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theostrophywife · 3 months

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mattheo's mixtape.

pairing: mattheo riddle x reader.

song inspiration: lovesong by the cure.

author's note: this idea has been in my head for so long, but now it's finally out. strap in babes, we're simping for mattheo on main. something about those pretty brown eyes and angelic little curls just get me. your honor, i adore him.

The bell outside the door to the record store chimed softly as the boys ventured inside. Mattheo peered curiously at the buzzing neon sign, the slightly scuffed black and white vinyl floor, and the racks and racks of records lining the walls. Though he hadn’t been to the muggle side of Edinburgh, it didn’t look all that different from its magical counterpart.

Yet Mattheo felt like a fish out of water all the same.

Behind him, Theo continued rambling as they perused the vast collection of records laid out before them. “What songs have you picked out? Is there a theme? We’ll need to collect all the tapes for the cassette recorder and compile them all into a single tape.”

The slew of questions Theo threw his way was enough to make him feel overwhelmed. Mattheo was well aware that he was completely out of his depth here, but he was determined to learn. Admittedly, he was quite ignorant of the muggle world until you came into his life. The more you told him about the queer customs and traditions of the non-magical population, the more he began to crave your stories of taking the tube, eating fish and chips until you were sick, and visiting Brighton with your cousins over the summer holiday.

There was a whole world out there that you were a part of, which made him want to be part of it as well.

“You boys alright?” asked the kind woman behind the counter. "Would you like some help?"

Mattheo shied away from the attention, but as usual, Theo turned on his charm and flashed a winning smile at the older woman. “As a matter of fact, we do,” his friend drawled. “My mate here is looking to make a mixtape for his girlfriend.”

The woman smiled warmly. “How sweet. I remember those days. There’s nothing quite as magical as first love,” she said with a dreamy, faraway expression. “I’d be happy to help. What songs did you have in mind?”

After turning over his list, the woman, who turned out to be the owner of the record store, helped compile the cassettes Mattheo needed in order to make the mixtape. She patiently showed them how to record each track and slowed down the instructions so Mattheo could diligently write down notes.

As Mattheo waited for the next track to record, he watched as Theo tried and failed to flirt with the older woman.

“I’m flattered, dear. But I’m old enough to be your mum.” Mattheo snickered, causing his best friend to glare at him.

“Age is nothing but a number, Annette.”

“You’re a persistent one, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll find your match someday, Theodore. As I have in my husband, whom I’m happily married to.” She turned over to Mattheo and smiled. “He was my first love too.”

Making small talk had never been Mattheo’s strong suit and you often teased him that engaging in polite conversation with a stranger every once in a while wouldn’t kill him. Without fail, he sarcastically responded that it genuinely might, which earned him an eye roll. A fond one, though. Followed by a lip bite as you attempted to conceal a smile.

“How long have you been together?” Mattheo asked curiously.

“Twenty years,” Annette answered proudly. “Though we were friends for ages before he finally mustered up the courage to ask me out.”

Theo snorted. “Sounds familiar.”

Mattheo swatted the back of his head. “My girl and I started out as friends too. Best friends, actually.”

“Hey!” Theo whined. “I take offense to that. I’ve known you longer. Only difference is that you and Y/N snog, which I’m more than open to if you asked.” The wink he sent Mattheo's way made the other boy blanch.

“Sorry about him.” It was a sentiment he was quite familiar with when it came to Theo. The twat tended to flirt with anything that had a pulse. Come to think of it, he wouldn't put it past Theo to chat up a corpse. Merlin knows Mattheo had witnessed his friend trying out a pick up line on the Grey Lady. “So, your husband. When did you realize he was the one?”

“There wasn’t a specific moment, per say,” Annette said thoughtfully. “It’s a culmination of our history together. Since we were friends for so long, Declan just knew me. He knew how I took my coffee and had it ready for me first thing in the morning. He knew that I hated driving in the snow and always offered to give me lift to work when it did. He knew that I had a soft spot for strays and never complained when I brought them home. Declan makes me feel safe. Like I could weather anything the world threw at me as long as he was by my side. I guess when you know, you know."

Mattheo pondered her words. He couldn’t help but recall all the times that his life felt like a never ending shit storm, like it would swallow him whole and drown him from the weight of his troubles. Yet at the end of the day, he always knew that after the storm came the rainbow. That’s what you were for him. You colored his world so brightly that the dark seemed inconsequential compared to your light.

“Y/N makes me feel like that too,” Mattheo declared. “She’s patient and kind. She’s the type of person that always sees the good in people. She saw it in me even when I couldn’t see it myself.”

Behind him, Theo sniffled as he patted his shoulder. For all his jokes and sarcasm, his friend was actually a hopeless romantic deep down. “For Salazar’s sake, Mattheo. Don’t make me bawl like a baby in front of the pretty lady.” Theo wiped at the corner of his eyes rather dramatically. “If Y/N doesn’t marry you someday, then I will. I bet my legs would look amazing in a white dress.”

At that, Mattheo chuckled. He was suddenly glad that his best friend was more than willing to be dragged along in Mattheo’s endeavors to impress his girl. Salazar knew he never would've gotten this far without Theo's self-proclaimed expertise on all things muggle, thanks to his Advanced Muggle Studies class.

As they wrapped up, Mattheo thanked Annette for all her help. Theo promised to come back and winked over his shoulder as Mattheo gathered all of his supplies. The older woman smiled at him as they parted ways.

"Best of luck, Mattheo. Though I doubt you need it. Thank you for indulging an old woman. It was genuinely a pleasure to be able to help you today."

"No, thank you. Y/N is going to love it."

"Your girlfriend is a very lucky girl."

Mattheo shook his head. "I'm the lucky one. This is the least I could do to show her how much I..." he trailed off, trying to find the right words. "How much I care for her."

Care didn't seem like a strong enough word, but it was close. Mattheo wasn't sure he could fully verbalize the intensity of what he felt for you. You weren't just his girlfriend. You were his best friend, too. His confidante. His rock. You were everything to him.

“Remember what I told you. When you know, you know." She patted Mattheo's shoulder. "You talk about Y/N like I talk about my husband. It's clear that she's very special to you. Don't let go of that one."

Mattheo smiled to himself, his cheeks flushing. “I won't.”

The midnight moon glowed above the Scottish Isles, enveloping the rocky shores of the Black Lake with a chilly breeze that made you shudder even underneath the comfort of your red and gold striped sweater.

“Are you cold?” Mattheo asked softly, his voice echoing through the empty beach.

Before you could respond, your boyfriend shrugged off his coat and wrapped it around your shoulders. With a shy smile, you thanked Mattheo and flushed as he took your hand in his. As you continued on your late night stroll, he cleared pebbles in your path to ensure that you didn’t trip over them on the way to the dock.

It was the little things—the small gestures that Mattheo enacted on a daily basis that made you fall for him even more. Though the relationship was fairly new, the connection between you was undeniable. Perhaps because you started out as potions partners, which eventually blossomed into friendship and now you couldn’t even remember a time when he wasn’t part of your life.

The two of you settled at the end of the dock and the rickety wood creaked underneath the weight, adjusting to its visitors as Mattheo cuddled you into his side. Warmth radiated off of him, heating you from the inside out with a pleasant flush. Mattheo chuckled as you shoved your cold hands underneath his sweater, curling his fingers around yours and warming you up like your own personal heater.

“So, why did you want to come out here tonight?” you asked after a moment.

As you peered up at him, the moonlight kissed your boyfriend’s features, illuminating the sharp edges of his jawline and cheekbones, curving down the slope of his nose and stopping right above his Cupid’s bow where his soft, plush lips curled into a shy smile as he blinked down at you.

The flush on his cheeks was almost an exact match to the crimson scarf around your neck. He absentmindedly fidgeted with your fingers, his chocolate brown eyes flickering over your face nervously. Mattheo looked so shy and earnest, so unlike the bad boy persona that everyone else seemed to attribute to your boyfriend.

“I made you something,” he stated. You watched as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cassette tape that you hadn’t noticed before. “I noticed that you listen to music while studying or walking through the halls, so I thought I’d compile a few of my favorite songs for you.”

Your heart warmed at this beautiful boy. “You made me a mixtape?”

Mattheo nodded, his angelic curls grazing his cheeks. “I can’t take all of the credit. Theo helped me quite a bit. I wasn’t sure how to make the tape for you, but he did since he’s taking Advanced Muggle Studies. We went into town last weekend and this lovely woman from the record shop showed us how to track and record the songs. I picked the ones that remind me of you the most.”

You looked down at the cassette tape and smiled. The front was covered in little red hearts and spelled out in your boyfriend’s familiar scrawl was Matty’s Mixtape. As if that weren’t enough to make you swoon, underneath the tape was a small booklet with more of Mattheo’s handwriting. You smiled at his selection of songs. There was a mix of Queen, the Cure, the Clash, and of course, the Smiths. It was like having a little piece of Mattheo in your hands.

“I made you a booklet too. There’s a tracklist with reasons why I picked the songs,” Mattheo shuffled beside you, his body language conveying an uncharacteristic shyness. “I also drew a couple of things.”

Sure enough, the booklet was filled with your boyfriend’s drawings. Your eyes filled with tears as you turned the pages. Mattheo rarely showed anyone his art. He was incredibly protective of anything he created since it showed a certain vulnerability. The fact that he was trusting you with it wasn’t something you took for granted.

You traced over the drawings with a fond smile. There were portraits of you on one page, while the others contained memories that you were quite attached to. Your first date at the Three Broomsticks. The first time you wore his quidditch sweater to a Slytherin vs. Ravenclaw match. The day you shared a cup of hot chocolate at Madam Puddifoot’s when the two of you were just friends. They were all in here, immortalized on paper.

Beside you, Mattheo watched anxiously as you flipped through the pages. When you got to the last one, you grinned up at him. “Matty, these are incredible.”

“Really?” He asked, sounding a bit unsure. “You don’t think they’re cheesy?”

“No, I love it!” You threw your arms around him and squeezed your boyfriend into a bear hug. He chuckled, burying his face in your hair and savoring the feel of you in his arms. As you pulled away to face him, Mattheo tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His heart hurt just to look at you. He really couldn’t believe you were his. You smiled softly. “And I love you.”

You said it firmly, like it was a matter-of-fact. Like you were reciting a truth as fundamental as gravity.

“You love me?”

“I do,” you replied with a smile. “I love you, Mattheo Riddle.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely positive.”

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to say it because I made you this mixtape and gave you cheesy drawings—”

He stopped mid-sentence as you grabbed his face with both hands. Mattheo softened at the fierce determination in your eyes. “Mattheo. You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had. Before that, you were the best friend I’ve ever had too. You treat me like a queen and I never have to worry about other girls trying to talk to you because you never even give them the time of day. You make me soup when I’m sick. You give me your jumpers when I’m cold. You bring me coffee when I’m pulling all nighters. I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend, so yes. I love you. Not because of the mixtape or the drawings, but because you’re you.”

Mattheo was taken aback. Before you, he never thought he was capable of caring for someone so deeply. You were ingrained in him. It was like the universe had cleaved his soul in two and he’d spent an eternity searching for you. You were his other half—the better half of him that he’d been missing all along. Now that he found you, he had no intention of letting you go.

The lovestruck expression on his face warmed your heart. His eyes—those sweet, warm brown eyes made you feel weak in the knees. Mattheo cradled your jaw and looked at you like you were the only girl in the world.

“I love you too, Y/N.”

