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inkykeiji · 9 months

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character: jouno saigiku x fem!reader genre: smut warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, face fucking, boot humping, a lil degradation mixed with a hint of praise, dacryphilia, size kink/size difference, lots of cum words: 3.7k

He knows you’re up, the moment he steps through the flat’s threshold.

He can hear your gentle breathing, can hear the soft rustle of lace and satin against your skin as your chest rises and falls, can hear your sock-clad toes, overlapped and wiggling, weight shifting slightly from one foot, then the other, as you wait in anticipation.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” he asks aloud, not bothering to turn toward your hiding spot, attention focused on his hands as he slowly pulls a white glove from his fingers, one by one. “What are you doing up?”

“Missed you,” you mumble out through a pout, cheek pressed into the doorframe, face half hidden.

“Yeah?” he’s asking as he tosses the first glove onto the counter and begins work on the second, his features contrasted by shadows, but you can still see the smirk on his face. “Why don’t you come give me a hug, then?”

A sweet little squeal of affirmation sounds in your throat and then you’re off, bare feet pitter-pattering against the polished hardwood, body barreling into his chest only a second or two later, hard enough to knock a gentle chuckle from his lips, his arms catching you easily.

A deep sigh deflates his chest, his body melding into yours. His head droops, lips pressing a kiss to the crown of your head before he rests his forehead against your skull. A thick thigh slots itself between your own, your limbs twining together; a tangle, a knot of a single entity.

With a slow, steady, purposeful inhale, his ribs stretch against yours as he fills his lungs with your scent, breathes you in and gulps you down and holds you close to his heart, steeping his tissues in your essence, infusing his blood with you.

A beat or two passes, the two of you motionless but melting into one another, before he finally plants another kiss in your hair, arms tightening infinitesimally, squeezing you to his form.

“Hate that you work such long hours. Love this uniform on you, though,” you murmur into his chest, nuzzling your cheek against the starched fabric of his jacket.

A gentle laugh rumbles behind his sternum.

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much do you love it on me?”

“I think you know,” you say shyly, peeking up from his chest.

He does know—he can smell it on you, can smell the arousal rapidly seeping into the silk of your panties, can feel the warmth on his thigh through the thin material, a swiftly expanding patch of slick.

But he wants to hear you say it.

“How much?” he repeats, slow, stern, an order.

A stringy whine sounds in your throat and your bottom lip juts out further, chin puckering, but you obey anyway, heat staining your cheeks.

“So much. So much it makes me wet,” you whimper, eyes squeezing shut, scorching prickles of humiliation rippling beneath your skin. “So much it makes my clit throb and pussy flutter,” you grind against his thigh in emphasis, legs tightening around it. “Feel it?”

A hum of recognition vibrates on his tongue, head nodding. His cock twitches against your hip—just once, nothing more than a greeting—and you giggle, humping his leg with a little more vigour.

“Sit down, Daddy,” you say softly, delicate fingers unfastening his cape and pushing it from his shoulders. “Let me fix you a drink.”

“It’s late,” he says, but he goes willingly, collapsing in his favourite armchair. “You should be in bed.”

“And you work so hard,” you respond lightly, prancing over to the gold bar cart, filled with sparkling decanters and amber liquor. “Let me do this for you. Then bed, pinky promise.”

With a small resigned smile, he nods, accepting a crystal glass of scotch from you a moment later. Ice clinks against the sides as he brings it to his lips, taking a slow sip, another sigh seeping from his chest, the burn of alcohol eating away at more tension, liquifying his tired muscles.

You assume your designated position then, on the floor at his feet, between his spread knees, cheek laid against his thigh. A large hand cups your head, thumb stroking your hair in slow, rhythmic motions.

This has become somewhat of a habit as of late. The Armed Detective Agency case has been devouring all of Jouno’s time, and it has left him with mere crumbs to give to you.

He’s just about polished off his drink when your hands begin to wander, palms smooth as they run up his strong thighs, dainty fingers digging into lean muscle as they go, his legs instinctively spreading wider.

Your head shifts, eyes gazing up at him adoringly—he may not be able to see you, but he can feel you, your body welded to his shin as your hands work, your face nosing along his thigh, cuddling into him, desperate to be as close as physically possible.

He swears he can feel your stare, too, potent and powerful and oozing thick love as it slathers across his skin, dousing him in indescribable warmth. It saturates the air around you both, enveloping your tangled bodies in its dense embrace, permeating his flesh straight to his very soul, where it poisons him so sweetly.

It’ll always amaze him, how someone can look at him with such reverence, such admiration, like he’s a fucking god, so strongly that he can sense it—feel it on his body, taste it on his tongue. It’s fucking intoxicating, his cock twitching again in his trousers, a rush of hot blood fizzing through his veins.

Your fingers knead aching muscles steadily, expertly, climbing a little higher with each cycle through the routine, closer and closer to the apex of his thighs but never quite reaching it.

It’s utterly teasing, rigid flesh mollifying beneath your amorous motions as the pressures of the day leak from his pores, massaged from his body by your gracious hands, wrung from his soul bit by bit.

It’s utterly teasing, but it’s so good, a craving for more clawing at the pit of his stomach, igniting a mild itch in his veins.

Something sounds in his throat, the ghost of a whimper—something he’s hopeless at smothering, an instinctual, uncontrollable reaction to you—and he feels your body respond, a minuscule jerk of your muscles in response, a curious little gesture imbued with a question.

Gasping gently, your gaze slides down, watching with a sort of morbid fascination as his cock fills with life, as it strains, more and more, heavier and heavier, against his maroon trousers, yearning for your tongue, your touch. Grinding your fingers into tense tissue near his hips, you giggle a little at the way it jerks gently, begging you for attention. Another noise plays on the back of his tongue; a caution this time, not to play around too much.

Finally, you lean forward, hands clamped around his thighs, and nuzzle into his swelling cock, rubbing your face against it like a cat with a small hum of contentment.

A fond little melody falls from his lips, nothing more than a wisp of breath—so starkly different from his usual sharp snickers, most often kept sealed behind smirking lips and reserved for those who deserve it—something private, something just for him to savour and enjoy, his palm moving to caress your head again, urging you further into his groin.

“Really do love this uniform so much,” you mumble out dreamily, muffled by the material.

“Show me,” he breathes, just barely shifting beneath your touch. “Show Daddy.”

Fondling halted, you pull back slightly, staring down the bridge of your nose at his cock, almost as if you’re taking a moment to admire it before scattering a few well-placed kisses along the silhouette—underside, shaft, tip. It jumps beneath your lips in response, and you giggle again, snuggling back into it lovingly.

Tongue unfurling from your mouth, you trace the bulge slow and sloppy, dragging your the slick muscle along the outline of his massive cock and leaving a damp, gleaming trail across his lap. His hips twitch ever-so-slightly, a motion you wouldn’t have noticed had you not had your entire face pressed into his crotch, and you relent, tongue grinding over the head in hard, steady strokes—back and forth, back and forth—before your mouth closes around it as best it can, suckling at the tip.

And you swear you can taste his pre-cum, dribbling from his slit and oozing through the thick material of his work pants, bitter and strong like his favourite blend of coffee. A moan slips from your lips, the sound hot and wavering against him, your lapping turned desperately vigorous, starved for another drop of him.

You’re making a real mess now, he’s sure of it, threads of spit knitting your lips to his trousers, chin syrupy with your own drool, smudged across your mouth and jaw, a direct result of your burrowing.

He’s getting restless now, you can tell, can feel it in the way his thighs clench, can hear it in the gentle, barely-there hitch of his breath with each firm glide of your tongue over his cockhead. And eventually, finally, he snaps, just like he always does, just like every other night before.

“It’s not nice to get Daddy’s cock hard and then not do anything about it, baby,” he warns, amicable tone sewn together with an implicit threat. “Don’t be a little tease, now. Finish what you’ve started.”

The authority in his voice—not a statement, not a suggestion, but a demand, a direct order—sends spears of heady adrenaline shooting through your chest, body jolting, and you nod, fingers obeying immediately, instinctively.

The heavy brass buckle of his belt jingles as you hastily unfasten it, leaving it hung undone as you shove his jacket up and pop the button of his trousers, mewling a little at the way the smooth planes of his stomach flex, tightening in anticipation.

Hooking your fingers in his waistband, you tug his pants to his ankles, Jouno lifting his hips and aiding your efforts, cock greeting you eagerly a moment later, slit drooling pearly sap.

“Oh, gosh, Daddy,” you whimper, sounding almost on the verge of tears—you’re not, of course, he would know if you were—voice infused with sheer awe. “It’s—It’s so pretty.”

He’s sure it is, with its pretty pink tip, flushed a shade of rose, and its perfectly symmetrical shaft, straighter than Cupid’s arrow, and its delicate veins, ivied around his girth and softer than velvet.

Logically, you should already know this; you’ve certainly seen it enough times. But every time you pull it from his pants is like the first time all over again, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love your fawning, even if it is characteristic.

“I bet it looks even prettier in your mouth,” he says, and there’s a trace of melancholy in his tone, as if he genuinely regrets being unable to see it.

You take that as your cue to get to work, wrapping a palm around the base of his cock and taking him between your lips, tongue curling almost protectively around the shaft as you suck him in.

“That’s it,” he encourages, a palm cupped beneath your chin, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “Take the whole thing down your throat, as much as you can.”

And, really, you do try your very hardest, your very bestest, to take as much of him as possible, throat gorging on his cock.

But it still isn’t nearly enough.

Because you’re already coughing just before you reach the halfway point, spasming around his tip as your body tries to reject him.

And, oh, that just won’t do.

“Aw, is that all you can fit in your little mouth?” he clicks his tongue, as if he’s disappointed, though there’s a sharp smirk on his lips. “How pitiful. That’s alright, Daddy’s here to help you.”

A large palm finds its rightful place on the crown of your head, fingers splayed across your hair and digging into your scalp as he presses down, slowly, his breath stammering with each constriction of your throat.

This is how it always starts.

Leisurely but firm, you’re forced to take his cock inch by inch until the whole thing’s shoved down your throat, your nose pressed flush to his pubic bone—pause, hold, choke, release, repeat—enabling him to feel every single gag and gurgle his actions elicit, taking his time to savour them, to breathe in your pain and torment and let it marinate in his bones.

Because it’s all so heavenly, isn’t it? To feel every pulse, every choke, every squeeze of distress and know that, despite it all—despite the drops of crystal streaking your cheeks (he can smell them) and the viscous snot pouring from your nose (he can feel them, dripping on his cock) and the foaming little bubbles of spit collecting in the divots of your puckered lips (he can hear them)—you’re still taking him, you’re still doing the very best you can for your Daddy, to please your Daddy.

And that dedication, that utter devotion—that’s better than anything else in the world, that’s the best.

He continues like this, agonizingly unhurried, until your throat is grated raw by the sobs, and your jaw is aching, little muscles stiff and locked, and he can no longer tell which convulsions are from his cock and which are simply a result of your crying.

Christ, it’s so easy to make you cry, sweet little sniffles and shredded little snivels that dribble past the seams of your lips—pretty little mouth jammed full of him—and it’s such a beautiful sound, precious noises reduced to nothing more than a gentle stuttering in your throat as they’re pushed back into your chest by the steady driving of his cock.

Finally the pressure on the back of your head lets up, but you don’t dare raise a mere centimeter, whole body quivering as you struggle to stay right where he left you, mouth stretched wide at the base of his cock.

He ceases all action for a moment or two, forces you to hold the position, revels in the sweet sounds of anguish trembling around his cockhead, before his palms grasp your cheeks, fingers so long they nearly overlap at the back of your skull, holding your head steady.

And then, he truly begins, abrupt and without any warning, hips pumping hard and fast, fucking your mouth with a sort of ruthless vigour, a relentless voracity, the thick soles of his boots squealing against the hardwood as he uses his planted feet as leverage.

Your grip on his legs tightens with each piston, nails biting into the flexing muscles of his thighs, and he laughs breathlessly; how absolutely adorable.

And oh, it’s so messy, he can feel your stringy saliva drooling from the corners of your mouth to drizzle off your chin in fat, sticky cords, swaying and stretching with each ram of his cock. They splatter almost artfully across his bare thighs, cooling upon impact, inspiring a crop of chills to pebble across his skin.

He can feel your warm tears, too, dripping off your jaw to collect on his flesh in little puddles, can smell their potent salt—bitter and tangy and making his mouth water—as they leave crusted trails on your cheeks. Thick hunger collects in the creases beneath his tongue, a longing to lick them clean from your face, to sop his tongue full of your devout servitude and stain his tastebuds with your tartness, to swallow down any and every bit of you, let you take root in the pit of his stomach and bloom there, grow there, fester there, for eternity.

Everything must hurt, he thinks, all your muscles coiled tense and taut, but you pry your jaw open wider for him, just like the good girl you are, desperate to take as much of him as possible, devoted to your cause.

Because no matter how much it hurts, you’re enjoying this just as much as he is.

