relax • p8
Bucky tries to keep things composed and civil as he confronts Steve - but his composure only lasts so long.
Content Warning: Nerd!Frat!Bucky x Reader, mature themes, angst, mention of coercion and dub!con, protective!bucky, best friend!sam, violence, blood, injury.
"Why do you look so nervous?"
Your leg stops bouncing and you look up at Sam, who's raising a brow as he folds his arms across his chest.
"You gonna tell me, or do I have to torture it out of you?" He asks you, tilting his head.
Knowing better than to call his bluff, you let out a sigh. "Just... boy drama," You answer casually.
His face drops and his hands clench into fists. "I'm gonna kill that pretty little white boy," He grumbles menacingly.
"No, Bucky didn't do anything!" You exclaim, standing up. "I don't mean drama with me, I mean... him and Steve are going through a... disagreement."
Sam seems to be surprised at that as his brows furrow together. "Really? That's not like them," He mutters. "What are they disagreeing about?"
You regret saying anything at all. Taking his hand in yours, you shrug. "I don't know the details."
"Well, why are you stressing about it, hmm?" He asks you. "It has nothing to do with you, does it?"
It makes you feel nauseous to lie right to his face, but when the alternative is breaking his heart, you know what you'd rather do. "No, it doesn't," You answer. "But I care about Bucky, so I don't like knowing he's upset."
He tuts softly, pulling you into a hug. "Don't worry, baby, I know those guys," He assures you. "They're best friends. Ain't nothing breaking them up."
Your brows raise up. "You think so? Nothing at all?"
"They're brothers," He tells you. "And nothing can come between brothers. Whatever it is, they'll eventually forgive each other. That's what brothers do."
You hum against his chest, nodding slowly. "Right."
Bucky's buzzing with tension. After spending the night at your place, his mind is scrambled and the only thing he can feel is rage. Blinding, scalding hot rage.
The second he walks into his apartment, he sees Steve sitting on the ground, drawing on a piece of paper. There's a faint bruise on his chin from Bucky's punch the day before, but he still musters up a smile.
"Hey, man," He greets Bucky, putting down the felt-tip pen in his hand. "I thought you were in your room. When did you leave?"
Saying nothing, Bucky shuts the door behind him, taking deep breaths in an effort to compose himself.
"Peg's got me making signs for the pep rally," Steve says in an effort to fill the tense silence, keeping the pleasant smile on his face. "Greatest ex of the year award goes to me."
Taking a few steps further into the apartment, Bucky finally speaks. "I spent the night at Y/N's," He states lowly.
"Oh," Steve says, his brows furrowing slightly. "So... you sorted things out, then?"
Bucky sits on the couch, keeping his face blank. "She told me," He reveals casually. "She told me the truth about what happened that night."
Steve feels his blood run cold, but he remains calm. "About... I mean, the truth is the truth. What more was there for her tell you?"
Clenching his jaw, Bucky sits forward. "You failed to mention the fact that it was you who initiated it," He states coolly. "The fact that she was uncomfortable with it. That you coerced her into having sex with you and then dropped her like she was nothing."
Steve stands up, his cheeks flushing pink. "What the fuck, dude?" He scoffs. "She said I raped her?"
Bucky raises a brow. "She didn't explicitly use that word. Funny how you did, though."
"What the fuck is your problem, pal?" Steve sputters. "Do you really think I'd do that to someone?"
Standing up, too, Bucky's eyes darken. "I didn't, until I find out that you did."
"Dude, I'm your best friend," Steve states. "How are you trusting this bitch over me?"
Unable to hold back, Bucky lunges at him, raining down a flood of punches to Steve's face. All he can think of is you in pain, being manipulated, forced to put on a happy face and continue being Steve's friend just to keep the peace.
But there is no peace. Not until he pays for what he did.
"Bucky, stop!" Steve tells, pushing him away. "You're insane; she's got you all twisted!"
"Fuck you," He seethes, breathing heavily. "Just take responsibility for once in your goddamn life. Accept that what you did to Y/N was fucking disgusting. Admit it."
Shaking his head, Steve stumbles backwards. His eyes hold fear as his hands twitch. "Buck... I don't-"
"Please, stop lying to me, man," Bucky begs, his voice cracking. "You hurt the girl I love, really fucking bad. What you did was... it was wrong. So wrong. If you can't own up to it and apologize to her, then I won't be able to stop myself from hurting you."
A shaky breath leaves Steve's mouth as blood begins to leak from his broken nose.
"When she told me what you did, I wanted to kill you," Bucky admits without exaggeration. "But you're my brother, man. I... I fuckin' loved you. This isn't who I thought you were. Please, just be honest. What you did doesn't define you, but how you act now does. If you choose to continue treating Y/N as though she isn't a human being who deserves for you to at least acknowledge that what you did to her was wrong, then... Steve, I'll..."
Steve remains silent, his lips parted as though he's forgotten how to speak.
Rubbing his mouth, Bucky shakes his head. "Please. I know you. You're the kid that cried when we had to dissect a frog in biology. You're the guy that would die for your mom. You were my best friend. And you've hurt Y/N, man," He says lowly. "We can't get back from this. Knowing what you did, our friendship is over. But if you continue to act like you did nothing wrong that night, and you downplay the trauma that you caused Y/N, then I'll fucking kill you, Rogers."
With a deep breath, Steve nods. The pain is clear on his face, and Bucky himself is hurting, but neither of them can claim to be in more pain than you were that night.
Timidly, Steve clears his throat and looks down, unable to meet Bucky's eyes as he says, "I wanna talk to her."
"Where's Sam?" Bucky asks you as the three of you stand in the living room, the mention of your best friend causing Steve to stiffen in fear.
You're terrified when you open the door to see Steve's bruised face. Though Bucky told you they'd be coming over, he left out the part where he'd given Steve a black eye and a crooked nose.
"He's asleep," You mumble, rubbing the back of your neck.
With furrowed brows, Steve looks over at you. "I... Y/N, I'm sorry," He begins, immediately bringing you a catharsis you didn't even know you so desperately craved. "That night, I manipulated you into sleeping with me. I wanted to beat Brock, and in doing so, I ended up using you like an object. That was wrong of me. I... I'm not gonna stand here and claim that my feelings were anywhere near as hard to deal with as yours were after that night, but I lost sleep knowing what I did. I knew what I did to you was wrong, but I ignored the guilt. And pretty soon, I buried it enough to forget about it, which must feel like a kick in the teeth because it wouldn't have been that easy for you to forget it. What I did to you was horrific. Scarring. I will never, ever forgive myself."
It's a lot to take in, seeing as you never thought you'd hear the words from his mouth, but it feels freeing. You feel validated, knowing that he accepts the truth.
"I convinced myself that you weren't that hurt over it," Steve tells you. "I told myself that I was imagining your obvious discomfort during the ordeal. That you enjoyed it, and you were only upset because of Brock. But... deep down, I knew. I knew I had coerced you into bed, that I had grossly violated our friendship, and permanently tarnished your trust in me. And for that, I hate myself. I never... I never wanted to hurt you, but I also didn't try hard enough to protect you. I'm sorry, Y/N. I will spend the rest of my life being sorry for that night, and regretting what I did to you."
As your heart races, you nod, at a loss for words. Bucky notices your discomfort and takes your hand in his, silently reminding you that he has your back and is on your side.
"I appreciate that, Steve," You find the strength to say. "And, for what it's worth, I do forgive you."
"Thank you. That's much more than I deserve," He replies. "What I did to you was sexual assault. I recognize that, and I recognize that I need to work through a lot of shit."
"What the fuck did you just say?" A cold voice cuts in, making your heart skip a beat. Looking to the left, you see Sam in the doorway with shock and rage pooling in his eyes.
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To Serve a King
Sequel to To Bend the Knee
Warnings: this fic includes noncon/rape, abuse of power, mentions of violence, blood kink, crying kink/dacriphylia, humiliation, oral. My tags are not exhaustive, proceed at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: Your brother is killed by rebels and you’re forced to flee the realm, but is your escape any better than staying? (Medieval AU)
Characters: king!Peter Parker
Note: Have a happy weekend <3
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3
Love you all like Prince Charming loves mirrors. Take care. 💖
Peter fixes his jacket as you lean against the end of the bed, holding closed the ruin of your bodice. His boots scuff on the floor as he rolls his shoulders and sighs, pushing straight the circlet around his brow. You mop your nose with the back of your hand as you watch him through puffy eyes. Your body is fiery with shame and agony.
“Don’t be unhappy, my queen,” he nears and bends to look you in the face, “I have conceded to your safekeeping. All you have to do is wear a crown and smile for the people.”
You avert your gaze and bite your lip as you tamp down another sob.
He chuckles and tickles your cheek, “I must go make arrangements for our marriage. The joining of two kingdoms is much ado.” He pulls his hand back and holds it before you, “princess.”
You shakily take his fingers and lean forward to kiss his rings. Pleased, he draws away and you hang your head as you listen to his steps.
“I’ll have your maid come and–”
“N-no,” you say abruptly, “please, your majesty, I will…” you hold back a whimper as you get your feet under you and use the bedpost to get yourself up, “see to myself.”
“Good girl,” he taunts as he nears the door, “tomorrow, you will present yourself to sign the formal betrothal, yes?”
“Yes, your majesty,” you keep your arm across your chest as the silk droops.
He grins and leaves you at last. You stagger back and your bottom hits the bed, sending torment through your muscles. You slump forward and slip your hand between your legs and groan. You don’t know if the physical pain is worse than that in your soul.
As old as you are, you were naive to think that you would receive any favour without cost. You are a princess without a kingdom, so you are vulnerable to the whims of the world. A victim to the callousness of your own kind.
His savagery is hard to fathom. How rough he was. All those years, you knew him as a sweet boy, as a young man with beaming eyes, not another spoiled and spiteful fiend like your brother. The way he held you down, the force behind each mean thrust, his scornful words.
Then you recall his reports of your brother’s fate. Without his head, or innards, and his skin, his body was left to be picked apart by scavengers. You think of what should happen to you; of the same attack you just withstood tenfold over, by strange dirty, angry men, with a worser end.
You stand, shakily and go to the looking glass. Before, you noticed how the road left you looking weary and worn, a few lines beside your eyes and around your mouth, a shallow wrinkle in your forehead, now, all more noticeable in that moment. You should be thankful that a king is still willing to marry the decrepit princess.
Your blood stains your cheek and down your neck, some droplets dried on the canary silk and your shift. You cannot let Callista see, she is too young, she’s survived too much. When she returns, you will be as you were, with good news to share. That she will be safe.
You strip away the shorn layers and wash yourself from the basin with cold water. As you wipe your cunt, you bite your hand to keep from crying out. Your bones hurt as much as your flesh. You can feel him then, ramming into you without relent. Your legs tremble and you grasp the wall to keep from keeling over.
The bleeding subsides though the bite mark is inflamed and tender. You add a linen square beneath the fresh shift and pull a robe around you, tying the belt tight. You bundle the stained clothing and hide it away in the chest of drawers. You will have it burned by a servant when you can.
You pace, restless, knowing you cannot sleep though you are tired. You stop and stare down at the stringy seed still across the floor. You take another rag and wipe it up, scrubbing until the cloth begins to tear, until your fingers are raw. You stop yourself and toss the linen in the hearth.
You sit at the table, the smell of the food sickening. You cover the plates and brace the table. Silent but for the crackle of the fire and the nightbirds winging outside. You stare at the front of your robe.
Could he have truly put a child in you? Are you not too old? And if you do not quicken, what then? What if you have nothing to offer him but yourself? Should he tire of you, what would become of you? Queen or not, kings have never found much trouble in disposing of worthless women.
Callista helps you into the gown of red. You figure it’s best to wear Peter’s colours for your next encounter, a formal one. She’s happy since you told her you would remain in Arache and that the king even offered himself as suitor. Her relief was enough to keep your despair beneath the surface.
“I knew the king would love you, your highness,” Callista trills, “how could he not love a princess?”
“Cal, please,” you chide softly, “today, I shall only sign the betrothal, there are as many dissolved betrothals as fruitful marriages.”
“Oh, but your highness, every servant already knows of it, they all gossip and say the king is in a rare mood, most joyful,” she explains as she fetches you a belt of painted leather, “they say, while he is a man of good humour, he often falls into pensiveness. That he thinks overly much.”
“You should not repeat gossip,” you say, “it is not always true.”
A knock interrupts her girlish protests and she goes to answer the door. A servant offers a wooden box carved with the spiderwebs of Arache. Callista takes it graciously and returns to you.
“It is from the king,” she says, fingering the wax seal on the curled parchment attached to the box, “he is so sweet, your highness, yet you insist he does not love you.”
“We hardly know each other,” you detach the scroll and sit before the looking glass.
You break the seal, the eight-legged creature stamped into it distorting. You uncurl the small scrap and read quietly, grateful that Callista hasn’t her letters.
‘Princess, while I prefer you in nothing but this gift, you might present yourself decently this day in proper attire. Your king.’
His implications are clear and you hide away the scroll in the drawer. Callista teeters eagerly on her feet, fingers wiggling as she longs to unveil the contents of the box.
“What does the king say?” she asks.
“He looks forward to our meeting today,” you lie easily and turn to the table.
You twist the clasp and open the lid slowly. Within, a diadem of silver and amethyst, wrought in a familiar pattern. You stare at it, unmoving.
“It’s so beautiful,” Callista sings but you remain speechless, “your highness?”
“I…” you blink, “I once had an ornament like this before, when I was younger but… it was lost during travel.”
“The king must remember,” she chimes, “so he had it crafted for you.”
“Must,” you reach for it and lift it daintily. You turn it and see behind the biggest stone, the mark of your father’s smith. Was it that very journey to Arache that you lost it? You can’t recall. “Here.”
You hand over the diadem and she moves behind you to palace it on your head, the teardrop amethyst resting above your brow.
In that moment, you see the girl you were those years ago. You wonder what your life would’ve been if you had said yes then. Would Peter have been a kinder lover? Perhaps, it is your doing that he has grown so vicious.
“Your highness,” Callista says breathily, “you look so wonderful.”
You smile, but it’s not true. “We mustn’t let our hopes precede us, I am a deal older than the king and he must consider that. He will have time to reverse his decision.”
“You doubt yourself but you are a princess and your looks are still intact,” she assures you, “how can the prince not be entirely consumed by you?”
You mean, how can he not consume me entirely? You think but do not say it. Let her have her innocence, let her cling to all that you’ve lost, what was taken from you so violently.
“My slippers,” you request, “I would not keep the king waiting, it would be most unseemly.”
You sit at the long table, faced by Peter and his lords; Marquess Stark, Duke Osborn, Earl Leeds, and Earl Morales. Those four men were the same that rode into the yard with the king the day before. They sit, stoic, men of business as you have no other representation but yourself. You wonder how they can justify a betrothal to a princess without a realm.
“Your highness,” Stark addresses you after the reading of the contract, “do you understand the terms as laid out in this bond?”
He is the eldest and the most prestigious among the lords. His dark hair is shocked with grey at his temples and some silver strands in his trimmed beard. His voice betrays a figure of stature and stricture.
“I do, my lord,” you reply, “I understand that once the turmoil in my lands is quelled, that they will be ceded to Arache as a secondary seat.”
“And do you agree to these conditions?” he prompts.
“I do, my lord,” you respond as your eyes move with another’s; it’s not the first time you’ve noticed Osborn’s attention on Callista, the small girl against the wall behind you.
