#and he has many lines on his face that are fun to erase

[elioslover]

Masks On (Harry Styles x reader x smut).

Premise: Harry finally visits a sex club and what are the chances, you just so happen to be doing the same thing.

Word Count: 8k+ / Other Writing

Warnings: Smut from start to finish. P in V, Unprotected sex, literally all the sex things, just pure FILTH. Afab 2nd person (minimal OC description).

Also, shout-out to @justmeinatree for the encouragement and @caramello-styles for being such a sweetheart!

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Harry feels the energy shift as soon as he steps out from the mass of thick, velvet curtain that worked to shield the utter filth that lay just beyond. The club- as referred to, looks more like a converted condo, with walls dyed with deep hues, ultraviolet lights instead of harsh bulbs, and purple and red bounce across the room- the floors, the ceilings.

Though the room is busy, everyone is scattered, and it feels spacious enough. Harry observes the array of beds and sofa’s instead of tables and chairs; people are going at it, moans mixing in with the deep bass emitted from nearby speakers.

Patrons- dressed in only bowties and Grecian inspired masks, carrying trays of beverages and sex toys with a formality that seemed foolish for a play like this. The pretty penny Harry had paid to be here was clearly being put to good use.

The entire thing screamed ‘filthy rich fun’, which, even for Harry, seemed almost awestriking; it was the type of elite secrecy one would never dream of, and if he had any doubt about joining this evening, it was erased the minute a waiter appeared before him, offering up a glass of whisky he wasn’t even sure he had ordered.

To be fair, after such an effort to simply enter this place, plenty of hoops to jump through and many questions to be answered and confirmed, it only made sense that the owners would ensure it was more than worth it.

Harry put the crystal to his lips, downing its contents in an anxious bid for comfortability. Instead, it burned at his chest and sent a long shiver down his spine; he shuddered, his skin sprinkled with goosebumps.

Ridding himself of his blazer, white tank top, leather loafers, and other personal belongings when he arrived, assured they would stay safe in his absence, Harry now stands in only a pair of black briefs. They cling to his thighs, pinching at the meaty expanse of his soft skin, diffing into and trapping a few of the hairs growing at the base of his pelvis.

But Harry could be fully nude for all he cares- the platinum, Phantom of the Opera mask that covers the top half of his face and stops at the bridge of his nose has him feeling invincible and fucking frisky. He feels like the god he impersonates, ready to delve into the mass of bodies stroking and loving on one another, his cock twitching against the restricting cotton as confirmation.

The beds are king-sized, holding space for at least four, and a few are evidently occupied by many more than that. Sheer material is draped across the ceilings like a canopy, creating a cosy and inviting atmosphere. Harry heads over to an empty velvet green chaise lounge, plopping down lazily, his legs spread out, thighs splayed, his one arm resting on the armchair, his other palm laying out across his lower stomach.

He turns his attention to the nearest bed, only a meter away, and begins watching as a throuple of two males and a female are switching positions. The girl lays on her stomach, flat against the bed, ass up, as the first man crawls up, spreads her ass cheeks apart and rubs his cock against her once before thrusting himself up into her. They reach a smooth rhythm, skin slapping as the second man lines up behind them, wrapping his arm around the torse of the first man; with a loud moan, the first man bucks forward, only moaning louder as the second man falls into position and starts fucking into him.

Harry hasn’t noticed the way his hand has lowered, palming himself through his briefs, his body shifting to get more comfortable. On the same bed, another couple goes at it, a woman vigorously bouncing atop the cock of a man donned in a lion mask.

In the midst of it all, bodies thrusting and shifting- you are resting sweetly, sitting atop your folded legs, disguised by a black, sequined silver mask, stopping above the nose, your eyes so sharp that Harry spots them immediately, hooked on the way the fluorescent lights flicker the reflection of filth he has succumbed to. His first thought is about who you are, his second is why you’re currently here, and the third is the only one that really matters; how the hell can he get his hands on you?

Dressed in only your underwear, you have had your gaze set on Harry from the moment the curtains had pulled back and revealed him in all of his glory. He was a mass of chocolate curls and tattoos decorating a chiselled and muscular figure that had you wishing you could get your hands on.

For a while, he had seemed nervous, and that only had your curiosity blowing through the roof, your body aching to wrap around any part of him up for grabs. As he made his way over, your heart was in your throat, attention completely thrown from the couple you had intended to participate with just moments prior. They were going at it regardless, bumping up against you, but your focus would be unwavering, your mouth watering at the view of his thighs, thick and spread out just for you.

He seems to be looking your way- maybe just observing the other couples, but something tells you by the way his body shifts, his eyes hidden but holding your own gaze, makes you feel like he might want you just as you want him.

A woman, her hair long and auburn, hidden behind a green dragon mask, drops onto the bed beside you, her knees softly hitting the mattress as she whispers suggestively into the shell of your ear. Cheeks flushed, your gaze remains on Harry, with the way he managed to stir such wanting in you, all by just sitting across the room.

His intrigue seems to pique, waiting to see what your plan was- were you going to entertain the woman next to you? Her cool fingers tickling their way up your spine, your body an eruption of goosebumps.

And you wish he would just come over or that you had the confidence to greet him yourself, but he seems comfortable and unwavering, leaving you to turn your attention back to something actually tangible; the woman currently pressing her lips to the nape of your neck.

Shifting your body to greet her own, you sit up on your knees and boldly wrap your hands like a chain around the back of her neck. She leans into your touch, anticipating your next move, a soft gasp escaping her lips as yours pressed on firmly, tongue licking into her own.

Your eyes have fluttered shut, your body soothed into the sultry kisses sucking at your bottom lip, but your thoughts wander over to the man on the couch, hoping to some god that he might be watching, that he might be regretting the choice to stay put.

Lips parting for deep inhalation, the woman’s hands are soft and static as they trail the soft mounds of your skin, and when your eyes finally open in the hopeful search of the man, you are more than surprised to find him much closer now, standing at the end of the bed.

His gaze is certainly set on your own, and you want to feel bashful at the circumstances, but the erotic stimulation happening all around you and the way Harry is looking at you hungrily, his muscles flexing involuntarily, only dampens your panties further, has your thighs clenching tighter.

He must notice because his pupils are blown, and he is crawling over now, slowly stalking out his prey, happily trapped in the arms of an auburn woman. He is more than welcome, though, your back pressing into the woman's chest, her lips still tickling at your throat, and when he comes to a halt at the base of your knees, you feel zero embarrassment as they part as a welcoming gift, offering him anything he desires.

“Well, hello pretty girl.” He greets, his cock throbbing as your chest raises and you take a sharp inhale, blinking at him in a way that has him feeling like a sinner- and he hasn’t even touched you yet.

“Hi handsome.” You respond, doing your best to keep your voice from cracking, almost completely distracted by the look of arousal in his eyes that seems to be increasing at just the sound of your voice, like a siren song only luring him further into the ocean in which you resided.

Harry can hardly stop himself from sighing out, from snatching you up and fucking you into submission, instead taking his time in luring you closer, his cock pleased at the ease with which you opened up for him, mind a mess of where to start.

He taps your thigh as an instruction, satisfaction shivering at his spine as you comply, spreading your legs, bum pressed flat to the mattress. Harry can't stop himself from wrapping his palms around your ankles, tugging you forward with enough force to have you exhaling a squeak, the woman’s grip tightening around your chest.

He looks at you like you are supper, his hands trailing their way up your calves, stroking slowly; as he reaches your thighs, he gives them a selfish squeeze, crawling his way over until he is almost face-to-face with the white lace of your panties.

His breath is cool as it fans over the heat of your lower abdomen, legs threatening to quake, and his grip only tightens, his stern stare never wavering, watching your every breath, the way your chest rises and falls in anticipation.

With the gentlest of kisses to your panty-clad crotch, you cannot withhold the deep sigh that slips past your lips, a keen whine whistling its way over to him, his stomach clenching, blood rushing to his cock. Harry’s tongue slips past his plump lips, licking a firm strip up your damp lace, his mouth watering in synch.

His left hand finds a firm home on your hip, helping to keep you pinned between the bed and his touch; his right-hand trails tauntingly along your sternum, fingers dancing into the dip of your belly button, playing your hipbones and pelvis like a harp before a sudden gush of coolness catches you off guard and his thumb hooking into the slit of your panties, tugging them aside in one firm go.

Your eyes widen with lust, unable to look anywhere but at the holy sight below you; the woman cradling your torso presses her lips wherever space omits, travelling in search of the mounds of your breasts, and your entirety is begging to turn to mush in the arms of pleasure as Harry leans forward and gives your pussy the gentlest of kisses, your eyes fluttering shut as he presses another, then another, his tongue joining in to lap at you, dipping into you.

He holds you in place with ease- where the hell would you rather be right now? And as the auburn woman latches her teeth around your pebbled nipple, your leg’s part even further- if possible- prompting Harry to release you from his prior grip, to hold you at the waist, his body pressed into the mattress, his cock flush and swollen from even the slightest of friction.

He can't stop from thrusting forward as a soft mewl slips past the gaps in your teeth, tongue pressing into you, gliding up your slit, flicking at your clit before his free hand cannot help but join the mix, massaging at your inner thigh, teasing at you as you buck your hips up in anticipation. 

It's difficult to keep from sighing out in pleasure, but you try your best, harshly capturing your bottom lip between your teeth, tugging harder as Harry continues licking into you, flattening his tongue, flicking it against your clit, dipping into your entrance. 

He has died and gone to heaven; his chin is coated in you, glistening under the neon lights, and with one hand still stroking and squeezing at your inner thigh, Harry uses the other to hook into the bands of your panties, hastily guiding them down the hills and valleys of your body and you assist, ass raising from the mattress, balancing on one leg as he slides the material along and off of your skin. 

Discarded and dismissed, you are bare and spread for him, a sight Harry will be committing to memory, and he looks at you hungrily- you’re ready to be ravished.

Your pussy is practically dripping, and Harry’s hand must be possessed because it reaches out, and his finger glides through your slit, quickly dampening. The sigh you release is almost sinister, and Harry has his face buried between your thighs in an instant. 

With his tongue licking at you, the almost forgotten auburn woman is still trailing kisses along your neck, her fingers tweaking and squeezing at the skin of your breasts. You are officially a mess of pleasure, ready to beg for more- anything- all of him. 

It’s like he reads your mind as his fingers start to tease at your pussy, rubbing back and forth, his tongue focusing on your clit, swirling circles, his middle finger slipping past your entrance with such ease that Harry mutters, “fuck me” and lets it slide all the way in, curling upward. With such positive reception from yours truly, he keeps at it, all of his focus dedicated to pleasing you. 

With the way his one finger becomes two, pumping into you with such vigour, you are writhing beneath him, thighs threatening to clamp around his head like earmuffs, blocked by his one hand keeping you put. 

Your head starts to lull back into the auburn woman’s lap, but Harry is quick to correct this, pulling out his fingers completely, sticky and wet, his mouth changing from loving on you to scolding, 

“Uh, uh.” He taunts, his brows furrowed, “Eyes on me, princess.” 

You do everything in your power to comply, staring at him with all your might as he gets back to work, a satisfied smile still lingering on his lips as his tongue laps at your pussy, his fingers fucking back into you, curling, picking up the pace. 

His fingers are in complete rhythm with his tongue- they are on a mission. And by the sounds currently escaping your lips, chest rising and falling needily, Harry is certainly succeeding.

But each moment that passes is becoming agonizing for him, desperate to substitute his fingers for his cock, currently aching to bury itself inside you. 

Harry tries to pacify his cock by grinding up against the mattress, but this only has him moaning against your pussy, which in turn has you doing the same, your hands fisting the sheets. 

He can no longer hold on, flattening his tongue to give you one last good licking before he removes his fingers and then himself, leaving you in absolute awe and confusion- a spark of panic flashing across your features. 

Harry doesn’t want to startle you, but you can't stop the yelp that escapes you as his hands wrap around your ankles, and with one tug, you are before him, his face aligned with your torso. 

He stands, holding out his hand to assist you in doing the same. You do, and once your feet are safely planted on the floor, Harry’s hands are kneading at your waist and hips. He permits you a moment to stabilise before his hands find the back of your thighs, and he hoists you up into your arms, legs wrapping around his waist. 

Pussy bare and pressed against his torso, the five-step walk over to the sofa feels endless, so when he finally sits, safely cradling your back, you lower with him, coming to a rest atop his cool thighs, knowing he will be slick with wet by the time you’re finished with him.

Arms wrapped loosely across his shoulders, your fingers play with the loose curls at the base of his neck, and you lean, the outline of your mask bumping up against his own as you finally retrieve what you’ve been after all along, pressing your lips to his, tongue taking out all of your prior frustrations as it tangles with his own, scrapes along his teeth, traps and tugs his bottom lip until he is left begging for breath, lips plump and freshly-stung.

Going in for more, your palms find the sides of his face, sandwiching him between lustrous kisses, your chest pressing to his own, a whine bubbling at your throat when his grip tightens, holding you hostage and creating a gap just small enough for his hands to slip from their place on your back and to cup your breasts, squeezing and palming them as his tongue continues to lap at your own.

With the feeling of your nipples perking up so nicely beneath his thumbs, Harry cannot resist the urge to start trailing sloppy kisses along the nape of your neck, your clavicle, his open mouth leaving a trail as it makes its way down your chest, his tongue licking at the valley of your breasts before his lips finally catch your nipple, flicking at it, your body arching back desperately, pleading for more.

With a harsh nip, his tongue soothes your swollen skin, his hands squeezing at the mounds of your breasts, and your body has a mind of its own now, jutting up against him, your pussy sad to be met with only the friction of his briefs, desperate to grind your wetness across his cock, feel him slipping between your folds.

After the third time, your body glides down into contact with his own, a frustrated sigh slipping past your lips; Harry seems to catch on and woefully unlatches his mouth from your skin, but with more than just happiness, he shifts beneath you- and you also shift to allow him better access- his fingers hooking into the bands of his briefs, tugging them down in one swift motion to settle around his mid-thighs.

His cock springs up, swollen with relief and flush with freedom. Your gaze never wavers, hyper-focused on how pretty the man sitting beneath yours truly is- all of him is just too good to be true at this point.

You want to spend eternity, or at least a moment, marvelling and taking him all in, but he is closer than ever, and your pussy is clenching at just the sight of him- practically screeching to have him buried deep inside you.

With that, you reach out and give him one mandatory stroke, to soothe both him and yourself, and by the way his mouth parts, his eyes hooded, body jolting and then relaxing back into your touch, you sling your leg over his lap to straddle him, his face level with your chest, his hands instinctively coming to a rest on the pillows of your hips.

Your arms become a noodle around his neck like in preparation for dancing the salsa, your hips rocking forward without hesitation, pussy skating along the length of his shaft, leaving him slick with just one stroke.

Harry doesn’t even try to stop the string of mutters he sings out into the crevasse of your breasts, breath fanning chills all along your skin just as your hips buck again, sliding up against him, squeaking out as the tip of his cock rubs up against your clit.

You push on into an agonisingly slow rhythm, dragging out each stroke until Harry is so frustrated that he works extra hard to avoid rutting up into you- oddly satisfied letting you take the lead- so his mouth begins leaving sloppy kisses along your chest, your shoulders, the creases of your neck. And whilst the idea of holding onto this sense of control was something you really wanted to indulge in, you cannot stop your body from picking up speed, ever so slightly upping the rhythm.

Harry is struggling to keep himself from turning the two of you over and fucking you into the sofa cushions, taking out his agitation by unexpectedly spitting on your chest, and both of your gazes drop to watch as the dribble of spit travels like a delicate stream down the valley of your breasts, meandering towards your bellybutton.

You rut up against him with force now, pupils swelled and hungry. At the last minute, Harry commands his pelvis not to thrust, taking a section of skin on your breast between his front teeth, nipping and sucking at it until it stings, giving you one last tug before pulling back, his tongue slipping out to softly lap at the blooming bruise. Tiny and speckled with red and purple, this mark will serve as a reminder of the scandalous events of this evening.

More so, this mark is the last straw, your lips angrily finding his own, tongues arguing for domination- Harry’s succumbs the second one of your hands reaches down between your laps, grabbing at his cock and guiding him into you without a second thought.

You take him in with ease, but he is a stretch the further you slide down on him, your belly feeling full as your body finally comes to a sitting on his cock. Harry’s head has tilted back, his eyes fluttering open and shut.

He wants to thrust up, he wants to watch your breasts and body bounce about atop of his cock, needs to see the way your skin jiggles and stretches for him, the way your face crinkles up in pleasure and satisfaction… but Harry lets you do anything you want, lets himself be at your mercy.

And fuck, you make the idea of losing control feel really good, raising your body until only his tip remains inside of you, threatening to leave him out in the cold, but at the last moment, you grind back down, letting him fill you up gluttonously, easily finding a groove, your backside slapping against his thighs, skin-to-skin creating the beat of a drum, and with each smack, you only want to go faster, harder, unable to resist the need to tease and drag things out.

Harry is a mess of moans, only making you feel like you are being cheered on during a marathon, encouraging you to up your stamina and reach the finish line in record time. His hands are all over you, tugging you closer, one hand wrapping tighter around your waist, guiding you up and down his cock, desperate to hear you whine louder, to let others know how good it felt to be riding him. And you want everyone to know, too; you want them to know that they could all leave, and you would be more than happy to just let Harry spend the rest of the evening fucking you into a semi-permanent coma.

Harry shifts, spreading his legs to offer you a new angle, ready to drool as a dragged-out sigh slips out from deep within you, and he knows he’s just hit a good spot.

So, as any good boy would, Harry bucks up into you again and again, motivated by each moan, putting his all into making you sing for him, your hand digging into his biceps, then his back, down his torso, squeezing at his thighs as your stomach starts to clench, heart rate picking up and when you start to feel lightheaded, you welcome the wave of euphoria threatening to wash over- you hear nothing but the soft praises Harry mutters for your pleasure, your body grinding down on his pelvis desperately chasing your high, whining out as his hand spreads your cheeks, guiding you through a long-anticipated orgasm.

Coming down, your head slumps against his damp shoulder, cheek pressing into his warm, soft skin. You can hear his heartbeat; it’s as fast as your own- if not faster; his breaths are scattered, and Harry wonders what will happen next.

He wants to revel in the moment but is hit with disappointment as you slowly and carefully guide him out of you, and he wants to hiss out at the cruel loss of contact.

Your leg swings over and off of his lap, standing tall and gazing down at him with a curious brow furrow that has Harry ready to question his entire existence, but when your arm extends out to him, offering to wrap his hand in your own, Harry feels butterflies beating at his belly, and he accepts in an instant, ridding himself of his briefs, tossing them aside with little to no regard before grabbing your hand, feeling fuzzy at the visual of how small it looks cradled in his own.

Trailing behind you, willing to let you drag him just about anywhere, it seems you have targeted a bed sitting empty in a quaint corner of the room.

But your ass is bouncing with each step you take, and with gravity offering him such a gracious gift, Harry's hand reaches out with the need to grab, settling with a soft slap to your left cheek, a chuckle slipping past his lips as you let out a little whimper of surprise, body jolting forward, thighs jiggling for his absolute pleasure, and all thoughts of the bed are forgotten as Harry pushes your bodies into the nearest pillars. The look in your eyes adjusts from surprise to arousal at the newfound feeling of your body being backed up into the icy marble, turning into a tornado as Harry's simmering skin keeps you mounted like a shiny trophy.

Harry thinks he's really got you now, your skin so silky, your muscles contracting against his own, keening into his hold, lashes batting up at him like he holds the keys to the garden of Eden; with softness, he presses a breathy kiss to your own parted lips, and now that he has you so perfect and patient, he hasn't the faintest clue where to start.

It would be polite to give him a moment to gather his thoughts, perhaps plot his next move, but you know exactly what you want- no, need- next, and with Harry's head so preoccupied with the idea of you that his hold isn't strong enough to stop you from slipping out from his trap, turning around, your palms pressing flat to your chest as you gift him a gentle, but firm push, his back smacking into the same marble you had just escaped.

Harry feels awestruck, unsure what to think, but his cock is certainly pleased, throbbing at the unfamiliar shift in dynamic, desperate to see what you might do next. And when his eyes, swollen with lust, focus on your own, there is a glimmer of certainty that has him almost keeling over; the need to get on his knees and beg for you is killing him.

But it seems that you are the one who will be on your knees as you keep one palm against his chest, unsure of whether he's willing to stay put, and your body drops to the floor, knees happily greeting the tiles.

With your left hand still holding him in place and your right hand coming to a rest on his waist, fingers squeezing into his fleshy cheeks, Harry's head lulls black in bliss, throat bobbing, both of his hands casting a shadow over your own, wrapping around your wrists like pretty bracelets.

Leaning forward ever so sweetly, your lips pucker and place a polite kiss on the tip of his cock. Harry's hips buck forward without his consent, and your hand leaves his chest, gliding lazily down his torso until it comes to rest on his shaft.

Thoughts of how perfectly he fits between your fingers are blurring your vision, but at the sound of Harry pathetically hissing from above, your grip tightens, body shuffling closer, his own hand settling like a scarf around the back of your neck. His hand stays statuesque, unsure of pushing your boundaries and frightened of catching your hair in one of his many rings. But when you reassuringly nuzzle your crown into his palm, Harry finally relaxes, his fingers- still carefully- slip into and massage the hair at the base of your neck.

You’ve got him right where you want him, and there’s no time to waste as you close the last of any remaining space, bowing forward and closing in like at communion, mouth opening, ready for the catholic wafer but instead closing your lips over the tip of his cock, your tongue darting out to swirl at his head and loving the way he tries to resist bucking into you, stop himself from hitting the back of your throat. 