You smiled as he leaned forward, bringing your lips to his in a tender kiss. He sighed in relief like he’d been waiting for this all day, fingers snaking through your hair as your body melted into his. Mattheo hummed, peppering kisses all over your face. You giggled as he pecked your cheeks, nose, jaw, and neck.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” he declared with every kiss.

Burying your face into his neck, you inhaled the familiar scent of amber, cinnamon, and leather. Mattheo sighed as you scratched his scalp.

“Will you tell me about the songs while we listen to them?” you murmured against his skin.

Mattheo nodded as his curls tickled your cheek. “Of course, sweetheart.”

He pulled out a cassette player and popped the tape in. You cuddled into his side, smiling as he presented you with one half of the headphones. The soft crooning sound of the Smiths filled your ears as Mattheo played with your hair, telling you little anecdotes about the band and how Theo almost knocked over the cassette recorder while he tried to flirt with the record shop owner.

You chuckled as you listened, picking up the sweet lyrics that made Mattheo choose the songs in the first place. You loved each one of his picks, but the best song by far was the sound of his heartbeat thudding in your ears, syncing with your own as it beat for him and him alone.

#you guys am i in love with this man? maybe #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo x you #mattheo riddle smut #mattheo riddle fluff

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blurredcolour · 3 months

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I. "Do You Trust Me?"

"Trust" Series Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x WAC!Female Reader

A slight against one of your dearest friends causes you to act wildly out of character, and Bucky finds himself stepping up to save you as he realizes just what you mean to him after months of seemingly innocuous encounters.

Warnings: Language, Period Typical Sexism, References to Cheating, Reader Knees a Man in the Groin, Perceived Threats of Violence, Plenty of Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author’s Note: Well here we are, watching me write for this show before it's fully aired. Blame/credit to @precious-little-scoundrel and her anon for infecting my brain. Reader has an unnamed brother for sake of plot, no descriptions or y/n used. Events of this fic take place a few days before the horrific Regensburg mission. Also I recognize that WACs did not arrive in the ETO until July of 1943, this fact does not seem to have influenced Hanks/Spielberg so I shan't let it influence me either. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 4217

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The pub was crowded, as usual, and Bucky leaned back in his chair as Curt regaled their table with another one of his stories from Walla Walla. The press of uniform clad bodies, damp from the summer rain outside, created a humid atmosphere. But as he tipped the last few drops of Scotch whisky from his glass into his mouth, he was certain there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Buck had decided to sit this one out, wanting to catch up on his latest letter to Marge. His mouth ticked up at the corners as he reflected once again on how different he and his friend were from one another. Glancing at the bar while he contemplated fetching the next round, Bucky’s eyes widened as they fell on the last person he would ever expect to see in a pub. It took him a moment to recognize you in such an unusual environment, hair perfectly styled. He noted that you were even wearing makeup as your teeth sank into your brightly painted lower lip, wending your way through the crowd, clearly on a mission.

“Bucky are you even listening?” Curt chided with a sharp jab of his elbow into his upper arm.

“Yeah absolutely,” He nodded firmly, unable to take his eyes off you, “every word.” He tacked on as his gaze followed you across the room on your approach to the notorious flirt from 349th squadron, Arthur “Red” Jameson.

He was vaguely aware of the doubtful scoff his reply had earned as his eyes narrowed. Wasn’t your friend Mary rather serious about Red? Not that Red bothered limiting himself to any one woman, local or American – there were few limits that smug redhead put on his relations with the fairer sex. Perhaps that was why Bucky was feeling particularly annoyed with how close you had come to stand next to him at the bar. With the way you were smiling at him. You hardly ever smiled, had to be one of the most serious, reserved women he had ever encountered here in England or back home.

It was when you ducked your head to peer up at Red through your lashes that the realization hit him – you were fucking flirting with him. His fingers clenched tightly on his empty glass, fingertips blanched white as the strength of his grip drove the blood from the flesh there. A slow, knowing smile unfurled across Red’s face as he leaned in, his hand landing on your shoulder making Bucky’s teeth grind together almost painfully as he was flooded with proprietary rage.

The intensity of it startled him, made him take a sharp breath and relax his grip on the glass. Where in the hell had that come from?! The pair of you had spoken no more than a handful of times, simple interactions in the Operations Room of the Control Tower back when he was Air Exec, around the base, or most recently, that afternoon when you had lent him a copy of one of his favorite books, but it wasn’t like you were close. You were quiet, overshadowed by your boisterous friends Mary, Ruth, and that brunette whose name escaped him just then. They were always outgoing at dances while you did an excellent job of decorating the wall. It certainly was not like you were anything more than colleagues. Objectively that was the truth, however, as Bucky sat there watching you grin at that man…

The final straw came as your lips nearly brushed against Red’s ear, making that bastard’s eyes shoot wide, sending Bucky surging to his feet. He narrowly missed one of the low beams overhead as he glared across the crowded room at the cozy pair you and Red presented at the bar.

“Jesus Christ Bucky, did something jump up and bite your ass?!” Curt barked in surprise, the rest of the table laughing loudly in response.

Bucky barely heard them as his new vantage point allowed him a clear view of your knee colliding painfully with the apex of Red’s thighs, causing him to crumple against the bar as you bolted out the back door. Bucky stared after you, just as bewildered as Red’s friends, before they charged out the door in your wake.

“God dammit.” He muttered under his breath before climbing over his friends to make a dash for the front entrance of the pub, his cap clutched in his hand.

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Your Women’s Auxiliary Army Corp unit had arrived at Thorpe Abbots in late May, part of the first battalion of WAACs sent overseas. Assigned to the Eight Air Force, you had spent roughly a week with your British counterparts of the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force observing missions on other bases before it had come time to establish the base for the 100th.

Fast, accurate typing skills and a calm, quiet temperament had seen you promptly assigned as a clerk in the Operations Room, one of the tensest and most chaotic places on the entire base. Upon your arrival at training camp in Fort Des Moines, you had been adopted by a trio of far more outgoing women – Mary from Miami, a sun-kissed blonde who managed to look that way no matter what the weather; Ruth from Pittsburgh, a black-haired beauty who was manufactured from the steel her hometown was known for; and Violet from Savannah, a brunette who elongated every vowel like the southern belle she was.

Why they chose to waste any of their precious time on you was as much as mystery to you in England as it had been in Iowa, and yet any time you tried to convince them you would be perfectly happy sitting out a dance in your barracks with a book instead, they were adamant you attend. Bodily removed you from your cot to join them – not that you were one for dancing, even with the most handsome of airmen. And that title would most certainly have to be bestowed upon Major John Egan. Perhaps a bit of a rogue and more-often-than-not a little too deep into his cups, there was something undeniably charming about him. A magnetism that drew every woman on the base, and from across all of East Anglia, to him. The handsome devil knew it, too. Of course he did, that was, alas, also part of his charm.

Your trio of outgoing friends had gravitated toward him immediately, traded their fair share of coy looks and dances with him while you looked on quietly from the sidelines. He never really seemed to form that deep a connection with any of them, with any woman for that matter, but that did not deter the female population from trying to be the one to catch his eye for a bit of fun. It was during the long hours of the 100th’s first mission, while he was still serving as Air Exec, that you’d had your first occasion to speak to the man directly.

In the middle of one of the tense periods of waiting for news, he had poked his head into the office to see if anything had come across the teletype or wireless and you had looked up, meeting his eye. He was wearing his sheepskin coat, a striking combination of ivory and cognac colored leather that would have honestly looked absurd on anyone else, yet on him just seemed to belong over his dress uniform.

“Can I help you, Major Egan?” You had asked, fingers poised above your typewriter as you paused your progress in typing up a report for Colonel Huglin.

He had looked at you, startled a moment. “I was convinced you might actually be unable to speak. Glad to know I was wrong. It’s Bucky by the way. Just checking if there were any updates?”

“We’ll be sure to get them to you as soon as we have them, sir.” You had replied professionally, trying to ignore the warmth unfurling beneath your breastbone at having his attention directly solely upon you.

“That’s all I can ask then, thank you.” He had winked before slipping out of the room and heading back towards the plotting map.

It had not taken long for a series of updates to arrive, both by radio and over the teletype and being the highest-ranking clerk in the office, third officer, it was your duty to run them out to him. Grabbing both sheets of paper, you had quickly made your way across the room, startled to find him striding towards you, meeting you halfway. “Here you are Major Egan.”

“Touchdown.” He had grinned and taken them over to review with the others as you had hurried back to your office, gnawing on the inside of your cheek to hide your smile.

You had been admittedly saddened when he had been demoted to squadron commander of the 418th after Colonel Harding assumed command of 100th. For selfish reasons, certainly – your interactions had become increasingly limited after this point – but also because it meant he was more frequently put into harm’s way. Every time he went up in a fort, you found focusing on the job at hand more and more difficult. Unlike the ground crews or the brass, it was not looked upon kindly for the WACs to go running outside to see which forts had come back. Which airmen were injured. Sometimes it would take hours for you to confirm that he was all right, and only then by way of hearsay.

You had still run into Major Egan from time to time, while walking with your group of friends to the WAC mess for dinner – by mid-July you were now serving in the Women’s Army Corp as a 2nd Lieutenant, or after meetings in the Operations Room when he was not flying missions. But the longest conversation you ever had was during one of your breaks earlier that very afternoon. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day, and with no mission in progress you had decided to take your coffee break outside, behind the control tower, sitting on one of the benches the ground crew had built out of scrap wood.

Before you had enlisted, your brother had bought you a copy of his favorite book, one he had never let you read before because you were ‘just a kid’ but now that you were old enough to sign up for the service yourself, he had decided you could have your own copy. With just two pages left, it seemed the perfect way to break up the morbid tallies you had been typing up in the grim office upstairs, and you had just finished the final sentence when a shadow fell over you.

“Now how did you get a copy of my favorite book?”

You had lifted your eyes quickly, squinting slightly into the bright sun that shone from behind him, to see Major Egan standing there.

“Major Egan. You like Guys and Dolls, sir?” You had asked, startled.

“How many times do I gotta tell you it’s Bucky.” He had stepped out of the sunlight to sit beside you carefully. “I love everything by Damon Runyon. Which story did you like the best?” He had leaned in curiously.

Pursing your lips to think over the collection of stories you had just finished, you smiled briefly as the answer came to you. “’Madame La Gimp.’ Where they pass off the bag lady –”

“As a society matron! Yes!” Major Egan chimed in, laughing as he nodded in agreement.

“What…about yours?” You had swallowed, unable to stop yourself.

“God, I haven’t read this book in forever…” he had reached out for it, and you had set it in his hands easily.

He had sucked his teeth in thought as he turned it over in his broad hands. “It’s gotta be a tie between ‘Blood Pressure’ and ‘Hold ‘Em Yale’…ah but ‘Lemon Drop Kid’ is excellent, too.” As he had spoken, he had begun to gesture with the book to emphasize his words, making you press your lips together fondly.

“You can borrow it if you’d like.” You had blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Give me a definitive answer once you’ve read it again.”

Major Egan had looked to you quickly. “Really? But what if…how will I know to get it back to you?” He had raised an eyebrow.

“My name’s on the front page.” You had nodded reassuringly but swallowed tightly as he opened the cover as if to confirm it for himself.

“‘Hey Sis,’” He had begun to read the inscription he found there, bringing your brother’s words to life, “‘lighten up, would you? You don’t have to be so damned serious all the time. See you on the other side.’” He had paused a moment before his eyes had met yours, caught you watching him, before you quickly looked down at the grass at your feet. “Where is he?” he had asked quietly.

“On a ship in the Pacific, somewhere.” You had replied softly, finding each blade of grass infinitely fascinating.

