#even the song 'she tastes like meat she tastes like blood she tastes so sweet' was so--

[warningsine]

I think we might be fucked-up soulmates.

#dorevengeedit #dreleanor #yellowjacketsedit #mistynat #femslash #do revenge #yellowjackets #drea torres #eleanor levetan #natalie scatorccio #misty quigley #sine's gifs #q #and both pairings are essentially villaneve in this essay I will-- #even the song 'she tastes like meat she tastes like blood she tastes so sweet' was so--

[saintsofwarding]

BURIAL

A dutiful daughter is a useful creature indeed. When Elena Lupu falls under Mother Miranda's notice at a disastrous tithing festival, she proves too valuable for the prophetess to kill. Lady Donna Beneviento has been keeping secrets from Miranda, secrets she can't abide, and Elena is the perfect cuckoo to send straight into Beneviento's nest. Spy on her, report her findings back to Miranda, and Elena- and her ailing father- get to live.

But Lady Beneviento's secrets, and her powers, prove more nightmarish than Elena could ever have dreamed. Even as she falls deeper and deeper into Donna's web, she can't help but wonder- who is she really, under the veil?

Chapter 1

Lady Donna Beneviento no longer remembered her life from before. Before Mother, before Claudia, before the gift.

(Before! Donna, you idiot, there is no before, that's the crazy talking, if there was a before that means I wouldn't have been there and that's not even worth thinking about! Stop being stupid and remember us, just us, I'm with you now and that's what matters most of all)

She'd taken that life in both hands and smothered it, like a mouse prised from a trap, its broken leg dangling, its eyes aglisten with pain, its fur wet with blood. Jewels in the candlelight, a handful of rubies against her corpse-white skin.

(A mercy killing, Donna.)

But if she did remember- if she tried, hard, and looked deep, she could- well, a mouse could never be un-smothered, it remained dead, but- a dark place could be rummaged around in. If she searched and searched through the dust and through the mold, she could almost see it again. This was winter, like then, and she was young, a child, her thin shoulders shivering under her fringed woollen shawl as a woman- her mother- urged her, gently, to the edge of the parapet.

The waterfall thundered, spray filling the air with haze, and the wind numbed young Donna's face to wood, but as her mother's hand smoothed over the neat braids of her hair and she told her to look, sweet girl, look down there, the darkness of the valley bloomed with light. It filled the night air, painted the haze with shades of fire-gold and vivid orange, and Donna could nearly taste it. The barley-sugar and the fried dough, the sweetness of mucenici and the rich, salty grease of roasted pork, so much of it it sizzled and spat in the flames as it dripped from the carcass's ribs. White hogs, legendary for their prized fat-marbled meat, were slaughtered for the birth of the cold, the coming of the dark months and the worm moons and the wolf nights. These were bonfires, dance-fires, and they lit up the frozen mountain valley like a reflection of the stars. Donna imagined the whirl of silk ribbons through the flames, the bells jangling, the music and the laughter and the songs.

And the people! Saints, the people, peasant farmers and craftsmen and hunters with their silver-chased guns, merchants hawking wares from caravan and saddle-bag and pack, telling tales of the strange, wondrous beasts they'd seen in the deep forest, the monster wolves, the stags with antlers that branched like a witch's tree and seemed to shift and move on their heads as if alive. Girls Donna's age, faces ruddy in the firelight as they stuffed themselves sick with sweets, whispering about books and embroidery and how much they hated gutting fish for the ciorba. Donna imagined herself, a pale little girl creeping in at the edge of the circle to display her own embroidery, a handkerchief she'd spent the last week perfecting, its design of crow feathers and holly so perfect, so fine, the individual stitches could not be detected, not even by touch.

They would love her. They would love her! If she showed them she could do things, make things, nice things, they would love her.

"Why can't we..." she started, and her mother cut her off with a shake of her head. In the crook of her arm, baby Claudia snuffled, sleeping in her fur hood, ignorant to the cold and the celebrations below.

"Every year," her mother told her, with a click of her tongue. Lady Beneviento looked as she always did, dressed in embroidered blouse and woollen shawl and softly-chiming ornaments that honored the Saints and Mother Miranda alike. She was thin and wan and gaunt around the edges, a great beauty gone to the edge of the grave, her black hair coiled at the nape of her neck like the knot of a hangman's noose-

(You wish she'd just hanged herself like some kind of normal person, didn't you? Instead of what she and Papa did for realsies. The way they looked at the bottom of the falls-! Ooooh, makes me shiver, doesn't it, Donna! The crows found them long before you did, didn't they? And the rocks found them first, and the water, lapping up at them so soft and gentle, you thought they were big dolls at first, big dolls all broken, because how could those faces be Mommy and Daddy, how could the rocks have treated them so badly, smashed apart like porcelain dropped from such a terrible height-)

"Every year you ask me," Lady Beneviento chided her. "Do I have to answer you again?"

Donna said nothing. She turned slowly back toward the valley below, watching the firelight through the mist. The force of the falls vibrated under her slippers, and she could almost feel the house behind her, a looming weight pressing on the surface of her mind like a stone against water.

Don't let it through, Donna.

But she'd been born here, up in the tower room that stared disconsolate over the mountainside as if waiting for something. Her father had taken her afterbirth in Berengario's great silver chalice, in the way House Beneviento had for so many sister centuries, only this time, for her and for Claudia, later, it was not delivered to the monster wolves- holy creatures- at the edge of the woods. It was taken down, down, down the long winding path, over the bridges and through the lych-yard and down and down the mountain to the glow of candles and the click of gilded talons, to a smile with teeth and the taste of mold and incense on the back of the tongue.

To Mother Miranda, who, if Donna's father was to be believed, had taken it from the chalice in his upraised hands as he'd knelt at her feet, had slid her claws deep into its pulpy mass, and had smiled as she sank her teeth into the bloody flesh and tore a chunk out.

Affinity, she'd whispered, and even telling it years later Donna's father smiled like the sun was on his face. Donna had nagged at him to tell her the story as she perched, legs swinging, on a chair by his workbench while he carved his pretty dolls and clever puppets.

House Beneviento had ever been full of silver tongues and quick fingers, ever since the great Berengario had brought his famed silver automata to life within sight of this mountain place, animated by their glowing crystal hearts. It was said ghosts lived within the crystal, that they were what gave the automata life, were what had made them write and preen and dance, all in eerie, perfect silence save for the faint click-click of their mechanical innards. Now, centuries later, his descendant's creations dangled on strings from the rafters around them, paint drying, glue setting, gilt fresh as snowfall, newborn things like Donna had once been.

"What made that so special?" she'd groused. "She ate it? So what?"

"So," Lord Beneviento had said, mocking her insistent tone, "It means you could be special, too, poppet. You could be her child. Her special child."

She'd grabbed at her father's coattails, and when she spoke it was in a high, keening whine, pathetic with anxiety. "But I'm already your child. No one else's. Don't say I'm anyone else's, please, please, please-"

"Donna," her father said, low in his throat.

But her grip tightened, sweaty on the fabric. "Can't you just show me how to carve the hands, how to paint the faces again, please?"

(Oooh, Donna, but that made you excited, didn't it? Not just a princess but the prettiest princess! Miranda's pretty princess. Special, special, cakes and tea, a dress for every day of the year. Those golden talons stroking your hair. Everyone in town not being scared of you and your dead face anymore. They'd bow before you! Shower you with devotion! So much love you could choke on it! But you were too scared, weren't you, and that's what ended up doing this to you, twisting you and maiming you, little mouse in a trap with a broken leg. Maybe if you'd been braver, been bolder, the gift would have given you abilities good enough for Mother. It's all right, I get it. I do. I'm no portrait myself, ha ha ha! I know how it feels. We're a team, you and I. A matched set. You're too scared and too broken so just do as I say, and we'll be just fine)

"I just want to go see," little Donna whispered to her mother.

"What was that?"

"The...the festivals. It's holy, that's what the gardener says. A holy night and it's lucky to dance," she said all in a rush. She huddled deeper into her shawl; the cold had tightened, bitter against her teeth. She barely felt her toes. "Maybe...maybe we could be lucky, I mean me and you and Papa and Claudia, we could all be-"

"No," her mother snarled. Donna shut up with a flinch. "You don't leave. You can't. Never!"

"Just one time couldn't hurt," Donna muttered.

Her mother's hand snapped to her face and pinched it, pinched her cheek so hard between her thin fingers the pain felt like a needle through her, hot and throbbing and so sudden she gasped. Her eyes snapped wide as her mother yanked her close, as she bent to Donna's level, as she stared into Donna's face with eyes so huge her colorless irises were ringed in white. She radiated panic, bitter and awful; Claudia stirred in her arms and began to fuss, but Lady Beneviento ignored her.

"You can never go down to the village," she told Donna. "You set foot past the gates alone, you even think of crossing the bridge, and I'll break your legs myself. I'll take a hammer to you like Lord Heisenberg and break them so badly you shall never walk again. Do you understand?"

She gave Donna a shake, nails biting deep into her flesh. "Do you understand me?"

Tears streamed from Donna's eyes; she tasted blood, tasted the acid of fear. "I-"

"Do you?"

"Y...yes-"

"Good." She released Donna and began to rock the baby in her arms, little Claudia grumbling and twisting her small newborn face. Their mother settled, serene, a pale figure in the night, like nothing had happened, but the light had not left her eyes, bright with mania, with a terror that touched madness.

Donna's heart raced. Her face ached, hot and pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She couldn't move, not even when the cold reached her knees, not even when bursts and pinwheels of color lit the night, the smell of saltpeter reaching them through the gloom as the fireworks spiraled higher and higher toward the moon.

(And you stayed that way a long time)

Donna, Donna, Donna, quiet as a mouse. Little Dolly Donna, creep about the house!

I should have run-

(But if you had I would never have been born! And you'd miss me, wouldn't you?)

I can't miss what was never there.

(But I am here, Donna)

The dark closed in. Claudia was a child, bright and sunny, laughing in the garden amidst yellow flowers. She raced ahead, pigtail whipping over her shoulder.

Come find me!

Donna covered her eyes, then peeked, and Claudia was there, face bright with mirth. She took after their father in that way.

Don't look, Donna!

She covered her eyes again, and the darkness grew closer until it was all around, until she smelled the damp and stone and unbroken cold of a place far belowground, that had never, never seen the sun.

And when she took her hands away, Claudia was gone.

She sat on a spindly chair on an uneven flagstone floor, chair legs rasping against grit each time she shifted her weight. The house above crushed down against her, another sense honed by time.

A pale figure glowed before her in the darkness, lace and silk petticoats and porcelain grin, perched on the stone lip of an old, old well.

(I am here, and you are here, and we are never,

never,

never

going away.)

#re8 #re8 fanfiction #resident evil village #donna beneviento #elena lupu #angie beneviento #mother miranda #re8 oc #re8 fic #karl heisenberg #resident evil #chapter 1 #cw child death #cw body horror #cw gore #gothic horror #gothic romance #wlw #claudia beneviento

[strawberrymilk-sunshine]

That's what love is.

Tbh not sure how my mind conjured up this idea, but uh, enjoy I guess.

Warning(s): fem reader, implied kidnapping, depiction of drowning, murder, delusions, gore, implied cannibalism

A love song plays on the radio. Though the lyrics are questionable, it's quite a popular song. The song is from the perspective of a girl who kills and eats her boyfriend because she wants him to always be with her. It's a beautiful love story, isn't it?

Floyd sure thinks it is. He thinks the girl's dedication is admirable! The fact that she eats him shows she wanted a connection even stronger that what they had at the time. She wanted to be even closer to him than she was. That's what love is. Wanting to be so physically close to your lover that they become a part of you.

That's what love is.

Floyd gets a text from his brother as he prepares the shrimp pasta dinner.

Spare parts 🍄: On our way. We should be there in about three hours. We are excited to meet your girlfriend!

He shudders when he reads it.

That's right, he told Jade and Azul he had a girlfriend named (Y/N)... And well, he does, but... the thing is...

(Y/N)'s not exactly... alive.

She was beautiful, so beautiful, he needed her to be with him forever. And eventually, he got her! He got the love of his life! Sure, she needed some... convincing... and sure, a bit of force was used when he brought her home with him for the first time... but the point is, he had the love of his life with him!

(Y/N) would cry every night, and Floyd had no idea why! She had a perfect life with him, didn't he? Why was she crying? (Y/N) also tried to leave him a few times... that made him sad. Did she not appreciate him as much as he did her? So sad, so sad...

He couldn't understand why she was so sad. He couldn't understand why she wanted to leave. He couldn't understand. He couldn't understand. He couldn't understand. He couldn't understand.

One day, he decided to make her happy. He made her happy. He made sure she would never leave him. He made both of them happy.

He drew a bath for her. He added a bath bomb and some nice smelling bubble bath. She's sure to like it!

And she did. She loved it. She loved her bath. She was flailing her arms and yelling (clearly out of excitement!)

She was flailing, and yelling, and flailing, and yelling, and flailing, and yelling, and flailing, and yelling, and flailing and yelling, and flailing, and yelling, and flailing, and yelling...

And then all at once she stopped.

Floyd called his brother.

"Sorry to cancel on ya last minute, but (Y/N) and I actually have some important things we need to do. Maybe you could come over and meet her some other time?"

"Oh. Yes, no worries, Floyd. I mean, Azul and I did go through all this trouble to try to come over and see your new place, but..." Jade sighed. "It is what it is, I suppose."

"Yeah, I'll... see you another time, I guess."

Floyd hangs up the phone.

The radio continues playing the song.

It won't stop. The song should've stopped five minutes ago, but it won't stop. When it reaches the end, it just begins again. What's going on? Something's wrong, something is terribly, horribly wrong.

...or maybe, nothing's wrong at all.

Maybe this is a sign.

A sign instructing him on what to do.

A sign, telling him how he can become even closer to the one he loves.

The song grates his ears. A sickly sweet melody eats away at his brain. The girl singing describes the gruesome death of her boyfriend, and that everything she's doing, it's all for the sake of love. She proceeds to describe the cooking process. And afterwards, the taste of his meat, and how now, they're closer than they ever could have been before. That's what love is.

That's what love is, isn't it?

Yes, that's exactly what love is...

(Y/N)'s still in her bath.

He grabs her out of the water. Only her face and arms are wet.

He brings her to the kitchen. The song continues playing as he cuts her apart. Blood leaks all over the counter. He chops off her limbs and head, and shoves those parts in the freezer. For later. He cuts open the torso, he rips out her rib bones and her spine, he discards the organs he has no use for.

Hmm... that full torso isn't gonna fit in the oven. Oh well, no matter, just means more cutting is necessary!

The song slowly decends into madness, and so too does he.

"Ehe, this was such a good idea! Soon, Shrimpy, we'll be closer than we've ever been before." Floyd said to himself, as he watched thhe meat slowly cook, crouched down in front of his oven.

To be so close to your lover that they become a part of you... that's what love is.

That's what love is.

That's what love is.

That's what love is.

That's what love is.

This is what love is.

The song is no longer playing.

#floyd leech #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst #yandere #yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twst x reader #yandere floyd leech #yandere floyd x reader #yandere floyd leech x reader #yandere floyd

[gyusimp]

"The red means i love you"

🩸Warnings: Canon Gyutaro | Explicit violence | Blood | Insults | Death of the reader | Minors/sensitive people DNI. Violence between two people is not romanticized or normalized.

🩸Song Inspo: "Breezeblocks" - Alt-J

This would happen at some point. You forced yourself not to believe it, you knew that there was a high percentage of probabilities but your heart fought with your brain at that idea, causing you to store it in a corner to seriously analyze it later and with that excuse, never think about it again.

How could someone who loves you hurt you? you forgot a great little detail...he is a demon.

Today was a night like any other, the slightly chilly wind blowing through the streets of the entertainment district. The temperature wasn't too cold to the point of making your bones ache but it was to make you have to take an extra sheet out of the closet to sleep on tonight.

You walked to the futon in the center of the room, arranged the kimono you used to sleep in and got under the sheets while you blew out the candle on the next table with a soft breath and then settled your head on the pillow. Since you didn't see Gyutaro yesterday, you know he has other things to do but that didn't change the fact that you missed him and wanted to have him close to you. He would be with his sister at this time, it was the safest. Besides, you didn't have to worry about him because nothing bad could happen to him.

You looked at the ceiling while thinking about him but then sleep began to invade your body causing your eyelids to close until after a few minutes you were completely asleep.

Gyutaro was far from the district, Daki was fighting with a couple of rookie slayers until a more skilled one arrived who, by cutting off her head, made her burst into tears and between howls of frustration she desperately cried out for her brother's help. Gyutaro wouldn't leave her alone but the fact that she couldn't do something so simple on her own put him in a bad mood.

Even though the 3 slayers' bodies were lying lifeless on the ground, the older sibling of the two moons had an uncontrollable bloodlust. He ripped and devoured every part of the hunters along with his sister, though his selfish instinct made him take more meat than she did. Veins all over his body were popping almost exploding under his skin, his muscles were tense and his mouth wouldn't stop salivating. Gyutaro could deduce the flavor of each person depending on their gender and age, he felt in a way that he rarely feels. He knew the taste his mouth needed, the tender, juicy texture his teeth begged to break, and the sweetness only a certain type of blood left on his lips.

He needed to eat a young woman.

Gyutaro took both of his sickles in his hands and headed back to the entertainment district where with admirable ease he slaughtered a couple of girls for food. He ate them to the bone, drank their blood and tasted their bowels but that insatiable hunger inside him couldn't be stopped. This was beginning to annoy him, Gyutaro was cursing and attacking the air, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. He clawed at his skin so hard it bled, he walked aimlessly and then ran through the shadows until a scent made him stop. The window of a house caught his attention, the window was closed but fortunately he knew exactly how to open it. Nothing would stop him from getting what he wanted, what his body needed. At first he didn't know what he wanted but when he felt and remembered that delicious aroma that drove him crazy, he understood.

Peculiar blood.

Gyutaro was an expert at sneaking under the shadows, he could hide his presence completely and make his footsteps soft and totally silent. He approached you and little by little he observed you. Your loose hair slid down the white pillow that supported your head, your closed eyes gracefully fanned your long lashes, and your mouth was slightly parted as you breathed. Your breathing was slow and calm as was the beating of your heart, hearing the flow of your blood and seeing your rosy cheecks because of it made Gyutaro's chest jump mischievously and make his stomach twist with hunger and need like if it was empty.

You said that you would always be there for him when he needed it most and now, he was very grateful for that.

Gyutaro was on top of you, almost drooling. He raised one of his hands above your face and lowered it slowly until he forcefully covered your mouth so you couldn't make a sound.

Your eyes went wide trying to wake up as quickly as possible and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Gyutaro usually jokes heavily so you didn't know if this was a joke or not. He covered your mouth and your nose with his hand, the air began to lack you and it was more and more difficult for you to breathe. You looked right into his vein-filled yellow eyes and sharp-toothed smile. He did nothing but choke you, he just smiled as he watched as you awkwardly tried to remove his hand from your face. Gyutaro moved closer to you and buried his face in the space between your neck and your shoulder, inhaling your sweet and tempting scent.

His hot breath hit your skin, he moved his hand a few inches below your nose and you were finally able to breathe a little.

"You smell so good, I'm sure you'll taste much better...can I?" he asked.

Your heart was beating too fast and your forehead was beginning to sweat. Right after he spoke, a terrible burn formed on your shoulder as Gyutaro sank his sharp teeth into your skin. A gasp tried to come from deep in your throat but Gyutaro's hand on your mouth stopped it. Several tears began to form in your eyes and fall on your cheeks while he settled his teeth better. Your legs and hands moved desperately trying to get him away from you but it was impossible.

You still won't think this was real. This ever happened to you in your mind but the love you felt for him blinded your ability to reason and remember that he was a human-eating demon, ruthless and with uncontrollable murderous instincts but despite that, you believed that he wouldn't be able. He was someone special, a different demon.

But here is your "different" demon cornering you to the ground ready to kill you and eat you.

Gyutaro continued with his teeth sunk into your flesh, the hot sensation of your blood dripping on your skin and dirtying your sheets made you cry more, but besides the indescribable physical pain, what hurt the most was your heart to see him in this state, so unrecognizable to you

Would you be able to survive this?

Your human instinct to want to continue living made you wake up. Gyutaro wasn't joking, so you had to do something to help yourself.

You grabbed Gyutaro's hair hard to try to get him away from you but it was useless, you hit his arms hard but nothing worked. You did everything in your power until desperate, you moved one of your legs to hit him right in the stomach and ribs with your knee with all your might. He felt some pain so unconsciously he opened his mouth when he complained and as fast as you could you took that opportunity to run away. Before Gyutaro could attack you again, you punched his nose hard causing him to smell the strong scent of his own blood. Your wound hurt too much but the adrenaline of the moment made you roll on the futon to get away from him.

"Motherfucker!" he yelled, his voice heavy and rather angry.

You crawled across the floor, standing, you ran to the door of your room but before you could get there your face hit the hard ground making your head ache violently. Gyutaro grabbed your foot with one hand and pulled you towards him again. No matter how much you kicked and cried and begged him not to, he wouldn't listen. Gyutaro dragged you back under him and now he wouldn't let you go.

"You're going to regret this, you fucking bitch!"

Gyutaro didn't want to use his weapons, something inside him wanted to stop him but he didn't know what. A sharp pang centered in your abdomen as the point of one of his sickles stabbed almost through you causing you to scream in pain. A dry cough came out of your mouth and a little blood dripped from your lips. If you were seriously injured it was impossible for you to try to escape again. Gyutaro's long tongue licked the tip of his sharp sickle, delighting in the reddish liquid that came from your body and that made his appetite increase even more.