A moan catches in his throat as the dense scent of your arousal hits him, and God, it’s so strong, you must’ve soaked right through your panties by now, must be gushing slick all over your inner thighs, coating them in your essence.

He wishes he could taste that, too; mop it up with his tongue and saturate every inch of his mouth with you.

“You’re so wet from this, huh?” he says, question fading into a feathery breath, the only indication this is affecting him at all. “Naughty girl. Are you leaking all over our nice hardwood floor? Should Daddy make you lick it up afterward, punishment for making such a mess?”

You choke around his cock in response, and he groans, hips stuttering slightly before regaining momentum. The rubber toe of his boot nudges your thighs and they part instantly for him, allowing him space to wedge beneath your cunt.

“My poor baby,” he spits through a mocking pout. “You must be so horny from sucking Daddy’s cock. Here,” his toe pushes up, grinding into your hole and evoking a soft yelp, “why don’t you hump Daddy’s boot while he occupies your mouth.”

You comply immediately, hips snapping into action, rutting against his foot with a sort of greedy eagerness, ravenous for any little part of him he’ll give to you.

He can’t feel how sopping wet you are through the thick rubber of his boot, which is truly such a shame, but he can hear the embarrassing squelching of your drenched cunt as you rub it into his toe.

It’s probably leaving such a pretty sheen of your slick across the top, a thick layer that glitters as prettily as the tears on your face must.

“There you go,” he says, sugary sweet condescension dripping from his words. “Does that feel better, baby?”

All you can do is whimper in agreement, the gentle sound sending vibrations down his shaft, and his hips jerk, belt buckle clinking together as his thrusts turn vicious, such a delicate melody contradicted by the growls and snarls he keeps swallowing back.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he nearly gasps out, edges of his letters turned ragged. “Such a good little toy for me, aren’t you?”

He hears your heart jump in your chest, fluttering at his praise, a torrent of warmth rushing through his veins in response, leaving his blood tingling.

“You love it when Daddy uses you, don’t you, precious?”

You respond with another sloppy moan, tongue quivering around his cock, and a whine breaks in his throat, sharp and jagged.

It’s building in his gut, a heady rapture, stomach beginning to contract as the muscles draw up into firm knots, scrunched by cresting pleasure. Shards of hedonism escape his nose in uneven little huffs, matching the relentless pace of his hips.

It all harmonizes so perfectly, the sounds shattering on his tongue and the stifled sobs shoved back down your throat and the squeak, squeal, squelch of your cunt on his boot, of his soles on the hardwood floor, of his cock fucking your mouth.

His actions have turned clumsy now, a stark contrast from his usual prim perfection, palms slippery with sweat on your jaw, grip tightening as his fingers readjust, digging bruises in the shape of his prints into your scalp.

He’s sure they’ll be swollen tomorrow. He can’t wait to feel them.

Three more thrusts and then he’s forcing copious amounts of hot, thick cum down your throat, holding your head in place as his cock throbs on your tongue, each pulse spilling another rope of cream into your mouth.

And, oh, it’s so much, too much, cum collecting in the divots of your cheeks and the creases beneath your tongue, but you don’t waste a fucking drop, swallowing obediently around him with every surge, making room for the next load.

And then you don’t fucking stop, zealous in your quest to milk him for everything he’s got to give you, desperate to fill your tummy with as much of him as you possibly can, enough to sustain you until you get to see him next, at this time tomorrow night.

You suck him fucking dry, suck every ounce of cum from his balls, suck until a bristled shudder runs through his form and a hiss is spit through his teeth, the white-hot overstimulation now too much for him to bear, fingers tangling in your hair and pulling you up.

You collapse on his thighs the moment he releases your head, weeping into his soiled skin—a mess of salt and drool and snot and cum—your ribs hiccuping with frayed breaths and harsh sobs, nails scraping weakly against his flesh in a pitiful attempt to tug yourself closer.

A coo slips from his lips, the sound both compassionate and condescending, as if he finds your tattered soul so cute; slashed yourself to pieces for him, always for him.

“Come here, darling,” his hands slip beneath your languid arms and hoist you up, dragging you into his lap and cradling you to his chest, collecting the remaining ribbons of you in his arms, strong and protective.

“Da-Daddy!” you’re wailing into his neck, fingers curling in the collar of his stiff jacket, spit and tears staining the pristine material a chalky white. “Daddy, Daddy.”

Clinging to him, you bury your face in his shoulder, another rough sob hacking through your form, and he hugs you tighter, gentle hushes falling from his lips as they scatter kisses across the top of your head.

“I know, I know, I’m here,” he murmurs into your hair, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin. “You did good, sweetheart. You did so good for me. You always do.”

Tender fingers press into your sore muscles as he rocks your bodies; a slow rhythmic swaying, back and forth, back and forth, while sweet nothings pour from his mouth, voice hot against your skin. The words are even warmer, snuggling into your flesh between soft kisses, the little hitches in your breath—residual sobs that have your chest stuttering and your nose sniffling—ironing themselves out with each brush of his lips.

And although he loves returning home to you no matter what the circumstance, this is, and always will be, his favourite way to be greeted after a long, gruelling day.

Maybe he’ll sit here, just like this, for a little while longer.

#jouno x reader #jouno smut #jouno x you #saigiku jouno x reader #saigiku jouno smut #jouno saigiku smut #jouno saigiku x reader #jouno saigiku x you #i can't get him out of my minddd i swear to god it's a sickness

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anintrovertedechoe · 1 year

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moonlight.

mammon x gn!reader

heartfelt fluff

Giggles fill your apartment kitchen, music drowning it all out until you two are the only ones who can hear yourselves. This, you think, is love. Love in its purest and most unadulterated form. Love that is unafraid and comfortable and warm. Love that you could lie and bask in like sunlight on your living room floor on a Sunday afternoon.

He’s shirtless and your chests make contact through your flimsy tacky yellow tank top. (The color is ugly and ‘looks like what spoiled BufoEgg Tea would smell like’ according to Mammon, but yellow is his color and the two of you couldn’t stop laughing when you saw it, so into your cart and wardrobe it went.) His arms wrap around your waist, and he arches his back over you so you can actually reach his shoulders. (Tall bastard, you murmur. Not my fault yer such a short human. He grins. Your palm gently pushes his face away and his smile is so bright it steals the breath from your lungs just like he stole your heart oh so long ago.)

The music hums in the background, Dodie and Laufey play through the speakers, voices creating a gentle melody the two of you hum along to. Your lover is tone-deaf, but you still feel your chest bursting at the seams with love when his voice enters your ears.

The two of you rock to the sides together, holding onto each other so tightly that you feel like you might meld together as one. You voice your thoughts, and Mammon says he doesn’t see a problem with that (he grips you closer to him and meets your eyes and you don’t think you would mind either, if you’re being honest.) The midnight moonlight shines through the kitchen windows, and he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, where you know a crooked smile awaits you. You lean on him and pin his head against you, eliciting a laugh from your lover.

“Love you, Mams.”

“Love y’more.” And you can’t help but press your lips against his at the response. It is soft, and sweet, and slow. I am yours. I would follow you to the ends of all of the three realms if you asked me to. I love you. I love you. I love you, it says.

And you think you would stay like this forever, if you could. Right here, right now, with Greed in your arms and Dear Soulmate ringing throughout the room. How fitting it is, that Laufey’s melodious voice starts her chorus as his forehead presses against yours, blue-gold eyes shining so soft in the light you can’t help but melt.

Suddenly you’re pressed against the counter, his arms trapping you against him and suddenly Mammon is at your ear whispering, “Play the song.” Less of a demand and more of a plea, sweet and nearly silent, his voice sends shivers down your spine.

You can’t help but bask in the endearment that surges through you. A hand tangles itself and plays within the white locks belonging to the second-born Sin.

“What song?” A teasing grin from you. A whine from Mammon.

“Y’know, the song.” He pouts against you and his hair tickles your nose as he buries himself further into the space between your head and shoulders as you laugh at his antics.

“Need’ya to tell me what song, baby. Can’t read minds, y’know.” You know exactly what song he’s talking about.

“I hate ya, y’know.”

“You love me.”

He dramatically sighs against your neck. “Wish I didn’t.” A lie and you both know it. Still doesn’t make your smile any less wide.

“Mean. M’not playing the song for you now.”

“You said you didn’t know the song?!” A cry of outrage and mock indignation. You hastily shush him and break out into a fit of quiet laughter.

You motion for him to lean in closer, before whispering urgently and dramatically,

“I lied.”

“…”

“I was serious when I said I hated ya, y’know.”

A series of breathy giggles leave you and quickly reach Greed’s ears, and soon enough he’s barking out laughter alongside you.

It’s in moments like these that you know things are going to be alright. No matter what, you’ll have your Mammon by your side, and that means things will be okay.

You remember a time before him, before the love of your life was yours, and you can’t believe you ever thought you were alive before him. Darkness had filled every part of your being, and the days had dragged on, long and pointless. You remember coming home to your empty apartment, and the bitterness that used to form a pit in your chest and choke you to the point of tears.

Before you met the boy with stars in his eyes, you didn’t think you would live to your next birthday. How fitting it was, that he had come in in your darkest moments, only to fill you with light. (The sun seemed dim compared to his smile, and you fondly remember the moment you realized that you would do anything for that smile, no matter how troublesome or ridiculous his scheming may be at times.)

“Watcha thinking ‘bout?” A casually posed question, but his eyes betray the slight worry that stained his face.

Mammon, your Mammon. The love of your life and beyond. What would you do without this precious boy? What would you do without the greedy Mammon who willingly had let you steal his golden heart? (You treasure him as though he is the most precious jewel, and Greed finds himself melting into you more often than not partially to avoid being witnessed as the blushing mess he becomes whenever he looks into your eyes, filled with love. All for him, you tell him. And despite being Greed incarnate, he cannot imagine taking all of the entirety that is your love.)

“Nothin’, just thinking about how much I love ya, Mams.”

He blushes furiously and tries stammering out a response, only to give up and once again bury his face into the crook of your neck, whining and mumbling something along the lines of ‘not fair’ and ‘…love ya’ more, human.’ Against your skin.

And while the moonlight shines and Mitski plays in the background, you play his song and sway with him once more.

i love him ur honor. i am in love with him ur honor. i would do anything for this man. tooth-rotting fluff is not a can, but a must.

please please please please offer feedback and criticism hes my fav character and i want to make sure my writing and characterization did him justice :((

anyways yeah credit to @pothologics for the banger playlist that inspired me to write this

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sinnamonrolle · 1 year

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[the little moments] ♡ Barbatos

9 - That moment when Barbatos froze time

✿ part of a series! ✿

❀ gender neutral reader ❀

“Thank you for inviting me. I really needed this.”

The sound of crystallization twinkled around you, gently melding with the waves from the lake. It almost resembled music, if not for the organic pacing. There was no rhythm or beat, just the creation and breaking of crystals according to the laws of nature. They would form in clusters, then, as if pushed over an edge, they would shatter and fall into the water, yet moments later, a new bud would grow, undeterred by its flexible and flimsy surface.

“Of course, I’m glad I could provide you with a chance to rest. It isn’t easy to live with the brothers.”

The gazebo was small, neat and tight against the edge of the lake, but it was beautifully designed and sculpted with elegant frames curving upwards to support the glass roof. If it weren’t for Barbatos telling you about it, you wouldn’t even have known there was a roof to begin with. Although it looked like it came straight from a fairytale, you felt a little out of place, like you were too mundane, too simple for such an elegant place that held so much history.

Looking up, the eternal Devildom sky and its many stars winked back at you. You felt like some sort of royalty sitting at this expensive table, sipping your drink like you owned everything in this garden, despite the true owner sitting across from you at this very moment.

“Your drink is delicious too,” you said, looking at the round, lowball glass in your hands. Your eyes traveled up a little further, past the snow globe sitting at the center, and then reaching Barbatos’ hands—empty.

He smiled at you when you met his eyes.

“Where is your drink?” you asked, realizing how empty it was on his side of the table. Even though he carted over a whole tray of various sweets that, after taking a closer look, you found were all your favorites, he merely interlocked his fingers and watched you.

“I’ve already tasted it,” he said simply. His expression unchanging, he reached over to set one of the sweets next to you. “I believe this dessert goes extremely well with this drink. Why don’t you try it?”

You refused to look at it. “That’s not the point, Barbatos.”

“Oh?” Barbatos, who was in the middle of leaning back into his seat, paused, and turned to you, making such intense eye contact despite how mild his expression was that you forgot to breathe for just a second. So mild, so unreadable, you could only begin to guess at his thoughts. “That’s not the point?”

“No, no it isn’t,” you said firmly. “The point is that I can’t be the only one eating and drinking here, especially since you are the host. You’ve already done so much for me.”

Even if you felt just a smidge like royalty, that didn’t mean you let it get to your head.

As you began to push some of the sweets towards him, he laughed—a deep, warm sound that made your heart flutter more than it should have, and what made it worse was the gloved hand that covered yours as he stopped you. Even through the fabric, you felt the heat seeping through, and you stilled, now focused entirely on the shape of his hand.

