#little gray strangers(anons)

[comfortless]

The way you write König makes me cry and dry heave cuz you balance his loser unhingeness and his heartbreaking tenderness is✨ ART✨

Now I feel like you would be able to EAT this prompt up but imagine König as Frankenstein’s creature that is this big ass hulking mass of body that immediately makes the town grab their pitchforks but he can DESTROY them in seconds. But inside he is just a little guy who just wants somebody to hold and love (and other activities if ya know what I mean

Keep doing what you do❤️

A Place For Us

Frankenstein’s creature! König x fem! horologist reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. discrepancies!, reader is implied to have anxiety, angst & fluff, non-malicious stalking?, loner/loner dynamic my beloved.., brief mentions of previous murders and religious imagery, codependency, smut; masturbation, unprotected piv.

notes: receiving this ask was so funny to me because @melancholic-thing and i have been bouncing this idea around forever (i simply could not have brought this any justice without ghost’s input— if you see this please know that ily dearly). thank you, anon for your kind words and finally giving me the push that i needed to write it! 💘

wc: 10.6k

You’re good at fixing broken things; tinkering with them with a set of well-polished tools until they begin to tick, or chime, or cuckoo.

Some take longer than an afternoon sat before the wooden desk, weeks or months— a year, once. Oiled parts and small cogs, the three arms that jerk and glide over a face riddled with numbers that all lull you into feeling that your work is not just some monotonous service only the rich buzzards could afford, but as if you were a healer of sorts; a little cleric stationed to bring life into whichever jagged, broken thing has been dropped or kicked at her doorstep.

This one, however… you’re convinced it’s as good as dead.

No matter how many times you take apart the little, gray pocket watch, the arms refuse to move. Its ticking sounds less like that of the beating of the heart and more like the grinding of dry teeth, a corpse begging, pleading to let this attempted resurrection come to an end.

Your tweezers wrench the face free, and all at once it proves too much— bending and warping beneath the metal grip until it cracks, a split right through it, down to its very center.

“How…” Your voice fills the void of ticking, pseudo-silence surrounding you. A word slipped out in frustration and unknowing before you finally toss the wretched little thing onto the desk with a clatter and step aside.

The house is as dark and brooding as always, too large for a woman on her own and a workshop that hardly counts as a proper business. Shelves of broken clocks serve as decor where potted plants and well-loved photographs should sit in their stead. Books of study for modern devices such as these in place of the poetry and worn love letters other women seemed to have in abundance.

This place was starved out of light, even with the flickering glow of candles and the electric humming of the unnatural yellow one above.

The sun is no stranger, either, your curtains neatly pulled aside to allow for it to filter through like an invited guest. Only it doesn’t, not on such a melancholic gray day.

You need a walk, a distraction, or this hungry home would be certain to rip away your work from the shelves and swallow you whole instead.

Isn’t it such a tragedy that, someone who pours her creativity and all of her love into time, all she seems to do is waste it?, the gaudy wallpaper seems to taunt, all the colors of filthy maroon and darkened blue flowers seeming to make it feel more imposing and less of a comfort.

Your hand curls around the handle of your umbrella, a sturdy thing, but just as drab as the rest of the home. Then, the package you’ve been putting off delivering to the elderly woman in town. Best to get it done with now, maybe upon your return the hands that fix could do so once again.

Shame about the clock face though. You would certainly have to patch together another and pray the pocket watch’s owner wouldn’t notice.

The wind is not what you had anticipated.

Outside is different. The howling of it past the windows and shuddering through the attic felt perfectly at home in your shoddy little house, but as the door swings shut behind you, it feels entirely alive. Cold and bitter and angry— the things you keep repressed that nature lacks the tact to.

The trees bend and sway from its invisible yet incessant pushing. The hand containing the package falls down to the lap of your skirt to keep it from flying up just as your other clutches the umbrella ever tighter to keep it from billowing out into the air to be left discarded miles away.

It isn’t a short walk to town, but with the wind and the drizzling rain, it almost seems as though you’re in more tender company than the lumber and the ticking clocks.

The path through the forest is overgrown as always, branches are pushed aside and your skirt is lifted to avoid burrs and thorns.

You should have had the sense to bring along a coat, because when the thunder does strike up and the rain finally begins to fall in heavy, hurried drops, you find yourself shivering terribly with the package guarded against your chest.

Lamplight would have done well, too.

You would have almost happily allowed yourself to toss aside the umbrella and be battered by the rain if you could only see. The forest is dark on days like this, with the canopy of thick branches and their dense leaves blocking out any sliver of light cast down from overhead.

It’s only by sheer luck that you don’t manage to trip, toss your delivery into the shadow of a tree and lose it entirely before you do make it out. When the trees finally part to the barren hill overlooking town you breathe a sigh of relief, a quiet thanks for the grayed light above.

Your steps are hurried as you make your way through the quiet town. The shop windows are all lit aglow with the silhouettes of people inside, strangely dancing like shadows through a fog. A place you can not be, can not touch.

The stares the townsfolk give you make your skin crawl, as though they are so close to being what you are but not, only tied down to your world when they think themselves lofty. Their eyes always seem to question, scrape under your skin with sharpened arms, ticking and flaying, always asking: Why?

You face forward as your skin begins to prickle, not from the wet or the chill but a subdued sort of fear that nestles burning into your chest, sets your heart rushing like a rabbit.

The streets are silent enough, a small blessing; any passing strangers are hurriedly skittering through the rain and muck to hide away in their homes, children ushered with a hand to their back by flustered looking mothers, complaining in hushed voices about the rain. You only smile at them and step aside when your paths cross.

They never smile for you.

It’s why the broken clocks are delivered to your doorstep rather than brought inside, addresses and names from muffled voices calling out beyond your thick wooden door, coins and bills pushed through the mail slot to lie cold on the welcome mat. The bell above the door never chimes, and you only make your deliveries on days like this, when the rain or the dark blanket you up to keep you safe and eternally somber.

You leave the package on the doorstep, covered from the rain by a small, vermillion awning. One sharp knock is given and you’re back on your way, back to the old house, to the simplicity of the ticking, the comfort of the old cobweb on the vaulted ceiling and the drab gray of the bleakness.

There are puddles now, glistening with any light they can suck into their depths, threatening and taunting as the dull stares and that rickety old desk you really should fix. You think for a moment, that perhaps no one would even notice if one of those dark pits of rain water pulled you in entirely, only to splash through it with ease, dirtying the ends of your skirt.

The rain lessens when you crest the hill, the forest less a tangle of clattering limbs and now only a gentle sway reaches the tops of the trees, light filtering through them, as if to guide you on your way. It doesn’t lessen the bushels of thorns, the tree limbs downed and scattered over the path. In some small blessing, you’re able to scramble over them without having to plan a visit to a tailor to repair a ripped gown; scrubbing the mud from it would surely be tedious enough.

The droplets splatter against the dirt and fallen leaves in hushed bursts, the forest alive as always with the cooing of nesting birds in spite of the rain. The only thing that seems out of place is a sudden, soft thud, the snap of a branch underfoot. Just one footfall, and things return to a placid state amidst the sky’s tears.

You raise your head to glimpse in the direction, gaze sweeping over the figure of a man some paces off to your left. Beneath the shadow of a broad, twisting pine layered in thick branches, his details are mostly obscured, a thin trail of silver light only casting aglow the glimpse of a blue eye.

He’s only large enough to notice, shoulders slumped and chest rapidly rising to fall like a frightened animal; as his silhouette shifts just so you even consider that he’s shivering.

There’s something in that stare of somber blue that splinters at the wall of discomfort; it is not accusing, not bitter, worn and cold. Curious. Something akin to your own.

Damn your sweetness, your inability to simply let things be even as that ache twists around in your chest, clawing at a cage of bone and hissing that you keep silent. Be on your way. Don’t look back.

Instead, you extend your umbrella outward, toward him.

“Awful rain, hm?,” you chime.

The figure visibly tenses, seems to shrink into himself for a moment before straightening and giving one solemn nod.

“You can take my umbrella. I’m almost home, anyway.”

That seems to spark something, not much, but the stranger does take a step forward. Your eyes catch on the wet, matted hair clinging to his head, cascading down to shroud a face you still can’t quite make out.

The poor thing stirs something in you, a deep sympathy that clouds even the judgment of that flighty, skittish thing resting deep inside.

Even from such a distance it’s clear that he’s been neglected, likely cast off by the town even less favorably than you have. His scent carries on the breeze, like dirt and wood and misery.

You extend the umbrella again before realizing he won’t come any closer with you being there. So, you lower it to the ground, avoiding the mud as best you could and leave it. If he took it, fine. If not, you travel this path so often it would be collected in time.

The figure mutters something as you rise, a low string of foreign words that you can only interpret as being spoken out of surprise, perhaps even gratitude.

You smile toward him as you wipe fat, slithering raindrops from your brow.

“You don’t want to catch a fever.”

With that, you’re back on your way, thoughts of the rugged stranger weigh heavy on your mind as the roof of your home comes into view, stilted and in the same drab navy as the flowers on the wallpaper.

You could have done more. It had been instilled into you to not to open the door for someone you did not quite know, yet a part of you longed to take care of something not simply fed by oil, something only capable of telling you how much time you’ve sat alone as thanks.

Surely it was best not to let it distract you.

This was good enough.

The key is produced, the door opened, and just like the many times before that you have forced yourself from this place, the house seems less unsettling upon your return.

As what little daylight remains fades away into night, you find yourself seated, toying with the old pocket watch once more. It’s the only one that doesn’t make a lick of sense, a puzzle that can not be solved. For all the polished parts and meticulous tinkering, it still won’t work properly.

It grates and growls as though rusted, the cogs shifting inside with each movement of the arms are well-polished yet seem to do little but hiss and spit.

This is the fourth time you have taken it apart only to put it back together with no improvement.

There was little to be known about the man who owned it, some pompous, arrogant creature that you had only seen in passing. He had turned his nose up to you, you were sure of that, only to deliver this dying thing to your door the following day.

Your work had always been compared to your father’s. Though you possessed a similarity in skill, you were not what the townsfolk had deemed to be respectable. An unwed lady out on her own, biding her time repairing what they had broken rather than feeding hungry mouths delivered from her very womb, how terribly scandalous.

The pocket watch is set aside as you busy yourself tailoring a small sheet of metal for it. The graduations are carved in with a sharp razor, impeccably angled. Then, the Roman numerals, just before it’s slotted back into place.

The likeness to the former face is nearly uncanny, it’s only sturdier and less susceptible to ripping from the mere touch of tweezers. The rust s gone from the casing, and at long last— it ticks; no grinding growl as the second hand begins its revolution. The fickle thing just needed a touch up, you supposed as you flick off the desk lamp and rise to your feet.

The curtains are drawn as they always were when you step into the bedroom. The muddy dress is finally peeled away as you change and slink into the covers, and just for a moment, you almost think that you feel the animal between your breasts begin to settle too.

———

There’s a letter stuffed into the mail slot: crumpled with no postage stamp, scrawled across some scrap of paper that surely was plucked from a garbage bin.

You marvel at the lack of care for a moment before your fingers do find themselves pawing at it, unfurling the worn edges to find the words: Thank you.

Written in thick black ink, there’s a clumsiness to it, the dance of a quivering hand holding pen. You think back to the elderly woman you had made that delivery to only yesterday; had she trudged through the mud and muck just to bring you this?

Her thanks was only needed in the blessing of payment, and she had already generously done just that when she left her little humming wall clock at the door.

You flip the note over, inspecting it carefully. There’s a line there, too, hastily scratched out in the same black ink, the lines crossing and digging leaving little pinprick holes in the paper.

Holding it to the light, you can just barely make out the words: I have been alone.

Your mouth dries at the sentiment, tongue flicking out to try and force a wetness to your lips. The animal begins its keening howl, a chain rattling as claws sink into your innards; the very same agitated fear that starved you out of comfort day in and out.

The man in the forest, perhaps. You were sure that you would have remembered seeing someone so disheveled and tall about town, and if not for a certainty that he had not followed you home, you would have assumed it was him. Gratitude finally said, and well on his way to someplace else.

There’s nothing here for him or anyone else, surely he could see that. Even you could.

The walls around you seem to bulge, the room shrinking once again as every little thing held within begins to taunt and yowl. Safety was only a temporary luxury, it always has been.

The letter is discarded onto a table, as you opt to hazard a peek out of your curtains instead. The gray from yesterday remains as thick clouds crowd above, threatening another storm. The treetops and tall grass dance in the breeze, freeing leaves and breaking flower stems. There’s no one standing there to greet you, to explain themselves for the strange message that they had left.

The town had probably already driven you to madness, picturing things that were not there while old fools jab you with ominous letters and jeering stares to see just how long it would take to watch you fall apart.

Another delivery day it would be, then; best to get it out of the way before the rain begins to fall.

Maybe you could even retrieve the umbrella along the path, discarded, battered from the rain and likely unused.

You don’t bother packaging the pocket watch, choosing to hastily stuff it into the pocket of your coat instead. Courtesies be damned. Tea and a warm bath would do well when the house was sated by your absence, when you were finally given time to breathe.

In your haste, you nearly kick over what’s been left on the uppermost stair leading to your door.

You find a table clock covered in a thick black fabric, a little note attached to it giving the owner’s name and address, and a small bag containing payment.

It’s all securely placed inside, next to the ugly letter on the table.

Your umbrella doesn’t wait on the path, but you’ve hardly the mind to care. Your hand tightens around the pocket watch as you cord your way down the path and back into town, rushing amidst the foliage until the sounds of your footfalls are dulled by the street.

Reaching the house, a towering narrow building that smells like tobacco even from outside, your hand curls to knock at the door in the same breath taken as the chain is plucked to place it on the knob, intent on scurrying away immediately to avoid the disgusted gaze of the man that waits inside.

You don’t quite make it far enough before the door swings open and you’re greeted by a round face, nose upturned and lip curled into a sneer.

That isn’t imagination.

There’s a genuine hate in this man, seeping down into his bones that makes him almost seem to reek like sulfur through the cloud of cigarette smoke that wafts around him. It’s the face of someone who would love nothing more than to see your own damnation, watch the earth suck you in until your wails fall silent and a fire roars upward in your wake.

“This isn’t my watch, dear.”

“Parts needed to be replaced,” you explain, voice tight and keening like a wolf in a trap, “I assure you that I—“

“It’s shoddy work. Any clocksmith up north would have done better for half the price..”

It goes on like this for what feels like at minimum thirty revolutions, but it must have only been five or so. His droning voice makes it hard to keep track, buzzing as he examines your work, hours wasted upon aiding such an awful creature.

He only seems to grow bored of his chiding when you fall to silence. He wants a reaction, not a wide-eyed fretful stare and pursed lips caging in any sound that may bubble up from your throat.

In one final act of detestation, the watch is tossed to the ground, stomped in repetition until the hands snap, the ticking quiets, and you see months of your work brought to ruin in a mere seven seconds.

He storms back inside and slams the door shut as you stoop to collect the little, broken thing, cradling it in your palms. Maybe it wouldn’t be fixed again, but you’ve hardly the mind to let anything be left abandoned like this.

Though the anger builds, white bitter smoke billowing through your veins, it remains tucked away inside eventually communing with the animal, all but entirely snuffed out when your steps lead you to the front door of the house.

The window to the right is open, not broken. The curtains were pushed aside as though to allow a breeze to enter. A muddy footprint, vast and long scales the siding, but there’s no exiting one to join it.

You stare and listen, taking one quiet step towards the open window to strain your hearing. Nothing. Inside, it’s quiet, only the sound of the breeze rattling that note left on the table, the ticking and the familiar creaks and groans of the house settling.

So, you enter.

With the poker from the hearth in tow, the rooms are investigated one by one. Each and every one of them clear of any intruder. Even the attic, for all of it’s imagined ghosts sits empty, stale and silent. There’s no one here, nothing out of place or broken that hadn’t already been cast out from the world and delivered into your hands.

Strangely enough, it’s more peaceful like this; the leaves could be heard rustling outside, birds calling, even the chirps and strumming of crickets too late to flee the onset of chill seeping through this purgatory, filling the mundane void with sounds of life and peace.

You leave the window open.

The pocket watch is left on the desk, the kettle filled with water and placed upon the stove to heat, all before your eyes trail over to that little table beside the front door.

The only thing amiss is there, your intuition roars at you: “Look, look. Just look.”

The table clock from this morning sits there, the wood casing dusty and the hands perpetually stuck to sit at six o’clock, easy to enough to break, and easier still to fix. An overworked battery and a little oil would be its saving grace; if only things could be so simple for yourself, for the thousand or so others that surely must feel the same— clawed, fretful little rabbits.

Your eyes narrow momentarily, vaguely recalling that the damned thing had been covered when it was dragged inside. Something sable and thick, a scrap of a heavy dress shirt perhaps, verily stained. Odd that someone would have broken in merely to steal something so useless, but stranger tales have been told. For all you cared, the perpetrator could keep it.

You entertain the idea of the wild man in the trees, thick and sturdy as one. Perhaps he left the note, stole warmth from your home and found comfort in that useless old shirt after leaving that roughly scrawled note. Though the idea would horrify others, it only sets your ceaselessly racing pulse at ease.

Toying with the idea that someone so very much like you lurks the hills, found a home in your eyes and paid a visit, kind enough to wait until you were in town as to not scare you… and the kettle begins to whistle.

———

You had forgotten to close the window last night. Or maybe it was left as an invitation, a silent offer of your companionship for the unknown thing that occupies your already haunted mind these days. Something in your subconscious dared you to simply forget, see what happens, and you’re not entirely disappointed to find out that yes, something has happened.

There are three flowers laid out there in a row, smushed by the weight of a heavy palm: a daffodil left golden and proud despite the way her petals fray and wither, and two others wild and unnamed with blue and white colors leading to vibrant green stems. And roots. He hadn’t the time to pluck them proper, nor had a sense of gentleness to his touch in doing so.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed in months, a giggling that makes your chest ache from a sudden mirth through all of this wretchedness. Who knew it would only take three flowers and the appearance of someone so disconnected? You take them and place them in a vase in the same spot, careful to add just the right amount of water to keep them living for a time.