“Are you sure–” He had begun to ask before the sound of your name being called by your very impatient Captain, a woman even Major Egan knew not to waylay, interrupted the peaceful afternoon.

You had leapt to your feet. “You’ll get it back to me.” You had nodded and rushed back inside, believing every word of it.

You had seriously contemplated sharing your encounter with at least Ruth, the more level-headed of your friends, knowing she was the least likely to conflate the exchange with a marriage proposal. But as you returned to your barracks that night, you frowned deeply to find Mary in tears on her cot. After much soothing and rocking in your arms, she finally managed to open up, sharing what had gotten her so upset.

“It’s Red…I caught him out back necking with one of those doughnut truck girls…” She hiccupped and dabbed at her nose with her hanky.

“Oh Mary, I’m so sorry.” You frowned, smoothing her hair back from her forehead.

“Oh god, I can’t believe I let that creep talk me into sleeping with him!” She wailed, fresh tears boiling over onto her cheeks as she sagged onto your shoulder, sobbing anew.

Every muscle in your body tensed as her outburst sunk in, the depth of his betrayal fully registering as Vi and Ruth returned from the end of their shifts in the weather office and Mary launched herself into their arms to fill them in as well. The level of pure fury that seized your body was utterly foreign to you and, unlike the descriptions you had encountered in literature to date, felt utterly icy in your veins. As your friends gently coaxed Mary to the latrines to get herself cleaned up, you hung back, a plan formulating quickly in your mind. Your life without these women would have been lonely, all but intolerable, and this transgression against one of them could not go unanswered. You could not look at yourself in the mirror if you did nothing.

Digging quickly through Mary’s belongings, you found her most alluring shade of lipstick, carefully but efficiently applying it to your lips before unpinning and redoing your hair into a more fashionable shape rather than the more utilitarian style you normally wore. Lastly you added a flick of mascara to your eyelashes and rouge to your cheeks. All this was accomplished using the tiny mirror Vi had set up on the shelf beside her bed. Nodding once in satisfaction, for it was truly the best you could do in a solo effort, you darted out the door, lipstick tube in your pocket for reapplications, if necessary. The cad would never see it coming from you, you just needed to figure out a way to get close enough.

Fortunately, the years you had spent on the sidelines watching the three masters of feminine wiles at work had afforded you quite the education. It was only a matter of finding the perpetrator to enact your revenge. You located him in the second pub you visited, taking a slow breath as your eyes sought him out in the crowded, humid space. The rain had thankfully stopped before your foray out into the night, though the streets remained wet, and you had taken the time to refresh your lipstick and tidy your hair before stepping inside. Your heart began to race as your veins flooded with adrenaline.

‘Easy now. Slow and smooth like Mary, give him that flirty smile she’s famous for.’ You thought to yourself.

As his eyes met yours it was all you could do not to wince back in disgust – you were going to need to hide your dislike better.

‘Pretend he’s someone else. Who would you like him to be?’

You gulped shyly, teeth sinking into your lip at the thought of applying these skills to Major Egan, noting that Red seemed immediately more receptive as you slid up beside him where he stood at the bar.

“Evening, Red.” You smiled at him broadly, swallowing nervously as he echoed the expression warmly.

“Well good evening to you too. You escaped the base.” Red teased you.

You faked a giggle and tilted your head down before flicking your eyes to look up at him through your lashes, something Vi had weaponised to great effect on many an occasion. You tried not to shout in triumph as Red’s hand came to rest on your shoulder, leaning in closer.

“Can I buy you a drink, sugar?”

“Actually…” You smiled coyly before leaning in close to his ear, taking a slow breath before dropping all pretense from your tone. “Mess around with one of my friends again and I’ll cut it off.” You snarled into his ear before driving your knee into his groin as sharply as the straight lines of your uniform skirt would allow, slipping out of his grip as he slouched over the bar with a cry of pain.

You longed to bask in his suffering, in your triumph, but you also recognized you had to get out of there before the consequences of your actions found you. Spying a door propped open to a back alley over Red’s crumpled torso, you made a dash through the stunned corner of the pub and out into the night, pausing a moment before turning to the left, hoping it was the correct direction. You certainly wished you knew your way around town a little better.

Your heart was pounding so hard you were worried it might burst through the front of your WAC jacket as you neared the main street but there was an increasing ruckus behind you – surely Red’s friends in hot pursuit. Suddenly Major Egan appeared in front of you, seemingly out of nowhere, and grabbed your arm, pulling you around a corner and down a smaller alleyway.

“Do you trust me?” He asked quickly, glancing back towards the approaching sound of voices as he shuffled you backward, closer to the brick wall of the building behind you.

You nodded at him, speechless, breathing heavily from your flight. Your uniform cap felt precarious where it was perched on your rapidly falling hairstyle. Major Egan’s aftershave was flooding your senses due to his sheer proximity.

“I’m going to kiss you now.” He whispered as his eyes met yours, his own cap at a dangerous angle atop his dark curls, defying gravity.

He shifted forward to crowd your space, your eyes shooting wide as his forearms lifted to press against the wall on either side of your face, body shielding you from view. He bowed his head to press his lips against yours softly, making your eyelids flutter closed, doing nothing to slow the erratic beating of your heart. He tasted a little bit like whiskey, which had reminded you of gasoline the few times you’d had the misfortune of sipping it, but on his plush lips, it was not so bad.

Your hands balled into fists in the olive drab fabric of your skirt, heat painting its way across your cheeks and down your neck as the coarse hair that decorated his upper lip brushed against your skin. It was all too tempting to lose yourself in the feeling of him surrounding you, protecting you, kissing you. Reality reared its ugly head, making you inhale sharply through your nose as you heard the crowd of men stampede right past you muttering angrily.

“That damn cold fish from operations…”

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!”

“No wonder she ain’t got nobody.”

Pulling back from his lips, you frowned down at your brown uniform shoes, still hidden within the cage of his arms.

“Hey…” He murmured, bowing his head to nudge your nose with his, drawing your gaze back up as you swallowed shyly at the tender gesture. “Don’t listen to ‘em.” He urged you, his blue eyes so very dazzling and disarming at this range, even in the dim light of black-out conditions.

“I…It’s ok,” you breathed as you shook your head. “I know I’ll never be…” you furrowed your brow, not even sure what word you were searching for.

“Anything other than perfect, doll?” His lopsided grin was devastating, made it hard to breathe, though that may have also been his continued proximity. He leaned in for another kiss, but you lifted a shaky hand to press against his shoulder.

“Th…they’re gone you don’t have to pretend…” You murmured sadly, shifting to stand, but he did not move an inch, his breath brushing against your cheeks.

“I’m going to kiss you now because I want to, doll.” He murmured, eyes tracing over your face while giving you a moment to respond.

You were, however, frozen, staring at him again and so he pressed his lips firmly to yours, making your fingers curl slightly around the lapel of his uniform jacket. He hummed softly in response, pressing you back against the wall as he slanted his mouth tighter to yours, his hands moving to cup your cheeks. Shivering at the heat of his palms against your skin, you slowly lifted your other hand from your skirt, stretching it towards him, letting it hover between you tentatively.

He dropped his right hand from your cheek to guide your arm around his waist before sliding his own hand to splay against your lower back, drawing a whimper from your throat as you arched slightly.

He pulled back from your lips, chest heaving. “Christ, doll, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“Bucky?” You whispered, confused by his statement, finding it difficult to think clearly.

Bucky groaned and kissed you fiercely, licking at the seam of your lips, sliding his tongue to yours the instant you parted your lips for him. Toes curling in your shoes, you found yourself mewling into his mouth wantonly until he wrenched back suddenly, hand cupping the back of your head as he hugged you tightly into his chest. The sound of voices eventually registered in your addled brain – Red’s friends returning from their failed attempt to find you.

“If I had known all I had to do was kiss you senseless to get you to use my name…” Bucky teased once the coast was clear, panting into your hair.

You giggled against his throat, your own chest heaving as he loosened his hold on you. Your cap tumbled to the ground, fully dislodged by his attentions.

“It’s a burden I’m willing to bear.” He smirked, pressing his lips to your exposed forehead. “Let’s get you back to your barracks. What are you doing out here all dolled up kneeing idiots like Red in the goods anyway?” He asked as he bent to retrieve your cap, dusting it off and placing it in your outstretched hand before turning to slide his arm around your shoulders, leading you toward the main road.

You huffed with a frown as you walked with him, putting your cover back into place snuggly, crushing your once-stylish hair. “I didn’t appreciate the way he treated Mary.”

Bucky smirked at you “Your brother is right you know, you really do need to lighten up…you can just call him a good-for-nothing and be done with it. No need to write a formal treatise on his behavior.”

His lips stretched into a grin as that pulled another laugh from you. You turned to look at him properly and gasped.

“Bucky you have lipstick all over –”

“Perfect” He nodded proudly, cocky grin on his lips, and made no move to clean up his face, while you quickly wiped at yours, knowing you would have to face your barrack-mates. “Next time you go on an attack mission you let me know, alright, doll? I’ll fly on your wing anytime.” He winked at you, and you bit your lip shyly.

“Thank you, Bucky.” You swallowed and stopped walking, leaning in to press your lips to his cheek softly.

As you pulled back, Bucky flexed the arm he still had slung about your shoulders, hauling you in for another heart-stopping kiss, your hands coming to rest against his chest. You had a feeling that the rather lengthy walk back to base was only going to become exponentially longer and found you really did not mind at all.

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

Read Part Two - "Just Had To Trust You."

"Trust" Series Masterlist

#john egan x reader #bucky egan x reader #john egan fic #john egan imagine #mota fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction

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fokloreluver · 2 months

Text

one of your girls tonight — felix catton

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒 — you find yourself falling into felix’s orbit like many have before, but maybe it will be different this time. maybe he’ll want you too.

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 — felix catton x fem!reader

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 — fluff, swearing, smut ( fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, public sex kinda ), and a little bit of angst

𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 — watched saltburn, lost my mind, still obsessed with jacob elordi. enjoy <3

▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁▁

you first noticed felix on your first day at university. the late summer sun lilting heavily against a cyan sky, sweat stuck to your skin, clothes clinging uncomfortably as you lugged your suitcase along, hugging quietly.

you wanted nothing more than to drop your bags to the floor, tug your t-shirt off and bathe in the golden glow. you loved the sunlight, the way it felt melting into your skin, warm and buttery. you were so lost in thought that you almost missed the person coming towards you, them letting out a harsh gasp when you almost bumped into them. you looked up, eyes clashing with a pair of ochre brown.

“oh… i’m so sorry,” you say offering an apologetic smile, only for the dark skinned boy to scoff. rolling his eyes and stepping around you, looking at you as though you were nothing more than a piece of gum at the bottom of his shoe.

“watch it,” he spat before storming off, you blanched. completely stunned at the reaction, tilting your head to follow him. watching as he walked over to a group of people, now laughing brightly as though he has never even spoken to you. but your eyes were quickly drawn from him to the boy beside him. he was tall, taller than most, with chestnut hair that fell around his face in waves and a cigarette perched between his lips. he chuckled at something and you felt your heart flutter.

he was without a doubt the most beautiful person you had ever seen.

almost as though feeling your gaze he looked up, eyes flicking to your frozen form, how you gazed at him, eyes glassy and lips parted, the grip you had on the suitcase at your side. shame crawled up your spine and instantly you were looking away. walking deeper into the campus before you had a moment to think about this anymore. about him. you though you heard the laughs behind you increase but you couldn’t be sure as you walked away, cheeks aflame.

you didn’t see felix again for a few weeks, you quickly adjusted to life away from your family, while you still spoke to them on a daily basis, homesickness had quickly settled, replaced by a warm feeling in your gut as you bonded with your housemates. making friends in them and your fellow course mates, you were so consumed by it all you were stunned when you saw felix again. you had forgotten just how good he looked.

he was perched in the library, long legs blocking the section you needed to reach, the other boy you had seen before, farleigh, was sat across from him, lips curling into a frown when he saw your figure appear beside them.