“While I did invite you so that you could have a break, I actually had something to ask of you as well,” Barbatos said, again with that same smile you’ve seen so many times before. You bit your lips, eyes flitting between his hand on top of yours and his dark olive eyes. “It’s nothing serious, just a curiosity of mine.”

“What is it?”

With his free hand, he took the snow globe sitting at the center of the table and pressed it into yours, clasping your hands along with the snow globe.

Barbatos… his hands… holding? Mine??

Pulling away with a soft squeeze, as if he could sense how distracted you were, he chuckled and called your name. “Do you know what this is?”

Yes, this is called “holding hands!” you almost blurted out, but if you did, not only would he be disappointed in your intelligence, he probably would never hold a meeting with you again, much less your hands. Whatever remained of your rationality kept your mouth tightly shut.

You peered into the transparent globe. This snow globe was relatively simple in terms of decoration, having only a small pink sheep curled up in the middle that slept peacefully among the snow. But because it had been picked up earlier, some of the snow flew up and was now settling down again, covering the sheep with sprinkles of white.

It was such an adorable snow globe, you couldn’t help thinking. You wondered where Barbatos got it from, and if you could get one as well to put on your desk.

“It’s just a snow globe,” you said, handing it back to him. “Why do you ask? These are pretty common.”

When he accepted the globe, the warm fabric of his gloves skimmed across your skin. You froze. The itchy sensation tickled your heart, as if urging you to act on whatever thoughts you had in your mind. You doused it with a big sip of your drink, letting the fruity taste distract you from the thoughts bouncing in your head.

If you keep touching me, I’m going to go insane! This is worse than the brothers!

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he said, again with that same smile that seemed to never leave his face. You looked away to start cutting the sweets on your plate, putting maybe just a little too much force on the fork than you should have. “I’ve always found them intriguing.”

Tilting your head, your eyebrows furrowed. “What’s so interesting about them? They’re just snow globes.”

“It’s just amazing how humans, the majority of which are unable to use magic, invent their own form of magic,” Barbatos said, slowly spinning the globe around with his long, slender fingers. The agitated snow flew up again, covering everything inside in a flurry of white. Yet despite the commotion, the sheep slept ever so peacefully. “Demons may be powerful with all sorts of magic at our disposal, but we cannot compare to humans’ creativity.”

You watched the storm rage around the small sheep, as if the blizzard was a sort of barrier, or protection against the world beyond it. But to the sheep, that was its world. Was it trapped in this small glass? Or would it be better that this small world was all it had ever known, this paradise of eternal snow?

“We’re just desperate,” you said slowly. Your gaze landed on the lake beside you, just in time to see a cluster of crystalized magic fracture and fall apart, returning back to where it started, only to repeat the same process all over again. Unhurried, it bloomed at its own pace, as if time did not exist. “We spend our lifetime wishing for things. Those who want it bad enough just take matters into their own hands, and some end up more successful than others.”

Barbatos hummed, the low timbre of his voice tickling your ears. “It’s not so bad to be desperate,” he said. “As a result, you managed to create something so beautiful, similar to our time magic. It’s wonderful to see.”

He tapped on the snow globe, the muffled sound catching your attention. His eyes were narrowed with a playful smile that had you nervous but also surprised. It was rare for Barbatos to display anything other than an unreadable expression, smile included, on his face.

“Would you like to learn?” he asked, and of course you could never refuse when he’s the one asking you. How could you when he’s asking so nicely? Even though he was busy with his duties, he still offered his time and attention—this meet up, too. You could barely grasp how long the desserts he’s been stuffing you all this time took him to make.

The stuffy feeling in your chest curled up just like the edges of your lips. “Of course, I would love to.”

For a moment, he seemed satisfied. His lips were set softly, and his eyes were warm, gentle, indulging, as if the moment you asked for anything, he would do it for you without hesitation. As if you asked for the moon, he would also give you the stars, and he probably wouldn’t even sweat doing it.

��Perfect,” he said, getting up from his seat. He offered a hand to you, pulling you up when you accepted it. “Why don’t we save it for our next meeting? For now, shall I demonstrate?”

It wasn’t a question, because then, a wind blew, ruffling your clothes, and the temperature dropped, evident in the puff of fog that left your lips when you exhaled. It was currently summer in the devildom, so you were nowhere near prepared for the sudden temperature change.

But of course, Barbatos, ever so thoughtful, set a hand, the same one that had helped you up earlier, on your arm. It fought away the chill biting away at your flesh, but it also increased your heart rate way too much for it to be healthy or normal. Not like you let it show.

He was just casting a spell, you told yourself, mentally smacking your face. Just casting a spell.

“What do you think?” Barbatos said. Despite the magic being applied, he didn’t take away his hand, which slid down to cradle your elbow. Even through the spell, the warmth of his palm stood out, like it was burning wherever he touched.

Distracted, you almost missed his question. It took you an embarrassingly long time to gather the words scattered in your mind. He probably thought you were an idiot, but you didn’t let that stop you from answering.

Taking a look around you, you saw how the previously green leaves of the tree had now turned a deep red, tinging into purple at the edges. They slowly fell off with the wind blowing by, blanketing the ground with their regal crimson. Some even drifted onto the walkway. Although, at a certain point along the path, the autumn leaves stopped entirely, as if there was an invisible wall preventing them from going any further.

“How does this work exactly?” you asked, turning to Barbatos. “You didn’t only change the season, right?”

He regarded you softly with a smile that you had never seen on him before. It was a small smile, not unlike his normally polite ones, but it reached his eyes in that they crinkled so gently at the edges, the love bands underneath his eyes scrunching up in fondness, and if you squinted, there seemed to be a hint of pride lining his eyebrows.

“You’re so observant, my dear,” he praised, and you felt your heart soar in your chest, expanding and expanding until something that you could only describe as a mess of warmth and gooey tenderness was the sole thing you felt coursing through your body. Nothing could beat compliments. Especially when it came from someone that you cared about. “Your observations are exactly right.”

He gestured at the scenery before you with his free hand, his white glove a stark contrast against the vibrant vegetation. “Although time magic has varied applications, this type is the most common in art. If it makes it easier to understand, the closest analogy is precisely the snowglobe.”

As if someone pressed the two times speed button, the leaves coating the ground withered and dried into scratchy piles of dead greys and muted oranges. Dark clouds soon rolled in after, followed by a gust of wind that, thankfully because of the spell, skimmed right over your skin. You looked up through the glass roof. Breathing out a cloud of fog, you saw that it had begun to snow.

“This technique isolates space,” Barbatos continued. “The isolated space has a separate flow of time decided by the caster. It could be sped up, slowed down, or completely stopped. Anything goes, which makes the art created with this technique so interesting.”

“I can see why,” you said, laughing. “I never knew the garden looked so pretty in winter.”

With the snowfall came a sort of quiet that only a dark winter night could bring, a kind of chilling hush that fell over the land and slept softly against the white expanse of snow. It was something you didn’t know you missed until this moment. How long had it been since things were this peaceful?

Barbatos’ grasp on your arm tightened. “You should visit more frequently,” he said in a light voice, watching the snowflakes flutter down. “I don’t see you very often.”

Nothing changed, but something felt different from before.

You reached out a hand. As if it had been summoned, a single, tiny snowflake, one among the indistinctive many, arrived and landed on your palm. In a second, or maybe even less, it melted as quickly as it came. It barely left anything behind, like it had just simply vanished, disappeared into the darkness from where it came.

There was an itch of guilt in your chest.

“I should,” you finally responded. “I’m sorry, Barbatos.”

He drew nearer. If he was close before, he was closer now, to the point where he could wrap his arms around you in a hug if he just extended his arms. It was such a fragile distance.

“What is there for you to apologize for?” he asked, his other hand coming up to softly clasp yours, the one the snowflake fell on. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You attempted a smile, but you didn’t think it was particularly convincing. “Maybe I’ll move into the castle. That way I can see you more,” you joked, but you knew it would likely never happen. Diavolo probably wouldn’t mind, but then what about the brothers? What about the rest of the Devildom, the ones that saw you as nothing more than some human?

What right did you have?

Barbatos leaned towards you, his head just shy of touching yours. He looked intently at you. “My dear,” he said slowly, softly, as if he was afraid that you would miss his words if he went any faster. “You can have anything you want. As long as it is what you truly desire.”

“...Anything?” you whispered.

“Anything,” he promised, and that was enough.

There was something in your throat, something sour that stuck around and refused to come out, and you didn’t know whether to cry or smile, so you did an odd combination of both where it came out more like a wince with your furrowed eyebrows and curled lips, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Your vision blurred, and you guessed that your body chose to cry after all.

You tried a laugh. “You’re so silly, you know,” you said with a trembling voice. “Promising me ‘anything.’ You can’t go back on your words, okay?”

“What kind of demon would I be to go back on my words?” Barbatos said, but you’re pretty sure he was joking. He smiled, and you found that you couldn’t really say anything back when he smiled like that. “Let me give you a gift.”

When he looked down at your hand, you followed his gaze only to see a snowflake in your palm. You thought another one had landed until it melted and crystallized and melted again, all within the span of a couple seconds.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “It’s your snowflake now. It’ll be with you until the end of time.”

You almost couldn’t believe his words. Who could lay claim on a singular snowflake? Yet he had clearly done so just now, so nonchalantly, so casually as if it was something normal that anyone could accomplish and give as a gift.

“What if I lose it?” you choked out, staring worryingly at the timeless, ever transforming droplet of water. “It’s so tiny.”

Barbatos chuckled quietly, drawing your attention back to him. Fondly, he said, “You won’t, my dear. Why don’t you take a closer look?”

Following his words, you studied the snowflake closer, tilting your hand this way and that, when suddenly, the light caught against something around the snowflake. You tried again. A sparkle glinted back at you, and you realized it was from a thin layer of something resembling a plastic film wrapped around the snowflake, encasing it, isolating it from the outside world. A notch stuck out at the top, like it was meant to hook onto something.

It had become… a pendant.

You looked at Barbatos, incredulous at how he came up with an idea like this. He met your exasperated look with a calm smile and gentle, olive green eyes. But at that moment, you fully realized the weight of his words, that he had already begun to fulfill his promise, that his gift meant more than a mere gift.

Anything, he said. Anything.

If you wanted the moon, he would even give you the stars.

“Barbatos,” you said, and he responded with an attentive hum. “If you ever go back on your words, I think I’ll cry.”

Finally, finally, his forehead rested against yours, as if he had finally allowed himself to do so. The fragile distance between you two had closed. But even though he was so close that you could see the bright green specks in his eyes, you still couldn’t figure out what was going through his mind. Would you ever?

Maybe, the day you find out would be the day you would be able to give him anything he wanted.

“Please, don’t cry,” he said, and suddenly his voice was so loud, so firm against the swaying snow. His hands were so warm. “I may be a demon, but I’ll always be your demon.”

A cozy feeling tickled your heart.

-------

im sorry this is so late OTL

but don't worry, this series will eventually be finished!

Masterlist!

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fortheloveoffanfic · 8 months

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Daylight; The Path of Least Resistance

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Author's Note: So, I made it a thing Summary: A month after Thomas and Y/n last saw each other, neither of them can seem to let go. Masterlists Daylight Warnings: Angst, infidelity, mentions of prostitutes.

One month later Sitting up against the silk covered pillows, Thomas reaches over into a small, wooden box stationed on the exquisitely designed bedside table for a cigarette, collecting the lighter as well before rolling the slender paper cylinder between his lips. Bedside him, Thomas feels someone shifting around, though, just as she moves to drape a slender arm over his bare midsection, he shuffles out of the messy bed, pulls on his pants and goes over the suite’s stocked drink cart.

At first, he goes for the bottle of top-shelf whiskey, but when he catches a glimpse of a familiar label on a green tinted bottle perched in a bucket of ice, Thomas grabs that instead. He’s never been much of a wine drinker, but its Y/n’s favorite and ever since that last evening at her apartment, Thomas has found himself eager to hold on to whatever of her he has left.

Filling a delicate crystal glass to the halfway mark, Thomas takes a large swing of the honeyed liquor, humming at the way buttery notes meld with the flavor of red berries. Its never been hard to deduce why she likes it so much, though that evening, he finds that there’s an unusual, bitter undertone to the typically sweet wine, perhaps because he can hardly have a sip without recalling her red rimmed eyes and blotchy cheeks.

Anguish he caused her.

Punctuating long sips of wine with strong pulls of his cigarette, Thomas lingers at the cart, feeling much too guilty to even turn around and address the woman populating the large bed at the center of the room. He can’t quite remember her name, or even if he’d asked, but not knowing what the call her is hardly the source of the heaviness on his conscience;

Its only been about a month since he last saw Y/n and he can’t help but feel like its a crime to fill her space. It feels like he’s betraying her.

Funny enough, Thomas has never felt that way about stepping out on Grace. Of course there were the usual feelings of self-reproach; she hadn’t been wrong when she accused him of not wanting to cheat on Grace- he never did, but after meeting Y/n once, he was a goner. She was like a magnet and he was iron- he couldn't help himself.