“And your majesty,” the Marquess declares to the king, “do you accept this compact as lawful and sanctified by the Lord?”
“I do,” Peter’s cheek twitches in satisfaction.
“Very well, as we have come to an agreement, we ask now that the parties conclude this contract by applying their signature and seal to the record.”
The document is first presented to Peter. You watch Lord Harry as his brilliant eyes gleam over your head and he grins. You squint at him until he sees your observation and resumes his distant detachment. You do not trust any of these men but him least of all.
Peter sprinkles sand over his signature then takes the stamp handed to him as a servant approaches with a warmed pot of wax in crimson. He presses his mark into the cooling liquid and resigns the stamp. The contact is then turned to you as the same tools are brought to your side of the table, though your seal is set in the bold cerulean of your homeland.
You surprise yourself by keeping your composure. You hand over the stamp and fold your hands on the oaken table top. The king rises, as his lords do the same, and you last. They bow their heads as the contract is swept away by the marquess.
“Lords, I will not keep you any longer, the travel ahead of us will require rest and preparation,” the king says, “so you may disperse and prepare for our imminent departure.”
“Your majesty,” the lords utter almost in unison.
You wait as they leave. It is only the king’s groom and Callista left behind. The council chamber is airy and quiet. Peter watches you as he stands across from you. He plants his hands on the table as he smirks.
“Marlon, take the maid to the princess’s room to ready for the morrow’s journey,” Peter orders, “and send in the soldier.”
You gesture to Callista as the groom moves around the table, she pauses and comes close. You whisper to her, “lock the door.”
She nods and you let her go. You hope she doesn’t forget as you worry for Osborn lingering in expectation of her retreat. Peter sits and motions for you to do the same.
It is a moment before another enters and the king bids for the doors to be closed behind Dunstan.
“Your majesty,” he greets Peter but seems bothered by your presence, hesitating to address you with, “your highness.”
“Sir Duncan,” Peter rises and nears Dunstan, clapping his shoulder. He is not corrected in his misspoken address. “Please, sit, we have much to discuss.”
“I… yes, your majesty,” he looks at you then quickly averts his eyes guiltily.
“The betrothal is set,” Peter crosses his arms as he leans against the table, close to Dunstan, “and I have you to thank for it. You delivered the princess safely, spared her a bitter fate, and so it is to you that a great debt is owed.”
“I only served as I swore to,” Dunstan shifts and clears his throat.
“Ah, but you do require a price as any would, yes?” Peter suggests, “tell me what you want and you will have it.”
Dunstan is silent. He likely didn’t expect you to be present for the negotiation of your own worth. Nor did you. The barter of a princess like a sack of grain. All his good deeds bared before you as selfish labours.
“Come,” Peter pushes himself away from the table, taking long strides around Dunstan’s seat, his hand on his belt, “tell me; perhaps some gold, some land… perhaps a title. Wouldn’t you agree that are princess is worth quite a fee?”
Dunstan rubs his freshly-shaved chin. His eyes spark and his mouth slants. The king comes to stand behind his chair, ringed fingers resting on the high back.
“I wouldn’t complain for–” the soldier begins but sputters as his words are muted by the sudden flash of silver sinking into his neck.
You scream as the king twists the dagger and rips it out, a flood of blood pouring from the gaping hole. Dunstan covers the wound with his hand and chokes as he spits up more red and falls forward against the table, the strength seeping from him as he spasm and the sickly gurgle underline your shrieking.
Peter laughs as he pulls back the chair and Dunstan’s body falls to the floor heavily, leaving a puddle of blood on the table, dripping over the edge. You clasp your hands over your mouth as you hold back another shout. Peter admires the blade, red with death, before his eyes narrow on you.
“You don’t think I have to buy you, princess?” he goads, “you’re already mine.”
You grip the arms of the chair as your lips quivers. You stand as you gape at the blood on the table, “how– why would you do that?”
“Why? For you, princess. Do you think I should let some lowly mercenary insult you? To think there is any price in gold which could meet your worth,” he turns the dagger in his hand, blood on his knuckles as he nears you.
You stand still, focusing on the sharp point of the knife. You wince as he presses it your cheek. He runs it lightly down to your chin and angles your back against the table.
He grabs your throat with his other hand and you wriggle until he squeezes. He pushes you down over the table as he bends over you, pressing his forehead to yours, the knife hovering just above his fingers.
“I don’t get a thank you? That I defended your honour? That I avenged that fool’s deceit?” he snarls and pulls the knife away as you lightly touch his sleeve, trembling as his grip has you wheezing.
He raises the knife and you cry out, closing your eyes as you ready for the descent. He plunges it into the wood beside your head and you sob, body constricting beneath his as he laughs. He lets the blade stand as you open your eyes and glance over at the golden spider wrapped around the handle.
He pushes his bloodied hand over your lips and forces his fingers into your mouth. You nearly gang at the taste as his grasp moves to frame your jaw. He shoves his fingers in and out, as if he’s fucking your mouth as his eyes bore into yours.
“So,” he pushes his knee against your skirt and then his other, parting your legs around him as he withdraws his fingers, “princess, how grateful are you for my valiant favour?”
“V-very,” you stammer, “thank you, your majesty, I–”
“Shhh,” he pulls you away from the table and your feet hit the floor hard. He spins you and grabs the back of your neck, shoving your face to the wood. “I don’t ask for your flowery words, only for a similar gesture.”
He yanks at your skirts and heaps them above your ass, slapping you hard you squeak. You spread your fingers across the oak. You aren’t even disgusted with him, only that you are so weak. He pushes the front of his trousers against you and wiggles his hips.
“I don’t know how I made it through that ridiculous conference,” he growls, “when all I could think of was this.”
You take a deep breath and bow your head against the table. His hand tickles you as he feels along his breeches and plucks them open. You shiver as he frees himself, rubbing between your cheeks as he groans. He kneads your ass as he rocks, teasing himself as he bunches the back of your skirts in his fist.
He guides his tip down to your cunt, prodding at you tauntingly as you twitch, tensing as you try to brace for his intrusion. He laughs as he senses your fear. He pokes against your entrance and inches in, just a little. Your nails dig into the carved wood as he bends over you, hooking his arm around your middle.
He pulls you up and sinks to his hilt. You gasp as you stand on tiptoes and he nuzzles the crook of your neck. He reaches to dislodge the knife from the table and brings the edge to your throat, forcing your head up as he thrust his hips. You grab his wrist, unthinkingly, fearing the bite of the silver.
“I can feel you quaking around me,” he snarls as he lifts his head and nibbles your ear, “is that fear or desire?”
You whine as your eyes well, teardrops spilling in hot beads and landing on his hand as he holds the knife firm to your neck. He grunts as he tilts into you, hitting your hips against the table as another snicker rattles in his throat.
“I think you like this, princess,” he sneers, “hm?” He turns the knife and you wince as he pokes it down to your bodice, slipping it between your cleavage. “You like to bleed for me, don’t you?”
He cuts between your breasts, not deep, but enough to split the skin. The blood rises hotly as he drags the knife from beneath the fabric.
His other hand latches onto your shoulder and forces your back down so your chest hits the table. He hums as your cheek chafes on the wood and you see him lick the length of the blade from the corner of your eye. He snaps his hips so you yelp and traces the dagger over your laces.
“It’s all you, princess,” he spins the point of the dagger on the small of your back, “show me you’re grateful.”
You close your eyes and turn your face down. You pull your hands back to brace the table and push back into him. He lets the knife drift away from you and slaps your ass as he groans. You lean forward and push yourself back again, sliding along his length. He pinches your ass and smacks it again.
“Oh, princess,” he rasps, “look at you.”
You clamp your lips together as your tears trickle onto the table. You just want it to be over, to do whatever you need to, to end it. His hand wraps around your hip and he leads your motion, slamming you back harder as you find a rhythm. His other hand rests on your back, the blade flat to your dress as he urges you on.
His voice rises as you murmur into the wood. You pant as you work at keeping your body moving, muscles burning with the effort. He growls and throws the knife to bounce over the table. He stills you as he squeezes your hip and bends over you once more. His other hand delves beneath your pelvis and along your folds.
You exclaim as a tingle turns to a zing and lights your core. You gulp as he rubs your bud, rolling his fingertips as he rocks into you from behind. His hot breath crawls over your scalp as he puffs into your short hair, flesh clapping as fabric brushes together.
“See, princess, I can be benevolent,” he purrs as his fingers flick quickly along your cunt, “isn’t that nice? Aren’t I nice?”
You gurgle, speechless. The sensation brewing in your loins is unlike anything you’ve felt before. The fullness of him inside of you and the frantic swirling of his fingertips mingle and flow over you like a tide. You shudder and gasp, letting out an inhuman whine as it peaks in a vibrant bloom of pleasure.
Your body spasms against his and you slap the table, reaching back with one hand to cling to his jacket. Senseless, you long for him to be deeper in you, to devour you whole. Your hand falls away limp as the spark dissipates, leaving you breathless and wilting.
Quickly, the shame adds to the heat of your delight and chases it away. Peter keeps on, fucking you against the wood so the wood knocks against you harshly. He keeps his finger flush to your bud as he bucks eagerly, his voice droning until he meets his climax. He crashes into you as hard as he can and holds himself deep as he twitches and spills his seed into you.
He groans as he stills, purring into your hair as he cloyingly rolls his hips, “another fine gift for you, my princess.”
You inhale and let it out slowly, “thank… you…” you eke out.
He laughs and jerks against you hard, “it is entirely my pleasure, princess.”
The road to Spinne, the capital, is only a few days by horse. You’re afforded the first day in a carriage just ahead of the luggage train, then Peter insists you dress in the lilac silk tailored for you and the amethyst diadem for your arrival in the city.
The welcome of the people surprises you as you expected little as an exile. The king rides at your side, dressed in the colour of your kingdom, a rich blue, and gold at his brow. He sits straight and bids you do the same. He makes a show of reining close and kissing your hand as you near the gates of the castle.
You give a smile, a display of your own. It will not do to show your true emotion. You must uphold Peter’s facade for your own good, for that of Callista, and even your realm. Arachne may be the only ally that remains to you.
“Princess,” Peter comes to you as a groom helps you dismount, “I must say farewell until the end of your seclusion, as tradition requires.”
“Seclusion?” you wonder.
“It is a custom of all queens who marry into the royal bloodline, that you retreat until the altar,” he explains, “but you needn’t fear, it will only be some days as the occasion is nearly arranged and you may have your maid.”
You don’t show the relief that swells in your chest. Some time without him, without the threat of him, merely, is enough to hearten you. You keep your face placid.
“Some days? How long precisely, your majesty?” you ask.
He smirks, “are you so keen to have me as your husband?”
You swallow and look down, “I am only curious for how long I need to hide away, your majesty.”
“Three days,” he answers, “but I might… find a way to secret us a rendezvous.”
“Three days is not very long,” you assure him and reach for his hand. You bend and kiss his rings, “your majesty.”
His brows twitch as you straighten. He seems almost pleased. You fight to keep your mask in place. He takes your hand and puts it to his chest as he steps close.
“Find your maid and go,” he says quietly, “or I might not be able to resist for longer.”
You acquiesce and search for Callista in the rush. She’s been quite taken with the whole affair, dreamy but devoted to her tasks. Her optimism keeps your cynicism from casting you into despair. She will be good company for those days of waiting, the last before your vows are said, before your life is truly and utterly his.
The days are fleeting, like sand they slip between your fingers, as if they never even happened. The whirlwind of the capital sweeps away any respite and so you sit beside your new husband before your new people at a feast of celebration. Though for you, it is a day of mourning.
The lords, Norman and Harry Osborn, Anthony Stark, Miles Morales, Ned Leeds, and Otto Octavius make a show of presenting you and the king with rich gifts. For fertility, for peace, for victory, for love… They make their declaration as they present the meaningless trinkets. And their, wives, their daughters, cousins, siblings fill the hall with gaiety and drunkenness.
“Wife,” Peter relishes the title, as he says it often, “let us dance and celebrate our union… a lifetime ahead of us.”
You glance at him. There’s a tint in his eye, an angle in his jaw, you know it is not a request. And you are a bride, you should at least act joyful. You take his hand as he stands.
He guides you down from the royal dais decorated in azure and scarlet for the joining of your houses, and those already entwined in dancing, move aside to let you through. The pairs around you wait with unabashed gazes as the king guides you into step with the music.
You hold your head high, as your old madam bid you as a child, when she put a book on your head and kept her cane ready to rap on your knees.
You turn with him as the music lulls your audience back to their partners. Peter is graceful but you feel out of discipline, some years since your last feast. A pattern that is ingrained in your head despite that life drifting further and further by the day. What remains is the question, how did it come to this?
“My beautiful wife,” Peter intones, “I cannot help but praise you. How delightful you are. Immaculate, elegant, divine. I find it hard to contain myself. All those years of longing and I have you at last. All those lonely days.”
You hold back your spite, you twirl with him, keep in time with his movement. His sweet words do not align with the man you truly know him to be. The depravity of his desires. Is this a show for you or those around you?
“See how my people welcome you, how they cherish you, and how my kingdom shall recover your own, that we should bleed for you, my queen,” he draws you close with those last words, “all that I’ve given you, that I will give for you. My dearest, you do not understand all that I’ve done and will do to have you.
“Your majesty,” you breathe, “I am ever grateful for all you’ve gifted me. Every favour… I stand here, your queen, beholden entirely to you–”
“That you do speak such sweet words,” he purrs, “that I almost believe but I know that it will not be long before you see how you need me. How you’ve always needed me. That no other can ever be worthy of you but I.”
His eyes rove down your figure and he gives a lewd squeeze to your bottom as he pulls you flush to him, “how I should wish to strip you bare and have you at this very moment among all these people, watching.”
“Your majesty,” you protest gently, “I am flattered–”
“Come,” he ignores you and tugs on your hand, “any longer and I might make ruin of you upon this very spot.”
He drags you past those spinning and stomping to the music, themselves hypnotised by the flutes and drumming. The tumult rises with their laughter and singing, their clapping and leaping. Their figures smear in colours around you. The heat of the crowd pricks at your neck and draws sweat over your brow as your feet fall clumsily in Peter’s stead.
The cool air of the corridor soothes you as he leads you out of the hall. The hubbub of celebration roars as he quickly smothers your mouth and traps you against the stone wall. You grasp his shoulders as he gropes you through your skirt, kneading your thigh hungrily.
“Peter,” you say and hold your breath, recalling the last time you used his name. He does nothing as his lips peck at your cheek, “not here, please–”
“Shhhh,” hushes you and claps a hand over your mouth, “be a good wife.”
He leans down and grabs your leg, hiking it up over his hip as he yanks your skirt up. You murmur into his palm as he pushes your head against the wall. His hand sneaks below your shift and rubs between your folds, rousing you as he rolls over your clit. You hiss as he slides further, spreading the slickness around as he nips at your neck.
He rescinds his hand and snakes it between you. He shoves his breeches down with a grunt, lip curling at the struggle. He presses against you, pinning you as he spreads your lips with two fingers and tilts up against your cunt. He impales you slowly as the tension drains from his face.
His hand slips from your mouth and he clutches your head between his palms. He cradles your skull as he bottoms out and sighs. He ruts as your leg bends around him, your other foot arched to keep from slipping. He runs his thumbs down your temple as he tremors.
“Look at me, my queen,” he snarls, “look at me.”
Your eyes meet his and he grunts. His dark eyes flare and he drops his hand to grab your knee and hold it close. He bends slightly and pulls your other up, lifting you against the stone as he thrusts harder.