Someone brought you flowers— actually brought you a gift, not a job. You remember those eyes, too. His hands may not have been gentle, but that look was.

Though darkness still creeps internally, you’re resolute in what you must do when you prepare for the day. You’ve never really worn this dress— a soft, white thing with billowing sleeves and tight cuffs that brings a swell to your breasts and cinches your waist. One of the women about town had given it to you in lieu of payment for repairing her husband's watch, left a note prattling onward for three pages about how a woman should dress to find a man. Three!

You’ll find him, thank him for the flowers, bat your eyelashes just a little and retrieve your umbrella. That’s all. The rain would be back, more deliveries would have to be made, and if you could manage a friend from all of this well… surely things could work out for you, just this once.

Your steps are less hurried and more tentative this time around. You don’t barrel through the woods like a galloping mare, mindful of your dress as you lift the fabric at the hips to avoid thick, slickened mire. There isn’t much to do about the thorns nipping at your ankles, leaving little scratches like cat’s claws in their wake.

The thought that maybe this was a ridiculous idea only settles in your mind after an hour of searching. You don’t even have a name to call him by, not an idea on just where he may be or what his intentions truly were, all further punctuated by the fact that you’ve found yourself in the midst of a wild orchard, the yellowing grass nearly reaching your knees as you reluctantly allow your dress to flow free. Thick clusters of apples hang above your head, each nearly ripe, some even fallen to leave a fragrant sweet smell in the wake of their rot.

Thunder roars above, distant but loud, cruelly threatening the wake of a downpour that would so easily sully the delicate thing you wear. Your chest aches from exertion, from whichever horrid fear it's settled on today, and you’re nearly fully convinced of your own madness when something does finally catch your eye.

There’s a cabin, nestled between the trees, old and lacking glass panes for the windows. The roof is covered in moss, walls creeping with the old green of vines and nearly hidden away entirely by the tall grass that rises above its face.

You could wait out the storm in the dark there, rethink your steps until you find a way back home and the prospect of actually entering a building that wasn’t the very picture of your own agony stirs something within you.

You don’t bother to knock, only waltz right in and let the door shut softly behind you. It creaks as it goes, whining from the rust laden over its hinges. As expected, the cabin is mostly barren; a set of dust laden chairs sits on opposite ends of a table missing a leg, a large bookshelf housing only a torn copy of Paradise Lost and a journal, a few dirtied dishes are left on the floor, and in the corner…

There are a lot of things that make you feel small.

You couldn’t live up to your father’s name in town. The thought that you were not an equal to the other ladies with their fine jewelry and dresses, rings wrapped around their fingers, that was a sore spot despite the way you refused to admit to it. Even the hounds lurking about the butcher’s shop on lonely night deliveries, baying and growling when your feet carried you too close.

None of those things could even compare to how you felt now.

The rug he lies beneath is large on its own, but your flower-giving, grateful titan seems even more so. It’s as though walking into a bear’s den and expecting a mere squirrel. Even curled into himself in sleep, he seems impossibly huge.

You couldn’t see much of him that first night, but now… where the rags that make up his clothes reveal a series of long scars along his legs, the hairy arms that seem far too thick: all of him, all of him is massive.

Your rabbit heart does not claw or fight you now, it only flutters, placated by the sight of something so… was there really a word for it? The idea that someone so imposing could strike the match of attraction within you. Feelings were strange, each comes sharp and new like the deliberate twist of a knife through a body, soft like warm bread.

You smile as you wander to his side, recognizing the cloth he wears over his head immediately as the one stolen from your house. Your dress is smoothed at your rear as you lower yourself to sit on your knees at his side, quiet and slow.

“Hello,” you whisper, placing a hand on a shoulder that dwarfs it entirely, feeling the bulge of muscle beneath the ripped shirt, the ridge of keloid scars from deep cuts laid into his skin.

The titan’s eyelids flutter for a moment as he begins to stir, staring up at the ceiling, teetering on the edge between waking and dreaming. Then, those cold blue eyes lock onto you. A flash of disbelief crosses them, just for a moment before something flips and from the holes ripped into that makeshift hood you see an expression that seems almost agonized.

“Hello,” he rasps after a long moment, shifting onto his side to prop himself up and raise his head to level with your own.

His breathing is shallow, almost panicked and you finally think to bring your hands to your lap instead, avoid touching him and potentially startling the poor man further.

“I wanted to thank you… for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” You pause as you study what little of his expression you can make out through the mask, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners only giving a glimpse of a smile. All teeth, probably, an excited one that even the imagination of warms your heart. “I put them in a vase. I didn’t want them to die.”

“I should not have…” His voice is softer than you ever imagined that it could be, well-spoken as the words are pulled from his throat. You find yourself transfixed, almost, praying that he continues if only to hear the delicate strumming of his tone, the soft sigh of breath that leaves him afterward.

“Es tut mir leid.”

The apology is followed by a low sweep of his gaze, slowly crawling from the peek of your cleavage to your hips to rest where your hands lay clasped in your lap.

He hardly seems to know what to do with himself, what to say, and all at once the realization dawns on you that no, he isn’t merely paying his thanks and seeking conversation. Perhaps that was part of it then, but now… he seems almost entranced.

You recognize those looks, from men in passing when they leered, but from him… from this weary, haunted stranger. It only seems a silent sort of reverence; as though longing for something he’s been deprived of.

“No, it’s fine, it made me happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, it was sweet.”

He falls silent at that, conflicted if the pinch of his brow were anything to go by. Then, sudden, he takes your wrist and jerks your hand toward his face, thumb brushing over the small calluses over each pad of your fingers. There’s dirt beneath his fingernails, even more scaring along those massive hands and you shiver. It’s not fear it’s… something akin to it, opposite by the way it dances and writhes in warmth rather than the cold.

“You have the hands of a maker.”

Strange, sweet Goliath.

His words are spoken somberly, as if there is more to say that he holds back. A part of you warns that you’re not prepared for it anyhow, so you let him continue that motion, brushing over your palm with a featherlight touch until it begins to tickle.

Your giggle prompts him to raise his head, watery eyes threatening tears when he hears that sweet sound bubble up from within you. His hand curls over your own, trapping you in his grasp as though little else matters to him more than the need to touch you in some way.

“You have kind eyes.”

“I am not kind.”

You shake your head at that, flicking your thumb across the top of his burly hand, marveling at the smooth skin of his scars and the rough texture of the hair that dots his knuckles.

“You’re sweet to me, and that’s all that matters.”

It could have been a mistake, how easily you’ve taken to this bizarre titan. Any lady with proper regard for her standing and womanhood assuredly wouldn’t have said something like that to a beast that has the stature and the scent of something wild.

Still, the words leave your lips far too quickly to draw back; he responds with an urgency.

You find yourself pulled ever closer by the iron grip on your hand, tugged into the rug-turned-mattress by this man as he cages you in to meld against his chest. He’s everywhere, warm and burning against the chill of your skin with flesh touched by hellfire.

You only sigh pitifully when his arm wraps around your waist. When was the last time you had even felt an embrace? You couldn’t recall, and even if you had, it would have paled in comparison to one such as this. You breathe him in like a summer’s breeze, tasting a hint of the apple orchard beyond on your tongue when you open your mouth to speak once again.

“See..?”

The tension in his muscles seems to melt away; if your heart is like a hare then surely his must be more akin to a bull. It takes some time before he softens entirely against you, despite his initiation. His breath is almost a pant when his hand trails upward along your back, feeling every ridge and dip and curve, breath catching in wonder as you allow it.

“You are soft like…”

His head dips to press into your shoulder, breathing you in, humming his approval at the mingling scent of clock oil and tea leaves that lingers on your skin. Even from beneath the hood, you can feel the way his lips brush over you, his mouth parted in a voiceless plea.

“… like one of the flowers.”

It’s almost torture really, how someone could be so comforting, so endearing.

His hand trails further, drifting over the backside of your dress to curl against your thigh threatening something if you don’t conjure the sense to stop him. It stokes the fire within you, glowing ember in place of a brain, it seemed. You feel weak, lost in a foreign touch and sweet, clumsily spoken words.

If the townsfolk could see you now, herded up in this stranger’s arms, surely they wouldn’t dare to cast any disapproval your way. Not one of those meek little devils would have a word to say… not now or ever again.

“You’re like… a tree then,” you whisper as you finally will yourself to twist away from the grip, already mourning the loss of warmth as a cold wind filters through the openings in the cabin.

He doesn’t sulk as you pull away, only seems content to have been blessed with that much. That mist remains in his eyes before they shut again, willing himself to rise to sit up just as you do.

“Will you stay?”

You glance over the cabin again, with all of its dust and cobwebs. Your umbrella sits in the corner, propped upright with its handle leant against the wall, out of place amidst the dilapidation prevalent here.

This wasn’t a home at all, just a quiet, cold purgatory. Though the halls of your own may mock your solitude, this place seems to echo his very being: alone, broken, rotting and so, so very cold.

Your heart bleeds as you weigh your options, expression growing sullen and torn. He notices, tentatively takes your hand again in an almost practiced way of providing comfort. Had he ever even…

Your thoughts begin to drift again, and you force yourself to settle on a choice. It’s not your heart that should be damned, but that horrid seed of doubt constantly burdening, stealing from, and clawing at you.

“I should get home, before the rain.”

“Verstanden.”

“You can come too.”

There’s an audible hiss of breath through his teeth, that peculiar look of agony crosses his face again… and finally, he weeps.

———

König, you think to call him.

He teaches you German from time to time, in turn for you allowing him to watch as you work away at the clocks. It feels fitting in a way. Not because he harbors the self-importance of a noble figure, nor his stature; he’s simply become something impossibly important in the week long span you’ve spent together now.

You’ve decorated the guest room properly for him, and in turn he’s brought you firewood, foraged and hunted so that neither of you have had to bother with the town. The fire raged in the hearth as the cold continues to set in, and your walks to town have been enjoyable now. He accompanies you to the hill on some nights, draws you a bath when you come home, even cooks.

So… maybe a king was not entirely appropriate, but calling him a servant certainly wasn’t either. Even with the way he seems to melt and become docile at the slightest brush of your hand, the way you know with a certainty he would die for you if you spoke the word.

And still, you call him König: the king of your heart.

There are flowers at your windowsill each morning, still clinging to their roots. You bake the bread while he cooks stew with herbs gathered from the little garden just beyond the walls of the home, one he’s graciously told you he’s wanted to expand for you. Books you’ve overlooked for years have been read end to end by him, and he especially seems to like those with art of flowers drawn into their pages, always seeking you out to show you, explain their meanings, expressing the beauty that he sees in them and within you.

You don’t know where he’s come from, what his life was like before this, and with the same respect that he gives to you… you don’t ask.

“We’re starting a new story,” you had said the first morning over a breakfast of hastily made apple dumplings. To which he had agreed, with a somber hum, nodding his hooded head.

Though you do wonder about his secrets, his face. Seeing him now is all it really takes to make you smile.

He comes through the door, hauling in the massive grandfather clock that a carriage had left only this morning. The bob and the lyre both appeared broken at a glance, but your heart sinks when you read the name on the note left attached to it.

The same petulant little man that had stomped that poor watch to pieces right in front of you, no doubt he had broken this one too in some sort of tantrum. What was it now? Had the poor clock chimes a bit too loudly during the night? Was that deserving of a foot lodged right into its heart?

“König, do you mind just leaving it there?” You gesture toward the middle of the room, watching as the muscles beneath his shirt don’t even seem to ripple from exertion.

“Natürlich.”

As you set to work, pulling away parts, straightening out bends and replacing what’s broken, he kneels at your side watching with rapt attention. There’s no fixing the pendulum bob entirely, it’s far too bent and scraped, but you wouldn’t be replacing that with work of your own either. The bastard gets what he gets and that will do.

In truth, your work since having König here has only improved, and perhaps you’re showing off a bit, but the way he watches you tinker with the dusty old things as if mesmerized fills you with pride. You could fix anything, yes, with him at your side you wanted to.

The house doesn’t echo wasted time anymore, only that crowding feeling of something buzzing and chirping, budding up in the spaces where shadows should crawl: love. You wouldn’t trade it for the loneliness to return, not ever. A new sort of fear that stings just as much as it does caress.

So you work in silence, only breaking it to answer the sparse questions that he throws out.

When the clock is shoddily finished, you wipe the oil from your hands on a rag, and take König’s own large arm as it’s offered out to you to stand.

“I will carry it for you tonight,” he suggests, delicately brushing a bit of dust from your sleeve. His touch does linger, always lingers, trailing up to massage at your shoulder and cup at your neck. The swell of heat that arrives at your face then, the press of your thighs beneath your skirt… it’s always the same.

“I thought that you didn’t want to go into town?”

Your shoulder meets his chest as you press against him, doing very little to calm your body’s frustrations. The blood within you stirs like a violent wave feeling him this near— cleaned up and dressed in some patchwork conglomerate of your father’s old clothes. He smells like a union between the earth and sea, salt and alder leaf, a hint of thyme and lavender.

His eyes glitter when his gaze roves from your face to chest, hand skittering down to curl at the small of your back. To anyone else, you would look the picture of husband and wife perhaps.

“I would go anywhere with you.”

A fresh normal, like the rise of spring, those words and touches that suggest more: threatening while you plead in silence for him to just give you a push, unlace your dress and finally feel and see him properly.

“Then… yes, let’s get the cursed thing out of here tonight.”

His grip tightens around you just for a moment, fingers curling and flexing into the soft linen covering you, bunching it up just so at your back before he relents, draws away.

“You dislike this one?” König sounds almost hurt, perhaps he favored it, being tall and similar to him in some way. Another odd thing, hard to place, but he’s never seemed to like you talking down about your own work, a habit that needed breaking.

“No,” you begin to explain, curling your arms around his middle as you both stare at the thing, ticking quietly before you, “its owner is just a pain.”

“I can tell. You seem nervous, meine geliebte.”

“You haven’t taught me that one yet,” you point out, not playing coy, despite the look he gives you that suggests you know.

There’s always that ache when his eyes narrow and that playful glint reaches them. How someone could look as though they’ve suffered dozens of lifetimes of pain and still have that look, you did not know, but it excites you. A furious, needy excitement.

“Beloved,” is all that he says.

The stare relents as he heads back out into the garden, leaving you to sort yourself out.

———

“You’re sure that you can carry it the entire way?”

It’s not that you could help, really. The thing must have weighed as much as yourself, strung up over König’s back with a rope he had found lying someplace in the garden.

“Ja, it’s fine.” He’s not out of breath in the slightest either. You realize then that if you put on all your charms bending, arching and delicately maneuvering your hands to fix the clocks, the assuredly this was his way of doing the same. You try to reign yourself in from staring at the damp spot on his shirt, clinging to his broad expanse of chest, the way that his thighs seem to tense with each step forward.

You can’t— you merely trail behind him until you take the lead to bring him right to the other man’s doorstep. Your hands find the ropes that keep the clock saddled to König’s back, carefully untying them as he stoops down to let its wooden legs rest against the ground below. It scrapes, the consequence of being so heavy and forced to stand on those four tiny legs, and only then does it decide to make a cacophony of noise signaling the new hour, a trilling sort of bong that makes even your ears ring as it breaks up the silence of the night.

You don’t even need to knock, because the door flies open immediately. The man stands proud, unperturbed by your giant companion as he shoves past you to inspect his clock. There are no greetings, no pleasantries, and if you were just a bit more careless with your reputation, smacking him would have only brought you satisfaction.

“Not good, but it will do,” the little man huffs, knocking at the glass casing over the clock’s face with his knuckle. “Be a dear and have your friend bring it in for me.”

You’ve no doubt that König senses your annoyance as he cocks his head at you, but when you give a curt nod in response, he does what’s requested. The clock is set in a large den. It’s not as opulent and gilded as you had expected, just a simple home housing a very infuriating man. You watch from the doorway, swaying on your feet as König rights the clock and pushes it where he’s directed. Just a few more seconds and the two of you would be well on your way, and perhaps he would even teach you a new curse for a man like that.

He comes uncomfortably close to König’s side, a smug look plastered over his face that only seems to exaggerate just how greasy and mousy that you know him to be. Something is whispered that you can’t quite make out, a dare, a mocking taunt, something that pisses you off even without the knowledge.

The hood is pulled off by thin fingers, cast aside to the floor beyond the pair.

The man’s face goes pale before you even get a glimpse of König at all. He backs away, mouth gaping as König calmly moves to retrieve the cloth. You think you hear the word “monster” mumbled amidst a slew of incoherent babbling, but when your companion turns to face you, you feel no fear.

König’s face is like patchwork, scars connecting all together. They run like small streams up from his jaw and over his chin, splitting his lip at the corner of his mouth and dancing up to his eye. The nose is broken in places, several times over likely, crooked with a bump that only seems strangely cute. The unkempt hair lining his jaw should be trimmed, but… there’s no monster here. Only a man who has seen and felt pains that you could not bring yourself to imagine.

His head dips when he notices your wide-eyes stare, a sort of shame hidden away behind strands of long, black hair. He shuffles out of the house and shuts the door behind him, standing rigid as he expects the worst, for you to wail and sob and gather a group of townsfolk to herd him far away with fire and stones.

You only take his hand.

“Let’s go home.”

He doesn’t bother to hide himself away again during the walk back, his hand remains in your hold, trembling every now and then and gripping you tighter as he struggles with the thoughts no doubt raging in his skull like a storm. You offer your comfort as you lean toward him, head pressed against his arm even as you turn the knob and step inside.

You warm a bath for him then, a task that is no easy feat. König does not offer his help, resigned to some belief that this is only a temporary pity.

He allows you to peel away his clothes, graze your fingers over his body, over the scars all with a barely contained creature scraping out from inside: the untamed bull that you can not see. You press a kiss there, over his heart, feel it’s beating against your lips, pulling away only when his thumb strokes your cheek.

Each new sight of him is just as wonderful as they have always been. It’s not that you take pleasure in seeing the way he must have suffered; the now healed bullet wound over his abdomen speaks volumes of just what people are capable of when met with the sight of something that they do not understand.

