#making me foam at the mouth for this old bastard

[chrollohearttags]

kenny ackerman chokes you while eating your pussy and grabs the top of your head and forces it down during missionary because he wants to make sure you can see how much he enjoys pleasuring you. Pass it on.

#shame on yall #making me foam at the mouth for this old bastard #aot x black reader #kenny ackerman #kenny ackerman x reader #smut drabble #smut headcanons #aot headcanons #wait till I get the time #I’m bout the filthiest smut known to man #black fem reader #aot x female reader #black reader #black reader smut #aot au

[aegor-bamfsteel]

In a sense, would you consider Theon Greyjoy to be Ned Stark’s son, as Jon Snow (despite his true heritage) very much is?

Well, let’s ask Theon, before his imprisonment by Ramsay:

Theon held his tongue, though not without struggle. So that is the way of it, he thought. As if ten years in Winterfell could make a Stark. Lord Eddard had raised him among his own children, but Theon had never been one of them. The whole castle, from Lady Stark to the lowliest kitchen scullion, knew he was hostage to his father's good behavior, and treated him accordingly. Even the bastard Jon Snow had been accorded more honor than he had.

Lord Eddard had tried to play the father from time to time, but to Theon he had always remained the man who'd brought blood and fire to Pyke and taken him from his home. As a boy, he had lived in fear of Stark's stern face and great dark sword. His wife was, if anything, even more distant and suspicious.

"I forget nothing." Ned Stark had killed neither of his brothers, in truth. Rodrik had been slain by Lord Jason Mallister at Seagard, Maron crushed in the collapse of the old south tower . . . but Stark would have done for them just as quick had the tide of battle chanced to sweep them together.  —Theon I, ACOK

Theon thought of seeking out the bodies of the two men he'd slain himself to see if they had any jewelry worth the taking, but the notion left a bitter taste in his mouth. He could imagine what Eddard Stark would have said. Yet that thought made him angry too. Stark is dead and rotting, and naught to me, he reminded himself. Ugly as it was, that smile brought back a hundred memories. Theon had seen it often as a boy, when he'd jumped a horse over a mossy wall, or flung an axe and split a target square. He'd seen it when he blocked a blow from Dagmer's sword, when he put an arrow through a seagull on the wing, when he took the tiller in hand and guided a longship safely through a snarl of foaming rocks. He gave me more smiles than my father and Eddard Stark together. —Theon III, ACOK

"This is craven," Ser Rodrik said. "To use a child so . . . this is despicable." "Oh, I know," said Theon. "It's a dish I tasted myself, or have you forgotten? I was ten when I was taken from my father's house, to make certain he would raise no more rebellions."

The noose I wore was not made of hempen rope, that's true enough, but I felt it all the same. And it chafed, Ser Rodrik. It chafed me raw." He had never quite realized that until now, but as the words came spilling out he saw the truth of them. —Theon VI, ACOK

And after his torture:

But if anyone spoke of him now, it was as Theon Turncloak, and the tales they told were of his treachery. This was never my home. I was a hostage here. Lord Stark had not treated him cruelly, but the long steel shadow of his greatsword had always been between them. He was kind to me, but never warm. He knew that one day he might need to put me to death. —The Prince of Winterfell, ADWD

The old gods, he thought. They know me. They know my name. I was Theon of House Greyjoy. I was a ward of Eddard Stark, a friend and brother to his children. "Please." He fell to his knees. "A sword, that's all I ask. Let me die as Theon, not as Reek." Tears trickled down his cheeks, impossibly warm. "I was ironborn. A son … a son of Pyke, of the islands." —A Ghost in Winterfell, ADWD

It’s true that his feelings toward Ned had softened by ADWD (which makes sense, given what he’s been through with Ramsay), but despite that there’s a common theme that Ned was always cold and distant, never affectionate, because everyone knew Theon was a hostage for Balon’s good behavior, and Ned would’ve had to execute him had he rebelled again. There was really no way that Ned and Theon could’ve developed the positive relationship that Ned and Jon did (despite the shadow of Jon’s mother between them, Jon looks up to Ned and wants to make him proud) given that history. He may have called him a “second father” in swearing his oath to Robb, but neither Balon nor Ned were true father figures to Theon, so he considers Cleftjaw his “uncle” (the man who gave him affection as a child). Ned considered Jon Arryn a second father, as Quentyn did Lord Yronwood, but neither had Theon’s history as a hostage against their birth family.

Now, Theon doesn’t have the same baggage with Ned’s kids as with the man himself. He saved Bran and fought alongside Robb (who in his first chapter admits to having affection for, “as for a little brother”), so it makes sense a regretful Theon would think of himself as their friend and brother. But he’d never think of Ned as his “true father” (another example of the show misunderstanding his character).

#ask #opinion #theon greyjoy #asoiaf #eddard stark critical

[generic-whumperz]

The Aid: Chapter 8–Reflections

This chapter is dedicated to all my haunted bitches <3

(Happy 4-20!)

In an effort to cut down my novel-length CWs, I’m only listing chapter specific warnings from here on out, the full list of general content warnings for this series is on the Masterlist. Proceed with caution :) 

CWs & TWs: Whumpee having his second revenge killing fantasy of the day, creepy/intimate whumper making pervy dick jokes and being a bully, Whumper getting dragged (deserved), partial nudity (non-sexual), briefest implication of past non-con (blink and you’ll miss it), bug and rodent mention, paranormal encounter, descriptions of a corpse-like creature (light gore and body horror), death mention (of previous Whumper)

Whumpee has some abilities, in this chapter you’ll see: THIS TEXT = EMPATHIC READING

Word count: 3,652

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“Hold still, Mutt. I don’t wanna cut ya,” Wyatt warned, sounding more cautious than usual, as he made a clean scrape of the razor to The Aid’s tilted-up cheek. 

‘Since when do you pass up the opportunity to make me bleed?’ The Aid thought. This was worse; this was so much fucking worse than his feared toenail-clipping or lotion-lathering scenario. He’d rather have his damn nails ripped out with pliers than be stuck sitting pretty and bare-chested as his Master glided a shaver over his face. 

A disgusting noise ripped through the air only a few seconds later and immediately assaulted his ears. Something sounding like a choked growl emerged from the older man—was Wyatt having a seizure? A heart attack? Only in his wildest dreams did he think he’d get to witness the rat bastard drop dead at his feet. The Aid’s eyes widened in alarm and suppressed excitement as he willed himself with every ounce of self-control not to move a muscle. 

Once his Master fell to the floor, he’d pounce. Wrap his good hand around his neck. Squeeze, squeeze so fucking hard until his fingers tore through skin. Stare the asshole straight in the eye until the last flicker of light sizzled out. 

Wyatt turned to the sink, his face bright pink and nose scrunched, still making that god-awful noise that bounced off the bathroom walls. 

The Aid waited at the edge of his seat—any marvelous second now.

The ruckus cut off when Wyatt leaned over the counter and hocked a large, murk-yellow loogie in the sink. He rinsed the razor still clenched in his fist under the running faucet and cleared the remaining phlegm from his throat with a few more nasty hacks before making another pass on The Aid’s stunned face. 

‘…How disappointing.’ The Aid’s thought came delayed, his usual stream of internal monologue halted by his unfortunate misreading of the situation. Sure, he was annoyed by his Master’s comment, frustrated for losing himself in the second murder fantasy of the day, but he was even more peeved by the bastard’s gross abuse of his sink—his beautiful sink carved out of imported gold-veined Carrara marble. 

He was only half a stroke of the razor in before Wyatt stormed into the bathroom—without warning or so much as a courtesy knock on the doorframe—and informed him he was taking too goddamn long and needed to wrap up the dog and pony show. Some words were exchanged, somehow leading to the brute snatching the razor from his hand and taking it upon himself to finish what The Aid started but was deemed incapable of finishing—because, as a 24-year-old man, he apparently couldn’t handle basic grooming. 

“Ya were in that shower for an awfully long time,” Wyatt began, tossing The Aid a sly glance as if he knew a secret daren’t need repeating, but he would air out in the open anyway—classic Wyatt fuckery. “Bet ya enjoyed that alone time, huh? Must’ve gone to town on ya’self with uncloggin’ the pipes, eh?”

Wyatt rinsed the clump of white foam and whiskers off the razor as The Aid’s eyebrows pinched together and his mouth flattened into a thin frown, his stomach mercilessly twisting in on itself. 

He didn’t even have a moment to respond, not like he wanted to, before Wyatt continued, “Ah, it’s all the meds, huh? Yeah, sometimes when I’m on antibiotics, I can’t rub one out right either. Or if I drink too much, but you know that.” The asshole had the ribald audacity to sprinkle some extra spice on the last words for added creepiness and then wink at him, much to his gut-churning dismay. Just throw it on the long, open tab of egregious offenses. 

The Aid forced a painfully tight breath through his lungs and made a succession of slow blinks. Still wide-eyed and unsure how he ended up in this conversation he refused to partake. 

Wyatt ogled The Aid up and down in a dramatic show of indifference. “What ya actin’ shy for, huh? We’re both guys—well, more or less,” he teased, dropping an octave to drive the message home that The Aid was just about as other as one could possibly get. 

“But I suppose even the likes of you enjoy playing with ya’self. Got a dick, might as well use it, amirite?” Wyatt snickered, primarily to himself, as he made short strokes over The Aid’s chin. 

Nope. That’s it. The Aid had enough—time to take the old dog out back.

“I was crying. A lot…Sir,” The Aid tersely responded, needing to end the topic above all else. Knowing the insight would likely invite ridicule, but preferring that over exchanging lewd locker room talk with his abuser. 

Wyatt tsked, shaking his head. “Crying—yeah, that sounds more on brand for ya.” He almost sounded disappointed. 

He paused a moment to rinse the razor before his lip curled as he scoffed out, “Big fucking crybaby. Ya’r eyes leak more than ya’r pecker.” 

The Aid ignored the vulgar comment like he ignored much of everything else, letting it roll over him like cool water in a stream— besides, ‘You can’t make sense out of things where there isn’t any.’

Wyatt knuckled the underside of The Aid’s jaw to hold his face still as he started scrapping off his mustache in short glides. He sucked in his top lip in hopes of avoiding a nick, studying his Master’s face scrunch and furrow in concentration—the way Wyatt leaned in, the guiding, almost-tender support below his chin, the careful strokes of the razor against his skin, the delicate, purposeful closeness between them. It was familiar, almost felt okay, natural even. 

He was the frog in a pot of boiling water, now simmering alive. He knew it and hated himself for it.  

Wyatt continued working; the only sound heard for the next few minutes consisted of water spurting from the faucet and swirling down the drain with the occasional interrupting whooshes of the razor rinsed and taped against the lip of the sink to dispose of the billows of stubble-speckled foam. 

He guided The Aid’s chin up so he faced the ceiling, making multi-directional glides on the underside of his jaw and neck. The Aid’s eyes slid to the side, fixed on the clearing in the middle of the mirror, the only section free of condensation from his long-overdue shower. His combed-through hair was still dripping wet, and his skin was still dewy from the lingering humidity.

A towel draped loosely around his waist, the only thing separating him and Wyatt. He tried not to think about how self-conscious he felt, how disgustingly intimate this invasion of privacy was. He tried to ignore Wyatt’s wondering gaze, working him over from head to toe. Rather, he placed his focus on observing the older man’s reflected movements work with an unfamiliar level of consideration for his welfare that he thought Wyatt was incapable of providing. 

There—in the corner of his eye, he could’ve sworn he saw something dart out past the mirror's edge. 

A bug? No, too big to be a bug. So, a rodent? 

He knew damn well Wyatt wasn’t keeping up with the household chores during the past few months while he was out of commission, so varmints taking up residence was possible—likely even. His Master’s love affair with takeout was well-known and unmatched, and he seemed unfazed by being surrounded by rotting food and trash. He imagined just how filthy the living room, family room, front room, upstairs loft—and if he was fortunate, even the garage and pool house—must’ve gotten without his daily intervention. At that level, they’d probably need to call in an exterminator. 

His eyes nervously flicked to the other side of him, where his large, porcelain soaker tub sat—nothing. If there were something, it would have been there plain as day.

He loosened a breath, trying to expel the wave of sweltering anxiety that flushed over him—

Mice. Rats. Cockroaches. Ants. Everywhere. An infestation of them. 

Images of biting, creeping, diseased dregs of the animal kingdom invaded his mind. His skin ruddied from the prospect of waking up to a giant rat staring at him with those little creepy beady eyes he hated so much. A ripple of nerves detonated from the pit of his stomach, giving him the sensation like he ate fire for breakfast as shivers prickled under his skin. He unconsciously balled his left hand into a fist, his fingernails digging into his palm.

“What?” Wyatt spat, taking notice of the tension feather in his jaw.

“Eyes playing tricks on me, Sir. Happens sometimes without my glasses on,” The Aid explained, glancing at the counterspace where he left his glasses before getting in the shower. 

“Jumpy little fucker,” Wyatt murmured, gliding the razor over his Adam’s apple. 

There—again. In the misty reflection, The Aid thought he saw three spindly, mossy green fingers with long, blackened nails curling over the side of the tub.  

 

Well, that sure as shit wasn’t a rat.

He blinked frantically in the mirror, paralyzed as every hair on his body bristled. Only one other thing besides the man in front of him elicited this level of primal terror. And it wasn’t rodents.

“Fuckin’ hell, Shortcake, what’s ya’r damage today? Did I deprive ya’r freak-of-nature brain of too much oxygen, and now ya’r short circuitin’ on me?” Wyatt grumbled, not concealing the twist of bitter amusement cutting through his scathing glare. He must’ve noticed the sprouting goosebumps.

“Sorry, Sir, I’m just…cold,” The Aid lied, allowing himself to tremble, hoping it would pass as shivering.

Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “Cold? Ya don’t feel cold to me. Ya basically turned this place into a fuckin’ sauna. Best knock this funny shit off. And ya wonder why ya get the shit knocked outta ya, can’t ever act right. God damn idiot.” 

CONTEMPT

Wyatt’s projected emotion shouted at him without even a tap of mind-prodding. The contempt he could deal with; he’d gotten used to it like some dimwitted friend he only tolerated in small doses when no one else was around to talk to. But he’d welcome contempt with open arms and freshly baked cookies if it meant evading the prowling malefic forces.

He kept quiet as his Master lined up his sideburns, eyes glued on watching him work in the mirror—he needed a degree of separation. The Aid couldn’t stand staring at the brute’s ugly mug head-on.

Wyatt’s eyes scared him the most, they always had, ever since the first day they met over six years ago at his Master’s 50th Birthday Bash Madame Eleanor threw for him. 

