your arousal running down your thighs, right down onto his.

He knows what it does to you, and that’s one of the ways he’ll take back control in the situation.

Your hips will be unexpectedly jerking, because fuck, he’s got his hand around your little throat, telling you to shut up, and that he thought you were suppose to be teasing him. You weren’t doing a very good job were you?

He’s boisterously laughing at you. Bakugou your superiority complex is showing 😌😩

But all of a sudden he’s mad at you, because yeah you’re really hot on top of him like this...

Huffing and puffing. He doesn’t want you to get off but he doesn’t wanna fuck you just yet. Just wants to savor the moment for a little while

It’ll be up to you to recognize that, and to rest your head on his shoulder, nails lightly scratching his biceps

Overall, the experience will bring out the bipolar in Bakugou. You never know what you’re gonna get with this man, but I cant say that any of the consequences will have you regretting anything.

Oh. Boy. Will tease you until the day you die.

Dabi would be very amused at you, if you initiated. He’d definitely indulge you, letting you take this as far as you planned.

Don’t take advantage of his graciousness though. The atmosphere can change in an second, and Dabi will have you pinned instead.

But it’s not like he would move or anything... No, you started the game and he wants to play it out.

Oh but you wanna cum? Bad girls don’t get to, but he supposes he can make an exception. Only if you do what he says though.

Dabi’s sweet condescending demeanor frenzies little whimpers to vibrate your throat and move your sweet pretty lips

You’re practically apologizing to this man? Intimidation is radiating of his scarred skin and you’re practically shaking. Which of course, only eggs his attitude on further

Dabi is definitely a clit player. Loves to lazily flick your click right to left back and forth. He’ll do it until you’re overstimulated and until you have tears in your eyes.

Dabi will get aggressive if you relentlessly disrupt the peace by rolling your hips.

Tugging your head by your hair and pulling roughly, all while he has a bored look on his face. He’s unfazed by your brattiness.

Be prepared for warnings, because he’s using his quirk to amplify the pain when he slaps your ass.

It’s really up to you, A have purple burn marks for a couple of weeks, or B, be a good little girl and stay still. Who knew it would be this hard

He’ll love to drawl out his little pet names for you, straight into your ear. Making sure it’s more breathy than normal, you’ll make out doll and sugar emitting from his scarred chapped lips

Shouto is the only one who uses cockwarming casually on a regular basis. While studying, working, maybe even eating, as you fall asleep, etc

He’s so touched starved, he borderline obsesses over wanting you so intimately close to him.

Don’t get me wrong, Shouto respects your space. But if you don’t stop him, he’s pulling you right in front of his lap, and gestures to get on. And who would deny him seriously 😭

He’s so soft. His arms are wrapped around your torso, and his cheek is being nuzzled into your neck

Expect him to be extra extra gentle with you. Kissing your forehead and lightly humming a nursery rhyme

Yeah, really only likes it because of how close he’s able to get to you.

He won’t ever use it as a punISHment or to tease, because of how much he genuinely likes it.

This baby gets so pure istg. He’ll rub your back and ask you about your day, how pretty you look, or if you’re hungry

But sometimes this does lead to actual sex, because he mind as well right?

His mouth opens with a low moan, and if you look closely you can see drool slipping from the corners of his lips

And if you’re falling asleep on him he’ll grasp your hips to grind down on him, just to keep you awake

Shouto is literally the most blunt person when it comes to asking you. Has no shame. Might even ask you in public if you wanna sit on him when you get home

Your back will be arching for this man as he takes your hardened buds on your chest, and delicately swirls his wet tongue in circles.

He lovesss to experiment with it. Making every move he can, just to see the pretty faces you make in reaction.

Love bites will be sprawled out all over your chest and shoulders and collar bones. He won’t get tired of it at all.

The problem with him, is that he will literally try to stick his dick in you anywhere and everywhere.

Don’t sit on his lap in public.... literally don’t. He knows what he’s doing too.The thought of someone seeing you being filled up gives him a sloppy smile and a sadistic laugh.

He’s definitely more of a gentle teaser, but he loves giving his little bird praises as you cry out his name and beg for him to move

“But that defeats the whole purpose? Have some patience for me, ok baby bird?” he says with a smile on his face, seeming unbothered. But his cock is twitching inside of you and his breath is raspy and without rhythm

Lowkey, he doesn’t take you seriously! You’re just so damn cute! Keigo teases you about it regularly. His little play thing, all nice and ready for him.

He pats your head with an endearing smile as you, whine about how he’s not being fair, and how he’s being mean. And to do something already.

He’ll focus on your doughy walls and groan at the warmness throbbing on his cock. He’ll pinch your clit, might even slap it, making you clench and unclench around him

And even after you both finish, he still remains inside of you as his places sloppy kisses all over your shoulders and neck

He’s the biggest tease here and he’ll never give you a break. He’s such a sadist with you, but he knows you love it.

He knows how much you like him calling you baby bird, a song bird, an endearing ‘nugget’ (which will make you giggle)

He’ll use his feathers to send shivers through your body. Feathering your nipples, playing with your hair and brushing it behind your ear. He’ll make them so they won’t even leave you alone, always there, even if it’s annoying you.

Sometimes he’ll get really personal when you’re with him, on him. He’ll say in a faint voice how you make him feel alive, how much he loves you in much more fainter tone. It’s almost a whisper as he traces little shapes onto the lower of your back.

He’ll get super serious when he’s on the verge of sleep. Being with you like this calms him.

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savorysatori · 3 years

Note

vulcan let me suck ur fingers while I ride you <3 maybe even a tiny bit of choking, hehe.

WARNINGS. choking, praise, finger suckin.

Nail marks dragged into the fresh sheets, The intoxicated smell of sex, the cloying scent of incense. You were a mess. A mess, vulcan had made of you.

"Have you ever worked a day in your life? Keep on going, baby, no time to waste.”

Hand enveloped around the hollow of your neck, keeping you on a steady pace, ass clapping behind you, legs churning. You could feel the faint throb of his cock inside you, ringing out in syncopation. Your body leaning up, dropping back down to feel every little creak and vein of his cock, burning all the way, a dull ache, a pulse, throbbing between your cheeks. Crying out, your feet flailing, unsure on which to aim, finding some sort of balance as you kneed the side of the bed. Your fingers dug into the sheets, feeling the stretch of the newly acquired rips in the mattress, each little pain and pleasure sensation shooting through your body.

"Vu — Vulcan, you're too much to h-handle." Your hips shuddering, just as quickly dragging up, just as quickly dragging down, a steady, unhurried pace. With a hand on your neck, another gripped your chin to face him, as the heaviness of his stare sent shivers down your spine.

"You are truly mine, aren't you, baby?"

Flickering eyes, little twitches and shuddering of muscles. "Vulcan..."

Your lips parted as he pressed down, hand forcing your head back to expose your throat. Waves of indescribable sensations rolled over you, the world growing fuzzy. A finger dragging over your chin, under your bottom lip, as his lips nipped at yours.

"Look at me, babygirl.”

With your eyes trained, lazy strokes were sent up to your core, dragging every ounce of moan from your brittle lips, eyes focused forward. A little grunt escaping his lips, the hand around your neck coaxed you up onto your tiptoes. A gentle pressure lifted your chin, as a finger under your chin lifted your face upwards. His lips on yours, gentle, almost caring. The hand around your neck tightened, as he pulled the kiss out. His hand left you as faint dizziness washed over you, hands on your waist keeping you up. He looked into your eyes, smiling, bucking up just enough to glide in and out of your sopping warm channel.

"That you, baby? That's my good girl."

The sounds of skin slapping skin filled the room. Grunts and pants of exertion and excitement were interrupted by the wet slaps of two bodies meeting in passion. With every slap reverberating off the walls, your whole body began to writhe. The suction of him being inside you, the pounding of his hips stroking into yours, The feel of his calloused hands kneading your neck with a press —it all created a sensation so intense your body cried out for more. With the bed shaking, moving up and down with the force of his thrusts, the clapping of flesh on flesh, the thud of bone against the bed. pitter-patter, your mind was a haze of lust.

Slipping in and out, a steady, thick pounding. A yell from above, little grunts of exertion, screams of ecstasy. Thick fingers sticking past your plump lips, tongue flattened along the digit. Moving them in and out languidly, slime of drool dribbling down your mouth, little gurgles and growls emanating from the back of your throat. Sweet, sweet, bliss. Your body spasmed as you came, your whole body pulsing in a euphoric wave of euphoria that overtook your senses so sweetly. A lustful howl tore from your throat, your knees buckling as you were sent falling against his chest.

The pace slowed as he continued to pump into you, keeping you at his mercy. With a groan, he pulled out of you, a string of clear fluid connecting the two of you. He spread your legs apart, kneeling in between them.

"Bend over, baby."

The feel of him rubbing against you again did something strange to your whole being.

"Vulcan..." you whined.

No matter the time or the hour of the day, you were always a mess. A mess vulcan had made.