This was the end. Gyutaro took the opportunity to take another bite of your flesh but this time tearing off a piece of skin to swallow it in less than a second and he continued nibbling the meatiest parts of your body.

The pain you felt was indescribable, in your body and in your heart. Your vision began to blur but it wasn't because of the tears, your body was getting weaker and weaker and all you could see was Gyutaro eating you alive. The poison from his sickles was starting to take effect too, your whole body was writhing in cold and pain from all the blood you were losing. His sharp teeth were red as were his tongue and his hands, you could swear he almost cut your belly in two to eat your insides but nothing could be made out when it was so tinged with red.

You accepted your end and how stupid you had been. At what point did it occur to you to get entangled with a demon? Being so close to him to the point of giving him all your love when he wouldn't appreciate it. He probably wasn't even interested in your feelings. You've always been told that love makes people stupid, unable to think. You didn't believe in that idea at all but now here was the proof in front of your eyes. While you were dying, your whole life passed through your mind, including all the most "beautiful" moments that you had lived with him, believing that he also loved you in the way that you madly adored him. This wicked man had been everything in your life. You looked at him one last time, because stupid as you were, even this couldn't make you hate him. You raised your red-smeared hand slowly, trying to keep your limbs working to get his attention for at least one last time. Your trembling hand reached out to him to touch any part of his skin, your breathing was too fast and your body did not stop shaking.

You doubted if he would even be conscious at this point.

"G-Gyu...taro..." you said, with some difficulty. The simple fact of speaking was as complicated and painful for you as trying to climb a mountain with your bare hands. Your soft touch reached Gyutaro's skin, your skin began to get cold and upon hearing your voice he inevitably looked towards your face.

Your gaze was fixed on him and after a gasp and strong sigh you did not blink again. Gyutaro had never seen that expression on your face in his life and that made him wake up somehow. He looked around him. Blood everywhere.

Your blood on the floor, the sheets, your clothes, your skin, his hands... and his mouth.

Gyutaro...what have you done?

#gyutaro x reader #gyutaro #gyutaro shabana #gyutaro smut #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #no minors allowed #read at your own risk

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ADWD: Prologue

Please welcome our new POV, Varamyr Sixskins. He's a warg, and a piece of shit.

Also, this chapter should share a theme with the epilogue or Daenerys X, so keep that in mind.

The warg stopped beneath a tree and sniffed, his grey-brown fur dappled by shadow. A sigh of piney wind brought the man-scent to him, over fainter smells that spoke of fox and hare, seal and stag, even wolf. Those were man-smells too, the warg knew; the stink of old skins, dead and sour, near drowned beneath the stronger scents of smoke and blood and rot. Only man stripped the skins from other beasts and wore their hides and hair.

I'm only now putting together that Arya wearing the faces of the dead is like warging into people.

Bad, bad Arya! You're bad!

+.+.+

Wargs have no fear of man, as wolves do. Hate and hunger coiled in his belly, and he gave a low growl, calling to his one-eyed brother, to his small sly sister. 

Bran has those too!

+.+.+

The trees had grown icy teeth, snarling down from the bare brown branches. 

Do the trees have mouths?

+.+.+

His one-eyed brother knocked the tooth-thrower back into a snowdrift and tore his throat out as he struggled. His sister slipped behind the other male and took him from the rear. That left the female and her pup for him.

She had a tooth too, a little one made of bone, but she dropped it when the warg's jaws closed around her leg. As she fell, she wrapped both arms around her noisy pup. Underneath her furs the female was just skin and bones, but her dugs were full of milk. The sweetest meat was on the pup. The wolf saved the choicest parts for his brother. All around the carcasses, the frozen snow turned pink and red as the pack filled its bellies.

Well, that's unfortunate.

The wolf lapped at it with his tongue, licked the ragged eyeless ruin of his nose and cheeks, then buried his muzzle in his neck and tore it open, gulping down a gobbet of sweet meat. No flesh had ever tasted half as good. - Bran I, ADWD

And,

"That's just a story," Arya blurted out before she could stop herself. "Wolves don't eat babies." - Arya II, ACOK

Yes they do.

+.+.+

Leagues away, in a one-room hut of mud and straw with a thatched roof and a smoke hole and a floor of hard-packed earth, Varamyr shivered and coughed and licked his lips. His eyes were red, his lips cracked, his throat dry and parched, but the taste of blood and fat filled his mouth, even as his swollen belly cried for nourishment. A child's flesh, he thought, remembering Bump. Human meat. Had he sunk so low as to hunger after human meat? He could almost hear Haggon growling at him. "Men may eat the flesh of beasts and beasts the flesh of men, but the man who eats the flesh of man is an abomination."

Abomination. That had always been Haggon's favorite word. Abomination, abomination, abomination. To eat of human meat was abomination, to mate as wolf with wolf was abomination, and to seize the body of another man was the worst abomination of all.

Basically Bran's on a slippery slope right now.

Bad, bad Bran! You're bad!

+.+.+

I was Varamyr Sixskins, who broke bread with Mance Rayder. He had named himself Varamyr when he was ten. A name fit for a lord, a name for songs, a mighty name, and fearsome. 

I'm not sure if anything is being suggested here, but I feel the need to point out that Bran's currently ten.

+.+.+

One day, as they fled, a rider came galloping through the woods on a gaunt white horse, shouting that they all should make for the Milkwater, that the Weeper was gathering warriors to cross the Bridge of Skulls and take the Shadow Tower. Many followed him; more did not. Later, a dour warrior in fur and amber went from cookfire to cookfire, urging all the survivors to head north and take refuge in the valley of the Thenns. Why he thought they would be safe there when the Thenns themselves had fled the place Varamyr never learned, but hundreds followed him. Hundreds more went off with the woods witch who'd had a vision of a fleet of ships coming to carry the free folk south. "We must seek the sea," cried Mother Mole, and her followers turned east.

Trying to stay on top of where the wildlings have spread.

I know about Hardhome, but I forget what's happened to the other two groups.

+.+.+

It was snowing, and Varamyr had lost his own cloaks at the Wall. His sleeping pelts and woolen smallclothes, his sheepskin boots and fur-lined gloves, his store of mead and hoarded food, the hanks of hair he took from the women he bedded, even the golden arm rings Mance had given him, all lost and left behind. 

That's kind of weird to include.

Craster had a gold ring.

Craster's sheepskin jerkin and cloak of sewn skins made a shabby contrast, but around one thick wrist was a heavy ring that had the glint of gold. He looked to be a powerful man, though well into the winter of his days now, his mane of hair grey going to white. - Jon III, ACOK

And you might remember Tormund has gold armbands that he'll give to Jon.

"Your first payment. Had those from my father and him from his. Now they're yours, you thieving black bastard."

The armbands were old gold, solid and heavy, engraved with the ancient runes of the First Men. Tormund Giantsbane had worn them as long as Jon had known him; they had seemed as much a part of him as his beard. - Jon XI, ADWD

I don't know. Don't ask me.

+.+.+

Death was not so easily outrun, however. So when Varamyr came upon the dead woman in the wood, he knelt to strip the cloak from her, and never saw the boy until he burst from hiding to drive the long bone knife into his side and rip the cloak out of his clutching fingers. "His mother," Thistle told him later, after the boy had run off. "It were his mother's cloak, and when he saw you robbing her …"

"She was dead," Varamyr said, wincing as her bone needle pierced his flesh.

See, but George doesn't like it when you steal from the dead. Coins, helms, cloaks, faces . . . he doesn't approve.

+.+.+

He could taste his true death in the smoke that hung acrid in the air, feel it in the heat beneath his fingers when he slipped a hand under his clothes to touch his wound. The chill was in him too, though, deep down in his bones. This time it would be cold that killed him.

His last death had been by fire. I burned. 

It's Varamyr's song of ice and fire.

+.+.+

Varamyr had died nine times before. He had died once from a spear thrust, once with a bear's teeth in his throat, and once in a wash of blood as he brought forth a stillborn cub.

Pardon?

+.+.+

Haggon taught me much and more. He taught me how to hunt and fish, how to butcher a carcass and bone a fish, how to find my way through the woods. And he taught me the way of the warg and the secrets of the skinchanger, though my gift was stronger than his own.

Bran and Bloodraven.

+.+.+

Before Mance, Varamyr Sixskins had been a lord of sorts. He lived alone in a hall of moss and mud and hewn logs that had once been Haggon's, attended by his beasts. A dozen villages did him homage in bread and salt and cider, offering him fruit from their orchards and vegetables from their gardens. His meat he got himself. Whenever he desired a woman he sent his shadowcat to stalk her, and whatever girl he'd cast his eye upon would follow meekly to his bed. Some came weeping, aye, but still they came. Varamyr gave them his seed, took a hank of their hair to remember them by, and sent them back. From time to time, some village hero would come with spear in hand to slay the beastling and save a sister or a lover or a daughter. Those he killed, but he never harmed the women. Some he even blessed with children. Runts. Small, puny things, like Lump, and not one with the gift.

Lump was Varamyr's given name.

This is a heinous person, and this is the worst prologue by far. Please get me out of here.

+.+.+

When Varamyr pushed at it, the snow crumbled and gave way, still soft and wet. Outside, the night was white as death; pale thin clouds danced attendance on a silver moon, while a thousand stars watched coldly. He could see the humped shapes of other huts buried beneath drifts of snow, and beyond them the pale shadow of a weirwood armored in ice.

Gosh, there's a lot happening here. I don't know what to say.

Snow, danced, silver moon, a thousand stars watched, shadow, a weirwood armored in ice. . . sure.

+.+.+

Far away, a wolf gave howl.

A shiver went through Varamyr. He knew that howl as well as Lump had once known his mother's voice. One Eye. He was the oldest of his three, the biggest, the fiercest. Stalker was leaner, quicker, younger, Sly more cunning, but both went in fear of One Eye. The old wolf was fearless, relentless, savage.

A wolf named One Eye? Incheresting. :)

+.+.+

Varamyr had lost control of his other beasts in the agony of the eagle's death. His shadowcat had raced into the woods, whilst his snow bear turned her claws on those around her, ripping apart four men before falling to a spear. She would have slain Varamyr had he come within her reach. The bear hated him, had raged each time he wore her skin or climbed upon her back.

Warging bad.

+.+.+

Dogs were the easiest beasts to bond with; they lived so close to men that they were almost human. Slipping into a dog's skin was like putting on an old boot, its leather softened by wear. As a boot was shaped to accept a foot, a dog was shaped to accept a collar, even a collar no human eye could see. Wolves were harder. A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf. "Wolves and women wed for life," Haggon often said. "You take one, that's a marriage. The wolf is part of you from that day on, and you're part of him. Both of you will change."

And not for the better.

It's odd he included women in that marrying for life business.

+.+.+

Other beasts were best left alone, the hunter had declared. Cats were vain and cruel, always ready to turn on you. Elk and deer were prey; wear their skins too long, and even the bravest man became a coward. Bears, boars, badgers, weasels … Haggon did not hold with such. "Some skins you never want to wear, boy. You won't like what you'd become." Birds were the worst, to hear him tell it. "Men were not meant to leave the earth. Spend too much time in the clouds and you never want to come back down again. I know skinchangers who've tried hawks, owls, ravens. Even in their own skins, they sit moony, staring up at the bloody blue."

Basically Bran's on a slippery slope right now.

And Daenerys is already too far gone.

+.+.+

None of them had been as strong as Varamyr Sixskins, though, not even Haggon, tall and grim with his hands as hard as stone. The hunter died weeping after Varamyr took Greyskin from him, driving him out to claim the beast for his own. No second life for you, old man.

I doubt the name Greyskin is a coincidence. Rip Robb Stark x 2.

Varamyr killed the man who raised him, and then stole the man's second life by claiming his wolf.

While that's awful, I think a good takeaway here is that a student killed their mentor.

+.+.+

Varamyr Threeskins, he'd called himself back then. Greyskin made four, though the old wolf was frail and almost toothless and soon followed Haggon into death.

Amazed he didn't make a foreskin joke.

+.+.+

Varamyr could take any beast he wanted, bend them to his will, make their flesh his own. Dog or wolf, bear or badger …

Or dragon?

+.+.+

His wolves were close now. He could feel them. He would leave this feeble flesh behind, become one with them, hunting the night and howling at the moon. The warg would become a true wolf. Which, though?

Not Sly. Haggon would have called it abomination, but Varamyr had often slipped inside her skin as she was being mounted by One Eye. He did not want to spend his new life as a bitch, though, not unless he had no other choice. Stalker might suit him better, the younger male … though One Eye was larger and fiercer, and it was One Eye who took Sly whenever she went into heat.

One Eye the wolf mounts his sister when she's in heat.

You do whatever you want with that.

+.+.+

"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death. "When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains."

Varamyr knew the truth of that. 

In other words, Jon's not working with a lot of time.

+.+.+

He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There would be a second life worthy of a king.

King Jon foreshadowing, and a big hint he's entered into his "second life."

This is not like Beric and Lady Stoneheart.

+.+.+

The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it.

Varamyr is saying this, so that's how we know warging is bad.

+.+.+

Varamyr could see the weirwood's red eyes staring down at him from the white trunk. The gods are weighing me. A shiver went through him.

Someone's watching.

+.+.+

He had done bad things, terrible things. He had stolen, killed, raped. He had gorged on human flesh and lapped the blood of dying men as it gushed red and hot from their torn throats. He had stalked foes through the woods, fallen on them as they slept, clawed their entrails from their bellies and scattered them across the muddy earth. How sweet their meat had tasted. "That was the beast, not me," he said in a hoarse whisper.

I'm really hating that word right now.

"Your blood makes you a greenseer," said Lord Brynden. "This will help awaken your gifts and wed you to the trees."

[...]

He ate.

It had a bitter taste, though not so bitter as acorn paste. The first spoonful was the hardest to get down. He almost retched it right back up. The second tasted better. The third was almost sweet. The rest he spooned up eagerly. Why had he thought that it was bitter? - Bran III, ADWD

+.+.+

He dreamt an old dream of a hovel by the sea, three dogs whimpering, a woman's tears.

He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in white cloaks, and a tower long fallen, and Lyanna in her bed of blood. - Eddard X, AGOT

x

She dreamt an old dream, of three girls in brown cloaks, a wattled crone, and a tent that smelled of death. - Cersei VIII, AFFC

+.+.+

When his father found the dogs sniffing round Bump's body, he had no way of knowing which had done it, so he took his axe to all three. 

I'll save you the story. Lump warged into one of the family dogs, and killed his two-year-old brother, Bump.

So, to summarize:

Varamyr killed his brother.

Varamyr killed his mentor, then stole his second life.

Varamyr wargs into shadowcats to rape women.

Varamyr enjoys slipping into female wolves while they're mating.

Varamyr slipped into a female wolf while she was giving birth.

Varamyr enjoys eating humans.

When Varamyr dies, he plans to takeover the body and mind of his only companion, Thistle the spearwife.

Is psychopath a strong enough word here?

+.+.+

Thistle had returned to him. She had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, shouting in his face. Varamyr could smell her breath and feel the warmth of it upon cheeks gone numb with cold. Now, he thought, do it now, or die.

He summoned all the strength still in him, leapt out of his own skin, and forced himself inside her.

Thistle arched her back and screamed.

Abomination. Was that her, or him, or Haggon? He never knew. His old flesh fell back into the snowdrift as her fingers loosened. The spearwife twisted violently, shrieking. His shadowcat used to fight him wildly, and the snow bear had gone half-mad for a time, snapping at trees and rocks and empty air, but this was worse. "Get out, get out!" he heard her own mouth shouting. Her body staggered, fell, and rose again, her hands flailed, her legs jerked this way and that in some grotesque dance as his spirit and her own fought for the flesh. She sucked down a mouthful of the frigid air, and Varamyr had half a heartbeat to glory in the taste of it and the strength of this young body before her teeth snapped together and filled his mouth with blood. She raised her hands to his face. He tried to push them down again, but the hands would not obey, and she was clawing at his eyes. Abomination, he remembered, drowning in blood and pain and madness. When he tried to scream, she spat their tongue out.

People have theorized that Robb warged into Catelyn, because she did something similar.

Finally someone took the knife away from her. The tears burned like vinegar as they ran down her cheeks. Ten fierce ravens were raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh, leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood. She could taste it on her lips. - Catelyn VII, ASOS

Those people are wrong, and weird.

He warged into Greywind, and then died again. That's tragic enough I think.

+.+.+

Abomination. Was that her, or him, or Haggon? He never knew. 

x

When he claimed the eagle that had been Orell's, he could feel the other skinchanger raging at his presence. Orell had been slain by the turncloak crow Jon Snow, and his hate for his killer had been so strong that Varamyr found himself hating the beastling boy as well. 

The text seems to be implying that after Varamyr took Haggon's wolf and Orell's eagle, both men imprinted on him?

Probably should remember that when it comes to Hodor and Bran.

+.+.+

The white world turned and fell away. For a moment it was as if he were inside the weirwood, gazing out through carved red eyes as a dying man twitched feebly on the ground and a madwoman danced blind and bloody underneath the moon, weeping red tears and ripping at her clothes. Then both were gone and he was rising, melting, his spirit borne on some cold wind. He was in the snow and in the clouds, he was a sparrow, a squirrel, an oak. A horned owl flew silently between his trees, hunting a hare; Varamyr was inside the owl, inside the hare, inside the trees. Deep below the frozen ground, earthworms burrowed blindly in the dark, and he was them as well. I am the wood, and everything that's in it, he thought, exulting. 

What the hell? Is he logging into weirwood.net?

+.+.+

A hundred ravens took to the air, cawing as they felt him pass. A great elk trumpeted, unsettling the children clinging to his back. A sleeping direwolf raised his head to snarl at empty air. 

Hey Bran.

+.+.+

That was his last thought as a man.

True death came suddenly; he felt a shock of cold, as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of a frozen lake. 

"Ghost," he whispered. Pain washed over him. Stick them with the pointy end. When the third dagger took him between the shoulder blades, he gave a grunt and fell face-first into the snow. He never felt the fourth knife. Only the cold … - Jon XIII, ADWD

+.+.+

Then he found himself rushing over moonlit snows with his packmates close behind him. Half the world was dark. One Eye, he knew. He bayed, and Sly and Stalker gave echo.

Varamyr dies, and is reborn as One Eye. How fun!

+.+.+

When they reached the crest the wolves paused.

[...]

The things below moved, but did not live. One by one, they raised their heads toward the three wolves on the hill. The last to look was the thing that had been Thistle. She wore wool and fur and leather, and over that she wore a coat of hoarfrost that crackled when she moved and glistened in the moonlight. Pale pink icicles hung from her fingertips, ten long knives of frozen blood. And in the pits where her eyes had been, a pale blue light was flickering, lending her coarse features an eerie beauty they had never known in life.

She sees me.

The wights. . . they die, and they know things.

Final thoughts:

It took me three days to read this chapter. I'm not exaggerating.

I'm a little concerned.

-> return to menu <-

#operation stumpy re-read #adwd #prologue

[kaiandthestrangespaghetti]

The Only Home I Know (Part 01/?)

This is a continuation of Wasteland, Baby - all parts of which can be found here: 01/02/03/04/05

Pairing: Miami Man x F!Reader

Wordcount: 3.6k

Warnings: Mentions of violence, brief mention of cannibalism, vaginal sex, anal sex, mouth stuff, size kink/size difference, strength kink, bodily fluids, hide and seek/play fighting, dirty talk, (just all round filth), love and cuteness.

Summary: You, Miami and Miel are holding up in an abandoned town after escaping Miel’s kidnappers.

A/N: Thank you @artsy-trash-panda for coming up with the premise! And @kamcrazy123 for enabling this lol. This is the first one where we start to get plot involving The Dream.

Tags: @artsy-trash-panda @kamcrazy123

The exhaustion of the past few days is so total that you remember tucking back into Cam’s body on the kitchen floor, the song drifting quietly from the radio’s speakers and then nothing. Your eyes open crisply as the very first morning light leaks into the kitchen through the big patio doors.

Cam has turned the other way in the night. He stirs slightly as you sit up but rolls a little further onto his front. The elegant necks of the flamingos tattooed on his back and shoulder blades rise and fall with his slow breathing.

You’re so awake, so full of energy. Getting to your feet you cross the kitchen and quietly reach into a box of supplies you’d brought in from the truck – the stuff you’d taken from Elijah’s compound.

Elijah’s face swims in your memory for a moment. The man who kidnapped Miami’s daughter. He’d kept talking about someone called ‘The Dream’. The shockwave of the grenade you’d stuffed in his clothes punctuates the thought. Whoever The Dream was, he’d lost one of his lapdogs.

The candy bar is delicious after nothing but meat. Sickly sweet but heavenly. Using your knees as a vice, you crack the seal on a Sprite bottle one handed and wake Cam as you twist it open, he rolls with a groan. Flexing his neck as he leans up on one elbow. His hair completely loose, face still bruised from what happened the day before.

Before you can pass him the bottle, he’s on his bare feet, padding quietly down the hall to check Miel’s room. She’s still sound asleep. It must be no later than five am.

He closes the bedroom door silently and comes back into the kitchen, sweeping his hair back from his face with one hand and leaning his forearms on the opposite side of the kitchen island. With a smile, you pass him the bottle and he drains the rest of it.

His bruised cheek is rough with stubble when you cup it in your hand. He leans into you, placing his own much larger palm over yours. It’s so warm. You communicate easily this way now; wordlessly. A soft peace settles in the gloomy kitchen. It feels strange in how normal it all is. Like you could almost be a family who bought a house here, not the outcasts you are.