His eyes were a chilling shade of icy blue, dead blue—the blue of frostbite and cracks in a frozen lake that would splinter, break beneath your feet and swallow you whole within seconds. His downturned, frosted eyes sunk deep and high under his protruding brow. He had that naturally off-putting I-rant-in-my-truck-and-post-hate-videos-online look, complete with a permanent scowl etched on his thin-lipped mouth with naturally arched, bushy eyebrows. He kept his ashy brown, silver-stripped hair short and combed to the side in an effort to hide his cow lick. A grown-out chevron mustache hid his top lip while he kept the rest of his face clean-shaven. But, despite his efforts, his broad chin and neck always displayed the dreaded permanent 4 o’clock shadow commonly plaguing many middle-aged men. 

On the rare occasions when Wyatt smiled at him or during the more frequent scenarios when his Master flashed his teeth in a rabid bear sort of way, The Aid couldn’t help but notice the worsening entangled mess in Wyatt’s mouth. Wyatt’s big teeth, yellowed and crooked, peaked through irritated and swollen-looking gums. At this point, The Aid was more than sure Wyatt caught a preventable case of gingivitis. The culprits? A straight-up lack of routine teeth brushing commingling with a nasty nicotine addiction he couldn’t kick. The daily consumed carton of cigs and the cuds of chewing tobacco nestled in the pocket of his bottom lip did no favors as far as oral health was concerned. 

As if a torn-up grill wasn’t bad enough, Wyatt’s age and substance abuse showed clearly on his face: frown lines, forehead lines, crow’s feet, blush-burned and puffy cheeks from constant flushing, and a hawkish but equally reddened nose. His skin looked weathered and dehydrated; living in a desert certainly didn’t help his case. The Aid thought his Master appeared as if he were in the trenches of fighting off a perpetual allergic reaction. If the older man took better care of himself and used a nightly retinol cream and sunblock in place of drowning his sorrows in IPA 12-packs, lines of coke, and slot machines, maybe he wouldn’t look so haggard. 

The rest of Wyatt Sullivan only highlighted his villainous features. He was massive, pro-wrestler huge—broad-shouldered, burley, and too damn tall. The Aid thought of him as the Brawny paper towel guy’s evil older brother, but with a beer gut and a drug problem.

After intake, Handler Bryce categorized The Aid as “happy and temperate.” Later, he even went so far as to market his personality as “eager to please”—and that he was, despite how much he disliked the term. He performed all his domestic duties with a bright smile and a peppy “at once, Madame” or an “as you wish, Sir.” He kept a praiseworthy, straight-backed posture and spoke correctly in a measured, even tone—just like how he was taught. He was the whole Mystic Grand Servant package and then some. Yet, he’d instead focus on the half-man, half-Uruk-hai orc in front of him that broke down every carefully built pillar of poise and A1 caregiving and turned him from a regal investment to a cowering dog in a matter of months than acknowledge the phantom digits lurking in the reflection.   

There. 

Again. 

In the tub. 

A fuzzy mass of black and green moved.

‘No. No. No. Go away. Not here, not now. Not with him,’ The Aid pleaded, hoping this thing could somehow pick up his mental cry for a truce. 

In the corner of his eye, he made out the blurred yet unmistakable shapes of skeletal, bony-knuckled fingers too long to be human drum on the tub’s edge slink down the side with each successive thrum in demand of his attention. Truce denied.

It could try all it wanted, but he utterly refused to give that thing even a quarter of a full-fledged glance. That’s how it got power—by him acknowledging it. It always started with something small—an audible finger tap, a ghostly whisper, glowing frost-colored eyes in the dark—to draw him in like a fish to a lure.

Oh, this thing wasn’t out to kill him—no, he didn’t think that was even possible. But it wanted something he considered worse: to feed on him. Slurp up the raw energy droning and pulsating inside him—the special spark that manifested as his abilities—like he was a fucking Baskin-Robbins cookies n’ cream milkshake until it got its fill. It’d only make its rounds again once he was restored to full power, and it craved another Aid-sized snack. By its too-frequent pitstops, he assumed that meant he was a tasty delicacy and one of its favorite hole-in-the-walls. 

If it got its way, it would breathe him in, suck the life force out of him until his eyes rolled to the back of his skull and he lost consciousness. It would plunge him into a deep, restless sleep from which he woke with nothing short of a splitting migraine and depleted energy source lasting for days on end. It took him weeks, sometimes even months, to fully recover from a psychic attack. 

With each menacing tap, his chest started to heave, each breath quicker than the last. His heart raced, the deep-rooted fear dissolving all gathered composure with each thud. If the oxy hadn’t kicked in already, he suspected he’d be zapped with the splintering pain of his cracked rib lancing into his side with each lungful.

‘Don’t look, don’t you fucking look!’ he internally screamed. ‘Why couldn’t this just be a fucking mouse?’

“No need to get all huffy, Runt, almost done,” Wyatt scorned through the tense silence. For one of the only times in his life, Wyatt’s voice brought him a strange comfort and grounded him. 

‘Don’t give it attention, and it’ll go away.’ He took a deep, calming breath, thinking happy thoughts of green pastures and rainbows ending in beautiful waterfalls and—

His daydreaming was cut short by a slow, inhuman wheeze—Haaaaayyyyy

The spectral pitch of the other-worldly voice permeated every corner of his mind like a plume of dark smoke that he couldn’t shut out—it was just there, all around him, seeping into him—buzzing on his skin, ringing in his ears. 

He panicked. 

His steeled gaze melted faster than a cartoon character popsicle in summer. His eyes darted straight to the growing dark mass in the mirror. 

His heart stopped, his breath stilled, and his body froze—petrified and goggle-eyed. 

This living nightmare made those dreaded anthrophaghes look like child’s play.

A gangly arm hung over the front-facing side of the tub, exposing the thing’s equally revolting and terror-inducing body inch by inch. Its skin—painted a lifeless grey-green with blotches of gangrenous rot like a decaying corpse—was simultaneously loose and stretched too tight like half-melted, sloppily applied saran wrap pulled over a fake, anatomically incorrect skeleton with half-assed patchwork over the areas where it ripped. 

At one end of its lanky arm, unfurled spider leg-like fingers with sharp, grime-crusted nails scrabbling the floor towards him. The other end led up to a too-bony shoulder, and then…he stared long and hard at the twisted, bloated face of Madame Eleanor.

His heart dropped into his stomach. His lungs refused to allow him a breath, filling him with stale air. 

It couldn’t be her, not the real her. She was long dead. He knew that.

But he also knew he wasn’t the only one with a penchant for mind tricks. It must have tried to recreate Eleanor Sullivan’s likeness based on memories it poached from his mind during an encounter before—only his last memories of her were of her lying dead in an open casket. 

Its face—no, Eleanor Sullivan’s poorly copied/pasted face was ghastly. Nearly unrecognizable. 

In place of Madame Eleanor’s Botoxed face with bright, almond-shaped blue-green eyes, the reflection unveiled far-apart, lidless, ivory-colored eyes with no pupils locking onto him. Her button nose was gone, gnawed off, exposing the black gorge of its nasal cavity. Its mouth, a long, lip-less strip of decaying flesh, pulled out to its rawboned cheeks, revealing slivers of its pitch-black abyss-of-a-mouth. What sat on its head was nothing but a few clumps of long, feathery white strands of hair loosely tacked onto its molted skull—a far cry from his Madame’s signature dyed sandy-blonde locks. The gauzy wisps swished over its warped features as its head followed behind its arm’s descent onto the floor.

That thing began crawling out of the tub like it was Samara crawling out of a goddamn tube TV. 

‘Oh hell no.’

He jerked back, face contorting with stone-cold horror, as a frightened shriek he couldn’t contain ripped free from his raw vocal cords. 

“God damn it!” Wyatt bellowed, pulling away from The Aid’s face. He was too stunned to speak, too shaken up from the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body to notice the fresh slice on his chin.

“Did you see it?” He sputtered frantically, head whipping in the direction of the tub, blood streaking down his chin. “It—it—” he pointed at where the thing was supposed to be. 

Nothing. 

Wyatt all but shook his head, examining the empty tub. “Fuck, ya couldn’t just sit still? Now look at ya, bleedin’. Jesus Christ, ya’ve fucking lost it. Don’t tell me ya’r kook ass thought ya saw a ghost,” The man idly mocked, recalling the last time he noticed The Aid stare off into an empty corner with his eyes nearly popping out of his skull. 

The Aid shook, his lip quivered as he tried to belt out, “No! Not a ghost, worse than a ghost. It—” he turned to Wyatt to see a half-fed up, half-scornful glare shooting back. He stopped, realizing just how nuts he looked and sounded. He sank into himself.

“I’m sorry, Sir. These meds…they make me feel weird,” he sighed, swapping his fervent panic with a practiced flavor of clear defeat he knew convincingly shadowed his face and wilted his voice. He did indeed feel like a kook, not because he doubted what he saw, but because he remembered just who he was talking to—King Deflection.

“Don’t think that’s gonna get ya outta taking them. Best learn how to deal 'cause ya still got a long way to go.” Wyatt grabbed the washcloth sitting on the sink, ran it under the water, and blotted the slice on The Aid’s chin. 

“Hold that there,” the older man directed. The Aid obliged. Wyatt halted any further disparaging remarks and even refrained from shooting him the usual hate-crazed glower.

“Lucky it ain’t nothin’ but a little cut. I think that means we’re done here.” His Master nonchalantly wiped the last few strips of shaving cream off his face with the corners of the rag, then cleaned up the shaving supplies.  

The Aid fell into a long silence. His fingers smoothed out the bunched-up ripples of terrycloth; his eyes anxiously darted back and forth between Wyatt and the tub. Tried as he might, he couldn’t calm the tornado still whirling in his gut or mollify his nerves, still heightened and simmering. 

Gone. It was completely gone without a fucking trace.

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Taglist: @sacredwrath @the-name-is-reaper @little-rat-dragon @pirefyrelight @whumpyourdamnpears @3-2-whump @potterhead5ever

If ya wanna be added or removed from the tag list, just let me know! Leave a comment or message me! :)

I know what you’re wondering—yes, The Aid is haunted by a sleep paralysis demon, The Night Hag! It’s a subtle element here, not a major plot point so if you don’t like paranormal shit, don’t worry it isn’t going to overtake the story (I just wanted to give it its own intro chapter).

Which goes without saying, chapter vibes:

#The Aid is having the WORST day #Eleanor Sullivan is haunting the narrative literally and figuratively folks #Wyatt is such a creep and I hate him #I know I made him—that doesn’t take away how much I can’t stand him #this is the most self-indulgent thing I’ve written so far :’} #The Aid #Wyatt Sullivan #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #supernatural whump #paranormal whump #night hag #sleep paralysis #sleep paralysis demon #oc story #original story #original au #whump oc #whump fic #horror whump #body horror #gore #slavefic #slave whump #oc whump #whump writing #nightmares come at night #living nightmare #whumping my ocs #whump story

[prideprejudce]

i know that this is just another drop in the bucket when it comes to the patriarchal double standards of hotd but i like how the writers made a point of showing that aegon has already fathered several bastards and has been sneaking out of the castle since he was a kid to misbehave and even snuck his thirteen year old brother to a brothel for his birthday and no one blinks an eye and characters like alicent and otto just shove (not sweep - fully SHOVE) this under the rug for years and years

and then there’s rhaenyra who left the castle once with daemon and went to a brothel for like five minutes before going back home and everyone effectively loses their shit. like alicent is practically foaming at the mouth (she was also prob jealous too but that’s another story) while otto is ready to let this one night cause rhaenyra’s full disinheritance of the crown and it’s like this whole crisis at kings landing on how to deal with this scandal. anyway the patriarchal society of this dragon fantasy world makes me wanna pull my hair out

#rhaenyra targaryen #house of the dragon #house of the dragon spoilers #hotd #hotd spoilers #aegon targaryen

[sabraeal]

Just a Second Away from Being In Love (Or Alone)

[Read on AO3]

Written for @another-miracle, who asked for any Obi POV in Wide Florida Bay-- but hopefully an obiyuki one 🤣. It actually took me a while to circle in on which one to pick; there's a few that I had my eye on earlier in the timeline, but when it came to obiyuki bits...I knew it had to be this one, which starts off a small mini-arc in the established relationship part of this fic!

It takes him two hours and two pounds of eggplant, but after five minutes of this newest crisis of morale, Obi finally gives in: he going have to use his Phone A Friend for this one. Or at least someone friendly. Ish.

“Tell me this is gonna be worth it,” he huffs, contorted into nature’s worst pretzel shape; his newest attempt to locate anything that could pass for another pie plate in this place. No way Doc’s lived here for three years without putting at least five of the most grandma-worthy vessels for piping-hot fruit somewhere in the cabinets. “Tell me this is gonna be the best thing I’ve put in my mouth my whole life. A fucking paradigm shift when it comes to food.”

“It’s eggplant parmesan. You’re gonna wish it was chicken.” Kelly Ann clucks her tongue, and god, she can be a thousand miles away, but he knows she’s got a knee balanced up on her desk, head tipped back because her eyes can’t roll far enough. “But you just spend half an afternoon drying the most finicky vegetable known to man, so you can’t turn back now. You’re committed.”

That’s the sort of talk that would have given him a life-threatening case of the hives years ago, limping around Atlanta’s unforgiving streets looking for an Urgent Care more quickly than taking a jab to the gut. But now he just asks, “But she’ll like it though, right?”

Kelly Ann sighs, already sick of him. “Yes. The poor innocent you’ve tricked into thinking you’re boyfriend material will think it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten. Even Cal’s officer buddies eat it, and they’re more picky than the four-year-old.”

“I dunno,” he hums, hand-pulverized breadcrumb scattering over sea foam ceramic. “She cooks really good. Have I told you about the Cornish hens? They—”

“I have heard all about the Cornish hens. I am sick of hearing about the Cornish hens.” Obi’s mouth twitches. Gotta be hard for her, having to share the pedestal for Gayle’s Favorite Child. At least with someone who isn’t her own kid. “What kind of guarantees are you look for here? That it’s going to get you laid? It will definitely get you laid.”

“Kelly Ann.” If his hands weren’t covered in egg, he’d be pressing one to his chest, scandalized. “I wasn’t— I’m not doing this for sex.”

She snorts. Which, frankly, he’s earned. But he’s turned over a new leaf. Become a new, better man. One who knows that the most important part of a relationship isn’t what happens between the sheets.

But it certainly helps hedge your bets, especially when you’re as much of a fuck up as he is. Hell, if sex was an option, he wouldn’t be here, debating which hand he’d used for the wet ingredients and which was for the dry. Oh no, he would have been far too busy making her see shrimp colors to worry about whether eggplants stayed crispier fried or baked. But since he’d had fallen for her absolutely genius— though, as Yuzuri warned, biologically inadvisable— beach-dinner-sex seduction strategy, Doc’s on the bench for the next quarter, sexy-time wise, and he’s—

Well, he’s got to show her he’s got talents out of the bedroom too. Or, er, off the couch. And shower. Sometimes even—

Ah, well, non-flat surface based talents. Cooking’s supposed to be one of them.