Just the idea has you dripping, fulfilling the desire to take him further in your mouth, your free hand slowly pumping his cock, holding him in place as you suck him, slowly taking in as much as you can manage before slowly pulling back, letting your tongue trail along his shaft in your wake. 

Right as Harry begins to fear that you might release and leave him high and dry, you swallow him again, bobbing and creating a rhythm, a small sliver of spit slipping past your lips as you take him as far as your mouth will permit, tongue lapping at him, your hand pumping the base of him as Harry huffs and puffs above you. 

And when you can’t help but glance up at him from beneath hooded lashes, the way Harry cusses out and rolls his head back against the pillar is enough to have you picking up the pace, swallowing him with vigour, desperately trying to fit as much of him possible into the hollows of your cheeks.

Slowly, your head begins to bob, taking all of his cock in before pulling back, then again, and again, your hand still pumping him, spit gliding along his shaft and soaking your fingers. 

You release his cock from your mouth, still gliding your hand back and forth, pumping him and peering up at him with doe-like eyes.

“Fuck.” Harry whines, the back of his head bumping against the pillar, “Y’gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

With a mischievous grin, you place a gentle but menacing kiss on the tip of his cock before flattening your tongue and licking his shaft from base to tip before taking all of him in your mouth once more, creating the perfect rhythm, your other hand leaving his thigh and cupping around his balls, massaging him, head grooving up and down his cock. Harry is a complete mess, his muscles flexing with each suck and release. 

You guide his cock to the hollow of your left cheek, brushing him against your mouth before ever-so-softly gliding his head along your bottom teeth and rubbing him against your right cheek. He is still moaning above you, and when you suddenly tilt forward and take him so deep that his cock brushes the back of your throat, Harry is cussing out, his hand tightening around the base of your neck. 

You lean your head back into his palm as a form of encouragement, and Harry thinks you may be the most perfect creature of planet Earth itself. He cautiously begins guiding your head, testing the waters as he becomes a guide for his cock, sliding into your mouth. 

Happy to oblige, you try to remain as still as possible, your pussy throbbing each time he brushes against your throat, and when you almost gag, Harry has officially died and gone to heaven. His pace quickens, forcefully- but so carefully- bucking into you, loving how soft and plump your lips are, how well you take him- how deep. 

The thought of his cum dripping down your chin has him in utter shambles, and that is not how he wants this evening to go- yet. So, with one last thrust and grunt, he ruefully removes himself, hissing at the rush of cool air that greets his tip and almost crying at the sight of the string of spit connecting from your lips and his cock. 

Using the back of your hand to dismiss the spit, you peer up at him curiously, rather proud of your work but still hoping to have more of him.

Harry guides your head as a gesture, hissing at the rush of air that greets the tip of his cock, and this only causes his impulses to increase- so, as soon as you have found your feet and are looking up at him with blown-out pupils and puffy pink lips, Harry finally reclaims control, his hands wrapping you up and spinning you around in one swift motion and you are now facing the pillar, your palms pressing flat against the cool surface. 

His hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into your fleshy skin and, on instinct, your back arches, ass desperate to press up against him. Harry releases his right hand from your hip, wrapping it around his stiff shaft and guiding it towards your entrance. Ass up, spine curved, your breasts press into the icy pillar, your body scooting up against the pelvis, and when the head of his cock glides along your pussy, just stopping short of your entrance, you moan out enthusiastically. 

Harry gives you one last tease, his tip slipping into you before pulling back out, but before you have the opportunity to whine out, he thrusts into you, and instead, you arch out for him even more, sighing out, breasts squishing into the pillar. 

He guides his cock in and out, painfully persevering, taking his damn time, but after a third deep and forceful thrust, you shuffle back into him impatiently, and Harry wants to chuckle aloud at your lack of patience now that he has you pressed up against him. 

But your neediness is too tantalising to resist; Harry can’t stop his hips from bucking up into you, almost drooling at the hum of satisfaction you reward him with as he thrusts again, this time harder, his arm reaching around to rest his palm on your stomach, keeping you pinned as he proceeds to fuck into you. 

Harry keeps going, huffing in sync with each thrust, his stomach clenching as you mewl against him, your palms pressing into the pillar and holding on for dear life. His hand slides down from your stomach to the back of your right thigh, raising it until your knee bumps up against the marble, and when he’s certain you plan on keeping it there, he releases your leg and proceeds to pound into you, his hand snaking around until it finds your pussy, fingers gliding along your wetness, seeking out louder moans, desperate whines. 

And you are- unable to hold yourself back any longer, overcome with the electric current coursing through you with each thrust, each time his thumb brushes against your clit. You are chasing another orgasm, pushing your palms against the pillar in an attempt to get closer to him.

Harry kindly obliges, pressing his chest into your back, pulling you flush against his damp and flexed torso as he keeps at it, bucking up into you with all of his willpower, hands grabbing at you, adamant to have you as near as possible. 

Right as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge for a second time in just minutes, Harry interrupts by pulling out and wrapping you up in his arms and hastily turning you around to face him. Concern flashes across his features as your back bumps up against the pillar, but when you only whine out, your left leg lifting up, calf wrapping around his waist, Harry guides his cock back into you, bucking up with commitment and determination to have you come unravelled against him once more. 

And you are unravelling, chemistry at play as your body becomes a mix of ecstasy and euphoria. You are grabbing at every part of him, never wavering for too long, tugging at his hair, squeezing at his biceps, pressing your pelvis up against his own. Harry is doing the same, feeding off of your needy whines, unsaid pleas for him to keep going, and when you can’t help but turn them into verbal pleas, asking him so sweetly to fuck you “just like that”, he is in an absolute state, 

“Yeah?” He confirms- only for the sake of hearing you speak up again, 

“Yeah.” You stutter out, nails digging into the nape of his neck, scraping along his shoulder. 

Harry is enamoured, you’re being such a good girl for him, and he wants to reward you for being so. But he also wants to be a little testy and has the urge to see how much nicer you’re willing to be for him, so he deems it necessary to hold out on you a tad longer.

He wraps his arm around the middle of your back, pressing you into him, and he bows his head and leans in as close to your ear as possible, his warm breath fanning over the nook of your neck and clavicle, ensuring you hear him loud and clear, 

“Ask me nicely.” 

Your head snaps up, looking at him with incredulity, but too desperate to do anything other than give him what he wants. One of your hands finds his torso, palms trailing along his chest as your other hand tightens around his neck in physical protest, which is the last thing that would ever slip past your lips. Trying your best to give him your politest plea, your mouth plump and puckered, mousey eyes flickering playfully up at him, 

“Pretty please.”

And that’s all Harry needs, thrusting into you with repayment, revelling in the way your body accepts his reward so enthusiastically. He picks up the pace, pounding into you and making certain that you are more than welcome to come undone all over him, 

“Such a good girl for me.”

You’re nodding at him desperately, body crumbling with each praise he is granting you, and when his palm slips down between your bodies, landing on your pussy and lazily swirling loops atop your clit, you are a shaking mess- in a frenzy and falling over the edge, coming all over his cock, softly chanting, “yes, yes.”

“So, so good.” He reminds you, holding onto you, keeping you secure and satisfied. He can feel the familiar stirring in his stomach, his cock twitching and tempted to come all over you.

But there’s no way he’s done with you, and he cannot fathom finishing now. 

Your bucking has slowed, head lulling into the crook of his neck, trying to steady your breathing, and instead of giving in to an impending orgasm, Harry pats your bum firmly, wrapping an arm around your thigh, encouraging you to jump up into his arms. 

He is still fully inside you and doesn’t plan on changing that, effortlessly guiding you up into his arms, one of his hands still on your backside, the other cradling your back. With great care, Harry starts to walk, staying slow and peering over his shoulder to make sure he’s going in the right direction. 

Thankfully, the pillar was already the halfway point to the bed you had targeted earlier, and with your lips lazily trailing kisses along his torso, your nails digging into his back, Harry was overjoyed when his feet bumped into the base of the bed. 

Impressively, he bows forward- your bodies still bound- his knees denting the mattress, lowering your bodies onto the bed until your back is pressed into the sheets and Harry is hovering over you, balancing on his forearms, his forehead brushing against your own.

“Ready to go again, princess?” His cool breath fans across your features, and you are nodding as if your life depends on it, your pelvis bucking up against him.

Harry’s brows furrow in amusement, his head bowing, lips brushing up against the shell of your ear, “Use your words, lovely.” 

“Fuck.” You huff out, your right leg tightening around his waist, one of your hands digging into his bicep and the other tugs at his hair, “Please.” And just so he really gets the message, you add, “I want you.” 

“Want me to what?” He drawls, tongue tickling your neck as one of his hands massages your breast. 

“Fuck me.” Your reply is emotionless, stern and impatient, “Want you to fuck me.”

“Sassy little one, aren’t you?” Harry chuckles, squeezing your thigh endearingly. 

You roll your eyes as if he hasn’t just stated the obvious, lifting your pelvis up to rub against him. His pupils are blown, and you want him inside of you- now. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” you ponder, nails dragging along his shoulder, “Or do I need to find someone else?” there is nobody alive that you could want more than him; he should know this from the way you are so eager to please him, but the mere suggestion has Harry thrusting into you mercilessly.

You whine out in both stupor and ecstasy, your back arching off of the bed, your breasts pressing into his chest. With one of his arms still holding him in place, Harry’s free hand comes up to cradle your face, your foreheads slick with sweat and sticking together. 

His hands are about as big as your head, and that alone contributes to the next sigh you release, bucking up into him, meeting his thrusts in the middle, your pelvises slapping into one another. 

Harry marvels at the way your bodies seem to so easily find a rhythm each time like you were made for him, and he for you. His thrusts are deep and with intention, stretching your pussy with satisfaction. 

“Christ.” He huffs in astonishment, “Y’ feel so fuckin’ good.” 

You can only moan out in agreement, at a complete loss for words. The only thing you feel is satisfaction sparking throughout your wholeness, and the only other thing you can think about is how badly you wish you knew his name- hoping to call it out to him as he pounds into you, desperate to reward him for doing such a good job. 

Harry can't remember ever feeling so engaged in fucking someone- was there a time? Nothing before or after this moment matters; he could now die a happy man. You feel so warm and worked-up, pressed into him, grabbing at any part of him available for the taking. 

He wants to let you, doesn’t mind if you spend hours or even days exploring him, poking and prodding his limbs and skin for reactions, having him like putty in your hands- all yours. 

“More.” You huff out when it seems that Harry is getting caught up in his thoughts, and he thrusts into you so generously that your head lulls back to greet the mattress. 

But now you are too far away for Harry’s liking; he needs to see those pretty eyes and pretty flushed cheeks, needs to see how good of a job he’s doing at pleasing you. His hand cradles the back of your neck, guiding your head back up, his lips waiting to latch onto your own. 

Breathy kisses become open-mouthed ones. Harry’s tongue is dancing all along your mouth, biting on your lip and sucking on your tongue. Still, in a battle of kisses, Harry’s hand sweeps along your face and his pointer finger slips into your mouth. You suck on him like you were born solely for this purpose, and it’s Harry’s turn to stop his head from rolling back. 

He keeps on at it, licking into your mouth while his cock rams into you relentlessly, each thrust accompanied by skin slapping, deep moans, hums of satisfaction and a stirring in your chest that only increases as Harry bends your leg and pins it to your chest, fucking into you from an angle that feels so good that you begin slipping away into a realm of pure pleasure. 

“Like that?” Harry pants out, each thrust more purposeful than the last. 

“Just like that.” You nod vigorously with gratefulness. 

“Good girl.” He praises with a sloppy kiss, “Look so good like this.” 

Harry keeps thrusting, and it’s not long before the look on your face starts morphing with frustrated delight, your eyes threatening to squeeze shut. But you don’t want to look away, instead glancing between your grooving bodies, in awe of the sight of his cock coated with all of you, pumping in and out so gracefully. 

“Are you gonna be a good girl and cum for me?” He is kissing your neck, tongue wet and trailing along your skin. 

And that is all you need to guide you back into another orgasm, your hips raised off of the bed and grinding up against his pelvis in a circular motion, hands holding onto him for dear life. 

Harry groans, almost growls out, pushing into you, trying to pull you closer than physically possible, “Just like that, sweetheart.” You are definitely a sucker for his praises, desperate for more, and he obliges, “So good for me.” 

With a surprising twist, Harry is forced to confront his impending orgasm as you pose a rather prolonged request, “Want you to cum for me.” 

He wants to panic, the thought of this being over is simply heinous, but you only chuckle at the obvious distress beginning to warp his features and reassure him, “I still have plenty in store for you.” And for good measure, you add, “Unless you can’t… keep up.”

Harry knows you’re only taunting him for the fun of it, but the suggestion is obscene, and he seeks to prove you wrong. You are still grinding up against him, whimpering at the sensitivity, nevertheless needy for more, so he picks up the pace, ramming into you with everything he has to offer, his arm bending further into the bed to get closer, and your arms wrap around him to assist, tugging him flush against you, teeth nipping at his neck. 

“Gonna let me swallow you, pretty boy?” You blink up at him innocently, “Wanna taste you so badly.”

His thrusts are getting sloppier, slower and more determined. Now that the offer of an orgasm is on the table, lying beneath him, so pretty and so tasty, Harry can’t resist pushing into you harder, deeper, grunting and huffing along, skin shivering at the feel of your nails tickling at his torso. 

And when you tilt your head and aim your teeth for his ear, nipping his earlobe only to soothe it with the flick of your tongue, you ask one more time, “Pretty please.” 

“Fuck. Fuck.” Is all Harry can muster in between a mess of moans, struggling to keep his weight from coming down on you, his free hand wrapping around your waist to hold you still, his cock wailing for release.

And he gets exactly what he’s been searching for, thrusting into you once more, treasuring it as he pulls out, stroking at his cock as the two of you shuffle around and you are quickly on your knees, mouth spread wide, tongue flat and pushing past your lips. 

Harry doesn’t think he has ever seen something- someone- so beautiful, and he doesn’t stop thinking this as he starts to cum, spilling onto your tongue, his cock throbbing at the sight of you swallowing him so kindly, at the glistening of your swollen lips, the bobbing of your throat. 

You wear your satisfaction with pride, and for the first time, you wonder if Harry actually can keep up. He hadn’t said so, in words, at least. But he is still close and starts edging closer, desperate to have his hands back on you. He gets what he wants, and you shuffle closer, following his gaze as it shifts to the nearest patron, using his free hand to gesture for their attention. 

Before you get the chance to get too confused, the patron steps closer, and you can now clearly see the contents of his silver platter. Staring up at you is an array of toys, small and large, feathered or leather or even metal. You don’t even need to glance over at Harry to tell him you are definitely game, instead reaching out with an item already in mind. 

Harry watches as you select your weapon of choice, turning back to him with satisfaction and a cheeky smile, the chosen toy on display is just begging to be played with, and it seems that both of you are ready to oblige. 

🍒

Forgive me for I am a sinner and I feel zero regrets. Hell can have me because I am DONE. I hope you guys enjoy this one! It's been a while since I've blessed the children with smut and I hope I have succeeded lmao. - Emmy. xo 💞

#not opposed to writing a pt2 #its 1 am again #so this is unedited #I'll fix it tomorrow I swear #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles x y/n #elioslover #harry x reader #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles fic #harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfic #harry styles concept #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles writing #harry styles masterlist #harry styles fic rec

[espinosaurusrexex]

Happy Little Accidents

Veteran!BuckyBarnes x Female!ArtTeacher!Reader

summary: In a world after the war, Bucky tries to get pieces of his old self back by joining an art class. He meets you and instantly falls head over heels. Now he just has to work up the courage to ask you out.

a/n: wrote most of this on my lunch break after finally feeling the creativity spark again. I hope you all get a cozy fall feeling.

word count: 3.3k

warnings: adapting to life after war, frustration, a little angst, love-dazed Bucky, just so much fluff and wholesomeness 💕

･ﾟ✫* 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ｡✭･ﾟ

↑ the face of a man too whipped to listen - this is the Bucky vibe today

Steve Rogers was an artist. A lot of people knew about it. Hell, the Smithsonian even had a gallery full of sketches from a notebook of Steve’s he had lost back in ‘45. But Steve never needed people to recognize his work. Just like he never needed all the fame that came with his shield or all the honors he got for doing what he thought normal human decency implied - stopping bullies.

But what not many people knew was that Steve loved his art so much, he even held little sketch workshops in the camps on the western front. He drew each member of the howling commandos with impeccable accuracy. He loved drawing portraits and he loved to help.

Which was why, sooner or later, Bucky had been talked into trying his first sketches back in the day as well. Back when he was still left-handed, back when he found joy in little things such as drawing with his best friend. Back when he was not who he was now.

Yeah, he was bitter about it...

Bucky wasn’t too shabby of an artist per se. He was rather quick with his sketches always able to find the right spot for his next line and even though they weren’t perfect, one could always see what his pictures were meant to present.

Yes, they were crooked and not nearly as good as Steve’s but he had fun with it. Sketching had been an escape for his soul while bombs were exploding only miles away from his camp. It had reminded him of his best friend when they were apart, and most importantly, it taught him patience.

God, so much patience. 

Bucky had never been good with it. Always fast, always right away. But the amount of times Steve made him erase carefully constructed lines and shapes had him feel scolded like a kid.

Later, he was grateful for it.

Now? He hated just touching a pencil. Every time he was reminded of his recovery, of months of frustration and anger, of grief and sadness. All because he’d lost his arm, and with it, all that had brought him joy in life.

When he had to learn to write with his right hand, he screamed at the papers before him, the crooked and shaky lines mocking him with vigor.

You’ll never be the same, they said, You’ll never have true joy back.

He felt like a child. Unable to do the most mundane of tasks, whilst fully aware of what had to be done to get it right.

But he missed it. The way drawing would clear his mind and the ease he felt when thinking of nothing but the next step in the process.

So after a particularly frustrating session with his therapist, Bucky had walked through a gallery on his way home. Beautiful pieces, each more impressive than the next hung on bright white walls until he reached a small corner with sketches and photographs. They weren’t less good than the rest, but other than the huge paintings, they seemed approachable - and they reminded him of times far gone.

“Hello, would you be interested in signing up for a sketching class?” An angelic voice had asked after holding a leaflet into his line of sight. And when he followed the hand up to your face, his breath hitched in his throat.

“I- I don’t think I’d be any good…” he had said with a pitiful smile as his left arm raised next to his head, the sleek silver of his hand shining in the showroom light.

“Oh don’t be silly. Everyone can be an artist.”

And that was all it took.

Now he was here. Sitting in a room with about eight other people, listening to you talk. Though Bucky didn’t pay much attention to your words. He was distracted by the way your lips curved when you spoke, and how your hands looked in the light when you flailed them in the air. He wanted to draw you, only you. But he knew he could never do you justice. And that frustrated him a little.

His first task was easy. A series of connected squiggles and shapes. The second was harder - finding and highlighting familiar motives in his work. But when he tried to connect his shapes, his hand began to tremble and the line on his paper got dented, he huffed in surrender.

A look to the front to you talking with another woman and he was getting off his chair.

This was useless. He should have never come here. 

But when he moved to gather his things, your voice stopped him once again. 

“Oh that’s interesting,” you said with a tilted head, your eyes following the little dent in his drawing. 

“Yeah, I messed it up.” He shook his head and added a careful, much more quiet ‘I always do”.

“You see, it’s only a mistake if you make it one.” You turned to him and smiled and his heart began racing now that all your attention was on him. Bucky looked around to see if anyone noticed, but the other participants were all focused on their work. “I’m not going to tell you that this line isn’t supposed to be the way it is. You alone can decide that.”

You stepped closer as he eyed his paper again. “So, Bucky,” holy crap you remembered his name. And it sounded so good coming from your lips. “Are you gonna make it a mistake or not?”

❁ ❁ ❁

That was a month ago. And Bucky had come to your class every Sunday night since then. But now his crush had only intensified. 

Every time you stepped behind him to watch him work, his hand began to sweat. Every time you gave him a suggestion, his eyes were so drawn to your lips, he barely heard what you were saying. Just yesterday this had caused him to get into a particularly awkward situation. He hadn’t listened, of course - those stupid mesmerizing lips of yours were at fault for it. And when Bucky finally came back from his daydream of imagining what they would feel like on his lips, he knocked over a jar of water as he noticed you had moved next to him. And to make matters even worse, you had caught him talking to himself as he cleaned up the mess. 

Bucky was beyond embarrassed. He wasn’t normally that clumsy, all his moves were calculated. No limb out of control, but when you were around, he seemed to have lost that trait of his - which was actually kind of nice... 

He was in deep. And he didn’t know how to handle it. 

He was contemplating never going back to your class. He would probably end up ruining somebody’s work and - besides - it wasn’t like he could ever work up the courage to ask you out. It was just all too scary. 

“Bucky, is that you?” Bucky froze as he studied the coffee menu above the barista. He was going to order black anyway. But the voice that called out his name almost made him want to pretend he was still studying the sign.

“Bucky.” Your voice came closer and when you were standing next to him, he finally looked at you. And there you were, with a bright smile and a scarf shielding you from the cool fall breeze outside. 

“Oh, hey.” He paused, treading, not knowing what to do with his hands or pretty much any part of his body. At least, in your workshop, he had something to do. “...hey.”

“It’s nice to see you, how’s your homework going?” You rubbed your hands together to warm them and at the sight of your delicate fingers, he felt his cheeks heating up when he imagined holding them. 

“It’s... well, it’s going...” He sighed and watched his feet as they shuffled on the tiled floor. “It’s not going well if I’m being honest.” And with a shy smile, he rubbed the back of his neck, watching as you nodded in understanding. 

“I know it sounds stupid, but sometimes it really helps to just get started without thinking about it too much.”