But you’re not like the people who would have bought these houses. None of you. A thought that no longer causes you any pain, especially when you see that look on Cam’s face – that low lidded hazel gaze and slight smile. So warm but so wicked. He’s the safest place you’ve ever been, and the taste of blood in your mouth simultaneously. A crate of chocolate bars and the brutal means by which you obtained them. Cam is dangerous, but so are you. Perhaps more so.

You’re chewing your lip and you don’t even notice. But you do notice Cam’s cleaver still laying on the counter between you, still clipped in its holster. He sees you glance down at it, but he can’t catch your hand before you unsnap the holster and slide the bare steel of the blade across the counter with a hiss. His tattooed fingers close on your narrow wrist. There’s no moving now. He raises a scarred eyebrow at you, the amusement evident on his face.

“Told you already, m’better at this game…” He leans across as he says it, so close you can feel his hot breath on your cheek and ear. With the morning light at his back, he casts you in the gloom of his huge shadow.

As if by way of explanation he nods over his shoulder to where your small kitchen knife and revolver are still laying on the floor. You’d taken them out of your holster the night before. Your tongue traces the underside of your teeth, and his upper lip hitches up in a half snarl, half smirk. The low rumble of his laugh makes you test his grip, but he lifts your wrist easily, turning the blade from your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm.

“Tell y’what…” He purrs, his eyes raking up and down you. You’re pulling against him but not to escape; just to feel the strength of him. The tension between the two of you in the silent kitchen is almost unbearable. You think about crawling over the counter.

“No weapons, y’get ten seconds, then I come for you.”

Your wrist drops limp on the counter, and a hard sigh exhales out of you. He’s grinning, still not letting you go. Sure, he could just turn your arm and bend you over the counter like a rag doll if he wanted. If you wanted. He could fuck you almost the way the couple who might have lived in this house would have. But you’re not them.

You nod, and you can’t help it – you lean in and smash your lips into his, his beard grazing your face. His tongue presses deep into your mouth for a second and you can feel him melting. He tastes like Sprite. His fingers are clenching hard in the back of your hair and suddenly he’s dragging you from around the side of the island. The shove is playful, but you still need to brace your hand against the glass of the patio doors to stop yourself as you stagger.

Cam swallows, holding himself in position by the counter. You can see the effort he’s exerting. You’re bent forward against the glass, your ass almost visible under your dress, so you decide to make it worse for him; your right hand snares the waistband of your panties, and they drop around your ankles, the tiniest flash of your cunt visible to him as you do it.

His eyelids flutter, thick fingers gripping the side of the countertop till his knuckles are white. His hair spills across his face and his throat bobs.

“Ten…” he rasps harshly.

You turn and slide the glass door, sprinting barefoot as if your life depended on it across the patio, past the empty pool in the back yard, scrambling over the low fence into the next garden of dried-up turf. Even in your frenzy you notice how the whole place is still completely silent, apart from the occasional bird cawing. You’re alone, in your own playground. The moment of peace passes, you burst through the back door of the house you’d scoped out the night before.

This one has no furniture. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but it’s not fear. Not totally. You take the stairs three at a time, stumbling onto your side at the top and swerving into the master bedroom. There’s a walk-in closet with a door. But you regret it the moment it closes behind you – you’ve trapped yourself.

How many seconds is that? Too late to move. You slide down onto your side and press your cheek to the floor, watching under the narrow gap.

What feels like an age passes but is probably less than a few minutes. Your ears strain against the quiet and when you detect slow footfalls on the stairs the hairs on the back of your neck rise. Cam’s bare feet are visible on the landing, he pauses there a second, then turns left down the hall toward the other bedroom. You see the opening. The adrenaline jolts you to your feet, flinging the closet door wide and nearly tumbling down the stairs as you half leap, half stumble most of the way down, clutching the banister with one hand.

The back door slams open on its hinges and before you can think another desolate pool is yawning out in front of you beyond the paving slabs of the patio. You leap. It’s not deep, maybe five feet but you’re not prepared; your knees still crumple as your feet impact the concrete, sending you sprawling forward.

Quiet, deliberate steps follow behind you. Cam isn’t running. Rolling onto your side you see him standing on the edge of the pool with his hands braced on his hips, looking down at you like you’re a wounded animal. The heat of his expression sears you in place, just long enough for him to hop down from the pool’s edge with a climber’s grace that makes no sense for his size. You start crawling, trying to get your knees under you.

He makes no move to grab you, he just laughs. His head canted to one side over his muscled shoulder, wrists flexing in anticipation.

“Keep crawling Princesa…” He goads, and you swing a heel into his shin. It connects hard enough to make him grunt, but he seizes your ankle, pulling you helplessly across the floor of the pool toward him. His other hand locks on your thigh and before you can get your legs underneath you, you’re in his lap, face to face with that smug, hungry smile.

Yet it’s devoid of cruelty, even when his fingers and thumb easily circle your throat. He holds you delicately, without pressure, despite the way his top lip hitches up and he swallows with driven want, eyelids fluttering.

“How’s somethin’ so small got a bite like you do?”

You lean hard into his grip and snap your teeth at him playfully. He catches you with a snort of laughter and you feel his cock twitch against your thigh.

It’s impossible to hold it back; you moan and grope his lap, finding the heat under the white cotton. He doesn’t stop you but his eyes almost completely close, his exhalation through gritted teeth is warm on your face. The grip on your throat flexes, then shifts familiarly to the nape of your neck. The way his forearm braces your whole back makes you unravel.

Eyelids dipped, Cam slips two thick fingers in his mouth then firmly, but delicately splays your cunt to look at you.

The shudder that goes through him makes you grin. He’s so lost in looking at you that he doesn’t notice the balls of your feet gaining purchase. You’ve almost enough strength to dive momentarily out of his grip but his fingers seize your hair. It’s useless.

“Done yet, lil biter?” He lilts. And as he says it his wet fingers spread you exquisitely open before him. It’s so intense your head lolls back a moment, hair dragging on the floor of the pool. You look at him with a single expression that communicates a complex reply:

Never, but yes, yes. Please yes.

The abstract lines tattooed on his middle finger sink into you and your eyes roll, turning totally limp in his grip. Cam adds his index finger and presses slowly into your core, watching your face, his own breathing becoming irregular at the heat, the softness. When he pulls them free, he sucks them clean with that expression he always has when he tastes you; as if you are something rare, delectable.

The strong brace of his arm at your back is lowering you onto the floor of the pool, the concrete, not yet baked hot by the sun, is cool beneath your shoulder blades. Everything feels soft and slow after the rush of adrenaline. Your head rolls to one side and you see Cam push his hair back from his face, palming his cock in his wet hand.

He grins, amused at your limpness, casually lifting one knee with two fingers of his free hand, then letting it fall to the side. He doesn’t even need to say it out loud, it’s written on his face as he leans over you;

Look at you, cock drunk on me already…

The thick pressure of him pushing an exquisite inch into your cunt makes your back arch. You try to roll your hips to take more but he denies you, his palms settling on your knees and pressing them almost all the way to the floor at your sides. Another inch and you’re whimpering.

He’s enjoying this, a little in the way a carnivore toys with its prey. He leans back, chin tilting to his chest to get a look at his cock splitting you and a guttural mutter of something that might have been fuck falls from his lips, broad palms sliding down the outsides of your thighs, grasping your ass and pulling you open with his thumbs while he presses deeper, agonisingly slow.

You give a strangled moan, trying to lift your body to meet him, reaching up to grasp his shoulder, just above the letter ‘N’, but he’s too strong. You’ll have only what he allows.

“More…” The word leaks out of you pitifully, your vision a daze of Cam against the brightening blue sky. At the same moment his cock totally fills you the two fingers that had been inside your cunt slide deep into your begging mouth. Just for a second you choke, and Cam pulls them back – but then you’re pleading with your tongue, tasting yourself on his fingers. His expression steels with want and the rough pads of his fingers slip deep, he’s fucking you so hard your bare shoulders shunt against the concrete, anchored only by his grip on your jaw.

It's like being pulled apart in the most exquisite way you can imagine. Everything but the force of him and the blur of the sky disappears from your perception, you feel a rivulet of saliva stream down your cheek. Cam sheathes into you once more, hard, and then his face comes back into focus. He’s looking down at you, angling your face by the fingers in your mouth. Just a tinge of concern in his expression.

Your eyes unfocused, your cunt soft and fluttering against him.

“Too much, lil biter?” He lulls with a hot breath. His beard and lips brush your cheek.

How he takes such strength, such force and turns it effortlessly into endless gentleness you never know. It reminds you that the same hands that have butchered human beings have also produced the most delicate brushstrokes. But it always, always, breaks you. The shudder goes from the nape of your neck to your tailbone.

It feels involuntary – your teeth clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to hurt. A hiss of pain escapes between his teeth and when the shock passes, he looks down at you with a kind of wonder. What are you? It says, glowing.

His breathing is fast and raspy, sweat shows on his forehead, his hairline damp. Still, you haven’t quite relinquished your grip on his fingers.

“You wan’ more?” He utters and slides from your cunt leaving you achingly empty. For just a moment you protest before his free hand drops to angle the slick head of his cock against the tight, exposed ring of your ass. Teasing you with it, watching your face closely.

You freeze up at the sensation. It’s new. Your jaw drops open and you give up his fingers. He cups your face softly despite the bite marks on the back of his knuckles. The daze of it all still engulfing you. The wet slide of his cock against your ass makes you shiver.

“Ok...” He judges from your reaction and goes to pull away but a look of panic floods your face. Words aren’t easy in the moment.

“Don’t…Please. Yes.” You manage.

You can read the conflict on his face. How he loves your size compared to him. How he almost wants to fuck the tight, soft, breakable form of your body so hard you shatter. And yet he wouldn’t harm you, not for anything.

He remembers the way you’d clutched Elijah’s neck, singlehandedly declawing a threat that was bigger, stronger, and better armed. You’re not easily broken.

Cam’s spit hits your ass and cunt, one hand on the back of your neck, your tight hole resisting the slippery head of his cock for a torturous moment before he palms the shaft and pushes hard. A little cascade of sting runs through you but you’re still pulling him toward you by his shoulder.

It’s slow, different to how he normally fucks you; when he finally slides the whole of his cock into your ass he gives an unguarded moan of broken pleasure, and as if to distract himself pushes his fingers back into your mouth.

Cam’s forehead is pressed to yours, no longer restraining you at all. You’re boneless, mind gone with him – and he isn’t much better. The muscles of his neck and shoulder are taught ropes where your hand lays on them, he trembles with tension. The thick twitch of him stretches your body totally and you know he won’t last another minute.

So does he; frozen still, eyes shut, trying to breathe slowly.

“Hurts?” He husks, and you can see the mental effort it takes him to even form the single word. The back of your head rolls back and forth on the hard floor of the pool. No.

Still keeping two fingers in your mouth his free hand teases your fucked cunt, pausing a long moment before pushing his index finger all the way into your wetness. When he feels his own cock filling your ass through the inner wall of your body his eyes go wide, mouth open.

He’s staring down at you, tiny repetitive gasps pulling air into his lungs. The pads of his fingers pumping your cunt, teasing that exquisitely sensitive spot, feeling his own cock seated so deep in your body. His hips piston short, brutal thrusts in your ass and you come suddenly, all sense going from you in the nerve whiteout.

He feels it and he’s muttering in your ear, a harsh, filthy-sweet rush of want, need;

“You like that Princesa? Lil biter? You want more? Gon’ make you so full of me…fuck, so…tight, how? Fuck…”

The words tumble from English into Spanish. You’ve learned that he almost always says ‘I love you’ in Spanish, and you recognise the phrase as he utters it over and over.

Cam lets out a snarl that curls into a vulnerable whine, his fingers slip wetly from your mouth and his arm wraps you crushingly tight. The whole of him spills deep into you with a shudder, until he can’t thrust anymore. You’re both panting. The weight of his body on you holds the world still, pressing you flat on the floor of the pool, everything makes sense. Sweat beads on his back. You both lay that way, feeling your breathing slow.

For a long and beautiful moment there is nothing else in the world. Past the point of language your body becomes a mantra of Cam, his weight and presence. The way he smells. Burying his face into the crook of your neck below your jaw he inhales you deeply; it’s mutual.

A bird caws in the morning sky and your unfocused eyes settle on something upside down, where your head is rolled back; there’s a hosepipe dangling into one corner of the pool. When you’d arrived at the little ghost town you’d checked every faucet, Cam had checked the stop valves and opened them but no water had come out.

But there is a small, damp patch of concrete right below that hose. It’s dripping. You start laughing giddily, still half addled. Cam leans up and looks down at you with a bemused smile, his big hand cupping the back of your head.

“What?” He laughs, and then he sees your eyeline, and looks up.

-

Running water has become such a strange luxury that you still use it sparingly as you both clean yourselves up in the pool. Tenderly, but like much in the desert, shaped by utility.

Miel gets the first proper bath in the house next door while you sit out on the sun-baked patio.

The dripping hosepipe keeps grabbing your attention.

Dragging it over the fence you toss it into the empty pool in your own little backyard and start the faucet running. Fuck it. You always wanted a pool as a kid. You watch the bottom fill up and realise it wouldn’t have mattered if you’d had one – nothing will ever be as good as this perfect, love bruised, dusty oasis.

-

About a hundred miles of desert away, a man with dark hair is sitting next to an indoor pool that glimmers with a chlorine scented luxury absent from the derelict concrete bowls in the ghost town.

But all the same, it smells artificial. The bleach tang gives the air an unpleasant taste. He takes a sip from his cocktail and watches a pregnant woman climb out of the water and start towelling herself off. A man with a rifle is at his elbow.

“Sir?”

“Yes? David, is it? Why are you troubling me?” His voice is a low, Texan drawl. He doesn’t look up.

“I apologise sir, but it’s Elijah.”

“What exactly about Elijah?”

“He’s dead sir.”

The Dream freezes with the cocktail half way to his mouth and looks up to pin the other man with a searching look.

“And tell me, how exactly did that happen?”

The man with the rifle looks uncomfortable. “They took Miami and his kid, and some girl with one arm. The girl was due to be transported with the supplies yesterday but…She put a live grenade down Elijah’s shirt. They escaped, all three of them.”

The dream sets the colourful glass down on a side table.

“Well that just wont do. You best be finding out where they went.”

“And then, sir?”

The Dream looks pensively over the blue undulation of the water.

“There’s only one thing to be done with rabid dogs David, but bring me the girl. Maybe she can be convinced of civilisation.”

#miami man #miami man x reader #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch fanfiction

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

what if ronnie and bradley were vampires but they suck at it? (ha)

But like seriously, they're both in their sixties or something when they meet Jake and they are still constantly having to move because one of them messes up in front of the humans. Jake is like "the evidence points to vampire, but that can't possibly be true, because they're throwing m&ms at each other in this diner."

omg i freaking love this 😂 the sheer comedy of errors, the tomfoolery, the what we do in the shadows level of ridiculous.

Ronnie: "I think we're doing an okay job at blending in this time. I think we'll get to stay in this town for a good few years before we have to move on."

Cut to Brad just casually turning into a bat in front of a bunch of teenagers after asking them: "wanna see a cool trick?"

Brad started the pornstache trend in the 80s and is trying to bring it back now.

But also....for your consideration....something that got away from me:

"God, you're a sweet one aren't ya?" Ronnie asked as she pressed her nose into his neck, smelling the coppery scent of his blood - hearing the rush of it in her ears.

Jake thought, when he took this girl out into the alley behind the club, that he would at the least get a nice makeout session with her. Maybe he would get to take her back to the hotel he was staying in. But she wasn't anything like he anticipated. As soon as they were alone she had him pinned against the brick wall by a strength that surprised him and also had his cock twitching in his jeans.

"Darlin', I ain't sweet," he replied, slightly breathless - overwhelmed as she licked a slow stripe up his neck.

"Oh, but you are." Her teeth grazed his pulse point, where his jugular flowed free and strong. "You're like sunshine."

He was all tan skin and golden hair and Southern charm. Not her usual type. But he was so inviting, and so wanting as he talked her up in the club and danced with her to the beat of some song with no words. But she had to admit, she liked the contrast of her skin against this own. Pale as porcelain, hair dark like the night. It made a pretty picture, one she wanted to keep around for a while.

So she amped up the charm, flashed him that smile with canines just a bit too long, and suddenly he was tilting his head to the side. Exposing that pretty pulsing vein. Jake felt so calm, and he didn't even know why. At that moment, he would let her do anything she wanted to him.

Then he felt her teeth rip into his neck. Reality slammed back into him for a moment. He squirmed, but it felt...Good. And soon, he was relaxed again. Slumped against the wall as she hummed into the meat of his neck.

Ronnie drank greedily from him, hand curling around the back of his neck. He tasted like sunshine too. And as she drank, he just became more pliant in her hands. The venom coursing through his veins making him want it, want her. She could feel him, already hard and aching against her abdomen as he squeezed her sides.

"What's...?" he slurred, trying to think straight.

But he found that he couldn't once she slotted her thigh between his own, allowing him to rut against her freely. He groaned as she finally released his neck from her teeth. Ronnie wiped at her chin, grinning at him with fangs pointed like knives.

"You seem nice," she told him as he continued to work himself against her, unable to stop. "So I'll let you live. Just don't come crawling back for more. Okay, Sunshine?"

Jake didn't know if he could ever not want more of this.

#annie answers #oc: ronnie bradshaw #vampire au #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #hangman #jake hangman seresin x oc #jake seresin x oc #hangman x oc #jake hangman sersin imagine #jake seresin imagine #hangman imagine #would people want...more....of this?

[etruatcaelum]

This is the first thing Salem learns, after the brothers leave Arziant in flames behind them: that the creatures of grimm know kindness.

Everything turns to fire.

Even the air itself screams with a heat so intense that her skin cannot regrow before it starts to melt and blister again. Salem burns alive and burns alive and burns alive and—

When she wakes from mindless agony, she finds herself in the sweltering warmth of a deep cave and bathed in the stagnant-water stench of grimm. These creatures she was taught to hate and fear as abominations pace in silent circles all around her, everything limned with the sunset glare of their fiery eyes, their pitch-black flanks singed and smoking. They do not in any way acknowledge her presence; but they brought her here with them, to shelter from the inferno outside, and she will never be able to look at a grimm and think monster again.

Time slips so easily away from her. Days, weeks. Months. Eight thousand nine hundred twelve: the number branded into her soul by hunger. Eighty-nine hundred and twelve times she starves to death before she loses track.

That hollow feeling. The ache, before light rakes her apart and sutures her back together and she rises again, unsteady. Searing pain clarifies itself; the hateful golden furnace of infinite life burns crimson through the brittle membrane of her skin. Eight thousand—

It doesn’t matter.

The plangent echo of her pulse fills the deathless silence at the end of the world: a catathymic note throbbing in the nexus of planetary song; that awful cosmic heartbeat, in the tearing aftershock of violent divinity. Sometimes the deteriorating scrim of human delusion peels away and she falls into hematic convulsions as the world turns inside her chest, pulverizing meat and bone to gory pulp while she writhes in transcendent agony. Creation—an inchoate redness—life. Everything begins in pain. The first taste is always blood.

She understands—

After fire comes darkness, and then even the grimm begin to waste away: unspooling their flesh in long ropes of slime as what little survived the cauterizing of the shattered moon withers under the scorched-black sky. Salem flays herself to feed them, for all the good it will do. Starvation still dissolves them one by one.

She just wants to save something. Wants to give life instead of death, for once; and the grimm were kind to her, in their way.

Hunger makes them brutal. The last grimm in the world tears her apart, and it hurts, and…

…and she is on her knees in a wide but shallow river of water clear as glass. Mist treads softly through the quiet darkness, and the air tastes fresh and sweet.

Salem stays where she is for a while, eyes half-closed, basking in the soothing peace of a rare pleasant dream—but nothing remains still in the river for long, and it dawns on her gradually that she is not alone. Kneeling beside her, resting a hand between her shoulders, is a giant woman of wicker and painted clay.

She asks: “What are you? Who are you?”

The woman answers: “I am the germinating seed and the mouth that opens. I am the circle drawn by itself. I am the Artisan.”

“…Is this real?”

“It is real to you.” The Artisan’s thumb caresses her back, and Salem curls in on herself, ragged and tearing at the seams before the vicious claws of even that small tenderness; at her choked cry, the hand lifts away, leaving her huddled in miserable anguish. “You can leave this behind,” the Artisan says, “if you would like.”

“Leave–?”

“It is the nature of things to change. Living things grow.”

“I don’t,” Salem rasps, “understand.”

“You cannot die,” says the Artisan, and she flinches, “but you can change. Leave behind the burden of what you are now to become something new. If you let the river wash you away, who could you be?”

The water flows over her hands, pure and cold. Her eyes sting with unshed tears. She whispers, for the first time since before the end of the world daring to hope, “Could I find Ozma? Is this—what happens when people die?”

“You are the first of your kind to come here,” the Artisan tells her gently. “The one you love is in the place the Brothers made for their creations.”

It feels like her heart breaking all over again, and her fingers curl and become clawed. “Are th– are they happy?” she breathes.

Maybe it can be okay, as long as she knows they’re safe and well wherever they are—maybe. Maybe.

“They are at rest,” says the Artisan. “Preserved, feeling and knowing nothing.”

“Forever?”

“Yes.”