#🕸;fire force.#vendor;vulcan #cw choking #fire force smut #vulcan fire force smut #vulcan x reader #vulcan joseph smut

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bubblybubbubs · 4 years

Text

4 times Draco showed his love and one time he said it.

requested by anon !

Draco x Reader

taglist - @chaoticgirl04

summary : Basically events that show Draco’s love language

warning - not completely edited.

an- these are spread out between the years and not in chronological order btw. also please send in more requests I’ve been feeling inspired lately.

“I’m so exhausted.” You huffed as you laid next to Draco on the floor trying to work on your potions essay.

You were convinced that Snape was giving you so much work to torture you.

“Then go to sleep.” Draco said as he worked on his homework next to you.

You almost laughed, it was easy for him Snape seemed to like him and Snape liked no one.

“I need to do good on this essay.”

“When’s it due?” He asked still not looking up.

“Tomorrow.” You sighed.

“Take a nap it’ll help you think.”

You were going to retaliate and get back to work but Draco picked you up and placed you on the bed which you easily sunk into.

“Fine make sure you wake me up in an hour.” You drawled before turning on your side.

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep but you were asleep for far longer than you expected to be.

You woke up and jolted up right when you saw the sunlight pouring in from the windows.

“DRACO YOU DIDN'T WAKE ME.” You said shaking him awake.

“Calm down woman, I did it for you.” He huffed in a drowsy voice still half asleep.

Sure enough right next to you on the night stand was 4 feet of parchment rolled up on a scroll. You didn’t need to check the scroll to know that it was perfect.

You turned to thank him but he was already asleep. You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before running off to your own dorm.

Draco wasn’t actually asleep he smiled rubbing the spot where you kissed him and reached for the homework that he put aside in order to do yours.

“Ready to lose Malfoy?” You said as you adjusted your quidditch uniform.

“Please, Slytherin is going to win.” Draco said.

“I’ll have you know our team is amazing, and we have an amazing chaser .”

“Well my team has a great seeker.” He drawled smirking. “Probably better than your chaser.”

“I hope you feel the same way when y/h wins.” You taunted.

“I’m not worried.”

“Well you should be.” You laughed before kissing a kiss to his lips. “Good luck, you’ll need it.”

“We’ll see about that.” He chuckled.

Quidditch was exhilarating and you were so busy trying to get the quaffle through the hoops you didn’t notice Adrian Pucey flying at you full speed.

You fell right off your broom. The moment you hit the ground you knew you had broken something and you groaned in pain.

Your team kept playing above you, it was quidditch after all injuries happened. You spotted Draco chasing after the snitch neck in neck with your seeker. He seemed to see you and he immediately flew towards you leaving the other seeker to follow the snitch on their own.

“What happened.” He asked kneeling next to you.

“That prat Pucey pushed me off my broom.” You groaned.

“Malfoy get back to the game I can take Ms.Y/l/n from here.” Madam Pomfrey said as she ran up to you.

Draco didn’t move as he knelt next to you, you were about to tell him to go when Lee announced that Y/h had caught the snitch.

“Did you lose because of me?” You asked feeling sorry.

“It’s just a quidditch game.” He said smiling at you.

Draco’s teammates flew down, no doubt to yell at him.

“Sorry.” You said.

“It’s fine, I can handle them. I’ll meet you at the hospital wing.” He said before walking towards his team.

You fell asleep as soon as Madam Pomfrey gave you that healing potion to mend your broken bones.

You woke with a groan, the room was pitch black except for a small candle next to you.

“Draco?” You asked taking in the blonde boy who was half a sleep in a chair next to your bed.

“Oh good you’re awake.” Draco said stretching.

“How long was I out.”

“Two days.” He said.

“You were here for two days?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, I came and went.” He said. “I’ll be back, I’m going to get Madam Pomfrey and tell her you woke up.

Madam Pomfrey walked in with a sour look on her face Draco in tow behind her.

“Of Course you pick to wake up at the middle of the night.” She huffed. “And you, didn’t I tell you to go back to your common room.”

“I did.” Draco said. “I just came to see if she was up yet and she woke up.”

“Of Course.” Madam Pomfrey snorted searching for a salve to give you.

“Malfoy get a bandage from my cupboard will you, might as well be helpful while you’re here.” She said and Draco obliged.

“The boy is lying, he hasn’t budged all weekend, I basically had to push him out the door to get him to go to meals.” She chuckled as she treated your bones.

You grinned at that and you felt your face burn up.

“Here is the bandage.” Draco said handing her the wraps.

Madam Pomfrey worked quickly.

“All good to go. Mister Malfoy I expect you’ll escort Miss Y/l/n to her Common Room?” She said.

Draco nodded as he helped you get out of the bed, still a bit sore.

“Thank you Madam Pomfrey.”

As you walked out of the Hospital Wing you noticed Adrian Pucey sleeping on one of the beds with a rather awful looking black eye. You almost felt a bit bad but the pain that you felt almost everywhere pushed those feelings away. You pressed a kiss to Draco’s cheek.

“What was that for.” Draco said with a faint smile.

“Nothing in particular.” You hummed.

“I hate Granger.” You huffed as you sat across from Draco.

“Oh? Why’s that.” Draco asked looking up from his breakfast.

“I want to be the best at one class, just one class that’s all I’m asking but no she beats in me in every class.” You huffed. “Even divination! and Trelawney doesn’t even like her.”

“Granger is annoying but you have to admit she has her wits.” Draco said mindlessly.

Y/n glared at him.

“Sorry, she’s and idiot.” He quickly corrected himself.

“I studied all night for this Transfiguration exam and she still got better marks than me.”

“You could obliviate her, make her forget everything she’s ever learned.” Draco suggested.

“I don’t think that would work.” You said quirking up your brow.

“Worth a shot.” He shrugged.

“Funny.” You sighed. “Guess I’ll have to conform with being the second best.”

“MIght have to conform with third because if I’m correct I have higher marks than you in Potions and Longbottom is beating you in Herbology.” He said sarcastically.

“Wow, You’re so kind to me.” You said sarcastically.

You felt like you were sweating from the stress. In all you years you had never been so stressed over a test especially in Charms which was supposed to be your strong suit.

Sure enough Hermoine was just flying through the test. She was about to flip to the next page when she threw her pen on the ground.

“Ms.Granger is there a problem?” Flitwick said.

“My answers keep changing, I think this quill has been tampered with.” She said shaking her head.

“I think you’re going to have to start over Ms.Granger, here I’ll give you a new quill.” Flitwick said.

Hermoine let out a defeated sigh. That alone gave you enough motivation to finish the test.

“Draco did you tamper with Hermoine’s quill?”

"I haven’t but thanks for the idea.” He said.

“So you’re telling me you didn’t make Hermoine’s quill change answers.”

“Nope.” He said. “I’ve got to go to quidditch, see you later.” He pressed a kiss to your cheek before running off.

You didn’t miss the quill sticking out of his robe that was identical to Hermoine’s.

Amycus Carrow stood in front of the class walking back and forth.

“Today we will be practicing the Cruciatus Curse.” She drawled. “You’re all familiar with this one, correct?”

Everyone nodded.

“Y/l/n, Malfoy get up here.”

You gulped shakedly walking up.

“Mister Malfoy, practice on Y/l/n.” She said smiling.

You tried to show him that it was fine by smiling at him but he didn’t stop shaking.

“No.” He said.

“What.” Amycus snapped. Draco hadn't been one of the students to defy her orders.

“I said no.” Draco huffed. “I won’t take orders from a halfblood.”

You wanted to yell at Draco, how daft was he. Now Amycus was going to hurt him.

“Very well if you wont, I will.” Amycus snapped his wand at you.

“CRUCIO.” You felt your skin burn and fell to the ground with screams.

You heard someone yell but all you could hear were your own screams.

You fell over once the pain stopped.

Your vision was blurry and you didn’t see that Draco had hexed Amycus.

He pulled you into his arms as the class just stood in shock.

“No one says a thing or you’ll end up like Amycus.” He said to the class as he obliviated Amycus’ mind. “I’m taking her to Pomfrey, not that it’s anyone’s business.”

“Draco why would you do that, he could’ve hurt you.” You groaned.

“Hush, don’t move it’ll only make the pain worse.” He said holding you closer as he carried you to Pomfrey.

You laid in Draco’s arms as you both laid on his bed.

He was running his hands through your hair.

“I love you.” He said. “I don’t think i’ve told you that but I do, I have for along time i’m just not the best at expressing my feelings.”

“You show your love in your own way.” You hummed. “And I love you too.”

#mona writes #draco malfoy imagine #draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter imagine #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy

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kitsunefire7 · 3 years

Text

For the Obiyuki bingo block—

🧜‍♀️Rusalka💧

The talented @fade-touched-obsidian wrote me a one-shot to help inspire me for this block TWT I love it so much. More to come soon 😉 ✨

ENJOY READING @fade-touched-obsidian story below the line 👀 ✨👇🏻👇🏻👇🏻

Also part 2 > https://kitsunefire7.tumblr.com/post/656976456957739008/for-the-obiyuki-bingo-block

Blood.