He chuckled. That was exactly his problem. Because every time he wanted to start, he wondered what you would think about it. And then his thoughts drifted to you entirely and how your neck would bend when you watched him draw over his shoulder, or how your fingers swayed over his artwork to point out the parts you were talking about. God, he loved when you did that. 

“-only if you want, of course.” Your nose crinkled when Bucky’s mind brought him back to the coffee shop again. You were staring at him expectantly, your smile growing nervous with every second he took to register that you had just asked him a question.

Bucky had no idea what you had just said. He had been too lost in his daydream yet again and now he made you look stupid in the middle of this coffee shop. There wasn’t much time to decide what his response would be, but under no circumstance did he want to admit just how scattered he was around you. So without thinking, he just nodded with a tight-lipped smile and willed his knees to stay strong when your eyes brightened.

“Awesome! When are you free?” Free? Did you just ask him out and he hadn’t even paid attention?

“Uh, Sunday?” Bucky stammered as his heart began to pound in his chest. This has got to be a prank. 

You laughed, and Bucky got weak in the knees. “Sunday is workshop, silly.”

Stupid, stupid, Bucky. “Right, uh... Friday then.” The rapid beat in his chest took his breath away.

“Okay, great. Here give me your phone so I can give you my number.”

“You’re–“ Bucky choked as his hands scrambled to fish his phone out of his pocket. “Yes, yeah sure, cool.” Cool? Oh god. 

You took it from him, entered your contact with a little paintbrush emoji, called yourself, and handed it back to his sweaty hand. 

“I’ll text you my address.” You stepped forward to pay and retrieve your coffee, gifting the barista a smile that made him blush - apparently, you were a regular because Bucky did not remember you ordering - but then again - he didn’t really pay attention apparently. “Oh, and bring your art supplies!” 

And then you were out the door, letting crisp air into the cozy coffee shop, and Bucky standing dazed and confused as to what had just happened. 

❁ ❁ ❁

Bucky stared at his phone for the fifth time now, making sure he was in front of the right door before ringing the bell. He was nervous, to say the least. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was on a date, not to mention the last time he felt this nervous about being on one. He was a strong believer in facts but you asking him out had to be a sign from the universe. One he would only get once and he could not screw it up. 

His hands smoothed over his black button-up one last time before adjusting his leather jacket again. Then he rang the bell and not even a minute later, you greeted him with a warm smile and urged him to give you his jacket to hang up. 

“I just made tea, do you want some?” Bucky followed you to the kitchen where the faint but homey scent of pumpkin spice filled the air. He watches as you scrambled to find your oven its and then retrieve something delicious smelling from the oven. “Cookies?” 

“I’m good with tea for now.” He chuckled in awe at how nice your home felt. Once he could tear his eyes away from you, he peered over the kitchen island into your living room, where many different artworks and photographs were displayed on the walls. Every pillow on your sofa had a different color and the blankets sprawled on it and the chair were too inviting for him not to picture the both of you cuddled up beneath them. 

“Alright then, suit yourself. But just know these are my specialty.” You snatched one from the tray before almost dropping it again. “Ouch, hot.”

Bucky felt drawn to the room. With all its warm light and fall-scented candles, hints of read books and discarded crocheting, with a crackling fireplace and soft carpeting. He also felt awfully intimate at the glimpse he got into your life by being here, but he had already declared this place his favorite in his mind. 

“Are you ready?” Bucky turned to you and watched as you padded your hands on your jeans, leaving faint flour prints on the dark denim.

“Ready for what?” He smiled again, he seemed to be unable to stop around you. But he was just so happy to be here, to be close to you, and to finally spend more time with you.

You chuckled and set two cups of tea on the table. “For your sketches. That’s the whole reason you came here for, remember?”

You settled on the ground and padded the sofa for Bucky. But he could just stand there and stare at you while trying to ignore the lump that began to build in his throat. He clenched the bag with his art supplies in his hand and watched as the soft material wrinkled in his grasp.

Of, course. He took a breath. How could he have been so naive? Then stepped towards the sofa. The whole thing had been a mistake. And finally sat down with a heavy smile. 

The sadness was filling him so fast, it threatened to spill right out of him, but Bucky wouldn’t let this little  big  dent in the road be shown in front of you. Instead, he focused on your hands when they pulled his sketch pad from his bag. And your eager smile when you flipped through his failed attempts on the paper. 

The whole atmosphere was wearing a thin layer of sorrow all of a sudden, and Bucky felt his heartache when you leaned over to him to point out the parts you liked the most. Your perfume seemed just that much sweeter as if it were mocking him all of a sudden. 

He didn’t listen. He just watched you with the same longing he’s had ever since he met you. Back to square one. Back to the distance he had with you before he foolishly thought you had asked him out. Except now he’d lost all the confidence left in him to take the next step. 

Bucky let the evening wash over him. Trying to concentrate on your tips and examples, tasting the tea you had offered to him with the sweetest smile. And before he knew it, he was standing in front of your apartment building again - with a box of those pumpkin cookies in hand and a heart that felt heavier than the bricks he was staring at. 

He sighed and began his walk back home.

❁ ❁ ❁

On Sunday he decided that he wouldn’t give up. Bucky didn't know what changed his mind. He just knew that he couldn’t stop thinking about you and him on that incredibly comfortable sofa of yours and the scent of your cedar and cinnamon candle which seemed to linger on his skin for days after his visit. He wanted to play the sketching games he had half-heartedly endured last time and he wanted to become a better artist. 

Bucky had left your cookie box at home as an excuse to meet up with you again. And even though he was sweating ferociously when he approached you after class, you had agreed to meet with him again. 

He’d left the gallery with a bright smile that evening. Excited for the next time he’d see you again and eager with daydreams on the subway home.

You and Bucky met up every week. Every time, spending a little longer not just drawing and it filled his heart with warmth and happiness. You shared laughter, and, in Bucky’s eyes, a growing connection with every passing meeting. 

He learned about your dreams and aspirations and told you about his past, his interests, and his most treasured fantasies.

As weeks turned into months, Bucky found himself drawn to you in more ways than the warmth radiating from your smile he’d noticed the first day he met you, or your talent of calmly helping him in every way possible. He admired your passion for art, your kindness, and your enchanting presence. The fear and the shyness that had gripped him at first, slowly faded away - replaced by a sense of comfort when he was with you. 

And soon he realized that there was nothing he didn’t love about you. This was how he got the courage to, on one calm evening spent on your sofa, between the colorful pillows he had been thinking about falling asleep on for weeks, place his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers with his. 

“I got something for you,” he whispered between dialogues of the Halloween movie playing on TV, watching as your eyes aimed up at him with curiosity. 

With reluctance, he peeled himself out of the warm blanket you shared and trudged to the sketchbook hidden in his bag. The initial idea had been dipped in silly confidence. But it was too late to back out now. He’d already told you about it. 

So despite his nervous heartbeat, Bucky came back to the sofa and handed you the book. 

“Open it,” he nudged when you carefully inspected the black leather binding, unaware of the confession hidden beneath. 

And when you did, he felt he could read every expression on your face like a poem. 

The book was filled with sketches of you. The first pages were scattered in hasty pencil drawings, misplaced lines, and unintentional dents. Then followed the section in which he had tried to pay attention to detail. The curve of your nose or the arch of your fingers when they pointed at his artwork. He could see them now, hovering over the sketches himself, and when you turned to the last page of the section, he could see the striking resemblance between them. And so did you. On the next turn, you revealed the latest portraits he’d added to the book - finally confident enough to attempt doing what he saw you as justice, to finally look past his mistakes - or happy little accidents as you called them - and just try it. 

Bucky had discovered that your weekly sketch sessions had done him good. And that you had secretly given him back what he had mourned after for so long.

“I couldn’t keep my eyes off you from the moment we met.” He whispered still, too afraid to break the moment you’d just created. “Thought it was time for me to tell you.”

Your eyes were glassy when you tore them from the pages in your hand, a shaky laugh escaping your lips when Bucky beamed down at you. “You did all of this for me-”

“Because of you,” he corrected and wiped a lonely tear from your cheek. “I never thought I could get the joy of drawing back until you showed me how.”

Bucky leaned in closer until your noses touched. “How to be less critical of myself.” He closed his eyes and let his hand linger on your skin. “And how to welcome a mistake by making it an accident-” 

And before he could finish that sentence, he felt your lips press to his and your warm hands wrap around his neck to pull him into your body. Bucky shivered in excitement, letting his hands trail down your back and falling into the soft cushions of your sofa while he pressed you to his chest protectively.

He sighed into the kiss, feeling his heart burn with excitement. 

Fascinating, how fast a mistake can turn into a happy little accident. 

I love you Bob Ross <3

Wanna be added to the taglist?

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[fivie]

I keep thinking about how well grantaire and anna would get along (before she gets re-brainwashed)... i know you've moved away from spn canon with UMW but do you have thoughts on how your characters would theoretically interact with spn characters?

ah yes, the re-brainwashing was very unfortunate 😔

my main headcanon re. UMW characters meeting SPN characters is that if Enjolras and Grantaire met Sam and Dean, based on Enjolras's personality and him having the sword, they would absolutely assume he was the angel of the pair 😂 Dean would probably commiserate with Grantaire about the challenges of hanging out with a socially challenged angel, and Grantaire would absolutely go along with it. Then Cas would show up and be like 'hello brother 😐' and spoil his fun.

I think Enjolras and Dean would butt heads, but Sam and Combeferre would probably get along quite well. I hope the spirit of Victor Hugo can't see me typing this.

Ages ago I actually started writing a little crossover story just for fun but I found it really weird 😂 I don't know if I'll ever write any more of it so I'll put what I have under a cut here if anyone wants to read it lol

(it is definitely not UMW canon 😂)

Grantaire is in a long-abandoned barn in rural Belgium, idly sweeping up the ashy remains of the shapeshifter that had been terrorising the nearby village in the guise of a local cryptid legend, when Combeferre pops into his mind with a bemusing prayer:

Don't come back to my apartment right now.

Grantaire pauses, awaiting further details. If Combeferre were in danger, he's sure he wouldn't bother beating around the bush, so Grantaire isn't overly worried, but Combeferre has never told him to stay away before and so he waits, curious. A minute or so later, an even more bemusing continuation:

Or if you do, make sure you come in through the front door like a human would.

Sometimes Grantaire desperately wishes that the prayer communication line went both ways. Combeferre feels distracted, like there are many other things demanding his attention and he is snatching at quiet moments to send Grantaire fragmented intel. Finally:

Other hunters here.

With that, the pieces slot together. Grantaire personally thinks it would be kind of funny for him to drop in on a room full of Musain hunters, especially the ones who'd written him off as a drunken waste of space years ago, and he could always erase their memories after if it was going to cause problems, but he supposes that Combeferre's solution of just keeping him away for a while is simpler. He finishes his clean up and is just about to return to Jehan's house when Combeferre reaches out again.

Could use your expertise for this. Come back if you're able? But please be discreet.

Grantaire snorts. He thinks he'll enjoy having a conversation with Combeferre later about why it's okay to pretend that he's human to other hunters, but not to Enjolras or Combeferre himself. He's well aware of the difference and the reasoning, of course, but he does like watching Combeferre wrestle with a moral quandary.

Enjolras is here, too.

This last part sounds like a warning, and Grantaire supposes it is, and one he should be thankful for. He braces himself before flying back to Combeferre's building, going up the stairs with pointed emphasis and hoping everyone in the apartment can hear his very normal, very human footsteps approaching. He opens the apartment door, calling out a greeting, and he steps inside and the world stops.

The other angel in Combeferre's living room stares at him, his human face registering only mild surprise even as his luminous true form roils and sparks in shock and alarm and, of course, horrifyingly, recognition. Grantaire stares back for a wild, world-tilting moment, and then he flies in a mad flurry, grabbing Enjolras and Combeferre and taking them to the furthest side of the room, pushing them behind him. Combeferre, who had just expressly told Grantaire to be on his best and most human behaviour, calls his name in confused dismay, and Enjolras is saying something too, demanding to know what he's doing, and there are two other humans here too, making their own noise, but then—

"Hello, brother," Castiel says, and all the humans in the room fall deathly silent.

Grantaire doesn't answer. His hand instinctively twitches to curl around the handle of a blade not currently in his possession. He can feel the presence of his sword burning in Enjolras's coat pocket and he wonders if the split second it would take for him to get to it will mean fiery death for all of them.

Three thousand years, he thinks. Three thousand years he successfully kept his head down, and then Combeferre goes and invites another angel into his living room—!

"Aw no, brother?" one of the new humans repeats. Grantaire doesn't dare take his eyes off Castiel, but the human sounds exasperated. He also sounds American, which raises many questions but also answers the one of why they are all here and not at the Musain. Grantaire can only imagine the Musain hunters' reaction to Americans descending upon their home base. "Cas, are you serious?"

"He's pretty clearly serious." The other human puts himself in Grantaire's line of vision, stepping between him and Castiel with one hand raised placatingly. He's uncommonly tall and more than broad enough in the shoulders to be considered physically imposing by human standards, but his posture and expression are currently extremely non-confrontational—he looks nervous, and sort of concerned. He looks at Grantaire first but then, clearly finding no invitation in his stony face, tilts his head to look past him at Enjolras and Combeferre instead. "So, uh. Got yourselves an angel."

"As do you, it would seem," Combeferre says with measured calm. It's strange to hear him speak English. Out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire sees him take half a step forward and hisses back at him, "Don't."

"Hey, who are you? Do we know you?" the first human says suddenly. "Are you an old douchebag in a new meat-suit?"

"Dean," Castiel says in quiet admonishment.

"What? It's not like we can tell."

"You don't know him," Castiel tells him before turning back to Grantaire. "This isn't necessary. I'm not going to harm you or these humans. You should calm yourself."

"And if you want to harm Cas then we're going to have a problem," the tall human says.

Grantaire makes no attempt to calm himself. "Are you alone?" he demands of Castiel, whose vessel affects a faintly puzzled expression.

"I'm here with Sam and Dean," he says slowly, and Grantaire scowls.

"I mean," he says, "where is your garrison?"

"I no longer serve Heaven, Rachmiel," Castiel says in oddly gentle tones, as if he's just realised why Grantaire would be so horrified to see him.

"Do not call me that," Grantaire snaps with a sharp shake of his head. "You—what do you mean?"

"I am...fallen." There's a strange mixture of pride and shame in Castiel's voice as he says it. "My loyalties were tested and I found them to lie more with humanity than with our brothers and sisters."

"You…" Grantaire's mind, emerging from the initial shock, starts to piece things together, starts to remember. "I saw you. Last year. You were killing angels and humans. Hundreds of them."

"Hey, that wasn't Cas," one of the humans, Dean, starts to protest, while Grantaire hears twin sharp intakes of breath from Combeferre and Enjolras as they apparently make the connection between the God-Monster they'd seen on screen all those months ago and the mild-mannered man standing before them now.

"Look, okay, let's...We didn't come here to fight," says the other human, whom Grantaire assumes, through elimination, to be Sam. "It's complicated, okay? But Castiel is with us. He's not the bad guy. He's saved our lives more times than I can count and—hell, he helped us stop the apocalypse."

"Did he say the apocalypse?" Grantaire hears Enjolras mutter behind him.

"What did you two have to do with the…?" Grantaire looks at the two strangers properly for the first time and feels a fresh wave of hysteria. There is a lot to be read from their souls that he will unpack later, but most pressingly, he can see who they are—what they are. "You're the vessels." His undoubtedly wild-eyed gaze swings back to Castiel. "You're walking around with Michael and Lucifer's vessels? You brought them here?"

"Michael and Lucifer are both in the cage," Castiel says. "I do not expect they will be coming looking for their vessels."

"And they already know that they do not have consent to take either of us for a ride," Dean says with a grimly sardonic smile.

Grantaire's head feels like it's going to explode, which wouldn't kill him but would undoubtedly be very distressing for Enjolras and Combeferre to witness. He wills his vessel to hold it together.

"Grantaire," Combeferre says quietly—even that makes him jump. Combeferre speaks to him in soft, rapid-fire French that the Americans clearly do not understand and that Castiel politely pretends not to hear. "If he's really broken with Heaven, isn't that a good thing? For you to not be the only one?"

Grantaire casts a somewhat tortured glance back at him, not anywhere near ready to accept the idea that running into anyone from his family could ever be good, before looking inevitably back to Castiel, unable to keep his eyes from returning to the perceived threat in the room.

"It is good to see you," Castiel says, horribly earnest. "I believed you dead."

"Yeah, that was the idea," Grantaire snaps. Castiel tilts his head to one side like a confused puppy, a crease appearing between his eyebrows.

"You've been in hiding," he hazards finally.

"Pretty successfully, up until now," Grantaire says.

"Hey, just like Gabriel," Dean remarks. "You gotta wonder how many other angels flew the coop."

"Gabriel," Combeferre repeats in tones of disbelief that match Grantaire's own feelings. "The archangel? He also…?"

"Gabriel is dead," Grantaire says bluntly.

"Yeah, but he had a good run hanging out down here pretending to be a trickster god," Dean says with a smile that suggests not-so-fond remembrance. "What've you been hiding out as? Some other deity?"

There's an agonising sort of pause, and then it's Enjolras who says, not without bitterness, "A human."

Dean whistles. "That's a bold choice."

"Rachmiel," Castiel says, and Grantaire wants to scream. "Heaven will not hear of any of this from me. You and your humans are safe. Please. I—Here."

He puts one hand up as if in surrender while his blade falls from the sleeve of his coat into his other hand. He holds it up, slowly and demonstratively, before setting it down on Combeferre's coffee table and stepping back.

There is a very strange, very awkward moment where Castiel and his two humans look at Grantaire expectantly, waiting for him to return the gesture and disarm. Finally, Enjolras steps forward. He catches Grantaire's eye questioningly and, at his nod, takes Grantaire's blade out of his own coat and lays it next to Castiel's. Dean and Sam's eyebrows shoot up and Castiel gives a slow, considered blink, but mercifully all three of them refrain from saying anything about the matter.

#umw stuff

[mrdixon]

A Rugged Muse | Chapter 1

pairing: eventual daryl dixon x f!reader

wc: 3.1k

warnings: swearing, violence, slight depiction of gore, vomiting

summary: reader has a shit day. basically the day of the outbreak.

A/N: FIRST CHAPTER WOOOO i am clearly not an art major…. im in the different arts. so apologies to you visual artists im going off from my lack of knowledge from my hobby lol. i really hope you guys enjoy this series because i am EXCITED to write it.

a rugged muse masterlist |regular masterlist

“Fuck,” you groaned, slamming your forehead onto the desk in front of you. A few heads turned to look at you in the library, you cursed under your breath and looked up again after a moment. Adjusting the glasses askew on your face before looking at the paper on the desk. The paper before you was worn with erased pencil marks, slightly wrinkled. Art block was the worst, you’d rather be ten feet under than stuck with art block.

You sighed, it’s been months since your last project and even that was a fail. It didn't help that you only worked at a fucking minimum wage job, maybe you should've listened to your parents and became a doctor or something. It wasn't like it was always like this, no… art school was a breeze. You had hosted real galleries where people came to see your art, and now look at you. Moping around in a library, desperately trying to find something to draw.

After tapping your pencil against the table which by the way, earned many dirty looks, you scooted closer to the table. Picking up your old sketchbook and frantically flipping through it to find…. so many god damn drawings of, him. Your god forsaken ex boyfriend, but he was gorgeous.

You met him ironically enough in art class, way back in high school. He was there by choice, you were not. Yet everything about him was just so captivating that you couldn't help but not switch out of the class, thank god you didn't. You enjoyed the class more than you expected, painting being one of your favourite forms of art, oils being your preferred medium. You painted and sketched every moment of the day, not putting down that brush for one second. Your ex boyfriend was your inspiration, every detail on that stupid face was engraved in your mind like a marble statue. His beautiful plump lips and the beauty marks that scattered over his face being two of your favourite features.

Art was everything to you, and so was he. He was all you drew, he made life seem prettier and happier. But then he dumped you for some random chick he met in a bar, that was six months ago.

Since then you've had no motivation and no inspiration for your projects. Flowers no longer had their charm, abstracts looked dumb to you again, oils looked muddy. Nothing worked.

You picked up your pencil and started at the paper again, pushing your glasses up before hesitantly sketching out lines. Your mind wandered back to him, you still couldn’t believe it. After years of being together he’d just leave like that? Those years of pure, innocent love where you’d make breakfast with him, take baths together, even paint each other for fun. Date nights that were full of giggles and messily painting on each others skin, his fingertips grazing over your eyelids and nose as he sculpted you out of clay. He threw that all away for a woman he’s known for one night.

Your pencil moved furiously against the paper, scarring it like he scarred you. When you looked back down at it you noticed it was him, those hostile eyes from that night staring right through you. Those words of heartbreak echoing through your mind, words that came from lips that used to kiss you every morning. You huffed angrily, no matter how much you hated him, he always came back. He was always in your mind, plaguing your thoughts like venom. Slamming your pencil down you stood up, ripping the paper furiously.

Now there were whispers, people looked at you weirdly. After remembering your place in the world, you picked up your things and packed up quickly, aching to get back home to your bed. While in your haste, you dropped something. You already were in an irritable mood so you took a deep breath before causing a scene over a dropped item, crouching down to pick up just to notice it was the painting knife he had gifted you months before you broke up. The words ”To the love of my life…” engraved on it. After shoving the painting knife back into your bag angrily you quickly got back on your feet and headed towards the door, not before throwing half your sketches into the bin. As if you couldn’t get any more frustrated, someone bumped into you which caused you to whip around. Though no words came out of your mouth as you took in the sight of the person.