The questions burn at the back of your skull, bitten back as your jaw tightens.

You help him wash with soap and a soft cloth, carefully removing any patches of dirt and dust that have lingered despite his near-daily bathing since living beneath your roof. The rough beard is trimmed in full, until all that’s left is a trail of dark stubble lingering along his jaw, broken up by scars like thin spider silk that make up the entirety of his body.

His hair is a mess, too, matted and clinging to his skull in wild clumps. You’re gentle with the brush as you free the tangles, clipping at what can not be saved with sharpened scissors, and massaging at his scalp as he murmurs his approval. It’s such a subdued, gentle cooing from his chest, a purr almost that shatters your heart and forces it back into place instantly.

Whatever he was or was not, you were certain this stray had never felt a touch like your own, if he had ever been touched by human hands at all.

König seems to settle greatly once you’ve tended to him and it does seem to finally dawn on him that you’re not repulsed, you’ve touched most of his damaged body, and have only brought him the gentleness that should have been commonplace by now. This isn’t some elaborate torture method— it’s only tender.

“Your turn, hm?”

That, however, brings you pause. Your hands rest on his shoulder, carefully trying to loosen a stubborn knot when you abruptly still. As if that were all he needed for encouragement, his hands cinch your waist, pulling you up and over the rim of the tub as you whine your protests in hushed little hisses. All for naught, as you find yourself submerged below the waist.

“I’m still dressed,” you sulk as the water dampens your dress, now seated between his parted thighs.

König only gives a laugh in response as his arms encase you in another embrace, his head resting against the dip between your shoulder and neck as his chest is brought to press against your back.

“And you’re still mine.”

His fingers trail further down to the wet fabric billowing amidst the soft, lapping waves of the water, pulling it up until it rests just above your hips. There’s no tact, only a clumsy sort of desperation rarely seen upon men, especially not of his stature.

You allow him to loosen the strands of lace at your back, bring your clothing up and over your head to leave it resting and dripping over the rim, pooling below onto the boards of the wooden floor. Your undergarments follow to join the flooding pile of soaked linen and lace.

You’re flustered certainly, grateful for the water surrounding that conceals the warmth that echoes your fondness for this titan between your legs.

You even considered that he would be more shy, not… as eager to begin to wash you, and not with the cloth but with his own hands, nimbly moving over every dip and curve coating you in the slick residue of soap, leaving suds in its wake. He starts at your shoulders, breath growing heavy the more you soften and relax against his chest.

It’s only a matter of time before his hands find and cup your breasts, and you swear that you can feel the grin that splits his face as you melt further against him. König gropes at and massages you there, eager fingers deliberately stroking at your hardened nipples until you quiver and sigh.

You find purchase moving your arms to your sides to grasp at his biceps, muscles flexing as he works his way down your trembling abdomen to your mound, kissing at your shoulder as you purr your encouragement.

The praises that leave your lips come tight and barely restrained as a finger trails against your slit, moving up to circle your clit before diving back down to prod at you.

Your head is gently tilted back by his free hand, your face peppered in clumsy, messy kisses as a digit sinks into you. It’s lazy work, trying to find a rhythm with your squirming. He only seems satisfied when it presses further, curling against the spot that makes you mewl sweetest, and finally, he kisses you full on.

It’s delivered as sloppily as his fingering, any trailing thought left in your skull dims, fuzzy with sheer bliss as his thumb begins to pet at your clit in tandem with each push and drag of his index. It doesn’t help that you feel his own growing need, hard and hot against your lower back, throbbing with each sound pulled from your mouth, his hips jerking on occasion to drag his shaft against your backside.

“König, we should get out,” you murmur through a flood of heat that curls and urges and presses at your lower half to seek some satisfaction, have him bed you proper. “We can go to—“

His mouth meets yours again, hungrier and more determined than before, the water rolling with each flick of his thumb. In a mere moment you feel that heat stoke to an inferno, blazing from your stomach to cause your feet to kick out, water sloshing over the side of the tub as you ride out each passing wave of paradise crying openly into his mouth.

When your trembling does subside, he kisses your cheek and pulls you up from the water, wrapping you up in his arms. His stare remains ever burning, pupils blown to a coal black, dreamy in the way he slinks back just to drink you in further. You can’t keep track of all of the places his eyes seem to dart, which touch to settle on and relish as he paws at you from chest to rear, as if mesmerized that you are no mere illusion.

You’re giving him everything; no longer the king of simply a beating organ tucked beneath your breast, but your body, bed, wherever he chooses to conquer next, of all the things that he’s been deprived of.

“We will go to bed, beloved,” he rasps, sounding more present than ever. The nightmares lurking behind his eyes have long past now: all focus is turned to you. You’re the only thing that’s ever loved him in return. “We will… become one.”

“Have you ever…” Your own voice fails you now, the evident want between you two incapable of making this any less… tedious. It was tedious, a flighty feathered thing that seems keen on slipping out of your grasp at any moment. If it were to be his first, surely it should be special, somehow, someway. If it were not… you dreaded that thought, a bitter envy sours on your tongue until it’s shaken off.

“No,” he states simply, shrugging.

Though a sense of relief seems to flood you at that, you dare not show it. You will take him to your bed, climb atop him and show him how these things work, a slow sort of love and the rest could wait.

It was foolish to believe that König would settle for such a thing, wild and only temporarily tamed by your sweetness: he is entirely different the moment you’re herded into the bedroom. The desperation of his touches has faded out entirely, replaced with what feels almost like a rage.

He wouldn’t take out humanities sins on you, no, but he would years of brutal neglect have left him starved and it just so happens that you’re an outlet for it, something to feed from by way of spilling his soul and his seed all into you, taken back with the kisses and praises that would surely come after this union.

You’re unceremoniously pushed onto the bed, lying at your side as he climbs in behind you. He whispers his requests into your hair, even as his hand wraps to pull your thigh up before you can bless him with a nod in response. He struggles for a moment, parting your labia with the obscene, ridiculous thing that hangs between his legs. It drags over you in repetition, oiled like the clock cogs before the head of his cock finally finds the opening his finger explored only minutes earlier.

You almost expect him to break you right then, force you to take what your body— no body- had surely been made for, but he only thrusts the tip inside and gives you some time to adjust, roll your hips down centimeter by agonizing centimeter.

“You are… Does it hurt you..?” His voice is a breathless pant, trying to hold himself together despite the daze he’s found himself in, buried not even three inches into your cunt.

“No… you can move,” you breathe out, eyelids fluttering as you tilt you head to look at him over your shoulder.

König clings to you as he sinks further, grasping at your waist to pull your further down, sharp breaths hissed between gritting teeth as he delights in the way your womanhood grips at his shaft.

Just as before, there’s no rhythm to him, he takes the sounds that leave you as a direction, huffing into your ear words that your mind could not hope to translate. There’s an indulgence to it, shared between you both as his hand curls tighter against your thigh, spread open and accepting of the brutal pace he takes to have just a taste of what it feels to be a normal man.

His words falter at a point, when you feel your body tightening around him, sucking him in, closer, nearer as your head lolls back. The inferno from before pales in comparison to the blaze that overtakes you now, his voice strained with bliss as you begin to moan for him. With each drag and soar of his cock spearing you open, you’re only brought further to a glimpse of Eden. If this were the fall of man, you find you couldn’t question Eve for relishing in it.

“… you gave me a name,” he rasps, “A home…”

All at once that glimmer of heaven crashes down around you, bathes you in the glow of something lofty and holy as he pulls you close and drives himself to the hilt within you. The throbbing and pulsing of his length pulls you over just as his seed spills within, drips thick and flooding as your own sex drools in tandem, sharing a perfect rapture both clandestine and sacred. He gives you another generous thrust, ensuring that he’s carved a space inside no other man could ever hope to fill.

You fret when you find him weeping, quiet tears rolling down his pale cheeks to spill over your shoulder, but the gentle smile on his face is pacifying as you twist around to face him. “And now you have my love.”

“I’ll cherish it,” he murmurs, voice broken and pitiful as you’re maneuvered upward to rest against the feather-stuffed pillows against the headboard.

You curl against him, head resting on his chest, an arm draped over his waist. He takes your hand into his own, appraising it like the first time you properly met. Hands of a maker. Your mind wanders to significance in that statement, the things that needn’t be told are finding ways to curtain you anyhow when he speaks again.

“Could you fix me?” He asks, tracing over the calluses on your fingertips, still bathing in the afterglow.

The question, though you felt it coming, still hurts to hear him speak it: breathing life into a thought that should have never existed to begin with.

“There’s nothing to fix.” Though you speak true, though you know he feels your sincerity, his eyes are heavy when he looks to you again. “Why would you ask me that?”

The story that he tells you then is one of horror. From his maker down to the things he’s done, seen, felt: hated from the moment he woke into this strange world, the horrible loneliness that pushed and bedded down inside of him like acceptance never would. The people that he’s throttled in some desire to finally have someone like him; men, women, it made no difference. All of it is bared with only one message eternally prevalent: he has only ever wanted to be loved.

In truth, he was a monster. Not because he was given the instinctual urge to be, but because it was all he knew. Gnashing teeth from demons hurling that word out with every stone they threw, every shot and stab at his heart.

You listen, despite the way it hurts, pull him a little closer when he ends his tale with your meeting, how he knew you were the only blessing he would ever receive in his lifetime— however long that may be.

You were good at fixing broken things, but König never needed to be fixed. Only found.

———

“Now you’re supposed to say it,” you hum, as his hands reach to the hem of the hood— his- covering your face. They rove beneath the fabric, curling against the skin of your cheeks, tracing small patterns there, some rotations like the clocks, others the childish hearts scribbled into books.

“I vow to take you as my wife.”

“You’re bad at this.” You giggle when he does finally push the cloth up past your nose, above your eyes and further until it’s pulled back like a veil.

“I will love you endlessly,” he continues, returning your noise of elation with a huffed laugh of his own. “I already do.”

“I love you, too.”

No one in town would ever properly marry you two, not if one look could make a weak man fall to his knees in horror, but here, beneath the roof of a home once echoing the same voice that haunts him… it was good enough. The moon seems to echo your vows with dancing rays, stars twinkling in approval as the calls of night birds carry through the open window.

There are no rings, no written formalities to be stored away with dust-ridden papers, preyed upon by mites. It’s far more sacred, genuine than the flippant affairs and arrangements that go on with those that would so readily cast the both of you aside. In truth— the thought of them rarely comes; doesn’t even rile up that intense fear inside of you any longer.

Everything only seems easier with the blooming garden outdoors, and the man who gazes upon you like he sees divinity itself behind your eyes, in the softness of your flesh.

When you kiss, it’s something from a fairytale, flowers strewn at your feet and the veil removed from your hair by a gentle hand.

Eden doesn’t seem so much like a memory lost to time, after all.

#könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig #konig #cod fanfiction

[softlyspector]

please please pleaseeeee give me forehead kisses with joel miller because this man is an expert in forehead kissing i just know it 🫠🫠🫠

thank you very much ily you’re super cool

summary: joel comes home looking a little worse for wear.

pairing: joel miller x gn!reader

wc: 1.3k

a/n: anon, you are just so right, he is an expert in forehead kisses. i combined this with "picking a leaf/flower petal out of their hair, or brushing dirt off of their face" because i couldn't help myself.

Spring sunshine is still fading on the horizon in a blaze of shell pink and midnight blue, when Joel climbs the front steps. 

“Hey, stranger,” you say, lifting a hand to shield your eyes from the last rays filtering through the new growth on the tree that overhangs the porch. “You’re looking a little worse for wear.” 

Joel grunts when he thumps down on the porch swing next to you, making the chain rattle. “Rough day,” he answers too mildly for someone with blood drying on the side of his neck. He bends to unlace his boots without another word.

You fold down the page of the battered paperback in your hands. It’s a much loved copy, one of your favorites that Joel had found years ago in a ransacked bookstore. It’s water stained and creased, the pages yellowed and crinkled beneath your fingers. The spine is duct taped together and the cover is peeling. 

Joel tried to give you a new copy a few years back, with a glossy cover and smooth pages, but you’ve been unable to part with the one in your hands. 

It’s been through so much with you, and in a lot of ways, it reminds you of Joel. It reminds you of the two of you together, and how far you’ve come. 

“Hm,” you acknowledge his words. You consider him with a tilt of your head, setting your book to the side. His gray hair is mussed, sticking up in tufts. A thin line of blood in his beard tinges it red. The collar of his jacket is askew. “Certainly looks that way.” 

“Damn clicker got the jump on me,” he grumbles. 

“A clicker?” You repeat, your shoulders drawing up, tension knotting along your spine.

There must be alarm in your tone though you try to hide it, because he turns his head to the side to meet your eyes, finally working off one of his boots. “I’m fine. Not bitten.” 

Something loosens in your chest, strangling the soft spots of your heart. “Well, I’d hope they wouldn’t let you come back,” you say brusquely.

“Mm.” His other shoe comes off in his hand and he finally sits back with a groan. 

You take his hand into yours, tracing the veins in the back of his hand as you scoot closer to him, until your thigh is pressed against his. “Where’s Ellie?” 

“With those friends of hers, probably. Not curfew yet.” 

“Suppose not.” Joel shifts his hand to thread his fingers through yours, squeezing tightly, a quiet reassurance. “You get somethin’ to eat yet?”

“I was waiting for you,” you say, reaching up to pluck a twig from his hair and then a tiny leaf. “My, it does look like you took a tumble,” you tease, flicking both away. 

He rolls his eyes, “Hush, sweetheart.” His eyes flick over your face, a delicately fond expression pulling over his features. 

It’s a look you’ll never really get used to, not when directed at you at least. 

A look that is reserved only for you. 

“You still reading this old thing?” Joel asks, picking up your book with his free hand. “Christ, sweetheart, you know we got other books, right?”

“This one is my favorite though.” 

He nods semi-thoughtfully, flipping it over to read the back. “Can’t even tell what it's about,” he says with a shake of his head. The book is so worn that most of the words have rubbed off the flimsy cover. 

“Well, maybe you can borrow it sometime. Now that you have those glasses maybe you can actually see to do it.” 

He chuckles and puts it back down. It’s a nice sound, Joel’s laugh. Usually he just snorts and rolls his eyes. “Maybe you can just read it to me. Like one of them books on tape.” 

“Sure, Joel,” you roll your eyes and lean into his shoulder. “Are you alright? You need checked out or anything?” 

“Sounds like you’re worried about me,” he teases. “I’m fine, just a little bruised,” he says more soberly when you level a glare at him. “Why don’t you tell me what’s so special about that damn book? I got you that newer one, didn’t I?” 

You reach up and swipe a streak of dirt from Joel’s forehead, cupping his cheek for a moment before you let your touch slip away. “You did. But, you gave me this one first,” you pick it up and toy with the frayed edge of a piece of peeling duct tape. “You remembered it was my favorite and picked it up. You pretended like you didn’t know though, and made a show of making me come look at it after we cleared that bookstore out.” 

Joel doesn’t answer and you tip your chin up to meet his gaze. 

He clears his throat and glances away. “Hard to keep track and all,” he says gruffly, like it all wasn’t precisely archived in his mind. “Between your books and Ellie’s damn comics.” 

You roll your eyes, watch him squint into the dusk that’s rapidly falling over the porch, your quiet little street. He’s aged the last few years. His hair is grayer, the crinkles by his eyes deeper. 

He’s as pretty as he’s always been, in a rough, bruised kind of way. 

“Joel,” you say clearly. “I won’t get rid of it because you gave it to me and it went through a lot with both of us. It’s like it's us, in a way.” 

He nods slowly at you, before leaning down to gather up his boots. 

You smile at his back, turning away to pick up where you’d left off in your book, when his boots thump back down onto the wooden floorboards. 

Before you can ask him what’s wrong, he’s gathered you up against him. One arm rests around your back, his opposite hand cups your jaw to draw you closer to him when his lips press against your forehead. 

You close your eyes to the sensation of his lips against your skin, the scrape of his beard against your eyebrow. Joel’s hand shifts from your cheek to cradle the back of your skull in a touch that’s so gentle it nearly feels unreal. 

He holds you there for a long moment. His chest rises and falls with the slow intake of breath, like he’s deliberately trying to keep it even. 

It takes you a moment to realize he’s breathing you in, inhaling you one long breath at a time.

You do the same, swearing that you can feel his heartbeat echoing beside yours. He smells like the woods, like fresh leaf and grass, and soil. Beneath that, leather and gunpowder. 

His arm tightens around you, pulling you flush against his chest. It’s quiet, the sounds of crickets starting up, the sounds of night pouring in as you dig your fingers into his shirt, holding him there. 

Eventually, he pulls back, tilting your head back to look into your eyes for a brief moment when you blink them open. 

Darkness cocoons the street, the porch, the two of you. “Hi,” he says, like you haven’t been sitting there talking for a while, his thumb stroking a slow path down the side of your cheek. “I take it you didn’t fight any clickers today?” 

“Clicker free day for me,” you smile.

“Good,” he gets to his feet with a groan, picking his boots up in one hand. “Let’s get somethin’ to eat, find that damn kid.”

You smile and start to stand when Joel leans over you again and presses one last kiss to the crown of your head. He tips your head up and pecks your lips too, before he turns and disappears into the house. 