Ugh. It’s everywhere.

The coppery taste fills his mouth from the rivulet that runs a trail from the deep cut above his eyebrow around his brow bone, down the side of his nose and beside the apple of his cheek before it finds a home where the corner of his lips meet. He'd wipe it away if he had the energy or if lifting his arm didn't cause overwhelming pain. At least it has stayed away from his eyes, keeping his vision clear. Well, as clear as it can be given the circumstances anyway.

It cools against his skin, sticking his clothes uncomfortably so his shredded remains of a shirt pulls on the skin slashed wide open on his chest adding further injury to an already insulting one. His clothes, soaked through long ago with his life as it drains out of him, drip and mark the path of his final mission.

He's almost there. He can make it.

His vision fogs over at the edges as the small mountain lake comes into view. The trees that protect the lake from the sight of passersby disappear into the mist of his mind, leaving no trace of their existence but for the faint birds that serenade the wilderness around them and the reflection on the glass-smooth water. A frog croaks from wherever it has hidden himself from sight. The wind blows soft as a kiss on the cheek but the water never ripples and he can’t help the sigh that escapes him.

He’s never known ‘home’ as a place; it has always been wherever one woman, one heart, was. He has nowhere to go. No one to say goodbye to. Not anymore. But he can succumb to his injuries where his home- her heart- was lost forever.

There's something poetic there, his carefully concealed romantic heart knows. He'd think about it more if he didn't need every remaining wit he has focusing on finding his way before he loses consciousness.

He's beginning to stumble as his outer limbs grow more and more sluggish but he managed to make it after all. He trudges on, needing to expend precious remaining energy to pick his way through the overgrown grass as his dexterity leaves him until he slips and falls gracelessly into the murky shallows.

The groan that escapes him as the water laps at him rattles and breathing is becoming harder. He can feel fluid in his lungs and there’s a burning in his chest that isn’t directly caused by the wound there, he can feel that pain hugging the new one as if they are long lost friends.

Ha. Fitting. Very fitting that that thought plops down at the forefront of his brain when he’s here where a long lost loved one left the world.

The water turns a grotesque reddish brown around him as the water rinses his clothes while more blood leaks from him with every miniscule movement. He must be running out if it has slowed this much. At least it’s almost done. Maybe, if he’s lucky enough his sins are forgiven, he will go to a place where he can see her again soon.

The fog of his vision grows darker as though night is setting in to take place of the midday sun above him. He's close. It's almost time. He breathes as deep as he can, sending pain lancing through everything and everywhere. It doesn’t feel like he’s gotten any air into his lungs at all, his attempt to suck in air dying painfully in vain.

Eyes as deep green as the leaves of the trees around him, porcelain skin smooth as bone, and unmistakable crimson hair rise out of the water. The nose and everything below are still submerged. Yet, despite the face appearing from the water, no water is on her face and her exposed hair is dry.

He's losing it, hallucinating. Which is a promising sign, really. He still can’t breathe but the pain of his body’s struggle to survive is subsiding.

That water is no deeper where she watches from a few feet away than where he sits. A human couldn't possibly be there without parts of their body being seen. His knees and the top half of his torso poking up out of the water are a testament to that.

And, yet, here she is. Unseen except for a haunting top-half of a face as she moves closer. Once she’s an arm length away, she emerges so her torso is out of the water. Her movements as fluid as the water swirling around her in the otherwise completely still lake. She reaches for him, hands cold as the death seeping into his extremities, closing around his shoulders.

The birds have stopped singing. The frogs are no longer croaking. Even the wind itself has left the area, leaving nothing but silence before she hisses and grips tighter, taloned hands sinking into his already damaged body but all he can see is her. He feels the pressure but no pain and through her hissing all he can hear is her melodic voice. A voice he hasn't heard in far too long when every minute of it’ absence felt like an eternity.

He reaches for her cheek, causing her face to twist into an unhold sneer of disdain, but his hand connects. It’s blurry but he can see that it has even though he can no longer feel his hand. The creature before him is so foreign but so much the same and he whispers a fractured, "Shi-ra-yu-ki?"

She blinks, angry snarl ripping from her before recognition filters in. The pressure of where her hands have dug in pulses before remembrance softens her grip and her facial features.

"O-Obi?" Her voice is shrill and has an ethereal echo to it. It sounds like it would be an agonized cry if she were a living human. He knows what he physically hears but there’s a disconnect somewhere in his sense and the only thing he processes is the voice he’s missed for so long. "What happened to you?"

Her heartbreak is palpable as she runs an icy finger he can no longer feel the chill of along the torn skin of his chest. He doesn’t feel that either

"I wanted to come home," he says, straining to whisper through the last of his breath and consciousness.

"I wanted to come home," he had said as his eyes fell closed.

Her heart no longer beats- hasn't in a long time. But she feels the moment his words hit their mark as true as any arrow he had ever shot.

He's no longer awake, never will be again, and from his mostly horizontal position, his mouth is filling with blood. He's on death's door.

He wanted to go home.

With a strangled cry of her own, she drags him into the center of the lake, and then pulls him under.

Bring him home, she shall.

She carries him down, down to the silt and clay, taking great care as she lays him out beside where her own body came to rest those years ago. She no longer carries the burden of tears but inside her head, where her heart still feels, she dies all over again but this time it is so much more painful.

She moves and manipulates the lakebed into as close to a burial chamber as she can manage with a slow and steady tenderness she hasn’t used since she was human tending to her gardens.

Her last thought before she slipped away was of him. After her rebirth, she never imagined she’d see him again, never imagined she would mourn his loss as anything more than a vague concept after enough time had passed to assume he had probably died as an old man.

She has nothing to mark the spot. Nothing to use as a headstone. Though it doesn’t matter in the end. No one enters these waters anymore, not since she claimed the lake as hers after she drowned and began protecting the space from any threat. There were many men before him and there will be many more after, no doubt, since now she has the tomb of her beloved to guard.

She runs her hand along the top of the raised hill. She points a finger and rolls a beautiful script across the mound before she collapses across his name, holding tight to the body that remains of the man she loved. There she stays for countless hours, days. She doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter. She has nowhere more important to be for now than right here with him as he rests.

“Welcome home, Obi.”

#Obiyuki #obiyukibingo21 #Rusalka #akagami no shirayukihime #ans #water nymph #snow white with the red hair #swwtrh #Shirayuki #obi #obixshirayuki #anime #manga #fanart #lemon #lime

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aries-writingblog · 3 years

Text

Detonation

Summary: As an FBI agent, YN deals with bad guys all day long. So does Bucky as an Avenger. When their worlds collide, it’s never pretty. Especially not when they are the targets.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 4620

Warnings: language, violence, bombs and explosions, bomb threats, hostage situation

AN: This was another request from @cherry-season and if you can’t tell by reading this I’ve been watching criminal minds again so I hope you guys like this one. GIF is not my own credit to original creator.

YN leaned back in the desk chair, spinning it halfway back and forth. Boring a hole into the scattered papers of the police department. She was exhausted. Their team had been after this same guy for a week now. A real piece of work: planting bombs in DC banks. Leaving cryptic messages with them. Fortunately, their bomb squad made it in time to dismantle the charge before it blew. But they were no closer to catching the guy than before.

“Shitty coffee?” A deep, masculine voice approached her side. Placing a coffee cup in front of her. YN smiled, gratefully accepting the beverage. She glanced up to the provider, one of her teammates, Alex Knowles. “Look like you could use it.”

“That a way of telling me I look worse than the coffee?” YN teased, chugging the lukewarm drink down. So accustomed to cheap, watery coffee, she barely even gagged at the bitter taste as it went down. “No leads?”

Alex shook his head, pulling up a chair and plopping beside her. He sighed, gazing out over the bustling police station. Watching the beat cops go in and out of the doors, suspects and victims all being questioned or held in the same room. A Mecca of activity unfolding before their eyes. Progress. Just not the progress they needed.

“Kinda hoping Bryant would bring something back in- he went to question a couple witnesses that were around the bank at the time the guy dropped the bomb off.” He reported, sitting forward to shuffle through the papers on the desk. “What’s all this?”

“Those are previous reports…” YN explained, brushing stray hair back from her face. “I thought he could’ve had a previous record… he built these bombs with some kind of knowledge- whether it be academic or street smarts, I’m not sure yet. Besides, not doing anything else.”

Alex nodded, letting the paper slip through his fingers and back to the desktop. He watched his teammate reorganize the stacks- the glittering diamond on her finger catching his eye. A devilish grin cracked his lips, whistling appreciatively.

“Barnes finally asked that question, did he?” He asked, putting his cup down and gesturing for her hand. YN rolled her eyes, suppressing a smile as she complied. Alex studied the rock more closely, examining the quality. “Got good taste for somebody as old as he is.”