You squeal and cling to his shoulders as he pushes your legs further up, hooking his elbows beneath them.
“Touch yourself,” he demands as your lips part, “now.”
You moan but obey. You let your hand drift down and nestle between your legs. His cock brushes against your fingertips as you toy with yourself, shyly at first, but as the pressure builds, you can’t help but speed up.
You dig your nails into the brocade of Peter’s jacket as he buries his head against your shoulder. His hot breath seeps down your chest and he growls as he rocks quicker and quicker. Your legs quake against him as you cum, all noise muted by that from within the feast hall.
He bites you as he chases his peak, spasming as he empties into your cunt, fucking it into you deeper, until its pasted all around your cunt and dripping down him. He stops only as you slip down the wall.
He puts you back on your feet, your legs ready to collapse, and holds you up as he falls out of you. He lets your skirts fall around your sweaty and sticky legs as he admires your breathless afterglow.
He runs his teeth over his lower lip and grabs you suddenly, his hand around the back of your neck. He jerks you away from the wall so you stumble to your knees.
“Clean me up, wife,” he commands, “what a mess you’ve made.”
You peer up at him, your eyes glossy. You knew there would always be a cost, whatever he gave you, whatever he wanted from you, would come with a debt. You think of the voices buzzing from the hall; what if someone should discover you? Best have it done with.
You take him and put him in your mouth. He flinches, oversensitive still, as you tighten your lips around him and sick clean his length in a single stroke. Before you can pull off of him, he forces you back down. You gag as he twitches in your throat and clutches your head.
“Well, you’ve got me wanting again,” he chuckles and thrusts. You claw at his breeches as you choke and he does it again, “come on, wife, we must seal this marriage well.”
He fucks your face meanly as your knees ache on the hard stone, even through the layers of fabric. He rams as deep as he can and stays impaled in your throat, keeping you there as your head throbs. He brings his leg up over your shoulder and forces himself to his base, standing almost over you as he uses your mouth.
He carries on mercilessly, not stopping until his body tenses and he cums down your throat. His cum floods your mouth and bubbles around your lips with your spit. He eases out of you and shudders as he’s left bobbing in the open air.
You fall back on the heel of your hand and use your other to wipe your mouth and hide your strangled coughing.
“Get on your feet,” he grabs your wrist and urges you up, “you should not be on your knees, my queen.” He grips your chin and forces your head up, “you should walk proudly with my seed in your stomach and your womb.”
Scenario Prompt: 'B sitting/standing behind A and leaning into them as they show/teach them how to do something.'
Requested By: @spuffyfan394
Pairing: Cpt. Jack Sparrow x GN!Reader
General Taglist: @criminaly-supernatural, @caswinchester2000, @imaginesfire, @rexit-mo
Potc/Jack Sparrow Taglist: @multifandomfix, @hybrid-omegaverse
The cool salty breeze washed over you as you looked out at the open sea. The waves rocked the ship, as a storm loomed in the distance. Closing your eyes, you took a deep breath.
Jack absentmindedly rocked the helm back and forth with the movement of the waves. His eyes were locked on your profile, watching as you stood at the edge of the ship, eyes closed, taking a deep breath in. The sun was washing over you, lighting up your features.
A soft smile sat on his lips as he watched you. It had become harder and harder to keep his eyes off of you over the time you became a member of his crew. He was surprised when you stayed behind after Will and Elizabeth left, back to their normal lives. But he was glad you stayed, you were suited to this life, this was where you were meant to be.
"Dreaming up anything exciting love?" He called out.
Opening your eyes, you looked over at Jack as he watched you from the wheel. You felt butterflies in your stomach as you took in how he was looking at you. A playful smile on his face, as his eyes raked over you.
You smiled softly and shook your head, "I wasn't dreaming up anything at all." Turning, you walked a bit closer, Jack's eyes never left you as you grew closer.
"Not even thinking of the day you might have your own ship?" He asked with a crooked smile.
You leaned on the banister in front of him and smiled "As if you'd ever let me. I'd be too tough of competition for you and you know it."
He leaned forward as he spoke with a voice of awe. "Oh, but wouldn't that be fun?" You let out a soft laugh and shook your head. He watched you for another moment. "Come over here." He said, motioning his head, and waving his hand around.
You furrowed your brow as you walked around to meet him. Stepping aside, he gestured at the helm "Take it."
You gave him a questioning gaze, but he simply motioning his head at the wheel. Stepping in front of the wheel, you cautiously put your hands on the spokes. You felt a chill run up your spine as Jack suddenly stepped up behind you, his chest almost pressed against your back.
Reaching around you, he softly grabbed your hands, moving them to different spokes. Without removing his hands, he stepped a bit closer to you, his chest now pressed against you. His head beside yours, close enough for you to feel his breath on your cheek.
"People often mistake steering a ship a simple feat. But to keep steady on the waves, heading in the right direction, takes skill some don't have." He spoke softly, his hands guiding yours through the motions of the wheel.
Slowly, he removed his hands from yours, hovering them as you continued the motion he had shown you. You moved with the motion of the waves, keeping your direction. He smiled as he watched the concentration on your face.
Leaning in a bit further, his lips almost grazing your ear, he spoke in a whisper. "You're a natural love."
You felt a chill wash over you again, as heat rose up your neck and ears. You spoke softly, your voice somewhat restrained. "You should be careful about what you teach me Jack. I just might start a mutiny and steal the ship."
He smirked, whispering into your ear again. "Wouldn't that be exciting?" He cooed. "But you'd miss me too much." He added, and you could hear the smirk on his lips.
You smiled to yourself. "Always thinking so highly of yourself." You said teasingly as you looked back at him.
Your breath caught in your throat as realized just how close he was. His eyes locked with yours, a crooked smile on his face, his nose close to brushing yours.
Feeling his hands suddenly rest on your hips, your breath hitched in your throat. His eyes slowly left yours, drifting down to settle on your lips. Pulling you back a little, closer to him than you thought possible, his nose brushed yours, as his lips hovered over yours. As his eyes met yours again, you were almost startled by the eagerness within them.
Inching a little closer, you felt his lips barely brush against yours. Your chest tightened as your breath still held in your throat. Jack slowly lifted his head, purposefully brushing his nose against yours, teasing you with the possibility of a kiss.
Just as he began to close in, you jumped as a loud shout came from the other side of the ship.
"Jack! Jack!" Gibb's called out, clearly panicked.
Jack closed his eyes in annoyance as he spun around. You finally took a breath and stepped away, seemingly snapping out of the moment.
"Gibbs! Bad timing as usual. What could you possibly be shouting at now?" He asked with annoyance.
"Jack-" Gibbs stopped in front of the two of you breathlessly. "A ship, coming up on us! Looks like the Navy."
You felt your heart leap a bit as Jack spun around, facing you. He leaned in a little, and spoke softly. "We'll continue this later." He said with a soft smirk and a wink, before he began shouting out orders.
You let out a deep breath, shaking off the moments tension before you started running around the ship preparing to outrun the navy ship. All the while, your thoughts kept leaping back to what happened with Jack and what he said. What exactly was going to happen "later"?
xx End xx
Get blue-balled lol.
I know it's pretty short, but I hope you enjoyed! Please consider leaving a comment or reblogging if you did~
"Oh, hey dude, how's it going?" "Good, good, you?" "Great, I'm good, I'm good" *leaves* "I have no idea who that man is"
"This is my father, my brother, my other brother, my sister, my newest brother, my other brother, and the leech"
"We are friendly acquaintances," "they are best friends"
A Real First Date
Another one of @romirola‘s incredible ideas for happy Milo that I wanted to write XD
I glanced down at my phone as it lit up. Dahlia area code and a familiar number that I hadn’t saved yet. My personal phone, so the Department wouldn’t track the conversation.
Hey sweetheart. You busy?
I glanced across the aisle at Arthur, typing away at his computer with his reading glasses on.
I can take a few minutes. What’s up? What can I help you with, Milo?
My phone began vibrating with a call. Milo’s number. I glanced at Arthur. “I gotta take this. Be right back.”
He waved me off dismissively.
I slipped away from my desk and toward the doors that would lead me off the Investigator floor, sliding the answer option. “Hey, what’s up? Is something wrong?” I trotted down the stairs and into the lobby of the Department building.
“No, no. Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart,” Milo said. I smiled to myself at the pet name as I crossed the lobby, heading for the front doors. It sounded cuter when it wasn’t laced with sarcasm. “I, uh... well. I wanted to call because a text didn’t seem gentlemanly enough. After... after everythin’ that went down... with that shade, ya know? I thought it might be nice to go on an actual first date. A real one.”
I left the building and moved a few feet away from the doors. “Is that right, Mr. Greer?” I asked playfully.
“Yes. It is.”
“Well, what did you have in mind?” I leaned against the wall of the Department building, bracing one foot against the granite. “Are you thinking something classic like dinner and a movie, or something a little more on par with our previous encounters like that archery-and-hatchet-throwing place over on Moon Valley Lane?”
Milo chuckled. “What would you like to do?”
“Well, if you wanna get your ass kicked at archery, I’m your Stealth. I’m abysmal at hatchet-throwing though. Can never get the rotation right without Psychokinesis—which would get me in trouble to use in unempowered spaces. But I’m a classy kind of Stealth too. I’d never turn down dinner and a movie. Provided the movie isn’t trash.”
Milo laughed. “Howsabout we go for that archery and hatchet-throwing place, then, on top-a dinner? I’d like to get to know you in a more... casual setting. For once.”
I snickered. “Fair enough.”
“Free this Friday night?”
“I get off work at five on Fridays.”
“Can I pick you up at six, then?”
“That can be arranged.” I smiled. “I’ll text you my address.”
“See ya then, sweetheart.”
“See you then, Milo.”
I hung up. Smiling, I slipped back inside the Department building and went back up to my desk. I plopped down and turned my focus back to my computer.
“Everything okay, kid?” Arthur asked.
I nodded. “Yep.” I put my phone back on its charger. “Just got asked on a date. That’s all, Art.”
Arthur laughed. “About damn time, kid.”
Rolling my eyes, I shook my head and sat back in my chair. “Thanks, Art.”
“Damn. You weren’t kiddin’ when you said you were good at this,” Milo remarked, staring at where my arrow had hit one ring out from the two inner yellow rings on the archery target.
I chuckled. “Nope. This is one of the few unemp... normal things I’m actually pretty good at.”
I watched Milo draw his bow. His arm was a little shaky and the arrow kept drifting away from the bow, so he had to readjust his grip on the string to swing it back.
“Bend your elbow,” I said.
“Bend your elbow a little. Or else you’re gonna scrape the bowstring on it.”
“I got the arm guard on, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, which keeps you from shearing the skin of your forearm off, but it doesn’t extend up to your elbow, and I’d rather you not have your elbow skin shorn off. Or get a blood blister. Those hurt like hell.”
“I take it ya had that happen t’you before?”
I lowered my bow and went over to him, stepping right up close behind him and adjusting his stance and grip on his bow. He glanced over at me with a smirk on his face that I ignored as I gave his right elbow—the one he was holding the bow with—a little push downward so he’d bend it. I ran my hands up and down his arms and shoulders so I could assess how he was standing.
Putting my tongue between my teeth, I smiled at him in satisfaction and nodded. “There you go. That’s better.”
“I, uh, I might need a little guidance though, sweetheart, drawin’ this string back and keepin’ the arrow where it’s supposed to be. This bow doesn’t have a little rubbery piece that holds the arrow in place, like I’m used to.”
Chuckling—knowing exactly what he was doing and what he wanted—I pressed myself against his back and guided his hands and arms with my own overlaying his, putting my chin on his shoulder and resting my head against his. “Loosen up your shoulder just a little bit... keep your elbow bent... draw the bowstring back... yeah, like that... pinch the arrow a little tighter to maintain control... line up your shot... and... loose.”
He turned his head quickly, planting a kiss on my cheek, before turning his focus back on the target and loosing the arrow.
It hit the farthest-out circle of the target, but at least it hit the target at all.
“Not bad, pretty boy,” I said.
Milo scoffed. “Not as good as you, sweetheart.”
I shrugged and scooped my bow back up, taking another arrow out of the hip quiver and nocking it. “Well, I’ve just practiced more than you, that’s all.” I drew back the bowstring and raised the bow in the same single motion, one eye closed to aim, before loosing the arrow.
Middle circle, but not the exact center of the bullseye. I made a face.
Milo was nodding appreciatively, but he wasn’t looking at my target. His were trained firmly on my body. I smirked at him. “Like what you see, Greer?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, tongue poking between his teeth as a lazy smile spread up his face. “I told ya, sweetheart, I’ve always liked what I see when it comes to you. You’re pretty damn fine, if I’m blunt.”
I laughed. “Take your next shot, you flirt.”
He chuckled and tried to copy my motion of drawing and lifting at the same time, not quite managing it as well as I’d done. Just a touch out of sync. I didn’t blame him. I considered giving him a bit of lip, but decided to at least wait until he wasn’t holding a loaded weapon in hand. He shot me a look past his bowstring. “How’m I lookin’?”
I ignored his hold on his bow completely and swept his entire frame up and down. “Pretty damn fine yourself,” I replied.
That earned me his feisty smirk. “Damn right,” he said. He looked back down the shaft of his arrow, realigned his aim, and released the bowstring.
Thunk! The arrow struck the outside red ring, the color surrounding the yellow innermost ring and circle. “That’s more like it,” I said with a big smile. “Nice shot!” Milo was still grinning as he turned to look at me with those piercing grey eyes. “If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Greer, I’d say you were showing off.”
He winked, but didn’t say anything. Just gestured for me to take my next shot.
“Okay, okay,” I said, setting my fork down so I could gesture with my hands. “If you had to choose: a bullet bike motorcycle or a muscle car?”
Milo bit his tongue and leaned back in his chair. “Do I gotta choose?”
“Yeah, that’s the point of the question,” I said.
He snickered. “A’right. Well... gotta be a muscle car. I’d never turn down a bullet bike but it’s gotta be a muscle car.”
“What’s your dream muscle car?”
“Well, last I checked, fastest street-legal car was a Dodge Charger—or maybe it was a Challenger—and damn I wouldn’t mind drag racin’ that down on the highway. Cherry red, black leather interior.”
I nodded. “Fine choice. I’m more down for the Camaro’s aesthetic, personally, but the Chargers and Challengers are pretty punchy.”
“Where’d you learn so much about muscle cars?”
I smiled as I looked down, picking at a fingernail. “Let’s just say I wasn’t always planning on being an Investigator when I was a teenager.”
Milo’s mouth fell open in delighted disbelief. “Ohhh. So I got a troublemaker on my hands.” He sounded excited.
“Took you long enough to figure that out. You do remember you’re talking to the Stealth who talked their way into your apartment once, and phased through the door the second time, right?”
Milo folded his arms, regarding me with a mischievous grin. “Oh, trust me, sweetheart, I never forgot.” His head tilted slightly to his left. “I just like knowin’ that you’ve always been one.”
“Old habits die hard, and all that, right?”
He chuckled. “Hm. Yeah. S’pose so,” he agreed.
I cleared my throat and picked my fork back up. “I will say, though, it is nice getting to know you in a... less stressful situation. No shade to worry about. No... looming humiliation hanging over my head. I... I told you about why I wanted to go after the shade without Department backup. I’m young—got a lot to prove on the Investigative team. The older Investigators think I’m a joke.
“It’s... this date has been really nice. Learning more about you with none of that in the back of my mind. Thank you, Milo. I... I really appreciate it.”