At least, it would be, if his eggplant slices weren’t eating floor. “How are you supposed to even get these slippery bastards over to the tray? They just keep— fuck.”

“Just go slow,” Kelly Ann informs him with an aggravating amount of patience. “It’s not a race.”

“I am going slow,” he snaps, gingerly transferring his next slice to the rack. “There is no possible way I could be going slower. I’m going to be here for days just doing this. Years from now, archaeologists will find my body and wonder why I’m only halfway through—”

“If there was an Olympic event for complaining, you’d take gold five years running.” She can tease him as much as she like, but there’s no bite to it anymore, no sharp teeth waiting to take a nibble. No, he’s pretty sure that the stretch on her vowels means she’s smirking; the closest thing to a smile when she’s aimed in his direction. “Maybe you should be doing this for sex, it sounds like you might need—”

“You keep this up and I’ll ask Gayle when you’re thinking you’ll have round two.” His mouth is all teeth as he adds, “After all, Laila would make such a cute big sister.”

He can’t see her, but he can hear her seething on the other end of the line. “I know where you live.”

“It’s a fourteen hour drive at best and I’ve got Mom on speed dial.”

Her scowl radiates from the speaker. “Fine,” she grits out. “Guess I’ll just have to tell her we’re waiting until number two could have a playmate.”

Obi blinks down at her picture. “Huh, Toddy’s found some girl? That’s fast. He was single at—”

“I’m not talking about Toddy.”

There’s enough silence in the kitchen to make his ears ring. “…What?”

“Oh, come on, Obi,” Kelly Ann sighs, as if he’s the one being obtuse. “The only people you two were fooling at Christmas were yourselves. And now you’re spending a whole day pampering eggplant to impress her?”

“I had a day off,” he murmurs, knees suddenly as solid as his egg dredge. “And I don’t think battering and frying count as a spa day.”

Kelly Ann grunt, unconvinced. “Sure, sure, we can sit here and have you deflect all day. But when it comes down to it…you’re serious about her aren’t you?”

As a heart attack. Which would be fine, if they weren’t barely two months in to the longest relationship of his life. “I think it’s a little soon to say that, uh…”

“That you love her?” His heart beats so loud in his ears he can hardly hear her ask, “You do, don’t you? Love her?”

“Yeah.” It’s a miracle he can even speak with his mouth this dry. “Of course I do.”

“Have you said that? With your Big Boy words?”

He has to press his hands against the counter to keep them from shaking. A strategy that would go better if both of them weren’t covered in egg gunk.

“Ah, gotta go,” he gasps, already reaching for a towel. “Making a real mess of all this.”

“Obi—”

The first finger clean shoots out, cutting off the call.

“There,” he sighs. “That’s enough of that existential crisis.”

*

The eggplant’s fresh out of the oven and sauce just off the heat when the door opens with a shush, his own personal problem stumbling out into the living room, trying to toe her sandals into the tray. If he weren’t elbow deep with this casserole dish, he’d saunter out to appreciate her attempts; there’s a lot on TV nowadays, but none of it can compete with Doc nearly giving herself a concussion trying to unlatch one of those little buckles. TLC used to say you learned something new every day, and listening to her grumble approach swears without ever intersecting, Obi agrees.

“Oh, really.” Most people might be happy just to hurl abuse at inanimate objects, but not Doc. Oh no, she’s got to reason with them.  “This sort of…of…tomfoolery is very…rude. I think you should just…stop…if you would…”

He waits until the first tell-tale clatter and clunk, to call out, “Welcome home.”

“Obi!” she yelps, and oh, he might not be able to see it, but he knows that shocked look: mouth as round as her eyes, skin flushed down to where it meets the swoop of her collar. Extremely kissable, is what he’s saying. “You’re here?”

A tap of the sauce spool sends a chunk of it skittering across the stove, but he grins anyway. “Am I not supposed to be? Did you have plans? Maybe even naughty—?”

“No!” It’s more of a croak than a gasp. “No, I mean…you’re supposed to be here. I’m happy your here. You” —her voice drops, soft, like her pillows— “belong here.”

He thought he’d known all the ways a heart could ache these past few years, but when she talks like that, ah, he’d never thought it could feel this good. Or this terrifying. “You’re not denying the naughty plans thing.”

And she still doesn’t, going so quiet a guy might get suspicious, if he didn’t know— keenly— that she was still in the shop. Taking her nice places and making delicious, boyfriend-worthy dinners has been great; a bigger rush than sex in a bathroom stall. But still, when most of their nights involve staying in, settling into the couch the way they always did, just with the new, heady knowledge that they both are wanting the same things…

Well, there’s been a few inadvisable make out sessions. Exciting ones, the kind that involve hands going under shirts and down pants and wearing hoodies in eighty degree weather the next day. But every time they wandered beneath her shorts— or, more than a few personally exhilarating times, skirts— the mood swerved off the rails, ending things before they— or well, she could get anywhere. After a three-year dry spell, Obi thought a few weeks would be a breeze, a quick breather between rounds, but after a month of having her moan his name at just the simplest touch—

It’s a special kind of torture, he thinks as the other shoe drops. Especially when Doc’s never been one to behave.

“You are home early.” Doc doesn’t often get the jump on him— in shitty childhood vs playful girlfriend, there’s a clear winner every time— but this time, when her sweet voice pipes up from his elbow rather than the galley window, he does. “And cooking dinner?”

“Yeah, I, ah…” She’s always been a curious little squirrel, skittering hither and yon, but when she leans around him to catch a peek of his hard work, her breasts brush against his arm, and, well— like he said. It’s been a long time. “Haah…just needed to let some data compile for a diagram. Thought it might do better on my laptop on our internet.”

He should be playing Tetris with these eggplant pieces right now, but Doc doesn’t make it easy, not with the way she tucks herself against him, her front pressed to his side, a burning line from shoulder to hip. “Are those eggplant?”

One small hand traces a path across his belly, just below his navel, and— and Obi can read a room. Really he can. It’s just not possible that she’s putting down what he’s picking up. “Y-yeah.” He clears his throat, willing it back into an actual, grown adult’s register. “I, uh, got the recipe from Kelly Ann. She…”

Her wrist twists, just enough to dip the tip of her finger beneath his waistband, and oh god, okay, he can’t take it. “Can we talk?” he asks, desperate, one hand gripped around her wrist. “Just for a second here. Because I…I need some clarification, I think.”

Doc flusters, every visible inch of her skin red as she tries to slip from his grasp. Which is absolutely not happening, not if she’s barking up the tree he thinks she is. “S-sorry! I just…I thought…”

One tug sends her careening back into him, every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. Or well, most of them. He's got ten or so that don't quite match up “I’m not complaining about the thinking here. I’m confused about the doing, because I thought we weren’t supposed to, er…”

Do the doing isn’t really where he wants to take this sentence. “I thought,” he starts again, a shade more collected, “that you were in the shop.”

“No.” Her cheeks flush so pink he’s half tempted to bite them, just to see what she’d taste like against his tongue. “I-I mean, I was. But I went to my doctor today, and um…?”

Every muscle in his body stiffens, tense like a cat ready to pounce. “And…?”

Doc might be bold enough to throw herself out windows and into swamps full of at least three of his most deadly fears, but at the twitch of his dick against her hip, her eyes skitter back toward the counter. “A-are you at a good place to stop?”

The eggplant’s going to get floppy in the sauce, and none of it will be as good as it would be if he finished getting this in the oven now, but he can hardly care, not when she lets out a delicious little gasp as she bumps into the counter.

“What exactly did the doc clear you for?” he rumbles, leaning in to give her parted lips the barest brush. “This?”

Her fingers clench at his shoulders, as frustrated as the moan that slips from her throat. “Obi…”

There’s a warning in that, a promise for what will wait for him if he keeps up his teasing, and it only makes his next taste all the sweeter.

“This?” It’s a whisper against her lips, one lost when she swallows it whole. Those fingers yank him down, trapping him in this endless drag of lips and tongue, each one teasing out another moan, another shiver, until he’s nearly drunk from it.

One of his palms scrapes up her side; the silky material of her dress catches on his calluses before he dips beneath it, her nipple already pebbled against his palm. “This?”

His mouth drops to catch it, and oh, if he thought she’d been close before, there’s nothing but cloth between them now, her body arched to fill the curve of his. “Obi!”

She’s trembling in his grip, only the arm at her back keeping her upright, and oh, it’s nothing to trace his fingers up her thigh, to trace the edge of her panties. “This?”

His only answer is a whimper and the bite of nails at his shoulder. It’s enough; he shoves them to the side, the small hairs there tickling his palms. And when the tip of his finger slips between her folds—

“Jesus. Fuck.” His forehead rests against her shoulder. “You’re…?”

Wet. Soaked. His mouth is too dry to get out the words. He doesn’t need to, not when she nods, wiggling against his hand. “Uh-huh.”

“Hah.” He licks his lips, hoping she can’t feel how he trembles now, every part of him drawn as tight as a bowstring. “How about this?”

His fingers dip inside, two sinking straight to the last knuckle. God, he nearly cums right there, from the noise she makes. “Is this what the doc cleared you for, Shirayuki?”

She whines, a pathetic, frustrated sound. One he’d be happy to tease out of her again, if she didn’t reach down and pump his fingers into her again, like he might need the help.

“Haah,” he breathes, hard. “Yeah, I think I can help with that.”

By the way she’s moving, it won’t be enough. Not nearly enough for either of them, not with his cock straining his jeans, soaking them where it’s trapped up against the band. He grinds against her hip, trying to get some relief, pulling her even tighter against him as his fingers work, and—

“Obi,” she gasps, pushing his shoulders away. “We eat on these counters.”

He’d argue that, if they weren’t already sharing space with dinner. Instead he leans in, giving her one, long kiss as he drags his fingers out of her. “Your room or mine?”

“Whichever,” she sighs, hopping up into his arms, “is closer.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #The Wide Florida Bay #lime #my fic #modern AU #college AU #ans #set just after Something Real (the beach date) #I had a whole very smutty part planned for the very end here but instead there is just a teaser for it #because this first scene got LONG and then I wanted Shirayuki to dither a bit #wrap around his legs like a cat in heat while he wondered whether he was getting a green light or was just colorblind #so just a little taste! #next time i have an opportunity to get to this mini arc there will definitely be smut #the plot bearing kind #🤣

[consistenthero]

Your deathstroke posts finally made me cave. I'm going to start reading about this sad bastard man; where do I start? I've heard his '91 run is like, "he wants to die, he can't die, there's also a lot of homoerotic subtext with his good pal wintergreen" but there's also that Judas Contract arc in NTT, and I've seen good things about the Deathstroke Inc Year One arc, and you've also mentioned Rebirth? All I know is that he was hilarious in UTRH until he bombed Blüd, but apparently that's ooc of him anyways?

😭😭 thats terrible news that ive inflicted this man upon you.

that being said! I absolutely think you should read 91 and NTT and try to do it in as much order as you can (comics suck sometimes it hard to follow), Slade is SO emotional in the early comics like he CRIES multiple times but you can really tell how much he loves Joey and how hard Joey's death affects him and they're classic comics for a reason, like they're good comics (but they are very dated though so prepare yourself for that)

I do think it takes a special person to read Rebirth Slade (Deathstroke 2016) and come away actually liking him so I feel like you should read that second to however far you get in the 91 one.

Rebirth is mostly a book about how he affects his family so they get to shine and his dynamic with Addie in it literally makes me foam at the mouth and I wont lie I do really love him in that as well, his relationships with Wally and Tanya are so cute until they're not. Rebirth has grown on me like a fungus, I've now read pieces of it at least three times. (If you want to watch a rebirth-like Slade, Deathstroke Knights & Dragons does kinda do that, you do have to suspend your belief because the plot sucks)

New 52 Slade sucks, his one redeeming quality is that he does get to love his kids in that. Also, this might be controversial but I do think Slade is pretty in character in Nightwing (1996) which has pieces that overlap with UTRH up UNTIL Bludhaven gets bombed. Dick and Slade were playing EACH OTHER and using Rose to do it and I just know that Bludhaven getting bombed was not how that arc was supposed to end.

That being said, Slade bombing bludhaven does impact the way the titans interact with him until the end of post-crisis.

Sorry this ended up being long but I've fallen off of any recent Slade comics since Deathstroke Year One ended (I REALLY LIKED IT, it was predictable but perfect to me)

Anyway, thanks for asking about my old man, I hope this helped.

#slade wilson #deathstroke #dc comics #no one: me: sorry for slade posting

[watermeloncholycucumbersome]

Day 33 of Writing Something Everyday

(365 Day Challenge)

Swimming, diving deep,

With you as we sink to the bottom of the sea.

In your arms I feel oh so safe, no one but you and I down here; it's so quiet.

Midnights moon reflects upon the water above us, dancing little flickers of light.

Motionless, we hold eachother as the bubbles swirl around us; warm and soothing tickling our skin.

The current is the cradle that rocks us gently into dreaming.

If I could stay here forever I would, encased in amber as if we were ancient beetles, a relic they'd study in time.

No one would laugh, or have remorse or think us crazy, they'd all gaze upon our frozen frames and exclaim "That's love".

Gossamer in summer,

Weaved in the bosom of God.

Immersed beneath the sea foam like drowning pleasantly, swimming

Through wormholes of possibilities; our air bubbles floating - swirling upward and around us.

Healing our wounds the world's nails have gouged in our skin by the salt water that covers us. Then suddenly we're

Yanked out of our home, we're safe no more, the water is gone and we're now just two land mammals; fish out of water gasping.

Into the unknown, naked and afraid, what was once

Innocence now turns into survival. We're

Amusement for the masses - a circus act.

They've never seen anything like us, as we twist and turn in a tank too small for one of us let alone the both of us.

No name given on our plaque the visitors read, children young and old with faces and hands pressed up against the glass.

A freak experiment of elites to study for profit.

In each other's arms we struggle to breathe.

Grandoise faux light from the overhead artificial luminescence screwed to the ceiling above us. I'm reminded of home, and I weep silently.

Home, I miss our home, I miss the quietness that has now become a constant vibration throughout the water mumblings and tones we don't understand rattling our eardrums.

Tumultuous crowds surround us, we're no longer in the sea, we're surrounded by a sea of humans, a gazingstock to judgement. This isn't how it was supposed to be, it wasn't what I had dreamed for us. You mouth "It's okay, just close your eyes" then you're no longer near me and I feel the warmth of the water that held you pull away from me, the space feeling now cold and empty. Then I hear pounding on glass the water around us begins to move violently as if we are in the middle of a storm. I open my eyes to see you, fists beating the glass with such veracity and force that I had never seen from you until now. Within a few hits the glass around us began to crack slowly, like ice and the sound of it doing so was similar.

