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cntloup · 2 months

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Love Is Not Enough

18+ MDNI Fem!Reader angst, smut, sex against the wall

Part 1 | Part 2

“Simon, dinner is ready.” you call out, voice flat and emotionless, knowing full well that the food is going to get cold and possibly thrown away. He's been in his office for hours, every day for the past few weeks. But the faltering of your relationship started long before that. He's been getting longer deployments, also more responsibilities in the office and leaving you wondering where he is, worried about his health and afraid for his life. You’ve been feeling your connection fade away, the strings which strongly bound you together, sever, wondering if this is it. You haven’t had a proper conversation for a while, let alone being intimate.

You miss him. Truly and utterly miss him. You miss the man you married. The man who thought the world of you and would look at you as though you hung the moon and stars in the sky. The man who would touch you with feather-like brushes against your delicate skin and tenderly make love to you, worship you as a goddess. You shattered his walls brick by brick, peeled off his mask layer by layer, until you reached the man inside. He let himself be vulnerable in your presence because you made him feel safe. You kissed his scars and loved him fiercely, no matter how broken he was. He always wondered if you were real. You made him feel like he was dreaming.

You feel a tingle behind your eyes and soon after, you’re sobbing as you hold the divorce papers in your hands, tears dampening the piece of paper. You hear footsteps approaching the bedroom and quickly hide the papers in your nightstand. “Dove, what’s wrong?” he asks with concern upon seeing you wiping your tears harshly with your sleeves. “N-nothing. Just work stuff. Dinner’s ready on the table. I'm going to bed.” you say coldly as you walk into the bathroom. “I wanted to talk to you. If- if that’s possible.” he utters as if you’re strangers and he has to ask for permission. “About what?” you ask, turning your head to see him leaning against the doorframe. “About us. I know we haven’t been at our best lately. And I-I miss you.” he mutters, walking closer to you. “I miss you too, Si.” you respond, tears welling up in your eyes. “I have a plan.” he says, a faint excitement glinting in his eyes. “What plan?” you ask, “I’m gonna take a vacation leave. We can go wherever you want.” he whispers, just a hair’s breadth away from your lips, "Really?!" you ask, excited but wondering if it would fix everything. "Yeah!" he replies with a grin.

“I love you.” he locks your lips together, igniting the fire between you once more as his hands find their way to your hips and he pulls you closer to him. Your arms wrap around his shoulders instinctively and his hands move lower to your thighs. You take the hint and jump, swaddling his waist with your legs as he presses your back against the wall, lips not breaking apart. He pushes your nightgown up and tears off your panties, “Sorry. I'll buy you a new pair.” he mumbles against your lips, “Don’t care.” you breathe out, attaching your lips together once again. Your hands trail along his neck and chest, lightly squeezing his pecs and moving lower, you paw at his belt, desperate to feel him inside you after such a long time. He unbuckles it quickly, desperate to feel you wrapped around him.

He takes his hard cock out of his boxers, already leaking with pre-cum and strokes it a few times before lining himself up. You both can’t help but moan at the slight contact. He pulls away to look you in the eye and you nod. He pushes the tip inside, making you feel a slight sting and you let out a high-pitched whine, “You ok, love?” he asks worriedly, “Yeah. You can go on.” you breathe and he obliges, pushing further and further until you’re fully stuffed with his fat cock, walls stretched out so wide, making you squeeze your eyes shut as a low moan escapes your lips and he groans in your ear, head buried in your neck. “Still fine?” he asks once again, “Yeah. Hurts a little. It's been a while.” you chuckle, “yeah...” he breathes as he lifts his head to look at you, eyes filled with love and longing, “I missed you so fuckin’ much.” he murmurs, tears starting to roll down his cheeks, “I missed you too, Si. So fucking much.” you respond, reaching out to wipe away his tears.

He pushes his lips onto yours, kissing you with such fire, pouring all his emotions into the kiss as his hands roam your body, grasping and groping forcefully, desperately, leaving a trail of flame in their wake, his touch awakening the passion that was once present but gradually died out. He starts to slowly pull out and slide in again, making you whimper at the familiar, sweet drag of his thick cock along your sensitive walls. “Fuck! You feel so good inside me, Si!” you moan. “Yeah? Feels good when I stretch your sweet little pussy on my cock?” he grunts, voice thick with lust. You hum and gasp as he thrusts into you again, this time harder.

“Tell me if I'm hurting you.” he mutters and you nod. His hands travel to the plush of your ass, grasping the soft flesh and bouncing you up and down his fat cock, your body pressed between his and the wall behind you. He continues thrusting up into your tight hole, dragging out breathy mewls and whimpers from your lips as his soft pants and quiet grunts reach your ears. The sound of slick and the squelching of your soaked pussy mixed with both your moans and grunts echo through the room.

“So... fuckin’... tight... f’me... ahhh!” he growls, his palms digging into your flesh of your thighs, needing to hold onto something to ground himself. You babble and cry, driving your fingers deeper into his shoulders from the all-consuming pleasure, mind lost in a haze as he rams his thick veiny cock into your wet needy cunt. The muscles of your warm walls start to tense up and a deep groan leaves his mouth, “Come on... cum for me, sweet girl.” he breathes as his thrusts get harsher and sloppier.

You reach your orgasm with a loud sob of his name and your head collapses on his shoulder as he fills you up with his thick warm cum, a low growl tumbling from his mouth. He rides you through your high and you whine from overstimulation, but it feels too good to stop.

He eventually halts his movements and pulls out while placing a sweet kiss on your lips and you both whimper at the loss. Your body is shaking and your knees wobble as soon as your feet touch the ground, but he quickly catches you, lifts you up bridal style and carries you to bed. He grabs some wet wipes and cleans you up, then lies down beside you and gently takes you in his arms. You snuggle up closer to him, resting your head on his chest, “I love you.” he whispers, kissing your temple, “Love you too, Si.” you mumble sleepily, slowly drifting off.

A/N: i might write a part 2 for this and make it more angsty :')

comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated ♥

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lady-phasma · 24 days

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A willing pawn

Daemon Targaryen x fem! Dornish!reader

A huge thank you to @zaldritzosrose for this amazing board. You read my mind and I don't know how you did it! An equal thank you to @black-dread for providing the missing puzzle piece to make this fic work.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, hurt/comfort if you squint, little bit of size kink, use of an infantilizing pet name (because Uncle Daddy Daemon), flimsy plot, creampie (and I truly did not plan what was going to happen there, Daemon just does whatever he wants in my brain, cheeky bastard)

Summary: You had a mission in the Stepstones, but he wasn’t as fearsome, this prince, as you had been led to believe. I’m not sure about my soft!Daemon but here he is. 4k words

The encampment was dark, lit only by dying fires. This night had been chosen because it would be moonless. Your soft-soled shoes were silent on the rocky earth as you crept between tents. You had planned your path at sunset, marking in your memory where the prince’s tent stood. As the orange light had faded from the sky, your stomach had begun to knot and twist with anxiety.

Could you really follow through with this? You knew you were able but were you capable of such a thing. The circumstances didn’t offer you any choice in the matter. Prince Qoren Martell wanted to avoid the costs of war, in gold and lives. His war counsel thought of every possible measure they could take to win this war, including involving House Yronwood. You were a cog in a larger plan and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

You ducked around another tent and tiptoed to the edge of the large royal tent. This is as far as you had gotten in your strategy. From this point forward you could only hope for luck, as stealth wouldn’t matter when faced with the prince’s guards. You were sent here with the barest of plans and what little plan there was, was foolish. You listened for movement inside the tent and heard none. As you neared the front you expected a half-dozen guards but saw only two. You held your breath.

You couldn’t walk right up to the tent and demand to be let in. Sneaking in seemed to be impossible, but if you could, what next. Your heart pounded in your ears. Godsdamn it, you thought. You let out a shaky breath and slunk back into the shadows. When you turned around you almost walked face-first into a giant wall of armor.

The guard almost threw you into the tent but did not relinquish his grip on your elbow. You grunted and jerked your arm away from him as you stumbled into the large room. You caught your balance and stood up straight. The ground was covered in rugs. A table laden with maps and documents stood in the center. Next to it sat the Prince.

“We found this creeping about outside, your highness,” the guard grumbled.

Prince Daemon lounged in his chair, legs outstretched, crossed at the ankles. He was peeling a pear, paused mid-knife-stroke, and looked up from under his brows. They raised slightly, seemingly amused, but he didn’t bother to lift his head. He resumed his peeling.

“Leave us,” he commanded without looking up. You heard the guard’s armor as he left but didn’t take your eyes from the prince.

“What terrible deed have you been sent to do child?” He didn’t look at you, only sliced a bit of pear and popped it in his mouth. When you didn’t respond he brushed aside papers to make space on the table and laid down the knife and pear. He wiped his hands on a napkin, dropped it next to them, and stood up. Finally, he looked at you. He finished chewing, swallowed, and wiped one corner of his mouth with his thumb.

He strode toward you, sucking the pear juice off his thumb and assessing you. Much of your face was covered by your hood, stay strands of dark hair were visible but your features were cast in shadow. He dipped his head slightly and looked closely, standing only a few paces in front of you. His silver hair swung loose from his shoulder. The violet of his eyes was unnerving. You squared your shoulders.

“I am no child,” you replied, leaving off the honorific. He was no prince of yours.

“Is that so?” Daemon reached for your hood and flicked it back from your head. The only hint of surprise he allowed to show was a brief widening of his eyes. You were well aware the effect your father’s blue eyes had when set against the sienna skin you got from your mother. You narrowed your icy eyes at him.

“I’m gown enough to make it this far into your camp, am I not?” Daemon chuckled and flipped his hair back over his shoulder. He clasped his hands behind his back and smiled at you.

“I suppose so… but you did get caught, little one.”

Your cheeks flamed and you wanted to strike him but the smile on his face caught you off guard. Had he just winked at you? You were too frustrated to think and that wink made your blood boil. This was not going at all how you had expected when the guard snatched you up. Daemon didn’t so much as blink when you moved your hands from inside your cloak to push your hood back further. He was amused with you. The handle of your dagger glinted in the candlelight and caught his eye.

“So you were sent here to assassinate me?” He smiled that infernal smile. “Would you say it is going well?”

“Time will tell,” you answered through gritted teeth. Then he laughed at you, actually laughed. You clenched your hands into fists at your sides.

He took a step toward you and you tensed. You hadn’t the faintest idea what this man would do. You had only heard the rumors and propaganda in Dorne. When he reached out, you tried to take a step back from him.

“Uh-uh,” he commanded quietly. Then his hand dipped into your cloak and before you could move to stop him, he snatched your dagger out of your belt. He spun it lazily around, watching it dance in the light.

“This might have done the trick,” he spoke to the blade, not to you. “But I imagine someone with more experience should have been entrusted with it.” His eyes flicked back to your face. “Though, perhaps there were none as fierce as you.”

With absolutely no thought in your mind, you lunged forward and tried to grab the weapon from him. He deftly moved it out of your reach and grabbed your wrist with his other hand.

“As I said: fierce,” he quipped. You tugged your arm against his grasp to no avail.

“But I must!” You almost snarled at him. His expression wasn’t surprise but interest. He let you go and turned to lay your weapon on the table. When he faced you again a small smile was set on his mouth.

“Must you?” He raised an eyebrow. “If a child assassin has been sent to slay me, Dorne must be desperate indeed.”

“I am not a child! I am a woman grown, of 20 years!” You had no idea why this infuriated you but the prince knew that it did. He grinned again.

“Pardon me, my Lady. I should have said a ‘small’ assassin,” he mocked you. It was somehow kind. You were taken aback by his jest, by his demeanor. You hadn’t taken the time to pause and evaluate Prince Daemon. You had only been concerned with the ramifications of your failure.

Now that you looked, you saw a man not much older than yourself. A man who moved with experience in battle, with an ease not unlike your own. Graceful, even. Then he did the most unexpected thing. He extended his hand, offering you to sit in the chair opposite his. You had come here to threaten his life and now he was treating you like a guest! You gawped.

Before you could decide what to make of the situation, Daemon slid down into his chair and stretched his legs out again, completely unwary of you. He glanced at you one more time as he reached for his unfinished pear. You were too shocked to do anything other than sit. You closed your mouth and sat down across from him. You slipped your cloak off of your shoulders as you sat. Your common clothes weren’t uncomfortable but you weren’t used to them. You tried to adjust them as you sat but instantly became more frustrated. Daemon’s eyes on you didn’t help to easy your new-found insecurity. You were meant to have been unseen.

“Who sent you?” The blunt nature of his question startled you.

“And why should I tell you?” you retorted. You were behaving as if you were at home entertaining men you had grown up with. This was madness.

“I believe I am owed an explanation as it was my life you were planning to take. Also, what else is there to do?” He popped a slice of pear in his mouth. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Let’s start with your name, shall we?”

You hesitated, but he was right: what else was there to do. You could sit in silence until he decided to have you executed. You could try to run from the tent only to be caught and executed sooner. So you told him your name and your house name.

“Very good,” he tossed the knife and pear back on the table. “What did Martell threaten? What predicament did he put you in?”

Your eyes widened. Was Prince Martell’s reputation so tainted, so sullied, outside Dorne?

“Not him,” you spoke quietly. “Though I suppose, ultimately, he knows. We are not a political house but we have wealth that is necessary for Dorne to succeed.” Your eyes flicked down from his at the last word. You weren’t sure why but you felt ashamed for being in this position, had all along if you thought about it.

“So if not the prince himself…” Daemon paused, waiting for your answer.

“His war counsel,” you replied. “They have many strategies in play, I’m sure, but one is to ‘motivate’ certain houses to bring the war to an early end. I have no knowledge of the other plans. I only know that my father was threatened. Whatever that threat was, it was powerful enough for him to send his youngest daughter to the Stepstones.”

There it was. You had spilled it out to the enemy in a gush and felt like vomiting or crying or fleeing. You looked up from your lap. Daemon was studying you. Once again he surprised you. Perhaps you expected him to mock you but the kindness on his face somehow made your situation more real. You bit your lip to stop the tears. You would not cry. You were angry and frightened and when the prince had called you a child it made those feelings more real.

“What choice did you have?” He sounded almost compassionate. This couldn’t be the petty tyrant you were warned against, who would rape, or torture, or kill you if you were caught. “You came all this way on an errand not of your choosing and meant to go through with it. That’s more than a little honorable, don’t you agree?”

You had no idea. You were confused and overwhelmed and angry. You had never been a zealot, but you had been more sure of your mission when the target was evil or cruel. Perhaps he was at times, but not now.

“I suppose so,” you muttered, trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Well what do I do with you now?” He leaned forward in his chair. “I can’t set you free. Yet I don’t want another prisoner. And you don’t want to return home as a failure. I can see that. I could keep you as a hostage and demand gold for your safe return. Would that keep your honor intact?”

You blushed, not just from his nearness but from the fact that he could see your thoughts so clearly on your face. You and your family would be dishonored if you returned unsuccessful. It would also be unfavorable to the prince to appear compassionate to would-be assassins.

“It would,” you answered. “But I do not think the ransom would be paid.”

“No? Not for a young woman as fierce and cunning as yourself? Not for someone so precious?”

Your eyes flicked up to his at this curious word. You watched him, suspicious, as he slid out of his chair and knelt in front of you.

“I think you’re quite frightened of either choice: being sent home or being held here. I don’t want you to be frightened. Maybe the Crone had a purpose for bringing you here.”

You felt your breath catch. He looked so sincere. He was intoxicating but you believed him. You didn’t want to feel relief at the prospect of no longer sneaking, hiding, being a stowaway, but you did. Almost instantly, you imagined a hot bath, a dress and not these rags, and food that wasn’t brown. Then something else flashed in your mind and the heat returned to your face.

Daemon slowly reached out to you and stroked the side of your face. He skimmed a lock of your hair with his fingers, watching it catch the light. Its deep brown shown with hints of gold. You studied him closely. When he turned his gaze back to you, your heart pounded in your chest. His eyes searched yours as he cupped your cheek in his palm.

“Gevie,” he whispered. You thought it was High Valyrian but you weren’t sure. Your lips parted almost involuntarily as you looked up at him. He leaned toward you, silver hair cascading off his shoulders. You felt his lips on yours and closed your eyes.

His hand holding your face felt safe. His lips were warm and tasted of pear. You dared not move. You were overwhelmed and confused. However, there twisted in your belly some need, some desire for him. Your chest ached with the delicious feeling of being safe. You didn’t question how this was possible so far away from home and with your “enemy” no less. So you kissed him back.

Daemon slid his other hand to frame your face. His kiss wasn’t rough, but it was deep. You had kissed men before, you were experienced in the most basic of ways. You realized now that all the men before had not kissed you, they didn’t see you. They saw a Yronwood daughter or practice for their marriage beds. You had made those choices willingly. You weren’t concerned with being married for political reasons and had enjoyed your freedom. Until now. In this moment, you felt… precious.

Tentatively, you raised a hand to him, your fingertips grazed his jaw and neck, and came to rest on his chest. He slid his hands from your cheeks as he broke the kiss. As if waiting for your permission, Daemon rested his hands on your upper arms. You kissed him in answer. His arms swept around you and scooped you up as he stood. Your head spun but you steadied yourself by putting your hands on the back of his neck.

Daemon sat you on his bed and smoothed your hair back from your face. He stepped back and pulled his shirt over his head. He dropped it on the floor as he leaned down to kiss you. You made room for him on the bed, drawing him toward you with your kisses. He knelt between your legs, kissed your neck, and slid a hand under your shirt. You arched your back, pressing into his palm.

He brushed the underside of your breasts with the tips of his fingers and his other hand glided up your ribs. He pushed your shirt up above your breasts, fixated on your hardened nipples. His hair slid over your chest as he took one nipple in his mouth. He propped himself up on one hand and cupped your breast with the other. You moaned and writhed under him. You instinctively ran your fingers through his hair and held him against you. Daemon groaned and the sound vibrated from your chest to your core. When he pulled away you realized you had been grinding against his leg and flushed. He smiled down at you.

Wordlessly, he guided you to raise your arms so he could remove your shirt. Then he began to unlace your breeches. You watched his muscles move as he slid your pants off. You lifted your hips and giggled a little when you plopped back down on the bed as he tugged them off your legs. You weren’t shy but the action was awkward and you were quite exposed now. He tossed the breeches on the floor and smoothed a hand up your thigh. He stared, rapt, at the dark hair between your legs, so different from the silver of his own.