Y/n was a bright, un-flickering flame erupting from cold, pitch darkness and Thomas was a broken-winged moth at her mercy.

“Why don’t you come back to bed?” A pair of arms wind around his waist and he feels the young woman’s breasts press against his back, the coolness of her rayon slip contrasting with the warmth of his skin, “We’ve still got an hour, honey.”

Irritated by the intrusion, Thomas snuffs on the cigarette in a nearby ash tray and uses his now free hand to push her arms away. “Get dressed,” he mumbles coldly, crossing the room to collect his own clothes.

The prostitute scoffs, “The cost’s still the same,” she folds her arms indigently and shifts her weight from one leg to the next.

Rolling his eyes, Thomas tugs on his trousers without looking at her, “I’ll pay you extra to shut the fuck up.” When his snide offer is met with nothing more than an irate huff, Thomas spares the woman a glance, furrowing his brows as his passing look leads to the strangest realization; he hadn’t noticed before, but she looks a little like Y/n- if Y/n were much cheaper, wore way too much rouge and dabbled in drugs.

Perhaps they just have broadly similar features- perhaps when he was drunk that was enough, but now that he’s sobered up, Thomas is completely disgusted with himself.

That was another thing she was right about; she is a sin that he needs to atone for. He does need forgiveness- for what he did to her, how he tried to replace her as if she were nothing more than a void existing within him. And he’d deserve it if she never accepted his attempt at recompense.

Finally shrugging his long coat over his suit and collecting his hat, Thomas brushes past the half-dressed young woman and carelessly tosses a few crumpled notes to the bedside table closest to the door, its probably way more than the amount that they agreed on but he doesn’t care. In fact, he can hardly think of anything but his desire to put as much distance between himself and his cheap distraction as possible.

“Don’t you at least want to know my name?” She asks just as his hand closes in around the door knob, prompting Thomas to pause contemplatively.

He really isn’t certain as to whether or not he’s even actually asked her, but Thomas doesn’t particularly care either. “No,” he offers coldly, shutting the door behind him in the wake of his exit.

Outside the hotel, when Thomas finally clamors into his car, the sun has already set and according to his pocket watch, its nearing nine pm. He knows that he should go home; its late and he’s tired near the point of blindness but Grace has recently taken Charles to Ireland on a visit to her family and Thomas finds that the house feels incredibly hollow without them, even if there is still a full staff carrying on with business as usual.

In retrospect, its probably him that’s hollow- them being gone leaves him with too much idle time. Even if things are still unending at work, he still finds his mind straying to thoughts of someone that put him out of her life, and it is in those moments, Thomas usually welcomes the distraction offered by Charles wanting company to play with his trains or Grace popping in for menial small talk.

He’s been doing anything and everything to keep his mind off her but nothing seems to work.

There isn’t a damn thing he’s done in the past month that isn’t hampered by the thought of Y/n. The feel of her mouth on his, the warmth of her skin, the smell of her perfume when he kisses her neck- her laugh, the serenity he feels when they’re together. Truthfully, Thomas had known missing her would eat away at him from the minute Y/n had asked him to leave but he’s done his utmost best to prove himself wrong; if she wants him gone then he’ll damn well go.

But he can’t seem to let go.

He still drives by her flat sometimes and spends a couple minutes gazing up at the window, wondering what she’s up, to while other times, he’ll get as far as asking the operator to put him through to her phone only to hang up before Y/n can pick up. There’s a bottle of her favorite wine in his office and the jeweler recently delivered a necklace he’d ordered especially for her.

A delicate looking, pearl choker with an oval ruby the size of his thumb nail at the center- he doesn’t have to give it to Y/n to know she’d love it. In fact, despite their state of affairs, Thomas is still debating whether or not he should just send it to her; it’s meant for her anyway.

The engine tumbles to life with minimal effort, and upon steering out onto the street, where traffic is progressively dwindling as the hour grows later, Thomas makes a rash and impulsive decision;

He’s going to see her- the necklace, tucked in the glove compartment, is as good an excuse as any.

Even if she slams the door in his face after barely looking at him, even if she condemns him to hell, for one moment, he’ll cross her mind and Thomas will know that he isn’t alone in the torrent of memories.

The path to her house is one that has been seared into his memory; he can find his way there from anywhere. Y/n, he often thought before the mess of things, is like a beacon; a lighthouse with beams bright enough to burst through the thickest fog, a siren song that calls him home. He can find her without thinking, he knows his way to her as if his place was always meant to be alongside her.

He is meant to walk the golden bricked road that leads to her.

“Thank you for walking me back,” Y/n flashes her companion a small smile as they reach the front doors of her building.

Peter shrugs nonchalantly but by the yellow light of the near-by street lamp, she catches the way his green eyes brighten as he stuff his fidgety hands into the pockets of brown, tweed slacks. “Of course,” he licks his lips nervously and Y/n draws in a stilling breath. Peter works at the orphanage’s library and according to the other teacher’s Y/n usually lunches with, he’s always fancied her; he brings her little things from the nearby bakery sometimes and brought her flowers on her birthday earlier that year. He’s sweet, she thinks, and has a sort of boyish charm about him- he’s exactly the kind of man she usually favors; quiet, safe and respectable.

If she weren’t so stuck in her feelings for Thomas, Y/n might actually return his feelings.

Thomas; Y/n has been trying to push him towards the back of her mind since the evening she asked him to leave. She keeps telling herself that she needs to get over him, make him an afterthought- after all, that’s all she probably is to him;

A warm body to fill his time. Something young and pretty that he can play with when he’s bored of his wife.

Nothing but heartache can come from a man like Thomas- a married man with enough money and power to think that affords him the privilege to do what he wants. Treat women however he wants. She’s learned that the hard way.

He hardly even cares about himself, so it isn’t far-fetched that he doesn’t have the capacity to care for her.

So why can’t she seem to let him go; why does she think of him when she wakes up and goes to bed, when she goes to work or gets in a bath? When she does something painstakingly mundane or completely out of her routine.

When she’s linking arms with a nice man who’d never treat her the way Thomas has.

“Did you hear me?” Peter touches her elbow and Y/n jumps, only just realizing that she’d lapsed into contemplation. Its funny how he can take up so much space in her mind while simultaneously being absent from her life.

Shaking her head, Y/n paints on a faltering smile, “No, sorry. What was that?” She tips her chin a little to meet his gaze.

“Its nothing,” Peter rubs the back of his head bashfully, “I was just saying….it was my pleasure; its been nice spending time with you.”

She supposes that if she let herself, Y/n might be able to return those words without them being a lie. But she can’t; truthfully, she’s been doing the same thing that Thomas did with her- using Peter as a distraction. Y/n would love to think that her crime is hardly as severe, but if Peter does feel for her what all her friends say he does, then the cruelty is just the same.

“Its…been nice for me too,” Y/n licks her lips, “I really....” Before she can finish, the car coming up the street slow as it approaches them, finally pulling up across the street, where an aged tree affords the driver the opportunity to keep their identity shrouded. Though, Y/n doesn’t need to see the driver to know whose car that is; she’s been in that car more times than she can count.

Thomas.

Her heart quickens and Y/n’s gaze hastily shifts between the polished Bentley and Peter as irrational guilt sets in. Feeling that way is utterly irrational, Y/n knows that much- she isn’t betraying him, just moving on.

Torn between wanting to keep pressing forward until Thomas is completely in her rear view and missing him so much that it burns, Y/n fumbles with her words.

“Are you okay?” Peter probes when her stare lingers on the car.

“Um..yeah,” flashing him a tight smile, Y/n turns back to Peter, “Its just-”

Off to her left, the distinct click of the car door being opened catches her attention once more, and Y/n shifts her gaze just in time to see Thomas getting out of the car before shoving the door shut. “Do you know him?” Peter protectively reaches for her arm just as Thomas lingers at the car, hands stowed in his pockets.

“I-yeah,” she nods vigorously, “I do. I should go,” Y/n lays her palm on his hand, still gently holding her arm, and offers it a reassuring squeeze, “I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?”

Confused by her sudden desire to dismiss him, Peter nods stiffly, “Right, yeah, of course,” he drops his hand and Y/n immediately feels awful about possibly disappointing him, “Monday. Enjoy your weekend.”

“You too,” he’s about to walk off when Y/n impulsively leans towards him, planting a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips, “I really appreciate you walking me back,” she reminds him, words whispered against his lips before she spares him another, quicker kiss. When she pulls away, Peter’s cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide behind his round-framed spectacles.

Their hands brush when he finally walks off, though its hardly the reason for the shiver that runs through her. Instead, its Thomas’ glare that prompts Y/n to suck in a sharp breath.

Jealousy, fury or a volatile combination of both- its hard to tell. Shamefully though, Y/n is quite pleased to have achieve what she’d set out to do; arouse a reaction that he has no choice but to subdue.

She isn’t his to fight for, he has no claim to her.

Matching his stance, Y/n slips her hands into the front pockets of her burgundy long coat, “I told you to not come back here.”

“Not exactly,” without concern, he slowly steps forward, pausing when he reaches the middle of the sleepy street, “You said you never wanted to see me again.”

Shaking one shoulder, Y/n blinks quickly and looks away, “Same thing,” she sniffles, “You shouldn’t be here- I don’t want you here.”

Licking his lips, Thomas nods in feigned understanding, “Really?”

“Yes.”

It only hands a few more steps before Thomas is stepping onto the sidewalk, leaving only about six inches between them. If it was hard to think with him twenty miles away, its even harder with him so close that she can smell cheap, floral perfume staining his clothes. “Really?” Thomas asks again.

How dare he fuck someone else and then show up at her doorstep?

“Really,” in her pockets, Y/n’s fists ball and she grits her teeth, “Besides, I’m sure your whore’s waiting on you,” she spats, turning on her heel to head towards the building.

But Thomas is faster. Grabbing her arm, he urges her back towards him and by the time she’s able to shake off his grip, their chests are barely a hair apart, “That was a mistake,” he admits, eyes growing dim as his tone becomes mournful, “I wanted so fuckin’ bad for her to be you.”

Huffing a dry chuckle, Y/n rolls her eyes, “Aren’t we past flattery, Tom?”

“This would be easier if it were flattery,” Thomas’ grip lingers on her hips, firm but not bruising, “I miss you, Y/n,” he stresses and she can feel her resolve chipping away.

A hitched breath burns her throat on his way out, “Why are you doing this to me?” She whines, “Haven’t I given you enough?”

Thomas doesn’t answer directly, Y/n doesn’t expect him to. “You have,” he admits, “But I can’t get you outta my fuckin’ head. I don’t know what you’ve done to me-”

“What I’ve done you?” She pulls away abruptly, only for Thomas to easily reel her back in.

“That’s not how I meant it,” he sighs, thinking for a handful of seconds before pressing his lips to hers in what she thinks is his version of an apology. For the shortest moment, she considers not responding at all but his lips on hers are a reminder of everything she misses about him; the thrill he offers, his ability to make her feel like the most special woman in the world.

When Y/n finally relents, everything after comes like a breaking wave in the midst of a storm. Her arms loom around his neck and Y/n leans forward on her toes, practically melting into Thomas’ chest. Their lips move in impassioned synchrony while he kneads her hips hungrily. He begins nudging her towards the front doors of the building, steps rendered blind and clumsy by their un-breaking lip lock.

Its just one more night, she concedes; small crime in comparison to the past year. They can out run the daylight one more time,

“This is not alright,” Y/n shudders against his lips as her back hits the door and Thomas reaches past her to push it open.

It is not alright, but the path of least resistance rarely is.

#cillian murphy #thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby #tommy shelby x reader #cillian murphy x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #fanfic #daylight

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blackjackkent · 17 days

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Snippet Sunday

Tagged by @bardic-inspo thank you! :D

Tagging forward: @morganaseren @writer86 @istibaethoriel @shadoedseptmbr @astreamofstars (and anyone else who would like to participate! also apologies to the person i accidentally tagged with a typo XD)

If you'd like me to tag you in memes like this in the future, like this post over here!

Posting a snippet from the next chapter of "Open Your Eyes And It Will Blind You", which I am forcing myself to complete before I allow myself to work on any more oneshots. XD

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The caravan sleeps like a litter of puppies. They select a spot, and then the whole crew simply sprawls across it in a disorganized heap of bedrolls and camping supplies and carts. The occasional campfire sends flickering light over the scene. Jaheira volunteers for guard duty more often than not, as it gives her the excuse to skulk moodily at the edge of the encampment and brood - sometimes as herself, sometimes in the form of one creature or another.

Rasaad comes to find her on the fifth day on the road. Her wildshape tonight is almost invisible in the darkness, a great black wolf that melds with the shadows, padding silently in long restless lines at the edge of the roadway. Hearing his footsteps approaching, she halts abruptly and stares at him with a low, warning growl.

He freezes at once. “I am sorry,” he says softly. “I did not mean to startle you.” When she doesn’t respond, he goes on carefully, “I have been avoiding you, these last days since you caught up with me. I… thought it was time I rectified that - if you would welcome the company.”