You aren’t sure what you did to warrant the affection, but you’ll always take what you can get.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction

[mysterycitrus]

This may be nothing, or a dumb thought, but I'm curious as your thoughts on Dick (despite being with Bruce for most of life) keeping the name Grayson as an homage to his parents and where he came from, and what might change for him with that name being a reference to Talon/the prophecy he was bred for instead?

beloved anon im gonna be so expeditiously for real with u right now and say i am the number one court of owls hater. the “gray son” is one of the dumbest retcons ive ever read. william cobb sounds like a frozen food mascot. everything about it on a metatexual level super sucks. tying dicks destiny to a preplanned prophecy by a sewer death cult completely delegitimatises the connection bruce makes that night at the circus — that anyone, rich or poor, can experience profound loss in an unjust system. the only thing i hate more is the joker being the one who killed the waynes. i simply do not see it 😌

anyway wrt the grayson name i like the idea that it was anglicised when they crossed the atlantic and then just stuck that way. dicks position in gotham vs the other wayne kids is thee most isolating and foreign — he’s lost every connection to his life and family, and he’s stuck in an unfamiliar city with a bunch of strangers in a big house on the hill. the same as with robin, it makes sense he’d cling to what he had left. he’d be stuck under a new spotlight, with a different audience, and to keep himself safe he’d hold onto the name grayson, protecting the memory of his parents, with both hands and never let go.

do i think he’d ever take the wayne name? eh, probably not. out of bruces kids (excluding duke for obvious reasons) i think neither dick or jason would ever change their names. if jason hadn’t died? maybe. but not now, and never again. the little dance dick and bruce have been doing round each other for twenty or so years where they are both father and son and best friends and brothers is so difficult to untangle that they don’t even try. bruce has nightmares in canon of being confronted by the graysons for taking their son from them. i imagine that while he’d never say it, whenever bruce hears dick referred to by paps as “richard wayne” there’s some deeply buried, burning pride. but he would never dare to speak it aloud.

#i can’t remember where i read it but the idea of dick purposely hiding sincerity to put on a performance in gotham….. That Speaks 2 Me #dick grayson #bruce wayne #nightwing #batman #dc comics #the ask and the answer

[creedslove]

Okay so, request ideia. Post-outbreak Joel, reader and him are not totally together but they have a soft spot for each other.

How do u think Joel would react (and help) seeing that reader is in a pre-outbreak situation (stress/hurt, perhaps even grieve)?

Something like he knows reader enough to see that it’s a matter of time till she reacts, and that if he doesn’t do anything, things are going to get really bad

Post outbreak!Joel Miller x f!reader

A/N: they're the same requests, I'm guessing it was sent twice by the same anon? I'm sorry about the delay though ❤️

• Joel ain't no stranger to grieve and he knows the heavy toll that feeling brings to someone's heart and soul

• and he is a heavily traumatized person who knows exactly what kind of behavior those situations can lead someone to

• so it isn't very hard for him to recognize the symptoms in someone else and while he doesn't really give a shit about people in general, it hits differently when he sees you are going through it

• when you two met he could notice you were going through something, but wasn't everyone else really? so he just shrugged it off and tried to ignore you

• but as you ended up bonding and becoming closer through the months, he couldn't help himself but grow feelings for you and whereas your relationship was still a gray area he just knew he cared more about you than he would like to admit

• and you reciprocated the feeling; he was a broken man, cold, rude and violent when necessary but you could tell he'd been a good man before, he had probably been a loving person to his family and he took care of you

• but still your dark feelings very often made an appearance and you ended up pushing him away

• which concerned Joel, because he knew what very often lingered in your mind, and he was terrified of you going through it

• he had lost too much in life, he didn't want to lose you as well, your partnership worked just fine, you were nice to each other and maybe there was a little more to it, something that he didn't want to admit

• so at first he would give you space, let you be on your own and respect your boundaries but as you didn't seem to come back from those thoughts was when Joel began worrying about you

• there wasn't much anyone could do in such shitty world you two lived in but he thought that maybe if he showed you he was there for you, it would help you somehow

• Joel would hold you against his body at night, his rough hands would caress your skin and he wouldn't say anything he wasn't good with words

• he would also pleasure you and hope that can bring you some relief

• he's a broken man but he cares for you and he hopes you two can make it work, whatever that is, because he knows he can't afford to lose you either

____

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal headcanon #pedro pascal headcanons #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller headcanon #joel miller headcanons

[house-strong]

— OUR LITTLE SECRET ʾ ⋆

summary ; requested by anon.

“hii i have an idea for a lucerys x fem reader !! where shes his betrothed and shes like a couples of years older than him??, also luke acting very shy bc of that.”

pairing ; lucerys velaryon x betrothed!reader

notes / warnings ; slight age gap mentioned. this was a little shorter than what i wanted but i didn’t want it to drag on,, viserys is also still alive and healthy,, hope u enjoy!

returning to court in king’s landing was something lucerys was never excited for.

his uncles, aemond and aegon targaryen, both had a shared hand in bullying the younger velaryon boy. despite having his brother jace with him at all times, it seemed that lucerys himself was always caught in a finicky situation. although his grandfather often berated aemond and aegon, it did little to help quell their hatred for their nephews, especially aemond.

however, this time, lucerys was betrothed to you and set to make public appearances before your marriage. you were originally supposed to be married off to aegon, but queen alicent ignored the wishes of her husband and instead, married aegon to his sister, helaena. whispers of calling your family ‘drunken cunts’ were rumored to have fallen from the lips of the queens mouth. though, it was only speculated.

in attempt to desperately repair an amend that was unraveling with each week that passed by, king viserys decreed that prince lucerys velaryon would take your place as your husband as prince jacaerys was already betrothed to his cousin. this was the right step in making repairs to the relationship between house targaryen and yours, as your family even agreed that it was far more suitable to marry the heir of driftmark than marrying a prince who held one of the farthest claims from the line of succession.

the only problem lucerys faced was the slight age gap between him and yourself. he always imagined himself to be with someone his age. you were older and more politically savvy; refined and pampered for royal court in ways that lucerys found intimidating. tales of your beauty and wit were never strangers to his ear which only added to the nerves that never seemed to go away.

perhaps a girl of nine-and-ten was a better match for a twenty year old man, rather than a boy shy of fifteen. however, lucerys did understand westerosi customs and gave no argument.

he’s well in thought whilst staring up at the ceiling of his private quarters. his ears are tuned to the hooting owl and the singing crickets outside the balcony adjacent to his bed. the breeze flits inside, ruffling the linen that allowed some privacy in the room. he sighs, hands clasped behind his head.

what could he do to dull this feeling of anxiety? this ceaseless dilemma of shyness that forever haunted his being like a phantom to a barren castle? he was so sure, since his life was full of constant worry, that he would be growing gray hairs like his uncle corlys. except, uncle corlys was shy of sixty and lucerys was barely a man. perhaps he’d grow fine lines like his beautiful aunt, rhaenys, or he’d grow the stern, brooding face of his father-in-law, daemon.

he wanted so desperately to be rid of the thoughts that ran marathons in his head.

a creak in the floorboards is quick to cease his torment; his mind going silent as the sound interrupts. he’s frozen in place what seems like, but he slowly removes his hands from behind his head. one hand searches blindly underneath his pillows, desperate to find the handle of the dagger.

“who goes there?” his voice sounds the least bit intimidating as the end of his sentence ends in a wavering voice crack. he curses himself, who would ever find him menacing?

there’s a warm, orange glow that appears at the bottom of the closed door; shadows dance in minuscule detail. the door opens with a soft croak and he noticed that it’s a woman covered in a shawl carrying the candlelit flame.

only when the figure comes closer and his eyes adjust to the light does he see who it is; it’s you.

“i didn’t mean to frighten you, my prince,” you say, voice bordering a whisper as you approach. lucerys’ hand abandons going for the dagger and instead, he props himself up on his elbows.

his face scrunches in mock offense, “frighten me? i wasn’t frightened. just curious, is all.”

with obviously ruffled feathers of his black hair and parted mouth with doe-like eyes, lucerys velaryon was the farthest thing from a good liar. instead of calling him out, you smile and move to light a few candles that decorated his bedside. soon, the entire room is filled with a mellow ambience. he sees your face more clearly and he’s almost left breathless.

“i don’t mean to sneak in here like a common cutthroat, but i was eager to meet my betrothed. i hope it’s not trouble?” lucerys can’t lie, your voice is like music to his ears. he feels himself sinking deeper and deeper with each word that flows beautifully from your tongue.

he almost doesn’t respond, “not at all, my lady.” he swallows the hardness in his throat and clutches his sheets in attempt to ease the wetness of his palms, “we’re to be wed.”

you sit at the edge of his bed, one foot propped up, dangling in the air while the other foot rests against the floor. you quietly set the candle your holding on his bedside table.

“indeed we are, i hope i don’t disappoint my prince?”

lucerys is almost offended for you by the notion. he’s quick to shake his head, “not at all, my lady. you are.. you’re everything i could hope for and more.”

you smile and duck your head at the compliment, hiding behind the shroud of your hair.

“can i confess something?” lucerys asks, releasing the grip he had on his sheets. he rubs his palms against his clothing and looks down while he fiddles with them. a soft ‘yes’ is heard in response and he takes a breath, releasing it slowly. “i must admit that i’m.. rather uncertain about this marriage.”

your brows furrow and you tilt your head, “how come, my prince?”

“lucerys, or– or luke,” he corrects. he blinks for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip tentatively. “you are.. my elder. i fear i won’t be as good to you as.. as aegon could be.”

aegon was the farthest thing to be compared to good. you supposed lucerys didn’t know, so you didn’t want to be the one to tell him about the rumors about his uncle.

you smile and reach for his hand, not minding the sweatiness that meets your skin, “have no fear, lucerys. i was once in your shoes,” you pause to take a thoughtful breath, “we all learn while we grow older. i can teach you some things too, if you’d like. there’s no shame in it.”

lucerys is thankful that you don’t share his same sentiment and also enjoys that you’ve offered to aid him. maybe he shouldn’t be so anxious about things. he gives you a sheepish smile.

“i’m glad you think that, my lady.”

“(y/n).” you’re quick to correct him, just as he had done to you just moments before. “if i know your name, it’s only fair you know mine.”

lucerys titters happily.

you’re first to beat lucerys at breaking the silence, “i fear it’s time for me to go, luke.” he likes the way you say his name. “before they start to miss me, perhaps i’ll see you again?”

lucerys catches himself blushing, “i would like that, (y/n).”

you lean forward and place a kiss on his cheek, wishing him a good night before grabbing the candle you originally came into his room with. you begin to sneak away, casting a glance over your shoulder to the princeling who was watching you get away.

you give him one more smile before opening his room door. you slink through the crack with practiced ease and disappear into the hallway.

#lucerys velaryon fic #lucerys velaryon imagine #lucerys velaryon x reader #lucerys velaryon #lucerys velaryon x you #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd fic #hotd imagine #my writing

[feeblescholarmyass]

I Hope Winter Feels Like a Heated Blanket and a Kiss on the Forehead (Alternatively: Seasonal Depression)

inspired by this post by @/cowgirlrising

tags: Dazai x Reader, Dazai has seasonal depression, depression symptoms, 2nd pov, reader comforts Dazai

a/n: I did way to much research to understand how electric fireplaces work for a 900 word fic, worked through burnout for that one sweet anon who asked for more Dazai x reader content. here you go, and thank you for appreciating my work!

He knew winter only as bleak, cold, and empty. On winter days, the loneliness stings a little more, the hunger aches a little more, and the heart longs a little more. It longs for the past, it longs for a future that is impossible. It longs for people long gone, it longs for a source of comfort amidst the blizzard of time that breaths against the neck of its victims. It longs for a hand to pull him out of the snowdrift. It longs for warmth.

He knew how to ignore the ache well. Loneliness was no stranger. Hunger was a constant companion. The heart had no place to feel ever more acutely just because the days were shorter and the nights were colder.

There was no cure for what ailed him. Even the temporary fixes started losing their edge after time. Everything always returned to cold. It was the cycle of life, really. We are all born to die. He had accepted that long ago.

Winter stained everything gray-blue; the color seeped into everything that it touched. Every sense in his body dulled to that same drabby color. Nothing tasted strong enough, nothing looked bright enough, nothing sounded loud enough. Nothing could warm the ice that coated his bones. Even the winter sakura blossoms didn't smell as strong as they should.

He sat miserably one your floor, fully aware that he *should* move and grab something to keep him warm, but he simply couldn't manage to get up. The effort it would take seemed insurmountable to him. So he continued being miserable and cold and empty. There was no point in warmth.

The sound of the door opening registered long after it reached his ears. He almost sat up to make sure it was you (it always was, but he liked to be sure), but didn't have the energy.

He was numb. Too numb to jump up and wrap his arms around you enthusiastically, like he normally would. His bones were frozen in place and his heart was covered in frost, slowing his heartbeat to almost non-existent.

He heard when you called out his name, but he couldn't muster a response. A small, awful part of him hoped you would turn around and leave him to die of the cold. That way he wouldn't have to worry about the way he knew your touch would burn. The pitiful look you would give him would sear him from the inside out, and that sounded more painful than hypothermia to his frigid mind.

Your voice calling out his name echoed in his mind. It sounded the same as someone whispering in a vast cave. Though quiet, the vibrations bounced against each and every crevice of his mind, both full and empty at the same time.

“Osamu,” You called out. Ah, my name. It's my name being called, he realized after a moment. They are looking for me.

He thought about rising, but even the thought of the effort it would take to sit up and smile at you drained all that was left in his body.

Oh, just leave me to wither and die, he begged in his mind. I'm ready to freeze over.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to see the inevitable pity he despised fill your eyes. The thought of being pitied made him wish the ice would spread faster.

“It's freezing in here,” you commented. He listened to your footsteps move from the door to the fireplace in front of him. He heard the click of the gas starting, and then the thrum of heat as the sparks caught fire.

He heard you stand and pause, finally seeing him. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. Don't look at me, don't look at me, don't look at me.

The fire hurt. His fingers and toes burned from the sudden rise in temperature. His cheeks stung and goosebumps covered his skin. What was worse, he just knew you were looking at him with that sad expression he hated so much. Someone as stunning as you should never be sad, it was unbecoming of such loveliness.

The couch cushions shifted behind his head. You gently pulled him into your lap, allowing him to rest his cheek against your thighs. Normally he would have been ecstatic, but now he felt more embarrassed. You knew, and it was humiliating. He shouldn't be acting so pathetic, especially not in front of his dear partner.

Oh, but the feeling of you pulling your fingers through his hair and gently combing out the knots, massaging his scalp gently was so nice. This is why he loved you; you always knew exactly what he needed.

“How about I make something nice for dinner and we can watch movies together tonight? Keep your mind distracted and body warm. Does that sound nice?” You asked. Just the thought made him want to sob. Yes, that sounded amazing.

He nodded, pressing his face into your skin, feeling his control seep back into his body. Winter’s icy tendrils were losing their grip on him. They never really lost their grip, but he had more wiggle room again. He had the space to feel almost himself again when he was with you.

“I love you,” he whispered. You smiled down at him and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you, too. Now how about we get up and you help me start peeling the potatoes?”

reblogs and/or comments are much appreciated!

by @feeblescholarmyass on tumblr

#dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu bsd #osamu dazai bsd #dazai x reader #seasonal depression #winter depression #x reader #bsd tag

[midnights-dragon]

Pinned post 📌

Feel free to skip over if you're just stalking my blog! (Here's a song for you to listen to.) ->

Important, first of all:

This user supports AO3

This user is anti-censorship

This user believes in "don't like, don't read"

This user believes in "ship and let ship"

This user believes that fiction tastes and preferences do not dictate moral character

So feel free to block me if you disagree. Additionally, I do not usually post political things; however, if I ever do, and you disagree, DO NOT attack me over it. Like, seriously. Just unfollow and move on! Block if you have to. I frankly could not care less. Though, if you are transphobic, I ask that you don't follow me at all, as I do happen to be trans myself. And don't even try to send hate; anon asks are off, and I will freely blast & report you.

Now onto the good stuff! ->

Things that I love/am hyperfixated on:

Good Omens

Hozier & Queen (average Good Omens fan)

Snakes, sharks, and birds (and dinosaurs)

The concept of love & how it relates to romantic vs platonic

Nature

My cat and bearded dragon (you will see pictures of them you have no choice)

Cliche old movies (The Parent Trap 1998, my beloved)

Animated adult movies

Bojack Horseman (run far away)

Sometimes just random fucking shit that Tumblr puts on my For You, and that I will then reblog like 20 posts of in rapid succession, very unescapable, not sorry about that

ASKS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME, AS ARE DMS!!! Nothing weird obviously, keep in mind that I am a minor (though I do enjoy smutfics, as any teenager does), but I LOVE random people saying random things, it makes me feel like a friend. Which you are to me! I love making mutuals as well, and if you want to be on a tag list for games like picrew chains, just let me know, I do those a lot. They're fun!

Now, writing requests & my Ao3! ->

I do accept writing requests, feel free to ask for anything for fandoms I'm in (if it's something topic-heavy, CWs are appreciated in advance), but obviously I'm not going to write anything like underage content or proship; I AM ANTI-CENSORSHIP, as said, I just am not a writer of pro-ship content, myself.

My favorite tropes:

Angst, specifically Hurt/Comfort

Nightmares

Human AUs

Trauma Recovery

Anything involving domestic & non-sexual nudity

Religious Trauma Messages

Panic Attacks/PTSD (and being helped through that)

Generally, just. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Happy Ending, though. I sometimes write fluff one-shots I sweat it just does not happen Often

Mostly anything goes; obviously I'm at full liberty to delete any messages I get or not do them, but I LOVE requests and I usually more often than not do end up doing them! Just send it my way (ask box or DMs is fine) and I'll let you know. I write currently for almost exclusively Good Omens content, which can be found under the AO3 link below. Specifically, here is my Good Omens Masterlist!

A little intro to me as a writer can be found here from a recent ask game I participated in, if that is of interest to you. Also here from my 2023 Ao3 wrapped.

I'm on a lot of other socials under a similar url! You can find my Twitter here, and my Instagram here, and then my Ao3. I mainly post similar content on all my socials, just reposting memes, art, and fandom stuff and sometimes posting stuff of my own! I'm a young artist, but proud of whatever work I muster up the courage to post. Which is not a lot, but nonetheless

If you’d like to support me and my work in any way, feel free to support me on my GoFundMe for my future top surgery/transition/therapy in relating to gender dysphoria if you are able and wanting! I am trans FTM, and use he/him pronouns, as it says in my bio. However, this is in no way an attempt to pressure anyone to do anything. Please think of yourself before a random stranger on the internet.

Link is also here for the post.

Anyways, thank you for all of the love I've ever gotten across any platform, I love how kind people can be. And if you're mean, then, well, I prefer if you didn't interact, because this is what I try to make a safe space. Unless I was mean to you first (with disregard to transhomophobes and the like), then it's free game, and also, my bad. <3 Enjoy my blog!