You bit your lip as you looked from his face, down his chest, and to the evidence of his arousal. His breeches looked uncomfortably tight now. His hands absently stroked your legs and your lower belly but paused as you sat up. You held him between your legs. When you kissed his stomach he hissed in air through his teeth. Your hands grazed over his hips and to the laces in the front of his pants. You let your fingertips glide over the shape of his erection before undoing the knot. You kissed seemingly every inch of his stomach then looked up at him as your hand dipped inside. His face was curtained by his hair as he looked down at you. You smiled as you stroked him.

Daemon moved his hands from your legs, smoothed over your hair, and then gently pressed your shoulders back. You laid down, already missing the feeling of him in your hands, but the sight of him between your legs was almost as pleasant. He leaned over you, kissing your forehead gently, then your lips, and pressed his forehead against yours.

You gasped as his fingers slid between the lips of your cunt. He licked his lips and continued to explore your wetness. Stroking, searching, learning. He circled your opening, your clit, and back again. One finger slid in easily and he grinned. You lifted your mouth to his as you lifted your hips to his hand. He slid in a second finger.

“You are so tight, little one,” he grinned down at you. You rocked your hips against his hand and moaned in reply. You placed one hand on his arm, pulling him deeper into you. With the other you smoothed his hair behind his ear and trailed your fingers down his jaw. You drug your fingertips over his lips. His eyes were dark as he watched you pleasure yourself on his hand.

“More, Daemon, please,” you moaned, saying his name for the first time. Hearing his name come from your lips pleased him immensely.

“Say it again,” he breathed as he curled his fingers inside you.

“Daemon, please.”

Slowly and with a tinge of disappointment on his face, he pulled his fingers from you. He was enjoying the sight of you but couldn’t wait any longer. He freed his cock from his breeches. Then he slid his hands up your thighs to your lower back. As he sat back he guided you onto his lap. The transition was clumsy at first, legs bumping and twisting. You both smiled as you held onto his shoulders. When you knelt over him you rubbed your clit against his cock. You rested your lips against his forehead as you rocked your lips. You moved your mouth nearer to his ear and murmured his name.

Daemon lifted your ass and placed you above his cock. With one hand between you, he guided himself into you. You sank down onto him slowly, watching his face. He clenched his jaw tight. You felt his hand move back to your ass. He let you set the pace, let you move against him. You pulled up and then sank down again, taking all of him. The moan that came from your lips was lewd and deep. You clutched at his neck, the back of his head, fingers entwined in his hair. He groaned but did not move to meet your hips. You rocked back, then forward, finding your rhythm.

He kissed your chest and breasts. His hands stroked your ass and lower back, constantly moving. You leaned forward slightly and pressed yourself against him. At this angle he wasn’t as deep in you, but you found friction against his stomach. You ground your hips into him, almost, but not quite able to get what you needed.

“Seven hells,” he panted against you. His hips had begun to move in time with yours. Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair and you tried to find that much-needed angle again. When he realized what you needed he slid a hand between you. You threw your head back as his fingers circled your clit. You sped up, fucking him hard. He kept pace with you, circling and pressing his fingers against you. You couldn’t keep a steady rhythm. You felt him brace your lower back with his hand and pull you closer to him, steadying you, supporting you. You felt your climax tug at your core and sank further onto his cock with each stroke.

“Come for me,” Daemon whispered into your neck. You did. You cried his name, clinched your fists in his hair, and buried your face against his head. You sank all the way down onto him, thighs resting on his as you shook. Your cunt spasmed around his cock but he didn’t stop moving his fingers. He pressed into you with his hips, rocking under you, and bringing forth tiny gasps from you. You lips found his and you panted into his mouth. Tiny sounds mingled with his name flew out of your mouth with every movement of his fingers.

When you thought the overstimulation might be too much he moved his hand from between you. He slid his hand under your arm and pulled you down onto him by your shoulder. A new wave of pleasure crashed into you as he spilled into you. His hips stilled, holding his cock deep inside you. He came panting and moaning your name.

You wanted to sink all of your weight onto him. It took too much effort to support yourself on your aching knees. Neither of you wanted to move yet, though both of you needed to. You released your hands from his hair. You kissed him and smoothed his hair back from his face.

You smiled at him as you rose shakily from his lap. He helped you as much as he could, but your legs were numb and your head was empty. You all but fell back onto the pillows. He watched you grind your hips against the air as the last of your climax left you. His eyes were locked on his seed sliding out of you. He leaned forward, his legs shaking as well. You watched him through half-closed eyes and settled yourself on the bed. His fingers slid through his cum and you twitched as he grazed your throbbing clit. He looked into your blue eyes as he gathered more of it on his fingers. You smiled seductively as he leaned over you and raised his fingers to your lips.

You opened your mouth, your eyes never leaving his, and he painted your tongue with his seed. You closed your lips around his fingers and let him feel you swallow. He slid his fingers out and surprised you by kissing you deeply, tasting himself in your mouth.

You moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist. You playfully pulled his weight on top of you. He let you but also guided you both to lay on your sides. Your legs intertwined and you were a tangle of limbs for a moment. Then you buried your face into his chest and breathed in deeply. You sighed as he smoothed your hair and rested his chin on the top of your head. You were quite small in his arms. Daemon breathed deeply as he stroked down your back, your buttocks, and up again. You curled against him, one hand between you, the other resting on his hip.

“I have you now, little one,” he murmured against the top of your head.

Masterlist

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ceruleancattail · 15 days

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A Red Heart

Mystic Au

Ruggie x reader

Tw: yandere, gore. Lots of gore. Man’s insane but Y’know I love that so-

All you could see was red.

Spread across his lips, splattered out in a shocking mess of crimson and brown, flakes of blood peeling off like a badly-painted wall. Drops of scarlet drip off his chin, almost like a beast’s wild slobber. His shirt was scratched up, one sleeve ripped clean off, stray threads fluttering away with his every breath.

He kneeled in right before the door, fingers curved into crescents. There were claws, at the end of those fingers. Short, yet viciously sharp. You’ve seen him rip apart packets of chips and paper packaging like it was nothing. It somehow never occured to you what those claws could do to skin. They were coated with grime and blood, red and gummy under his nails.

Vaguely, you could see chunks of flesh strewn around on the ground, ripped into indescribable chunks of gore. Thrown around your floor, coated with the crimson of blood. Hesitantly, you nudge one with your finger.

Warm.

It was still fucking warm.

A chill raced down your spine, settling itself deep into its base. Ice ran rampant through your veins, freezing your bones ice cold. Your heart thumped, throwing itself against its cage of bone again and again, in a futile attempt to escape.

Rooted to the spot, you could feel the bile rise up your throat. Lapping at the back of your throat, acidity burning into the flesh of your mouth. Pressing its way into to your tongue, the vile liquid threatening to spill off your lips at any moment.

The man… no, the creature sitting kneeling right before you raised his head slowly, a wide toothy grin spreading across his lips. To your disgust, it was the same smile. The fanged, crooked grin that he smiled, eyes crinkling right alongside with it.

The same smile you’ve always found cute.

The familiar, warm smile of your Familiar.

Forcing the bile back, you manage to stutter:

“What… have you done, Ruggie?”

Ruggie tilts his head to the side, a somewhat endearing little gesture. Furry ears twitching ever so slightly, those bright cerulean eyes of his staring straight into your own.

You used to think they were beautiful. A clear blue, like the boundless vastness of the sky. Yet now, those same eyes unsettled you, with their clearness. With their calmness. No matter how hard you searched, you couldn’t even find a smidge of remorse within those irises.

“Aw, you came home earlier today, huh Master?”

Hands pushing against the ground, Ruggie leaps right back onto his feet, that sickening grin still plastered across his blood soaked lips. He takes a step closer, swaying ever so slightly. Unsteady, shivering from the excitement of a beast who’s just successfully sunk its teeth into its prey. You could just barely make out the gleam in his eyes, and the instability of it all.

“Who did you…”

your voice falters, trailing off into the silence. What word could you have used? What English word could ever describe the savageness of which Ruggie attacked his poor victim, tearing they apart with both claw and fang? How could you ever come up with a word that encompassed this dastardly act of primal rage?

You were answered with a husky laugh, before a hand lands on your shoulder. A reassuring pat from Ruggie, yet you still winced from the sheer force of his palm.

“What does it matter? They’re dead.”

Ruggie shrugs, shoulders moving up and down fluidly.

“Ain’t no point to having a name to haunt your nightmares, yeah? I know humans are screamish about stuff like this.

I tried to be considerate about ya, y’know? I can’t have my master hurling nilly willy all over the floor. But it ain’t my fault you came home early today.”

His lips twitch upwards ever so slightly, a sort of sadistic amusement leaking out of it.

“That’s on ya.”

Ruggie bends down, wiping off his hands the best he can with the cloth of his pants, before he reaches for your hand. Clutching it tightly, damn near squeezing the life out of your palm. With a sharp yank, you stumble forward. Forced to follow Ruggie’s pace, as he leads you further into the gory scene.

You stop in front of a mangled corpse, almost rendered unrecognisable by Ruggie. The fingers were all scorched, and gnawed at, removing every single fingerprint on it. Part of it had been burnt, disfigured into some monstrosity of raw, throbbing red.

Without any hesitation, Ruggie plunges his hand into the corpse’s chest, digging around for something or another. Every move he made was accompanied by a disgusting squelch, blood staining his arm like a glove.

Despite all of that, Ruggie was still smiling. Chattering on cheerfully, as he continued his search.

“I wanted this to be a surprise, but you’re already here, so might as well.”

Finally, he finished out something. Something the size of his palm, throbbing and squirming in his very hands. A heart. A fucking human heart. Ruggie cradled it softly within his bloodstained palms, the organ still trembling within his hands.

“Humans use hearts to express their love, right? Those little valentine cards, all red and lovely… I figured it’ll be much more romantic if i actually got ya’ a real one.

I put in all that extra effort just for ya, master. Aren’t you just so grateful?”

He slides the organ into your hands, gently closing his fingers around yours. Guiding you into cradling the heart tenderly, softly. Like something beautiful, precious. Like something valuable, forged out of life itself.

Forcing you to hold onto the weight of his sin,

making your hands just as stained as his was.

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rillils · 13 days

Text

There were times, back then, when Steve was sure he wasn’t going to pull through.

When the fever had consumed him for days, and the breath burned thick in the back of his throat, and Steve felt himself slip too close to the dark place that lived behind his eyelids, across the threshold of his consciousness.

Death, he thought: hovering like a loving mother at his side.

He could feel it, like a cold whisper gusting against his skin, chilling him with words of warning. Soon, it said; and Steve was too weak to do anything but lie there and listen.

He tried to tell Bucky once, drifting out of a delirious sleep.

“If… if death came tomorrow...”

“You’d punch him in the face,” Bucky shushed him softly, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. The healthy warmth of his hand felt nearly cool against the fevered heat of Steve’s skin, and Steve leaned blindly into the soothing touch, sighing his relief as Bucky’s knuckles stroked his cheek.

Bucky. The world seemed to be fading at the edges, like a sheet of paper burning from the outside in, curling ash-black and falling away piece by piece; but Bucky was still there.

Bucky was made of gentleness and sound, sweet like the sweet nothings he poured in Steve’s ear when Steve slept fitfully, swept into his feverish haze and lost to the world for hours on end.

Bucky was touch: an anchor. Bucky was color, familiar and dependable, like the blue of the sky, the yellow heart of daisies, the stain-black of charcoal.

Steve glimpsed the downturned corners of his mouth, his lovely lovely mouth, red like ripe apples. Steve had dreamed of kissing it once. Twice. Every other night.

Bucky’s cheeks were so pale. His eyes looked so tired, circled by the bruise-like purple of his skin.

He hadn’t been sleeping, Steve knew. Steve had been sleeping, though – he’d stolen Bucky’s share of it while his body burned up from the inside.

“Buck,” Steve rasped, his voice thin and crusty, like plaster peeling off the wall. “If... if I go...”

Bucky shook his head, one curl coming loose from the once careful sweep of his hair. His pretty lips quirked up, a slip of a smile found so easily like he’d rehearsed it a dozen times before.

“Nah. You’re not going anywhere,” he said, collecting Steve’s hand to cradle it in both of his.

Steve’s head lolled sleepily on his pillow, lured by the sound of Bucky’s trembling voice.

“Buck.”

“Shh. You’re staying right here, where I– where I can keep an eye on ya.”

Silence spilled in the room, just for a moment – the space of a sniffle, of a soft, shivery exhale.

“Gotta make sure you don’t get into trouble, don’t I?”

One of Bucky’s hands left him briefly, and when it enveloped him again, there was a wetness there; one little drop trickling from the bridge of his finger, to land cool on Steve’s skin.

“Just. Just like I promised.”

And Steve knew then.

If Death did come; if it seized his wrist with its bone-thin fingers and bade him to follow, Now, child, it is time, Steve would say: No. He’s not ready.

He would think of the apple-red mouth he had never kissed yet, save for in his dreams; of the love he hadn’t quite begun to shape into words. He’d think of the life he’d only just caught a glimpse of, stretched far on the road ahead of him, twined with Bucky’s own as they reached into the future, together. Simply. Always.

No, Steve would tell Death. He’s not ready.

And neither am I.

#stucky #stevebucky #not sure what this is or where it came from but you know how it is #sometimes the thingie just gets stuck in your brain and keeps on knocking until you let it out #*screeches softly*#rillers scribbles #prewar stucky #preserum steve

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miss-midnightt · 4 months

Text

Sephesis Week Day 1: "We Seek it Thus"--Calm Before the Storm

The sky was overcast, clouds deep grey and swollen, threatening rain. Humidity hung heavy in the air, uncomfortable and sticky in the summer heat. A calmness filled the air. Storm season had arrived late to Banora, and now it was here.

The sound of boots on gravel broke the silence. A boy, no older than fourteen or fifteen, crested the hill. Choppy, shoulder length auburn hair, blue eyes lined with dark eyeliner, slightly smudged above the right eye, light smattering of freckles across the nose—Genesis. His attire both showcased his deliberate fashion and complete disregard for the climate; skinny jeans and leather do not mix well with Augusts in Banora.

He looked up at the sky, shrugging dismissively before pulling out a stick of his favorite apple flavored lipgloss from his pocket. Genesis lazily swiped it across his lower lip, then rubbed his lips together. The lipgloss was recapped and stowed away.

He walked slowly, not in a particular hurry to get anywhere. He cracked his knuckles (a nervous habit that he couldn’t be bothered to break) and examined his nails. The shiny maroon polish he’d painted on them one, two nights ago was slightly chipped, nails bitten to the quick (yet another nervous habit).

A light breeze started up; it prompted a rustling in the apple trees and a poorly tacked poster on the telephone pole to fly off, carried by the wind. It fluttered aloft for about fifty feet before it flew into Genesis’ face unceremoniously.

The boy grumbled, peeling it away from his face. As he was about to crumple it and toss it away, he caught a glimpse of the face on the poster.

‘The hero of Wutai has returned victorious! Join Shinra and fight alongside him!’ It read; underneath the text was a large picture of Sephiroth, in all his glory.

Genesis smiled involuntarily at the poster—or rather the boy on the poster—as he traced two fingers lightly across the image.

“We seek it thus—“ he began, before a fat raindrop landed on the poster. Genesis neatly folded the paper and tucked it away with his lipgloss.

A few more droplets fell before it began to rain in earnest. The sudden downpour surprised Genesis, who hurried his pace, arms raised to protect his hair from the rain. —-- Genesis carefully pinned the slightly crumpled poster on the wall. It fit in neatly with the many other similar posters of the famed war hero.

He smoothed it out and stepped away, nodding in approval to no one but himself. Walking over to his vintage desk, Genesis tugged at the slightly sticky drawer until it opened. He grabbed an apple lollipop and opened it, tossing the wrapper into the little wastebasket below his desk.

Genesis set to painting his nails, this time a deep purplish red. He absentmindedly crunched on the lollipop, fantasies of meeting the boy on his wall and becoming a hero taking him far, far away, to Midgar.

——

Many, many miles away, Sephiroth looked up at the grey sky. It would rain soon, he knew. Best to set up camp while it was still dry. That is what he told everyone else, and so it was done. No one questioned the hero of Wutai, Shinra’s finest, the first SOLDIER.

He hated it.

Sephiroth went through the motions—pitch tent. Survey camp. Recheck tent. It was the same every time, more or less. After a while, he had gotten used to it.

——

The boy sat in his newly pitched tent, sharpening his sword. His face was set, solemn, focused. Very adult—it did not suit Sephiroth’s round, soft cheeks or wide baby blue eyes. Not that he cared.

The sound of the other people in camp was faint in the background. Somewhere in the distance, the roll of thunder could be heard.

The movement of the whetstone paused, then stopped. Sephiroth set the sword aside as the first raindrops began to fall.

He pulled out the picture of his mother from his breast pocket, cradling it to his chest.

If only he had a wall to pin it to.

@sephesisweek

(edited because i wanted to add some stuff lmao)

Posted to AO3 here

#ffvii #final fantasy #ff7 #final fantasy vii #final fantasy 7 #ffvii crisis core #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #sephesis #sephgen #writing at midnight #sephesis week 2024

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duckybarnes1917 · 2 years

Text

The Competition

Pairing: Bucky/Female Reader

18+ Only.

Second entry for my new smutty one shot collection! All scenes come from my OC story Figure My Heart Out and can be read separately or as a continuous story. The next few one shots are all Christmas themed because they are from the Christmas chapters of my story. So happy Christmas in May!

Word count: 2354

Summary: Some sweet Christmas fluff and a snowball fight leads to a sexy competition between you and Bucky.

Need to know: Fluff and Smut. Subby Bucky. Oral sex, prostate stimulation, choking, overstimulation.

Please do not copy or post this anywhere.

Feedback is always welcome :)

You woke up later than usual, sitting up to stretch your sore muscles; Bucky was gone, his side of the bed long cold. The past few days had been a whirlwind of Christmas festivities—ice skating with Bucky in Central Park had been the highlight. The super soldier would have fallen on his face if it hadn’t been for your hands keeping him steady.

The sound of Christmas music brought a smile to your lips. You slipped your feet into fuzzy slippers and pulled one of Bucky’s henleys over your head before making your way to the living room.