The wolf looks back at him in silence, neither objecting nor accepting. A soft grumbling sound rumbles deep in her chest; she pulls her paws under her and sits.

Taking this, cautiously, for acquiescence, he steps forward and sits beside her on a nearby fallen log. “You are angry with me for leaving the way I did,” he says. It isn’t a question. “Perhaps you are right to be. I have spoken to Caden; he is angry as well, and he has less cause than you.”

He scuffs his boot heel absently into the carpet of fallen leaves that covers the ground. Then he mutters, almost too low to hear, "I confess I thought that you would understand."

The wolf snuffs a heavy breath out, lowers herself to a crouched position, resting her head on her paws. Her eyes remain fixed on him, glinting in the intermittent flickers of firelight.

"Do you think I do not remember when you did the same? When you also ran from us in the night, with only a letter left behind?” he asks, not really expecting a response now. “Caden spoke for us all when we found you again, but do you think he was the only one torn out at the heart? But you had your reasons. I knew it. We all knew it. You had your reasons. As I have…”

Another long silence, and then Jaheira growls low in her throat and shifts, the wildshape melting away from her into the dark. When it is gone, she sits hunched forward at his side, her eyes never having left him. “That was different,” she says quietly.

He visibly relaxes just slightly as her face comes into view, and the hint of a smile pulls involuntarily at his lips. “Tell me how,” he murmurs.

#bjk talks #wip wednesday #snippet sunday #this may end up changing more before publishing XD #this chapter has been fighting me the whole way

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eufezco · 2 years

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...READY FOR IT? – S.H. x FEM!READER

english isn't my first language

masterlist

It was ten minutes before Steve's shift was over, you were waiting at the back of the store until he was done. It was boring, but you thanked Keith had some comics there that you could use to fight boredom. You heard your boyfriend and his friend talking and you sighed, god, how bored you were, if only you could go with them and pretend that you were a client, or that you worked at the store too...

"You're telling me you haven't had sex with y/n yet?!" The tapes on Robin's hands almost fell off. Steve rolled his eyes, not saying anything and following Robin around the store with the cart as she put the tapes in their places. You frowned, a soft wave of heat spread across your cheeks, did you hear that right?

"Could you lower your voice? She's right in the back of the store. Jesus." Steve shushed her.

"I'm sorry It's just that– I thought you guys already went all the way." Steve shook his head. If it had been Steve who had told her that you two hadn't had sex yet, Robin wouldn't have believed him, but since she was the one asking, she had to trust her friend, even though what he was telling her didn't seem like something to trust. "Well, foreplay is cool too. Most people like it even more than sex." Robin's eyes opened wide when her friend didn't answer her. "Jesus, Steve. Are you okay? Do you feel sick?" Robin left the tapes in the cart, and placed her hand on Steve's forehead, trying to hold back her laughter as Steve rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"It's not a big deal, okay?" Steve shook his head to get off his friend's hand.

"Well, it is a big deal when you've based all your previous relationships on sex." Robin grabbed the tapes again and started to put them in place again.

"That's not true."

Robin raised her eyebrows. "Linda, Laurie, Amy, Becky, Nancy, tell me you didn't have sex with them before dating them."

Steve thought about it, his hands resting on his hips as he tried to find a way to contradict her. Okay, Robin was right.

"See? You can't."

"Okay, yeah, but with y/n is completly different..." You stopped listening to the conversation when Steve couldn't deny what Robin was suggesting, you only could hear your heavy breathing. You swallowed the lump that was in your throat when Steve walked into the back of the store, interrupting your thoughts.

"What are you reading?" Steve took Keith's comic from your hands and you stood up from the chair at that same moment. "I gotta go." You announced, passing by Steve's side to get out of there.

"But we were going to–”

"Sorry, my mom called. See you later?"

—

You were grabbing a fistful of Steve's hair while sitting on his lap. Nothing unusual for you, just a makeout session with Steve's needy lips melding with yours and your hands tangled in his hair, every now and then using that grip to pull his head back. His hands were placed on your hips as his lips moved smoothly with yours when suddenly the conversation you overheard this morning replayed in your head and you felt the need to roll your hips against his bulge. Steve let out a groan and held your hips strongly. He likes it, you thought, so you rolled your hips again.

Your hand went from his hair to his chest, feeling over his polo how hot his body was until your fingers moved to the buckle of his jeans. "Wait, y/n." He mumbled but you didn't stop kissing him, your hands working to unbuckle his jeans as fast as they could, but it felt like your brain wasn't controlling your hands anymore and made it impossible to get rid of his belt. "Y/n." Steve called your name again, parting from your lips but you soon connected your mouths again. In that couple of seconds that you were separated from each other, Steve noticed how shaky your hands were while working on his belt, not sure of what they were doing and most important, not ready for what you were thinking of doing. He held your hips tighter, not allowing you to keep grinding against him, your hands immediately stopped working on his belt when you felt his sudden reaction.

"Don't you want this?" You asked, offended. Steve's grip on your hips loosened up after getting you to stop, but his hands never left that part of your body. Your eyes were looking down, too embarrassed to look at him.

"Baby..." His eyebrows were arched with concern, one of his thumbs went to caress your cheek. "What happens?"

You hesitated before telling him. "I heard you talking with Robin this morning." Oh, Steve thought. He nodded, understanding what you meant. "And I thought that you wanted to–"

"I don't. I mean, of couse I do. I want you. But I don't want you to do something you're not ready for." You rolled your eyes and got up from his lap. Steve furrowed his eyebrows and also stood on his feet. "What is it?"

"You don't understand." He did not, he was increasingly confused. You let out an ironic chuckle, Steve standing in front of you not sure what to do and not knowing what you were talking about.

“Look, if you really wanna do it, if you're ready... then let's do it." Steve said when you didn't say anything else to him, expecting to get a response from you but you remained silent. He raised his eyebrows in a really arrogant manner, getting an answer even though you didn't say anything. He knew that you weren't ready.

"Ugh! It's just– It's– I don't want you to break up with me, Steve!"

"Why would I?"

"Because!"

Now Steve was the one that remained silent for a few seconds which made you even angrier. "Do you think I'm gonna break up with you because we don't have sex?" You hugged yourself, avoiding looking him in the eyes. "Robin said that you and your ex–”

"I don't care what Robin said. I don't need sex. I mean, I do enjoy sex a lot but I also enjoy kissing you, and holding hands, and you doing my hair, and me doing yours, and sleeping with you... I don't mind waiting, y/n." Steve approached you and used his index finger to lift your chin. You felt tears starting to roll down your cheek. "I wish I could do it." You confessed. Steve shook his head and hugged your body against his. "Only when you're ready." He sweetly kissed your head.

#stranger things #stranger things fluff #stranger things angst #stranger things smut #stranger things imagine #stranger things scenarios #stranger things x fem!reader #stranger things headcanons #steve harrington #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington smut #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington scenario #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington headcanon

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phoebe-delia · 2 years

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crunchy and smooth

For @drarrymicrofic prompt: jam. Fluffy fluff! I even have them MARRIED this time!

Harry spread the thick peanut butter over the bread, careful not to tear it with the knife. He dipped it back into the jar and added another layer, meeting every corner and crevice. He remembered their fierce debate in the supermarket over the superior form of peanut butter. 'The answer is clearly smooth, Potter,' to which Harry had retorted. 'Smooth is fine, but crunchy is just objectively better.'

They'd bickered on like that for a while until Harry finally put a jar of each into the cart and then dropped his arms at his sides. Draco considered them for a moment, shrugged, and then traipsed over toward the cheese section. Harry very nearly used crunchy in this sandwich, just to prove the git wrong, but he'd reached for the smooth instead.

Next, was the jam. Homemade by Molly; they had six jars of the stuff, so Harry figured this was as good a use for it as any. It stuck to the second piece of bread and took a bit of maneuvering, but soon enough Harry was looking at a fairly even, generous coating of jam.

He brought the two halves together, making sure to meet the corners just so, until they stuck together—peanut butter and jam.

He fumbled around in a nearby drawer until he found a plastic bag and slipped the sandwich inside. He put it in the refrigerator, knowing Draco would question him about it tomorrow—'So why not just use a preservation charm?'—but Harry would just shrug and let him discover during his lunch break the wonders of a PB & J that's had time to meld overnight in the fridge.

Harry quietly crept back into bed with Draco a few minutes later. His husband had fallen asleep about an hour ago, exhausted from the day's work, and forgotten to make his lunch. And Harry knew Draco would likely skip the meal altogether if he didn't bring something with him.

Harry pulled Draco into his arms, feeling the way their bodies slotted together perfectly in the embrace. He thought of the look of surprise, relief and gratitude Draco would have tomorrow morning when he saw his pre-made lunch. But best of all, the knowledge that Draco would work the latter half of his day with a full stomach was enough to justify staying up a bit later.

And with that, Harry drifted off to sleep.

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witch-and-her-witcher · 4 months

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For @asnowfern, a gift for @acotargiftexchange! The support and positivity of your responses left me brimming with creative inspiration, so please enjoy this Nessian First Hybern War (and after) AU.

Thank you @popjunkie42-blog and @wilde-knight for your beta reading and handholding. <3

Ao3 | 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, (7)

~*~

nessian | E | marriage of convenience, first hybern war AU, angst, whump, emotional slow burn

War brings them together, a bond binds them - but is that enough for two broken people to find love with each other?

~*~

The rest of the morning passes in a flurry with moments of such intense anxiety Nesta doesn’t know how her or Elain remain on their feet. The gathering once they leave the camp and file into a town square — Windhaven, if she has to guess — is spilling into side streets and busting out of the town’s seams.

Music curls through the throngs of fae, their voices melding into a cacophony of undulating tones that complement the high energy chords the instruments play. Colorful streamers of fluttering triangles on yards and yards of string criss cross the streets and the town square. The smell of steaming dumplings, sizzling meats, and roasting vegetables rise from street carts — but no one eats. The vendors watch their food, but no customers approach.

Everyone else's attention goes to the center of the square.

A platform sits there, nothing elaborate, but enough for a dais and standing room aside it. Nesta squints, trying to get a glimpse of the female who is standing at the dais with gleaming talons and lustrous, unnotched wings unfurled behind her.

Tita Noonya shoves and jabs to forge their path to the front of the crowd. Occasionally, Nesta catches females catching sight of her and Elain and making faces and immediate tittering of responses.

“Is it so odd to see humans here?” Nesta asks, unable to contain herself after glaring at a particularly upfront female’s sneer.

Although they stand apart for their pale skin and lack of wings, Nesta has spotted a few other fae like Jun who don’t have wings and paler skin, albeit pointed ears … Illyria is certainly homogenous in its make up, but surely humans aren’t so looked down on if they’d fought for their freedom?

Tita Noonya rolls her eyes, doesn’t look at Nesta when she answers. “It’s not your race, girl. It's the colors you wear.”

“Because they’re Cassians?”

The female eyes her with ink black eyes, the clouds dispersing the sunlight enough to make it impossible to distinguish her pupils from her dark, dark brown irises. Disdain is held deep within them. “You’ve made Illyria’s war hero ineligible.”

“That’s —” Nesta wants to argue, but horns begin to blast.

The crowds part with snaps and pops, confetti rising up along with cheers as the legion marches into the town square. It seems impossible to fit more bodies into the space. But they do.

Nesta catches a glimpse of Cassian at the front of the warriors, alongside his War Chief Devlon. Dark hair gleaming, cords of gold wrapped around one of his shoulders, all seven of his siphons on display and a sash tied around his hips that looks like it should be a sword belt. He’s the only warrior walking without a saber.

Nesta’s heart squeezes.

No wonder the females are upset with her.

Ruggedly handsome, brown skin glowing with his virility and strength …

Nesta presses her thighs together to ease the sudden throb at her apex.

The crowd seizes and swells, wings blocking out her view. But the image is burned into her mind.

Dashing. Cassian is dashingly handsome here and to see her First Defender in a position of honor dries her mouth and sends arousal low in her belly.

Her husband. Her mate.

Hers.

#thank you all for putting up with my daily updates!#i hope youve enjoyed dear alexis!#switching to sunday updates from here on out #i love you all so much who have been so supportive and interactive so far!!#nessian #nesta x cassian #CYLMWIHM #acotar #acotar fanfic #acotar winter gift exchange 2023 #my writing

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checkoutmybookshelf · 3 months

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He's Just a Herald and He's On Fire!

So, if there is one consistent theme with protagonists in Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar universe, it's that there is a STARTLING number of them who are misfits in their families, misunderstood, and a little anxious and melancholic about the whole thing. You'd think that this would get boring fast, but Lackey manages to mix up the details enough that they don't meld together in my head, and in point of fact, I have actual favorites. One of whom we are talking about today. That's what this post is for. Lan Chitward is one of my favorite herald protagonists. Let's talk Brightly Burning.