#intro post #pinned post #personal #Spotify

[pandoa]

Hello! Your blog looks so wonderful! I hope I’m doing this right, but can I request Silver with daisies and gardenias from your 100 follower event? Thank you very much! ^^

Daisies ~ “it’s our little secret, alright?”

Gardenias ~ “shhhh! they must not know you are here”

~silver x gender neutral reader~

aaaa anon tysm!! i take pride in my blog's appearance lolol oh and not to worry! you did it perfectly <3 i do hope you like this one~

♡secretly bewildered♡

“Pardon my abrasiveness, Prefect, but I must do this,” a familiar voice softly whispered into your ears as you made your way through the dimly lit halls of the Diasomnia dorms.

“Wait, huh—?”

Without a second to spare, light, slender fingers nimbly grasped your confused wrist as you were pulled to a small, secluded corner by an unknown stranger. The stranger’s tone of voice was nonchalant as they briskly settled down at the rather cramped space they had dragged you to. You could sense the slight heaving in their chest, hinting that they had worked a significant amount just to catch up to you. Questioning their rushed state, you slowly lifted your head from its glance on the ground to properly stare up at the stranger who was currently holding you captive between them and the stone walls of Diasomnia—only to see a glimpse of a young man’s figure before you. Gleaming locks of gray hair wisped at each movement of the man as he swung his head from side-to-side, appearing to be searching for any sort of danger that would disrupt the two of you. You focused your vision to properly look at the man in front of you as you recognized the gentle light in the stranger’s eyes.

Oh, it was just Silver.

“Silver!” you said as warmth rushed up to your cheeks once you noticed the close proximity you had been with the shining second-year. Sevens, why was he so close all of a sudden? Your face was inches away from his due to the limited space in the secluded corner of the dorm’s halls, and you had to admit. It absurdly embarrassed you more than you would think. Though, you knew for certain Silver was completely oblivious to your predicament, so you decided it was probably best to not draw unnecessary attention to yourself with your racing heart. Regaining your composure, you spoke to the young man with surprise tainting your voice, “What are you doing?!”

“Shhhh,” Silver silently hushed you by placing a delicate finger to your lips, “They must not know you are here.”

You continued to stare up at the boy as your expressions twisted in confusion, “They? Who’s they?”

“Sebek…” Silver regrettably sighed in what seemed to be defeat. “There is no issue with you being here, per se, however I am afraid that if Sebek catches word of you innocently visiting, he’d simply drive you away in another one of his outbursts.” The young boy then earnestly fixed his auroral gaze to you as he reached out to brush a strand of hair out of your face. It must have fallen out of place the moment he crudely pulled you in an attempt to make your visit discrete. Silver nodded. He would have to make note of properly apologizing to you soon. His actions were quite reckless, after all.

Although as he was preoccupied with plans to seek for your forgiveness, the sleepy second-year failed to notice your dazed state as he left you utterly flustered at the tender manner his silk hands had caressed your cheek in his acts of simplicity. Silver still stood centimeters close to you, and you could hardly pay attention to a thing he said. Every word of his fell deaf to your ears as his breath tickled the tips of your eyelashes because of his nearness. Every movement he made sent a subtle hint of his dream-like scent to your pinkish nose. He had no idea of the effects he had on you.

“Well, then,” Silver interjected your spellbound haze, “It’s our little secret, alright? That you are here, I mean.”

“O-of course. We should go say hi to Sebek while I’m here. Right,” you said, still bewildered and distracted by the boy’s radiance.

Were you even listening, Prefect?

a/n: i love an oblivious prince <3 he's so cute omg omg omg

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #silver #twst silver #silver twst #twisted wonderland silver #twst silver x reader #silver x reader #silver twisted wonderland #silver twisted wonderland x reader #diasomnia #twst imagines #blossom grove prompt event

[sophiethewitch1]

chapter 3 spoilers PLEASE

imma go FERAL 😩😫👹😈🫨💓😵💗😖😳💕

(also not to rush u or anything but when do u think itll come out?)

It's like,,,, basically done I've just gotta sew all the scenes together. A little shorter than the others because it's not really character centred and not really interesting to me. Next chapter is gonna be longer again, since we get fun things like trauma recovery and Bruce and maybe a Dick feature. It's definitely coming out on the 29th after the strike ends and chapter 4 will probably be soon after that. I've got a surprisingly good thing going at the moment, who would've thought that being in constant pain would make you tired all the time. Not me for sure lmfao.

Also, here's a sneak peek for chapter 3! Also, it's a Jason sneak peek too because that other anon asked and I'm lazy two birds with one stone!! MAJOR SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 3!!!

He says your name, you think. Wait no, it’s a nickname, one you haven’t heard in years. You could barely remember your mother calling you that as she tucked you in, as she told you she loved you over the phone, as she disappeared from the world entirely.

You hadn’t let anyone call you that since.

How does he know that name?

“-hurt? Hey, hey. Listen to me, are you hurt anywhere?” his voice is deep and warbled through the red metal mask, his eyes peering down at you through his domino. You just stare at him, eyes wide, barely breathing.

You need to know how he knows. Unconsciously, your hand reaches up to him, and he takes it his own firm grip. His hand is warm through the leather, grounding, keeping you from drifting off into panic and fear. Into your worst nightmares come to life.

Because this was real. It didn’t matter that it was impossible, it was real.

You stare at this stranger’s gloved hand like it holds the answers to the universe. It might, in the end. It really just might.

“She seems fine. Uninjured, if a bit shocked. Doesn’t seem to have a concussion. Hardly responding anyway,” Red Hood speaks, but not to you. An earbud, you think. Superheroes used wiretaps and things like that all the time, right?

If you could even consider Red Hood a superhero. Everybody knew he had his own gang. Of course, even as your very life is being saved, it’s by a morally gray hero who runs around with crowbars and guns. Ah, you’re crying again.

You told yourself along time ago that you wouldn’t let yourself cry anymore. And you’d managed it, mostly. You think you’ll give yourself a pass for today, just a little one. You hold this stranger’s hand, and you cry.

You just cry.

#sophie speaks #series:www #honestly love jason and yous relationship in WWW #you guys are like. soulmates or whatever #the rest of the guys: ... #me: i mean like you are too don't hurt me oh my god he's got a knife- #anyways

[utilitycaster]

You're wrong. I have never interacted with you publicly. I know better, you block too much for no discernable reason.

Yeah that's exactly the person i thought this was, the one with like 5 block evasion lurker accounts who demanded via anon I explain why I blocked them last year and who mentioned me by name on a mutual's post when i blocked them a couple months ago for having a particularly insipid reply. Anyway, and I'm sure I'll regret this for sounding like an anime villain reasons, but whenever an anonymous online stranger acts entitled to my inbox or my approval, I envision them as like, those little gray things Ursula the sea witch turns the mermaids into in the Little Mermaid.

#answered #Anonymous

[daddycassie]

same anon who request the intersex reader one!! You can totally make the reader mtf :3

Spring Breeding 🌷🌱🪻

Pairing: Sub! Breeding kink!Lucy Gray Baird x Dom!Trans(mtf)!Reader 

Warning(s): Smut, breeding kinks, THERE IS A PENIS, very slight transgender sadness 😔, v in p sex, mentions of drinking/drunkness, bam! Strangers with benefits, yeah reader and LG just met

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You’d hardly known Lucy Gray Baird for more than an hour when you found yourself under the sheets with the charmer. See — you went to the Hob with your friends for a little break from everything, work, stress, sobriety, everything. They told you about a good band that liked to play there some days, and were playing tonight. The music was nothing short of a delight, but that voice, that voice did it for you.

When you made eye contact with the pretty singer she smiled, dark, beautiful eyes shining. It was like a little hello just for you. She twirled, and was soon dancing around the little stage. You’d gotten there late unfortunately, so you only got about six songs from them before the show was over, however, you refused to leave it at that.

You asked around your friends and some drunken peacekeepers and discovered that they were the covey band, and the singer was Lucy Gray Baird, they also told you where to find them. You were worried that Lucy Gray wouldn’t want to see or talk to you, she probably smiled at crowd members all the time, but to your surprise her eyes lit up when she saw you. You two clicked fast, and made friendly conversation and you unconsciously followed her as she walked through the seam. The whole atmosphere shrouded with the dark of nighttime.

Almost like a siren, she lead you to her bed, of course, by the time you reached her home and she invited you in you knew what was happening. You were not opposed in the slightest, though a little worried about how she may react to your body. 

Lucy Gray’s eyes glazed over as you lined up with her pretty cunt. “Is this okay?” You whisper against the skin of her neck, making her shiver. “M—mhm..” she whimpers out.  You slowly press into her, it’s difficult, and she’s painfully tight. Tears well up in her eyes but she squeezes them shut, whimpering under you.

“Shh…” You hush her softly and she covers her own mouth to prevent the noise. “M’sorry..” she whispers, letting out a squeak when you press deeper. You groan out a curse, and push in the rest of the way. Lucy Gray’s eyes widen and her back arches up nearly instantly. Hearing her muffled whimpers, you thrust slowly, trying to be at least a little bit gentle.

“Is that good? Do you like that?” You hiss in her ear, she tightens her grip on your back. “Fuck me harder.” She pleads, and you certainly aren’t one for denial. You press in and out, in and out, over and over in a way that has both of you panting and moaning in passionate pleasure. “Mmmph…” she moans, muffled against your shoulder. 

You spread her legs wider and fuck her harder, feeling yourself getting closer. You’d have to pull out soon, surely that would be for the best. You feel sweat on the back on your neck and pant out raggedly, “Good girl, almost there.” Lucy Gray whines at your praise, and her legs suddenly wrap around your waist pinning you against her warm cunt. You grit your teeth, unable to hold on much longer. 

“Lucy Gray,” you speak to her, “Lucy Gray I have to pull out—“ you try to say in a panic. Lucy Gray locks her ankles together and tightens her grip. “Breed me.” She moans the words breathily. Those words make you grind into her, and your vision go white, you vaguely register the sensation of warm wetness. Lucy Gray’s back was arched when you came back to, still slowly rocking against her. You force yourself to stop and pull away from her, untangling her legs from around you.

“Did you cum?” You ask her in a hush voice, and she nods, still panting. “Good, that’s good.” You respond, collapsing on the bed beside her. She leans her face into your arm with a little sigh. “That was nice, I liked it. Even if we made a mess.” You call hear the smirk in Lucy Gray’s voice. “I feel like you planned that.” She shrugs with a smile. “Maybe, it’s a mystery sweetheart, just like me.”

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Note: Hihiii! Sorry this too so long sweetheart I’ve had some work! Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy it even if it’s a little short <3

@losingmymindrn @torturedcoveydepartment @noooooooop-e

#lucy gray baird #tbosas #wlw #lucy gray my beloved #lucy gray #lucy gray baird x reader #Requests #requests open #lucy gray Baird smut #Sub Lucy gray Baird #Lucy gray Baird x fem reader

[animentality]

I am a huge dark urge and gortash enjoyer clinically insane just like you

But I was thinking about what if someone is playing as an evil tav

Because if you do certain things he's like

Slay

And what could be that he's searching for someone or something to fill in the hole that dark urge made but it will never be him

It's mid but not bad

Listen, I know Gortash could probably be fond of someone ambitious or clever or power hungry, and not even necessarily totally evil, or as evil as him. I know if the Dark Urge died, he'd move on, as people always do, and yeah, sure, if a Tav was smart and sensible and maybe a little morally gray, he could find a new equal.

I just resent that subgroup because THEY DON'T HAVE TO DO THIS, but they do it anyway: they downplay durgetash in order to make their ship work. And I find it laughable, the notion that oh yeah that person he called his nearest and dearest, whose letters he kept in a fucking scrapbook at his parents' house, who genuinely smiled when he found out they were still alive, who was literally praying to their father for forgiveness because of their fondness for him...

Yeah.

"Work friends."

"Colleagues."

"Buddies."

But yeah he'd fall head over heels for someone who has something he wants as soon as he met them. Just like he was in love with Jannath, and also wanted her money for romantic reasons.

Oh sure, he didn't care about the Dark Urge at all, but he toooootally loves Tav, because of reasons. Because a stranger who ruined his ten year old plan would absolutely be waaaay more welcome than the person who STARTED ALL OF THIS WITH HIM.

And who was working, by his side, for a fucking decade.

Let's downplay that though, because some people hate the Dark Urge as a character.

As if Larian doesn't do that enough.

I know they're fucking edgy, and that's not everyone's cup of tea, but the honest to god truth is that at least their role in the story is compelling and different and unique.

A Tav is a random adventurer who saves the world because they're the chosen rando who's the leader of the group for some reason.

I mean fine, whatever. But.

Yeah. It's whatever.

The Dark Urge at least feels like they belong. They shaped the narrative before it happened, and then they decided its outcome...But being killed off and stuffed in a box every time someone picks a Tav...I mean, if you go by people who picked Tavs and not the Dark Urge...that happens in most timelines.

But now, it's not good enough that most people don't pick them anyway?

How much do you have to hate the Dark Urge as a concept and a character, that you have to erase and downplay the only humanity we ever see from them?

Anyway, anon.

Thanks for the ask.

[julietasgf]

I guess there's no point in wearing the cool anon glasses anymore after the meme 😭 although it was worth it. Definitely worth it and YES, WHY CORIOLANUS IS SO ARGENTINIAN CODED?

He was a fan of Violetta and he will deny it forever, he also probably watched Patito feo and Antonella was his wanna be. Pls let me share with you the cursed image of a little Coriolanus singing the song of las divinas. 😔🙏

His grandmother def drilled into his head the nonsense that he is more European than the rest. Tigris is the only one who questions it but she has to live with her delusional grandmother and cousin 💀 (by the way I propose Tigris is half uruguayA just bc yes).

I know the Sejanus actor is boricua so as much as I want to steal him (Mexicanization by force) I had to accept it fits him to be from Puerto Rico and Lucy Gray. Where would she be from? Although I have thought that she would be half romani and half latina, maybe Venezuela or Perú because I know they have an incredible musical tradition and she would slay those.

But well. Fun aside. Let's talk about angst.

🥺 I too need to reread 100 años de soledad but my God YOU ARE RIGHT. Its the same THE CONCEPT OF NAMES DICTATING THE FATE OF PEOPLE. To me it's such a powerful idea (amazing what your mom did, in my family 👀 they also gave a lot of weight to meanings and in fact my brothers were named after gods from Mexica mythology -I wish that would be me-) and it has so much logic too. Literally a name defines the way you interact with the rest of the world and can greatly impact the way you relate to it, it's the first step in building identity!!!!!

And yes. You hit the nail on the head of what I was getting at. I think I will combine both ideas because it makes sense that Strabo would want to use the name of an ancestor of his that he probably respects and in this idea of continuing "legacy" at the same time I think he researched the history of the names he could choose from and opted for the one that in his opinion would best reflect the character he wanted in his son. Because that is another tragedy, I think Strabo did dream and wish for Sejanus.

I think there were two big factors in destroying Sejanus and Strabo's relationship from the beginning, first the miscommunication and then that Sejanus I think broke Strabo's heart in a way: he was born and he destroys his ilusions.

Strabo to me encompasses the very spirit of a very intelligent professor who cannot for his life explain things simply and clearly. He didn't know how to talk to Sejanus to get him to listen to him and I'm sure he always got the opposite of what he wanted.

The second thing is that Strabo had a very specific idea of what his son could be like and probably planned many ways to have a close relationship with this hypotical person (Shooting practice I think is an obvious example of an activity that Strabo planned not only to educate his heir in the business but to spend quality time with him) but his son is Sejanus. The worst combination between him and his wife. 

Ofc he was disappointed when Sejanus was more like Ma Plinth than himself. I guess it must have been a hard blow on his ego but personally I think it could have also been a kind of relief and he could have accepted it if Sejanus really was like his wife, at the end of the day, Strabo loved her but Sejanus doesn't have her apathy or passivity.

He has Strabo's stubbornness and fury and determination. And that to me is the crux of the matter, Sejanus is like Strabo, in his opinion in the wrong things. Where Strabo fought for his family and his ambition, Sejanus fights for strangers selflessly and for a better world in spite of himself.

These are ideals that Ma could have but not pursue, it is Strabo's willingness to pursue what he believes in but not his ideals. A disastrous combination, literally writing in stone that Strabo and Sejanus could not be the father and son Strabo once longed for.

They both resent each other because they failed each other, because they chose to be something that would separate them sooner or later. (Now OBVIOUSLY Sejanus has less AND NONE RESPONSIBILITY IN THAT because HE WAS A CHILD, he only grew up influenced by his parents and his context 🤣🤣 but I don't think Strabo would recognize that. He would think Sejanus somehow chose to be that way, just to drive him away forever).

Which brings me to WHY IT MAKES ME SO FERAL THAT STRABO WILL FIX THE REAPING.

I've seen an interpretation that I also like where Strabo doesn't explicitly pick Marcus, that's just destiny being terrible, he just buys Sejanus' position by mentoring a D2 tribute. And I like it for certain issues but even this slightly more harmless view doesn't take the weight off the monstrosity Strabo did.

Because even if Strabo didn't pick Marcus in particular, he still had to be aware that it could very likely be someone WHO SEJANUS KNEW. A child who couldn't be saved from that horrible fate, as Sejanus in theory was "saved" by him after his decision to move to the Capitol.

And is that I think I like to theorize that possibly that's where his motives went. Strabo believing that Sejanus needs a rude awakening, a child he knows and can remember and tell him explicitly "this could be you if your father hadn't taken you out of District 2." Maybe that's why it was actually Marcus the choose one, he was the only one at the time who didn't go by the horrible things everyone was saying about the Plinth and helped Sejanus.

Marcus encompassing that gentleness. Gentleness destroyed in the eyes of Sejanus. Strabo had no way of knowing that Marcus wouldn't say anything, maybe he hoped he would break Sejanus' heart, to show him that even his hope had turned into hatred and resentment towards the Plinth.

I tend to see it as a destruction of spirit in its purpose but I also thought if it was not a stretching of the limits of Sejanus to understand where he is capable of going, to measure the waters to see if there was salvation.