You paused and leaned against the wall; Bucky was sitting in the middle of the room, which he had decorated while you were asleep, trying to wrap a gift. You bit back a laugh as he shook his hand in an attempt to get a piece of tape to lay straight and huffed in annoyance when it just stuck together.

“Need some help there, Buck?”

Bucky looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon; I was about to come check your pulse.”

You stood next to him and ran your hands through his hair. “Whatever—what are you doing?”

“Well, I put the decorations up, and I went to pick up your gift—I wanted to have everything done before you got up, but the tape is holding me up.”

You giggled and sat on your knees next to him. “Here, let me help.” You took his hand and peeled off the failed pieces of tape. “You hold the paper; I’ll do the tape.”

Bucky did as you said and smiled proudly at you when it was done. “My first time wrapping a gift in decades—it could have gone worse.”

“You’re so cute; come here,” You giggled and pulled him by his shirt to your lips; he tasted like gingerbread flavored coffee and peppermints—a swirl of Christmas on your tongue. “I love the decorations; it feels like a real Christmas now.”

“And look,” Bucky pulled you off the ground and to the kitchen window. “It’s snowing!”

“Oh fuck yes!” You turned to Bucky with keen eyes, and you didn’t have to say anything else.

“Get dressed; I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Okay!” You said giddily.

Bucky kissed you before you could pull away, sliding his hands up the back of your thighs to squeeze your ass. He gave it a light smack before letting you go.

“Hey, what was that for?” You pushed his chest playfully.

“You know you can’t wear this shirt without repercussions. Now hurry before I change my mind about letting you out of bed today.”

You bit your lip and smiled at him. “Okay, but maybe you can keep me confined to the bed tonight.”

“Go,” Bucky laughed and pushed you away.

“That’s a yes!” You called over your shoulder.

Prospect Park's greenery, which typically served as an oasis in the concrete jungle, was covered in white as snow fell from the grey sky. As you and Bucky strolled hand-in-hand, you passed several groups of kids, excited to have a snow day, and a few committed joggers bundled up against the cold.

“This was my favorite place to come with Steve when we were kids.”

Bucky paused to stare wistfully at the winter scenery. You were far enough into the park now that the children’s laughter had faded, and the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

You smiled as you watched him relive his youth—imaging him and Steve running through the park, maybe one or two of Bucky’s sisters tagging along.

“It’s beautiful—especially now with the snow.” You held out your gloved hands to catch the falling snowflakes. “It’s nice and quiet too—at least compared to Central Park.”

“Yeah, I figured we both needed that today.” Bucky grinned as he watched you stick your tongue out to catch snowflakes. “You’re a dork.”

“No, I’m not; you just don’t like to have fun.” You skipped away from him and threw yourself on the ground to make a snow angel. “Come on!”

Bucky stood over you, watching you spread your arms and legs out in the snow. “I’m already cold enough as it is.”

You quickly sat up and yanked his arm until he joined you in the snow.

“Fine,” Bucky grumbled as he laid back next to you.

You admired your work, quickly snapping a picture with your phone. “You’re so big,” you giggled as you laid down in the snow angel Bucky had made.

“Maybe you’re just extra small,” Bucky teased as he knelt over you to kiss your lips.

You tried to grab his face to keep him attached to you, but he jerked back when your snow-covered mittens touched his skin.

“Oops, sorry—I forgot.” You quickly discarded your gloves and grabbed Bucky’s face, kissing him again.

“You know your hands are still freezing, right?” Bucky complained but made no move to remove your cold hands from his skin.

“Well, I can’t help myself, not when you have snowflakes in your eyelashes and somehow look both adorable and so fuckable at the same time.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but leaned in to kiss you again. “So, you can’t control yourself, and I gotta suffer?”

I’ll warm them up,” You laughed as you slid your hands into Bucky’s hair. “I gotta keep ‘em right here until they’re warm.”

“Fine by me,” Bucky smiled and continued kissing you. He moved his lips to your ear and then down to your neck, seeking out your sweet spot with expertise. He couldn’t resist, he was so happy, and you were so perfect—he didn’t care that he could feel the snow seeping through his jeans and his gloves or that you were very much in public.

“Buck—wha—what are you doing?” You squirmed under him, trying to resist wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Kissing you,” Bucky murmured.

“Doing a little more than that—" Your breath hitched as Bucky laid his weight on top of you, his big warm body absolutely swallowing you whole. “Buck—" you tried to protest, but your thoughts turned to dust as Bucky bit your neck and then soothed the area with his warm tongue.

You wrapped your legs around his waist then, no longer able to resist.

“You like that, doll?”

“You know I do—you’re starting something you can’t finish, Barnes.” You arched your back as much as you could under his weight. “You ever fucked someone in the snow?”

Bucky chuckled against your skin, rubbing his cold nose along the column of your throat. “I can’t say that I have, you?”

“It’s a very bad idea.”

“So, that’s a yes—" Bucky was interrupted by the sudden sting of cold snow against the side of his face. “I know you did not just do that.”

You were already laughing underneath him as you hurried and formed another snowball. You threw it at his chest when he sat up.

Bucky looked at the snow splattered on his jacket with shock before he quickly pinned your hands to the ground, leaning over you again. “You’ve got 10 seconds to run.”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow, knowing his effect on you, and then let you go.

You quickly scrambled to your feet, grabbed your gloves, and put them back on as you ran into the trees, laughing the whole way.

You hopped over a fallen tree and ducked behind it, quickly forming as many snowballs as possible. You strained your ears but couldn’t hear Bucky at all.

Stupid quiet assassin.

You chanced a peek around and saw nothing but snow and trees. The snowball was unexpected when it hit you directly in the face. You gasped in shock and quickly ducked back down.

Okay, I’m gonna kill him.

You wiped your face and grabbed two snowballs. When you popped up, Bucky was waiting, a few feet away behind a tree. You dodged the snowball he sent your way and threw both of yours as hard as possible.

“That was not cool, Barnes!” You ducked again as another ball of snow came your way.

“Don’t be a sore loser!”

You were still at it an hour later, both too stubborn and competitive to stop when normal people would have. You could hardly feel your hands and feet—both yours and Bucky’s noses were bright red, and you had ventured several miles into the park as you ran from him.

“Doll—I think we should head back now.”

Bucky groaned as you threw another snowball at his chest. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

“So, does that mean I win?”

“No! No, it means the game is over—you’re gonna get frostbite.”

“Someone has to win, Bucky! And you’re quitting so—"

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.”

You came out from behind the tree you used as cover and crossed your arms. “I may have lost feeling in my hands and feet—but I—"

“No,” Bucky ran to you and scooped you up into his arms. “It’s a tie, and we’re going home. I would like you to keep all your fingers and toes, please.”

You rolled your eyes. “A tie,” you mumbled. “I won.”

“Yeah, yeah—if you won, it’s only because I let you.”

“You let me?!” You indignantly huffed. “You put me down right now, Barnes. This is not over.”

“Counter proposal.” Bucky shook his head at the frown on your face. “New competition when we get home—first one to make the other come wins.”

You threw your head back in laughter. “Easy, you’re on.”

Your face was still flushed. The smile you always wore after Bucky gave you the best orgasms of your life showed no signs of wavering as you moved around his kitchen. Bucky’s blush was deeper than you had ever seen in it. You had easily (and quickly) won the contest by introducing him to a pleasure zone he hadn’t realized he had.

Bucky’s tongue froze, and his muscles tightened. “What are you doing?”

You pulled your mouth off him with a pop. “Just relax,” you sat back on his chest and reached behind you for the lube. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Bucky took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles, letting you spread his legs open. He flinched when the cold lube made contact with his skin.

“If you wanna win, you better get back to work.” You wiggled your hips in his face, and he dove back in.

He tried to ignore your finger as it slowly slid inside him, focusing on getting you off on his tongue. But that was nearly impossible once you started moving.

“Oh fuck!” Bucky gripped your hips tighter as your finger slowly curled inside of him. “What the hell—what are you—oh god, yes! Don’t stop!”

You sped up the come-hither motion of your finger, a Cheshire grin spreading across your face.

He was still blushing as he helped you make lunch—chopping vegetables and refusing to meet your eyes.

“What do you think? Should I add one or two chicken breasts?” You wiggled your fingers at him over the open fridge door.

“Uh—two, I guess,” Bucky quickly looked away, knowing you were toying with him.

“Are you sure that won’t make us feel stuffed too full?”

“Very funny,” Bucky mumbled, not looking up from his cutting board.

You couldn’t keep the smile off your face. Sometimes he was too adorable and innocent for his own good—and you ate it up like fucking candy. You swatted his toned ass when you passed by him. “The vegetables look great; good boy,” you purred in his ear, deepening his blush.

Bucky couldn’t keep up; the taste of you on his tongue was just driving him closer to orgasm. You added a second finger, and an involuntary low groan left his lips as he threw his head back. He’d never felt anything like this—white-hot pleasure throughout his entire body. It seemed to start in his curled toes and burn through every nerve up to his watering eyes.

You paused and moved from his chest to between his legs—his fingers weakly clung to your soft hips as you slipped from his grasp. You wanted to see the look on his face when he came for you.

Your fingers slipped back in, and you wrapped your lips around his leaking shaft, moaning at the whine that left his throat.

Bucky had lost complete control—his hands gripped the sheets, and his hips alternated between thrusting into the wet heat of your mouth and grinding down onto your fingers. A constant string of expletives left his mouth in various octaves ranging from a shout to a pained whimper.

You moaned and pulled your mouth off him. “Come on, baby, be a good boy and come for me.” You swallowed him again and moved your fingers in tight, fast circles.

“Fuck! Oh fuck—oh—Jesus doll—oh,” Bucky groaned and pushed your head down, shoving his throbbing cock deep into your throat as he came.

An almost painful pleasure surrounded him until he couldn’t breathe. It was never-ending and all-consuming—he felt it everywhere. He was barely aware that his hand was still in your hair as he kept his cock in your throat while your fingers milked him dry.

You didn’t have the patience to wait for him to catch his breath before you were fucking yourself silly on his sensitive but still rock-hard cock.

“Oh—doll—too much, please,” Bucky gripped your hips to make you stop.

You leaned forward, not stopping the frantic slide of your tight walls over his cock, and clamped your hand around his throat. Your pussy fluttered as you watched his eyes go wide.

“Whose dick is this?” you gasped as you pushed yourself closer to orgasm.

“Yours—all yours!” Bucky groaned when your fingers tightened around his throat. “Take it—use me, please.”

“That’s it.” You sat up, keeping your hand around his neck, and fucked him hard and fast. “Such a good boy.”

Sunshine Masterlist

My Masterlist

Every reblog and comment encourages me to continue to write and post this filth.

taglist (I’ve never done a tag list before so I’m tagging just a few mutuals 💛 if you’d like to be added or removed let me know!): @shamelessfangirl-3 @thenhewaswrongaboutme @buckmepapi @summerofsnowflakes @geeky-politics-46 @delaber @captainsimagines @becca-e-barnes @caplanbuckybarnes @bitterqueenofhearts @healanette

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut #sub!bucky #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes x reader

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dont-touch-the-phlebotinum · 1 year

Text

With a faint ding the elevator doors peel open. Steve's been reassigned enough times by now to know the drill, and this, stepping out into a narrow, dingy sub-basement corridor, isn't it. The place seems more likely to house cleaning cupboards and dusty storage rooms than offices. If he thought his own cubicle upstairs was depressing, it's nothing compared to being forced to work down here every day.

It doesn't exactly fill Steve with confidence.

"This way," says Agent Cunningham. The click of her heels echoes off the bare walls as Steve follows.

"So, are the rumours true?"

"I don't know what rumours you're talking about."

"Cunningham," says Steve.

She stops with a sigh and looks back at Steve. "He's mostly harmless," she says.

"But he likes the freaky cases."

"Well that's why you're here, isn't it, Agent Harrington? And if your record is any indication, you shouldn't have any trouble at all finding a scientific explanation for those freaky cases."

She turns and walks ahead, leading Steve farther into the forgotten depths of the building until they reach a door with an X on a scrap of paper taped in place of a name plate. Cunningham raps primly at the door – not that anyone inside is likely to hear it over the heavy metal blaring from within – and lets herself in.

Steve takes a cautious step after her and peers around the room. It's more of a closet than an office, the precariously stacked archive boxes and piles of manila folders loaded atop every surface only adding to the claustrophobic feeling. Newspaper clippings are pinned to the walls alongside blurry photographs of dark shapes in the sky and what Steve's fairly sure is another Bigfoot hoax. There's even a poster of a UFO right opposite the door, for God's sake.

If someone was trying to decorate for a deranged conspiracy theorist, they'd come up with something like this.

Steve wonders if maybe that's the point.

Finally his eyes land on the mop of dark curls bent over the desk, haloed in cigarette smoke and bobbing along to the music until Cunningham turns off the stereo.

"This had better be good, Chris."

"Eddie, this is Agent Harrington–"

He spins around in his chair to face them, and Steve's eyes track over him; the scars on his left cheek, faint but still visible; the shirt sleeves rolled past the elbows to reveal tattooed forearms; the dark eyes glaring back at them. He doesn't look like a conspiracy loon. He doesn't look much like a federal agent, either. What he looks like is the kind of guy Steve would drag home from a seedy bar and never see again come the morning.

Steve shakes away that thought.

"I told you I don't need a partner."

"And I told you that decision is out of your hands," says Cunningham. She turns to Steve with a smile, as if the two of them aren't currently being glowered at from across the room. "Steve, meet Agent Munson."

"Harmless, huh?" mutters Steve.

"Mostly. I'll leave you two to get acquainted," she adds, louder, and gives Munson a stern look. "Be nice."

Before either of them can protest she's stepping out of the room. The door shuts behind her with a definitive click, plunging the room into a stony silence.

When Steve looks back Munson's already watching him, sizing him up without subtlety. A hint of a wry smile hovers at his lips. "Is this a punishment for me or for you?" he says.

"Both, I suspect." There's a pencil sketch tacked up beside him – some kind of monster without a face that he's willing to bet Munson drew himself – and Steve studies it with a grimace. "You really believe in all this stuff?"

A quirk of a dark eyebrow. "You really trust your government to be wholly open and honest about the existence of the paranormal?"

"We work for the government."

"And?" he says. He shakes out another cigarette and is about to place it between his lips when he frowns down at the pack and decides against it. Instead, Munson picks up one of the pens scattered across his desk, clicking it over and over, so fast it grates on Steve's nerves.

He watches the discomfort flicker across Steve's face, and doesn't stop.

"So you're here to, what, report back to the brass that I'm as out of my gourd as you all think I am?"

"That's not my brief."

"What is your brief?" Munson shoots back. His eyes fixed on Steve are hard, but wary, perhaps. Defensive. It's not a look Steve was expecting from a man who drapes his reputation around himself like a mantle.

"These cold cases of yours," Steve says. "Maybe there is no scientific answer out there. But where there is, it's my job to find it."

"What happens when you can't?"

The words are a challenge, and after a lifetime of competitive sports the old cockiness is creeping back in before Steve can even think to repress it. "I don't think that's likely."

Munson grins and pushes himself out of his chair, snatching up one of the folders on his desk as he saunters across the room towards Steve. "Beg to differ," he says. He hands Steve the folder.

Inside is a picture of a doctor surrounded by smiling patients and a lurid newspaper headline about MK-Ultra by some writer called Murray Bauman. The publication is unfamiliar, which doesn't do much to reassure Steve that this Bauman guy isn't a quack.

"You ever heard of Hawkins, Indiana?" says Munson.

#steddie #steddie fic #steve x eddie #eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things #steddiedaily #my writing

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actual-changeling · 1 year

Text

will-o'-the-wisp/Irrlichter

This one is pure angst, Ellie's dissociation and trauma in borderline nonsensical metaphors, but it was oddly cathartic so have it anyway.

You can find it on ao3 here.

It starts in winter.

A creeping feeling, fog that sneaks up on her, rolling across the fields and gently forcing their way through the trees until she blinks one too many times, suddenly surrounded by a sea of white. She can’t see where she came from or where she is going, direction lost to a cold static that is content to see her disoriented, feeding off of her rising panic. The sky isn’t dark, it wasn’t before, she knows it wasn’t, but she looks up and the trees have grown closer, branches and crowns weaving together and forming a canopy as thick as the fog, impenetrable for her eyes. Her skin stings as metallic needles prick into it, cold washing over it almost soothingly, but she knows before long it will hide the pain it brings under the pretense of mercy, leaving you with a deep-seated dread and no compass to locate its source.

Ellie cannot stop it, but she knows how it ends.

They settle in Jackson with spring following their steps, and with frost-dipped fingertips and a numb smile, she tries to melt in the sun and forget about the haunting blizzard in the back of her head. The house, their house, is a faint memory she has spent hours trying to erase, rubbing over it again and again until its paper was crinkled and smeared with pencil lead, but the outlines stayed behind. She traces them when they return, running over blue wood, peeling wallpaper, and a bed she stared at for hours in the dark, curled up with the window at her back promising a world outside of her walls.

Not family, echoes in her head when the sound of her backpack hitting the floorboards makes her flinch, open hand clenching back into a fist, now holding nothing.

I can teach you is nothing but a whisper when steam fogs up the shower door and Ellie rubs at her skin until it’s burning, raw and exposed, and her armor slowly returns to her.

You’re special reflects off the wet tiles, water thundering down on her as she scrubs and scrubs and scrubs, and when she finally turns it off and steps outside, the white towel wrapped tight around her body ends up as bloody in the laundry basket.

You’re not my daughter is stuck in her walls when she stares up at the ceiling and listens to Joel’s breaths down the hall, arms wrapped around herself as she shakes, and her mouth is open so the tears slipping down her temples and into her hair aren’t followed by sobs.

There is no fear in love. Ellie looks at him at the kitchen table when he slides her a plate and watches her eat with something akin to relief, eyes carrying a worry they have both grown accustomed to. She tracks his movements around the living room when he picks up a blanket big enough to cover both of them, lifting his arm and letting her settle against his chest. Not a day goes by without soft touches and whispered promises about better times, mentions of their future, their life, their house. We, him and her, a man with blood on his hands and a girl that watched what was left of her crumble apart on burning wooden floorboards, even the smoke powerless against the terror streaming from her eyes.