Milo picked his utensils back up too, fork in his right hand, knife in his left.
“Well, you’re welcome, sweetheart. I’m enjoyin’ gettin’ to know you too.”
Milo walked me to my door. He’d been a gentleman all night—not that I was surprised. Feisty as he was, there was a kind, courteous streak under the attitude.
I didn’t bother getting out my keys and fidgeting with them. If no one else was around—and this late, there wasn’t—I usually just phased through the door anyway. “So,” I began, trying not to sound like an awkward teenager in high school. “If you’d be interested in doing this again, I’d love to treat you to laser tag or a movie or something.”
Milo smiled. “Sure. I’d be down for either,” he said. He nodded at my apartment door. “So. I guess this is goodnight, huh?”
For a moment, my mind dreamt of a future with this shifter. Saying goodnight in the same bed with our arms around each other. Waking up to that smile in the morning. Making dinner together after long days at work. Lazy Saturdays spent together...
I smiled. “For tonight, yeah, I guess so,” I said.
“Can I give you a goodnight kiss before I go, then?”
“Yes, you may.”
He smiled and leaned closer. I closed the distance and rested my lips against his. He tasted good. Shifters had magic in every cell of their bodies—and I could feel just the slightest tingle of that energy against my lips.
I tilted my head for a better angle and deepened the kiss. His hands circled my hips gently and pulled me closer to him. I felt a coo leave my throat before I could try to stop it. He smiled against my lips before tilting his own head to kiss me harder.
I never wanted it to end, but I knew that if I didn’t cut it off, we’d end up out on the windway all night.
With great reluctance, I pulled back. “Goodnight, Milo,” I whispered.
I gave him a smile and phased through my front door. I heard him chuckle through the door. Then he started whistling as he strolled back toward his car.
I rested back against the front door, a stupidly giddy smile on my face. Oh. Oh I had it bad for this shifter.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and pulled up the text conversation with the unsaved number. Dahlia area code. I tapped the screen a couple times to input a new contact. I saved the number.
I sent him a quick text. I had a great time tonight, Milo. Thank you again. See you soon
Minutes later, when I finally controlled my racing heart and peeled myself off my front door, I got a reply.
Milo Greer❤️: See you soon, sweetheart. I had a good time tonight too 😘
Smiling like a schoolkid, I squealed and ran to the bathroom to shower and get ready for bed. I had it bad for him, and I wasn’t planning on letting that feeling go for a long time.
Show Must Go On – Coming Soon!
Pairing – Cougar! Yoongi x Fem! Reader x Lion! Jimin
Genre – Hybrid AU, Circus AU, Smut, Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Romance
Summary – Getting a job offer immediately after getting out of college is every student's dream. You think so too at first but when you start working for a shady man and an even shadier circus as a hybrid medical examiner things are bound to go wrong. After the first glance at the condition of the hybrids, you should have just quit. Every normal person in your shoes would have done that but you must be crazy then. From the first day that you started working there, four eyes followed your every move. You’ve never seen so much hate in such beautiful eyes. Felt the need to save them but one must pay the price. The more you stay the more you get to know about the dirty secrets the circus’ four walls hold. No one gets out of the hatter’s iron clutches. Will you?
General Warnings – be aware that this fic will contain heavy topics such as abuse/mistreatment, injuries, blood mention, violence, hybrids are used in shows and as a circus attraction, hostile behaviour(s), caged hybrids, sexual content, abuse of power, bribery, prejudice, injustice, ownership of a full grown person (hybrids), mention of manipulation
Smut Warnings – threesome (mxm and fxm content), bite marks, possessive dirty talk, unprotected sex, double vaginal penetration, doggy style, scenting, anal sex (mxm), creampies, oral sex (both female and male receiving and giving), sloppy seconds, lots of cum, breast play, cum play, breeding kink, mutual size kink, vaginal fingering, anal fingering (male receiving), sex toys (dildo, vibrator), multiple orgasms, jimin has a tiny pain kink, big dick!yoongi and jimin, overstimulation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, no sub or dom role they’re all equally bossy,
Word Count – (10k+); No specific release date! It is done when it’s done!
Let me know if you want to get tagged! Menu: Masterlist l Be part of my permanent taglist to recieve a notification when I upload a new fic or send an ask!
Creepy. There’s no other word that would describe this place any better. The colours red and white take turns building the tent's colour scheme it looks just as massive from the outside as from the inside. The tour started from the main tent where the stage and the empty beer benches took up most of the space. A circus built in the middle of nowhere is a weird choice of location but seeing how the tents almost make a small village in size could kinda answer that unspoken question.
The circus is quiet without its spectators you could only faintly hear the men chatter behind the scenes while you follow the hatter to a smaller tent. On your way, you can tell that every building has a direct purpose. The big auditorium tent is closer to the road for easy people access while the living space for the working staff is further down next to the opening of the woods. Almost in the middle is the hybrid’s tent. The hatter called it a barn the word choice immediately made your eyebrows rise in surprise but didn’t say anything as he fidgeted for a moment with the insignia keys. The heavy lock fell to the ground stirring the dust.
A shiver runs down your body as you step inside, the temperature change is palpable. Cold and dark like a prison. The whole scene that unfolds before your very eyes after you get accustomed to the dim lighting is dehumanizing. Cages in crowded rows as far as your eyes can see. The heavy smell of iron hits your senses at first you think it’s iron from the cages but it’s not the usual kind, it’s the red kind.
Hybrids are curious creatures. It’s no doubt they could pick up the new scent in the room but they don’t even look up to see who it is. They avoid your eyes as you look around, except. Except for that glowing yellow one at the far back.
Your body moves on its own to get closer, you can’t see shit in this weak lighting. Your heartbeat spikes when the hatter grabs your forearm and your eyes immediately connect with his. His scarred face is blank for ten long seconds – no one speaks or moves, even the hybrids seem to hold their breaths as they wait for him to do something – before his whole demeanour changed and a smile appears.
”Be careful of those two. Very dangerous animals.” His tone tried to hit a certain octave of concern for your wellbeing but there was more to it. The underlying message that your head decoded as ’leave them be’. It’s clear that the hatter is not very fond of those hybrids placing them the farthest away from the light.
You decide it’s better not to stretch the subject so you just nod.
The circus owner places his hand on the small of your back with the intention to lead you out of the tent, opting it’s best if you comply you look away from the eyes but their heat creates a hole in the back of your head. His gaze disappears after the heavy doors are closed and chained again.
You’re relieved when duty comes in the form of a rich patron who wanted to get a word with your employer. No longer feeling this uneasy presence of his. For now. You meet a much more pleasant worker named Namjoon who is tasked to wrap up the tour for you and get you the supplies you’ll be working with and show you your cabin.
Professional is the first thing that you could match him with. Don’t get you wrong he has a friendly smile on his face but it feels staged in a way. Not even one of your coworkers seem to care that you were here no one approached you to talk or even get an introduction in between their breaks.
”Here’s your cabin key.” You have the small cabin numbered 21 the closest to the woods hidden behind other cabins. You’re happy to learn that Namjoon’s cabin is 20, yours is just behind his house. He’s the first person that doesn’t give you the creeps. What have you gotten yourself into? – your sigh says enough when you close the door behind your back. At least now you’re alone.
You get one step into your new home when the door opens and Namjoon’s figure appears. You just said goodbye what would he want? Your eyes narrow when he looks around before he closes the door as if he’s checking no one sees him here. Why would someone watch him? Why would it matter if someone sees him? The fact that these questions took root in your head. You feel like there’s something seriously wrong with this place.
”You need to quit this place is dangerous.” He’s not wasting much time getting to the point. You don’t even know what to say to that it’s so sudden. Namjoon’s face is so stern you liked his dimpled smile a lot better. Not to speak about that it sounded like an order, not a suggestion.
”Dangerous? What are you talking about?” You have so many questions. You grab Namjoon’s hand when he tries to leave. He turns back to squeeze in one last sentence before he turns the doorknob and leaves you alone with your questions.
”Don’t trust anyone. They’re lying.”
You let out a frustrated huff when the room gets quiet. What does that suppose to mean and who is lying? Everything is so confusing. From the moment you shook your employer's hand, the inner voice in your head screamed ’fuck this shit’ but you’re still here. You already signed your contract for a year to be this circus’ hybrid caretaker and medical examiner. The money seemed good but there are things worth more than money. To be fair you think any normal person with a functioning brain would call it quits by now. It might be all in your head but after hearing Namjoon warning you of this place the rational thing would be to just get the hell out of here and never look back. They might be harmless maybe this whole circus is full of weirdos but if you’re wrong you might lose more than what’s worth the risk.
Yeah. Any normal person. You must be crazy then because you don’t start writing your resignation letter, oh no. You look for the insignia key that Namjoon handed you before that weird conversation took place.
No one pays you attention but from the corner of your eyes, you can see them looking when they think you’re not. Yeah, creepy. No one is near the barn so you take this chance to get a better look at the hybrids. They might be friendlier now that the hatter is not with you. It’s clear as day that they’re afraid of him. Don’t want to think about why for now you’ll only take one step at a time. It’s your first day after all.
The door has this heavy creaking sound when you finally pry it open. Some of the hybrids look at you now that you’re alone but most of them continue to lower their heads sitting silently on the dirty floor. Those glowing yellow eyes return as well. This time the hatter is not here to stop you from getting a better look at him.
”Hello my name is Y/N. I’m the new caretaker.” Thinking it's a good start to introduce yourself you politely reach out for the bar to shake his hand this way you can show him that you think of him as equal. Not an animal like the hatter called him. Wrong move though. He probably thought that your intentions for reaching out are bad or you frightened him with your sudden movement you’re not sure but he scratches your arm the moment you get close enough. The moment you feel the pain you pull your hand closer to your chest and step back. Your warm blood oozes from the wound with five very defined nail marks starting from your wrist to your fingertips. Some of the hybrids whimper then they smell your blood others growl. Only one thing that you are sure of is the smell that reminds them of their traumas. You wouldn’t get past the hatter to punish them after a poor performance.
”I’m sorry it was not my intention to hurt you.” You grit your teeth to keep your reactions under control. It hurts like hell. Fuck. This is your luck. You don’t have enough experience with abused hybrids and it’s not like you can rehabilitate them when this is the place they continuosly get hurt. You should really pack your bags and leave. This is not what you agreed on. This is beyond your field of expertise.
The hybrids can smell your stress which makes them more agitated. You should control yourself more. You have the whole night to think about what to do. This is where you will leave it for now and instead focus on the hybrid in front of you.
He finally comes out from the shadows. Yellow eyes then a pretty face. The first thing you see is his black ears party hidden behind ebony hair. His longer hair even obscures his view. He’s in need of a nice haircut.
Your heart is breaking to see the dirt on him he must be injured too because one of his shoulders is stiff and his arm is hanging numbly to the side. You were so focused on him that you didn’t see another body hiding behind the cougar until you suddenly feel another set of eyes on you. The hybrid that scratched you tries to make himself seem bigger and more threatening. You can tell he tries to protect the other one.
”Y/N?” It’s surprising that the other hybrid decided to speak to you. You won’t miss your chance to finally get something out of them.
”Yes that’s my name.” Your smile seems to encourage him to get out from his hiding spot even when the cougar hybrid growls instead when you smile. One wrong move and he’ll try to get you again. You need to be careful. ”What’s yours?”
Dwayne in a relationship hcs <3
this is all sfw, just fluff and vibes in here *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
He was very anxious to show you his family, and would actively try to avoid you ever meeting them.
He never knows where to look when you two are having a conversation, as he loves every single bit of you, and cant bare to look away.
When the teacher picks on you and you don't know the answer, he would write the answer down on his notepad and quickly show it to you, making sure you've read it, before putting it back down.
He rarely ever smiled, except when with you, where he could never stop smiling.
He would lend you his favorite books, and eagerly await to hear what you thought of them and how far in you were.
He loves cuddling with you, like A LOT. he will take any chance he gets to cuddle and hug you.
He makes you mixtapes frequently, and gets flushed when giving them to you, scared you might not like them. (but you always do.)
His hands were cold, with bitten fingernails and marks from his pen on them, you remember feeling them in yours for the first time, and thinking how you never wanted to let them go.
Olive often barges into Dwayne's room whilst you two are in there, to which Dwayne gets all embarrassed and flustered about, telling her to get out. But you like it, Olive is adorable and you would consider her your friend.
When you couldn't find anything to say, it wouldn't be awkward or uncomfortable, the silence was actually perfectly comfortable, and made you feel warm. There was never pressure to find the right thing to say.
That is all for now ^^ if you would like me to do any more characters/fics then please just ask me! I don't bite!! (normally.)
SNEAKY SOCIAL LINKING LFGGGG
IT’S GONNA BE A BUMPY ROUGH RIDE FOR THIS THIEF VS DETECTIVE AU PLS TAKE DISCRETION BELOVED !!!
It was a night for the dramatics on this particular evening in Paris, something befitting that of a theatrical masterpiece.
After all, when the stage was a private soiree with the world’s wealthiest enjoying the fanciful festivities under the historied roof of the Louvre, surely some sticky-fingered phantoms would be lurking in the shadows to steal away with some treasures–from priceless artifacts to murmured secrets between tech billionaires.
The centerpiece of tonight’s party was that of a massive ruby recently unearthed from the depths of a discovered temple within the heart of Thailand. A jewel, undoubtedly so. However, a closer analysis revealed that the gem sported unique properties that could lead to countless breakthrough in technology.
Many and all would want to get their hands on the ruby and if the renowned detective Mysta Rias had to be called in to prevent such theft, then so be it.
Though, while the pay from the Louvre’s chief security was nothing to scoff at, the moment he caught word of the party prior to being reached out, he was already fully determined to attend one way or another.
If this life saw him as some kind of protagonist, then surely, you–his antagonist–would be in attendance.
For while the sun had the moon, then a great detective was ever in eternal pursuit after a phantom thief.
How long had it been since that fateful day when your calling card reached the MOMA, which in turn had the head of the museum staff scrambling to get a hold of Mysta? A successful string of thefts across the world netted both a name of infamy for yourself and a scoff from him.
He was crowned to be a modern day Sherlock Holmes, his vulgarities and crassness aside.
Did you think of yourself to be some kind of Lupin the III? Even that masked and messy-haired lad leading his band of friends from that one notable J-RPG?
Mysta had in mind to put you away in handcuffs the moment his own specialized security cameras caught sight of your shadow.
Yet, instead, later that night he was the one who was furious and bound, his arms and legs tied behind him, half a museum wing of valuables stolen away, with smudged lipstick right on the center of his forehead.
A teasing kiss of condescension from you for a job well failed before you swiped at his head with a gloved finger.
And as he watched you dart away in the shadows, seeing the lovely outline of your backside in that tight-fitting stealth suit of yours a spark of vengeance ignited deep within the pit of his stomach that spread to consume him fully with a burning determination not felt like ever before.
The hunt was on.
Truly, for all his own eccentricities and quirks, Mysta thought himself to be rational–at least, as much one could be as an acclaimed genius detective.
But the pursuit of your trail, with every one of his failed leads and every one of your successful heists, he was finding himself spiraling into what could only be described as maddened obsession. Fleeting encounters between you both–his voice in a snarl as he dragged out whatever gadget he could to thwart your escape, your haughty giggles echoing throughout the shadows.
Sleepless nights, countless interrogations, immeasurable amounts of Milo and espresso downed, walls covered with articles and blurry security screencaps of you and any leads to your true identity–this hunt was all going to come to a head at some point.