“what?” he all but hissed at you, your heart dropped into your stomach. while you loved your life here at oxford the divide between yourself and more privileged students was immediately clear. a hierarchy that you couldn’t fight and instead just had to find a way to live with. you blinked, a little unsure at how to proceed.

“sorry,” you say, voice softer than you wanted it do be, “i just need to grab a book from here,” you say gesturing at the bookshelf at felix’s feet. the boys head snapped to you, eyebrow piercing glinting in the dim lighting of the library.

“sorry, darling” the brunet drawled with a sweet smile, his legs dropped and you awkwardly shuffled forward, eyes scanning the shelf for the book you were looking for, sighing quietly when you saw it was on a shelf just above head level for you. you glance fell downwards, looking for a stool to grasp but instead coming up empty. you were about to give up and grab a random book rather than embarrass yourself further by grabbing a chair to balance on top off in front of the pair when you suddenly felt a body pressed behind you. heat radiated from his skin, he was so close you could feel every inch of him, goosebumps rose on your arms.

“what do you need?” he murmured, ducking down so that his lips were only inches away from your ear. his voice was so deep, you almost shuddered.

“a road to somewhere,” you told him, watching with unveiled fascination as he reached up, grasping the book for you. you could see the veins in his arms, how large his hands looked compared to the book. you turned to face him, he held the book out and you grasped it, hands brushing. “thanks,” you say, a little breathlessly. he grins, a beautiful heart wrenching smile.

“anytime, pretty girl,” he said, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond, smiling slightly before quickly walking away from the duo and back to your friends who all gazed at you awe struck.

“holy shit!” one of your flat mates gasped as you drew close.

“i know,” was all you could say, “i fucking know.”

the third time you saw felix you were already a bit tipsy, the vodka cranberry you had in your hand making everything a bit brighter. you grinned as you watched your friend flirt with a man at the bar, hand falling from his shoulder to his arm. you sent her a wink before wandering onto the dance floor looking for your other housemates when you bumped into someone, your drink splashed on your chest, slipping between your breasts.

“shit! sorry, darling,” you looked up, seeing felix stood there with wide eyes, his expression melting from horror to a smirk when he saw your face. “oh, hello again, pretty girl,”

“hi,” you said, voice slightly raised over the pounding bass of the club.

“what are you doing here? didn’t think this was your kind of scene,” he commented, he was looming over you, so tall you hardly reached his chest.

“what do you mean, i’m here all the time. but i have never seen you,” you pointed out, a small smirk twisting on your lips, he snickered. stunned at your comment as you took a sip of your drink.

“don’t come here a lot, farleigh hates the music,” he commented with a shrug, “but i might have to come here more,” he was closer now, so close you could smell the cigarette smoke that clung to his skin, the faint scent of vodka and expensive cologne dizzying.

“oh really?” you say, looking up at him with a sparkling smile, “why’s that?”

“well, with a girl like you here how can i resist?” felix questioned, “tell me, pretty girl, would you like that?” you shudder, the action making felix grin, leaning down so his lips brush were brushing against your ear. “tell me, ___”

“how do you know my name?” you ask him, a little breathless, hand reaching out to grasp his arm.

“i’ve been thinking about you since i saw you at the library, so i asked around and they all led me to you,” he said, arms falling down to your hips, grasping them tightly. you let out a little gasp, he was so big, his hands almost engulfing your hips, you felt his fingers slide into the waistband of your skirt.

“oh yea?” you say, and then he was leaning in, for a moment it was a mess of lips and teeth, your cup tumbling from your grasp as your wound your arms around his neck. it was awkward, the height difference straining, but you managed to find a rhythm. your body pressed to his, so close you should feel every inch and curve of his body. feel his strong arms encircling you, the heat of his body, of his mouth. you wanted to drown in it.

when his tongue slid along your bottom lip you parted your lips instantly, you could taste the weed on his mouth and the sweet tinge of smirnoff ice, one of his hands rose to your cheek, holding you tenderly while he kissed you like a man starved. you moaned into the kiss, tugging him closer, hands on his neck, slipping beneath the collar of his shirt. you could feel the firm plains of his shoulder, the thick muscles coiled from where they held you, you needed more. his lips strayed from yours, trailing down your throat, leaving hot open mouthed kisses along your heated flesh.

"fuck, felix," you whined, he chuckled against your neck before biting down harshly, a strangled cry fell from your lips, loud enough that a rosy flush rippled across your skin at the thought of other people noticing. instantly felix was soothing the wound, sucking at it gently, running his tongue along the stinging bite. "i need you," you said, hands coming to his face and twisting it so he was looking down at you. he was grinning widely, skin flushed and lips swollen, a sheen of sweat glistening against his skin making him look ethereal beneath the strobe lights.

"you need me, pretty girl?" he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

"please," you all but begged, and he was laughing again, it was such a beautiful sound it made your gut clench.

"how much?" he whispered in your ear, biting down on your ear lobe.

"so much, so fucking much. been needing you for so long, can't stop thinking about you," you knew how pathetic you sounded, whining for him like a bitch in heat, but you were throbbing for him, panties slick and chest burning, you needed his lips, his fingers, his cock. you needed every little thing he was willing to give you.

"you sound so pretty when you beg for me, darling, i might have to keep you," he said with a sultry smile, "come on, pretty girl," he's tugging you through the crowd before you can say another word, he leads you down past the bar, slipping through the club goers with ease before crowding you into the small corner you had seen multiple people tucked in before but you had never been placed here yourself.

instantly felix's lips were on yours again, his hands fell to your hips, running down your thighs before sweeping you up in one swift motion, you wrapped your legs around his waist, hands catching his shoulders as a startled cry fell from your lips. in this new position your skirt had rose up, your clothed cunt pressed against felix's stomach, you rolled your hips experimentally, moaning when you felt the friction of his abs against your pussy. "oh my god," you hissed, pulling away from his lips to bury your face in his neck, rolling your hips again.

"shit, i wanna fuck you so bad right now ___" felix said, "wanna feel that pretty pussy wrapped around my cock, i bet you are so fucking tight. are you wet for me, pretty girl? i bet you are soaking through your panties," he said.

"why don't you find out," you whispered, felix pressed you further against the wall, one hand staying secured around your waist, the other slipping down between your heated bodies, fingers teasing along the fabric of your panties.

"fuck, darling, you are fucking soaked," he whispered, "so wet just from kissing me, can't imagine how wet i can make you when i have you all spread out for me, gonna play with this pussy for hours," his fingers drifted to the edge of your panties, tugging them to the side, you shivered, you had never felt so exposed in such a public place, but you couldn't pull away. his forefinger gently traced along your slit, making you gasp.

"oh my god," you cried out.

"want more, darling? want me to finger this pretty pussy, make you cum all over my fingers?" he asked and you nodded frantically, eyes locking with his, his pretty brown eyes almost black as he faced you.

"yes, yes, please, felix, i need you inside me, please," you begged, hips twitching against him, trying to press his fingers inside of you but felix tutted.

"now, now, pretty girl, you take what i give you. keep acting like a little slut and i'll leave you here," he hissed, tears stung along your waterline as you frantically shook your head.

"no, i'll be good, i promise, please felix, i need you so bad," you practically sobbed, he smirked, now dragging two fingers along your cunt, gently at first before finally plunging his fingers inside of you, you moaned loudly, tears spilling down your cheeks, he pumped rhythmically, two fingers buried in your pussy, his thumb coming up to tease your clit. you couldn't stop the sounds pouring from your lips so felix quickly latched his lips to yours. the kiss was messy, you were caught between playing with his tongue and moaning at the stimulation.

he began to jerk his fingers quicker, pumping into you with such force that it had your toes curling, his thumb pressing against your clit sending delicious waves of pleasure along your spine.

"you're gonna make me cum," you whispered, pulling back from his lips just slightly.

"that's the plan, darling," he said, beginning to swirl his finger around your clit, the excitement of being in public, the feeling of felix against you, his fingers buried inside of you, you could feel the tension building inside of you. it was insane, his body crowding against you, his lips leaving hot wet marks along your jawline and neck, his fingers pumping so deep inside you it was making you squirm. you had never felt a rush to come so quickly in your life.

“fuck,” you gasped as felix twisted his fingers curling against your g spot, your body was on fire, a swell of heat rising from your gut and spilling across your entire body, you jerked, spasming as your orgasm consumed you. “felix,” you squealed as came all over his fingers, collapsing against him, heavy breaths falling for your lips.

“fucking gorgeous,” felix whispered against your neck before removing his fingers from your cunt and gently setting you down and tugging your dress into place, you looked up at him with glassy eyes.

“i want…” you leant forward hands clutching at the waistband of his jeans but felix shook his head.

“it’s okay, ___, i would never let a pretty girl get on her knees for me in a place like this,” he told you, planting a kiss on your forehead. you shivered, despite the orgasm you had just had you were still desperate for more, you wanted all of him.

“holy shit, there you are! i’ve been looking for you everywhere,” your friend suddenly shouted as she rushed to your side, you looked over at her stunned. “come on we gotta go, that guy was a creep i just wanna go to bed,” you nodded immediately not wanting your friend to be uncomfortable.

“yea, of course.” you said before turning back to face felix who grinned at you, leaning down to plant a dirty kiss on your lips.

“see you soon, pretty girl,” he said with a wink, you sent him a small smile before leaving the club with your friend, you really fucking hoped you would see him soon.

#Spotify #felix catton #felix catton x reader #saltburn #oliver quick #oliver quick x reader #jacob elordi

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chicinsilk · 1 year

Text

US Vogue February 1983

Isabella Rossellini in a black linen trouser suit, above. By Ralph Lauren. Below, Isabella Rossellini in a John Anthony silk jacket with matching pleated trousers. Hairstyle Louis Alonzo Makeup Wesley Dunn.

Isabella Rossellini en tailleur pantalon en lin noir, au dessus. Par Ralph Lauren. Ci-dessous, Isabella Rossellini dans une veste en soie de John Anthony avec un pantalon plissé assorti. Coiffure Louis Alonzo Maquillage Wesley Dunn.

Photo Andrea Blanch

vogue archive

#us vogue #february 1983 #fashion 80s #1983 #spring/summer #ready to wear #prêt à porter #ralph lauren #john anthony #louis alonzo #wesley dunn #isabella rossellini #andrea blanch #pantsuit #tailleur pantalon

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fayes-fics · 4 months

Text

A Welcome Intrusion

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A drunken Bridgerton in the wrong room could be the start of something...

Warnings: none really... flirtatious drunken fluff, meet-cute.

Word Count: 1.3k

Authors Note: This idea has been lingering in my "wtf is this" pile of scenes I sometimes scribble down idly. I decided to add a little polish and make it a little one-shot, as I could not see it having a natural home in my other WIPs. I also have vague plans to do the same scene setup with Anthony as a character study of how their reactions would differ. Unbetaed. I hope you enjoy <3

You are sleeping fitfully - a stifling summer night makes even a thin cotton sheet too much to bear on your overheated skin - when your bedroom is rudely invaded.