“Oh shut up.” YN laughed, yanking her hand back.

She and Bucky met on a case. Their FBI team had been invited into a local investigation of suspicious activity. Turns out, the Avengers were also looking into it. Well, a team of four Avengers anyways. Bucky Barnes being one of them. He was smooth, a sweet talker. Managed to wriggle his way into her phone, later he would swing a date. Two years later, Bucky was down on a knee in her bedroom. Asking one of those life altering questions.

That had been three weeks ago. They barely had time to see each other after that night. She was pulled back into work, he was pulled halfway across the globe on a mission. He did call every night, checking in. Asking about her day. Making outrageous, silly promises about the wedding and their new home, their future. Making her smile, distracting her from her day. At the same time, allowing himself to dissociate from the mission he was on as well.

“I’m happy for you.” Alex’s tone turned sober, serious. YN glanced over to him. He leaned his elbows on his knees, smiling broadly. “You both deserve someone like the other… you deserve each other. I mean it in the best, possible way.”

“Thank you, Alex.” YN replied, reflecting her sincere gratitude as best she could. Alex was always in her corner. No matter what- he trusted her. In their world, that meant everything and more.

“Hey, LN- Knowles!” Ricky Bryant came rushing into their area, flushed and out of breath. “Listen, I think we might’ve found the bomber’s identity: Casey Griffin. ”

“What?” YN leaned forward, staring up at him. Her eyebrows furrowed, a faint pin struck the back of her head. “Griffin… Casey Griffin- that sounds familiar. Why is that familiar?”

Ricky opened his mouth, ready to spill all the information he had gathered about the man. A woman interrupted their circle, a panicked look in her eyes.

“Agent LN- there’s a call on line six for you. He claims to be responsible for the bombings and he’s demanding to speak with you.” She interjected, nodding to the desk phone. YN glanced from Ricky to Alex.

“Get Robbie on the phone- tell her we need to trace this call immediately.” She instructed, rolling to the desk to pick up the phone. She waited a moment, allowing Ricky to call Robbie, the fourth member of their team. Their tech analyst. “Ready?”

“Yeah- go ahead.”

YN took a deep, calming breath. Her fingers tightened around the phone anxiously. Swallowing back her creeping nerves, she pulled the phone off the receiver.

“Agent LN, may I ask who’s calling?” She began slowly, giving Robbie a chance to snag the call’s location. There was heavy breathing on the other end, as if he had been running.

“You know who’s calling, YN. Don’t play coy- it isn’t a good look on you.”

Recognition struck her like lightning as she heard his voice. He had been one of the hostages in the first emergency scene. YN had taken down his statement herself. She ground her teeth together, anger flooding her system. She had been played.

“You’ve got me there, Casey.” She chuckled, her free hand wiping down the thigh of her tactical pants. “This is the first time you’ve called- why are you just now contacting us?”

The sound Griffin made was far from a laugh- the dark, slow noise was bone chilling. Nauseating. She could feel it deep into her clothes, settling like frost against her skin. She bit her cheek, staving off the urge to shiver through the discomfort.

“I’ve decided I want to give you front row tickets to the show, of course.” He crowed, voice leaping in octaves. “Corner of West and Fifth. You have half an hour, unless you want all these lovely people to end up blood splatters and burn marks on the floors.” YN winced, clenching her jaw. “Oh, and YN? Come in alone.”

The telltale click and beep ended the call, leaving YN to stare blankly at the desk before her. Clenching the phone in her grasp so tightly the plastic creaked. Knuckles lightening. She swallowed, something was clutching her throat. Restricting her lung capacity. Her shaking fingers pressed the phone into the receiver. Pushing her chair back, she stumbled to her feet.

“YN- “

“I just need a minute, okay?” She snapped, snagging her jacket from the chair across from the desk. YN shoved past the incoming traffic of people, fumbling her way outside.

The city was full of noise; Blaring car horns, shouting, a low murmur of pedestrian conversations. Sirens. The thrum of the city’s heartbeat under her feet. Taking a left into the alleyway, YN dug through her pockets, fingers brushing against the carton of cigarettes and lighter.

Hands trembling, she put a stick between her lips. Blowing smoke as soon as she lit it. Tilting her head back against the weathered brick of the station. A shaky exhale following the wavering grey smoke. She clenched her jaw, bowing her head.

She knew it was a trap- Casey was asking to meet alone. But he was holding hostages in a bank loaded down with explosives. And who knew what he wanted, why only her? Why alone? And why was that name familiar? None it made sense- facts blurring together. Shrouding him from her senses.

A sudden buzz against her abdomen sent her reeling back into consciousness. Her cigarette was gone- flicking the filter to the ground. Pushing it into the cement with her boot. Her fingers scuttled through her pocket, retrieving her phone.

Bucky’s contact photo- one of him fast asleep with fridge magnets on his arm. She smiled- somehow Bucky always knew right when she needed him. Like he had a sensor on her emotions, giving him timely reports. Updating him constantly.

“Hey, Buck.” She greeted, begging her voice to not crack. It sounded normal. Or at least enough that she hoped Bucky didn’t question it. Tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear, she lit another cigarette. Blowing the stress away from the speaker.

“Hey, sugar,” She could hear his smile through the phone. That excited one he always got when he first saw her. Wide, showing off his teeth. Stretching his face so much she wondered if it hurt. “I’m just callin’ to tell you I’m home. And I know you’re busy but, I wanted to hear your voice again.”

YN laughed, falling into the regular rhythm with him. Allowing herself to feel the stress melt from her bones. Bucky always had that affect on her. Something she couldn’t quite understand. Why the man was such an addictive drug.

“Well, you’re in luck- I’m on a break right now.” She wanted nothing more than to sit and talk with him, listen to his baritone drawl. Lulling her into a state of comfort and security. But she knew she couldn’t- she had limited time. She had to make a decision. And soon.

“Are you smoking again?” Bucky asked. YN smiled, biting down on her lip. She made a noncommittal noise, neither agreeing or disagreeing with his statement. He had been after her for their entire relationship to make her quit the habit. Trying to help her kick it. Nothing ever really helped. “YN…”

“I know… I’ve only had two. I just… I needed a break.” She admitted, bowing her head. She shifted her eyes to the alleyway opening, seeing Alex and Ricky approaching her. “I’ve got to get back. I’ll see you at home?”

“Yes, I’m making that soup you like for dinner. Don’t let it go cold.” He warned.

“I won’t. Love you.”

“Love you too.” She shoved her phone into her back pocket, meeting her partner’s halfway. Their faces drawn with concern and hesitancy.