Blood began to swirl slowly from your hands and I call your name but you respond

with the loudest scream I'd ever heard, your voice reverberating off the four clear walls that burst assunder like firecrackers exploding beautifully in the sky.

Within milliseconds we were riding the waves of our "new home" through the museum. Frightened faces of visitors bobbing in the water now with us, muffled words become loud audible yelling. Guards clamouring to recapture us as a red faced fat man in a tuxedo yells "GET THEM!!!"

We slip and slide in the glass and water making our way outside, Mal De Débarquement kicking in. We run together as I try to keep up crossing busy roads, the cool air drying out our skin by the second. Cars skidding to full on stops, yelling cursing, honking their horns at us "put some clothes on ya filthy bastards" someone yells spitting at us. I collapse - you grab me up in your arms and run with me your chest heaving as we make our way across the street and toward the water. Home, oh home I can't believe it I thought I'd never see it again. Flakes of our skin blow away in the nights breeze, we're drying out too fast - we need to get to the water before it's too late.

Finally reaching the sandy shore we both collapsed to our knees, breathing laboured, grasping at fistfuls of sand pulling ourselves towards home - home. Like baby sea turtles flapping their flippers to get to water, we moved our arms until we felt the warmth of the sea and the smell, oh the wonderful smell!

Then we are pulled by the waves and under letting it take us, exhausted from the day this felt perfect and instantly I felt better. The look on his face staring back at me with those eyes of his told me that all was well with him too.

We were home and nobody could hurt us anymore, we were alone and we could just be!

Swimming hand in hand until we were far beyond where anyone would ever find us again.

Now motionless, we hold eachother as the bubbles swirl around us; warm and soothing.

The current is the cradle that rocks us gently into dreaming.

And we'll awake tomorrow to the glittering sunrise welcoming us back.

I nestle into his arms and he relaxes into mine, wrapped up in one anothers company.

"Goodnight my love" he whispers,

"Goodnight my love" I whisper back.

~Jenni

#thoughts #feelings #love #poem #poetry #spilled heart #spilled words #don't want to be here #original poem #love poem #poets on tumblr #writers and poets #written word #original writing #writers on tumblr #poems on tumblr #original poetry #writing #writeblr #spilled writing #spilled thoughts #spilled ink #spilled poetry #true love #short poetry #short story #ronance #romantacism #romantic #mental health

[ashayam-87]

I am going ABSOLUTELY FERAL. We have shot past clawing the furniture, straight into foaming-at-the-mouth rabid, diseased insanity. I am sobbing in the kitchen, what the fuck, Neil Gaiman you ABSOLUTE BASTARD.

What the fuck? No, what the FUCK was that? The Gabriel/Beez plot line was so sweet that it was disgusting in a good way. They got their Good Omens happy ending! Yay!

WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT ENDING? I was riding that dopamine high, the day was saved, then BOOM! HEARTBREAK. It was the goddamn Bandstand scene ALL OVER AGAIN, BUT WORSE. Before the "please choose me, choose US" was just implied, but this time was just fucking said. Out Loud. The AUDACITY.

I am so Crowley-coded, I felt that so personally. All those memories Aziraphale had, and he still couldn't understand that Doing the Right Thing isn't ABOUT being an angel? All the times Crowley CHOSE to defy Hell, to do what was right by his own moral code, and Az STILL thinks that becoming an angel again is some kind of forgiveness? They threw Gabriel out just for not wanting to destroy the humans with nuclear war. They didn't even KNOW about Beez at that point.

There HAS to be a Season 3! Good Omens is one of my favorite books, and I was so excited by the first season, to see it played out so beautifully. The second season was all new, uncharted territory, but the ending makes me feel like the happy finale we got with the original material been taken away. No nightingales.

WHAT THE FUCK, @neil-gaiman? (Respectfully.)

As an aside: way to go, GO cast. David and Michael were just astounding as always, with so many new, old, and new/old friends bringing such joy. It really was superb, all the way. I really thought I was losing my mind the first time we saw Nina, and Shax. That old BBC actor pool again, lol!

#aziraphale #good omens #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #good omens s2

[kasugas]

sagawa and sera. 2 old men i have a lot of opposing thoughts about

answers for this post

sagawa and sera in that order. this was a real tough one just because i feel like my thoughts abt them cant be summarised fully on this bingo sheet. as compensation for having pretty cringe bingo sheets i'll elaborate a lil more under a readmore

If i were to answer this bingo card for Sagawa when i first played y0 i'd be foaming at the mouth with nothing but anger for him, but after a couple of years since i first encountered him ingame and a few replays.. He's a fuckin evil little bastard with an abhorrent personality but the way the story uses him i cant help but really appreciate what he does for the story. that and the fact that he is the only "villain" that you dont get into a ring and duke it out with really makes him memorable. while he's the Worst to majima it really makes sense once you realise that hes just some random middleman whos had this guy dumped in his lap by a kyoudai he only has for strategic reasons. he doesnt seem really driven by any passions and he knows hes a cog in the machine as evidenced by the ending of y0. even the little story he tells about his childhood helps cement this. to me it seems like he wasnt a kind of guy who had grand ideals to climb the ranks of the yakuza or anything, he was just sucked into this world and goes along with it cause its the easiest thing to do. he clearly has Issues. i still cant believe majima was just cool with letting him walk free at the end and im glad he got his just desserts. i guess it shows that majima is a little more emotionally mature than he lets on esp upon entering his mad dog persona.

now Sera is a different story.... in all honesty i cant remember his moments as much as sagawa (which clearly shows which character overall i favour more lol) i understand why he made majima jump through all those bullshit hoops in 0 despite how once you know how the story ends on a second playthru ur just "like cmon man its me". as for his short appearance in y1... all i can say he was good at "playing the game" with all the bullshit that goes on in y1. a character that ultimately strived for good even if careless

#asko #thankie for the ask... id be really inch rested to hear ur opinions about these two

[feathered-serpents]

Amazing Devil Lyrics that Make Me Foam at the Mouth 

After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last! 

You were a king and his castle, I was every dirty rascal, If you asked me for my lighter mate I gave you my fire

AND THIS HERE IS NOT SINGING I’M JUST SCREAMING IN TUNE

You try so loud to love me, I cannot seem to hear 

You do not get to hurt me just because I asked you once if you were alright! 

And I'd sink to the floor, what's the point any more? And you, you'd reply With a glint in your eye (with a drink in your hand) Saying, "I don't know, but I'm here Oh, dear God (I'm all yours), dear heart, don't cry"

The wind and its shackles, the old fishers tackles (All that matters) The sea and its waters, every unwanted daughter!

Just because I left doesn’t mean that I’m not still there 

Hey darling hey, hey darling hey, I’m the hardest goodbye that you’ll ever have to say 

I'm the paper cut that kills you, I'm the priest that you ignored, I'm the touch you crave, I'm the plans that you made, but fuck all your plans, I'm bored

And what they hear isn’t laughter after all, It’s just your voice learning for once to stand up tall

I’m the Jesus of wishing to Christ you’ll come back! 

We were gods! (we were kids)

Are you Cain, 'cause I'm not Abel, your bastard lasting night bus asking what's the everlasting fable?

GIVE ME BACK MY HEART YOU WINGLESS THING

My head’s not yours it’s mine, and I’ll take my fucking time 

And our voices collide with each howl of the tide singing all hell and its fires wait for us! 

Tear me up and burn me up and rip me up, and leave your hand on the wall as you go, blood's pouring like Martini, graffiti sweet bikini, is that what you think of me now? No no no NO

Instead what is left but this old satin dress and the mess that you left when you told me I wasn’t right in the head 

And we fall into each other, the scratching grows so loud! Because that unwanted animal wants nothing more than to get out

That you might not fear a man, But to a woman by the end you’ll kneel and plea, Cos I’m more than what my mum told me to be

#the amazing devil #there's more but eventually I had to stop

[kiribakuhappiness]

drabble idea! who said "i love you" first, and what were they doing?? 👀

(Kiribaku Drabble Prompt) I started following the prompt and then it totally spiraled...

It was an accident.

A fucking accident.

It slipped out so casually, tumbled out of his mouth so effortlessly, felt as natural as breathing or shitting or eating or sleeping - it was an accident.

Kirishima halted halfway out the door with his hero-suitcase clutched tight in one hand, and Bakugou's entire body stiffened as soon as he registered in his groggy early-morning brain what it was that he had just said out loud.

Fuck. It was a fucking accident!

He wasn't ready to have that kind of a talk yet, he wasn't ready to deal with all of the bullshit that would no doubt come as a result from it, he wasn't ready to be in love. Not yet. Not right now. Not with Kirishima.

Kirishima glanced over his shoulder back into the apartment, and Bakugou used every ounce of the willpower that he had inside of him to force himself to keep cooking, force himself to not look back at him, force himself to pretend like he hadn't just said what he had just said.

But all that Kirishima responded with before he walked out the door was, "I'll text ya if I plan on bringing home dinner tonight, bro!"

And then he was gone.

Bakugou's muscles still felt tight, though, and his heart still felt like it was beating ridiculously fast somewhere deep inside his chest, but he forced himself to go about his own damn business. It was nothing - it had meant nothing.

It was just a fucking accident.

-

Kirishima didn't mind taking care of Bakugou when he was drunk.

Honestly, he was just relieved that his best bro had finally started to loosen the restrictive reins on his social conduct enough to even consider going out with the rest of their old classmates from Yuuei High.

It was nice to see him snicker and share snide remarks with Todoroki at the bar, and it was nice to watch him playfully goad Mina with teasing shoves to the shoulder at the pool table, and it was even nice to watch him knock the bottom of his beer bottle down on the top of Midoriya's and cause the foam to bubble up and spill out onto the table while everyone laughed at the display because at least he wasn't trying to kill anybody.

Kirishima didn't mind taking care of Bakugou when he was drunk.

He just didn't really know how he was supposed to respond when Bakugou said shit like that; a grunted whisper in his ear with a strong arm wrapped around his neck as the pair of them meandered down the empty night street back towards their apartment.

It probably didn't mean anything anyway. Bakugou was drunk; his words were slurring and his eyes looked cloudy and he tripped over his own feet every couple of steps. It didn't mean anything. It didn't mean what Kirishima wanted it to mean, he was certain of it.

"Eh?" Bakugou grunted louder when Kirishima didn't respond to that. He pressed harder into Kirishima's side, his bicep tightened around Kirishima's neck. "Didya fuckin' hear w-what I said, shitbag-hairstyle-shit?"

Bakugou reached across with his other free hand and pinched hard at Kirishima's flushed cheek, who couldn't help but snort as he tried to tilt his head away. Bakugou's arm squeezed around his neck and prevented him from going very far though.

"Yeah, I heard ya man," Kirishima huffed out, and he tried not to look at him, and he tried not to notice how tight his chest felt, and he tried not to think about it because Bakugou didn't mean it like that.

"Kay," Bakugou relented as he dropped his hand back down to his side again.

The pair of them continued back to the apartment in silence, save for the scuffing of their sneakers against the asphalt of the pavement, and Kirishima really didn't mind taking care of Bakugou when he was drunk.

He just wished that Bakugou would stop saying that if he didn't really mean it.

-

Once was an accident. Twice was a coincidence. Three times was a habit.

Or as Bakugou liked to look at it:

Once was a fluke. Twice was a mistake. Three times is the result of Enemy Action.

This was all Kirishima’s fault, really.

It was Kirishima’s fault for suggesting that they move in together after they graduated from Yuuei. It was Kirishima’s fault for insisting that they go together to buy all of those dumb household necessities like shower curtains and plates and matching fucking towels. It was Kirishima’s fault for always strutting around the apartment without his shirt on, it was Kirishima’s fault for always leaving the bathroom door cracked open when he was in the shower, it was Kirishima’s fault for always ruffling Bakugou’s hair whenever he walked by him sitting on the couch - it was all Kirishima’s fucking fault!

Bakugou stared at the black screen of his phone after the call had ended, stared at the tiny angry reflection of himself staring back at him, and his fingers tightened desperately on the edges.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why did he keep fucking saying that shit? Why did it keep fumbling out of him like some kind of thoughtless instinct?

Why didn’t Kirishima ever say anything about it?

Todoroki blinked from beside him on the sidewalk as the afternoon rush of pedestrians scurried by like a school of fish avoiding an intrusive boulder settled in the middle of a river. "Did you just tell Kirishima that you loved him?"

Bakugou tensed. He glared at him out of the corner of his eye as he shoved his phone back into his pocket and continued on with their patrol. “As if. Get your damn ears checked, icyhot.”

“My yearly audiometry evaluation came back normal a few months ago,” Todoroki informed him unnecessarily. “You just told Kirishima that you loved him.”

Bakugou’s lip twitched into the start of an impatient snarl. “Fuck off, it ain’t any of your damn business!”

Todoroki considered this for a moment in silence before he asked, “Does that mean that you two are finally dating?”

Bakugou’s gaze snapped over to look at him with a challenging glare. “Dating?”

Todoroki nodded. “Finally.”

“Finally?!”

“Yes. It means after a long time, typically following a considerable delay or-”

“I know what it fucking means!” Bakugou chided, clenching his hands into fists. “The fuck would we be dating for?”

Todoroki blinked at him again like he wasn’t really sure how he was supposed to proceed with this conversation. Bakugou continued to glare at him as he waited for some kind of explanation, and he tried to ignore how sweaty his hands were or how hard his heart was hammering somewhere lodged up in his throat.

“Hold on,” Todoroki dug around in his pocket and pulled his phone out as the pair of them crossed through a busy intersection before he entered a number on speed dial and held it up to his ear. “Hello. Bakugou just asked me why he should date Kirishima, what was it you told me again?”

“What the shit?! Who the fuck are you talking to!?” Bakugou lunged for the phone in Todoroki’s hand, but a shard of ice shooting out of the pavement from the toe of Todoroki’s boot effectively prevented him from doing so. “You fucking bastard!”

“Ah. Right. Okay. Thank you,” Todoroki hung up the phone just as Bakugou rounded the jutting piece of ice and came to stand in front of him, looking murderous. Todoroki seemed incredibly unfazed by this as he relayed back to him, “Denki says that only bros who want to see their other bros dicks would act the way that you do around Kirishima.”

Bakugou was so blindsided by this blunt comment that for a moment the only thing he could do was look at him in stunned silence. Todoroki seemed incredibly unfazed by this, as well.

“Do you want to see Kirishima’s dick?” he asked very seriously.

...

Did he?!?