In your half-awake, bleary state, you are not even certain someone is in the room at first, your back being turned to the door. Indeed, it’s only when the mattress dips that you truly startle. You freeze, facing away, completely uncertain what to do with a stranger perched on the edge of your bed.

Behind you, you hear someone undressing haphazardly, Clothing hitting the rug in soft whumps. Bile rises in your throat when the effort-filled grunt while doing so is decidedly male.

There is a triumphant noise, and then a body flops back onto the mattress with a self-satisfied chuckle. After a few beats, all is still, and you steel yourself to speak.

“Kind sir,” you murmur, not daring to move, clinging to the far side, “please leave my room.”

There is a decidedly undignified squeal of shock, more akin to a young girl, him flipping over onto all fours next to you, the movement causing you to turn over in equal surprise.

You both stare at each other as if burned; you clutch the bedding high around your neck as he pants lightly, recovering from the apparent scare you gave him, his breath carrying the rich aroma of expensive brandy. In the shaft of moonlight leaking through the curtains, you see the curve of his cheekbone, the sharp line of his jaw. Whoever he is, he is very pretty. Very drunk, yes. But very pretty, too.

“What in god’s name are you doing in my bed?” he demands, sounding alarmed but mildly slurred with intoxication.

“You are in my bed!” you squeak back, knuckles tightening around the sheet you hold, even as your traitorous eyes roam lower, entirely without meaning to. A slice of lithe, freckled chest muscle flexing over ribs as he draws heavy breaths makes something deep inside you quake. You quickly dart your eyes back up to his face.

“I think not! This has been my bedroom since I was three years old!” he attests with the blithe certainty alcohol provides.

Oh, so he must be a Bridgerton. That is perhaps an easy guess, seeing as you are staying at Aubrey Hall ahead of tomorrow’s midsummer Hearts and Flowers Ball.

“I don’t think they would assign a family bedroom to a guest,” you answer with a flare of sass.

“Yes, I quite agree. That’s why you should not be here,” he huffs indignantly.

“I was shown here by the head housemaid. That is my trunk there, the footmen brought in,” you point out, gesturing across the room.

He seems to ignore your argument but suddenly swings around almost violently, looking at the room.

“I don’t have that on my wall,” he frowns at a sizeable floral painting over a dresser.

“Maybe because this isn’t actually your bedroom?” you volley back with uncharacteristic brashness, likely a reaction to his presence affecting you the longer he remains.

He whips back and narrows his eyes at you. “Did Anthony put you up to this? Or Colin? Change my room around and hide you in my bed to fool me? Are you some doxy?”

“How dare you, sir!!” you blanche, horrified at his coarse language and that he could think you are any sort of woman of such low morals.

“My sincerest apologies,” he immediately looks thoroughly contrite. “You do appear far too well-bred to be such. But it still does not explain your presence in my room.”

“No, it does not,” you answer through gritted teeth, annoyance flaring at his continued erroneous insistence. “And that is because this is not your room…. dunderhead!”

The ferocity with which you spit the last word has his face morphing into one of befuddled incredulity, a single eyebrow arching.

“Sorry, that was impertinent of me,” you flush, dropping your gaze ashamed.

No!” he rushes out, “I… I liked it,” the confession apparently takes him by surprise as much as it does you, judging by his confused frown at his own words.

But then he seems to shrug and nod decisively as if agreeing with himself before he looks back to you, shifting so the light colour of his eyes catches the moonbeam.

“Who are you?” he inquires, cocking his head to the side.

“Miss y/l/n,” you respond.

“I’m Benedict…”

“...BrIdgerton,” you finish for him. “I assume, based on the fact you have a childhood bedroom here.”

He laughs; a rich, resonant sound that makes your insides jolt.

“Indeed,” he smiles, the ivory of his teeth catching the light. Again, you are drawn to how pretty he seems to be. “I am… quite intoxicated, Miss y/l/n”, he confesses, clutching a hand to his chest as if holding a doffed cap, “‘tis entirely possible I am indeed not in the correct bedroom.”

“I would venture that to be the correct assessment,” you offer with a meek smile.

“I sincerely apologise, yet again,” his face contrite as he shuffles into a kneeling position, his palms resting upturned on his thighs as if seeking forgiveness.

The problem is all your eyes can do is slide down his bare torso, lingering in places they shouldn’t—like the swell of his pectorals, the dip of his waist, and the pull of material at the junction of his thighs just a few inches above where his palms rest….

“I suppose it is only fair I let you look, seeing as I so rudely interrupted your sleep,” he comments dryly.

Your eyes jerk back to his face, met with a pointedly raised eyebrow and a knowing crooked smirk. You feel your cheeks aflame and bow your head, biting your lip, knowing you have been thoroughly caught in your ogling.

“I… I apologise, sir,” you mumble quietly, “I… I have not seen a man without a shirt before…” you admit in a whisper.

“And do you like what you see?” he teases, tone etched with beguiling menace, his mouth twisted into an intrigued pout as you dare to raise your gaze again.

“I… I…,” you falter, knowing that admitting such would be scandalous.

“Your secret is safe with me, Miss y/l/n,” he winks, “and I hope I am forgiven.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” you bustle out, tugging the bedding high under your chin again, wanting desperately to conceal the flush you know is creeping over your skin with every second spent in his half-naked presence.

“I suppose I should take my leave,” he sighs, his cadence reluctant, perhaps hoping you will dispute his assessment.

“That would be… the most prudent course of action,” you nod even though your fingertips itch to grab his hand and ask him to stay for reasons you don’t entirely understand.

He slides off the bed and scoops up his discarded shirt, a moderately unsteady gait as he tugs it back onto his body.

“Goodnight, Miss y/l/n,” he bows with a touch of comedic chivalry before he takes his leave. You cannot help but stare at his shapely rear as he walks towards the door.

“Goodnight, Mr Bridgerton,” you call softly, and before you can stop yourself, more words are spilling from your lips, something about this man making you daring. “I do so hope you will offer me a dance at the ball tomorrow to make amends for this intrusion.”

Even you are astounded by your words. Benedict pauses, his hand frozen on the door handle as he turns back around slowly, his mien surprised.

“It would be my pleasure,” he rumbles after a pause, a tingle running through your being.

“Until tomorrow, Mr Bridgerton,” you offer, heart pounding.

“Until tomorrow indeed, Miss y/l/n,” the velvet of his voice tickling your skin long after the door snicks closed behind him.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaa @urfavnoirette

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton x you #bridgerton x y/n

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marvelfilth · 10 months

Text

Wisdom teeth

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x f!reader

Warnings: ooc! Wednesday, mention of blood

Summary: "I've been successful at keeping this piece of information to myself for the past two months and twelve days, but now it seems that I can't hold back the words from escaping my treacherous mouth. It's almost as if I have no control of what is going through my brain at the moment. I feel like an adolescent cliché."

Masterlist

She doesn't say anything when you help her to the passenger seat of your car, her eyes stay rooted on the spot above your shoulder, dark and unblinking. She sits dutifully and doesn't complain when you bend to fasten her seatbelt, your warm fingers barely grazing her clothed thigh on accident. You think you heard a slightest hitch of her throat, but that might have been your wishful thinking.

Ever since the brooding brunette first stepped foot on Nevermore grounds you were irrevocably pulled in her orbit, always close enough to be seen by her, but never close enough to reach out and touch, not that you'll ever try, you do need all of your fingers intact. Her menacing aura and Machiavellian tendencies never stopped you from trying to reach out and form some sort of connection, even if it was just making eye contact in dark hallways or receiving nearly unperceivable eye rolls whenever Enid dragged you to their room. Not even once in the months you've known her did she grace you with more than a few words and barely noticeable nods, opting to focus on her novel or, in extreme cases, leaving the room to continue her endless investigations.

So when Enid cornered you in the morning and practically begged you to take Wednesday to the dentist's office, you were torn between crushing Enid in a hug and fleeing to the woods to hide out.

In the end, you couldn't miss the chance to get to know the gothic girl a little bit better.

Wednesday pointedly clears her throat and you jump up, bumping your head against the roof of your car, close the door and make your way to the driver's seat.

You suppose her impatience to get back to school makes sense with how overstuffed her mouth seems at the moment, and once you're finally behind the wheel you reach over the console to gently swab away droplets of blood on her lips.

She stops breathing altogether.

"Are you alright, Wednesday?" You can't help, but ask, your hand awkwardly hovering over the console.

She takes a moment to think and you have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming when you practically see gears turning in her head as she struggles to formulate a response, her brows crinkled and lips slightly pursed.

"Your archive. Are we going there now?" She asks.

And there's that.

She refused anesthesia, looking eager to go through all the pain, her eyes shining brighter than you've ever seen. The doctor blanched, stuttering while he tried to reason with her, mentioning how agonizing the pain will be and how he'll probably get fired if he agreed to do it.

It made your skin crawl.

You pulled her away before she could threaten the poor man, promising her anything she wanted if listened to the doctor and agreed to anesthesia.

Her eyes flickered to your hand on her shoulder before she looked back at the sweating man, her eyes narrowing slightly.

You held your breath, looking at her with wide eyes, already regretting your offer, but all she asked for was unlimited access to your family archive.

You suppose her request made sense, given your family's history and her unwavering interest in all things unknown, but it still made your heart clench with an unbidden feeling you'd never name out loud.

"No, we're going back to school. I told you I'll take you there over summer, remember?" You patiently reply, subtly eyeing the grumpy brunette.

She huffs, wincing when it causes her pain and turns to look out the window, her eyes slightly hazy.

You take a deep breath and finally pull out from the parking lot, driving in silence and keeping your eyes firmly on the road until you can no longer pretend like you don't feel her heavy gaze on you.

"What is it, Wednesday?"

"Your face."

You blanch, offended. "What about it?"

You don't think you'll be able to withstand her making fun of your looks. She doesn't seem like the type to do that, but you can't be too sure - she is acting rather out of character.

"It's distracting. Turn around." She demands, furrowing her brows.

Your jaw falls open. "Wednesday, I'm driving."

She huffs and crosses her arms. After a minute of contemplation she starts rummaging through your glove compartment.

"Don't," you groan. You won't let her tear you apart for the mess she'll undoubtedly find there, so you reach for your phone. "Why don't you play a game? Or, I don't know, find something to blackmail me with?" You unlock it and toss it on her lap, your hand falling back on the wheel, clutching it in a tight grip.

Your phone lays untouched for a long moment and you have to restrain yourself from looking over at the ravenette. It's the longest you've spent in her company and she most certainly said more words in the past ten minutes than she did in all the time you've known her, and Enid didn't prepare you for conversations.

Your palms start to sweat a little.

She looks down at her lap and picks up your phone with two fingers only to throw it on the backseat. "I'm allergic to technology," she deadpans.

She stays silent for the next few minutes and you relax, thanking every divine being for making this trip somewhat easy for you.

And that's when she turns to look back at you, her expression sour and displeased, like you just said something really dumb. You decide to ignore her for as long as you can, checking your blind spots and fiddling with the radio to seem busy.

She pointedly clears her throat, pulling your attention. You sigh and look at her.

"What now?"

She frowns. "I feel compelled to reveal something you might find… unwelcome." Her mumble comes out distorted and she winces slightly, her hand coming up to cradle her swollen cheek and you swiftly slap it away, sheepishly looking away at her affronted look.

"Don't want you to hurt yourself."

"Usually, slapping ones hand causes them pain," she retorts, fully turning in her seat to face you. "You slapped my hand. That hurt. Not that I didn't enjoy it, but I prefer to inflict pain, not receive it."