They were sickly pale, sweating profusely and trembling. Their eyes were bloodshot, matching the… bite wound on their forearm? They shook looking at you, mumbling a meek apology and pushing their sleeve down over their arm before walking away. Weird. Anyway.

You turned back around, must be some weird prank or something. Whatever, you were extremely tired and needed to get back to your apartment asap. As you left the library the humid August air hit you like a truck, not helping your heated mood at all. Grumbling to yourself you tried not to let it affect you, instead pushing your hair behind your shoulders, what a convenient day to forget your hair tie. Nothing was going your way, it was like the world was against you. A scream broke your thoughts, it came from somewhere ahead of you. Great, someone probably got mugged and now you were next. Just another thing to keep you moody.

A woman turned the corner, running towards you. You braced yourself for the mugging but to your surprise, it never came. The woman’s face was drained, it was as if she saw a ghost. She didn’t stop running, she was terrified and stuff was falling out of her purse but she didn’t even bother to pick them up. You watched as she ran past you without batting as eye, what is going on today? Shrugging, you picked up the stuff she dropped, finders keepers. Gum, tissues, tampons, condoms, and… her wallet. You almost jumped in joy, you could really use the money right now.

Finally out of your mood you practically skipped down the street, looking through the wallet and counting the cash. $10… $28… $48… $130… $135— oh wait that’s a Canadian $5 what the fuck— $140. One hundred forty fucking dollars in cash, that woman must’ve been loaded to carry this much cash. Well, now you carried it.

Another scream broke your daze, but this time it was closer. You looked up and saw another terrified woman running towards you, this time knocking into you which caused you to crash onto the floor, the cash scattering across the pavement. Back in your mood.

“What the fuck is your problem!?” You yelled, watching the woman continue running and not even look back. Is there a goddamn marathon you didn’t know about or what? You fiercely picked up the scattered cash, shoving them into your bag immediately before crossing your arms and continuing your walk back to your apartment. Fixing your glasses you saw a man get tackled to the ground by another man a street in front of you, was this happening to everyone???

Much to your horror you watched as the man on top mauled into the other’s neck, tearing through the skin and splattering blood everywhere. You froze, feeling your blood run cold at the sight. You watched as the man kept eating away at the now, dead person. The man’s head turned slightly to grab at more of the bloodied flesh, you now noticing the cloudy eyes and gray skin. This man was already dead, so how was he…

You snapped out of it, turning the other way to avoid whatever was happening. This had to be a sick joke. Your heart was beating in your ears, weaving through the back lanes to find a different path to your home. Hair stood at the back of your neck as your senses were now alert, if whatever that was is real, you had to be way more careful. It was quiet in the alley, calm. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Stopping for a second to catch your breath and recollect your thoughts, bending over slightly and placing your hands on your knees.

“Jesus christ,” you muttered. You couldn’t get the visual out of your head, that man was murdered right in front of you. His eyes bulging out of his head when he couldn’t even scream for help, that… monster ripping his throat out and devouring him in broad daylight. You shook your head, running your fingers through your hair frantically as you tried to rid your brain of that image.

A low groaning filled your ears and before you could register it you were falling to the ground, a grunt escaping you as you quickly turned onto your back. One of those things were falling over you, your quick reflexes holding them up by their shoulders. You got a clear view of what they looked like, their eyes were clouded over, veins more visible under their pale skin, their lips and chin dribbling with blood. You grimaced, trying to scream but nothing came out, nothing but a flow of air. They were strong, jaw snapping closer and closer to you. If you didn’t do anything now you’d end up like that guy on that street. No fucking way you were going to die like that.

Struggling a little, you lifted your legs under them and kicked from their stomach. Throwing the thing off of you, grunting you scrambled to your feet. The thing quickly following, their leg twisted as they got up from the position you flung them in. Surely it would’ve hurt if it were you, but unlike you, they weren’t living. You opened your bag and shoved your hand in, cursing yourself in your head for shoving everything in there. You held out your other arm protectively while stepping backwards from the thing. The hand in your bag searched wildly for something to defend yourself with, something to kill with. Could you even kill them?

Your back hit the wall, panic filling your body as the thing got closer. Before it could get any closer you tucked your forearm under their chin to hold them back, a loud cry escaping you as you fought to hold them back. When you were starting to give up, the hand in your bag finally found something metal. Ripping it out you immediately swung at it with the item, sinking it into their head which was surprisingly easy. Adrenaline probably. The thing fell to the ground, dead again.

You let out a heavy sigh, sliding down the wall. You looked down at your hands, bloodied with what you could only hope wasn’t your own blood. You were shaking profusely, your breathing uneven. You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing as you pressed your knees to your chest, the heel of your palm placed on your forehead. You stayed like this for a moment, you don’t know how long. But once you were ready you let out one last shaky breath before opening your eyes again, and glancing down at the thing on the ground in front of you.

You almost laughed as you realized you used the painting knife to end the thing, but you didn’t. You silently reached over and pulled it out, swallowing as it made a gross squelch sound. Looking down at your painting knife which was now covered in its blood, you wiped it off on their shirt. Taking a closer look at the body and noticing a bite mark on their shoulder, much like the person in the library. Your lip quivered as you imagined what had happened to them, what might’ve happened to you if you stayed. There was a low pit in your stomach as you stood up, your mouth suddenly filling with saliva before hunching over and vomiting. Your eyes filled with tears just realizing how close to death you were, throwing up your lunch.

You coughed, wiping your mouth on your sleeve before shoving the painting knife back into your bag. You had to get home, now. Your feet moved quickly, not stopping for even a second. There were barely anyone on the streets and you wondered if your home was even safe. Stop, your feet stopped. Don’t think like that. With a heavy breath you took off again, walking even faster towards your apartment building. Please, please, please….

You jolted suddenly as your phone started ringing, you grabbed it but didn’t stop walking. Answering without even checking the caller ID.

“Hello?” You said almost too quietly, still shaken up from your encounter with the thing.

“(Y/N)?? (Y/N), are you okay!?” The anxious voice yelled, it was your older brother, Glenn. You almost cried in happiness, walking even faster now.

“Yes Glenn, yes I’m fine…” you mumbled into the phone, breathing a sigh of relief that your brother was alive. “What is going on?”

“God, I don’t know. All I know is people are dying and coming back to life and eating each other and dying and coming back to—”

“Yeah, yeah I get it!” you cut him off, “I almost—” you stopped, deciding not to tell him about your fight. He was anxious enough, he always was but you didn’t want to worry him even more.

“Almost what?? You didn’t get bit did you!?” He yelled which caused you to pull your phone away from your ear in discomfort.

“No I didn’t, stop yelling.” You replied irritated, you heard him sigh on the other end. Hearing distant voices in the background. “Where are you?”

“I was at work when I saw everything go down, I drove back to the pizza place immediately.” He said more calmer, “but we’re gonna move out soon.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion, “wait why? Isn’t it safe there? Why not wait for help?”

“You didn’t hear? I thought you were always on your phone,” you scoffed in annoyance at his probe. “They’re setting up camps, courtesy of the military I think.”

You chest filled with hope, you were going to be safe. “Oh thank god, okay wait I’m going back to my place to grab some things. Where is the camp?”

When Glenn responded his end was filled with feedback, static. “It’s gonna. Arou— Ta—”

“Glenn?? You’re… you’re cutting off.” You said nervously, nearing your apartment.

“A— Yo— I’m—” And the call failed.

Dread filled your body once again, now you really were going to cry. You shakily walked through the apartment building, keeping guard for potential things around. Opting for the stairs, you walked swiftly up them. Out of breath by the time you reached your room, fortunately there was nothing to stop you.

Once you got in you immediately dropped everything, locking the door and collapsing to the floor. Tears filled your eyes once more and you let some of them escape and trickle down your cheeks, you were scared. Scared of those things roaming around, they could kill, you’ve seen it. You removed your glasses momentarily to wipe your face. You shook your head you took a deep breath and stood up, you had to pack and leave immediately. You didn’t know where you were going but you had to leave, you had to find Glenn.

Putting your glasses back on, you crawled over and rummaged through your closet carelessly, trying to find a backpack that was big enough to carry all your necessities. Your apartment was already a mess so you didn’t bother being slow and careful right now, which might have been a bad idea as you snagged your finger on a stray box cutter.

“Shit,” you muttered while pulling your hand back, a cut dragged along your index finger. You rushed over to the sink, washing it quickly before throwing a bandage over the cut. While doing so you heard a police siren drive by, the sound dying off as it drove farther and farther away. You sighed before returning to the closet, grabbing a big enough backpack and shoving as much clothes you could get while also leaving room for extra things.

You stood up and looked around your small apartment, your bed looked so inviting. You were exhausted beyond help, your body aching with the need to rest. I shouldn’t. You thought and continued scrambling for items to take with you, the amount of scattered pages of sketches filled the space that was your floor. Your heart broke at the thought of leaving your things behind but you knew it’d be useless to take with you, but you couldn’t take nothing.

You grabbed a few pencils and brushes, along with a small paint palette and placed them carefully into your bag, an empty sketchbook joining them. While searching you opened your desk drawer, three daggers which you made in a welding class a couple years ago. They were sturdy and well sharp enough, thank god you were good at making things. You took them and put them into a sheath to prevent stabbing yourself. You grabbed a few more things like a lighter, some bandaids, and batteries. You frowned at the lack of supplies you had on hand, but you tried to convince yourself that you’d be taken care of at the camps.

You moved over to your small kitchen and grabbed a water bottle which you filled, also grabbing a couple snacks that would keep you full for a few days at best. You heard a few distant screams outside, some screams of pain which caused you to wince. The sudden thought of living in an apocalypse dawned over you, a feeling of dread rushing through you. You couldn’t shake the feeling off but you chose to ignore it. You did not want to go into a panic right now, you had to have a clear and positive mind if you wanted to live.

You pulled your bag over your shoulders and walked over to your mirror to take a look at yourself, grounding yourself for the world outside. You wanted so badly to sleep but you knew you had to get a move on if you wanted to get to a camp safely.

“I can do this..” you whispered under your breath, clutching at the handle of one of your daggers, turning to the door. You just had to get to a camp, but more importantly you had to find Glenn.

★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★○★★○★○★○★○★○★○

more a/n: for the sake of having glenn as reader's older brother im having him be around 24-27 years old right now, reader being like 23 ish. and daryl will be like 32….??? i dunno im trying to make this as canon as possible BUT UGH IT IS SO $&£”*^%*£ so yeah there will be a little bit of an age gap between reader and daryl but i hope that wont be too much of a problem for you guys…. probably not. and do not quote me if i get settings or the timeline wrong like twd is confusing enough for me……….. again im also like rewatching and making sure to make everything as close to the show as possible, but theres also the possibility of me altering the timeline (muehehehe). anyways tysm for reading and stay tuned! ★

#daryl dixon #the walking dead #daryl x reader #twd daryl #daryl x y/n #norman reedus #mrdixonposts #a rugged muse series

[snapnov4]

jjk men + acts of nonsexual intimacy !

wc: 684

pairings: gojo x reader, geto x reader, nanami x reader

cw: tooth rotting fluff

authors note: i wanted to write something softer and more intimate so i settled on this! this was actually really fun to write so, as always, i hope you enjoy! <3

✯ gojo finds immense amounts of comfort in having his hands on you in any way shape or form. you being near him grounds him and makes him feel like less of a weapon and more like a person, so throughout the day you'll catch gojo tracing out designs on your skin, drawing shapes on the small of your back, and tracing lines up and down your arms. when he's feeling pouty or jealous he’ll trace his name out along your collar bone. sometimes you'll even find him tracing out the nonsense scribbles on you in his sleep. you'd think he'd want to hold your hand when you're out together but he commonly opts for just drawing shapes on your hand. he'll reach his arms across tables and seats to do it. even though you find it to be a little odd, consider it one of his many little ways of saying he loves you.

✯ at heart gojo is a softie, he tends to touch his nose to yours a lot. he likes how close he can get to you, simply pressing your noses together, he’ll close his eyes and sigh, and you can feel relaxation flow through his body, before he presses a chaste kiss to your lips and continues about his day. he likes when you cuddle face to face so he can touch his nose to yours. he often greets you by pressing your noses together. if he's away on a mission the first thing he does when he gets back is press your noses together, before kissing you until you're breathless but that's another story. if you notice him having a bad day just press your nose to his and tell him it's okay, he'll brighten up immediately.

✯ geto loves when you wash his hair especially after a hard day, he’ll sit back and let you comb your fingers through his hair gently. he’s thankful that you've memorized the extensive and meticulous routine he has for his hair, down to the exact amount of shampoo and conditioner to use. and in turn if you're having a bad day he’ll wash yours too. even if your hair isn't as “high maintenance” (your words not geto’s) as his, he hopes you feel the same amount of comfort he does. it's his favorite way to wind down. your heart swells every time you see him close his eyes and sigh a breath of relief.

✯ geto also loves a handwritten note. if he leaves before you he’ll leave you a small note. his handwriting is languid and flows easily but he sucks at drawing, so you'll frequently wake up to a note on your bedside table that reads “left early today, i love you” with a messily drawn heart beside his name. you don't know if he's aware that he draws the most god awful hearts on the planet, but you can see where he's erased them trying to get it right, geto knows the effort he puts into his hearts on every note, birthday card, and gift he gives you, so geto swallows his pride and tries to get the heart right every time.

✯ nanami loves a home cooked meal. after working all day, he's usually too tired to cook anything, which resulted in him moving further and further away from his favorite home cooked meals and more towards anything he can make quickly and easily. that is until you come around, then he has someone to cook for, and to cook with. nanami loves when you two cook together, in any capacity. he’s happy when you chop the vegetables while he prepares the stove, or when you wash the dishes as he finishes using them, or when he's cooking for the both of you and you run into the kitchen to wrap your arms around him. nanami wouldn't trade a sharing home cooked meal with you for anything in the world.

✯ nanami can’t sleep without you beside him. he finds it extremely hard to doze off if he can't wrap his arms around you or simply feel your presence in bed next to him. anytime you get up throughout the night he always wakes up and waits for you to come back to bed. if you happen to leave town he’ll sleep on your side of bed. if he has to leave however, he’ll often call you before bed, in hopes that hearing your voice will soothe him to sleep. he’ll let you talk about your day and sometimes you can hear him softly snoring on the other end of the call. if nanami has a particularly jarring day, he’ll often lay his head on your chest so he can hear your heartbeat, falling asleep knowing you're here and you're breathing and your heart is beating helps him more than you'll ever know.

#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x you #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #geto x you #kento nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami x reader #jjk x you #vela writes #vela is a softie #vela loves gojo #vela loves geto #vela loves nanami

[sorcerersseestars]

 his eyes, your ears [part iv]

series masterlist

Gojo Satoru x reader

summary: There was a time when you called him best friend, but those days escaped you long ago. There’s no way he’s alive – right? With the depth of his betrayal still lingering in your heart and mind, what would his reappearance spell for your life?

pairing: gojo satoru x gn! reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

fandom: Jujutsu Kaisen

warnings: cursing, lowkey a little mental torture, TW! s*xual a*sault (forced kiss), violence!!, one instance of vomiting (sry), immoral and creepy Geto, reader is kinda anxious nonstop (like writer like reader?), some details are non-canon (a/n 2.0 at end explains), also it’s slow for the first half but picks up I promise, I think I made Geto sound British???, also I made Hanami act like a mom kinda 💀 uh…im going to call it comic relief?

word count: 6.7k. oof.

a/n: I am literally SO SORRY that this has been sitting in my drafts for so long but… life happens! Along those lines – I wrote 1/2 of this in September and 1/2 of it in May, so it might be a bit disjointed sorryyy hehe

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Then you’ll have to live with disappointment,” He flashes you an all-too-pleased-with-himself smile. “Becaaause it’s totally permanently in your phone now.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right. As if I wouldn’t be able to delete a contact.”

He has a devilish smirk on his face, but his voice is annoyingly innocent and cheerful. “Go ahead, try!”

You gasp. “Gojo! Did you jailbreak my new phone?!”

“Uh, uh! That not what my contact reads as!” He snatches your phone from your hands, and points a large finger to the tiny name on your screen. “It’s ‘My Beloved Best Friend Satoru’!”

“Satoru,” You say dangerously. “Erase this or I’ll erase you from existence.”

He chuckles. “Oh, I’d love to see you try. You’re cute when you try to beat me.”

Your mouth opens and closes as you try to find words, and you try to ignore the heat on your cheeks. “S-Satoru! You asshole, give me my phone back!”

He holds it high above your head, a wide smile lingering on his face. He’s having way too much fun with this. You jump, trying to swat it out of his hand, but to no avail.

“Why did you even do this?” You grumble, sighing. “What, is it ‘how many ways can I torture (Y/N) in the span of a few hours’ day?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re weak, remember? You gotta have me on speed dial if you want to survive in this line of work.”

First, your eyes widen at his blunt statement. Then you sigh again, this time a bit sadly. “Wow, you have so much faith in me…thanks.”

“You never know what’s out there,” Gojo says. “If you ever have any trouble, call me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “Is this a prank? I thought you hated ‘helping the weak’.”

“I’m serious, (Y/N),” He says firmly. “I’ll always pick up. Abuse the privilege, whatever, I don’t care. Just don’t die.”

Your head snaps towards him, mouth hanging open with shock. “Satoru, what…? I’m not going to…”

You fall silent. There’s no guarantee of that.

He steps closer to you, closer than what you’d consider friendly. Your heart skips a beat.

“Just do it, okay? I’ll always be on the other end.”

Always, huh? But now…

Ring, ring, ring. You bite your lip, pressing your phone hard against your ear, as if his voice will appear if you wish it enough. Ring, ring, ring.

“Please…” You whisper. “Come on, come on.”

Your breath hitches as the distinctive timbre of Satoru’s voice fills your ear, but your shoulders fall almost immediately.

“Hey, sorry I’ve missed your call! If you close your eyes, recite my name five times, and spin around twice, I might get back to ya! No exceptions – not even–”

You sigh and hang up before you’re put through to voice mail. It’s not like he’ll listen to it, anyway.

He’s been avoiding you. You haven’t seen him for days – six, to be exact. It’s been five days since Shoko deemed you well enough to recover at home, despite the worryingly slow rate that your cursed energy has been returning. You were released with the promise you wouldn’t exert yourself and absolutely would not use any cursed energy. All the while, you had childishly held two crossed fingers behind your back – your promise was as empty as you felt.

You should have expected this; this shouldn’t hurt so much. Gojo is the strongest sorcerer the world has seen for hundreds of years. He never runs from his foes – he doesn’t need to. When it comes to facing emotions, however, he is all but mighty. Whenever his emotions run high, overflowing until they begin to leak out into broad daylight, he turns tail and practically erases himself from existence. It’s nearly impossible to find him – he mysteriously leaves no trace, even for an experienced tracker like you.

You left Shoko with an empty smile and promise, and Gojo has done just the same. Despite him swearing that he’d be back to see you, Gojo is nowhere to be found. You’ve dropped by at the school multiple times, even asking his students if they knew of his whereabouts, but nobody has been able to give you an answer.

He’s been dodging your calls, letting it ring until his chirpy voicemail message mocks you. The text messages you leave go unread, unopened.

When you hopelessly reopen your chat with him, you can’t help but bite yoru nails as you stare at the wall of blue on your screen. Message after message – unfinished thoughts, apologies, words full of urgency and desperation – are left by trembling hands bloodied by your own worry.

‘I’m the strongest,’ He always says, so why does fear spike in your veins at the thought of Geto finding him? 

Even though his own arrogant words ring through your head, you can’t quell the anxiety that threatens to wreak havoc over your fragile state. You’re worried, so worried, and it bleeds into the rest of your life: you’re all over the place, constantly forgetting appointments and important items, you are inexplicably tense, your breathing is constantly shallow and quick; you’re barely holding yourself together.

A few days ago, you had your meeting with Yaga, alone, which went just as horribly as you could have imagined, but you were thankfully spared contact with the higher-ups due to your condition.

But you’re almost all better now – at least physically. That’s why you’re back again, ready for another round of manipulation and abuse.

You’re out of it, so out of it. Your eyes are glazed over, and nothing they say registers in your mind. Even when you try to focus on the words leaving their mouths, your brain filters it all back into mindless noise.

There’s a sequence of very familiar syllables: ah, your name is being shouted. You look up with empty eyes, blinking slowly.

“Useless sorcerer, answer me, now!” Gakuganji roars. “You are testing our patience, and I’ve just about run out of it. Can you track him, or not?”

You breathe in shakily, and let out a weak, clueless, “What?”

“Track him, or they’re dead,” He spits. “Track Geto Suguru. Find him. We won’t wait long. If you haven’t reported back in a week, your parents won’t be able to enjoy their retirement any longer.”

Some of the other council members shift uncomfortably at his bluntness, but you barely even flinch.

You’re so tired of it all. You almost wish you had encouraged Gojo to just off them once and for all.

“Okay,” You mumble softly, lacking the energy to project your voice. “I can do it. I will track Geto Suguru.”

You drag yourself out without acknowledging them, without any show of respect, but the thought of caring is lost on you. Your apathy leaves a trail of displeased whispers, but you don’t even notice.

You speed-dial his number again and again and again, and are returned with nothing but the taunt of his cheerfully recorded memo.

When you finally look away from his contact info burning your retinas, your gaze is trained on the clear sky. It shouldn’t be so vivid, shouldn’t be so beautiful – today should be overcast and rainy. You can’t help but frown, but your eyes remain on the heavens.

Then you’re granted a sight that usually coaxes a smile out of you no matter how you feel: a particularly large gust of wind lays out a collection of reddening autumn leaves against the azure sky. They swirl and dance in the breeze, hovering in your field of vision for a few more moments before they are whipped away. 