Believing Joel has turned into a game with rules no one ever bothered explaining to her, and the contradictions are raised scars on her skin she can’t help but scratch at, picking away with her nails and only stopping once it is a bleeding wound again. He patches it back up, painless stitches and empty affirmations she accepts with a blank stare and static in her head, and then they enter a new round; the end result is always the same. Reality slips through her fingers for weeks as she tries to catch it, a constant heavy rain pearling off her palms like lotus-flower leaves, her lips dry enough to crack. Nothing comes easy, not eating, not sleeping, not walking down the hallway in the middle of the night to lean against the door frame so she can watch him breathe, alive, whole, the only family she has ever known and a total stranger. Maybe it should have worried her that the only easy thing is trusting him, letting him brush her hair and braid it when her reflection in the mirror flows apart, hands hanging at her side, too scared to touch, too scared to go right through her skin. Her nightmares still seep into her pillow, damp spots that are dry by the time he comes to wake her, check on her, always hovering, arms outstretched to catch her if she should stumble, but ghosts can’t fall; Ellie counts the bruises on her limbs and doesn’t remember getting a single one of them.

She sits with her back against the wall, palm resting against the glass, and she watches Joel, watches Tommy, watches people walk by and live day after day, wondering how everyone seems to have survived winter with rosy cheeks and a spring in their step, but she is left with frostbites and cold bones that never warm. They laugh, Ellie draws invisible patterns above their heads, unable to recall the last time she felt words on her tongue, head moving when Joel asks her questions, mouth stitched shut by hands she can feel all over her body. Her life is a flickering projection behind closed eyes, memories gray and scattered among the graves she keeps digging, always empty, the past well and alive in the back of her mind. None of it feels real, none of it is real, not when she turns and turns and turns, spinning on the same spot as the trees morph into a brown river streaking her vision, the fog holding her upright when she turns dizzy.

Ellie knows how the story continues, watching her body move, lips smiling, words spilling from an empty source, Joel’s hands burning through the ice on her skin and leaving branding marks only she can see.

Ellie knows how it ends, too, seeing a life flash by her eyes that belongs to a person she cannot recognize in the mirror, with nothing to hold onto that could stop her and pull her out, spinning until the pain of living is one with the fog, and she spends every minute waiting for it to flow away beneath her so she can finally let herself fall.

Ellie knows how it ends because it doesn’t.

#alex writes tlou #the last of us #tlou #ellie williams #joel and ellie #joel miller #i'd say im sorry but honestly i was completely numb writing it so #probably 50% projection and 50% vent fic

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regnantlight · 14 days

Text

There's a second wind coming as we lie here in our bed It rattles the bones of our fathers, carries whispers from the dead And you, you, you light a candle And I make sure the bairns are fed

You turn the telly on to drown out your fear You make the bed up silent on the floor, so no one will hear us You try so loud to love me I cannot seem to hear

'Cause you, you touch, my skin peels off like paint But beneath all of our panting, there's this noise I cannot shake Well, can't you hear that scratching? There's something at the door

But the wind has picked us up now, we're hanging in the air And as you grip me like an animal that you're about to spear "Be good to me, " I whisper And you say, "What?" and I say, "Nothing, dear"

Can't you hear it? It can hear you It wants me to (Throw the plate at the wall)

I'm the paper cut that kills you and the priest that you ignored I'm the touch you crave, I'm the plans that you made But fuck all your plans, I'm bored "And can't you hear that scratching?" I ask your eyes

I've got knuckle burn from typing all these lines into your chest And as the belt from your buckle is tightening I make shipwrecks out of my dress And the door below, it splinters, and the creature creeps inside

And we fall into each other, the scratching grows so loud Because that unwanted animal wants nothing more than to get out And I scream, "What's the time, Mr. Wolf?" But you, you're blind, you bleat, you bear your claws

Oh, and you rip my ribcage open and devour what's truly yours And our screaming joins in unison, I cry out to the Lord 'Cause if we join our hands in prayer enough To God, I imagine it all starts to sound like applause

And these plates, they smash like waves (place your hand in mine) And on the wind, it howls (how long can this last?) 'Cause that second wind is coming, love, it's coming for all we own And on the creature scratches, it doesn't know how to get out (let me out!)

And you, you follow philosophies, but me, I laugh, I choke "Well, hello, my hollow Holofernes" I wink, but you don't get the joke "Hold the hand of the god-child, " they said, "as he falls from the sky"

"Be good to me, " I beg of him "Be good to me, " I beg of him Be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good And he replies (oh), "No, no, not I"

#character music #((I love this group so much and this song has always made me think of Zelda’s more complicated/dark/twisted ships))#((Oh how I love them))

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a-world-with0ut-dr34ms · 1 year

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Hey, Who Really Cares

Ghost x Reader x Soap Very Slight Ghost x Soap

It's been weeks since the lieutenant last saw you. Ghost had thought that night with you before had been merely a fluke. However, seeing you again suddenly has only shown him that your night together may not have been a mere chance encounter after all...

A/N: This is basically Ghost having a crush on the reader, with Soap being all charismatic and whatnot. Hopefully not OOC (っ◞‸◟c)

Tags: Fluff, Angst, Slow Burn, Flirting, Innocent, Sweet, slightly goofy, Light-Hearted, Banter, Shadow!Reader, Ghost has a crush

Word Count: 4.7k

Masterlist

Chapter Fourteen - Hey, Who Really Cares

You watch another plane fly overhead, the cry of its engine peeling by amidst an early evening sky. It cuts through cream colored clouds, before submerging into the setting sun, as the world above you grows a fading shade of blue and peach.

The air cools, the birds chirp, cars drive along busy roads, and you sit beneath a tree beside the brick walls of your new barracks, strumming away at your guitar.

The plane eventually vanishes into the horizon, along with its rumbling. A heavy sigh leaves you. It was only a few hours ago when you'd stepped off a plane yourself. Though it wasn't for a flight home, were you so lucky. Your job has only just begun, from the looks of things.

You've got new orders, only this time they come straight from the General himself.

The details regarding your abrupt relocation had been scarce, even before Graves had you stuffed on the next flight back to the states. However vague the details are, the reasons were made clear to you from the jump -- your files had been pulled, and you were finally being placed with the Task Force.

You would be the mole after all.

Shepherd felt it necessary to have you moved, given your recent work in Turkey and Kavala. Of course, it also helps that Graves' gave him a strong recommendation on top of things. You're not sure what that may have been however. You haven't felt particularly noteworthy recently.

Though whatever Graves said, the General saw some truth to it and moved you. Right on time too. You've felt as though you've started to wear out your welcome with Shadow Company as of late. And time away from your Commander would no doubt do you both some good.

The tips of your fingers grew raw from the past hour you spent plucking at your guitar strings. Your knuckles felt tight and your hands had become numb, but the discomfort was manageable. With luck, it would make for a faint enough distraction. It's much more manageable than the emotional pain that tugs at you beneath the surface.

You were cleared for combat before you flew out here. The news wouldn't have surprised you, had it not felt like a lie. Sure you're good to go on paper, but something was wrong with you. You could feel it.

You haven't felt like yourself since that night in Kavala.

Beyond the guilt you felt, you knew something had been off in you for days now. There were things you've found yourself doing, experiences you've noticed and felt, that you've never had to deal with prior.

An impending sense of dread hung heavy in your gut lately. It exhausts you all day, and keeps you wired through the night. In the quiet moments, you have these sudden urges to cry. You have to convince yourself to get out of bed most mornings. You'd go the whole day and forget to put a meal in you if you weren't paying attention.

And you were alone in your feelings.

The others in Shadow Company showed little to no remorse about the events that occurred that night, and that was even before they'd gotten paid for the job. Keeping things impersonal seemed to be the company motto.

Once the cash had rolled out, it was as though that op had never happened. No one brought it up, and no one had a second thought about it. Graves included. They were ready to take their blood money and ready to add more to the pile.

You didn't share the sentiment.

That night felt as surreal as a nightmare, only you've been trapped in some sort of sleep paralysis with it lingering; unable to move or wake yourself, and unable to shed away the emotions that had coursed through you in those brief moments.

All the noises, the chaos, their faces -- Whenever you think back on it, your throat tightens. Your blood runs cold. God forbid you space out when these thoughts came, lest your back in that dark hallway, looking for that scared little kid again.

You start to play another song, watching leaves from the tree gently fall around you. They dot the grass you sit on alongside the barracks. The other soldiers didn't use this back entrance often, giving you a little privacy (not that you needed it). The ones who'd pass by didn't have much to say, though their eyes always followed the music.

Despite the turmoil you face, you smile and nod at the soldiers, sparring a comment when a comment was spared. You'd nod a farewell and you'd let your own music drown their walking away.

And when they're gone, you let the swell of sorrow boil in you quietly. You close your eyes and sing to yourself, letting the lyrics match your strumming, and the melody keep your throat from burning so much.

No, nothing's wrong with me, you tell yourself. Nothing is wrong.

It saddens you to think of this, just as much as it scares you knowing that this might be the new normal for you. That this was out of your control now. If only you'd hadn't noticed the change in you.

You get a groove going with your song now, it pulls the lyrics from you with little effort. You keep your eyes closed as you sing. There's not much around you looking at anyway.

...

Ghost awoke in a tiny bedroom, lit by dim sunlight and old dust, the world around him completely still. His slumber had been a dreamless one; nothing but black and silence, just as he liked it. And for a moment, his room made him feel almost deaf.

It was damn near cathartic.

He lies on his back in bed for a while longer, this nap having been an unplanned one. As the man does so, he takes this time to breathe and be with himself. Attempting to meditate, in some sense of the word.

His therapist keeps recommending he give it a try, or something of that sort at least, if Ghost remembers it right. Their advice went in one ear and out the other sometimes, depending on the kind of day he was having.

Still, Ghost was somewhat receptive if not a bit apprehensive to their words. Some meditation would probably do him some good, despite not having the faintest idea of how to go about it. Lord knows it's been far too long since he's spent some time with his own thoughts.

Missions take top priority in his mind, making it difficult to think or notice much else outside of what needs to be done and bad men who need to be handled. He prefers it this way. Though many have warned him time and time again that all missions have their end eventually. When that comes, what would sate his troubled mind then?

How much longer could he avoid himself?

His dark eyes lingered above, stuck on some singular crack he's found over his head. It's tiny and sad looking on the cold white of the ceiling. Uninspired, much like Ghost is in this moment. He sighs to himself, feeling the minutes tick by monotonously.

Letting his mind run blank in the silence proved easy enough to do. Seeing where that blank space takes him would be his true hurdle. Once he allows himself too, the details paint themselves more clearly in his head.

AQ. Russians. Former Cartel men. Mother. Tommy. Joseph...

The dead were always the first to come to his mind, some recent, others years old. None which stick with Ghost any longer than the last. And none that didn't leave the usual crater in his chest afterwards. How else would he remind himself of the heart thumping in him?

Once he sifts through the surface level rot in his mind, it slowly brings him back to the living memories. He finds himself thinking of his team for a short while after, their expressions and figures all mostly indistinguishable from the next. Apart from a few outliers.

Soap came to mind first in that regard. Johnny.

Ghost wasn't sure what Soap found so interesting about him. It wasn't like the lieutenant was easy to talk to, nor fun to be around, he always thought so at least. Not in comparison to the Sergeant.

Truth be told, Ghost knew surprisingly little of Soap outside of work, beyond the fact that he could talk enough for the both of them. They've been running ops for awhile now though, long enough to where Ghost has grown used to the Sergeant's joyful demeanor. At this point, he couldn't picture him any other way.

Soap's go-getter personality matched well with his skill, the charisma was just an added bonus. That kind of authenticity was rare to find these days. A rarity Ghost has only seen been matched by one other carefree spirit. One that seems to cross his mind even more so, any time he had a second too long to himself.

Looking up at the ceiling, the memories play in his mind like a movie. A starry night with a full moon, cold air and wet rain water. Kind eyes and a sweet smile. Warm arms which gently take him in, as a soft sensation presses to his chest. A few short seconds from a night nearly a month past. You.

That night with you refuses to leave him be, no matter how much he pretends it didn't mean anything to him. It'd be better if that were the case. But he couldn't have a moment to himself without his drifting back to you. Back to your warm embrace.

Suddenly, Ghost wasn't so interested in meditating anymore, fearful to linger in the memory of you for too long and catch himself reminiscing again. He's gone this long without having to deal with emotions like that, there was no chance in hell he'd put himself through it now.

The man quickly throws on a black hoodie and readjust the skull balaclava he'd had on, as he looks upon a half-finished pack of cigarettes sitting on his nightstand, calling to him.

Ghost's penchant for smoking would give him well enough of an excuse to leave his room for a bit. So alas, his small addiction willed him out into the barrack hallways.

It only took about thirty seconds before that one decision changed the course of the rest of his day. He starts down the empty hall, still trying to familiarize himself with the place, until he hears something behind him...

"L.T.?"

Ghost paused, recognizing that Scottish accent from anywhere. Soap.

He doesn't bother turning to face the man, he's matched the mohawk to the voice by the time he's made his way over and stepped into his line of vision.

Soap's face lights up at the sight of the Lieutenant, a boyish grin coming out of him. "Looks like I caught you right on time."

The Lieutenant lets his eyes lazily fall on the Sergeant. Guessing from the faint scent of sweat and workout attire, Ghost could infer that Soap most likely left from the gym not too long ago.

"So you were looking then?" Ghost asks almost teasingly.

He continues walking down the hallway before Soap has had time to respond. Which didn't matter much, as the Sergeant only followed Ghost along the way now. As he suspected he would. Very rarely did Soap leave him be when around.

Ghost could have told him to go if he wished to. Though he hadn't.

"No," Soap says. "I just happened by. Not to disappoint you, sir."

"Too late for that," Ghost quipped.

Soap chuckles, bashfully looking ahead of himself. He clears his throat. "Where're ya off to then?"

"I'm just havin' a smoke."

"Tsk. Tsk," Soap smacks his lips jokingly. "Those things'll kill you, L.T."

"Somethin' has to."

There's an awkward pause between the two men. For some reason it catches Ghost off guard, and for a second he thinks Soap might have been reading a bit too into his joke.

The Sergeant jokingly cringes to himself though, signaling to Ghost that there were no boundaries crossed. Good. Though it was peculiar of the Lieutenant to care about something like that to begin with. "Very edgy of you," says Soap.

"Look, Johnny," Ghost starts. "I just woke not but fifteen minutes ago. If you're gonna follow me, I need you at five, mate."

"Ah," Soap begins to tease. "Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, then L.T.? Bet it's 'cause you slept with that thing on your face."

"Maybe so." Ghost says unenthusiastically.

This brings a low rumble of a laugh out of Soap, who shakes his head at the lieutenant's comment. Ghost never fully turns his attention back to the Sergeant as he speaks, though his glancing over grows more frequent.

"Is it comfy?" Soap asks.

"Like an extra pillow for my face, Soap."

"Could I try one on, sir?"

"No."

"Afraid I might wear it better than you?"

"I don't share."

Soap laughs again, the base of his voice booming in Ghost's ear. Reminding him that he just woke up.

"You're a funny man, L.T.," Soap laughs.

"Who says I'm being funny?"

"I'd say so, sir."

"Fuckin' hell. A five, Johnny," Ghost rolls his eyes. "This here is a strong seven you're givin' me."

Soap blows raspberries. "A seven?" The man's accent was really starting to come out. "I'm at a solid six right now, at least. You know me better than that, Ghost."

"If it isn't five, it's not what I asked for."

Ghost and Soap round another corner in the barrack hallway, as they now approach the back exit to the building. The man's lips were twitching for a cigarette now, already tasting the nicotine on his tongue.

Some fresh air would do him some good too, even if he had to share it with some rather lively company. Ghost could handle it being only Soap however, being a team for this long now.

"You hear that?"

The sound of Soap's voice cutting in brings Ghost to a halt just near the exit, and just in range for him to hear the distant strumming of a guitar. The music was faint through the doors, though the soft melody picked up rather soothingly.

What caught Ghost's attention most was the sound of a woman's voice singing along to the acoustics. A voice which was soft and angelic, not perfect but with enough personality to it to be its own. It's a voice he could recognize, and one he's only heard recently in his memories.

There was no way, he thought.

"I think someone's playing music out there," Soap comments. Ghost doesn't notice him open the door until the sunlight washes over him; a cold, late summer wind breezing by, as the sounds of blissful music blankets over him.

He and Soap step out of the barracks onto the back concrete, steps of the building, facing an emptier end of the parking lots away from the main road, fenced away. There were a few trees and patches of grass decorating this part of the outer building, though the leaves were proving to be an impending nuisance in the coming autumn.

As the leaves blew in the evening sky, Ghost watches them hover about, until they fell at the patch of grass you sat at, a small ways from the exit. There his eyes found you once again, and a breath forgets to leave him.

For a moment there, he thought he might have been in his room, still dreaming.

You sit beneath a tree, your legs crossed and a guitar laid over your lap, as you look off into the distance with your eyes shut, singing to yourself some song which you knew intimately. In your voice, Ghost hears the struggle in you to keep your tone from breaking down.

The orange glow of the sun feathers your skin warmly, your hair lush in the lighting. Your head sways peaceful to the music, with not a care in the world to who walked by. A rather fitting setting for the Canary. A setting which had Ghost completely stopped.

The last time he saw you, you were drunk and spilling all your guts out to him in your bathroom, damn near literally. And the last time you saw him, he was struggling to function properly from just a simple hug. Now you're here fully, ready to play the game again, and he still hasn't gotten over that damn hug.

Ghost thought that burying the memory would snuff the feelings out. That's what he's used to doing. That's what usually works too.

Yet seeing you again now... Why? What are you doing here?

Ghost runs a few thoughts in his mind, and then it all clicks. The new recruit.

When Ghost and Soap had been given their new orders and sent out here, they’d already been let known that they’d be receiving a new recruit for the remainder of the assignment. He should have known that it wouldn’t actually be someone new.

"Canary?" Soap calls to you from where they stand on the steps. You open your eyes and halt your playing, and the first thing your gaze falls on are the black eyes of Ghost's looking back at you.

And like that, you coax a dying flame in him anew.

He watches your eyes widen, only lightly, before a pleasing smile shows, which only grew as you turned your attention over to the Sergeant. Soap is the first to make his way down the steps towards you. He makes strides like you'd been friends for years.