Because something very interesting is that when Sejanus goes to D12 he mentions that his father explicitly told him that he's not going to be happy there in the districts (or something like that, I should check it later ah) and more importantly lets him go despite believing that.

As if he's resigned to the fact that that's Sejanus. A boy who can't be happy anywhere.

It's possible Strabo anticipated a lot of reactions from Sejanus but I dare say he and no one expected that Sejanus ended to throw chairs and break screens let alone DO THE ARENA THING. THAT WAS SO FUCKING CRAZY but I think it made Strabo realize that he had "lost" his son forever.

It was non-negotiable his rebellion and his dream of a fair Panem. Strabo fought in the war against rebels. He probably met a lot of men like his son and saw them DIE.

He knows THAT HE SON WILL BE DEAD MEN ONE DAY. AND THAT HE WOULDNT CAPABLE OF BE HAPPY EVER EITHER.

About the parallels EVERLACK AND SEJARCUS, MY GOD THEY ARE SO OBVIOUS ONCE YOU NOTICE IT, IM GOING CRAZY, ACTS OF GOODNESS BEING PRECIOUS MEMORIES, MY BELOVED

I CAN'T UNSEE IT, MY GOD. What's worse is that after seeing that answer you gave about Ma and Strabo's relationship I thought of a very strange parallel between Katniss' mother and Ma, maybe one day I'll dig into that OR NOT?, WHO KNOWS. (I've also been thinking a lot about how a nephew of Strabo's family could have been chosen for the first Quarter Quell BUT THATS FOR OTHER WEEK PROBABLY).

By the way, is true!!! the D2 girl DID TAKE THE SANDWICH, Marcus not taking it could only have been his complicated feelings for Sejanus: GOD that fear of a person that maybe if he had stayed in D2 would have been his everything. Marcus and Sejanus haunted by the ghost of the relationship they could have had (platonic and romantic) and Marcus choosing not to break the image that exists in his memory of Sej because he is resigned to his death and does not know if he can bear that Sejanus COULD become the prophecy that everyone was telling him (SEJANUS IS A PLINTH, SON OF THE TRAITORS) 🙏

Very much that line of Mitski:

"I look for a picture of you

To keep in my pocket

But I can't seem to find one

Where you look how I remember?"

And speaking of Mitski, I think it's great how certain songs get identified within a fandom as THE SONG of a certain character but it's more fun when someone has new and different songs that reflect different aspects of the characters personality especially if it's a song in a language other than English, which literally rules the world. PLS WE HAD MORE LANGUAGES

I have also a compulsive addiction to make playlists at the slightest provocation (im not even exaggerating, I HAD PLAYLIST FOR EVEN EACH ONE OF MY FIC IDEAS AND CHARACTERS I LIKE-) so I enjoy making my recommendations, today I have two.

Btw maybe tomorrow I'll turn around to talk about Coriolanus and his propaganda movie and how much I hate the sandwich scene and how they should re-record Clemensia's scenes because I have a lot of things to say about THAT (by the way I agree with everything you say about that as usual lmao) but I think this is already too long and I like that it's focused on Strabo and Sejanus and Marcus <3

The songs:

Caifanes - Antes de que nos olviden

This song makes me feel a lot... I think it is suitable for each of the victims of the games, very much the TBOSAS and THG tributes, I can even see it very Katniss coded but I feel it belongs to all the tributes actually.

Caifanes - La bestia humana 😝 and this one is very Coriolanus and his very normal feelings towards Sejanus and the fact that he likes someone proudly from the district.

Um it kinda reminds me the lyrics to my au suffocation. ALSO: any thoughts on wedding traditions in D2? maybe someone gets married in the mountains of D2 soon hehehehe

KSKSKSKSK plssss I've been thinking abt it non-stop, why were you so on point 😭

I'M SCREAMING coriolanus was so the type of kid to watch all the kids telenovelas, and I KNOW all his favorite characters were the mean girls. he watched chiquititas, carrusel, carita de angel, ALL OF THEM, he was the type of kid to watch it almost religiously and then get to school to gossip about the chapter (and also he memorized every song lmao). plus, I can see baby coryo trying to convince tigris to rehearse las divinas song to show to their grandma while she's sitting looking at them (canon event in the life of every cousins who grew up together).

coriolanus is a little less worse here, so I can see him changing a bit after starting to hang out with lgb and sejanus (plus, lgb bullies him until he stops with it). tigris every single day having to sit and listen throught their nonsense and smiling and nodding like- 😃 someone help her pls. AND OMG I WAS ACTUALLY THINKING ABT, tigris' mom or dad being from uruguay ☝ (non-related, but I'll always have a soft spot for uruguayos bc my favorite football player from the team I root for is uruguayo lmao I was so sad when they didn't got past the group phases on the world coup, so ofc I'm happy with uruguaya tigris, that's my girl <3)

the latin-american urge to make your favorite character to be from your country, I get it perfectly 😭 but I just love boricua sejanus so much, it fits so much of his storyline and UGH. you read my mind because I was thinking EXACTLY about lucy gray being venezuelana (my second option was her being from colombia tho), and I can see it PERFECTLY

(lucy gray and sejanus bonding bc they both hate the usa for fucking up everything, i know that's right!!!)

the idea of characters doomed not only by the narrative, but by their name- <3333 I'm in love with it, and even more in love how we can see it constantly in thg and tbosas. (your brothers being named after gods is SO COOL OMG) and yes!!! that's the way you'll be called for a good chunk of time, and it's no wonder some countries have some rules regarding names and their meanings, because it can impact heavily on a child's life (either if you believe that names have some impact on their destiny or not).

and absolutely yes: when you think in that way, that strabo probably searched about his name, that he bought baby stuff for the house, and that he wished for a son so much, it makes things so much more tragic. I think strabo was the kind of dad to idealize a child in his mind and then get disappointed when the child is born and isn't exactly how he imagined. he would try to do things he remembered dearly from his own dad and childhood (I imagine the shooting lessons to be something he remembered fondly from his childhood, at least), things he idealized, just for none of them to be compatible with his and his son's reality.

sejanus didn't even need to do anything to disappoint his father. he disappointed him just by being himself, and that's what hurts the most.

what you said about strabo pretty much not knowing how to get sejanus to listen is so true. he talks to sejanus is a language he understands: discipline. he's stern, he givers orders, and gets angry when sejanus doesn't listen, because when strabo was a child at least his dad was so stern and he just knew that he needed to obey and respect his pa without questioning. one of the biggest example of their miscommunication and problems on how to understand each other is that strabo thought it was a nice thing to teach sejanus how to shoot, because at least it was a thing he enjoyed doing with his dad when he himself was just a boy, but sejanus is heartbroken because he doesn't get WHY his dad can't do normal things other dads do to their kids. strabo is only gentle with him after regretting being too harsh.

when you said that sejanus is the worst combination between strabo and ma plinth I gasped because IT LITERALLY IS, you put it in words perfectly.

I don't think he would've cared that much if sejanus was just soft. he literally married ma plinth. it would be a disappointment, for sure, but not the worst thing in the world, he could live with it. but what actually kills strabo inside is that sejanus talks back. yes, he's sweet, yes, he's soft, but he won't shut up and just take things as they are. he questions them, he questions strabo. and that's what he can't swallow. he can't accept a boy that's pretty much a mirror of himself, too, except that for the wrong reasons: strabo would kill for the people he cares about, sejanus would die for the people he cares about, and strabo sees it and it drives him INSANE.

I kinda laughed bc I genuinely imagined strabo sitting there, annoyed at 9 years old sejanus because he was disagreeing with strabo and actually talking back, and strabo speaking to vesta like "he knows I hate it when he does it, he hates me and he's doing everything to make me hate him too" and vesta goes like "that's a child. he barely knows how to read." 🤡

there's this thing about the reaping, that it's very vague if either strabo just bought sejanus' mentorship for D2 and marcus was a very unlucky consequence, or if he straight up bought marcus being reaped. I, at least, always got confusing, because I never understood which one of the two options were the one (I personally choose the second one for angst reasons lmao). but either way, as you said, even if he didn't pick marcus in particular... it was still so fucked up, because sejanus grew up in that district. he was 8 when he left, and when you're 8, you're already old enough to remember some kids. and I agree with you!!! I think it was a lesson in his vision; "see? it could've been you", in a way to make sejanus grateful, in a way to make him scared but scared as in to go running back to his pa and apologize and just comply to anything strabo though that was better to the family. but instead, it did make sejanus scared, but he wanted to make a change. it didn't matter to him that he was safe from the games now, he wanted every other kid to be safe from the games, now more than ever.

as I said: if anything, he made sejanus radicalize even more lmao

if we go for the path that strabo chose marcus purposelly, he for sure thought it would teach sejanus a lesson as in to show him sejanus could NEVER have that life he envisioned. "see that kid that you held dearly in your heart? it doesn't matter anymore. you have to resign to your life now. that's it." also, you saying that it's also a way of strabo measuring the waters is so good!!!! and yes!!!! at that point, strabo just gave up on trying to "help" sejanus. if it was on another occasion before the whole thing in the arena and the 10th games, I could see him forcefully impeding him from going to D12, but no, strabo doesn't do anything. he just let him go.

(let him go to his grave, after so many years of trying to save him and just hurting sejanus even more.)

I think that strabo didn't know how much marcus meant to sejanus. I mean, he knew he was important, and if we consider that he got marcus purposelly on the games, then for sure he knew what he was doing... but what I mean is not to this degree. sejanus may not know how to keep his mouth shut, that's true, but he's mostly sweet. him throwing that chair was a big surprise. and then sejanus tried to basically kill himself getting inside that arena, with 0 intentions of getting out. he really pushed sejanus to his limits by this.

and OMG IT HITS SO HARD, the idea that he knew boys like his, and he saw these boys dies, I'm screaming crying throwing up right now

the sejarcus and everlark parallels are the kind that once you see it, YOU CAN'T UNSEE IT. tbosas is full of parallels and references to thg, and I genuinely wonder if this was on purpose because omg why would suzanne collins do that to us 😭 also, please, tell me about the paralles about katniss' mom and ma, because I would love to hear them!!!

about the quarter quell: for a moment, I forgot about them, then I searched up and my jaw DROPPED when I remembered it. because OF COURSE D2 would get rid of at least one of the remaining plinth children as revenge. OF COURSE. I'M SCREAMING

(thinking about before the quarter quell: sejanus had cousins he knew he didn't know. imagine him seeing D2 kids being reaped each year and questioning himself if he knew that kid? if they had his blood? if they were his cousins, but he would never know?)

worst than mourning for what they've been, it's them mourning for what they could've been but never were. okay, now, imagine marcus growing up and refusing to give in to the idea that sejanus became just like those capitol children. he must still be nice, that's what he thinks, it doesn't matter if his dad is a dick. and marcus keeps this thoughts everytime someone brings the plinths up, just for then he end up reaped, and then for sejanus to be his mentor. that's a punch on his guts. he'd rather die not knowing if sejanus was as bad as everyone said than to actually discover and die heartbroken.

(brb I'm crying on a corner right now)

AND YESSSSS LITERALLY THEM 😭 and I love mitski so much, I haven't thought about it before, now I need to make a playlist only of mitski songs that are very much sejarcus coded

yesssss!!! like, I always get surprised when fandom spaces are so diverse regarding countries and different places (even though most of us speak english to communicate here), and still, we get so few songs in playlists and stuff that aren't in english :(( and about the playlists: I SEE YOUUUU my spotify is a mess because it's full of playlists of original projects and characters, but I never put the titles to be too obvious, so when sometime passes by and I forget a bit about it, I come back and be like "...who was that about, again?" 😭

about ante de que nos olviden: I've got CHILLS listening to it and thinking about the tributes, but more specifically, it have so much reaper's vibes. but you're so right about it belonging not only to katniss but also to the other tributes, the ones that survived and the ones that passed away, because even after all this time, they were never really forgotten; they still live through the rebellion and through the survivors :(( (plus, it's also so D11 coded too, it's actually driving me insane now)

about la bestia humana: I'M SCREAMING because this is so coriolanus coded, SPECIALLY on his peacekeeper arc (this also can apply to lgb). it's in D12 where he actually have to let go a bit from what he knows from the capitol, and if he starts to notice that he's starting to pick a bit from their behavior, that man will go INSANE (more than he already is, if it's even possible)

AAAAAAA omg now I'm so excited to read about the wedding on your au omg 😭 okay, so, there's a veryyyy small line in the ma plinth study that says that she got married kneeling in front of the mountains. my thoughts were that usually, a priest will be present and the people who are getting married kneel in the base of the mountains, in front of them. they have to say in front of the mountains if it's their desire to accompany the person for the rest of their lives. for good omen and as a way to request protection and prosperity, it's common for the newlyweds to sacrifice something from their old life to now start their new one. it can be an old piece of clothing or a a piece of jewerly or shoes, anything, really; you give so you can receive too. it's also common for the guests to bring offerings to put on the base of the mountains, too, as a sign of respect. and ofc, people bring traditional D2 bread for the newlyweds (bread as a language of love and life, my beloved <3). I think that's just this what I was thinking about :')

(also, tysm for asking my thoughs abt the D2 culture, it makes me so so so so happy <333)

#tbosas #tbosas movie #coriolanus snow #president snow #sejanus plinth #strabo plinth #ma plinth #headcanons #hcs #ask #analysis #sort of

[canadiansummer]

TITLE: A Matter of Traditions [18+] PAIRING: Dmitri Antonov x Fem!Reader / Enzo x Fem!Reader REQUEST: from anon: “I absolutely love how you write Dmitri, and since you are taking requests, how about: celebrating his first Christmas in the US with f!reader? He may or may not be the present :D (meaning: I also love how you write sexy times!) Additional details (but not required, really, everything is up to you!): no mentions of Stranger Things canon and therefore no Mikhail; reader is a neighbor who can speak Russian and that's why they start bonding, she's a book translator maybe so she works from home and instead of typing she spends her days looking out of the window as the Russian hottie paints his fence...“ WARNINGS: GRAPHIC SMUT, minors dni. There’s also mention of grief and grieving, and unprotected sex (the pullout method does not work, this is fiction lol) It’s 14 pages, so I’d pace yourself. NOTE: Firstly, I’m sorry for writing a Christmas fic in March. The idea was just too fun. Secondly, thank you to the anon who sent this! I tried to work with what you wanted, but I left some stuff vague. Regardless, I hope you enjoy this and the same to everybody else who reads it.

You weren’t used to not seeing snow around this time of year.

Granted, you had lived in California for years, but your family had dragged you across state lines to meet for Christmas every year. You had always dragged your feet about the drive, yet this year you found yourself almost missing that on top of actually seeing your family. There were lights, a few decorations that reminded you what month it was, yet there was a part of you that was hoping you would just push through the last week and move on from the holiday. Which was what had you throwing yourself into your work more this month, both translating and getting ahead in your lesson recordings.

Which is also how you found yourself leaning against the small brick wall of Joyce Byers’ walk up, a heavy cassette recorder resting in your arms as you waited for her to come back outside to collect it.

She lived a bit of a drive away from you, but your little friendship with her had you kind of running around in the same circle. Which you knew wasn’t intended, but given the neighbor you had, you found yourself asking after and being invited to things involving her. Still, your initial bonding over working from home stood strong, but you could admit that you found it nice to have more reasons to see her. Though, that was at odds with you being pretty withdrawn this month.

Still, it was nice to be outside for a bit, even if there was that exhaustion that lingered over you over the last couple of weeks.

You lifted your gaze from the worn brand name on the recorder in your hands to the front door when you heard it open, Joyce stepping outside with a grin. She looked…a little stressed, actually, but you found yourself returning her smile with a small one of your own.

“Thank you so much for letting me borrow this,” you said as you stepped forward to return the device to her, “Once I have my next book translated, I should have enough to buy my own so I don’t need to bother you every couple of weeks.”

“It’s not a big deal, don’t worry,” Joyce dismissed easily enough, setting the recorder on the edge of the steps. “How is that coming along, anyway? I…can’t imagine books in Russian sell all that well over here.”

“Well, it’s not something I’d say is flying off the shelves,” you replied, sitting yourself down on the step once Joyce had done so herself, “Though, there’s some people interested and I can get enough from selling stuff under the table. The language lessons might do better, once I’ve got them all together.”

“Dmitri is still helping you with that, right?”

“With pronunciation, mostly,” you replied with a nod, “He’s been…really helpful.”

In more ways than one, you supposed. Your interactions with him had steadily moved toward a more gray area in regards to what was platonic and what wasn’t.

You had formed a quick friendship based on your shared language, which had been a bit of a surprise to both you and some of the people around you. Then the eventual proximity of your living situations only made interacting with him not only easier, but more frequent. You had approached him with the recording idea, considering you could read and write in Russian easily enough at that point, but you were concerned about your accent and pronunciation. Having a native speaker living within walking distance was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Yet, it wasn’t hard to miss the fact that you had started to regard him in a way that wasn’t exactly neighborly or professional. You knew some things about him–he knew Hopper and Joyce, as you’d crossed paths with him a couple times when visiting them, though the nature of his relationship with them wasn’t completely known to you yet. You also knew he was a political defector, as he’d described, but pushing further into that only got you vaguer answers. As much as your curiosity wanted you to dig, you knew it wasn’t your place to. Regardless, a closeness had formed over the last while and you couldn’t help but regard him in a different way. If he returned that or not, it was hard to read at points. Sometimes it seemed so, yet other times it felt like you were reading into things a little too much.

It was a frustrating push-and-pull that often left you with more questions than answers.

As if reading your mind, you caught the look Joyce tossed your way. The touch of a grin on her lips, eyebrows slightly raised. You let out a small scoff but couldn’t help mirroring her grin.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Joyce replied, lightheartedly as she raised her hands up somewhat, “Just that if you’re worried about our reaction, you might not find much surprise…”

“He’s…helping me out, that’s all.” As much as you wished otherwise, sometimes.

“Okay,” she replied, still teasing but it was clear she was backing off the topic. For now, you supposed. She rubbed her hands on the tops of her legs, looking out toward the street as you noticed her demeanor change somewhat. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about…”

You shifted to sit toward her a little more on the step, giving her your attention as she glanced back toward you. There was a softness to her expression, one that put a bit of tension in you.