Hi, hello, welcome. If this is your first time on my blog, please be warned that this is A SPOILERIFIC ZONE. I will SPOIL THE CRAP OUT OF THIS BOOK. Consider yourself warned.

Y'all, I am a Shakespeare scholar, so if I ever post anything along the lines of "Tragedies suck and I hate them," please send help, I've been kidnapped. Your girl LOVES a good tragedy, and that's really what this book is: An Amazing Tragedy. But that's just the end for Herald Lavan Firestorm and his Companion Kalira.

At the beginning of this book, we meet Lavan "Lan" Chitward, ugly ducking son of a pair of extremely prosperous merchants who feels ignored, misunderstood, and transplanted from the place that made him happiest. Kiddo has zero desire to follow either of his parents into their trades, so when they hit their wits' ends, said parents send Lan to a merchant-run school so Lan can find himself a direction in life that he feels will suit him.

Lan's parents might not be able to empathize or communicate with their son, but they did try to set him up for success. They tried. They get a couple of points for that. Not a lot. But a couple.

Unfortunately for Lan, he gets to discover the downsides of private school firsthand when he is relentlessly and cruelly bullied by older students. Lan's anxiety and very real, rational fear of bodily and social harm get so bad that to save his life, his Firestarting Gift explodes out of his control. By the time the smoke clears, four boys are dead and Lan is being carted up to the palace to explain to Herald Pol what on earth had been happening in his school and how the fire started. Stress from being questioned makes Lan lose control again, but before he can start a second killer fire, Kalira chooses Lan. Handily, Kalira is the daughter of Pol's companion, Satiran, so Pol is aware from the jump that Lan is more than just Kalira's Choice: The two are lifebonded.

Go nuts, Ao3.

However, this is about when the members of the heraldic circle start looking at each other sideways and going, "oh no. Firestarting Gifts usually only pop up when we're going to need them..." So while Lan is getting tutored by Pol, Kalira, his new best friend Tuck, and Pol's daughter Eleanor, Karse is causing trouble at the border--like preparing to invade and burn all the heralds to death trouble. Karse is not your friend, and their sun priests tend to target heralds and healers, and the only thing worse than being killed by Karsite troops is being taken alive to be burned at the stake or--for healers--be forced to use your gift until you burn out and die. So: Bad Situation.

Ultimately, the command decision is made to send Lan to the front. Lan at this point is an emotionally unstable, half-trained at best trainee herald. The poor kid is getting yeeted into a situation he is absolutely unprepared to handle. Before he and Pol even MAKE it to the front, they're attacked by a scout group and Pol is blinded--put a pin in that, we're going to come back to it. So Lan gets to the front already traumatized and somewhat sans his trusted mentor. It's not good.

Ultimately, the title of this book comes back to haunt Lan and Kalira: they burn, too brightly. Kalira takes an arrow in battle to save Lan, and in his grief and rage, Lan unleashes his final strike, taking out the Karsite army, an entire pine forest, and even some of his own soldiers--firestorms are hard to aim. Lan is posthumously raised to full Herald rank, and losing their entire army puts Karse on the shelf. It's the very definition of a pyrrhic victory, however. Lan burned himself out at age sixteen. He was a half-trained child doing his level best, and he was put in a situation that he was objectively unready for. It's heartbreaking, it's tragic...it's WONDERFULLY done.

The entire time you're reading this book and falling in love with Lan and Kalira, you're thinking "they'll be alright, won't they? They have to be alright." But you have enough other beloved characters that you get to know well enough that you also get to mourn with them once Lan and Kalira are gone. You get pulled into this story and you just want to hug Lan and stick him somewhere safe. This is one of my favorite Valdemar books, no question.

This is where I want to just briefly come back to Herald Pol and the attack that costs him his sight. I have no objection about the context in which this occurs. Shit happens in war. It's tragic, it's traumatic, it COMPLETELY SUCKS, but there aren't any red flags in terms of how Pol is disabled. There is also a fairly realistic period in which Pol is trying to adjust to not having sight. He also can see through Satiran's eyes for short periods of time because magic, but since this comes with a cost in energy and magic and doesn't inherently negate the disability, we're still fine. It's an emergency stopgap measure, not a functional cure. So far, so fine.

Unfortunately, there are a couple of things I don't love about how Pol's blinding is handled. The first thing is a bit "your mileage may vary" rather than a genuinely harmful negative representation, but it threw up a faint red flag when I was reading, so I'm talking about it. Traumatic injuries are so described for a reason; people have very very valid feelings and reactions to being suddenly and violently disabled, and part of adjusting is having the time and space to work through those feelings. Now. Pol and Lan are literally in a war zone, they are indispensably important figures, so they can't just be sent home. There also kind of isn't time and space to deal with the emotions in a war zone. All of that is fair enough. It would suck to have to just swallow the feels and keep functioning, and that could even lead to some good narrative tension.

That's not what happens though.

I'll just give you the text from the book for this bit:

Some time during the ride to headquarters, Pol had made up his mind on several points; it had given him relief from the pain to work things logically through in that way. Losing his eyesight was not going to be a tragedy, and if Ilea could not Heal him, then he would simply accept that. The events of the evening only confirmed that belief. He worked through everything as logically as he could during the ride, and during that night and the day and night that followed, in his dreams he was able to employ a technique called directed dreaming to work through things emotionally. It wasn't easy; he exhausted himself all over again, weeping for what he had lost and raging against everyone involved, including himself. But it had to be done, and quickly, and dreams were the best and least harmful place to do so.

I'm not going to say that his experience as a Herald and soldier don't give this some credibility, and I'm not going to say that narrative compression isn't a thing that writers can and do use to get characters from emotional point a to point b, but this stretched my credibility just a skooch and made me go, "They're going to keep him blind, right?"

Reader, they healed him at the end of the book. Can we PLEASE let him live a full herald life while blind??? He was no less effective without his sight than with it, and A LITTLE PHYSICAL DISABILITY REP AMONG THE ACTIVE-DUTY HERALDS WOULD BE LOVELY. Plenty of them live with anxiety, depression, hypervigilance, or other mental health challenges, but heaven forbid a herald have a physical disability.

This is a pattern I'm noticing more and more in books. Soldiers and soldier-adjacent characters can experience mental illness and disability, but not physical. It's that really annoying mind-body split looming large, and I don't have a good solution for this other than letting active duty characters also have physical disabilities, rather than having them be cured, retired, or in roles that never require them to be in the field. And I do get that like...if you are physically disabled, your best bet is not to be in a fight, but that's not how LIFE works. Sometimes the fight comes to you, or your expertise is needed in the field. It happens. LET IT.

Other than my growing frustration with disability rep in military, military-adjacent, and martial-esque organizations in fiction, I love this book to little tiny pieces. It's a beautifully executed tragedy without being self-indulgent or unnecessarily maudlin.

#mercedes lackey #valdemar #heralds of valdemar #herald mages #burning brightly #lan chitward #lavan firestorm #heralds and companions #adult fantasy #fantasy novel #books and reading #books & libraries #books and novels #books #book recommendations #disability representation #kill or cure

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mwolf0epsilon · 6 months

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The Umbaran Pathogen - Day 19: Hypnosis

Summary: The infected troopers start to move the captives into the unfinished hive for temporary storage. Obi-wan attempts to reason with them, but comes to a disheartening conclusion on what he must do to disrupt the parasite's control.

Warning: Slight mind manipulation (the morality of using Jedi Mind Tricks is put into question)

Dogma's design should give a vague idea of what Cody looks like since they belong to the same cast

Prev / Next

[In which the events on Umbara are worsened by an unknown pathogen taking hold of both the 501st and 212th. These series of drabbles will follow a non-linear timeline based on the AI-less Whumptober prompt list for 2023.]

THIS STORY IS ALSO ON AO3

---

In many ways the infected moved as if they were one singular creature. Their coordination and timing (things which most clones already had fine-tuned due to years of training) so incredibly in sync that it felt like watching an actual hivemind at work. One single entity with several bodies that worked on a precise set of tasks, like a conveyor belt in a factory line.

In reality, Obi-wan knows that's not it. The adaptations forced upon the men were ones he recognized on species of eusocial insects, that relied heavily on different kinds of pheromones to communicate. The infected are purely going off scent and hierarchy rather than an actual mind-meld. But their boosted cooperative skills are still impressive nonetheless.

That said, he really wishes that were not the case...

Especially not when he and the remaining healthy troopers were being carted off for storage. Set aside for whenever (if at all) Tup returned. Bound and unable to do anything about it. Their attempts to bring the sick to reason going on deaf ears.

Or, if they annoyed the mutated troopers just a little too much, they would get a low growl or a threatening hiss for their troubles. Sometimes the quick snap of jaws as well, but mostly they were ignored completely. The infected's devotion to their new leader far outweighing any familiarity they might have had with their healthy vode.

The parasites controlling them keeping far too firm a grip.

Obi-wan could, in a way, understand why such a creature would evolve to be this insidious. In as hostile an environment like Umbara, survival of the fittest meant doing just about anything to make it out on top. These parasites, the Umber Blight, had become some of the most naturally cruel arthropods he ever did lay his eyes upon. But, as understanding as he may be of how evolution worked, the Jedi could not bring himself to forgive these beings's true nature.

Not when they had used the troopers, his friends, in such a horrific manner. Starting off by relying heavily on the insecurities and fears of a rookie to spread their influence, and then making all of the men who'd fallen victim become mere mockeries of their true selves.

Identity was everything to a clone. Obi-wan had learned this early on, when he was still getting acquainted with helping to lead an army. Had done everything he could to deserve to get to know the fine young souls that he would be working with regularly, and that he'd slowly become endeared to. Been as openly supportive of their expressions of self, when he'd found out just how oppressive their upbringing had been. So seeing these loyal and kind-hearted soldiers lose that part of themselves, was like having a hot knife stabbed deep into his ribcage. And then subsequently watching those who still had their minds look at their vode with such distress, was like having that blade twisted and turned until everything it touched was torn into fine ribbons.

The unnecessary cruelty made his blood boil. His thoughts racing as he tried to reign it all in.

A Jedi did not submit to rage after all. They mulled over what upset them, processed that particular pain, and released it into the Force. Cleared their thoughts of all ill will and let themselves be guided towards a better solution.

Striking in anger would not benefit anyone. Least of all the victims of this disease.

"Cody..." He tried to speak calmly. Not wanting to come off as far too firm or condescending, when everyone else was relying on him being able to get through to the Commander. "My dear friend, I understand you are bound by honor to complete your duties towards your... Hive... But I must implore you to see reason. You know this isn't right."

The mutated Commander's antennae twitched as he spoke. A sign that he was listening, but not necessarily hearing what the Jedi had to say. Just aware of the noise coming from his direction.

It was a far cry from how he usually behaved.

"Spreading this to the others won't do them any good." He continued, hoping that if he insisted, that eventually he might get through to his second in command. "That is just what the parasite wants you all to think."

9 pairs of eyes turned to regard him with blatant disinterest.

The split in the middle of Cody's bottom jaw widening as he proceeded to yawn, giving the Jedi a nice view of his mouth. From the silk glands that lazily dripped thick strands of webbing, to the elongated and split tongue with protruding spikes, down to the bizarre proboscis-like appendage his esophagus had turned into, the Commander's wide articulated maw was nothing if not intimidating to look upon.

An attempt at a facsimile set of insect jaws that just came off as disconcerting when attached to a clone's otherwise human face.

"Am I boring you?" Obi-wan asked, sounding somewhat amused as he did so. "You seem tired..."

Instead of responding, Cody simply carried on with his current affairs. Most of which revolved around wrapping each and every one of the captive uninfected troopers in strong silk. Not enough to cover them up in cocoons (Cody most definitely did not produce that much silk of his own, nor had Obi-wan seem him spit up the same yellow adhesive Tup seemed to be able to naturally produce), but definitely enough to keep them immobilized during transport.

Each trooper that he'd bound up having then been carried off by one of the other infected, who's forms were distinctly different from the one Cody had taken on.

Lighter in build with less spikes or a stinger of their own. Still very much their natural height instead of the noticeable boost the Commander had gained. Unable to fly as they did not possess a set of wings. They also only had a total of 5 eyes whereas Tup had 7 and Cody had 9. Most likely because they were meant to remain indoors at all times, rather than traverse outside where good vision would be most needed.

Each cast definitely had their own set of specialties, as he noted some of the men who'd fully transformed had stomachs that were slightly larger than the average build of a standard clone trooper. For those mutated men in particular, their gasters were also rounder and larger instead of being heart-shaped and evenly sized.

They were also mostly just watching the proceedings with mild curiosity, instead of helping the others transport the prisoners. Perhaps unsure of what to do if they were not currently tasked with doing what they were most likely 'designed' to do.

At the very least their inactivity didn't seem to upset the others. Some of which checked up on them and very gently chirped as if to give reassurance. Obi-wan at least assumed this was the case, as he watch as a transformed Crys nudged an equally transformed Reed, taking the slightly rounder trooper by the hand and guiding him along.