Ghost lingers by the exit, keeping a distance. Taking everything as it comes by him. He leans against the railing by the steps, watching cars drive by, and listening to you and Soap speak.

"It's good to see you guys again." You stand from where you sit, resting your guitar against the tree behind you. "I was just starting to miss you too."

"The feeling's mutual," Soap says. "What's got you out here?"

"New orders from Shepherd."

"You don't say," Soap smiles. "You the new recruit then?"

"I might just be," you smile.

Your eyes drift from Soap to where Ghost stands, your expression turning playful. You begin to wave and call over to him. From a distance, you were just all glitters and sunshine it seems. "Looks like we're going to be battle buddies again Ghost!"

Ghost stays quiet, watching as you turn your attention back to Soap. The whole time you two talk, Ghost debates with himself on how he wants to feel right now. What should he be feeling?

Why not go over there? Some voice nags at him in his head. You know you want to.

Ghost exhales. He remains by the exit.

A small part of him resented the way he couldn't quite bring himself to walk over to you and Soap and join in; instead of being so standoffish like he always was. It's not every day people wanted to actually talk to him. But staying away was conditioned in the man. And he knows he wouldn't add much to the conversation regardless.

He never knows what to say.

So instead he watches you, reminded of all the little details that have grown hazier since your brief departure. The liveliness of your speech and how you move your hands when you talk was entertaining enough to observe. And your voice. He remembers liking the sound, but hearing it again really had him tuned in all of a sudden.

Its pitch sings to him like a lullaby almost.

Ghost watches you laugh at something Soap says to you, seeing the way he suavely rests an arm against the tree as he talks. Your eyes look Soap up and down, before you say something sly. Commenting on his gym attire from the looks of things. It makes Soap start to flex his large arms jokingly. Striking various poses which make you laugh rather boyishly. You give the man a playful shove and you both laugh.

Ghost wonders if you two even notice how flirtatious your actions come off at times, watching the way you maneuver around each other. Something tells the Lieutenant that Soap wasn't as aware as he seemed, though you never know. And as for your intent... Well, that was a question for the ages.

Whether intentional or not, you seem to play into it rather easily, words leaving your lips like cool poetry, tongue and teeth moving swiftly with your sentences.

Every now and again you look Ghost's way. When you see him already looking, you don't react in the slightest. Merely meeting his gaze before going about yourself as you were. You'd even wave a little every now and then, as though to let him know you saw him too, and that he could join in if he wished. Never forgetting him, even as he wasn't near. A gesture made from kindness.

It really is you, isn't it?

Before long, you've made the decision for yourself to come see him. You pick your guitar up and make your way back over to the exit where he stands, as Soap follows behind.

You stop at the bottom of the steps though, resting against the end of the railing, as some coy smile paints your lips. Your gaze softens, and Ghost can't help but to soften along with it, even as his cold composure never breaks.

Soap speaks again suddenly, moving his way around Ghost and reopening the building door. "I'll come knockin' once I'm done," he says.

Ghost realizes he missed a whole conversation between you two after all.

You wave goodbye and Soap re-enters the barracks. And before Ghost has realized it, he's now outside alone with you. How did that happen?

The air closes in around you both like you're back in that room again. Ghost stands at the top of the stairs, only about four steps down from where you stood at the base still. Now that you were closer, it was harder to avoid how heavy your gaze felt on him suddenly.

"Ghost," you greet him.

"Y/N."

The sound of your name gruffly leaving his masked lips brings a sheepish smile to you. It excites you even. "You remembered."

Ghost relaxes more in his stance, slipping his hands into his pockets now. He hasn't stop thinking of your name since you told it to him, though he wishes that weren't the case. "How've you been?" he asked. "Managing to stay in one piece?"

"Physically," you say rather nonchalantly.

"Not mental?"

Ghost meant for his comment to be casual, however he sees his words pull something out of you. A glint of something dark, something tired, and something worn. Sadness. A look he's held before. It makes him wonder what you've gotten into since the last time you've spoken. In this line of work, he imagines it had been rather unpleasant.

It's a quick flash of grief Ghost felt did not suit you. A look that seems to weigh on you, just barely being held down by your trained smile.

"I could be better," you shrug. "But I'm still here."

"Which is good, yeah?" Ghost says. "That you're still here."

"Is it?" you say sarcastically, though your voice feels drained of its normal passion.

Ghost merely shrugs. "I'd say so."

You look off for a second, and Ghost remembers the little pauses you take to think of your words again. How carefully open you are with him. You do what you know best, and you begin to tease. "Did you miss me, lieutenant?"

Did you miss me? Did he? It's hard to notice when you missed someone until they're in your face again to remind you of the absence.

"I haven't forgotten you."

"I haven't forgotten you either."

You finally manage to break his gaze from you, the man choosing to look somewhere off into the parking lot. Now it was Ghost's turn to think of his next words to you. Your careful nature is seemingly contagious.

"I trust your activities since the last we spoke have been of the sober sort." He decides to keep things surface level again. Ghost was too dazed from a good nap to be going through all of this right now.

"Painfully so, lieutenant," you finally move up the steps, stopping beside him with your guitar in your hands still. "Speaking of 'sober activities', Soap and I were gonna grab a coffee in a few, if you'd like to come."

Ghost raises an eyebrow at your comment, though you can't see it beneath his mask, beyond the rising of his own eyes. So that's what was discussed. Soap asked you out on a bloody date. The cheeky bastard works fast, he'll give him that.

"Am I third-wheelin' then?" he asks.

"Never, Ghost." You begin to strum a little tune on your guitar, as though to add a little jingle to your words like some sort of minstrel. "Soap might be, if he's not careful."

"Don't let 'em hear that," Ghost jokes. "Might break the lad's heart."

You laugh to yourself. It's bubbly and light, and pulls Ghost wide awake from his tired self. "I can't have that," you say. "He's such a sweety."

Soap's a "sweety"? It almost makes Ghost laugh, though in a lot of ways he agreed with you there. It's just not how he'd word it personally. "A real charmer, that one."

"Are you comin' then?" you ask. "I'd love to catch up, especially since we're about to be a team, from the looks of things."

"I wouldn't mind havin' a tea."

"It's a date then," you strum another melody at the end of your sentence, and start to fake a British accent, rather poorly too. "Until we meet again, lieutenant. This humble bard need ready herself for the night."

"She needs more practice with the accent," he jabs. "Bloody atrocious, that was."

Your gaze sullies suddenly, as you take a few steps closer to Ghost. He leans back against the railing of the steps, crossing his arms and looking down at you as you come near. With his sleeves somewhat rolled up, he watches you take an eyeful of his tatted arm, before looking up and down the rest of him.

Your gaze had grown rather forward since the last you've spoken, it seems. Rather tantalizing, lulling the man in tactfully. He'd taken your flirting before as drunken banter. But you're not drunk anymore, are you.

"Perhaps you'll show me a few pointers later then," you say. "You're here to give me tips and be eye candy, as I recall."

Ghost is at a loss for words there for a second.

He'll admit, at times your lines came too fast to him. You were always ready with a quick quip, and it left little time for him to really analyze your words and craft a proper response that wasn't mere gut reaction. Not without giving away that he was indeed trying to read into your words. But if Ghost wasn't careful, he risked speaking a bit too candidly for his own liking.

You wouldn't catch him so easily.

"Don't be greedy now," he says. "I'm for the whole team."

"I can share," you say.

"Is that right?"

"That's right."

Ghost hadn't noticed himself leaning in until he heard another plane fly overhead. By then, you'd been leaning in as well, the two of you only kept apart by the guitar in your arms and the distance in height between your faces. It must have been darker in your room than he remembered, because in the sunlight, where he could really see all of you this close, you were absolutely stunning.

If you weren't careful, you might just make him start to misbehave.

Alas, you seemed to enjoy playing the tease. You play one final melody on your guitar, giggling to yourself and stepping towards the exit. "I'll see you later, lieutenant."

Ghost watches you leave, taking both your music and atmosphere with you. After a few moments pass and he's alone, he finally takes that cigarette out he'd been dying to smoke this whole time. Though as he curls the bottom of his mask up and places it between his lips, his heart still patters rather rapidly in his chest.

Perhaps you'll show me a few pointers later then. Later...

...Chapter Fifteen Here!

#call of duty #modern warfare ii #mwii #call of duty modern warfare ii #ghost x reader #ghost simon riley #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #Spotify #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john mactavish #soap mw2 #soap mwii #ghost mwii #control

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abetteranglican · 6 months

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the flower maker

Tired now, he gave up ambition and struggle and consigned himself to being a maker of beautiful things. Each day when the man came back to the forgotten house, he would stamp his heavy boots hard into the doormat, trying desperately to shake off the magic that gathered from outside like burs on his trousers. Standing there he would growl, "no more, no more", at the invisible dust, as if trying to rebuke the silken incantations that seeped through his cracked window panes with his own rougher, and more guttural hexes (arcane/archaic). He would walk into his house, to his little studio, having left the peeling black boots at the entrance and set himself to work. Gifted with beauty since birth, he could knit it into anything his fingers touched, winding delight into thread and sewing it criss-cross through button holes. He was known for his paper flowers, for in cutting flat petals from the many coloured sheets of card stacked and spilling from high shelves, he would sever their connection to decay and despair, forming them now out of perfect adoration. Paper flowers made by this man were like no others on earth, they spiralled in their vases, edges riveted, delicate blossoms trailing up walls on tendrils of green-wrapped wire. He created blooms that never had existed, or would exist, outside of the cottage. From his palms grew buds with the intricacies of passion flowers and the same dark hues, with lightness of white hollyhocks and the charming fluting of foxgloves.

But stopping to study what he had made he would despair, for in their eerie elegance beyond elegance he realised he had accidentally worked magic into the perfect curves of the leaves, and into their uncanny lustre. He would quit the studio in hoary grumbles and creakily retire to the kitchen, slumping down in the old chair at the old table beneath an older, clouded window. Swearing into a mug of tea, he glanced up to the passage to the front door and groaned. A chorus of little daisies were giggling up at him, their white heads like tiny stars having sprung up from a dark sky of thick and dirty carpet. They were grown from the magic he had unknowingly trodden in, it having fallen down dew-like from his scarf.

#literature #fantasy #creative writing #writeblr #magical realism #a non traumatic post

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constantcrisis19 · 11 months

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Hell Is Empty - Part 1

Billy Hargrove x GN S/O

AN: I wanna start off by saying that this is going to be an AU. Also wanna warn people that this is gonna be a pretty dark series, the story takes place in modern day with Billy already dead, having died at 17 in 1984. So if the premise interests you, I encourage you to check it out. More in depth warnings below.

Word Count: 2,796

Warnings: Major character death, child abuse, murder, graphic depictions of violence, alcoholism, bittersweet ending.

You reluctantly switched your foot to the brake pedal to slow the car as you cruised by the old, fenced in property, nervously eyeing the silhouette of the building against the indigo sky, grimacing at the ominous sight.

You had somehow been coerced into visiting the rotting house on Cherry Lane during a party that Tara had thrown at her place, the deafening chants of encouragement and copious amounts of alcohol making you fold like a paper man.

You figured that you and the brave volunteers that offered to accompany you would check out the house and maybe poke around a little until everyone inevitably got bored when they realized that all the rumors about the house were just ghost stories and superstition, but now that you were here, you were starting to regret ever bending to peer pressure and saying yes.

Even Tara’s earlier assurance that she’d already been there once before without incident was beginning to feel less comforting, the entire property looked like a case of tetanus waiting to happen.

Thankfully, because it had been getting late, you had the frame of mind to take yourself and the four other teens who had decided to accept the dare make a quick pit stop at the hardware store in order to buy some cheap plastic flashlights.

You made sure to park a couple of blocks down so that the car wouldn’t be found by any police that might patrol the area because of the stories that circulated around town. It was no secret that the house was a kind of hotspot for thrill seekers and trespassing delinquents alike and not even the amount of people who went missing upon entering the property seemed to be a deterrent.

You carefully made your way up to the fence that surrounded the property, making sure to keep an eye out for approaching headlights as you scaled the chain link and dropping down onto the tall, unkempt grass, brushing your hands off on your jeans before directing the beam of your flashlight toward the house while you waited for the others to join you.

Though, even with his flashlight, you couldn't see a whole lot of detail, but as you moved closer, you noted that the place was just as people had described. A two story house with dusty windows and peeling white paint on the dirty, time-worn walls.

It had clearly been abandoned decades ago, the building left to rot away.

Once you were all through, Mason boldly took the lead, passing you in order to approach the front of the house. Your stomach dropped to your feet as you tracked his progress, the hair on the base of your neck rising as you suddenly became aware of the distinct feeling of being watched.

You glanced around, hoping to find the culprit among your small group, but was uneasy once seeing all of them bickering by the front door and facing away from you. You turned your attention to the opaque windows, doing a double take when you thought that you saw a silhouette standing there.

You were startled by a loud crack, whipping around to look for the source of the sound only to sigh a breath of relief when you realized that it was just one of your idiot friends noisily breaking the rusted padlock that was meant to keep people out of the house.

You looked back up at the same window, your brows furrowing in equal parts confusion and worry when the humanoid shadow you saw was nowhere to be seen, and you wrote the entire thing off as a result of the creepy atmosphere making you paranoid.

You stood in front of the looming building, your feet feeling like they were weighed down by lead as you stared at the house, hesitant to enter. You startled when Mason abruptly whistled to get your attention, waiting until you were looking at him before beckoning you to follow the rest of them inside.

Your throat clicked when you swallowed, trying to shake off the feeling of dread, and marched through the doorway of the ramshackle house with a confidence that you certainly didn’t feel.

The first thing you noticed upon stepping inside was how cold the interior of the house was compared to the humid air outside. It was currently mid July, so despite how late it was, it still felt pretty warm. And yet, despite what logic would dictate, the house felt like someone had left the air conditioning on all day, which should’ve been impossible.

“Hey, isn’t it cold in here?” You pointed out nervously, trying to share your concerns with the others as you crept further into the dilapidated house, but either no one else noticed or no one cared because Tara rolled her eyes while Mason made a dismissive noise.

“Quit reading too much into it. The house is old and drafty.” Was Mason’s flippant response before the subject was promptly dropped. Though, regardless of the fact that the others had brushed off the unnatural chill, you stayed apprehensive about the whole thing.

The five of you came to a stop only a few yards from the front door -which you had deliberately left wide open- which was kinda at a crossroads, right in the center of the entrances to the living room, second floor and basement.

You took in your surroundings, panning your flashlight across the room and taking special note of the cracked door to your left, the space beyond dropping into a black abyss that your flashlight couldn’t seem to penetrate.

The room gave you a bad feeling that you couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard you tried.

“Everyone but Y/n, turn off your lights.” Tara commanded and there was a moment of hesitation among the group before Mason sighed and flicked his source of light off, the rest following his example until only yours was left, the soft glow helping to create an eerie atmosphere.

Tara motioned for you to aim the beam at her and you complied, the shadows cast across her face making her look incredibly sinister.

“Believe it or not, this house actually used to be occupied just a little over thirty-five years ago.” Tara began, drawing the attention of everyone in the room with her statement. “This dump looks much older than that though, doesn't it? It’s because of what happened here that the older folks refuse to go near here.”

You felt a bolt of ice crawl down your spine, and somehow you knew that this wasn’t just some campfire ghost story, she was telling the truth. There was just something inherently off about this place, causing you to once again question what the hell you were doing there.

Inebriated or not, you still had a sense of self-preservation.

“There was a teenage boy -not much older than us- who used to live here with his drunken father. He had a reputation for being a violent delinquent and was kind of a loner at school because of it.” She began, seeming to take pleasure in the group’s growing disquiet. “He would always show up with bruises and broken bones, but he brushed off any questions with stories of getting into fights or being clumsy on the rare occasion that an adult asked about them.”

“Of course, all of them knew that he was lying through his teeth, but they just didn’t care enough to do anything about it. He was already disliked among most of the school, so his situation was just ignored by the community.” She shrugged and her words struck a chord with you. You knew a little something about fading into the background.

You flinched when you heard a loud creak that originated from deep within the house, the sound catching you all off-guard. You all collectively startled at the noise, heads whipping around to try and identify the source as Tara gave a nervous laugh, stuttering through her next sentence.

“One day he just...didn't come to school and over a week passed before anyone bothered to look into his disappearance. When the police finally stopped by his house, what they discovered was the most horrifying thing they'd ever seen.”

You heard Nicole -who was standing next to you- audibly swallow, Jade shuffling closer to her boyfriend Mason, the oppressive tension winding tighter and tighter until it felt like a noose around your throat, constricting your airway.

“You see, the father owned a wood chipper that he would rent out. When it wasn’t in use he kept it stored away in the basement since there was a garage door there that made it easy for him to take it out when he needed it.” Tara continued as her gaze anxiously flicked over to the room on her left, and you felt your stomach churn, the acidic burn of bile rising to the back of your throat.

You had the feeling that you knew where the story was going and it was nowhere good.

“The teen’s dad had gone too far one day, beating the teen to death before disposing of the body in the wood chipper out back.” Tara’s smile was bitter-sweet at the various horrified reactions you all gave her before letting the other shoe drop. “At least, the father believed that he'd beaten the boy to death. In his drunken haze the man didn't realize -or just didn't care- that his son was actually still breathing. Poor kid was just unconscious.”

Your eyes widened, your breaths coming faster as your hands began to shake, making the beam of your flashlight subtly wobble. Your vision blurred with the threat of tears and you lifted a hand in order to rub at your face, hoping to clear your vision and giving you a moment to collect yourself.

You could only hope that the teen had stayed knocked out throughout the whole process, though that horrible little voice in the back of your head argued that -if his father had been half as sadistic as Tina’s story implied- then the man more than likely put the teen in feet-first and no one would be able to remain unconscious through the utter agony of being torn to shreds.

A distant bang startled the group, your head whipping around to look at the cracked door fast enough to leave you dizzy, simultaneously turning your meager beam of light to the basement door. You stubbornly kept your eyes locked onto the door even as Tara kept talking.

“With no evidence of any wrongdoing -and a lot of rumored hush money- the father got away with murder and the wood chipper was left to rust, never to be used again. And that's where it is. Just beyond that door are the steps leading into the basement where the murder weapon is.” Her voice was low and chilling, nearly a whisper as she directed a perfectly manicured finger at the door that you were currently staring at.