“I know that this will be your first Christmas without your family…” she started, that familiar pit of grief setting back into your gut that you had forgotten about for a few moments. “I hate to think that you’ll be alone, so if you wanted to spend it with us, we’d be happy to have you.”

“Joyce…” you started, feeling a small squeeze in your chest at her kind gesture, “That’s so sweet, but I think I’ll be fine. It still hurts, but…I don’t know, maybe I need to do it this way. Let myself grieve, things like that.”

“I understand. I just didn’t want you to feel alone, or…”

“I’ll be fine,” you replied with a light smile, “I’ll join you guys for New Years.”

“Okay,” Joyce said with a small, sympathetic smile as she reached out to squeeze your hand.

You returned it easily, despite the light choking feeling in your throat.

                                                             ***

At around noon, you got a knock on your front door.

You were sitting at your kitchen table, listening to the radio host talking–weather, traffic, it was something you could easily tune out as you finished off your lunch. However, the sound made you pause, your eyebrows furrowing somewhat before you crossed over toward the living room to subtly peer behind a curtain toward the front door. You immediately recognized the figure outside, though it didn’t quite quell the mild confusion in you.

Finally, you opened the door with a small smile–friendly, but you couldn’t ignore the small twinge of nervousness that settled in you.

Dmitri looked as collected as he usually did–it was interesting how friendly and attentive he could appear sometimes, while also still being as unreadable as he was sometimes. At the moment, however, he greeted you with a familiar grin, his body language relaxed yet almost expectant. While you returned the quick greeting he gave you, it was hard to hide the touch of confusion that lingered in your expression.

That is, until he produced a cassette tape from his pocket, realization making you let out an almost embarrassed chuckle.

“That completely slipped my mind,” you admitted, finally shifting to open the door some more, “Feel free to come in. I’m interested in hearing your input.”

You left him to let himself in as you crossed the room to turn off the radio as the starts of a familiar holiday song started up. As unavoidable as you knew it was, considering it was only a couple of days until Christmas, you just wanted to carry on like it was a normal week. Having him there to talk about your progress in Russian was a welcomed distraction.

“I don’t have much to give you this time,” he replied as you cleared off the table, leaving him to place the tape down on the surface as you returned. “Your accent is getting better.”

“I’m glad,” you replied with a light smile, sitting back down in your chair as you pulled the tape toward yourself, turning it over in your hands somewhat. “It means I won’t have to redo this one, which is always a good thing. I can’t thank you enough for your help. It’d be easier to just keep to translation, but that work only comes so often so…well.”

“It’s fine,” he replied, somewhat dismissive but otherwise his tone was light–you’d learned a while ago that if he didn’t want to do this, you probably would have known by now. “I still want to work on my English, but it is nice to do this.”

You gave him a small, understanding nod at that. Given what you knew about him and where he came from, you could understand where he was coming from with that somewhat. Though, you noticed him glancing around your home at that moment, as if looking for something. This wasn’t the first time he had set foot in your home–usually no more than to do this exact thing, actually. Yet, you couldn’t help the slow furrowing of your brows as he glanced back toward you.

“You don’t celebrate?”

It took you a moment to clue in–compared to other houses in the neighborhood, you knew yours was lacking in decorations or anything this year. You didn’t have the energy or see the point–there’d be another time. It was hard to stop yourself from wringing your hands together, however, dropping your gaze down toward the table for a moment.

“My, uh,” you started, “My family used to gather around this time of year, but…we’re not doing that this year. It’s the first time I’m on my own this year, so I didn’t really see a reason to set everything up.”

“I understand,” he replied, “It is not my first time alone, but it is while being here.”

“Oh…yeah, I suppose it would be,” you said, meeting his gaze again, “It’d be different dates for you, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes and no,” he said after a small pause, finally shifting to sit down at the vacant chair at your table. “My parents grew up under strict religious laws–the government didn’t want any religion at all in the country and I grew up in a time where that was still present. We were allowed to celebrate the new year, so my family carried some traditions over to celebrate then. Not too different from what I have seen. We had a small tree, some old decorations and presents if we could afford them. It was an excuse to save food and cook in my house.”

“I had no idea,” you replied, taking in that information, “This must be a couple firsts for you, then.”

“At a literal level, sure,” he replied with a small shrug, “Like I said, this is not the first time I have been alone during this time of the year. It doesn’t feel too different.”

You wished you could say the same.

Still, you bit back that remark–you didn’t really know why. He had just shared a couple things about his family, but you still bit your tongue about the fact that your father had been the one to bring the family together at this time. After his passing, nobody really knew who should take up the mantle and with it being so recent…well, there was still a sting to it.

However, sitting at the table with Dmitri as a small silence lingered after his words, you found a somewhat surprising thought crop up in your mind. You supposed it wasn’t too different from how Joyce felt toward you a couple days ago–yet, it’d force you to acknowledge the holiday at least somewhat, but the casual way he talked about being alone stabbed at you somewhat.

Would he even want to? You enjoyed spending time with him, and it seemed like he returned the feeling, yet…

“Well…” you started, fiddling with the cassette tape again, “If we’re both alone, maybe you’d want to spend it here?”

“With you?” he asked after a moment, a small pit of regret setting into your gut at the question.

“Only if you want to,” you said, pushing through the feeling as though a part of you just wanted to retract the offer, “I know I wasn’t planning on doing anything this year, so I could not make a big deal out of it anyway. I just thought I’d offer since you’re my neighbor–my friend. It can be…a little lonely.”

A part of you worried that it sounded a little too much like you were offering out of pity, yet Dmitri didn’t seem to take it that way. That, or he didn’t voice it at the moment. He seemed to think that over, which was a little unexpected. You had been expecting a polite decline–you were just helping each other out, asking to spend Christmas together was a little overboard.

Yet, he still continued to surprise you.

“If you want to,” he said after a few moments, causing you to glance toward him, “that would be nice. I wouldn’t mind that.”

“Like I said, it wouldn’t be too much of an issue,” you replied as you felt a small grin touch your face, “It might give me an excuse to pick up a small tree and buy my own decorations.”

“Again, if you want. Still…thank you.”

                                                          ***

“Hopper and Joyce said they are doing a sort of backyard party for New Years if the weather is nice enough,” Dmitri said after rummaging through a back to pass you another wrapped box of ornaments as you worked on unwrapping the cord for the lights on the small tree. “I was told to pass on the invitation to you.”

“Joyce already hinted at it,” you said, though you were still touched that they still went out of their way to do so formally. Though, you paused somewhat, glancing toward him over your shoulder. “Didn’t they have one recently? For Halloween?”

“I think so,” he replied, “I am starting to think it is a way to make sure I don’t need to buy my own food.”

“My family used to do those in the summer–though, I used to live where it snowed a lot in the winter so I suppose it was a summer thing. Maybe they are just taking advantage of the climate here.”

“Maybe.”

As much as you had been nervous to let him spend the holiday with you, things seemed to relax into how they usually were once you were in the same space together. You were reminded that things often felt like a tug-of-war with him at points–lighthearted and flirty sometimes, then kind of distant and neighborly during other times. Really, there was a part of you that just wanted to ask. To rip the bandage off and settle on an answer so it wasn’t a question that sat on your mind whenever you were with him.

At the moment, however, you didn’t find the words coming forth. Still, the fact that Joyce and Hopper knew you two interacted enough to send messages down through each other, along with the look Joyce had given you back when you sat on her step, had you holding back the urge to shake your head.

If it was that obvious, the crossing of that line shouldn’t be as difficult as it was.

Still, you didn’t want to dwell on that in the current situation. Not with Dmitri in your home and you sitting on the floor as you finished setting up the small tree you had bought. It was fake, about the length of your arm. You put a small, plaid cloth over the step stool you set it on in the living room, but for the most part it wasn’t too bad. Finally, you plugged the lights in, shifting to sit a little further back from it as you took it in.

Again, it wasn’t much, but the lights did make you feel a little better somehow.

“There it is,” you said, spreading your arms out somewhat in a teasing manner toward it.

“You honored your word at least,” Dmitri commented.

“I definitely try to,” you muttered as you watched him help himself to a box of ornaments.

They were mostly decorative balls, you didn’t want to go overboard. It was a little odd to see him like this, yet it put a lightness in your chest that you hadn’t felt in a while. You didn’t mind the small silences, either, considering a part of you was still struggling to admit that not only were you going ahead with holding at least a small celebration for the season, but it was also with him. You enjoyed Dmitri’s company, but in a situation like this you feared that your mind would tumble down a familiar path and you would end up saying something that would make this awkward.

So, you were also happy that you had something to do with your hands as you set about decorating the tree with him. However, that relatively mild ‘peace’ didn’t last too long.

“You said your family gathered in the summer and during this time?” Dmitri asked, causing you to glance toward him as you could sense that uncomfortable topic approaching. “Is this a lot like what they would do?”

“Kind of,” you replied after taking in a small breath, looking over the tree for a moment. “Just…bigger, I guess. My parents liked to bring everybody together, so it was usually a pretty crowded house. Relatives sleeping on couches.”

Dmitri didn’t say anything, just listening. You debated on leaving it at that, yet you figured letting him in a bit wouldn’t be too terrible. You both were a little vague about certain things, but you certainly didn’t regard him as some stranger or distant acquaintance. The current situation was proof of that.

“My mother passed when I was younger,” you continued, “It was my dad who carried on the traditions they set out, despite how painful it was during the earlier years. He did that by himself for years, well into his kids being adults, having kids of their own. He…passed this year, a while ago but still recent enough that I think we’re struggling to figure out how to pick up what he left. I just…know it’s not me. Not this year.”

“...I’m sorry,” Dmitri said as he let that sit for a couple of moments, “You didn’t say anything about that.”

“I struggled with admitting it to myself for a while,” you admitted, “I started telling more people, but then this month…I don’t know. I just didn’t want to think about it.”

“I can understand.”

You sat down on the floor as you took the last decoration from your box, resting your arms on your knees as you took in the tree for a few moments. A part of you had been expecting to struggle to hold back tears and not break down in front of him, yet there was an odd sense of calmness in you. Maybe it was just the moment and it would all hit you once all of this was over, but you would take it as it was for the time being.

“It hurts, but…I don’t know. I think he’d be relieved I’m not spending it alone in the dark or something. Not that I invited you to fill that or whatever, but I know he’d be happy.”

Dmitri didn’t reply to that, seeming to accept your natural response to all of that as he sat beside you as you both took in your work. You found a familiar feeling rising up in you, the very same one that had been poking at you the whole time that existed outside of your grief for the loss of your father.

Maybe you should just say something. The year was ending, maybe you could just get an answer.

“This is probably a terrible time to get into this, but I just wanted to know if…”

You had felt a bit of courage build up in you as you started talking, yet when you turned to look at Dmitri, the words kind of died on your tongue.

The look on his face took you off guard, admittedly. While a part of you was expecting to see the pained expression of a rejection that you had seen on different people throughout different points in your life, the softness of his expression and turning to meet his gaze unexpectedly head-on had your heart stopping for a moment. Dmitri looked somewhat surprised himself, like he hadn’t expected you to catch him looking at you. Yet, despite how easily either of you could just look away, you found yourself holding his gaze for a few, prolonged moments.

As much as you knew you could just complete your thought–just ask outright if he was as interested in you as you were in him–you realized that you didn’t have to. You found yourself leaning in easily to meet him in a kiss, Dmitri cupping the back of your head as you shifted closer to him. The kisses got firmer as the initial hesitancy stepped aside, your hands coming up to cup both sides of his jaw. You felt his arm slip around your lower back as he pulled you closer to him.

You slipped your leg over one of his own, allowing your bodies to brush briefly as you wrapped your arms around the back of his neck and shoulders. The position was a little uncomfortable on the hardwood of your floor, but the mix of the rush of emotions and genuine relief had you savoring the moment. There had been the wandering thoughts of what it would be like if you had just kissed him at certain moments, or vice versa, yet the reality was a different story.

In the dying light of day and the small illumination of the lights on the tree beside you, along with the days and weeks of dreading the next day or so, the fact that he was kissing you was almost euphoric.

However, you knew the lightheadedness you were starting to feel was from needing some air.

You pulled back from the kiss somewhat with a small inhale, feeling like your mind was buzzing with things you should say following that. Yet, Dmitri’s hand tracing along the side of your face, thumb running down your jaw, was enough to slow that for a few moments.

“I hope you were wanting to talk about that and not something else,” he said after a few moments, which pulled a small, amused huff from you. “I have wanted to do that for so long.”

“How long?” you asked, failing to hide the mild disbelief from your tone despite everything.

“Weeks,” he replied with a light shrug, “A couple days ago before we ended up talking about Christmas.”

“...Yeah, that’s about the same for me,” you replied with a chuckle, shaking your head lightly, “I had been sitting in suspense for weeks, you should have just done it.”

“Merry Christmas.”

Dmitri pulled you in again for another kiss, feeling him grin into it making you feel almost giddy. It was tempting to deepen it, especially considering you were practically sitting in his lap and you were close enough to feel his chest press against your own as he breathed. Yet, you knew carrying on with this on the floor would quickly become uncomfortable and you didn’t know if he wanted to go any further than kissing. Given the feeling building low in your gut, you knew what your answer was but you still found yourself pulling back after a few moments.

“Can…Do you want to go to my bedroom or just see each other tomorrow? I’m fine with either, but I know I can’t sit on the floor much longer.”

Dmitri regarded you for a few moments, mulling that over as you tried to will your heart to slow down a bit. You knew things were escalating quickly, yet you were truthful about being fine with either. You just wanted him to make a call, and you could tell he knew that as well. You felt him tug lightly at the side of your shirt as he gathered his words.

“If we go to your bedroom, that is not because you don’t want to deal with what you told me about your father, yes? I don’t want to be a distraction from that.”

“I have tried many distractions,” you admitted, shaking your head somewhat sadly, “It’ll still be there and I know that. I want to deal with that. I also want this. The two didn’t really cross in my mind, but no. I don’t want to use you like that. I wouldn’t.”

Dmitri took in your words for a few moments before he nodded, shifting so you could pull away from him more. Though, the separation didn’t last too long as he pulled you back into him once you both were standing, kissing you for a few moments before pulling back somewhat to speak.

“Then I would like to see your bedroom,” he said, pulling lightly at the waistband of your pants, “eventually.”

He pulled you down onto the couch with you on top of him again, his mouth finding yours again. You let out a small noise of surprise with the hardness of the kiss, settling to straddle his hips as you ran your hands down his clothed chest. Despite the current moment, some mild disbelief still managed to push its way to the forefront of your mind that this was happening in the first place. There had been a point where you figured you should have let the whole thing go–to let it fizzle out and you’d settle into more platonic thoughts about him. Yet, that wasn’t the case.

Perhaps it never would have been the case, considering the current moment.

With the confirmation you needed, the hesitancy seemed to melt away as you broke from the kiss to trail your lips down his neck. There had been wandering thoughts every now and again about what it would be like to have his mouth on you, or what reactions he’d have if you did the same. Of course, the reality was pretty different, but you didn’t particularly mind that. Dmitri was a little quiet, which kind of lined up with what you had known of him, but his sighs and the way his hands roamed your back told you he was enjoying himself enough.

It also wasn’t hard to miss the stiffening bulge in his pants that became more apparent as things progressed, his hands venturing into more intimate places. You weren’t too surprised when you found yourself removing your shirt at his prompting, which had you pulling his own up in return. You wanted to feel his skin on yours, which he seemed happy to oblige given how quickly his mouth found your shoulder. You let out a small breath at the feeling of his mouth against your skin, placing a hand against the back of the couch to brace yourself while one moved up into his hair as he dropped his head down to press an open-mouthed kiss against the top of one of your breasts.

Your gaze wandered toward the small bit of a street lamp that you could see through one of the small slits in the blinds. The sun had gone down, the light from the street lamp and some other lights from the houses around being one of the only light sources. For the most part, it looked empty, and you knew your living room blinds were drawn. While doing this in front of a window could go south pretty quickly, the chance of anybody seeing was low and you were enjoying the foreplay.

So, you pushed away from Dmitri somewhat to unclasp your bra. For a few moments, you could feel your heart pick up its pace when his gaze dropped down to your chest. Though, he looked back up to meet your eyes as you returned to your previous position.

“You look better than I pictured,” he muttered.

That surprised you somewhat, that you weren’t alone in the fantasizing, though any response you could come up with to that died before you could formulate it as he cupped one of your breasts in his hand. The sensation had you arching your back into him, unawarely grinding yourself down against his crotch as he gently pinched and rolled one of your nipples. That pulled a low moan from you, Dmitri lifting his hips against your own as you pressed down against him in kind. Even with the both of you still only being half naked, it still felt nice and you definitely wanted more.

“So do you,” you replied finally, almost in a sigh.

There was truth to that statement.

Really, your affection and attraction toward him had been a little slow building–from distraction and stress, at the time. You had thought he was a good-looking man when you had first met him, though you weren’t sure what to make of him. He was more of Hopper’s friend than Joyce’s, but she had been quick to mention your translation work and things between you two had warmed up quickly enough. It was downhill from there, really. You had found yourself enjoying his voice, regardless of the language. His eyes, grin, arms, his lips. Once you had started to wonder what it would be like to be kissed by him, what his hands would feel like on your body, you knew your little acquaintanceship had shifted. There had been a few days where you found yourself staring at him instead of following what he was saying.

Knowing what you did now, you wondered if he’d had similar issues in regards to you.

It didn’t really matter in the long run, however, considering how Dmitri closing his mouth around one of your nipples effectively stopped any further wandering thoughts. He kneaded one of your breasts in his hand, sucking on and flicking his tongue against the nipple of the other. You moaned, fingers gripping a little tighter into the back cushion of the couch. As much as you were clearly enjoying what his mouth and hands were doing, you brushing yourself against and grinding on his cock was slowly killing you.

You dropped your free hand down to his stomach, trailing your fingers down until you felt the waistband of his pants. Fumbling a little blindly until Dmitri pulled his head back from your chest, you opened the front of his pants.

“I figure this might feel a little better,” you said, tone lightly teasing but you couldn’t hide the desire in it as he let you slip your hand into his pants.