"I think they might be Repletes." Canivete murmured from just slightly below him. At this point, only Obi-wan, Canivete and Waxer remained attached to the web. Cody had just managed to pin down Tacet to begin wrapping them up. "In ant societies, the repletes are essentially living food storage compartments, that remain in the nest to feed other ants. They fill up their social stomachs with so much food that the gaster swells to about the size of a grape..."

"That's nasty..." Waxer grimaced. He was hanging to Obi-wan's right, one of his boots the only thing in his line of sight. "How big do you think a vod could get if they followed the same logic?"

"Given the fact ants get as big as they get? From the larger bellies and gasters alone, I'm pretty sure they could put a puffer pig to shame." Cani mused. "I doubt it's gonna be a comfortable experience..."

"Stars..."

Cody passed Tacet onto the nearest trooper, moving on to grab at Waxer to begin yet another flurry of wrapping. None of the lieutenant's words getting through to his brother either. There was no talking sense into any of them... So long as the parasites had full control, the men would be forced to obey their new leader's orders.

The power of their suggestions simply too much to work around.

"..." blinking a few times, Obi-wan hummed and furrowed his brow as he began to contemplate that thought.

"You doing ok, sir?" Canivete asked as she noticed the change in his demeanor.

The parasites certainly had a powerful hold of the men's minds. Of that, he had no question. But could they withstand a Force Suggestion if he were to give it to them? They seemed to rely heavily on the men's own mental faculties to understand certain social constructs and ideas. Perhaps if he used a Jedi Mind Trick on the men, it might temporarily disrupt the hold the parasites had?

"General?" Canivete insisted, the medic sounding concerned for his sake.

"I believe I may have an idea..." He told her, frowning as he thought of the consequences implementing said idea, would later bring. Mostly, he knew he would be crossing a line with the men. Especially with Cody, who he'd once discussed this specific ability with. "But it is not one I'm particularly proud of..."

"Whatever works..." The web was slightly tugged, which he assumed was from Canivete shrugging. Or attempting to.

Waxer was already being dragged off. Cody was approaching. It was now or never...

"You will stop what you're doing and listen carefully to what I say." The Jedi tried to keep his voice as clear and even as possible, watching with bitter sadness as the Commander paused in his tracks to stare up at him clearly confused. "Now you will let go of the Commander and sleep for a little while..."

At that, Cody stood up ramrod straight in the same manner he'd done when Tup had first roared. Claiming control over the newly infected and setting them against the healthy. Pitch black eyes widened in mild shock, the mutated clone's mandibles beginning to click in distress. Antennae, arms and wings twitching as control was wrestled out of the parasite's grasp.

And then Cody let out a sudden gasp and violently shook his head.

"Was that a karking Force Suggestion?!" Canivete yelped, clearly horrified at the idea of her General using something of the sort on her siblings.

"It was the only thing I could think to try..." Obi-wan sheepishly admitted sheepishly, trying not to think too hard about it as he looked back to the shaking Commander. "Cody... Are you alright?"

".̴.̶.̸.̴.̶" Cody opened and closed his mouth several times before glancing up at the two of them in question. He regarded them for a couple of seconds before glancing down at his own body. Multiple emotions surging across his face before he regained his composure and looked back up at them again. "T̷h̶a̸t̶ ̶w̷a̷s̸n̷'̷t̵.̴.̶.̷ ̶G̶r̶e̸a̴t̴.̷.̴.̷"

"Oh crap, it worked..." Canivete sounded astonished.

"It seems to have, yes..." Which meant he'd need to do it for every single one of the infected men. Which put Obi-wan ill at ease, since he didn't like to do this sort of thing to anyone he was fond of.

Least of all to the troopers who considered trust to be everything.

Needless to say, he'd need to have a serious conversation with a lot of people once this entire mess was over. And perhaps maybe arrange a visit to the Mind Healers, since he was more than certain this entire ordeal would haunt him for the foreseeable future...

#Eps Writes #star wars #the clone wars #whumptober #Umbaran Pathogen AU #obi wan kenobi #commander cody #clone trooper waxer #clone ocs #clone medic canivete

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humanrindswrites · 1 year

Text

with you

summary: corey comes home from tour

pairing: corey taylor x female reader/oc

warnings: smut, fluff, vaginal sex, oral sex (fem receiving), kissing, unprotected sex, ultra vanilla smut

word count: 2608 words

originally posted to ao3 january 9 2022

It was still dark outside when she was woken up by her alarm. She prised her tired eyes open and fumbled her hand around on the nightstand for her phone, far too comfortable to move from her position. Once the noisy device was in her hand, she turned the alarm off and looked at the screen, her eyes squinting as she read the time. Seven-thirty.

She couldn’t be too mad, however, because she was going to pick her man up from the airport in a couple of hours time. A leftover text message from last night sat at the bottom of her notifications, sent when she was too far gone to have noticed it.

Plane should be landing at 9, can’t wait to see you ❤

Her face relaxed into a smile as she tapped out a reply before setting the phone back on the nightstand and getting out of bed to get ready for the day ahead.

On the way to the airport, she could have bounced in her seat, she was so excited to see him, to feel his arms around her, to finally have him home with her where she needed him most. The stereo played some CD he’d forgotten to bring back into the house but she wasn’t really listening to it, her mind too focused on finally being able to see him again after six long months.

She pulled into the airport parking lot just in time for him to leave the main entrance, pushing a cart stacked with all of his luggage. Her heart lifted, she jumped out of the car, locked it behind her, and made her way towards him almost at a full sprint, narrowly avoiding cars and pedestrians who were in her way.

He stopped in his tracks when he noticed her running towards him and held his arms out to catch her. She almost knocked him off his feet with the force of her hug but her arms were wrapped so tightly around him that he was kept in place.

“Okay, okay, I missed you too,” he laughed as he returned her hug, his cheek rested on the top of her head. People around them shot strange looks in their direction but they were both too wrapped up in each other to care or even notice.

“Sorry,” she said, her eyes shining with happy tears as she pulled away from him slightly. “I was just so excited to see you.”

“It’s alright,” he said tenderly as he stroked her cheekbone with the backs of his fingers. “I would have done the same if you’d been away for so long.”

He guided her face to his to kiss her softly, holding her close by the small of her back as his lips melded with hers. Heat coursed through her body at his touch, her skin tingling as her nerves were set alight. She threw her arms around his neck and ran her fingers through his newly grown hair, the short strands bristling against them. A small whine crawled out of her throat when he gently bit her bottom lip and she tried to push herself closer against him, not caring that they were still in the airport doorway.

“Easy, tiger,” he purred in her ear when he pulled away from her. “You’ll get what you want, but you can’t have it here.”

She felt herself blush as she untangled herself from him and started to help him get his luggage to the car.

As soon as they’d gotten home, he insisted on leaving everything in the car and going straight to bed, something that she couldn’t argue with. She unlocked the front door and found herself pushed up against the other side as soon as she’d closed it again behind her, one of his legs pushing her own apart as he attacked her mouth with desperate kisses. He held her face with both hands while his tongue invaded her mouth, sliding against hers and drawing needy whines from her lungs.

“I missed you so fucking much,” he said between kisses, his hands travelling down her body, groping and squeezing as they went. “I’m bringing you with me next time.”

She gasped into his open mouth when his hand reached between her legs and stroked her hardening clit through her leggings while his other held her upright in case her knees buckled and gave out beneath her.

“I can tell you missed me too, babydoll,” he purred. “Your body gives you away.”

“Please,” she breathed. “Please take me to bed.”

“Anything you want, princess,” he said softly before picking her up, securing her legs around his waist, and carrying her through the house to the bedroom.

He crashed them through the door and sat down on the edge of the bed with her legs still wrapped around him, the momentum making him lie on his back and pull her on top of him. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook it out, her long locks falling around her face and she hovered over him. He reached up to push it behind her ear before running his palm down her jaw and cradling it as he watched her blush and turn her eyes away from him.

“Don’t be shy,” he said softly. “You know how much I like looking at you.”

His free hand slid down her back torturously slow as he drew her to him for more, softer kisses. His palm skimmed over the small of her back to rest on her ass before he squeezed lightly, making her squeak against his mouth.

“Stand up for me,” he husked against her lips before leaving her with one lingering kiss. “I want to really see you.”

She braced her hands on either side of his head, making sure to push her breasts close to his face before standing up, kicking her shoes off and shoving them somewhere out of the way. He sat up and took hold of her hand so she could stand between his open legs before tugging at the bottom of her tank top for her to take it off. The fabric slipped over her skin as she pulled it over her head, her breasts dropping with a bounce once they were free from their confines. She watched as he gaped at her, his lower lip caught in his teeth as if he was trying to suppress a moan. She took his hands in hers again and guided them to touch her where she desperately wanted her to. Her breath hitched when she felt his warm palms cup her breasts and his rough thumbs flicked over her nipples, making them harder than they already were.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he breathed before burying his face in her cleavage, littering her sternum with wet kisses and feeling her quickening heartbeat with his mouth.

A whimpered moan flew out of her mouth as he continued to touch her and she squeezed her thighs together, hoping to feel some friction as her cunt became wetter and wetter. He released one of her breasts and placed his free hand between her legs, his thumb right over her clit as he coaxed her to rock her hips into it.

“Can I take these off, baby?” he asked, not looking for an answer. He pulled away from her chest and hooked his fingers into her waistband before pulling her leggings down with her panties, exposing her wet pussy to him. Two of his fingers ran through her folds, gathering her wetness as he listened to her gasp and whine for him to fill her. He placed his fingers in his mouth and sucked her arousal off of them, his eyes almost rolling back at her taste.

“Lie down for me, put your legs over my shoulders,” he said as he moved to kneel on the floor. She took her place on the bed just as he’d commanded and grabbed a pillow to rest her head on. Her hair splayed out around her like a halo as she breathed slowly through parted lips. She watched him as he removed his shirt and draped her legs over his shoulders, her inner walls clenching with each wet kiss he placed on her inner thighs as he got closer and closer to where she wanted him. She placed one of her hands on the back of her head and ran her fingernails through his short hair, willing him to taste her. Her fingers clenched when she finally felt his tongue dart out to run through her folds, muscle memory making her think that his hair was still long.

He held her hips in a gentle grip as he made love to her with his mouth, licking and sucking at her hard clit and savouring her sweet arousal and moans as he wound her nerves tighter and tighter. She was already so close to climaxing and he wanted to help her last longer, but he was so desperate to be inside her that he couldn’t stop. He wanted her to drip down his chin as she came, to wrap her legs around his neck and push his face into her cunt until he could barely breathe. And he was going to get what he wanted.

“You close, baby?” he asked her, his mouth never leaving her and vibrating through her sensitive skin. She moaned loudly in response and shoved his face back down.

She felt his fingers enter her again and curl up into her sweet spot as his lips wrapped around her clit and sucked harshly. Her walls swallowed his fingers eagerly as he steadily fucked her with them, her nerves being wound tighter and tighter, her voice starting to become difficult to control. She knew she was close when her legs started to shake on his shoulders and her ankles crossed involuntarily as she writhed on the bed above him.

“I’m gonna cum, baby,” she whined. “Please make me cum, please.”

“Then cum for me,” he said, his voice husky before he curled his fingers harder inside her and continued to use his mouth on her clit.

Her orgasm finally crashed through her as her inner walls clenched around his fingers and her clit twitched violently under his tongue. She moaned his name loudly and grasped the pillow under her head, her legs tightened around his neck, and her hips bucked into his face as he licked her through her high, gathering every drop of her arousal onto his tongue and swallowing as if she were his last meal.

Reduced to a panting mess, she let her body go limp and her legs fell off of his shoulders, letting him gently pull his fingers out of her and crawl up her body to kiss her, her arousal still coating his lips. She breathed harshly through her nose as he kissed her, trying to catch her breath but not wanting to break away from him.

“You taste good, baby,” he whispered against her mouth before standing up to remove the rest of his clothes. He was already hard when they’d returned home, but he was unbearably turned on now and couldn’t wait any longer to bury himself inside her sweet cunt.

She watched as he pushed his pants to the floor and revealed his hard cock to her, her pussy clenching in anticipation and moistening once more. He motioned for her to lie properly on the bed before climbing on after her and crawling over her. He gently pushed her legs apart and settled himself between them, slicked himself up with her arousal, and lined his cock up with her dripping entrance.

She watched him expectantly, a blush dusted over her cheeks and nodded when he met her gaze, silently asking if she was ready for him. He pushed into her faster than he intended to and groaned when he felt her soft walls enveloping him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he moaned when he was fully sheathed inside her, feeling her pulse around him. “I think you might be tighter than when I left.”

“Please, Corey,” she whined as she rolled her hips up into his. “Please fuck me.”

“Anything you want, princess,” he purred before leaning down to kiss her and rolling his hips, his cock hitting her sweet spot perfectly.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and moaned into his mouth as he steadily fucked her, waves of pleasure shooting through her body when his pubic bone ground against her clit, still sensitive from her orgasm.

“You feel so good, baby,” he panted. “My own hand never compares to how you feel.”