-

Kirishima didn’t know how much more of this he could realistically take.

Once was no big deal. An accident, a fluke, a half-awake brain grumbling a half-garbled sentence that didn’t mean anything. Twice was more of an annoyance, really. A coincidence or a mistake, a drunken statement no doubt uttered by hundreds of inebriated people on a nightly basis.

The third time it was so quick that Kirishima hadn’t even registered that it had even happened until about twenty minutes after the call had already ended.

So what though, right? Lots of people ended their calls like that. Usually when they were talking to a family member or a significant other, but Bakugou was his best friend and sometimes best friends said it too, so there shouldn’t be any reason for Kirishima to make a big deal out of it.

But there was no excuse for it this time, as Kirishima came to a sudden halt in the middle of the kitchen to stare incredulously across the counter at his roommate who had just come barreling out of his room like a man on an increasingly important mission. Bakugou stared back at him with a tightly clenched jaw and a set of narrowed eyes as though he were gearing up for a physical confrontation.

Kirishima blinked, and the base of his neck felt flushed and warm as the back of his shirt started to stick to his skin. He swallowed hard. “W...what?”

Bakugou’s eyes narrowed further. “You heard me.”

Kirishima did hear him - has heard him say it four separate times now - and still, he had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that statement. Once was an accident, twice was a coincidence, three times was a habit. So what was Kirishima supposed to blame the fourth time on?

“You gonna say it back, or what?” Bakugou challenged him with a defiant lift of his chin as though he had something to prove.

Kirishima’s hands tightened on the bowl he’d almost forgotten he was even holding on to. He couldn’t say it back, he couldn’t. Not when Bakugou didn’t mean it like that, not after how long he’s spent lying awake at night in his room fantasizing about this very moment, not if Bakugou was just going to take it all back and pretend it had never even happened in the first place.

Bakugou shifted awkwardly on the other side of the counter, restless and fidgety and growing more impatient with each second that passed, before he huffed angrily and spat out again, “I said I fucking love you. Now are you gonna fucking tell me that you love me too, or not?”

Kirishima’s eyes widened like saucers and his fingers clenched harder on the bowl. “You... love me?”

Bakugou’s shoulders tensed but he refused to back out, stubborn and steadfast and ready to go down swinging. “How many more damn times you need me to fucking say it?”

Kirishima continued to blink at him, vaguely aware of how fast his heart was racing somewhere far away, vaguely aware of how his entire body seemed to thrum chaotically down to its very core, vaguely aware of how warm his chest felt as he replayed all of the past incidents.

Murmured in the domestic hush of early morning in front of a sizzling breakfast. Whispered in the contented aftermath of a rambunctious night out with friends. Uttered in the casual routine of a midday check-up following a planned inquiry for a shared dinner later that night.

And now here. Stated bluntly and directly so as not to be misinterpreted as any kind of accident, or coincidence, or some type of forced habit. A declaration and a confession all wrapped up in one white-knuckled challenge.

“Well?” Bakugou snapped as his chest heaved with every harsh breath. “If I have to say it again, I will. If I have to say it a million fucking times for you to get it through your thick skull then I fucking will. I said I fucking love -”

Kirishima couldn’t possibly have waited for him to finish as he surged across the room, dumping his abandoned bowl carelessly onto the counter before he crashed his lips down hard onto Bakugou’s, who stuttered and stumbled at the sudden intrusion into his space before he pushed back with just as much enthusiasm.

And even though Kirishima couldn’t possibly get the words out past all of the frantic movement of their eager lips, his heart thumped painfully with each thought flitting through his mind that he was certain Bakugou could hear loud and clear:

I love you, I love you, I love you.

#kiribaku drabble prompts #kiribaku #pining #and they were roommates #love confessions #kirishima is in denial #bakugou is losing his mind #Todoroki just wants answers for his very important questions #kiribaku fic #bakugou katsuki #kirishima eijirou #bakushima #bakushima fic #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #bnha fanfic #mha fanfic #todoroki shouto #kaminari denki #mina ashido #midoriya izuku #bnha #my hero academia

[charlieknighte]

loose ends + loose lips

Calisto Yew & Byrne Faraday & Tyrell Badd

782 words

The Yatagarasu makes a toast to the past and the future. A submission to Yatagarasu Week ‘22 for the day 2 prompt ‘Disguise’.

It’s not that Calisto doesn’t like children, no matter how many times she’s used that as an excuse. Faraday’s kid is precocious-cute, smart and sneaky for her age. Takes after her dad. If the circumstances were different, she wouldn’t mind being Auntie Calisto. She’d teach her to pick pockets better, teach her where to kick an adult where it hurts if she ever needs to. She’s a bright kid–she has a good future, no matter if she follows in Faraday’s footsteps or not.

Not liking Kay isn’t the problem. It’s that she doesn’t like collateral damage.

But being the kid of one of her partners in crime, of course she’s always going to be underfoot–even now, as they gather at Faraday’s house in the evening to celebrate a recent successful heist. And because Calisto hasn’t helped Kay improve her pickpocketing technique, Faraday catches her sneaking a lollipop out of Badd’s coat pocket almost immediately. “Kay,” he admonishes, scooping her up by the armpits and swiftly standing up from his seat on the couch. She shrieks, still clenching her prize in one fist. Calisto pauses on her way back to get glasses from the kitchen and leans in the doorway, watching in amusement.

Kay tries to squirm out of his grip, pedaling her legs in the air. “Daddy! Not fair!”

“I don’t mind… if she wants one,” says Badd, a lollipop of his own in his mouth. He has his arms crossed and is slouched so deeply into the couch that it gives Calisto back problems just to look at him. He looks sour, but that’s just Badd.

“I know you don’t,” Faraday says, beginning to shake Kay like he’s trying to get coins out of a piggy bank. She yells indignantly. “But she doesn’t need the sugar this late, believe me. C’mon, Kay, give it up.”

“No!” Kay contorts herself, trying to bite him on the arm. He dodges skillfully.

Calisto snorts, pushing off of the doorway and coming to pluck the lollipop from Kay’s grip, three champagne flutes balanced between the fingers of her other hand. “God, you sound so old right now,” she tells Faraday. Free of excuses to be a bastard, he heaves Kay back down to the floor. She scurries away to hide behind the arm of the couch, peeking her eyes out to glare at them both. 

“Yeah, yeah, don’t remind me.” Faraday takes one of the flutes from Calisto and sits back down, reaching for their champagne bottle. “Anyway, you’re not the one who has to deal with her jumping on your bed at eleven at night.”

“Daddy,” Kay complains, like a grouchy little adult, “I’m right here. I can hear you.”

Byrne takes the opportune moment to pop the cork and catch the bottle’s sputter of foam in his glass. “Did anyone hear something?” he says serenely. “Just me?” 

Calisto resists the urge to half-affectionately call him an asshole and distributes the other glass to Badd. She sits on Faraday’s other side and lets him pour her a glass. Badd slumps forward to accept a drink, too. “Kay… not getting anything?” he mutters.

Faraday gives him a look. “What kind of father do you think I–”

“Meant a juice. Or something.”

“Sugar, Tyrell, juice has sugar like you wouldn’t believe.”

Kay kicks the couch and groans dramatically. Calisto cackles. “You’re so boring! What are we toasting to?”

“Right,” says Byrne, raising his glass. “To the fall of the Matsui company.”

Remembering the heist has an immediate sobering effect. Calisto’s laugh had been genuine, but what’s left of it dies in her mouth. They had contacts at that company–not the Yatagarasu. She’s dreading her next report back to the ring. 

“To the Yatagarasu… and to justice,” Badd rumbles, raising his glass next to Byrne’s. 

They’re going to tell her she’s getting too comfortable, too friendly. If you keep going like this, they’ll remind her, one day you’re going to fuck up. You’re going to slip and let them too close, and you’re not wriggling your way out of cleanup duty. Remember that. Remember where your allegiances lie when you take off Calisto Yew’s face.

Calisto catches a look of Kay, chin now resting on the arm of the couch, looking up at the glasses with awe. The gears in her head are practically visible as they turn, trying to comprehend the delights they could possibly contain and how she could manage to steal one to find out. Calisto tears her eyes away and finally raises her glass. “To Cece,” she says.

Faraday tips his head. “To family, here or otherwise.”

Calisto clinks her glass to her dead fake sister in silence, and downs her drink quickly.

#kay faraday #calisto yew #byrne faraday #tyrell badd #yatagarasu week

[heli0s-writes]

crystalline*

A/N: Instead of attending to the rest of my WIPS, here’s 1.6k words of Bottom Bucky and Service Dom reader. Throatfucking. Erm. Cathartic crying. 

Warnings: Bucky working out trauma. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

You teach him how to want things again.

His pieces from the past, the joys he used to have taken too soon— you tell him he can have it all back.

It started with food, predictably. No longer being tube-fed slurry, Bucky quickly embarked on discovering all the new flavors of the 21st century.

Chocolate alone was a month-long passion as he attempted to scrub out the standard issued combat rations haunting his tongue. Chalky cuts like cold pressed gravel— fuck that. The first time you broke off a square of unroasted, dark, sprinkled with Himalayan sea salt chocolate, Bucky’s head hit the back of the couch with a pathetic mewl and a million things rushed through his mind of all the ways he could keep feeling this good.

Sleep came next— something he thought he’d had enough of, but the difference between getting perma-frosted every decade and lying face down in whatever memory foam’s made out of is lifetimes apart.

Bubble baths. Streaming apps. Nice clothes.

Attention and affection. Kisses. Braids in his hair. Tickles for extra laughs. His ego’s in overdrive because he has half a thought about anything and you’re fulfilling it like his personal genie. You say he needs all the dopamine he can get and you’re gonna give it to him.

And you give it to him in spades.

Orgasms. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s spoiled rotten.

Morning sex, afternoon sex, sex before bed. Blindsided in hallways and under conference room tables. The compound pool’s been properly christened more than once, and if Tony ever found out just exactly how many of those precious luxury cars have seen the imprint of Bucky’s ass, he’d set them all on fire.

But, reconciliation comes for him eventually. Spend long enough feeling all good he figures it was about time he starts screwing it up. He turns greedy, he starts wanting for too much. His girl’s an insatiable little beast, but even beasts have limits.

-

Bucky went shy when he asked, stuttering about how it’s okay if you didn’t—if you weren’t—it’s kinda strange— but you’d put your hand over his and tilted his chin up.

“Bucky,” you said fondly, “Baby,” and then a sweet smile curled over your pretty pink lips like spun sugar, “I’d eat your ass like a five-course meal. I’ll let you fuck me on the moon. What is it, huh?”

He could’ve kissed your dirty mouth silly.

“I want you to use a toy—"

“We do all the time.”

“—on me.”

And that sweet candy pink smile turned red hot and wicked. No limit in sight.

-

You approach the bed like a fever dream and all the blood in Bucky’s body congregates south.

Nothing on but the 2-day-shipping-because-the-phone’s-a-genie-too leather harness sitting snugly on your hips and a grin. The heaviness between your thighs hangs like both an offering and a weapon.

He asked for it. He wanted it. Just—maybe, to start— can you be rough with him. Then, stuttering once more because he doesn’t know how to justify why. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s hard to say out loud that with all the things you let him have, that after nearly a century of being out of his own body, he… wants to give it away.

He’s messed up, baby. Sick down to his rotten core.

You only shushed him. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll rough you up real fucking good. No why’s necessary.

Fleshy weight brushes against your inner thigh, swinging idly from one side to the other. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, still dressed at the edge of the mattress, skin beginning to prickle, nerves taking a hard left into arousal. When your hand finds rough landing in his hair, he thinks he must be the luckiest bastard in the entire world.  

Bucky drops on his knees like dead weight, nearly tearing off his clothes, feeling the upsurge of heat in his cheeks and chest. His eyelids are fluttering, your face going fuzzy but he can still see that look of adoration you reserve for him.

He’s pondering if that old saying is true—if there can be too much of a good thing, if he’s become spoiled sick, or if he could overdose on pleasure when you start thumbing the edge of his mouth.

“Pay attention,” you say with a glimmer in your eyes. “Open.”

He’s tingling when you put two fingers in, moving around his tongue, scissoring them against his inner cheek. They explore for a while, bolder each passing second. He can tell you’re getting excited too, your chest heaving gradually, watching him with curious intent.

“You like this?” You ask, lip between your teeth, and Bucky nods, leaning further in, spit following the path of your hand down to his neck. You palm the cock like it’s always belonged to your body and he’s mesmerized at how it rises from your grip, moving over his face to rest on his cheek.

“It’s big, baby.” You warn, full on now. You stroke the outline of his jaw with it, leaving a burning path in its wake. “You sure?”

He quietly likes that you ask—honey-toned and patient, needing to hear it, knowing that he needs to hear it from himself. All those things he’d been made to say with his body and not with his mind.

Now he gets it back, as you said. Gets a part of himself back, too.

“Yes—ah—yes.”

Bucky’s words are slurred into your hand, but he’s begging with his eyes. Yes. I want it. Please let me. Please make me. Please fix me.

You replace your fingers, sluicing up the cock with his spit. Then, you fuck his mouth slow, feeding it to him inch by inch before dragging it away. Bucky’s lips are quivering for more, jaw slack, panting hoarsely. He feels overcome at how you stand over him, mesmerized by him, too.

“Yeah, honey,” you croon, and Bucky’s heart swells with pride. “You’re doing so well, pretty boy.”

He’s licking blindly and sucking between ragged gasps when he attempts to say your name, knowing full well he’ll never get the whole word out before you wedge back into him. And god, it’s hot. It’s dirty and filthy and so fucking sweet.

You grasp the base of his skull, keeping his head still and laying into his mouth rhythmically. The cockhead hits Bucky’s throat, pushing into the soft palate, reaching further. His eyes are rolling, whimpers catching where the toy ends, caught in the breath of air in his mouth.

“Take it, baby,” you command, and Bucky gags. One hand scrambles for your thigh, other clawing his own, pressing red crescents into the flesh. It hurts. It hurts good like it never did before and Bucky chokes it down, eyes squeezed shut now, tears prickling from the ducts and collecting at the corners.

“Oh, you’re so good,” and his body just keeps lighting up. “You good boy. You perfect, perfect boy.” And he’s nodding desperately, needy, gut coiled tight like a spring.

“So fucking dirty,” you hiss, pulling hard on his hair, “Look at you— leaking all over yourself.”

He is. He’s a goddamn mess, sticky lines of precome down his shaft and collecting at his base.

“Drooling all over my cock like this. You’re hungry for it, aren’t you?”

“Uhhngg— hnnng—” He moans weakly at the things you do to him and for him.

“That’s right, you are. Keep going, show me how much you want it.” Jesus, the way you make him feel— like he could be exactly who he is and never have to apologize for a goddamn thing. Broken and ruined but you’d still give him the whole fucking world.