It’s a sign of the changing of seasons – it has always been one of your favorite times of the year, especially during your years at Tokyo Jujutsu High. The rapid approach of the holidays and the time spent training with your classmates in the chilly air has always enlivened you.

Today, this sight drives fat tears to roll down your cheeks. It just serves to remind you of the juxtaposition between those blissful times and these turbulent times: the weight of Geto’s betrayal, his subsequent death, his impossible revival.

You turn your head to the side, eyes tracking the leaves as they dance into the distance. 

“So I’m really doing this then,” You whisper to yourself. “Yeah, guess I am. You’re not here to stop me…”

They’re far from Tokyo, much further than they were before. That much is obvious from the start, when you first scour for their residuals. After a disappointing first try by Jujutsu High - you shouldn’t expected much, anyway - you decide to return to their last known location: the forest you nearly were obliterated in. You dread returning there, but you have little choice unless you want to do a whole lot of guesswork.

You drive yourself there. Usually, you would be accompanied by your usual driver Ijichi, but the thought of asking him didn’t even cross your mind. In the eyes of the Jujutsu world, this is a suicide mission. You’re well aware of that: so why involve anyway else unnecessarily, risking innocent lives?

You’re grateful for the calming scenery that blurs by: miles and miles of inhabited land, solely occupied by woodland’s creatures. Hardly any curses are present in the countryside, as there are no humans to feed off of. Those special grades you faced were certainly the exception.

You pull over to the edge of the forest once you sense a steady stream of cursed energy. The residual energy is at least a week old - just around the time of your unfortunate encounter with them. You close your eyes and carefully sift through all of the cursed energy signatures left behind, immediately identifying Hanami’s and Jogo’s faint residuals. There’s one stronger energy, and very familiar: Satoru’s cursed energy.

His cursed energy is so easy to pick out, no matter where you are. It’s so bright and lively, practically humming under your fingers every time you sense it, almost as if it were your own.

But there’s a shadow – his energy shadows another. You concentrate, sensing an underlying current of a more recent energy. Your eyes fly open, startled by your discovery. It is much fresher than the others: the residuals are only a few days old.

Its signature is both unknown and yet alarmingly familiar. It’s dark, so dark. Its energy chokes you, holds you hostage with the way it starts to stick to you and steal your courage with its oppressiveness. You’ve never felt an energy quite like this, yet it feels all too familiar.

You begin to shake, the reality sinking in. “Geto…. Just what have you become?”

You shakily clamber back into the driver’s seat, firmly gripping the steering wheel with sweaty hands. Geto was here. Geto knows that you and Satoru were in the same vicinity as Jogo and Hanami. There’s absolutely no way he doesn’t know — you carelessly hadn’t wiped your residuals or even tried to cover your tracks.

You step on the gas. You keep your cursed energy flowing as you speed down the road, revealing a murky trail of residuals to follow. His cursed energy is so distinctly foul that you can pick it out from the rest with little effort. It’s overwhelming and makes you nauseous. Cursed with a twist of familiarity – a sickening combination.

Your mind begins to race. Is this how Gojo felt back then? No, it must have been so much worse, tracking one of your soulmates down with the intent to…to kill. And now you’re being forced to track him down again, just so the higher-ups can order Gojo to repeat history, just so your best friends will be forced to fight until one is–

You jerk the steering wheel over, making for a rough pull-over job. You throw yourself out of the car as quickly as possible before retching your stomach’s contents out onto the dark pavement.

The old wounds in your heart flare up; you clutch your chest desperately.

You are not strong enough to protect your parents - but are you strong enough to survive the alternative, the reality you and Gojo can’t help but deny?

“I have to,” You whisper to yourself. “I have to do this. I have no power in this world, I’m not the strongest…so this is all I can do.”

And so you are off again, this time unwavering from the course you’re set on.

By the time you reach Kyoto, an untimely five hours of panicked driving later, their residuals are so apparent that you hardly have to try. It’s almost as if they’re luring you in, the most sensitive tracker known in the Jujutsu world; why else would they leave behind such obvious traces of their cursed energy?

You ignore your instincts that scream for you to turn back, and instead continue into the outskirts of the most outer part of the residential areas – the residuals lead you far from the city itself.

As you venture further into the countryside, your stomach begins to clench. The residuals are much stronger now, but not alarmingly so. They should still be miles and miles out, perhaps 40 or 50 – there should be enough distance to not alert them of your presence. However, as a precaution, you stretch your hearing beyond the range of any normal human. You still feel unsettled, even with the extra layer of protection.

This is dumb. This is a terrible idea. Yet, you keep your foot firmly on the gas pedal.

You are suddenly flooded with an overwhelming wave of noise. Your brain barely has a second to process what your ears pick up: the roar of an object hurtling towards your car. You swerve to the roadside, and you’re barely fast enough: the driver’s side door is nearly scraped off, and it begins to smolder.

It shouldn’t be possible. They shouldn’t be here. Not again.

Running on pure adrenaline, you rip your seatbelt off and throw yourself to the passenger’s side door, seeking an escape from the next impending strike. Your hearing is more sensitive from your frenzied state, and you hear the next meteor much earlier this time. You rely on your hearing, on your hearing only: it will tell you where to dodge.

You climb out of the car, wheezing on smoke and fumes, and take off running. You gasp at the sound of the next meteor closing in on you and quickly dive away, throwing yourself to the ground and covering your head with your hands. The explosion is so intense that even after reducing your hearing, you feel the shock reverberate through your body and overpower any other sensation you feel.

After the ringing in your ears lets up for a moment, you finally feel the aftermath of the blast: shards of heated rock are embedded in your side, scorching your skin. There’s no time to even think about it: you’re up and running away from the voices that soon enter your hearing.

“You imbecile! Do you always have to do the opposite of what you’ve been ordered?” The grating tones of Hanami enter your ears as he hisses at Jogo. “He said captured alive! Or would you rather face his wrath?”

Captured? So they had been expecting your arrival; it was a trap all along.

“Relax, I haven’t even made a scratch yet!” Jogo shouts back.

“You’re embarrassing yourself in many ways,” Hanami scoffs. “If your intention was to kill, I will begin to further doubt your abilities. I already had to rescue you from that sorcerer, or has your pea-brain already forgotten that failure after it fell off of your body?”

“Shut up already,” Jogo growls. “I got it, okay?”

You truly don’t know what to do. Your last encounter made it very clear that you are solely a tracker with limited offensive ability. Hell, you didn’t even try last time because you knew it be to utterly pointless – the result would turn out no better if you tried now. Two special grades against a Grade 1 sorcerer with Grade 2 offensive abilities? You don’t stand a chance in that regard.

They’re in too close of proximity to disguise your presence – cutting off your cursed energy would be pointless. There’s only one other trick up your sleeve to increase your chances of surviving if they do decide to attack again.

You feel their cursed energies so much more clearly – when you steal a glance behind yourself, you can faintly see them in the distance. Not good.

Jogo suddenly barks out a laugh. “Boss never said we couldn’t rough anybody up though, did he? Got you there, dumbass! Don’t try to stop me!”

Really not good.

There’s a sudden spike in cursed energy – and that energy is heading straight for you. You try to dodge, but your reaction is too late. You feel the heat even before the impact, and you decide you definitely need to utilize your other ability. It’s not perfect, nor is it a full-fledged technique yet, but you have little choice but to use it now.

You concentrate all your energy into the side that will take the hit, and imagine an impenetrable wall. You think of Gojo’s Infinity: the space that can never crossed, no matter how much force is exerted. You don’t have the ability to manipulate space like Gojo, but your shield imitates his impenetrability.

Jogo’s fiery body slams into your side. Your breath is instantly knocked out of you, and the searing pain returns. Your shield absorbs the brunt of the strike, but you’re still knocked back at least thirty feet. You tumble into the undergrowth, your back squarely hitting a tree in your path.

You can’t stop the howl that escapes your lungs, and the ragged breathing that follows.

“They tried to stop it! It wasn’t even a fraction of my power and they couldn’t stop it! And you’re telling me that Gojo Satoru is interested in them?” Jogo howls in laughter. “How pathetic!”

At your next blink, Jogo has materialized in front of you. You weakly stagger to the side, wanting to get away but knowing you can’t deep down. They’re just toying with you – if they decided to get rid of you, they’d be able to almost instantly.

Jogo shouts loudly, “So weak it makes me sick! You can only run away, huh? Boss is right – creatures like you are disgusting.”

He rushes forward again, and you rush to encase yourself in your imperfect shield. To your surprise, you are not struck down: instead, you’re…in his arms??

“Hanami! Since you won’t let me have anymore fun, I guess we should go back,” Jogo yells across the clearing to the other Special Grade.

A burst of petals flies past your eyes; Hanami emerges from a newly-grown patch of flowers. They don’t say anything, but they approach Jogo and stand right over his shoulder. Jogo eyes Hanami suspiciously.

“Why are you hovering over me?” Jogo grumbles. “Stay away, tree hugger.”

“It’s almost as if he knew you were going to pull this,” Hanami huffs. “There’s a reason I’ve been keeping an eye on you.”

“They’re alive, that was the only request. Did Boss put you up to that ‘good guy’ act, huh? Agh, such arrogant scum! Thinks he can tell me what to do?”

Despite your shield, Jogo’s heat begins to affect you. You cough violently, and when you glance at your hands you see rivulets of red.

“Yes, I think that’s accurate, considering you call him ‘Boss’. Now, hand them over before they go up in flames.”

Jogo grunts unhappily, but complies. You’re transferred to the rough bark limbs of the tree cursed spirit. Hanami sighs at the sight of your angry red burns, eyeing Jogo, “Such a barbaric curse…destructive to all life and environment.”

“HAH! You-!” Jogo guffaws. “I’ve see you uproot your own forests! Environmentally friendly my ass! Shut your trap.”

You wince from his loudness.

“So obnoxious, isn’t he? Well, you’re the lucky one here - you get to take a nap,” Hanami says. “Rest well before your…‘meeting’.”

Your pulse quickens at the expression on the curse’s face: a demented sort of excitement. There’s a sweet floral smell that falls over you, and then you begin to grow sleepy. Your eyelids start to flutter as you try to fight it – but you are eventually pulled deep into a dreamless sleep.

You are roused from your sleep by the touch of another. A hand on your forehead – a comforting presence. It’s warm, and familiar. You’re about to smile widely and look deep into his crystal eyes, but when your bleary eyes begin to focus, your heart stops.

There’s an easy, gentle smile on his face. His dark eyes shine brightly, but your own can’t help but drift to the obvious surgical scar running across his entire forehead.

Your reflexes kick in: you smack his hand away, rejecting the unwanted touch, and fall into a defensive stance. He lets out a hum of amusement, but otherwise does not react.

“My old friend,” Geto Suguru coos. “How wonderful it is to see you again. Never thought I’d be able to – what a gift your presence is, my dear.”

It’s then that you realize that you’re shaking; your chattering teeth render you unable to let any words out.

“Did Jogo and Hanami rough you up again? How rude of them,” He sighs. “But don’t be scared, it’s just your old friend Suguru.”

He stops to let his eyes roam over your hunched form. A sickening smirk spreads across his face – sickening because it’s just like the sweet smiles he used to give you.

“You know, you really are the best tracker around. I have to say, I’m quite impressed. Too bad I know all your little tricks, though. Did you like the surprise I set up especially for you?” He smirks. “It’s hard to catch such a talented tracker as you off guard, but I think I managed quite well. You didn’t detect a thing, did you? They were supposed to be much further away, I know…it’s fascinating, isn’t it, the feats you can achieve through sorcery?”

You only stare at him in horror.

“No? Well, I know at least Jogo enjoyed it,” He says with a soft laugh, but his next words cause icy chills to run down your spine. “But I think I enjoyed it the most. The look on your face…was perfect.”

Your stomach turns at his words. His gaze is even worse: there’s a hungry, disturbing glint to them. Your eyes flit from his sharp onyx eyes to his traditional wear: his inky yukata and gilded kasaya are elegant and beautiful, but emanate darkness.

“Forgot what I looked like? It has been a while, hasn’t it?” Geto smiles. His smile is soft and almost sweet, but out of place; its familiarity makes your stomach churn.

“You shouldn’t be here,” You finally speak, voice quiet and cracking. “You shouldn’t exist.”

“That’s a bit harsh, doll. I’m not the only one who doesn’t belong in this world,” He says, lip curled in disgust. “Monkeys roam the earth. That’s more of a disgrace than my existence…I hope you’d agree.”

You only manage to gasp out, “How are you even here?”

His eyes meet yours, crinkling in a dark sort of amusement. “You’d love to know, wouldn’t you? There’s a price to pay for that knowledge, doll.”

“You’d…Geto would never hurt me,” You whimper. “Never.”

Geto just smiles. “I wouldn’t? Maybe not.”

His piercing eyes seem to see stare right through you. “But what about my best friend?”

You freeze.

“Is that such an uncomfortable thought?” He chuckles a little too lightly. “Never thought about it even once? Not even after he killed me?”

He tuts at you, clicking his tongue. “Sweetheart, I knew you were blinded by him, but never to this degree. How low you have fallen…”

He moves closer. Your breath is trapped in your lungs and you can’t move.

“One toe out of line and you might end up like me. Don’t you see?” He shakes his head.

Hot anger flashes through you, and your tongue lashes out before you can think. “One toe out of line? No. No. You committed genocide. You murdered your entire family in the name of it. For what? A delusional dream?”

He sighs. “Of course. So brainwashed…you’re practically a monkey. How disappointing. You don’t get it, do you? I was apparently his everything, and look how I ended up.”

“You’re not Geto!” You cry out. “You can’t be.”

He laughs softly, but his gaze is razor-sharp. “Are you sure these aren’t Geto’s thoughts?”

You bite your lip in nervous thought. “Ge- you…why am I here?”

He ignores your question as he begins to circle you like a hawk, eyes sharp and hungry. “You know, you’re not quite what I imagined you to be.”

You take a few tentative steps back, trying to subtly increase the distance between you and the living corpse in front of you, but he strides over to your side when he notices.

“I’m just so curious,” He says, eyes raking over your figure. “You really are (Y/N), aren’t you? Fits the descriptions…”

The blood drains from your face. You back away from his seeking hands that threaten to touch you, to investigate you.

“There’s a disgusting amount of papers with your name written all over them – I don’t think Hanami would have liked me much before. Such a waste of stationery,” He says, his twisted smirk pulling shivers down your spine. “Why was I so fixated on you? You don’t look like anything special. Don’t tell me…I actually fell for someone as plain as you?”

“What?” You breathe out, eyes wide, mouth parted in surprise. “Geto, you…he…it wasn’t like that.”

“And you didn’t even know,” He coos in faux pity. “How cruel to find out in this way. Seems like you have only ever focused on my former equal. You only pay attention to the strongest – how shallow. What did I ever see in you?”

“I- that’s not-“ You try to form a sentence, deny it, say it’s not true because it truly isn’t, but your tongue and vocal chords won’t cooperate with you.

“When confronted with the truth, humans get tongue tied,” He smiles, voice dripping with mockery. “How precious. What a good little monkey you are – so unbearably typical, so exemplary of your species.”

“Stop,” You gasp out.

“What, sweets? Can’t handle the truth?”

“Don’t call me that,” You try to say with conviction, but it leaves you weakly and softly, almost a plea.

“What, you only like it when he calls you that?” He says with a dark chuckle. “How pathetic. How much has you brainwashed you into thinking he acutally wants anything to do with you? Gojo doesn’t like to get attached. And even when he does–”

He leans forward, invading your space, pressing up too closely to your body. “–sometimes you still end up dead.”

“Stop,” You beg. “Get away from me. You’re-you’re scaring me, Suguru.”

“Am I?” He smirks. “Oh, I’m sorry. I know what to do to make you forgive me, though. Used to work on Shoko, too.”

“No, stop!” You cry, ragged breaths leaving you. “This isn’t you, stop, please, stop!”

“You’re right,” He smiles wickedly, eyes dark. “It’s not.”

His lips meet yours. It burns your skin, but not pleasantly – it’s all wrong, and it hurts. You shove him away with as much force as you can, leaving him stumbling back a few paces. He laughs. He laughs.

“Wow, I’m impressed,” He chuckles, amused. “You’re stronger than you used to be. Maybe you actually live up to being Grade 1 now, huh?”

“Who are you?!” You cry out. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I’m Geto Suguru,” He says with a crazed smile. “Is it that hard to believe when my body was never retrieved?”

“What do you want from me?” You snarl, growing angry. “You’ve just been toying with me, you bastard. Trying to play all these mind games on me, leaving your dirty work to your underlings. None of it feels substantial enough to kidnap me.”

A cackle escapes Geto, “You’re right, it isn’t. By yourself, you aren’t of any interest to me. Just a memento of the past – I don’t have any use for you.”

He continues with a smirk, “I have to say though, your reactions have piqued my interest slightly. Jogo seems to feel the same way. Perhaps if you could be our little monkey for entertainment - it might keep Jogo out of trouble elsewhere.”

Reduced to entertainment.

“You’re sick,” You say, shaking your head.

“Hardly. It’s only natural treatment for someone so unimportant. Should I be frank?” He asks, touching his chin to mock contemplation. “You are here solely as means of luring him out.”

You break out in a cold sweat. It was as you suspected and feared: you are only bait. Bait for the strongest.

“He won’t come,” You declare. “This is pointless.”

“Do you take me as an idiot monkey?” Geto frowns. “You’re not the only one who can read residuals. He came last time, and he will come this time.”

“He doesn’t know,” You hiss. “He won’t come. He doesn’t want to see me right now.”

Geto only smiles. “He’ll come.”

His confidence scares you. Even though it would be very unlikely Gojo is even aware that you’re away on a mission, doubt still swirls in your gut. You don’t want him to walk into this trap – who knows what Geto has planned?

While you mull over your thoughts, Geto grows impatient.

“This is quite dull. Let’s test your strength, First Grader,” He smirks. “Maybe they’ll pass you to Special Grade if you can land a single hit.”

Suddenly, your breath is stolen from you. You double over in pain, caught off guard by the assault to your stomach. It was only a kick, but it was the hardest you’ve been hit in your entire life by another sorcerer.

“Silly me, I’ve forgotten my manners,” Geto says drily. “When harkening back to our school days, I must ask if you’re ready before we spar.

But don’t forget, the enemy won’t wait for you. Didn’t we learn that?”

Satoru’s words. He would often preemptively attack before the sparring session officially began, and he would always recite those exact words. You feel sick.

You don’t respond, knowing it would take away from your focus. Instead, you concentrate on pouring your cursed energy into your hearing technique.

He begins his initial assault: he’s extremely agile, and his punches and kicks seem to come out of thin air. You anticipate his attacks with your highly developed sense of hearing, listening for each twitch of his muscles and the roar of his appendages slashing through the air. Essentially, you read his moves before he has finished them. Your body can’t always keep up with your hearing enough to avoid him, though, but the blows are lessened by your half-developed shielding.

You haven’t attempted a single hit of your own – all your energy has gone into avoiding each of his potent attacks. Every time you see an opening, your chance is ruined by another attack of his.

After a few minutes of religiously defending, your senses slow. You can hear everything, but you can’t physically keep up with him. You begin to take hit after hit after hit – until you’re forced to retreat several paces back. Blood drips from your nose, spilling into your mouth and filling your mouth with the metallic tang of iron. It tastes of defeat and cowardice.

“Are you sure you’re not a monkey?” Geto roars in laughter. “To call you a sorcerer is sacrilegious at best. How disappointing you are. Haven’t improved an ounce since our days together, have you? Other than that half-baked excuse of a technique - trying to imitate the strongest, perhaps?”

You ignore his taunts, using the time to draw out two small daggers from your sleeves. You fare better with bows, but the twin blades are better than nothing.

“What cute little pocket knives,” Geto jeers. “They look sharp.”

“Want to find out?” You growl.

He scoffs. “I’d like to see you try.”

It is a dance that never ends – you are held captive by the need to defend yourself, not able to stop without the fear of further injury. You are slowly giving up hope when time seems to slow down. Your breath hitches as you spot what you need desperately: an opening. You zero in on the opening, thrusting your right hand into the open space. A spurt of red splashes your hand – your aim was true.

You step back immediately, parrying his retaliating blow with your other blade. More droplets spill over you, a shower of red that makes you nauseous.

You’re breathing hard. You haven’t fought with a sorcerer – or even a curse – for a long time, and it’s taking more of your strength than you anticipated.

Geto doubles over, which fills you with confusion. There’s no way those two nicks did any substantial damage, so why is he hunched over in pain?

And then you hear it. Laughter. Crazed laughter erupts from him in waves. When he looks up at you, the fear in the pit of your stomach intensifies. He’s not hurt – he’s pissed off. Very.

“I have to admit, you exceeded my expectations. But that’s not saying much when I expected nothing from a dirty monkey like you,” He spits. “What a brat.”

“If I recall correctly, you were the one who wanted to spar like old times,” You glare, grip tightening on your daggers. “It was only per your suggestion.”

“Your insolence boils my blood…how does he care for someone like you?! How did I?!” He roars. “You are nothing!”

He rushes forward faster than you can register and knocks you to the ground. You instinctively roll out of the way and are still nearly stomped on. You try to stand up, or even just sit up, but can’t. You begin to panic – you feel frozen in place, unable to even turn your head.

“Now you can’t run away,” He growls. “Should I make it a little unbearable? You deserve it.”

You feel a great pressure forcing your body into the ground. It’s excruciating; you feel as if your bones are grinding together and all your muscles are compressed. You can’t bite back the cry that erupts from your throat.