“But—” A nameless horror overwhelms the words. Her mind conjures up an image of Ozma on their deathbed, insensate; the notion that that is their eternal fate—the fate of everyone who ever lived—to lie in feverish oblivion until the end of all things, is unbearable. It is not to be borne. “No.”

“It is the truth,” the Artisan says.

Salem throws herself onto her feet as a keener fire than the embers of hope kindles in her soul: she names it wrath, and cradles it against her heart. “I will not leave them behind,” she seethes. Just as they pulled her from her tower, she will find a way to win them free from theirs; free everyone slaughtered in her name. “I—”

How? How, when the world lies dead and broken and even the grimm cannot survive? Salem squeezes her eyes shut, trembling. Afraid.

She has never felt so small.

“What is this place?” she asks, plaintive. “Where did you come from?”

“This is the place that is,” says the Artisan. “It is the drawing together and drawing asunder that is maker and made of all things. It is the transformations of fire. I am the shaping hands of what was ever before and will be ever after.”

“…of fire,” Salem echoes, turning away. The river flows and flows forever in silence. She can feel the Artisan watching her.

Of fire.

She takes a breath. “Your face is fired clay. Will you allow me use of your kiln?”

———

There is a fire. Salem builds a forge, digging slabs of clay out of the riverbank with her bare hands in this strange, protracted dream. Sometimes the Artisan sits at their workbench and talks to her while they sculpt, and sometimes there is a thing with feathers that perches above the kiln to give voice to a hollow, keening cry. Mostly, she is alone.

Infinite life hurts so much. Not a single part of her can die; immortality riddles her with cancerous, painful light. The God of Light did not understand what he asked for when he bade her to heed the importance of life and death: and perhaps that is why his brother had grinned.

Destruction, to clear the wilderness away.

She claws her belly open and pulls out the vermillion meat of herself in fistfuls, gasping but undeterred by the pain. The wounds seal over and blood congeals on her skin while she feeds herself to the ever-living fire, and as the forge feasts her flesh and blood melt together into iron. It takes time—it takes trial and error and more tries than she could count—but Salem forges herself a sword.

The blade blazes like the sun when she holds it. It sings of pain and desolation: it doesn’t know how to be anything else but what it is. But it makes the light hurt less.

“Can I come back?” she asks,

and the Artisan says, “You will find the door again when you need it.”

When she returns to Arziant, the world is still dark and terribly cold. Nothing lives—not even the grimm, whom she mourns almost as deeply as she mourns her own kind.

Her sword sunders the darkness, burns the poison out of the sleet, thaws the sheets of ice. She wanders: a solitary vagrant so delirious with hunger that she takes to gnawing her own arms until her teeth hit bone. The sky turns blue again. Sunshine bathes a landscape of churned mud and barren rock. For—years, decades, centuries—for an age, she combs the planet, searching for even the smallest sign of life.

There has to be something.

Finally—finally—she finds a newborn colony of fungus poking through the muck, spongy and soft, finger-shaped, dull yellow and rancid on her tongue. She digs a second one up, careful to disturb the rest as little as possible, and returns to the place that is.

In her absence, the Artisan has begun to work the forge, but when Salem asks for use of it again they press the hammer into her hand with a patient smile. The idea in her mind is clearer than before, and she has a better sense of how. When she casts the little fungus into the flame it bursts and turns to gold; she alloys it with her memories of sunlight, of wheat fields, of oceans and blue skies.

This time, she makes a staff. Its haft radiates the warmth of summer, and the crystal setting at the head glows with the pure, rarefied blue of mountains on the horizon.

(It reminds her too much of Ozma; it aches.)

When she clambers back into the carcass of Arziant with the staff in her hands, the whole world seems to shiver. The little fungi have swelled and flourished into vast, peculiar forests; and there are other kinds now, as life heaves itself bodily from the mire. Wherever she goes, carrying the staff as a walking stick, new things begin to grow. (Most of them foul: it comes as a surprise the first time she tastes something and finds it sweet.)

Notions of self bleed away. Past and future slough away too, neither cognizant of the present; there is only and always the work. Existence, in a trancelike artistic fugue. Sometimes the sword, sometimes the staff. Death and life. Life and death. There is a rhythm to it. A kind of song. The planet flexes its claws and remembers how to breathe; the wilderness dances, ever-shifting, a symphony.

(Later—much later—she will turn these memories over in her hands like fragments of a dream. Some of it, she’s certain, was real; and equally certain that some of it wasn’t. Reason dictates that she was alone, but she won’t remember solitude.)

The world begins to look familiar again. It is the sound of birdsong that draws her out of waking dreams to the hush of surf on a rocky beach and the feeling of cold, clean rain on her face. She falls to her knees and weeps for missing Ozma, grief splitting her open as if she had lost them only yesterday, because the world is beautiful again and she wants so desperately to share it with them.

So Remnant is born from the grave of what was, and brings Salem back to life with it. She is not its creator, not its maker—she does not feel like any kind of god—but it is born by her hand. If pressed, if coaxed, she might offer instead the suggestion of midwifery.

She does not go hungry anymore. She eats seaweed and crabs and oysters until she collects a handful of pearls, and these she fills with moonlight before she returns, once more, to the forge whence the river flows.

The third time Salem asks to use the Artisan’s workshop, she already knows what will become. The pearls gleam like glacial ice when she nestles them in the coals of the ever-living fire. They run together as molten glass, and she fills out their shape with sorrow and joy and anger and love—she loves so, so fiercely, it is all she knows how to do—and sets the shining bauble in gold spun from the names of every person she has ever known.

The lamp gives illumination of a kind the God of Light could never and will never know. It is the heart of Remnant which never forgets. When she journeys up the long dark spiral of the path to her world, she can see the barest shape of something by lamplight, an inkling on the edge of her sight, a whisper.

She brings the lamp to the top of the world, where the air turns thin and the snow never melts and the broken moon hangs almost close enough to touch. (She wants to see. She is trying to see.)

There, she finds a grimm: sleek and pantherine, midnight-black, still soft as newborn clay.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I wanted so much to save you.”

And, “I hoped this one would bring you back.”

It doesn’t attack. It needn’t starve. The sword and the staff and the lamp can feed it all it needs, and it seldom leaves her side. (Salem likes to pretend it enjoys her company; she can almost imagine that it forgives her.)

There is one more left.

She is not sure how, but eagerness gnaws in her with a relentless, esurient pain. She wants—and the grimm wants—

“You should have a name,” she tells him one day. “Do you want a name? I think Firwitt would suit you well.”

He collects feathers for her to try, but it needs to be right—it needs to be perfect.

In the end, she gets what she needs by happenstance. A storm, like so many others. Lightning lances the air and splatters the sand on the beach like so much glass, and Salem catches a molten droplet in her hand and thinks: yes. This will do.

Feathers of ravens and hawks and sparrows in one hand, liquid glass in the other, she dives into the place that is to ask, for the fourth time, for the last time, to use the forge.

“What will you make?” the Artisan asks,

and Salem says, “A crown, this time. For what might be.”

The lightning-struck glass and the feathers turn first to blood and then to rubies when she offers them to the primordial flame. For the rest, as with the sword, she gives of herself: a braid of her hair, a breath from her lungs, a drop of blood, a long strip of flesh, soldered together with all the words she cannot say.

The crown is beautiful and it is cruel, in the way that only hope can be, silver as moonlight and burning with the fires of dusk. It is defiance and spite and willpower and it will, she hopes, be freedom too.

(It is not.)

When she ascends to Remnant once more, Salem kneels in the meadow that reminds her most of them and dons the crown. With Firwitt curled around her and the sun and moon and all the stars wheeling overhead, she tries—she casts herself far and wide, she rakes the talons of her will over the chains and rattles the bars of the cage and burns and howls and goes blind before the fierce white light and still the gates of death will not open; until at last hunger whittles her down again and she falls out of the dream to wail, face pressed into the inky flank of the only grimm in the world.

Aura seeps into the ruined sockets of her eyes, sluggish, foaming over scorched retinas in jittery sprays of crimson etched with gold. It is hours before she can open them and see anything through the scintillant haze besides a grainy impression of blue.

Despair wells up in her chest.

“I don’t know—” she begins desolately, and then stops:

Because she does know.

The place where the font of creation had been is not difficult to find, though the land has torn and shifted long since. It has remained stubbornly bare and lifeless through all her efforts: a vitrified expanse of rock which had, eons ago, been wrung dry of the water that now flows in her soul. Her footsteps make no sound against the glassy rock as she climbs to the apex, sword in hand.

She whispers: “Destruction,” and plunges the sword into the stone.

The ground heaves; the glass shatters; the lifeless blister craters at long last, and Salem goes down with it. The liquid rushing up from beneath is not alive, but when the rocks crush her the sterile water mingles with her blood, and when it rushes down her throat it remembers how to breathe, and the possibility of life ripples out and out until it laps against the distant, sandy shores of a new sea.

She leaves the sword buried in its basin, and retreats into dreams while the currents drag her ever so slowly back to land.

It is weeks before she finishes choking up saltwater.

Next, she travels east, traversing the vast ocean to the desert at the opposite end of the world. In the desolate, burning center of those windswept sands, she plants the staff and murmurs: “Creation.”

The dune ripples and becomes water, becomes soil, becomes lush vegetation as a great tree with silver flesh and golden leaves surges out of the desert to engulf the staff. Salem rests for a long while in that luxuriant oasis, basking in warmth and living on fruits that exist nowhere else in the world, giving names to the things that come to eat and drink and doze in the shade, until she is ready to move on.

North, then: to the highest peak at the top of the world, where the sun never sets in the summertime but the darkness of the winter lasts for months. She sculpts a lighthouse from the ice at the summit, and nestles the lamp inside. She says, “Knowledge,” and the winter night fills with a ghostly memory of sunlight, a promise that the sun will find its way home and daybreak will come again.

And, finally, she sails south to a place where the ocean swirls and churns in a great whirlpool, the basin miles below straining to hold back the inchoate rage of darkness below. She hurls the crown to the maelstrom, and when the water takes it she breathes, “Choice.”

And the land screams upward to meet it in the most violent eruption the world has ever and will ever know. It forms a jagged scar of barren rock and mud and molten tar, but it will grow into life when it is ready, and the crown will roam in the rivers far beneath the waves.

Finally, having given of herself and feeling dizzily light for the absence of their weight, Salem washes back ashore, and holds Firwitt’s face between her hands, and asks him, “Where did you come from?”

(“Fate,” the spirit chained to knowledge will one day say, “led her back to the land of darkness;” but that is only half true.)

She is afraid, a little. She does not want to die. Even more than that, she fears she will be wrong. When she approaches the black dome of the night’s domain, the jagged rocks unfold for her like a great maw, and she stands quivering on the shore of a boiling lake of atrum that has not changed. Unthinking, she reaches out to Firwitt for comfort, for reassurance—for nothing, because he is not there.

(He never has been. The realization is abrupt and thorny. In a way, it makes it easier to clamber into the largest outcropping.)

The sun burns overhead. Salem kneels above the pool of grimm, feeling the heat of it on her face, the foul vapor, and bows her head in prayer to any god who cares to listen that this will be the answer: to Darkness, to the fire, to the Artisan, to the Singer, to the sun and the moon and to all the stars, perhaps even to herself. If this is not it she does not know what she will do or what she will become. So she prays, shaking, wetting the rock with her tears until the moon claims the sky.

Then she closes her eyes, and lets herself fall.

She expects it to burn: it does not. She expects to be flayed apart: but the atrum is gentle, and the grimm simply fold around her and bear her down and down to the heart of the world, where the pressure is infinite and the blackness radiant.

There, slowly, grows the sense that she is lying in the coils of some vast serpent; that its head rests on her back, scales sharp as knives but caressing her skin too delicately to do her harm, its breath a reverberation of her own.

“What are you?” she asks.

I am the roots, it says. The Walker in the deep.

“Am I going to die?”

It is strangely meditative. Her eyes remain closed. She curls her hands against the scales, the bark, half-sleeping. The Walker says, there is no death here. Only stillness, and motion. Stay, and we will become one, you and I; I dissolving into you and you settling into me; to cease, and be renewed.

“That is a semantic distinction.”

…Perhaps. Or, if you prefer, ascend: and go away changed into yourself.

“I wanted to bring people back,” she whimpers. “I wanted—”

You have, says the Walker. That world is not of the Brothers now; it is of you. Time stands still here, in the roots, but it runs in circles above and your kind pour forth from the sundered gates. Dear child, you have not failed.

She sobs: with relief, with old anguish, with new hope. “Then I want to live. Please.”

If you return, the Walker says, no less gently than before, you will bring the darkness back with you.

“Grimm?”

As you call them, yes.

She feels a half-hearted flicker of hesitation. Of something too base to call nobility: she wonders what Ozma would think. But she wants to live. She wants so very much to live.

And the grimm saved her once, and she had wanted to save them in return.

“I want to live,” she whispers.

Then rise, answers the Walker. Become what you will and be free.

#AND TIME DOES THIS TO US ( fic. ) #MAIDENS AND KINGDOMS ( hc. ) #THIS DARK THING THAT SLEEPS IN ME ( hc: salem. ) #[ shaking heraclitus between my teeth like a terrier with a rat. #NO you DON’T understand they wrote volume nine FOR ME. FOR ME! ] #[ the god of light checking in to see if salem is ready to plead for mercy yet: hey what the fuck #that’s not allowed #gimme those. #and then he chains his brothers ascended selves inside #something something brothers grimm. #something something the golden cap. #file under: salem isn’t the witch of the west she’s glinda. ] #[ oh uh #gore cw #on this one. ]

[toasterdrake]

hi!!! i've just read most of your writing and it's all very very good!!! your yelena fic made me smile, so i'd like to request a protective!yelena where one of the team accidentally hurts R and yel goes batshit? i'd also like to be added to your taglist, if you have one?

Hi there, my love <3 Thank you so much! I'm always happy to write for Yelena. I hope this fulfills your request! It got away from me a little, but I'm happy with it :)

Unfortunate

Yelena Belova x gn!Reader

Genre: fluff

Word Count: 766

Warnings: description of physical fight, minor injuries

Summary: Steve and Clint have some bad luck. Doubly so when it starts including you.

(Gif not mine)

👊👊👊

You don't see Steve's fist coming.

Steve doesn't expect you to meet it with your face.

It's a straight shot, powerfully persuasive enough to erupt in sparks just underneath your skin.

You fall back against the firm ropes of the sparring ring, feeling them give a little under your weight.

You're more mentally frazzled than anything. The warmth of blood dripping from your nose is only faintly noted; a hazy dream already half-forgotten in wakefulness. You stare up at Steve blankly, and he stares back looking downright mortified.

In fact, he's so distracted, he misses the raging blonde blur behind him until it's too late.

Yelena crashes into Steve with all the force of the deadly Russian bear she is, having shot up from the sidelines like a sniper's bullet.

Caught off guard, the supersoldier crashes to the ground. His body strikes the mat with a bodily thump that arches his back impressively in the rebound. Yelena is on top of him in a flash, straddling his burly frame as she delivers harsh hit after harsh hit directly to his face.

Second-hand shame rises awkwardly in your throat, clawing its way up as Steve accepts every one without complaint or retaliation. You feel each bite to his skin as if was your own.

(If you and Yelena were switched, you know without doubt you'd expect nothing less, but even so it stings to watch him readily accept punishment when it isn't his fault.)

You pull yourself together, standing independently as your head clears. You don't want your girlfriend to murder Steve.

Yelena is screaming obscenities in his face when you stride forward and wrap your arms around her waist. You lock up your muscles, threatening to crush a few vital things as she spits and hisses and screams and fights to escape your grip. Her chartreuse eyes burn red with fury, no doubt painting her gaze crimson.

Steve watches her struggle in your arms from the mat, broken nose already healing as Sam helps him stand and leads him away. The bruises will take longer.

With his exit, Yelena seems to realise her pursuit is in vain because she relaxes a little, furious convulsing calmed to timid pawing.

She fully melts when you press a kiss to the back of her neck, warm lips velvet on her skin. The building panic eases from your chest like a sudden gush of cool air into a stifled room with her reaction.

You relax your hold, too, and swing her loose body playfully. This time, her wriggles to be placed back down are only so that she can turn around to reach you.

As soon as her feet touch the floor she's twisting on her heels and grabbing your face, pulling you closer to connect your lips with hers. You move against each other slowly, soaking in the other's taste and scent and natural warmth.

Her protectiveness shines through again as she growls into your lips, "Anyone who hurts you will pay," Before reclaiming you breathlessly.

You fail to hide a wince as she touches your cheek, and she pulls back suddenly, guilt flashing in her eyes.

You take her hand in your own before she can retract it, placing a sweet kiss to her palm.

She softens. Unspoken words are traded between your gazes.

You let her clean the dried blood, lead you to medical, make tea with soothing fragrances that ease the ache.

It takes a while, but with your coaxing reassurance, she forgets her grudge on Steve.

In fact, two weeks after the incident, you stumble across the unlikely pair making bacon muffins. 

Yelena offers you the first bite -- which you oh-so-politely decline, since you definitely had a snack earlier, thank you very much -- so she claims it herself. 

The range of expressions she shifts through goes blissfully unnoticed by Steve (a full head above her) as he hums a song and chews on his own meat muffin.

"Make a pie next time."

You wipe a morsel of batter from her cheek, dancing away from her chasing lips to avoid a taste you know lingers.

Clint throws his hands out to prevent a collision in the doorway. Everything is badly timed, and you fall to the floor anyway. You know it looks like he pushed you.

Clint spends the rest of the day hiding in the vents, a red imprint of Yelena's knuckles on his forehead.

She holds you close all that time, since "every time you step away, you get hurt." 

You don't complain.

Her fierce desire to protect you never fails to make you feel loved; wanted; cared for. Your friends will recover just fine. Your girlfriend loves you.

👊👊👊

Taglist:

@astupidworkinprogress @themagnificentmx

love,

- bi-rd ☕

#yelena belova #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova imagine #yelena belova fluff #lynx writes

[all-alone-he-turns-to-stone]

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Supernatural Masterlist

Here’s every pieces I wrote about Dean Winchester

DO NOT REPOST ANY OF MY WRITING. NEVER. NOT TODAY. NOT TOMORROW. NEVER.

NSFW = 18+ ;)

If you wanna be added to the taglist, just drop an ask or comment!

Hard to Love

Summary: After a particularly intense fight with Dean last night, you wake up with no one but a letter next to you in the bed. You’re sure your boyfriend wants to break up with you, until you find a poem hidden in his hunter’s journal… or is it a song?

–

The First Time (NSFW)

Summary: It’s been months since I started dating Dean after he saved me from a werewolf. I now live with the brothers in the big bunker. Months and I still haven’t done anything with him except kisses and soft bites. I know he’s the one, and even if he really desires it, Dean is exceptionally patient. Because he too wants my first time to be perfect. But sometimes perfect doesn’t mean planned…

–

Hot Blooded (NSFW implied)

Summary: They met at a club. Things get heated. She’s shy and he’s a bit high. But mostly, he’s hot blooded and she craves him.

–

When I’m Gone (Dark/ NSFW) (Mini-series)

Summary: When Zachariah sends Dean in the future to show him what’ll happen if he keeps saying no, the annoying angel also sends you. Because that asshole is certain you can convince your boyfriend to become Michael’s meat suit. But when that doesn’t work, Zachariah leaves you in the future, putting pressure again on Dean to say yes, or else, he’ll never see you again. But in 2014, there is no future version of you because you died years ago. And 2014 Dean doesn’t want to let you go.

–

It All Fell Down

Summary: You won’t leave Charlie alone in that motel room. You won’t let her get hurt. If they want to touch her, they’re gonna have to go through you.

–

Pads, Paws & Claws // Part 2 (NSFW)

Summary: It happened once, but now they have to do it again. The only witness of a murder being the family pet, the super potion that allows people to communicate with animals has to be used. However, this time, Dean ain’t connected to a dog. And no one was prepared for the attitude coming with being linked to a cat.

–

Dove In A Cage (Dark!Fic) (Drabble)

Summary: You’re trapped like a dove in a cage. And then, there’s a man by the door.

-

Adrenaline Momentum (Crossover) (NSFW)

Summary: Once in a while, Eddie needs some time without Venom for his body to recover a little bit. When this happens, he calls his good friend Dean Winchester who takes the symbiote for a couple of days. Venom has nothing against it since he likes the hunter and he can eat as many monsters as he wants, but this time, it’s different, because you’re there. Dean tries to keep the symbiote a secret, but Venom has other plans. He wants to know why Dean’s mind turns so dirty whenever you’re around, and he will get answers.

-

Anchor

Summary: When Sam gets badly hurt during a hunt, Dean freezes and gets a panic attack. After making sure Sam is alright, Y/n has to take care of Dean. Turns out, all he needs is an anchor.

-

Still Staring Sweetheart (NFSW)

Summary: It’s Halloween, the perfect opportunity for Dean to wear the cowboy outfit he brought back from 1861 for trick or treating. And the perfect opportunity for you to stare discreetly. Only, you’re bad at staying discreet, especially when Dean starts talking about… Pancakes?

--

Sweet Cookies 

Summary: Sam makes cookies for Christmas. Lots of cookies. Dean wonders, are they all for Santa? Turns out Sam planned a christmas party with all of their friends.

--

Minty Candy Kinky (NSFW)

Summary: You don’t like candy cane’s taste, but you still eat them. Why? How Dean looks at you when you suck the candy is totally worth it.

--

The Drug in Me is You (NSFW) (Dubcon) 

Summary: There are still Azazel’s kids alive, other than Sam. And when Dean went to hell, Sam got helped by one. Without her, he wouldn’t be there anymore. Her name is Y/n. Sweet, little Y/n that trusted Sam. Sweet little Y/n that Sam got addicted to demon’s blood. And now Dean is a demon and he has a lot of plans for her.