The noises Bucky’s making are muffled and obscene as he fists himself, shuddering and pumping erratically. One more final drive from your hips and he’s bursting at the seams, shattering to pieces, coming with a strangled cry.

You don’t let up, taking his throat unrelentingly, watching him sob and fall apart. He’s going limp in your clutch, letting his eyes well up like pools, your smiling face so beautiful in the crystalline light.

If he’s sick, then you must be the fever he can’t sweat out. The fire burning through his bones until he’s nothing but smoldering bits of debris afterwards. Grains and soot of him floating in the steady flow of your faithful current.

When he’s made a perfect mess of himself, come-covered and quivering, you finally let him breathe again, pulling out wetly.

“There you go,” you say, kneeling to kiss his panting mouth, “Did that feel good?” 

Your lips are a cool balm on his swollen ones and Bucky hums a response, body still thrumming. “Yeah,” he sighs, sensitive like a wound, raw and open and tender. “Real— good.”

You rub his back and run your fingers through his hair, letting him rest in your arms. You wipe away the tears on his cheeks and over his trembling eyelids.

Gentle words tumble from your lips. Promises of love and of good memories to replace the bad ones. More kisses. More affection. More reclamation.

All those little granules of fractured time, you collect in the soft surrender of his mouth. Wet and salty, they fall together there, and Bucky feels himself clicking into place. Perfect and whole and treasured like an iridescent pearl.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #smut #bucky barnes #marvel #mcu #reader insert #fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you

[ltleflrt]

5 and 23? if you want!

I sure do! :D

5. Over a beer bottle, 23. Through a song. (Also on AO3)

Girls night is in full swing.  The coffee table is strewn with makeup boxes, manicure supplies, and margarita glasses.  They’re on their second 90s chick flick--Bodyguard, despite Dean’s very loud endorsement for Legally Blonde “for Sam”--and everyone with hair long enough is done up in curlers, including Sam.

The Japanese face mask Claire very carefully applied to Castiel’s face is starting to make his skin tingle pleasantly, and his feet are warm in Dean’s lap.  Luckily the glittery purple polish Dean had so carefully applied to his toes is dry, because Dean has had enough to drink that he’s getting touchy feely, and he’s been alternately massaging Castiel’s feet and hugging them against his belly.  

With Jody and Donna squeezed into the recliner together, Kaia and Claire and Alex sprawled on the floor in front of the TV, and Sam on the floor with Eileen in his lap, Castiel thinks he should feel guilty for taking up the whole couch with Dean, but no one’s complaining.  Except Claire, when she reaches for her glass on the coffee table.  She wrinkles her nose at the bottom of the glass.

“This bitch empty!” she proclaims before swinging her arm back with intent.

“Claire Novak, if you yeet that glass across the room, I will ground your ass,” Jody warns from the recliner.

“I’m twenty-six,” Claire counters defiantly, but she lowers the glass.  “You can’t ground me anymore.”

Castiel is pretty sure Jody could absolutely enforce a grounding if she decided to do it.

“Looks like we’re all empty,” Alex says, giving her own glass a disappointed inspection.  She shares a meaningful look with Claire and Kaia, and all of them suddenly chant “1-2-3, not it!” in unison.

“Well I ain’t moving,” Donna announces cheerfully, as she snuggles closer into Jody’s side.  

Jody hooks an ankle around one of Donna’s.  “Guess I’m not either.”

“I’m pretty sure my legs are asleep,” Sam says as he wraps his arms more firmly around his wife.  Eileen snuggles closer into his chest, and from Castiel’s vantage point he can see her eyes are open and she’s paying attention, even if she looks ready to start dozing at any second.

“Y’all are lazy,” Dean grumbles before he gently nudges Castiel’s feet out of his lap.  “I’ll get you your damn drinks.”

“I’ll help,” Castiel announces as he tugs the foam separators from between his toes, and swings his feet to the floor.  It’s a challenge to navigate the coffee table and all the limbs stretched across the floor with the warm buzz of alcohol making his movements sluggish, but he manages without stepping on anyone.

By the time they’ve mixed drinks, the girls have claimed the couch.  Dean bitches about losing his spot and being too old to sit on the floor as he hands out drinks, but it’s good humored and he smiles when he turns back to the kitchen to pick up more.  He ignores the appletini Castiel mixed for him, and goes to the fridge to grab a beer bottle.

“That’s against the rules of girls night,” Castiel points out.  

“Those sugary drinks are going to give me a bastard of a hangover,” Dean says as he tosses the bottle cap in the trash.  He takes a deep swig, and sighs in pleasure.  “Yeah, that’s the good stuff.”

He catches Castiel staring at his mouth, and a smirk tugs at his lips.  Closing the space between them, he wraps a hand around Castiel’s hip, tugging gently until their lower bodies are gently pressed together.  “You see something you like, angel?”

“No,” Castiel says, but clarifies before Dean can pout at him.  “But I see something I love.”

A slow, sweet smile spreads across Dean’s face.  “Yeah, what’s that?”

Castiel reaches up and runs the tip of his finger down Dean’s rouged cheek and across his bottom lip which is shiny and pink with lip gloss.  The eyeliner and mascara Alex had applied for him makes the green of his eyes even more pronounced.  “Yes.  It’s you.”

Dean leans in, and Castiel’s lips part in anticipation.  But before they can connect Claire shouts at them to hurry the hell up, and to come help them pick the next movie.  Dean straightens, but he doesn’t let go of Castiel, guiding him into the living room with a firm grip around his waist.

“Don’t turn it off yet, Whitney’s singing!” Donna says as they enter the living room.  She sits up, and starts singing along.  Badly.  

Laughing, Jody joins in.  And then Alex.  Kaia starts to sing, and after a long suffering sigh and a poorly hidden smile.  Even Sam sings along, as he rocks Eileen back and forth to the music.

Dean’s eyes glint with mischief when he glances at Cas, and then he starts to sing too, just as the chorus kicks in.  He lifts his beer, and sings into it like a microphone.  His arm tightens around Castiel, keeping him tethered to Dean’s side. 

“And I---- will always love yooooou!”

No one is on key, and Castiel’s half suspects they’re doing it on purpose.  He knows Dean is, because he’s heard Dean sing seriously before.  

When the drum beats dramatically, Dean kicks out his leg and really starts hamming it up.  His body sways dramatically, pulling Castiel back and forth with him as he wails into his beer bottle.

And then the song slows down again, and Dean’s eyes catch on Castiel’s.  He sings the last few words without looking away, and even though he’s still being silly, Castiel knows that underneath it Dean is completely serious.  Castiel leans in and claims the kiss that had been cut off before.  Dean tastes like beer and raspberry lip gloss, and Castiel loves him so much in this moment that it leaves him feeling even drunker than he was from the three margaritas he’s already consumed.

“Hey! No beers on girls night!” Claire calls from the couch.

Without pulling away from the kiss, Dean lifts the hand holding his beer, middle finger held up in defiance.

#oops i ficced #destiel #stonelions

[hauntedelation]

Seize The Throne

(Picture found on Google, I don’t own.)

Description: He was always so reckless, drawn and following the darkest paths in life. You can’t help but chase after him with stars in your eyes and a bizarre thrill churning your gut. Maybe this time things were too heavy for you.

Pairing: Black Female Reader x Will Shaw

A/N: I recently watched one of my favorite mob movies, Goodfellas, and fell back in love with that gritty image. A good friend of mine, @hope-to-hell, had already created her world of Mob!Will and has several parts out featuring him and his chaotic ways. Part one, part two, and part three explore so many depths to him and that heart-pounding life. I strongly suggest reading!

Her writing of this version of Will was my most favorite and I really wanted to try to pay homage to that. I hope I did good love, 🥺💗

Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, gore and blood play, minor character death, reader sustains injuries, some fluff if you squint. I do not recommend if you happen to be sensitive to these topics. Please heed the warnings.

Proofread as much as I could, Please enjoy guys!

➽─────────────❥

The bottle is sat down next to your leg with a soft clink. Sand and sporadic rocks mold around the glass, holding the claret drink inside upright.

You feel your body hum pleasantly. The vibrations stem from the top of your head, down through your thighs, and settle in your toes, which are currently sunken into the warm clasp of the shore.

Salt and a hint of cinder brush your face and press through your hair, tousling the tight ringlets out of your eyes and behind your ear. You take in a breath while the wind dies down. To the very depth of your lungs, you allow the night to enter you. 

The water is cool; blue as can be. It just about matched the sky earlier that morning, save for the bunching of storm clouds trailing toward the horizon. 

It’s a wonderful feeling against your feverish skin, but it doesn’t fail to sting the cuts on your feet. You don’t move a muscle, not any closer to the swirling foam, but you ponder, maybe it will help.

You're unwound and you had been ever since you came closer to the sand. Head dancing blissfully and filling with each drop of the piquant wine, your visions were growing far more spirited than they had been for the last several hours.

The deal with Holford went to shit. 

➽─────────────❥

You weren't sure why you were strung along with this one. Will had been disrupted, true, but he was always that way whenever a deal this significant came along. The other guys were unknown, fresh in the game but garnered enough reputation to be talked to. He insisted that you were to not be left at the house, too much risk, he couldn’t see you.

Much of the originally agreed amount was lost, the usual inquiry and loaded threats were slung from either side. Forty thousand was at stake, and the bastards dared to show up with only a quarter of that. 

You were there resting two rooms down in a decaying office, listening to those voices, Will’s, Syverson, and maybe another. There was a restive silence,  before a guttural shout and a bang was sent out, followed by an explosion of more. You felt your heart throb clear in your throat.

It was difficult to keep track, and the walls of that building were already so abysmally thin. There was a good possibility that if a punch was thrown, it would put a hole right in the plaster.

Bullets went through the drywall and sprinkled chalky dust into your hair. You had the right mind to jerk away and hit the floor. The concrete was chilly and layered with the filth that reminded you of a public subway. Upon impact, you were no doubt painted with inky marks on your knees and elbows.

You didn't cry out, none of it could be heard anyway. Yet, you did a fine job keeping whatever you wanted to scream out on the inside. You held your breath and ducked your head to the lowest point of the room. 

It all tumbled over, that composure, soon after witnessing the man protecting you get his insides blown out.

From under the table, those projectiles continued to whizz in and out of the walls. Daniel, you think the kid’s name was, though he was only four years younger than you he had the face of a youth. He was always polite, getting you whatever it was that you wanted, afraid of disappointing.

They should have known he wasn't ready, wasn't skilled enough for any of this. 

The door was kicked at, the brass lock weakening and soon falling away. Daniel whipped around, his machine gun tucked against his armpit and trembling finger on the trigger. He let out a few shots at a sharp speed, laying more holes in the door before dashing to the side. 

He was panting, his big brown eyes glancing to you before pulling out another magazine from his pocket. 

A deafening boom went through the wood, and the door flew open revealing colossal-sized boots stomping in. You don’t recall a second shot. Everything had been stunned, from your ability to move to any volume in your ears. All that was, had been ringing.

That gunshot indeed came, because you saw the kid fall back. 

Crimson rained down over you and you felt the warmth dot your skin, covering the shade of your nail polish. Your eyes reopened and picked up far more carnage—tiny pieces of him all over the vicinity. Bone and flesh, some landing near your hands on the floor. 

His body toppled to the ground. You remember how he landed, head smacking against the solid concrete and his eyes opened wider than saucers. 

He was in shock, gurgling and spitting up blood down his chin. His fingers desperately scrambled for the handle of his machine gun, but it was kicked far out of his reach.

The faceless gunman placed Daniel’s chest under his boot, crushing the torn hole in his middle and forcing more distressed wails from the young man. Before the kid was able to cry any longer, he was cut off by another boom.

There wasn't much time to respond then. Your longtime guard was desecrated, all the life drained from him the instant the third shot was sent from the twelve gauge.

And all that you continued to hear, was ringing.

As that cliché says: time slowed to a standstill. Bullets pelted the surfaces, nonstop and in every direction. Devastation surged, wood chips and old papers swept up, and heavy footsteps trudged all throughout the concrete floors. You spent your lifetime under that table, cowering away from the turmoil. 

Along your cheeks, and falling to your hands you saw the clear, salty liquid bend and mix with that young man’s blood

The make-shift shelter lasted a mere five minutes, then it was flipped over. Glasses and other items shattered onto the ground and spread to every corner of the room. 

Directly after, your wrist was snatched in a viselike grip.

He had nails, this beast holding on to you. They were long, jagged, and digging far into your flesh. You sucked in the mucid air, holding back everything in your throat: bile, sobs, whatever it was. The man dictated something in your ear, along the lines of, 

‘Keep that pretty fucking mouth shut before I pack it full with lead.’

It was more than a motivator. He adjusted his hold and dragged you toward the entryway of the room, pushing aside Daniel's lifeless body. Your free hand braced against the ground, but your legs were left dragging. It was grueling, finding leverage to move with the man.

With each manipulation the brute had on your body, each step of his feet and yank to your wrist, your legs caught shards of the glass and were sliced open. Amid this, the lacerations on your wrist gradually formed under his nails and began to drip hot down your arm. He was moving with purpose until he stalled right near the doorframe.

More bellows and pops of machine guns echoed against the stone.

The man was waiting, probably for the next cue. Or, maybe he was considering that last threat to you, should he go through with it?

How could you know?

After a while, you couldn’t feel anything at all. You couldn't feel the barrel of the gun pressed against your temple, your vein pumping against the hot surface, and the circulation around your wrist anymore. Your skin grew cold, vision drawing away. The lights in the room dimmed and you finally lept in a dark tunnel.

The weight between your shoulders slumped toward the ground.

 .

 .

 .

 It was shortly thereafter, seconds later, that those same voices came much closer than before. Your wrist ached but no longer were you under that crushing grip. The steaming metal of the shotgun was absent from your skin, though the pressure would forever be burned against your skull. 

The only sensation that remained were calluses grazing against your skin.

There were no longer any gunshots, no more footsteps, or even glass shattering. The masculine tones in your ears surfaced and started to be particularly familiar. Those hands on your body, the clammy palms securing your jaw, it was real.

You felt how damp the thumb pads were and the sticky residue that was left behind along the line of your cheek. 

Opening your lids was taxing, but you saw dark curls stuck to a creased forehead. A fresh gash was drawn on an eyebrow and dozens of bruises on that handsome face. A pink lip painfully split nearly in two. 

The light was beaming around his head and the source was different than the one in that previous room. There were more windows. Natural light revealed one side of his form, highlighting his dewy skin and the dampness of his shirt. 

The deep red splotches covering his body.

Your pupils dilated and centered on his face. He was panting, tongue swiping at that cut on his bottom lip. His voice read a steadied, but fraught question.