That point being tonight, here at the Louvre.
A calm mind and honed intuition was key, but even he couldn’t resist indulging himself to a fancy glass of champagne handed to him by one of the waiters as he made his way to the showcase room where the ruby was held. His sense of inner-peace was far and beyond at this point thanks to your meddling, so even a sip of the bubbly beverage was enough to help salve his nerves.
And as he neared the entrance to the room where he was certain would lead to the final encounter between you both, he took another sip of his drink, his lips curled into a smirk.
This time, for victory.
However, what was a captivating film without a thrilling twist?
Dramatic, shocking, perhaps even humorous.
After all, it was quite comical how the world’s greatest detective and the world’s most infamous thief could find themselves entangled in the stupidest situation.
As literally as could be.
For it was by fate that the two of you were to rival one another, a red string that kept you both bound to one another.
In the metaphorical sense, certainly.
However, in terms of this very night within a distant wing of the Louvre, that hypothetical red string of fate was very much real and very much the crux of yours and his current predicament.
It was why your wrists were currently anchored down to the floor by a weighted pair of blood orange handcuffs.
A specialized snare he set in place the moment that the ruby’s reinforced glass case detected anything with a temperature of 37°C approaching its perimeter, unnatural shifts in the air considered at that as well.
“Come here for a toast, love?”
It was his goaded sneer as he approached you, exuding nothing short of arrogant pride with every step forward, admiring the way you squirmed and tried to twist and maneuver your wrists however you could to break free from your bondage, all the while you maintained your defiant air against him.
You looked so cute.
He was going to relish this moment, to savor each second of victory.
But he knew damn well he could never be truly at ease when it came to you.
After all, why else did you suddenly drop your bratty tone the moment he had you enjoy a sip of his champagne?
Mysta simply wanted to give you one last taste of sweet freedom before he hauled you away to the station.
“You really are an idiot, Rias!”
Your whined exclamation had him pause in place.
Right as he could feel heat begin to bloom and spread throughout his body at that very moment.
He should have been more careful, more cautious, more alert when that damned waiter handed him his champagne.
A thief could only get so far with success beneath the secrecy of shadows alone.
You had to be a master of disguise at that as well.
That burning passion for you raged on in a far different light.
Of all drugs, he had to wonder why you would select an aphrodisiac instead of simply knocking him out cold.
However, he did remember during your last encounter when he called your form-fitting thief outfit “the costume of your porn parody” while he was struggling to get down from the netting that you had successfully trapped him within.
And now, even while he managed to capture you at last, you still managed to drag him down with you, with your special drink effectively binding the two of you together.
He had you by the wrists, you had him by the waist.
Mysta was well within perfect capability to drag you over to the station and reset the ruby’s security.
But he was far from the proper mindset to even think properly.
Logic was nowhere to be found, but you were right within his sights, his grasp.
He knew it was already going to feel so good the moment he had finally gotten a hold of you, but this was far different, with his hands unwilling to do anything else but explore and grab your body through the thin protective layer of your thief outfit. Your chest, your thighs, your ass–he would be a liar if he said that your physique didn’t inspire his filthiest fantasies.
This was the closest he had ever physically been to you since your first encounter together. Your scent made his mouth water, his hunger stirring, only sated by smothering your lips with his and tearing at the crotch of your suit to offer him enough access to sheathe his cock fully inside of you.
As for you, while you bemoaned the effectiveness of your concoction being used to your disadvantage, you weren’t exactly despising the situation at play either.
While the weight of the handcuffs kept you pinned to the ground, you saw to it that Mysta wasn’t going to be leaving you anytime soon while your legs hugged around his hips, encouraging him to continue pummeling his dick in and out of your core.
And really, you would have gladly kicked him through the window the moment he tore at your suit, the material of which was no cheap and easy fix. But as the heat of the laced champagne continued to ravage your body, you were all in favor of him ripping at your top, the cool air of the showcase room providing much relief, the gentle warmth of his mouth engulfing your nipples a far more pleasant contrast.
For tonight, a truce had to be made, one that neither of you planned for.
Of which was expressed by your smug yet breathless hum of, “I wonder Mysta–who’s going to come faster: you, or your police friends getting an eyeful of your cute bare ass when they finally get here?”
The hitch in your throat only became more apparent as he took your words as incentive to pound away into you even harder. “Oh shut it–tonight is going to start and end with you in handcuffs, I’ll have you know!”
After all, while the two of you were currently trapped together, tonight was still a matter of endurance: your walls squeezing around and milking his cock, him subjecting you to years of built-up frustration with every punishing thrust.
The first person to succumb to the sleep-inducing thrall of post-orgasm was to be the loser.
And neither of you were in any mood to share victory, even as the two of you were shuddering and clinging onto one another as tightly as you both could with the imminent rise and crash of your climaxes.
Silence returned to the showcase room, save for the sound of ragged breaths.
From afar, the party continued some distance down the wing.
In a slow, reluctant drag, your legs finally gave way and released their hold around Mysta’s waist as you lied beneath him in a satisfied slump, even while your lips were puckered out in a pout.
Victory was not for you to possess tonight.
Much like the handcuffs around your wrist.
It was a surprise to suddenly feel the tight pressure of your bindings release right as Mysta slowly lifted himself off of your body, a jacket gingerly draped over your exposed form.
Astonished, you sat up as quickly as your weary body could, only catching the sight of Mysta’s silhouette as he approached the ruby’s case. With his back facing you, he reached into his pocket, drawing out a cigarette and a lighter. The flickering sound of a flame being ignited followed, the scent and sight of tobacco trailing right after.
“The ruby’s mine, but just take the jacket and go.” He sighed, his shoulders lifting for a moment before sagging down. “Consider it a trade for now.”
And as Mysta knew you, the same easily applied on your end. He was your nemesis after all–of course you had to keep tabs. By the way he spoke to you, any and all tension that you knew to be signature to the way he spoke to you was gone, sounding far more at ease and relaxed compared to before. Still, as you slipped on his coat, you couldn’t help but giggle, “Well, well, someone’s feeling kind~.”
It was then that he finally turned to face you at last, his index finger extended in a bold point while his aquamarine irises gazed straight into yours, his lips curling in a defiant grin.
“I’m coming back for that jacket, you know. Sooner than you think.”
You took a step aside, followed by another and another as you prepared to make your escape, your laughter ringing sweetly in his ears instead of its usual grating tone.
“I’ll try to remember bringing it to our next date.”
Mysta took a drag from his cigarette while his gaze shifted back to the ruby.
While he was relieved that he was finally able to be victorious against his long-time rival, he couldn’t help but sigh.
Of course the stupid thief happened to just make off with his heart as well.
for the ask game: touches #47, "touching their elbow to get their attention"
Some four hours after his head touched the pillow, Julian staggers back out of the bedroom and into their living room. Instinct, exhaustion, and the headache pounding in his temples tells him to fall gracelessly down onto the couch, but his feet almost stumble at the image in front of him once he crosses the threshold.
On the horizon, the unfurling tendrils of a dust storm. In front of their sloping, circular floor-to-ceiling windows stands Garak, unmoving, holding the baby to his shoulder in her swaddle of re-appropriated fleece and fur. Even from this angle, he can tell she's asleep, her tiny body slackened, her little snuffling breaths filling the quiet room. In her sleep, she makes minute movements, arms twitching as she flexes her toes, jostling the electrical lead attached to the sensor wrapped around the arch of her foot.
Gently, in a slow and steady rhythm, Garak draws his thumb across and back the nape of her delicate skull.
In theory, Garak went to bed with him four hours ago.
Letting his footfalls make noise, Julian crosses the room. He doesn't want to startle Elim; forty-eight hours' worth of clumsy paternal instinct and a distinct lack of sleep could lead to a blade being lodged somewhere very unfortunate.
"You haven't slept, have you?" he asks, letting his hand graze his elbow as he approaches him from the side.
"No. Not on purpose anyway."
I thought so. Blinking back sleep, Julian slides his arm around Garak's waist, allowing his cheek to rest against his shoulder so he can peer down at the sleeping newborn. In his three years on Cardassia, he's learned that unlike humans, Cardassian parents don't ascribe to sleep when they sleep. It's all to do with a chemical in the waxy vernix covering Cardassian neonates as they enter the world, which when combined with the dopamine and endorphin surge often accompanying a birth, sparks a haze of protective aggression in their caregivers. Julian doesn't need to wait for the samples to come from the lab to know that Human-Cardassian hybrids--or at least this Human-Cardassian hybrid--was also born slathered with that particular evolutionary advantage, and that Garak is merely heeding the call to biological imperative.
Keep the baby alive, no matter the cost.
"The sensor will alarm if her levels go outside the parameters," he reminds him, but knows it won't chip through Garak's hard won paranoia.
He does, however, manage to steer Garak away from glaring at the portentous vision of the oncoming storm and to the sofa.
"But you said yourself the parameters are estimated," he grumbles, sitting carefully down onto the cushions, watching the baby's face for any sign of rousing from her slumber. "There's only been two Human-Cardassian hybrids who have lived to see live birth, and neither of them were treated here."
Lived to see live birth is doing a lot of heavy lifting there, Julian thinks. He hears Tain's words in his head as clear and dispassionate as the day he spoke them: I should have killed your mother before you were born. Julian is not so stupid as to think that there haven't been as many babies smothered at birth as there have been foundlings delivered to the hospital's doorstep. Despite the policy initiatives and media campaigns of the new government, the stigma of bastardy remains.
"That's true," Julian says slowly, letting his finger find the baby's hand. Even asleep, her grasp is strong. "But the estimates are conservative, by design. Every time the alarm has gone off so far, we've been able to adjust what she needs before she's in real distress or real danger."
Garak blinks in response, determinedly unconvinced.
"She needs a name," he says eventually.
Julian huffs a laugh, settling himself on the couch with his legs tucked up under him. "She does, but we probably shouldn't name her while we're both so sleep deprived."
If for no other reason than he's heard about the arguments Miles and Keiko had about naming their children.
"One could argue that's the state in which most children acquire their names," Garak argues.
"According to my mother, I was Julian from the moment the test turned positive. She was rather well-rested, then," he counters. Garak would be proud to know that it's a lie. Well, a half-truth. She had been set on naming him Julian. His father, who wanted to name him Richard Jr, required more convincing.
"Well that's just lazy. She didn't even wait to meet you?"
"My parents were lazy in many regards to my upbringing, if you recall," Julian answers, tracing the slight ridge running down the center of the baby's upturned nose, the slight blueish flush to her dove grey cheeks. "Are there any Cardassian naming conventions I should be aware of?"
Garak takes a long time to formulate his answer, and Julian realizes belatedly that he's stumbled into an emotionally loaded topic. He may be the hospital's Chief of Pediatrics, but social observation has never been his strong suit. Learning the names of his patients' parents and guardians is also not something he's ever prided himself upon; Cardassian titles and honorifics can cover an abundance of sins.
"Some ruling and administrative class families have a family letter," he answers eventually. Or rather, precisely. "The Dukat family used the letter K -- Prokal, Skrain, his litter of legitimate children. Saskia, Mekor, Lokar, so on... I assume the rest of his less legitimate children were named by their mothers, as is tradition. To prevent association between a powerful man and his bastards."
Sharing a first initial seems especially blunt, in context.
Garak shakes his head fondly. "My mother named me. She didn't wish to make the separation so easy on him. Though she also gave me... well."
Ah yes, Julian thinks. Mila. Elim.
"She was a service class orphan," he continues, "so there was no pedigree or bloodline to adhere to, but my first name comes from both of theirs. My last name belonged to an uncle. On paper, I'm a foundling."
From the way the words sound as they come out of his mouth, Julian thinks it might be the first time he said that last sentence out loud to himself, or anyone. But if their daughter is to be raised without shame in her origins, then it wouldn't do for one of her fathers to so furtively conceal his own.
No wonder Garak didn't sleep. Julian kisses his shoulder.
"So... a name with an L, then. For her. And both of us. A family descended from a line of foundlings. It's very Greco-Roman of us, despite all the ways that you despised Julius Caesar."
"I came to understand the play, eventually," Garak says, rolling his eyes. Allowing his fingers to unfurl across the entirety of the baby's back, he brushes his lips across the top of her head in unpracticed affection. "Yes, L will suit us just fine."
[fic] Rewrite the Stars (22/?)
Pairing: Jason Grace/Nico di Angelo
Fandom: Percy Jackson & the Olympians
Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort. Maybe some action.
Summary: The month before Praetor Grace disappeared from Camp Jupiter was the happiest month of Nico’s life.
Nico looks for Jason for days. Weeks.
oh yeah canon is almost always better than fanon of course but have you ever read a really excellent interpretation of a character in a fanfic that it completely altered how you view them in canon forever
☁️ phobia ⚡️ touch
☁️ cut off ⚡️ tea
☁️ knights au ⚡️ coping rituals
☁️ poisoning ⚡️ safe space
☁️ hidden illness/injury ⚡️ therapy
☁️ wreckage ⚡️ carrying bridal style
🍀 phantom pains 🌏 gifts
🍀 overworked 🌏 bed sharing
🍀 drowning 🌏 cooking
🍀 emergency services au 🌏 art/music
🍀 pregnancy complications 🌏 bath
🍀 grief 🌏 quality time
💔 hospitalization 🌈 aftercare
💔 scars 🌈 boundaries
💔 undiagnosed 🌈 orgasm
💔 hypothermia 🌈 reading
💔 blood/voice/vision loss 🌈 affection
💔 hostage 🌈 medical help
Queen hurt/comfort weekend is open to all ships, friendships, and to all creators. It runs from July 1st to July 3rd
Tag @queenhurtcomfort in your posts for a reblog. Use the collection: queen_hurt_comfort
Moderate comments and delete all hate. Message the organizers if you need assistance
Stick to the prompts, but feel free to combine and mix them up
Don’t forget to balance the hurt with plenty of comfort. The concept of the genre is that the comfort always follows the hurt
I wrote a little post 9x21 ditty, mostly to get it out of my system. Thought about expanding it to a full one-shot, but I don’t have the time at the moment. But this is how I imagine the 9x22 opening scene.
Heyy can we get a little drabble based on prompt number 8 from the list you uploaded
U can ignore if you're not comfortable with it ❤️
Jake becomes obsessed with Steven and traps him in the mind.
Marc began fronting after Jake had gotten tired and wanted to rest.
Marc wasn't getting up to too much during the day, mainly getting groceries for all of them.
When he got back to the apartment he looked into his reflection to see Steven, but he looked pretty rough.
"Steven? Buddy what's wrong?" Marc asked as Steven looked at him and groaned.
"I can't take control, it took all of my energy just to be able to talk to you like this." Steven panted out as Marc looked at him in confusion.
Suddenly he lost control and Jake was fronting.
"If you didn't try to take control you wouldn't he so tired mi amor." He said to Steven who looked up at him.
"What? I deserve to front just as much as you guys do." Steven retorted as Jake muttered softly.
"You're so innocent Steven. But I'm not letting you out, it's too dangerous for you out here. I'll keep you somewhere safe." Jake said as Steven was about to plead with him but everything went black.
The next time Steven woke up he was in this bed, which only confused him even more. He sat up to see that his ankle restraint was on, but this time it was different. There was a padlock on it.
"What the bloody hell?" Steven whispered desperately trying to rip it off his foot.
He noticed small things around his apartment were different and he knew it was within their mind.
Jake must've trapped him here.