You snort, shaking your head at the smaller girl and she pouts. Wednesday Addams, the girl who'd rather jump off a cliff in a river full of piranhas than show an ounce of human emotion, pouts.

But maybe it's not so strange, considering the circumstances.

You adjust in your seat, your right hand landing on your thigh to subtly fiddle with the rough fabric of your jeans. They're light blue, with flowers all over their back pockets and Wednesday absolutely hates them, which is why, you guess, she's currently staring down at your legs like they're her mortal enemies.

The tips of her ears turn red.

"Must you do that?" She hisses, gesturing to your hand on your thigh.

You blink and place it back on the wheel, noting the way her eyes snap up to glare at the road.

"Are you feeling okay?" You ask, because she's starting to look restless. Her fingers clench and unclench on her lap and she keeps glancing at your hand every couple of seconds.

"No." Her eyes snap up to look at the roof of your car, her face a picture of impatience. "Hold my hand."

You gulp, breath catching in your throat and turn to look at the smaller girl just in time to catch her boring holes into your hand and probe lightly at her cheeks. Your mouth opens to stutter a response, but her scathing look makes you shut up.

"This gauze in my mouth feels terrible, I can't possibly endure it a moment longer. Holding your hand will make the feeling bearable." She looks at you expectantly, turning over her hand on her lap, waiting.

You hesitantly reach out and take her hand. She laces your fingers, letting out a quiet sigh as she sags against the weathered leather, turning to look out the window.

You can't believe this is happening.

This Wednesday is not something you're equipped to deal with. Hell, you can barely manage her regular self, which still comes hard at times, especially when you intrude on her writing time. It's not like you mean to do that, but a certain blonde always chooses that exact hour to invite you over, always wearing a mischievous smirk when Wednesday tenses up upon your arrival.

This feels like walking on thin ice at gunpoint with a ticking bomb in your hands.

"How-"

Her nails dig into your skin hard enough to make you yelp, but you don't pull away, eyeing the stewing girl. She's breathing heavily, her lips opening and closing as she seemingly tries to keep herself from blurting something out.

It's so bizarre you have an urge to pinch yourself, but you don't need that with her nails still digging into your skin.

You focus on the road, afraid to stir the dragon.

Her next words make you jolt so hard the car wavers on the road.

"Every time my eyes land on you my heart skips a beat," she says, like she's complaining about a mystery she couldn't solve.

You grip the steering wheel tighter. "What?"

"One does not typically pay attention to such mundane thing, but I do. Whenever you're in my vicinity I can't help, but be aware of each skipped beat of my heart. The feeling is revolting, and I've had the urge to confess this ever since I woke up." She frowns, and it's quiet for a few minutes as she seemingly gathers her thoughts.

The moment you had in your art shed suddenly comes to mind. You went there after a long day of studying in the library, ready to decompress and finish your latest painting. You didn't expect anyone to be there, which is why you shrieked like a maniac when you flicked the lights on, basking Wednesday's rigid form in warm yellow glow. She stood over your painting, her features stony and unreadable as her fingers traced the outline of a shipwreck on the canvas, the still wet paint smudging her fingers and messing up your precise strokes.

It made the painting even more beautiful.

You dug around your backpack, looking for tissues, taking a step closer when you finally found some. With great hesitance, you reached for her hand, your fingers closing around her delicate wrist. Her lips parted as she inhaled, her pulse erratic under your thumb. She took one look at you, turned on her heel and left, her perfume lingering in the air.

You gulp, when her grip on your hand turns painful. "I've been successful at keeping this piece of information to myself for the past two months and twelve days, but now it seems that I can't hold back the words from escaping my treacherous mouth. It's almost as if I have no control of what is going through my brain at the moment. I feel like an adolescent cliché," she complains through gritted teeth, irritated.

Your face burns the same shade as the red light you've come to stop at. You don't know if you should feel ecstatic or fear for your life, because no matter what happens next, you're sure Wednesday will have your head for witnessing a rare moment of weakness. But your heart always had more power than your head, so you're left with trembling hands and sweaty palms, choking on your breath as you struggle to think of something to say.

"Wednesday, I'm going to have a heart attack," you mumble.

"You're not showing any signs of an impending heart attack, if anything, your symptoms correlate with something Enid usually calls having a crush." She's back to staring intently at you, catching every twitch of the muscles on your face as you try your best to keep your blush at bay. Her hand slides up, enclosing your wrist.

Your heart burns in your chest and you feel the need to correct her, to tell her that what you feel for her is more than some stupid crush. You need to tell her about the way your dark wings tingle when she brushes past you, begging to be released from the confinement of your spine. You need to tell her about the way your heart beats out a special rhythm, hammering against your ribs like a caged animal, desperately leading its owner to the girl who successfully stole it.

You need to tell her how easy it was to fall for her and how hard it got when you realized the extent of your feelings.

You need to tell her something, anything.

You need to tell her everything.

A loud honk jostles you and you look back at the road to keep driving, trying your best to hide your face when a car passes by you, the driver giving you a finger.

"Imbecile," Wednesday mumbles.

"Yeah, what an asshole."

"I meant you. The gesture was entirely appropriate seeing as you failed to pay attention to your surroundings."

"Huh?" You gape. "You're insulting me now?"

"Your observation skills never cease to amaze me," she frowns in thought, "just like your remarkable ability to make my existence less bothersome." The haze in her eyes is gone, replaced by reserve and a hint of fondness.

Your brain short circuits.

You pull over and let your forehead fall against the wheel, still holding it in a death grip.

You would never admit it to anyone, not even on your deathbed, but you swear you feel butterflies erupt in your stomach at her quiet confession.

Your smile is so wide it hurts your cheeks, but you don't care as long as Wednesday keeps looking at you like that, like she's trying her best at keeping away the warmth in her eyes. They flicker to your lips when you lick them, and this time she can't keep her emotions in check, her eyes alight with fiery passion.

You can't help voicing your concern. "I thought you didn't like me that much. I mean, you barely speak to me when Enid drags me to your dorm."

She looks at you for a long moment. Her thumb circles your knuckle. "Enid has a surprisingly perceptive eye. She noticed a certain change in my behavior long before I did and decided to act on it. I simply wasn't prepared."

"Are you prepared now?" You breathe out.

"Are you?"

You let out a relieved laugh, and pull her hand up to your lips, placing a soft kiss on her ice cold knuckle. "Wednesday, I've been pining over you since the day we met."

She lets out a barely noticeable breath and you suddenly realize she's been nervous all this time too, you just failed to pay attention in your anxiety riddled state.

"Good." The corners of her mouth fly up.

Your eyes widen. She has dimples.

She turns away nonchalantly and places your intertwined hands on her lap, looking like she just solved the biggest mystery known to mankind.

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x you #Wednesday Addams x y/n #wednsday addams #wednesday #wednesday x you #wednesday x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #jenna Ortega #Wednesday Addams x female reader

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starry-bi-sky · 18 days

Text

Stuck in the middle of a forest made of

Flesh and bones and they're all scared of

A lost little boy who has lost his heart

Fear's not enough, they have to

Tear him apart —-------

There are two things Daniel Fenton knows that his family knows as well:

He’s adopted.

He can’t remember anything else before that.

‘Adoption’ is a loose term, implying that they went through the official legal processes and troubles of adopting a child into their home willingly, and with the full intention of doing so going into it. That is not what happened. What happened is that Jasmine Fenton found a half-dead child, in strange clothing, in the middle of the woods at her Aunt Alicia’s cabin, and then she went and got her parents.

What happened is that a twelve year old Danny woke up in the same cabin, wearing clothes much too big on him that didn’t belong to him, and with very little memory of before that moment. He wakes up like a spring being set loose, sitting up so fast he scares the daylights out of Jasmine Fenton sitting next to him. He wakes up, reaching for his sleeve for something that isn’t there, and when it isn’t his mind stutters, like he’s tripped at the top of a steep hill.

When they ask him for his name, he tells them, clearing muddled thoughts from his mind; Danny. He’s twelve.

(He thinks that’s his name, at least. It sounds right; it feels right. If he thinks really hard about it, he thinks he can remember someone calling him that, utter adoration in their voice. So it must be his name.)

The Jasmine girl convinces her parents to take him home with them, and they give him the spare guest room upstairs. He has nothing to fill it with.

It’s… a strange experience, to go to a ‘new’ home when he doesn’t even remember his old one.

The official adoption process… happens. He can’t say it’s easy, or difficult. He’s oblivious for the most of it, Jasmine intends on helping him settle in and Danny can’t say he enjoys the smothering. He learns that he is stubbornly self-independent, that’s one new thing he knows about himself.

His adoption papers say ‘Daniel J. Fenton’. Danny remembers staring at the name ‘Daniel’ for a long, long moment, something curdling sour in his sternum. His name is Danny, that he knows. But it’s not Daniel. But he doesn’t know any other way of saying it, so he keeps his complaints to himself.

(Jack Fenton boisterously claps his hand on Danny’s shoulder and jerks him around, grinning wide as he welcomes him into the Fenton Family. Danny’s mind blanches at the touch on his shoulder, an instinct snapping like the maw of a snake, telling him to cut off the man’s fingers for daring to touch him.)

(He keeps the thought to himself, tension rising up his shoulders the longer Jack Fenton’s heavy hand stays on him.)

They found Danny in the summer. It’s a perfect coincidence, Maddie Fenton says before she goes back into her lab with Jack Fenton. She says it’s enough time to allow Danny to adjust; that they’ll enroll him into the school year in the fall. Then she stuffs a canister of ectoplasm onto the top shelf, and disappears like the ghosts she studies back down the stairs.

(There’s something eerily familiar about the ectoplasm sitting in the fridge, something unsettlingly so. Danny knows what that stuff is, but he doesn’t know where. When the house is empty, he takes a can from the fridge and inspects it.)

Jazz wants him to leave the house. Danny doesn’t want to step foot outside of the FentonWorks building until he has something that quells the feeling of vulnerability he gets whenever he does. He tried to once, and he felt exposed. Unsafe.

He turned back around and went inside.

—-------

Where do we go

When the river's running slow

Where do we run

When the cats kill one by one

—------

One day, when the house is empty — or, as empty as it can be; the Fenton parents down in the lab, and jazz out with friends. Danny is making a sandwich, and he caves into the urge to flip the knife in his hands between his fingers. A childish impulse, but one he falls for nonetheless. It comes to him easily, like second nature, in fact. The slip of the blade between his fingers is seamless, flowing with an ease like water running down the wall.

He’s almost startled by it; his body holds memories that his mind does not. Muscles that know which way to move and twist, limbs that know how to hold and how to throw. He continues twirling it, fascinated, as if he were a scientist discovering a new species of animal.

It’s not for a handful of minutes when a new thought hits him; an impulsive thought that pops in the back of his mind like a firecracker; Danny moves without thinking.

He turns, and throws the knife. The pull of his shoulder, the flick of his elbow, is familiar like a hug. He knows when to let go, and the blade flies through the air in impressive speed, embedding itself into the wall with a hearty, loud thunk. Sinking into the drywall like butter.

Danny stares at it in shock, he feels relieved — about what? — before he feels the guilt. He scrambles across the kitchen to pull it out, heart racing in his chest at being caught, and prays no one notices the hole it left behind.

(He runs up the stairs before anyone can find him, food forgotten, and hides the knife beneath his mattress like a guilty murder weapon.)

After that, he leaves the house more. It’s more out of fear of being caught than the desire to leave. But Danny is quickly learning that among all things, he is someone who was dangerous, before he lost his memory. Even with his mind in fractures, he is still dangerous.