“Gear me up.” She pushed between them, not looking back. She feared if she looked at them again, she would lose her nerve. Holding her shoulders back, chin tilted with her head held high. She had to keep the air of confidence around her. If she didn’t- they would never believe her. YN needed full backup for her plan. “I’m going in.”

~~~~~~

The building seemed to loom over her, taunting her as she stood before it. The large windows were gaping at her, a threat to her minuscule presence. YN swallowed back the terror she felt, pushing it down and locking it away. Out of reach.

“We’ll be talking with you through the comms unit the whole time.” Ricky explained, securing the equipment over her ear. He carefully tightened the straps on her vest, glancing to meet her eyes. His brows dipped. “You don’t have to do this you know? We can raid the building or get a sniper down here. This isn’t the only option.”

YN shook her head, clipping her holster over her belt, around her waist. She sighed, the exhale was shaky. Biting down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling, she clipped extra ammunition to the side.

“It’s the one where everyone makes it out. Those hostages are the main priority right now.”

“Hey.” Ricky stopped her nervous movement, hands on both of her shoulders. Forcing her to look up at his face. “Don’t do that. Don’t make it seem like some small bust… this is serious. We’re worried about you. About this. It’s dangerous. Give a little of that focus to yourself.”

“Okay.” YN agreed. She inhaled again, this time a little more steady. Giving a final affirmative nod, she squared her shoulders and backed away. She turned, facing the group of DC police officers and FBI squads. “Alright, these comms go both ways. I’m negotiating for hostages first. If anything goes wrong, clear the site. We don’t know how many explosives he has in there.”

YN watched the groups follow her orders, setting up to accept hostages. Loading guns for a raid if needed. Both ambulance and fire department had been called in. The companies were also preemptively preparing for the worst. She began walking toward the bank, eyes forward. What felt like thousands of eyes followed her to the door, fire burning against her back.

As she approached, she could see a woman standing at the glass door. She had been crying- her face stained with tears. YN stopped at the glass door, standing face to face with the woman. After several moments of staring, the order was finally given to open the door. The woman’s shaking fingers unlocked it, pushing it open.

“You’ve served your purpose.” A quiet voice spoke across the lobby, echoing on the tiled floors. “You may go.” The woman burst into tears, shoving past YN and onto the street. “Agent LN… how courteous of you to take her place.”

YN entered the lobby tentatively, keeping her head on a swivel. She turned the corner, coming face to face with the bomber. Casey Griffin stood behind the group of hostages, hands tucked behind his back. A twisted, sacrilegious grin on his lips. The group at his feet were huddled together, most were sobbing quietly. Holding people they most likely didn’t know. She knew from experience that tense situations erased all lines between humans. Everything begins to blur when terrified panic sets in.

“I’m here, Griffin. What do you want?” She demanded, her hand resting on her weapon. There was a buzz of static in her ear, the line opening.

“We don’t have a visual of you anymore, LN. Get back into sight.”

Griffin took a step forward, around his subjects. A small, black remote in his hand. Eyes steady on her face. Studying her. He exhaled sharply, coming to a stop right before her.

“I was hoping you’d be more… well, more.” He frowned, disappointed. YN’s eyebrow lifted, unable to follow his thoughts. “Such a shame… I’ve read all these great things about you. Every case you’ve solved, every step you’ve made to get here. You’re much more impressive on paper.”

“Get to the point.” YN sneered, her jaw clenched. Griffin smirked, eyes scanning down her face again. He sighed, rolling his eyes.

“All you feds- no taste for the theatrical. I much rather prefer the Avengers.” He grinned, eyes sparkling dangerously. YN felt her heartbeat pick up It’s pace. Heart threatening to burst out of her chest. “Oh, that’s right… congratulations, by the way. What’s it like- being engaged to a fossil? Are his brains still scrambled?”

“Shut up.” She hissed, fingers itching to reach out and wrap around his throat. He only tilted his head, pouting. He began pacing, orbiting around her slowly. Her shoulders tensed, defenses began raising even further. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you see, I’m very well acquainted with Sergeant Barnes.” Griffin slowed to a stop again, on her right. He leaned in, close enough she could feel his breath against her skin. “He murdered my husband.”

The pounding in her chest seemed to have leapt into her throat. Breathing was much harder now, her skin crawled as her brain went into overdrive. Something was wrong… what was going on?

“He doesn’t do that anymore.” YN admitted, her voice lower than she thought it would be. Threatening to crack.

“But he does.” He hissed, gripping her arm tightly. Yanking her to his chest. His free hand came up to her ear, ripping the unit out and flinging it into the wall. His fingers fluttered down to her chin, grasping it tightly and forcing her face to his. He stared down at her. Anger burning in his irises, the dark circles under his eyes. His nostrils flared. “What makes it even worse is that he chose to do it. With Hydra, he had no choice. But with the Avengers? He had every decision laid out before him and he chose.”

YN flinched, flecks of saliva landing on her cheek. Her jaw clenched down tighter, eyes closing momentarily. Griffin’s hand crept down from her face, into the pocket of her pants. His fingers grasped the device, pulling it out. He held the device to her face, unlocking it then shoving her away.

“So now,” Griffin gave her a maniacal grin. YN was beginning to get whiplash from his mood swings. He was unpredictable. Unstable. Devolving before her eyes. She glanced back to the group of hostages. “He gets to flex that autonomy again. Oh, how lovely- he was your last call.”

“Why do you have me here, Griffin?” YN demanded, attempting to take control of the situation. If he was distracted, she could maneuver and gain the upper hand. “If you wanted to go after Bucky you would’ve done it. Why do any of this? Why do you need them?”

Griffin spared a quick glance to the group of shivering civilians. He hummed quietly, pressing dial for Bucky’s number. YN felt a drop of sweat bead down her neck. Rolling to meet the bulletproof fabric over her torso. She was alone in here, responsible for the lives of those petrified people. Staring and waiting for her to do something. Help them.

Her eyes fell to the remote in his hand. She could snatch it. The bomb was his power move. His leverage. Then again, the hostages were bargaining chips. He had to give something up. She had to remove variables.

“Let them go.” YN urged, holding her hands out in surrender. “You’ve got me, you’ve got my attention. Let them go.” He sighed dramatically, eyes rolling as he pressed the button for speakerphone.

“It’s no fun without an audience.” He whined, shrugging as he turned to the hostage group. “And to think- we were just getting to the good part. Fine! Leave, all of you.”

The group all scrambled to their feet, taking their leave before he changed his mind. The stampede rushed the door, cramming themselves out into the street. YN’s heart slowed, the adrenaline fading in her veins slightly. Her priority was taken care of- they all made it out alive.

“Hello?” YN never thought she would be nervous to hear Bucky’s voice. Casey smiled at the phone, eyes boring into her skull. “YN? Hello?”

“She can’t make it to the phone right now.” Griffin responded, giving her a mocking pout. The other end fell silent. YN could almost feel the paranoia settle over his body. “I would ask you to leave a message but I’m afraid she won’t be around much longer to hear it.”

An idea began to form, tingling at the base of her skull. YN gulped nervously. She had to keep him distracted- keep him focused on Bucky. But that also meant she had to stay focused on Casey. She couldn’t say a word to Bucky. Not yet.

“Who the fuck are you and what do you want?” Bucky hissed. YN closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She could pull her weapon. But could she pull it fast enough? Griffin could blow the place to smithereens. She could try to get the remote- every solution seemed to fall back to the same outcome. She grit her teeth- he had the upper hand. She could do nothing but wait it out.

“Joshua Rivers.” Casey replied. While his voice was smooth and unrestrained, his eyes told a different story. Seething, red hot rage burned in his veins. “Does that name ring any bells to you, Sargeant? Let me give you a hint anyways- I know how fragile the mind can be in the older years. He was a lead operative for Hydra. Four months ago, you raided his warehouse and instead of arresting him, you put a bullet through his skull.”

“He deserved more.” Bucky hissed, his voice crackling through the speaker. Echoing in the empty building. Casey scowled, his nose scrunching in anger. “That warehouse housed human experimentation projects.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Casey screamed, veins in his neck popping out against his skin. Pumping adrenaline in time with his heart. “He was a person- he had people who loved him, cared for him. You took that away from me. I can’t help but wonder… how you’ll feel about the same circumstances.”

“Where is YN?” Bucky demanded, keeping his voice level. YN began to creep her fingers up, toward the gun in her holster. She had one chance. He was distracted- she could gain the upper hand.

“Well, that’s a tricky question. It’s only a matter of time before she’s… everywhere.” Griffin shrugged, swinging his gaze back to YN. Her fingers faltered, halting at her hip. She was close, her thumb brushed the cold metal of the gun. “So now… now I think I’ll return the favor. You took something from me. The only person that ever mattered. You destroyed my world.”

“If you touch her, I swear to-“

“You don’t believe in God, Sergeant.” Griffin’s slow drawl interrupted the threat. His tongue ran over his lips, taking a deep breath. “He’s not real. If he were, don’t you believe that none of this suffering would happen?” There was a ruckus of noise on the other end of the phone, Bucky panting heavily. A door slamming. “This is your repentance, James Barnes.”

YN’s fingers wrapped around the metal plating, her nerves settling. She could make this draw. It would be fast enough. It would be accurate. She could end it once and for all. She exhaled slowly, counting down.

Three…

Two…

One…

In a flash, YN pulled her gun from her side. Aiming it at Casey’s chest and pulling the trigger. The loud gunfire echoed- ringing in her ears. Her heart sank. Stomach plummeting to her feet.

She missed.

Casey’s expression settled into one of contempt. Disappointment. The hell fire turned to her, his focus shifting from Bucky to YN. Surging toward her, his hand swung out, shoving the muzzle to the ceiling as she fired again. Casey’s fist tightened around her phone, a strong punch to her kidney sending her to her knees, wheezing for air. YN grunted, her hand swinging at a wide angle, but it was only deflected as the heel of his hand connected with her nose. Releasing a sharp cry, YN cradled her nose carefully. Eyes watering and face stinging. Bucky’s frantic shouts barely audible as she knelt, gasping in pain. Her thoughts muddled and slow.

Casey sighed dramatically, ripping the weapon from Yn’s hand. She groaned, disoriented as a fresh wave of pain throbbed from her face. Blood seeped from between her fingers, dripping down into a puddle on the tile floor.

“Say goodbye to your fiancée, Sergeant.”

~~~~~~

Bucky all but tossed the motorcycle onto the curb as he skidded to a stop. A blazing inferno consumed the building, scorching the blackened trees that once surrounded it. The hand gripping his throat squeezed tighter as he stumbled toward the police line. Shoving his way through bystanders.

He felt sick- choking back the nausea bubbling from his stomach. Fire bellowed from the gaping, blown out glassless windows. Portions of the building were collapsed, the rest soon to follow. He barreled through shouting police officers, desperate to reach the building.

“Barnes!” He didn’t turn- even though the voice was familiar. He had to get to her- she was still alive, he knew she was. She had to be. “Barnes- man, you can’t go in there!”

Hands grasped his metallic shoulder, pulling him back roughly. Bucky grunted, swinging his arm around, taking hold of the man’s bulletproof vest. He clenched his jaw, staring down at Alex Knowles. One of her partners. Knowles’ eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. His skin was irritated, probably from wiping tears away.