-

Already Cursed (MOC!Dean)

Summary: When a hunt turns out to be a trap, you get caught by demons and Dean gets tortured for information about the mark of Cain. They pierce his flesh the moment they push him on the table, but the mark is strong. It makes Dean stronger and more angry. The mark is craving violence. And quickly, Dean’s screams turn into laughter.

-

Shining, Beaming, Will You Marry Me?

Summary: It’s Christmas and everyone is there to celebrate. The day is beautiful, but Dean just wants to make the night even more special.

-

Sexy Rules (NSFW)

Summary: Dean likes rules. Sexy rules. He won’t ever say it aloud, but he likes to be the bottom. To be under your touch and your orders. To be completely submissive. But you know that already. Dean just needs a little push in the right direction.

-

The Night We Met 

Summary: Years ago, Dean got hit by a memory spell. Ever since, even if Rowena fixed him, he gets weird absences; he suddenly forgets who he is and always runs away. There’s only one place he can go, one place he feels safe. To the night you met.

-

Roses Are Red...

Summary: Dean always tries his pick up lines on you before using them on girls he’s interested in. To be sure they work and because your reactions are worth it. Funny, kinky or sweet, his words quickly get to you, and before you know it, you’re falling for him and his bad pick up lines. But it starts to get too much, it hurts to see the man you love with other prettier girls. But what if the person he wanted all along was there from the start?

-

Isn’t it Lovely, All Alone? (NSFW)

Summary: Friends with benefits. Pretty self explanatory, right? Friends. But with some benefits. Friends, sex, but no feelings. Just two people losing themselves in each other’s flesh, becoming, for the time of a heartbeat, one. But with Dean, it’s more than that. It’s everything. The day he fights Dick Roman is the last day you see him. Sam doesn’t care, but you won’t abandon him. And you’re ready to do everything to bring him back.

-

To Build A Home

Summary: A home is not a place, not always. A home is where you feel safe. A home can be a person, it can be a car. Dean thinks he shot a hole in every single thing that he loved. But you’re there to remind him everything that is still there, including his home.

-

His Perfect Doll (Michael!Dean)(NSFW)(Dark)

Summary: She’s a doll. Her only duty is to be perfect for him at all times. A doll doesn’t talk. Doesn’t express feelings. It exists, simply. So when, one day, the doll wants to show how much she loves him and puts on some lingerie, neither she or him expect the effect it would have on him. And how it would make him and the man he keeps locked in his head… Snap.

-

The Lucky Shirt

Summary: You were sure you had the right bag. But turns out, when you walked head first into a wall of perfection, you swapped laundry bags with him by mistake. Now, you’re stuck with only his clothes to wear and not much time to find him again before the presentation that could change your life.

-

Messy Eating (NSFW)

Summary: Dean’s messy. Whenever he eats, it always falls everywhere on the table, on his chin, on his fingers… It was all fine, until it wasn't. Until that hunt with only you and him. Until jealousy and anger mixed with pie and sexual tension.

-

Books? I Love Books! (NSFW)

Summary: Dean wants your attention, and to get it, he decides to read your book out loud. It’s all cute until the story gets more… Spicy.

-

Dirty, Dirty Little Secret (Michael!Dean x Crowley)(NSFW)(Dark)

Summary: Crowley has lots secrets. He’s still alive and hiding, for example. But his dirty, dirty little secret is much darker than this. He thought no one knew, but then, he found him. His former friend, now possessed by an archangel. And Michael has a deal Crowley cannot refuse.

-

A Rose for the Snake (NSFW)(Series)

Summary: Since he discovered the club, Dean’s been going at least once a week. Being a dom is something nice, it makes him feel powerful and in control. But is it really what he likes? Or is it the domme assigned to teach him the basics that tells him what to do?

Is there a rose hidden somewhere under the scales?

-

The Time of A Coffee (NSFW)

Summary: It’s only you and Dean for the hunt. Sharing a motel room is not the best, but it’s a must, so you sleep in the same room as Dean for the first time. But Dean is a man of routine, and he cannot function without his coffee. Fed up with how long it takes him, you act like a brat to piss him off, only… Dean has no patience in the morning. Especially when you walk naked in front of him.

-

Unforgettable (NSFW)

Summary: When Dean finds a strap-on in your stuff, the first thought that comes to his mind is not how he could fill both your holes at once. Or that you were down for a third person to join for a little fun. No, the first thought Dean had was how would it feel to be fucked by you.

-

The Deal (NSFW) (Dean X Benny)

Summary: Since they were stuck in Purgatory together, they had a deal and that deal was simple. Daylight was for survival, fights, and finding Cas. Night time was for what they craved the most. For Benny, it was his blood. And for Dean, it was something he could never tell anyone.

-

One Day, I’ll Say Hello

Summary: It keeps happening. Whenever he goes, Dean seems to bump into the same girl. Every time, he finds himself unable to speak to her. When he meets her again at the beach, everything finally makes sense.

-

Heartbeat Thump (NSFW)

Summary: One day, you stubble on Dean watching hentai. It’s no big deal, until it happens again. And again. After a while, you start getting jealous of those cartoon girls he likes to watch so much. Why are they so special? What do they have more than you to have his full attention?

-

Dangerous Attraction (NSFW)(Dark)

Summary: She was perfect. No strings attached, only names were shared, and she gave him the best time in bed. But sometimes, when someone is too perfect, it’s because they hide something. And unfortunately, it was already too late for Dean.

-

Crazy, Stupid, Love

Summary: When Dean has to work at a café to learn infos on a hunt, he thinks it's the worst. Until he meets her. At first, she's only kind of an annoying coworker. But an unfortunate event brings them closer, and Dean starts feeling things for her. If it's love, he doesn't know. But for the first time, he starts wondering how it would feel to have a normal life. A normal job. And a normal relationship. But first, he needs to get her revenge against that shitty boss.

-

The Most Innocent Sinner (NSFW)

Summary: For everyone, she's the shy, pure, little Y/n. Dating Dean Winchester is like going on dates with the complete opposite of her. So it is a very nice surprise when Dean learns how kinky she actually is by finding her collection of sex toys.

-

The Dress (NSFW) Coming soon

Summary: When you go shopping with your boyfriend, you try a certain dress and show him. But Dean loves that dress a bit too much and things get heated in the fitting room…

#I decided to make a separate masterlist cause #lots of stuff here #dean winchester masterlist #dean winchester #dean winchester supernatural #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #supernatural #supernatural dean #supernatural dean x reader smut #supernatural dean x you #supernatural dean x reader #supernatural dean x y/n #supernatural dean x reader angst #supernatural dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural dean winchester smut #supernatural dean winchester x reader smut #supernatural dean winchester x you #supernatural dean winchester x reader fanfiction

[deluluass]

What bliss, domesticity.

for: @tink2kagome. i’m sorry it took me so long to work on ur pretty setter squad request T^T i’ll probably do like another one in the future! 

  & @lady-tokugawa-of-mikawa @belpomme @chaichai-the-weeb for being such lovely mutuals <3 <3 

Content warnings: rape/noncon; nsfw; yakuza/organized crime; gun mention; a lot of (non-sexual) food references in this one

  Jun’ichi Saikawa was obviously the kind of man who liked to laugh. Not unlike most people in their world. The kind who use their entire body when they do, announcing to the entire world with a bellowing “Ha Ha Ha!” how pleased they are with whatever’s going on in front of them.

  Which, in all honesty, was pretty admirable, that the old man could still do it considering how bored to tears Wataru was. 

  That it’s a humid afternoon didn’t help either. He could feel the sweat on his back even when the doors were already slid open, exhibiting a verdant garden filled with blossoms and shrub peonies. From his place he could see the school of koi swirling in the shallow pond, their scales iridescent under the warm rays of the sun. 

  “Didn’t know you were the funny sort, 'Kaashi!” Saikawa blurted out, the sake in his hand spilling to his fingers.

  This wasn’t Wataru’s first day on the job, but this is the first that he gets to do something this important. And with someone he highly respects, too. 

  So he gave his collar a light tug, steeling himself to endure as he tucked his legs further beneath him, and resorted to thinking about the many things he would absolutely surrender just to lie down on the warm mat. 

  His car, maybe.

  The brand new noise-cancelling headphones he bought, if pushed. 

  Wataru saw Akaashi nod.

  “I appreciate a joke every now and then,” he said.

  The larger man laughed again.

  “Here, here!” Saikawa thundered, snatching a tiny, yellow box from the maid who appeared as swiftly as she’d left. 

  “I heard you like sweets. Here,” he said, grinning as he handed it to Akaashi. “My youngest son just opened a cake shop. I know what you’re thinking, but who am I to say no, eh?”

  Akaashi passed the box to Wataru. 

  “Mind it for me, please,” he whispered.

  How unexpected. Akaashi-san has a sweet tooth.

  Huh. 

  That’s pretty neat. Wataru himself wasn’t partial to cakes, but he does love pudding. 

  “You are a good father, Jun’ichi-san,” Akaashi told him. 

  This time, Wataru didn’t bother suppressing a yawn as Saikawa fumbled for his phone, hiding it behind his hand as he stared at the birds chirping and hopping about outside.

  “Wanna see him? He’s much like you! Good head on his shoulders, that one.” 

  “I am honored, Jun’ichi-san,” Akaashi echoed back, peering down at the photos Saikawa showed him. 

  “He sends me a lot of these- uh,” Saikawa snorted, his nose reddened by the alcohol. “What do young people call it, the- pictures-”

  “Selfies?” Akaashi politely supplied. 

  “That’s the one! Look. Precious, ain’t he?”

  His earpiece crackled to life. 

  Konoha’s voice emerged from the static. 

  “We’re ready when you are,” his senior murmured. “Man, this is taking too long. Let’s get some burgers when we’re done.”

  “Akaashi-san,” Wataru croaked, feeling his cheeks heat up as he continued, “K-Komi-san and the others are waiting for you.”

  Saikawa perked up. “Ah, of course! Of course!” 

  He stumbled when he attempted to stand up. Akaashi was quick on his feet to assist him.

  “I knew I could count on you, son,” he muttered, patting Akaashi’s back. “Now, you tell Bokuto that what happened between us- it’s all in the past! All in the past! And if those bastards mess with him again, you tell him to run to old Jun’ichi!”

  Akaashi clasped Saikawa’s hand.

  “Thank you,” Akaashi said. “I’ll be sure to relay your sentiments to Bokuto-san.”

  “You do that, my boy.” Saikawa’s belly shook as he laughed. “Your generation’s a smart one, indeed. The in-fighting and wars, bah! All that trouble for nothing; that’s not your style. Your lot’s the future now!”

  Then, Akaashi stepped a few meters back and bowed. 

  Wataru followed behind him. 

  “We will be taking our leave,” Akaashi said. “It has been an illuminating talk, Jun’ichi-san.”

  The sound of the bamboo drip trickling water into another stalk permeated through the silence.

  It collapsed and clunked against a stone. 

  He heard the birds flutter away.

  When Wataru raised his head, Saikawa had already been lying face down on the floor. 

  And, of course, Wataru’s used to it: the crack of a gun muffled by a silencer. 

  He’s been practicing his entire life, after all. He actually doesn’t flinch anymore and Wataru thinks he should be proud of himself.

  It’s just that... how could someone who used to be there, suddenly...disappear? Saikawa was right in front of him a few minutes ago. Laughing and showing off photographs of his son. And now he’s...not.

  But, Saikawa didn’t disappear. Not really. 

  The blood seeping through the tatami is proof of it, but Wataru chooses not to look. In theory, he knows what a bullet through the skull looks like. He’d just rather not see today if what he’s taught reflects true in the real world. 

  Maybe some other time.

  “Wataru.” 

  Wataru flinched. “Y-yes?”

  Akaashi looked back at him. “The cake?”

  His body was still trembling and it took a lot of strength to not let it show in his hands when he gave it back to Akaashi, the box pleasantly yellow with doodles of doe-eyed eggs dancing along the handle. Unblemished, unlike Akaashi, who was sporting a splatter of blood along his cheek. 

  It’s surprisingly still cool to touch, too.

  “No, thank you,” he said, rejecting the handkerchief that Wataru offered. 

  From afar, Wataru could hear the faint melodies of an old love song being played by a car radio. No doubt Konoha’s doing. It followed them, growing louder the closer they walked back into the parking lot. The others bowed and sent gruff salutations along Akaashi’s way as they dragged bodies out of the Saikawa mansion. 

  (It was nauseating and Wataru wanted to pass out.)

  He pressed his nails harshly into the meat of his palm. 

  “A-Akaashi-san,” Wataru began. “I didn’t know that- that um, you liked... sweets.”

  Akaashi halted. 

  “No, I don’t,” he said, blinking. “But my wife does.”

  Wataru stared at him. 

  Akaashi went ahead. 

  He stayed that way— staring and wondering, until they stopped by the fast food restaurant that Konoha loved so much. Wataru couldn’t even finish his burger and fries. 

  By the time that they hit the freeway, Akaashi had already cleaned himself up and Wataru was still grappling with the word “wife.” 

  Of course he knows the man is married. 

  But, how, exactly, do you reconcile his reputation with the sight of him, every passing headlight sharpening his features, quietly humming along to Aki Yashiro? Who was longing for Shinjuku at night, the beauty of it, and oh, how wonderful it’d be, she said: a rendezvous with her lover, waiting for her under raining cherry blossoms. 

  Wataru figured that he was tired and starting to see things. 

  That small smile that graced Akaashi’s lips couldn't be real, either, especially those hands of his that held the box of cake like it’s worth more than gold.

He wasn't really particular when it comes to music. A song's a song, in Akaashi's opinion. Another form of noise that helps when the silence gets too overbearing. 

  But you, on the other hand, liked music. Listened to it the same way one eats their favorite food: memorizes the lyrics; goes out of your way to collect unearthed photographs and newspaper clippings that made the singer seem more human.

  You loved music— was probably the right way of putting it.

  Especially the old variety. He didn't get it at first. The sounds are dated; no one speaks in that language with that cadence anymore; the singer's probably dead.

  Well, Akaashi still doesn't get it, if he were to be honest. 

  Yet here he is. 

  His hands were wrapped around your waist, coaxing you into a slow— albeit clumsy, waltz.

  "Kei-kun!" you squeaked. "The dishes!"

  You dragged your slippers beneath you, struggling to wipe the suds off your hands. 

  "S-seriously, Kei-kun..!"

  Sure, he doesn’t fully understand what’s great about it, music. 

  Yet here he is. 

  Perhaps it’s because he immediately recognized the first few notes this time, that’s why he’s doing this. He didn’t even wait for the DJ to finish saying, “You’re still listening to Vintage F.M. Here’s a classic for you couples out there. Have a romantic night with Nat King Cole’s L-O-V-”

  Perhaps it’s because your cream stew tasted extra special that it made him shrug the fatigue off, giving in to the urge of pulling you close and taking your damp hand in his to sway and bob along the skipping bassline. Your bashful objections went in one ear and out the other.

  Sure, he’s not the type to do this, either, dancing. 

  Yet here he is. 

  Perhaps it’s because he knew that it’s your favorite song.

  Perhaps it’s just what marriage does to you.

  "Did you like the cake?" he whispered against your neck, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and the way your skin jumped as he did.

  Your breaths were shallow against his chest, but you managed a soft, “Yes, sweetheart. Thank you.”

  Akaashi caressed your back, kneading the tensed muscles as he huffed. 

  “Good,” he murmured, trembling. “Good girl. What a relief." 

  It was endearing, how offbeat the both of you were. A shame, though, considering that Nat King Cole’s fervently insisting on love; that it’s all that I can give to you; that it’s more than just a game for two. 

  So Akaashi makes up for his two left feet by joining in. He pressed his lips to your forehead. How strange, your presence in his life. What did he do to deserve you by his side, for this contentment that thaws away the chill?

  (He put a ring on your finger, is what he did. He deserves this.)

  “Two,” he droned, made giddy by the sparks in his belly, “in love can make it.”

  You looked at him, wide-eyed. 

  “Take my heart and please don’t break it.”

  He spun you around.

  “Oh my god, Kei-kun,” you gasped. “You can’t sing.”

  Akaashi’s aware of it all too well. He can’t carry a note; not him: the guy who’s had monotony ingrained in his very being. But that’s why he has you.

  A startled giggle left you as he guided you into a box step, the trumpet rising and falling over the strings. You stepped on him a few times, so he lifted you up, just so, and kicked off your slippers. Then, he set your feet atop his own. 

  He took you with him as he moved, waddling and careful not to hit his back against the countertop. It came as no revelation that both of you weren’t any better dancers even after this maneuver.

  Akaashi continued. Starting with L—

  “Is for the way you look at me.”

  “Stop, stop-” Your eyes crinkled at the sides. “You’re flat.”

  Akaashi persisted, anyway, taking your cheek to pepper kisses all over your face.

  “O is for the only one I see.”

  Your laugh was airy— light and buoyant all over the kitchen, like a fairy leaving stardust in its wake. Not gratingly booming nor demanding. After all, you weren’t the kind who felt the need for it: an audience to witness how pleased you are; how strong and powerful you are over everyone else. 

  Besides, your laugh was just for him. A private and intimate thing. And he was so lost in it that he almost forgot what’s been gnawing at him for the entire morning.

  Akaashi rested his chin on your shoulder, nuzzling the downy fabric of your dress as he gripped you by the hips. 

  “Where did you go earlier?” 

  The orchestra was in a joyous uproar, joining the rapid beating of your heart; the trumpet bright and clear, singing in harmony with the bass and saxophones and trombones, as Nat King Cole repeatedly guaranteed, as if an oath, that love was made for me and you. 

  Love was made for me and you.

  “I had to buy some groceries!” you piped up. “We ran out of ingredients. Sorry, I forgot to bring my phone with me. Oh, I have to run you a bath. I’ll tell you when it’s done, alright?”

  You broke away from him with a beaming grin, but Akaashi wanted to ask, despite the evidence of it before him. 

  “Are you happy?”

  It has already ended, the song. The DJ was signing off for the night.

  You nodded, playfully jabbing his arm with a fist. 

  “Of course,” you told him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Perhaps it’s because you were never really good at pretense, no matter how much you hid behind needless noise. 

  Music. Laughter. Running water. 

  Akaashi sighed as he slumped down the nearest stool.

  Of course you’re happy. Why wouldn’t you be?

  After rubbing his eyes with clammy fingers, Akaashi fiddled them together beneath his temples. He released a heavy breath and fished for his phone in his pocket.

  He spoke after the first two rings. 

  “Wataru-san, I’m sorry for bothering you,” he said. “Can you do something for me?”

  His subordinate didn't ask him why, neither did he react when he'd stated his request. Akaashi knew, however, that the question was sitting in Wataru's clipped replies. The boy’s “yes, sir” and “understood, sir” were far too enthusiastic than normal.

  Akaashi didn’t mind, though, if he did ask. And despite that familiar pang of dread, Akaashi would answer him like the common— just like the average, everyday husband— with that characteristic, bordering on irksome pride that they have when they talk about their wives. 

  Why?

  “Well, Wataru-san,” Akaashi would answer. “Perhaps this is just what marriage does to you.”

The house was a house like any other.

  There was an old pickup truck parked outside the freshly painted gate, carrying crates of fruits and vegetables in its trunk. Along the bricked walls was an overgrowth of vines and ferns. It extended around the windows and crept up the balcony.

  A large Shiba ran outside and jumped to your lap as soon as it saw you by the driveway.

  Wataru heard Chiaki stir at the back of the car.

  “Pay up, asshole,” he grunted, waking a disheveled Ryota who’s still holding a half-bitten melon bread.

  His lackey cracked his neck and gave the scenery a cursory glance. “Could be a front.”

  Ryota grumbled and went back to sleep.

  “Idiot,” Chiaki clicked his tongue. “She traveled all the way to Miyagi just to give intel? And here? Of all places?”

  Three days. 

  They’ve tailed you for three days. Akaashi-san never said anything else, besides that within the week, while he’s gone and sealing deals in another country, there was a high likelihood of you folding and getting out of Tokyo. 

  To run right here. In Miyagi.

  He didn’t say why, really, but Wataru supposes it’s better that he didn’t. Because during the days of absolute, mind-crushing boredom, of watching some suburban wife go out for a morning walk, chat with her neighbors, and shop around the market, rinse and repeat, coming up with the Why had been their only salvation.

  The betting pool has two answers: cheater or snitch.

  Chiaki was insistent on the former, while Ryota stood by the latter. 

  And Wataru...Wataru could only watch, waiting with a bated breath as the door finally opened.

  “I bet it’s someone younger,” Chiaki said. “Usually is.”

  Seems that none of them were winning anything today.

  The man who emerged from the house was far older— who, oddly enough, resembled you. An  old woman soon followed behind him. Both of them looked at you as if they were witnessing a specter, or someone who's crawled back from the dead. An appropriate comparison, especially since they’re both wearing somber black clothes.

  It wasn’t his place to assume. Though he’s been promoted to a slightly higher position, it will never come close to the place that Keiji Akaashi occupies. Wataru knows all of these, but nothing was stopping him from putting the pieces together, no matter what little he has.

  They could only stare when all of you broke down into tears, locked in each other’s embrace as you knelt on the pavement. 

  Don’t let her stay too long.

  That had been one of Akaashi-san’s orders.

  So the three of them didn’t wait it out. By the time that the sun had set, Wataru had already stepped out of the car, taking Ryota with him. He made sure to remind the boy, just in case he’d forgotten.