He’s not sure how to feel about that — he thinks he should be scared. He feels a little proud, instead.

—------

Hazel beneath our claws

While we wait for cerulean to cry

Unsettled ticks run through time

Enough for the hunt to go awry

—-----

There’s another thing he learns about himself. That he knows about since he woke up. He knows that he left someone behind. He doesn’t know who, but he knows they must have been close; he’s always looking down and finding himself surprised when the only shadow he sees is his own.

He thinks that he must have sung to them a lot; he finds himself humming familiar melodies when he’s lost in thought. Lullabies lingering at the tip of his tongue, an instinct to turn and sing them to someone beside him. He can’t remember the lyrics, but his mouth does, it tries to get him to say them when he’s not thinking. He can’t.

Danny’s found himself humming under his breath more times than he can count, trying to recall whatever it is his mind is trying to claw forward.

(“That’s a pretty song, Danny.” Jazz tells him at breakfast one day, Danny screws his mouth shut. He hadn’t realized he was humming. “What is it?”)

(Something mean and possessive rears its head on instinct, uncoiling like a snake from its ball. His shoulders hunch defensively, he bites his cheek to prevent himself from baring his teeth. He doesn’t know what song it is, but it’s not for her. “I don’t know.”)

He misses his person. Dearly. He knows, the longer he is without them, that they must have been close. Otherwise, he wouldn’t feel like he’s missing a chunk from himself. He wouldn’t be turning to someone who's not there; reaching for a hand that’s missing, birdsong on his tongue, a story to tell.

A dream haunts him one night. Warm and familiar, he’s holding onto someone smaller than him, they’re tucked into his side like a puzzle piece. He’s humming one of his songs that is always playing in the back of his mind, an unfinished tale of a harpy and a hare. Danny can’t remember their face, not all of it. He remembers green eyes, hair dark like his own, skin brown like his.

He loves them more than anything else in the world, a fact he knows down to his soul. He loves them so much it fills his heart with sunlight. Danny squeezes them tight, nuzzling into their hair; he makes them laugh. Then, he proudly boasts something. That when he takes something of their father’s, that his person — a sibling? That feels right — will be… the word fades from Danny’s mind before he can make sense of it.

His person hugs him tight, his… brother? And their mother — a woman whose face he can’t remember either, but who he loves like a limb nonetheless — appears, smiling. Her hands reach for them both, voice calling them, ‘her sons’. There’s ticking in the distance, it sounds like the fastening of chains.

Danny wakes up cold, tears streaming down his face. The details of the dream already fading from his mind like the cold pull of a corpse.

—-------

Harpy hare

Where have you buried all your children?

Tell me so I say

—-------

When school starts that Fall, Danny joins the sixth grade class, and quickly learns more things about himself. One of those things being that he’s smarter than the rest of his grade, whatever education he had before, it was better than the one he’s getting now.

Everyone knows he’s adopted right off the bat. He tells them when the teacher forces himself to introduce himself, but it’s not like they needed him to tell them for them to know; he never existed in their little world before now, and the Fentons are pale as they come. Danny is not.

He befriends Sam Manson and Tucker Foley; they ask him about the scars fading up and down his arms, they ask him about the scar carved diagonal across his face.

Danny, as politely as he can, tells them he doesn’t remember. He thought kindness would come second nature to him, his dream burned into his mind where he hugged his brother so sweetly. Apparently, his sweetness is only second nature to people he considers his own.

(It becomes even more apparent when Dash Baxter tries to bully him later that day, and Danny ruffles like an eagle threatened. His mind whispers, hissy and agitated, sinking like a shadow at his shoulder, several different ways Danny could kill him for talking to him like that, and fifteen more ways he could cripple him.)

(Danny ignores those thoughts, up until Dash Baxter tries to grab him. Then he breaks his nose on the wood of his desk. It’s easy how quickly the rest of his grade sinks him down to the status of social pariah.)

(At least Sam and Tucker still talk to him after that. When Danny goes to the principal’s office later, he wisely doesn’t mention the worse things he could’ve done than break Dash Baxter’s nose.)

—--------------

It clicks and it clatters in corners and borders

And they will never

Hear me here listen to croons and a calling

I'll tell them all the

Story, the sun, and the swallow, her sorrow

Singing me the tale of the Harpy and the Hare

—-------

More dreams come, of course they do. Each one halfway to forgotten whenever he wakes up, ticking faint in his ears. He is many different ages. He is young, shorter than a table. He is older, holding onto his little brother. He is singing in almost every single one. He is singing to his brother.

Danny can barely remember the lyrics, he’s begun leaving a journal by his bedside so that it’s the first thing he can write down when he wakes up. He’s a storyteller, he learns. He feels like a historian, trying to piece together a culture long dead and forgotten.

His most vivid dream-like memory is not a happy one, and for once he’s almost relieved he barely recalls it. He is somewhere that isn’t home, but his mother and brother are there. He is dressed in black, blades keen in his hands.

They are atop a moving train. They are fleeing something. His brother is struggling to keep up, he is small, and young. It’s beautifully sunny, they are somewhere green and lovely.

It is a fast dream.

His brother stumbles on something, and Danny, fast as a whip, snatches him by the back of his shirt and hoists him up to his feet before he can fall. “Watch your feet, habibi.” He murmurs low, a hand on his back. It’s hard to hear, there is wind in their ears.

His brother, face obscured in all but his eyes, which are green as emeralds, nods.

The dream blurs, but Danny falls behind. His foot catches on air — impossible, it should’ve been, at least. He never trips. — and he lands against the roof with a thud and a grunt. His mother and brother stop, and turn for him.

The train hits a turn before Danny can get up, and he shouldn’t have, something pulls on him, he swears, but he slips. He can’t find the purchase to pull himself up, cold fear hits him as his nails scrape against the metal.

His mother and brother’s horrified faces are the last thing he sees before he disappears off the side of the train.

(The ticking is at its loudest when he wakes up, pounding against his inner skull. He only manages to write down ‘train fall’ in his journal, before he’s flipping over to press his head into his pillow to get the pain to stop.)

—---

She can't keep them all safe

They will die and be afraid

Mother, tell me so I say

(Mother, tell me so I say)

—-------

When Danny is fourteen he is still humming songs he can’t remember, his mind still in a broken puzzle. But his room is now decorated with stars and plants in every corner. He has a guitar he keeps in the corner of his room, and he plays the lullabies in his head on the strings over and over again.

The ectoplasm in the fridge still unsettles him, still reminds him of a past he can’t recall. The knife beneath his mattress has returned to the kitchen — he doesn’t need it. He found a box in the attic last year, it had his name on it, and inside he found familiar, strange clothes, and more weapons than he thought was possible to carry on one person.

(Even without knowing that the Fentons prefer guns to blades, Danny knows, instinctively, that they were his weapons. He was — was? Is — a dangerous person. He takes the box down to his room to sort through. The weapons all fit into his callused hands almost perfectly — the grooves worn to fit his palm. They’re just a little small.)

(He tentatively takes a small blade with him to school one day, and feels much more comfortable with it sheathed beneath his shirt. He’s kept it on him ever since, like he’s reunited a lost limb to himself.)

Danny doesn’t have a name for his person, his little brother, nor does he have a name for his beloved mother. He’s haunted by dreams every few weeks, many of them repeating. He’s ingrained the words he can remember to memory, and the ones he doesn’t, he writes down in his journal. His little brother; Danny calls him a bird, he can’t figure out what kind. His little bird of some kind; when Danny takes something from their father — what, he can’t remember what — then his little brother will be a little bird.

(He doesn’t have a name for his brother, yet, but he’s calling his birdie in his head. It’s better than nothing.)

—------

Seeker, do you ever come to wonder

If what you're looking for is within where you hold

Will you leave a trail for them to follow a path

You'll soon forget

Home

—---------

When he’s fourteen, Danny dies. It does nothing to fix his fractured memories, much to his consternation. It just confirms something he already knows; that he was someone dangerous, and that he still is.

When the shock of death has worn off, Danny inspects his ghost in the metal reflection of the closest table. It’s blurry, hard to see, but shock green eyes pierce back at him, green like the portal. Lazarus, Danny’s mind whispers, and he blinks rapidly.

‘Lazarus,’ he mouths to himself. It’s familiar. Sam shows him with her phone what he looks like, joking that he looks like an assassin. Danny doesn’t think she’s that too far off.

He doesn’t tell her that. He tucks the thought away with the rest of his secrets, and fiddles with the hood gathering at his neck, attached to a cape with torn edges swinging down to his ankles. He pulls it over his shock white hair. It shadows over his face impossibly so, until all you can see are his green-green eyes peering out like a wolf hiding in the brush.

He ends up calling himself Phantom.

(Maybe now he can start putting lyrics to his lullabies; his memories may not have returned, locked away with the sound of a clock, but the dead can talk. One of them may just have answers.)

----------

Home is where we are

Home is where you are

Home is where I am

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

Dedicated to @gascansposts for being the one who introduced me to the band Yaelokre, and thus being the whole reason I was inspired to write this in the first place >:] Those lyrics at the line breaks are all from their album Hayfields.

#dpxdc #dp x dc #danny fenton is not the ghost king #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc crossover #dpdc #danyal al ghul au #amnesiac danyal al ghul au #songs in order of the album: the hartebeest / harpy hare / and the hound / neath the grove is a heart #musician danny has my heart and soul #yes this danyal IS an alternative danny from the other au. an au where things were a little better :) but still sucks #implied good mom talia al ghul #danyal is a momma's boy send tweet #dpxdc ficlet #dpxdc prompts #dp x dc au #dp x dc fanfic #danyal is sTILL five years older than damian in this au #no beta no edits we die like danny fenton #poc danny fentons #i didnt know where to end this :(( i was gonna go on but i blanked. i thought about going into his relationships with his rogues and so on.#but that felt too much like trying to just increase the word count rather than actually writing?? if that makes sense #ugh im gonna have forgotten to include things and im gonna be kicking myself later #morally ambiguous danny whoo! we love to see it #since this was just for fun it doesnt really go into it all that much other than like. it happens. and that danny realizes he's dangerous #phantom in a hazmat suit? nah phantom looking like an assassin >:].#danyal al ghul with damian and his mom: 🥰🌸✨#danyal al ghul with everyone else: 👹🔪#am i heavily implying that clockwork had smth to do with Danyal’s amnesia and appearance by the cabin? 👀 maybe #not enough danyal al ghul aus where him being an assassin actually. has some kind of affect on him

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 days

Text

Winter's King 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: it's saturday.

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You follow the king into the great hall. Despite the sun beaming in through the open doors and the chirping of sparrows from the courtyard, it is a dour affair.

King Geralt marches across the hall as you stand by a tall candelabra near the door. It remains unlit as the summer lights much of the space through the long windows and broad doors. He approaches the bishop in his robe and sash and points the man with a terse grunt. Lord Dustan and Lady Rozlyn stand behind the cleric, looking fraught.

“Where is the bride?” The king growls as his golden eyes skim the stone walls.

“Your highness, we’ve just called for her--”

“She is aware of our impending nuptials, she would keep her betrothed waiting?” The king rebukes, “you summer souls and your flimsy spines.”

The duchess twitches in offence but does not rebuff the insult. The wine has subsided well enough to allow her some sense. Lord Dustan’s lips press tight and he claps.

“My daughter, at once,” he hisses in your direction.

Before you can turn on your sole, the king grunts, “fetch her yourself. How can I trust you to keep my kingdom in order if you cannot bring the same to your own house?”