“But the legend doesn't end there. It’s said that the father went mad. Whether the insanity stemmed from grief or guilt or something else entirely, no one knew but it’s said that he would rant and rave to anyone who would listen about hearing footsteps every night, the voice of his son whispering to him and trying to lure him down into the basement.”

Your free hand darted up to rub at the back of your neck in an attempt to ease the way that the sensitive skin there prickled when Tara paused for maximum dramatic effect, the other girl taking a deep breath -as if she were bracing herself- before speaking again.

“And that’s where the father was discovered. Well...what was left of him.”

You could tell that the others were getting as nervous and paranoid as you the longer that you all stayed in the house and listened to Tara’s appalling story. Which, by itself, would’ve been more than enough to put everyone on edge, so the oppressive atmosphere that surrounded you was decidedly not helping.

It felt dark, angry and cold, almost as if the house itself were alive and furious on the dead teen’s behalf.

Seemingly oblivious to the threatening aura around them, Tara valiantly soldiered on through the rest of the tale. “Then one night, the father -worn down from his son’s endless torment- finally caved and joined his son in the basement, where he was then forced to go through the same thing that had been done to the teen, only the vengeful spirit made sure that drunk bastard stayed awake.”

“And all that was left of the man when the police finally went to investigate his sudden disappearance, was the gore-splattered wall of the basement. Though the town kept it quiet, turning the entire thing into a scary story people tell their children when they’re misbehaving.” She said, her voice soft and careful as if she were worried about someone listening in.

You opened your mouth to suggest cutting this little meeting short in order to leave when you noticed movement in the beam of his flashlight, your jaw snapping shut with an audible click. And, to everyone’s utter horror, the door to the fucking basement began to slowly creak open.

All of you froze like a deer in headlights, the room’s temperature dropping to arctic levels when a tan hand wrapped around the edge of the frame, wild blond curls coming into view as the figure began to lean out of the doorway.

Tara’s face blanched of color, eyes widening as she recognized who or what was standing in the door frame. The teen had a curly blond mullet and piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow unnaturally in the shadows as his gaze raked over each of you, sizing you up.

Or memorizing your faces. A voice in the back of your head unhelpfully whispered.

You could feel your hands begin to tremble and you curled your free one into a fist as the other one clutched the flashlight like a lifeline. Using your desperate grip to ground you against the odd aura he exuded, you felt like you were drowning under the disorienting mix of instincts simultaneously telling you to run away and move closer.

And despite the fact that you were the closest to the basement entrance, the blond’s didn't even acknowledge your existence, instead his sole focus was on Tara. A wide grin stretched across his face, twisting his handsome features into something nightmarish as he practically preened under everyone’s blatant fear of him.

The teen never once spoke, just silently lifted a hand to crook a finger at Tara, beckoning her to follow him and -to your utter shock- she did. Seemingly satisfied, the blond disappeared back into the darkness, leaving Tara to follow after him.

Her movements were jerky and awkward, as if she were a marionette being controlled by invisible strings, her eyes panicked as she moved toward the basement door.

You didn’t move to help because you simply couldn’t. It was as if your feet had grown roots, tethering you to the floor so you could do nothing but watch as Tara voluntarily walked to her death.

The girl sobbed as she passed through the open doorway and out of view, forcing you to rely on your hearing to track her footsteps as he descended the stairs. A few short seconds -that felt like an eternity- Tara let loose a blood-curdling scream, followed swiftly by the sound of blows landing and slurs being yelled out over her agonized cries.

Yet...no one moved.

It wasn’t until the wood chipper roared to life that you were suddenly free from whatever had held you in place, the four of you that could get away sprinting out of the house in a panic.

Though, because you were the furthest away from the exit, you couldn’t leave fast enough to be spared the worst of it. The screams of your friend rang out above the deafening rumble of the machine -shrill and terrified- before abruptly cutting off, ugly wet sounds taking its place.

You burst out the front door just in time to see Mason help Jade over the fencing, the former reaching the top of the chain link barrier as you hit the fence, causing the metal to rattle, before you begin to climb.

You dropped down to the other side and hit the ground running, following the retreating backs of the others as you made the long sprint several blocks back to the car, your shaking hands fumbling to get the keys out and unlock the doors to let everyone to themselves in before hitting the gas and putting the old house on Cherry Lane in your rear view mirror.

#stranger things #billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader #alternate universe #modern au #au #ghost billy #clairvoyant reader #seriously #heed the warnings #tw: major character death #tw: murder #tw: violent death #tw: violence #tw: abuse #this is gonna be a sad one guys #I'm depressed and now you can be depressed with me #lol

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aalissy · 1 year

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Nightmare

Woohooo I got to write about Chat Blanc in this chapter :). I loveeee writing about Chat Blanc hahaha. Anywho, I hope you like this chap! Stay tuned for another one in a bit :)

AO3

“Hello, purrincess,” a voice called from above her bed.

Marinette grinned, turning from her sewing to look up at Chat as she so often did. She gasped. The sight that greeted her was not Chat Noir but Chat Blanc. His ice-cold blue eyes gleamed at her tauntingly.

She scrambled backward, her chair hitting the wall as she backed up as far away as she possibly could get from her. Her hands came up to cup her mouth, terror flooding through her. This wasn’t possible.

“What’s the matter, bugaboo? You look concerned.” Chat Blanc’s head tilted, a mock pout forming on his lips. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

“Tikki, spots on!” Marinette shouted, prepared to send him back to whatever alternate universe he had crawled out of. This time, though, the magic didn’t flood through her. She was trapped.

Her fingers felt for the cold metal of her earrings but they brushed against nothing. Marinette’s heart dropped as panic constricted her lungs. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t stop him. How was she going to get her kitty back?

“Looking for these?” A mad, maniacal grin grew on his face and he lifted his fingers up to show two black earrings gleaming between them.

Her eyes narrowed as fury began to replace some of the panic in her. She may be Marinette but that didn’t mean she was completely defenseless. She lifted her chin up, straightening her back as she shoved any last bit of fear away.

“You’ve won, then. Why haven’t you used them to make your wish?” She glared. A small bit of hope began to spread through her. Maybe she’d be able to buy enough time for Bunnix to either step in or an alternate version of herself would come to defeat him.

Chat Blanc’s stark blue eyes slid into two pinpricks of anger. He was obviously upset about her lack of fear.

Well, good.

If he wanted a reaction then she would do her absolute best to show him nothing.

In a second his eyes cleared, back to their regular size. He pounced off of her bed, his tail brushing against her legs. Marinette forced down the shiver of displeasure. She was determined to keep her face calm.

“What’s the rush, m’lady? Afur all, we both seem purrfectly fine right now.” Chat Blanc stood up, clasping her shoulders gently. A softer smile was on his face this time. “No Bunnix’s or little ladybugs coming to stop us.”

She couldn’t stop herself from reacting. Reeling back, Marinette stared at him with a pair of wide eyes. “W-what do you mean?” she whispered.

“I wished them away.” He gestured around them. “In fact, I wished them all away.”

Slowly, her bedroom walls fell away and she was back there. She stood atop a water-logged Paris. A broken moon floated above a sky that was just as blue as his eyes. Marinette felt dizzy as she cupped her hands to her mouth, stifling a sob.

“It’s just us now, m’lady,” Chat Blanc whispered into her ear, taking her hands and squeezing them tightly. “No worries or cares. Just the two of us. Just like you’ve always wanted.”

She shook her head. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want this.

Marinette tried to yank her hands back but his grip simply turned even more forceful.

She desperately wished she could sink to her knees, but she was unable to. Chat Blanc’s grip kept her upright.

Clenching her eyes shut, they suddenly blinked open when a loud knock sounded. The vision in front of her seemed to wobble and a frown creased her brow. What was going on? Another knock and Paris flickered once more.

A voice called out to her from somewhere far away and she saw Chat Blanc’s scowl darken just before her eyes opened.

Her face was on her desk and quickly Marinette sat up on her chair. A piece of paper was stuck to her cheek and she peeled it off, blinking in surprise at the sight of the physics homework she had been working on. Swiveling around, Marinette heaved a sigh of relief when she saw that her room looked the same as it always did.

With a shaking hand, she felt for the metal on her ears. The last of her tension eased when she found the earrings she never took off.

She didn’t have nightmares often. But when she did, she dreamt of Chat Blanc. Tonight hadn’t been any different.

A knock on her trapdoor had her instantly turning around. Her shoulders stiffened at the sound, preparing to see the villain on her bed once more. He wasn’t there.

Another thump sounded on the hatch and Marinette’s lips parted with shock as she heard a voice call out to her. “Are you asleep already, purrincess? I thought we could have a games night tonight. I miss you.”

Practically leaping to her feet, she rushed up to her bed. She threw open the trapdoor, launching herself into Chat Noir’s arms with a happy laugh.

The two of them landed on the floor of her balcony but Marinette didn’t care. He was safe. They were safe.

Her arms tightened around his middle as she heard him chuckle in her ear. Chat brushed some of her hair back, murmuring, “What’s wrong, Marinette? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I thought I did,” she whispered into his chest before bringing her head up to grin at him. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Shaking his head, he beamed brightly back at her. “If this is your reaction to me coming over, I should do it more often.”

“Fine by me,” Marinette said before nuzzling back into the warmth of his embrace. Everything was as it should be. Chat brushed a kiss into her hair and she squeezed his waist even tighter.

As she melted into the comfort of Chat Noir's arms, the fear and unease from her dream slowly faded away. She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of the dark black leather of his suit, taking solace in his presence. The nightmare had felt so real, but now she was safe, surrounded by the warmth and reassurance she craved.

They stayed like that for a while, holding each other in a silent embrace, basking in the relief of being together again. Marinette couldn't help but feel grateful for Chat’s unwavering support and the unbreakable bond they both shared. He had always been her rock, her partner.

After a few peaceful moments, Chat pulled away slightly, his emerald eyes searching her face. "Are you sure you're okay, Marinette?" he asked, concern etched on his features. "You seemed really shaken up."

Marinette managed a tight nod, mustering a small smile. "I had a nightmare, but it's over now. You're here, and that's all that matters." She leaned in, pressing her lips against his cheek, once again grateful for his comforting presence.

Chat’s expression softened, his gloved hand gently caressing her cheek. "I'll always be here for you, Marinette, no matter what," he vowed, his voice filled with sincerity. "You don't have to face your fears alone."

Marinette's heart swelled with love and gratitude for the black-clad superhero before her. At that moment, she realized how lucky she was to have him by her side, supporting her through the darkest of times.

With renewed strength, Marinette stood up, interlocking her fingers with his. "Let's have that games night you suggested," she said, her voice laced with determination.

A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of Chat’s lips as he followed her lead. "You're on, purrincess," he replied, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Get ready to be defeated in every game we play."

Marinette giggled, feeling the weight of the nightmare slipping even further away. Together, they moved to her desk, where her computer games awaited them. As they immersed themselves in laughter and friendly competition, the nightmares and doubts that had plagued Marinette faded into the background, replaced by the joy and comfort of being with her partner and best friend.

In the safety of her room and in the presence of Chat Noir, Marinette knew that she could face anything that came her way. And as they played, their laughter and banter filled the room, a testament to the strength of their friendship and the power of their love.

And, just like every time she dreamed about Chat Blanc, Marinette made a silent promise to herself that she’d never let her kitty go through that alone again. She’d always be there to save her partner. Through anything.

#marichatmay2023 #marichat #marichatmay #miraculous #miraculous ladybug #ml #mlb #chat blanc #ml fic #fic #fanfic #love square

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high-dragon-bait · 2 years

Text

Amazing Devil Lyrics That Remind Me of My Favorite Dragon Age Characters

Just how niche can this blog get? I don’t have explanations for some of these. Let’s go

The Warden

By day, oh Lord, three things I pray, that I might understand as best I can how bold I was, could be, will be, still am, by God, still am

"If I don't make it back from where I've gone just know I loved you all along"

I stare at the soldiers before me. All my blossoms that have waited to rise

These lines aren’t wrinkles dear heart, they’re just dollops of paint on a new work of art

“You're better than this!” He says as a hand slaps my face

And as I walk away I know, I've been through the wars but that creaking you hear in my bones, it's not pain, it's applause

Hawke

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

'Cause I've been here so many times before. Don't you think I look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor?

"You alright?" asked the boys from beyond. "You gave us such a fright. We'd hate to see your mascara drip into your pint"

But like rubbing wine stains into rugs it's my curse to try and make it right, but by trying make it worse

I'm the touch you crave, I'm the plans that you made. But fuck all your plans, I'm bored!

Tear me up and burn me up and rip me up and leave your hand on the wall as you go. Blood's pouring like Martini. Graffiti sweet bikini. Is that what you think of me now? No no no no

You said, "I love you less than when it all began.” And I said fewer 'cause I make jokes to show how broken I really am

I’m not trapped with you, you see, you’re the one who’s trapped with me.

The Inquisitor

My dress is on fire and I hurl myself, I heal myself, I drag myself like a rug in the rain. And my saint, she is dancing, and every step I choose to take begins to set the world aflame

"Hold the hand of the god-child," they said, "as he falls from the sky"

And what you hear is not silence, it's just the trees waiting to hear what next you'll hum. And what you see is not the dark it's just the gods upturning ink pots 'cause they know what you'll become

You are in the earth of me. You are in the earth of me. My head's not yours it's mine, and I'll take my fucking time

'Cause you, you touch, my skin peels off like paint. But beneath all of our panting, there's this noise I cannot shake. Well, can't you hear that scratching? There's something at the door

'Cause if we join our hands in prayer enough to God, I imagine it all starts to sound like applause

'Cause we'll dance together so close we're sharing breath. But now I'm leading, doesn't that just scare you to death?

Alistair

And the soldiers march behind me, I can hear them beat their spears. And for the first time in all my life I know I'm more than what I fear

Does my hair look as nice as it did when it once tangled up in your eyes?

The person that fifteen year old me would be proud to have known!

All it took to unearth in the dust and the dirt some release or respite from the heat and the hurt, was taking the time now and then to ask how I am

Morrigan

With a hoik of her bra, she waved to the bar, and slipped into the night

“Come devil come,” she says “Call out my name.”

You make the bed up silent on the floor, so no one will hear us. You try so loud to love me, I cannot seem to hear

Think of all the horrors that I promised you I'd bring

Witness me, old man, I am the wild

Cause I’m more than what my mum told me to be

I make shipwrecks out of my dress and the door below, it splinters, and the creature creeps inside

Leliana

Do you like my dress? It has pockets.

This here is not make-up, it's a porcelain tomb. And this here is not singing, I'm just screaming in tune.

And to those gods, I will speak bluntly "We've an accord, if you ever touch or harm him" Please rest assured that you might not fear a man but to a woman, by the end, you'll kneel and plea

I’m the paper cut that kills you! I’m the priest that you ignored!

We were gods, “we were kids”

Cause brick by brick you built us, and I’d fill in the cracks. Nothing quite prepares you for when they don’t come back

Fenris

I drink that nice wine you were saving, it’s saving me now, love.

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

You're brave because they broke you, yet broken still you breathe. So breathe, breathe, just breathe

These plates they smash like waves, and these wine stains hide the tears

I've got knuckle burn from typing all these lines into your chest!

Oh, and you rip my ribcage open and devour what's truly yours. And our screaming joins in unison, I cry out to the Lord

Anders

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

You angel-heart, you monster, oh some godforsaken Prospero. Your feathers and your paws. Your hell for leather applause

With you I could summon the gods and the stars

I wish I'd done things different, I wish that I'd been brave. I wish I'd known these stones were something I could save

Varric

And I pack what is needed for the journey to come. All my books, all my bracken and booze. And the door shuts behind me and I breathe in the air and say, "Yeah, well I'm sorry too"

You dance on tables, endless labels. Are you Cain? ‘Cause I'm not Abel. Your bastard lasting night bus asking “What's the everlasting fable?”

“Sleep now,” oh, she says. “Tomorrow's jokes have yet to be laughed at or said”

I won’t let you turn our last night into this! Gonna binge watch a box-set, drink wine, reminisce

Solas

GIVE ME BACK MY HEART YOU WINGLESS THING

Our gods have abandoned us, left us instead. Take up arms, take my hand, let us waltz for the dead

Are you god or devil, ghost disheveled? Childhood friend or drunken revel? I cannot stop, I'm bleeding out for you

I'm the heartbreak that aches far too much to be shunned. All those letters unsent and that garden ungrown. I'm the captain of courage that you've eternally lacked. I'm the Jesus of wishing to Christ he'll come back

You are that space that's in between every page, every chord and every screen. You are the driftwood and the rift. You're the words that I promise I don't mean

"Be good to me," I whisper. And you say, "What?" and I say, "Nothing, dear"

'Cause I when I stand oh those folks will run, and tell the tales of what I've become. They'll speak of me, oh in whispered tones, and say my name like it shakes their bones

"Be good to me," I beg of him, "Be good to me," I beg of him. Be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good, be good. And he replies, "No, no, not I"

Cole

I'm the tales that the guests will applaud and believe. I'm the child that you just didn't have time to conceive

And when the rain came down I made a vow out to the dark "Please, let her live just one more day" 'Cause she is so much more than all her scars

Cause that sun that beams down as my hands touch the grass. After summers of fasting I feel hunger at last!

Oh, what? These, these aren't tears. It's just the rain that wasn't brave enough to fall

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age 2 #dragon age: origins #dragon age: inquisition #I could've kept going but. I had to stop eventually #the amazing devil #how many people are actually gonna get this i wonder. let's fine out

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duckybarnes1917 · 1 year

Text

Your Eyes Outshine The Town…Chapter 3

Bucky Barnes x Black Female Reader

18+ ONLY

Summary: It’s snowing! So of course you and Bucky end up in a very competitive snowball fight. Amongst the fun, confessions are made and new kinks are discovered 👀

Warnings: SMUT. Sub Bucky. Steve is a dick but Bucky still loves him. Remember these chapters are from my long fic and I have posted some of this smut before as one shots.

*Tumblr is not letting me add links to the prev or next chapters. Please see the masterlist pinned to my page for the rest of the story!*

The next couple of days were a whirlwind of Christmas festivities—ice skating had been just the beginning. Between making sure Bucky was having the best Christmas possible, staying vigilant against the Tracksuits, and trying to ignore the festering feelings over Stephan’s death that you refused to deal with—you were exhausted. You woke up later than usual—you sat up and stretched; Bucky was gone, his side of the bed long cold. The sound of Christmas music brought a smile to your lips. You slipped your feet into fuzzy slippers and pulled one of Bucky’s henleys over your head before making your way to the living room.