  “Be gentle, alright?” Wataru reiterated.

  There hadn’t been any need for that, it turned out. 

  He’s sure you’ve never met before, but Wataru saw bitter understanding flash in your eyes when you caught them loitering in front of your house. Fear was there, too, of course. 

  Wataru was convinced that surely it’s a good thing. It saved everyone a lot of time, that way.

  You didn’t even say a word, only giving Wataru a stiff nod when he’d introduced himself, and remained like so on the ride back to Tokyo, with the strap of your handbag trapped by a clenched fist. Wataru didn’t try to initiate small talk; it felt unnecessary.

  It took a while for Wataru to realize that you also hadn’t bothered to change out of your pajamas, though he gave you a couple of minutes to say your farewells. 

  Pajamas, obscured now by a thick, gray coat. 

  Akaashi-san was right.

  You had no plans of coming home. Not tonight. Maybe not for a while.

  Wataru decided not to linger on it anymore. 

  He ignored the blank stare that pierced right through the rear-view mirror. And then, Wataru wondered, hand sweating in his pocket, what the three of them should have for dinner.

Thick chunks of pumpkin melted in your mouth with just the first spoonful of broth. 

  It'd been a while since the last time Akaashi cooked. So, more than anything, it was the sight of him setting plates and utensils that took you aback, greeting you with a, "Welcome home. You're just in time. Food's ready," his sleeves rolled to his elbows while donning your baby owl-printed apron. 

  The taste didn't. Surprise you, that is. He's a good cook. Unlike you, who only became marginally better one hundred burn scars later. 

  It also didn't surprise you that he flew back home at the drop of a hat. Even when he said he'd be gone for a week.

  "How is it?" Akaashi asked after chewing. "Took me a while to make it."

  It obviously did, you thought. When you arrived, Irma Thomas was already begging through the record player.

  "Do you need me, like I need you?" she implored, straight from the heart. "Look at me, I'm crying from holding you." 

  The last song on your favorite record. It was cheap and had the best from the artists you loved. 

  Etta James. Ella Fitzgerald. Aretha Franklin. The Mills Brothers. Bessie Smith. All in one vinyl.

  "Yeah," you replied, clearing your throat when you realized how hard it is to speak. "It's delicious."

  You looked back down to your bowl. The  tofu had gone untouched. Your food was still close to spilling to the brim, while Akaashi was almost finished with his, scrolling on his phone laid on the table.

  "So no one coaxed you into it," you heard him say, and that had ripped your eyes away from the broth like a bandage on an infected wound.

  Akaashi was holding your phone, reading the messages- his number was the only one there, as pealing bells resonated in the dining room. 

  "I'd think of all the things that I wanted of you," cried Irma Thomas. "To make me forget the pain that you caused."

  "I would've known if anyone else talked to you, anyway," he huffed, locking the screen before blowing steam off the morsel. 

  "You would," you conceded. The tofu was soft when you bit into it, sinking into your teeth.

  "I found that in our cabinet. Last time it was in the kitchen drawer, wasn't it?" Akaashi helped himself to a bowl of rice. "Don't leave it in stuffy places. What if you forget where you hid it and you won't know when I call?"

  "And I can no longer keep track of where you are for every moment of the day?" you could hear him say. Though he didn't; though all that could heard, besides the scraping of utensils, was Irma Thomas declaring:

  A fragile thing, like life. It just don't last so long.

  It could be for a minute or an hour. Or then again, from now.

  Your lips tightened with a grin. "I won't do it again, sweetheart," you said, spoon hanging limply in your hold.    

  He didn't need to say it. 

  That your phone has a tracker. That this house is still the same cage that it'd been before. That the only difference between then and now is that silver band on your finger.

  Akaashi’s blinked back at you as he sipped  what remained of the soup. You tried to do the same.

  The savory taste was cloying and it burned in your throat, so you didn't attempt to finish the bowl. It cut down to your heart, sinking heavily on your stomach, bile rising as the song came to a close.

  You gulped it down, though. You had to. And in the final moments, Irma Thompson told you what she really wanted. 

  "Make me forget," she said, "the pain that you'd caused."

  The chorus joined her. "Understanding is a great thing," she concluded. "If it comes from the heart."

  Akaashi was on his own phone this time. Most likely checking on the business that he left, judging by those furrowed brows and that long-suffering look in his eyes.   

  Fizzling noise came at the heels of the fading music. Then, it stopped. And there was nothing left anymore but silence.

  It's over now. Akaashi’s making a move to clean up. You were supposed to say, "That was a lovely dinner, honey." Or, you could tell him to sit down and watch a movie with you when he's done. 

  "I'll help you with the dishes," you wanted to say. 

  I'll help you with the dishes. It was so easy to say. 

  Instead, what came out of your mouth was a hushed call for his name.

  "Kei-kun," you repeated, brittle and weak and dry.  

  "I'm so sorry," you might've mouthed. 

  You could barely hear your own voice as you looked at him. Akaashi paused from tidying the table. 

  You're parched and a lot has happened today. Gathering the courage to take that first step out of the city had taken what little strength you had. The fear never left you. Seeing your old house almost ended you. 

  It should be physically impossible for you to still be able to cry. And yet there doesn't seem to be an end to your tears now, the same way your apologies unfurled in an embarrassingly infinite string.

  "Don't lock me inside here again," you whispered, clinging to him as he shushed you, wiping your cheeks with his thumbs as he helped you drink a glass of water.

  He carried you to your room and sat you down on the bed, right between his thighs. You sobbed into your hands, tears and snot on the sleeves of your pajama top.

  "I- I just wanted to see them. That's all. Just one day, Kei-kun. One day. I was gonna come back, I swear." 

  You're rambling. You're a madwoman pleading and bargaining with a stone-cold judge because playing house is the only thing keeping her alive. 

  And you messed that up you foolish, foolish girl.

  "Please don't hurt my family," you heaved. "They're all I have left."

  Akaashi doesn't speak, not for a while, but when he did, you bawled harder.

  "I can kill them all," he said, matter of factly. 

  It is true. Hearing him say it does not make it easier to take, though. 

  "I can hurt you the same way that you hurt me."

  Your neck strained as he tipped your chin towards him with a slender finger. 

  "I can break you," he muttered, not batting an eye.

  That, too, is true. You know it all too well. He said it with such serenity, still and undisturbed by the shaking of your head, because it goes without saying. 

  Except, you, too, know it. 

  When he is breaking. When he is falling apart.

  He smothered you, taking your entire body to curl against you, making himself small as he pressed his face on your back.

  "Yet- and yet I-" Akaashi sniffled. You felt your shirt dampen. "I've given you everything."

  When he finally brought his face close to yours, he looked so lost. Almost like a little boy who's on the verge of drowning,  clinging desperately onto a lifesaver and too shocked to shout for help. 

  You hated him all the more for it.

  "Each other," he said, snarling, almost, through tears as he grabbed your face with both hands. "That's all we have left, you hear? You and I. Husband and wife."

  He seized your jaw and turned it towards the vanity mirror.

  The room was dark save for the light in the hallway, peeking into the crack through the doorway. 

  But you could see yourself. And you could see your hand intertwined in his, your rings gleaming like muted starlights. 

  "We made a vow," he whispered, kissing your ring finger. 

  A detached part of you is astonished with how inescapable it is. Whether it be a reward or a punishment; a good day or a bad one.

  No matter what happens, you always end up like this, don't you? 

  Begging to him with your legs spread wide.

  You did as you'd always done when he began unbuttoning your top. 

  You go back to that autumn morning, when you first laid your eyes on him, a cup of coffee in his hand, and you thought that he had the prettiest face you'd ever seen.

  You go back to when he was just this really romantic guy who sent you flowers every day. There was a letter, every time. 

  Nothing too grandiose. Just short messages hoping that you'd have a great day ahead.

  He kissed your neck, wet smooches and long, flat-tongued licks dipping down your shoulder.

  He watched you through the mirror, his eyes a pair of darkened blues daring you to look away.

  Akaashi Keiji was your boyfriend, you told yourself. You dated him for quite some time before you married.

  Akaashi Keiji got along well with your father and doted on your mother. On Sundays, you visit them and they send you back to Tokyo with ripe watermelons. 

  Akaashi Keiji has never hurt you.

  The man tracing the hem of your bra, cupping your clothed tits and drawing lazy circles over nipples, however, did.

  (And he still will in future. He still is, right now.)

  This man is the real one. 

  And you have angered him, so he will not make this easy for you.

  "What did you promise me?" Akaashi whispered as he lightly bit the shell of your ear. "Or have you forgotten?"

  Of course, you haven't forgotten. You were chained to this very room when you made them, after all.

  "N-no, I remember," you said, catching your breath. "I remember, Kei-kun."

  "Then say it," he said. "Look at me."

  You shivered as his palms swept over your  stomach; as he unfastened your bra, letting it fall down your arms.

  "Look at me when you say it."

  You felt your nipples harden, gooseprickles spread all over you, as the air hit your bare skin, cooling the sweat that made it glisten.

  "Please," he rasped.

  The eyes of the woman in the mirror was hooded, threatening to close as she puffed with each squeeze and caress to her tits, swiveling her hips against her husband’s crotch as he grinded into her. 

  "I will be happy," she said.

  Akaashi nuzzled your temple, using his rough fingers to tease your nipples just as he did, brushing them to and fro, then grazing the bumpy skin around until you're squeaking out his name. 

  And when he began pressing down on the stiff peaks with his thumbs, before rolling and pulling at them, the heels of his palm digging into your tits, you saw the woman claw at her husband's hair, a graceless affair that almost scratched his eye out, making him reach for both her arms to wrap them around his neck. 

  "I- I will..!" Her lips parted in a breathless scream and it was disgusting how lewd she appeared. "I will not run away!"

  The streak of tears on his cheeks touched yours when he kissed you. His lips were soft and warm, his wet tongue gliding in so slowly as he deepened the kiss with a throaty groan.

  His other hand crawled down to your soaked panties. You couldn't contain the mewl that left you.

  Both of you gasped and struggled to breathe again after you parted from each other.  

  "You understand, don't you?" he rasped.   

  Two of his fingers slid down your folds, only to slither back up, then down again, smearing your cunt with its own slick.

  But he never touched your swollen clit, even though it's throbbing and aching to be rubbed and the hard bulge sitting between your ass grew harder the more you squirmed in his hold, whimpering like a bitch in heat.  

  You heard your husband sigh, his hot breath tickling you when he said, "This isn't about you now."

Belly pushed into the edge of the dressing table, rattling and battering against the wall with each forceful thrust, and your leg perched atop it, made numb by Akaashi's grip on your thigh.

  That was the first thing that you could recall when you opened your eyes.

  But your entire body was screaming in pain, so you knew that everything else that happened last night would come back to you soon enough.

  The flesh had a memory of its own. 

  You sat up with a groan and you didn't have to see the marks to know.

  His teeth were still nipping at you, biting you until they drew blood, only to follow with an apologetic lapping of his tongue. 

  You could feel him beneath you, his hands clawing you down to him, palms kneading your ass cheeks as you bounced up and down on his cock.

  You could feel him above you, gripping your wrists not unlike the cuffs that once kept you shackled. He had your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling you close to him, filling you up with loads and loads of cum, squelching every time he sank down your weeping hole.

  And when your vision began to blur at the edges, he carried your body, mere seconds into fainting, to the dressing table. 

  The evidence of that stared back at you in shameful streaks and smudges, traces of your fingers on the mirror when he rammed your cunt from behind.

  "Are you happy?" Akaashi whispered.

  You don't know. 

  When he's just your husband who comes home to your arms and brings you sweets because he knows how much you love them; who dances with you in the kitchen and listens intently to you when you talk about that cute dog you saw at the park, were you happy, then?

  You don't know, but the woman in the mirror, in that moment, surely was.

  She even said, "Yes, yes, Kei-kun, right there, fuck me right there!"

  Her pupils were blown wide, eyes rolling almost over to the back of her head. And despite the cries that escaped her, there was a wide, dissipated smile on her lips,  spit trailing down her chin.

  "Look at you," Akaashi said, grunting when your walls tightened around his shaft. "You're clearly happy with me."

  "So why? Why'd you even think of leaving?" He rocked his hips, grinding his thick cock against that spot that had you holding onto the mirror. "Don't ever do that to me again." 

  You told him no, no, you won't run away again, but it didn't seem to placate his unease, nor his tears.

  "I'm so scared, everyday, that you'll leave me and- and- it feels like hell. I would rather die." 

  He kissed your nape as he huffed and said, "Because I don't know what I'll do without you."

  You never really understood why; what about you had caused him to single you out in the sea of people that had vied for his attention. Especially now as you looked at yourself in the mirror.

  There were dark circles under your eyes and Akaashi’s t-shirt was rumpled on your body, engulfing you whole with its size— a far cry from that lovely, dazzling bride that his best friend, Bokuto, had described you as on your wedding day. 

  But you’re aware, more than anyone, that Akaashi Keiji is the last person to care about appearances. 

  When he entered the room, carrying a tray in his hands, he gazed at that disheveled girl with eyebags big enough to be dragged around the same way he looked at her when he waited for her at the end of the aisle.

  “I made you pancakes,” he muttered, clearing his throat as he sat down beside you.

  You were tired so it didn’t dawn on you as quickly as it should that he made them the way you preferred. Four fluffy pieces stacked atop one another, sprinkled with powdered sugar, whipped cream and a smattering of berries on the side.

  He fiddled with his fingers when you only stared at it, so you immediately took the fork in your hand and sliced the pancake in half.

  “I’ll be taking some time off work,” Akaashi said as you took the food in your mouth. You only nodded, having noticed that he wasn’t wearing the usual bespoke suit as soon as he entered the room.

  You felt him near you; felt his hand, warm to touch, cup your face.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His eyes were misty and, this close, it seemed that he, too, wasn’t in a good shape. “So please-” Akaashi licked his chapped lips, “Please don’t go.”

  “I won’t,” you replied, giving him the smile that you knew he needed. “I promise.”

  Then, as you moved to kiss him on the cheek, the chains that tethered you to the bedpost clinked softly beneath the blanket, and you didn’t bother to keep the tears at the bay.

  Akaashi wiped them for you when you said that you loved him. And when he asked why, you only shrugged and told him that the pancakes were so sweet that they could make anyone cry. 

#tw noncon #tw non con haikyuu #akaashi x y/n #akaashi x female reader #Dark content haikyuu #yandere akaashi keiji

[quecksilvereyes]

borrowed time

Once, the world stood still. Once, before Carrie was a pink hue of bubblegum and giggles, her mother placed her on a razor’s edge. Her father – half delirious, half despair, all dark-blue pain staining the very ends of him – took her into his hands, one calloused, one soft, and rocked her until the moon waned, that first time.

Once, a girl grew something inside of her to take from within a guitarist the last pieces he still had left of a necklace, a ring. A bracelet. Once, a half-boy, swaying at the sight of the sun, gave his half-life for a child who would grow up to have Luke’s laughter dripping from her sparkling lips.

In a fairytale, the girl dies. She is taken by Hades to the bowels of the earth to choke on pomegranate seeds, and leaves the earth to wither and die in her wake. Carrie’s life is not a fairytale. It’s not even myth. So the sun still shines. The grass is green and the fruit is ripe and heavy on the trees, sugar-sweet; a perfect harvest.

Her father plucks the apples with her hands in his hair and a pair of sunglasses firm over his eyes. The applesauce he makes from them is the first sweet thing Carrie tastes. “You know”, says Trevor – Bobby, half-alive – a lifetime later, and looks at her, with eyes so soft that Carrie can hear the zoom of the camera whirr, “that moment. This one moment where I stood in that messy kitchen, apple peel everywhere, with a plastic spoon and a gurgling baby. That was when I knew I loved her. That was when I knew that, for her, I could do this.” The shutter clicks. Her father barely flinches. He smiles. His teeth are perfect.

The moment the door shuts, he’s heaving.

In a myth-less world Carrie grows up in flashes and pressed against her father’s heaving chest. Years later, she will lie on the floor of Julie’s bedroom, and cut out every single picture taken of a boy with wild eyes and bleeding hands, and paste them all into a collage, her hair mixing with Julie’s against the bright patterned carpet. Julie smiled, a fuzzed thing that tugged at all the parts of Carrie that had grown around her father’s glass-shard skin. Carrie kissed her cheek.

Demeter was still alive, then. Smiling, warm and full of life, she cradled Persephone in her arms, and looked at a child displaced from myth as if she was just the same. As if Carrie’s hands and Julie’s laughter came from the same place, as if Carrie’s mouth didn’t taste of the strawberries Julie ate in between lunch and dinner.

*

what is a mother?

soft things, warmth and               glass-stained, blurred                              aching.

sharp things, cuts and tangled chains, trembling hands needle-teeth.

what is a mother, child, but longing and love so shameful and hungry that it might swallow you whole

if you don’t take care if you won’t –

 hold on.

*

This story is a myth. So in it, Death comes for Demeter. When she leaves, everything dies. Everything withers and everything screams. Carrie’s palms are bloody. Trevor stands in the kitchen at night; swaying – swaying, dripping mouth. Julie wails until she loses her voice. And then she wails with her hands and with her teeth and with all the ugly things she has long since swallowed whole. They break from her like bile; a bubbling thing.

Venomous, it coats their lips. Weeping, Carrie bares her ribs. “Come”, she says, into the mess of their hair, her pink wig on the door handle, her wig cap in her hands, “write a song with me. Let’s stop thinking about it.”

In her room, there is a collage of dead things never buried. Every picture of Trevor’s eyes, wide and blood-shot, Carrie barely something alive in his arms, cut to size. Every shot of a boy, half-dead, behind tinted windows, something wild locked behind his teeth. “It’s over”, says her father. In the pan, the meat sizzles. He takes it out with a smile. When he takes a bite, Carrie can still see the raw pink. She looks at him. “It’s over now. Better not to think about it.”

Julie’s wailing turns fury.

Deadly, it flows from her. And Carrie, motherless since the knife was first sharpened, takes it all. The strawberries in her mouth taste foul, and salty.

“Some people”, says her father, softly, hours after she has washed the taste out of her mouth, “want to think about it. Some people cannot move without getting stuck in the thick of it first.”

Carrie looks at him. Her eyes are dry and her lipstick has long since worn off. “Why?”

Her father shrugs. He smells like sharply burnt meat. He smiles.

Carrie doesn’t cry.

*

dance. step-step-three-four. smile. ache. sing. scream. pitch. bleed. go on. go on.

keep going, even if your lungs groan and your feet howl and your voice scratches at the shape of you. keep moving, even as the sun sets, bleeding, in your back. you are sweet, sugar-sweet, gnawing want holding onto Persephone with wet hands. don’t stop. don’t skip, don’t breathe, don’t look away. don’t you know it is not her choice to stay? don’t you see the pomegranate seeds on the table?

don’t you remember the light, or the gaping pit that came with it? did not your father hold onto the edge with one hand and onto you with the other? did he not –

Carrie stops.

Carrie cries.

*

“She doesn’t care”, says Julie, her eyes rimmed red. Behind her, Flynn holds up her phone. Carrie pulls at the corners of her mouth. Her lip gloss is sticky. She can still taste Demeter’s fruit on the edges of them.

“Come to the pep rally”, she says. “Come watch me.”

Julie rips the flyer in half. Carrie barely flinches. Somewhere between the dirty floor and the stickers on the lockers, Julie is a blurred thing. Her hair is still the same. Her smile is still dimpled. In her story, the harvest rotted when Persephone lost Demeter.

Perhaps this is where myth draws the line. Between necklaces, armbands, rings and wailing, this is where Carrie smiles into the spotlight, with pieces of herself spread on a platter.

She buys a tub of strawberry lipgloss.

for @stars--above

#julie and the phantoms #carrie wilson #julie x carrie #julie molina #trevor wilson #rose molina #on death #on mourning #on loss #in which i once again love carrie to death #larissa makes things #my work #jatp #jatp fanfic #julie and the phantoms fanfic #jatp fanfiction #julie and the phantoms fanfiction #*

[zealous-whispers-of-us-redux]

a different kind of song

(A/N: no one ever asked for this, but there isn't enough merman!Bucky/reader fics out there, lol. Also, her song is basically "Siren Song" by Margaret Atwood)

Warning- allusions to sexual assault. Do NOT read if that bothers you!

Summary: The sea swallowed her whole, and she was reborn with saltwater on her tongue and webs between her fingers.

🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

She did not remember her life as a human. All she remembered was the war, and the hunger, and the men raiding her village. She remembered the sweat-soaked skin of a warrior snatching her up as she cried out for help. She felt the slide of his body, his blade against her throat. Then when he had finished, she remembered being thrown away into the deepest part of the sea, left to die. But she was blessed by the primordial sea god Phorcys, a child of Artemis, and was allowed to live again. Her new body was formed from misery and blood, and the reward for her suffering was eternal life with the chance to kill as many humans as she wished with no divine interference. The killing of human men, for men were the chosen victims of any siren. Women were not drawn in by their song, and if, by chance, a woman stumbled across a siren, that siren would leave her alone.

Slowly, she began to forget the trappings of humanity, the sound of her mother's voice, and the taste of human food. She aged with the world, hidden deep beneath the waves. Countless men fell prey to her beautiful song, and she learned how to kill quickly. She grew to love the taste of flesh, the sound of someone drowning. She forgot what it was like to be lonely. 

Now, she only knew starvation.