“Now you really feel the gravity of the situation,” He says with a demented smile. “You know, maybe I don’t need you anyway. He can just come to retrieve your body. Can’t make the same mistake twice, after all. Leaving a body to rot is a vulnerability. I could fix that for him, too…leave a puddle where you used to stand? If I crush you long enough, perhaps…”

“Fuck you,” You manage to get out. “You’ll never win. You’ll never beat Satoru.”

You fall flat on your face, coughing, as you are released from his technique. You try to push yourself up, but you only manage to a kneeling position. Not that it matters anyway, not when you are grabbed by your throat and hoisted in the air.

“Do you always make so many mistakes?” He hisses. “It’s like you want me to kill you.”

You couldn’t respond even if you wanted to with how hard he’s clutching your trachea. You have no idea when you dropped your blades, but they’re not in your hands now, so you have to resort to pitifully clawing at his grip with your bare hands.

Your vision begins to blur and darken as you asphyxiate. Howls of laughter ring in your ears, getting quieter and then louder as your hearing fades in and out.

Is this how it will end? No, it can’t, you can’t let it. You can’t leave yourself to die at the hands of Geto Suguru. You can’t die at the hands of your former friend, and be found by your other best friend. You can’t do that to him.

You claw harder, more desperately, even though you feel yourself weakening. It’s futile – his grip won’t even loosen at your efforts.

You have to use your weaker technique. If you do it perfectly, it might propel him from your body, giving you a chance to escape. Escape to where, you don’t know, but you need to try. You don’t have any chance otherwise.

With a burst of strength you didn’t know you had, you focus all of your cursed energy into the skin that is touching Geto. Your close your eyes, visualizing the perfect invisible wall that encases Gojo – no flaws, no gaps, no way to get past – and then you release your energy.

There’s a loud smack that resonates through the air, and then you crumple to the ground. When you look up, you can see a hard shell jutting between you and Geto, effectively shielding you. Geto is clutching his arm, which is now red and swollen.

You actually did it. It was a perfect use of your technique.

“You are frustrating, but no matter. I have other methods at my disposal. Didn’t think I’d have to pull this on you, but you seem to be begging for your demise, so I might as well use it,” He grits his teeth, and holds one arm out, his forearm curling up.

A ball of black energy appears at his fist. It is nebulous and shifts as it grows bigger. It begins to glow as time passes, as it amasses more energy. You have no idea what that is, but you highly doubt your shield will be able to block it. As you think about your options, your shield begins to fade away – you are nearly out of cursed energy. You are wide-eyed as you watch the last sections of your shield dissipate to nothing.

Entirely defenseless, you heave yourself to a standing position and try to stumble away. You fall to one knee in agony – Jogo and Geto have taken a toll on you.

You look over to see the ball of darkness leave Geto’s fingers. You are frozen, knowing you can do nothing, but also knowing you will die if you do nothing.

It approaches, and you close your eyes. Hopefully it will completely destroy you in a single instant, so it won’t be torturous. At least you won’t be in pain for long.

It’s going to hit you. And then you suppose it does. You feel weightless, like you weigh nothing. Perhaps your body has been destroyed, and this is how your brain is processing the absence of your nerve endings.

But if you are not here anymore, why does the wind whip through your ears?

You were mistaken. You don’t just feel weightless, you are weightless.

When you open your eyes, tears spill out at the sight in front of you. Tousled white hair, a blindfold tucked over his eyes, rigid determination showing through his features.

“I didn’t know this is where we were holding the school reunion. Class of ‘007, except Geto went all rogue and didn’t end up graduating. What a failure!”

His words are playful, and he’s smiling, but somehow his tone doesn’t match. It’s serious and dark, not at all jocular. He seems to be making an effort to keep up his lighthearted persona, but his true feelings can’t help but bleed out.

“Ah, you finally showed up,” Geto cackles. “It’s not good to have a weakness. I was about to do you a favor.”

Gojo laughs bitterly, “Don’t you know? Strength comes from weaknesses. Not that you would understand.”

“In any case…” He looks down at you. “I won’t let you take away my strongest weakness.”

next part

a/n 2.0: Okay so, idk how it 100% is in the manga bc I haven’t read it, but basically this ‘Geto’ (*cough* Kenjaku) has thoughts that are Kenjaku but with some of Geto’s memories ?? .. sorry if that’s non canon heehee

Bonus!!: Also I’ve been learning some Japanese so here is Gojo’ name spelled out: ごじょさとる。This is more for my own enjoyment 🫣 but here you go lol

tag list: @thenyxsky, @whitehairedtwink, @screwyou3

also thank you @zoyatoshi for your such sweet reblogs 🥹🥹 literally inspired me to finish this chapter up after 6+ months !!

#gojo satoru x reader #reader needs a hug #gojo satoru needs a hug #geto suguru #Jujutsu Kaisen #jjk angst #angst/comfort #hurt/comfort #geto suguru needs a hug but he’s not getting one

[brisquad-unit-4402]

iluna and details

whenever i see anime characters i'm always fascinated by if they were more realistic, or more detailed, you know, the little elements of people that animation studios just don't have the budget nor time nor medium to depict. so this ficlet is a love letter to all the beautiful parts of people that can't really be captured until you're living in their lovely presence!

this wasn't originally an iluna post. it was actually for all of the nijien boys, you see, i worked on it as a warmup before my bigger projects, and a place for me to practice shorter fic. but i was so charmed by the concept and how fun these were to write that i wanted the girls in on this too...! i'll slowly work on the other units as time goes on and i work on more projects

tags: established relationship, fluff, gender neutral reader

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

🤟 Kyo Kaneko

He calls himself an asshole and you'd be the first to agree. He's comfortable enough with you to poke fun at you, and when you tease back it's a game you both play to win. He's yours, after all, and it rolls off him like water off a duck's back, because he knows when to back off or go all in. His energy shines moonlight into the pitch dark. No matter what, he always has something to say that makes the night seem so much less bleak.

But the moon needs to sink to calm, and he stays late into the night with drive fierce enough to silence himself. He sits at his desk. Candy blue hair is swept back in a headband, but the dyed locks curl out in front of his face as he writes.

He is so determined, and the stars against his back wish they had his grit. The pencil wavers, bounces, swings this way and that as he thinks. The eraser presses the skin underneath his lip before the answer comes to him.

For all the resolve in his apple-green eyes are, the lids can barely sustain it. There are too many thoughts for one body to hold. The night creeps longer and his eyelashes flutter closed.

You see what the moon sees in him, this supercharged soul, the light that shines off his wit, the quiet resilience to keep going. Traces of moonbeam cross along his soft skin, the hoodie over his shoulders, hair the color of the sky. The patterns of lights follow as you carry him to bed.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🐰 Maria Marionette

She lives in long sleeves. Your jacket suits her like a charm, even though it's much too big for her little body. Especially because it's too big for her body. It's so rare to see her without long socks that stretch far above the hem of her skirt.

Her knit socks brush against your legs as she sits. The movie has long been forgotten by you in favor of admiring her delicacy. She fits so perfectly in your lap, a stand to a centerpiece, a matching set, do not separate.

When she recognizes the look in your eye she curls closer to you, and when she can't get enough she musters up the courage to slip off her jacket.

Along the bends of her arms and the links upon her fingers you see everything she is so scared of. Sweeping lines stretch across her skin, pale and geometric, and perfectly wrapped around the diameter. They're symmetrical. Ball joints. Articulation imprinted in scars, the only sign flesh was once porcelain.

She is so gorgeous in her vulnerability. She is so gorgeous in her everything, her body and soul, no matter the form. You press your lips along the white scarring between her knuckles.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

💫 Aster Arcadia

He has to be one of the most intricate pieces of art in the world. There’s no other explanation. His makeup never fades even as his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and when he presses his lips together right before laughing out loud.

And sometimes you can’t even tell when it’s grooming or just how harmonious he was formed. His makeup never fades, but his air sparkles, thousands of strokes of gas and space dust and matter swirling around his body, the edge of a nebula, the collections of what makes solar systems burst and catch fire.

There is electricity when he moves. The earth bends around him. Not a hair is out of place even in moments when just touching him is like placing your hands against a plasma ball.

He is so beautiful and so unfathomable and so innately himself.

He shivers when you press against sensitivities but you doubt he could ever understand the coursing under your veins, the push and pull of gravity, the molten core. The effect he has on you.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👼 Aia Amare

No matter what she does, she is feather-light. Her steps are easy to miss, so she sneaks up on you without even trying, and when you jump in surprise she titters in musical tones. When she reaches out to touch you, she is your pedestal. Her hands are strong but gentle, the mark of an artist, and the briefest skim against your skin leaves impressions like you are nothing but soft clay.

She is feather, and coated in downy white, and songbird and stars in the clouds. Her heavens soften her. If you didn't know a thing about her, you'd imagine her so fragile that she could float away with a breath.

But for as light as she is, she is intense. Waves roar in time with her noise. There is so much spirit and so much energy within her. The brightness turns blinding, but only when she wants it to.

She slips off the glasses, and you are reminded of the bristles that make up a feather. The lenses mute the color, but without them, cool mint freezes over so strongly that her gaze burns. Pale lashes fame the searing ocean. Slighter than a suggestion, but so prominent you know there is nothing earthly like her, you see the motion of curling rings hidden inside the green and blue. A sprinkling of gold between the rods. The glisten rotates in wheels. Eyes upon eyes upon eyes within eyes. Feather.

She places them back over her eyes, and her artisan hands motion around your body while you're struck with something unknowable. Her league is dimensions away from yours. You're blessed.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🛸 Ren Zotto

You could never mistake him for a simple human. There's too much under his surface even when he tries, but he never does try. The horns upon his head protrude too high to fall under a lowered head.

In bright light, if you can focus, you’d think the green in his veins turns blazing. Focus harder and you realize it runs along the skin itself with the suggestion of a shining, scaled teal, before it disappears entirely.

You swear there's more teal in his hair that isn't swallowed by dark. It's soft and fine as you brush your fingers over him, and you can barely even see the undertone.

"It's not really black," he says. "Human eyes just perceive it as black because they don't have the anatomy for it."

The word- his color- is unpronounceable to human tongues. It requires a trill between fangs you don't have.

But you try anyways, and as it turns into a spit of nothing he laughs with you. You press a kiss to his unpronounceable hair. When his smile relaxes his fang catches on his lip.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

💅 Scarle Yonaguni

She is made entirely from her own creation. Love and care finds a home within her body, and stumbles around clumsily and spreads out through peals of laughter. There is nothing quite like her because she is everything around her; she is ember and she is ash, as much as she is ideal and reality, as much as she is exuberance and moderation. To chase and to heal. Architect of her own path, with so many miracles stored in her fingertips, all of them within simple delights.

Warmth trails through all she touches. The folds in her books, the keyboard turning shiny from use, crosses along the T's and dots above the I's. The way she holds you so tightly as if you were the only source of heat, even though she exudes fire all her own.

Cocoa and cinnamon follow her, a champurrado musk, and you can't place where the spicy scent comes from. It lingers in her hair and along her skin, those miracle fingertips that spend so much love and care of what she enchants, and you are no exception. When she runs her nails along your jawline the smooth blend puts you at ease.

All her cinder catches in your throat. Her touch is hypnosis. It's familiar, and home, and comfort. It's adventure and joy and discovery. You can't get her scent out of your mind, and when it finally grants you peace, the chocolate has already marked you endeared.

#kyo kaneko x reader #maria marionette x reader #aster arcadia x reader #aia amare x reader #ren zotto x reader #scarle yonaguni x reader #kyo kaneko #maria marionette #aster arcadia #aia amare #ren zotto #scarle yonaguni #nijisanji x reader #iluna x reader #nijisanji en #iluna #4402 writes #implied biblically accurate aia amare #yes the rings in her eyes are a reference to ophanim #ren sees shrimp colors #ren I S a shrimp color #tbh i'm not expecting this to get as much reception as my other luxiem posts but let it be known i am here to PROVIDE for the other units #so feel free to request anyone listed in my rules page

[suengmi]

✧ ugly ✧ 1.6k, pg

changbin would argue that those things were reserved for him, that he should only be the one that touches you. 'i just don't like it!' changbin had argued the night prior, huffing and puffing about how hyunjin looked like he wanted more every time he was even remotely affectionate towards you. it made him furious, and it was ugly.

pairing: changbin x afab!reader (no pronouns mentioned) genre: angst, fluff warnings/other: established!relationship, living together, jealousy, arguing, mostly proofread, prompt

ugh, the look on his face. he doesn't get it. he never has got it. 

it's not as if you can erase a friendship from childhood, those relationships run deep, they become a part of you. like they shape you almost. countless times have you told changbin you're just friends with hyunjin, countless. it doesn't seem to make a difference, no matter how many times you argue about the way that hyunjin touched you, spoke to you even. how he'd back hug you and then bite the crown of your head, making you whip around and smack him on the arm, grabbing his wrist threatening to bite back. 

changbin would argue that those things were reserved for him, that he should only be the one that touches you. 

'i just don't like it!' changbin had argued the night prior, huffing and puffing about how hyunjin looked like he wanted more every time he was even remotely affectionate towards you. it made him furious, and it was ugly to see how jealous he got. 

though you weren't on the best of terms, tonight was hyunjin's birthday. all of your friends had gathered, and it was going to fun. you were going to make sure of it. changbin had to suck it up or you'd really have something to make him mad about. 

you arrived together, but walked separately as you entered the house. changbin's head was low, hands in his pockets as he shadowed behind you. 

"baby!" hyunjin squealed, running forwards to swoop you into a big hug as you entered his apartment. you happily accepted the hug, his arms squeezing you just a bit too tight. changbin waited behind, a dry expression painted on his face. 

"hey, happy birthday." changbin said, pulling you back by the edge of your jumper. 

hyunjin stared at changbin, then moved his eyes back to you. he was frowning, not sure of what was causing the tension.

"uh, thanks, did you get me a car?" hyunjin joked to lighten the mood, wiggling his hips a bit. 

changbin just sighed, rubbing the side of his neck. "no, but we did order something. it's coming tomorrow so i'll drop it off then. sorry it's late." 

"ah don't worry." hyunjin said as he smiled to changbin. "come in, everyone's here already."

the night was going well, everyone seemed to be having a good time. more bodies piled in as the night went on, there were maybe about fifty people here. towards the end of the night, you were absolutely exhausted. after a few drinks and a bit of dancing, you decided it was time to go home.

you can’t see your boyfriend, the light was maybe a bit too dark, the room only being lit with a few lines of pink and blue lights.it was still packed, music blaring off the walls. you weren’t sure who was there and who wasn’t.

“ah, i’ve gotta find my mans, have you seen him?” you asked hyunjin, leaning a bit closer to his shoulder to look. hyunjin wrapped his arm around your waist, bringing you closer to look through the crowd.

“can you see him?” you yell to his ear.

“what?!” hyunjin yells back, turning his head to you, his hair falling against your cheek.

“i said, have you seen changbin?!”

“oh he’s there!” hyunjin points towards the couch. 

when you lock eyes with changbin, the stare is almost empty, hollow and jealous. the ugly emotion rearing it’s head again, obvious on his face.

“is he… okay?” hyunjin asks, lips turning down at the sides.

“who knows, i’m just gonna go home. i’m sick of this.”

hyunjin pulls you back, arms on your shoulders. “is he still jealous?”

“yes.” you sigh. “for some reason he’s still fucking angry at how close we are. he hates it, and hates it with all our friend group."

hyunjin lets out a long breath, watching you intently.

“he even does it with jisung, we all know jisung kisses everyone.” you scoff, hands coming to your hips.

hyunjin rolls his eyes, brows a little crumpled. “maybe there’s more to it. just ask him. maybe… i should talk to him? we used to bathe together, it’d be like romancing my sister. ew.”

you both shudder at the thought. “it’s okay, i’ll sort it.”

-

the ride home is silent. changbin is focusing on the road, one of his hands supporting his head as he leans against the car window. the wind is so gently weaving through his fluffy hair, he looks beautiful like this, even with the obvious frustration in his face. 

“you looked really nice tonight.” you mumble, hands fiddling in your lap.

changbin looks over at you for a second, before turning his head back to the road. “yeah, you too. you always look gorgeous.”

okay, you’re getting somewhere. you need to keep this up.

“the black shirt you wore always makes your arms look great.” 

the smile finally shows itself on changbin’s face, and he looks like he’s trying not to blush. 

“says you, those overalls you wear always make you look so cute. especially because you find it hard to strap them on, and they’re always on the wrong hook.” he lightly laughs, pulling the car into your driveway.

“i just can’t get them right!” you laugh, letting your head fall back to the head rest. “that’s why i need you to help me.”

when the car stops, changbin removes the key’s and turns to face you. “ah, we gotta talk, don’t we?”

“yeah.” you say, lips pouting in thought.

“it’s not fair.” changbin blurts out before you can even take off your seatbelt, looking down to his lap. he’s playing with his keys, seemingly unaware of where to look.

you take in a long breath, clicking your seatbelt lock to let it slide back into place. “what isn’t?”

“just- just everything.”

“changbin, i need you to be honest and clear with me. i’m not a mind reader-”

“i know.” he interrupts. “just, let me finish okay?”

you nod slowly, listening as well as you can.

“i just- it’s not fair. i’m saying it’s not fair because… i think i’m beginning to get jealous because… well i’m not sure.” he says, eyes locking up at yours.

“i’m so in my head, we just moved in together, and for some reason i feel like hyunjin is going to take you away. i know he’s not, and i know you’re not like that but it fucking irritates me. i think i’m irritating myself more than anyone. you’re just my shitty collateral damage.”

“where did this come from? have i done anything?” you say, feeling sadness well in your chest like a tight ball.

“no, oh my god, no!” he almost shouts, hands finding yours to hold them. he links his fingers with yours, gripping a little bit too hard.

he goes to continue, but he stops as soon as he sees the tears forming in your eyes. he watches you as tears spill to your cheeks, guilt and worry settling in the back of his throat. it’s not until you sob a bit that he speaks up.

“baby, no. it’s all me, it’s nothing to do with you.” he coos, rubbing his thumb along the back of your hand.

“okay.” you say quietly, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “are you sure?”

“yes, it’s just me. you know my ex had a similar relationship with her childhood friend, now they’re getting married, so i think that’s recently just got me shaken.”

“but… i’m not your ex, i didn’t do that.”

“no, i know. it’s just me projecting. i'm an asshole.”

“yeah, asshole.” you chuckle, tears beginning to halt. “why didn’t you tell me? you’ve been putting me through hell.. i even thought about breaking up with you, that's how bad you've been.”

“i’m sorry, i just didn’t know how to bring it up without sounding like an idiot.” he says, hand coming to your cheek, thumb rubbing away the tears.

“don’t do that again. it’s got nothing to do with hyunjin or me." you scowl, ripping your hands from his to fold your arms.

"besides, hyunjin used to put his finger up my nose when we were like two.”

“ah, he still does that.” changbin laughs, head nodding to the side. “but yes you’re right. i’m sorry. i feel like shit.”

“i’m not gonna say it’s okay, because it’s not, but you need to communicate with me. otherwise this won’t work.” you say, still feeling hurt from everything. but it’s a step you guess.

“you’re right. you’re always right.” he pouts.

“okay, if you feel jealous you gotta tell me so we can nip it in the bud. i’m not going to stop being the way i am with hyunjin, but you gotta tell me as soon as you feel that way. deal?”

changbin frowns, looking like a little sook. “okay, deal.”

"stop frowning, you big baby." you laugh, wiping the last of your tears with the back of your jumper.

"yeah, i am a big baby huh?"

"mhm." you agree, deciding to put the seatbelt back on. "now let's go."

changbin frowns, watching you sit still as you take out your phone, putting something into the gps. you had only been living together for a few weeks, still unsure of what was around in your suburb.

"huh?" changbin questions, absolutely confused.

"you're gonna buy me maccas, that's the first step of apology."

changbin has never moved faster, quickly fastening his seatbelt and almost forcing his key into the ignition. "say no more."

-

a/n: not as fluffy as i wanted but i hope it's okay ;_;

taglist: @l3visbby @blankdyean @abcdefgiwsmcty @daddyjoonchua @ipegchangbin (it's changbin i gotta tag u love)

#changbin #seo changbin #changbin x reader #changbin x you #changbin x fem reader #stray kids x reader #stray kid fic #stray kids #stray kids reader #stray kids fanfic #skz #skz fic #changbin fic #myfic #hes so baby girl i knew it #BIG SOOKY BABY

[koostarcandy]

be mine - jk x reader

pairing: nonidol!jungkook x reader

genre: friendstolovers!au, slight angst(?), mentions of smut (like it's there but it's there, ykwim?), fluff!

summary: a summer of a lifetime, which you hope would be the first of many to come. alternative? jungkook hopes you never disappear from his sight.

wc: 1.2k

a/n: inspired by pporappippam by sunmi! i didn't know whether to write a morning after part or not but if you'd like, i can write a tiny piece of what their happily ever after looks like ^^

you reckon it all started on that mid-summer july night.

that purple sky, starry, crescent moon, pretty cloud night. the beach served as the perfect vibe, it's gentle waves crashing the shore like an oxymoron you were living. his calloused fingertips softly tracing its way upto your shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles. the simple action elicited the fastest rhythm your heart has ever beaten, your mind in an utter mess just thinking about the thought behind it.

the whole weekend on that beach with him was a game of push and pull, the both of you refusing the magnetic force intensifying within, all for the sake of hidden feelings. when he had oh-so-kindly invited you to come with his friends to the beach house, you never knew it would to come to such a interesting position. you had accepted, of course, never one to miss an opportunity to not go to the beach.

you admit you had your fun with everyone, especially jungkook. your choice of outfits was nothing else of provoking, teasing even. the line of friends was practically blurred and erased at this point, garnering the raised eyebrows and knowing looks of your friends.