"Marc!" Steven shouted out desperately, the door opened and Steven's face of relief soon turned to fear when he saw Jake.
"Let meout of here." Steven growled as Jake smiled and walked closer.
"I've already said Steven, it's too dangerous for you out there. I need to keep you right here where I know you'll be safe and always mine." Jake said as Steven looked at him in shock.
"You can't do this! I have a life up there just like both of you!" Steven shouted, Jake was still smiling.
"You just need some time to think mi amor." Jake whispered before kissing Steven's head and leaving.
Steven lost count of how long he had been screaming out for Marc.
He eventually collapsed onto the bed crying and trying to catch his breath.
The door opened again and Steven looked up in fear, but this time he saw Marc.
"Marc." Steven whispered hopelessly as Marc ran forward to Steven and wrapped him up in a tight hug.
"Oh baby, I've been looking for you everywhere. I'm sorry it took me so long." Marc whispered holding him tightly.
"Please don't leave me here." Steven whispered as Marc pulled away and looked down at him.
"I'm not going anywhere without you."
Milo can shift again! I was so frickin’ happy that after listening to his audio I immediately DM’ed @romirola to see if she had any good ideas for a happy Milo one-shot and this was one of them. Thanks Romi! You’re amazing!
“Unempowered police forces do this too, Milo. Stop whining,” I said, fixing the last little bit of my outfit in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of our closet door.
Milo came back into the bedroom from where he’d been doing his best to get his hair to cooperate in the bathroom. He hated his hair gel with the fieriest of passions and never used it unless he absolutely had to—some distant cousin’s wedding in Oregon that he’d dragged me to when we’d barely moved in together coming to mind—and he was looking mad about it. “I just hate these damn monkey suits, sweetheart,” he said, yanking on his silver-grey tie’s slipknot to tighten it properly far more aggressively than necessary.
“I know.” I crossed and started to smooth out the lines of his white shirt’s shoulders. “But, if it makes you feel any better, you look so damn fine.” I kissed his jaw just below his ear. I felt him shiver—just a little.
“Well. Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. He started fidgeting with his sleeve cuffs. I chuckled as he swore under his breath. “This is what I get for letting Ash help me pick this shirt out.” He stuck a fist out toward me. “Help, please?”
I put my cupped palm under his hand, letting him drop his cufflinks into my waiting hand. I snorted. “No,” I said, “you’re not wearing these.”
“What? Why not?” He sounded offended.
I gave him a look as I crossed to the box where he kept his fancy jewelry. The watch I’d given him for our third anniversary was still in its nice case to keep it safe from everything else in the box. Earrings he didn’t wear anymore since he forgot to wear any for so long that his holes closed back up, tie bars he never used, and a small velvet pouch of all his cufflinks. I extracted that and dumped it out until I found the pair I was looking for. Silver and moonstone—another gift from me when we were going to that wedding up in Oregon. I put all the other cufflinks back and closed the box.
“These,” I said, approaching him. He held his hands out so I could do them up. “They look the best with your eyes.” Once both links were fastened, I reached up a brushed a curl out of his eyes, putting it back in line with the rest of the gelled hair. Milo refused to meet my eyes. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“You take such good care-a me,” he said softly.
I kissed him on the cheek again. “Well, I am dragging you to the Investigator’s Charity Ball so, y’know, it’s kinda my responsibility for the night to make sure we’re both dressed appropriately.”
Milo’s grey eyes swept me up and down. “Well, you definitely are,” he said. He swore under his breath again. “You look amazing.” He reached for the rest of his suit hanging off the closet’s other door. He slung the vest on first, buttoning it up and tucking his tie into it. The suit jacket followed. I was so glad he picked his grey suit for tonight. God, he looked incredible. He looked nice in his navy blue suit, but the grey was so much nicer on him.
“Tie bar?” I suggested.
He shrugged. “Nah,” he said. I raised an eyebrow. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. For you.”
I went back to the jewelry box and pulled out a simple silver tie bar and his nice watch. He put both on reluctantly, but I didn’t miss the way he didn’t even watch what he was doing, instead training his focus on me. So I showed off a little as I finished the last touches of my outfit. When I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye, he was biting his tongue between his teeth in the corner of his mouth. “Like what you see, Greer?” I teased.
He licked his lower lip and nodded. “Uh-huh.”
I chuckled. “Well, pulling off each other’s clothes will have to wait for later,” I said with a wink, bending to snatch up my shoes and leave the room.
Milo caught me and pinned me to the door frame, pressing a hungry kiss to my lips before trailing down my jaw and neck. He chuckled slightly as my muscles tensed up.
Then he was gone, moving deeper into our room. “Little promise for later, sweetheart,” he said.
I smirked. “Looking forward to it.”
“Okay, okay. I admit, this isn’t so bad,” Milo said.
“I think you’re just a show-off,” I replied playfully.
“Well, that is definitely true,” he admitted. “I like showing you off more than anythin’ else, sweetheart.”
“Good. Because the feeling is mutual.” I winked at him. He smirked lazily at me.
On the stage, the Chief Investigator of Dahlia’s Investigator team—my boss—tapped the back of a knife against her champagne glass. The crowd milling about all gathered closer to the stage, Milo and I hanging near the back, me on Milo’s arm when he offered it to me.
“First off,” Chief said, smiling, “congratulations on another fantastic year.” A small smattering of golf claps echoed around the crowd. “Most of you know me; but for those who don’t, my name is Chief Investigator Connie Montoya. I’d just like to thank everyone for coming tonight. This event is definitely something we on the Investigative team look forward to every year. The charity silent auction will begin in about thirty minutes. So, in the meantime, please enjoy the drinks and the refreshments. And, by popular request, the dance floor has been expanded this year.” She pointed to the large space taking up about a fourth of the room cordoned off by ropes. “Enjoy!”
She met my eyes, smiled wider, and headed off stage, taking her wife’s hand as she reached the edge of the stage so her wife could help her down the stairs. I mean, she was wearing borderline six-inch heels. I didn’t blame her for needing a hand.
Milo put a hand out for me. “Care to dance, sweetheart?” he asked.
I smiled and put my hand on top of his. He intertwined our fingers and led me to the dance floor by the hand.
Milo wrapped his arm across my entire back, pressing me close to him, his other hand holding mine tightly. He gave me that hungry, wolfish grin of his. Possessiveness wasn’t a uniquely shifter trait, but Milo had told me once it was more intense for them with their mates. Loyalty was deeply ingrained into them to help keep packs together but that loyalty went even a step beyond devotion for a wolf to their mate.
We started to dance.
I remembered when we were first dating and he’d refused to meet my eyes as he admitted that he liked dancing before asking if I’d like to go dancing with him on a date—like it was the 1940′s. I’d learned only a little dancing before I met him, but he was the one who taught me how. Usually we’d have “lessons” in our living room set to one of his many dance-themed Spotify playlists. He had a waltz playlist, a foxtrot, a tango, cha-cha, West Coast Swing, East Coast swing, and the list went on. And he taught me as best he could, but most of the time we ended up laughing, falling over onto the couch after Aggro got in the way and one of us ended up tripping and pulling the other down.
I was better at it now. Three years tended to do that.
The first year we were together, we’d barely been dating for a month when this ball came around. I’d wanted to take him, but he had a security gig so I went by myself. Last year, our second year together, I’d been caught up in a case and had to miss it. This was our first time at this ball together.
“Yo! Stealth!” I heard one of my Freelancer coworkers call to me. I turned with a brow raised expectantly.
“‘Sup?” I asked.
“Since when are you so fancy on your feet?” she teased, leaning against her husband’s hold. Fire Elemental, by the feel of him.
I nodded to Milo. “Since this one taught me.”
She beamed at Milo. “Good job. Never thought Two-Left-Feet over there could ever be taught to dance.”
Milo chuckled. “Wasn’t smooth sailin’,” he said.
My coworker laughed. “Maybe. But you got there.” She waved at us. Her husband spun her under his arm and they both danced off in another direction.
Milo chuckled. “Friend-a yours?” he asked.
“Coworker. Her desk is only a few over from mine. She’s friendly. Unobtrusive. But quick as a whip and sharp as a tack. I think I’ve revenge-pranked her the least. Dunno that I’d call her a friend though. Maybe a work friend.”
Milo nodded. “I getcha.”
I let him spin me under his arm before he wrapped me back up in his hold. He and I were both aware that the way his arm was around my back was improper for actually leading a dance, and I was tempted to give him lip about it—to banter and tease—but I decided not to. I liked the way he held me as close as I could possibly be to him.
“So, despite the monkey suit, are you glad you came with me tonight?” I asked.
He gave me a small grin full of his usual feisty attitude. “Sure. We can put it that way.”
“What?” I asked with a slow smile spreading up my face.
He leaned closer to me so his lips could brush my ear. “Don’t look now, sweetheart, but I’ve counted at least six-a your coworkers watching us with that little green monster-a envy rearin’ it’s head.” He pulled back a little so he was back to where he’d been.
I put my tongue between my teeth as my grin widened—
And I cloaked.
Milo snickered and rolled his eyes, spinning me slowly under his arm by feel.
I took in the people milled about and on the dance floor.
He was right.
I decloaked as his arm circled my waist again. “Well, what can I say? I’m taken, and I have the best boyfriend in Dahlia.”
Milo apparently decided to damn decorum and gave me a kiss. Long and slow, but nowhere near long enough. When he pulled back, pupils dilated and lips parted, he gave me the lovey-dovey expression he usually reserved for when we were home alone. “Damn I love you, sweetheart,” he whispered quietly. “Always too sweet to me.”
I smiled and kissed his cheek. “I love you too, Milo.”
Needless to say, our fancy outfits barely lasted a second after the front door to our apartment shut behind us. Milo chuckled something about being glad that I’d taught him to phase through his clothes so well before I dragged him into our bedroom.
Sickness upon you /Ae (Reader!Sibling x Bridgertons)
Requested by: Anon, Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @theletterhart, @alex–awesome–22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, @queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly, @denkisclown, @automaticbakeryfreakshoe, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @october-leaves, @luvlyencanto, @kazbekkarluvbot, @freyathehuntress
Summary: (Alternative ending) Not everything can be forseen. When your ilness takes a drastic turn, must the Bridgertons welcome death once more.
Read the alternative (happy) ending here! & the beginning of the story
Anthony placed you back onto your bed, after your cold bath. Benedict pulled the covers away, carefully laying them on you afterwards. Simon dimmed the lights in your room, leaving a darkening atmosphere. Colin could only at stare you. Anthony pulled the covers off your feet, touching them with the back of his hand. – “Her feet are cold.” – stated he, covering them up again. – “Get me hot water!” – ordered he around, pointing at Colin. Colin nodded, rushing out of the room. In the doorway bumped he almost into Violet. – “Mother not now!” – bit Anthony at the sight of her. Violet shook her head, pushing Benedict out of the way. – “This is my child!” – forced she out, climbing into bed with you.
She crawled underneath the covers with you, moving your head against her chest. She could still feel the coldness on your body, but at least you weren’t burning up. Simon turned to Anthony, speaking in deep whispers. Anthony nodded with a deep inhale, eyeing the door. Simon bowed his head down to you, taking his leave with Benedict. Anthony pulled the covers from over your feet again, wanting to feel if there had been any changes. Gritting his teeth, felt your feet still cold. Rolling up his sleeves, took he matters into his own hand. He came sitting down at the end of your bed, taking your foot. He placed your foot underneath his armpit to provide you with his body heat.
“Mama…” – shivered you out, calling out to her. Violet shushed you soothingly, stroking her fingers against your forehead. – “I am right here, my love… right here…” – you exhaled deep, snuggling closer to her. Feeling the warmth of her body intertwine with your cold touch. Anthony looked up to his mother, worriedly. Violet took but a second to acknowledge his feelings. If she would dwell on it longer, she would lose her mind. Instead stared she lost down, entangling your fingers with hers. Rocking you gently in her embrace, came her voice to life. First soft, barely sounds escaping her lips. Then her voice like a whisper, humming. The lullaby she was humming caught Anthony’s attention.
He remembered her singing it when she was still pregnant with you and Hyacinth. A nursery rhyme she would sing with Edmund by her side. It had been so long since Anthony heard that calming rhyme again. You stopped shivering, steadying your breathing. Colin burst into the room with hot water. Anthony motioned for him to be quiet as you were dozing off. He glanced once at you, walking up to Anthony afterwards. Anthony removed your foot from under his armpit, getting up. Colin handed him the hot water as Anthony searched your room for anything to use. He found a piece of clothing hanging over a chair.
Picking it up, showed he it to his mother. She slowly nodded, never stopping her nursery rhyme. With one clear counter-nod, hasted Anthony back to Colin. He folded the piece of clothing, lowering it into the water. He rinsed it, slowly taking it out as water dripped back down into the bowl. He dipped it under again, letting it take up as much heat. Afterwards squeezed he all the water out of it. Carefully brought he the piece of clothing to you. Small droplets of water falling down onto the carpet from between his fingers. Colin helped him, wrap the clothing around your feet to keep them warm. Pulling the blanket on top of them again, were they done. Violet motioned for them to leave the room.
For once accepted Anthony the order without hesitation. He pushed Colin out of the room with him. In the hallway encountered he Kate. Their eyes met. Anthony kept a straight face, turning his gaze slowly away. He went towards the stairs. Kate wanted to give him some kind of comfort, but she didn’t know how. In this state would any sign of comfort feel threatening to him. Extremely vulnerable, hoped he so much that you would see it through. His father’s death had scarred him already, he wasn’t sure how much more death he could handle. In silence followed Kate him downstairs, hoping to give some comfort by just her presence. Daphne was pacing around the parlor. Simon trying to calm her down as he followed her around.
Penelope and Sofie were sitting across from each other, staring into the distance. Anthony entered. Daphne stopped pacing around, hurrying over to him. – “How is she? Tell me she is alright!” – Anthony slowly nodded, releasing a relieved breath from within her. Anthony looked around the room, seeing the poor presentation of his family. – “Where are the others?” – questioned he. – “Hyacinth, Gregory and Francesca are asleep.” – pitched Sofie in, looking up to him. – “I believe Eloise is outside with Philip.” – spoke Penelope. – “Benedict and Colin are in the kitchen.” – told Simon, his hands laying on Daphne’s shoulders. Anthony turned, ready to leave the parlor.
He couldn’t stand to see al those saddened faces. He couldn’t look at them. – “Mother is with Y/n.” – told he them before taking his leave. Anthony made way for his study, hiding in there. He entered the dark room that was barely light up. His fingers trembled as he bit his lip hard. Thoughts he had been able to keep at bay, came harassing him now at this vulnerable moment. Now when he had nothing at hand. Now that they could swoop in and take him under. His hand trembled more, clenching his jaw. Needing to out his emotions, stomped he in four firm paces over to his desk. In a rage swept he his hands over the desk, sending everything that laid upon it to the ground. Papers twirled down as ink bottles and notebooks clattered to the ground.
A second emotion swept in as Anthony couldn’t hold it back. He turned around, sinking to the ground. Sitting before his desk, wept he silently at the guilt eating away at him. Guilt for not being around so often. If he had, perhaps he could’ve changed matters. If only he took more care of his siblings. If only he fulfilled his duty as man of the house better. If only…. Anthony lowered his hand, sobbing quietly with his hand touching his temples, covering up his eyes. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this. Like he was giving up hope. Upstairs had you fallen asleep in your mothers arms. Violet wished she could close her tiring eyes as well, but she couldn’t. No matter how much she tried, they would not stay closed for long.