“She’s still in there.” Bucky stated, without asking if she had been pulled out yet. He knew the process of these kinds of situations. The fire chief had to clear it and the area was nowhere near safe enough. But his girl was in there, in danger. Dying slowly, the longer he stood around. It had already been too long.

“Teams haven’t been sent in yet… I know you’re scared but you could make it worse if you go in there guns blazing. It could collapse the rest of the way.” Knowles warned, his eyes begging Bucky to stay put. Bucky shoved him away. Stripping off his jacket, Bucky scowled at the man.

“I will be the something worse if she’s not alive. Don’t test me, Knowles.” He growled, tying the jacket sleeves around his waist. Bucky turned on his heel, sprinting for the blown out doors of the bank. Ignoring the shouts of the firemen and police officers on the scene.

Inside, the flames locked the walls, staying maintained. It seemed the only thing the department had been doing since the explosion was clearing the fire. They had been prepared somewhat.

Bucky stumbled through the rubble, boots tripping over chunks of concrete and twisted metal. He had to find YN, she was somewhere. He had to keep himself from thinking the worst- she was alive. She would be okay. He just had to find her first.

He turned what would’ve been a corner of the bank, his heart rocketing through his chest. The beat thumping wildly.

Two bodies. Lying side by side.

“YN!” He picked his way through rubble, skidding to his knees beside her. Deep cuts laced her dirtied features, trapped under a chunk of concrete from the waist down. For now, he didn’t care of the implications that could lie beneath the rock. His trembling fingers found the pulse point in her neck, bowing his head and stifling a sharp sob as he felt a faint, slow thrum. He brushed the hair from her face gently, biting his lip to keep himself together. “Don’t worry sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

Bucky shuffled down to her waist, hooking his fingers into the rock. Just as he began lifting, a sharp gasp startled him, almost dropping the rubble. He glanced back at YN- wide awake and sobbing. Carefully, Bucky spared a glance under the concrete. A metal rod went directly through her thigh, blood seeping from the wound.

“Shit…” It had been contained until he lifted it- now she was going to bleed out. He had to move fast. “YN, doll, I’ve got you. This is gonna hurt but it’ll be okay.”

She didn’t respond, sobs ripping from her chest as he stilled. Bucky took a deep breath, collecting his nerves. He moved quickly, throwing the concrete across the room with a loud grunt. An ear piercing shriek fell from Yn’s lips, her fist pounding the ground at her side. Bucky untied his jacket, wrapping it tightly around her injured thigh.

“Okay, sweetheart. We’re gonna get out of here.” Bucky’s chest tightened as he gathered her in his arms. She was shivering, huddling close to his body as best she could. Her skin was filthy, covered in soot, dirt, and blood. “Try to talk with me, sweet girl. Stay awake.”

“Ja- James…” YN’s fingers twisted into his shirt, tears soaking into his fabric. His heart clenched. It was his fault- that idiot had gone after her because of him. He held her closer, tighter, as he picked his way back to the doors. “I… I think I’m done- done smoking.”

Bucky almost laughed, forgetting his location. The situation fading as he spared a glance down to her face. She was grimacing, lips pulled and forehead wrinkled. But here she was- trying to joke with him.

“Why’s that, doll?” He questioned, emerging from the collapsed bank. The sunlight was strong, glaring down into his eyes. He hunched slightly, trying to block the intense light from her sensitive eyes. YN groaned, tugging weakly at his shirt. “We’re almost there, doll. Keep talking. Why’re you quittin’?”

“I’ve had enough smoke for one lifetime.” She replied, eyes fluttering. Paramedics rushed toward them, a gurney wheeled to their side. Bucky carefully lay her back, grasping her hand tightly as they rushed toward the ambulance.

Bucky didn’t reply, lips pressed together. Concern running rampant as they moved. His eyes caught Knowles and Bryant’s, averting his as soon as they landed. Loading into the ambulance.

“Bucky?” He quickly stepped up, sitting down in the back. Squeezing her hand tightly. YN gave a half- hearted return. Her fingers tangling with his, eyes closed. “Stay… please…”

“I’m here, sweetheart.” Bucky smiled, hoping his face could mask the desperate panic he felt in the pit of his stomach. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

#bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #james barnes x female reader #james barnes x y/n #james barnes x you #james barnes x reader

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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

this is our last stop, love — one.

Everyone knows you don’t leave the Organization. No one wants to anyway—until they do. Assassin AU.

Characters: Bucky Barnes/(f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (no smut), mentions of death, guns, violence, mentions of suicide

Word Count: 3408

A/N: It's finally here! My baby is finally here!

SERIES MASTERLIST | AO3 | PLAYLIST

the place you exist you never call home, did you know that?

"More than anything, I want you to know that I love you. And I’m sorry."

The only beautiful thing about Neon City is that it’s lawless.

I’ve seen Neon City from the highest floor of the tallest skyscraper and I’ve seen it from the sewers so far underground you think you’ll suffocate, and this city looks the same from every single angle.

Fluorescent and dirty and lawless.

From up here, on the darkened roof of a crumbling hostel that’s been abandoned by everyone but the squatters ‘cause the walls have sucked up so many blood stains and bullet holes they’re threatening to collapse, the city looks exactly like that. The bright lights of Upperside pulse with every single color the universe could have created, tinting the darkness of the night like a kaleidoscope. Even on the eighteenth story, the thumping bass from the strip of clubs just a street over shakes the foundation underneath my feet.

Peering through the scope of the sniper positioned on the roof’s ledge, I zoom in on the street corner at the left-hand side of my vision with a lazy twist of my wrist. Two women, one with hair as dark as night that streams down her back like a river, the other with a short, platinum-dyed spiky cut, smoke rolled cigarettes. They’re dressed to the Neon City nines: a leather corset underneath a metallic jumpsuit unzipped below her belly button and a slinky dress paired with a buckled harness and knee-high platform boots. Leaning against a grimy street lamp with a busted bulb, it isn’t long before a man dressed in a white fur coat shows up, throws his arms around them, and walks them toward the nearest club.

When he adjusts his coat, it lifts just enough to reveal the assault rifle hanging from a shoulder strap. There’s a pistol just above the hem of the dark-haired girl’s dress, strapped to her thigh, only visible by the faint outline in the silk. I don’t even want to guess how much heat the other chick is packing; that hideous jumpsuit she’s got on is loose enough to hide an arsenal without suspicion.

In the distance, all the way from the Kill Zone, a rapture of gunshots goes off just louder than the EDM pouring from the strip. Or maybe it’s quieter down on the streets, air hazy with cloven smoke and threat of death. Maybe no one gives a fuck.

The ugly thing about Neon City is that it only has one law.

No one leaves Neon City. At least not alive.

A weak vibration against the inside of my left wrist, right above my pulse point, steals my eye from the scope. Fifteen minutes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing this?” I sit back on my haunches to glance at my partner.

“Why?” He’s laying flat on the roof, boots crossed at the ankle and an arm thrown over his eyes, not a care in the world. A prickling of annoyance makes its presence known at the back of my neck—not the first of the evening and certainly, definitely, unfortunately not the last.

“‘Cause you’re the sniper?” I hiss, but he only laughs quietly in response. The sleek black cuff that bumps against my radius flickers to life with one tap of my finger, an interface made of light projecting itself upon my forearm to show the countdown. Thirteen minutes.

“The World’s Best Sniper,” he corrects, sitting up with a grunt. His legs are sprawled over the dirty ground, black combat pants picking up a coating of dust that’s collected on the roof for what must’ve been ages.

I purse my lips. “World’s Laziest Sniper, you mean.”

“Hey, I resent that.” The heavy soles of his boots crunch gravel and grit beneath them, a grating sound, as he shifts over and bumps me out of the way. “Move.”

“Oh, now you want to do your job?”

Bucky doesn’t reply and it should make me feel better, but it only serves to annoy me further. I fold my legs underneath me and sit back to stare at the building across from us, the one he’s busy scoping out now, letting the irritation simmer through my veins as the cool air of the night rolls over my skin like toxic gas. The black stealth suit glued to my skin does nothing to keep the freezing air from chilling my bones. I envy Bucky’s tactical suit, the combat vest hugging his chest with all its bulletproof padding.

Not that it’s cold enough outside to hurt. Neon City is so alive with masses of squirming, sweaty bodies and drugs and guns and lights and music that I swear the air is always ten degrees hotter than it should be. I don’t even think the dead bodies stick around long enough to grow cold.

The buzz on the inside of my wrist alerts me.

“Ten minutes,” I say.

“God, you’re annoying.”

“How long have you known that?” I pick grit out from underneath my fingernails idly.

“Since the day I met you,” he mutters back. “When they told me you were my new partner, I almost choked one of the Exec’s out.”

I snort. “Which Executive?”

He doesn’t even glance over at me. “Not tellin’ you, snitch.”