An all-encompassing hunger clawing at her belly made her whine with pain. Humans had avoided this part of the sea for a few years, and she last ate three months ago. She'd had to survive solely on fish, which, while technically food, were not filling nor even tasty. She was beginning to hate fish.

There were no boats; she checked three times in the past hour. It was dangerous for her to be so close to the surface because the air outside was toxic. There was also a very likely chance that she would be spotted by anyone who could harm her. But she was so hungry that she forgot herself. She floated just beneath the surface and sang, letting her voice ring out through the water, enticing any man into approaching. The setting sun shined down on the outcrop of rocks above her.

And there! A flash of something!

She sang louder, opening her eyes underwater. There was a man with darker hair than she had ever seen lying on a gigantic rock. He was acceptable, she guessed. She barely knew what that meant.

He had yet to notice her, dumb as he was. She could see her song was affecting him as his eyes started to close, and his hand inched unconsciously closer to the water. His finger just barely skimmed the surface before she lunged, yanking him into the sea with her. He began to fight back as she dragged him down to the sandy bottom. Thrashing against her hold, he scrabbled to gain purchase on her body, but to no avail. Her skin was as hard as stony coral and difficult to cut. She sang her trumph, mocking him as she brought him up to break the surface, only to bring him right back down.

But this man had a tail, and she did not realize it until it hit her in the face. She squawked in surprise, her song cutting off. The merman twisted out of her slackened grip. She snarled, baring her teeth as she swam at him. Sirens were stronger than mer, especially in deeper waters, so it did not take much to grab him again. They wrestled, flipping over each other. She sliced his side with one of her nails; his tail knocked the wind out of her. He pulled her lure too hard, and she made a pained sound, biting at his hand. He cried out as she ate clean through one of his webs. Blood leaked into the water, making her ravenous.

"This is the one song everyone would like to learn: the song that is irresistible," she began, "The song that forces men to leap overboard in squadrons, even though they see the beached skulls!"

The merman ceased struggling. He stared at her, his eyes growing vast and dreamy. She grinned toothily. She had only had mer meat once before. It was harder to draw in mermen than human men, so because of that, she was only able to entice a single merman. But that was years ago, and he wasn't nearly as delicious to look at as this mer.

She dropped the tone of her voice to a seductive curl. "This is the song that nobody knows because anyone who has heard it is dead, and others can't remember. Shall I tell you a secret? And if I promise to, will you come nearer? I will tell my secret to you, to you, only to you. Come closer, closer to me."

She lifted her finger, tempting him to come over so that she could take a bite. The merman swam closer until their chests were pressed together. He said something in a language that she had never heard before.

"This song is a cry for help, my dear. Help me! Only you, only you can, for you are unique!" she cried sadly.

His tail curled around hers, and she frightened at the gentle touch broken out of her song. She spat and gnashed her teeth, but still, his tail stayed where it was. He opened his mouth and said something, but she still could not understand. She went to bite his nose off, but he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to hers so plainly that she stilled. She was not sure what was happening. She was not sure what she was supposed to be doing. She floated there, letting him mash his mouth against hers. His mouth tasted bizarre.

Finally, the merman stopped. He pulled away only minutely, still looking spellbound. Strange. Her song had ended. Why did he continue to look at her like that? He reached out and lifted her chin to meet his eyes. His own were darting back and forth across her face, searching for something. He spoke more things that she didn't understand.

"Uhh-h- hello," the merman said in a language she could understand. "Hi."

"Why were you crushing your mouth onto mine?" she asked.

"What, never heard of kissin' before?"

His smile was much too pleasant. That was unacceptable. Food was never supposed to look nice. She wanted to claw the smile right off of his face.

"Kissing?"

"Yeah, touchin' lips. Usually done as a sign of love or, you know, desire."

"Desire?"

"Sweet Thetis, you're fuckin' gorgeous," said the merman, ignoring her confusion.

His hand shot out to touch her lure, but he thought better of it and withdrew.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

His smile grew bigger, how funny: "Beautiful. Pretty."

"Pretty? What's that?"

"You know, like when you find a shiny thing, an' you wanna keep it forever?"

"I do not know," she grumbled (How dare this mer make her feel unintelligent!). "I have never had shiny things."

"Never had… Hold on, my pretty one."

Mystified, she waited just as he'd asked as he ruffled through a pouch that she had not noticed before. She had never seen anything like it and wondered where she could acquire one. Of course, she never had a reason to have a bag since she had no use for possessions. Perhaps it could hold weapons! Or bones to snack on!

"Ah-ha!" the merman said, thrusting something in her direction.

She stared at the thing in his hand.

"Looks even prettier underneath your lights," he said, avoiding her eyes.

"What is it?" she replied, her hand darting out nervously to touch it.

She pulled back almost instantly, but the merman grabbed her wrist.

"It's called gold," he explained, tipping it into her hands. "The humans use it to get other shiny things. D'you like it?"

"I am not sure. I do not know what I like."

"You can keep it."

"What kind of trickery is this?"

"No tricks. As I said, you're beautiful, and beautiful things should have beautiful things."

"No tricks, certainly, but what do you want in exchange?"

For the first time tonight, he looked sheepish. She noticed that his stomach was turning pink, but for what reason, she was unsure. She wondered what he was trying to work up the nerve to say.

"Well, er, matin' season is comin' up," he began.

"Not yet."

"Right, it isn't for a few months yet, but I was taught to woo the mer, er, the creature that I choose with shiny things. It's my first matin' season, you see."

"Mhm."

"An' the wooin' part takes a while. An' then there's the courtin' stage, which takes even longer."

"If you need a mate, there are mer all around this area during this time."

"Well- heh." The merman rubbed the back of his neck. "I-I'd like it to be you."

"Why?"

"Because you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Ah."

"I have more shiny things if you want 'em," the mer said, reaching for his pouch.

She shrugged. "I have no use for them."

"You don't gotta have a use for 'em. Where's your home cave? I can bring 'em there."

"I do not have a home cave," she said.

"Oh, right, where is your family's cave, then?"

"I have no family."

"No family? You mean, you're out here all by yourself?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you lonely?"

"What is lonely?" she asked.

"Sad, because you have no one with ya."

"What is sad?"

"Whaddya mean, 'what is sad?' It's sad! Don't you know what that is?" the merman twisted his face up like he was in distress, though what kind she was not sure.

"I only know hunger," she told him.

His eyes lost some of their shine. "Oh, yeah, right. How long's it been since you ate properly anyway? You don't look so good."

"I have not caught a human in months."

"D'you need help huntin'?"

"Can you ensnare a human with your singing?"

"No, but I know some good spots for fish."

"I am not in the mood for fish," she said.

"You just haven't found the right kind," the merman replied, closing his left eye.

He turned tail, swimming away from her before glancing back to see if she would follow him. The hunger in her belly was making her act quite strange in that she was willing to go along with this merman. She felt, oh, what's the word, she knew this, like mer, she was curious. She decided to follow him, keeping a bit of distance between them until the merman flipped around in an impressive display of tailfins and long dark hair, and decided they would swim side by side. His hand kept brushing hers, trying to grab onto her fingers for some reason. She tugged away, unsure of what he was trying to do. She still had not yet decided if she wanted to mate with him anyway. Sirens did not mate in the same way that mer did, that much she knew. They called it breeding, and it was over in a frenzy of teeth and claws. There were no gifts of shiny things or "kisses."

"What's yer name?" the merman asked.

The question stunned her. She could not remember her name before the sea took her in, and she had no use for a name now. No one else called to her. Her name was simply another memory, another casualty to add to her list.

"I do not know," she said.

"You know what a name is, right? Like, I'm Bucky, for example."

Her fingers drifted up to her lips, searching for her name. If she remembered the shape of her mouth as she spoke it aloud, perhaps she could remember the correct sounds. She thought back as far as she could, to the feeling of water filling her lungs, to the sounds of screams, to the smell of a fire burning down her village, to her blood staining her tongue. She wanted to remember her name. She had not even realized this was something she had lost until she needed it.

Then there was a flash of memory, jagged and cutting. Her heart began to race. In her mind, she heard it. Her mother had been crying. Her mother had been screaming at the men to stop. Her mother had been shrieking to let go of her, let go of my daughter. Her mother yelling at her to be brave, hold her breath, be strong, my love, my dear. Her mother. She remembered her mother.

Her lips parted, and she whispered the name into the water. The merman, Bucky, repeated it.

"Again," she said.

He did, and oh, she felt something new, something besides hunger. A hole opened in her chest. Her lower lip wobbled, and then she was singing a new song, never before heard from a siren. It echoed around her and Bucky, reaching out to the farthest depths of the sea. It was filled with desperation, isolation, and salvation, but it was hope and home too.

"Is this what sad is?" she asked Bucky once her song was over.

"Yeah, it is," he answered, curling his tail around hers.

When he went to wrap her up in his arms, she let him, falling into his embrace.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #mermaid au #angst #fluff #merman!bucky #siren!reader

[babayagakeanu]

How Will I Know? -part two

Pairing: Jethro Gibbs/reader

Summary: In which the reader finds out that Gibbs is in fact, in love with her too

Warnings: smut, NSFW 18+, oral receiving(female)

It’s been three weeks since your discussion with Gibbs, and he’s been giving you the silent treatment all those 21 days. It was agony, and you felt so small whenever you were near him. His hard gaze towards you made you overthink and regret ever opening up to him like that, and it made it even harder to do your job with Abby. Forensics was hard enough, Gibbs made it even harder when he kept entering the office every hour. 

“Abs! What do ya got?” He says, entering your shared office in a swift motion. You watch the two as they interact, Abby sharing the details of the prints you two had found on the Vic’s jacket. 

“Great job, Abs. Y/n, I expect you to do the same.” Your blood boils at Gibbs’ remark, but you swallow your pride and continue to work on finding DNA matches. Abby looks over to you and grimaces. “He didn’t take it well, did he?” He didn’t at all, you think, acted like a big baby about it. 

You sigh, looking down at your sample and face her. “No he didn’t. He’s been giving me harder tasks and giving me the silent treatment for almost a month.” You swivel in your chair before getting up to continue your rant. “Abby, I thought  Gibbs and I were close. He opened up to me about more than he’s ever opened up to any of you guys, no offense.” 

“None taken!” She responds. “Maybe he’s processing it, giving it some time to swish around in his little noggin. If it gets to a point where you can’t take it anymore, talk to him, y/n. You deserve closure, at the least.” She hugs you, patting you on the crown of your head before getting back to work. The work day proceeds the same, catching the suspect before the two day period runs out. 

———-

It was midnight when you guys had finished, and you and Gibbs were the only ones left at your desks. It’s been hell working in silence; usually you two would find something to talk about, maybe you would ask him about his boat or he would ask you about your latest puzzle. Either way, it was awkward and uncomfortable. 

“Gibbs?” You ask, the waver in your voice instantly detectable. 

He doesn’t look up from his paperwork. “Yes, y/L/n?” He hasn’t said called you by your last name since you were a probie, and that was the last straw.

You shift in your seat, “I think it’s about high time you give me an explanation!” His head snaps up, a glare already storming in his steely blue eyes. “I’ve been honest with you on how I felt about you. Was it the perfect time and place? No. But I don’t regret it. The only thing that I regret about this is letting you leave without telling me the truth.” He’s silent for a moment, trying to call your bluff; only to be found with tears in your eyes and the devastation wreaking havoc on the color of them.

It’s not long until he gets up, reaching to your desk in a few long strides. You can feel your heart hammering in you chest, and the nervousness ate at the pit of your stomach.

“Jethro, are you-?” He yanks you up with one hand, not too rough, but enough to pull you flat to his chest , the warmth of his body seeping into your skin. You smell him; sawdust and bourbon. Smoky with just a hint of manliness.

“I have tried incredibly hard to keep my distance from you because all I want to do is kiss you.” You knew Gibbs wasn’t one for words but even the simplest of sentences behold the deepest meanings. You looked into his eyes, memorizing the image of yourself reflecting back at you, hoping that you will be for his eyes only now on.

“Then kiss me,” you say, craning your neck for him as he dips into your mouth, growling at the taste of your lips against his. His hands travel further, cupping both of your ass cheeks and pressing you into him. You gasp into his mouth, scratching at the base of Jethro’s neck.

“Jethro, please I-“ You whine, backing up into your computer desk, careful of knocking down the computer. “What do you need, babygirl?” You could feel the corner of something digging into your back but you didn’t care. 

“I want you. All of you.” You say, against his lips that were still currently attacking yours.Your hands found their way under his shirt, feeling the warmth and rigidness of his muscled back. His lips leaves yours, dragging a whine out of you from the loss of contact. 

“Meet me at my place, tomorrow evening. Dinner’s on me, you bring the bourbon.” He leaves you a sweet kiss, another following on the corner of your mouth. You pack up and are about to leave when he stops you. “By the way, you were never just a friend to me.”

You sigh, grinning up at him. “You sure you don’t want to come to my place? I can think of a few ways to prove myself to you. Well, more or less, show you.” He smirks, chuckling before playing with the strap of your bra, peeking out from underneath your short sleeve top. 

“Well, as much as I believe you can show me, I also believe in the art of suspense and surprise. So, tomorrow at eight.” 

——————————————————————————————————

The time to go over Gibbs’ place tonight was almost upon you, the hour hand reaching 6:30. You were in the shower, currently listening to every power-up song there was, and scrubbing your skin until it was red. Once you knew that you’ve been in the shower for way too long, you stepped out, wrapping a fluffy towel around you and hurried to your bedroom to pick out your outfit. You didn’t want to dress up to much, knowing that Jethro would most likely be wearing a button up t-shirt and jeans. You settled on a tight black shirt, paired with simple blue jeans. You had opted to curl your hair, letting it fall into loose waves and for your makeup, simple but with a bold red lip. It was 7:30 by the time you were done getting ready, so you packed up the bottle of wine and headed to his his house.

The phone rang a few times before he picked up. “Yeah, Gibbs.” 

“You still answer your phone like that with your significant others?” You say, smiling as you turn down his street. 

“Who said you were my girlfriend?” He asks, the joking evident in the way he chuckles at the end. 

“Well, what I’m wearing under my clothes and the way you kissed me last night said otherwise.” You park your car in his driveway. “Now open up Marine or I’m leavin’.” The phone call ends and the door opens, revealing Jethro, who actually looked like sex on legs. He donned a jean button up, and cargo pants. 

“Wow.” Is all he says, watching as your chest gleamed under the light of his kitchen. “Wow, yourself.” You respond, leaning in to kiss his jaw. “You looking like that makes me wanna skip dinner and get to the fun stuff.” He smiles, looking down at your smirking face. “Well, if you keep talkin’ like that, I might end up being hungry for somethin’ else.” He leads you to the kitchen were he made an excellent dinner of steak, potatoes, and some veggies. 

“Why did I known you were a meat and potatoes kind of guy?” You quip, watching as he smirks at you before cutting into his steak. 

“I’m a simple man, y/n. I know what I like.” You knew that his last sentence has a double entendres, and it makes the corners of your mouth quirk up a bit. 

“I don’t doubt that you do.” You say, and the two of you eat your dinner in a comfortable manner, it felt natural, like you knew that fate had brought you together, but you wouldn’t tell him that, not yet. You still had the fear of losing him, of him pushing you away like he did with his ex-wives, and you didn’t want to ever be referred to as Jethro’s ex-wife. 

“Something on your mind?” He asks, cutting through the silence and shaking you out of your head. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. Just thinking.” You shrug, forking more veggies into your mouth. 

“Nothing is always something. What are you thinking about?” he puts his fork down and rest his elbows on the table, folding his hands. You sigh, putting your fork down.

“It’s gonna sound embarrassing if I tell you.” 

“No, it won’t.”

“Well,” you begin, the fear in your throat rising. “You know how I feel about you, and I’m just thinking about why I took this job in the first place. I love forensics and working with Abs is just one of the many perks of the job.”

He laughs, “ She is a character.” 

“But, I think the biggest perk there was, is you.” You look up at him, and find him walking up to your chair, and lifting you up from it. “Yeah, I think I’d agree too.” His hands ghost up your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His lips find your neck, leaving wet, hot kisses causing you to moan softly and grab his biceps in an attempt to stable yourself. 

“Jethro...” you mumble, watching as he stares down at you with his steely blue eyes, looking at how the icy blue ring deepens with lust. His lips are on yours in a flash, and something tells you he couldn’t handle not kissing you for long. You match his pace, a kiss full of gnashing teeth and hot breath. Your hands reach up to wrap around his neck. “God, you taste so good, J.” You feel his shit-eating grin on your lips before you pull away.

You grab the bottle of wine and two glasses. “Meet me upstairs in ten minutes.” You wink at him before walking off upstairs, not without adding an extra sway to your hips. 

———————-

The Marine had finished cleaning up dinner in record time, and you had finished putting lotion all over your body, brushing your teeth, and positioned yourself in just your panties on his bed; they were lace, of course. It was when you heard Jethro coming up the stairs that the excitement starts eating at the pit of your stomach. You’re sipping on your third glass of wine when he opens the door and stops in his tracks when he sees you.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” He states, his eyebrows raised with a smirk. “you’re looking real pretty right about now.” He can tell your nipples are perked, and are in desperate need of attention. “Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open, come put it to good use, mister.” He smirks, his hands in his pockets as the tightness in his pants grew, he felt it as he was walking towards you. Shoving his socks and shoes off, he climbs on the bed, taking your wine glass and sipping it with once again, a smirk. Setting your wine glass on the bedside table, he envelops your lips in a fiery kiss, licking into your mouth and tasting the Cabernet on your tongue. His hands find your hips, squeezing as he breaks contact with your lips. He sits up as you climb into his lap, your arms ghosting over his broad shoulders meanwhile grinding into his bulge. 

“I love you,” you remind him, watching as his lips turn into this wide smile, as if the heavens opened up to him, and that would be alright because he could die a happy man right about now. 

“I love you, too.” He kisses you, and maybe you were just in a daze but you felt every emotion in his kiss. As if he was telling you something without actually telling you. His lips trail further down your collarbone, sending chills through your spine and when he reaches your taut nipples, it causes you to let out a high-pitched gasp. His tongue swirls around your teased bud, nipping it a little.

“For years, I’ve dreamt of knowing what was under these clothes of yours, and you know what? My imagination is nowhere close to the real thing.” He lays you down, watching as your hair cascades against his pillow. “I’m gonna show you what it’s like to be with a man, sweetheart.” You giggle at him, but it’s suppressed once he dives into your pussy. Licking and sucking at the small bundle of nerves you know most men can’t find. 

“Oh, Jethro!” You gasp, hands tangling themselves into his short silver locks. “Just like that... just like that” you mumble, his fingers working your tight hole, hot, wet, and tight. You were nearing your release when he releases his fingers and mouth, coming back up to kiss you before shedding off the rest of his clothes. “Wha-” he smirks down at you, before tugging at his cock, entering you  in a swift motion. Your gasp was swallowed by another kiss, but he didn’t move, allowing you to adjust to his larger size. Once you tap his shoulder, he moves, slowly but gradually picking up pace once he hears your tiny whimpers and mewls.

“So fucking tight,” he adds, his sharp and heavy thrusts causing your breasts to bounce, and his large hand moved from the pillow by your head to capture your breast. You left out a high-pitched moan as his thrust sends you into overdrive, nails scraping at his shoulders while you moan out his name like a mantra.

“Good girl,” he moans, getting close to his end as well. His thrusts start to sloppy and with a guttural groan, he comes, spilling his hot seed inside you.

——————————————————-

Your fingers were trailing his face, committing his looks to memory, as if one day you’d wake up and he wouldn’t be there. You’re figuring he’s doing the same since he’s looking at you like you’re the only one in the world who’s made him feel so strongly about someone. There were no need for words, because everything has already been said.

———————————————————————-

Taglist: @minninugget @bandgeek88

#jethro gibbs imagine #jethro gibbs x reader #jethro gibbs x reader smut #ncis fic #ncis reader insert #chapter fic #chapter two #smut #confessions of love

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 17: Lingering Touch

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, blood, penetrative sex, oral sex, breeding kink, heat, sex toys, overstimulation

Summary: Juniper wakes up after the Bloodmoon… but something feels different

Feedback appreciated. 18+

This is a smut heavy chapter folks….

Juniper awoke in their bed. Her muscles were sore and she felt incredibly hungry. She raised her hand to touch her face, but a sharp thorn of pain rippled through the bones of her arm. Juniper looked down, seeing her arm wrapped up in thick bandages.

She made a tiny sound of alarm, trying to sit up. Her memories were coated in a thick fog of the night before, the only thing that was at the forefront was the taste on her tongue:

Blood.

Was it her own? She was obviously injured. But oh god, what if it wasn’t. If her stomach wasn’t a yawning emptiness she might have retched.

Juniper heard the speakers rattle to life overhead.

“You awake buttercup?” Heisenberg’s voice sounded.

“Y-yea…” she answered.

“You sit tight and rest.” His voice ordered, “I’ll be up after I finish up down here, and I better not see your ass out of that room.”

As the speakers died Juniper huffed annoyed.

She shakily stood, making her way to the kitchen. She rummaged through the fridge and cabinets, desperately wanting to fill her belly and wash the taste from her mouth.

Juniper ended up making the biggest sandwich she’d ever made: it consisted of multiple layers of cheese and meats, even adding what little veggies she could find onto it.

She sat at the table, wolfing it down hungrily. She felt like her insides were hollow. As she neared the end of her meal Heisenberg came through the door to check on her.

He looked over the disorderly kitchen, shooting her an amused smile, “Hungry, kitten?”

She nodded, her mouth full of her most recent bite.

Heisenberg chuckled, striding past and sifting through the mess to make himself something.