“Need some help there, Buck?”

Bucky looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon; I was about to come check your pulse.”

You stood next to him and ran your hands through his hair. “Whatever—what are you doing?”

“Well, I put the decorations up, and I went to pick up your gift—I wanted to have everything done before you got up, but the tape is holding me up.”

You giggled and sat on your knees next to him. “Here, let me help.” You took his hand and peeled off the failed pieces of tape. “You hold the paper; I’ll do the tape.”

Bucky did as you said and smiled proudly at you when the wrapping was done. “My first time wrapping a gift in decades—it could have gone worse.”

“You’re so cute; come here,” you giggled and pulled him by his shirt to your lips; he tasted like coffee and peppermints—a swirl of Christmas on your tongue. “I love the decorations; it feels like a real Christmas now.”

“And look,” Bucky pulled you off the ground and to the kitchen window. “It’s snowing!”

“Oh fuck yes!” You turned to Bucky with keen eyes, and you didn’t have to say anything else.

“Get dressed; I wanna take you somewhere.”

“Okay!” You said giddily.

Bucky kissed you before you could pull away, sliding his hands up the back of your thighs to squeeze your ass. He gave it a light smack before letting you go.

“Hey, what was that for?” You pushed his chest playfully.

“You know you can’t wear this shirt without repercussions. Now hurry before I change my mind about letting you out of bed today.”

You bit your lip and smiled at him. “Okay, but maybe you can keep me confined to the bed tonight.”

“Go,” Bucky laughed and pushed you away.

“That’s a yes!” You called over your shoulder.

Prospect Park's greenery, which typically served as an oasis in the concrete jungle, was covered in white as snow fell from the gray sky. As you and Bucky strolled hand-in-hand, you passed several groups of kids, excited to have a snow day, and a few committed joggers bundled up against the cold.

“This was my favorite place to come with Steve when we were kids.”

Bucky paused to stare wistfully at the winter scenery. You were far enough into the park now that the children’s laughter had faded, and the rest of the world seemed to melt away.

You smiled as you watched him relive his youth—imaging him and Steve running through the park, maybe one or two of Bucky’s sisters tagging along.

“It’s beautiful—especially now with the snow.” You held out your gloved hands to catch the falling snowflakes. “It’s nice and quiet too—at least compared to Central Park.”

“Yeah, I figured we both needed that today.” Bucky grinned as he watched you stick your tongue out to catch snowflakes. “You’re a dork.”

“No, I’m not; you just don’t like to have fun.” You skipped away from him and threw yourself on the ground to make a snow angel. “Come on!”

Bucky stood over you, watching as you spread your arms and legs out in the snow. “I’m already cold enough as it is.”

You quickly sat up and yanked his arm until he joined you in the snow.

“Fine,” Bucky grumbled as he laid back next to you.

You admired your work, quickly snapping a picture with your phone. “You’re so big,” you giggled as you laid down in the snow angel Bucky had made.

“Maybe you’re just extra small,” Bucky teased as he knelt over you to kiss your lips.

You tried to grab his face to keep him attached to you, but he jerked back when your snow-covered mittens touched his skin.

“Oops, sorry—I forgot.” You quickly discarded your gloves and grabbed Bucky’s face, kissing him again.

“You know your hands are still freezing, right?” Bucky complained but made no move to remove your cold hands from his skin.

“Well, I can’t help myself, not when you have snowflakes in your eyelashes and somehow look both adorable and so fuckable at the same time.”

Bucky rolled his eyes but leaned in to kiss you again. “So you can’t control yourself, and I gotta suffer?”

I’ll warm them up,” you laughed as you slid your hands into Bucky’s hair. “I gotta keep ‘em right here until they’re warm.”

“Buck—wha—what are you doing?” You squirmed under him, trying to resist wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Kissing you,” Bucky murmured.

“Doing a little more than that—" your breath hitched as Bucky laid his weight on top of you, his big warm body absolutely swallowing you whole. “Buck—" you tried to protest, but your thoughts turned to dust as Bucky bit your neck and then soothed the area with his warm tongue.

You wrapped your legs around his waist then, no longer able to resist.

“You like that, sweetheart?”

“You know I do—you’re starting something you can’t finish, Barnes.” You arched your back as much as you could under his weight. “You ever fucked someone in the snow?”

Bucky chuckled against your skin, rubbing his cold nose along the column of your throat. “I can’t say that I have, you?”

“It’s a very bad idea.”

“So, that’s a yes—" Bucky was interrupted by the sudden sting of cold snow against the side of his face. “I know you did not just do that.”

You were already laughing underneath him as you hurried and formed another snowball. You threw it at his chest when he sat up.

Bucky looked at the snow splattered on his jacket with shock before he quickly pinned your hands to the ground, leaning over you again. “You’ve got 10 seconds to run.”

Bucky quirked an eyebrow at you, knowing his effect on you, and then let you go.

You quickly scrambled to your feet, grabbed your gloves, and put them back on as you ran into the trees, laughing the whole way.

You hopped over a fallen tree and ducked behind it, quickly forming as many snowballs as possible. You strained your ears but couldn’t hear Bucky at all.

Stupid quiet assassin.

You chanced a peek around and saw nothing but snow and trees. The snowball was unexpected when it hit you directly in the face. You gasped in shock and quickly ducked back down.

Okay, I’m gonna kill him.

“That was not cool, Barnes!” You ducked again as another ball of snow came your way.

“Don’t be a sore loser!”

You were still at it an hour later, too stubborn and competitive to stop when normal people would have. You could hardly feel your hands and feet—both of your noses were bright red, and you had ventured several miles into the park as you ran from him.

“Doll—I think we should head back now.”

Bucky groaned as you threw another snowball at his chest. He wasn’t hiding anymore.

“So, does that mean I win?”

“No! No, it means the game is over—you’re gonna get frostbite.”

“Someone has to win, Bucky! And you’re quitting so—"

“Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.”

You came out from behind the tree you used as cover and crossed your arms. “I may have lost feeling in my hands and feet—but I—"

“No,” Bucky ran to you and scooped you up into his arms. “It’s a tie, and we’re going home. I would like you to keep all your fingers and toes, please.”

You rolled your eyes. “A tie,” you mumbled. “I won.”

“Yeah, yeah—if you won, it’s only because I let you.”

“You let me?!” You indignantly huffed. “You put me down right now, Barnes. This is not over.”

“Counter proposal.” Bucky shook his head at the frown on your face. “New competition when we get home—first one to make the other come wins.”

You threw your head back in laughter. “Easy, you’re on.”

Bucky sat you down on a park bench and directed you to take off your shoes, socks, and gloves. He pulled fresh ones out of his backpack and helped you put them on.

“You’re always prepared—were you a boy scout or something?” You asked as you put your boots back on.

“No, but Steve and I always wanted to be.”

“Well, thank you, this is much better.” You kissed his cheek while he changed his own socks. “Can I ask you something?”

Bucky just raised his brows, indicating the answer was yes.

“Were you and Steve—like—" you paused, unsure how to phrase your question and hoping Bucky would get the gist.

“Like what?”

“Did you love him?” You blurted out.

Bucky looked slightly surprised by the question. “I mean—yes.”

“But like, were you in love with him? Were you together?”

“We weren’t together,” Bucky cleared his throat and slightly frowned. “But—yeah, I was in love with him.”

You took his hand. “How long?”

Bucky huffed out a breath of air. “I don’t know—like forever—until he left, well that’s not true. I—I don’t know.”

He turned to you with a look of desperation and confusion, and you scooted closer to him, staying silent to allow him to process his thoughts.

“I just felt so stupid,” he finally whispered.

That wasn’t what you were expecting to hear—you searched his face for a hint at what he was thinking. Then it dawned on you. Of course—Steve didn’t return Bucky’s feelings—he left him behind. A wave of anger washed over you—even though you were happy Bucky’s path led him to you, any hurt he faced along the way made you want to punch someone (in their perfect teeth).

“That bastard didn’t deserve you,” you mumbled as you wrapped your arms tightly around Bucky’s torso.

“It’s not like that—I still love him, and I understand why he did what he did. I truly hope he’s happy now; he deserves it.”

“See, I told you—too nice.”

“I gotta be extra nice to make up for you.” Bucky kissed the top of your head to let you know he was only teasing.

“I’m sorry, though—can I ask another question?”

“Doll, you can just ask; you don’t need permission.” Bucky stood up and held your hand as they walked to the subway station. The whole train ride home, you drilled Bucky with questions.

Was Steve the first man you kissed?

Yes.

Only kissed?

Yes.

So no sex then—with men?

Nope.

What are your kinks? Fantasies?

Should we talk about this in private?

Fine, what’s your favorite thing to do?

Bucky hadn’t been able to answer the last question—he didn’t have any hobbies. Until this week, he rarely went out except for therapy or to see Nakajima. You tried to make him feel better about it, telling him he just hadn’t had time to figure out who he was outside of his superhero role.

You were in Bucky’s kitchen now—you had easily (and quickly) won the contest by introducing Bucky to a pleasure zone he hadn’t realized he had.

Bucky’s tongue froze, and his muscles tightened. “What are you doing?”

You pulled your mouth off him with a pop. “Just relax,” you sat on his chest and reached behind you for the lube. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Bucky took a deep breath and relaxed his muscles, letting you spread his legs open. He flinched when the cold lube made contact with his skin.

“If you wanna win, you better get back to work.” You wiggled your hips in his face, and he dove back in.

He tried to ignore your finger as it slowly slid inside him, focusing on getting you off on his tongue. But that was nearly impossible once you started moving.

“Oh fuck!” Bucky gripped your hips tighter as your finger slowly curled inside of him. “What the hell—what are you doing—oh god, yes! Don’t stop!”

You sped up the come-hither motion of your finger, a Cheshire grin spreading across your face.

He was still blushing as he helped you make lunch—chopping vegetables and refusing to meet your eyes.

“What do you think? Should I add one or two chicken breasts?” You wiggled your fingers at him over the open fridge door.

“Uh—two, I guess,” Bucky quickly looked away, knowing you were toying with him.

“Are you sure that won’t make us feel stuffed too full?”

“Very funny,” Bucky mumbled, not looking up from his cutting board.

You paused and moved from his chest to between his legs—his fingers weakly clung to your soft hips as you slipped from his grasp. You wanted to see the look on his face when he came for you.

Your fingers slipped back in, and you wrapped your lips around his leaking shaft, moaning at the whine that left his throat.

You moaned and pulled your mouth off him. “Come on, baby, be a good boy and come for me.” You swallowed him again and moved your fingers in tight, fast circles.

“Fuck! Oh fuck—oh—Jesus doll—oh,” Bucky groaned and pushed your head down, shoving his throbbing cock deep into your throat as he came.

You barely had the patience to wait for him to catch his breath before you were fucking yourself silly on his sensitive but still rock-hard cock.

“Oh—doll—too much, please,” Bucky gripped your hips to make you stop.

You leaned forward, not stopping the bounce of your hips, and clamped your hand around his throat. Your pussy fluttered as you watched his eyes go wide.

“Whose dick is this?” You gasped as you pushed yourself closer to orgasm.

“Yours—all yours!” Bucky groaned when your fingers tightened around his throat. “Take it—use me, please.”

“That’s it.” You sat up, keeping your hand around his neck, and fucked him hard and fast. “Such a good boy.”

Don't forget to reblog! 😉

*Tumblr is not letting me add links to the prev or next chapters. Please see the masterlist pinned to my page for the rest of the story!*

Taglist: @delaber @mannien @raindrcpsangel @cjand10

#Bucky barnes smut #bucky smut #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x black female reader #bucky barnes christmas

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hauntedjpegcollection · 2 months

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a mother's love

wc: 5281 au: dishonored au ch: nomi, matilda, jack

Nomi is eight years old when she decides her name is Nomi. It, coincidentally, is when everything in her life changes as well. Not just her name, but her home and her family. Or, rather, the lack of family. It’s Nomi and her mother now, when it was Nomi and her parents before. Nomi and her father are no longer, just like her old name is no longer. She doesn’t think her name has anything to do with it, but that the changes all line up at the same time nonetheless.

Her mother reassures her anyway that it’s nothing to do with her.

That’s his own fault. Rat bastard, she says, hand in hand with the little eight year old. Nomi knows not to repeat it, but she tucks those mean little words inside her to later think on. They have one suitcase that carries everything they own. Nomi, in her other hand, holds the stuffed rabbit she has had since she was not Nomi. It’s always been her favorite and that was never changing. One of it’s ears is half torn off and her mother would usually dutifully start about restitching it on, but they’re not home any more.

The little square room adjoining another families little square room all stacked on top of each other in a tall building squeezed between other tall buildings, is not their home any longer. Nomi has no idea if she’s meant to be upset about that or not. She’ll miss the corner she slept in, because it was right underneath the window and she liked looking at the smoggy sky and it’s sometimes twinkling stars.

But she wont miss the paper thin walls, the constant drip from the sink, or maybe even her father. Maybe she wont miss him at all. She hasn’t decided yet.

—

Even though she’s only eight, Nomi is very smart for her age. That’s what her mother says, especially when brushing through her ever growing navy dark hair. Smart, beautiful, kind. Her mother’s praise never felt empty; Nomi felt and believed every word. But it also felt like her mother was trying to quilt a blanket to cover her with. That if she said it enough, Nomi wouldn’t hear anything else that was said about her. Obstinate child, rude, sneaky, wrong.

Nomi knows to wait outside the room while her mother ducks inside to talk to the head of staff. A severe woman in a black dress with no adornments, her gray hair swept into an equally punishing looking bun. It was so tight, it looked like it peeled her skin back from her face, cut an intimidating and cruel expression. But when she had placed her hand on Nomi’s shoulder to guide her to the door, it had not been cold. It had been light, but gentle.

“Your mother will be out after her interview,” she’d said. And Nomi, who is very smart for her age, had plucked the edge of her skirt and curtsied and then turned to look elsewhere.

Because she’s eight, Nomi has no concept of how much time her mother is gone. Eventually, Nomi sits, with her legs thrown out in front of her and the rabbit sitting on her lap. Weary of it’s torn ear, she pinches the other soothingly, feeling the soft velvet of its material. It’s small, bead eyes stare at her, expressionless, offering nothing to the little girl whose whole life and name has changed in an instant.

And because Nomi is preoccupied wondering what an interview is, or why her mother had looked so nervous, she does not hear the other girl approaching at all.

“What are you doing?”

Nomi looks up and a girl her age stands there and amongst all the finery and the obvious wealth of the hallway, she is more beautiful than anything else. For a moment, all Nomi can do is sit there, holding her rabbit, with a wide eyed, open mouth stare. The girl is taller than her, as thin as a reed, with a sharp and cunning stare. Her long hair is braided to the side, but strands fall all around her face, framing a pale and angular shape. She seems less like a child, to Nomi, who is acutely aware of her round, baby face and cheeks that adults love to pinch.

“What?” she finally says.

“Hello?” The girl walks to stand directly in front of Nomi. She puts curled fists to her hips, feet stood firmly apart. She wears a little emerald dress with a neat sort of bow around the middle. Nomi’s dress is grey, to her ankles and too big on her because her mother had hastily bought it from a neighbor before they’d left. A newish dress to go with her now new name. The sleeves poke over the ends of her knuckles and she’d had to tie the back twice to not make it sag around her shoulders.

“Hi,” Nomi replies.

“What are you—Oh, nevermind. Get up, then,” the girl says with a huff and a gesture of her hands. Nomi only stares, her glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose to sit daintily at the tip. “You’re not busy, clearly. And I need help—and my scientist isn’t around.”

“Your scientist?”

“A man. Not tall, dark hair, glasses like yours. In a white coat usually. I’m his favorite.”

“You mean your father?” Nomi stands, using her back against the wall to make it easier, subtly trying to tuck the rabbit behind her. The girl notices of course, with eyes that are glinting and brilliant. But she doesn’t comment on it. Her face screws into a confused and annoyed expression.

“No. My scientist.” There’s a beat of silence between the two children. Nomi realizes she can’t remember the last time she talked to someone her own age. She feels a fluttering fear in her heart, a nervous and anxious broil beneath her skin. The sudden realization that this girl could judge her in a matter of seconds and deem this conversation no longer important. Nomi doesn’t want to be alone. She’s tired of waiting for her mother.

“You’re weird,” the girl decides and Nomi’s stomach turns cold and her hands go tingly. “No one talks back to me like this. Sometimes, they don’t even talk to me at all.” She turns up her pretty, long nose again, surveying Nomi with a calculating stare. She wants to rake fingers through her hair to make sure it’s untangled. She wants to pat down her dress. She wants to appear like a Nomi.

“Well, I’m Matilda. Isaac took our game of hide and seek too seriously and now I can’t find him.” A dainty and pretty hand is held out to her. Nomi stares at it a moment too long until she finally closes her own around it. Girls didn’t shake hands, she didn’t think and yet this feels right. A proper introduction.

“I’m Nomi. Who is Isaac?”

“Come on. I bet I know where he’s hiding. He thinks he’s so clever.”

Matilda doesn’t let go of her hand. Instead, she turns down the hallway and tugs Nomi along.

They spend an hour looking for the boy, who Nomi later finds was simply in his own bedroom, reading a book. They spend that entire hour talking, or rather, Nomi listens mostly as Matilda talks. She tells her all manner of things, secrets about the manor, a ghost story about a fireplace that’s big enough to walk a horse through. She tells Nomi about her mother and the mysterious suited figure that comes in the night to see her mother. She talks about the scientist again.

Nomi tells Matilda about her new name, about the window she’ll miss, and how her mother is in interview. Matilda surprises her by actually listening, hanging on to every word. She snorts and laughs sometimes or makes a comment here or there, but she listens. She squeezes Nomi’s hand sometimes and laces their fingers and then unlaces them and then stops them in front of a painting that’s as big as a grown man to talk about a hidden safe behind it. Nomi has no idea whats the truth of not.

But she’s in love, she’s absolutely head over heels, she is captivated entirely by Matilda immediately.

Her mother is in tears when the girls are finally found, sitting outside on a stone bench in a garden that is looking worse for wear as winter approaches. Her mother cries and shakes her by the shoulders and tells her never again, never run off again like that, I didn’t know where you were, what were you thinking, Nomi, Nomi, Nomi.