"what do you want?" jungkook asks teasingly yet quietly, his hold on your shoulder getting closer to your neck, toying with the thin silver chain adorning you. "just say it and I'll give it, yeah?" your hand links with the hand resting comfortably on the junction where your neck and shoulders meet, hoping the lovestruck look you usually have for him isn't painted all over your face. you pray and wish your eyes don't scream that you want him, desire him, begging for him.

placing a simple kiss on his cheek, you squeeze his hand, saying you want sleep with a sly smile and taking off without even a look back at him. you're determined to not break first, wanting to see the great jeon jungkook's facade crumble.

he is the first one to break, much to your surprise and despite what you thought. you laid in the cloud-like bed wide awake, his soft whispers and gentle hands keeping you up. you wondered what the same would do to you in bed. would he be as restrained as he was around you? or would he let go, seeing him and you in a new light?

you shake your head at the intrusive thoughts, not giving in this time. you head down to the kitchen, the moonlight giving you enough vision to locate the fridge, eager to chug down a bottle of chill water. the fridge light is blinding but enough to see the long, tattooed fingers taking two water bottles, a hand on your waist for support.

jungkook soundlessly hands you the bottle after opening it, flicking the caps off to who knows where. you chug it down like you wished, averted eyes not brave enough to gaze into his bold ones.

the empty plastic bottle he places on the counter falls to the floor, clattering and creating a loud noise.

"what if someone wakes up? it's too-"

"we don't care, do we?" jungkook interrupts, pulling you so close that your slight heaving chests and noses are touching.

"what do you want, baby?" he asks again, large hands settling on your waist, lips placing a fleeting kiss on your jaw. you pull yourself back so you don't shudder, the chill of his lip piercing raising goosebumps.

"could ask you the same, baby." you fire back softly, arms looping around his neck. it's like he short circuited, the hands that were toying with the oversized t-shirt, which he noticed you stole from him, fumble. he looks at you, darting down at your soft lips and looks back at you. his hand travels up to your neck at lightning speed, pulling you to a much needed kiss.

he wants this as much as you, hands traveling up and down, making it seem like he wants you ingrained in his brain. you show your enthusiasm as well, hands tangling in his luscious locks. you pull away, not caring of the heavy breaths you take.

you're drunk and giddy, even though you didn't have a sip of alcohol. he makes you feel on top of the world, even though your feet are firmly placed on the cold marble floor.

your heart hesitates for a minute, wondering if you were making the right decision. a tiny but firm voice in you says, "if not now, then when?" giving you enough courage to say your next words, which prompts jungkook to carry you in his arms and march to the bedroom.

"i want to see stars, jungkook."

and stars did he show.

he would find an excuse to come to your place for summer nights or invite you to his apartment, on the pretext of pizza and movie nights. the entirety of your summer was spent like that, tangled and twisted in bedsheets, him over you, under you, in you. he filled you in every sense. you know it was serious when you wished he stayed in the morning, secretly wishing and hoping his bare back would be the first you spot in your kitchen, not your bleak white walls.

you wish it was all a fever dream, not wanting to wake up from the high he gave you. you didn't want to be hit face first with reality, liking the attention you were getting.

he made you feel so special, his kisses lingering like aftereffects on your skin. he always cuddled, hand on your head so you were on his chest, sweet kisses shared and random things talked about.

just like how it is, right now.

except that it's quiet, his fingers yet again tracing what you think is a flower on your back. your eyes are closed, basking in the afterglow. jungkook suddenly intertwines his fingers with yours, immediately forcing your sleepy lids open. his thumb traces the back of your hand, lifting it so he could place an innocent kiss on your knuckles.

"what do you want, baby?"you mimic him from that first night, heart fluttering at the sweet gesture.

"i want you to be mine, princess." he says, voice unwavering and quiet, not wanting to disturb the quiet environment around you. your eyes fall on his truthful ones. he holds you tighter and closer to him, as if he's almost afraid you'll run away.

"will you?" he asks, suddenly unsure of himself but seriously in what he's asking, "can i have you like this, all night and day, to myself, my love? keep you with me, next to me at all times, so you don't disappear from my sight? would you like that?"

you roll onto your tummy, an arm supporting you up and your hands still intertwined. your eyes dart to your linked fingers and to his sincere face. his hand is holding your arm up, not wanting you to stumble and fall face first into the mattress.

he looks ethereal like this, you muse, his hair splayed on the pillow you share, making him seem more angelic. his doe eyes are scanning your face, searching for answers for his deep-from-the-heart questions.

"does this mean you'll get me strawberry cheesecake for breakfast tomorrow?" you ask hesitantly. he chuckles in relief and pulling you down to him, lips falling in place with his, like the perfect puzzle.

"i'll get you whatever you want, sweetheart."

pt time: @armys-dna ; @joondiary ; @soobhyun ; @shatzkrinslinzki ; @highly-functioning-mitochondria ; @taegisms ; @cherishoshi

#jungkook x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook imagines #jungkook scenario #jungkook fluff #jungkook #bts x reader #bts fanfic #bts scenario #bts imagines #bts scenarios #this was fun to write after everything I've been seeing and hearing #a lil out of my comfort zone but im glad i did it #because I've been pushing myself to write better than ever and i think i did well #feedback is appreciated <3

[alexanderlightweight]

hi! I'm anon that recommended "x". hope you and saeth enjoy it <3

can you write follow up for prompt for writing wensday: what happens if alec got into alternative universe were he isn't exist yet, so magnus not know him. but magnus know that alec his when sees him and didn't want to give him back to his magnus?

thank you 💜

I'm stopping by the library today to see if they have the movies! so that will be fun ^_^ (the weekend was not as restful as planned so no movies lol)

some family unexpectedly moved nearby (when i say it was unplanned and fast it was very unplanned and fast) and so i've had three impromptu family reunions and @saeths and Nightshade and the house got to stay home.

thank you for the prompts and recs again!

i loved exploring this verse more so i hope you enjoy!

-

Magnus isn’t sure at first that he’ll be able to reach in and access his nephilim’s memories, but his magic is recognized in its core form and as long as he doesn’t pry too deep, it lets him in eagerly.

It’s a comfort to be so welcomed and adored by the entirety of another being and Magnus takes a shuddering breath as he touches his mind to another’s.

Alexander.

Is murmured in an echo of his own voice, again and again as Magnus imprints each image as eagerly as he can to his memory. His magic and mind aren’t the exact same and his nephilim — Alexander’s — soul has been touched too deeply by Magnus’ mirror soul that it will shy from Magnus’ own.

For a little while, at least. Until Magnus erases every trace of that other him from Alexander’s being.

There are a dozen memories that pass too quickly for Magnus to see for every memory he devours ravenously. So many intimate moments that Magnus is aching for, shifting by like sand instead of the priceless treasures they are.

Magnus gets as much as he can before he encounters a trace of magic, a curious but possessive entanglement that guards the rest of Alexander’s memories. Magnus doesn’t dare press harder, not when it doesn’t consider him a threat.

Not yet.

He untangles his mind from Alexander’s and groans when he realizes that Alexander curled himself around Magnus while they were dreaming. He’s pressed up against Magnus, a long cool line of muscle and runes that Magnus wants to defile.

He’s unbearably intimate, his arms holding just enough to embrace but not contain and his face nuzzles into Magnus’ neck. He’s sleeping deeply, a trusting softness to his face and Magnus remembers a glimpse of a blurred face.

 it’s with aching curiosity that he pushes alexander away and uses magic to clean up the uneven scruff. Alexander’s softer, younger underneath the stubble and Magnus cups his jaw and marvels at how his chin burrows into Magnus’ palm, as if this is a common ritual.

Magnus wonders if it was. If the memory was lost when they passed him by or is still behind the chains of another Magnus’ magic.

Magnus kisses the corner of a plush mouth and then he’s wrapping his arms around a strong, firm back as Alexander goes limp and lightly snoring across his chest, legs tangling with Magnus’ own.

Magnus doesn’t want to sleep, to miss a moment of this. He’s never quite had this, the feeling of trust and awe and adoration that is being imparted to him and it’s with the taste of hoarfrost on his tongue that he fights the call of sleep.

For all the restless and sleepless nights, tonight where he wants to remain awake, Magnus finds himself fading, cradled in a protective shield and knowing that Alexander is sleeping listening to the heartbeat that Magnus knows is the same.

He caught that memory and while Alexander slept, Magnus changed the temp of his own heartbeat, to ensure that it was one more thing to convince Alexander to stay.

It’s with the knowledge that his plans are well made that Magnus falls asleep, his hair changing to the strange, half shaved style streaked with white.

—

Magnus comes awake to hands running through his hair and he stiffens for a moment before the magical instinct he set up kicks in, he relaxes, burrowing into the body he’s recognizing as Alexander.

“You shouldn’t tease me so early in the morning, sweetheart.” Magnus murmurs and instead of

He’s met with confusion and a little bit of surprise and Magnus realizes that the gentle pettings and caresses aren’t meant to be foreplay, it’s just Alexander’s normal routine. It’s almost too much for Magnus to handle and he wraps an arm around Alexander’s waist and groans desperately. He has to keep this, no matter what.

“Magnus, are you okay?” Alexander’s voice is hoarser than the memories and he’s a little wary, as if scared of the answer.

“My memories are a bit scattered darling. An effect of what must have been dimension travel.” Magnus pretends to think through it and traces one of the stretch marks on Alexander’s thigh. His boy twitches under his touch, muscles tensing and then relaxing as he moves his leg, giving Magnus more skin to touch. Magnus marvels at the easy trust as runs his nails over the tender skin and runes carefully. “I know you, of course. But something must have knocked me around, the memories of this world’s self are making it hard, but I will never forget you, Alexander. Don’t ever think for a moment that I will.”

“How come I’m okay?” Alexander asks him, curious not upset as he runs his fingers over Magnus’ eyebrows and gently rubs at the hollow of Magnus’ eyes. Magnus’ unglamoured eyes, he realizes with a pang of shock, that Alexander is looking at his real eyes with love and adoration and no hint of surprise.

Like he’s so used to them, it would be more surprising for them to be glamoured.

“You haven’t been born in this world yet.” Magnus tells him, already sure of it. “You’re safe, as long as we can keep you anchored. Which is what I’m doing, I won’t let you go anywhere, Alexander.”

#writing wednesdays #writing wednesday #lumine writes #magnus bane #alec lightwood #shadowhunters #malec #my fics #my fanfics #my ficlets #shadowhunters au

[exalted-dawn-drabbles]

Henlo! For this DWC Friday.... I am curious about Hal & Talenna. 🌚 there’s a price to be paid for the things that we do.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM I had a fun time with this one. Its as though the snow started up just to set the atmosphere for it. I didn't strictly quote the prompt in this one but it is definitely a theme, as I think it is with all Wardens to an extent, when the price you pay is the luxury of a longer life. Hope you enjoy ;w; for @dadrunkwriting

Rated G: Bittersweet, Angst-Lite, ~630 words

The Price That We Pay For The Things That We Do, And Steps That We Take To Compensate | By Exalted_Dawn

Ink pooled against the final press of quill to parchment, wetting the page in a perfect, round puddle as the rest of the words she had written were set and drying. The charcoal bleed had stained her fingers and the edge of her palm where it had brushed against page, but it could be washed off later. It was the words she had captured that would stain her the longest, summarized in chicken scratch but echoing perfectly in the deeper corners of her mind. She had made sure to remember them all in perfect detail– at this point the written recounting was little more than insurance. A way to keep her client’s paranoia at bay. 

Though, this particular client did not give her that distinct impression. Throughout the entire process, he had been distant. A faint presence even while sitting in front of her. His eyes, milky white and rimmed with purple shadow, had remained elsewhere as he spoke– pinned on the swirling snow outside the tent she had requested he meet her at. Watching as his footprints were slowly erased beneath the flurry and his trail wiped away by time. As was the way of things. But then, she supposed they had both gathered here to fight that fate, if only by a little. 

“Is there anything else you would like added?” she asked, her voice quieted beneath the blanket of winter. “Anything particular you would wish to be remembered? I can promise that the events will be presented as they happened, but I get the feeling that this was meant to be more than just a history...” 

Her words trailed off, leaving room for a response, but Warden Mahariel’s eyes remained fixed on the tent entrance. Not pointedly. Not with purpose. Just… fixed. 

Talenna frowned.

A history could have been found in any number of books. Talenna was certain the events of his had been recorded more times than could be counted. If that had been all he was after, then she doubted he would have come here at all.

But she was a storyteller, not a historian. And what most separated story from history was its heart– a message.

She sighed. “...What do you want him to remember most, lethal’lin?” 

Ever so faintly, the Warden’s face pinched with purple shadow– a bitter thaw. He lowered his face, tracing the lines and blackened skin of his palms in thought. Talenna tracked the bob of his throat as he forced himself to swallow. He had talked much today, and the day’s air was not kind for so many words, but she needed these ones. They were the most important.

“That I never stopped fighting,” he whispered at last, his voice choked. “For the Dalish… for the city elves...” 

For him, and for a cure. Morrigan had told her.

“For the future,” she added softly, and nodded. With a final blow to her pages, she tucked them away into the safety of a leather satchel and stood. “It will be done. When the story is finished, and time has done its work, I will be sure to find him and deliver it to his ears personally.” 

His hand clenched tight. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“I know.” Talenna turned and took a step towards the tent flap. “But I will.” 

It was her promise as a storyteller, to make sure his message was delivered. To the People, aye, but also his people. His family. 

If the Warden at her back had any further objections he did not speak them, and so Talenna considered her work done. With a deep breath in, scented slightly of death, and the story of Warden Halevune Marahriel heavy in her heart, Talenna braced herself and stepped out into the swirling snow.

#dadwc #dragon age fanfiction #talenna ethera #halevune mahariel #dragon age

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Fish (conjectural title)

Debut: Kirby’s Dream Land

Here is a fish.

Congratulations! You have now seen the entirety of the screentime this fish gets in any official media. You basically know as much about the fish as I do. What is even the point of this post, then? Well, maybe you did not previously know about the fish, and now you do!

What we have here is the intro cutscene for Float Islands, where Kirby is fishing, catches a fish (THE fish), and inhales it, getting the hook stuck in his mouth and causing a funny face when he tries to pull it back out. A fun and silly little scene. But something’s fishy about it. The fish!

This is the exact same image of the fish I showed at the beginning of the post, because it literally only has one sprite. I’m all out of fish images. I could send real fish images, and we’d all like that, but that would be avoiding the real topic, which is this fake pretend fish! The fish is never elsewhere in the game, even as an enemy, and it is not in the character roll call after completing the Extra Game, either.

Kirby fans will be familiar with Blipper, the recurring fish enemy debuting in this very game, which DOES already have multiple frames of animation, one- seen here- being rather similar to the pose of our ambiguous Fish! It begs the question, why would they use Fish, rather than Blipper, here? Kirby eats so many things on his journey, did they draw the line at him eating swim goggles? Less acceptable than eating bombs? Than eating CLOWNS?

They would soon reevaluate their stance on Kirby eating goggles with Kirby Super Star, where Blipper plays the role of Fish, and this continues into Super Star Ultra, and it is safe to say we will never see Fish ever again, outside of rereleases of the original game. Though we can always visit and eat Fish in Dream Land 1, it was erased from retellings of the very same tale... how tragic!

Of course, I am being incredibly dramatic here. There is absolutely no issue with Fish being replaced with a Blipper, and like I said, it’s weird there was once ever NOT a Blipper in that role! It makes all the sense in the world to use an established funny fish design over a simplistic one that could pass for a seal or a ghost as much as it can pass for a fish.

As for why Fish ever existed in the first place... my hypothesis is that it was a beta design for Blipper! We know Kirby himself was a sort of beta design they came to love, so I don’t think it would be too weird for other early sprites to be left in the game. Fish’s one frame of animation and extremely simple design make it feel like a bare minimum fish, like a placeholder. Maybe just no one bothered to replace the sprite with the final Blipper in the cutscene!

Do you know any more than I do about this Fish? Please let me know if you do! And I hope you are proud of me for having this much to say about Fish.

#fish #Kirby's Dream Land #kirby #kirby entities #not mario #funky friday #mod chikako

[whumpflash]

Penumbra: Unjust

for Angstpril, Day 9: Devastation

cw: aftermath of torture, mentioned hand whump, death/war mention

previous ///// masterlist ///// next ///// chapter art

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The trial of the Shadow King was surrounded by all kinds of ceremony. Gaiety and gruesomeness found common ground as people celebrated what was sure to be an impending execution.

Tansy wasn't sure what to think of it all.

The festivities were fun, more elaborate than they'd ever seen, despite the murmurs from the locals that it would've been grander were it not for the now-ended siege.

Siege or not, it was still many times grander than any of the small-town festivals Tansy had attended growing up. But they weren't exactly looking forward to the event it was all leading up to.

Not for any loyalty to the overthrown monarch. To hell with the Shadow King, his end couldn't come soon enough. But watching that end happen was a different story.

They knew the finer details of the trial had already been sorted through before the public portion; really, only the final verdict and sentencing was left, set to take place in the spacious city square. It was already full when Tansy arrived, people packed in like fish in a net. They were intent on at least watching the end of the trial, even if they hadn't made up their mind about whether they'd stay for the execution or not.

The morbidity of the event gave them pause—in the little seaside village they'd grown up in, punishments weren't publicized—and while they'd witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield, this would be different.

But didn't they want to be there for it? Didn't they want to see for their own eyes, that the tyrant was really, truly gone?

Didn't they want to feel like all their ghosts could finally be put to rest?

Tansy had been seventeen when they'd seen their first battle.

Sixteen, when they were forced to make their first kill.

Fifteen when they'd seen the smoke.

Lost their home.

Buried their family.

And all of that was because of Cerus. Every sacrifice they'd made, every personal boundary they'd crossed, was to see his defeat.

So they would see his defeat.

They'd never met the king, of course they hadn't. They'd faced his soldiers, his orders, his unjust laws, but never the man himself. To Cerus, Tansy was a nobody in an army of nobodies. But the nobodies had prevailed.

They didn't know what they expected to see as they craned their neck to get a better view of the center of the square, where the Shadow King would be brought to hear his sentence.

A beast, perhaps. A monster. A towering man who looked as ghastly as the dead he raised. Certainly not the wretched figure that was dragged onto the cobblestones.

The chained king had been dressed in rags, blindfolded, and gagged. His skin was nearly translucent, painted in dark purples and greens and criss-crossed with jagged lines of red, and his hands were chained in front of him, so swollen and misshapen Tansy had to look away.

They locked their eyes on the ground, willing themselves not to look up, wishing they'd never come to the square, wishing they could erase the sick feeling of pity growing in their stomach.

Cerus didn't deserve their pity. Cerus deserved everything he'd gotten and more.

But no matter how true that was, no matter how much hatred they had for the king, they couldn't see him as anything other than human.

A horrible, merciless one, but that didn't make him any less a person.

"People of Feyadel." A voice boomed through the square, and Tansy looked up to find its owner. General Nisha, one of the rebel leaders.

"You gather to hear the Shadow King's fate." The General paused, their lips tightening to hint at a grimace. "After much deliberation, an outcome has been decided by the New Council." Their gaze slid to Cerus, eyeing him with contempt. "Cerus Hollowthorn. Former ruler of Feyadel. Dark mage, necromancer, and self-proclaimed Lord of the Undead."

The crowd was silent, a thousand people holding their breath.

"You are sentenced to live."

A tangible shock swept through the crowd like a tidal wave, murmurs of disbelief following in its wake. To live? Why wasn't the Council going to put him to death? What were they thinking?

The General continued, their voice louder now.

"It has been determined that death is not a sufficient punishment for Cerus's crimes," they said, and the crowd began to hush once more at their words.

"He will not die, but serve. He will be stripped of his titles, his lands, and his magic, and he will slave away in his own mines, toil in the shipyards his armies demolished, the fields he burned. Cerus will not die, but with his own hands will be forced to rebuild all the lives he sought to destroy."

At this, cheers erupted from the surrounding crowd.

Tansy wanted to join them—wasn't it a fine example of poetic justice?---but couldn't find their voice. They were unable to shake their utter conviction that death was enough. That death would have been enough.

But they dared not speak of that.

The sealing of Cerus's magic took place in public, as his execution would've. Holy mages called in from distant temples brought out needles and bowls of ink, tattooing runes onto Cerus's bruised flesh, chanting all the while.

The Shadow King didn't struggle. Perhaps he was too weak, or perhaps he'd resigned himself to his fate. Tansy wondered if he had even an ounce of regret; if not for all his wicked deeds, at least for the choices that had led to this moment, but even if the blindfold were not present, they'd be too far away to read his expression.

Slow and steady, the runes spread up Cerus's arms like the tendrils of a kraken, reaching up to circle his throat. The Shadow King fell unconscious before the ink reached his shoulders, but the priests paid him no mind, continuing their work until each arm and a good portion of the man's neck was covered in the black markings. They finished with one final rune, about the size of a hand, etched over his heart.

As Cerus was dragged away, Tansy found they couldn't stop themself from imagining what it would be like; to have everything taken from you, to be hated, powerless, alone. No matter how earned it was, it made something in their chest ache.

Sound bloomed around them once the chained king was gone, music and laughter and cheerful shouts, but Tansy felt numb to the jubilation.

They might've been able to celebrate a death. Something quick and deserved. A life of promised torment, in the shadow of the hatred of your former subjects, wasn't something they could find joy in.

They left the square without so much as a glance at the surrounding festivities.

Despite the hard-won victory, despite the promise of peace for Feyadel, Tansy knew they wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight.