She had been awake for so long, her eyes prickled. The stinging feeling of exhaustion. She held her breath for a moment, bracing herself when you coughed loud in your sleep. Your forehead felt clammy from the sweat. Your lips partly cracked as they were not smooth anymore. The paleness on your skin, worrying her a bit. Violet took your hand, brushing her finger against the top of your hand. – “Stay with me…” – whispered she. A charm for not only herself but for the family as well. Most of them were too young to understand the depts of Edmund’s passing. She couldn’t think to see her youngest child die at the hands of an illness. – “We need you here…”
The next morning were you feeling a bit better. Hyacinth and Gregory sat with you on the bed. In the middle-laid cards as you had been playing a little game. – “Your turn.” – said Gregory with a weary smile. You coughed loud into your hand, the cards shaking in your hand. Hyacinth and Gregory both looked at each other with sorrow. Clearing your throat a bit, pulled you a card out of your hand. You placed it in the middle with a faint smile. – “Try overdoing that.” – chuckled you weary, your eyes seeming tired. Hyacinth kept her smile up for you, laying a card of her own on top of yours. – “Your good.” – coughed you out, seeing her swallow nervously. Gregory bit his lip, looking briefly over his shoulder.
Mother sat down in a chair, her knitting material in her lap. Yet she didn’t knit. She held it only in her hands, staring out of the window. Completely numb to her surroundings. – “Are… are you feeling better Y/n?” – asked Hyacinth. You slowly nodded. Gregory noticed the sweat droplets making their way down your neck. – “You are burning up again, Y/n.” – stated he, leaning in closer to you. He held the back of his hand against your forehead. Gregory nodded at Hyacinth as she rolled out of bed. – “You shouldn’t…” – started you, seeing Hyacinth dip the cloth into the bowl of water. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, pressing it against your forehead. You laid yourself down again, your muscles in pain.
Gregory took your hand, coming to lay beside you. So did Hyacinth, laying on the other side of you. – “Don’t go Y/n.” – whispered Gregory to you. You laughed a bit, finding it silly that they thought you were going somewhere. – “I’m not going anywhere silly…” – responded you with a soft smile. – “Promise…” – told Hyacinth, wanting to be sure. You drew a cross over your heart. – “Cross my heart.” – whispered you out. Hyacinth rolled over to her side, wrapping her arms around you. Places switched as Eloise was in your room with Francesca. You sat up straight as Francesca sat partly behind you. She was tying your hair into a braid to make you feel prettier. You had been a wreck ever since you had been sick. Sick for almost a week now.
Eloise sat beside you at the side of the bed, telling you important sisterly lessons you’ll need to learn for the future. As she truly believed you would make it to the future. That you would heal and get to explore so much of the world. – “There.” – said Francesca, touching your back. Eloise handed her a small mirror for you to look upon yourself. – “It’s pretty… thank you sister.”- you hugged Francesca. She ignored the clammy feeling all over your body, give you a big squeeze. – “I would say you are for sure a diamond.” – pitched Eloise in, making you snort loud. – “The prettiest dame of the ball.” – included Francesca, stroking her hand down the back of your head. You took Eloise’s hand, looking upon your sisters in delight. They were everything to you. Late in the afternoon sat Daphne with you, reading out loud to you. You had fallen asleep but that didn’t stop her from reading to you.
Her words so calming so soothing they were almost a song. A song carried away on the wind, leaving traces of love in one’s heart. A soft knock on the door, made her voice thin out. Benedict popped his head inside, his eyes falling on you. – “She’s asleep.” – whispered Daphne. Benedict nodded, shutting the door behind him. – “The little one’s are asking for you.” – said he, not looking away from you. Daphne silently closed her book. She got up, walking up to him. Near him, rested she her hand against his chest for a moment. A comforting gesture. She guided her eyes down to you, faintly smiling. She left the room, leaving Benedict alone with you. Benedict pulled the chair Daphne had sat on, closer to your bed. Exhausted ran he his hand over his face.
Staring in front of him, managed he to keep his tears at bay. He hadn’t cried all week. He couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried. No matter how much his eyes demanded for him to cry. He couldn’t. He had to be strong around you. Not only for his sake but for everyone’s. If they saw him crack, just a smidge, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. The hours passed by when your condition took a drastic change. You started coughing in your sleep. First soft then louder and louder. Benedict sprung up, coming to your aid. He took your hand, feeling your weak strength, squeeze his hand. You opened your eyes, slowly sitting up straight. Your entire body shaking as you kept coughing loud. The uncontrollable urge to stop.
Holding your hand in front of you to capture the coughs. Benedict held tight onto your hand, stroking your back. There was little he could do as he was no physician. You felt it, a strong push through your throat. A force that carried something else as well. You coughed loud, spewing out whatever came along. Benedict widened his eyes at the sudden red coloring on your hands. Blood specs dropping down from your hand onto your blanket. You kept coughing, looking as pale as snow. Blood spewing out of your mouth as it left droplets on Benedicts white shirt. – “God.” – called he out, backing away. He bumped against the wall, seeing you cough up more blood.
No one had ever said anything about coughing up blood. Certainly not the physician. Your cracked lips had red stains on them. – “Benedict.” – cried you out, staring in shock at your blooded hand. Your hand trembling turned you to look at him, panic written clear in your eyes. – “Brother.” – asked you, wanting him to tell you it was going to be alright. Benedict felt frozen to the ground. He couldn’t move. Something blocking him. His breathing got shaky, fearing that this was the worst. You coughed loud again, more blood coming out of your mouth. Feeling his body get drawn to the door got he in motion. Stumbling and shaky.
“An…An…Anthony!” – roared he out loud, pulling the door open. – “Anthony!” – screamed he out loud, his entire body trembling from the force. Benedict sunk to his knees, closing his hand into a fist. Anthony stormed upstairs into your bedroom. He staggered back against the wall, shocked to see the blood on you. – “Brother…” – cried you out. Anthony couldn’t think for a moment. He felt numb while fear spread out wide inside of him. Violet rushed into the room as well, clutching her chest. She was the only one strong enough to give out orders. She rushed to your side, cherishing your face against her chest. – “Anthony! Call for the physician.” – called she out, holding you close in her embrace.
Anthony could only stare at the blood. – “Anthony!” – yelled Violet out loud, begging him to move. Anthony’s head trembled as he tried to nod steady. He turned around, urging himself to get in motion. He almost tripped over Benedict who had began crying silently. His hand pressed against his chest, clutching onto his heart. Anthony rushed down the stairs, stomping loudly. It awoke everyone up. – “What… what is the matter.” – questioned Colin, coming out of the parlor. Anthony walked straight passed him to the doorman. – “Get the physician now!” – yelled he at him. – “Is Y/n alright?” – questioned Colin hasting himself over to his brother. Anthony turned around, with tears in his eyes. Colin went after him, wanting to know what was going on.
Violet was trying to calm you down as you kept coughing loud. Tears escaping the corners of your eyes, rolling down your cheek. Anthony pushed Benedict aside, running into the room again. Colin barged in after him, gasping in shock at the blood. – “How did this happen!” – called he out, pointing at your blooded hand and lips. The worriedness rustling through the house, made everyone aware something terrible was about to happen. All your siblings barged into your room, wanting to be present. Anthony tried to push them all out, his voice trembling. He was on the brink of losing it. You wheezed loud, trying to catch your breath. Daphne rushed to your aid, kneeling beside your bed.
She took your blooded hand, not caring for any stains. She needed to comfort you. – “I…I…” – said you, trying to speak. – “I…I just need to catch my breath…” – you said, looking around to your siblings. Eloise had her arms around Gregory and Hyacinth. Colin his arm strapped around Francesca. Anthony sat on the bed with you as well as Violet. Violet sat beside you as Anthony sat before you. – “That’s alright. You catch your breath Y/n.” – answered Anthony. The room felt eerie as if death was lurking in the shadows. You breathed in shakily. Trying to regain your steady breathing. You felt exhausted and it showed. You had been fighting this illness for a week now. You were getting better… right?
Anthony widened his eyes when he saw a thin line of blood run down your ear. He touched it, feeling the wet liquid onto his finger. He kept his finger beside your ear, staring in shock at it. – “Is everything alright brother?” – asked you, shyly. Anthony turned his gaze to you. Why weren’t you panicking? Did you not feel the blood going out of your ear? Did you not feel that your life was slipping away? Did you not worry you might leave this world? Anthony saw you smile as best as you could at him, unaware of the dangers inside of you. Pressing his lips together, was he afraid to tell you the truth. He slowly nodded, lowering his hand to the side of your body, hiding the blood from you. – “Everything is just fine, Y/n…” – responded he, keeping his calm. You inhaled relieved, looking across the room once more.
You started to take in deep breaths. – “Where is that physician!” – called Anthony out in panic. You stared confused at him. – “What’s happening?” – asked you softly. Anthony turned back to you, holding the palm of his hand against your cheek. – “It’s alright… you are alright Y/n.” – responded he with a trembling voice. You noticed the tears in his eyes, slowly clouding his vision. You nodded gently, hearing him. Anthony looked over his shoulder to his siblings, inhaling sharply through his nose. With a shaky expression looked he at them. His worriedness saying enough. A loud sob escaped Daphne’s lips, making you turn to look at her. – “Why are you crying sister?” – asked you.
She kissed your hand. – “Nothing for… sister… nothing for…” – answered she, stroking your forehead. – “Can I go outside tomorrow?” – said you, looking at your mother. She nodded, holding back her tears. – “You may darling…you may…” – you smiled, leaning back. Anthony helped you, lay your head down gently. Numb to the pain, exhaled you deep, your head falling slightly to the side. Your eyes staring upwards as the light faded from them. Anthony sputtered out a loud sob. Daphne lowered her head onto your matrass, crying loud. Violet pressed her hand against your cheek, looking down at you. – “No…no…no, no, no….” – cried she out, not wanting to believe it. – “Y/n, wake up… come on sweetie… wake up.” – called she out, shaking your head a bit. – “Wake up darling… wake up…” – when no movement came out of you, cried she out loud.
She took your head, holding it close to her chest. Holding your hand, brought she it up to her lips. – “Please… please… my child… my child…” – called she out in pure agony. – “Mother! Mother!” – shouted Anthony, pulling her hands away from you. – “She is gone… she is gone…” – said he out loud to remind himself of it. Hyacinth wailed hysterical at the death of her twin. Gregory’s throat hurt from the knot harboring there. Eloise clamped onto Francesca for comfort. Colin punched his fist against the wall in anger. It shouldn’t be you. It shouldn’t. Benedict cried into the pillow that laid on the chair beside him. He wanted to deafen out his cries.
While the family grieved your death, welcomed Edmund you with open arms. The child he never got to meet. From now on it was his job to watch over you, just as much as Violet had watched over you without his presence. It was time for him to take upon Violet’s care for you. Death is a curious thing. Although we all know it comes for us all in the end, it still frightens us. Fear that it might claim us in an unnatural way or not on the right time. Death is but a presence lurking in the corner of your eye, waiting for your time to pluck you away. To guide you on your way. To reunite you with those who had passed before you. Death it not the end… it is the beginning of something else.
Anthony sat in your empty room, holding your pillow into his arms. He stared down at your bedsheets, remembering fragments of the past. How he would teach you how to dance. You would place your feet on his for guidance. He would spin around with you till you were dizzy. A faint smile appeared on his face from the memory. Yet it turned into a saddened smile, knowing he could never dance with you again. Too young plucked away from this world. The physician never got there in time. You had already passed peacefully before his arrival. In a way was he glad you didn’t suffer. Too numb for the pain to be aware of it. At least he got to see you smile one last time. Tears rolled down his cheek as he buried his face into your pillow, crying at your loss.
Violet wore black all month. Barely able to function at the loss of you. Another relative snatched away from her. If perhaps she just held on closer, she would still have you in her arms. She stared out of the window, rubbing her flat belly gently. Memories from the past haunting her. The moment she told Edmund she was pregnant with twins. Edmund was over the moon. Twins. That would be a challenge. She would sing a lullaby to Hyacinth and you in the womb almost every night. By the fireplace when Edmund would sit beside her, reading. She knew in times of Edmund’s death, she wished for herself to die. Now that she was older, understood she that her place was here. With her children. – “Take care of her Edmund.” – whispered she out, smiling faintly.
Benedict his entire room was filled with sketches of you. Sketches on his bed, the floor, up on his wall. He couldn’t stop drawing you. He didn’t want to stop drawing you. He sat by his desk, writing down a poem he wrote specially for you. A poem he would read to you everyday by your grave. A poem about love and hope. About how he used to teach you pall mall. Cards. Any other silly game you loved to play. He taught you them all. A faint smile upon his lips as he stared up to the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he knew you were there watching over him.
Eloise remembered it like yesterday. The mischief you unleashed with her around the house. Like that one time you tied Colin’s shoes together. Or when you angered mama for coming home looking like a mess. Your dress muddy and twigs in your hair. Eloise and you had been exploring in the yard. In search for treasures. How much she longed to have just one more adventure with you.
Colin tapped the window distantly with his finger. His mind was elsewhere. His first thought about you was when he went ice skating with you. Holding your hand while you tried to keep your balance. It wasn’t all that cheerful as you had fallen through the ice as well. Worrying him to the bone. With the help of Anthony, pulled he you out of the ice. You could laugh about it afterwards, but at that moment Colin feared for his heart. He feared he might have lost you there. He never did. Exhaling softly wished he for one more round around the ice with you. If only…
Daphne went through her dresses with tears in her eyes. It pained her to know you would never have your first ball. You could never feel the magic of dancing. The mysterious tingle when a gentleman fluttered your heart. To grow old and have a family. You were missing out on all of that. Lingering at one dress, took Daphne a deep sigh. She promised herself to live for you. To not hold anything back. To never question anything and just follow her heart. Knowing she would land on her feet perfectly with the help of your strength. You were so strong, always have been, even in your last moments.
Francesca braided her hair in the saw way she did yours. Sitting in front of her vanity, stared she at her bed behind her. She smiled imagining your laughter. A fragment of the past became loud and clear. She and you sitting on her bed late at night. Both hiding under a blanket, trying to keep your voices down. Francesca and you were sharing secrets, telling silly stories, or even just making jokes. You had a nightmare, and this was how she wanted to comfort you. By keeping your mind off the nightmare. Happy thoughts only. Now Francesca herself was tormented by nightmares. Yet no one was there to hide under a blanket with her. Her safe haven was empty.
Gregory and Hyacinth sat beside each other. Telling stories about you as if you were still here. No one was really ever gone. To keep your spirit alive, talked they to you daily. Telling you how their day was, hoping you would listen. It felt nice to recollect memories of you. The many hours of hide-and seek. Dull lessons you would always find a way to entertain. Your silly way of dancing at any given time. Hyacinth would do those things now as well. Whenever she was in her room, danced she around, thinking of you.
Although you died young, you were never forgotten. For no one leaves for good.
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midge/lenny angst — maybe a relapse or her helping him get clean after Carnegie (i love pain apparently)
"I have a question."
They're lying on his bed, both of them freshly showered, listening to the rain outside of his window. He's mostly lucid now, after forty-eight hours of withdrawal, having struggled through the worst of the shakes and the dizziness and the rage and sickness.
"Yeah?" he asks.
She turns to him, curling in on herself a little. "Does it always rain in LA, or just when I'm here."
Lenny grins a little and gazes at her. "You brought the weather."
She sits up and leans over him, looking him over as she brushes at his messy hair. "You look better. More color in your cheeks."