You cupped him in your hand, pressing your palm against his erection as he lulled his head back somewhat against the couch. He rolled his hips up against your hand as you rubbed him outside of his underwear for a bit. You watched his face as you did so, rubbing him harder or faster depending on his reactions. The way his breaths hitched and the short grunts and groans he let out was worth delaying your own pleasure for a while. You pulled his cock out, giving it a few languid strokes.

From your position, you knew you could easily just push down your pants and underwear and ride him on the couch, yet you weren’t too keen on doing that where potential eyes could see. Doing what you were doing currently was risky enough. Though, you couldn’t help but keep stroking him, picking up the pace somewhat to help him along. After a few more strokes, you bent down and licked the head of his cock. Immediately, you noticed the way his legs tensed up, a somewhat choked groan escaping him. Dmitri gripping a hand onto your shoulder had you not going any further, however. You glanced up at him as he shook his head lightly.

“You wanted to take me to the bedroom.”

“I thought you seemed pretty relaxed on the couch,” you commented, somewhat amused but caught onto his meaning.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to continue on the couch, either, anyway. Plus, the throbbing between your legs was getting hard to ignore, but you didn’t know if you could multitask enough to touch yourself and pleasure him at the same time. Not with the direction you had been headed, anyway.

So, leading him down the hall toward your room was an easy choice to make. You took the liberty of removing the last of your clothing before climbing onto your bed. Dmitri wasn’t too far behind, following suit before joining you. He pressed you into the mattress as he kissed you. It was harder than the other ones, your mouth parting for his tongue as you felt his cock slide against your folds with a small roll of his hips. You moaned into Dmitri’s mouth, pushing your hips up to rub yourself against his cock. He moaned in return, pressing his hips into your movement as well.

Finally, you broke from the kiss with a small, involuntary whimper. You were more worked up than you realized, a surge of both frustration and anticipation settling into your gut.

“I need you inside me,” you said between a breath, “I want you. Please.”

“I know,” Dmitri muttered against the skin of your neck before he pressed a quick kiss against the underside of your jaw. “You’re so wet.”

You knew, too. It wasn’t hard to notice, and a part of you almost wanted to feel a little embarrassed by that and how your hips kept twitching, but you didn’t really care at the moment. Dmitri ground himself against you a few more times, the movements slow and a little torturous. Thankfully, he seemed ready to move on from that, as you felt him shift back somewhat before pushing his cock into you.

The stretch still had a bit of a pinch to it, but thankfully you were aroused enough to adjust quickly enough. You situated your legs against his hip as he rocked into you at a slow pace until he was buried completely inside you. You could feel his steady breaths against your neck and shoulder, pulling and pushing his cock against your walls that you found yourself rocking your hips again in an attempt to get him to move faster.

Eventually he was moving in a way that was pulling more moans and gasps from you, little jolts of pleasure spurring you into thrusting up against him at a quicker pace.

You were very close to just losing yourself into the sensations Dmitri was pulling out of you with each thrust, but reality still liked to leak in around the edges from time to time. It dawned on you that this was truly happening. You were having sex with the man that you had tried, time and again, to let go of since you were convinced it wasn’t going to happen. You had fantasized about him from time to time, a thought to touch yourself to during late nights in hopes an orgasm would help get you to sleep. If loneliness and a longing didn’t have you just wanting to be close to him.

He liked you, too. That was something you didn’t have time to turn over in your head, but tonight made that apparent.

Yet, those were thoughts you were struggling to hold onto as Dmitri hooked an arm under the knee of one of your legs. He thrusted into you harder, and at a somewhat better angle, which had you shifting your free leg up so he was hitting that much deeper. His moans were louder, more intense and you knew he was probably approaching that peak you were close to. You reached down between your bodies to find your clit, circling it with a finger a few times as Dmitri thrusted into you.

“You’re close?” Dmitri asked once he noticed what you were doing, which you just nodded your head at. “Let me.”

He gently brushed his hand under yours, prompting you to move it as he started to rub similar circles on your clit. You let out a low sound as you could feel a pressure building, his touch not quite as precise but with his cock thrusting into you it was definitely enough.

You wanted to say something, yet your words were failing you and it wasn’t long until you felt that pressure move further down and you tightened around him. Your orgasm washed over you, making you arch your back with a strangled cry. You dug your fingers into the flesh of Dmitri’s shoulder, feeling him slow as you clenched around him. He moaned into your ear as he dropped his head onto your shoulder again. He thrusted a few more times before he pulled out, spilling his cum onto your stomach and thigh with a loud groan.

You could still feel your orgasm washing over you, leaving you limp against the bed as you waited for it to subside. Dmitri stepped outside into the hall for a few moments once you started to come back down, returning with what looked to be a damp washcloth from the bathroom.

“I didn’t think I would make that much of a mess,” he commented, washing his cum from your stomach and leg with the cloth. “I’m sorry.”

“You could have broken a lamp and I don’t think I would’ve noticed for a minute there,” you admitted with a chuckle, “Don’t worry about it.”

“It was good, then?” he asked, turning to toss the cloth into a hamper you had near the bed.

“Yes,” you replied with a small grin as he settled onto the bed beside you. “Was it for you?”

Dmitri nodded, hovering over you to press a lingering kiss to your lips. You pressed back into it, cupping the side of his head until he pulled back to lay down beside you. With the rush of emotions and sensations ebbing out, you could feel your mind start to return to the current situation. Still, even with everything that sat on the edges, the grief and everything that came with it, you couldn’t deny the happiness that lingered in you at the moment. It would mix strangely with everything later, but you just let it be at the moment.

Still, you rolled over somewhat to face him a little more. Dmitri shifted closer to pull you into his chest, which you accepted easily as you leaned your head against his shoulder. You shut your eyes for a few moments, letting him trace his fingers along the skin of your arm and shoulder somewhat absentmindedly. However, you found yourself letting out a soft chuckle, shaking your head lightly in amusement.

“I can already see the look on Joyce’s face when she hears about this…”

“What do you mean?”

“A couple days ago, she…in a vague way, asked if there was anything between us and at the time I said no.”

“I got asked, too,” Dmitri said with a small, tired grin, “It will be an interesting topic during New Years.”

#fandom: stranger things #dmitri antonov x reader #enzo x reader

[sparkagrace]

stevebucky & 31

Hi Anon! Thanks for your prompt. Sorry it's taken me so long! Your song was Getaway Car by Taylor Swift.

tags: Christmas party, implied and past Bucky/Brock but it's a bad choice, toxic ex, meet-cute???

The ties were black, the lies were white In shades of gray in candlelight I wanted to leave him, I needed a reason

—

Bucky sighs in relief as the loud bass from inside the venue becomes a dull muffle when the door shuts behind him. He sees the fog of his breath wave away in the winter wind along with his irritation.

This was a mistake. He doesn’t enjoy Christmas parties at the best of times and he’s certainly not enjoying the one tonight. It’s not even his office Christmas party, but he was a plus one in an attempt to rekindle something with his ex-boyfriend, and he didn’t want to be a dick immediately and say no.

“Having a good night?” A voice from a few yards to his left asks. There’s a guy with broad shoulders leaning against the wall under the heat lamp with one hand in his pocket and another holding a cigarette. From the way he’s dressed — dark pants and a nice red shirt — Bucky figures he’s also an escapee from the festivities inside.

“No,” Bucky replies, honestly. “I think I made a mistake.”

The laugh that comes from the voice is a deep rumble and the man gestures to the heat lamp, indicating there’s space to share. Bucky is too cold to continue standing away from a source of heat, and he doesn’t want to go back inside where he was certainly going to end up with a headache.

“I’m starving,” the man says. “Why do they only serve appetizers? I think I got only half a slider.”

“I managed to get some sort of mushroom thing,” Bucky replies. That was also a reason he decided to step outside. Between the noise of the DJ inside and the lack of food, his head is kind of spinning. He’s dying for a slice of pizza. A full slice, not those tiny little squares.

“You smoke?” The man asks, lifting up his cigarette. Bucky shakes his head. “I haven’t seen you around. Are you new?”

“No, I’m a plus one.”

“Your…” The man’s eyes — blue now that they’re up close — glance down at his fingers.

“My nothing, really. Should-have-stayed-an-ex. He, uh, we just kinda got back together.”

The man nods. 

Bucky hates the holidays. The festive season sucks anyway, but when he’s single then it’s especially too easy to slip back into old habits. Bucky’s reconnection with Brock was a mistake. He had ignored the warning bells because he was lonely and it was easy to remember the good stuff when he was feeling that way. Brock had been the one to reach out and Bucky was too weak to say no and spend the holidays on his own. So when Brock also invited him to his office Christmas party, Bucky felt like he couldn’t refuse and it would prove he was serious about making another go of things.

“You know when you get back together with someone and you quickly remember why you broke up in the first place?” Bucky questions, not really expecting an answer, but he gets one anyway in the form of a knowing nod from this stranger he’s pouring his heart out to. “I’m Bucky, by the way.”

“Steve.” The man gestures inside the ballroom. “So, who is he?”

“Brock Rumlow,” Bucky admits, and by the hiss out of Steve’s mouth, he already feels embarrassed by it. “We broke up in the summer. It… yeah, we should have stayed that way. Do you work with him?”

“Not if I can avoid it. We’ve gotten into clashes a couple of times. Fortunately, I work in the graphics department so I don’t speak to him that often.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. 

“I don’t even smoke,” Steve admits, lifting up his dwindling cigarette. “I just tell people I do so I can get ten minutes to myself when I need it. I just came out at the wrong time and someone offered me a light.”

Bucky snorts. “So I guess you’re not a fan of company-mandated fun either?”

“Oh, I’m only here until a reasonable time that I can make an excuse and leave. I was supposed to have a friend come tonight but she had to work last minute.”

“That sucks.”

“Well, she’s a paramedic so I guess I can’t be too mad at her.” Steve waits for his cigarette to get down to the end before he stubs it out and puts it in the nearby trash can. “Do you have to go back inside?”

“Probably, but I don’t think Brock has even noticed I’m gone. He was too busy making asshole jokes about his co-workers and hanging around the bar. I hate dealing with him when he’s drunk.” Bucky leans his head against the wall, regretting every thinking getting back with Brock was a good idea.

Steve looks at his watch. “Hmm, it’s past nine so I think that’s my cue to go home. Hopefully I can get my stuff from the coat check without my manager spotting me.”

Bucky nods and watches Steve and his broad shoulders move towards the door. But Steve hovers nearby. 

“Hey, uh, do you have a ticket for the coat check too?”

“Yeah?” He frowns a little. Steve ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck.

“I was just wondering since we both had terrible nights and all — and it’s only nine — wanna get outta here and do something? Maybe get some actual food? I could go get your stuff for you so you don’t run into Brock.”

Bucky’s entire demeanor must be screaming out ‘yes’ because he immediately digs out his ticket for the coat check and hands it over, even though there’s a risk Steve — a man he met less than ten minutes ago — could just take off with his stuff and never be seen again.

Somehow he doesn’t think that’ll be the case.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

An hour later, they’re in a small mom n’ pop pizza joint four blocks away eating their way through two entire pepperoni pizzas, beers and singing along to the Christmas songs playing out of the tinny speakers. 

Maybe the holidays aren’t so bad. 

#steve x bucky #stucky fic #ficlet #stucky au #my fic #ask games #anon asks

[engagemachine]

Apocalypse AU, when it all begins, it's during that time when Taylor is staying with Evelyn and Nathan, and even though the Joker had only seen her that once at the orphanage, when shit goes down he makes sure to bring her right along with him, no longer having time to play the long game of strengthening her love and emotions for him anymore and finally just having to use force. Imagine poor Taylor barely knowing this man, all she knows is he was 'kind' to her and took care of her as a child, who also forced her to do unspeakable things, and now he's this stranger who she remembers but doesn't necessarily know, and now she's being forced into his world when all normalcy around her falls apart. What a mindfuck! She'd be relieved he thought of her at all but that would be terrifying, on top of already being scared as hell of what is happening all around her.

literally SCREAMING

This is actually an absolutely INSANE scenario. Like, it totally changes the game in terms of what I had previously imagined (based on yours or another anon's apocalypse AU ideas) and now I'm foaming at the mouth over the idea that this entire thing goes down at a time where the two of them barely even know each other when he eventually does take her.

Like, not only is this already such a high-stress situation for Taylor because the world as she knows it is literally falling apart, but also, right in the midst of it, she's being (kidnapped? coerced?) by a mass-murdering psychopath who she barely knows and only vaguely remembers from her childhood... jeez. That's heavy.

The truly frightening thing about this scenario is that Taylor would have no choice but to stay with him, as the system that 'protected' her and the provisions in place for orphans like her have completely collapsed, along with the rest of society's safety nets. She has no one else to turn to, no one to protect her, and he would absolutely take full advantage of that situation.

I had this image in mind of what's happening when the Joker does come for her, only, she's not living with Evelyn and Nathan.

It's the beginning of the end: there's some weird super villain concoction that's spread (and it's fucking Gotham, so it's not unlikely) and it's making everyone sick. It's starts off in the Narrows, so everyone is scrambling to leave the little island to reach the Gotham mainland. But people are trying to leave the mainland, too, and all the bridges have been shut down by the National Guard in an effort to quarantine the island, to stave off the potential of what could become another devastating pandemic. It's been rumored that Bruce Wayne hopped on his yacht the moment the news of the virus broke, and is already halfway to St. Lucia, joined only by the city-wide chorus of eat the rich! and cries for the guillotine.

Taylor -- along with all the other kids who were unfortunate enough to be in the orphange at the time of the collapse, instead of in a foster home -- are being herded into big yellow school buses. No one knows where they're being taken, but all the superintendents assure everyone they're going somewhere where they'll be safe.

Safe, Taylor thinks.

It's not a feeling she's familiar with. Doesn't know if it's something she's ever experienced before, except for once, a very long time ago.

The city is in disarray. The sirens are almost constant -- even during the night, making it difficult to sleep -- and the power's been out city-wide for four days. They've been huddled around an old, muffled radio for the past day and a half, waiting for updates, for instruction.

No one at the orphanage has gotten sick yet, but they all talk about what they'd do if one of them did. They talk about what kind of symptoms they'd have, describe them in gruesome, gory detail. Fantasies of fleshy, zombie-like appendages, skulls full of pus and rotting gray matter. It makes Taylor's stomach roil, to hear them talk like that, like it's just some fantasy. Like it isn't real.

She is exhausted, more than anything else, nerves stretched impossibly thin. Every day she waits, but she doesn't know what for. That's all any of them can do. Wait.

The heat has become oppressive, and ever since the power grid failed, it's only gotten worse. The heat carries a stench with it, something resembling a combination of wet garbage and gasoline. Most of them have taken to wearing rags over their noses and mouths, or bandana, whenever they're outside. It helps a little, but not much.

Taylor is wearing a grey cloth over her nose and mouth, tied behind her head, as she stands in line to be loaded into the next bus. She can tell from her place in line that there might not be room on board, and she might be forced to catch the next one, whenever it comes. Anxiety swells in her belly and throat at the thought, and she tries, in vain, to push it down.

Sweat beads along the back of her neck, sliding between her shoulder blades. Her bra strap is damp, and so are the baby hairs curled at her forehead. It feels like they've been standing outside, waiting, for hours. She shifts her weight to her other foot, while her anxiety continues to bloom, pushing against the walls of her throat, making it harder to breathe.

Up ahead, she watches as another full school bus pulls away, crammed so tight that kids are left standing in the aisles, holding onto the seats.

She cranes her neck to look around the corner, onto the street, to see if there's another bus.

One of the superintendents start arguing with another, and from the looks of their gesturing hands, it appears heated. They're too far away for her to hear, but she watches them talk for quite some time, trying to make out what they're saying before one of them finally releases a defeated sigh, turning to the crowd of kids who have been patiently standing single-file.

"Alright, everybody, listen up! There's been a change of plans. We're all gonna head back inside for the moment to wait for the next bus. We... we're not sure when it's coming... but we're just gonna have to sit tight until it arrives."

Most of the kids audibly groan. Some of them start shouting.

"Man, this is some bullshit! You said we were getting on the bus!"

Another kid chimes in. "Yeah, you said we'd be getting out of here today! I don't wanna be here when the zombies come!"

The superintendent heaves another sigh. "They are no zombies," he says, even though he looks entirely unconvinced when he says it. The unease on his face is plainly evident. "We're just gonna have to sit tight."

Taylor listens to everyone grumble and complain. They've been trying to get out of here for three days, but they've had to shepherd all the younger kids off first.

"Come on everybody, back inside!" The superintendent starts herding everyone back towards the main doors, and Taylor has no choice but to follow. At least the stench won't be as bad inside, even if it'll be hotter because there's no air conditioning, and most rooms feel like being trapped inside an oven. She'll just have to find an open window she can sit next to while she waits.

That was her plan, at least until a hand snakes out from behind her, covering her mouth to stifle her gasp of surprise as she's dragged backwards, away from the rest of the group. No one even notices.

She kicks and flails and tries to scream. She's dragged around to the side of the building, into an alley with a dead end. There's an SUV parked there with tinted windows, and she blanches when she sees it. Is she being kidnapped? Is she going to be--

Her rag is yanked down around her neck. She's spun around.

She comes face to face with a man she's never seen before. Tall, with dark hair and a strong jaw. His mouth is shaped into a hard set line.

She opens her mouth to speak, cry, or beg for mercy, she's not even sure which -- but then the back door of the SUV swings open, and Taylor watches as a familiar figure slips out, and it's like time stops, right then, because she hasn't seen him since he first came to her at the orphanage -- this very one -- all those months ago.

She thought he had forgotten about her. She thought he had decided he wasn't interested. That he didn't care about her anymore.

"Mr. J," she breathes.

He approaches, and she holds her breath. When he grabs her by her jaw, jerks her face towards his, he gives her a slow, languid once-over, eyeing her from top to bottom.

When he meets her eyes, his mouth stretches into a grin.

"Hello there."

#anonymous #asks #Burn #apocalypse AU #mini fic #TBC??? maybe? #do we love it or hate it friends