My teeth grind together. He’s said it so easy, nonchalantly, like a joke, but it strikes a nerve in me that turns those prickles of annoyance into something more aggressive. Something that heats my blood. I’m not a snitch.

But everyone thinks I’m a little goody-two-shoes just ‘cause I’m on Pierce’s good side.

I take a deep breath and ignore him. “The mark is coming from Black Mamba—he’ll be here soon.” With a quick turn of my wrist, I check the time. “Eight minutes.”

“He own the place?” Bucky asks, twisting the scope and centering it on the fourteenth floor of the apartment building in front of us. The mark will arrive from the left side of the complex, just off the elevator, where the landing is lit with a soft yellow light. The glass windows give Bucky a perfect shot.

“Dunno,” I tell him honestly. “I didn’t read the file.”

Bucky’s head snaps back to look at me. “What?”

I recoil, eyes narrowing. “What?” I mimic. “What’s your problem?”

“You didn’t read the file? And you’re calling me lazy?”

“Calm down.” I wave him off, but he doesn’t turn away from staring at me, his eyes narrowed into a glare. “I read enough of his file to know when and where and how he’s arriving, as usual, so don’t get your panties in a twist. You do your job, I’ll do mine. As usual.”

It’s like I can hear the blood vessels in his neck pop and burst as his jaw tightens.

“Your job is to read the dossier,” he grits through clenched teeth. “The whole dossier. On every single mark.”

A new surge of anger rushes through me, drowning out the loud cacophony of the city beneath us. My fingers twitch and flex, heat pooling in my palms like an itch that needs scratching. Bucky Barnes, out of all people, shouldn’t be sitting here treating me like a goddamn child. Calling me annoying, calling me a snitch, calling me out for not wanting to read a full case file on a man who deserves to die.

I have to twist my fingers in the thin material of my stealth suit to keep my hands busy.

“I don’t need to know a single thing about these marks besides how to kill them,” I say, voice low, and Bucky presses his lips together. “He’s on our list for a reason. I don’t need, nor want, to know why.”

Bucky scoffs, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. “You really don’t want to know what he’s done to get the Org’s attention? To get a contract?”

The image of the stacks of files piling up on Pierce’s desk, threatening to fall over and collapse, worms its way into my head. Only a week ago I had seen the brown folders collecting in his office, strewn about his shelves, all filled with names and numbers and photos of people who need to be eliminated.

They’re all bad. I’m not going to sit around and read a dossier about what they’ve done; whose blood stains their hands for money or for fame or for shits and giggles and fucks. If Bucky wants his reading material to be covered in a thorough coating of Neon City squick, then by all means, he can read their files.

Not me, though. I just need to know how to kill them.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t want to know.”

He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed in me, and his eyes fall on the apartment complex again. “Part of our job is reading those dossiers, y’know.”

Embarrassment spreads through me, the heat of an anger that threatens to boil over flooding my synapses. It’s like he’s scolding me. Like he’s insinuating that I can’t—that I’m not doing my job right. It makes my palms start itching again so bad that I curl my fingers into a tight, shaking fist.

“The only people who read the full files are the ones who don’t trust the Organization,” I snap, and Bucky’s neck nearly breaks from the speed at which he turns to look at me.

Like you, I let go unsaid.

From far away, but still close enough to send a shiver up my spine, the rattle of Neon City’s train tracks hits me as the cars speed past Upperside, never slowing, never stopping. If I look off into the distance, peer down past the rest of the skyscrapers blocking the view, I bet I could see it making its rounds, a black bullet rocketing through the brightly-lit city night, its horn never braying.

The black band on my wrist vibrates. “Three minutes.”

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, and stares at me. His eyes look black tonight. With another shake of his head—in disappointment or frustration, I’m not sure—he pulls his goggles down from his hairline and sets them in place as he looks away from me. He palms his sniper rifle, back to adjusting the scope, and my hands are still shaky with a fury I didn’t think would rupture from inside me tonight.

“I don’t get how we’ve worked together for years and I never knew you didn’t read the files,” he grunts.

“‘Cause we’re killers,” I spit, “not Birdies. I don’t need to sit and read a dossier to know how to kill a man.”

He snorts. “Not Birdies,” Bucky mutters sardonically. “As if we don’t skirt the law the same way they all do.”

That’s the problem with being lawless. All the gray. Bucky might think we’re like the Birdies—the cops and the corpos and the politicians who walk around like they’re untouchable, like they’ve got a Get Out of Jail Free card in their pocket—but Neon City doesn’t have laws for people like us. All Neon City’s got is a morality scale weighted by cash. Neon City doesn’t care about the Organization.

‘Cause the Organization is who’s really in charge of this city. We’re the ones who keep the streets clean of Birdies, like tonight’s mark, for the right price.

“That’s him,” I say, nodding my head at the black car that just pulled up to the front of the apartment complex, disappearing around the corner we can’t see from our angle. “One minute.”

“Damn, you’re annoying,” Bucky says again, and he pulls his mask up from where it hangs around his neck, covering the rest of his face.

“Shut up and do your fucking job.”

Everything goes quiet and I shift forward, laying flat on my stomach beside Bucky. About the only time that he ever goes quiet is when he’s behind a scope—my favorite place to have him. In the darkness, Bucky looks like nothing more than a shadow. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark mask. But in the artificial highlights of Neon City, I could almost paint him as a god, with streaks of bright, holocene colors slicking through his hair like an oil spill.

He looks like a killer. A Neon City native.

But I guess I am too, since I’m right here next to him.

There’s only the slight squeak of the scope that Bucky adjusts and adjusts and fucking adjusts, whether in nervousness or in necessity, and the hammering of my heart as we watch the apartment complex from our vantage point. Bucky can probably see the numbers on the elevator as they light up, signaling our mark’s arrival. I don’t get much special equipment like he does with his sniper’s visor. All I have is my C-Link wrapped tight around my wrist as it buzzes with alerts. Infiltrators never get much—occupational hazards and all that. The Org never knows how long an infiltrator will last.

And even after a decade of doing this, of lying prone on rooftops watching Bucky aim for a mark’s forehead, of dressing in a disguise that isn’t my own to sit on the lap of a greasy-haired gang leader with rings on each finger, of slipping poison in my own drink and hoping its effects won’t just take my target—

Even after all these years, I still get nervous before the kill.

“Thirty seconds,” I murmur under the cacophony of Neon city and the twisting of Bucky’s scope, more for myself than for him.

“Can you stop staring at me?” he answers back, and a spark of irritation shoots up my arms like my nerves are on fire.

“I’m not staring at you anymore,” I hiss. “Please, for the love of god, concentrate.”

His voice is smug. “So you admit you were staring at me?”

“God no.”

Then, suddenly silence drapes itself upon us like a cold, tense air as the mark steps off the elevator Bucky has been watching. The bodyguard who flanks him is too relaxed, moving too languidly, and I can tell, even from a distance, that he barely glances out the big glass windows that we use to peek into their lives like a little kid pressing their face to a fishbowl.

A mistake like that is fatal.

“Count me in, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and I can’t help but scoff.

“A second ago you were telling me that it was annoying.” My eyes track the position of the mark as he speaks to someone—another one of his guards—on the landing just outside his apartment.

“I changed my mind. C’mon, doll, for good luck.”

“Yeah, alright Barnes. Like you need any luck.”

The countdown is quiet, breathy, and feels like a rollercoaster crashing straight into my stomach as Bucky squeezes the trigger and the shot rings out, deafening, the glass shattering upon impact, blood spilling all over the white tiling beneath the mark’s feet as he staggers back into the arms of his closest bodyguard, yellow light illuminating his dying face from so far away.

Easy. Quick.

Always so quick.

Then Bucky’s hand, a little warm from his hold on his rifle, is pressing down on my head and forcing me to duck down. We lay there for a few seconds, with only his gun between us, listening carefully for the sounds of someone rushing the building. My cheek is pressed against the cold, dirty surface of the roof, staring at Bucky as we wait the last few minutes.

When he’s sure that no one is coming after us, Bucky pulls his mask back down and shoves his goggles up through his hair, catching some of the chestnut strands in the straps.

His blue eyes flick up to meet mine and he flashes me a smug grin. “See?”

I snort. “Yeah, okay. So you did need the extra luck.”

“Hey.” He frowns dramatically, and I almost crack a smile.

“World’s Best Sniper my ass.”

Bucky breaks into a laugh at that, chuckling softly as he shifts onto his knees and grabs his rifle. A giggle nearly slips through my lips in tune with his own. He props himself up on his elbows to peer over the ledge of the roof one more time. I turn my wrist inward to check my C-Link, swiping past the map of our area to scroll over to the mark’s file. His bio-feedback uploads directly to my Link and a red word projects over the dark sleeve covering my forearm, blinking brightly.

DECEASED.

“Clear,” Bucky declares and I nod my head in agreement, the interface of my Link disappearing as I twist my arm.

Good job, I want to tell him. My lips feel sewn shut and my tongue is dry.