‘Hey—hey, Doll. You’re here with me, yeah?’

Will’s focus was dashing across your face and the rest of your body. His breathing jolted when he caught your pupils, but never did he lose grip of that solid poise. He reached up and his fingers smeared more pungent liquid on your face, forcing the iron-laced odor into your nostrils. 

You coughed, grunting at the rough scratch along your throat. Your lips pressed together before you forced your head to nod weakly. You were sore, and you didn't really wish to move your legs at the moment. The hairs of his arm grazed against your fingertips. With a flex to your good wrist, you took hold of him.

You were breathing. You could see, you could hear, and while every bit of your nerves flared and pinched—you...were alive.

Will released a sigh low within his chest and out of his nose. The strain in his shoulders released a fraction, yet the muscles in his back maintained the stiff shape. His eyes were cognitive and lingered keenly on yours. He didn't choose to say anything else, and neither did you. 

Your throat and your lungs felt as if they were packed with dust. And, what was there to say?

He dismissed a question that was brought up by a ragged-looking Sy. The veteran stopped his pacing by a blown-out window and shook his head. In a blur behind Will, you saw him remove his cap and use his stained shirt to wipe at the sweat on his buzzed head. 

The air around Will's head was spiraling, the remnants of the firefight clinging to the air around you. You squinted and looked past the fog to see mutilated bodies, with thousands of bullet casings littering the floor. 

Limbs twisted around, mangled, with pools of blood swallowing up each of the remains.

Every member of the Holford group was dressed in matching tan-colored suits, the corpses' jackets now drawn with scarlet. You weren't sure if you could answer the question, which man had been the one who grabbed you? Who killed Daniel?

Maybe he was one that slipped away.

Your braids moved from your face, the soft hairs by your forehead pushed back and smoothed away. Will's fingers, thoroughly slick with blood, left behind glistening streaks in their wake. 

 .

 .

 .

 Following a short phone call made by Syverson, you three and the remaining number of Will’s men vacated the building. Duffle bags of cash and anything else that was of importance was secured.

While you made your way out of the structure, you caught the sight of armed workers, nudging the bodies of Holford’s group and aiming the end of their guns down at their heads.

The pops that rang out were sent past your mind. The air outside washed over you, fresh almost jarring. Under the occasional shots fired in the building, you could pick up the hum of insects and birds. 

Your eyes fluttered under the tepid sunlight, and instead, you occupied yourself with the feeling of that. Just for those short seconds, you were under those rays.

Will was hot on your heels with a vigilant hand on your lower back, his other arm providing support for your shaky footfall. He was still running on hot, that look in his eye reflecting off far away from here.

He directed you toward a black truck and carefully helped you slip into the back passenger seat. After clicking the seatbelt over your lap, he dragged his eyes over you one last time, persisting on your wounds. He drummed his fingers on the palm of your hand and parted from you a promise, 

‘It will be a little while, but I will be back. Sy will be taking us back to the house...we're gonna get you cleaned up.’

Through your lids and out the window of the vehicle, you observed the men’s work. Their actions were swift and it was clear to see that disposal of certain events was in their expertise.  

A few of the guards were gathering red gallons of gasoline, entering the building, and dousing every surface on the interior. Others were negotiating with Syverson and Will, the latter man speaking with venom falling from his mouth. The last worker exited the archway and tossed the red bin in behind him.

Your legs ached. Minutes trickled by, and at first, you withheld moving. But it was as if each laceration was prying open. You took your eyes from the scene outside the truck and grit your teeth to readjust your body. 

The window bore the weight of your head.

Will took a prolonged look at the decrepit building, his arms crossed and locked over his chest. The tendons in his jaw were spasming like a coiled knot and his mouth set at a firm line.

Whatever thoughts broke down in his mind, they were intensively racing and reflecting the failure of today. He sent a final nod to Sy before turning and making his way to the vehicle you were residing in.

Another man fished a lighter and cigarette out of his pocket, adjusting the strap of the rifle on his shoulder. He then flicked open the metal casting, lighting the end of the stick. Without closing the lid, he threw the lighter into the broken window of the building.

 .

 .

 .

That drive was long. Despite the many twisting roads and turns, you noticed the flames shredding their way through the sky several miles away.

There behind you, Will's lips pressed to the crown of your head, with your body tucked into his chest. In your lap, you watched his torn knuckles flex. He formed a fist and would do so every couple of seconds, tremoring and taut. Eventually, he would ease up and relax those fingers, still shaking, but it would return. 

Repeatedly, open and close...

 open and close,

 open and close.

➽─────────────❥

You flinched as Syverson carefully picked the glass out of your legs. You were sat on the granite countertop, bruised knees hooking over the edge and your foot resting in his camo-clad lap. 

He was in a chair located directly in front of you, with his cap sitting on the counter and an assortment of tools surrounding it 

Your wrist was the first that was looked at. It was throbbing, hardly able to be moved but the bleeding clogged. He cleaned it as much as he could and set it into a makeshift splint. Syverson then notified you that you most likely suffered fractures.

He would have a friend come tomorrow to properly take care of it. 

The tweezers were skinny and almost disappeared under his thick fingers. He had his palm wrapped around your calf, and with an attentive eye, he leaned closer to dislodge more shards from your skin. 

You wince as a jagged edge is plucked from your calf.

"Stop squirmin' little lady."

You tilt your head to the side and cradle your injured wrist in your lap. Your braids tangled and fell just over your shoulder. In a corner of your mind, you thought about a hot shower, scrubbing your skin, and taking the damn things down. To wash everything away. 

It was absolutely anticipated.

Sy resumed his work, wetting his lips and holding back that vexatious grin.

The only sound resonating throughout the kitchen was the clink of the splinters hitting the plastic bowl, and the music of a film playing on T.V. Here and there you could make out Will's voice in the other room, his timbre suppressing an unhinged man. 

How could he not? You knew how much today went south, it wasn't expected, but you didn't make an attempt to eavesdrop anymore.

Really, you didn't venture to do anything but sit and wait until the soldier at your feet was finished. 

Will had entered the house before you and with not another step further, he conveyed to his partner that same pithy look. The point of your shoulder was gently tapped and under his bushy beard, the southern man offered you an apologetic look.

Sy was nothing but meticulous. He had a way about his movements that indicated his substantial experience. While he was working, your eyes glanced over that brawny man, taking in the thick slabs of muscle on his shoulders. You had to figure he possessed more scars than five men combined. 

He had the look of a man who had seen a lot in his life and could destroy everything in his path, but to you, he was the sweetest he can be.

You withheld a moment longer, additional pieces of shrapnel were dug and removed from your limbs. He pulled back and sat down those tweezers, promptly moving his fingers to wrap around a cheap bottle of alcohol.

He doused a fresh white cloth with the clear drink and patted each of your opened wounds.

"Mwell...You're lucky you don't need any stitches, sweetheart," he husked.

Your lip quirked at his tone. He peered up at you with a ghost of a sanguine reflection in his eye. Remarkably, he was always the one to find a smile out of you, always after those wearisome days. You decided to indulge the man, forcing a curl to your lips. You then turned away and watched the images flash over the television screen. 

His fingers lingered on a bigger cut on the top of your knee, clearing his throat. The muscles of your thigh tensed, like acid on flesh. Your nails clutched the surface of the granite and scratched shallowly. 

Sy's thumb rubbed at the outside of your leg in return, applying a little more pressure to the wound before ultimately removing his fingers.

Your attention drifted away from the screen, you knit your brows down at your legs. You were sure that you would adorn some scars from today, the unfortunate memory coming in at each glance to your body. 

The bottle of alcohol was placed between Syverson's legs, tucked close to his groin. You clocked your eye from his face back to the container. He was occupied wrapping bandages over your wounds, soon finishing off the last one before catching your look. 

He took his hands from your legs, and palmed the neck of the bottle, unscrewing the cap. He tipped his bushy jaw back and poured the biting liquid down. Sy offered the drink to you with a crinkle of his nose. It was unspoken, but you chewed on your lip.

"Do we have anything else?"

➽─────────────❥

The bubbling of the ocean, that sparkling shore, and the break in the clouds, all of it was transfixing. You wanted to see the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air, and genuinely feel that you were alive. 

So you slipped into something willowy. You couldn't pinpoint where it came from exactly. The tag was black and stitched gold in a foreign language, far too small to discern without a magnifier. From a closer look at the skew of the words, you could guess it came from somewhere in southern Europe. 

The fabric was silk, completely pearly white with a sheer design layering over your chest. It was revealing, rightfully so though it was currently the dead of summer.

Moreover, it worked well to not agitate your wounds. 

You passed by the living room where Sy had his feet kicked up on the coffee table, fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. The man was slumped as far as he could on that couch, all grime, perspiration, and fatigue.

You made sure to not close the glass-sliding door all the way.

Behind the sepia-colored bottle, you scanned about your surroundings. The palm trees strewn about the property swayed lazily in the wind, welcoming, disclosing to you: It's alright, you can relax now.

There was a blur of grey standing against the greenery, men in slacks with glimmering metal-encased by their arms. Those silent watchdogs weren't new to you, their presence would vanish from your mind from time to time. And even more so, the image of them called: It's alright, everything is okay now. 

Except it wasn't, it wouldn't be for as long as you would remember today, but ever since arriving at this location you had been trying to convince yourself otherwise. Best practice was to acknowledge, right? You wouldn't pretend that today never happened, that you didn't come a hair's breadth away from perishing.

Being wasted away far before you should.

It's not hard to think about. This lifestyle, the outlook, and the expiration date of it all. You've known about it ever since you were a teenage girl. 

The missing people that would show up in undisclosed locations, how strict your mother was with making friends, the luxury items in your home, and all of the days your father would be away, it didn't make sense until much later.

Securing all of your family's secrets followed quickly with your adulthood.

You think back to before everything split apart before you broke away. And now you stand outside of a clandestine house in God-knows-what country, you reflect.

It was never meant to last forever.

These nights you thought about many faces, strangers to the person you are now but people that blotched their fingerprints in your brain. Your mother comes around, stops during those times when you grow the most imaginative. 

She would adorn a knowing look on her face but waited until you asked her for advice. 

If you could just talk to her now. She'd probably kiss her teeth, cross her arms, and her heart breaking the longer she watched you. The dismay gone—no, she'd never forget what you did to the family, how you could give away your father like that with no further thought.

You hope that she would find it in her to understand, that she would look into you and see why you did everything. 

If you opened your eyes and saw her standing before you in the sand, you'd take her hands in yours and ask her—just how to navigate. How do you go day by day and still feel alive?

For the first time in your life, you had no clue what she would reply with.

You were close to lifting your foot off the stone porch and making your way through the sand until the slide of the patio door reached your ears. 

He sauntered out wielding a cup of amber, hair damp and pushed back from his forehead, his clothes changed to something fresh, new. He had just as much gauze wound around his body as you did, but he walked as comfortably as any man. 

Will was born for this life. 

He sat down by the outdoor dining table, placing his glass down and stretching his legs wide and relaxed in the chair. His fingers slid down the length of his shorts, stopping at his knees and staying there. 

You wrapped the gown around your body and brushed away the bumps rising on your skin.

There was a gale that blew through whenever he was near, more submerging than the humid air around you. Something close to those storms that frightened you as a child, the imminence and the pause between claps of thunder.

Yet, every time that they came, you ever ran away to hide. 

Will's brows creased, and he removed his attention from the undisturbed tide straight to you. His right hand moved back on his leg and pat the top of his thigh,

"Come here."

You were slow with approaching him. The bottle in your hands was replaced with his shoulders, the container clinking dismissively close by his drink. Will's arms opened up the moment you stepped between his thighs. His head tilted back, peering up at you. He wound his fingers behind your thighs and settled you astride his lap.

The way that you drew into him, there wasn't much helping it. 

You could feel him on your neck, your cheeks and your lashes, Will's breaths, and his utmost tutelage. Maybe this was your favorite. From your position, you could look down at him just right, draw the light in his covert eyes. 

You were able to capture all of the lines on his face, the shade of his skin, and those dots that appeared after being out in the sun. You could study this man, searching for whatever you wanted. Each and every time you tried discovering something new.

With all of the secrets he locked away from you, there were about a dozen escaping every other day. Tales whispered amongst the other members and strangers, lingering eyes on Will's back whenever he walked by. He carried himself as if he was grasping at direction, but it was well known how untamed he used to be.

No, he was still a wild animal in his soul, you knew that part about him wouldn't ever change. You bet if you took his hand in yours there would still be dried-up blood stuck under his nails. You knew this but here you are, towering over him and you still can't quite read the shadows in his eyes.

These times? Unfortunately, they were few and far between. 

Right now, he held onto you like you wouldn’t be slipping away anytime soon.

“Y/n.”

Will was mindful of your wounds, fingertips gliding over the sides of your legs and taking a cautious hold of your bound wrist. The bruising feeling shot through the crushed bones. Will gingerly placed his lips along the top of your thumb and followed the bandage wraps down your wrist. 

"How're you feeling?"

He didn't blink, and for an important reason, you wouldn't look away from him. He wanted from you, your reply, whether or not it was one-hundred percent.

"I'm okay."

Your coils moved with your head, a chary nod. You knew that you shouldn't think too deeply about that question. You were patched up, scrubbed clean from all of the stains today, his skin was there and warm under your hand. 

So you scooted closer to Will, brushing your chest against his, and laced your fingers around the back of his neck. 

He focused on your natural hair, how the tresses flowed down your back and framed your face. You made good on your promise to yourself on cutting the old-style away. There wasn't anything quite like that feeling, that weight falling away and nothing but an utterly new look.

You turned your eyes toward the horizon, catching the distant twinkling of fishing ships and airplanes. The red and white were faint, and sometimes those lights blended in with the stars. But never had they been any closer than several dozen miles. 

On the shell of your ear and down your jaw, Will's facial hair started stroking and prodding.

"Doll…"

Your lips pulled tight. You carded your nails through his damp ringlets and twirled a few strands around, fidgeting. 

"Don't you go soft on me."

His fingertips sunk lightly into the flesh of your lower back and bottom. You heard him sniff quietly. For a second there, you thought he was going to apologize to you. Though, Will's thumb hooked under your jaw, caressing with a tender stroke before leading you to him. 

And he kissed you, real slow.

More than he ever had with you. Will was always messy—greedy, a palm on the nape of your neck and draining the oxygen from your lungs. 

He kissed you as if you were about to fall into pieces. You pulled away from him after a long while, still dazed. It was before you could slide off that white gown and unlace the waistband of his shorts. All in front of those men in the shade. It wouldn't be the first time, nor the last.

He was reluctant, his palms residual on your body, but you slotted your fingers through his and detached them from your hips. 