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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles

#angstpril2023 #fic #day 9 #devastation #now i need to change chapter 2's title to fit my 'un' theme #also wanna draw the rune tattoos #penumbra: shadow king #whump writing #villain whump #royal whumpee #villain whumpee #hand whump #whump aftermath #tw torture #i wonder where he's going next :) #also i love Tansy

[sepia-stained-sunset]

You get to be in charge of one (1) DC character. You can make whatever changes to their characterization, backstory, powers/abilities, what have you, as you please. No one else can alter your decisions, and must stick to what you've given. You may not alter any other characters beyond how they interact with the one you've picked, and they will retain their current characterization in all other media.

Who do you pick, what do you change, and why?

Oooh okay so this is a super fun ask and I wanted to answer it to the best of my abilities, which is why I've been reading/re-reading as many comics as I can. So my knee-jerk response was Talia, but then I realised there's another character I have a soft spot for; Helena Bertinelli.

So her backstory in her initial appearances is very different from the most popularly accepted version, the one we see in 'Cry for Blood'. Since that's also my favourite version of her story, that's what I'd stick with, especially because it completely changes the tone of the story.

Helena has to put in a lot of work to unlearn what she's been taught about her family and their line of work, staying up all night at times reading up on the mafia and their influence. However, in practically every other iteration, she pretty much despises the mafia instantly, becoming Huntress only to avenge her family's death and then constantly wondering whether or not she should hang up the cape for good. The conflict would have been interesting if it had been developed properly, but for the most part, it only cheats her out of more of her autonomy.

That's also the reason why I think her multiple 'unmaskings', like the one in Huntress (1989), where a cop unmasks her when she's unconscious, should also be erased, especially because her consistently being stripped of her autonomy doesn't get addressed satisfactorily.

Personally, my take on Helena would focus mostly on Cry For Blood's characterization of both her and Sal (I'd completely erase Huntress: Year One if I could.). Her dynamic with him is very interesting to explore, because while she loves him and sees him as a big brother figure, he's never actually a good guy, or against the mafia in any way. He's the one who trains her, who feeds her need for revenge, and she never says a bad word against him, but at the same time, they're on opposite sides.

I can only imagine the conflicted feelings they'd both experience if DC chose to have a plotline where Sal seeks out revenge for the various mafia families Huntress has put down, including his own, and starts trying to figure out her identity. The themes of omerta, loyalty, an eye for an eye, etc., are extremely prominent in her comics, and this would up the stakes quite a bit, since it's literally the last member of her family she still has. It would also leave the choice of revealing her identity entirely up to her.

Helena's aloofness is also something interesting, because she often longs to work with Batman and hates herself for it in Huntress (1989), works well with and cares about Tim in Cry Of The Huntress, but likes to keep to herself for the most part. However, she's shown as super self-isolating at random points and I'd erase that, too, because trying not to get attached and completely cutting yourself off from people and your own feelings to the point of leaving a man in a pit for four days are two very different things.

As for her weaponry, her crossbow is iconic, but I would like to see her fight hand-to-hand more often, because the few glimpses we do get are awesome and I crave more. I would like DC to acknowledge her intellect more often though, and to bring back her original brashness, where she'd punch you in the face if you pissed her off.

Oh, and I'd also like to erase certain portions of her No Man's Land characterizations, where she's pretty unsympathetic towards kids because that was absolute bullshit. She literally went searching through a city infected by a plague with no cure for one of her students!! Why would she ever consider hurting or abandoning kids who are clearly struggling?!

Oh and also, less of a change and more of a question to DC, but I'd like to know what the fuck happened to the Waterfront Warrior and James Cooper (a kid she's hinted at having adopted or something??)

Thankyou so much for this ask!! It reminded me of how much fun reading comics can be and got me back into DC after so long. All the love in the world for that<3333

#long post #helena bertinelli #thanks for the ask!

[yrrtyrrtwhenihrrthrrt]

1, 2, 7, 15, 18 from this ask game

1. What was the first fandom and/or pairing that you wrote fic for?

Like, ever??? When I was in 6th grade I wrote (and published on the ancient ff.net) Warrior Cats fanfiction 😭 in Year of our Lord 2011. It has since been erased. When I got back into writing as an adult, Nimona/Goldenheart was the first fandom and ship I published for. I'd been writing disconnected drabbles for various fandoms before that, though.

2.Do you participate in any writing events or challenges throughout the year? If so, what do you like about them?

I am participating in the Nimona Big Bang and I participated in Nimona Week! I may also be participating in Goldenheart Week once I check out the prompts!

What I really liked about Nimona Week was seeing different people's take on the prompts. For a lot of them I really assumed everyone would have the same idea but they really didn't! It was great to see so many interpretations and to see stories/art made that otherwise probably wouldn't have been :)

7. What do you struggle with when writing?

I have a really hard time writing action sequences. I think they usually come out okay, I just find them boring to write. This even happens with smut sometimes, if the characters are just DOING and not TALKING or ruminating, I get bored lmfao. I also find it hard for characters to communicate emotions to one another without using "therapy speak" which I see writers get made fun of for a lot but like, I'm neurodivergent. So are most people I love. I'm used to explaining how I feel and having others do the same, everything else is foreign to me. I don't quite understand how to write characters unintentionally miscommunicating their own emotions because like, I don't even know how to do that irl lmfao.

15. A Hollywood producer tells you that they want to film just one of your fics. Which fic would you want it to be?

This one is hard bc it means it would have to be both good, adaptable to film, and capable of standing without the source material. I think Ballister Has Brain Trauma and Ambrosius Wants to Beat the Ever-Loving Shit out of Todd Sureblade would be the best to adapt into that medium because it's more of a Things Happen than a People Talk fic like most of my others. As a sidenote what the fuck was July Yrrt thinking with that title? Lmao

18. What is a line/scene you’re really proud of? Give us the DVD commentary for that scene.

It's super hard to say, because I can't remember half of what I write 😭 I think I really like the scene from What Still is Yours where Ballister looks at the portrait of Ambrosius hanging in the Champion's Mansion.

"The person in the portrait was beautiful, as Ambrosius was, but he did not have the mischievous lilt in his smile that was somehow always there, even when his intentions were completely genuine. He didn't have the same eager softness in his blue eyes that bored into your soul and screamed "Here I am, love me, love me, love me." His teeth were perfectly straight and didn't have the little gap from sucking his thumb too much as a child that years of orthodontics hadn't been able to fix."

I just thought it was super sad and sweet and spoke to how well Ballister still knew Ambrosius and how much he still loved him even after all that had happened. One of the main things I notice about loving someone is their face becomes sort of etched into your mind, I experience face blindness so someone has to be pretty close to me for a long time before they become recognizable, and I thought this was a nice contrast between the Institution's image of Ambrosius versus how Ballister saw him / how he really was.

Ty for the ask!!! Please feel free to keep asking 💕

Questions Post

#ask game #30 questions for writers #nimona fanfic #yywihh fics

[hookaroo]

Laden of the Torn (11 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 <3

***

Killian couldn't see. He couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe, his rib cage tight and throbbing, as if he'd slammed into the ground at high velocity. Mouth agape, he strained to draw breath, a fish out of water. His entire back half, head to toe, felt stiff and hot, and as the first wheezing cough jolted his torso, the barest hint of memory teased his confusion. Blackbeard, then the monkeys and their nets, and the explosion of white fire that had apparently slung him into this realm of murky chaos…

Actually, though, as Killian lay there, blinking and breathing, grainy, wavering outlines began to take shape, flickering movement against oversaturated retinas, and he realized that he really had moved. And his surroundings weren't devoid of all light, merely dim in a contrast too great for his eyes to adjust with any timeliness. Ghost shapes, jagged zig-zag lines, seemed to be burned into his vision, moving with his eyes and obscuring anything he tried to bring into focus. The monkey creatures continued their din with a noticeable increase in volume; Killian could only conclude that their new location boasted many more of the furry marauders. The white flash must have magically transported everyone to the heart of the monkey camp.

Blackbeard still lay beneath Killian, unresponsive. Lucky devil was missing out on all of the fun. In fact, as Killian gingerly shifted his weight, he realized that his own body had taken the brunt of the net’s attack, shielding Blackbeard from the majority of its barbs. A few were likely lodged in the other man's hand where it rested atop Killian's shoulder, but even his exposed face would have been mostly protected by that ridiculous tricorn of his. Killian silently cursed him for getting them both into this mess and, so far, coming out largely unscathed.

A frenzy of motion out of the corner of Killian’s eye reminded him of the urgency of his plight. Though the question of transport had been solved, that did not mean he'd escaped the threat of imminent death. And that possibility seemed to become a likelihood when the glint of metal suggested the presence of a blade of some sort, drawing near with alarming speed.

Heart racing, Killian made one final attempt to tear his arm free of its entanglement.

“I have a daughter!” The last syllable choked off in a sob. “She needs me… I'm all she has… please!”

They did not understand him. They were acting on instinct like the dumb brutes they were; he would get nowhere begging for his life. It was over. He would never see his Alice again, not in this life, anyway. He had failed her, and she would never know what had become of him. Tears falling freely now, Killian squeezed his eyes shut, praying that she would not grow up thinking he had abandoned her. He thought she knew him better than that, and yet…

That train of thought was interrupted by a furry body landing unexpectedly on his right shoulder blade. Whether the little paws were between barbs or directly on top, it hardly made a difference where Killian was concerned, for the additional pressure shot spears of pain deep down within pincushion skin. Something cold and hard touched the rim of his ear, and he hissed a final breath through clenched teeth in expectation of the knife tearing into his brain before the end came to erase the image of his daughter he held desperately in his thoughts.

A stream of cool wetness flooded his ear canal, causing him to flinch in surprise. It couldn't be blood; it wasn't warm enough for that. For an instant, the sudden roar of his heartbeat jumbled with distorted animal sounds within his blocked ear to mimic the final thing a shipwrecked man hears as he disappears forever beneath the waves. But then the scorching pain started and Killian's screams drowned out the rest.

The gently bubbling substance inside his ear now felt like flaming lantern oil oozing its way down to the darkest depths of his brain, right into the center of his skull, followed by the very blade he'd been expecting, chasing the path of the oil and then wriggling around for good measure. The sensations seemed to last a lifetime and grow in intensity with each heartbeat, but he could not turn his head to try and drain the acid and molten brain matter from his now-surely-deaf ear, nor could he lift his hand to make an attempt at clearing it with a finger. He could only lie helpless and wait for this cruel method of execution to take effect.

Killian was still in the throes of pure anguish when the smallest of tugs on his back and shoulders registered in some tiny corner of his mind not occupied with loudly proclaiming his impending death. There surely must have been twinges of raw pain as he was pulled onto his side by the fishhooks in his skin, but they were of no consequence in comparison. What did catch his attention, though, was the rush of vertigo disproportionate to his actual movement; he'd only been manhandled into a quarter-turn, but his bewildered sense of equilibrium kept him spinning as if he were rolling down a long, steep hill. He peeled his eyes open, hoping to restore his balance with the sight of stable ground... and was instantly recoiling as furry paws thrust metallic menace toward his unafflicted ear.

Killian had time for one whimper of protest before the first sparkling droplets squirted into his left ear. In desperation, he gave a violent shake of his head, hoping to dislodge the toxic flood, but the metallic dispenser only burrowed deeper, leaving scratches on his inner ear as it pumped enough liquid to then overflow in rivulets down his neck and cheek. All too soon, the mess and the stinging scratches ceased to matter as his ear exploded into the same blinding agony as the first.

***

The good news: Killian was not dead, and his aching eardrums still worked. Sounds were still muffled by a rumbling fizz, bubble-sparks poking at his inner ears in periodic flashes of pain even though the offending liquid had long since drained away. But he could definitely hear the rambunctious monkeys around him, plotting their next round of tortures in gleeful shrieks.

The bad news: he was starting to hallucinate words in English interspersed among the animal tumult. He heard “Net” a few times, and “Fire” and, oddly enough, “Puzzle.” The words were in high, shrill tones befitting their presumptive origins; Killian could almost believe that stress and pain were causing him to misinterpret normal monkey chatter with perhaps a familiar vowel sound mixed in every so often. But then the words began to extend into phrases.

“How long?”

A moment of chittering, then vehement hoots.

“Conserve the potion.”

Small feet were prancing around Killian's back, belonging to more than one entity by the feel of it. He'd obviously been returned to his original prone position, although Blackbeard no longer acted as a living cushion. Slowly, Killian slipped one eye open, blinked away tears, and struggled to focus on the chaos around him.

The sandy floor appeared to be mostly clear of rock projections, and the warm light and madly dancing shadows suggested illumination by firelight, which the tang and prickle of smoke in his sinuses seemed to support. A distant stone wall boasted charcoal art, and if Killian strained his gaze upward, he could just make out a soot-stained ceiling arching over the clearing. And everywhere he looked, busy little fur balls scampered, leapt, and tussled, weaving in and out of his field of view until he was dizzy with the effort of keeping track of them all. And the perplexing jumble of screech-phrases persisted.

To his right,

"Who keeps the spoils?"

Up ahead,

"...because they're fools, the Torn..."

Behind him, from one of those astride,

"...careful, or Ravel will bite your ear off!"

What the devil; were these animals actually speaking English?

Above his head, just beyond the range of his peripheral vision, came this alarming statement:

“We deserve to begin the feast now.”

At that, many voices chimed in all at once, some in support, others adamantly opposed, and Killian could not make out more than a word or two at a time. Until one solid black monkey, who had been so well-camouflaged that Killian had overlooked it until now, spoke up with calm authority.

“Not until Favor gives the word.”

In the dim light, it was difficult to make out details, yet Killian would have sworn that the mouth and facial movements he could see did not match up with the words he was hearing. Something was translating for him, he guessed. Whatever they’d forced into his ears likely played a big role in that. And then he realized something else: he may not be as doomed as he had first thought. After all, why would they go through the trouble of making sure they could communicate with him if they were just going to eat him?

The shadowy monkey caught Killian's gaze then, and it ambled closer, its tail curled into a graceful arc along its back. Its eyes shone with a mix of confidence and curiosity, absent any appreciable threat. As it neared, Killian determined that it was likely male, and smaller than the others by a good percentage, but size must not have been a factor in their social hierarchy, as all of the creatures nearby seemed to defer.

"Can you understand us now, Laden of the Torn?"

The black monkey had stopped less than a meter from where Killian lay, and there was no question whom he was addressing. Slowly, feeling somewhat ridiculous for buying into whatever lunacy this was, Killian growled a hoarse reply.

"It's Killian, actually."

A clawed hind foot came up to scratch behind one black velvet ear. "Your outer name? What does it mean?"

“My... hold on, can you understand me, as well?”

“The First Clan does not receive many Torn visitors, and those that do come rarely stay for very long.” Though he exhibited few recognizably human mannerisms, the monkey somehow gave off a vibe of dark humor with his last statement. “Still, most of us can understand the language of the Torn without the assistance of ear potions.”

Small, sharp tugs continued to sting a path down Killian's back, and he wished he could see what they were doing to him. But he still couldn't move, not even to seek a more dignified position in which to carry on this unlikely conversation.

“Look, I don't know how much you overheard earlier, but it's all true; I swear it. That other man, Blackbeard... I was as much a captive of his as we now are of yours. It was never my intention to come here, and so I humbly request that you take that fact into consideration when deciding my fate.”

There was no mistaking the amusement in those almost-human eyes. "And what were the intentions of Black Beard of the Torn?"

Killian hesitated at first, reluctant to offend the monkeys or give them cause to see him as an enemy. But this might be his only chance to solidify his image as an innocent victim. "He is under the impression that visitors to your land might be granted their heart's desire in exchange for... human sacrifice."

He flashed a weak smile as he tried to gauge the reaction to his words. The monkey did not appear offended, but neither did he laugh or act as if the concept were preposterous. Killian winced and added,

"I don't know where he heard such a rumor; I'm sure you're all rational beings who--"

A heated scuffle somewhere beyond Killian's field of view interrupted his attempts at diplomacy. Ignoring the ruckus, the black monkey asked,

"Tell me, Laden, what would your wish be in such a situation?"

Killian sighed, hardly registering the continued use of the strange nickname. "My daughter... she's imprisoned, and has been all her life. Above all else, I would wish her freedom." He swallowed the familiar ache and continued, a part of him realizing that the more sympathetic his story, the better his chances of survival. "Failing that, I would ask to be cured of the curse keeping us apart. She has no one else... and the thought of her spending the rest of her life trapped and alone..."

He could say no more. He'd had months to contemplate the idea, and it had not grown the slightest bit easier... and never would. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right and even though he might deserve to suffer in this way, Alice never, ever did.

The blurred face of the monkey stared down, and any chance that he would be suspicious of Killian's story was simply beyond the realm of possibility. The desperate, hopeless tears saw to that. Looking satisfied, the small creature nodded.

"Then we are both fortunate today. We may be able to reach an agreement, after all."

Although the statement boded well overall, Killian suddenly felt drained and unable to face whatever lay in store. His back continued to smolder, casting off sparks wherever gentle paws brushed inflamed skin, and the rest of his injuries weren't any better off. He was fairly certain Blackbeard's needle had been driven deep into his arm during their scuffle. At least the burning in his ears had calmed to a gentle tingle. Even so, the heightened emotions and prolonged pain had left him lightheaded and on the verge of losing consciousness.

"I will report to our leader,” continued the black monkey. “Until my return, remain calm and don't try anything foolish. Or the hungry among us may claim their victory."

With that, he leapt sideways, startling Killian with his agility, and was quickly lost from view. Almost immediately, another monkey took his place: a larger male, gray, white and black, with eyes disconcertingly large proportional to the rest of his face. This one cast his gaze all around them in jerky movements of his head before speaking.

“Some of us regret the rough treatment, myself included. Your kind is so fragile, and should not be subjected to the usual hunting practices. But I don't have any say in the matter.” He momentarily cocked his head to an almost comical angle, one way, then the other. “We may be asking a great deal of you, and I think that deserves some courtesy. My inner name is Mandible. I care for the sick and wounded among us, and fortunately for you, you've been designated our guest for the time being, which gives me the authority to look after you.”

“For the sake of good form, I will say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I won't insult your intelligence by pretending to be entirely genuine." Killian grimaced and continued, "I'm not certain the terms 'inner' and 'outer’ name are translating properly; would you mind elaborating?"

Mandible scooted closer and reached for the net covering Killian's forehead. Expecting the sharp pain of the barb being pulled free, Killian closed his eyes, but it seemed the fishhooks were detachable from the net and the metal remained where it was.

"Maybe you Torn have no comparable tradition, although the name ‘Black Beard’ might suggest at one. The purpose of an outer name is recognition. One's inner name provides true knowledge. Between the two of you, there would be no question which is Black Beard, but the name tells us nothing about his character or role among his people."

Mandible took a step back and focused his attentions on Killian's arm, working to carefully detach the hooks from the strands of netting, but again leaving each one embedded in its original location. “Do you understand?”

“Aye…” Killian answered slowly. “So then, following those guidelines, let me suggest ‘Blaggard’ for that man over there. No chance of misjudging his character then.”

Apparently taking the quip entirely seriously, the primate responded,

“The two of you are quite obviously not friends. Thank you for the suggestion, but the assignment of an inner name should be left to a more impartial being.”

“Fair enough.” Killian gritted his teeth as a fishhook wiggled within the first knuckle of his ring finger. “All right then. Laden. Who decided that I would be easily recognizable by that name?”

“Our scouts have been monitoring your progress since you entered the Stone Forest, and they needed some way to describe you when making their reports.”

Mandible must have pulled too hard then, and a shallow barb was ripped from Killian's hand. After a quick apology in response to Killian's wince, Mandible added,

"And based on your story, I understand that it isn't only a physical weight you carry."

Killian couldn't argue with that. “It'll do, I suppose. Although physically it's no less transient than Hook.”

“Hook,” repeated Mandible. “We heard the word in connection with you but could not find the link.”

“An outer name from a past life.” Killian drew a slow breath, feeling himself beginning to lose patience with all of the picking. “I believe you'll find its inspiration amongst Blackbeard's collection of trinkets.”

Another forceful tug bloomed into raw pain in Killian's flank, followed by the tickle of blood down his side, and Mandible barked a reprimand for his comrades to be more careful. But Killian couldn't say he minded having one fewer barb in his flesh. 

“Listen, mate,” he began, trying not to count the number of swellings he could see down the back of his arm, “I do appreciate your assistance. But you're not exactly doing me a favor by drawing this out. Forget caution; just pull them out and be done with it. I can handle it.”

"Not yet," said the fuzzy tormentor firmly. “My assistants are gathering the needed supplies.”

Killian wasn't so sure he liked the sound of that. “These supplies... they wouldn't happen to include a magical healing spell, would they?”

“That is beyond our capabilities.” There was audible regret in the words, at least according to whatever variety of magic was serving as interpreter.

“But you can magically transport your captives from place to place.”

“A different thing entirely.”

“Naturally.” Killian sighed, resigning himself to a long night. “And you couldn't simply portal the fishhooks out of existence?”

“Not with the kind of precision one would want for such a procedure.”

The unavoidable mental image conjured by that statement intensified the burning in Killian's back, and he grimaced agreement. “Understood. Which causes me to wonder whether I haven't discovered what 'Mandible' says about your character.”

“Take a guess.” The little monkey glanced at his companions as if he were reveling in the shared secret.

“Tell me it's anything but the number of teeth you extract from the flesh of your victims, and I may accuse you of dishonesty.”

Two inhuman eyes revealed nothing. “You'll find out soon enough.”

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #nets #fish hooks #magical monkeys #ear pain #translator potion #knightrook angst #talking monkeys #told you it was kind of weird #but ouat had things like werewolves and trolls and whatnot #oh and a talking cricket that at least grumpy could understand #so i guess it isn't that much of a stretch haha