“Yes, your highness,” Dustan blanches, “it was only I thought it would be swifter to send the maid.”

“It would be swifter if you stilled your tongue,” King Geralt barks.

The duke recoils and hurries off. Your eyes meet the king’s and he gives a slight tilt of his head and you resume your plaintive stance. Lady Rezlyn looks him up and down before she withdraws her gaze and instead focuses on the portrait of her husband’s predecessor.

The air grows stagnant as you wait. When at last a stirring comes from above, the king is gripping the dagger on his belt. He is not impressed with the delay.

“Father, I am here, I am here, unhand me,” Lady Jazlene blusters in ahead of the duke. She wears the red and ivory and matching ribbons have been braided into her curls. She has several necklaces piled around her neck and her hands are adorned in tones of silver and gold. “I am ready,” she sighs as she approaches the bishop and face the king, “it is not the wedding I dreamt of but for a king, I might settle.”

King Geralt’s golden eyes narrow. He looks through his bride and she wavers on her feet as she reaches for him. He does not offer his hand nor his arm before he faces the bishop.

“The vows,” the king demands flatly.

“Er,” the bishop falters and searches the chamber.

“Where is the writ?” The king hisses, “do you not have a scribe?”

“Here, your highness, here,” Dustan waves to a squire waiting near the outer doors. “It only requires ink and seal, after the vows of course.”

The king exhales hotly and faces the bishop again, signaling with a curt flick of his fingertips. You only then notice Merinda across from you, she must’ve followed the noble daughter in. She exchanges a glance with you, she is not more amused than King Geralt.

“Ahem,” the bishop adjusts his tall cap, “let us begin. We commune here today to--” The king waves his hand dismissively and the cleric flinches. “Hm, uh, sir, your highness, my lord, King Geralt, of Rivia and the Hinterlands, and the Summer countries,” he stutters as his eyes droop, “do you swear, by the sacred rites and the laws of the realm, to take this woman in blessed matrimony? To attend to your duties as husband and keeper, until death?”

The ceremony is as brusque as anything the king does. He does not have time or patience for the pageantry or prolonged talking. His shoulders rise with his breath and he heaves out, “I make this vow.”

“And, Lady Jazlene, daughter of Debray, do you swear, by the sacred rites and the laws of the realm, to take this man in blessed matrimony? To attend to your duties as wife and servant, until death?”

Jazlene sniffles and makes a show of blotting her face with her sleeve. Her mother blubbers from the side and Lord Dustan hushes her. Their threatrics are almost humourous amid the solemn air. King Geralt rumbles and stares over the bishop’s head.

“I... I make... I make this vow,” Jazlene bawls and pulls out a handkerchief from her bosom. She covers her nose and wipes away her tears. “I shall love the king and serve him better than any w-w-wife.”

The bishop hesitates as he looks between the bride and groom. He nods and beckons forth Lord Dustan, “so we will seal this marriage in ink and wax. Sign your names and let the royal stamp be applied to set in bond your fates until the black night sees you to rest.”

Dustan comes forward with the parchment and signals to another unseen figure. A servant brings forth a quill and well as the contract is laid out on the table near the wall. The king approaches as Jazlene weeps at his side, trailing after him as she trembles. The king signs first, with a slash of the quill, then Jazlene barely keeps hold of the pen as she loops her name across the rough surface.

She drops the feather and fans herself. She looks around, preening, and grabs onto the king’s arm, “so we are married.”

He doesn’t react. He turns without acknowledgement as she stays latched on, pulled forth by his easy strength. His gaze touches yours as you watch the strange and strained scene. This is unlike any wedding you’ve ever seen, though you haven’t seen a noble one in all your life. Only the whispered vows of servants behind the stables or in the meadows. Those ones that are only written in spirit.

His eyes quickly flit away and he sets his sight on the doorway beside you. He walks forward with his bride dragging on his arm. His mail jostles loudly with his steps as his soles scuff.

“Let the marriage be consummated,” he mutters without look back, “you will be ready to travel at dawn.”

“Your highness?” Dustan stumbles forward, “dawn?”

“Husband, am I to come with you?” Jazlene murmurs.

“A kingdom must be rebuilt,” King Geralt states without inflection. “I will not rule over a resentful people, I will show them I fought for them, not against them. And you will follow through on your vows to me or find I am not so weak as that fool, King Waleran.”

⚔️

You help Merinda with Lady Jazlene’s travel chest. You pack away as much as you can; shifts, nightclothes, gowns, stockings, all that you think she would like to take with her. The sudden departure allows you little time for ponderance, you only do as you must. As ever. So is life.

“She will hate it in the Hinterlands,” Merinda scoffs, “when I served for the earl, there was a man from the Winter Isles. He was missing fingers from the cold. He told me how they turned black and fell off.”

“Then she will need to find some mitts,” you shrug as you roll up a cloak. Much of the lady’s clothes are not suited to a colder climate. She has no furs; they are not needed in the Summer lands. Midsummer through to High Summer offer little more than a cooling rain between mild to sweltering highs.

“Perhaps she should bundle up against her husband too,” Merinda snickers, “he is icy as the tundras he hails from.”

“He is a king, he has much to worry for,” you sniff.

“Mm, I suppose, though he hardly ever looks concerned for anything. Speaks even less,” she muses, “I suppose Lady Jazlene will speak plenty for both of them.”

“Queen Jazlene,” you correct her bleakly.

“Oh, he should worry for that,” the other maid chuckles again. “Though I suppose now she will have all the gowns she likes.”

“Perhaps,” you allow.

“Let us prosper here without her demands. Where it is warm and sunny,” Merinda sighs.

“It will be rather quieter,” you agree.

You carry on until the chest is near overflowing. You sit on the lid as Merinda buckles the straps. You will need some male servants to come carry it to the stables. That should wait until morning. Lady Rezlyn bid you wait in her daughter’s chamber should she emerge from the king’s.

You pack a smaller chest for her jewels and her cosmetics, and a few books she’s worn down with her fingertips, and her sewing hoops and needles. Oft, she only holds onto those possessions as she gossips with her mother. You suppose that will be difficult. When the duchess and her husband return home and their daughter must face her obligation without ally.

There are servants like Merinda who might covet gems and pretty things, but you’ve never much envied the noble type. They have overly much responsibility. You only need swab a floor or lace a dress. Life could not be simpler.

“Hm,” she hums and gives a cluck of her tongue.

You wind up a length of ribbon and put it in the chest. You feel Merinda watching you. You look up and arch your brows. “What?”

She smiles, “you remind me of him.”

“Who?”

“The king,” she tinkles with laughter, “you are both so... quiet. You never say more than you need to. I can appreciate that given who we serve but you are a hard nut.”

“I don’t have much to say, suppose,” you reply. “Don’t know very much of the king, either.”

She’s quiet as you carry on. You assume some things will need to be sent after the lady; the queen. It will be a long journey and not one which you think would entail many banquets. It’s a scary unknown ahead of Lady Jazlene, though it is overdue.

When the smaller chest is full, you and Merinda lift it onto the larger. It is late and the night hue surrounds you as only a single flame is lit. You yawn intermittently but neither of you dare lay down to sleep. You wouldn’t want to be accused of idleness.

You sit on the window bench and watch the moon as Merinda paces through shadows. You rest your chin in your hand but only for a moment as suddenly the hinges groan and cut through the din. You stand as Merinda faces the door sharply.

Lady Jazlene drifts in. The ribbons in her hair are loose and her dress is still laced tight, though her skirts are rumbled and wrinkled. She leaves the door ajar behind her as she ambles stiffly towards the bed. She turns to fall onto the bench at the foot of the four-post frame.

She doesn’t speak as she stares ahead. Merinda shuts the door as you inch towards the noble woman. She offers no reaction as you hover near her. She presses her hands above her knees and shudders out a breath.

“My lady,” Merinda speaks first, glancing at you cautiously, “your highness, would you... would you like a bath?”

Jazlene doesn’t answer. Her head moves subtly back and forth then dips again. She balls fabric in her fists.

“I did what mother said,” she croaks, “and... I was... I was aroused. I was ready...” she murmurs.

You and Merinda stand in silence. You’ve never heard the noble daughter speak so smally. She lifts her head.

“I did it. I did my duty,” she declares, “but he...” she rises and you back away as she sweeps around the bed, a hitch in her step. She goes to the mirror and leans in, touching her cheeks, turning her head this way and that, “I’m beautiful, aren’t I? Mother says, father says... but the king... the king...”

She blows out her breath and is silent. She spins and clutches her bodice. She looks down at herself.

“He didn’t even let me take this off,” she babbles, “then he just... sent me away.” She puts her hand to her chest, “a bath? Did you say a bath?” She looks at Merinda, “yes, I must wash. Wash it all away.” She clears her throat and drops her hand, rolling her shoulders, “tomorrow we must leave--” her voice catches, “I must go to my new home with my...” she puts her back to you and sits on the cushioned seat before the vanity, “...husband.”

You nod to Merinda and cross the room to meet her at the door. You share a look, one which doesn’t need conversation. Even though she’s laid with a man, your fellow maid looks distressed. You go out into the hall, pulling shut the door gently in the nocturnal dim.

“Do you think he was cruel?” Merinda asks.

“It isn’t our concern, is it? It is a wife’s duty...” you whisper, uncertain.

“It was her first,” Merinda remarks, “perhaps she was unready.”

“We shouldn’t speak of it,” you gird.

“You needn’t be so chaste,” she reproaches, “if I didn’t know her wrath, I might even feel sorry for the lady.”

“Mer,” you warn again, “let us get some water for the bath.”

Merinda chuffs, “you are so... boring.”

You walk away from her, ignoring her chiding. You don’t care if she thinks you dull. It isn’t your place to judge the marital matters of the lady and her husband. It is even dangerous to gossip over royal business. You will not chance it.

She follows. You descend and go to boil a pot in the kitchen. Merinda lights several candles as you go to work. You carry the large vessel between you. Several trips up and down to fill the large tub. Merinda undresses Jazlene as you go to return the pot.

You place it near the fire stove as the embers burn low and orange. You stand in front of it, the cindery scent tinging your nostrils. You should go back but unease lingers in your gut. The way Jazlene just stared, how hollow she sounded, you’ve never seen her like that.

The candles behind you flicker and you turn to the swirling shadows. There’s a figure just inside the doorway, almost ghostly, much too towering to be the cook. You gulp and fold your hands against your stomach.

“Hello?” You utter to what must be a wraith.

There is no answer, the silhouette merely moves towards you. You steel yourself, a scream caught in your throat. The tint of the fire stove reflects off golden irises and the king’s figure comes clearer in the night. You suck in air and steady your feet.

“Your highness,” you gasp.

“Ale,” he sneers.

“Yes, your highness, I will fetch--”

“To my chambers,” he demands, looming over you.

“Yes, your highness, ale, at once,” you go to spin and he grabs onto your arm, drawing you back. He grips tightly, squeezing as he pulls you into the haze of warmth radiating from him. Or perhaps that is the oven.

He holds you, puffing out breaths as he glares down at you. You’re trapped in his simmering sights. You look up at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He lets out a low snarl and slowly releases you.

“I hate these summer lands,” he grumbles as you stagger back.

You still and stare as he backs away. He turns on his heel and stalks towards the door, leaving you in frightful curiosity. You open and close your fingers, your forearm tingling from his firm grasp. You rub it through your sleeve as you spin towards the cellar. You will be certain to grab a full cask for the king’s thirst.

#geralt of rivia #dark geralt #dark!geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #the witcher #series #winter's king #au #medieval au

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