Will carried somewhat of a smile slanting his face. In the low light, you can catch a glimpse of it, how his cut lip stretched. You braced your hand midway on his chest and lifted yourself up from him. You then palmed the wine in one hand, tossing a look from over your shoulder before setting on your way. 

He didn't get up or try to chase after you, but the movement behind his eyes did. 

You went on to do what you originally wished to, feeling the salt and the sand. You had been neglected of this for forever it seemed, months, years maybe. Just like through the window of the bedroom there was still a spell of sorts being cast on the beach, you weren't going to fight it.

All the way to the mouth of the shore you went, taking in sips of wine and filling your vision with the stars. 

Never did he take his eyes from you.

"How's she holding up?"

Sy stood about two feet away with a towel draped around his shoulders and his back leaning against the patio door. Will turned his head to glance at the soldier, before returning to you.

"She's... she'll be alright."

Will sat up in his chair, sweeping his eyes through the backyard once again. 

"We lost five guys today, three including the guys from the inner circle, two others were regulars...Still have over  27K to retrieve," Sy reflected. 

He set his elbow on the armrest, rubbing his fingers over the stubble on his face and surrounding his lips.

"It's a shame what happened to that kid. I'll take care of his grandparents...send them a severance."

Christ, he was actually feeling a bit of guilt, more so with how the kid went out. But, he knew what this job was. He was told about the repressions and what was expected.

Daniel was a few months shy of his next birthday if Will had that right. And, now he wouldn't even be able to have an opened casket for his funeral. Not that this mattered in the end, though.

He wouldn’t have a casket at all.

"...They've fucking lost it if they think this is all forgotten."

Syverson nodded his head, already preparing his mind for any possible retaliation. No doubt much of the next few days will be filled with planning, making calls, and ordering more supplies. Maybe a few all-nighters just to get the deal straight, spending money just to make triple the return. He thinks that he might phone up Walker, the caliber of this situation had blown up in that man's range anyway.

"You have guys surrounding the perimeter?"

"Don't you go sweet on me, Will," Sy laughed. Of course, there were men around the perimeter. Not one spot was left open.

Will wrapped his fingers around the glass and took a small sip of the drink. His jaw twitched once again at that phrase, it just about mirrored yours, "I'm not." 

There was a brief silence between the men, Will wasn't looking at Sy but both of them had somewhat of the same thought winding through their worn-out minds. The soldier followed his partner's eyes, down the shore and to where those tan grains disappeared in the water.

"Then why are you sitting outside, watching her like a hawk?"

Will did not say anything in return. His tongue prodded again at the cut on his lower lip. He slowly lifted his glass and knocked back the rest of the liquor in his cup. The water and the trees moved in the wind and the sound filled their ears. Those low clouds were picked up by the gust and eventually revealed the moon. 

That cool blue light spilled down and radiated off your bronze skin. It was like you glowed, drawing Will's unreadable gaze. 

You were pushing your feet toward the ocean, just barely letting the water touch. Your fingers wrapped around the neck of the bottle, not moving the container but, letting your nails pick at the ridges in the glass. Will stared at how your head tilted to the side, and your lashes closing, taking in the breeze blowing through you.

There he was dwelling, fingertips tapping on his knee and another bracing on his face, ruminating through those long corridors in his mind. As he watched you he couldn't help but think in the past, back when he first laid eyes on you and took in that fear entangled in your soul.

He thinks back to your inconceivable proposition, you were on your knees for him, begging for a chance to show him what you got. You were dead serious in the end and you slid to him that folded up paper with the keys to the universe.

He shook his head and scratched at his hair, Will's brain repeated those words that your father said to him. Through grit teeth, spitting, and bloodshot orbs, his voice echoed that foreboding line up to Will.

‘Listen, son, you fall asleep at night with the visions of the world twirling in your palms. You are hungry for it and you run rampant with the darkness that resides in every man. You don’t lock yourself back and you will stumble. The time will come where your dominion crumbles and knocks the crown off of your head. And when you wake, a phantom won’t take you, but you will be rasping for it when you watch everything you breathe for get torn to shreds.’

➽─────────────❥

Taglist: @feralrunaway @inlovewithhisblueeyes @emyearns @mansaaay @cavillryarchive​ @thetaoofzoe​

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#henry cavill x reader #henry cavill imagine #henry cavill fanfic #Will Shaw #henry cavill x black!reader #black reader #woc reader #will shaw x reader #will shaw imagine #henry cavill x you #will shaw x you #henry cavill x black reader #the cold light of day

[reh-sa]

A Moonlit Bath - A Captive Princess AU

TW: Mentions of forced marriage, including vague mentions of possible marital r*pe // Very vague mentions of suicide 

The most desirable bachelorette in all of Vere is called Laurene.

She might be known to be a sullen princess, but as the only living child of former king Aleron, her beauty is only matched by her dowry and the man who will marry her will inherit it all. So naturally, when her uncle made his vows to her, no one was under the illusion it was out of love. He is ruling as the king de facto since, locking his niece tightly away, as he can only keep his position and wealth as long as he owns her. Laurene has been living a very secluded life since, miserably being a prisoner in her own home.

It is not until Damia, crown princess of Akielos, visits the Veretian court that Laurene realizes how truly miserable she is. Damia is so strong and free, and she walks so confidently among her lines. Laurene can do nothing but watch her from the shadows with envy.

Meanwhile, Damia is surprised by how little glimpses she catches of the mysterious Veretian princess. Dead-set on wanting to meet a great beauty like hers, she starts searching Arles for the hidden princess...

...but it turns out to be an arduous task. Damia is told the princess Laurene is locking herself up in her room all day, mad with grief for still not being with child, but Damia believes it is a lie. One day, she passes the doctor Paschal on his way to the princess’ chambers, delivering a fertility potion that oddly looks and smells like utterly unfertile moon tea. 

“Dana,” Nikandros sighs. “I think you are reading too much into this. Don’t take this the wrong way, but did it occur to you they might keep you away from her because you have a reputation as a wife-stealer? The king would not be the first man to find his lady in your bed. Some may take offense in that. I’d like to remind you of that incident with Kyra.”

“The bigger offense is that these lords do not know how to please their ladies,” Damia shrugs. And then, after a moment: “Who was Kyra again?”

But eventually, fortune favors Damia one starry night.

She fantasized countless times about meeting the princess on a balcony, perfumed with the scent of the night flowers welling up in the air. But it turns out Damia would encounter Laurene in a place she did not think of yet: the baths. 

Since there were no lights ignited inside, Damia believed herself alone for a moment upon entering, but her eyes quickly adjust to the moonlight, drawn to the silver figure in the glowing pool. Princess Laurene is even more ethereal than the rumours, wet hair clinging to a well-balanced face, her milky body disappearing into the scented water. Droplets are dancing over her curves, more beautiful and shinier than pearls. For a moment, the image in front of Damia’s eyes is one of utter serenity. But as sweet as the Veretian princess looks, she is quick to reach for a dagger hidden inside her pool when she hears Damia approaching. 

“Like what you see?” she purrs with the voice of a siren.

“Very much,” Damia answers truthfully, “though the dagger is quite worrisome. Since I heard of the case of Queen Yseult, I get nervous when I see a melancholy princess alone at night in the baths with a dagger.”

That earns her a sheepish look, and Laurene genuinely blushes.

“I…I did not want to…Queen Yseult did it because she was about to birth a bastard. I’m not with child.”

“So I have heard. And I would express my sympathies, princess, if not for the moon tea you have been drinking,” Damia says.

The dagger Laurene throws cuts through the serenity in a swift motion, faintly striking Damia’s cheek until it comes to a rest in the wall behind her.

“What do you want from me?!” Laurene snaps. “If it was just to see my tits, you have seen them now. Your goal is accomplished and you can gloriously return to your chambers. I ensure you, there is no need to spy on me further.”

“Oh no, actually…” Damia says while wiping the blood from her cheek, “I came to take a bath.” 

And with that, she unbuckles the pin on her chiton, the fabric slipping to the ground and revealing her naked body all at once, muscle upon muscle. As Damia walks down the steps into the water, she faintly notices from the corner of her eye that Laurene is staring at her, until the princess seems to remember in some charming display of Veretian modesty to look away. Her blush spreads even further, and Damia cannot help the bit of amusement she is feeling at that. Without a blade in her hand, Laurene seems to be much more tame.

“Also,” Damia continues, the tension in her limbs unwinding in the warm water, “I hoped to make a friend here. I am tired of having conversations with old men all day, and I think your husband does not like me. It is good to talk to another woman for once. Can I use your soap? I’ve left mine in my chambers”. “Have it,” Laurene nags, throwing the little piece of soap at her, and quickly averting her eyes again. 

Veretian soaps are wonderful, made from rich and creamy almond milk with a hint of cinnamon, and so very different from the Akielon olive soaps. Even somebody like Damia can appreciate these Veretian niceties. She starts to lather herself until she is covered in luxurious foam, and for a moment there is no sound but the soft rippling of water. Eventually, it is the Veretian princess who breaks the silence.

“I have never seen a woman as muscular as you. If you didn’t have the tits, I would almost believe it was an oxen intruding my baths. Are all Akielon women build like that?” she asks, quite brazen. Damia cannot help but to grin at her rudeness. She loves that the princess has a mouth on her.

“No...I can assure you we too have some sweet, fickle maidens. But I like the competition.”

“The competition in sports, or in conquering fickle maidens?” Laurene asks.

“Both, sometimes,” Damia smiles. “I think wrestling is wonderful. Sports, I mean. It is easy to learn but hard to master. You don’t even have to have my physique, mind you, that is merely a preference. In summer, we host tournaments with challengers from all over the world. There are even women from the warrior clans of the mountains of Vask coming. And some challengers give themselves the most pretentious nicknames, you cannot imagine. Especially the men! The celebrations go on and on for days, there are competitions at day and food and drink at night. And I haven’t even started to tell you about the Okton, where we compete with different weapons on horseback-”

“Are you good with weapons? What kind of horses?” Laurene blurts. She likes to hear stories from the world outside, Damia thinks to herself.

“I shall explain it to you. But tell me first, princess, why is it you never seem to see the daylight? You would think a man with a wife looking like that would parade her through the city as if she was an expensive steed. No offense. Yet, I did not see you at the banquet, nor in the gardens or at the dance. Why is that?”

“Maybe I am simply not fond of company, princess Damia,” Laurene answers in a cutting tone.

“Oh, please call me Dana.”

“I call you however it pleases me. And for that sake, I am not fond of intruders into my baths either.”

“My apologies, princess,” Damia says. “I was not aware you would bathe at such late hour. And your baths are so lovely, I wanted to see them for myself. Those patterns are simply dazzling. Yours have depictions of naked women on the walls. In the other baths I have seen, there were nothing but cocks.”

That earns her a giggle from Laurene, as much as she tries to keep her sullen facade up. The Veretian princess might look like a shy nymph, but seems to be quite naughty. Damia decides that she likes that. 

She wonders if she can go one step further.

“Princess Laurene. After showing me your baths, I wondered if you would be willing to show me the markets in the city as well. I’d love to get my hands on these colorful Veretian sweets you make from syrup and rosewater. How about tomorrow? You could dress up as a peasant girl and sneak out. Nobody will notice.”

“Lovely. Like in a fairytale,” Laurene says. “If I could overcome the minor inconvenience of not being able to leave the palace by dressing up as a peasant girl, I would use it to flee the country, not to buy candy on a market.”

That has Damia alerted.

“So much for the dislike of company. You are even willing to flee your own country?” she asks. “You can get a divorce, you know. I believe nobody likes being married to their own uncle, especially one that never lets you outside, and I don’t see the political gain for you either. So what is with that match?”

Laurene sighs. “If I didn’t know my uncle hated women so much, especially those in power, I would believe he had sent you to spy on me. But I am inclined to believe you are here out of your own free will and your raging pheromones, so I’m telling you. Yes, I could get a divorce, but there is one problem. The Veretians fear nothing as great as bastardy. If I happened to be with child at the time of the divorce, the curse still applies. I need to proof to the court I am not pregnant by being physically and geographically distant from him for…”

“...nine months?”

“Exactly. You are learning the Veretian customs fast. He knows this of course, which is why he is locking me up. Silly, isn’t it? I need to stay miles and miles away from my lord husband before they believe me I am not pregnant, as if breathing the very same air as a man’s could leave me with child. And as long as the gods and the moon tea do not fail me, that shall not happen,” Laurene explains bitterly.

“That is terrible,” Damia replies in all honesty.

“Don’t look so sad. I had a brother once, and he was very brave. I am brave, too. And I know there will be an opening for me, one day. If a foreign princess can stroll into my baths just like that, I shall be able to do the same but in reverse.” And then, in a whisper: “I’ve been even studying the sword.”

“You have?”, Damia hums, smiling at the thought of the princess strapped in a Veretian breastplate. Laurene nods, so proud that she is not able to suppress a smile herself, soft crimson coloring her cheeks. It was very charming.

“But it is difficult. There is a man from my Princess’ Guard I’ve been seeing- ...oh, don’t make that face, not like that. He teaches me. But I can only meet him in secret, since I must not be with a man alone and there is no woman here to teach me. I’ve wondered…” Laurene says, abruptly breaking off. 

When she doesn’t continue speaking, Damia asks: “You’ve wondered?”

“Ah-...No, it’s nothing,” she blurts.

Suddenly, Laurene rises, water dripping from her golden hair, a view that is dazzling Damia once again.

“I’m sorry, but I have to retreat to my chambers now. I’ve been here for so long, they will wonder where I’ve been,” the princess says.

Damia simply nods, watching as Laurene emerges from the water and towels herself down in a very practical way, without a hint of sensuality. Just as she was about to leave through the door, she turns one last time.

“Dana,” Laurene says, a little shy, and Damia is dizzily struck by an emotion she cannot quite identify upon hearing her nickname from Laurene’s lips. 

“You were right. It was pleasant to talk to another woman for once.” And then, a little hesitant: “I like to take baths at midnight. Goodnight.”

Damia nods, smiling at the hint.

“Goodnight, princess. Sleep well.” 

And with that, the ornamental doors close and Damia is left alone in the pool. 

She closes her eyes and lets herself float freely in the water, the moonlight casting patterns on her body. The baths feel so vast and empty suddenly, as if the princess herself was the one whose presence had lightened them up. Now, she was nothing but a faint dream. But Damia will meet her again at the next moon. She had said so.

In the silence of the night, a memory surfaced to her mind of what Nikandros had said earlier to her. 

She was not called Damia wife-stealer for no reason.

#captive prince #laurianos #damen #laurent #captive princess #fanart #digital #art #hello I am alive and gay #if you are asking why the water is glowing in the 2nd pic #it is clearly from love #I'm not a good writer but by the gods I tried my best #the pancake wife steelestingray corrected my shitty English