Instead, I watch as he takes apart the pieces of his rifle, slowly, carefully, fluidly. The hands that know where to shove a knife to neutralize a target, that know how to keep still in order to pull a hair trigger and still take the recoil, those hands know how to take apart each intricate section of his gun without hesitation. As if he’s on autopilot, Bucky unscrews each part and packs them in a padded case with a delicacy I only ever see him exert on firearms.

Maybe he uses such care when handling his weapons because he wishes someone would use such care when handling him.

Bucky’s always said he’s just a weapon, too.

In the background, the rattling of the train tracks bursts through the stagnant air of Neon City yet again. This will be its last circuit through Upperside for a while, making its way down to the Lowerside to loop around the gutters of the city instead. And by the time it comes back our way, we’ll be far enough away that the rumbles of the cars won’t vibrate through the concrete. In fact, on the top floor of the Org’s high rise, the black train is but a speck of speeding lights, nearly invisible.

I roll onto my back, the roof hard on my spine, cold seeping through the thin fabric of my stealth suit. The faint clink of fiberglass fades and is replaced by a snap of metal and the click of a lock as Bucky presumably closes the case to his rifle. Above me, the sky is as black as the train that rockets through the city, dark and unending.

“You haven’t always lived in Neon City,” I mention, hearing Bucky’s combat boots shuffle toward me.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something hesitant in his voice. He doesn’t offer anything more, and I breathe in the smoky, dusty air, my eyes searching every corner of the sky that I can see for something—for anything.

But there’s nothing there.

“What do the stars look like?” I ask him quietly. On the edges of my vision, the glowing lights of the nightclubs below us tint everything in red and blue and pink and purple, so bright, so sickening, and it drowns everything in the vicinity. I wonder if there’s a sky out there, somewhere, that can’t be drowned.

‘Cause Bucky might not truly be a Neon City native—and fuck him for that—but he’ll never leave it now.

And I’ll never know why Bucky traded a sky filled with stars for a city born of blood.

He never answers, and I never expect him to. Instead, Bucky’s hand appears in front of my eyes, his calloused fingers reaching out for me. And when I put my cold hand in his warm grasp, he locks our fingers together tightly, and a spark ignites when our palms meet as if my mind is still asking to see the sky light up, electric.

As easy as he pulls a trigger, Bucky pulls me up from where I lay on the roof. His arm slips around my waist to hold me as I gain my footing, and he’s so fucking warm it makes me shiver in response, but when I look up to meet his gaze, he tugs his hand out of mine and drifts away. Without a word, Bucky grabs his weapon case and nods toward the open hatch where a ladder leads us back down to the eighteenth floor.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s get out of here.”

No one leaves Neon City alive—and that’s usually why no one chooses to arrive.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes series #enemies to lovers #bucky barnes angst #assassin au #assassin!reader #this is our last stop love #thanks for supporting me!

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sirenutsukushi · 3 years

Text

Wanted by Foxes ; Kita’s Route

InariKami!Kita Shinsuke x Female!Miko!Reader

Summary: People sometimes say the Gods are good to good people, and who were you to disagree? You have been blessed by the gods all your life, serving them in return for their gifts and your good fortunes. Bad things don’t happen to good people, so why were you being chased down by one of the men from your village, and why was he so bent on hurting you. Only thing you can do now is pray, pray for the Kami to save you.

Warning: This story contains elements of attempted non-con, slight gore, possessive themes, suggestive content, non-consensual restraint, attempted physical assault and harm, and other possibly triggering topics. If this upsets you it is advised you scroll past.

Reader Discretion highly advised.

Quiet gasps passed through soft lips, fly away hair sticking to your forehead, zori sandals smacking against the soft wood of the temple floor. You kicked them off, letting them clatter to the ground as you ran, socks sliding across the polished flooring.

Don’t catch me. Please— don’t find me!

You repeated like a mantra in your mind, hand flying to cover your mouth as you ran out of the temple offering room, across the stepping stones in the zen garden, and into the honden. Staring at the beautiful golden statue of InariKami-Sama, you felt at ease for a moment. But it was shattered by the sound of loud footsteps. Wincing, you turned to run, but could only scream as a hand roughly grabbed your wrist.

“Not so fast, little one- we’ve got unfinished business, remember?” The man sneered, grinning down at you like a feral beast. You thrashed in his grasp, bringing your unrestrained arm up to punch at him. He grunted, holding your hands above your head before throwing you to the floor. Pinned down, face pressed against the soft wooded floor you cried out for help as the man behind you tied your wrists with your own hair ribbon.

“Just stay still, Yowainari.” He hissed your family’s name like it was venom, and your heart dropped. “W-… why are you doing this?” You gasped out, fear evident in your voice despite you doing your best to hide it. “Yer family isn’t exactly beloved, Priestess. All ya lot do is act like yer better than us, with yer constant praise towards the kami, disgust for those ya see as under ya. Ya get to live in nice houses, a big estate. A lot of ‘s don’t think it’s fair. ‘Nd yer a pretty little thing, aren’t ‘cha… yer not married yet. ‘A bet it’s ‘cos ya see everyone as beneath ya, huh?” The man spit, irritation lacing his voice as one of his hands left your bound wrists.

A quiet sob left your throat when he spoke again. “Tell ‘m, where are yer stupid kami now?” You opened your mouth to speak but didn’t get a word out before the man screamed, no, shrilled in agony and terror. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut as you tried to shut out the noise, unable to cover your ears due to your bound hands. Trembling, you lay there as something ripped your attacker to shreds, the gurgling, screaming, sounds of flesh being ripped from bone and sinew snapping against the fangs of… something. There was silence after, save for the soft padding of feet against the floor. You lay there stiffly, unable to look over from your position on the floor. You could move freely if you wanted, with your attacker no longer holding you down.

You didn’t want to. You didn’t want to face whatever had attacked the man. “Atsumu, Osamu. Enough.” A soft, yet masculine voice spoke, instantly calming you. The tranquility, it was something you’d only felt when praying or cleaning the golden statue you’d come to love. You shook yourself from your thoughts when a pair of zori clad feet stopped in front of you, grey hakama pants brushing above the floor. You glanced up, (e/c) doe eyes filled with unshed tears, a few slipping down your soft cheeks.

A male stood in front of you, foxish amber eyes soft as he looked down at you, kneeling to untie your bound wrists. His touch was gentle, and as he freed you from your restraints, you were able to get a good look at him. The man before you had to have been a yokai or something of the sort, with his sharp eyes and the fluffy looking pointed ears a top his head, red marks upon his cheeks beneath his eyes. Nine fluffy tails twitched behind him, the fur of his ears and tails a snowy white with smoky grey and black tufts. He was either a kitsune or an inari, that much was clear. The attire he wore was similar to the wedding kimonos worn by men, but he wore grey hakama pants, and the haori draped over him was a simple black color, with a faint, ombré smoky design trailing up a few inches from the hem and sleeves. A pair of hanafuda earrings hung from his pointed ears.

The male pulled your trembling body up from the floor gently, before tugging you softly into his chest and whispering soft words of comfort in your ear. Bringing your hands up to clutch at the fabric of his haori, you felt at ease again. As if you had met this man before. He seemed so familiar. “W…who are you?” You mumbled against him, and he grinned faintly before pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head, the lotus and wisteria scent of your hair invading his senses. “Don’t tell me ya don’t remember me. Ya pray to me every day. Inari-Kami Kita is what ya mortals call me. Although, I prefer Shinsuke.” His voice was like honey, sweet, flowing delicately from his lips, he spoke with an accent… Kansai dialect. Your eyes widened faintly.

“You’re… inari-sama—“ You turned your head to glance at the statue, but it was missing from its pedestal. The shimenawa and talismans lay around the pedestal, along with the incense bowl. “H..why?” You speak breathlessly, glancing up at him with wide eyes. He hums, running his fingers through your soft (h/c) locks, his amber hues seemingly glowing down at you. “I don’t know… for some reason… Yer the first human I’ve felt this way for. I couldn’t let him get away with what he did to ya.” You shivered at the feeling of his breath tickling your skin, as he leaned his head down.

“After all… only I can touch ya like that… pin ya down like that. I should reward ya, for being such a devoted little Miko.” Shinsuke whispered heatedly in your ear, nipping at the flesh of your earlobe with a grin. The marble haired man was quick to scoop you into his arms, a foxish grin tugging at his lips, his sharp canines glinting in the light of the red paper lanterns. “And what better a reward than to make ya my bride?”

Notes: Yeah— I’ve definitely been in a Shinsuke mood lately. I’m especially weak for Kitsune!Inarizaki as well so this was definitely a self indulgent scenario. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed reading it. It’s a little darker than what I usually write but I had fun doing so. I’ll be working on the rest of the Wanted by Foxes/Wanted by Yokai fics as well as the third chapter for The Gods are Always Watching, and will have some out soon.

Akiko🦊🍁

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