Juniper swallowed, then asked, “What happened?”

Heisenberg gave a deep sigh, “Well…long story short, you turned into the big bitch again.”

Juniper grew quiet, trying to think.

Heisenberg went on, “I don’t know what you did, you fucking ran off on me. Found you in the stronghold, had a gunshot wound.” He gestured to her arm. Juniper felt it over swallowing again.

“D-Did I hurt anyone?” She asked tentatively.

Heisenberg gave her a long look before answering honestly, “I’m not sure Doll…but you were covered in blood…”

She read between the lines, nodding.

Shrugging Heisenberg picked up his plate to sit next to her, “It comes with the territory, buttercup. We all lose control early on.”

He reached out and took her hand in his gloved one, “It’ll get easier.”

Juniper nodded again, meeting his eyes.

~

The next few days went by slowly. Juniper felt restless and hot. Her skin felt sensitive and the hunger morphed into something more, a different emptiness and need filled her.

She sat down in the workshop, and Juniper was in a mood, the type of mood where she strove to be the biggest nuance she could be. It had long since worn Heisenberg thin, her status to him the only thing keeping him some semblance of calm.

“Buttercup…” Heisenberg hissed through clenched teeth, “You are really starting to piss me off.”

She pulled the tool she’d been lightly tickling him with away with a little whine. She wanted attention, wanted to be touched.

“How about you go back to the apartment.” It was more of an order, “Let me work.”

She begrudgingly did what she was told, returning to the apartment dejectedly. Sitting on the edge of the bed she fidgeted with the edge of her dress.

As the hours went on the feeling sharpened into a deep desire. Her body erupted into a cold sweat, muscles twitching under the skin. Her mind felt foggy and heavy.

~

Heisenberg finally entered the apartment, after he'd finished with the tasks he set before him that day. The second he was through the threshold Juniper was on him. She was unclothed, eyes dilated.

“Hello, Doll.” He gave a cocky smile as she started pulling his coat off. He let her as he slowly walked towards the bed.

Juniper pushed Heisenberg back onto the bed. He made a sound as he hit the mattress, chuckling once he got his breath.

“You ok buttercup?” He smiled cockily, watching as she practically ripped the rest of her clothing from herself.

“No.” She shook her head, crawling over him. Her eyes were dark and lustful, sweat gathering on her brow.

“I’m so horny.” She huffed out, “So horny it hurts!”

“Hey now.” He chuckled as she started to undo his belt. Juniper looked up at him almost annoyed before continuing.

“So am I going to be the pillow princess tonight?” He folded his arms behind his head showily.

Juniper struggled to get him undressed, her hands shaking a bit.

“You can be whatever you want.” She almost growled.

When his cock was free she found it with her mouth hungrily. Heisenberg made a sound of surprise as she lathed over him with her tongue.

She looked up at him with half lidded eyes, vision of a predator. His smirk faltered, her smell hitting him. She smelled sweet and alluring.

He licked his lips, realizing she’d been acting strangely since the bloodmoon.

Had its primal song sent her into a mock heat?

He didn’t have long to muse, she was on him. She trapped him between her thighs, letting out a ragged breath. Heisenberg rubbed up her legs softly, aware of her dripping core.

He smiled roguishly, thinking he was in for a good night.

~

Juniper bounced on him, seemingly unrelenting. Heisenberg’s eyes were shut, his jaw tight. His muscles would tighten with every movement of her hips. Her hands found his shoulders, beginning to buck faster as another orgasm inched ever closer.

Heisenberg had already come multiple times, concentrating more on holding himself together now then focusing on whatever she was doing.

Her walls clenched down on him, milking his cock. Juniper threw her head back, playing with her own piercings as she cried out.

Heisenberg writhed underneath her, unable to hide his sounds. He moaned loudly, gripping her hips as she kept up her onslaught. His thighs trembled with pleasure under her.

“F-Fuck buttercup!” He moaned out, huffing out hotly. His idea of the night was quickly turning over to survival.

Juniper couldn’t find real relief, her body searched it out with unending energy. His smell was driving her wild: a mix of musk and sweat. She ran her fingers through Heisenberg’s chest hair, drawing out a shutter from him.

Had it been hours? How many times did he spill out into her?

Heisenberg didn’t know, overstimulation and pleasure bleed together into a cocktail of primal passion that made his head spin. He was usually the one with higher stamina but Juniper was a force to be reckoned with in this state.

“Doll?” Heisenberg groaned out, when she didn’t stop he grabbed her hips hard.

Juniper mewled in protest.

“Doll, I need a drink.” He shook his head, “You’re fucking killing me here.”

She made a sound of distress as he lifted her off of him. Juniper pouted up at him.

“God damn.” Heisenberg tried to stand, his legs almost buckling under him.

He made his way to the kitchen, nearly falling into the sink. He bent forward, cranking his neck to drink straight from the tap needily. Water trickled down his chin, getting caught in his beard. Shutting off the water, he had a ragged breath.

He turned, seeing her still on the bed, rubbing her thighs together.

Sighing heavily he spoke, “How about I get that toy I made for you, hm?”

“Don’t go!” Juniper stood, worry making her shake.

“I’ll be quick.”

“Can I come with you.”

“It’ll be faster if you’re not hanging all over me buttercup.” He admitted, seeing her wilt.

“I’ll come right back and play with you for a while with the toy…Give me a bit of a breather.” He admitted, “Then I’ll be top for a while. See if that’ll help.”

She gave him a tiny nod.

He was true to his word, as he most often was, returning promptly with the toy in hand. He pulled up a char before the bed, sitting heavily down.

“Get on your knees, in the bed.” He instructed, using his powers to pull his cigar case towards him. She crawled onto the bed, lifting her butt up in the air. She waited impatiently as he cut and lit a cigar. He took a long drag before mentally bringing the toy over to her.

She made a little cry as the cold metal speared into her. Heisenberg leaned back in the chair, watching as he used the device to piston into her, setting a quick pace.

A mixture of her own slick and his come ran down her thighs from her swollen cunt.

He kept this up for a long while, removing the toy to press against her clit from time to time. He loved to just sit and watch her fall apart.

The way her legs trembled and her back arched to get better angles. He’d never seen her so feverish to fuck, unused to being the one running out of stamina.

When he felt his strength return with a second wind he pulled the toy free of her. It fell wetly to the floor with a metallic clink. Juniper made a little sound from the loss of sensation.

Juniper started to move, turning to look at him.

Heisenberg stood growling, “Stay right there. Ass up.”

She complied, wiggling her hips a bit enticingly. He stood behind her, marveling at the artwork of flesh before him. He ran his palms over the plush of her ass and down her soft thighs, earning a mewl from her.

“You want to act like a needy bitch, you’ll be fucked like one.” He spoke huskily as he lined himself with her opening.

He speared into her without mercy. If she wanted to be fucked in oblivion he would do his damndest to comply. He set a fast rough pace, hearing her cry out every time he hilted fully in her flesh.

“Yea this is what you fucking wanted, wasn’t it?” He growled, pounding into her. She made a sound, lips open and wavering.

He smacked her ass hard, “Want my pups you, needy Bitch?”

“Y-yes!” She cried.

“Tell me.” He thrust faster, fingernails digging into the skin of her hip.

“I want your pups!” Screamed out as an orgasm washed over her.

Heisenberg groaned out, feeling her walls fluttering around him.

Her nerves were shot, pleasure numbing every extremity. He was finally fucking all thought from her.

“That’s it.” He moaned, feeling her finally submitting fully.

Their hips clapped together loudly, almost drowning out the wet sound. Juniper mewled under him.

He gave a few more savage thrusts, gripping her hips enough to bruise as he buried his cock in her. His balls tightened as he filled her with everything he still had, roaring out like a Lycan.

He fell forward, stomach pressed against her lower back. He dipped his head down and whispered in a gravelly voice, “Good girl.”

Heisenberg pulled out of her, feeling sore and aching. Juniper collapsed onto the bed, relief washing through her. He lay down beside her, the only sound the mixture of their labored breathing. Both were totally spent, mentally and physically.

“Warn me next time you feel…whatever the fuck that was…ok doll?” Heisenberg murmured with closed eyes.

Juniper gave a little rumble.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #heisenberg x oc #re8 oc #heisenberg #in the steel steeds heart #resident evil #heisenberg smut

[tonystarkbingo]

3 Prompt Summaries Game

reunions, masks, body worship - suggested by @polizwrites

@polizwrites - Now that Rhodey was full time military, Tony hadn’t seen him  in months.  They  made plans to meet up in Key West  during Fantasy Fest  —  wearing masks (and very little else), they could finally indulge  their own fantasy of being a couple in public.

@psychiccatpanda - Rhodey took the kids trick-or-treating on his own because Tony had been called away on business again.  When they get back, Tony's home and has set the place up for a Halloween party for the kids and their friends. When the kids' friends go home and the lights go down, Rhodey takes his time welcoming his husband home.

@somesortofitalianroast - It was 5 years since Steve Rogers had last seen Bucky Barnes, when Barnes left in the middle of the night after they had sex for the first time, leaving the country the next day for a lucrative job, and Steve heartbroken. It had been several years since Steve had thought of Barnes, though he’d recognize the man anywhere, even behind a domino mask at a masquerade ball. Just seeing Barnes made his blood boil, and he wanted to charge across the ballroom, slap the man silly, and then worship every inch of the man’s body. Too bad he was at the ball with clients and there was no way he could do that without losing a very important contract.

@darthbloodorange - (ShrunkyClunks) - He waits in the shadows of an old warehouse, a mask obscuring his identity. No one could know he was here; not only would his reputation be tarnished, but that of the Avengers as their leader. But there was something about the dark assassin that drew him in. Barnes treated him like no other in this world. Treasured him, possessed him, worshipped him. Not like a hero as the world did, but as a man and lover.

Keep reading for lots more!

cookies, mermaid, dancing - suggested by @somesortofitalianroast

@somesortofitalianroast - Darcy didn’t bake for the Avengers all the time, and she never made her mermaid cookies, since they were complicated and she needed to pay attention to the details when icing them with fancy icing. So it was a big deal when she made them, the sort of thing that made you want to dance in the kitchen.

@gavilansblog - Luca AU where Tony introduces mer-people Steve and Bucky to cookies and dancing

@deehellcat - Morgan's eighth birthday party featured a mermaid theme, cookies with sparkly decorations, and dancing.

@psychiccatpanda - Bucky Barnes never dreamed he'd ever be put in charge of kids.  Who'd want the Winter Soldier for a babysitter?  But this little girl - Tony Stark's little girl - stared up at him, waiting for a reply.

He was pretty sure the last time he'd been this nervous was when he came back to the States after Wakanda.  "Yeah, we can do that.  Sounds like fun."

Which was how he found himself not-quite elbows deep in blue-green frosting for the ocean reef cookies they had baked (that he had baked) while Morgan spun around the kitchen dancing in her mermaid costume.

@lbibliophile-mcu - Tony looks at the tray of raw cookies in dismay. Whoever had designed the mermaid cookie cutter clearly had no concept of the baking skill of the average parent. 

He had managed to press out all the pictures without causing more damage than the occasional lost arm or misshapen head (and a couple of 'defective' cookies are always required for taste-testing straight out of the oven). But the process of transferring the cookies from the bench to the tray had caused the raw dough to stretch and fold and tear; leaving figures better described as some sort of vaguely-humanoid aquatic eldritch horror... 

Impatient, Morgan clambers onto her stool and gasps in delight. "Look, Daddy! The mermaids are dancing!"

@darthbloodorange - (Thundershield) - Thor set out on his boat to the middle of the lake. A smile on his face and a song on his lips. People feared the lake and the creatures that dwelled within. He didn't see why. Peering over the edge of the boat, he watched the mermaids dance. His eyes drawn to one in particular; the blond with the silvery-blue tail. He unwraps the cookies and sets them on the edge of his boat, hoping to draw the merman close again.

picnic, dragon, promises - suggested by @psychiccatpanda

@deehellcat - Steve and Bucky slip away from the village every chance they get to spend time together. Their favorite place to picnic is perilously close to a rumored dragon's lair, but they dare it for its beauty. imagine their surprise when one night as they stargaze and promise forever to each other, a dark shadow flies overhead then lands nearby. It's the legendary dragon, who greets them and offers to witness their solemn vows. (spoiler alert, the dragon is Tony, and I'm not sure what his relationship to them would end up being.)

@psychiccatpanda - Tony hated picnics.  He'd been on so many for photo shoots with his mom and Howard, then for Stark Industries, and the occasional summer charity event.  Picnics sucked.  There was either too much sun or not enough, not to mention bugs, screaming kids, or other couples making out. 

"You promised, Tony," the love of his life reminded him.  "And I got you a surprise." The surprise was a kite in the shape of a dragon. Suddenly, the day was looking better.

@somesortofitalianroast - Steve was walking to a picnic on the beach when he found a baby dragon, abandoned on the side of the road. He picked it up, intending to take it to the local fantasy animal shelter, but as soon as he touched it, he knew he would never be able to let it go. Which is why he was standing on the dunes, murmuring promises to the dragon in his arms.

@rebelmeg -  pepper sighed.  "tony, you promised you were gonna stop doing that." pointedly looking away from her, the red and gold dragon roughly the size of a large dog pointedly opened his mouth, and stuffed the donut hooked on his claw inside.  puffs of smoke emitted from his nostrils and he chuckled in a rough, growly way when a sandwich in a baggie smacked him in the back of the head. 

"we're never going on a picnic when you're shifted again, this is ridiculous."

@darthbloodorange - (Stucky, Fantasy AU) - Steve walks up to the den of the dragon; his once best friend and lover. Baskets of meat in hand, and his heart weighted heavily in his chest. He'd kept his promise for over 70 years, and he wasn't about to break it now. "Bucky, it's me. I know you remember me. You're in there somewhere, I feel it," he says in his elvish tongue. Within the den comes a mighty roar, seeming to shake the very core of the mountain. But Steve is not dissuaded.

bread, defenestration, jingle - suggested by @rebelmeg

@rebelmeg - standing at the window and very calmly eating her sandwich, natasha watched as clint climbed out of the bushes underneath and went streaking for the street, where an ice cream truck was driving past.  the second he'd heard the jingly song, the idiot had flung his own sandwich in the air and literally dove out the window.  wondering if he'd realize he didn't have any money on him, nat smirked.

@psychiccatpanda - (WinterIronHawk implied) To be fair, Clint had not thought about 'costume integrity' or the fact that the Christmas elf pajamas did not count for much in the way of bodily protection.  On the other hand, though, he'd just been planning on eating as much of the freshly baked panettone bread as Bucky let him get away with while they waited for Tony to get home.  Getting thrown through the  window of Tony's Malibu house by some Hydra experiment had not been on his radar at all. (Not Bucky - to be completely clear, he was cute and Clint didn't think mean things about people who baked him a nigh-endless quantity of sweets.)  At least he managed to keep the hat with its little bell that jingled cheerfully as Clint sailed through the air.

@darthbloodorange - Stony (probably a 5+1 fic) - Tony frowns as the familiar jingle of his phone drew him away from kneading his sourdough. He groans when he sees who it was that was calling. He nearly doesn't answer, but Barnes almost never calls, so curiosity gets the better of him. "Stark," the man greets, voice as gruff as ever. "What do you want?" he grumbles. "Arm's acting up again. Accidently threw your husband out a window. He's hanging on about the 26th floor? Thought you should know." "Damn it!" Tony cries, armour assembling around him quickly. He wishes this was the first time Barnes' arm had thrown an Avenger out the window... but it wasn't.

@lbibliophile-mcu - Tony likes bread as much as the next guy, but he is this close to swearing off the stuff entirely. He tenses as Clint moves behind him, his humming looping into yet another round of the jingle for the local bakery. He snaps. "Clint! If I hear another note I swear I will throw you out this window! And not send the suit after you." Clint grins, opens his mouth and... shuts it again. Silent.

Werewolves, Gardening, Hurt/Comfort - suggested by @darthbloodorange​

@somesortofitalianroast - (preserum!steve/werewolf!bucky) When he moved into the house, Steve was looking forward to growing a garden, with a large vegetable patch, all the herbs, and some flowers for the colors. He wasn’t expecting to get overheated. He certainly wasn’t expecting the werewolf to bound out of the woods to take care of him. He’d think he imagined the entire thing, except the werewolf stuck around. Still taking care of him.

@tehroserose - Steve and Tony had retreated into the woods. Obadiah had taken over Tony's birthright, and Hydra had encroached on Steve's home of Brooklyn. They met there, and lived off their wits. Tony did most of the smithing for the various exiles, while Steve gardened vegetables that were rare and valuable. They were content, and while they wished they could save their homelands, there was no real hope of doing so. No hope until one night, when Steve was doing one last check of the garden before going to sleep, he found a big, bleeding wolf.

@rebelmeg - "right here, honey," pepper pointed to a spot in the dirt, and tony padded over, pawing at the spot a few times before starting to dig.  "yep, that's enough." she stopped him when the hole was deep enough, then held out a hand for the flower morgan had cupped in her hands, cradling the ball of roots and dirt with care.  "see, now it's perfect!  you wanna take a ride on daddy now, morgan?  i  think he's getting bored with gardening."

"yeah!"  morgan jumped up with a shout, and scrambled up onto the werewolf's back with no problems.  "go, daddy, go!" with a woof, tony took off at a run, morgan holding tight to his fur as she giggled, and pepper smiled as she watched them.  tony hated going through a transformation during the full moon, the pain of it pretty extreme, but they'd found a lot of ways to make up for it.

@psychiccatpanda - Tony had avoided Barnes since Steve had brought him to the compound.  The werewolf had done the same.  Howard hadn't had anything good to say about weres in general, but everyone knew wolves were the worst.  It was part of the reason that part of the Avengers had been politely asked to leave Wakanda.  Opening the door to his patio, Tony caught the shine of eyes and Barnes scrambled back from what he'd been doing.  Tony scanned the patio and only saw a trowel, some loose dirt, and a flat of plants - wolfsbane. "Doesn't that stuff give you blisters or something?" Tony asked, knowing that it was probably true.  "How about you come in and wash your hands and tell me what you're up to."

@darthbloodorange - (Ults Stony) - After Steve is infected with Lycanthropy, Tony took him to one of his parents' houses out in the country. Everyone expected Steve would get over it, given time, as he did with the vampirism. But the lycanthropy sticks, appearing to have fused with the serum. While SHIELD's scientists look into a cure, Tony stays with Steve. Growing bored of the overly-manicured, emptiness that was the green fields surrounding the country house, Steve takes up gardening as his current mission. Tony watches, completely enthralled, as Steve slowly transforms the area around the house.

letter, basket, book - suggested by @rebelmeg

@jamesbuckystark - Someone left a basket on Tony's doorstep containing a book, a map, and a magnifying glass. Inside the book was a letter dated 1942. He's curious to find out what this means

@tehroserose - Morgan put down the letter. It was the last one. Her father had written her one for every birthday and potential special occasion. This one was for when she became a mother. She couldn't have them hidden away, they were on a basket on her dresser in her room, but that didn't make them any less bittersweet. He left her behind. To save the world, but he had left her. 

 She went to sit in the rocking chair next to her child's crib and began to read the children's story her mother had allowed all those years ago. "Iron Man and the End of Thanos". Any children she had would know their grandfather.

@somesortofitalianroast - When Bucky decided to become a librarian, he thought it would give him access to all the books all the time, in exchange for maybe some shelving. He didn’t realize how much work went into collections development and management, nor how much time was spent looking books up for patrons on their own system when asked if the library had a particular book. Boring and frustrating. He just had to stick it out until he paid off the worst of his student loans. Until the day the letter arrived on his desk, sitting next to a gift basket from a local fancy food store. A letter letting him know that the gift basket was from his secret admirer.

@jacarandabanyan - After waking from the ice, Steve took to reading voraciously to catch up on what he'd missed. Despite Tony's offers, he never did come around to a screen reader, though, and instead opted to keep a pile of books on his bedside table. When the pile of books got too big, he had a whicker basket to put the overflow in. 

 Tony feels like the two of them can't have a conversation outside the heat of battle without devolving into arguments and personal attacks, so he takes to slipping notes into Steve's books. Over time, the notes get longer and longer, until it would be more proper to call them letters than notes.

@rebelmeg - tiny!tony is digging through a basket of new books the jarvises got him, a mix of kids books and textbooks and novels.  as he digs, one of the books falls open, and out falls an envelope.  the letter inside seems to be written in code... but he's also pretty sure that's his mama's handwriting.  a grin spreading across his face, he sits down next to the basket and starts working out the code.

@darthbloodorange - (Stucky? Witch/Fantasy AU?) - Steve sits in his chair by the window and opens his favourite book. With careful hands, he pulls out the letter from his mother, which he'd been using as a bookmark, and carries on where he'd left off. Library, his familiar, jumps from her basket into his lap and curls up, butting her head against his hands. Despite the warmth and happiness he felt here, it wasn't complete. A part will always be missing until Bucky returns.

@psychiccatpanda - Whoever had suggested they stay at this rickety, 'quaint' seaside hotel had apparently never seen any island murder movies ever, Tony thought with disgust.  The wood floors creaked and the building made weird noises at night.  Combined with the crashing waves, it was not what Tony called relaxing.  Somebody knocked and Tony assumed it was the room service snack he'd ordered.  Instead, he found a basket with a book tucked inside.  Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None.

"That's not ominous," Tony muttered to himself, flipping through the pages. Then he saw the letter tucked inside.

#tonystarkbingoflash2021 #tsbflash2021 #tsb discord party #3 prompt summaries #party game