She moaned louder when he started to kiss and bite her neck, leaving little bruises that she would have to cover up no matter how much she wanted to show them off. He took her legs and wrapped them around her waist to angle her hips up and let him get deeper inside of her. His moans vibrating in her ear made her shiver as her second orgasm started closing in on her, each thrust of his hips sending her higher and higher until she swore she could see stars. Her own moans became louder and more high pitched and she dug her nails into his skin as she begged him to keep going. He couldn’t have stopped pounding into her tight, wet cunt if he wanted to, she was so intoxicating and he was addicted to her.

“Cum for me, darling,” he whispered into her ear before groaning softly. “Cum for me.”

Her pussy clamped down on him as her second orgasm arrived, her back arching into him as she ran her nails down his back, hard enough to leave red marks but soft enough to not make him bleed. He held her stuttering hips down as he fucked her through her high until his own orgasm was triggered. He buried his face in her neck to muffle his moans as he spilt his warm cum into her eager pussy, his thrusts faltering and slowing down.

She stroked her fingertips up and down his back as he recovered from his climax, tracing the lines of his tattoos and making him shiver while he panted against her neck. He pushed himself up onto his arms to kiss her, his softening cock still inside her. His breath tickled her sensitive skin as he kissed her softly, humming against her lips and stroking her hair softly before finally pulling out, rolling off of her, and pulling her on top of him.

“I should go on tour more often if it means coming home to sex like that,” he laughed breathlessly as he held her tightly to him.

“Maybe, but that would mean me crying on the phone more often,” she countered before she grabbed a throw blanket off of the headboard and draped it over them.

“I don’t want you to cry anymore,” he said softly as he twirled a lock of her hair around his finger. “I felt so bad when I called you that night.”

“You don’t need to feel bad because I’m being dumb and sad, baby.”

“I just don’t feel good knowing that you’re here crying alone while I’m miles away. I want you to come with me next time, see the world with me.”

“I’d like that,” she said with a soft smile. “But that’s something to think about in the future, I just want to focus on having you back for now.”

“You can focus on me all you want, sweetheart,” he said before kissing her forehead. “I don’t plan on going anywhere for a while.”

#corey taylor x reader #corey taylor imagine #corey taylor smut #slipknot imagine #slipknot fanfics #slipknot x reader #self ship #reader insert #reader insert smut #x reader #rpf #real person fiction #*my writing #female reader

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withinthebrain · 4 months

Text

Flavorful Embrace

At a lively street market, where vendors meet, Banana man beckons with golden allure, Lollipop dreams in a carnival of colors.

Cucumber promises of crisp, cool crunch, Sausage sizzles in the market breeze, An eggplant, proud in its royal purple robe.

Popsicle cart: a frozen rainbow serenade, Melting under the sun's warm embrace. No rehearsed order; just chaos in rhythm.

In this street theater of flavor and flair, Banana twirls in tandem with lollipop's jig, Cucumber tangoes with sausage's sizzle.

Eggplant, a soloist in the symphony of vendors, Popsicle's finale, a sweet, dripping encore. No boundaries, just vendors in street affair.

A street where flavors meld, and cultures embrace.

#spilled ink #spilled thoughts #writing #my writing #poetry #writing blog #embrace #flavor #flavorful writing #typography #words typed #typed words #word art #EKW

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cryptidwritings · 1 year

Text

Dark Water

Chapter 15 : A Bit of Grog

prev | masterlist | next

CW: none...?

The day was hot. Lines bounced off the water, creating with it a blanket of humidity that sucked the very life out of everyone on Talon. Ships rolled in and out at a snails pace, finding port and sending their crews inside for rest and drink.

They were sluggard. Everything slowed by the summer sun. Swamp birds cawed and cooed, and the blacksmith's hammer stilled, leaving Isidro alone to fill the thick air with the strikes of the axe on the green stumps of swamp trees.

Isidro sighed as the stump finally split in two measly halves and fell to the ground to join the small pile. It would stay green for weeks, and to start a fire now would be insane. He tossed the axe onto the ground and sat in the dirt, rubbing his face with calloused hands to clear the dwindling sweat off his brow that refused to evaporate in outrageous humidity.

A warm wind hit his face, and he was able to take another deep breath as the horses brayed in the stable. He needed to tend to them - to make sure they were ready to pull the cart-full of the Pulver's handmade goods for the opening of the Windover Summer Market. They would see thousands of sailors heading home, wanting something to freshen themselves up before meeting their families again.

"Give 'im a little space."

Isidro's eyes opened a crack, and he saw three heads over him as the swampy smell came back, and jarred him awake.

Theodora and two of her workers kneeled next to him in the dirt. One held a fan and was waving it over his face while the other tapped his brow with a cloth. The combination brought him back a bit, and he tried to sit up, but stumbled back to the ground. His strength was sapped from his very bones.

"Give it a minute," Theodora ordered, "I already got one a you passed out inside, don't need another. Savvy?"

She pushed a cup of water at him, and he took a gulp.

"Yes, Miss," he blinked at the other two, and gave them a tired nod of appreciation.

"Help me get 'im out of the sun."

The three women pulled on his arms until they reached the shade, and continued their treatment until he could sit up on his own and take a drink.

"You're lucky things are slow," Theodora crossed her arms and sat back against the pub wall, looking over her land, glassy from the heat.

Isidro nodded, lacking the strength to speak, or the audacity to laugh at the thought of luck. If such a thing existed, it was cruel.

She glanced at Isidro, whose cheeks and ears were still flushed, but acceptably so.

Then she nodded to the other women - who dropped the fan in Isidro's lap before entering the pub. Isidro blinked, then grabbed it, using it immediately.

"The summer is the worst," she relaxed, "you'll get used to it."

He took another small drink, and a deep breath, feeling his wits come back to him for a moment.

He looked at her; a strong jaw led to a brown shirt that melded with her brown skin. Her dark eyes were shifty, and her hands - usually purposeful, were unsettled.

"Winter is perfect, though," she pushed a wrinkle from her pants, "the cold air is good for business."

"Yes, Miss," Isidro replied, looking back at the land, noticing the indent where they had dragged his body out of the sun. He took a small drink, and furrowed his brows as he attempted something rather foolish.

"I couldn't help but overhear," he took another drink and weighed the temporary silence. She hadn't stirred, so he proceeded.

"That you pay the two, uh, brothers, for rights to use their dock?"

Theodora sighed, and Isidro gripped his cup firmly, waiting for it to be snatched out of his hand as punishment for prying.

"Aye."

He exhaled slowly.

"Used to be that no one could own the sea," she shook her head, "it might still be true past the harbor, but anything that can be tamed can be claimed."

"And when did they claim it?"

Her lips pursed, "My brother, the stupid fool, lost a bet and handed it over to those two little bastard's slimy mother. Now they collect money while I-"

"-pay the debt," Isidro finished with a solemn nod.

Theodora eyed the sailor, "Aye..."

Isidro took another desperate drink. Some spilled over his lip and down his chin to his throat, retreating past his adam's apple and to his chest where it was soaked up by the open collar of his shirt.

Theodora pushed herself to standing and fixed her clothes as she cleared her throat.

"Get inside when ye ready," she opened the door, "I need help cleaning the bar."

"Yes, Miss. Thank you... again."

Theodora paused, and looked down at the sailor.

"Ye welcome."

...

Moss sat up on his bed, leg outstretched, staring at the wall and trying to ignore the perpetual aching all over his body. The beating had taken its toll, forcing him to take shallow breaths to not aggravate the bruises on his torso or the cuts in his mouth, restricting everything except his mind- he had to reel that in personally. Too long left alone and it would start to drift past its sheltered harbor and towards the chaos of the previous days where he would feel ice on his skin and the ocean in his lungs.

He shook his head clear, focusing on the noise of the pub. Increasing as the day went on and the heat rose, the hum of voices and the dull music was comforting even when his leg would pulse with pain and he'd have to breathe through the wave, curling his toes just to make sure he still could as the door opened.

Moss focused behind the sailor, towards the back of the bar where Theodora was busy pouring another pint, looking over her shoulder briefly as more pirates settled and tossed coins on the counter.

“How was your beauty sleep?”

Moss took a small drink of the water, now stale from dust, grimacing as a strong stench of odor wafted in with the sailor.

“You can ignore me if you like,” Isidro groaned as he sat on his bed, “while you were resting up I've been getting my bearings on the place. Swamp air smells strange, not sure if you’ve noticed that.”

“It’s not the only thing that reeks,” Moss swallowed back a cough.

“Ah,” Isidro acknowledged, “and here I was worried your sunny disposition would be blighted by the fever. How’s the leg?”

“Don’t,” Moss’ face twisted with impatience. He took a slow breath, feeling his ribs hesitate, then glanced in Isidro’s direction, though he couldn’t see much besides the dim glimmer of his eyes, "no need to pretend when we’re alone.”

“Who says I'm pretending?” He tossed the fan to Moss.

Moss took another drink in response.

Isidro sighed, “You know nothing about the reality of what we’re up against," he mentioned, "Pirates only respect three things: power, loyalty, and money, and guess what we have none of? The only way we get out of this is by giving them what they want."

“How should I do that?” Moss challenged with a bite, “go ahead, show me loyalty. In fact, show me how to watch someone drown and then sit down next to them for a chat.”

Isidro groaned and rubbed his head, avoiding the knots in his unbrushed mane that had already begun to twist around each other.

"I was acting on orders,” he stated, “I'd be in chains right now had I ignored you. Then what? You get a bullet in your skull or end up here anyway with no one to watch your back?"

The room devolved into silence. Isidro moved again as Moss took another drink. When he awoke and saw Isidro was gone, he assumed the worst, but a barmaid came in with food and water, and assured him that his “friend” was working hard to make up for his sickness. as much as he hated to admit it, Moss had to rely on the sailor a bit longer.

He grabbed the fan and spread it out - feeling the sweet sense of relief immediately.

The sailor sat beside him, almost the same length away as they were when they had formally met.

“Look, we’re in this together now, aye? We’ll be rid of this place in no time.”

Moss chuckled, “only pirates leave Talon.”

“Exactly,” Isidro tapped Moss on the chest with an open hand.

Moss looked down, noticing the inflamed red of the healing wound. Isidro eventually retracted the rejected gesture, mumbling about how it was probably a bit too soon.

“How old are you, mate?” He finally asked.

“What?” Isidro’s brows stitched together, “older than you look,” he muttered, wiping accumulating sweat off of his upper lip as Moss offered his cup over, keeping his head down as the Sailor's hand reached into his view, extending fully to reveal hastily scrawled ink over his skin.

“Twenty three,” was Moss’ tired reply as he lie back down with the water on his chest, still fanning himself.

"You have tattoos," Moss observed.

"Aye," Isidro affirmed, guzzling down the water, "four year's worth."

"Did they hurt?"

Isidro smiled at the innocent question, eyeing the lad beside him as his hostile gaze turned to curiosity.

"Like hell," he took another drink.

Moss paused the fanning to point at his own knuckles, "what does, uh, that say? A name?"

Isidro took in a deep breath as he flexed his fingers, staring down.

"Do you have someone, lad?"

"Um..."

''Family?”

“Oh. Yes,” Moss paused as an unwilling and yet powerless part of his memory fought forward, “though it never felt like that to me, but what does that have to do with-”

"Makes sense why you wanted to be a sailor, then,” Isidro groaned as he lie down on his bedroll, staring up at the ceiling, “most of them don't have any other place to go. They like it that way.”

"Most, but not you?"

Moss looked up at the sailor as the silence stretched on a bit past normal. His eyes were far away - nested in the past with dark circles and a forlorn gaze into nothing.

"Aye," the sailor reflected, looking at the ceiling like one would the stars in a night sky, "and they're the only reason I've lasted this long."

Moss pushed himself over, looking at the sailor's knuckles. Black ink had turned a hazy dark blue with craggy edges.

"Do you mind if I ask what-"

"-Yes, I do," Isidro cut him off and dropped his hands. He glanced at the surprised swabbie, rubbed his stubbled chin, and sighed, “it’s a boring, tedious story."

Moss' curiosity burned in him, but he fought to push it away and let it go, for now.

The pub noise came in under the door, though Moss didn't find it particularly suffocating anymore despite the situation leaving a massive hole in his stomach that couldn’t be filled by anything, even if he was in a state to be able to crave anything at all.

"How do we get out of here?"

"It'll take some doing," Isidro cleared his throat, "Can you stand?"

"Uh, Right now?"

"Now. Tomorrow. Next day. Can you stand?"

“I haven’t tried yet. It still hurts.”

Isidro nodded, “and it will. For a long time, but you have to make yourself useful soon else they find someone new and you lose your head, or worse.”

Moss glanced at Isidro, “worse?”

“Aye,” Isidro lie back down, “there’s always worse.”

taglist: @sparrowsage @kixngiggles @honey-is-mesi @annablogsposts

let me know if you would like on or off this list!

#pirate whump #two whumpees #reluctant caretaker #whump community #oh we're really in it now #dark water by jovi #originalfiction

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