"I'm not dead yet," he quips lightly.
"Maybe you'll be able to eat something later today," Midge suggests.
"Yeah," Lenny nods, sitting up slowly, feeling a little lightheaded. "Midge."
She looks at him curiously.
"You didn't have to do this," he tells her. "Come here."
"You called me," she says simply.
"You called me and you said 'I'm sorry. I love you,'" she reminds him gently. "And those aren't words someone says in the same breath when they're okay. So I came."
"Four jokes about the other kind of coming just flew through my brains."
Midge laughs softly. "You are feeling better."
He nods. "So you can go home soon."
"What happens when I leave?" she asks softly.
"Life, I assume," he shrugs.
"You know what I mean."
Lenny takes a breath. "I wish I could promise...I want to promise..."
"Come home with me," Midge says.
He wrinkles his forehead. "What?"
"Pack up Kitty," she urges. "Come back to New York."
She smiles sadly. "Wishful thinking, I guess."
"I'll think about it," he tells her. "That I can actually promise."
"I'll take it," she says, kissing his cheek.
So I wrote that thing I was talking about it the last ask... thought I would save that for tomorrow or maybe the next day but I guess fear play just really took ahold of me....
Warnings: fear play, consental non consental, power dynamics? You're a demon and Belphie is a powerless human. Reader is completely gender neutral. Reader doesn't even know what a gender is.
Word count: 1,300+
Belphie knew about demons. He read about them in books, he watched basically every documentary on them. He even watched animes revolving around demons that Levi recommended.
So, in theory, he shouldn't have been surprised when he saw you dripping with blood.
And it didn't.
It terrified him.
Even nerve in his body was screaming at him to run, but his mind laughed. Run? Run away from you? Maybe if he wanted to give you a good chase before you tore open his insides.
Maybe if he just stayed perfectly still, not even breathing, you wouldn't notice. Beasts doesn't notice still ants right?
That thought process quickly died when you locked eyes with him. Red slits danced around pitch black scleras as you watched him. Belphie felt the need the drop to his knees and beg for mercy. But he knew mercy wouldn't save him, a demon being merciful?
You stalked towards him, like a lion circling in the for kill and Belphie shut his eyes. He prayed to whatever was listening that it would be quick, that you'll eat all of him so Beel wouldn't see his mangled body.
"Well aren't you cute~" You purred, hands reaching towards him. As you made contact your victim - prey? Toy? Flinched and you cooed gently at him. He was cute scarred though, so you didn't want to drop the game just yet.
"It's ok, little one. You may be cute and delicious but I wouldn't eat you." You spoke softly, hoping to ease the tension enough for him to open his eyes. Instead your gravelly base tone sent shivers down Belphie spine. He couldn't help but whine.
Gathering him up you pressed him into your body, worried that he might be cold. It was so dark and cold out, and he was so small and light. Surely the wind must past straight through him.
Your fur felt soft and warm to Belphie, enough so that he felt relaxed enough to open his eyes. Without thinking about it he pressed his hand against it. The fur felt soft and velvety, like an old fur rug. Pressing further the fur wrapped around his arm and Belphie felt as though he was being pulled in. Like you were consuming him, swallowing him whole and suffocate him. Pulling back quickly you released him, even though he thought you wouldn't have.
Beplhie hears you chucking above him. It's not a comforting sound, instead it sounded condescending. Like someone laughing at a bug when it rolls over and gets stuck. Feeling his face raden he swallows down his nerves to mumble.
"D-don't play with me. Just kill me and get this over with."
You still. Red eyed peaking down at your plaything. How cute it is, to try and act brave. How bold it is to demand something of you.
"Why would I kill something as cute as you?" You ask, reaching down to hook your index finger beneath his chin. You shift it upwards, creating eye contact between you and him. It doesn't last long, all it takes is one look at your violent eyes and smile with too many teeth to have him cowering again.
Trying to reinsure him you trace light circles into Belphie's back. But all he can think about is how sharp your claws are, how it would take only a bit of pressure and you could crave circles out of him.
With his chin still in hand you tilt it for better access to his neck. Belphie shudders when he feels your lips against his windpipe. The peak of your fangs through your lips tell him that you could rip his throat out if you so chose. His knees go weak when you open your mouth and begin licking. Soft whines and mewls sipping out of his lips.
Picking him up, you sit down and place him in your lap. Belphie is shocked still the entire time, believing that any moment you will unhinge your jaw and shove him inside. Instead your hands fiddle with the edges of his clothing. Being an ancient demon living far before any such inventions, you don't have much idea how clothing works, simply that humans are usually naked beneath the clothes. But you have no idea how they put them on or remove them.
With a terrifying ripping sound that Belphie is sure he's going to hear in his nightmares - if he lives to fall asleep again - you tear up his clothing like a kid unwrapping a Christmas gift. Belphie holds his breathe the entire time, waiting for you to move on from cloth to flesh.
You never do. Instead throwing the pile of cloth over your shoulder before leaning down to pepper kisses across his now bare chest.
"Th-those were a gift!" Belphie cries out. Because all of his clothing were a gift, he never had tbe engery to go out and try outfits on at a store himself.
"I'll fix it sweetheart." You mutter against his chest before shifting downwards.
You never payed much attention to human genital before. You knew that there were two different sets, but you didn't know why some had one type, while others had a different one. It didn't matter to you, you could use anything to bring pleasure to your human.
Licking a stripe alongside his dick Belphie cried out, thrusting into your mouth as he squirmed around.
"What...what are you doing?!" He cried out.
"Pleasuring you, my human." You answer with a kiss to the thigh.
"That's not, huh, it's not pleasurable!" Your human lies. It was so obvious a lie too. You knew how this set worked, it got hard and wet and bigger when pleasured and his was doing all three.
You told him of his lie before continuing. Licking, sucking, and swirling your long forked tongue against your humans small, cute little dick.
Belphie knew that he shouldn't be turned on by this. That you were a bloody thirsty monster that will kill him once once you get what you want. But he can't deny how good he feels, and besides, this was always lowkey a fantasy of his. A dirty dream he was trying desperately not to think about right now. Because sure, it was fun and exciting when it was safely left in the dream world, but this?
This was terrifying! He couldn't predict the pure, all consuming power yoy radiated off. How every breathe he took felt like yours. Like you were breathing into his lungs. That he was only allowed to breathe because you let him. How he felt like he was standing on an impossibly high skyscraper and you were the fall, the jump, and the skyscraper.
It didn't help that all of that was turning him on as well as terrifying him.
It snuck up on him, his orgasm. When moment he was thinking about how frightening you were and the next he was shotting into your mouth.
An interesting taste spread against your tongue and you shifted back to see your humans blessed out expression. For once it wasn't full of fear, but instead of pleasure and bliss and a bit of sleepiness.
Maybe if you kept doing this to him, you'll prove how nice you are. How pleasurable you're willing to be to him.
"That was an interesting taste sweetheart. One I don't think I tasted before. How about I keep you and I can taste you again later?" You phased it like a question but it was anything but.
Getting back to himself, Belphie stirred. Now in his post orgasn haze all that was left for him to feel was fear. It crashed into him like a wave and he trembled in your arms.
"Pl-please don't eat me." He whimpered pathetically.
You cooed at him, nuzzling reinsuring into his chest as you spoke.
"Of course I wouldn't. You're my human, and I don't hurt things that are mine."
33 for the hand ask meme
33. bandaging the other’s hand and not quite letting go
After the adrenaline finishes burning through his system, he struggles to parse out his own exhaustion from the burning in his lumbar, from the raw ache of his burnt, bruised, and swollen hands. But there's still eleven hours to go before they reach the wormhole, and as soon as they can make contact with DS9, they're at war.
He's gotten them this far, he just needs to get them a little bit farther. Still, he cringes at this softness. This weakness. How many days, weeks, months did he spend in the Order running on even less sleep, functioning on significantly worse injuries, running critical missions with similar stakes? It used to thrill him.
Now, all Elim Garak knows is a bone weariness that comes from a rapidly crumbling sense of resiliency.
He barely notices when Bashir sits in the pilot's chair next to him, the runabout's first aid kit in hand.
"It's fine, Doctor. Worf needs your attention more than I do," he says, waving him off. Just barely through the grimy film of fatigue, he catches the hint of a smile on the Doctor's face. "What?"
He inclines his head. "I suppose there's a distinction between needing and wanting my attention, that Worf might need my attention and that you want it--"
"A bold proclamation, indeed."
But not an incorrect one. He's never not wanted Dr. Bashir's attention, even after the wire was deactivated. Sure, the endorphin high never reached the apogee of numbness and bliss as it did during the years where he was tripping the mechanism once, twice, three times a day -- but the feedback loop he gets from his interactions with Bashir has always been shamefully pleasant.
Humming, the Doctor leans back in his chair, giving him a wry grin. "But for the time being, Worf is asleep, and well-watched. And you, my dear Mr. Garak, work with your hands."
"Oh, they'll be alright," he demurs.
They won't be. In all likelihood, the pain will get worse as more and more of the nerve endings in his palms and fingers die. The heightened sensitivity and fine motor skills that Cardassians pride themselves in, the acuity and emotive gestures and hand presses and clasps that make so much of the silent parts of their speech will be dulled and possibly numbed for him forever. On the upside, it will finally allow him to use his own palm as a pincushion.
Dr. Bashir sighs, setting down his kit and holding out his own hands expectantly. "Let me see them. It's the least I can do, Garak. You got us out of there. Let me repay you in this one small way."
He dreads to appear weak. He dreads to appear vulnerable.
But... no one else is around. He can hear Martok snoring from their position on the helm.
"I suppose, if you feel you are in my debt..."
If he hesitates, it's only from forty-plus years of training to do so. Still, he allows the Doctor to take custody of his hands, and tries to quell the shiver that runs up his spine at the gentle, careful, exacting touch. No part of him has ever been so warmly cradled.
Brows furrowing, the Doctor touches the pad of his pointer finger to the center of his palm. Garak wonders if he knows how intimate a gesture that is, his jaw tensing as Bashir continues, tracing the lines of his hand, the meat of his thumb. It's unbearably tender.
"I don't have access to a dermal regenerator," he murmurs. "But I can clean these burns and the larger lacerations, dress the wounds until we can get back to a proper infirmary."
"If you insist," he answers, just barely managing to not stammer his reply.
The Doctor's head snaps up. "I do. I really, really, do."
And if Bashir's gentle grasp lingers after affixing the last of the medical gauze, neither of them note it out loud.
The Next Morning (Daniel Ricciardo)
Daniel makes the morning even better. Fluff.
Note: this is like an epilogue for How it should be because the other one ended up being too long but I wanted to write this.
Warnings: mentions of sex.
I slowly opened my eyes and looked around. It had been real. I was in Daniel's room after what felt like a dream. I was comfortably covered with the sheets and warm blanket and I really didn't want to leave. But I was curious. Where was he?
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my legs. The marks from the ropes were gone and there wasn't a single bruise. When he said he knew what he was doing he was serious.
I looked around. The toys, the swing, the ropes, ... everything was gone. The clothes weren't on the floor anymore, they were carefully folded in the armchair.
On the nightstand, I found a piece of paper and a T-shirt. Take a shower and come out to have breakfast. D.
I smiled. He had been so gentle with me last night. I almost couldn't believe it had been real. I had never felt something like that.
The shower felt like heaven. I had fallen asleep way too soon and my skin felt sticky from the sweat. Daniel had left me exhausted. Not that I was complaining, but I didn't know how I was even able to stand.
The shirt he gave me was big enough to cover me and I smelled like him. I knew we would have to talk. We were friends, really good friends, but what happened... You don't do that with your friends.
I walked down the corridor and found the kitchen. A sweet aroma of coffee and pancakes filled the room. He was standing there only wearing sports shorts. I felt my heart quickening. He looked incredibly good. It wasn't fair to be that handsome.
He didn't hear me arrive, so I stayed still for a couple of minutes observing him moving around the kitchen and dancing to the music playing. It was truly a sight to be seen.
"I know you are there" I heard him saying. I could almost see the smile on his face even though he wasn't looking at me.
"Good morning" I said softly as I walked inside the kitchen. He turned the stove off and turned to me.
His whole fave changed in only a couple of seconds. So many emotions crossed it, ending with a smile.
"Good morning" He said and let a happy sigh out.
We looked at each other for a few seconds trying to decide what to do. He was faster or braver, or both of them.
Daniel walked to me and kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes during the instant his lips were pressed against my skin. Then he caressed my skin and looked into my eyes.
"How are you feeling? You passed out last night"
"And whose fault was that?" I answered smiling.
He lift his hands in surrender and turned to put the pancakes on the plates.
"I'm good. Really good. I think I haven't slept better in years"
"Well, I'm glad to hear that"
He signed me to sit in one of the chairs right next to him. We had a beautiful view of Monaco from our seats.
I looked at him. He was beautiful. Tan skin marked with tattoos in the perfect places, curls completely unruled and still wet from the shower, a few days long beard...
"How are you feeling, Daniel?" I asked softly. He seemed surprised as if he wasn't expecting me to ask. It had been emotionally draining for me and I was sure it wasn't easy for him either.
He smiled a bit.
"I'm feeling really good. I slept really good too" His voice was soft.
"Yes. It was pretty... Satisfying"
We both laugh. It was.
The atmosphere between us was light. It was easy to be there with him after what happened. Like if we hadn't had the most mind-blowing sex ever.
I leaned and kissed his shoulder gently. He turned his face to me and kissed my forehead gently.
"I don't want to scare you" He said putting his arm around my waist and bringing me closer. I climbed on his lap and look into his eyes. "But it was different."
I cupped his face with my hands and slowly caressed his cheeks.
"I felt a million things with you" He whispered at the same time his eyes dropped to my lips. "I had never kissed someone who wasn't my partner while doing... that"
I felt my heart quickening.
Instinctively, I leaned and trapped his lips between mine, giving him a slow and deep kiss, enjoying the taste of coffee on his mouth and his hands on my body.
We kissed for a while, low moans and pants leaving our mouths but no further intentions being shown. We were just enjoying each other.
"I felt a million things too" I said letting my forehead fall against his. I took my sweet time caressing his body, his chest, his neck, his arm, following the lines of his tattoos with my fingers...
"There is something, right?" He muttered.
I looked into his eyes and nodded.
"Nobody had ever treated me like that. I've never trusted anyone so much like I trusted you last night. I was vulnerable and basically helpless. Even though I didn't feel a hint of fear. You are amazing, Daniel. No one has ever been able to make me feel this way"
He hugged me close and kissed my neck. I closed my eyes and let myself get lost in the intimate moment. Just us in his kitchen bathed by the Mediterranean sun and soft music in the background.
"I don't know what to say to that." He talked a while later. "I care about you, you were really special for me. I wanted you to feel good. And you came here and I knew then that I was lost. I had you at my complete mercy and even though you still saw me. You saw Danny and not the guy who does cool sex things. You ruined every single person in the world for me, YN."
I looked into his eyes. He took a deep breath and grabbed my chin with his two fingers.
"Let me take you out. Let's date and see where we can take this because I can't not give it a try"
I smiled between tears.
"Yes?" He smiled.
"Yes." I kissed his lips. "Let me tell you that you ruined every person for me too. How can I go back and have boring sex with random people now when I know how good you made me feel?"
He laughed and kissed my cheek, making me turn on his lap and face the table.
"You really don't have to." He kissed my shoulder and drank from his mug.
"I don't want to" I took a bite of my breakfast and looked at him. "I can get used to this"