But the head of staff stares down at Matilda only, with not a single reprimand. Just smooth, ivory colored hands folded in front of her. One swift glance to Nomi and then back to Matilda—and Nomi’s mother has the job.

—

At thirteen, Matilda complains enough that Nomi is the only one allowed to do her hair. She’s not yet actually at the age where she’d be taking over a lady’s duties like this, yet it doesn’t matter. Matilda, she found in the five years she’s lived on the Rhoades estate, usually gets what she wants.

“I don’t know how you’re so good at that,” she pouts. Matilda’s mother has imported dye to make her hair this beautiful, rich, red color. It also makes it shiny and soft, makes it a bit slippery, which makes designs with it difficult. Nomi ignores the difficulty, like the reality of it doesn’t matter in comparison to the reality that Matilda, well, she gets what she wants. And if she wants Nomi to braid her hair into something beautiful for the little dinner party her mother is throwing, it happens.

“You’re too lazy to do it yourself, so I’ve learned well,” Nomi teases, a pin between her teeth as her pale fingers make quick work of the intricate knotting braid. Matilda snorts, undignified and entirely unladylike. She’s started wearing more bold dresses, things that have cut outs along the arms, sheer lace and dark velvets. Heavy necklaces that accentuate her slim, delicate throat.

Nomi wears the exact same black dress Agathi wears. It’s high around her throat, with a row of buttons down the back. Nomi liked its simplicity. And she liked matching the head of staff, the single most intimidating woman that Nomi had ever know, besides Matilda’s own mother. Jaqueline Claire Rhoades stares at them from a painting across the hall, Matilda’s door open to allow the sounds of staff getting ready for the night through into her wide open, luxurious room.

“Why would I do it when I have you?” Matilda twists suddenly, turning so she can look up at Nomi. A strand of hair falls to her cheek. She looks mischievous and pretty and Nomi decides to leave that strand, like a suggestion to Matilda’s furiously strange side. She might be the only daughter to a wealthy and terrifyingly influential woman, but she was also, to Nomi, a wicked little girl.

And her best friend.

“Aren’t you done yet?” Both girls jump in surprise, whirling to face the sudden intrusion at the door. And at the sight of him, Nomi’s hands twitch and she tucks them nervously behind her back. A warmth on her cheeks makes her uncomfortable, ears full of a faint ringing sound for a moment as Matilda’s oldest brother stands there. Well. Leans there. His shoulder to the door frame, an ankle crossed over the other. He looks bored and annoyed, with an annoyed look on his handsome face.

Leo and Isaac look remarkably like Matilda, as though they were triplets instead of siblings. Only, where Nomi could spend a whole day with Isaac, she has avoided Leo as much as she can. Something about being around him makes her stomach hurt. Makes her hands feel clammy and awkward and her awareness of her pores and hair and teeth feel stark and evident. That’s why her hands stay behind her back, to prevent her from checking to make sure all of her is presentable. She does not know why she even cares what Leo thinks of her at all.

“Aren’t you done yet?” Matilda mocks in a deep, brusque voice. Leo’s cheeks flare a pretty red color. His voice had started to crack and deepen, his awkward entry to adulthood evident in the way his hands were suddenly too big and his voice didn’t stay in one octave. “Go away, Leo. If you hadn’t interrupted, Nomi would be done. Barging your way into a room, demanding attention, that’s not how you get a girl to notice you.”

“Matilda,” Nomi grinds her teeth together and Leo, looking as stormy as he did boyishly beautiful, stomped out into the hallway and slammed the door shut behind him.

“He’s been trying to grow a mustache for a year,” Matilda comments, examining her nails as Nomi resumes her work. Its cathartic, almost rhythmic.

“Only for a few months or so,” she hums, standing back to admire her work.

“Caught,” Matilda replies in a sly hiss, turning fully around in the ornate wooden chair to stare triumphantly at Nomi’s burning face.

—

Nomi is fifteen and spending the night in Matilda’s bed, as usual. They girls have stolen romance paperbacks from the expansive and beautiful Rhoade’s library. They keep a candle lit, each of them taking turns holding it while the other holds the book and reads aloud passages that make them blush and snicker. Nomi sighs wistfully over handsome knights with big swords and Matilda rolls her eyes at it all, but secretly makes Nomi read her the second novel of a rouge like serial.

They stay up too late, their legs entwined, their heads bent together as they whisper. Nomi isn’t meant to be sleeping in Matilda’s bed anymore. In fact, it was strictly forbidden, in the way things are strictly forbidden to girls of Matilda’s stature. Many things changed in the last year alone, the sort of parties she went to, the kinds of dresses she wore, what sort of paint she was allowed to use on her face and who could be her friend and who couldn’t.

Nomi had tried to keep up with it all, but that part of Matilda’s life was not for her. She was the girl who braided her hair—she was not meant to be more than that. It scared people that sometimes, she was more than that. There was a bridge between them that was wider than just money. It was nature for Matilda to be above Nomi, yet here she was, in the girls bed, petting her hair softly and reading about a thief who stole a maidens heart in the night.

So, the assassin is not aware there are two girls in the bed that night, because Matilda is meant to be alone. It is meant to be easy, something quick and savage and ruthless. A knife in and out and the Rhoade’s only daughter a candle flame snuffed in the night. And the assassin liked killing young girls, he’d taken the job for cheap, because he found their eyes prettiest when they died. The assassin is not aware that the one girl is still awake and staring at him in the dark, her pretty eyes still open and seeing him.

The blade is luminescent against moon light that pours in through the same window he’d crawled through. It’s long and curved, with a hook at the end, something she’d seen the cooks use to gut the fish. Nomi, for a wonder, feels no fear in that moment. Only an intense knowing that permeates her entire body. That knife was going to go into Matilda’s stomach and that assassin was going to carve up to her heart, and then pluck it out like fish guts.

“No,” she manages to gasp in a breathless voice as it descends—and then Nomi is leaping up. She is surging forward from the bed with her hands and grasping the knife in both of them. She makes no sound, almost an eerie lack of it as she stares into the assassin’s night black eyes.

The blade is sharp and cuts through the meat of her hands like butter. She feels the curved tip touch bone and she still makes no noise. Nomi isn’t sure she remembers how, her only thought is no. No. No. Not Matilda. Not her. I won’t let you—she’s mine. No. And the pain is overwhelming, like her hands are in boiling water, it arcs through her veins and along her entire body. She moans at the feeling, the only sound she makes as he saws the knife, but her grip doesn’t relent. It is caged iron around the blade.

“Bitch! You bitch, let go!” The assassin’s voice is a wasp nest hiss, his eyes wild and furious. He yanks her entire body around, throwing her to the floor, but he can’t get the knife from her grasp. He raises a fist, as if to punch her in the face and Nomi knows if he does that will be that. She won’t be able to hold the knife and he’ll get to Matilda. He’ll get her.

“Fuck you,” she snarls in a voice that is low and raspy and deathly cold, her foot whipping out to connect to the assassin’s inner thigh. He grunts with the pain and it’s enough to make the blow glance off her temple and connect more with the ground. White hot blood pours down Nomi’s forearms. It almost feels like nothing, it’s almost—

The mans hand wraps around her throat and squeezes so hard she almost loses consciousness from the pain.

“Get off her!”

Matilda’s scream is everything Nomi isn’t. It’s loud and shrill and scathing, like a flaying knife. She’s screaming more, repeating herself (get off her, get off her, get off her) like a demoness. Nomi watches with eyes black at the edges as Matilda pounces onto the mans back. Her sharp nails claw across his face, causing him to howl. But it’s the hairbrush in her hand that’s turned into a real weapon; it’s made of ivory. Perhaps real whale bone, how pretty it is. And it’s handle is a sharp point.

Nomi watches in a mute daze as Matilda shoves the point of the hairbrush into the mans neck. Over and over.

Then, the door to her room is broken open. So hard it comes nearly entirely off the hinges. Nomi’s vision continues to blacken at the edges as she watches. Matilda is pried off the man, still screaming, wild and bloody, by the very scientist she loves so much. Nomi had never thought of him as strong, yet he wraps arms around her and even though she thrashes, he moves not an inch. His glasses are askew on his face as he stares at Nomi, on the floor.

The moonlight hits his eyes and they reflect, like he is an animal in the night.

Then Nomi loses consciousness.

—

The moonlight is once again her friend, a single light across her bed. It hits her mothers face perfectly, accentuates her heart shaped face beautifully, but does not wake her up. Her eyelids flicker, as if she’s dreaming and Nomi thinks of waking her up—but she’d cried herself to this sleep. Maybe she needed the rest. Even though her mother has not left her bedside in the three days Nomi has rested.

Her bandaged hands are thick and awkward. They burn, even then. The pain has not dulled since the torn flesh has been sewed together. She’d only managed to get herself up to a sitting position by leaning on those hands and snapping her teeth together through the pain. But she was tired of laying. She was tired of not knowing anything but this little room.

Why hadn’t Matilda visited her?

Nomi isn’t sure how much time passes, because there is no clock in her room. She keeps it mostly spartan—her rabbit sits on the bedside table. She hasn’t slept with it in years. She hadn’t needed the company. She hadn’t been lonely until now. Nomi reaches out, but the bandages are so cumbersome, she couldn’t pick him up even if she tried. She feels a pinch of tears to her eyes, but ignores it.

The door creaks open.

Light from the hallway—yellow and buttery in comparison to the cool silver of moonlight—spills across the hardwood.

Jaqueline Rhoades walks in.

Whatever time she was cognizant of stops altogether. Nomi has lived in this manor, on this estate, loving this woman’s daughter for eight years. The same amount of years she’d been alive by the time her mother had been hired as a laundress. She has been in Jaqueline’s presence alone maybe only three times and not a single one of those times have they ever shared a private word.

It is not just Jaqueline, but the presence of her. The room is suddenly filled with the dense, heaviness of a powerful feminine force. Her elegance is striking, even in just a moonlit room. Her posture straight, but not tense. Nomi feels like she should say something, like she should get up from the bed and ask what the lady needs. But in her hands is a tray and on that tray is a bowl of soup and a chunk of fresh bread that still steams slightly. The woman says nothing as she slowly crosses toward Nomi’s bed. She spares the mother a look. It’s not remotely unkind, merely assessing.

Jaqueline slowly puts the tray down across Nomi’s lap and then pulls in another chair from her modest desk and sits down.

They stare at one another. Jaqueline’s children all look like her; they all have the high cheekbones, the arresting eyes, the smooth and unblemished skin. Their height must come from someone else but Nomi dare not think of him as a father. She knows very little of that situation, but she knows that no matter what DNA says, those children belong solely to the woman sitting in front of her. Nomi’s hands throb, the pain secondary to the absolute awe of this late night visit, but a constant nonetheless.

“Is Matilda okay?” Nomi bravely asks. Jaqueline tilts her head, a sheath of her pretty blond hair falling to her cheek. She does not wear it in the fashion that every other woman in her league does. Perhaps to set her apart. Perhaps because she knows that her beauty would radiate no matter how she wore her hair.

“You’re the same age as my daughter, yes?”

“Fifteen,” Nomi answers. Which feels stupid. Jaqueline knows her daughters age. But it feels good to say something, to use her voice for something other than softly reassuring her mother that she was okay. Her hands were ruined. Perhaps permanently, perhaps forever, but she was alive, wasn’t she?

She’d never braid Matilda’s hair again, not with these hands.

“I’ve heard something about you,” Jaqueline says as she reaches for a spoon on the tray. Nomi realizes with sudden surprise that the woman means to feed her. Should she refuse? She can’t possibly let the lady reduce herself to that; it is so beyond appropriate that Nomi feels briefly terrified. But when the spoon of soup is raised to her mouth, Nomi only leans forward and accepts it.

The broth is delicious and salty. It tastes so good she can’t help but sigh. She’d not even known she was hungry.

“My other staff, they tell me that you never lie.” Jaqueline rips a piece of bread from the chunk and dips it into the soup. Then she places it on the spoon and lifts it. Nomi blushes, her eyes fighting to stay on Jaqueline’s piercing and terrifyingly cool stare. She chews before answering.

“Everyone lies,” Nomi says. Her eyes go wandering to her mother, who doesn’t wake, even with them speaking. She is exhausted with the sudden awareness that she has a daughter who is now, essentially useless. No man would marry her if her hands were covered in scars and she wouldn’t be able to do laundry work. She wouldn’t be able to work much at all. The doctor had said he’d done what he could but surgery might be necessary and what money did they have for surgery?

“But you?”

“It’s not lying, if you don’t say anything at all,” Nomi offered. She opens her mouth to accept another spoonful of soup. It’s richness makes her feel relaxed, warm to the bones. Even her hands hurt less, somehow. “When something is uncomfortable enough to warrant a lie, I just stop speaking.”

“Pragmatic, I suppose.” Matilda’s mother feeds her a few more spoonfuls. They share a silence that is not companionable because they are not companions. Nomi is the daughter of a servant and Jaqueline is the woman who employees that servant. Yet their silence isn’t pained or awkward.

“You won’t lie to me when I ask why you saved my daughter, then.”

“No.” Her voice is unwavering and cool, belying the nervousness that makes her bones feel like jelly.

“Should I ask?” Jaqueline’s stare is so overwhelming that Nomi has no choice but to look down at the slowly disappearing bowl of soup, the little chunks of leftover bread. The pain in her hands truly has dwindled to a simmering fire instead of an overwhelming burn.

“I love her. She is my best friend. I didn’t want her to die. I would be all alone, if she died.”

“That’s a hint of selfishness I wasn’t expecting.” But Jaqueline is smiling when she says it. Not a smile necessarily, but the sort of sideways tilt of a red painted mouth. It’s not pleasant but nor is it cruel or angry. It’s assessing. Nomi feels like a puzzle that is quickly being solved. “You would still have your mother. Mother is God in the eyes of her children, correct?”

“I don’t read philosophy,” Nomi admits, smiling in her own crooked and tilted way. “But a mother isn’t a best friend. I would do it again. Even if he cut them off this time.” She raises her bandaged hands, feeling a bit woozy as she does. There’s a sleepiness to the edges of her. A softening of all her muscles. “Is she okay?”

Jaqueline doesn’t answer. She only continues to stare. Then she reaches out both hands and slowly tucks strands of Nomi’s navy hair behind her ears. The gentleness is disarming and it makes her close her eyes and tilt her head back. She feels the motherly tenderness as her pillow is adjusted. She feels a cool and soft hand on her brow and then on her forearm.

“Have you met the scientist?”

“I love Matilda, but she’s very selfish with her favorites,” Nomi admits boldly. And the scientist had never really paid Nomi much attention, perhaps because any time she saw him he was flitting about rooms with a nervous, high strung energy. His occasional pause to indulge Matilda in something, or to pat her head or cheek was always between the running around he did. Sometimes, there was something red on his coat, so he scared Nomi enough to not mind that Matilda kept him locked in a tight chest inside her heart.

“Would you let him look at your hands?” Jaqueline asks, setting the tray on the desk beside them.

“We don’t have money.”

“My daughters life is not measured in money, Nomi.”

A cool shiver makes her open her eyes and roll her head to the side. Nomi had expected to be met with those cool, intense eyes, but instead there is a sudden softness about Jaqueline that makes her inhale with wonder. She is still holding Nomi’s forearm. She is leaning in closer, with a mother’s pained expression of worry. In that moment, Nomi would have taken a knife for her too. She would have let anyone cut her to pieces for any of the Rhoades family.

“But if you need a transaction, I have one.” The hand on her forearm squeezes in a tender way. “He will fix your hands and you will never leave her side. Could you do that for my family?”

Nomi’s eyes close again and she smiles.

“Yes, I…” the painkillers in the soup sweep her under.

—

So Nomi is twenty six, sitting at an expensive and elegant oak dining table.

A man sits, slumped into his pork roast dinner, foam at the edges of his mouth. At the far end of the table, Matilda pokes her nose into her glass of wine and takes a healthy few sniffs. She dresses in a fashion that is so uniquely her, so sensual and somehow uncaring at the same time, with sleeves that plume transparently over her arms and a tight bodice that she hadn’t bothered to lace entirely.

Nomi has not changed out of the high necked, black dresses. She slowly peels the soft, supple velvet gloves from her hands and sighs.

“I put too much in,” she says with a dour expression to the dead man at the table. Matilda rolls her eyes and leans back in the chair, splashing her own poisoned wine across the table. The glass gets tossed behind her, but it doesn’t shatter, which makes Matilda pout a bit. A crease between her brows and a delicate pinch to her lips. Nomi snorts and then laughs.

“Well, I’m not sorry. Idiot tried to poison me first, didn’t he? Good that he went out frothing like a disgusting beast.”

“That’s an insult to beasts,” Nomi replies, rising from the table. She needs to speak to the staff to ensure that the clean up crew gets to this room before anyone else. Candles snuffed, midnight plunged into the hallway, someone to take care of—well. Another idiot in a long line of idiots that have tried to kill a member of the Rhoades family. Murder is not entirely surprising in Dunwall.

Surprising, she supposes, that they keep trying when—

The wind wheezes as a dark figure slides in through a window. He straightens and dark eyes blink at the dead man and then go severely cold. The rogue is in all black, head to toe, even a mask to cover the lower part of his face. A shock of blond hair pokes from beneath a hood—a choice he’d not entirely been the owner of. His black hair suits his job better, but what Matilda wants, Matilda gets and—

Nomi thinks its sweet that her little thief had sat still for her while she’d tested expensive overseas dye on his thick, wavy hair.

“I told you not to let him in,” Lark’s voice is a cold knife jab as he darts around the table. Matilda hasn’t moved an inch, she merely lounges with a bored expression, an arch of her dark brow.

“I didn’t realize you were my father and told me what to do?”

“Don’t say that—”

She knows this argument will last for as long as she’s in the room with them. She knows the argument will then fall to hushed voices, to intimacy she shouldn’t be around for. A cupped hand on a pale cheek, a kiss to Matilda’s slim throat, hurried words of worry, thinly concealed emotions. So instead of delaying Matilda’s romance, she swipes her gloves and makes for the door. Her scares are thin and white on her hands, and she pauses to look at them for only a moment, before she throws it open to find Agathi.

#writing #dishonored au #nw #mmr #nw x mmr #jr

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